We reach Bangor, Maine not long after. We land at another private airport in pitch darkness. The only reason I figure it’s another private airport is that we get off the plane by just walking down the stairs and then head straight into the car that’s waiting for us. When we’re sitting comfortably in the backseat with our luggage safely in the trunk, I give the driver the address that Tom gave me.

“Are you sure you don't want to stay at a nearby hotel?” Aiden asks. I shrug. Actually, I do, but I already promised Tom that we would stay at one of the guest cottages on the Warrenhouse property.

“It would be rude to back out now. I think they have it all ready for us.”

Aiden shrugs nonchalantly. I know that no matter how he feels about it, he isn’t going to press the matter any further.

An hour later, we pull up to a large gate where our driver proceeds to tell the person on the other side of the intercom who we are and what we’re doing here. The gate swings open and we drive down a lush paved road surrounded on both sides by a thick forest.

“Wow, there’s so much vegetation here,” I say as I marvel at the trees outside.

“Welcome to Maine,” Aiden says. We continue down the road for some time until the house appears in the distance. And by house, I mean, that is a big understatement. The place looks huge even from half a mile out.

“Tom said that there are at least ten bedrooms in this place,” I say. “Maybe ten bathrooms, too, but that’s before he lost count.”

Aiden laughs. “Some people love large homes.”

“You don’t know?” I ask. I immediately know that it’s a stupid question. I mean, I’ve been to his apartment and though it was definitely lavish and cost in the millions, size was not something that was particularly important to Aiden.

“I was thinking of buying a big place when Owl first started to take off, but after looking at like ten properties, I started to feel overwhelmed by them. The sheer size is just too much to take. You have to have a big staff to maintain these places, and I don't like having a ton of people around me all the time.”

I nod in agreement. As much as I like the idea of owning my own apartment, I’ve never given the size of a house in the country much thought. Honestly, I never thought I’d ever have enough money to support a lifestyle that paid for a regular mortgage, let alone something this lavish.

As we pull up to the palatial house, I’m in awe of how big it actually is. Tom had mentioned that it was an old Queen Anne in design, sprawled over ten thousand square feet and four levels. I never knew that people back in the day would ever want a house that big, but I guess there’s a first for everything. Even though it is already dark out, the house is expertly lit, making it look bigger and more spacious. Even though it is from the nineteenth century, and this is Maine, nothing about this place looks at all scary or spooky. Instead, the lighting is such that it makes it look very welcoming and charming.

The driver carries our bags as we walk up the stairs. The house has a number of gables and fish-scale shingles. The bay windows that look out onto the water out front are adorned with stained glass. Once we get to the sweeping veranda, which wraps around the ground floor of the house in both directions as far as the eyes can see, I take a moment to look out onto the blackness of the water. If tomorrow is a nice clear day, the water will undoubtedly sparkle in the sunlight. Maine is famous for its gorgeous waterways.

The driver rings the doorbell, and a few moments later, someone answers the door. I don’t know who I am expecting, maybe Mrs. Warrenhouse, or at least Carrie, but Tom is the last person I expect to see.

“You made it!” he exclaims, giving me a warm hug. Once we embrace, it feels like I’m the lifeline Tom has been hoping and praying for his whole trip here. I’m glad to be of service. After I introduce Tom to Aiden, they shake hands. While they talk about the flight over, I take a little peek inside. As much as I like old houses on the outside, I find the inside to be rather depressing. They’re often too dark, especially in New England, where every speck of light should be cherished and fawned over. But much to my surprise, the interior of the Warrenhouse mansion does not have the typical dark wood floors, and even darker painted walls, well-worn rugs, and claustrophobic old drapes around the windows. Instead, everything inside is ultra-modern. Some mid-century pieces are mixed in with wonderful contemporary furniture, which gives the house life and brings it screaming into the twenty-first century.

Sensing my interest in taking a look around, Tom apologizes. “I’d love to give you a tour,” he says, “but Mrs. Warrenhouse is still making final preparations for the party and she asked that all guests be shown to their cottages until tomorrow.”

“I understand,” I say.

“I promise, I’ll give you the full tour tomorrow. It’s quite…lavish.”

There’s a tinge of pride in Tom’s intonation, mixed with shame. I know him well enough to know that all this wealth makes him embarrassed. It always has. But at the same time, he also enjoys it. More than other people even. The thing that probably makes him shy away from it is that it’s not money that he made himself. That’s the conundrum, isn’t it, though? He wants to be a ‘serious’ writer, someone who writes literary fiction that critics approve of and regular people rarely buy. So, unless he actually marries into money, like Hemingway and numerous other famous authors, there’s no way he could ever live this lifestyle.

“Here, let me show you to your cottage,” Tom says, walking past us down the steps. “It’s just around the corner.”

We follow him to the guesthouse, which is just around the corner, except that the house is so big it actually takes some time to get there. The driver insists on carrying our bags there, and I appreciate the gesture because this part of the house is poorly lit and I tend to be rather clumsy. After a few moments of walking through thick vegetation, we reach a craftsman house, which also looks like it has been built at the beginning of the century.

Though it doesn’t look like much from the outside, it’s quite nice on the inside. It has surprisingly tall ceilings, and it has been completely remodeled as well. With two bedrooms and two baths, a large well-equipped kitchen, and two large bay windows, it is more than enough space for the two of us.

“I love how contemporary it is on the inside,” I say. “It’s a nice combination of old world and new world.”

“Me, too. But actually, according to Carrie, this whole style is a result of the compromise that her parents reached. Her mother loves old houses, but her father loves contemporary sleek designs. So they decided that they would buy this place and it would be remodeled and decorated to fit the times. But it still has all the history that Mrs. Warrenhouse loves.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Aiden comments and we both agree.

After telling us that the beds are already set up with fresh linens and there are towels for us to use in the bathroom, Tom starts to head out. I walk him outside, leaving Aiden inside.

“Thanks for…everything.”

“No, thank you for coming,” Tom says. “I really appreciate it.”

“So, how’s everything going with Carrie and her family?”

“It’s fine. But you know, they’re WASPs so they’re a little hard to read. They like to keep their cards close to their chests.”

I nod. I know exactly what he means. They are probably the type of people who would wine and dine you and treat you like a princess, but then turn on you the first opportunity they get just because being nice trumps everything including being honest.

“Well, in any case, I’m looking forward to the party tomorrow night. It sounds like it will be fun,” I say.

“I hope so,” Tom says, smiling. “Oh, Caroline and her date…Taylor…are here already. I’m sure that you’ll see them in the morning. If you're hungry or want to get breakfast in town tomorrow, the driver will take you anywhere. I think Aiden has his number. There’s nothing official going on at the house until the party.”

“Got it.” I nod, feeling slightly relieved. I was really hoping that there wouldn’t be any obligations for us until the party. I’m hoping to get some alone time with Aiden and really take in the scenery since I’ve never been here before.

“Okay, see you tomorrow night. All festivities start at six p.m.”

I give him a brief hug and watch him disappear down the winding path leading to our cottage.

When I get back, Aiden has already made himself comfortable on the couch. He even started the fireplace.

“Wow, you got the fireplace going?” I ask. “So quickly?”

“It’s all remote controlled.” He smiles, staring at his cell phone. Walking by, I see that he’s not doing work but rather reading something on his Kindle app. That’s a good sign, I say to myself. But it also reminds me…

I head to my bag and retrieve my laptop. My book should be up on Amazon by now. I check my email and spot it right away.

Congratulations! Your book is now available on Amazon.

“Oh my God!” I say, getting up from my seat and walking over to the couch with the laptop. “Here it is!”

I show Aiden my book.

“Ella Montgomery?”

“Yes, that’s the pseudonym that I chose for the occasion.”

“It’s very pretty.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, let me do you the honors,” Aiden says, going to his Amazon app on his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to be your first paying customer.”

“No!” I try to take his phone away, but it’s too late. He’s too dexterous and his arms are too long. A moment later, my book appears on his Kindle app.

“Aiden, you can’t read it,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because…because, it’s personal.”

“It’s on Amazon. A million strangers are going to be reading it.”

“Well, don’t you have a highfalutin view of my career as a writer? Millions? Please. I’ll be lucky to get a handful.”

“Even better then. So, why can’t I be one of those handful?”

I shake my head. I don’t really have a good answer. I’m just embarrassed over the whole thing. I mean, who am I to call myself a writer, let alone an author? I’m just some little girl with probably nothing good to say.

“Listen, Ellie. I know that you have doubts about your writing. But you really shouldn’t. If it’s something that you have to do, if it’s your calling, who cares what anyone else thinks? Even me. Your boyfriend. And with this title and cover…I think you’re bound to sell a few copies.”

I take a deep breath. I won’t lie. I love how encouraging he is. His approach definitely makes me feel a little more confident than my mom’s negative comments or Tom’s scorn at the whole romance industry.

“Okay, but you have to promise not to freak out over all the sex that it has,” I say after a moment. “I mean I know that it’s a lot. But that was one of the most fun parts I had writing it.”

“Oh my, how little you know me, Ellie. Of course, I won’t mind the sexy bits. I love sex.”

“Yes, I know you like sex,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But you know, it’s kind of about what happened on your yacht. So, I just don't want…things to be weird.”

Even though I fancy myself a writer, I often find it difficult to use just the right words when expressing myself.

“Shh.” Aiden puts his finger to his lips as he starts to read. Unable to deal with the thought of someone actually reading my book in front of me, I decide to do something useful to distract myself. I take my laptop back to the kitchen island and open my mailing list. Then I write all 2,457 people an email, asking them to post a review for the first book. I’ve received a number of these from other authors, so I have a vague idea of what to include. But still, I find the words difficult to come by. I re-read it a number of times before I gain enough strength within myself to actually send it. Once I do press send, I close my laptop immediately and decide to not give it any more thought tonight. Worrying about something you can’t control won’t change anything, so you might as well not worry. I chant this to myself over and over until I finally believe it.

An hour later, I fall asleep to an old Jewel album coming in through my earphones while Aiden is still on the couch, devouring my novel.