by Laura Briggs
Sidney's was equally steady. "I want to," he answered. "I would like the chance to read more of what you carry in your mind, and create from the world around you. Whatever makes you happy or intrigues you, or keeps you sane when everything else is maddening. More of you," he clarified in turn. "Whatever form it takes when it offers itself."
That was strangely romantic, and not at all strange coming from him. I should take those words solely at the value intended for me as an artist, yet I was hearing them as me, Maisie, and not as a novelist. And I was going to grow hot, and flustered, and desperately happy if I wasn't very careful. So I looked straight ahead again, gazing into the foliage of gold and red.
"So you want to be that person for me?" As a reader, I thought. As a reader and not as more ... but I didn't put it into words in that form. It was open, the way Sidney's reply had been a moment ago.
"Is that an invitation?" he asked.
"What do you think?" I looked at him now, but only briefly, as I took hold of the bicycle's handles and hopped on its seat. I kicked its stand upright. "Catch up with me and maybe I'll give you the real answer," I said, as I pedaled away swiftly.
"Hey! A running start is unfair!" I heard his protest — and his laugh — behind me as Sidney seized his own and pushed off in pursuit. The breeze lifted another shower of gold leaves from the trees by the stream, which swept around us like a moving cloud. Sidney had oiled the bicycle's gears to perfection, because they turned effortlessly beneath my pedals as I raced ahead.
The Adventures of Maisie Clark. I typed this document title on the keyboard in my head, preparing to delete it from my thoughts at the same time ... then didn't. Maybe it would be nice to type those words in reality, even if just for fun. Not just for Sidney's curiosity, either.
Sidney tagged my shoulder as he passed me, glancing back with a smile that dared me to catch up again. But when I slowed down, so did he, until I caught up again, and we were side by side all the rest of the way to the vicarage.
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Special Excerpt from Sea Holly and Mistletoe Kisses:
I polished the shiny Christmas globes bedecking the mantel’s garland, and in the reflection of a gold one saw a moving figure behind me in the foyer. Molly was posting a notice for the upcoming ice sculpture contest hosted by the hotel Penmarrow. I had seen several posted recently in the village, listing the times for the ice sculpting classes and demonstrations being offered by the hotel’s hired chef for the holidays, who was a master sculptor posing beside an impressive polar bear in ice in the photo.
“Maisie, will you switch with me on morning schedule?” Molly asked. “I promised a friend I’d go with them to Truro on my half day, and I’ll be late in coming home.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “I’ve been working a lot of morning schedules these past months, so it’ll seem familiar, actually.” Autumn nights of clearing away dinner dishes seemed strange after a whole summer of yawning my way through early morning piles of laundry and setting tables for morning cups of tea and coffee.
“I like your new hairstyle,” she said, shyly. “Only … wasn’t it a bit odd to trim it so short in winter? You let it be long all summer and in autumn, too.”
My dark hair had been shortened above my shoulders a few weeks ago at the local stylist’s. I touched the shortened ends of my new tresses, which turned up slightly as if trying to curl. “I saw it in a magazine and wanted to try it,” I said. “I wanted something new. I haven’t worn my hair short in ages, not since I first moved to California.” I cut it short then as a rite of passage, since I was leaving behind my university years, my New England life of four years, and my weak-willed former boyfriend in one bold cross-country move.
“You had such pretty long hair,” said Molly. “I wish mine wasn’t so thin and so very flat. Do you think if I cut it short, it would curl a bit on the end, too? It would make it look a bit more lively, perhaps.” She sounded wistful at this idea – Molly’s hair, a light brown shade, was the fine, soft kind that never holds a curl no matter how much encouragement she gave it.
“I like yours long,” I answered, since I learned it was definitely better never to give someone advice on haircuts. “Everyone would miss seeing your hair ribbons – that’s how we always know it’s you before you turn around, Molly.”
“I do like bright ribbons,” she admitted. “It is sort of ‘me,’ I suppose. We all sort of have our own symbols … I always thought mine was the crossword puzzles, though.”
“We all have more than one,” I said. I couldn’t quite stop myself from touching the faded daisy barrette which pinned back one side of my shortened locks as I shared this idea. It was an old hair ornament from the bottom of my suitcase, one which had been tangled in stuffed Mr. Bubbles’ giraffe mane, and I had been wearing it despite the petals’ faded fabric and a few missing ones, beside.
It was a silly thing to be wearing, and I knew it perfectly well. I was having a difficult time being sensible on a little point like this one. All the daisies of summer had been scattered to the wind for an age, and the soft petals of fall ‘mums and sleepy dahlias had been wilted by frost, but I was still reaching for this clip each morning among the handful of beads, rhinestones, and lacy headbands on my dresser. I couldn't quite let the daisy of this past summer go, though I knew perfectly well I shouldn't be thinking back to that moment, or the person who first paid me a compliment for wearing it.
