by Terry Odell
With a tremulous breath, she turned around and buried her face in his chest. His hands ran up and down her spine as she wept, and she melted into him—at least as far as her belly would allow. As suddenly as they'd begun, the tears stopped. "Must be the hormones," she said.
"It's all right. I know it's hard. Tomorrow's the day, right? Three years since he died?"
"Yes, but—"
"But you're afraid I'll think you love me less if you miss David."
She gazed into his eyes. Fingered the lock of his hair that refused to stay put. "I guess so," she whispered. "I guess I feel guilty. Thinking about him when I'm with you, and the baby's close, and I wonder what it would have been like if I'd had a child with David, and that's just not fair to you, and …"
"Shh." He put his forefinger on her lips. "Sweetheart, you have every right to your memories. I don't begrudge the time you had with David. What you two had together helped make you the Sarah I fell in love with. And am still in love with. And if you'd had a child, I'd love the both of you."
She reached up and tugged at his ears, and he leaned down to kiss her. The kiss left no doubt he'd been honest with her. Once again she wondered how she had been blessed with two such wonderful men. Five years married to David Tucker, and now, the rest of her life with Randy Detweiler.
"You want some hot chocolate?" she asked. "Homemade, from scratch, not the packets?"
"Twist my arm a little harder, why don't you? But are you sure you can still reach the stove?"
"Are you calling me fat?" She grinned and headed to the kitchen. "You should know better than to insult someone who's just offered to cook for you. Why don't you go play your piano or something? I'll bring the cocoa when it's ready."
"Any requests?"
"Nothing in particular. But something happy, I think. I've been dreary long enough."
Randy left and Sarah busied herself measuring and stirring. She ignored the twinges that had plagued her all day. Braxton-Hicks contractions, the doctor had said, perfectly normal for two weeks before her due date. But she'd beg for a good backrub tonight.
She carried the mugs of cocoa down the hall to the music room. Randy was playing Rondo alla Turka, and she stood in the doorway and watched his fingers fly over the keys. Once, early in their courtship, he'd played something by Chopin, and she'd actually counted his fingers when he'd finished.
She set Randy's mug on top of the piano and hers on the table beside the old easy chair. Turning, she gripped both of its arms and managed to lower herself into its sagging seat. She'd mentioned replacing it once, but it had belonged to Randy's Gram, and the look on his face was answer enough. The chair would stay. It had been weeks since she'd sat here while Randy played, and she was afraid she might need a crane to get her out. Another twinge, stronger than the others, gripped her abdomen.
"Stop it, kiddo. That one hurt!"
The music stopped abruptly. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"Fine. The little one's getting frisky, that's all."
"You sure?" Randy knelt at her side.
"Sure I'm sure. Doctor Zellner said everything is going fine. But next time, you get to carry it. You've got a lot more room than I do."
"If you can figure out a way, I'll be happy to." He leaned down and spoke into her abdomen. "Hey, quiet in there. Your mom needs her rest."
Sarah laughed, then felt wetness between her legs. Oh, Lord, she hadn't peed on Gram's chair, had she?
"What?" Randy said.
"What do you mean, 'What?' I didn't say anything."
"You had a really funny look on your face."
Before she could reply, more warm fluid gushed forth. "Oh, God. Randy, go get a towel. Two towels. Quick. I think I've just ruined Gram's chair."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just get the towels, dammit. My water broke."
Randy dashed from the room and returned with two bright yellow bath towels a moment later. He slid one under Sarah's bottom. "All right, we're going to the hospital. Now."
"Take it easy. First you call the doctor. Then you get my suitcase. And the bag of Lamaze things." A contraction made her gasp for breath. She remembered to do the breathing she'd learned, but had sudden doubts that it would work.
"Right," Randy said. He walked out of the room, and came back in less than a minute, a glazed expression on his face. He looked three shades paler than he had before.
"Doctor. Suitcase. Lamaze," Sarah repeated. "The list is on the fridge."
"List. Fridge. Right. Thanks."
She smiled and tried to rise from the chair. Moving caused another contraction, a bit stronger than the first, and she sank down. "Randy! Bring me that long brown dress, and some dry undies. I'm soaked." Her hand moved absently around her belly and she spoke to their unborn child. "Are you sure you want out now? No tricks? I don't think your daddy can do this twice."
"Okay," Randy panted. "Everything's in the truck. Doctor Zellner will meet us at the hospital."
"My clothes?"
"Clothes. Right. You'd want them now, I guess."
Her chuckle brought on another contraction. "Don't make me laugh! But yes, that was the idea."
"Clothes. Truck. On it." He turned to go.
"Wait. One more thing."
"What? What did I forget?"
"Nothing. But we still haven't agreed on a boy's name, and I'm not leaving here until we do. We had a deal. No peeking at the ultrasounds, and I'd pick a girl's name, and you'd come up with one for a boy. Well, I did my part, and you approved Emily, after your grandmother. Now it's your turn."
"Sarah, you're kidding. You're in labor! Now is not the time."
"Now is the perfect time. You've avoided the topic for the last seven and a half months." She folded her arms across her chest and gave Randy the best "Don't mess with me" look she could manage, but when a contraction hit, her grimace ruined the effect. Or not, because all of a sudden Randy grew calm. He knelt to her level, a gentle hand on her belly.
"I've had a name picked out for months," he murmured.
"So why didn't you say something?"
"I wasn't sure how you would react. I was afraid it would … would be hard for you. Especially now."
Sarah kept her breathing shallow, ignoring the tightening of her womb. "David? You want to call him David? Oh, Randy, I don't know …"
"No, not David. But I know you wanted something of him to live on, and I know you don't use his name anymore, because of the initials. Sarah Tucker Detweiler—STD—just doesn't cut it. But, would it be all right with you if we called him Tucker?"
Her heart swelled, and any lingering doubts that Randy regretted not being her first love vanished. "Tucker Detweiler. Quite a handle for a little one." She smiled. "But if he's anything like his dad, he'll grow into it." She leaned over and kissed him. "Have I told you how much I love you?"
"Tell me later. Right now we need to get you to the hospital."
*****
"I hate you, Randy Detweiler." Sarah gasped. "I hate you. And if you ever come near me again, I'll …kill … oh, God, here we go again."
"Atta girl, Sarah," Dr. Zellner said. "One more push. Lend a hand, Dad, she won't really kill you. This is it. Good girl."
The seemingly endless contraction passed. Seconds later, a newborn's cry filled the room. With Randy behind her, lifting her shoulders, Sarah strained to look. "Is everything all right?"
"Perfect," Dr. Zellner said. "You've got a boy. A nice, healthy baby boy."
Sarah lay back in euphoric exhaustion and beamed at Randy, who wiped his eyes.
The nurse laid the squawking bundle on her belly. "Here. He's perfect, but I'm sure you'll want to count fingers and toes while the doctor finishes down there."
Sarah marveled at the tiny piece of perfection in her arms. She drew Randy's huge hand down to the infant's tiny one. "Good morning, Tuck. Say hi to your daddy."
* * * * *
And, just for fun, one more—this time, it's the characters who
have taken over.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PAGE
Or
Who Says Characters Aren't Real?
Copyright © 2010 by Terry Odell
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the original gang at the iVillage Short Story Board for those fun OTE exercises, and for all the positive reinforcement a new author needed. To Suzanne Brockmann for showing me how real the author-character relationship can be. And, of course, to Randy and Sarah. It's been a fun ride!
As a writer, one of the most frequent questions I'm asked is, "Where do you get your ideas?" And running a very close second is, "How do you come up with your characters?" My answer to the first is usually, "Everywhere." For the second, the reply is obvious. I advertise. How else would I find them?
Of course, handling the job interviews as the applicants come in—well, that's another story. This is what happened when I interviewed an applicant for the heroine's role in Finding Sarah.
* * * * *
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PAGE
One
"Thanks," I say, my face aching from the polite smiles I've been forcing all day. "I'll be in touch." I escort the interviewee to the door, take a deep breath and go back to my desk. I pick up the last yellow file folder and scan the first page of the resume within. Sarah Tucker. Thirty-one. A little old for what I have in mind. I wonder how long ago her picture was taken. I lean across my desk and push the intercom button. "All right, Jess," I say to my assistant. "Send in the next applicant."
The door opens and a perfect girl-next-door stands there. Wearing a navy-blue suit with a blouse buttoned above her collarbone. A refreshing change from all the silicone enhancements I've been staring at all day. She even has freckles across her nose and cheeks. No problem casting her in her twenties.
"Come in," I say, my smile a little less forced. "Have a seat."
She steps into the room. Pumps. She's wearing pumps. A little worn in the heels, but polished. It's as if she's read my synopsis—which is impossible because I haven't written it yet.
She sits in the seat across from my desk, clutching her purse—which matches her shoes, for God's sake—on her lap. "Thanks. I'm Sarah Tucker. I'm here for the job interview. For the romance novel heroine."
"Yes, I have your resume. I'm Terry Odell, and I'm the author. Let's get started. Tell me why you want a job in a romance novel."
I brace myself, waiting for the canned, I want to bring happiness into the lives of poor, bored housewives speech. But she doesn't say anything for a minute. She fusses with the hem of her skirt. (Mental note: Good nervous gesture.)
"I have to be honest. My business—I have a small gift shop—hasn't been doing well and I need a little extra cash. My neighbor—Maggie, she's the mother-hen type—well, she saw your ad and talked me into coming in for an interview."
"Any experience?"
"Experience with what? I've never been in a novel before, if that's what you mean. But I've read quite a few."
"More with the romance part. Your resume says you're single."
"Actually, I'm a widow. My husband died in a car accident about a year ago. I guess I'm lonely too, which is probably why I let Maggie talk me into trying out. You know, to ease back into the world again but with kind of a safety net. I mean, it's fiction right? I'd be pretending to fall in love, but it wouldn't be like I was betraying the memory of my husband." She looks around, as if she's afraid someone else might be watching. Lowers her voice as if she's afraid to be overheard. "David and I—well, we had a…um…healthy relationship. It's been a long time."
"Very good." No problems trying to justify a twenty-eight-year-old innocent heroine. I check my notes. "How do you feel about tall men?"
"Not a problem."
"Cops?"
Her eyebrows lift a fraction. "Never really thought about it. Are you telling me the hero is a tall cop?"
"I haven't cast him yet, but that's the plan."
"I'm fine with that. Nothing like a man with a badge. Or a big gun." Her cheeks turn pink. "It is fiction, after all."
Excellent. I think for a moment, jot another note. What if she's more experienced than my hero? Might make a nice twist. But subtle. No way would a thirty-something-year-old cop be that inexperienced. But it could be a fun first-encounter scene.
I consult my list again. "Your hair—would you cut it?"
She looks at me as if I'm nuts. Maybe I am, but I like to see my characters when I'm writing and if we're going to be working together, she's got to be willing to look the part.
She runs her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. "Um…sure. Why not? It'll grow back."
"What about cats?"
"I'm allergic."
"Hmm." I think about the three cats and their pivotal roles in the plot.
Her expression shifts and I can tell she's into the fantasy now. She wants the job. "Oh, but I can handle it. I can take pills or get shots or whatever," she says.
Her eyes brighten to a shade of blue that matches the sodalite stone in the pendant one of my critique partners gave me. It's supposed to enhance creativity. I've been wearing it day and night for the last three months.
Her excitement is contagious. "I don't think that will be necessary. I can minimize your scenes with the cats."
"You'd change the book for me?" She sounds incredulous.
"Let me explain. I'm what the industry calls a "pantser."
She cocks her head. "I…um…I can't say I've ever heard the term."
"I write by the seat of my pants, so to speak. I don't always know where the plot will take me and I rely on character input. How do you feel about that? You won't just come in and recite the words on the page. I might ask for your suggestions."
"That sounds like fun. I studied art, not writing, but there's a basis of creativity in both areas, don't you think?"
"Definitely. One more question. Writing is all about rewriting. How would you feel if you spent three chapters covering a series of plot points, and then I changed my mind, threw them out and we started over?"
"I think it sounds exciting. So this would be a collaborative effort?"
"Very much so. Can you handle it?"
She leans forward, her eyes widening. "Does this mean you're offering me the job?"
I look at the file folders in my "Reject" stack and at the empty "To Be Interviewed" basket. "Well, we have a few things to iron out. Liability insurance, for one thing. Romantic suspense can get dangerous." I wait for her to change her mind, the way the only other candidate to reach this point had. Instead, she smiles.
"But I'm not going to die or anything? You're not allowed to kill the heroine in a romance novel, right? It's fiction. It's not like this stuff is happening to me for real, is it? Just to my character. Nothing really bad will happen, will it?"
I don't tell her about the climax of the book. And she's right. Kind of. Bad stuff happens, but I guess it boils down to everyone's individual definition of really bad. I smile and drop my gaze to her resume. Her every thought is telegraphed on her face and I have doubts about how well I'm hiding mine.
"There's one last thing," I say. "The contract is contingent upon compatibility with the hero. Once I narrow down the choices, I'll call you back."
"I understand. But I'm sure there won't be any problems."
"From what I've seen today, I'm inclined to agree. Thank you for coming in."
She stands, smiles and offers her hand. I walk her through the outer office and hold the door for her. When she's gone, I turn to Jess.
"You got those hero lead files?"
"Right here," she says.
"Who was that tall one? With the sexy eyes and that cute way he pushed his hair away from his face? Rugged. Handsome, but not gorgeous—the kind of guy you'd trust."
Jess flips through a stack of applications and extends one to me. "Randy Detweiler."
I refresh my memory. Brown hair, brown eyes. I look more closely. Hazel flecks. And a little scar through his eyebrow. Oh y
eah. He'd be perfect. "Great. Get him on the phone. See if he's free at four."
*****
Randy's interview went well and shortly thereafter, work on Finding Sarah began in earnest. I've tried to stay at least three scenes ahead of them, and I'm impressed with the way both have adapted to some of the rewrites, especially when I had to create and cast a new character—a sister-in-law for Sarah. Diana was no problem and accepted her brief appearance without complaint. I think she enjoyed the scene where she got to flirt brazenly with Randy. I know he tolerated it like a trouper.
But every now and then, a character manages to surprise an author. I thought I had Randy pegged, until he requested an appointment with me.
Two
"Come in, Randy," I say. We'd been working together for a couple of months now but I still can't get used to how tall he is. I've written him as six-six, but I have a hunch he's even taller. However, he's comfortable with his height and walks with an easy grace across my office, glancing around before settling himself on the couch.
I remember his awkwardness at our initial interview. Like he was afraid it was a stereotypical casting couch and he might have to "buy" his way into the job, or I was going to make him demonstrate that he could handle the sex scenes.
"What can I do for you?" I ask.
His lips curve up in a shy smile and he shoves a lock of hair off his forehead. "I…um…I had a suggestion. For my character."
I give him my full attention now. He's never demanded—heck, he's never even suggested—anything. Maybe he's nervous. The first scene on today's schedule is the first real sex scene with Sarah. It's not like he's naïve or anything, but I know how characters can get self-conscious when they're actually asked to perform on cue. At least he's not one of the cocky ones, no pun intended, who thinks he can take over the scene.
