MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 4)

One morning we set off to William's office so Michelle could see where he was working. He had asked us to pick up some treats for the people in his office so we stopped at a bakery, where I chose frosted cupcakes and had them boxed and tied in ribbon for easy carrying.

Then we made a stop at a liquor store for a few bottles of good wine. By this point in my visit I was feeling pretty cocky with my language skills and asked the friendly store manager if he had gift bags for the bottles. He helped me out and in a magnanimous tip of my language-hat I said, Merci beaucoup, Monsieur, vous êtes un bon homme.

He gave me gentle smile and nodded. I smiled back, picked up my bags and turned to locate Michelle, who had receded into a corner of the shop. Her shoulders were heaving. Her mittened hand covered her mouth.

I scurried over to discover her convulsed in laughter.

What is your problem?

Do you know what you just said?

I certainly do. I told him he was a good man and he is. He helped me with these wine bags.

You called him a snowman!

As she said this I remembered the cardboard cutouts of Bonhomme hanging all over Montreal. He's a giant snowman and the mascot of the winter carnivals held in the province.

Merde.

We crashed out of the store and stumbled down the snowy street nearly peeing our pants with laughter. Friendship at its best in a winter in Montreal.

I missed Michelle after her five-day visit and spent my remaining days in the city working on my novel, meeting William for lunches and on his days off taking him to the city's must-sees.

On a Sunday afternoon we took a bus to Schwartz's Delicatessen for world-famous smoked-meat sandwiches. We bit into tender meat slathered in yellow mustard and overflowing from slices of fresh-baked rye bread. We nodded up and down in agreement with the glowing reviews pasted up in the steamy windowpane.

We window-shopped Rue St. Catherine and wandered through the Musee des Beaux-Arts. We strolled the riverfront and ate sweetbreads and fresh fish at a table covered in white linens set with candles and tucked against a wall of unfinished red brick. We slept late on his days off while fat snowflakes fell quietly outside our windows.

As we shuffled in bliss through snow, content that William was working on a big project and I was working on a big book, the big world was spinning on its axis into other realities. While writing fictional paragraphs I took breaks and browsed news sites. The real estate bubble was popping, fast, and I wondered, What does this mean for us? How will this affect us?

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 3)

The one-bedroom apartment was luxuriously furnished in dark brown leather couches and chairs. The two bathrooms featured marble and glass, the kitchen stainless-steel and shine. In the dining room a long panel of windows looked across to the offices of La Presse, a Montreal newspaper. In the mornings I could watch journalists and staff hard at work while on the street below cars swished their tires through slushy snow. After breakfast I'd walk William to his office then go off to explore the city.

Michelle arrived to spend five nights with us. I'd asked the building manager if setting up a cot would be possible and Oui, madam was his response. However, housekeeping did not appear to be in on this plan and suddenly it was the day of Michelle's arrival and no cot was in our apartment. On my way to the train station I stopped in to see my new friend, the building manager, and he offered a better idea.

When I saw the top of Michelle's head bobbing up the stairs from the train platform I jumped and she cheered. We are both fans of Montreal and to be in it together promised adventure. I flagged a taxi and got us to Old Montreal in my perfectly adequate high-school French. I had learned the language in this country. What clearly would stymie Parisians and Moroccans was a cinch for me. I rattled off directions and we successfully pulled up in front of the correct address.

Once inside, I gave Michelle the quick tour of the apartment. She oohed and aahed but wondered where she would sleep.

Come with me, I said.

She followed me out the door and down the hall where I stopped in front of another door. I opened it with a flourish and announced: Your own apartment! The manager says he likes William so much, we could have this for you, for free!

Michelle and I jumped up and down like teenagers. Montreal was reaching her French-Canadian arms out to us in a welcoming embrace and we could do naught but snuggle in tight. So began five days of museums, art galleries, bags of hot bagels, lunches and dinners with delicious wines and hours of trudging in snow.

Michelle and I enjoy a shorthand when it comes to sightseeing. One of us will grab the other's arm, squeeze and stare until we both silently agree that the fold of that silk fabric, the arm of that chintz chair, the cut of that neckline, the blue of those shoes, the intricacy of that floral arrangement, the bending of that sculpture, the perfection of that berry pastry, the sadness of that old man and the glow of that child's red cheeks...was intended for us to see and share in that exact moment.

Friendship at its best in a Montreal winter. We sped our way to various neighborhoods on the Metro or on city buses. We strolled through a farmer's market scented with the pine of fresh-cut Christmas trees. We studied the unmoving river, its edges frozen like a photograph. We settled in, after a long day, into a restaurant as cozy as an eighteenth-century house because, for crying out loud, it was an eighteenth-century house. A fire crackled, heavy drapes kept in the warmth and we ordered soups and steaks and roasted potatoes.

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 2)

William settled into his apartment in Vieux-Montréal, the city's charming historic district that featured cobblestone streets, art galleries and restaurants near the Old Port, which overlooked the St. Lawrence River. He emailed me digital photos of the city in autumn colors.

The company had given him a car but he mostly walked to avoid driving in snow. To hear William tell it, his daily walks came with more than just aerobic benefits.

I love this city, he exclaimed. The women here are gorgeous and friendly and usually happy to talk in English.

Good. I'm pleased you're getting a workout on the way to work.

I arrived on an early December evening and not a moment too soon. In the taxi from the airport I smiled at the city lit in twinkling pre-Christmas glitter. The car slowed near Notre Dame Cathedral, the snowy square aglow with tiny blue lights spun into every bare tree branch. The luminosity created an ethereal effect.

Our apartment building was around the corner from the church. The taxi pulled to a stop, I opened the door and promptly stepped into a snowdrift. I struggled to get one foot out, stuck the other one in deep and nearly toppled flat on my face as the driver placed my luggage on the sidewalk.

I glanced up to see William tromping through the fluffy stuff to get to me. Two months apart was two months too long but here we were in a winter landscape, inept and bumbling and laughing.

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 1)

Snow. Romantic, silent and cleansing. Snow. Trudging, bundling and bouillabaisse. Snow.

William and I had never done snow together. Being from Canada, I grew up in it. Being from Southern California, he had not and, with the exception of some ski trips and a few winter semesters, had not spent much time in it at all.

After my return from the writing conference I had started work on a novel. My confidence level as a writer was high. I wrote every day, as I believed real writers did. When William had time he sat in my office as I read him pages from the day's work.

After one such session, I looked up and bit my lip.

What? Thoughts?

He shook his head. Where is this coming from?

What do you mean?

It's rich...dense. It's robust writing and I love it. A much different voice than in the memoir.

I exhaled. Thanks. You know that means a lot.

Can't wait to hear more.

And I launched myself into a world of research and writing while William prepared to go on location to Montreal for three months. He would leave in October and I'd join him in December.

Montreal held history for me. As a young actor, I'd toured with plays to the city in winter and acted in a comedy pilot one summer. Quebec is a joyously unique part of Canada. With its own Quebecois-French dialect, its culinary expertise and a zest for beautiful art, fashion and beer, it's impossible not to be proud of the province and the jewel at its heart, Montreal.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 8)

At the restaurant the maître d' seated us on the outdoor patio and a waiter opened our bottle of wine. I hadn't eaten a thing but felt ready to throw up. I pressed my hands on my summer skirt. I looked around at the other diners. They appeared carefree and easy. I opened the menu.

What are you going to have? I asked casually.

I'm thinking the steak. How about you?

Ummm...I guess the mussels, and we shared a smile because I always order the mussels.

Good choice, he said.

I met William's eyes, lifted my shoulders and let them drop along with all the air in my solar plexus.

William raised his glass to me and whispered, It's fantastic. His eyes were wet.

Really? You think so? You liked it?

It's fantastic and she'd be fool not to represent it.

Summer of 2007 was when Peace, Purpose and Creativity locked into place for me like long-sought puzzle pieces.

Peace: Because of William's work we had a roof overhead and food on the table.

Purpose: Because of Shakespeare Club there was an important place for me to be six months of the year.

Creativity: Because of the writing conference and my writing teachers and because I had a literary agent, creativity flourished.

In July we adopted a new kitty and named her Scrabble.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 7)

Susan, Susan!

She stopped and turned as if we were in some cornball love story.

I was out of breath but managed to say, Can I send you my writing? I mean, I'm in the middle of the rewrite but—

She gave me a most tender smile and answered, Mel Ryane, the one person I really wanted to meet. Send me what you have.

Back in my dorm room, I sat cross-legged on the bed and called William. Back in L.A. he was swamped, working two projects at the same time. I couldn't get him on the phone. The most exciting event of my creative life and it would be hours before I could share it with my husband.

I called Michelle.

Remember my dream? The one where I was pregnant? I just figured out what I'm giving birth to. It's a book.

I went for dinner with friends that night. I celebrated with good wine and blushed all night at my good fortune. As I crawled into the single bed in my dorm room I finally reached William on the phone.

Sweet, so, so sweet, he said. I'm beyond proud of you. Come home and let's celebrate.

Flying back from New York that summer I knew that with a literary agent interested in my work and teachers encouraging me, it was time to take my writing much more seriously. As the plane began its descent into LAX a gentleman next to me started up a conversation. I heard the wheels of the aircraft unlock as he asked me, What do you do?

I'm a writer.

I'd never said that before. It made me smile to say it. It made it true.

I'm a writer.

That summer I holed up in my office to finish the manuscript and get it to Susan in New York City as fast as possible. I had a terrible fear that Susan's enthusiasm would dissipate, that perhaps our encounter had been a mirage.

I wrote for four straight days, twelve hours a day. I added content and spell-checked every word. I had the manuscript printed and mailed it to New York. I had a second copy printed and set it on William's desk.

William, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, was surviving on five hours sleep a night and his wife was asking him to drop everything and read her book.

I made dinner reservations at our favorite French restaurant for that Saturday evening. I bought a good bottle of wine for our meal and kept myself busy while William read my book. I gave him some coffee and left him alone. William's past criticism about my writing was erased in this single act. This was momentous for both of us. He was giving me his all.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 6)

In the summer of 2007 I returned to the writers' conference with an excerpt from my Shakespeare Club book. I read for three minutes in a packed auditorium. The women in the audience laughed and cheered. They interrupted me with applause. I was shocked, particularly since the material was slightly on the sad side.

You just never know, as they say in showbiz.

The night I read there was a particular woman in the audience. In an unusual gesture for this conference, a literary agent from Manhattan had been invited. The next day I attended a talk she was giving on the publishing world. During her address she mentioned she heard exactly one reading the night before of work she would be interested in representing.

I was sitting next to my friend and teacher, Eunice, who kicked me with her foot. She means you, Eunice mouthed.

I kicked back. Shut up.

At the end of the agent's chat I picked up one of her business cards. She was engulfed by writers pitching their projects but looked right at me and said, It's Mel, right?

Right, I mumbled, suddenly short on air. Thanks for talking to us. I'm going to a class now. Bye.

Bye, she smiled.

And I took off. Was Eunice correct? It was entirely too big for me to imagine but imagine I did and as I sat in a classroom down the hall and watched the agent walk past on her way out of the building, I knew I had to do something, and fast.

I bolted from my chair, dashed to end of the hall, pressed my hands against a large window and looked down three stories across a green grassy quad at the agent walking far away. She was probably walking all the way back to New York City, right now.

I ran faster than I ever remember running for anything. I tripped down all those stairs, I sprinted across the grass, through a gauntlet of water sprinklers. I called out.