Life had been on a downward spiral for Maine Mendoza for the last six months. The once popular children's story book author had not written a manuscript that passed her editor's taste. The haughty looking woman with thick glasses, hooked nose and an even deadlier looking chin nagged at her to produce another bestseller. Yet, her ideas are all shot down from the prologue.
It wasn't the lack of creativity. Nor of the imagery. Or the moral lessons needed for a children's book. The editor just doesn't like to take a risk with her ideas.
To top it all off, the only parent she has left recently passed on. Isabel wasn't just her adopted mother. She was her mentor and closest friend. That's when the depression took a turn for the worse.
The front door opened to welcome a young man wearing sunglasses, paint-splattered overalls and white shirt. Using his walking stick, he felt his way around the open plan home. Despite knowing the layout, he treaded carefully avoiding empty soda cans and food wrappers strewn all over the room.
Slowly, he made his way to the bed at the far right from the door. Taking the three steps up the platform from which it sat, he opened the windows first letting the sunlight and fresh air in. Then he took a seat on the bed and reached out for the curled figure in the middle of it.
"Maine..."
As if his voice was a trigger, she sat up and crawled onto his lap. There, in her safe haven, new tears fell as her body was wracked with sobs. With a sigh, he rubbed her back wishing she would stop crying.
"This has gone long enough. Come on, get out of the bed and help me clean up the house. Afterwards, we can hang around the back porch like we used to."
"Richard..."
"Snap out of it or else I'll carry you to the bathroom."
The sound of her giggles were chimes that tinkled in the soft summer breeze.
"You could carry me but you'd probably drop me somewhere between the bed and the bathroom."
"Yes, because the house is a mess. Get up, I'll find something non-poisonous to eat."
Both of them got up from the bed going their separate ways. One to the bathroom while the other to the kitchen in the other end of the house.
A few hours later, they found themselves sitting on the back porch of the house. Dressed comfortably in cotton shorts and tank top, Maine sat on the lounge, munching on chips and drinking beer. Richard, on the other hand, was in shorts and a sleeveless shirt while sporting the ever present sunglasses. He was sitting on the steps, leaning on one of the posts. Comfortable silence settled around the house and between them, broken only by the crunch of the chips, the tinkling of the wind chime and the rustling of the leaves.
"Do you think Mama and Papa would be happy of what I have achieved?" Maine asked taking a swig on her beer.
It took a while before Maine felt comfortable enough to call Diego and Isabel, Papa and Mama. At the back of her child's mind, she was expecting them to give up on her and leave. Just like what her biological mother did.
She was ten, two years after her adoption, when she called Isabel Mama. The tears of joy that flowed from her eyes were testament to how much she wanted to be called as such. The nod of approval from Richard was a sign that she did the right thing.
From then, everything seemed to fall into place. She was happy, her parents as well and even Richard stopped being gloomy all the time.
"They are proud of you of that I am certain. Isabel most specially. She has always wanted you to write out your imagination. Don't let other's opinion take your imagination away from you."
She only nodded in response. Their companionable peace was broken by the shrill ringing of the phone. She got up and took the call while Richard was left savoring the summer breeze.
Maine returned a few minutes later with a darkening mood.
"What happened?" he asked sensing the change in her mood.
"I have to meet with my editor and show her my latest story. I'll see you later."
He stayed at the back porch even after Maine has left. It has only been a few minutes later when the door opened again.
"Did you forget something?" He asked.
"No, I didn't," answered a different feminine voice. Her voice has a lower pitch than Maine's soft, lilting ones. There's also an aggressive edge in the newcomer's voice.
"Who are you?" he stood up to turn to the person who barged into their home.
"Divina," the woman answered already walking around the house. "I guess Maine and I will be sharing the bed and you'll take the couch."
