by Zoe Chant
Bird thanked her, a little doubtfully, and buckled her seatbelt, hoping it would compress the butterflies in her stomach.
When they arrived at the bakery, Linette, the owner, greeted them with platters of pastries in her hands.
“You got pages for us today?” Doris asked her.
“I do!” Linette replied. “I’ve given up on the young adult novel. Everyone says there has to be some sort of gladiator contest, and you know me and the sight of blood. No way can I write about it! So I thought, what’s the least bloody thing? Romance!”
Bird’s mind flashed back to her meeting with Mikhail Long. It certainly wasn’t a romance, but it had sparked romantic feelings in her. And there’d been blood, albeit fake, all over her. She smiled to herself as the other members began to arrive, greet each other, help themselves to coffee and pastries, and rustle about getting out printed pages or cueing up tablets.
Bird mostly loved this group, though some members could be somewhat spiky. And then there was . . .
Bill Champlain walked in, tall and paunchy, a fedora parked at an angle over his thinning blond combover. He was, as usual, talking on his cell phone. “Shut up, Mindy. I said the child support check is in the mail. Stop hassling me—I have a writing group to run.”
Bird had never met Mindy, his ex-wife, but she felt sorry for her. Not to mention for their child.
Bill threw the phone into his Serapian briefcase and set it down ostentatiously, with the logo turned out so no one could escape seeing it. “Everybody here?”
When his eyes met hers, Bird forced herself to greet him with the same smile she gave everyone else. It was the Baker Street Writers’ Group, not the Exclusive Group of People Bird Likes.
At first Bill barely acknowledged her, but then he glanced back. “All dressed up, are we, Miss Worcester? Does that mean you’re breaking your silence? Are we going to see some little dancing animals?”
Bird gritted her teeth. Bill insisted on calling all women older than he was by their surnames, and used Miss for divorced women as well as single ones. He reserved first names for women younger than himself—or, as Godiva had muttered once, date-bait.
“No dancing animals,” Bird said, forcing another smile. She wished there was an equivalent to Miss for single men, divorced or otherwise. She took a seat as far as possible from Bill and also from Cassandra, a regular who probably meant well, but tended to give out unwanted and unhelpful advice.
The last regular, a college-aged poet, came in and bent to take out his laptop, his beaded dreadlocks swinging.
Doris, who had been voted this year’s moderator, said firmly before Bill could speak, “Who has pages?”
“I do,” Linette replied.
Bird tried to squash a stab of disappointment. So much for her trying not to have expectations—
The bell on the door tinkled sweetly, and Professor Long stepped in.
A surge of joy lit up inside Bird.
“Welcome to—” Doris began.
Bill overrode her. “Hey, a newbie! Grab yourself a seat. Tomas, if you shift over . . .”
He went on with unnecessary directions as Mikhail nodded thanks at Bill, but took the empty chair beside Jen. He smiled at Bird, sending a wave of warmth and happiness through her.
Doris cleared her throat. Loudly, she said, “Welcome to the Baker Street Writers’ Group.”
Mikhail smiled. “Thank you!”
Bill opened his mouth, but Godiva shot him a glare that would have reduced a more sensitive person to a heap of smoking ash, then said to Mikhail, “Professor Long, right?”
“Mikhail Long. You can call me Mikhail, if everyone else is using first names.”
“Mikhail, didn’t you say you’re a writer?” Doris asked in an encouraging tone.
He sent a warm smile around the room, his gaze stopping at Bird. “I recently published an academic book on the symbolism in Chinese jade toggles—little carvings that hung with silk tassles from nobles’ belts—and how that influenced the development of Japanese netsuke. However, unless anyone is excited about that subject, I promise not to say anything more. I came intending to be an audience.”
Bird felt a flood of warmth at his words. He was just so nice.
Doris turned to Jen. “Why don’t you start us off? You mentioned a brand new idea.”
Bird held her breath. Ever since Jen had lost her husband of nearly forty years the summer before last, it had seemed like only a shell of Jen was still with them. What made her essentially herself was missing. But if she’d started writing again, maybe that meant she was coming back.
“A new investigative essay?” Linette asked. “I loved the one you did on the ecology of the rainforest.”
“No . . .” Jen’s cheeks colored under her pewter-colored hair. “I actually . . .”
“Well, if you’re not ready,” Bill stated. “I have here my latest—”
Godiva cut in. “C’mon, Jen. Those pages you showed me yesterday had me sucked right in, and you know I’ve never been much for fantasy.”
Jen looked up, a tentative smile lighting her face.
Bird thought, I don’t think I’ve seen her smile for months.
“Okay,” Jen said softly. “Some of you know that Lord of the Rings was pretty formative for me as a teenager. Don’t worry, this isn’t elves and orcs. It’s like . . . the earth as it could have been if the alchemists of the Renaissance had actually discovered magic, and could speak to spirits and other life forms. If the magic they were always trying to do was real. I just have a few pages . . .”
Jen began to read. Her heroine, Maria Elisabetta, was a nun who was also a scholar and an alchemist. She was getting ready to perform a dangerous alchemical ritual to summon a fire spirit. If she made a single mistake, she might go up in flames herself.
Jen’s quiet voice gained in force and expressiveness as her protagonist finished chalking the circle on the stone floor. The description was so vivid that Bird could see it clearly—could have sketched it as Maria Elisabetta took off her habit so it wouldn’t brush out the lines or stray beyond the circle.
Jen’s voice dropped to a whisper:
Maria Elisabetta glanced down at herself to make certain she was positioned in the center, goosebumps rising on her skin in her unheated cell. Then she began to speak the words of the incantation—
“Aren’t you going to describe her body?” Bill cut in. “How old is she? If she’s young, she’s gotta be checking out her own figure.”
Jen looked up, her expression shuttering again. “That’s the farthest thing from her mind. She’s risking her life. Her figure doesn’t matter.”
Bill flicked her words away with a wave of his hand. “But not to the audience. Trust me. Readers want to know what she looks like naked. And women, especially young ones, are always thinking about—”
“She’s a nun,” Godiva cut him off. “About to raise an evil demon. Trust me, the last thing a nun is thinking about is boobs and booty.”
“Now, Bill,” Cassandra piped up. “I don’t claim any expertise in the Renaissance, though I’ve read quite a bit about it, as well as a great deal about life in the cloisters, and let me just drop a hint about nun habits, ha ha, forgive the little pun—”
“But she just took off the habit, is what I’m saying,” Bill stated. “Readers want visuals!”
Cassandra fluffed her short blond frizz. “You’re very right, and Jen, it’s important to make certain that the colors of the habits correspond to which branch of—”
“A-HEM!” Doris—veteran high school teacher—cleared her throat with a vehemence that nearly rattled the windows. “Go on, Jen.”
But Jen had laid her pages down. “It’s okay. I was done anyway.”
Bird said quickly, “I want to hear more.”
Then, to her surprise, Mikhail spoke up. “If you don’t mind a first timer offering commentary, I was impressed by the picture you built of that time. The details are very convincing, and drew me right into y
our story.”
“Thank you,” Jen said. “But that’s all that I’ve written.”
Bird began to clap, and then the others joined it.
Bill gave it about five seconds, then broke in. “In that case, let me show you how you build a realistic woman character.” He already had his expensive tablet on his lap, its screen casting a cold light on his face. “You’ll remember that Wilhelm Stryker, my protagonist, is being chased by Mexican gangsters and Russian mobsters. The last chapter ended when he was driving his Porsche up Rodeo Drive to a meeting after receiving a mysterious message.”
He adjusted his fedora over his thinning blond hair, and launched into his reading:
Wilhelm’s ex-wife Cindy shrieked into the phone. He held it away from his ear, but her metal-shredder voice still reached him as she bitched and moaned. He hung up on her.
Wilhelm stepped forward, letting the phone drop back into his pocket. His foot thumped solidly against the sidewalk. He took another step, and his left foot hit the sidewalk with a manly thud. With his left hand he adjusted the Burberry fedora that was his trademark over his thick bronze locks as his right hand tapped the Glock Longslide hidden beneath his Brunello Cicinelli leather jacket.
“Oooh,” cooed the sweet chime of a young woman’s voice.
He looked up and saw three young, nubile, beautiful, slim young chicks with the huge, perfect breasts that gorgeous young chicks have, like watermelons.
He was a man of the world, and he knew just from looking at those three young chicks that they were hookers. He started to pass on by, but the three of them waved at him frantically, their huge perfect breasts bouncing up and down like sexy water balloons.
“We’re hookers,” said the gorgeous blonde. “But you don’t have to pay.”
“Oh, no,” the luscious redhead said. “We’d pay YOU if we could afford it!”
The young brunette ran to him, her melons bouncing and almost falling out of her scanty top. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Please,” she begged. “Please come home with us! No charge!”
Bird had been looking down during Bill’s reading, torn between annoyance and laughter, and not wanting either to show on her face. But now she couldn’t resist a peek at Mikhail to see how he was taking Bill’s parade of the hookers. Her nerves sang like champagne fizz when her gaze met his.
Mikhail’s mouth quirked in the tiniest smile. When she smiled back, he lifted one slim hand and tipped an imaginary fedora.
For the first time in all the years she had been coming to the group, a gust of laughter bubbled up from deep inside her, taking her completely by surprise. She let out a guffaw. When the entire room looked her way, she quickly turned it into a coughing fit. “Sorry! Sorry! A crumb . . .”
Waving at her throat, she shot out the door. Once she was alone in the cool air, her laughter died away. What a disaster! So rude! Now she’d have to apologize to Bill...
The door opened quietly behind her. It was Mikhail.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I shouldn’t have done that, I suppose. If it helps, I don’t think Bill noticed your exit. He read on with much relish as a fourth young hooker, with raven hair—not black, but raven—joined the first three. She was praising his ‘sexy’ clothes, naming the brand of each, when your friend—what was her name? Godiva? Had a very loud sneeze attack, and . . . that defeated me.”
Bird clapped her hand over her mouth, afraid another guffaw would escape. But when she saw him chuckling, the skin crinkling around his silvery eyes, her laugh escaped anyhow. For an exhilarating moment the two of them stood on the doorstep under the tiny awning, with rain falling all around them, laughing together.
When the last chuckle died away, she became aware that the moment was perfect. She wished she could stop time so they could stay in that moment forever. But time moved on, as it must. All she could do was slide the moment into her precious memory keepsakes.
Mikhail wiped his eyes, then quirked an eyebrow. “Are all his pages populated with . . . ah, blowup dolls?”
Bird suppressed another bubble of laughter. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well. No doubt there is an eager audience for that.” Mikhail smiled out into the rain. “But what about you? Did you bring anything? I’d very much like to hear what you write.”
All her laughter drained away. She usually didn’t talk about her writing, which was a part of the past she had worked so hard to leave behind. But those kind, compelling silver eyes did not deserve her usual silence.
“I used to.” She spoke as lightly and carelessly as she could. “I’m too busy these days. Like you said, I come to be an audience. Writers appreciate that.”
His steady gaze ignited an explosion of butterflies somewhere between her belly button and her ribcage. The intensity of her reaction scared her, and she took a tiny step back. But every cell in her body wanted to step forward. Toward him.
“Ah,” he said, his tone reflective, his eyes now more gray than silver. “Well, from the sound of the clapping he’s finished the attack of the giant breasts. Shall we go inside?”
Bird let out a tense breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Mikhail politely opened the door for her, and they rejoined the others just in time for the young poet to begin his reading.
She usually enjoyed his poetry, which often had beautiful images of the sea. But he could have been reading the Wall Street Journal for all she knew. In her heart, she was still on the bakery doorstep with rain streaming all around them. Mikhail had stood close enough so that she heard his breathing and smell his clean masculine scent, and yet she hadn’t felt crowded. She’d felt safe and warm.
This is awful, she thought. I’ve got to get hold of myself before my imagination takes me down roads that will only hurt.
FOUR
MIKHAIL
The difference between the smiling face Bird had turned up to Mikhail outside the little bakery and her closed-off expression now disturbed him deeply. He’d blundered, without knowing how.
He sat through a reading he didn’t hear, and thought back over that exchange. It had happened after he asked about her writing. He didn’t know why, but it had been the wrong thing to say. But he had no idea if he should pursue it, pretend he hadn’t noticed, or to try to fix it somehow.
He clapped when the group clapped, then returned to brooding. As a dragon, he could fight a mythical beast three times his size. As a human, he could wield his sword against even the most ferocious ogre. But with his mate, whom he should cherish and protect, he was disastrously clumsy.
It’s fear. His dragon’s hum, which had returned the moment Mikhail had spotted Bird, deepened in tone. She’s afraid.
Of? Mikhail asked as the group began discussing the poems. It can’t be my foolish impulse during that man’s terrible reading. She was laughing too.
He smiled at the memory of her pretty face made beautiful by laughter as they stood together on the doorstep.
His dragon was silent, and Mikhail realized that he was listening to Bird on the mental plane. Mikhail refused to trespass mentally without permission, but his dragon was incapable of shutting that mental door.
I don’t know, his dragon finally replied as another person began reading. I sense conflict. Why is there conflict? We are her mate. We are hers.
The hum went rusty, then silent. Mikhail discovered that he missed it.
He paid scant attention as yet another writer read their work. His attention stayed solely on Bird, who did not look at him again. His question had clearly been a terrible error. But how could he repair it when he didn’t know why it had been wrong?
Frustrated with his ignorance—and apprehensive that he was going about this courting all wrong—he contained his impatience. But all his enjoyment in being in his mate’s presence had vanished along with his dragon’s hum.
At last the meeting was over. The writers got up and began dropping money into a bowl next to the c
offee service. Mikhail too made a donation. But when he turned around, Bird was nowhere in sight.
He headed for the door, but halted when Bill stepped in front of him and addressed him in what Mikhail guessed was supposed to be a confidential tone, but was loud enough for the entire room to hear. “If you ask me, Miss Lebowitz leaves a lot to be desired as a moderator. She should have introduced us properly, beginning with the pros, so you’d know who’s worth listening to.”
Mikhail tried to step past, but Bill moved to block his path as he went on, “Speaking man to man, the little ladies all like taking turns playing leader, so the professionals among us humor them. There are only two real pros.” Bill scowled at Godiva. “I’m sure Miss Hidalgo bragged to you about her sales and awards, but I bet she didn’t mention that I’m a screenwriter, lately turned to novels. Then there’s little Bird Worcester, who used to write kiddie books. That was years and years ago, but we still regard her as a courtesy pro.”
At that, Mikhail’s residual guilt for his gesture with the air fedora vanished. He restrained the urge to drop this windbag with an elbow to the solar plexus and a palm-heel to the chin as Bill finished, “The rest are wannabes. I didn’t catch your name?”
“Mick. High. ELL.” Godiva appeared at Mikhail’s shoulder. “Professor Mikhail Long. He introduced himself at the start, Bill.”
She was barely shoulder-height, and thin as a reed. Bill, who towered over her, glowered.
“Thank you for inviting me, Godiva,” said Mikhail. “Bill, you say you wrote screenplays. For which movies that I might have seen?”
“Well, none of them actually got made,” Bill said, scowling. “That’s Hollywood for you.”
“I see,” said Mikhail. “One might regard them as courtesy films.”
Bill flushed a dull red and stomped to the door. On his way out, Mikhail heard him giving one of the writers—a woman of about twenty-five—a patronizing compliment.
Godiva uttered an explosive snort that reminded Mikhail of his dragon. “Good one. Bill thinks he’s King of the Hill—about time someone other than me stood up to him. Well, good riddance.” She shot him a keen glance. “Did you notice the artwork in the bakery?”