by Laura Briggs
"Isn't it the truth?" said Rowena. "And then I think to myself, 'why am I writing this? Am I trying to create something that can't possibly be real?'"
"We crave the fantasy, that's what," said Rosie. "And those who have it. Julianne, you've had the kind of luck we've dreamed of. Have you met her husband?" she asked Rowena. "He's a dishy one, as sweet as chocolate and as brainy as Sherlock. Many a heart was broken in the village when he finally fell in love. If I'd been ten years younger, I'd have chased him up the nearest tree in haste to catch him."
"I did meet him," chuckled Rowena. "He's the perfect hero for a story." She glanced at me with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. I smiled back, even though something in the writer's voice didn't seem quite as cheerful as when she had been talking about her possible novel back at the cottage.
"I'd have a long soak while reading about the likes of him on the page," agreed Rosie. "No offense, love," she added to me.
"None taken," I answered. I had been very aware that Matt — or 'Ross,' as the girls at Cliffs House affectionately titled him because of his Poldark resemblance — had been the subject of many a local woman's fantasy.
"Of course, there were some rather dashing blokes in my day," said Rosie. "One American one ... oh, he was a charmer. Not brainy, mind you, but very dishy. He called me his 'English rose.' Quite cliché, when you think about it, but I was flattered, nonetheless."
"An American and an English girl," said Rowena. "Now that would be an interesting reversal of things, perhaps." She tapped her pencil against her page — one marred by dog drool, I couldn't help but notice.
"Pardon my rudeness, love," said Rosie. "I'm Rosalyn Dower, local rescuer of strays and crazy cat lady."
"Rowena St. James." The writer held out her hand.
"The Rowena St. James?" Rosie's jaw dropped open. "My stars — and here I was, nattering about love like a cynic with the queen of romance listening. I feel a bit daft now."
"No, don't," said Rowena, dismissively. "In truth, you didn't say anything I haven't heard before — from critics, from readers. Even from me, from time to time." She smiled, wryly. "I was quite interested in hearing your opinions, really. Especially if you're a reader."
"Am I? Yours were the only romances I read after I swore off love," laughed Rosie.
It was the beginning of a quick friendship, and one that led to a pint at the Fisherman's Rest after Rosie abandoned her search for the white dog for the day — I didn't join them, since I had things to do at the manor house, even without an event to plan. I hoped that maybe Rosie's colorful past would give Rowena something new for her story.
"Is that your friend taking the path to the sea stage?" Lady Amanda passed me in the foyer, Lord William right behind her, giving Edwin a piggyback ride. "We took Edwin for a walk to see the bulldozer tearing down the old barn, and we passed a woman taking the amphitheater's path. She seemed to know you, from the way she spoke about you."
"Bob, Bob!" chortled Edwin. His first words, much to Lady Amanda's chagrin, had all been for children's programs, Bob the Builder being his very favorite.
Rowena must be back, I surmised. "I think she's trying to paint a picture of the sea in words," I said. "It takes some time."
"Is that why Gemma is so keen on books lately?" asked Lord William. "She's done nothing but talk about writers and bestsellers for the past week."
"She asked me what I thought the chances were of a literary society forming in Ceffylgwyn. She felt quite certain that a famous author would be happy to speak at it," added Lady Amanda.
"No chance your friend is a famous writer, eh?" said Lord William, swinging Edwin down from his shoulders.
"Maybe," I said, vaguely. "I guess I should go make sure she doesn't get lost."
The amphitheater's path wasn't lit, and it was already dusk when I reached the little clearing in the glen, and the stone stage that Lord William had constructed for Wendy Alistair's televised concert. Rowena was sitting on the stage's edge, her back to the glimpse of the sea. Her notebook's pages fluttered in the wind as she sat with her chin resting on her knees, arms around her legs.
"How was your afternoon with Rosie?" I asked.
"All right," she answered. "I thought maybe I would go for one more walk before retiring. See if something in the air will clear my head before I go to work."
"Is it still a love story about romance on the cliffs?" I asked. "Or did Rosie's past give you a whole new idea?"
Rowena smiled. But only halfheartedly. "I wish I knew," she said. "I've spent the rest of this afternoon trying to picture the beginning. To think of character names, to write down the perfect opening line. Thus far, I'm still thinking. And I hoped to type at least a chapter tonight." She blew a wisp of hair from her forehead.
"This would be a picturesque spot for Shakespeare," she said. "I saw a place like this when I visited Cornwall before, years ago ... the famous one, near Penzance."
"Minack," I supplied.
"That's it. Perhaps I should write a theater romance," she said. "Do you suppose two lovers by the cliffs could find love on an outdoor stage?"
"Maybe they already did," I said. I hopped up beside her. "Sort of. I know a couple who got engaged after being in one of the local plays. They had sort of a complicated relationship until then." I smiled for the memory of Kitty and Nathan's tempestuous courtship at the playhouse in the village, with Shakespeare in the background instead of the sea.
"Leading lady and hero?" she asked.
"More like fourth billing and an extra," I said. "But it was still pretty romantic. He proposed to her while she was standing on a balcony."
True, the balcony was only an old plywood set nailed as a false front to little Edwin's playhouse. But in the real story, couldn't Rowena transform it into a Cornish castle's tower?
"Sounds lovely," said Rowena.
"There's nothing more romantic than Shakespeare," I said. "Well, so say English Literature professors. Maybe even two people meeting on a Cornish cliff can't top it."
"Hmm? Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Rowena. "I rather fancy your story. It would make a splendid book — it's better than anything I've thought about for the past two years, at least."
"With or without a stage?" I joked.
"This place is going to inspire me in some way, I'm sure," said Rowena, who was talking more to herself than to me now. "It has to. I can't wait any longer. I have to put something down on paper. I have to — I can't face Geneivre unless I have a story as good as the others. Something new, something passionate ... the passion that made the others worth reading."
She sounded fiercely determined about this, one hand even clenching for a moment. The passion in her voice sounded a little bit manic — but what do I know about a writer's passion? Maybe it's all about the mindset when a new idea is on the line.
"I'm sure my friend wouldn't mind if you made your characters players in a community theater," I said. "She'd probably be as flattered as I was when you asked permission."
"Actors, gardeners, tourists," said Rowena. "It's so hard to decide. It usually comes so naturally to me. I would think of the idea, and then it would simply appear when my fingers touched the keys. All it takes is the perfect story." She drew a deep breath. "So ... I suppose tonight I'll see which one appears when I sit down at my laptop."
"Good luck," I said. "I hope I'll see you around, even while you're writing." If Rowena was planning to barricade herself in her room at the Dumnonian to write, I might not see her again. Part of me hoped I would see her again, just so I could have an advance clue about her story's plot. The curiosity of a fan getting the better of me.
"I'm sure you will," she said. "I have to eat sometimes, after all. And breathe a bit of fresh air."
"In case I don't," I said, as I slid down from the stage. "I look forward to reading your new book."
"So do I," answered Rowena, with a deep sigh. "So do I."
***
Rowena disappeared into her room that night, and the
proof that she must be hard at work on her novel was her absence from both Cliffs House and the beaches and nature walks around Ceffylgwyn. Word had spread about her activities, thanks in part to both Rosie and Dovie, so there was plenty of speculation about what story was taking shape in room seven of the Dumnonian right now.
"Bet she's writing a proper bestseller," said Gemma. "All about a romance in Ceffylgwyn. Can you imagine? We're going to be in a famous novelist's book!" We were shelling peas in the manor house kitchen, ones freshly-harvested from Michael's early spring garden. He had a certain gift for coaxing vegetables to produce often and early.
"Then you won't be the first to immortalize it," said Michael, with a grunt. Gemma's cheeks reddened. Her recent ambitions were now the object of good-natured teasing around Cliffs House.
"I don't think I want to write about the village," she said. "I want someplace new. Maybe a big city, like London. Or New York."
I wondered if Kitty's latest postcard inspired this remark. "What's wrong with the village?" I asked. "Rowena St. James thinks her characters can find love here."
"Well, I think mine need someplace more glamorous," said Gemma. "I mean, if I was going to write a novel. What are the odds that somebody really dishy or fascinating would come to a place like this?"
"Julianne did," said Michael. "And me." For the first time, I saw the glimmer of a smile crack the chef's serious countenance. But only for a brief second.
"Maybe they need glamorous jobs or something, too," said Gemma. "Not something boring, like housekeeping staff, or fish and chips shop. People want characters with international appeal."
Had Seattle been glamorous? Maybe if you were a season ticket holder to the opera, or one of the city's wealthy or well-heeled residents. My life of soft pretzels, fresh-brewed coffee, and Pictionary nights had been all about comfort and a casual routine. Just like quiz nights at the pub beforehand, really. That was a connection that made sense to me, even if pasties and pretzels aren't really alike.
"How about a fashion model? And a football player?" I teased. I felt now wasn't the time to squash Gemma's dreams of metropolitan adventures with reality.
"Ick." Gemma stuck out her tongue. "I don't want the likes of Petal Price-Parker in my novel. Or that boor Donald, either. Stuck on himself, he is."
"You used to love celebrities in those careers," I said. "Frankly, I assumed from your description that this was what you were trying to create. A glamorous world, people with exciting careers."
"Even so, I'm sick of footballers," said Gemma. "That's half of what Andy talks about. And ... I don't know ... models are a little too posh sometimes. Even if Pip thinks they're grand."
"I think a guy like Andy would make a decent hero," I said. "He's cute. He's kindhearted. And he has more interests than just football. He joined the community theater, after all."
"Maybe." Gemma didn't seem ready to concede this point yet. I wondered if she was actually writing a story — a few pages to show to Rowena St. James, for instance, should she drop by. I was curious to know what kind of story would come from the girl across from me, whose interests over the past few years had moved from celebrity gossip and dreams of London to that of a serious-and-sensible young woman with a steady boyfriend.
"Maybe I'll pick France," said Gemma, shelling fewer peas now that her mind was busy. "The hero could be a baker, like Pierre from the baking extravaganza."
"Or a chef from Nice," said Michael. Gemma remembered this fact, and I saw her face blush deep red.
"Maybe it's better to stick with England," she added, hastily. "At least for the first story." I hid my smile, adding my own dish of shelled peas to Gemma's bowl.
"She hasn't been out in the daylight for two days now," said Dovie, keeping her voice low in the Fisherman's Rest. "Only comes out in the evenings. Like a vampire, she is. I'd no idea writers were like that." She joined me and Lorrie, the local schoolteacher, at our table after the evening's quiz, where we had been catching up on the latest word from Kitty.
"What does she do?" asked Lorrie. "There's nothing here in the evenings except the pub — unless the players are putting on Shakespeare on the cliffs stage. Which they're not until June, of course."
"Wanders about," said Dovie. "All over the place. Just walking and walking. Ted Russert's seen her as far as his orchards, with nothing but a torch and a big pad for writing. Says she needs more notes for her book. Something about 'germinating an idea.'"
It sounded like Rowena's first chapter hadn't gotten off the ground yet. "Writers need to move around sometimes," I said. "I read about a writer once who walked on a treadmill while he typed. He said it was good for his brain, or something like that."
"I'm on my feet half the day, and I don't feel any improvements to my brain," said Lorrie. "Did you know that a group of those little monsters stole fourteen liters of milk from the lunch room today? I shudder to think what they plan to do with them."
"Did she happen to mention how her story was coming along?" I asked. I seriously doubted that Rowena St. James would have mentioned this to Ted, but you never know. And, of course, Dovie had no further insights on the subject than what she'd already told us.
"Haven't seen her in three days," said Rosie, when I bumped into her on my way out of the pub. "I saw her by the beach when I was looking for the dog again. Have you seen him, by the way?"
"Not lately," I answered. "I thought maybe I saw a dog near the dumpster behind the fish and chips shop. Maybe that was him." I could sympathize with a little lost dog since I was feeling a little bit lost myself these days.
"If you see him, call me at the shelter, and I'll try to catch him," she said. "Ally Bayne's son has a humane trap he built — sort of a big badger cage — that he thinks might hold it. I thought about setting it near the beach and see if I catch something besides a tourist's dog off its leash."
"When you saw Rowena, I guess she didn't say anything to you about her book?" I asked, getting back to the original subject. Rosie shook her head.
"Not a word, love. Last I heard, she was thinking about writing about a gardener falling for a tourist. Or an actress. Sort of Shakespeare in the Park thing. I suppose Cliffs House was the inspiration for it, but she didn't describe it in any detail. Oh ... and something about pixies, I think. Maybe Midsummer? I told her about our production last year, and she sounded quite interested."
It sounded promising. At least Rowena had some inspiration for her novel. I wondered if she had named her characters by now...and what actress would be playing opposite of Matt in her story. Not that it was really Matthew, of course. Or that the tourist she had talked about before would be an American resembling me, either.
I found the real-life version of Matt crouched on the floor at Rosemoor, lighting a fire in our fireplace as I entered the front door. "Just taking the chill off a damp spring evening," he said. "I thought it would be nice to see one last pleasant glow before the weather grows too warm."
"Sounds heavenly," I said. I slipped off my boots and sat down in the worn-out armchair.
"How was quiz night? Did you and Lorrie give Andy's team the drubbing they deserve?"
"Nope," I said. "We were too busy gossiping about Kitty's new life in Paris," I added, massaging one of my bare feet, which felt pinched from the confines of a new pair of shoes. "And about Rowena St. James's nocturnal wanderings. Did you know she's only going out for late-night walks?"
"Writers sometimes have odd habits," said Matt. "So long as she's careful and sensible in the places she goes, nothing will happen to her. Ceffylgwyn is one of the safest places I've known." He lit a match to the kindling, the logs crackling with the first flame.
I thought of the dead body and the weird superstitions surrounding Piskie Wood, and shivered despite Matt's comforting reply about the village's peaceful life. "I guess I'm just a little worried," I said. "It seemed really important to her to write this new novel. And fast."
"Why?" he asked. "Is her publisher that desperate?" He brush
ed off his hands, then the knees of his trousers, then perched on the arm of my chair.
"Maybe so," I answered. I stretched my feet towards Matt's newly-kindled fire's heat. "She makes it sound like they are. But it's been two years since her last novel, and she doesn't seem to have given the idea much thought until now."
"Some writers work better under pressure," suggested Matt. He put his arm around me and drew me closer. "Maybe your friend is one of those writers."
"So her self-appointed deadline is to ensure that she writes her novel?" I surmised.
"I've had plenty of students who needed the exact same trick to finish their term papers on time," said Matt. He kissed the top of my head.
"You're probably right," I murmured. "Anyway, she's putting Shakespeare into the story now, so it won't be just you and me on the cliffs."
"She was going to have to add something besides two people," he said. "Even if they met in the most beautiful location in the world, as you claim."
"She says that's the formula to her success," I answered. "Changing things would throw off the delicate balance. It wouldn't be what her readers expect."
"Maybe that's what she needs," said Matt. "Something new. Maybe her formula has produced all the stories that it can."
"I think you haven't read very many romance novels," I answered.
"Try me," he replied.
I leaned over and pulled a copy of one of Rowena's books from a nearby stack. "Here," I said. "Open it and read part of it, and tell me if you think that Rowena St. James can't come up with another idea just as good."
"I would be a terrible judge for those matters, as you're well aware," said Matt. "The only thing I know about romance — and have needed to know about it — is the way to your heart. And the key to it wasn't in any literary hero's example."
