beginnings

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Rough beginnings for my contemporary couple

My contemporary novella for the Authors of Main Street summer collection wants to be a romantic comedy, I think. I’ve interviewed the hero and heroine. I’ve charted their ‘hero’s journey’. I’ve run a heap of dialogue through my head.  And now I’ve written the first scene of what is tentatively called ‘Beached’. Actually, it might be the third or fourth scene, after Zachary Henderson and Nikki Watson meet again. The story will be mostly set at a beach resort in New Zealand, where my heroine has invented a summer residence that needs fixing up and my hero is working as a builder.

Eighteen months ago, New York

Nicola Watson scanned the crowd in the coffee shop. No sign of Mr Michael ‘I’m-Too-Sexy-For-A-New-York-Courtroom’ O’Neal. It was the last straw.

Yes, she was five minutes late. Okay. Eight minutes. Which was totally not her fault, and another reason why she was irritated.

But O’Neal had asked for this meeting, so he should have waited. If he turned up at all.

Ever since she’d received his note, she’d been second guessing what he might be up to. Third, fourth, and fifth guessing. That was the primary reason for her mood. She shouldn’t be here, and yet here she had not been able to resist.

She and Mr Designer-Suit-Fits-Like-A-Glove were not currently on the opposite side in litigation, and last time he had won. But she hadn’t given up. The O’Neals might have been innocent of the particular charges World Watch had brought against them, but somewhere their global chains of hotels were breaking environmental laws for short term profit. And one day she expect to face Bedroom-Eyes O’Neal again, and win.

His note said he had information she might find useful. Yeah, right. She wouldn’t trust an O’Neal as far as she could throw one of them, and every single one of them was six foot plus and built like a lazy bookworm’s wet dream.

Lots of money for gym equipment and personal trainers, her grumpy self pointed out. At that moment, something in the crowded room hooked her roving gaze and dragged it back. That man. The one with the beard. The one waving a greeting.

The scruffy denim jacket over a coloured t-shirt was a far cry from O’Neal’s usual crisply tailored suits and shirts, and the pirate beard was a further disguise, though something in her gut purred its approval. It was a fiery red, shades brighter than his auburn hair, currently tousled as if he’d been out in a strong wind. Or just risen from bed.

The eyes hadn’t changed. A bright blue, currently levelled at hers as she crossed the room and took the seat opposite him.

“Ms. Watson. Thank you for coming.” The voice was the same, too. North Eastern United States Preppie, with a touch of low gravel.

Nicola inclined her head in greeting. “Mr. O’Neal.”  He called the meeting. Let him start it.

“Coffee?” he asked, and performed the magic of attracting a waitress from the other side of the crowd so he could place her order.

The t-shirt featured a sailing ship, with a motto written across it. “A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”

“Expecting storms?” Nicola asked.

O’Neal smiled. “I’d be a fool if I didn’t.” The smile vanished and he leaned forward, dropping his voice as if the crowd was full of spies with recorders. “I’m leaving, Miss Watson. But before I go, I wanted to redress the balance a little.”

“Leaving?” What did that mean? “Leaving New York?”

“Confidentially? Just between you and me?” He must have caught her slight withdrawal, because he added, “Nothing unethical or illegal, but I’d rather it remained a private matter. At least for a few weeks.”

Nicola nodded, her curiosity overriding her caution.

“I’m leaving it all. New York. The practice of law. The hotel business. The O’Neal family.” He chewed at his upper lip in a moment of indecision, then held out his hand. “Miss Watson, allow me to introduce myself. Zachary Henderson, deck hand on… it doesn’t matter. You get the idea.”

She was floundering to keep up. “Zachary is your second name.”

“And Henderson was my mother’s, so not a big leap.”

The coffee arrived, and Nicola grabbed a handful of coins to give the girl a tip before O’Neal, no, Henderson. He waited while she added some low-Cal sweetener. “Redress the balance?” she asked. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Henderson let those gorgeous blue eyes roam around the room before answering. “Remember in court, when I pulled out the information that proved the hotels you named in your suit were all compliant with international treaties?”

Nicola nodded. She didn’t need reminding. She still wondered how World Watch had got it so wrong.

“I saw your reaction. You were taken by surprise. But your colleague wasn’t, and that got me thinking. And checking.” He looked around again, then pulled a plastic sleeve from inside his jacket. “Here. I’ve printed enough to get you started, but most of what I found is on the thumb drive. Conversations. Emails. Enough to show that the law suit you and I fought was a set up by the O’Neal hotel chain and World Watch.”

No way! But on the heels of denial came belief, as pieces that had never fitted fell into place. And her unsurprised colleague Tyler — her fiance — he was at the heart of it.

Henderson was silent, allowing her time to absorb his claims. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “If what you say is true, I am pleased to know.”

“I figured I owed you.” He stood, and held out his hand, gripping hers firmly. “It has been nice knowing you, Miss Watson. Good luck.”

“And to you, Mr. Henderson,” she replied. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Another fleeting grin. “I have to figure out what that is, first.”

Nicola sat and finished her coffee after he had left. If Henderson was right, she’d been played for a country rube. She might be a country girl from little New Zealand, but she was not a complete fool. As they would find out. She slipped the thumb drive into an inner pocket of her jacket, and put the plastic sleeve into her hand bag. First, home to read the evidence. Then a conversation with Tyler.

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Where to start on WIP Wednesday

When I write, I have trouble starting at the beginning, because I have to find it first. In life, all beginnings continue from an earlier story, and all ends transmute into a later story. But in fiction, we need to start each book and each chapter at the beginning. At that point in time and space where at least one of the characters we care about is revealing their story, and making it matter to us.

Dear fellow authors, share a beginning with me and the blog readers, if you would. Something from a current work in progress. The start of a chapter or perhaps the start of the whole book. Mine is from The Realm of Silence, and it is the first scene in the book. At least, it is at the moment. Anything could happen in edit.

Stamford, England

1812

Gil Rutledge sat in the small garden to the side of the Crown and Eagle, and frowned at the spread provided for him to break his fast. Grilled trout with white butter sauce, soft-boiled eggs, grilled kidney, sausages, mashed potatoes, bacon, a beef pie, two different kinds of breads (one lightly toasted), bread rolls, a selection of preserves, and a dish of stewed peaches, all cooked to perfection and none of it appealing.

Two days with his sister, Madelina, had left old guilt sitting heavy on his stomach, choking his throat and souring his digestion. And the errand he was on did not improve matters.

He cut a corner off a slice of toast and loaded it with bits of bacon and a spoonful of egg. He was too old a campaigner to allow loss of appetite to stop him from refuelling. He washed the mouthful down with a sip from his coffee. It was the one part of the meal Moffat had not trusted to the inn kitchen. His soldier-servant insisted on preparing it himself, since he knew how Gil like it.

No. Not his soldier-servant. Not any more. His valet, butler, factotum. Manservant. Yes, his manservant.

Gil raised the mug to the shade of his despised older brother. “This is the worst trick you’ve played on me yet,” he muttered. The viscount’s death had landed the estranged exile with a title he never wanted, a bankrupt estate, a sister-in-law and her two frail little daughters left to his guardianship but fled from his home, and an endless snarl of legal and financial problems. And then there were Gil’s mother and his sisters.

Lena had at least consented to see him; had assured him that she no longer blamed him for her tragedies. Her forgiveness did not absolve him. He should have found another solution; should have explained better; should have kept a closer watch.

With a sigh, he took another sip, and loaded his fork again. The sooner he managed to swallow some of this food, the sooner he could be on the road.

Beyond the fence that bordered the garden, carriages were collecting their passengers from the front of the inn. Stamford was on the Great North Road, and a hub to half of England, with roads leading in every direction. As Gil stoically soldiered his way through breakfast, he watched idly, amusing himself by imagining errands and destinations.

Until one glimpsed face had him sitting forward. Surely that was Amelia Cunningham, the goddess’s eldest daughter? No. This girl was older, almost an adult though still dressed as a schoolgirl.

He frowned, trying to work out how old little Amy must be by now. He had last seen her at the beginning of 1808, just before he was posted overseas, first to Gibraltar and then to the Peninsular wars. He remembered, because that was the day he parted with the best horse a man had ever owned. More than four years ago. The goddess had been a widow these past two years and Amy must be— what? Good Lord. She would be sixteen by now.

He craned his head, trying to see under the spreading hat that shielded the girl’s face, but she climbed into a yellow post chaise with a companion — a tall stripling boy of about the same age. And the woman who followed them was definitely not the goddess; not unless she had lost all her curves, shrunk a good six inches, dyed her golden hair black, and traded her fashionable attire for a governess’s dull and shapeless garb.

No. That was not Susan Cunningham, so the girl could not have been Amy.

The door closed, the post boy mounted, the chaise headed north, and Gil went back to his repast.

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Beginnings in WIP Wednesday

I typed THE END twice yesterday: once on the novel A Raging Madness and once on the short story for my February newsletter. I hope today to finish the slightly longer short story I’m writing as a party prize, but meanwhile, I’ve edited the short story and written an entirely new beginning.

Novels show a journey: the beginning and the end might mirror one another, but they show the distance travelled. In short stories, we see a mere glimpse of the journey, and the focus is on one transformative moment for the main character. Since I mostly write romance, the focus is usually on making the relationship, and therefore the love, believable. So my beginning needs to kick us into the story quickly, and my end needs to tie the last knot neatly, preferably linking back to the beginning.

And the original beginning of ‘A souvenir from Scotland‘ just didn’t work.

This week, I’m inviting you to share a few paragraphs of beginning from your work in progress (novel, novella, or short story). The beginning of the work, if you will, or the beginning of a chapter if you prefer.

Here’s mine. (If you’d like to know what happens next, the full story will be a gift in my February newsletter):

York, 23 December 1815

Her brother was home. Megan Walsh almost rushed straight out into the evening air when her husband told her he had passed Ned’s place and seen lights on the floor that Ned rented, but Thomas persuaded her to wait for morning, and she managed it, just, though she read the cryptic note Ned had sent another twenty times before at last it was a sufficiently civilised hour to go calling.

Yes, the landlady agreed, Mr Broderick was home, and Mrs Walsh would never guess…

But Megan hadn’t waited, hurrying up the stairs to knock on Ned’s door. He opened it himself, and she threw herself on him.

“Ned! I was so worried when you were a fortnight overdue and then I got your note. What a note, Ned. ‘On my way home. I have a surprise for you; something I found in Scotland. You told me I needed one, and you were right.’ I have racked my brains, Ned, and I cannot think what you mean.”

Ned took her arm, and led her through into the sitting room, and Thomas trailed behind. But they both stopped short when they found it was already occupied.

A small dark-haired woman, neatly dressed in a slightly old-fashioned gown, sat sipping tea by the fire, and she stood when they entered, looking wary.

“Ariadne, may I present my dear sister and her husband, Mr and Mrs Thomas Walsh? Megan, Thomas, please meet Mrs Broderick. Megan, I took your advice and got myself a wife.”

Ned looked so proud, and the woman so nervous, that Megan swallowed the sharply worded comment that came first to her tongue and instead just said, “How?”