Don't Tell My Secret

by Mark Stewart

ELOISE STEPPED over to the table. James typed the last word she spoke before looking up.

  “I have to admit the story has started well,” she mentioned. “Already I think the novel has charisma.”

  James sat back, running his fingers through his thick black hair. “I haven’t typed so hard for such a long length of time before. Why haven’t you typed up the novel before this? The way you were relaying the words sounded amazing. The juxtaposition is perfect. You’re a natural at telling a story.”

  “Thank you for the kind words,” said Eloise. “To answer your question, I have arthritic fingers. They slow me down. I did hire a person to type my last eight novels.”

  “Where’s the person now?”

  “Sadly, she passed away some time ago.” Eloise walked to the door. “I’ll see you early tomorrow for another chapter or two.”

  “Before you go I have to confess I’m feeling humble just being in the same room as you. I urge you to keep writing. I’ll be more than happy to do the typing.”

  “I’m blessed by your enthusiasm, James. If you’d kindly open the door, I’ll leave you in peace.”

  James marched across the room. Reaching out he opened the door, smiling at Eloise. “You must have very sore fingers,” he commented.

  “I have. Thanks again for helping an old woman.”

  “Believe me; it’s no bother. Can I walk you home? See to your comforts?”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “I could cook dinner for you?”

  “There’s no need to bother; I’ll be fine.”

  James watched Eloise walk to the lift. She slowly pushed the lift call button. The moment the door started to close she stepped into the lift. She gave a friendly wave just before the door finished closing.

  Stepping back into his apartment, James strolled over to the bar fridge. He snatched the wine bottle from off the shelf, pouring half a glass. He felt ecstatic Amanda Daltry should be thrilled about the novel. The way Eloise relayed it he felt almost certain another draft mightn’t be needed. He walked back to the table. Hovering over the laptop, sipping the wine he re-read the last half a page.

  “Amazing,” he whispered when he finished reading the last word. “This first draft is so highly edited it’s too faultless to change. If only I could write perfectly the first time, a novel might be written in a few weeks and not six months.”

  James polished off the wine. After placing the glass on the table, he started to concentrate on the information he’d been collecting for his next crime novel. In a couple of minutes, he dismissed the notion, deciding the idea sounded good, but nowhere near enough words.

  He walked out onto the balcony to soak up the afternoon sun. Movement in the pool caught his attention. James never liked to stare at someone for any longer than two seconds. However, the woman in the pool, the one he introduced himself to in the lift looked to be a stunning young lady. His mind soaked up her beauty. Swimming breast stroke, lapping the pool she looked to be purely magical. The beauty in her thin curved body was beaten only by the long black hair trailing from her head.

  James took it upon himself to swipe two clean glasses out of the cupboard, another small unopened bottle of white wine from the fridge and went downstairs to the pool area. By the time, he arrived the woman began toweling herself dry.

  She looked up, displaying a grin.

  Seeing her in the skimpy black bikini started to stir James into a state of frenzy. “I thought you might like a white wine?”

  “You caught me just thinking about holding a glass in my hand. Uncanny,” confessed Mia. She took the glass from his hand, waited for James to partly fill it before walking over to a seat at the small round table.

  James sat opposite, looking directly at her brown eyes.

  “I haven’t seen you around today. I take it you’ve been working?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Very nicely indeed; I’m positive my publicist will love the romance in it.”

  “I thought you confessed to being a crime writer?”

  “I am. She insisted I write a romance novel this time around.” James leaned forward. Even though three feet separated him and Mia and after her stint in the pool he believed he could smell the perfume she dabbed behind her ears earlier in the day. The sweet aroma lingered in his nostrils. “What about you?”

  “I’m suffering from writer’s block in a big way. It’s the reason why I’m here. I need to relax a while. I’m hoping this place will inspire me.”

  “It should. The area has stunning ocean views; the surrounding bush helps to make the imagination kick into high gear. This hotel building reeks of mysteries.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t hold your enthusiasm. When I look at this place, to me, it reeks of a sterile environment.”

  “If there’s anything I can do, I’m right across the hall,” hinted James.

  “I’ll try to remember that fact,” said Mia. “I looked up your books on the web. I’ve read the synopsis and the first chapter of the Kendal chronicles. I have to admit, it’s quite impressive.”

  “Thanks. Any feedback is extremely valuable.” James dropped his gaze to the table. “Mia, I do owe you an apology. I’ve been too busy to look up yours. I planned to read your work today. I know this might sound to be a cop out, but it’s true. I met this wonderful old lady. She’s asked me to type up her novel.”

  “If I were to guess I’d have to say you are having trouble writing?”

  James nodded. “I’m suffering from writer’s block too, though I think I’m slowly overcoming the problem.”

  “Have you mentioned anything about the blockage to your publicist?”

  “No. If Amanda ever found out, I reckon I’d be history. Amanda Daltry expects her authors to spit the novels out while the readers are longing for more. I’m sure she only thinks of the money side of things.”

  “What about the time it takes to type up the novel for this woman. Shouldn’t she be told to wait until after you’ve at least written the first draft of this so-called romance novel you’re expected to write?”

  James moved his chair closer to Mia’s. He smiled at her questionable expression.

  “The old woman told me to take her novel to my publicist. She wants me to put my name to it. I’ll own the copyright and one hundred percent of the royalties.”

  “What a strange thing to say. Doesn’t she even want a percentage of the profits?”

  “None what’s so ever,” admitted James.

  “It’s a shame she didn’t ask me, I’d have done it,” grumbled Mia, sounding a little depressed. “Seeing how you’re desperate for a novel I hope you’re not thinking of stealing her idea from behind her back?”

  “I’d never do such a horrid thing,” insisted James. “Besides, if I were to do it, I’d certainly never tell a soul.”

  Mia swallowed the last of the wine before sitting back.

  James watched Mia close her eyes. He saw her chest rise then fall several times before she sighed.

  “I wish I’d come across the same luck. I’ve been trying to shake off this writer’s block for two whole years.”

  “It’s only been a few months for me,” admitted James. “I don’t think I could handle having to wait like you.”

  “It’s certainly been a nightmare. The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do for a career is to be an author. When I was little, I gave my grandmother the first story I ever wrote. She took it, displaying the broadest smile I’ve ever seen. She promised to read every word. A few days later she handed it back. For the next two hours, we went through each sentence. She was a great teacher. She pointed out several mistakes and helped me to understand how certain paragraphs can be written a whole lot better. I remember her looking directly into my eyes, saying, I’ll make a great author one day. Not only have I got the imagination to conjure up great plots, she told me if I practice the editing process it won’t be long before I’m amongst the elite. I watched her leave tha
t day thinking, what a professional.”

  James saw tears fall from Mia’s eyes. He watched her lift a hand to wipe them away.

  “I’m sorry for rambling. I miss my Grandmother. She was the only one who ever showed any interest in my stories. One day I’m going to tell her I made it to the elite.”

  “The marcasite locket you wear around your neck, does it contain a photo of your Grandmother?”

  “Yes, it does. Also, the locket is made of solid silver.”

  “I apologize, I didn’t know. Is there a chance I can see the photo?”

  Mia shook her head. “No. I don’t want the photo to be tarnished. On the anniversary of my Grandmother’s funeral, I open the locket so I can take a look at her photo then I close it for another twelve months.”

  “When did your Grandmother die?”

  “One week after correcting my story, a man marched into the bank with intentions to rob it. My Grandmother smacked him over the head using the large shopping bag she held full of veggies. Before he could be stopped he shot her at point blank range.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” stammered James.

  Mia stood, slapping him on the leg. “It happened a long time ago. At my Grandmother’s funeral, I told her photo, the one sitting on the coffin, I’m going to make her proud. I promised her I’ll be the great author she said I could be. Ten novels later, I’m doing okay. Now I’ve I hit this cursed writer’s block.”

  “I’d like to ask you out for dinner,” blurted James, jumping to his feet.

  “I always view an invitation to dinner by a man to be dangerous.”

  “What if I promise there’ll be no strings attached? No coffee at my place afterward; just a nice dinner watching the sunset and the moon rise. We can discuss how we can free up our writer’s block and how we’re both so hard done by.”

  Mia gave James a slow, hesitant nod. “I guess I should get ready to go.”

  CHAPTER FOUR