Monday, September 29, 2008

Bear with me...we need a little character development...

Debbie McPhee, sneaky real estate agent and undercover town gossip, meet Cass, a new breed of urban man-eating barracuda the likes of O'Connell Creek has never seen.

I promise, it'll get steamier. Or I'll try anyway!

Tune in tomorrow. It's worth it, I promise.

***

Cass kept humming as she looked around, taking in the small community she now called home. There wasn't much to this place, she thought to herself – just a few stores, a library, a couple of churches, the odd cafe – but that's what she wanted. A small, isolated place on the ocean, where she could keep to herself and write. She just hoped the house would be okay. The listing, and her annoyingly bubbly real estate agent Debbie McPhee, had reported the house as needing minor repair work. Cass hoped for Debbie's sake that the listing rang true, because Debbie would be there when she arrived, to give her the keys and a full tour of the house. If things weren't in good shape, Cass knew she wouldn't be able to hold back. Debbie would consider leaving real estate for Avon. No one makes you cry when you're selling cosmetics. They might hang up on you or shut a door in your face, but they'd never make you question your self-worth.

Cass opened her dayplanner to her handwritten directions; Debbie had emailed turn-by-turn instructions from downtown O'Connell Creek, taking Cass along a pretty seaside road. There weren't many houses lining the route and Cass started to worry that this house was a remote cabin in the woods, but as she guided her sporty little Mazda around the final bend, all of her fears slipped away. A beautiful whitewashed house with a wraparound porch stood in her midst. Cass, releasing a sigh of relief, pulled into the driveway. She was just checking her makeup in the mirror, wishing she had made more of an effort when she left the motel where she had stopped to get a couple of hours sleep, when someone knocked on her window, scaring her so badly she could hardly open the door to the plump red-haired woman grinning at her through the window.

"Hi there, you must be Cassidy!"

"Cass, yes. And you must be Debbie," Cass said.

"Yes, ma'am!" Debbie said, cheerily. "But this isn't your driveway."

"What?" Cass said, her heart beginning to thump in her chest.

"This driveway belongs to the main house. Your house is the guest house."

"But this is the house in the picture."

"Yes, in the property pictures. The interior pictures are from your house but the exterior pictures are from the estate."

"Is that even legal?" Cass said, her voice an octave higher. "Isn't that misrepresentation?"

"Oh no!" Debbie said, clearly surprised. "Didn't you read the description?"

"I suppose not," Cass said. The pair stood in silence for a few moments, before Cass gave in. "I guess you better show me my house."

The tension was just about unbearable, as Cass followed Debbie around to the back of the house. Debbie attempted to ask how the drive from Toronto was, but Cass could only manage short, icy answers. They walked for a few minutes, through a barren orchard, to a clearing at the back of the property. A smallish white house, with a sagging porch and an overgrown garden stood in their midst.

"I know it isn't much to look at," Debbie said, nervously, "but it's a gem. Really. And wait 'til you see the bookshop. So quaint!"

"I didn't sign up for this, Debbie," Cass whispered.

"Forgive me, darling, but you did," Debbie replied. "Let me show you inside." Debbie didn't wait for an answer and walked towards the front door, jingling the keys a little with every step. Cass had no choice but to follow, mentally making a checklist of everything she'd need to do to repair the house so she could go at Debbie with her guns blazing.

Debbie pushed the front door open and stepped into a small vestibule area, opening on to a large bright kitchen. Cass stepped into the house behind her. This was more like it; the floors were clean, the windows sparkling, and the situation considerably brighter. The kitchen, with its pale blue walls, had been the dealbreaker when Cass was house-hunting online. She could see herself making coffee every morning, looking out on to her backyard.

Cassidy was quiet as Debbie guided her on a tour of the house. The main level was average, and she didn't get a great look at the bookshop; Debbie just sort of gestured through a small door in the living room. Cass tried to pause for a look inside, but Debbie was on a mission to show her the upstairs. The bedrooms were what she expected, bright and cheerful if not a bit small. The master suite was lovely, with French doors opening on to a widow's walk. Cass had actually squealed when she saw the widow's walk online – a bit out of character for a woman who had just been jilted – because she had seen a mansion with a widow's walk in Toronto when she was a little girl. Her grandfather had explained that women went to the highest point in their houses to watch for their husbands coming home from the sea. Many sailors didn't come home, and so the small balcony was aptly named. It became a design element further inland, instead of a practical element, but Cass could actually see the ocean from the house. She tried to open the French doors and step outside, but Debbie shrieked and jumped in front of her.

"It isn't safe. The balcony isn't up to code."

"What?" Cass said, exasperated.

"That's the only thing that didn't pass expection. If you want to use it, we'll need to arrange for it to be repaired."

Cass didn't say anything in reply. She had a dozen things she wanted to say to this woman, to this happy little hustler, but all of a sudden she was just too tired. Tired of the driving, tired of arguing, tired of starting over. She was still in the middle of the last start-over, so she figured she should just make the best of it.

"Where are my keys, Debbie?" Cass said.

Debbie handed them over, with a cheery smile. "I thought you'd come around!"

Cass rolled her eyes and left the room, leaving Debbie to waddle along behind her.

"Did my things arrive yet?"

"Yes, your boxes came to my house yesterday. Your furniture arrives tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Where am I going to sleep?"

"I've arranged for you to stay in the main house. The owners, Sally and Ed, are snowbirds, so they are in Florida for another few weeks. Their son looks after the place when they're gone, but he's on a business trip at the moment. Sally's my best friend, so I have keys. She said you should make yourself at home."

"Well, it'll have to do until I have my own home, I guess."

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Harlots and hunks


When I was a kid, my mother had garbage bags full of romance novels. I could never figure out if they were in garbage bags because she considered them trashy or just to keep them away from the eyes of her three (pre-teen) daughters (who read everything and anything). After all, these were the days of covers featuring ripped men in half-torn shirts staring with smoldering eyes whilst holding beautiful women with ample bosoms (I always wanted to use that phrase) and long flowing locks. I'm sure my mother did not want her daughters asking questions. But, try as she might, those books ended up thieved from the garbage bags (and later from the bookshelf in the cantina, amongst the tomato sauce and roasted red peppers) and hidden under beds.

Last weekend I was on my way (fittingly) to a bachelorette party. I had to take the train, so thought I'd grab a book when I got to the magazine stand at Union Station. Behind the swivel cart of terrible greeting cards, I got the shock of my life. Shelves of smoldering-eyed men and ample-bosomed women in negligees (the women, not the men). I giggled but forced myself toward a trade-paperback of the new Miriam Toews novel instead. I should have known it wouldn't work, because not five minutes later I was leaving the stand with TWO (not one, but TWO) men in torn shirts. And I loved every minute of them.

So, in an effort to appease my fifteen-year-old self and her dream to write a romance novel (though she didn't quite know where to start), I thought I'd write my own online Harlequin. I tried this once before and got distracted, but now that I've revisited the genre (without blushing all over my body) I figure it's worth another go.

And, thus, I give you the first installment of my masterpiece, currently/temporarily/hilariously titled "O'Connell Creek."

P.S. I apologize to those of you who have been waiting for this. It took me a while to get my act together!

***

The wedding dress sat balled up in the front seat, sad and abandoned, an after-thought. It was supposed to be pressed and preserved in a box at the back of someone's closet, waiting for a future daughter or granddaughter to dig out on the afternoon of their engagement. Wedding dresses are supposed to be family heirlooms or at the very least souvenirs of a day to top all days. Instead, Cassidy's dress, worn only for a couple of hours, was caught in the passenger side door. The satin train trailed on the road all the way to O'Connell Creek. Sometime during the trip, Cass reached to answer her cell phone and spilled her coffee on the beaded bodice; at another point, she tried to squeeze ketchup on to some take-out fries and hit the immaculate skirt.

Cassidy knew this move was a bad idea, and she had berated herself for her irrational thinking for days. Most women get a new haircut or a new car or some new boobs when they are left at the altar. Most women do not put their downtown Toronto condo on the market when they were supposed to be at their wedding reception. Most women do not buy a dilapidated Victorian and an adjoining bookstore in tiny coastal town in New Brunswick, miles away from friends and family. Most women do not write letters of resignation without weighing the pros and cons. Cassidy Pearce was most women, and yet, she had done all of these things. Without even thinking twice. If Peter had a new life, with a younger, blonder model at his side, then so would Cassidy.

But Cass, alone with her thoughts and a constantly ringing cell phone, wasn't sure she wanted this new life anymore. Packing and planning had been a welcome distraction from thoughts of Peter and his new girlfriend on Cassidy's Caribbean honeymoon cruise, but now that the sleek, modern condo was empty and the corner office was occupied by a hot up-and-coming editor, the distraction gave way to devastation. No wonder her mother called every ten minutes. If Cass wasn't so afraid of heights, she'd have jumped off a bridge by now.

Cass cracked her window to breathe in the fresh, salty air. The wind was cold but she didn't mind. It was a change from Peter's spicy, masculine cologne that seemed to permeate every item of clothing Cass owned. Her hair whipped across her face and she breathed deep, calming herself before reaching to turn on the radio. In a second, familiar words blasted from the speakers and Cass laughed out loud before joining in the chorus.

"We're not gonna take it! No, we ain't gonna take it! We're not gonna take it anymoooooooore…"

Cass's strong voice screamed the song long after the DJ came on, through the news report, and into the Michael Jackson medley up next. O'Connell Creek's first impression of Cassidy Pearce was a hoarse voice bellowing Twisted Sister through the heart of town.