by Laura Briggs
"I sacked him," Norm said, bluntly. "Ages ago. He was a ruddy moron. Wanted to put my name on the cover, me take a photo for the book jacket. Wanted to play me up as the antihero, put me out there as a rough old grouse making sport of romantic tripe, said it was for irony. As if that would sell women's books. Nay, get on with that stuff." This last part was uttered at me as he waved away the sugar tongs, impatiently.
"It's a more forgiving world now, Mr. Caern — may I call you Norman?" said Howard. "Nicholas Sparks rules the roost. It doesn't take a Danielle Steel to do it anymore. But tell me, is that why you're here? Hiding in this little out of the way spot?"
"Had to do something when they cut me contract," Norman grunted. "Thought I'd clear my head for a bit before trying fresh again. Bloody sods at the publisher had told me twenty-odd years of writing was too long, wanted some new blood in the market. Tried to crawl back for the money afterwards, and I told 'em straightaway where they could go with it." He squinted at the biscuits on the plate I set between them.
"It's astonishing to me that they cut your contract — the brand you created was a pillar in the romance industry." Howard dove into this subject by leaning in, almost upsetting the plate of scones before I could put it safely down. "It still is. Do you have any idea how many of your readers are still clamoring for film adaptations of their favorite books? The way your novels still fly off the shelves is a testament to —"
His voice faded from my hearing as I retreated to the kitchen.
Brigette was at the cook's table, holding an ice pack to the bump on her head. "What are they doing?" she asked. All eyes present, those of the hotel's two porters and Molly and Sam, were now on me as I set down my tray.
"Talking," I said. "I think the producer's here for Norm's film rights." I picked up the plate of shortbread for the hotel coffee station.
"Film rights," repeated Molly, slowly. "Imagine ... Norman in films."
"He's probably already rich, isn't he?" scoffed Riley. "The old sod probably owns half the county and he was grumbling about the price of tobacco every week."
"Maybe it has been a mistake," suggested Gomez.
"He stole a famous identity? That only happens in fiction, mate," Sam remarked, as he placed a sliced lemon sponge on my tray.
Riley scoffed. "You saw the look in that producer's eyes when he saw that crusty old badger walk in with the vase in hand. Like Willy Wonka's golden ticket fell in his lap —" The kitchen door closed behind me as I exited.
I set the shortbread tray beside the coffee pot and the sugared tea cakes. Behind me, the producer Howard was still going strong.
" — some argue the bodice ripper is outdated in the genre, but readers today simply want fairness, consent, equality in the struggle for romantic domination. And we think your voice as a writer, particularly the voice from your heroine Katrina de Milay —"
The kitchen door closed again, and I almost bumped into Molly on the other side. "Are they still there?" she asked. "Has Norman stormed off?"
"Not yet," I said. "Maybe he's accepting the offer." I tried to picture the cover of a Marverly romance coming to life, but that brought Norman in direct conjunction with those stories. Crusty, grumbling Norman, squinting at his typewriter, writing ... love scenes? With sunset backgrounds? Passionate, sexy speeches?
Sebastion's blush-worthy conquest of Evangeline?
"I can't believe it's true," said Brigette, feebly. "Norman wrote those ... those ... scenes." She let out a wince as she moved her ice pack. "Oh, my head still smarts. Stupid rubbish bin."
Riley put a teacup in front of Brigette. "Drink this," he said. "It'll brace you a bit."
Faint surprise on Brigette's face. She gave him a tiny smile. "Thank you," she said. She sipped it, then sputtered. "There's — there's alcohol in this!"
"What did you think?" Riley answered. "I said it would brace you, not tranquilize you."
"If you are not going to drink it, give it to me," said Gomez.
Molly sank down in an empty chair. "I can't believe it either," she said, echoing Brigette's words. "I always did think Lady Marverly's name was pretend, but I did think she was real."
"All that rubbish, written by that old curmudgeon," snorted Riley.
"Love's Long Lasting Sigh," said Molly. "Eternally Yours."
"Love's Longing Pulse," said Brigette, faintly.
"Sighing for Love," said Molly. "I used to read that one curled up in my nightdress with a box of chocolate creams." She sighed. "I never dreamed someone like him could write about those things ... passionate things."
A low moan escaped Brigette in reply. It sounded like a small animal in pain.
"Bloody hell," said Gomez. Still disbelievingly.
"We used to read his books aloud to him in the yard, didn't we?" mused Riley. "Do you think he'll still condescend to speak to us after he sells the rights for millions?"
____________________
"It was the talk of the village this morning," Mrs. Graves said, as she poured the kettle's hot water into the teapot, dressed in a knitted green cosy. "A big luxury car went straight to the top of the hill, stopped at the hotel, and fetched away the gardener. I couldn't believe it, but Lacy Tibbit's son is the summer undergardener, and saw him climbing in."
"It's true," I said.
"And he's a famous writer, then? Fancy, one hiding in our little village!" She poured tea into three china teacups between the three of us, herself, me, and Sidney, at the scrubbed little cook's table in her kitchen. "And to think you knew him all this time and didn't know he was. That's a turn up, isn't it?"
"Norman preferred his privacy," I said. "I don't think the company of another writer impressed him."
"What sort of books does he write?" Mrs. Graves asked.
Sidney and I exchanged glances, bit back smiles. "Um, the Lady Marverly books?" I said.
"Those books? Why, I've seen them in the shops, practically every one I visit," she answered. "They're quite popular, aren't they?"
"You probably have a few tucked in your bookshelf," Sidney said to her, with a grin.
"Do behave," she scolded him. "You know quite well I always borrow books from either the vicar or from Callie Shaw, and she only reads those nice little romances, the sort where the hero and heroine are engaged at the very end."
"I've read one or two Marverly titles," I said. "They're my friend Molly's favorites." I wondered if that was true anymore, or if she would never be able to indulge in the guilty pleasure of those love speeches and passionate scenes in quite the same way.
I wondered if Brigette was suffering from that problem, too.
"I've read three or four pages of one," remarked Sidney, as he stirred milk into his teacup. "Very steamy stuff goes on in the gardener's imagination. His passionate side was better hidden than that of anybody I've ever met."
"Plenty of people in this village are hiding parts of themselves," I pointed out. "Me included." My off-white lies at the hotel Penmarrow when I first arrived might be in the past, but bits of them still turned up occasionally to prick my conscience. As for Sidney's secrets ... well, I still stuck to imagining them only.
"Neither of you can be hiding anything nearly so exciting, I expect," said the housekeeper. "Certainly nothing you need to confess to the vicar in private to ease your consciences, either." She unwrapped a platter of cookies and held it out to me. "Biscuit?"
"Oh — well —" I answered, weakly.
"It's a lovely new recipe that Flo Buckley gave me just yesterday. They're called 'Comet Creams' and they're all the rage in the village, so I made a baker's dozen especially. They use the marshmallow 'fluff' that's so popular in the States."
They were misshapen lumps covered in slightly-burnt chocolate, with bits of dry coconut sticking out of their 'tails'. Reluctantly, I reached for one, but Sidney's hand covered mine first.
"Ah, your marshmallow allergy," he said. "You really shouldn't." He gave me a careful look.
"Marshmallow allergy?" said the
housekeeper. "Goodness me."
"It makes my skin break out. Red spots," I said. "These look tempting, but I should listen to Sidney."
"Oh, dear. Well, next time, I'll bake proper biscuits so you won't end up with a rash," she promised. "Sidney? Bickie?"
"A pity, but I had two egg salad sandwiches at lunch," he answered. "To the vicar belong the spoils."
"More for his tea, I suppose," she agreed, putting the plate down.
In the garden wilds near the vicarage graveyard, I finally released my laughter, which emerged as a giggle-choking hybrid. "A marshmallow allergy?" I said.
"It was the only excuse handy," he said, flopping down on the grass. "Don't worry, I'll report a miracle cure shortly. You didn't want to eat one, did you? I tried one freshly-glazed — they're dreadful. Like a burnt Cadbury egg."
I made a face. "No, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Thank you for being my rescuer."
I had flopped down beside him, taking his hand in mine as I spoke.
"You're very welcome," he answered.
We gazed at the green canopy above, belonging to the big elm sheltering us. Sidney released a slow breath.
"So," he said. "Norman." He glanced at me. "It's completely true?"
"Completely and utterly," I said, biting back any further laughter. "Lady Diane Marverly is no more. The producer wants him to own his work, come out as the modern man writing romance and adventure."
"Were you surprised? You had to be, surely," Sidney plucked a blade of grass, spun it between the fingers of his free hand, putting me in mind of the flower ring the last time we shared a spot on the grass.
"Who wouldn't be?" I pushed away my blush. "I guess it's true that the world is full of surprises."
"Very much like the center of Mrs. Graves's 'comet creams' — only we hope the rest are more pleasant."
"Stop making me laugh," I said. My face was fully rose-colored.
"Why?"
"Because I lose the thread of our conversation when I do," I answered.
"It was nothing very grand. If we wanted to talk about something that mattered, we would talk about the universe, or your book. Or we would talk about whether this season of Doctor Who has made a brilliant plot twist or a disastrous decision."
"That would be a controversial topic, wouldn't it?"
We lay face to face, our hands linked in the space between. Sidney's smile was doing things to me that I both loved and had to resist sometimes. Saying nothing at all could matter as much between us as words.
"Will you ask Norman's advice for Tam Lin?" he asked. The mischief gleam returned to his gaze.
"No. I think I'll handle the passion on my own," I answered, managing not to resort to the childish retort of a sticking-out tongue. "The only thing that worries me is whether it's ... well ... tasteless controversy ... to give the 'forfeit' any details. Even minor ones." I admitted this reluctantly. I wasn't squeamish or prudish, but I didn't want to be crude or rude, either.
"Your readers will imagine them," he said. "Won't they?"
"Yes, but me putting them in their imagination," I said. "That's different." I sighed. "But I want to create the idea of the situation with powerful imagery — I want to compel my readers to understand what they are enduring ... and see how it forges the bond as much as the physical side."
"I think you should trust yourself," he answered. "You want Tam to do his best to save Janet, but your making it Janet's choice how to face things, too. That's powerful in itself. So trust the instinct to make the forfeit situation compelling, not exploitative."
"Is that supposed to help me?" I was trying to be serious, though my smile kept tugging at its corners.
"Help you see that you are the answers, absolutely," he replied. "No one but you, Maisie."
He drew my hand close against him, and the distance between us begin to shrink. "Did Tam give her a ring with his promise?" he asked, softly.
"No, because I had a hard time picturing a lone flower blooming in the fairy prison," I whispered. "But it could change when I revise it. Who knows?"
"A good troth pledge should always have a token," teased Sidney. "Don't lessen Tam's."
"It hardly matters, since Janet's having to put faith in words alone," I retorted. "A fairy slave charged with punishing female trespassers with an archaic brand of shame doesn't make for a reliable soulmate."
"The story's not finished, is it?" he said.
"I suppose everything can change."
His lips brushed mine, and I began kissing him back. It was hard to stop thinking about stories and life and the recent wild developments in both, but this kiss could chase them away, and the second and third ones did the job even better.
It was only from Ewan and Bugsy stumbling upon us, fresh with mud from digging in the wood, that the kisses came to a stop. The muddy, doggy one on my cheek wasn't quite as nice, although it did bring me a good laugh.
"Let's go for a walk." Sidney caught my hand and pulled me to my feet, his thumb wiping away the mud streak on my face. "You two, go home and tidy yourselves," he pretended sternly to order the panting, wagging duo at our feet, who made not the slightest pretense of obeying.
I tried to keep Sidney's words in my head as I reread my chapters before bed. My eyes wandered a little, from Dean's painting against my room's rosy walls to the painted cast iron kitten doorstop decorating my windowsill, seeking spaces of distraction for my reflection between the paragraphs.
Trusting myself — that was instinctive, until I stepped back from my work, and saw it with a tiny bit of doubt for whether I was handling the story as I should. It had nothing to do with the rejection letters, but was born from doubts every storyteller wrestles. The only way past them was to take an artistic leap of faith, and create the scenes in my head as accurately, faithfully, and relevantly as possible. So I read it one more time to assure myself that I was satisfied that the picture was the one I wanted my words to create.
My fingers flew over the keys. The next chapters came to life as I worked, with the discovery of Janet's condition by her devout father, and the fairy mark branded on her shoulder. I spent the rest of the night perusing Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter for further inspiration for Janet's story, and fell asleep with my cheek on its pages, dreaming of fairy captives, New England tribunals, and a diamond ring that turned into a star-shaped flower.
____________________
Norman had packed his things from the greenhouse, his old typewriter and the blanket I long suspected he used for naps in the afternoon, and had given Mr. Trelawney immediate notice.
"He's signed a contract for a million pounds," Katy said. She capped her bottle of glitter nail polish. "That's what Janine was told by Ligeia. Sold the rights to some book called Love's Flaming Fire for a serial — there's talk of a network in the States wanting first rights."
"Love's Flaming Fire?" Brigette repeated. From the look on her face, I thought this title must have sentimental attachment of some kind for her — possibly in the manner of Molly and Sighing for Love.
"I don't care for that sort of tripe, so I don't remember." Katy shrugged. "Might've been something about pulses or infernos instead."
The producer Mr. Howard was leaving today, and Gomez brought down his luggage to the limo at two. We expected to see Norm join him, but the gardener hadn't returned, not even to collect his final wages from the hotel.
"Remember, this was the home of the famous Lady Diane Marverly," said Howard, flashing me and Gomez a grin as he ducked inside his luxury ride. It drove on, passing a gleaming red classic convertible, which pulled up in its place. The driver, in natty tweeds and driving cap, removed a pair of dark sunglasses as he climbed out and stretched his limbs.
"Norman?" Gomez said. His jaw dropped slightly.
"In the flesh," the gardener answered, punctuating his words with a grunt. "Come for my cheque and a proper goodbye." He strode past us and inside. In the backseat of the car, a brand-new set of leather luggage shone like polished
glass.
"Blimey," he said, without foreign accent. "He looks so ..."
"Natty?" I suggested. Dressed and groomed like an old-fashioned English gentleman on country holiday, he bore a distant resemblance to my notions of Alistair Davies. Closer than Alli had, at any rate.
"He's leaving," whispered Brigette when we returned to the foyer. "He's off to New York, for some sort of ... meet and greet."
"What's that?" Riley asked.
"I don't know," she snapped. "I don't know anything about making films, I only know what I've been told."
"No more Norman," said Katy, disbelievingly. "Mucking about with a sneer and a sharp garden fork."
"Telling us we can ruddy well jump off a cliff when we ask a hand moving something heavy," said Riley.
"Shouting over our cigarettes stubbed in his potted plants," added Gomez.
"I'll miss him a bit," said Molly, softly. "I do hate it when people leave. But it happens all the time."
I put an arm around her shoulders. "Sometimes people come back," I said. "I did. And I can't be the only one."
"For a million ruddy pounds, I wouldn't," snorted Riley.
"A million pounds," echoed Brigette, as if it was impossible to imagine.
We went outside with Mr. Trelawney and Norman, assembling for the goodbye. Norman tucked his salary in his pocket and slapped his cap on his head again.
"Time to be off," he said. "Came as a shock, this did, I reckon."
"Indeed," said Brigette, faintly. Her power of speech was still struggling, evidently.
"We had no idea, mate," said Gomez, still without his accent for tourists. "It's a bit mad, being a gardener here when you were the top of the romance list."
"Mebbe," said Norman. "But I figure I'll own up to it now. Yanks'll pay anything to a Brit to make the sort of rubbish they like. It's the accent that does it to them."
"I believe you've achieved considerable success on your own without them, so you're to be commended," said Mr. Trelawney, dryly.
"I've sold as many as that Austen woman with Pride and Prejudice. Probably there's one o' mine in just about every house in England," said Norman, puffing his chest. "I've seen a few about this place in my time. Everybody says they don't read 'em, but they do. I figure that's why publishing's keen to get me back."
