Room ten?
“Will do,” Paige replies.
Kathleen mumbles to herself as she slips the handset into its charger and sits beside me.
“You can take your afternoon break now if you like,” she says and smiles, but there’s no crinkles at the sides of her eyes. Is she still annoyed about Sam getting the better of me the other day or is it the medication mix-up? I’d sure like to know what happened with that.
It’s none of my business.
Even if it does involve the stranger who kissed me on a whim.
“Thanks. I’ll go stretch my legs,” I say.
Kathleen sighs heavily and positions her glasses on top of her head. She fixes a smile on her face. “Are you finding everything okay? Need me to run through anything again?”
“I think I’m good, thanks. After my break I’ll proofread the brochure you emailed me, and then I’ll check the admin mailbox and do my best to answer any queries.”
“Perfect. Now, don’t be afraid to ask if you need help. No question is silly. I want you to be happy here.”
“Thanks,” I say and sigh.
I take a muesli bar out of my bag and stroll outside to the main courtyard off the dining hall. The sun beams down through a giant willow tree which stands tall in the centre of the paved area, its long branches dancing in the light breeze. I approach one of the four park benches that box in the wide base of the tree.
This bench has a tarnished brass engraved plague in the middle of the backrest.
For Judith
How I will miss your smiling face and your blessed heart.
Until we soar together,
Love Fred x
I hold my hand over my heart as I imagine the pain and sorrow Fred must have felt arranging this. What a touching tribute to his late wife. Was this where she used to sit? Were they both in here together in one of the larger rooms meant for couples?
As I munch on my snack, I imagine the long life they might’ve had together. Were they high school sweethearts, or did they find each other later in life? Did they have a hoard of children and grandchildren, and maybe great-grandchildren who came after them? What were they like when they were young? Were they born and bred in Willow Creek, or did they travel the world and find themselves settling here?
A tall man with grey tufts of hair above his ears shuffles into the courtyard in his slippers. “Young lass,” he announces as he approaches, tucking the front of his white button-down shirt into his faded black pants.
“Good afternoon,” I say, and smile, recognising him from the dining hall. We haven’t formally met.
“Did you catch Mr Trouble?” he asks, a smirk at the corner of his wrinkled mouth.
A soft laugh rumbles up my throat. “Eventually.”
“I’m Frederick Bajagon,” the man says, and extends his hand.
“Nice to meet you Mr …” What did he say his surname was?
“Just Frederick will do. Never Freddy though.”
Lucky he’s happy to be casual, because I have no idea what he just said his last name is. I slip my fingers into his cold grasp and shake. “Not a problem, Frederick. I’m Jane. It’s nice to officially meet you.”
“Do you mind if I sit?” he says, eyeing the space beside me on the worn timber.
“Please,” I say and pat the bench. “I was just thinking about how beautiful it is out here.”
“That it is,” he says and takes a pressed handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at his nose. “You know, this was my Judith’s seat.”
Oh my god. He’s Fred. My heart jumps up my throat. I spring to my feet as if I’ve desecrated the space. “I’m so sorry.”
“Nonsense. Sit. She’d want someone else to enjoy it as much as she did.”
I slowly edge my way back into the seat. “Such a beautiful dedication.” I turn to look at the brass once more.
He runs his fingers over the plaque and smiles, as if memories of his lost love are flooding back to him.
“She hated me flying,” he says. “When I came home one day, not long after we were married, I told her I was going into aerobatics. I used to fly passenger aircraft, you see. She threatened to divorce me. She never did though. Guess she loved me too much.”
“You were a pilot? Wow.”
“I used to travel all over the world and do aerial displays at air shows and the like.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Been retired for a long time, but I’d like to think that I could still rip a good loop-de-loop in a Baron if called upon.”
“That’s awesome,” I tell him as I scrunch up the wrapper in my hand.
His grey brows pull together. “Have I seen you here before? A while back?”
“Maybe a couple of years ago. My Grandmother, Violet Rhynehart, used to live here.”
“Oh, Violet,” he says and smiles, a warmness in his eyes. “Such a kind soul. You know, my Judith and Violet were like two peas in a pod.”
My heart pounds harder at the thought of Nan having a bestie here. “They were?”
He nods and hums in the back of his throat. “They were always front and centre for bingo, and painted whenever they got their hands on supplies. Judith didn’t take her passing too well. None of us did.”
My eyes well up with thoughts of other people, strangers to me, who were affected by Nan’s death.
“Do you need to get back to it? Nazi Peters will be on your case if you’re gone too long. She runs a tight ship ’round here,” Fred says with a sly wink.
I stand and take in a deep breath. “I guess I should. I’d love to chat with you another time, though?”
“Until next time,” he says and bows his head.
I nod. “Yes. You enjoy the sunshine.”
On my way back inside, I make a split decision to pop in and visit Mr Trouble. I haven’t seen him since that day. I should just visit him and then it won’t be a big deal anymore.
Drawing in a deep breath for courage, I knock on his open door and take a step inside. “Hello?”
A figure is seated in the dimly lit corner. “Hey,” he says, swivelling the chair around so I can see his face.
“Just thought I’d pop in and say hey.”
He stares blankly at me. I wait for a response, but don’t get one.
“So, hey,” I add, and rock back and forth on my heels.
He continues to stare. Heat prickles at my cheeks. Should I leave?
A grin spreads across his mouth as he rolls closer. Is he enjoying my display of awkwardness?
“Anyway, you need anything, just dial reception.” I take a step backwards.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the other day. The kiss …” His eyes dance with mischief.
“Are you honestly sorry?” From the widening of his smile, I get the feeling he’s not at all.
“Actually, no. Big brother thought apologising would be appropriate considering I live here, you work here, and I shouldn’t be causing problems. So again, sorry I might’ve caused some trouble for you, but at the same time, cheers for lending me your lips.”
“That is by far the weirdest apology I have ever heard.”
His shoulders drop slightly as a breath whooshes from his mouth. “I just get a little crazy sometimes.”
“That’s understandable,” I say in a soothing tone. “Does your brother visit often?”
There’s a long pause before Sam opens his mouth. “Yeah. Whenever he can.”
“Does anyone else come to see you?”
Darkness flashes across his gaze, sending a shiver down my spine. “Not anymore,” he grumbles and wheels himself back into the shadows of his plain, lonely-looking room.
I take that as my cue to leave. I need to learn when to keep my mouth shut.
As I exit the room, Nurse Paige and I cross paths.
She’s holding a small clear cup with an assortment of pills.
Chapter Three
Multi-coloured autumn leaves wash onto the aged timber flooring of my front
porch. I know staring at them from my window won’t help my writing, but every time I focus on the blank page, the cursor mocks me. Why is this so hard?
I tap my fingernails on the timber desk on either side of my laptop. “Stop wasting time,” I mumble, looking around my poky lounge room.
For a while, I toy around with a blank Word document, writing the name Jane Rhynehart and J. Rhynehart and changing fonts over and over before telling myself to get back to work.
My grandmother was considered the queen of historical Aussie romance. Writing is in my genes. I should’ve taken the time to talk to her more about writing, but she left us sooner than we thought she would.
One thing I know is that my book has to be set in a small country town. Whilst I’ve only been to Sydney twice, big cities scare me—the traffic, congestion and people rushing about transfixed on their phones. Give me the singing of the birds and the soft sway of country fields any day.
What about the hero? Billionaires—they’ve been done before, but truly, I wouldn’t know the first thing about writing one.
Then there are your broody, misunderstood rock stars. Your bad boys. In my experience, those relationships don’t result in a happily-ever-after. Even though I’d have plenty of material to write one, I don’t want a bad boy to be the focus of my first romance.
Stepbrothers … not my thing. Slightly icky, too, if you ask me.
Bikies scare the crap out of me. I’m too squeamish to write hardcore stuff like on Sons of Anarchy. That one episode I watched gave me nightmares.
A man who has morals, with an honest job, and who is easy on the eye—that’s my man. Funny, yet serious when he needs to be. Strong-willed, but not arrogant. Handsome, but doesn’t spend every spare moment looking at his reflection in the mirror.
My next problem is my heroine. What will she look like? What will she do for a living? A florist? A farmhand? A vet? Apart from the small selection of flowers in my garden, my veggie patch, and the dozen-or-so sheep Mum and Dad had at the orchard from time to time, I don’t know much about any of those jobs. Maybe I should just focus on her strong values, her community spirit, and drive to succeed in whatever it is she’s passionate about. However I mould my heroine, I know in my heart she’ll be down to earth and kind. She won’t tote the latest thousand-dollar handbag, or wear designer jewellery, or drive a car that you wouldn’t be able to fit a few grocery bags in or, heaven forbid, a slobbery dog.
My first novel has to be perfect.
The perfect romance.
With that thought, I set my fingers on the keyboard. I decide on a working title for now, until the story begins to form.
A Perfect Romance
by Jane Rhynehart
Then I type what, in essence, my story will be about.
A simple relationship between a man and a woman, where all that truly matters is having each other, supporting each other, no matter what. Everything else is noise.
When I finish writing it I congratulate myself with a series of firm claps. My weight-challenged sausage dog, Butch, howls at my feet, as if mirroring my excitement.
You can do this, Jane. It might not be much, but it’s a start. It’s some kind of direction.
I create a page break and type ‘Chapter One’ and centre the words. The cursor flashes at the left margin on the line below. It blinks, one, two and three … and in the very next blink my mind goes blank.
Because, of course it bloody does.
I was hoping for something a little more than a sentence to take to my first meeting at the Willow Creek Writers’ Group.
I can only hope that tomorrow they won’t laugh me out of there.
***
Palms sweaty, wobbly knees, heart beating like a wild horse in my chest … it sounds like a good visual for a love scene. Instead, this is the picture of me walking into my first Willow Creek Writers’ Group meeting.
Writing is in my blood, but I won’t tell them that. That’ll just add to the pressure.
“Welcome, Jane. Glad to have you along. I’m Janice.” The woman toys with the pearl buttons on her short-sleeved mustard cardigan. Her eyes crinkle at the sides as she forces a quick smile. Grey hairs splinter the hairline of her dark brown locks. She looks to be the oldest here, maybe forty.
I smile and say hi collectively to the group of four women, giving each of them a moment of eye contact.
“We like to get together every fortnight, depending on everyone’s schedule. Sharing your work for feedback is compulsory. Sometimes we meet more frequently if we’re giving each other beta comments,” Janice says and nods.
Beta what? “Um, sounds fine to me. I’m pretty flexible to meet up,” I say and smile. With my besties Georgie and Megan overseas, and living alone, I have more spare time than ever before.
“First why don’t you tell us a little about yourself and your writing journey so far,” Janice continues. I get the impression she runs the group.
“Um, well, I’m born and bred in Willow Creek. I work as the admin and events coordinator at the nursing home. I’m trying to make a start on my first book. So yeah. That’s why I’m here.” Please help!
“Well done,” Janice says, flicking her ponytail off her shoulder. “Well, I guess we’ll start with me. My pen name is J.C. King, and I write contemporary romance and women’s fiction. I’ve published fifteen books with Carlingford Press. My next contemporary novel, Broadway Beauty, is about to be subbed to my editor.”
“Wow. That’s awesome.” That’s a huge publishing house. And she’s released how many books? Sheesh. I’m in big company.
A woman with long brown and blonde ombré hair flowing from beneath a cream panama hat holds her silver ring-clad hand up. “Hi. I’m Leonie. Only been in Willow Creek for a year. Moved here with my boyfriend, Matt, who’s a partner in the auto repair shop. You might already know him?”
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug and slap on a smile. There are a few young guys who work there.
“Tall, dark hair, with a coloured sleeve on one arm?” she prompts.
Then yes, I know him. Hawt. “Oh, yeah. I do. He did the rego inspection on my ute a few months back.” And yes, I ogled that fine specimen.
“Cool,” Leonie continues. “I help out part-time with the accounts. The rest of my time I write erotic romance. Matt likes to think he’s the inspiration behind all the saucy parts that I write. If you ever see him, please don’t burst his bubble.”
We all laugh.
“Anyway,” Leonie continues, “right now, I’m working on the sequel to my self-published debut novel, Long-Lost Lovers. I’m a little stuck with the words, but I’ll get there.”
“You’ll get there,” the girl beside her says. She fusses at her dark messy hair which flows around the frame of her large navy glasses.
“Guess, I’m next,” she says with soft smile. “I’m Hannah. Single, and happily so. I live in Logan Falls with my four highly strung cats that need more medical attention on any given week than I do.”
Everyone laughs except me. The thought of the unpredictable devilish furballs with their needle-like nails sends a jolt up my spine. The presence of her feline friends rules out my ever taking a visit to her place.
“I’ve published two thrillers and am working on something a little different, a romantic suspense. I was up until three this morning writing, so apologies for not making much of an effort with this,” she says, drawing an imaginary circle with her finger around her face. “I did get out of my pyjamas, though.”
“Cool. Nice to meet you,” I say, and try to shake the image of cats sitting at her feet while she plugs away at her keyboard.
“You forgot to add that you’re a number-one New York Times best-selling author,” Leonie pipes in.
“Holy crap, that’s awesome. What name do you write under?” I probe, leaning my elbows on the table top.
A rosy hue forms in the apples of Hannah’s cheeks. “H. Vincent. My debut was Alter-ego.”
I slap my cheeks betwee
n my hands. “Oh. My. Freaking. God. I love that book! I couldn’t sleep for a week afterwards. I was listening to every single bump in the night. Any man with a beard I looked at sideways for weeks.”
Hannah laughs and swishes her hand in my direction. “You’re making me blush.”
A powerhouse writer lives in a little town not far from here. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere. I shake my head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, you’re H. Vincent? I’m blown away right now. Can I please hug you? I mean, you are incredible.”
She laughs. We hug it out, and then I sit down and compose myself.
“Sorry. Bit of a fan-girl moment,” I apologise. “That was rude of me.”
I extend my hand across the table to the woman with blonde hair in dreadlocks. She straightens the multi-coloured tassel scarf around her neck and takes my hand in her petite one.
“Britt Love,” she says and smiles. Her diamond nose ring glints from the light above. “Moved here from Adelaide. My cousin Kara convinced me to make a green change and I’m so happy I did. I work part-time in the aromatherapy and candle shop. I write paranormal/erotic-romance. I’ve self-published two books now, and will continue publishing that way because I won’t have someone tell me that my stories don’t fit into a particular genre.”
“Fair enough,” I say as a million thoughts rattle around my brain. I haven’t thought about any of this stuff. I’m writing a romance novel, but exactly what kind of genre will it fit into? Am I going to be able to write sex scenes? I know sex—just not necessarily good sex. And definitely not so-stunning-I-wanna-tell-any-girlfriend-who-will-listen sex.
And another thing: self-publishing. How much extra work you have to do to self-publish? Does that make it more expensive? I’ll definitely have to do some research, and this seems like the place to start. A comforting feeling settles in my stomach. There’s a wealth of experience at this table. I know I’ll be able to get some great guidance here.
“What’s your story about, Jane?” Britt asks.
All eyes turn to me. They’ll think I’m a wanna-be, an amateur … an unqualified dreamer.
Sing it, Sam Page 2