The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 14

…

Michelle meets Henry on the dock in the pouring rain.

It only takes one look between them, for both of them to know this is not going to end.

But…

She is going to tell him the truth.

They go to her place, and selfishly she decides to consummate the relationship. He is surprised but does not refuse.

…

It wasn’t my first idea to do this, I was going to have her deliver the truth and have him leave in disgust. But, after giving them a lead in at the wharf, it could not just simmer and die.

I decided then that she has to make a decision on whether or not she wanted to find a way for them to be together. Angie makes the suggestion, earlier when she finally had to give in, that the only way they would get free of the Turk was to kill him. And Felix.

It’s why I’ve kept the truth, and she relates it even when he doesn’t want to hear it, and refuses his help when he offers it, because he would not survive in her world.

…

She succeeds in getting him to leave, and it almost breaks her heart to do so in such a fashion. Little does he know he left with something else.

He doesn’t go home, he finds another hideaway hotel and retreats back into himself. Back on the ship a month or so later, the pain is no less than before, and it changes him to the extent the shipboard crew are dismayed, and the captain seriously considers making him ‘walk the plank’.

…

An excerpt from “The Things We Do For Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs, and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was about mid-twenties, slim, long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back on his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying? There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later she realized she’s spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had actually said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no possible way she could know than anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for very different reasons.

On discreet observance whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced and he had no sense of humor.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and rather incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, almost unbearably awkward.

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humor.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought, when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs. Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humor failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening had worn on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close up, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner now over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet the compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

lovecoverfinal1

The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 14

…

Michelle meets Henry on the dock in the pouring rain.

It only takes one look between them, for both of them to know this is not going to end.

But…

She is going to tell him the truth.

They go to her place, and selfishly she decides to consummate the relationship. He is surprised but does not refuse.

…

It wasn’t my first idea to do this, I was going to have her deliver the truth and have him leave in disgust. But, after giving them a lead in at the wharf, it could not just simmer and die.

It’s why I’ve kept the truth, and she relates it even when he doesn’t want to hear it, and refuses his help when he offers it, because he would not survive in her world.

…

She succeeds in getting him to leave, and it almost breaks her heart to do so in such a fashion. Little does he know he left with something else.

…

The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 13

…

We are at the end of Henry’s sojourn and nearly four months have passed, what seems like a lifetime for both.

Michelle is back at work and using drugs to deaden the experience.

Henry is dreading going back home, because he has nowhere else to go, and he will not be seeing Michelle. That ship, pardon the pun, has sailed.

Felix, The Turk’s enforcer (The Turk is the man who owns the parlours that Michelle and her friends work in, and the man to whom Michelle has an obligation when he forgave her drug debt) goes to see him and tells him Michelle is off to see Henry.

She had found out where and when he was returning and planned to meet him and tell him the truth, and maybe why they could not be together. The Turk is sure she’ll return. Now she’s back on drugs, he says Henry will be disgusted and that’ll be the end of it.

In her current state, far from how she looked back in Morganville, he might be right.

…

“Chance Encounter”, A short story

The afternoon rush hour jammed the exit roads, particularly those to the beach. Nearly everyone was heading for relief from the heat wave, now in its tenth consecutive day. What had started out a novelty was now just tiresome, with no forecast respite.

A light breeze tried to fan away the afternoon heat, but it had little impact. The temperature was still hovering in the high 30’s when Bill left the office at 6:30 that evening.

On the road it was little better, and hotter in the car than out. There was no point running the air conditioner in those conditions, as both he and many others had discovered. The stop-start traffic made it worse, and people who had already suffered enough were close to breaking point.

Once again, the traffic stopped, and tempers frayed to the point of blowing horns and yelling forlorn abuse at some unseen driver or cause. It was a no-win situation, and to Bill, a waste of time and energy. His time and energy, he thought, was best directed at analysis. Yet how different had the afternoon been to what was currently happening?

In charge of the Customer Service centre for the area’s electricity supplier, it had been difficult to say the least. That afternoon had seen the highest consumption of electricity since the heat wave began, since time immemorial for that matter, and had started to affect the functionality of the grid, with the first failures occurring.

It had been predicted, but was not expected quite this early, and as parts of the city were beginning to feel the effect of temporary blackouts, his, and his staff’s work had begun to receive the full effect of the community’s contempt and hatred.

The traffic disaster was not a patch on the abuse both he and members of his staff had received that afternoon, and he instinctively knew it was not going to improve.

Normally he would stay on and help the incoming supervisor. This time, someone else could handle the problems. Doing the usual Friday afternoon desk clean up, he’d found the invitation to Wally’s stag party and as best man, he was obligated to go. One of the other and more compelling reasons was to see which of his colleagues would make a fool of themselves.

…

It didn’t take long to get home and change into what he considered proper party attire. He smiled at the thought of being an anachronism from a bygone age, and of what others thought of him. He was too old to change.

Before leaving, he lingered over several glasses of champagne, and strawberries, trying to get into the mood. At the same time, he surveyed the ravages of middle management pressures. Just a year in the job had aged him five, and a tinges of grey beginning to appear at the sides.

A wave of tiredness came over him. The thought of staying home and immersing himself in classical music and another bottle of champagne crossed his mind, but he said he would go. Wally was one of the few he could call a true friend. He would go, but not stay long.

…

As usual, he was late.

Groups had spilled out onto the front veranda, and the front lawn. He knew most of the partygoers by sight, if not by name. Acquaintances, not friends. Not the sort of people he usually mingled with. He exchanged greetings, accepted drinks, and tried to maintain appearances.

It didn’t take long to realise it was a mistake. The carnival atmosphere and good cheer all around him made him feel melancholier, as a wave of loneliness closed around him like the night air.

He knew only too well what the problem was but had no idea how to deal with it. Neither his upbringing nor experience was of any use. It would require outside help; the sort Wally had already offered. Just when would he do something about it, if at all? If the truth were known, Bill was too frightened of the consequences, of getting hurt. Perhaps a few more drinks…

Making his way through the crowded rooms towards the back of the house, he felt the deadening effect of the alcohol beginning to fight off the empty feeling within.

He made desultory conversation with a secretary he knew was high on the dating list for most junior executives, deriving some pleasure in the thought she talked to him, then to another young lady who worked his shift, whom he thought both intelligent and charming, and whose behaviour didn’t shatter his assumptions as some others had.

As the night wore on. it became evident few had noticed his arrival, even fewer his sudden disappearance to the back veranda, overlooking the ocean. He had seen Wally on one occasion when he was trying to drink about 10 gallons of beer in one attempt and thought it wise not to interrupt.

It was, he thought, all part of the game, to drink so much he would forget how it was when he was single, though Bill doubted he could do it in a single night. Bill could hardly wait till the wedding the next afternoon.

…

He looked back momentarily at the apparent abandon of the other guests, hearing the muted murmur of endless conversations, and loud music. Everyone was having a good time, as it should be.

The gentle, soothing, lapping of the tide on the beach beckoned him. He put his empty glass on a ledge and went quietly down the stairs onto the sand. A refreshing, cool breeze rolled in with the tide, immediately improving his mood.

At the water’s edge, he paused momentarily to soak in the calming atmosphere, then put his hands in his pockets and headed for the pier. A leisurely stroll there and back would be a sufficient break to enable him to endure the rest of the evening. Yes, he would stay, if only to see that Wally didn’t overindulge. After all, some duties did fall on the incumbent best man.

Occasionally he kicked the sand with the toe of his shoe, once for a thoroughly detestable human relations consultant, and another for a particularly annoying assistant. It scuffed the high polish, but he didn’t care. This was a time when near impeccable would be good enough.

He was alone, and in more ways than one but it was more by design than by accident. He had recently been involved in a relationship that was doomed before it began. Work had always pushed that side of his life into second place because he let it. Now, having thought about it rationally for the first time, he realised it was time to place less importance on work and more on giving any sort of relationship a chance.

Wally had offered to find him someone, but knowing Wally as he did, Bill had declined. Of course, to Wally ‘no’ really meant go ahead anyway. While at the party, he had surveyed those he thought Wally might have invited as potential matches, some voluptuous, some half-naked, some painted, some all three.

There was no doubting their intent, and he had seen the same in the singles bars when on the town with Wally when they had nothing better to do with a Friday night. Yet, none of those he’d seen, then or now, matched his criteria. Were his standards set too high? Wally never said it, but the fact he didn’t, said more than if he had said it out loud.

Bill sighed. Perhaps he was too set in his ways and unable to change.

…

Adjoining the pier was the old amusement centre, which burnt down several years before. It was the reason for the closing of the beach, and its recent exclusivity to those nearby backing onto it. All that remained was the scorched concrete floor and parts of the walls. It was these remains he had just gone under.

Beneath them, the sounds of the sea and the night were more pronounced, creating an eerie, sinister feeling. The smell of the burnt timber still hung in the air, despite the intervening years.

“Hi!” A feminine voice came out from the shadows, behind one of the pylons nearby.

He started violently, not expecting anyone else. It took a moment to collect his thoughts, then turn to see who she was.

“Oh,” was all he could say to the now visible girl’s outline etched against the distant city lights.

Both came out the other side together into the half-light, leaving the gloom behind. She began, “I hope I didn’t scare you back there?”

“Only half to death.” He brushed the non-existent wrinkles out of his dinner suit, more a reflex action, then put his hands back in his pockets, composure regained.

“I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

He was a little angry, and turning to her, said quietly, “Then what was….” He stopped suddenly, surprised at what he saw. Tall, well-proportioned, dressed in expensive eveningwear, much the same as he was. He instantly realised she could almost pass as an exact replica of Venus except for the untidy, waist-length hair.

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to talk to someone, you were handy, so I just said ‘hi’.” Her tone was apprehensive, with a slight tremor in it.

She smiled nervously, yet in a way, he noticed it totally changed her appearance, and his heart missed a beat.

“Oh,” he said again, subconsciously feeling she had put him in his place. He shook his head and looked again, disbelieving what he saw.

“I hope you don’t mind?”

“Don’t mind what?” He’d lost track of the conversation and realised he was quickly moving towards looking and sounding like a gibbering idiot. It was, he realised, just like every other time when faced with a beautiful woman.

“Me talking to you.”

He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. He could feel a runnel of sweat slide down the side of his face, “No. Not really. It’s just the diversion I need”. He looked at the sand, the sea, then her. “I have a feeling I’ve seen you before.”

He moved on, and so did she, both in unison.

“Staring at you from the pages of magazines?”

“I guess so. What did you do? Rob a bank? Divorce a Prince or millionaire?”

“As if. Nothing quite as exotic, or exciting, I’m afraid. Just draped in clothes or plastered in make-up. Boring huh?”

“No. Not really.”

“You’re a bit hard up for new lines?”

He shrugged. It was difficult talking to this woman, and, lacking in confidence, he was starting to feel a little embarrassed.

She changed the subject. “Do you live here?”

“No….”

“Don’t say it, not really!” she interrupted.

He sighed, trying to regain composure. “OK. I was at a party.”

“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Then she gave him a curious look. “Was?” Then, after he didn’t answer, “How come you’re not with the others, having a good time?”

“Perhaps I’m not cut out to ‘have a good time’. Actually, I thought I’d take a time out from the frenetic pace and get some fresh air.”

“And now the fresh air had lost its appeal?”

“I didn’t say that.” Did that come out sounding flustered? It was how he felt inside. He was going to have to try harder if he was to keep her interest. “It’s beginning to get interesting. And I still can’t place where I’ve seen you before.” He shook his head. “No matter. What brings you here?”

“Someone told me about this place a long time ago. I thought I’d come and check it out.”

He turned and headed back, deciding the diversion had exceeded the time limit he’d set, and it had now become an elongated absence. She did the same.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“About what?”

This conversation would sound very strange if anyone else was nearby listening to them. Luckily, there wasn’t. “This place.”

“Very peaceful, secluded, interesting, as you said.”

“Interesting in what way?” Damn, had he asked that already?

“Well …” She shrugged, then asked, “Do you always walk around with your hands in your pockets?”

Simple answer, yes. “Can’t think of where else to put them.”

What did it have to do with her anyway? And, in that instant, he realised that it was he who was the problem here, not her.

“What if you were to hold a girl’s hand?”

“I don’t know of any who would want me to.”

“Would you like to hold mine?”

“Why? Is it going to run away?”

She smiled. “More than likely.”

He stopped. She stopped. He surveyed her with a critical eye.

“Aha. The eye that asks, ‘Who is the disreputable and outrageous person who dares to ask such a thing?’

He smiled and took her hand in his. It was soft and warm and sent a slight tingle up his spine.

“I talk too much. Don’t I?” she asked suddenly after they started walking again.

“No.”

She sighed. “Here we go again.”

…

On the other side of the pier, there was an old car park, no longer used. Along the beachfront was a long, low stone wall, and they headed towards it. Once there, they sat down to watch darkness finally settle in, the last of the sun’s rays melting in a glorious display of reds, oranges, and yellows.

Without speaking, they were content to listen to the waves, feel the cooling breeze, and watch the sea glisten in the moonlight.

Nothing happened for an indeterminable length of time, during which he nearly forgot she was there. He suddenly snapped out of it when he heard a match rasping.

He turned to see her trying to light a cigarette, but her hand was shaking so much, the match went out. She tried again, but the same thing happened. She savagely threw the cigarette away and pounded her hand on the cement as though it was something she hated.

He took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat pocket and offered her one.

“No. It’s reason enough to try to give it up,” she said quietly.

He returned the items to his pocket and took her hand in his, looked carefully at it, then kissed it. “Trying to dent cement is not wise unless you are Superman or Supergirl. I know. I tried once and broke three fingers. Fortunately, nothing is broken.”

She moved closer. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Making me feel silly.”

“But … I didn’t mean to … I mean …”

She leaned towards him and kissed his lips. “Hush.”

He held her hand up and looked at it, rather than her, trying to get a grip on his emotions, and saying, a good dead steadier than he felt, “I need a third hand. Do you think I could have it?”

“With pleasure. It’s apparently no good to me anymore.”

“Why?”

“Shakes too much.”

“Perhaps I could use it to massage my face.” He gently moved her hand down the side of his face and again felt a tingle up his spine. Again, he kissed it gently where she had hit it, not knowing why, just that it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Perhaps not. Seems to me you have a case of bad nerves. These are familiar symptoms. You need a rest, perhaps a holiday, and complete relaxation. That will be a five-dollar consultation fee.”

She smiled. “Will you stop it.”

“Why? It makes you smile.”

“Your right, of course. I need a rest. The last six months have been horrible, working day and night, and a failed relationship on top of it.” She sighed. “I feel sleepy.” She leaned against him, putting her arms around him for balance.

“Hey, no. You can’t do that.” He fended her off gently. “I’ve got a party to get back to, and by now I think I should be missed. God knows what Wally will think.”

He stood and she rolled sideways. “Oh, come on.” He looked up towards the sky. “Why did you make some women like this,” he muttered. Then he put his arms around her and lifted her to her feet. She leaned back against him and he could feel how warm and soft she was. It was a battle just to make sure he kept his hands in the right places, and she wasn’t making it easy for him.

He held her up then moved around to the front and caught her just as she began to fall forward. It was exasperating, and yet amusing. He let her go and she began to fall down, so he caught her again.

She was smiling.

“Beware the smile on the face of the tiger,” he muttered. His face was level with hers and just then an idea came to him. He kissed her forehead, nose, chin, then finally her lips, and she came to life.

It was just what she was hoping would happen. Instead of surprising her, she surprised him by responding in kind; leaving him with a feeling he’d never experienced before. And a heart rate that was off the chart.

“Now, if only you’d tried that earlier,” she said.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Just who are you?”

“Me.”

“Does ‘me’ have a name?”

“Do you want ‘me’ to have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Claire.”

“Then you may call me Bill. Do you often pick up strange lonely men on secluded beaches?”

“No.”

“Infuse life into otherwise dead souls?”

“No.”

“Just happened to be the one thing I needed right now?”

She smiled; a smile that made his heart do double somersaults.

“Perhaps a yes.”

“Can I see you again? I have to see you again.”

“Have to?”

“Like to, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“When?”

“Soon, perhaps sooner than you think. Do you have to go back?”

“Yes. If I don’t, Wally will be mad at me.” He pulled out a notebook and pencil he always carried with him. “Where do you live?”

She told him.

“If I come by Sunday may I take you out, a drive, somewhere up the coast? Fresh sea air, total relaxation.”

“Part of the therapy I’m paying five dollars for?”

He brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, feeling her warm soft skin under his hand, then kissed her. “Indeed. Until the next time.”

She smiled again. “Until the next time.”

He turned and headed back to the party, not looking back.

…

No one noticed his absence; despite the fact over an hour had lapsed. He resumed his place on the veranda, new drink in hand looking vacantly towards the pier, wondering if he would see her again, if she were just a figment of his imagination. It was just too good to be true.

“Ah, Bill. I thought I would find you here. Thinking about a walk. No, I see you’ve already been.” Wally sounded sober and looked it. Perhaps this was all just a dream.

He looked down. His shoes still had sand on them. He looked at Wally and smiled. “Fresh air. Contemplating the human condition. You know what I’m like at parties.”

“Better than you think. What did you think of her?”

“Her?”

“The so-called blind date. I didn’t think a formal introduction would work.”

Bill shrugged. “Very nice, but a little…”

Wally smiled the same unique smile of hers.

“Your sister?”

Wally nodded. “Take exceptionally good care of her my friend. She’s very vulnerable at the moment, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to look after her.” He held up his glass. “Cheers.”

…

The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 12

…

This is just not going to work

I had in mind right about now to find all the reasons why this romance would not work.

Michelle is not telling him the truth about her situation. We want to believe she had found the love of her life, but is it that she has found something that she’s not had before, and it’s too late?

Her path was chosen for her, perhaps, when she allowed others to lead her down a path that eventually led to self-destruction. Yes, she has tried to escape, twice, but inevitably she finds her way back, thinking the city is large enough she can make a new start.

She is wrong. Why didn’t she move to the other side of the country, or even overseas? Perhaps it was an obligation she felt to help those who had helped her escape.

The big question here is whether we let our past define us. Do we try and find a way out of the wreckage, and try to get back on track? It seems the situation is hopeless, or so we are led to believe.

However, the last date was when she was supposed to tell Henry it was over, that she could not be his girlfriend., but couldn’t. He had to hear that from another source.

And, what he hears, leads him to believe there is no future for them.

Ships are great places to hide away from the rest of the world.

Henry has to endure a short period when he cannot bring himself to tell anyone what had happened, and then, at the end of the tour he takes a position on another ship, roaming the ocean for at least three months, island hopping.

He needs a sojourn, time to think, and any letters she sends, for what reason he cannot fathom, are consigned to the bottom drawer, unopened. He is, he tells himself, done with her.

But never far from his thoughts, he decided to learn as much about her as he can, and turns to the newspaper archives, and the reporter who wrote most of the articles, none very flattering about her, and then talks to her about Michelle.

High flying model, absolute success, met the wrong man, got into drugs, and spiralled downwards from there. She ended up addicted, and eventually a prostitute. Not exactly what he wanted to hear, but it explained everything.

And yet, the person he met, the girl he fell in love with, was so far removed from that description, he could not understand anything.

Meanwhile, Michelle, oblivious to the fact he had overheard her conversation, cannot understand why he does not communicate with her, and cannot be found.

Time passes, and she cannot keep the man who runs her life now at bay for much longer, and then, it’s back to the snake pit with her friends; and the drugs, sitting on the kitchen bench, are a strong reminder of how she used to shut it all out.

Will the temptation get the better of her?

It’s a pivotal part of the story, and in the traditional romance, it’s the ‘boy loses the girl’ usually to a misunderstanding.

…

The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 13

…

We are at the end of Henry’s sojourn and nearly four months have passed, what seems like a lifetime for both.

Michelle is back at work and using drugs to deaden the experience.

Henry is dreading going back home, because he has nowhere else to go, and he will not be seeing Michelle. That ship, pardon the pun, has sailed.

In her current state, far from how she looked back in Morganville, he might be right.

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The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 13

…

We are at the end of Henry’s sojourn and nearly four months have passed, what seems like a lifetime for both.

Michelle is back at work and using drugs to deaden the experience.

Henry is dreading going back home, because he has nowhere else to go, and he will not be seeing Michelle. That ship, pardon the pun, has sailed.

In her current state, far from how she looked back in Morganville, he might be right.

…

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

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Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

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