Love, In Writing

by Elsa Winckler

  She looked up when she heard footsteps. Peter was frowning down at them. “We have to go, Graham. I think you should see a doctor. Come on,” he urged.

  Margaret got up and tugged her hand out of Graham’s. “I should go. I...I’m glad you’re fine,” she whispered, and turned away. She had to get away quickly. She was awfully close to bursting into tears.

  “Margaret!” Graham called behind her, but she just waved and hurried back to her shop.

  Jen came out from behind the counter when Margaret entered. “Is he okay?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  Margaret could barely nod. There was an obstruction in her throat making it impossible to speak. She walked quickly past Jen, down the corridor, and closed her office door behind her.

  She sagged down on the chair and closed her eyes. Graham. He’d nearly been killed trying to save someone. But he was fine, he was okay, he was alive. She pressed her fingers against her eyes. She should tuck him into a far, dark recess of her mind. No more thinking about him. Not ever. But, she discovered, even after another half an hour, her legs were not quite steady yet.

  Chapter 7

  Summer was late this year, Margaret thought, as she drove toward Stellenbosch. But it had finally arrived. It was the beginning of December and the vineyards boasted fresh, young leaves; the sky was clear and the mountains were draped in moss green. Beautiful. She wished she could just continue driving.

  She loved to speak to her readers and was so pleased she had been invited to give a talk at the second-hand bookstore in the picturesque town of Stellenbosch. But she was also nervous. Graham’s farm was just outside Stellenbosch. This piece of information had got stuck somewhere, and she couldn’t seem to think of anything else. What if she saw him? Did she want to see him? What would he do? What would she do?

  Muttering to herself, she stepped on the accelerator. She hadn’t heard from him since she’d left him on the beach nearly three weeks before. Of course she’d wanted to call to make sure he really was fine, but she’d never gotten further than picking up the phone. He was probably shacked up with someone else already. Why would he think about her? It was not as if something had happened between them.

  He’d just kissed her. And then he’d left. And then he’d nearly drowned. Her reaction really worried her. She hadn’t been able to think about anything else.

  Jen, of course, didn’t help. She kept asking about him, kept reading little bits she found about him in newspapers, kept emailing her everything electronic she could find on Graham Connelly.

  Margaret sighed. At least she’d finished her manuscript. Jen had sent her home and told her not to come back before the story was finished. At first, she had tried to blank out Graham and just complete her manuscript.

  Of course it hadn’t worked. She couldn’t get anything done. So she decided to embrace thoughts of him, had allowed him to come to life on her computer screen, had reminded herself of every touch, every kiss, every shiver he’d caused. And then the story had just spilled out. Her fingers couldn’t keep up with her thoughts. It had taken her ten days and ten nights to finish it. She’d hardly slept a wink.

  It had been sent off to her publisher about a week ago. Angie had phoned her two days later, for once at a loss for words. When she’d finally found the words to speak, she gushed: it was the best thing she had ever received, she loved it, but where did the detailed, explicit descriptions of the love scenes come from? The readers were going to love it.

  Fortunately, Angie rarely required anyone to actually answer her, because Margaret couldn’t think of anything to say. How could she tell her publisher for the first time in her twenty-eight years on this earth, she’d actually experienced the kind of lovemaking she’d always just imagined? And she could, for the first time, write from experience? The reason why she’d been able to describe every gentle stroke of a hand, every searing kiss, every quivering muscle was because she had actually experienced all of those specific feelings. They were no longer just cliché expressions.

  Not the whole experience, though, and she would always be sorry she hadn’t made love to Graham. She’d stopped to answer her phone. A pity “delete” and “rewrite” weren’t options in real life, because then she would’ve ignored everything else and made love to Graham. Nobody else had ever been able to make her feel the way Graham Connelly did. She hadn’t known her blood would literally heat as if she were about to go up in flames. She’d written about desire before, had described love scene after love scene, but she hadn’t known desire was a hot fist in your belly, one that just wouldn’t go away. After a lot of soul-searching over the last few weeks, she had to admit that to herself.

  She’d based the hero of this story on his physical appearance, and Margaret Parker, the author, could make her hero stay, make him fall in love with the heroine, make him promise her forever. But Margaret Parker, the woman, didn’t know how to edit her own life. She had no influence over him: she couldn’t make him do what she wanted. Did she even know what she wanted? Margaret sighed.

  The fact that he hadn’t contacted her made it clear he didn’t have any long-term plans, not with her, at any rate. And it was fine. It was not as if she were in love with him anyway, he was just able to...what? Make her want him? Yes, that was it. She wanted him, and who wouldn’t? He was gorgeous. Most other women would react the same way. She should really try to go out more. Surely there were other handsome men out there who would have the same effect on her?

  ***

  Margaret was stunned when she entered the second-hand bookshop. The space was packed with women. She’d hoped for a few readers for the owner’s sake, but she hadn’t expected so many would actually come. The rows of chairs in the front were all occupied, but most of the women were standing to make place for more people who were trying to find a place.

  The owner rushed forward when she saw her.

  “Margaret, I’m so glad you’re here. As you can see, there are more people than we can really accommodate. I should’ve known, but didn’t really think so many would show up. I hope you don’t mind. Everyone wants to meet you.”

  Margaret just nodded and was ushered to the front. The owner held up her hand and the talking ceased.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. As you all know, today we have the pleasure of welcoming Margaret Parker in our shop. I think you all know her books?”

  Everyone nodded and smiled. Some cheered.

  “Margaret, everyone here loves your books. You simply have the ability to transport us from our daily chores and worries, and you allow us to experience the magic of falling in love over and over again. And, I must tell you, not only women read your books. Why, just a few weeks ago, a well-known local author came in here. He was looking for your work in particular and bought about four novels, I think.”

  Margaret was taken aback. Everyone was clapping and talking, but for a moment she found it hard to breathe. It had to be Graham. So, he’d bought her books. Had he read them? Why? And what did he think?

  Everyone calmed down and Margaret stepped forward to join the owner, trying to focus on what she wanted to say.

  “Okay ladies, Margaret will talk about her writing in general and at the end you are welcome to ask her anything else you’d like to.”

  “Good afternoon, ladies. Thank you for being here. I value your feedback and input and would love to hear what you have to say.” She cleared her throat and looked out at the smiling faces in front of her. This she could do. She loved to talk about romance, about love, about writing.

  “Why do I write love stories? This is the question most people ask me. And the answer is simple, really. Because I love it. Because I firmly believe that love exists, that somewhere there is one special person for everyone. And, of course, because it makes me feel so good writing about it.”

  The women clapped and laughed. Margaret looked down at her notes and when she looked up, Graham’s eyes were fixed on her. So, there he was. He was wearing a cap, probably trying not to be recognize
d, but she’d know those eyes anywhere. Her heartbeat accelerated, her mouth was suddenly dry, and she stumbled over her words. He was scowling at her. Again.

  She took a steadying breath and lifting her chin, she continued talking. Graham Connelly was not going to ruin her day. Now she could speak to these nice people without having to worry about whether she would run into him. She’d seen him and she hadn’t dissolved into tears or passed out. She could finally relax.

  ***

  “Thank you, my dear, you must be exhausted. Have a cup of tea. I’m so thrilled so many readers were here today. I’ve tried this before and people are usually too busy to make the effort, but they obviously didn’t mind the effort to see you.”

  Margaret smiled and nodded, then casually looked around her. She exhaled softly. There was no sign of Graham. He’d left without saying anything to her. Better this way. What would she say to him, anyway?

  She tried to ignore the ache in the vicinity of her heart and turned back to the owner. “Well, thank you for all your trouble. I have to go. It’s quite a drive back to Kommetjie.”

  They spoke for a couple of minutes more, before Margaret left and walked to her car. She rummaged through her handbag for her keys. Having found them, she looked up and her heart tripped. Graham was leaning against the bonnet, his arms folded, his eyes on her.

  “Graham,” was all she could manage.

  “Margaret,” he shot back, mimicking the tone of her voice.

  Crossly, she tried to walk past him, but he took hold of her hand. She looked up at him.

  He motioned toward the bookshop. “You were good in there, really good. I enjoyed your talk.”

  Margaret cocked her head. “Are you mocking me?”

  He smiled. “No, I’m serious. You know how to grab an audience’s attention and keep it. Not something everyone can do.”

  She tried to pull her hand back. “Thanks. I... Are you all right? After saving the other surfer, are you okay?

  “Worried about me?”

  Margaret just looked at him.

  “I’m fine, but it’s nice to know you thought about me.”

  She tried to step past him. “Look, I have to go.”

  Graham stepped closer and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “I’d just finished grocery shopping when I saw you. While you were signing books, I went back to get a couple of steaks and things for a salad. What do you say? I’d love to show you the farm. Please come with me?”

  Margaret opened her mouth to refuse. It would be madness to go. They both knew it. They wanted different things in life. There was no point in continuing with this thing between them. It had heartache written all over it, and she also knew exactly whose heart would be aching.

  But she nodded and received one of Graham’s rare smiles for her trouble. Oxygen, she needed oxygen.

  “Great, my car is just over there. Wait for me, then follow me to the farm.”

  With unsteady legs, Margaret climbed into her car to wait for Graham. She flipped the mirror down. Her lips were devoid of lipstick, but she was glowing. There was no other word to describe the ecstatic expression on her face. She groaned and started her car when Graham drove past her. What was she letting herself in for?

  This was so wrong, so not what she should be doing. And she was excited. She was going to spend an entire evening with Graham Connelly. She smiled. Would Jen ever recover when she heard about this meeting?

  They drove a few kilometers out of Stellenbosch before Graham indicated he was turning to the left. She followed him up a road toward the impressive white farm house she could see in the distance. While they drove slowly up the road, Margaret glanced at the vineyards spread out on both sides.

  She looked ahead again. A car was parked in front of a huge, locked gate. A visitor? The gate opened and Graham drove through. Margaret drove closer and recognized the lettering on the car. It was the name of a local tabloid paper. The press. Oh, my goodness. What? Then it struck her. Of course, Graham was famous. She’d never really thought about him as being famous. Bad mistake.

  When she drove past the car, the door flew open and a flashing light exploded in her eyes. Startled, she stepped on the accelerator and quickly followed Graham until they reached the big farm house. She glanced in her rear-view mirror. The gate was closing behind her, but the guy with the camera was still taking photographs. Of what? What was newsworthy?

  As the gate closed behind her, she sighed with relief. A guard also stood just inside the entrance. It must be horrible to live like this. Graham had no privacy and had to put up with the constant hounding from the press. She shuddered.

  Before she could open her door, Graham was there, his face full of concern. He took her hand and she got out of her car, still a little disoriented.

  He looked down at her. “I’m sorry about that. I should have warned you. The press...what can I say? After the stupid reality show I was roped into, this sometimes happens when there’s nothing else going on at the moment.” he said bitterly, and turned around and walked to his car.

  Margaret stared after him. He was clearly upset. He pulled out bags and bottles from his car. “Maybe I should just go.”

  Graham turned and looked at her. He sighed deeply. “No, he’s not going to ruin our day. Ignore him. Eventually, he’ll leave. Come on in,” he called over his shoulder and walked up the stairs to the front door.

  “Does this happen often?” Margaret asked.

  Graham looked over his shoulder, his face grim. “Most days. Hopefully, some other idiot will do something bad within the next couple of days, then it’ll be quiet for a while. But as soon as other news dries up, one or more will be back. You learn to live with it.” His frustration was clear.

  Margaret looked back at the gate. Another seriously good reason not to get involved with this man. She could never live like this. No privacy, photographers lying in wait. She shuddered again. Definitely not the kind of life for her.

  Margaret followed him steadily and looked up at the house. It was a beautiful Cape Dutch homestead with a wide welcoming porch. The huge front door seemed to be made from yellow wood. She ran her hand over the beautiful workmanship.

  “You like wood?” Graham asked and she looked up. He was looking at her.

  “Yes, this is really something special.” She gestured around. “I have a few books in my shop on Cape Dutch houses, but I’ve never actually been in one. I’ve read about the indigenous yellow wood they used when there was still plenty to go around. One doesn’t see this in modern houses. This door, for instance. It’s magnificent.”

  “Glad you like it. Let’s go through to the kitchen, I want to unpack the stuff I’ve bought. If you like, I can show you the farm before I light the fire for the barbeque.”

  Margaret smiled up at him. She couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be than here. With Graham.

  ***

  “This is heaven.” Margaret sighed and looked around. While Graham had taken her on a tour of his farm earlier, they’d run into his farm manager and Graham had invited Andrew and his wife to join them for dinner. Margaret was surprised but pleased when she realized Yvonne had also attended her talk that afternoon. But, if she were to be brutally honest, she was a little bit disappointed they had company, although she was also relieved. Deep down, she had to admit she wanted to be alone with Graham. She didn’t want to think too much about the reasons why she wanted this. But nothing would happen between them with the guests there.

  She sighed. Her gaze moved to Graham, where he and Andrew were busy with the fire. He bent to pick up some wood and she quickly averted her eyes. Hopefully she wasn’t actually drooling. What a backside.

  “Yeah, heaven,” Yvonne said, clearly amused, “with two seriously hot hunks to boot.”

  Margaret blushed and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She picked up her glass of wine. Was she that obvious?

  Yvonne put a hand on her arm and her smile dimmed. “He’s a good man and was hurt badly
once. If you’re not serious about him, you should tell him.”

  “What do you mean?” She gulped in some fresh air. “We’re just friends.”

  “He was married to a real bitch.”

  Margaret was stunned. He’d never said anything about being married. “What happened?”

  “He should tell you. Ask him. And what was worse, his mother died a few weeks after the divorce. I’m no psychologist, but I think he felt as if she’d also deserted him.”

  Margaret was quiet for a few minutes. It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots. He’d been badly hurt twice. His mother’s death, on top of his divorce, must have been devastating. Margaret remembered the way his face had closed down when she’d asked about his mother. How did one go about convincing someone who believed he’d lost two women he’d loved to give love another chance? Why would she want to?

  Yvonne touched her hand. “I’m a great fan of your books; I think I have all of them. You must be tired of hearing people telling you this, but there is just magic in your stories. I really enjoy them.”

  Margaret turned to Yvonne, grateful to have something else to talk about. Her thoughts were driving her crazy. “Thanks, it’s always nice to hear. I’ve just sent my latest manuscript to the publisher. The book should be out by March, I think.” Without consciously meaning to, Margaret turned her head so she could watch Graham again.

  “He talks about you. All the time,” Yvonne said, a smile in her voice.

  Margaret blushed but turned back to look Yvonne in the eye. “Really?”

  Yvonne nodded, then smiled. “Really. And,” she whispered, “he’s bought four of your books.” She held up her hand, four fingers in the air.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.”

  “Did he like them?”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Andrew called out as he walked over to them. He ruffled his wife’s hair and he bent down to kiss her. The air sizzled around them.