When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

He’d quit his job and lost his wife pretty much in one go. As for Ludlow, that was ancient history. Holding a grudge about something that happened twenty years ago had been a handy excuse, but it was time to own the choice he’d made all those years ago to walk away from his writing. And so he would stay in this place, where he’d spent every summer of his childhood fishing with his grandfather, and do what he’d come here to do. Win or lose, he would finish the book and take his shot. Staring out over the lake now, he thought of his grandfather, of sticky afternoons spent on the water, waiting for something to bite. The old man was gone now, God rest his soul, and the cabin belonged to him, though it had been empty for more years than he cared to count. It had been strange at first, being back. He’d spent the first three months getting the place in shape, updating fixtures and appliances, bringing the plumbing and wiring up to code. It was comfortable now, in a barebones, back-to-the-land sort of way. Best of all, there was no television, no phone, and no Wi-Fi. Other than the cell phone he kept for emergencies or an occasional conversation with the mailman, he was blissfully cut off from the world. And that was exactly how he liked it. If there was a blizzard on the way, his phone would alert him, and if it was the end of the world, he’d just as soon not know. The wind was picking up, swirling the dun-colored leaves at the corners of the deck into papery little tornadoes. T...