Love Literary Style

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Love Literary Style Page 22

by Karin Gillespie


  “Perhaps you could be more specific?”

  Ramona ignored the question and pushed past him to enter the house. She bumped into a coffee table.

  “It’s dark in here,” she said.

  Emma kept the drapes closed and favored forty-watt bulbs. Aaron had adapted to the dim lighting and barely noticed it anymore. He reached for the lamp switch and Ramona touched his shoulder and said, “I like the dark.”

  Aaron ignored her and turned on the lamp. Ramona was not the sort of person he wanted to be alone with in the gloom of Emma’s den.

  “How did you find me?” Aaron said.

  “It doesn’t take a detective. I went to The Spine website, and it listed an Emma Grimes as the manager, and then I looked up her address. I took a chance and, sure enough, here you are.”

  She sat on the sofa without being invited. The springs groaned and the smell of camphor rose up. It was an unyielding piece of furniture passed down to Emma from a spinster aunt.

  “Did someone die on this sofa?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I sense a presence.”

  Enough of that. The girl was making him anxious. “Exactly what is this important matter you need to discuss?”

  Ramona didn’t answer. She rose from the chair and stood in front of the bookshelf where Emma kept her autographed books and scanned the titles. She examined the back cover of one volume, frowned and stuck it back in upside down.

  Aaron immediately righted the book to its correct position. Emma was extremely particular about those books. She didn’t like anyone touching them. Not even Aaron.

  “Would you please tell me the nature of your—”

  She poked his chest with a stubby finger. “Do you still care about Laurie?”

  Her question was disarming, and it took him a moment to answer. “Of course. Just because we’ve parted doesn’t mean—”

  “I suspected as much. And that’s why you have to write the ending of her book.”

  “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t she—?”

  “She’s blocked. And it’s your fault.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You roughed up her muse, and the effects are still lingering. You owe her.” The threat hung in the air.

  “Are you saying Laurie sent you over here to—”

  “No. She’d lock me up in an Iron Maiden if she knew what I was up to.”

  Ramona was so close to him Aaron could smell the licorice on her breath and count the blackheads on her nose. She seemed to have no regard for the conventions of personal space.

  “What about Ross? He’s a novelist, and I’ve been told he’s proficient at writing love stories. Couldn’t he possibly—”

  “I haven’t see him around lately. I think he’s back in New York.”

  Interesting, Aaron thought. Still, he didn’t know how he could help Laurie. “I don’t know anything about writing a romance novel. It has all sorts of tropes and conventions I’m not familiar with.”

  “You’ve never read a romance?” She managed to press in even closer. He was practically flattened against the wall.

  “Only one of Laurie’s.”

  Which he now regretted deeply. Although he had watched more than a dozen romantic comedies. Perhaps the tropes were similar?

  “It’s not that hard. Laurie’s already done most of the work.”

  “You don’t understand. Novels are such personal affairs. I can’t imagine trying to finish someone else’s story.”

  She grabbed his sleeve and gave it a vigorous shake. “But it’s your story too. In the book your name is Art.”

  “Really?” Aaron said. The news intrigued him. “How do you know it’s me?”

  “Messy hair, broken glasses, pessimistic, snotty…Who else could it be?”

  The description of his character didn’t sound particularly positive. Laurie’s book might be a painful manuscript for him to read.

  “Is this Art character by chance the villain?”

  “No,” Ramona said. She expelled a droplet of spit, and it hit the lens in Aaron’s glasses. “He’s part of the love triangle. Like in Twilight when Bella has to choose between a vampire and a wolf.”

  Aaron raised an eyebrow. Neither choice sounded remotely appealing for this poor Bella person.

  “Or in The Hunger Games when Katniss has to choose between—”

  Aaron tried to shrink farther into the wall but there was nowhere to go. “Is Art human at least?”

  “This isn’t a paranormal. And if you write it, you can choose who Lucy gets to be with, Art or Drake. But there’s really only one choice to be made.”

  “Drake? Is he modeled after—”

  “Jake. Bingo. And Jake is much more suited to Lucy. Art’s a dud.”

  Aaron frowned. “If the female protagonist chooses Jake or rather, Drake, maybe that will make the novel too predictable.”

  Ramona shook her head so hard Aaron wondered if she was in danger of straining her neck. “She needs to choose the one readers will root for. That’s Drake, not Art.”

  “Perhaps you should write it yourself then?”

  “Do I look like a professional writer to you? You need to write it.” She clamped her hands on his shoulders. “It’s the least you can do.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “A week.”

  “A week? Impossible. Sometimes it takes me a week just to write one paragraph. I couldn’t—”

  “You can and you will.” Ramona didn’t name specific consequences, but she didn’t have to. Whatever she had in mind was bound to be extremely dark and disturbing. Witchcraft perhaps. Or maybe voodoo.

  She stuck a flash drive into the front pocket of his shirt and gave it a solid pat. “The novel’s on here. Email it to me when you’re done.”

  When she backed away from him Aaron felt such a sense of relief he didn’t argue.

  But Ramona wasn’t finished with him yet. She lumbered back into his personal space, so close he could feel the heat from her face, and said, “Don’t. Let. Laurie. Down.”

  The front door slammed, and the pictures on the wall shook.

  Aaron reluctantly printed out Laurie’s novel on Emma’s laser printer. It was hard to imagine Laurie had improved much since their breakup, and he feared that reading her prose would be like venturing into the tangled foliage of a jungle armed only with a plastic butter knife.

  He began to read, and to his immense surprise, he was immediately engrossed in the story. The work was still genre, but it was much improved. In fact, it was hard to believe Laurie wrote it, and yet he knew she did, because her distinctive warmth shined through.

  Aaron recognized himself in Art, the owner of a purebred poodle that Lucy’s mutt impregnated, and he was touched by Laurie’s portrayal of him. It was clear that the heroine loved him. But Art’s character was slow to redeem himself, and his condescending behavior and distain for Lucy’s dog drove her into the arms of Drake, a dog trainer who’d been hired to get Lucy’s mutt in line.

  Lucy was torn between the two men, and this is where Laurie had left off. Aaron felt a sense of loss. He’d known, of course, that Laurie’s novel lacked an ending, but he’d become invested in the characters and felt let down that their complications weren’t resolved.

  Aaron had no idea how to complete Laurie’s novel. Were it a literary novel the conclusion could be left ambiguous, allowing room for the readers to make their own decisions, but Aaron knew that romance readers expected all the conflicts to be tied up in big pink bow.

  Twenty-Five

  Laurie’s baby doll nightie was growing funkier each day. For the better part of a week she did little more than watch TV or loll on her couch eating Honey Nut Cheerios straight out of the box. She hadn’t heard a wor
d from her editor, but Ramona assured her the manuscript had been sent off. Likely it was already in the hands of the cowriter.

  One afternoon she got so disgusted with her lapsed grooming she forced herself to take a bath. While toweling off, her home phone rang. She decided to ignore it and the answering machine picked up. It was Dr. Flowers. “Could you please come see me? It’s urgent. I’ll be home all day long.”

  A half hour later she was on the front stoop of Dr. Flowers’ condo, ringing the bell. Three newspapers were piled up outside, and a wasp was busily constructing a small wicked-looking nest under the eaves. A woman wearing a medical smock answered the door. She had orange-red hair tied back into a professional knot.

  “You must be Laurie. I’m Lola, Dr. Flowers’ nurse. He’s expecting you. The bedroom’s down the hall, second door on the left.”

  Dr. Flowers’ bedroom had the stale, sour odor of a body fretful with infection. Her former teacher was a motionless white mound in his queen-sized bed. Only his face was visible, and he looked drawn, as if he had shed a few pounds since she last saw him. She thought he must be sleeping but then his eyes opened partway.

  “You came.” His voice was a raspy whisper.

  “As soon as I got your message. What’s going on?”

  It was a silly question. Sickness was obviously going on. Laurie was a natural nurturer and had the urge to smooth his sheets or feel the temperature of his forehead, but Dr. Flowers would likely shoo her away.

  “My condition has gotten worse, I fear.”

  “How long have you been laid up like this?” She took a seat on a high-back chair beside his bed.

  “A little less than a week. But I didn’t bring you here to discuss my illness. I wanted to give you something.” An arm emerged from the blanket and reached for an envelope on the night table. He wagged it in her direction. “This is for you.”

  She took it and opened it. It was a check addressed to her for eight thousand dollars.

  “I don’t understand. This is yours. You earned it.”

  “I’m not certain about that, and I charged you far too much. At the time I felt I might need the money, but it turns out I was wrong.”

  “I’m sure everyone can use an extra eight grand.”

  “Yes, everyone who’s planning to be alive in the next few years, but that won’t be me.”

  Laurie widened her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “That nurse you met…She’s with hospice.”

  “But…I don’t understand…I thought you had heartburn.”

  “The heartburn’s a symptom of esophageal cancer. I’ve had it for several months now, and it’s inoperable. I knew it would one day debilitate me and that’s why I insisted on such a large fee for my services. I have a solid nest egg, but it doesn’t take long for private nursing care to eat away at it. I didn’t want to spend my last days in a hospital. But now it appears as if I’ll be leaving this earth much quicker than I’d planned.”

  Laurie inhaled sharply. Normally she’d try to minimize the impact of his news by saying something cheerful like, “You’ll beat this thing!” or “Lift that chin off the floor!” But even she knew those were empty words. She glanced down at her hands, which looked pale and useless. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither do I. Someone should write a book called Small Talk in the Face of Death or What to Say When You’re On the Way Out.”

  She laughed and quickly cupped a hand over her mouth in horror. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Anything to lighten the moment.”

  Laurie noticed there were no flowers or cards on display. What was wrong with his family?

  “Have you had many visitors? You mentioned a son once.”

  “I did, but we’re not close. My fault entirely.”

  “But you’ve told him about your illness?”

  “No.”

  “You have to. He’ll want to say goodbye.”

  Dr. Flowers seemed to shrink into his bedclothes.

  “Not after what I’ve done to him. I was never a good father when he was growing up. I was so involved in my career, I was barely there for him. But that’s not the worst of I In fact, I hesitate telling you this.”

  “I’ll try not to judge.”

  “My son wrote two novels, and I told him both were an embarrassment.” Dr. Flowers’ body shuddered as if he was shaking off a fever.

  “It’s not the nicest thing to say, but if the novels were awful than you were probably doing him a favor…Believe me. I know better than anyone else how hard it is to have your work ripped to shreds and thrown to the hyenas but—”

  “I didn’t read either of the novels.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been a literary critic for most of my life, and each year I become more discerning. Perhaps too discerning. I can barely enjoy novels anymore. I also believe only a few select writers were destined for greatness, and it was impossible for me to imagine my son would be one of them.”

  “Are you sure there wasn’t another reason you didn’t read his novels?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  She refilled his water glass with a pitcher on the nightstand. “You know what you’re always saying to me: Dig deeper.”

  Dr. Flowers closed his eyes and remained silent for a moment.

  “I suppose I might been afraid he was extremely talented. Then I would have to confront my own failures.” He sighed. “I’m not a very good man.”

  Laurie sat and moved her chair closer to his bed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about yourself…it’s just that you’re always stressing the importance of honesty. But you shouldn’t rough yourself up too much. If your son quit writing because of what you said…well, he wasn’t really committed anyway. Real writers stick with it.”

  “He didn’t quit. It’s the only time in his life that he’s ever defied me. His second novel will be coming out from Featherstone next year. That’s always been his dream publisher.”

  “Featherstone?” Laurie’s stomach fluttered. “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Aaron…Aaron Mite. He was adopted by my late wife’s second husband. That’s why we have different last names. When my ex-wife died, her husband was so distraught he started drinking heavily. So Aaron came to live with me.”

  “Aaron,” she whispered.

  “Do you know him?”

  She nodded. “He’s Art. He’s one of the heroes in my novel.”

  Dr. Flowers’ eyes flew open. “Aaron and you—?”

  “Yes. We met at a writers’ colony.”

  “An incredible coincidence.” Dr. Flowers’ face contorted in pain.

  “Should I get the—?”

  “No.” His features relaxed slightly. “His mother died when he was seven. I suppose he told you.”

  “He did.” Laurie was silent, remembering the night of Aaron’s bad dream and how close she’d felt to him then.

  “Listen…Would you call Aaron for me?”

  She shook her head. “It has to come from you. It’ll be much more meaningful that way. I haven’t spoken to him in a long time…Our ending was on the messy side.”

  “And yet…”

  “Yet, what?”

  “At one time you loved him. I read part of your work, remember?”

  I still love him, she thought. “He’s living with another woman. She manages a bookstore.”

  “Emma. Yes. They’ve been together since Aaron was in grad school. I always felt as if that relationship was more of a habit than true love.”

  “But they have a lot in common.”

  “True. But sometimes I wonder if that’s a positive thing. How can a person grow if they are constantly having their opinions validated?
” Dr. Flowers reached for a glass of water on his night table, and winced when he swallowed. “I’ll bet you were good for Aaron. Have you finished your novel?”

  “Not yet.” Laurie didn’t want to admit that she couldn’t finish it.

  “Something about the Drake character bothers me. Is he based on someone real as well?”

  Laurie nodded. “My late husband.”

  “I see. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I’ll let you know if it comes to me. By the way, I’m going to call my son.”

  “Great idea.”

  “But I have to ask you a favor first. I need you to go to the university and get Aaron’s manuscripts. I’ve stored both of them in a locked file cabinet under M for Mite. I want to read them before I see him. It’s the least I can do. The keys to my office and the file cabinet are on my dresser.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “And one more thing. It’s about your writing. There’s something there. In fact, it’s the same quality that always attracted me to Nick Windust’s work.”

  “And what quality is that?”

  “An exuberant spirit. It’s clear you’re enjoying yourself. By the way, there’s a tin of shortbread cookies on my desk. Feel free to help yourself to as many as you’d like.”

  It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to her. Too bad she didn’t deserve any cookies.

  Laurie returned to Dr. Flowers’ house with a single manuscript. She looked through the “Ms” in the file cabinet but couldn’t find more than one. The nurse let her in and said, “I just gave him morphine. He’s probably asleep.”

  “I’m going to leave something on his bedside table,” Laurie said. She entered the bedroom and heard gentle snoring. Dr. Flowers looked like a different man in his morphine-induced sleep. It was as if someone had taken an iron to his face and gently smoothed out all the frown lines. She kissed his forehead and placed Aaron’s manuscript on his nightstand before she left.

  When she got home there was an email from Bridget: “Call me ASAP.”

  Laurie couldn’t imagine her editor had anything good to say. She probably wanted to chuck the whole thing and let the co-writer take over. After all, what good was a romance novel without an ending?

 

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