CATHEDRAL, Patrick Sean Lee [most popular ebook readers .txt] 📗

apologize, Isabella. Still, you’ve obviously misread me.”

No, I shouldn’t have stupidly uttered that last sentence, because it’s not entirely true. All right, Matthew, not the least bit true. Whatever, I’ve just thrown blame onto her shoulders. I must rescue myself again.

“Please, come in.”

I know I shouldn’t have said that. I keep unwittingly trying to drive a bigger wedge between us with my mouth. “I mean, if you have a moment.”

Isabella stares at me. I see her eyes flash past me into the room, then they return to me.

“I don’t think so, but thanks anyway. Just wanted to say I’m sorry for the comments out there.”

I am a little deflated. Goodbye euphoria. She turns and steps across the hall to her room, and a second later disappears. I stand here at my door and stare blinking for a few seconds. I shouldn’t put more significance onto those two words than I want to do.

I’m sorry. Goodbye.

But I do. My imagination is stretching them into something more like an invitation to pick up where we left off. I have to laugh at that. Me stumbling head over heels down the mountainside into the lake? Her kicking my ass at the chess table? Her having a change of heart when she invited me, albeit with an obvious tone of irritation, to ride along with her a couple of hours ago? But I just said "I want to get to know you better." Didn’t I say that? Oh yes, I had to go and tell her in the next breath that I thought she was pretty.

Enough! I close the door and get back to what I do best—writing. Cringe…and then deleting. But, I have a job to do. Isabelle Redoux is there on the screen, the little vertical caret blinking up at me.

Just continue on. Go forward. You can always move me back…

Five pages? Ten? The whole of it sucks. Open a new doc and start from scratch, Matthew. No, no, you’re almost finished, bad as it might be. Just a little tweaking back there at the beginning will do the trick and make it...what? My gut tells me that if I send the file to Miriam, she’ll scream—and not from joy.

Well, anyway.

Sylvia Ortin stepped out of the mall entrance door, stopped under the covered area in the wind, and snapped her blue floral umbrella open. The sky hung gray and low, almost kissing the square, flat roofline of the building, and droplets of rain splattered onto the uncompromising surface of the concrete walkway all the way out to the gutter, and then into the endless parking lot beyond. She had just finished shopping for Daniel at Macy’s, for his twenty-fifth birthday…

I love the first page. It stays.

…not knowing, not caring whether her silken blond hair got wet, or if the passing traffic mowed her down like wheat in a pregnant Nebraska field. I want to sigh. God, that’s goo…no, it needs some definite work.

You’re way too critical, Matthew my man. Just go forward 300 pages and write that tragic ending scene!

As I begin to move down, down, down to the spot I left off at before I decided to come to the lodge, my cell chimes Matthew Powter.

Miriam. Shit.

“Hello?”

“Hiya’ Matthew, how’s it going?”

She doesn’t want to know.

“Great, Mir! Just about finished. Thanks so much for suggesting this lodge. It did the trick…”

I go on to relate how the beauty of this place, the serenity and land-mind clearing of it, sparked something deep inside my writer’s mind. She listens. I can almost see her smile.

“So…when will you send?”

The million-dollar question.

“I’m about to write the last scene. Easy now. I’ll probably send by the end of the week.”

“Wonderful! I can hardly wait to read the book.”

She hesitates.

“You know, the guys over at Penguin are screaming…”

She doesn’t need to go any further, but she does, and I listen in growing desperation.

“I know, I understand, Mir. Just hang in there…wait till you read it. I’m back.”

“I hope so, Matthew. Get back to work and finish up. Friday?”

“If not sooner, my love.”

“Good. Well, just wanted to check in. Bye sweetie.”

She ends the call, and I consider looking in the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Strychnine. Sleeping pills. I wonder if Bernie has a shotgun?

Matthew Powter sings out again. Bernie this time. I sweep my finger across the screen.

“Yeah, Bernie?”

“Good afternoon already, Mr. Ash. I just wanted to tell you that lunch will be ready soon.” He hesitates. “Gertie asked me to call you…figured you were deep into writing that there book and forgot the time.”

“Thanks, Bernie. I’ll be right down. Hey,” I add as an afterthought, “do you have a shotgun anywhere handy?”

There is a definite pause.

“Uh…well, yes. Why do you ask?”

Because I want to blow my brains out.

“Just curious. I have to incorporate a gun into a scene. Reality, you know. I need to hold it. You know, feel it for the scene. I’ll be down in a minute. Skip the gun, I can write the scene without it.”

“Oh well, okay.”

He ends the call, and I’ve just saved my life.

I’m actually famished, so I leave the book and change my clothes.

Maybe Isabella will be down in the dining room when I arrive?

You've Had a...Good Day

 

Isabella

 

The dining room is empty. Two place settings replace the normal three…or four, now. Sorry, Matthew. I take a seat. Bernie (I’m sure it was him) has piped in a song by—I think it’s late Sinatra—that sounds much louder without the motor mouth of Michael overwhelming the music. Funny, I kind of miss them. I guess they’ll be home for dinner, though, unless some delightful-to-them distraction captures their fancy. Michael can ooh and ahh about his new outfit when he comes strutting in, which I can’t wait to see.

Oh, there’s Jack!

“Hiya’ fella, kinda’ lonely here today, huh? Get up here.”

He’s pads silently to the side of my chair, looking up with his pleading eyes, meowing almost soundlessly. I have to scoot my chair back just a little, but I don’t have to pat my thigh. He’s up in a flash, purring for all he’s worth.

“What’s new, eh? Caught any mice…” I start to say.

The door swings inward. I think it’s Gertie or Bernie at first, but no. It’s Matthew. He steps In, and his eyes flash immediately to Jack, then upward to my face. Was that a tiny downturn of his mouth when he spotted Jack?

“Hello,” he says, smiling a little now. He walks to the other side of the table, and I notice that he isn’t limping noticeably. Fast healer, or a good actor? Like it or not, I’m stuck with him for a while, whatever condition he’s in. Maybe I’ll suggest a brisk hike up to the lake before dinner. Hobbling or otherwise, I’ll bet he’d accept the offer.

Shame on me.

He takes his seat. “Smells good, whatever it is Gertie whipped up. I’m starving.”

What a nose. I don’t smell anything except old wood and the hint of aftershave he dabbed on for no reason that interests me.

“So how’s the book coming along today? You said you were working on it earlier.”

He grimaces, picks up his spoon and fiddles with it for a second before answering.

“It’s fine. Nearly finished.”

“That’s good to hear,” I say politely. There is an instant of silence in which time Jack’s purring seems to erupt more loudly. I gently remove him from my lap, and then scoot my chair closer under the table.

“Do you have family, Matthew? Kids and a wife back home?”

He gets more comfortable after that question.

“Not per se. No children, no wife. You?”

Before I can answer, Gertie comes rolling in carrying a large, steaming bowl in one hand, and a platter of bread in the other. She greets us, and then sets them in the middle of the table. The huge handle of the spoon or ladle drifts along the edge.

“Hungry, kids? I thought a nice bowl of fresh vegetable soup with Italian bread would be perfect today. It’s chilly still outside. Dig in. Let me know if you need anything else.” She starts to leave, and then turns as she waddles to the door.

“A Rose',” Matthew the wine expert advises her. “Maybe a Ribera del Duero if it’s in his inventory.”

“A what?” Gertie says, rather confused.

“Just a Rose’, then.” He raises his eyebrows and winks at me. Yes, what could Gertie of the Mountains possibly know about the proper wine to go with soup? I’ll wager Bernie would know.

“I’ll tell him,” she says. “What was the name of that wine again?”

“Rose’. That’s all. Whatever he has,” Matthew answers without looking over at her. He’s looking at me, confident, I’m sure, that he’s made a good impression.

I suppose he has. I would never have known what type of wine to suggest. Just one made from grapes.

Gertie retreats with her mission. Jack is at my calf, rubbing himself against it furiously.

“So, where were we…Oh, please, let me fill your bowl, Isabella. The soup does smell delicious.”

I allow him the courtesy.

“You were asking if I had a family. No, I live all by myself. Well, with my adorable cat,” I say as he fills my bowl.

“Ah.”

I know he’s dying to know if I have a boyfriend or lover, but he doesn’t venture down that road. I answer his unasked question anyway, just so that he knows my situation.

“I do have a…what? interest of sorts back in Santa Monica. We see one another when we can. He’s divorced, with two kids living with him, so it’s hard sometimes…” I leave it at that. He leans forward and sets the soup perfectly in front of me.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.

As he fills his bowl, he continues on, changing course, not looking at me, concentrating on the soup and the ladle. “Any plans for this afternoon? I need a break from the rigors of writing. Thought I’d take a walk.” He finally looks over at me.

“Care to join me?”

Why am I not shocked? Actually, I would like to go for that hike, and I chide myself for almost saying no to his invitation. I think he’s gotten the picture. Don’t you think so, Isabella? Yes, I do. I doubt it, but maybe he knows something about wildflowers, or high country birds. I think about his injured leg that appears to have miraculously healed in the last few hours.

“Hmm. Yes, that might be nice, but can you withstand the stress of walking on your injured leg? I tend to walk fast you know.”

Matthew smiles. “Oh, I think I can keep up. It’s gotten much better, thanks. You must know these hills pretty well…having been here so many times,” he adds.

“Like the back of my hand. Tell you what, after we eat, go change into a pair of sturdy hiking boots…if you have a pair…and I’ll meet you on the porch. There’s a back trail up to the lake. Much gentler than the one, excuse me, that you…” I bite my tongue. No sense humiliating him again. “…that you and I were on yesterday.”

“I’d like that. And yes, I have boots.”

Bernie bounces in. Well, limps in with his bad hip. He sports a bottle of wine jubilantly.

“Moet and Chandon, 2012,” he says. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Excellent,” Matthew beams. “Please pour Isabella’s first.”

Bernie reacts by raising his eyebrows,