by Lily Flowers
“Hullo? Am I interrupting something?”
Helena fell silent as the door of the Palm House opened to reveal a woman who wore a dress identical to hers—only, she surmised, about 10 sizes smaller.
“Don’t even try to tell me that woman eats,” she shook her head, meeting the tall, pencil thin blonde with a gracious—if oh so slightly tight—grin. “Hi, I’m Helena Vance. I’m the author of the book whose cover you’ll be gracing—and gracing it well, from what I can see. You’re lovely, Miss.”
Stepping forward with a kind smile, Helena engaged the beaming model in a warm, gracious handshake.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I’m Tandy Boatwright,” the model replied, crinkling her wide, dark eyes to appealing effect. “My agency sent me over here this morning, in response to a call from Elmhurst Publishing in New York. I hope I’m not late,” She paused here, adding with a genial nod in Helena’s direction, “It’s always an honor to meet an author, Miss. I hope I do justice to you and your heroine.”
Helena nodded.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Tandy. And no worries—you arrived here just in time this morning,” she assured her, adding with a pointed look in Trey’s direction, “Truth be told, I wish you had arrived here just a few minutes later. As it stands you kind of messed up my big dramatic exit.”
Tandy frowned; the worry lines now furrowing her brow doing little to mar the overall perfection of her bronzed, carved visage.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware,” she murmured, adding with a shrug, “So sorry, Miss.”
Helena shook her head.
“Again, no worries,” she repeated, adding as she squeezed Tandy’s hand, “You probably make an impact every day, whenever you step into or leave a room—well today Miss, it is my turn.”
Turning once again in the direction of the door, Helena’s eyes flew wide as she came face to face with a quiet, somber-faced Trey Lawrence; a man whose own eyes brimmed with something akin to tears.
“Please don’t go, Helena,” Trey begged, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stay here and help me create our cover—be our director and our inspiration, we need you.”
Helena shook her head.
“The minute that the big boss man dropped me as the cover model, my vision for this book was all but destroyed,” she told him, adding in a lower, sadder tone, “And the moment that you failed to stand up for me, Trey, my vision of you pretty much went kerplewy as well. And that, my dear, is why I have to go home. I’ll see you back in New York.” She paused here, adding over her shoulder, “You once said that you just couldn’t wait to meet Helena Handbasket. Well it’s safe to say it, Lawrence: You just made her acquaintance.”
Gracing Blaine with an affirming smile in passing, Helena strolled with proud steps in the direction of the door; holding her chin up high as she cleared the back entrance of the Palm House.
Pausing at the door, Helena turned just in time to see a smiling Blaine Bennington approach a grave-faced Trey; engaging him in a friendly handshake as he said, “You just screwed up—royally. And I sure do appreciate it. Thank you for screwing up.”
Trey grimaced.
“You’re pushing it, Bennington,” he released on a snarl, adding as he jerked his head toward the back of the house, “Go and get your cosmetics touched up, powder puff. The shoot starts in 15 minutes.”
Even as Helena winced at Trey’s sharp, harsh tone, she smiled again as a scowling Irving came to stand between him and Blaine.
“And here I thought I was crazy,” Irving accused, folding his arms before him. “Pffft. I could take lessons from you, dude.”
Trey winced.
“Et tu, Irving?” he asked.
Irving snorted.
“You’re the betrayer here, Trey,” he announced, adding as he shook his head from side to side, “As an editor—and a damned good one—Helena knows better than anyone that you have to stay true to the spirit of the book. As a woman—and a damned good one—she knows that you have to stay true to your woman. You, Mr. Lawrence, have violated both edicts.”
Helena gaped as she marveled at Irving’s defense; and at the memory of Blaine’s previous words, also strongly spoken on her behalf.
“It’s great to have good friends,” she pondered, adding with a slight frown, “If only I could count the man I love among those friends.”
Still and all, she figured, Helena Vance always had Helena Handbasket; the strong, spirited lass that had allowed her to walk away from him—and from a situation in which she was undervalued.
“Nobody puts Helena Handbasket in a corner,” she smirked, raising her chin higher still as she walked even farther away.
Shutting her eyes tight, Helena let loose with a light, relieving chuckle as she turned from the door; opening them as she gathered her silken skirts in her hands and ran from the house.
For a few seconds she ran against the wind; charging through a wave of angry energy as she gritted her teeth against the breeze.
Just as abruptly she stood stock still, her eyes flying wide as she beheld the vision of roses.
Sure, Helena had heard many times about the classic rose garden that kissed the southern border of Palm House; yet never had she imagined the incredible beauty of this lush, fragrant greenspace.
Claiming the same birthdate as the Palm House, the Royal Botanic rose garden bloomed in ebullience; its fragrant florals calling to Helena as she walked in a trance in the direction of the garden.
Her soothed senses swam and sailed through the spectacle of scarlet red and pearl pink roses that filled and defined this nature borne mecca; soon her feet followed in strong suit, driving her deeper into the menagerie in the pursuit of pleasure and peace.
Spotting a delicate lavender winged butterfly that flew just beyond her in the garden, Helena giggled as she too took flight—taking off in pursuit of the lacy winged creature that seemed to fly free and wild.
Soon she ran alongside the butterfly; claiming the ethereal creature as her only companion in her trek through the scarlet menagerie. Soon they both hovered in a suspended dream state over vines of roses in radiant bloom; and with a beam to the butterfly she leaned low above the sweetest bloom and—shutting her eyes tight—paused to inhale its ethereal scent.
“Now that would have made the perfect cover shot.”
Helena froze as her senses were further soothed by the sound of a smooth, sonorous voice; one whose source she immediately identified the moment she opened her eyes.
Bearing the likeness of a golden sprite at the heart of his nature borne habitat, Blaine Bennington seemed one with the garden; and as he approached her with arms outstretched, he looked every inch the Victorian lord that embodied her handsome, gallant hero.
Going to him with a serene smile, Helena soon lost herself in Blaine’s powerful arms—just as she had equally lost herself in the splendor of the rose garden.
Finally she allowed herself the luxury of sublime relaxation; exhaling sharply as she leaned into him, resting her head on his broad shoulder as he swept her up in his tender embrace.
“Do you have any idea of how beautiful you are,” Blaine voiced these words as a statement, not a question; just before consuming her in a strong clench that brought her infinite comfort and caring.
“I just cannot believe Trey,” Helena whispered, pulling back to stare deep into his eyes.
“Shhhh…” Blaine whispered, running his hands like a shower of warm water down the length of her back. “Forget about him. Just imagine for a moment that you and I are posing, here and now, for the cover of your book. I am the hero, you are the heroine.”
Accenting his words with an impulsive action, Blaine drew Helena closer than close and cupped her cheeks in two tender hands; staring into her eyes as he graced her with a smile that warmed and touched her heart.
For just a moment Helena felt immersed in the spectacle of this romantic scene; one flawlessly defined through the bloom of sweet roses, and the sudden
emergence of a golden sun on an otherwise foggy morning.
Yet soon even this spectacle dimmed in comparison to the vision of beauty that now filled her gaze—and her arms. Helena grinned like an awestruck school girl as her gaze devoured Blaine’s golden hair, his bronzed skin, his bright emerald eyes; and the muscular body bedecked today in flawless period costume.
Her public surroundings dissolved around her as Blaine swept her up in his arms; pressing his perfect body to hers as he claimed her lips in a passionate kiss.
Helena’s troubles fled from her mind as her new lover kissed her senseless; his full, moist mouth massaging hers as their tongues entwined between them.
Soon Helena lost herself in all things Blaine; inhaling his crisp, citrus tinged scent as the plush tendrils of his silky blond hair fell gentle across her chest.
Yet what she savored most was the taste of his heartfelt, succulent kiss; and the vision of his emerald eyes as they engaged her in a stare that bespoke his adoration.
“Just know this, love,” he told her, even as he straightened at the center of the rose garden and turned back in the direction of the Palm House, “Even when I’m posing today in the arms of Victorian Barbie back there,” he rolled his eyes at the thought of Tandy, “I’ll be thinking of you. And tonight, after this whole debacle is offer, I’d very much like to take you to dinner.”
Helena thought a moment, then shook her head.
“As much as I would love to go to dinner with you tonight, Blaine, I’m afraid that I have to go. I’m hopping the next plane back to the US,” she told him, adding as she cupped his carved cheek in a warm, tender hand, “Thank you for being my hero today, Darling.”
Blaine shook his head.
“You were your own hero, babe,” he assured her, adding with a grimace, “I so admired the way that you stood up for Lawrence back there—and I can’t believe that, instead of standing beside you, I have to go back there and pose with a woman who is nothing like you, for the cover of your book. And, furthermore, to produce a cover that goes against the whole point of the book.”
Leaning forward, Helena suddenly clasped her companion in a warm, affirming hug.
“You’re the best,” she told him, adding as she broke away, “I can still say in all sincerity, Blaine, that I cannot wait to see you on the cover of my book. I also look forward to seeing you back in New York, where I have every plan and intention of turning in my rain check for a nice, long…” she paused here, chuckling as Blaine’s eyes flew wide in what seemed an odd mixture of vague anticipation and outright shock, “…dinner date.”
Blaine chuckled.
“You got it honey,” he assured her with a wink, adding as he graced her with a dazzling grin, “Helena Handbasket rocks.”
Chapter Twenty One
Moments later Helena found herself in the back of a gold-hued taxi cab; asking the driver—a silver-haired man who rose a curious eyebrows at the sight of her period costume—to escort her post haste to the Red Rose Inn.
Then Helena changed her mind.
“Driver,” she summoned her cabbie, “Could you please stop for just a moment at Buckingham Palace, at the edge of The Mall?”
Moments later Helena was deposited at her destination; standing once again at the foot of the glorious gold-tipped statue that fronted Buckingham Palace.
A wave of sadness consumed Helena as she pondered her last visit to this very spot; one spent at the side of her lover, both smiling and joyful as they shared their first glimpse of this international monument to elegance and grace.
Even now though, she figured, she was far from alone. And if it was with a faint smile that she looked up to admire The Victoria Memorial.
Throned just beneath the iridescent angel figure that guarded and overlooked her sacred memorial, the exquisite stone cast statue of Queen Victoria sat tall and noble just above her; drawing an admiring gaze from a watching Helena.
“Queen Victoria was never skinny or waif like,” she reminded herself, gracing the statue before her with a bright smile and a conspiratorial wink, “but she did kick some first rate royal ass.”
Taking a long, last look at the statue, the palace, and the city of London, Helena turned away.
Back in her hotel room, Helena quickly retrieved her suitcase and began to fill it with the jewelry, shoes, hosiery and clothing she’d brought with her to England; freezing as she paused to consider the dress that still adorned her voluptuous body.
Grimacing in spite of herself, she stripped off the dress and left it at the door that adjoined her room to Trey’s; figuring he would find it when he returned, and do whatever he liked with it.
Replacing the dress with a sweater and a pair of jeans that seemed much more her style, Helena closed her suitcase and reached for her cell phone; intending once again to summon a cab—this one taking her to the airport, where she planned to catch the first plane home.
She jumped as her cell phone vibrated in her hand; springing to life as it loudly alerted her of an imminent impending call.
For just a second she mused—and hoped—that her caller might be Trey Lawrence; and that his message might be one of apology and reconciliation.
“Come on back baby,” she imagined him saying, “Let’s make this right. I’ll send the model home and insist—once and for all—that you star in this shoot.”
“Could it be possible?” she bit her lip, her gaze stealing down to her cell phone screen as she sought to identify her incoming caller.
She sighed a bit as she recognized the number of her mother, Miriam Vance.
“Hey Ma,” she spoke into the phone.
“Hi Hon,” Miriam replied, concern lining her dulcet tones. “You know, for someone who’s enjoying her first big modelling gig in the second most romantic city in the world, you sure don’t sound too peppy there babe.”
Helena chuckled.
“Well, that just might be because I’ve been canned from my first—and probably last—modelling gig,” she informed her, “and I’m just about to ditch London and head back to NYC.”
“Canned?” Miriam screeched, fileting and flame broiling Helena’s eardrums in the process. “Oh Helena, don’t tell me you were late to the set, refused to wear the dress, and hijacked the craft services table in one flail swoop…”
“I’m not skinny or pretty enough for the gig,” Helena interrupted her, tone limp and dry, “Apparently.”
A long period of uncomfortable silence followed; one that Miriam broke with an unearthly screech that broke Helena’s eardrums outright.
“Who said that my baby wasn’t skinny or pretty enough?” Miriam thundered, her tone making Medea sound just a little bit like Donna Reed—and on a bad day. “Was it Trey Lawrence?”
Helena sighed.
“Actually, it was Trey’s boss,” she revealed, adding as she pursed her lips, “I have to say, though, that Trey did nothing to try to save my job—or even, it seems, to speak up in my defense. He just toted the company line—and, or so I suspect, secretly agreed with the assessment of the big boss man—who, just as a by the by, isn’t precisely any Chris Hemsworth of Channing Tatum myself. In point of fact, I do believe that—if it just trained up a little and maybe got a wavy perm—the Creature from the Black Lagoon would score a book cover or fashion layout over Donald ‘Dreamboat’ Bright….”
“I cannot believe that Trey would do this to you,” Miriam interrupted, adding with a hard, rough snort, “What a cad. What a coward. What a—help me out here, Girl, I’m not at all familiar with modern day put downs.”
“Um,” Helena paused here, biting her lip as she considered this question. “I dunno, Ma, you’ve put me on the spot here. Scum sucker, maybe? The scum that scum wipes off their platform heels? Douche bag?”
“DOUCHE BAG!” Miriam repeated, apparently discovering the precise phraseology she was looking for, “That’s it, Girl! Bingo!”
For the first time that day, Helena Vance laughed. And loud.
“There�
��s a reason they pay me the big bucks for being good with words,” she grinned.
“Indeed,” Miriam concurred immediately, adding with extra vehemence, “Now say it with me, Girl. Trey Lawrence is a douche bag!”
“Douche bag!” Helena echoed in agreement. “Wouldn’t you agree, dear mother, that Trey Lawrence, editor in chief at Elmhurst Publishing, just happens to be a…”
“Um, now let me think here, just a moment,” Miriam mused, adding as she snapped her fingers, “Oh wait a moment, I’ve got it! He’s a certified, irredeemable douche bag.”
“Certified and irredeemable,” Helena repeated, slowly and deliberately. “That’s a little harsh there, Ma…and, dare I say it…absolutely friggin’ perfect.”
Miriam chortled.
“I agree, my lamb, friggin’ perfect,” she agreed, adding more seriously, “And so, for that matter, are you. You, my dear Helena, are a beautiful woman—inside and out—and an absolute treasure. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different. And I’ll tell you something else, my Helena Handbasket. I’ve never been more proud of you, my darling, than I am today.”
Helena smiled.
“Thanks Mom, I needed that,” she whispered, adding more loudly, “I guess I’d better finish up my packing and hit the road to the airport. Before I go, though, I kind of feel like I need one for the road.”
With this she opened her mouth up wide and drew her words from deep in her abdomen; hearing her mother’s echo in her ear as she let loose with a resolute cry of “Douche bag!”
Chapter Twenty Two
The next morning Helena awoke in the crisp cotton sheets of her basic camp bed; reaching outward to savor the feel of warm satin and hot skin.
She drew back an empty hand; her eyes flying wide as she realized that her dreams of the night before had been just that—empty nocturnal visions that had absolutely no basis in reality or fact.
