Love, In Writing

by Elsa Winckler

  Frantically, she tried to pull his shirt out of his pants. She wanted to get her hands on him. She had to touch him, had to feel him beneath her fingers. But the buttons wouldn’t open so she just ripped his shirt apart. Graham chuckled into her mouth.

  His hands were moving closer and closer to where she needed him most. She moved to straddle him to give him better access without taking her lips from his. Finally, his hand cupped her heat; she was wet and ready for him. Slipping his finger inside her underwear, he rubbed her gently.

  Margaret wanted to extend the moment, wanted this to last longer, but she reached the pinnacle and simply slipped over, shuddering.

  She sagged against Graham, trying to find her breath. He lifted her chin gently. “Please tell me this was a yes, you’ll move in with me?”

  Margaret was still struggling to breathe and couldn’t answer immediately.

  She framed his face and put her forehead against his. “I...I can’t, Graham. I want—”

  Graham roughly lifted her off his lap and quickly got out of the car. She opened the door softly, her movements still sluggish after their lovemaking. They faced one another over the top of the car.

  Graham stared at her. A muscle moved at the side of his face. “I know. You want the fairy tale. Well, if ever you grow up and realize fairy tales don’t exist, you know where to find me. I’m no romantic hero, Margaret. I have a face and a body, yes, but I also have feelings. Here in the real world you can’t manipulate your hero to be what you think he should be like. What you see is what you get. What we have is real: you just don’t want to see it.” He got back into his car and slammed the door.

  Margaret walked slowly toward her house. She opened the gate, walked up the stairs, found the key to the front door beneath the pot where everyone knew she kept it, and only after she’d let herself into the house did she hear him drive away.

  Chapter 10

  “Graham Connelly’s book launch? No, it’s not...yes, we did host his previous book launch but not—I’m sorry, I don’t know. I could find out for you if you—” Jen pulled a face, looked at the phone sternly and said sarcastically, “It was a pleasure,” before she plonked it down.

  Margaret had been on her way to her office, but froze when she heard Graham’s name. “What was that all about?” she asked as casually as she could.

  “Oh, do I have permission to talk about Graham Connelly now, all of a sudden? We haven’t been allowed to mention his name since Christmas, but now we may actually say his name out loud?” Jen asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Oh Jen, don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t say you can’t talk about him.”

  “You just clammed up, turned pale, and stopped eating. For three months. We know.”

  Margaret ignored her and pointed toward the phone again. “What was the call about?” she asked again.

  “Well, apparently,” Jen whispered dramatically, “Graham Connelly’s new book is out. The call was from was someone who wanted to know whether the launch will be held at your bookshop again. Did you know his book would be out in the same month as yours?”

  “No. I...I didn’t know. He only finished it in December, how is it possible?”

  “I have no idea.” Jen walked around the counter toward her. “Have you been able to find out if Graham was behind all the authors clamoring to have their book launches here? It has just been amazing. Last time I counted, we’ve had five book launches over the last three months.”

  Margaret shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t spoken to him since.”

  “Oh, and of course you don’t know how to use a telephone, I’ve forgotten.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Jen.” Margaret sniffed and moved toward her office.

  “By the way, I have to go out over lunch. Will you be okay on your own?” Jen asked.

  “Yes, I’ll be fine. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. We’ve been so busy since Christmas and you haven’t had a holiday yet.”

  Jen pressed her lips together. “I told you, I’ll take a holiday if you take a holiday. I’ll be back after lunch.” Jen firmly closed her lips.

  Margaret sighed and walked past Jen toward her office. A holiday. What would she do with a holiday? Have more time to miss Graham? More time to remember each and every contour of his face, his body, remember his smell, his smile? Here she was at least busy and she could forget, for a little while, the constant pain just below her heart. Every night she returned to her empty house filled with memories of Graham. She saw him everywhere. He was in her kitchen, her dining room, her bedroom.

  Three months. Three months had passed since she’d last seen him. Surely the ache should have dimmed by now? How much time would have to pass before this wanting, needing, craving for him would subside?

  He was the one who sent his author friends to her to launch their books. She’d overheard them talking one day. And because of his generous heart, she could sleep better lately. Her accountant had actually smiled once or twice. She’d picked up the phone several times to thank Graham, realized she wouldn’t know what to say and had just left it. Maybe Jen could send him an email.

  Her head dropped into her hands. Somehow life had to go on. At least she should make an effort. She sat down and pulled her laptop closer. She had to get over him. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Now was a perfect time to start a new book. What would the hero be like?

  ***

  Swearing, Graham stumbled down the stairs, nursing his aching head in one hand and trying to pull a not-so-clean shirt on with the other one. Had he had one, or two, bottles of red wine last night? He couldn’t remember. The ferocity of his hangover indicated he’d drunk two bottles, not just one.

  He was going to ignore the knocking on his door that woke him up. But whoever it was wouldn’t stop, just kept knocking and knocking. Eventually he had to tear himself from the last fragments of his dream. A dream in which Margaret in the short green dress he’d last seen her in was running across his lawn. He was finally going to catch up with her when the persistent knocking woke him up.

  He threw the door open, ready to release his vile temper on the unlucky sod who’d dared to interrupt his dream. But there was no one there. Still swearing, he began to close the door when the package on the porch caught his eye.

  Graham bent down and picked it up. He closed the door and walked to the kitchen. Coffee. He needed coffee, and lots of it. He hurriedly opened the package and had to sit down quickly. It was Margaret’s latest book. Damn Yvonne. She knew what had happened, she’d gotten the whole story out of him. How could she think he would want to read this?

  He stood up and threw the book into the dustbin. It was trash, anyway. The guy was going to get the girl and they were going to live happily ever after. What absolute drivel. He stormed up the steps to his room, crawled into bed, and closed his eyes. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d have a dreamless sleep this time, or at least a dream without Margaret in it.

  Fifteen minutes later, he stomped down the stairs again, swearing and muttering as he went. In the kitchen he opened the dustbin and took out the book. He stared at it for a few minutes and, still swearing, he took the stairs two at a time, back to his room.

  ***

  “Remember last week when I went out for lunch?” Jen was standing in the door of Margaret’s office, looking very smug. “Well, I bought a book and I’ve been reading it over the past week.”

  “I know,” Margaret said drily. “You’ve hardly done anything else.” She wasn’t really complaining. Jen didn’t often read during work hours. She’d been dying to know what she’d been reading, but Jen had hidden the cover with another one, simply saying she’d tell her once she’d finished.

  “You have to read it, too.” She stepped forward and put a book on Margaret’s desk. “I’m off. See you in the morning,” she sang. Before Margaret could open her mouth, Jen was out of the office and she could hear her locking the front door.

  Margaret looked down. It was a book by Graham C
onnelly. Presumably, his latest one. Her brain very gradually made all the connections and somewhere in between she realized she was lightheaded. The room tilted. She tried to draw air into her lungs, but she simply didn’t have enough room inside her body.

  Ever since she’d heard his book was out, she’d wanted to rush out and buy it. But she kept finding excuses, kept putting it off. Exhaling, she pulled the book closer. Why? It wasn’t as if she weren’t thinking about him twenty-four-seven. He still invaded her dreams, her day, her very soul. Every heartbeat reminded her of him. It had been three months since he’d driven away and not a day had gone by she didn’t want him, didn’t crave his presence.

  She dropped her head on the book. Graham. Was she unrealistic in her expectations? Was hoping for the fairy tale too much to ask? She sat up, touching her cheeks. They were wet with tears. Again. She got up, took her bag, and sniffed. The book she left on the table. She’d read it another day. Not today.

  Much later the same night, she stopped in front of her shop again. She unlocked the door, walked down the corridor, and picked up Graham’s book. Scolding herself, she drove back to her cottage.

  ***

  “Sunglasses? Seriously, Margaret, what is going on today?” Jen asked as soon as Margaret entered the shop.

  “Nothing is wrong. I need coffee,” Margaret muttered and walked quickly past the counter to her office. Jen’s footsteps came up behind her and she sighed. Jen was not going to let this go.

  “You sit down, I’ll do it. You look as if you might fall over any minute.”

  Jen walked out and Margaret could hear her making coffee. Wearily, Margaret took off her glasses and put the back of her hands against her aching eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried like she had last night. She could feel the tears welling up again and tried to swallow the ache in her throat.

  Jen came into the office, carrying two mugs of coffee. “I’ve locked the front door and put up a notice to say we’ll be open in half an hour. So start talking.” She placed one mug in front of Margaret and sat down opposite her. “You’ve read the book. What do you think of Mags?”

  Trust Jen to get to the heart of the matter at once. No pussy-footing around. Straight talk.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice broke on the last word and her lips trembled so much she had to stop talking. She pressed her fingers against her lips and tried to stifle a sob.

  Jen got up quickly: she was angry, very angry. Margaret stopped sobbing from sheer amazement. She’d never seen her friend like this before.

  “Jen?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Damn it, Margaret.” Jen’s voice rose a few octaves. “You are so wrapped up in your bloody fairy tale you don’t see what is right in front of you. Graham is the best thing that has happened to you in forever and what do you do? You send him away. Why? Because he doesn’t fit this ridiculous picture you have been carrying around for years.”

  Margaret also got up. She had been crying all night, she had a headache, she needed sympathy, not someone telling her how wrong she’d been.

  “I’m not settling for what I don’t want.” She began pacing in the office. “There has to be that first moment when I see him, there must be a spark, he must be caring, he must know me, inside out, bring me flowers and...” She stopped. Suddenly, she realized what she’d said. And then it dawned on her bit by bit.

  Jen walked right up to her. Margaret lifted her face, a silly smile on her face.

  “Finally, you get it now, I hope. Graham has fulfilled all your requirements,” Jen said, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “How stupid can you be? There was a look—you told me about it, remember? The first time you saw him in the elevator? You were able to describe him in detail, right down to the color of his eyes. I saw the wonder in your face way back when and kept hoping you would realize what had happened. And a spark? Please, whenever the two of you are in the same room the air around you is like an electrical minefield, ready to explode.”

  Jen threw her hands in the air. “He picked you up, carried you to his car, stayed with you a whole night while you were recovering from indulging in too much champagne. If that is not caring, I don’t know what is. And who drove after you like a maniac when Josh had an accident, stayed with you throughout the day? He tried to stop your family from using you. And Margaret, I was there when he brought you flowers, wildflowers, no less.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks again. “And he knows I don’t like beer, knows I’m grumpy when I haven’t eaten. He really gets me.” She sniffed and wiped her face. “And Mags. I recognized bits of myself in her. Although I’m not really sexy or stunning.”

  “But that’s how he sees you, don’t you get it? Go and read his description of Mags again. He's describing you. Well, apart from the fact you’re not green.” Jen walked to the door. “One must be very stupid to let a someone like Graham walk out of your life, just because you want to wear a damn big white dress. And in case you didn’t get it, his book has a happy ending. We should get it for the shop,” she threw over her shoulder before she left.

  A minute later, Jen peered around the door again. “And the best thing about him? He’s a real, live hero. He actually saved someone’s life.”

  Stunned, Margaret sat down. Jen was right. She’d been so blind. Graham was not a storybook hero, but a real, sometimes cranky, always hot, with a body to-die-for, hero. She couldn’t change him, didn’t want to change him. She loved him just the way he was. Amazed, she leaned back.

  Giddily, she laughed. Of course she loved him, how could she not? Another giggle escaped. He was so not what she’d thought she wanted. Love between them should have been impossible. He wrote science fiction, and she wrote love stories. He didn’t believe in love and forever-after, but she did. She wanted to be courted, wined, dined, romanced; he wanted to make love to her. She smiled. He didn’t do all the fancy gestures, he simply wanted her.

  In fact, he was exactly what she’d been waiting for all her life; she just hadn’t known it until now. Thinking back, she realized he’d had her at, “You’ll be the second one tonight.” And how could she not have recognized the look? She now remembered vividly the electricity in the elevator when she’d seen him for the first time, remembered how her heart had nearly jumped out of her body at the sight of him.

  But most of all she remembered the way he made her feel when they’d made love. She’d never felt so cherished, so feminine, so loved as she did when she was in his arms. She loved him. Smiling, she hugged herself. And, if she’d read his book correctly, he had some feelings for her too. If Mags was based on her, as he’d said, he had to care for her. He wanted her to move in with him, he wanted her. Did he still feel the same way? Three months had passed.

  So, he didn’t want to get married. Was it so bad? How many happy marriages did she know of? Well, besides Andrew and Yvonne’s. She got up quickly. If he didn’t want to get married, it was fine by her. She’d take him any way she could get him. Even if it wasn’t forever. At least she’d have no regrets and would have something to remember when she was old.

  She pulled the telephone closer and grinned. His book did have a happy ending. For now, she’d hold on to that. But she needed a plan and Louise’s very skimpy black dress again. It was about time her cousin did something for her.

  ***

  Graham walked through the vineyards. The grapes had been harvested. Autumn was approaching and very soon the leaves would change color and eventually fall off. Then, by spring, the new leaves would appear again with the promise of new grapes, a new harvest. It was the never-ending cycle.

  Seasons changed. It was as inevitable as this feeling he had for Margaret. He wasn’t quite ready to put a name to it yet, but did know he’d never before experienced anything like it. He was still trying to figure out what exactly this constant wanting, constant craving for someone could mean.

  He’d read her book. And then he read it again, and then again. The hero in her story had his face, his body—and
even after the third time he’d devoured it, the way she described him still embarrassed the hell out of him. Did she really think he was so attractive?

  She’d put their own love scenes in this book. The names and the settings were different, but he immediately knew what she was describing. Her descriptions took him back to each kiss, each caress, every frantic heartbeat. What he hadn’t known, couldn’t know, but what she’d described in detail, were her own thoughts, her private feelings.

  He knew this was a story, but he also saw what he’d read was very real for the author. There was no way she could have expressed the feelings portrayed in her story if she hadn’t really experienced them herself. These she’d never shared with him. Thinking back, he realized he had never asked, never given her a chance to express any feeling.

  Each time he’d reduced what they had to just physical release, to lust. He now knew what they’d had was so much more. He still wanted her, badly. But now there was also another element. He just wasn’t quite sure what it was.

  What scared him the most was he liked the happy ending. In fact, he was amazed his own book also had a happy ending. There was closure, much to Peter’s disgust. Peter had pestered him for days to change it, to leave out any possible solution and to give the story an indefinite ending. What would his fans say, what would the critics say? But Graham had just ignored him. He couldn’t change it. Mags deserved to be happy.

  He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Bloody women,” he muttered.

  “Graham. Swearing again at the poor rocks, are we?” Andrew said mockingly behind him. “Woman on your mind again?”

  Graham turned around. “Tell Yvonne I’ve read the damn book.” He scowled.

  “I’ll tell her.” Andrew grinned. “She’d want to know more details, though, so prepare yourself. What did you think of the hero, of the love scenes, of the...” He stopped.