Sneak Peak of the WIP
PART ONE . . . Before
Chapter 1 (Verbose)
She showed up with a bewildered look on her face, having braved the tree-shrouded gravel drive to the isolated cabin I occupied on my heavily forested 30 acres. Dressed in classy black slacks and a crisp white shell underneath a double-breasted jacket to match those slacks, I caught a trace of fear in her eyes when I responded to her firm three knocks on my lacquered black oak door.
I could say it was love at first sight for me, but really it was closer to lust. Love had evaded me for so many years I never once expected to find it again. I made no effort to disguise my once-over from her face all the way down to her black high heels with small silver buckles on the toes which matched more or less the buttons on her blazer.
Hey, I’m a writer. I notice everything just in case I want to use anything about the person, place, or thing in one of my future novels.
But back to the woman who stood before me, no doubt now terrified that I hadn’t spoken a word to her before or after examining with an appreciative appraisal of her body parts, evaluating what her clothes said about her and her body.
“Mr.,” There was a tremor in her voice before she cleared her throat. “Mr. Cardiff? I’m Sara Bristol.”
“Divorced, single?” I said it more abruptly than I needed to.
Her expression flashed a moment of confusion, but then she seemed to gain her momentum and answered somewhat firmly.
“Divorced a long time ago. Single.” A pause. “Does that matter?”
“It matters to me. I don’t need any drama from an ex-husband or boyfriends or anyone else for that matter. You do the job and there’ll be no drama from me either.” I opened the door wider and invited her inside with my extended arm.
Warily she stepped inside. I said, “Not exactly what you expected?”
I could tell she contemplated her response because it took her a moment to answer as she followed me into the foyer which gave a complete view of the open living area of my rustic but elegant 2-story cabin.
“No.”
She answered simply and honestly, and I think that’s what clinched my attraction to her.
“Interesting, don’t you think, how our last names speak of Great Britain?”
She wasn’t quick to reply perhaps because I kept throwing her off topic as to why she was now standing in my living space basically interviewing for a job. Probably the strangest interview she’d ever endured in her adult life.
“Wales and southwest England,” she finally said after a silent few moments.
Just as I was about to plod forward with more attention as to why she was really here, she spoke again.
“I confess I wondered if Rayburn Cardiff was a pseudonym.”
The comment uttered with a touch of embarrassment made me smile. A woman in my past once told me in a fit of anger that I couldn’t smile without it being seductive. I wouldn’t have remembered it – or her – if Ms. Sara Bristol hadn’t produced the faintest of pink cheeks at my response. I sobered up quickly.
“No, no. I’m afraid it’s the real deal. Parents were British ex-pats with relatives from Cardiff, but I’m American born and bred. I would appreciate it if you call me Burn or Cardiff, no Mr. Either one will do.”
She was fairly easy to read. I noticed her making mental notes of what I requested. “Follow me.” I started to walk away but turned back to see her hesitancy. “Please,” I added in the kindest tone I could manage which was always an effort for me when anything from a business standpoint was taking place, granted, far more than it should’ve been, and continued walking.
I stopped, realizing I was being my usual insensitive self and turned back to her. “I lean toward being an insensitive guy – kind of like it’s all business or all play. I can be rude and abrupt, but really it’s just the way I am. I mean no ill will. It’s difficult for me to do the in-between, the ill-defined nuances of conversations and people-pleasing expectancies.
“When I get mad about something, I tend to go bash something – chop wood, yell, etcetera, until I’m over it. There’s no sulking about it. All up front. Like a squall. I doubt you’ll ever be the source of it – but not saying it couldn’t happen. Usually, it’s directed at my editor and publisher.
“Guess I can also get a little verbose at times. Probably comes from only having myself to talk to.”
I rubbed the stubble on my chin, suddenly aware I was still wearing my old faded black sweats with rips in the knees, my dulled white and stained t-shirt, and my crummy white socks, sans shoes, with a hole in the right toe.
I paused, deciding what I really wanted to convey. “This is business. You’re a copy editor but have editing and formatting skills. I need them all so you happen to provide the full-meal deal, and you agreed – at least in part – to work on-site which is what I’ve wanted ever since I bought this place. Granted, it’s isolated, remote, but it’s the perfect place for me and how I like to write my books.”
The passion in my explanation surprised me. It was a confession of sorts. To a stranger I’d only met less than five minutes prior. She looked at me now and modeling my initial behavior, she gave me the once-over top to bottom and back.
Then said, “Divorced, single?”
I laughed hard – something I hadn’t done for an incredibly long time.
“Touché. Single. In love once. A very long time ago. We good?”
She nodded and followed me out to what I hoped she would embrace as both her new home and the workspace for her new job.
Father, thank you for it all. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Help me to continue to honor you above all. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Into the Fire 