by Laura Briggs
"First of all, I think it's a good idea. I liked it — it was sort of a 'modern Cinderella,' having a girl with hidden dreams, who made a living on the housekeeping staff of a place like this. And I thought Elaina had a lot of interesting angles that could be developed. To make her more unique, maybe. And more realistic." I tried to emphasize these points, if nothing else to banish the oh-so-glam physical image of Gemma's heroine.
"Are you sure?" Gemma sounded as if she didn't quite believe me.
"I am," I said. "Of course, I don't read a lot of these books, but what I read of your story was nice. It's a little short ... and it needs a little more detail. You know, fleshing out. And I think maybe your hero needs a little more work so he's not quite so ..." I hesitated. "Two-dimensional."
"I couldn't think of anyone to picture for him," sighed Gemma. "Andy didn't seem quite right, so I didn't want to use him. And it would feel a bit weird to use anyone else." She blushed. "Even R—I mean, even somebody a bit more handsome and sophisticated."
I suspected the heroine pictured — despite Elaina's exaggerated beauty — had really been Gemma, of course. There had definitely been a little bit of her real-life boyfriend in the hero, also, although less so. That was the biggest problem with him, I felt.
"Heroes don't have to be either one," I said. "Not if they're genuine. The kind of people who are trying hard to be better or be strong for someone else. They can be a lot like some of the people we already know — and still be like the ones that we wish we knew." I shrugged. "At least, that's what I think."
"I still think the hero has to be dishy, though," said Gemma, firmly. "I mean, reader's fantasies and that sort of thing." Her thumb traced the edges of her notebook. "At least a little dishy, right?"
Andy was more 'cute' than 'dishy' — but I wasn't looking at him with a lover's eye, of course, which made all the difference. I nodded. "I'm sure if you make him handsome, no one will object. Just not the most perfect man on the planet." After all, Matthew had a few human flaws that I couldn't completely deny, even while madly in love with him ... and it made him even more attractive than Ross Poldark himself, in my eyes.
"Hero more human. Check," said Gemma, dutifully. "Anything else?"
I shook my head. "Except to have a good time with it," I said. "You're a storyteller. The most important part is to entertain readers, isn't it? Give them a place of escape? I think it'll be easier for you to do that if you make sure you enjoy the story and the characters, too."
"I did. A little, anyway," said Gemma. "It was fun some of the time, when I wasn't too busy being frustrated at mistakes."
"Mistakes happen," I assured her.
Gemma hesitated. "So you think I should keep writing? Finish the story, maybe?"
"Of course," I said. "I definitely think you should see where it goes."
"I thought about giving up," she said. "It was kind of hard, writing a proper book. And maybe the story will be rubbish when I'm through, after all."
"Don't give up anytime soon," I said. "I'd hate to see Ceffylgwyn's one and only author quit before her work is finished."
Gemma's blush told me that she was secretly pleased, being described as a local author. Even if right now it was only a title bestowed by a friend.
***
Two Months Later:
I trimmed the stems of the flowers Matt had brought me from the estate garden in Falmouth — antique colors on sturdy stems that reminded me of the first blossoms I had watched him tend. It wasn't an anniversary gift, this bouquet; only a sweet gesture that reminded me of the past. But some things never change, past or no.
For our anniversary, he had given me a stained-glass lighthouse lamp I had admired in a Truro antique shop; I had given him an Edwardian-era gardening journal with hand-tinted decorative page borders.
"I had purchased it before your chance meeting with Rowena St. James," said Matt. "I'm afraid I wasn't even thinking of her novel on our shelf at home." He looked slightly sheepish with this confession, as if afraid of taking credit for his gift's coincidental timing.
"I love it," I said. "I think the real 'how' and 'why' behind it are perfect ... no romance novel connection is necessary." Truthfully, I would have been very surprised if Matt had taken a clue from the worn softcover volume of Rowena's first book, as opposed to remembering our afternoon of wandering around the city. "It's absolutely beautiful. I didn't even realize that you noticed it in the antique store that day."
"It was difficult not to, since you were all but embracing it," he teased me. But his expression softened when he opened my gift next. Carefully, he turned its pages, most of which were blank — apparently, its previous owner had my journaling skills.
"March the twelfth. First seeds planted," Matt read aloud. "They even noted the lunar cycle in their planting schedule."
"They had fantastic penmanship," I said, leaning over his shoulder. "I wish I wrote that nicely. My inscription looks hideous on the first page." I had written Matt's name there, along with a slightly-mushy sentiment from me.
"I didn't think so," said Matt. He lifted my hand from his shoulder, pressing his lips against it. "I thought it looked perfectly beautiful." He closed the book, gently. "Thank you."
"Somehow I thought its pages might finally have the chance to document something with you as its owner," I said. "You can fill it with our garden's activities. All the things you do to help it along."
"You don't fancy preserving the book's blank pages?" he asked. "A memento of someone's past?"
"Of course not. It was meant to be used," I said. "Besides, it would be nice to preserve the memory of your gardener's life with a record. It's up to you, of course...but it would give me something comforting and familiar to read when you're away." I propped my chin comfortably on Matt's head as my arms slid around his shoulders now.
"Research for when you write the story of our romance, I suppose?" said Matt. "Finally giving it the immortalization it deserves." There was a wicked gleam in his eye with this reference to Rowena's failed attempt.
I scoffed. "Can you imagine — me as a heroine? Really?" I lifted one eyebrow as I challenged him with these words. Now that visions of Rowena's story were a thing of the past — and my passion for this place was no longer pinned on them — it seemed silly to imagine me as a novel's lead character.
"I think it's as easy for me to imagine as it was for you to picture me as the hero," he said. "But even if you did write it, it could never be quite as good as the real one. In my opinion, that is."
His hands wrapped themselves around my arms now, caressing them. The book lay momentarily forgotten on his lap, its gilded, fanciful cover closed over the record of long-ago seeds being planted.
"I don't think we're in danger of finding out," I said. "Since you saw what happened the last time I tried my hand at chronicling our lives."
"Your journal made for interesting reading also," he answered.
"You read it?" I asked, with indignation — but it was only partly-feigned this time. There were a few private and intimate passages in that book, ones about Matt which would have made him blush to read... and a few momentary pet peeves and grumblings about him that I would prefer to have shared with no one but me. I definitely hadn't intended it for anyone else's eyes; not without some extensive editing, at least.
"It was hard to avoid it. You left it lying open half a dozen times ... before you tossed it in that box of 'books to store away,'" said Matt. But the wicked gleam had returned to his eye, so I knew better than to trust him to be telling the truth right now.
I would have forced a confession from him, but just then the post rang. Our usual smattering of bills and junk mail were delivered to us, along with a package from an unfamiliar address in London.
"I wonder what this is," I said to Matt, as I laid it on the table. "Are you expecting something from a colleague?"
"Nothing," he said. "It's a mystery to me." He handed me the scissors and I cut the package's tape and unfolded its packing
paper. Inside lay a glossy, hard cover belonging to a wide, thin book.
The Lightkeeper's Dog was printed in gilded storybook letters above the picture of an old lighthouse on a cliff and a shaggy white dog trotting up its rocky footpath. A little gnome-like sprite was seated behind it on an old driftwood log, like the ones which washed up on the beach's shore. The name 'Rowena St. James' was printed in gilded letters just below the picture.
"It's Davy," I said, when my astonishment released my tongue. "Look, Matt — it's our cliffs and shore, too." The illustration had captured the familiar beauty of the village's shore (minus the fictional lighthouse, of course). I scanned the image swiftly, seeing every detail was painted in colorful perfection. Even the clever gleam I remembered in the stray dog's eyes was depicted the same as reality.
"Your friend's new novel," said Matt. "She found inspiration after all, it would seem. Just not for the story we imagined." He opened the cover, releasing the 'new book' smell from the pages within. A dedication page with delicately-scripted font was inside — hand signed by the author herself.
"To the village which created the tale, with its hidden possibilities and undiscovered spaces," I read. "Pixies and all." This last bit had been written by hand, with a little mark like an exclamation point before Rowena's autograph.
We turned the pages of the children's book, admiring the beautiful illustrations. Davy the lighthouse keeper's dog had made the acquaintance of all the natural creatures along the shore and in the woods, like crabs and red-billed choughs, and some who were far less real — like a mermaid and a sea giant, and the mischievous 'piskies' who were forever causing trouble for both the lighthouse occupants. Except, of course, for the wise pixie named Nob, who was a 'droll storyteller' living in a hollow driftwood log near the lighthouse. He helped Davy save the day when the lighthouse's beacon was accidentally extinguished by the mischief makers.
"Piskie Wood," said Matt. Pointing when he paused on the page depicting the forest behind Cliffs House's estate. The tall trees and shadows made me think of Gemma's stories — only here the piskies seemed less sinister and more like knobbly-kneed fairies painted in beautiful glowing colors.
"The lighthouse in this book is the one from her story," I said. "It's painted just like she describes it in her first novel." On the next-to-last page, Davy, lantern in mouth, rushes up the winding staircase to the beacon, where the view of the dark and stormy sea outside reminded me of the beautiful yet terrifying sea storms of the Cornish coast.
"She gave Davy the happy ending he deserves, too," I said.
The last page showed Davy curled up happily at the lighthouse keeper's feet before the stove. The wise pixie was perched on the window frame, watching the ship on the water, and the beacon flash across the stormy sea.
"Doesn't the room look like Wallace Darnley's fishing shack?" Matt suggested. "And the lighthouse keeper maybe —"
" — looks like the fisherman himself," I said. "I think it's her way of thanking the captain who saved her life." I recalled Rowena bemoaning the illusion of handsome, sensitive lighthouse keepers that Wallace shattered that day, and couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips. I wondered how the boat captain would feel when he saw his literary self dozing in an armchair before his old wood-burning stove.
"The illustrator's work is impressive," said Matt. "It feels as if they've seen the village firsthand — if they used the author's descriptions, she must have very strong memories of her visit."
"She said she found it beautiful here," I said. "She had wanted so badly to find her story in this place ... she was just trying to find the wrong one at the time." I touched the glossy pages, remembering how much I loved picture books as a child.
This story was almost as good as Raggedy Ann ... but maybe not quite. You never really forget your first literary love, even for something as flattering as a new book's gifted copy.
"It's a lovely story, isn't it?" I said. "I think it's better than if she had written one her heart wasn't really in. One of gardeners and American tourists meeting on a lonely cliff. That one wasn't meant to be, at least not yet."
"Of course, there are no lighthouse keepers today, since the system is automated," pointed out Matthew, while hiding his own smile. "And it's hardly likely that 'piskies' could put out an electronic beam, is it?"
"Hush," I said, giving him a push before he could list any more 'literary licenses' in Rowena's book. "Stop criticizing it. It was important for the story's atmosphere ... sometimes you have to bend reality a little to make it fit."
"Says the self-proclaimed non-writer." Matt kissed my cheek. "I apologize. Truly, it's a lovely book, and a perfect story. We'll have to show this to the rest of Rowena's friends. They'll be excited to see her work."
At the Fisherman's Rest that evening, there were several eager faces gathered around our table to see Rowena's courtesy copy of her next book. After all, it was easy to spot the village's spirit in Rowena's story and in the pictures, especially those of Davy along the shore, and exploring the pixie's woods.
"I can't believe she put the wood in her book," said Gemma, sans her beloved notebook for the evening, with Andy beside her once again. "She even used the old stories — but they're a bit less scary here than the ones the old folk would tell us about, of course."
"I'll say," said Andy. "I remember the one about children getting snatched — Old Dobson used to tell it. Kept me awake nights as a boy." He shivered, even though he had a grin on his face. "I reckon he made it up himself just to put a bit of fear in kids."
"Mercy — I never dreamed she was writin' this, tucked away in one of my rooms," marveled Dovie, as she turned the pages. "Fancy that, all her odd ways coming to a lovely little book. I'll have to get a few copies of me own — and frame a book jacket, too." Undoubtedly Rowena's artwork would soon be joining the baking extravaganza judges on the main parlor's wall of celebrity guests.
"It's an honor, isn't it?" said Rosie. "Having the village end up in a story by a famous writer ... even if this isn't quite the same literature that made her famous." She took a sip from her pint. "Never thought I'd see the pobel vean pop up in a Rowena St. James novel, I must say."
"I think I like the storyteller best," said Lady Amanda. "I feel she's crafted Cornwall's version of the helpful gnome, really. I must borrow this and take it to Wallace Darnley — he'll never believe Rowena's gratitude for saving her life until he sees it. I certainly hope he'll be delighted."
"I hope so, too." I rested my face in both my hands, watching as Lady Amanda admired the book's last pages. "There's a bit of Rosie in that mermaid, don't you think?"
"Oh, go on with you," said Rosie, scoffing. "I think the mermaid's you. I'm one of the wood piskies. The one stealing mushrooms." She grinned. "Truth be told, I think the illustrator did his best work in capturing Davy. Not that it was difficult for him to do, given the dog was right there for him to paint."
"What do you mean?" said Lady Amanda, sounding puzzled.
"Why, that's who gave him a proper home — Rowena St. James," said Rosie. "Some kennel from up Yorkshire way asked me to send him there, along with the proper veterinary forms — said someone contacted them about a homeless dog at a shelter in Cornwall. The name on the form said 'St. James,' so I assumed it was Rowena. She seemed a bit fond of the cheeky beggar before she left. I'm only surprised she didn't come back to collect him herself."
"Too busy writing, probably," said Gemma, shaking her head. "It takes a lot of time." She spoke with a tone of authority.
"I think it rather makes for a lovely ending," said Lady Amanda. "I had no idea — I didn't even realize you'd found a home for him yet." She chuckled. "So that's why Davy is the hero of the story."
"Here's the proof," said Rosie. She flipped the book to its back, where the author's photo was printed on the dust jacket's fold. Rowena St. James's smiling face, and just below it, cuddled against her, a shaggy white dog who looked considerably plumper than when he was wandering the village's shore.
"There's plenty of wide open space for him to run in Yorkshire," said Matt. "I think he'll be happy there. Happier than scouring for leftover sandwiches along the beach."
"Stealing them, you mean," I said, sliding my arm through his. "But I agree. Davy is much happier where he is. And I think Rowena must be happier, too."
"Here's to Ceffylgwyn's literary debut," said Lady Amanda, lifting her glass. "Even if it isn't the romance we imagined it to be in the beginning."
"Here's to happy endings," I added, lifting my own pint. "And the places where they belong."
"Happy endings," echoed Gemma. Everyone else lifted their glasses, toasting above the open last page, the artistic proof of Davy's happily-ever-after and a writer's new beginning.
Julianne, Matt, and all their friends will be back for A STAR IN CORNWALL, available for preorder HERE
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