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.