To Catch a Ripple ~ Chapter One
Even with all her inspiration, time charts, and style sheets, Helen’s story spiraled down and came to a standstill. Once again, she had written herself into a hole. If her main character was the strongest woman in the kingdom, why would she agree to marry the evil king? If she didn’t marry him, though, the story couldn’t happen. How can I fix this?
She twisted a piece of blonde hair around her finger and leaned back on the sofa, glancing at the empty couch opposite, and her gaze moved to the fireplace with an oil painting of wild horses hanging over the mantle. Sometimes watching the fire brought inspiration, but it was a steaming July, so the living room’s hearth was dark and quiet, leaving only the lamps on the side tables to cast the room in a static light.
If she couldn’t think of an idea, she’d have to start over on page one. Her first manuscript had taken eight years to write, and it looked like the second would take another eight. Maybe she should scrap it and move on to the next project, but she loved the characters and world she had created. Besides, Helen didn’t have another project.
She looked at the bookcase. Maybe reading one of her favorite books would help.
Who was she kidding? If she started reading, she wouldn’t stop and her writing would go nowhere.
Her gaze went to her laptop and slowly shifted to the vase resting on the coffee table, with roses that were starting to droop and fade, their perfume mixed with the sweet scent of decay. What should she cut to replace them? Her mind wandered to her garden as she imagined the colorful flowers and the smell of fresh earth.
She blinked and looked at her laptop. Although she loved her garden, if she wanted to realize her dream of becoming an author she had to focus on her writing. She read over her work. Strong woman, evil king. No ideas.
Helen sighed and poured another cup of tea. Even though the teapot had a hairline crack, she couldn’t replace it. Her best friend Angie had given it to her as a housewarming gift when they moved in together six years ago.
She returned to her novel. What should I do?
Chocolate. She always craved chocolate when she was anxious, depressed or excited, but she was up two pounds and had sworn she wouldn’t have any more. Her favorite dress was getting too tight, the one that made her look taller than five foot five and brought out the green flecks in her grey eyes, so she had promised herself she would be good.
Oh, chocolate.
A soft grey light filtered in through the bay window. It was almost dawn, time to go to bed. She was too tired to think of a solution anyway, so she closed her computer, stretched, yawned, and went into the front hall, past the door, through the dining room, and to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Helen.” Angie’s warm brown eyes shone as she greeted her between bites of a chocolate chip muffin. Her best friend was barely five feet tall, but she could eat her weight in cake and remain a size two, while Helen had been in double-digit dress sizes since puberty.
“Morning, Angie. You’re up early.” Even though Angie was a morning person, a breed Helen would never understand, the clock on the stove said it was only five-fifteen.
“It’s been so busy at the shop lately I wanted to get a head start.” She wiped crumbs off her lacy black skirt.
“All brides want to look their best.” Vincent, Helen’s second roommate, arrived. “With our dresses, we help their dreams come to life. We’re very busy, but that’s the price we pay for being the best at what we do.” Vincent smoothed his pink jacket and adjusted the ruffles on his sleeves and collar, then placed a rose from Helen’s garden in his lapel. He was handsome, a head taller than Angie, with blue eyes and pale blond hair falling down his back. Vincent, like Angie, designed his own wardrobe, and would probably have been more comfortable in seventeenth-century France than twenty-first century Canada. He took a muffin and a plate to catch the crumbs.
Helen smiled. Who would’ve thought she’d wind up living with two designers? Angie would wear a cocktail dress to meet friends for coffee. As far as Helen was concerned, if it was comfortable and machine-washable, it would do. In the summer, she preferred sundresses like the one she had on, red with white flowers. It reminded her of her garden, so it was one of her favorites.
She bit into a muffin, savoring the pillowy dough as the chocolate melted on her tongue. The only thing more satisfying than baking was eating what she made. Even in the summer, she waited for her roommates to go to bed, cranked up the air conditioning, and turned on the oven. Angie and Vincent never complained and always helped her eat the brownies, cakes, and pastries, spreading the calories over three people instead of one; another benefit of living with roommates.
For six years Helen and Angie had lived in this farmhouse in Whitchurch-Stouffville Township, the “country close to the city.” A short ride on Highway 404 took them to downtown Toronto, where Helen had grown up. As children, she and Angie had met through Missy Parker, Angie’s grandmother and Helen’s friend from church. The two girls played together at Missy’s barbecues and birthday parties. Angie’s grandmother was one of Helen’s closest friends. Missy never turned on her after the congregation learned Helen’s dirty little secret. Missy also never told Angie, and Helen didn’t either. She would never tell anyone, ever again.
She and Angie had lost touch for a few years but reconnected at Missy’s funeral. Helen started teaching at a nearby public school, and Angie wanted to live closer to her shop in Richmond Hill, a town north of Toronto. Angie didn’t want to leave her beloved countryside and Helen hated the city, so they decided to share rent on a four-bedroom farmhouse. The home was large, but rent wasn’t any more than a two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs, and extra space meant extra privacy.
Three months ago, Angie had asked if Vincent, her business partner, could move in. Helen had reservations, but she had known Vincent for years, so she agreed. Since he arrived, Vincent had proved himself to be only a gentleman. Soon, he became a friend.
The designer claimed to be done with city life, even though he spent most of his time downtown. Vincent was a natural salesman, but he wasn’t fooling Helen. He put up with the isolation and black flies for his “friend” Angie. Sometimes at night she heard them—a whisper from her bedroom, a sigh from his—and she wondered why they called themselves friends, but that was their business so Helen never asked.
She and Angie never spoke about their love lives. Helen had nothing to say. In thirty-two years, she had never had a relationship. Was it because she didn’t want one? No. She couldn’t lie about the pang of jealousy she felt whenever she saw a happy couple, or the longing she felt whenever she saw mothers with their children. If she didn’t believe in love, why did she write about romance? Helen couldn’t fool herself. She wanted a man, but she couldn’t bring herself to have one.
Angie and Vincent checked themselves in the front hall mirror while Helen sat on the bottom stair, waiting to see them off. Angie fixed her brown braid streaked with gold. She spent hours fighting with her hair.
Helen rarely bothered with her own hair. She only put it up when she cooked. Nothing was more disgusting than pulling a long blonde hair out of a plate of tuna casserole.
Angie, who had cocoa skin and a spray of freckles across her nose, brushed crumbs off her face. She looked around as if searching for something, but before Helen could ask, Vincent tapped Angie on the shoulder with her eyeglass case.
Helen hid her smile. Angie had a good man, so why did she hide the relationship? Helen didn’t ask, though. Asking would invite questions about her own life, questions she didn’t want to answer.
Angie patted Vincent on the arm. “Have you spoken to Helen yet?”
“Ah, yes.” He turned to her. “Helen, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before, but my cousin needs a place to stay for a few days, and I told him he could come here, if that’s all right with you.”
Apprehension twisted in her belly. He wanted a strange man to come to her home?
“I know you haven’t met him yet,” Angie said, “but Rob’s a gem, one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet.”
“Is it the cousin who’s having a birthday?” Helen asked. The following weekend, they were going to host a party for Vincent’s cousin.
“No. Rob and I grew up together. He’s not only my cousin, he’s one of my best friends.”
“So, why does he need a place to stay?”
Angie and Vincent exchanged nervous glances. What did they not want to tell her? She didn’t want to say no, but how could she say yes? Home was her sanctuary.
“Robert is a free spirit,” Vincent said. “He stays here and there, going from one family member to the other. It’s from spending ten years travelling the world.”
He’s a drifter? No way.
“I know how it sounds, but it’s not like that, Helen,” Angie said. “He’s not some scruffy street character; he’s just creative, that’s all.”
If he’s so creative, he could create a home for himself.
“That’s right. Rob’s a writer.”
Curiosity cut through her fear. “Has he been published?”
“Yes, several books, and he’s doing quite well with it.” Vincent pushed a piece of hair behind his ear. “And he loves to give advice to anyone wanting to break into the field.”
Helen loved her home, but she had met only a few writers, and, just like her, they were all trying to get published. She had dreamed of becoming a novelist since she was a teenager. Even though he was a drifter, Vincent’s cousin could help make her dream come true. Helen sighed. “You are a terrific salesman, Vincent. If your cousin wants to stay for a few days, that’s all right with me.”
He took her hands in his. “Oh, Helen, thank you. You are a treasure.”
Her friend’s happiness eased her reservations. She was also excited to meet a published author, but as she stepped up to her bedroom, she wondered, what kind of a man wouldn’t want a home of his own?
***
Twilight filtered through the bay window into the living room as Helen placed some flowers on the coffee table between the two sofas; an arrangement of coneflowers, yarrow, and lavender. She breathed in the scent and tried to relax.
A black Toyota Echo pulled into the drive, and Vincent went out to greet his cousin. They shook each other’s hand and then pulled each other in for a huge embrace. Their voices filled the air with excitement.
“Hello Rob!” Angie called from the front door.
“Hi, Angie! Long time no see.”
Helen waited by the stairs, her escape route if she needed one. From where she stood she was able to watch as the two men walked up the stone path towards the house. The visitor, Rob, was not as tall as Vincent and his hair was dark.
As they stepped onto the front porch, Rob handed Vincent a baking tray covered in foil. “Your mom made this.”
“Oh, she’s such a dear.”
“I brought this, too.” Rob gave him a bottle of wine.
Vincent returned his cousin’s bag to him and took the gift. “Robbie, you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”
“It’s no more trouble than letting me stay.”
They finally entered, and Helen took a deep breath.
The visitor wore a white shirt, black pants, and dress shoes, not scruffy street clothes. His black hair was combed, but a wayward piece stuck out above his left ear. He carried a small suitcase, just enough for a short visit.
Helen relaxed.
Warm brown eyes set on her and she was greeted with a dimpled smile. She relaxed even more and returned the gesture.
“Helen Knight, this is my cousin, Robert Seagrave,” Vincent said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Robert.”
“Call me Rob.” He held out his hand. As she took it, she breathed in the scent of peppermint and thought of her father.
As the sky darkened beyond the bay window they gathered in the living room and turned on the lamps, casting the room in a golden glow. The fireplace on the left was unlit, and although Helen missed the cheery hearth, the sticky humidity wouldn’t permit a fire this evening. The two men sat on one sofa, the two women on the opposite couch. A silver tray with a teapot and a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies was on the coffee table next to Helen’s flower vase. Her gaze went past the men to the bookcase, which was made of the same dark wood as the floor, the bookcase she had looked to for inspiration the night before, and she mulled over her flawed story. Would she ever think of a way out of this hole?
“So, I heard you’re a writer.” Rob said.
She swallowed and looked away from him to the hands clenched in her lap. “Well, I’m trying to become one.”
“What do you write?”
Usually speaking about her fiction was in the same category as her sex life. It was private and few knew she wrote at all, but if she wanted his help she had to answer his questions. She lifted her eyes to look at him. “I write fantasy. And romance.” She waited for the published author’s scorn.
His dimpled smile returned. “Then, I guess you have quite an imagination.”
“I guess so.” He is as nice as Angie said. “What do you write, Rob?”
“Me? Oh, I do what you would call ‘adult entertainment’.”
Helen flinched. Her jaw dropped. Get out of my house.
Vincent almost dropped his teacup. “Oh, you do not!” He slapped his guest’s hand as Rob laughed. “Really Robbie, you shouldn’t say such things. She’ll get the wrong idea about you.”
Rob stopped laughing but the smile didn’t fade. “I’m only kidding. I write fantasy. And romance.” As he looked at her his expression said, just like you.
Warmth spread through Helen. Maybe she’d found someone who would understand her creative self.
“How are my parents?” Vincent asked.
“They’re fine, but I can hear your mother say, ‘Vincent, you’d know yourself if you visited more often’.”
The men laughed. Helen listened as they spoke about Vincent’s parents and business at the bridal shop. During the conversation, her gaze wandered to him, only to find him looking at her. She glanced away, but her eyes kept returning to him.
“What have you been doing these days, Rob?” Angie asked.
“Oh, I’ve been keeping alive.” A haunted expression passed over his face. He blinked and flashed a smile. “I’ve been keeping busy with work, mostly.”
Angie and Vincent paid attention as Rob told them about his latest project, a fantasy set in seventeenth-century Italy, but Helen’s mind drifted, wondering why Rob seemed so miserable when asked about his life.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the dreaded question, “What about you, Helen?” Rob asked. “Vincent told me you’ve written a book. What’s it about?”
Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Angie, the details of her story. “Uhm, it’s a fantasy.”
“Where does it take place?” Angie asked.
“Uh, it happens on another world. Not this one.” She shut her mouth. If it wasn’t on Earth, of course it would be another world.
They waited, kindness reflected on their faces.
She drew in a deep breath. Think of the synopsis. It has all the details. Her mind went blank. It had taken six months to write that damn two-page summary, and now she couldn’t recall anything. “The main character is, uh, a girl called Runia. Her father disappears. She falls in love. I mean, she doesn’t fall in love with her father, it’s with the boy she goes with to look for him because he disappeared. Uh, the boy she loves doesn’t disappear, her father does. And she goes to look for him. And then she comes across him…the boy, not her father.”
Confusion reflected on her audience’s faces. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the published author. Before they could ask any more questions, Helen got up. “Uh, I’m sorry, I think I left something in the kitchen.” My dignity.
***
Helen slipped into the study, a small room at the back of the house that had once been a storage room, and was barely large enough for a desk, chair, and bookcase. The scent of moldy potatoes lingered on rainy days. She never did her best work there, but the living room was occupied and this was the second best place. Whenever she tried to write in the other rooms, she just stared at the screen. Her bedroom was the worst.
“Helen?” Angie knocked.
“Yes, Angie? Come in.”
“Hey, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Angie. I’m sorry for leaving.”
“I’m sorry to make you feel so uncomfortable.”
“It’s nothing you did. Really. So, don’t worry, okay?” Helen offered her a chocolate chip cookie she’d taken from the kitchen before holing up in the study.
Angie took one and smiled. “I came here to make you feel better.” She shook her head, her brown eyes shining just like her grandmother’s. “You’re always looking out for me, since we were kids.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re my best friend, the little sister I never had.”
“Aww!” She came around the desk and gave Helen a hug. Angie always cheered her up. “Well, I’m going up to bed. Happy writing.”
“Thank you.”
Helen returned to her work, but instead of focusing on her story, her mind wandered to Rob. She thought about the warmth in his eyes and his dimpled smile, and wanted to see them again.
How can I like him? Her critical voice argued. I know nothing about him. She went through the list of reasons why she shouldn’t be interested, but wound up thinking about his kind brown eyes.
She sighed, opened her top drawer, brought out her peppermints, and popped one into her mouth. The soothing cool made her think of her father. Daddy always had a pocket full of peppermints. She remembered looking down at the world when he carried her on his shoulders, her hand disappearing in his when he held it, and how he tossed her into the air and caught her. He never let her fall.
He was killed on a construction site when she was seven.
She pushed away the memory of her mother crying, telling her she’d never see Daddy again. Daddy was gone, but it was just the beginning of her suffering.
Helen sucked on her peppermint, breathing in the cool vapors, fighting back the memories, but she couldn’t stop them from flooding into her mind.
***
She was eight or nine, with her back pressed to the bedroom door, grasping the handle. Her stepfather was on his bed. “Come here.”
Her body turned colder with every step, her mind preparing to go far away until it was over. She stood by the bed, beside her mother’s pink slippers.
“Sing for me,” he said.
She cocked her head. He had never asked her to sing before.
“Do it, or the angels will punish you.”
He was the pastor at their church. He knew what the angels would do. She had to obey. Helen stared at the cross above the headboard and sang what she practiced in choir, “Amazing Grace.”
The song finished.
He grabbed her and hurt her in a way a child couldn’t understand.
It ended, and she rushed from the bedroom to the bathroom.
After she cleaned herself, she followed the scent of toasted chocolate down to the kitchen. Her mother took a tray of cookies from the oven, her blue eyes shining. “Hello, pumpkin. I made your favorite.” She poured her a glass of milk. “Hey, let’s turn that frown upside-down.”
“Mom, I don’t want to be in the choir anymore.”
“But, you have such a lovely voice.”
Helen’s buttocks burned. She shifted in her chair and stood. Sitting hurt too much. “I don’t want to sing anymore.” Tears stung her eyes, and she couldn’t stop them.
“Don’t cry. No one wants to be around a crybaby.” Her mother shook her head. “God gave you a gift, and if you don’t want to use it, if you want to quit the choir, it’s your choice.” She shrugged. “Now, why don’t you have a cookie?”
***
Helen bit into her peppermint, breathing in the minty coolness, returning to the present, but the feelings still clung to her like a sticky film. Pastor Grey had been dead for over twenty years. She’d tried to let go of the past, but the past didn’t want to let go of her.
Enough of this. Time to focus on the future. Her story was going nowhere, so she checked her e-mail. Phoenix Press, the publisher she had sent her manuscript to six months earlier, had finally responded: another rejection…a form letter.
She needed Rob’s advice. Even if he told her how he had gotten published, it would be enough. Helen left the study, turned the corner, and crept down the hall, breathing in, steeling her determination. She hated asking questions, because it invited others to ask about her, but she had to ask.
As she approached the living room, she heard Rob’s voice.
Maybe I should come back later.
“All right, Vince,” he said. “How did you convince Gabriel to let you stay here?”
Silence.
“Come on, Vince. I know you don’t hate the city, and you didn’t move up here to be closer to the estate. You can fool your mom, you can fool Gabriel, but you can’t fool me.”
Vincent sighed. “I told him I wasn’t interested in women.”
Helen stood still and listened. She knew eavesdropping was an invasion of privacy, but this was her home and she had to know what was going on.
“You told him you were gay?”
“I know it’s an awful risk if the truth comes out, but if we’re careful, Angie and I can be together. She’s been so patient, so understanding…I just don’t want to lose her.”
“Well, your secret’s safe with me, Vince.”
Your secret’s safe with me, too. Helen vowed. Their voices dropped to a whisper.
Helen considered what she had overheard. Who is Gabriel? Why does Vincent have to lie to him in order to live here?
Read Chapter Two
Get your copy here:
Paperback
World Castle Publishing
Amazon
Amazon UK
eBook
Amazon
Amazon UK
Amazon Canada
She twisted a piece of blonde hair around her finger and leaned back on the sofa, glancing at the empty couch opposite, and her gaze moved to the fireplace with an oil painting of wild horses hanging over the mantle. Sometimes watching the fire brought inspiration, but it was a steaming July, so the living room’s hearth was dark and quiet, leaving only the lamps on the side tables to cast the room in a static light.
If she couldn’t think of an idea, she’d have to start over on page one. Her first manuscript had taken eight years to write, and it looked like the second would take another eight. Maybe she should scrap it and move on to the next project, but she loved the characters and world she had created. Besides, Helen didn’t have another project.
She looked at the bookcase. Maybe reading one of her favorite books would help.
Who was she kidding? If she started reading, she wouldn’t stop and her writing would go nowhere.
Her gaze went to her laptop and slowly shifted to the vase resting on the coffee table, with roses that were starting to droop and fade, their perfume mixed with the sweet scent of decay. What should she cut to replace them? Her mind wandered to her garden as she imagined the colorful flowers and the smell of fresh earth.
She blinked and looked at her laptop. Although she loved her garden, if she wanted to realize her dream of becoming an author she had to focus on her writing. She read over her work. Strong woman, evil king. No ideas.
Helen sighed and poured another cup of tea. Even though the teapot had a hairline crack, she couldn’t replace it. Her best friend Angie had given it to her as a housewarming gift when they moved in together six years ago.
She returned to her novel. What should I do?
Chocolate. She always craved chocolate when she was anxious, depressed or excited, but she was up two pounds and had sworn she wouldn’t have any more. Her favorite dress was getting too tight, the one that made her look taller than five foot five and brought out the green flecks in her grey eyes, so she had promised herself she would be good.
Oh, chocolate.
A soft grey light filtered in through the bay window. It was almost dawn, time to go to bed. She was too tired to think of a solution anyway, so she closed her computer, stretched, yawned, and went into the front hall, past the door, through the dining room, and to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Helen.” Angie’s warm brown eyes shone as she greeted her between bites of a chocolate chip muffin. Her best friend was barely five feet tall, but she could eat her weight in cake and remain a size two, while Helen had been in double-digit dress sizes since puberty.
“Morning, Angie. You’re up early.” Even though Angie was a morning person, a breed Helen would never understand, the clock on the stove said it was only five-fifteen.
“It’s been so busy at the shop lately I wanted to get a head start.” She wiped crumbs off her lacy black skirt.
“All brides want to look their best.” Vincent, Helen’s second roommate, arrived. “With our dresses, we help their dreams come to life. We’re very busy, but that’s the price we pay for being the best at what we do.” Vincent smoothed his pink jacket and adjusted the ruffles on his sleeves and collar, then placed a rose from Helen’s garden in his lapel. He was handsome, a head taller than Angie, with blue eyes and pale blond hair falling down his back. Vincent, like Angie, designed his own wardrobe, and would probably have been more comfortable in seventeenth-century France than twenty-first century Canada. He took a muffin and a plate to catch the crumbs.
Helen smiled. Who would’ve thought she’d wind up living with two designers? Angie would wear a cocktail dress to meet friends for coffee. As far as Helen was concerned, if it was comfortable and machine-washable, it would do. In the summer, she preferred sundresses like the one she had on, red with white flowers. It reminded her of her garden, so it was one of her favorites.
She bit into a muffin, savoring the pillowy dough as the chocolate melted on her tongue. The only thing more satisfying than baking was eating what she made. Even in the summer, she waited for her roommates to go to bed, cranked up the air conditioning, and turned on the oven. Angie and Vincent never complained and always helped her eat the brownies, cakes, and pastries, spreading the calories over three people instead of one; another benefit of living with roommates.
For six years Helen and Angie had lived in this farmhouse in Whitchurch-Stouffville Township, the “country close to the city.” A short ride on Highway 404 took them to downtown Toronto, where Helen had grown up. As children, she and Angie had met through Missy Parker, Angie’s grandmother and Helen’s friend from church. The two girls played together at Missy’s barbecues and birthday parties. Angie’s grandmother was one of Helen’s closest friends. Missy never turned on her after the congregation learned Helen’s dirty little secret. Missy also never told Angie, and Helen didn’t either. She would never tell anyone, ever again.
She and Angie had lost touch for a few years but reconnected at Missy’s funeral. Helen started teaching at a nearby public school, and Angie wanted to live closer to her shop in Richmond Hill, a town north of Toronto. Angie didn’t want to leave her beloved countryside and Helen hated the city, so they decided to share rent on a four-bedroom farmhouse. The home was large, but rent wasn’t any more than a two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs, and extra space meant extra privacy.
Three months ago, Angie had asked if Vincent, her business partner, could move in. Helen had reservations, but she had known Vincent for years, so she agreed. Since he arrived, Vincent had proved himself to be only a gentleman. Soon, he became a friend.
The designer claimed to be done with city life, even though he spent most of his time downtown. Vincent was a natural salesman, but he wasn’t fooling Helen. He put up with the isolation and black flies for his “friend” Angie. Sometimes at night she heard them—a whisper from her bedroom, a sigh from his—and she wondered why they called themselves friends, but that was their business so Helen never asked.
She and Angie never spoke about their love lives. Helen had nothing to say. In thirty-two years, she had never had a relationship. Was it because she didn’t want one? No. She couldn’t lie about the pang of jealousy she felt whenever she saw a happy couple, or the longing she felt whenever she saw mothers with their children. If she didn’t believe in love, why did she write about romance? Helen couldn’t fool herself. She wanted a man, but she couldn’t bring herself to have one.
Angie and Vincent checked themselves in the front hall mirror while Helen sat on the bottom stair, waiting to see them off. Angie fixed her brown braid streaked with gold. She spent hours fighting with her hair.
Helen rarely bothered with her own hair. She only put it up when she cooked. Nothing was more disgusting than pulling a long blonde hair out of a plate of tuna casserole.
Angie, who had cocoa skin and a spray of freckles across her nose, brushed crumbs off her face. She looked around as if searching for something, but before Helen could ask, Vincent tapped Angie on the shoulder with her eyeglass case.
Helen hid her smile. Angie had a good man, so why did she hide the relationship? Helen didn’t ask, though. Asking would invite questions about her own life, questions she didn’t want to answer.
Angie patted Vincent on the arm. “Have you spoken to Helen yet?”
“Ah, yes.” He turned to her. “Helen, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before, but my cousin needs a place to stay for a few days, and I told him he could come here, if that’s all right with you.”
Apprehension twisted in her belly. He wanted a strange man to come to her home?
“I know you haven’t met him yet,” Angie said, “but Rob’s a gem, one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet.”
“Is it the cousin who’s having a birthday?” Helen asked. The following weekend, they were going to host a party for Vincent’s cousin.
“No. Rob and I grew up together. He’s not only my cousin, he’s one of my best friends.”
“So, why does he need a place to stay?”
Angie and Vincent exchanged nervous glances. What did they not want to tell her? She didn’t want to say no, but how could she say yes? Home was her sanctuary.
“Robert is a free spirit,” Vincent said. “He stays here and there, going from one family member to the other. It’s from spending ten years travelling the world.”
He’s a drifter? No way.
“I know how it sounds, but it’s not like that, Helen,” Angie said. “He’s not some scruffy street character; he’s just creative, that’s all.”
If he’s so creative, he could create a home for himself.
“That’s right. Rob’s a writer.”
Curiosity cut through her fear. “Has he been published?”
“Yes, several books, and he’s doing quite well with it.” Vincent pushed a piece of hair behind his ear. “And he loves to give advice to anyone wanting to break into the field.”
Helen loved her home, but she had met only a few writers, and, just like her, they were all trying to get published. She had dreamed of becoming a novelist since she was a teenager. Even though he was a drifter, Vincent’s cousin could help make her dream come true. Helen sighed. “You are a terrific salesman, Vincent. If your cousin wants to stay for a few days, that’s all right with me.”
He took her hands in his. “Oh, Helen, thank you. You are a treasure.”
Her friend’s happiness eased her reservations. She was also excited to meet a published author, but as she stepped up to her bedroom, she wondered, what kind of a man wouldn’t want a home of his own?
***
Twilight filtered through the bay window into the living room as Helen placed some flowers on the coffee table between the two sofas; an arrangement of coneflowers, yarrow, and lavender. She breathed in the scent and tried to relax.
A black Toyota Echo pulled into the drive, and Vincent went out to greet his cousin. They shook each other’s hand and then pulled each other in for a huge embrace. Their voices filled the air with excitement.
“Hello Rob!” Angie called from the front door.
“Hi, Angie! Long time no see.”
Helen waited by the stairs, her escape route if she needed one. From where she stood she was able to watch as the two men walked up the stone path towards the house. The visitor, Rob, was not as tall as Vincent and his hair was dark.
As they stepped onto the front porch, Rob handed Vincent a baking tray covered in foil. “Your mom made this.”
“Oh, she’s such a dear.”
“I brought this, too.” Rob gave him a bottle of wine.
Vincent returned his cousin’s bag to him and took the gift. “Robbie, you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”
“It’s no more trouble than letting me stay.”
They finally entered, and Helen took a deep breath.
The visitor wore a white shirt, black pants, and dress shoes, not scruffy street clothes. His black hair was combed, but a wayward piece stuck out above his left ear. He carried a small suitcase, just enough for a short visit.
Helen relaxed.
Warm brown eyes set on her and she was greeted with a dimpled smile. She relaxed even more and returned the gesture.
“Helen Knight, this is my cousin, Robert Seagrave,” Vincent said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Robert.”
“Call me Rob.” He held out his hand. As she took it, she breathed in the scent of peppermint and thought of her father.
As the sky darkened beyond the bay window they gathered in the living room and turned on the lamps, casting the room in a golden glow. The fireplace on the left was unlit, and although Helen missed the cheery hearth, the sticky humidity wouldn’t permit a fire this evening. The two men sat on one sofa, the two women on the opposite couch. A silver tray with a teapot and a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies was on the coffee table next to Helen’s flower vase. Her gaze went past the men to the bookcase, which was made of the same dark wood as the floor, the bookcase she had looked to for inspiration the night before, and she mulled over her flawed story. Would she ever think of a way out of this hole?
“So, I heard you’re a writer.” Rob said.
She swallowed and looked away from him to the hands clenched in her lap. “Well, I’m trying to become one.”
“What do you write?”
Usually speaking about her fiction was in the same category as her sex life. It was private and few knew she wrote at all, but if she wanted his help she had to answer his questions. She lifted her eyes to look at him. “I write fantasy. And romance.” She waited for the published author’s scorn.
His dimpled smile returned. “Then, I guess you have quite an imagination.”
“I guess so.” He is as nice as Angie said. “What do you write, Rob?”
“Me? Oh, I do what you would call ‘adult entertainment’.”
Helen flinched. Her jaw dropped. Get out of my house.
Vincent almost dropped his teacup. “Oh, you do not!” He slapped his guest’s hand as Rob laughed. “Really Robbie, you shouldn’t say such things. She’ll get the wrong idea about you.”
Rob stopped laughing but the smile didn’t fade. “I’m only kidding. I write fantasy. And romance.” As he looked at her his expression said, just like you.
Warmth spread through Helen. Maybe she’d found someone who would understand her creative self.
“How are my parents?” Vincent asked.
“They’re fine, but I can hear your mother say, ‘Vincent, you’d know yourself if you visited more often’.”
The men laughed. Helen listened as they spoke about Vincent’s parents and business at the bridal shop. During the conversation, her gaze wandered to him, only to find him looking at her. She glanced away, but her eyes kept returning to him.
“What have you been doing these days, Rob?” Angie asked.
“Oh, I’ve been keeping alive.” A haunted expression passed over his face. He blinked and flashed a smile. “I’ve been keeping busy with work, mostly.”
Angie and Vincent paid attention as Rob told them about his latest project, a fantasy set in seventeenth-century Italy, but Helen’s mind drifted, wondering why Rob seemed so miserable when asked about his life.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the dreaded question, “What about you, Helen?” Rob asked. “Vincent told me you’ve written a book. What’s it about?”
Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Angie, the details of her story. “Uhm, it’s a fantasy.”
“Where does it take place?” Angie asked.
“Uh, it happens on another world. Not this one.” She shut her mouth. If it wasn’t on Earth, of course it would be another world.
They waited, kindness reflected on their faces.
She drew in a deep breath. Think of the synopsis. It has all the details. Her mind went blank. It had taken six months to write that damn two-page summary, and now she couldn’t recall anything. “The main character is, uh, a girl called Runia. Her father disappears. She falls in love. I mean, she doesn’t fall in love with her father, it’s with the boy she goes with to look for him because he disappeared. Uh, the boy she loves doesn’t disappear, her father does. And she goes to look for him. And then she comes across him…the boy, not her father.”
Confusion reflected on her audience’s faces. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the published author. Before they could ask any more questions, Helen got up. “Uh, I’m sorry, I think I left something in the kitchen.” My dignity.
***
Helen slipped into the study, a small room at the back of the house that had once been a storage room, and was barely large enough for a desk, chair, and bookcase. The scent of moldy potatoes lingered on rainy days. She never did her best work there, but the living room was occupied and this was the second best place. Whenever she tried to write in the other rooms, she just stared at the screen. Her bedroom was the worst.
“Helen?” Angie knocked.
“Yes, Angie? Come in.”
“Hey, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Angie. I’m sorry for leaving.”
“I’m sorry to make you feel so uncomfortable.”
“It’s nothing you did. Really. So, don’t worry, okay?” Helen offered her a chocolate chip cookie she’d taken from the kitchen before holing up in the study.
Angie took one and smiled. “I came here to make you feel better.” She shook her head, her brown eyes shining just like her grandmother’s. “You’re always looking out for me, since we were kids.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re my best friend, the little sister I never had.”
“Aww!” She came around the desk and gave Helen a hug. Angie always cheered her up. “Well, I’m going up to bed. Happy writing.”
“Thank you.”
Helen returned to her work, but instead of focusing on her story, her mind wandered to Rob. She thought about the warmth in his eyes and his dimpled smile, and wanted to see them again.
How can I like him? Her critical voice argued. I know nothing about him. She went through the list of reasons why she shouldn’t be interested, but wound up thinking about his kind brown eyes.
She sighed, opened her top drawer, brought out her peppermints, and popped one into her mouth. The soothing cool made her think of her father. Daddy always had a pocket full of peppermints. She remembered looking down at the world when he carried her on his shoulders, her hand disappearing in his when he held it, and how he tossed her into the air and caught her. He never let her fall.
He was killed on a construction site when she was seven.
She pushed away the memory of her mother crying, telling her she’d never see Daddy again. Daddy was gone, but it was just the beginning of her suffering.
Helen sucked on her peppermint, breathing in the cool vapors, fighting back the memories, but she couldn’t stop them from flooding into her mind.
***
She was eight or nine, with her back pressed to the bedroom door, grasping the handle. Her stepfather was on his bed. “Come here.”
Her body turned colder with every step, her mind preparing to go far away until it was over. She stood by the bed, beside her mother’s pink slippers.
“Sing for me,” he said.
She cocked her head. He had never asked her to sing before.
“Do it, or the angels will punish you.”
He was the pastor at their church. He knew what the angels would do. She had to obey. Helen stared at the cross above the headboard and sang what she practiced in choir, “Amazing Grace.”
The song finished.
He grabbed her and hurt her in a way a child couldn’t understand.
It ended, and she rushed from the bedroom to the bathroom.
After she cleaned herself, she followed the scent of toasted chocolate down to the kitchen. Her mother took a tray of cookies from the oven, her blue eyes shining. “Hello, pumpkin. I made your favorite.” She poured her a glass of milk. “Hey, let’s turn that frown upside-down.”
“Mom, I don’t want to be in the choir anymore.”
“But, you have such a lovely voice.”
Helen’s buttocks burned. She shifted in her chair and stood. Sitting hurt too much. “I don’t want to sing anymore.” Tears stung her eyes, and she couldn’t stop them.
“Don’t cry. No one wants to be around a crybaby.” Her mother shook her head. “God gave you a gift, and if you don’t want to use it, if you want to quit the choir, it’s your choice.” She shrugged. “Now, why don’t you have a cookie?”
***
Helen bit into her peppermint, breathing in the minty coolness, returning to the present, but the feelings still clung to her like a sticky film. Pastor Grey had been dead for over twenty years. She’d tried to let go of the past, but the past didn’t want to let go of her.
Enough of this. Time to focus on the future. Her story was going nowhere, so she checked her e-mail. Phoenix Press, the publisher she had sent her manuscript to six months earlier, had finally responded: another rejection…a form letter.
She needed Rob’s advice. Even if he told her how he had gotten published, it would be enough. Helen left the study, turned the corner, and crept down the hall, breathing in, steeling her determination. She hated asking questions, because it invited others to ask about her, but she had to ask.
As she approached the living room, she heard Rob’s voice.
Maybe I should come back later.
“All right, Vince,” he said. “How did you convince Gabriel to let you stay here?”
Silence.
“Come on, Vince. I know you don’t hate the city, and you didn’t move up here to be closer to the estate. You can fool your mom, you can fool Gabriel, but you can’t fool me.”
Vincent sighed. “I told him I wasn’t interested in women.”
Helen stood still and listened. She knew eavesdropping was an invasion of privacy, but this was her home and she had to know what was going on.
“You told him you were gay?”
“I know it’s an awful risk if the truth comes out, but if we’re careful, Angie and I can be together. She’s been so patient, so understanding…I just don’t want to lose her.”
“Well, your secret’s safe with me, Vince.”
Your secret’s safe with me, too. Helen vowed. Their voices dropped to a whisper.
Helen considered what she had overheard. Who is Gabriel? Why does Vincent have to lie to him in order to live here?
Read Chapter Two
Get your copy here:
Paperback
World Castle Publishing
Amazon
Amazon UK
eBook
Amazon
Amazon UK
Amazon Canada