by Laura Briggs
Matt blushed again. "Not at all," he said. "And please, call me Matthew. Right now, I'm simply a home gardener and a consultant. And I'm happy to show you whatever you need to know about landscaping."
"Again, I haven't the faintest idea what would be good for the novel," she said. "What would you suggest? What would make for a stunning description on the page?"
"Several things, I suppose," said Matt, doubtfully. I managed not to laugh, since I knew that Matt often considered descriptions of gardening dull for anybody except a true enthusiast. "Propagation techniques...hybridization...maybe even grafting plants. That's what I'm working on in my spare time right now, truthfully."
"Do you have any books on the subject?" she asked. "Anything I could borrow? Julianne says you collect books on everything, and I would appreciate a little reference material. I'd return them, of course, before I left the village."
"Certainly," he said. "I have several." He laid aside his microscopic slides. "Come inside and we'll have a cup of tea in the kitchen. I'll find some books, and show you a bit about grafting, too."
Watching Matt's fingers carefully trim away native growth, then bind a newly-grafted limb into the rose's trunk, was the sort of activity that made my knees go soft in the first few months of our relationship. His focus and skill was, in a word, sexy — I suspected that a writer like Rowena could make a gardening hero on the page equally as enticing to her readers.
I poured a cup of tea and watched Rowena attempt to understand the technique Matt was showing her. Her pencil made notes on an open page as she studied his movements closely ... but without any of the signs of romantic melting that assailed me when I was that close to him.
I was making a few sandwiches for later, since I had promised to show Rowena the beach where Matt and I were married, my first time to see it since my return. I thought visiting that spot would stir some of my favorite memories, and surely it would inspire Rowena's creative brainwaves, if the cliffs had impressed her today. Today's picnic would definitely trump the disappointing one in the woods.
"So this is how you won Julianne's heart?" she said, as she closed her notebook. "By showing her the magic behind propagating roses?" Her notes were far fewer than I had imagined she needed, but I supposed they wouldn't be necessary once Matt gave her some books. "Roses and romance do go hand in hand."
She inspected the graft's lumpy bandaging with curiosity. The carefully-taped point where the rose's new branch would join itself to the trunk, hardy roots giving life to a rarer variety than before.
"I did give Julianne a rose, once," said Matt, with a smile.
"You gave me an unkillable plant, too," I said. "Tougher than Cornish heath, even."
"Why?" Rowena glanced from me to Matt, then back again. "Is that important?"
"I had a reputation," I said, grinning slightly. "Matt and I met when I trampled one of his garden plants, you see. I didn't exactly possess a green thumb myself."
"I made certain her house plants possessed good defenses," said Matt.
A truth which was slightly less romantic than the special Christmas rose blossom he had given me as a gift. But I supposed Rowena would probably take her story in a different direction, anyway. Without having her heroine squash the gardener's hard work during their first meeting, let's say.
"Not quite love at first sight, was it?" remarked Rowena, sounding mildly amused.
Matt and I exchanged glances. "It depends on how you look at it," I said. Our smiles were now for a private joke — that of two people who know how many things, both silly and serious, had almost stood between them and the love of their life. Even now, Matt's dark eyes and gentle smile could make me forget the rest of the world. And that was without any words from his lips about dividing plants or leaf molecular structure.
"Love at first sight is merely a chemical reaction anyway," said Matt, trying to look serious as he said this, although his smile was trying to break through at the same time. "Purely scientific."
"Well, you would know, wouldn't you?" I said. "Doctor Rose?"
A low growl from Matt. "Not that, please," he said. "Be fair, my love." I gave him an impish smile.
A slight cough from the writer. "About those books," began Rowena. Matt stirred.
"Of course," he said. "I'll fetch you some books on landscaping and grafting plants. I think I have some on Cornish fauna propagation specifically, if your book is taking place in the county."
"I was planning to write about this place, yes," said Rowena. "Your lovely wife has been showing me around the manor house, hoping it would add a little grandeur to my story."
"It wouldn't be a story about an American visitor settling in England, would it?" Matt glanced over his shoulder as he perused our bookshelves. I felt my own cheeks blush guiltily. I turned away, looking busy with the picnic basket.
"An American and an English gardener. Would that be too on the nose?" asked Rowena. "I wrote about an American couple in my first book. And third book. And my fifth. But I've never written about a romance from both sides of the Pond." She looked as if this idea intrigued her a little. I imagined telling Aimee about this, knowing she would probably faint dead away.
"My advice on the subject — make her wear sensible shoes." Matt gave me a subtle wink. "No impractical designer heels for scrambling over rocks or walking along country roads. It's completely unrealistic — no reader would ever believe an intelligent, professional woman would be so attached to her footwear."
"I'll remember that advice," said Rowena. She was glancing over the books Matt handed her, so she didn't see the face I made at my husband in return. "Preservation and Care of Endangered Cornish Fauna," she read. "Sounds very dry." She looked at the next one, which was something about 17th-century landscaping designs, with a volume on grafting roses and shrubs beneath it.
"I told you gardening isn't always a romantic subject," said Matt. "If you want a more thoroughly romantic trade, perhaps you should try a confectioner. Or a painter."
"Wrote about both of them," said Rowena. "In Love's Sweet Taste and The Colors of Love." She shook her head. "I hate to repeat myself, really. Readers will never believe it's as good the second time, and they'll all be writing to ask why I didn't make him something new, like a chef or a doctor."
"What's wrong with those?" Matt asked.
"Nothing. I just can't think of a story to go with them, that's all," she said. She was perusing the rest of Matt's bookshelves. "My goodness, you both must read a great deal."
"The books are deceptive," said Matt. "I collect them more than I read them, I'm afraid."
"Mine are few and far between," I added. I saw Rowena's finger pause on the spine of The Lightkeeper's Heart, then slide to the next few, which were biographies I had picked up at a secondhand store. She pulled out a battered book with a spine too faded to read, revealing a volume of Cornish folklore, like the one Matt had first loaned me.
"Take it," suggested Matt. "There's a little flora and fauna in it — not of value professionally, but atmospherically. Julianne told me you want to write a scene in Piskie's Wood."
"I've rather gone off that idea," answered Rowena. "The wood, not the piskies." She flipped through the book, one which had a handful of color plates, more informative than beautiful in style. "I remember reading a book a bit like this when I was young. My grandmother's book, on Cornish myths. Hadn't thought of it in ages, not even when I visited Penzance."
"The 'pobel vean,'" smiled Matt. "The little people of Cornish myth. Piskies among them ... but they're not all bad, you know. In fairytales, there are as many helpful fairies as mischievous ones, after all." He tapped the book's open page. "In here, you'll find any number of folklore characters. Giants, mermaids, the legends of Arthur — the county is rich with lore."
"It's a beautiful place," said Rowena, softly. "But my books aren't always about places, truthfully, as I told Julianne. It's two people finding each other in a lonely setting. It's rather my formula at this point, and I can't see
it changing." She closed the book. "So I'll make do with your rocky cliffs over your village, and put two lovely romantic strangers on its paths."
She started to put the little volume of folklore back, then changed her mind and added it to her stack, along with a book on the Cornish coast that Matt had shelved next to it. One which had much better pictures in it, in my opinion.
"Let's drop these books at your inn before our picnic," I suggested. "They're far too heavy to lug around for the rest of the day."
"Good thought," said Rowena. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Matthew." She shook his hand once more.
"Likewise, Ms. St. James," he said, with a smile. "I wish you luck with your story. And I hope those books inspire something besides your fictional gardener — perhaps a real-life pastime for yourself?"
"Not a chance," she laughed. "I haven't the time. But thanks." She hoisted the books higher and stepped through our door, towards her car.
"Are you sure you want her to write this story?" said Matt, as I lingered in the doorway, basket in hand. "I'm not sure her readers will love it as much as we do. Would you be disappointed if they didn't?"
I chose to ignore that question, one I hadn't thought about until now. Would I be offended if no one else loved our story? But it wasn't my decision anymore, I realized — unless I wanted to break my word to Rowena at this point.
"What makes you sure that I had anything to do with it?" I replied, innocently. "I didn't suggest it. I was talking about how I met you ... and I only said 'yes' when she asked if she could steal a few details."
"Nonsense. I saw the gleam in your eyes when you were talking about her books on the beach," he said, pretending to scold me, but in a tone too soft to intimidate. "Where else would she have come up with the notion of writing about a gardener?"
"That was my fault." I kissed his lips. "I really wanted you to be the hero." With a saucy smile to conclude these words, I left Matt at the door and followed Rowena to the car.
The walk to the beach was far more beautiful in the sunshine of a spring afternoon than it had been in the grey drizzle of rain. A beautiful day, a beautiful view ... with Rowena St. James gazing at the sea, her notebook idle in her hands, alongside a seashell she had lifted from the rim of the waves.
"Why did you marry on the beach?" she asked. "It must have been a bit cool in the spring. And there's always the threat of rain on a wedding day. I read somewhere there's a culture that puts brooms into trees to ward it off." She pursed her lips inwards. "I don't know if the superstition is terribly successful, though."
"The cliffs are too small for a lot of guests," I said. "I guess it's my American nature that wanted an outdoor wedding on the shore. It's pretty common along the west coast, and a lot of my friends in Seattle were from there. And I planned a couple of outdoor weddings for Cliffs House, and wanted the same for me." I tossed a small stone into the waves, watching it vanish beneath the foam. "Besides, it was practically summer when we married. No danger of frost or freezing temperatures, I assure you."
"There's a great deal of romance in your tale," sighed Rowena. "I'm just not quite certain where to begin. A gardener ... a woman finding her place in the world ... a windy coast and some lonely cliffs." She closed her eyes. "It's a bit like the lightkeeper all over again — except with Frances Hodgson Burnett." She laughed. "Tell me more, so I can write something new for my audience. Tell me how you and Matt fell in love."
Suddenly, I felt a loss of words. We had gone for walks in the garden, and talked about things, of course. And there was the incident with Petal ... but I didn't want that finding its way into Rowena's story, me being jealous of a beautiful professional model. "Um ... well ... we would go for strolls around the village," I said. "You know. Have an oggie or two at the fish and chips shop. Go see some of the beautiful gardens around here."
That was the sum of my life in Cornwall, and, suddenly, it sounded rather dull. Not exactly thrilling stuff for readers, I imagined. Probably not the sort of stories that Rowena needed to inspire her, either. It sounds as if I rushed back here to a life of strolling through the village for meat pies. There was so much more to it than that, and I wished the words to explain it would come to me. It would explain everything about why I had come back, and what I loved most — not just to Rowena, but to me, in the wake of feeling a little lonesome for Seattle and the States in general. Then I would finally feel better, I thought.
Rowena unwrapped her egg salad sandwich. "This place certainly has beauty and charm," she said. "All of it I've seen thus far, at any rate. Your cottage, the village around us. This beach by daylight is positively brilliant. You know, from the moment I arrived, I felt ... I thought there must be something here, surely, that would give me the answers."
I tucked a strand of my hair back, away from the wind's persistent tug. "It's the kind of place that makes you fall in love with it," I said. "My first thought when I drove here, too."
"If I could only figure it out," she said. "What it is that I need. I want a clear picture in my mind ... something that will grip readers. I need them to be gripped. I need to feel excited about writing again. It's been such a long time. Almost two years."
"Two years?" I felt shock. Had it really been that long since she had written anything?
"Since I last published one," she continued, as if confirming my thoughts. "A Heart in the Dark. Now you see why my publisher is so anxious for the next manuscript. I haven't come up with anything that will satisfy. And now I've got two weeks to do it."
"That's all?" I said.
"That's how long my holiday will last. I decided a change of scenery is all I needed, so here I am," she said. "Right now, if I squint a bit at the water, I can almost see the place in my mind of old, where I found my first story. My first hero in a small boat, towing towards a lighthouse on it —" Her eyes were almost closed, one hand shielding them from the glittering sunlight on the rolling waves. "I sometimes picture it as the lonely island where all my stories come from."
There were no lighthouses here, the nearest one being the site that inspired Rowena's most famous novel. And no islands or boats on the water, either; but my heart rose in hopes that she was seeing her next story unfold in her mind's hidden place ....
This moment, however, mostly provided an opportunity for the white dog to steal Rowena's sandwich. With a cry of surprise, she looked down in time to see the dog swallow it in one gulp, dodging out of reach when she made a grab for the shaggy dog's absent collar.
"What on earth?" she said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "It's a stray along the beach. I guess he saw you were distracted — here, I'm sure I packed another one —" I began digging through the picnic basket, where I was certain I had put a third sandwich.
Rowena wiped her hand on a tissue. "A bit muddy and slobbery, isn't he?" she said. In order to paint a less romantic picture than the current one, the dog dug something rather foul-looking from beneath some seaweed and began gnawing it.
"Hoy! Grab him!" Rosie was running towards us, her red jacket flying in the breeze. I made a quick grab for the dog's scruff, but he scurried away from me and ran in a wide circle around us.
"He rather reminds me of a dog from when I was a child," said Rowena. "Or is it a toy dog that I'm remembering?"
"Here doggy, doggy," I coaxed. The artful dodger kept distance between us, giving me a suspicious glance whenever I dew nearer. Rosie circled around the other side, her catcher's leash at the ready. But the dog, seeing an opening, bolted between us and raced off towards the docks, disappearing from sight.
"Not again," said Rosie, with disgust. "That's the third time he's escaped. And he's thinner than ever. How he's staying alive, I haven't the faintest."
"By eating sandwiches," said Rowena, dryly. "He's not so weak that he can't spy an opportunity."
"Hello," said Rosie. A second later, she did a double take, and I knew she thought Rowena seemed familiar, but couldn't place her. No doubt she wasn't expecting to see someone from
the back of a book's dust cover.
"This is a friend of mine," I said. "She's hoping to write a book about the village. Maybe a love story."
Rosie laughed. "A love story? Here?" she said. "Good luck." A little sarcasm was in her voice. "I haven't seen a decent romance in these parts in months." From her tone, I detected that Rosie's dating life must have taken a particularly rocky path as of late.
"Don't worry, I plan to fictionalize it highly," said Rowena. Rosie sat down on a nearby rock, giving up on catching her elusive stray for the moment, it seemed, as she caught her breath again.
"Romance is at its proper place in books," she said. "Not that I read much of them anymore. Grew a bit tired of every story being someone's happy ending when I haven't had the company of a decent man in ages. Last bloke? Left me in a pub in Newquay and went off with his mates to some striptease joint." She shook her head, looking depressed. "Now you don't see that in the romance novels, do you?"
"I've thought about writing one a bit more honest," said Rowena. "Only readers don't always seem to care for that sort of story."
"Maybe there's a good balance in between?" I said.
"It's all hen nights and stag weekends these days," reflected Rosie, moodily. "Oh, they make reality shows about the other. But how many of those bachelors or bachelorettes meet the love of their lives, I ask you? Most of those rings end up in a pawnbroker's case in six months, mark my words."
"I watch that show sometimes while I'm writing," said Rowena. "It's been rather unhelpful as of late." She propped her chin on her hands. "All hot tubs and scandals."
This wasn't the kind of dialogue that would write a romance novel ... but I noticed that Rowena hadn't jotted any notes in her notebook for the past half hour or so. Maybe the romance of two people on the cliffs hadn't quite formed itself in her mind yet. Or maybe the disillusionment I heard in her voice was the reason why it wasn't taking form.
"Either they're actors or they're fools, that's what I say," Rosie answered. "Raised on fairytales and believing in a Hollywood happily-ever-after, when we all know it's nonsense. I'd settle for a decent bloke to help me with my coat, but most blokes I date seem to think they're looking either for a replacement for their mother or for Aphrodite herself."
