by Laura Briggs
A Little Hotel in Cornwall
By Laura Briggs
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2019 Laura Briggs
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Cover Image: “Summer at the Penmarrow.” Original art, “Swirl frame” by sjezica, “Seaside promenade and suitcases” by Moremari19, “Luxury old fashioned houses buildings” by Christos Georghiou, and “Fashionable young girls” by filitova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/
Dear Reader,
When I first set out to write a new romantic series for fans, I wasn't sure what direction I should take. I was afraid of falling into the trap of simply 'rebranding' my first Cornish series A WEDDING IN CORNWALL with paper-thin replicas of the first characters; or of creating a series so radically different that it had none of the elements that my readers had grown to love. After a few tentative drafts, the notion of a somewhat eccentric and elegant hotel came to me while reading about the splendid 'Old Dame' known as The Headland in Newquay ... the spunky character of Maisie suggested itself when reading a favorite novel from my adolescent years ... and a new story was finally born.
Like the previous one, this series features yet another fish out of water: a young aspiring novelist from America whose answer to disappointment is to take a leap of faith that carries her to a beautiful Cornish village. But the longer she stays, the more entangled she becomes in her circumstances ... and very soon she finds herself rethinking everything she knew previously about life experiences, about writing a good novel, and, of course, about falling in love.
Tenacious and impulsive, Maisie isn't Julianne, though she shares many of the same characteristics that put the latter heroine front and center in situations. And 'devil may care' Sidney certainly isn't Matt (and I mean that in a good manner of comparison, not a negative way!). Despite the differences, I hope that much of what made A WEDDING IN CORNWALL fun, escapist, and endearing has found its way into the new series.
This story is not a realistic depiction of Cornwall, or of writers, or of the hotel industry, or falling in love, or of any combination of those things, just in case someone might be expecting it. It is, however, a fictitious, fun, highly-romanticized story designed to help readers escape daily realities — and I welcome those of you who are new readers into its world, and bid a hearty welcome back to those of you who are fans of Julianne and Matt's novellas.
A special thanks goes out to author Helena Fairfax of Felicity at the Cross Hotel for showing me as a reader a new perspective on the English hotel story, and to whom I pay a little homage in this book.
If you enjoy this first novel in the series and want to learn more about my projects, please sign up for my official series email updates here, for an exclusive scoop on the next novel as well as information on past projects and upcoming ones. Thanks again and happy reading!
A Little Hotel in Cornwall
by
Laura Briggs
This is the story of my dream and me.
We've been inseparable, at least in my eyes, ever since I read my first storybook at the age of seven, then drew my own on its blank pages and back cover. I declared that I was going to become one of the best storytellers in the whole world, which was an ambitious goal for someone who hadn't yet discovered the complexity of the worlds books can truly create ... so you can imagine what that knowledge did to me in the future.
After these early literary inspirations came my English degree at a university, then my enrollment in the Tucker's Writing Workshop for aspiring novelists. I had kept my fingers crossed for weeks until my letter of acceptance arrived, for which I had sacrificed fun, free time, and the chance of finding a real-life romance for myself.
Now, imagine how it feels to have the next chapter in that story erased in a single afternoon.
It was just another Tuesday at the Emerson Suite where my writing class met every weekend afternoon, beneath the sunny California sky and palm trees of our Los Angeles college campus. I was sitting in the back, making notes on today's lecture on my tablet computer and waiting anxiously for our instructor to hand back our latest assignments.
Today, the thirty of us who had been accepted this semester would graduate from the program — that is, receive a printed certificate signed by Wallace Scott, the former Ivy League English department dean and celebrated short fiction writer for the New Yorker. For some of us, today was an even bigger day: we would find out which of us who applied had been accepted for the mentorship program, and a shot at the prestigious Ink and Inspiration Prize.
"I have your final pages ready," announced Scott, who began passing back our papers face down. I turned mine over as soon as it reached me. Good marks, though not the best— I breathed a sigh of relief, since my gothic literary theme had met with resistance from our instructor in the past.
"And, of course, I have the names of the writers accepted to the mentorship program," he continued. "I'm posting it online for you, and there will be a copy on the bulletin board in the hallway as well." He double-checked his notes. "I believe that concludes our final class. Thank you all for participating, and good luck to you all. If you would please file out one at a time, I'll hand you your certificates of completion as you leave ...."
My certificate was printed with my name, Maisie Clark, on the line printed below 'Outstanding performance in an exceptional program for writers.' I only gave it a quick glance in the hall outside, where I zeroed in on the billboard, scanning the list of names posted. Fourteen of us had applied for sure. There was my classmate Joelle's name, paired with a writer who lectured in our class one time ...Cal, assigned to a successful local playwright.
My finger followed the list to its end. Thirteen names and thirteen writers. My heart sank to the bottom of my chest with dismay. Mine wasn't on the list.
Scott was just coming out of the classroom, carrying his briefcase and shrugging his jacket on over his pinstripe shirt and braces. He noticed my crestfallen expression.
"Something wrong with your paper, Miss Clark?" he asked.
"Why didn't I make the mentorship program?" I asked him. "What happened? I paid my entry fee on time — I sent my application essay two weeks early. You told me it was a great entry. 'Practically guaranteed acceptance,' you said."
"I told you that, I know," said Scott. "Trust me, it was nothing to do with your essay or your fees. This year, only thirteen mentors agreed to be part of the program, so we could only choose thirteen applicants. It was just bad luck, I'm afraid."
"Isn't there something you can do?" I asked. "I was counting on this — I had the money saved, I quit my job and everything for this opportunity. What am I supposed to do?"
Not that my job as a waitress at the cafe had been anything special, but I only left it because after years of struggling and penny pinching, I had finally saved enough to focus completely on my writing for six months, as per the stringent expectations of the program — six months meant to be spent with a successful novelist guiding me through every step of my creative process.
"I'm sorry. Truly. But numbers fall short sometimes. It happens," he said. "We chose the writers we thought were the best fit for the program — who had the strongest chance with Ink and Inspiration's selection committee."
"And that wasn't me." I swallowed my disappointment as best I could with these words.
S
cott sighed. "You're very talented," he said. "With work, you can become a good writer, I have no doubt. You're just a bit ... unusual."
"In what way?"
"In ideas. In writing style ... too many elements to define, really," said Scott, waving aside his attempt at this point. "Of everyone in the class, you were the one who was ... well, 'all over the place' in terms of the story you were telling. Are you a dramatist? A romanticist? A historical writer? You need to make up your mind. The committee expects a writer to have focus, to have defined their role in fiction writing."
"But I thought flexibility in writing was good," I said. "Don't all those elements work together to tell a really good story? Look at the great gothic novelists who have —"
"Please, Miss Clark, let's not revisit the gothic novelists," he said, holding up his hand in protest. "Just ... trust me. While it was very close, you weren't quite as prepared as the other applicants. That being said, I would have let you enter the program if we had anyone available to mentor you."
I bit my lip. I wanted to cry, but I didn't want to embarrass both of us. "Isn't there some way to change your mind?"
No mentor, no shot at the prize. The Ink and Inspiration guaranteed one mentored writer per program a chance to be read by one of the top publishing houses, which virtually guaranteed publication for their finished novel, if it was good. Especially if that writer's mentor helped polish his or her manuscript. Next stop — the desks of elite book critics, a possible spot on the Times bestseller list, even selection by a celebrity's book club. A good book in those hands could be the beginning of a lifelong career.
"If you could find someone to critique your work whom the program could endorse, then I could submit your name to the committee in the future," he said. "Of course, you would have to find one on your own. I don't have any names I could recommend you, since all the willing writers who support the program are already assigned."
"What about one of the program's other instructors?" I hinted. "Couldn't anybody give me a chance to prove myself?" I still sounded hopeful; but I could see from Scott's face that this suggestion didn't have a prayer.
"Maybe you know someone who knows a published author. Stranger things have happened." He patted my arm, comfortingly. "Remember what we discussed in week seven, about having confidence in yourself? Put yourself out there. Find a writing community online. Contact a writer and ask for an internship. Take a crazy chance that one of the doors you knock on will open. If not, there are always other writing opportunities."
"Sure," I said. "Other opportunities abound." I tried to look grateful for this advice: not like someone whose plans had just been dashed to pieces.
Don't you dare cry about this, Maisie. My reflection in the glass doors leading outside revealed two cheeks in a crestfallen shade of pink, and eyes shiny with unwept tears framed by my parted waves of long, dark auburn hair. I stepped into the sunshine, the warm breeze on my face helping dry the tears gathered beneath my eyelids.
There were other prestigious writing programs, it was true. But not one that promised anything as special as the Ink and Inspiration prize. Between my savings and the grant money offered, I had planned to spend my every ounce of time and energy on this chance. The chance of having a publisher this grand read my work otherwise ... I knew it was virtually nonexistent. But the only way to enter the Ink and Inspiration was if a professional writer — one impressive enough to meet the Tucker program's approval — critiqued my initial draft of the novel.
I would have to go back to my old job at the restaurant, and hold onto my savings as best I could until I found a mentor. That would be the sensible plan. Meanwhile, I would keep writing, and keep wondering if it was good enough to ever find my own place in a bookstore window.
At Fiesta Cafe, Raul was less confident in this plan than I was. "I'm sorry, Maisie, but that is how it is," he said, crossing his arms. "Times are tough in the city. You know it. I gave it to Manuel's Lucinda because she needed it." He brushed aside some of the festive yellow and green streamers decorating the restaurant's banquet room for a party, which were sagging too low. "You said you wouldn't be coming back."
"I thought so, too," I said. "But this is an emergency, Raul. Please, I need my job. I'm desperate. This is desperation calling out to you, Raul." Armies of students from the universities swarmed the businesses with 'help wanted' signs, all seeking to pay the bills and finance summer fun before the fall semester started. Finding a job now was like finding twenty dollars lying on the pavement.
"I am full already. Bus boys, waitresses — even dishwashers," he said. "I would take you anyway, I would pay you, except the numbers lately have not been as good. Ever since that taco truck moved onto the street — everybody wants cheap tacos right now, not well-prepared quesadillas."
Two of my former coworkers were struggling to hoist a piñata, while another was setting out the large brightly-painted Mexican pottery serving dishes on the buffet. Raul barked some quick orders at him in Spanish as I hurried to catch up with our — my former — boss.
"You always said I was your favorite waitress," I pleaded. "I'll work weekends and holidays. I'll even work Christmas again." It didn't sound fun, but I knew I could make myself do it.
"You have an education," said Raul. "Go be a teacher or something. Why do you work at restaurants after all those hours studying?"
"I don't have a graduate degree," I said. "I can't — I need a job until I make it as a writer —"
"I can't help you, Maisie. I like you, but there's nothing I can do right now." He shook his head, then collected a stack of menus and placed them beside the cash register in the main dining room.
I wouldn't miss the outrageous sequined Mexican skirt and frilly blouse that comprised my old waitress's uniform. But I would happily wear it every day if it meant having my job back.
Another long year of waiting tables and typing, bleary-eyed, into the wee small hours of the morning ... and all for what? Without a writer to mentor you, you'll just have to abandon the plan.
It was a long walk back to my apartment above the dry cleaner's and the funky tattoo parlor. My skirt and tights and my cartoon tiger 'writers are grrr-eat!' t-shirt were plastered to me from the heat as I climbed the steps to my building.
Lying on my bed, I tried to decide what to do with my life now. What goal would replace the one I had been working for and saving for the past two years?
"I guess we'll get a job and wait for the next opportunity," I said with a sigh, putting my arm around 'Mr. Bubbles,' a dingy, stuffed giraffe that a childhood boyfriend had once given me. "Or do we think that living in a cardboard box while we write our masterpiece would suit? If one can't open a door, then the window is the next best option, the old adage says ... or we could skip ahead and donate all my work to the recycling bin in the time-honored tradition of many writers." My joke was less funny when spoken aloud, but in my blue state, it seemed like an all-too-real vision of the future.
Mr. Bubbles didn't comment. I sighed again. "What if we found a writer to critique us whom the program would really respect?" I asked him. "Who do you think? Michael Crichton? No, wait, he's dead. J.K. Rowling? Too busy writing stories about Harry Potter's dad to help me, probably."
At times like these, I wished I had somebody I could really ask. But my mom wouldn't have a clue what choice I should make, and I didn't have any close friends in the city. As for boyfriends ... I'd come to believe from dating experience that I might prefer to remain lonely. Romantic, but lonely.
"Let's make a list. A list of every fantastic writer that we'd love to learn something from." I reached for my notebook and a pencil on my nightstand. It was impossible that any of them would help me out, but it would cheer me up a little to pretend.
Let's see ... Jhumpa Lahiri. Amy Tan. Jean-Paul Didierlaurent. Annie Proulx, I wrote. Charles Dickens. Jane Austen. George Eliot. Why not consider the really truly impossible as well? The list grew longer, with lots of names. But there was one name, written a
t the top of the list, that I really wished would say 'yes.' Alistair Davies.
His best book lay on my bedside table, worn from many readings. The epic A Dark and Glorious House had it all — romance, secrets, sorrows, a touch of humor, and a family saga that could rival the drama of the Forsytes and the tragedy of Brideshead Revisited.
Maybe it was just because I was an impressionable, romantic seventeen year old, or maybe it was the fantastic cover I first saw in the bookstore window nine years ago: a dark mansion in shadows, like a silhouette against a background of sepia-colored sky, thick storm clouds as grey as slate, and a row of wind-tossed poplars. A tiny human figure stood in its garden, gazing towards it with an attitude both watchful and sorrowful.
I saw more in its cover than the artist actually painted, which is proof of how deeply that book drew me, even from behind a plate of glass. And when I opened its cover and read the first page, I began a passionate love affair with its words. I fell into that story and didn't come up for air. I drowned in its world for three whole days and came back to life after the last sentence, a little part of me wishing I was still there.
Nine years later, I owned all three of his books, and they all possessed lots of creased pages, foxed dust jackets. One paperback was taped back together with kitten-printed masking tape ... that was all I had handy after its binding split apart.
I knew there were rumors about book number four being published in the future — not that there was ever anything besides rumors. Alistair Davies never gave interviews, not even so much as a book signing. There were no photos on his dust jackets, and his sparse bio claimed he lived and wrote in three different parts of his native England. Only a handful of people had ever met the elusive author, and they were unusually tight-lipped on what he was really like.