Okay, I should just admit it. I'm a terrible blogger. A fairweather blogger if you will. Not at all dedicated to my craft. If my blog were my boyfriend, we'd break up because I don't pay him enough attention.
I'd like to swear that I've learned my lesson but chances are that I'll fall off the wagon again. But I can try!
Sorry, blog. I love you, you know.
By the way, I saw this really touching blog today on Oprah. I don't usually love Oprah, but this was worth checking out. Sad and not at all related to romance novels, but still worth looking at.
http://mattandginny.blogspot.com/
***
An electronic bell chimed when Cass opened the door to Debbie’s office. The receptionist, a youngish, skinny woman with razor thin lips and eye brows to match, glanced from her computer and looked at her sharply. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on Cass’s knee-high boots and designer bag.
“Can I help you?” she asked, curtly.
“Um, yeah, I hope so. Just looking for Debbie.”
“She isn’t here yet. Do you want to take a seat and wait?” She gestured toward the cracked plastic chairs in the waiting room, piled high with dog-eared magazines.
“I guess so. Do you know where she is or how long she’ll be?”
“Nope, sorry.”
“Okay then, I’ll just sit down.”
The receptionist gave her a sarcastic smile and rolled her eyes before turning back to her computer screen.
Cass sat down and placed her bag beside her. She inhaled deeply and looked around at the fading East coast promotional posters on the wall. Bad 80s fonts and cheesy taglines: “There’s no place like foam” on a picture of waves crashing on the shore, “A lobster is a lobster is a lobster…but a lobster from Nova Scotia is a lobster.” Gertrude Stein would throw up on the floor of this waiting room if she were here. Cass sifted through the stack of old magazines. Reader’s Digest, Maclean’s, Chatelaine. Cass picked up a five-year-old Chatelaine and flipped through it quickly, all the while watching the door for Debbie’s flame-red bob. After fifteen minutes or so, she impatiently put the magazine down and surprisingly met the receptionist’s gaze. The receptionist glanced away quickly and Cass wondered how long she’d been staring at her.
“Um, listen…what’s your name?”
“Sandra,” the girl said, looking back.
“Sandra, do you think you could call Debbie?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t have a cell phone.”
“Who doesn’t have a cell phone?”
“Lots of people. Especially in this town.”
“But she’s a real estate agent! How does she do business?”
“She checks in from pay phones to get her messages.”
“What? That’s insane.”
“Well, that’s what she does.”
Cass gave her a look, and the receptionist stared right back. She impatiently twitched her leg, in a stare down with this unhappy woman. Neither of them spoke, until Sandra said “Is that a Miu Miu purse?”
“What?”
“Your bag?”
Cass looked down. “Oh, yeah,” she said, a little confused. She looked at Sandra.
“What, you think we don’t have magazines?”
“Well, you don’t have cell phones.”
“I have a cell phone.”
“And apparently a brand fetish.”
“Maybe. But I especially have a thing for purses.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Not that I’ll be able to get my hands on a Birkin bag in this place.”
“Not a Birkin, but The Closet has some pretty great vintage stuff.”
“The Closet?”
“Yeah, it’s a second-hand store, kind of. We have a bunch of them, but The Closet is the best. It’s not your average garage sale stuff; Liz goes all over to find things. I have a gorgeous Chanel bag…”
“Chanel?” Cass said, surprised.
“Yeah, vintage Chanel.”
It was then that Cass noticed Sandra’s shoes. Christian Louboutins. Signature red sole. Where did this girl get $700 shoes?
“Vegas,” she said, with a smile. “I know they’re wasted on everyone here, but I love them. My boyfriend won a few grand playing the slots so he bought them for me.”
“Wow,” Cass said, seriously impressed. Hey, this girl had good taste. And was actually very pretty when she smiled. She just needed help with the too-thin eyebrows.
Debbie bounced through the door just then and Sandra’s smile faded. She curled back into her previous troll-like state as Debbie asked happily “Any messages, Sandy?”
“It’s Sandra,” she said, “and no. Just a client here for you.”
Debbie looked over at her. “Oh, Cassidy! You’re here!”
“We had an appointment, remember? For ten?”
“Yes, I know, but you’re early!” Cass opened her mouth to protest, but Debbie continued. “Your boxes are in the truck, with Mr. McPhee.” Debbie was the only woman she’d ever met who referred to her husband as Mr. anything. “He’ll follow you out to the house to deliver them.”
“Okay, that’s great. Thank you, Debbie.”
“Not at all! Enjoy the new house, missy!”
Cass smiled politely, nodded to Sandra and headed outside.
Just as she pulled her sunglasses off of her head and headed in the direction of her car, she saw him. Christian, holding the door of The Sea Bean for a couple of older women. He was different in the day light – thinner, friendlier. He looked across the street and caught her staring at him just then; she looked away too quickly and jarred her neck. She could feel her face flush and she didn’t dare look his way. She saw a big burly man with a full beard sitting in a truck just down the way and assuming it was Mr. McPhee, who looked nothing like she pictured, she walked toward him. She could see Christian from the corner of her eye. He watched her until someone called his name from inside the coffee shop, catching his attention.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
The caffeine fix...
Just a little more character development. Not too much steam yet. But keep reading!
I tried to find a coffee shop picture for inspiration but the only coffee shops I had on my computer were from Amsterdam...
And that's not exactly what I meant.
It's something closer to this.
Minus the fancy car. Cass drives a Mazda, remember?
***
Cass shivered as she drove into town, the cool morning air whipping through the open window, but it smelled so fresh. You don’t get that crisp, clean smell in downtown Toronto. There are other Toronto smells she loved – a venti non-fat vanilla latte with light foam from Starbuck’s in particular, at this time of day – but this smell, it was newly hers and she wanted to enjoy it. As she pulled into town, the shopkeepers were just opening their doors, propping up old-fashioned striped awnings, people calling out greetings across the street. It really was quaint, she thought, exactly what she was looking for. And she could smell coffee. Strong, rich coffee. European blend, if she knew her caffeine at all. As she pulled into a parking space on the main drag, she saw it: The Sea Bean. And a carefully-lettered sign said it was Open.
She grabbed her zebra-skin Miu Miu handbag, a congratulatory treat to herself when she got promoted to senior editor that cost almost as much as a mortgage payment, and followed the heady, spicy aroma. The Sea Bean was cute; it would never survive in Toronto, next to the chain coffee places, but it would do the trick here. Cass quickly scanned the menu, looking for the latte selection. She breathed in sharply when she realized, with disdain, that the menu did not have lattes. Or frappucinos. Or mochaccinos. You had your choice of coffee blend but that’s where it stopped.
“What can I get you, honey?” the middle-aged brunette behind the counter asked.
“Um, do you have blended coffee at all?”
“We have blends, sure!”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Do you do lattes?”
“Oh, we don’t do anything that fancy here, I’m afraid.”
“It isn’t fancy. It’s basically steamed coffee and milk.”
“Well, nonetheless, we don’t make them here.”
“Does anyone in town make them?”
“The Sea Bean is O’Connell Creek’s only café.”
“It is?”
“And proud of it. So, what can I get you?”
“Strong coffee then, with double milk.”
“No sugar?”
“Not for these thighs.”
“Oh stop it! You’re a stick!”
“Well, I’d like to stay that way.”
“So no cinnamon rolls for you, then?”
“No, ma’am,” Cass said, a little too quickly.
If she thought about the heavenly smell of cinnamon and dough, she’d certainly add one to her bill. She’d put on ten pounds since the day of her wedding, since Peter’s voicemail. He’d said, “Listen, Cass, this has been really fun and I’ve grown a lot because of you. But it was a mistake to propose and I can’t do this. I’m in love with someone else. I hope you’ll forgive me someday but for now, I have to go.” Click. And something inside her snapped. She ate everything she wanted. She ate things she hadn’t eaten in years. She ate French fries by dozens. But she’d also promised herself that when she got to O’Connell Creek, she’d go back to her old routine of a sensible diet and daily exercise. She’d been slightly mortified last night when she realized that Christian had seen her chunkier-than-usual arms and the slight spare tire spilling over her jeans. It didn’t seem to faze him, she thought to herself smugly, as she remembered the look on Christian’s face when she left the room, unmentionables stuffed in her pockets. He knew she wasn’t wearing underwear and she knew he was watching. It was nice to remember that men found her attractive. And outside of the parameters of the university flings and office romances before she’d met Peter.
She paid for her coffee – only two dollars and ten cents, as opposed to her six dollar latte – and walked out to the street. She could put the money she’d save into slush fund for the house, she thought, as she crossed the road to the realtor’s office. Debbie promised to meet her there with her boxes early in the morning so she’d be home to meet the furniture delivery by noon. If all went well, Christian’s peep-show was a one-night-only affair.
I tried to find a coffee shop picture for inspiration but the only coffee shops I had on my computer were from Amsterdam...
And that's not exactly what I meant.
It's something closer to this.
Minus the fancy car. Cass drives a Mazda, remember?
***
Cass shivered as she drove into town, the cool morning air whipping through the open window, but it smelled so fresh. You don’t get that crisp, clean smell in downtown Toronto. There are other Toronto smells she loved – a venti non-fat vanilla latte with light foam from Starbuck’s in particular, at this time of day – but this smell, it was newly hers and she wanted to enjoy it. As she pulled into town, the shopkeepers were just opening their doors, propping up old-fashioned striped awnings, people calling out greetings across the street. It really was quaint, she thought, exactly what she was looking for. And she could smell coffee. Strong, rich coffee. European blend, if she knew her caffeine at all. As she pulled into a parking space on the main drag, she saw it: The Sea Bean. And a carefully-lettered sign said it was Open.
She grabbed her zebra-skin Miu Miu handbag, a congratulatory treat to herself when she got promoted to senior editor that cost almost as much as a mortgage payment, and followed the heady, spicy aroma. The Sea Bean was cute; it would never survive in Toronto, next to the chain coffee places, but it would do the trick here. Cass quickly scanned the menu, looking for the latte selection. She breathed in sharply when she realized, with disdain, that the menu did not have lattes. Or frappucinos. Or mochaccinos. You had your choice of coffee blend but that’s where it stopped.
“What can I get you, honey?” the middle-aged brunette behind the counter asked.
“Um, do you have blended coffee at all?”
“We have blends, sure!”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Do you do lattes?”
“Oh, we don’t do anything that fancy here, I’m afraid.”
“It isn’t fancy. It’s basically steamed coffee and milk.”
“Well, nonetheless, we don’t make them here.”
“Does anyone in town make them?”
“The Sea Bean is O’Connell Creek’s only café.”
“It is?”
“And proud of it. So, what can I get you?”
“Strong coffee then, with double milk.”
“No sugar?”
“Not for these thighs.”
“Oh stop it! You’re a stick!”
“Well, I’d like to stay that way.”
“So no cinnamon rolls for you, then?”
“No, ma’am,” Cass said, a little too quickly.
If she thought about the heavenly smell of cinnamon and dough, she’d certainly add one to her bill. She’d put on ten pounds since the day of her wedding, since Peter’s voicemail. He’d said, “Listen, Cass, this has been really fun and I’ve grown a lot because of you. But it was a mistake to propose and I can’t do this. I’m in love with someone else. I hope you’ll forgive me someday but for now, I have to go.” Click. And something inside her snapped. She ate everything she wanted. She ate things she hadn’t eaten in years. She ate French fries by dozens. But she’d also promised herself that when she got to O’Connell Creek, she’d go back to her old routine of a sensible diet and daily exercise. She’d been slightly mortified last night when she realized that Christian had seen her chunkier-than-usual arms and the slight spare tire spilling over her jeans. It didn’t seem to faze him, she thought to herself smugly, as she remembered the look on Christian’s face when she left the room, unmentionables stuffed in her pockets. He knew she wasn’t wearing underwear and she knew he was watching. It was nice to remember that men found her attractive. And outside of the parameters of the university flings and office romances before she’d met Peter.
She paid for her coffee – only two dollars and ten cents, as opposed to her six dollar latte – and walked out to the street. She could put the money she’d save into slush fund for the house, she thought, as she crossed the road to the realtor’s office. Debbie promised to meet her there with her boxes early in the morning so she’d be home to meet the furniture delivery by noon. If all went well, Christian’s peep-show was a one-night-only affair.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
I will not neglect my blog, I will not neglect my blog...
Picture me, in Bart Simpson-esque fashion, writing lines on the blackboard. I'm taller, less yellow, and I do not sport spikes in my hair, but basically the same. I have done the very thing I swore I would not do: I've left my (very few!) readers hanging.
So, here we are, back in O'Connell Creek...
Please forgive me!
***
Christian splashed his face with warm water and patted his cheeks dry with a fluffy white "company towel" as his mother would say. He always made a point to use these special towels whenever he stayed at the house, just to irritate the tiny, feisty woman who raised him.
Christian stared at himself in the mirror and ran a hand along his stubble. He should have shaved this morning, he thought, before he left Boston. He looked scruffy now, unkempt. Cassidy probably thought he was a caveman.
"What is her story?" he thought to himself, acutely aware of the fact that just one floor below she was sleeping starkers in his childhood bedroom. It had scared him a bit to see a strange car in the drive, and even more so to hear the soft snoring from his parents's bedroom as he crept up the stairs, but Cassidy's reaction when he leapt into the room was absolutely worth a little fear. Her mass of wild hair, light brown like the colour of butterscotch, sticking out in all directions, and the sheet slipping just so as she pulled it up around herself was almost too much for him. He had to put on an angry front just to keep his knees from giving out. And he put her into his old room to get her as far away as possible, but also as a tribute to his former teenage self who wasn't allowed to have girls in his room.
The truth was that he wasn't at all shocked to find a stranger in his mom and dad's house. Over the years, he had walked into their house a number of times to find someone crashing on the couch or in one of the bedrooms. Whenever someone needed a place to stay, the townsfolk called Sally and Ed first. They were always up for company, even when they weren't around, though usually they at least left Christian a message so he wasn't caught off-guard.
Christian stripped down to his boxers and crawled into the queen-size bed in the master suite. He laughed to himself as he propped the pillows up, remembering Amanda Brown and prom night in this very room while his mom and dad were out on the boat. The smile left his face when he fluffed the top pillow and caught a whiff of sweet perfume. Soft, very feminine, even elegant. Amanda Brown wore Tribe, in the pink and green bottle; it was aggressive and sharp, like the girl herself, but it got old quickly. The same held for other women over the years: Christian was never sad when their scents left his pillow. For a second here, though, Christian felt a wave of pain thinking about never knowing that perfume. He growled into the pillow before leaning over to open the balcony door wider, inviting the sea salt to overpower the smell of the woman downstairs. He fell into a restless sleep, scowling, trying to think of Boston and the possibilities in front of him.
In the morning, Christian rose from a terrible night's sleep to a car's engine revving. Groggy, he stood up and walked to the French doors, just in time to see Cassidy speed off down the lane. He sighed and shook his head, disappointed that he wouldn't see her this morning. He had planned out how to keep up with the gruff image he had given her the night before, for the sake of his sanity and of his budding business. The very last thing he needed was a woman to distract him from the tasks at hand.
So, here we are, back in O'Connell Creek...
Please forgive me!
***
Christian splashed his face with warm water and patted his cheeks dry with a fluffy white "company towel" as his mother would say. He always made a point to use these special towels whenever he stayed at the house, just to irritate the tiny, feisty woman who raised him.
Christian stared at himself in the mirror and ran a hand along his stubble. He should have shaved this morning, he thought, before he left Boston. He looked scruffy now, unkempt. Cassidy probably thought he was a caveman.
"What is her story?" he thought to himself, acutely aware of the fact that just one floor below she was sleeping starkers in his childhood bedroom. It had scared him a bit to see a strange car in the drive, and even more so to hear the soft snoring from his parents's bedroom as he crept up the stairs, but Cassidy's reaction when he leapt into the room was absolutely worth a little fear. Her mass of wild hair, light brown like the colour of butterscotch, sticking out in all directions, and the sheet slipping just so as she pulled it up around herself was almost too much for him. He had to put on an angry front just to keep his knees from giving out. And he put her into his old room to get her as far away as possible, but also as a tribute to his former teenage self who wasn't allowed to have girls in his room.
The truth was that he wasn't at all shocked to find a stranger in his mom and dad's house. Over the years, he had walked into their house a number of times to find someone crashing on the couch or in one of the bedrooms. Whenever someone needed a place to stay, the townsfolk called Sally and Ed first. They were always up for company, even when they weren't around, though usually they at least left Christian a message so he wasn't caught off-guard.
Christian stripped down to his boxers and crawled into the queen-size bed in the master suite. He laughed to himself as he propped the pillows up, remembering Amanda Brown and prom night in this very room while his mom and dad were out on the boat. The smile left his face when he fluffed the top pillow and caught a whiff of sweet perfume. Soft, very feminine, even elegant. Amanda Brown wore Tribe, in the pink and green bottle; it was aggressive and sharp, like the girl herself, but it got old quickly. The same held for other women over the years: Christian was never sad when their scents left his pillow. For a second here, though, Christian felt a wave of pain thinking about never knowing that perfume. He growled into the pillow before leaning over to open the balcony door wider, inviting the sea salt to overpower the smell of the woman downstairs. He fell into a restless sleep, scowling, trying to think of Boston and the possibilities in front of him.
In the morning, Christian rose from a terrible night's sleep to a car's engine revving. Groggy, he stood up and walked to the French doors, just in time to see Cassidy speed off down the lane. He sighed and shook his head, disappointed that he wouldn't see her this morning. He had planned out how to keep up with the gruff image he had given her the night before, for the sake of his sanity and of his budding business. The very last thing he needed was a woman to distract him from the tasks at hand.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Picture Dermot Mulroney meets James McAvoy. Obviously.
After hearing a laundry list of instructions about the main house, Debbie finally excused herself to "get home to the mister." Cass pictured Mr. Debbie to be a pert, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who was painfully shy in high school. And Debbie was probably the soft pudgy cheerleader who anchored the pyramid and was saving herself for marriage. Theirs was a romance made for an after-school special.
Debbie honked her horn – shave and a haircut, two bits obviously – with a promise to return tomorrow with some of Cass's boxes. Cass was happy to see her go, but even happier to break in to the official welcome basket Debbie had left for her. The large bottle of wine peeking through the boxes of crackers, spa slippers and roadmaps was calling her name.
After a long hot shower, Cass tucked herself into bed in the master suite, TV flicker in hand, with the wine. A couple of glasses and multiple episodes of Friends later, Cass drifted off into a sleep only capable of a woman who had just driven east until she hit a new life.
The clock ticked away peacefully, the tide breaking on the shore methodically, ensuring Cass slept soundly. She didn't hear the key in the lock and she certainly didn't notice the squeaking on the stairs. She might have been less terrified when the stranger jumped into the room, fireplace poker in hand, screaming "aha!" if she had heard anything.
Cass screamed in response to this intruder and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She had been too tired to get her suitcase from the car and so not only was she scared to death but she couldn't make a naked escape. The stranger turned the lights on, poker still posed, and demanded answers.
"Who the hell are?"
"Who the hell are YOU?"
"I live here!"
"No, you don’t! The people who live here are in Florida!"
"How do you know that?"
"Debbie!"
"Debbie told you? She's your accomplice?"
"No, my real estate agent."
"So shouldn't she be finding you your own house?"
"She did…but wait, you didn't answer my question."
"You didn't answer mine. Who are you?"
"My name is Cassidy Pearce. I bought the guest house at the back. Now, tell me who you are or I'm calling the police."
"Oh, you're telepathic? You don't need a telephone?"
"I have my cell phone."
"In bed with you?"
"Yes, in bed with me. So who are you?"
"I'm Christian McKenzie. This is my parents's house. I'm house-sitting."
"No, you're not. Debbie said your mother gave permission for me to stay here. She knew the house was empty."
"Well, I look after the house when they're gone and if you must know, my furnace is broken so I've been staying here."
"And you didn't tell your mommy?" she mocked.
"No, I didn't want her to worry."
Cass rolled her eyes and Christian gave her a look that was nothing close to mama's boy. He took a step toward her and said "Listen, lady…" and she recoiled, pulling the sheets up higher. His look softened and he said "Get dressed. If you're going to stay here, you're sleeping in the guest room downstairs. This is my room."
"This is your parent's room."
"And by extension, my room."
"Whatever. I'll move but if you don't mind, I'd like to get dressed."
"Two minutes," Christian said, leaving the room.
Cass muttered to herself as she pulled on her jeans and t-shirt, stuffing her bra and panties into her pockets. She crossed her arms and stalked into the hallway and down the stairs, Christian following on her heels.
The guest room turned out to be the old servant's quarters and was about as big as a broom closet. Christian threw an extra blanket and pillow on to the bed when he left the room, chuckling as he said "Sweet dreams."
"I wouldn't be too smug, if I were you. You don't know me or my sordid criminal past," Cass said.
Christian started to snicker but the comment must have registered because his facial expression turned cold and he said nothing more.
Cass lay awake, listening to Christian get ready for bed, loathing the very thought of him with her bottle of wine and the sound of the ocean. She could hear the tap dripping in the kitchen now and nothing more. She scowled to herself as she drifted off to sleep, but Christian's chocolate brown eyes swam in her mind's eye infiltrating the deep, new-life sleep.
Debbie honked her horn – shave and a haircut, two bits obviously – with a promise to return tomorrow with some of Cass's boxes. Cass was happy to see her go, but even happier to break in to the official welcome basket Debbie had left for her. The large bottle of wine peeking through the boxes of crackers, spa slippers and roadmaps was calling her name.
After a long hot shower, Cass tucked herself into bed in the master suite, TV flicker in hand, with the wine. A couple of glasses and multiple episodes of Friends later, Cass drifted off into a sleep only capable of a woman who had just driven east until she hit a new life.
The clock ticked away peacefully, the tide breaking on the shore methodically, ensuring Cass slept soundly. She didn't hear the key in the lock and she certainly didn't notice the squeaking on the stairs. She might have been less terrified when the stranger jumped into the room, fireplace poker in hand, screaming "aha!" if she had heard anything.
Cass screamed in response to this intruder and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She had been too tired to get her suitcase from the car and so not only was she scared to death but she couldn't make a naked escape. The stranger turned the lights on, poker still posed, and demanded answers.
"Who the hell are?"
"Who the hell are YOU?"
"I live here!"
"No, you don’t! The people who live here are in Florida!"
"How do you know that?"
"Debbie!"
"Debbie told you? She's your accomplice?"
"No, my real estate agent."
"So shouldn't she be finding you your own house?"
"She did…but wait, you didn't answer my question."
"You didn't answer mine. Who are you?"
"My name is Cassidy Pearce. I bought the guest house at the back. Now, tell me who you are or I'm calling the police."
"Oh, you're telepathic? You don't need a telephone?"
"I have my cell phone."
"In bed with you?"
"Yes, in bed with me. So who are you?"
"I'm Christian McKenzie. This is my parents's house. I'm house-sitting."
"No, you're not. Debbie said your mother gave permission for me to stay here. She knew the house was empty."
"Well, I look after the house when they're gone and if you must know, my furnace is broken so I've been staying here."
"And you didn't tell your mommy?" she mocked.
"No, I didn't want her to worry."
Cass rolled her eyes and Christian gave her a look that was nothing close to mama's boy. He took a step toward her and said "Listen, lady…" and she recoiled, pulling the sheets up higher. His look softened and he said "Get dressed. If you're going to stay here, you're sleeping in the guest room downstairs. This is my room."
"This is your parent's room."
"And by extension, my room."
"Whatever. I'll move but if you don't mind, I'd like to get dressed."
"Two minutes," Christian said, leaving the room.
Cass muttered to herself as she pulled on her jeans and t-shirt, stuffing her bra and panties into her pockets. She crossed her arms and stalked into the hallway and down the stairs, Christian following on her heels.
The guest room turned out to be the old servant's quarters and was about as big as a broom closet. Christian threw an extra blanket and pillow on to the bed when he left the room, chuckling as he said "Sweet dreams."
"I wouldn't be too smug, if I were you. You don't know me or my sordid criminal past," Cass said.
Christian started to snicker but the comment must have registered because his facial expression turned cold and he said nothing more.
Cass lay awake, listening to Christian get ready for bed, loathing the very thought of him with her bottle of wine and the sound of the ocean. She could hear the tap dripping in the kitchen now and nothing more. She scowled to herself as she drifted off to sleep, but Christian's chocolate brown eyes swam in her mind's eye infiltrating the deep, new-life sleep.
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