Chapter 1
Prologue
A little love and understanding can go a long way
May healing and light and the restoration of joy
come to you, surprise you and take you higher
than you ever dreamed possible.
I browsed at the Rideau Street Chapters that day, thumbing through the latest copy of Writer’s Digest. Though it had been ten years or more since I submitted that last article to Lives and Times, the writing bug began nipping at me again. I started toying with ideas, sketching outlines, chewing on odd pieces of dialogue, and this trip to Chapters might stir the creative pot enough to get me started on that first blank page.
As I leafed through the magazine, Joni Mitchell’s familiar notes piped over the speakers, lamenting losing her old man in a big yellow taxi again. That is one of my favorite songs. I smiled and resisted the urge to sing along.
“Study other authors.” That wasn’t rocket science, but it wasn’t the worst advice in the world. All right. I will. I returned Writer’s Digest to the shelf and started scanning the fiction shelves.
Where should I begin? Oprah recommended Joyce Carol Oates. Maeve Binchy lay in the sale bin this week. I didn’t want to copy someone else’s style. I wanted to find my own. I randomly pulled books off the shelf, and then put them back, disappointed. It felt like being at a huge buffet, offering every food imaginable, and complaining about the lack of salt on the table.
“Damn.” I breathed out the word softly, cursing the designers of store shelves that towered above my five-foot-two inch body. Even on tip-toe, I could barely reach the bottom of the dust jacket of that copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I could get happily lost reading Maya Angelou.
I looked around and caught sight of a step stool. I grabbed it and stepped onto the surface, determined to get the book I wanted. I should have known better. I should have swallowed my frustrated pride and asked that freckle-faced college kid with the name tag to help me. I tempted fate and fate reminded me what a natural born klutz I am. “Yi!” A high-pitched squeal shot from my mouth as my right ankle gave way for a second and sent me toppling sideways.
Everything happened so fast, but I remember it, frame by frame, as if I rewound the video and then played it again in slow motion. I fell. I should have hit the floor. I plummeted downwards, but then found myself being scooped up by a pair of gangly arms, long and lean and strong.
“There now. You ought to be a little more careful.” He smiled. I thought it looked silly.
“Thank you. I -- feel really stupid.” The blood rushed to my cheeks. I can control a lot of things that my body does, but it will blush without my permission whenever it feels like it. My rescuer set me back on my feet and I felt suddenly like an ant under a magnifying glass in the sun, burning hot with embarrassment.
Patrons stared at me. He was perceptive. “Go on now. Everything’s all right,” He shooed the customers with his hand as if they were flies on a stick of butter.
I giggled. I didn’t know why. I was never a silly girl. I always prided myself on having a good head on my shoulders. I laughed when it was appropriate. I controlled laughter. I made the jokes. I didn’t giggle like a giddy girl in home room who just noticed the star of the football team staring at her. Besides, they never stared at me. My boobs weren’t as -- uplifting as Becky Brown’s.
“Not a bad choice.” He handed me Maya Angelou’s book, all the time that ear to ear grin never leaving his face. He was not debonair, not in a classic way like Clark Gable, but there was something about him. His eyes reminded me of the Ottawa River on a sunlit afternoon.
“You’ve read Maya Angelou?” I wrinkled my forehead at the thought. He didn’t strike me as the “Oprah’s Book of the Month” type.
“Snippets. She’s a formidable woman. I like to hear her recite her own work more than I like reading it on a flat page.”
“Should I look for an audio book then? Would that do the trick?” I grinned in spite of myself, and why shouldn’t I? He proved very disarming. Maybe it was those eyes. Maybe it was the accent. Canadian? No. This guy had come across the big water. He was definitely a Brit and I had been crushing on Pierce Brosnan for years.
“What do you think of the classic poets? Tennyson. Wordsworth. Whitman.”
Is he a poet or a teacher or something? “I love to read poetry, but really I was trying to get inspiration for…”
“Dylan Thomas. What do you think of him?”
“He’s one of my favourites, but I was trying to get inspiration to write a novel. I thought… well… if I read other people’s work, it might…”
“It might wake up the old muse. You’re absolutely right. Do you drink coffee?”
So many questions came out of left field, catching me off guard. We had just met. It was a little presumptuous to be asking me about coffee. So, I promptly answered. “I prefer tea. Earl Grey.”
“Oh. Just like Captain Picard on Star Trek.”
He seemed undeterred by my curtness. “I suppose.”
“There’s a Starbucks in here. They serve Earl Grey tea and coffee and a few other things. We should check it out.” Just like that, he gripped my hand in his and we were off to Starbucks for drinks and whatever scone or biscuit a British boy wants with his brew. You idiot, Rayne. What are you doing? I shouldn’t allow myself to be side-tracked from my creative writing pursuits by this man I did not know.
I walked a little behind him, all the while his hand clasping mine, and we walked towards the front of the store where the Starbucks was located. He’s got long legs. He’s… tall. I should stop this. I should tell him that I’m busy and although I am very grateful for his chivalrous gesture, I need to go and concentrate on… Oh! Good grief, Rayne. You just looked at his butt. It’s – cute! I couldn’t believe myself. I was… checking him out.
