Me and My Baby View the Eclipse (16 page)

Linens N' Things is very disorganized with Mr. Rolette gone, Melanie sees this right away. Deborah Green is reading a book, and Renée and LaWanda are giggling. Grace rushes up to Melanie and says, “Oh, Melanie, I'm so sorry I got mad at you, you're my best friend. Please forgive me. It wasn't even you I was mad at, I was just upset.”

Melanie tries hard to forget about Bobby and Mr. Slemp and concentrate on Grace, who looks like she's still upset. “That's okay, honey,” she says.

Grace pauses and looks all around and then steps closer. “It's Gene,” she says. “Gene is impotent, Melanie, he hasn't been able to do it for over a year.”

“Well that's
awful
, Grace,” Melanie says. “Has he been to a doctor?”

“He won't go,” Grace says. “He won't talk about it either, not even to me. He walks right out of the room.”

“Then I think
you
ought to go to a doctor,” Melanie says, but Grace says he won't let her. She says Gene keeps the checkbook and there's no way she can go without him finding out. Grace's pale blue eyes look absolutely desperate.

“I'll loan you the money,” Melanie says. “You can pay the doctor cash.”

“Well, I don't know,” Grace says. “I feel so
sorry
for him, Melanie. You know we went to the junior-senior together, we grew up practically next door, I don't know if I could go behind his back or not.”

“Just think about it, honey.” Melanie hugs her. “Let me help you any way I can.” She can feel Grace's shoulder bones sticking out.

Then Grace straightens up and smooths out her skirt. “I feel a lot better since I told you about it,” she says, but Melanie doesn't.

In fact she feels worse and worse as the afternoon goes by, and her customers say it's raining. So when things slack off she goes to stand by the door, feeling trembly and blue. When LaWanda comes out to ask her what it means if you dream you're flying, Melanie snaps at her, “I don't know,” and LaWanda gives her a funny look and goes back inside. Melanie wonders what she would even wear if she did decide to go out with Mr. Joyner, not that she would. Jeans? She'd have to buy some. The rain drums down on the skylight.
As soon as he walks past Orange Julius she sees him, wearing a blue Windbreaker and nice khaki pants and loafers, he looks sports-minded but not too sports-minded, he has that rugged all-American quality she loves in a man, a square jaw, a strong nose, his hands are not too small either. He notices her right away and comes toward her, his eyes never leave her eyes, he's smiling. “I'm relocating to this area from California,” he says. “I've just bought one of those new townhouses out on Old Mill Road, it's furnished, but I need to buy everything else for it. Everything.” “Come right this way, sir,” says Melanie. “I've got exactly what you need.”

P
REFACE

S
ome summers back, my friend Katherine Kearns, who was pregnant and bored at the time, decided that she wanted to write a romance novel. So she sent off to Silhouette Romances for guidelines, temporarily abandoned her pursuit of the Ph.D. in English at the University of North Carolina, and set to work.

Some of the guidelines follow:

Our Heroine is, preferably, an orphan. She is alone in the world. (Note: A brother is, in some cases, permissible, but only if he is retarded or has not found his way in life.) Our Heroine appears frail, but looks terrific when she gets dressed up. She is, of course, a virgin. She arrives alone in the lush, romantic Setting, where she encounters our Hero, who is preferably dark, brooding, and mysterious (although we have had some luck recently with stern Nordic sorts and hunky redheads). The initial encounter is tempestuous. Sparks fly, yet there is of course a mad underlying attraction. The Other Woman will be beautiful, desirable, and wealthy. She is, of course, a bitch. The Other Man will be nice, boring, well-meaning, intent upon saving our Heroine from the clutches of our Hero and the dangerous contingencies of the Plot. (Note: No other main characters will be permitted in this novel,
especially children
. Any necessary others, such as a faithful housekeeper, should remain as stereotypical as possible, so as not to detract from the romance.) The Plot will ensue, with the ten chapters growing increasingly shorter as tension mounts. At the climax, our Hero and Heroine realize that they are made for each other after all. The novel ends with their passionate embrace. (Note: At no time during this novel will they or anyone else every actually
do it
, nor will any specific body parts be mentioned.)

My friend Katherine did not sell her novel to Silhouette Romances, even though she came up with a wonderful heroine who inherited an old inn on Pawley's Island, South Carolina, and a mysterious saturnine artist who painted there. Her novel,
A Certain Slant of Light
, turned out to have two qualities that are not permissible: symbolism, and semicolons. But I, still intrigued by the guidelines, wrote this Silhouette Romance.

CHAPTER ONE

As the sleek motorboat slices through the aqua effervescence of Domino Bay to approach the pearly brightness of the beach, Jennifer surveys the lush scene before her with no small trepidation, and a hint of dismay creeps into her normally dulcet tone as she exclaims, “Captain! Oh, Captain! Why are you docking here in the middle of nowhere? Is there no settlement of any sort hereabouts? I had expected . . .”

But the captain won't say a thing! A native Georgian with an unfortunately cleft palate, he shoots a dark glance from beneath his surly brow at the clearly frightened young woman and mumbles something indistinguishable into his dark facial hair. He throws her bags on the beach. He heaves his bulk around.

Jennifer drums her small fingers rat-a-tat-tat on the hull of the shiny craft. Is it all a huge mistake, her coming here? But what else could she have done, considering the terrible fire that swept the home of her guardians (since their parents' mysterious deaths some twenty years ago, Jennifer and her retarded brother, Lewis, have been most carefully raised), killing both Aunt Lucia and Uncle Norm and destroying the entire perfect loveliness of their antebellum mansion, leaving Jennifer with only her small inheritance, her paltry background in microbiology, and the hunting lodge somewhere deep within the fastnesses of this fabled island.

“I had hoped . . .” But Jennifer's words are lost in the slap of the waves and the oddly shrill cries of the brilliant birds that wheel in the hot blue sky. Parrots and shy tropical creatures peek out at her from the shiny green leaves of the junglelike vegetation which threatens to engulf the beach; the shriek of an apparent panther is heard.

“Harg!” the captain barks. Clearly he wants to be quit of this spot before dark, wants to be back on the mainland hefting a brew with his rustic buddies.

Jennifer mounts the dock with a sigh, traverses its rotting length, and turns to wave a reluctant farewell to the enigmatic captain, who even now is rounding the great Grey Lady rocks which mark the harbor, slipping from her view. Well.

Although she is petite and somewhat fragile in appearance, a spark of mischief in Jennifer's eye belies the seeming frailty of her frame. Actually Jennifer is not frail at all! She's strong as an ox, and also she looks terrific when she gets dressed up. But right now she wears a lime-green T-shirt, a khaki wrap-around skirt, and espadrilles. Her wispy brown locks are caught fast in a gold barrette which used to belong to her mother. Jennifer hoists the weight of her luggage and trudges through the wet unwelcoming sand across the narrow beach and up a faint trail into the very jungle, vines slowing her progress as she bites her lip to hold back her brimming tears, as night begins to fall. . . .

CHAPTER TWO

Plucky Jennifer manages to set up her tent in a clearing beneath a giant live oak, where she eats a granola bar, lights her Coleman lantern, and soon is competently ensconced in the jungle wilderness.

But suddenly we note the rustle of plan fronds, the swish of savannah grass, the warning chorus of tree frogs. Footsteps are heard on the path. Jennifer, who was very nearly asleep, stands to face the invader. Jennifer's teeth clatter helplessly in the tropic night.

“Yes?” she cries bravely into the darkness. “Yes? Who's there?”

“Rock Cliff,” comes the terse reply.

“I don't believe I have had the pleasure!” Jennifer casts open the tent fly.

Light streams out to reveal the rugged virile form clad in well-worn (tight) blue jeans, cowboy boots, and an old torn Brooks Brothers shirt open almost to the waist, unveiling the wealth of dark hair on the broad, muscled chest. Beneath the sable sweep of unruly hair and the decisive black line of his eyebrows, Rock Cliff's dark eyes flash fire above the prominent jut of his cheekbones. There is a touch of world-weariness in the little lines that web the marble wideness of his brow, a suggestion of tenderness and compassion which is offset by the fleshy cruel sensuality of his mouth, his strong white teeth. All his muscles bulge.

Now we are getting somewhere!

“Miss Jennifer Maidenfern?” he inquires rudely in deep masculine tones which send an unwonted tingle up Jennifer's spine.

“I beg your pardon!” she rejoins tartly.

“I received a communication from a Miss Jennifer Maidenfern not long ago, insisting that I vacate immediately the premises of Domino Lodge, where I have been in residence for the past ten months while finishing my novel,” Rock Cliff continues. “I have now vacated those premises at enormous psychological cost, as I now find I am unable to complete my novel in any other surroundings. I urge you to reconsider.”

It all comes back to Jennifer now. “I sent a letter to the occupant. . . .” she says slowly.

“I am the occupant,” states Rock Cliff.

“I see.” Jennifer realizes she is in danger of losing herself in the fiery depths of his eyes. “I'm terribly sorry,” she says with an effort, “but that's quite impossible. I intend to stay.”

“I am independently wealthy,” asserts Rock Cliff. “I will pay any amount of money to purchase Domino Lodge.” There's a sudden unaccustomed tremor in his voice now and we can tell how much this means to him, how his life of rich playboy decadence has left him empty and unfulfilled, how the completion of this novel will bring back his faith in himself.

Jennifer presses her trembling lips into a firm line. “Good-bye, Mr. Cliff,” she says. Attempting with shaking fingers to refasten the tent fly, she stumbles over a tortoise and falls backward suddenly, upsetting the lantern. The ever-alert Rock Cliff springs forward into the tent. Quickly he lunges past the terrified young woman to right the lantern and finds himself there suddenly on the tent floor beside her shy vulnerability and sweet trembling lips which he cannot help but cover with his own. The tent fly drops silently behind him.

So I can't see a damn thing! I want to be in that tent; I want to see it all. I want to know where he puts his hands. But here I am, reading, and there they are inside that tent, black opaque shadows moving against the flap, moving and thrashing and moving until at last he emerges with a muttered oath and stumbles off into the night
.

CHAPTERS THREE, FOUR, AND FIVE

are a drag. Nothing much happening here except that Jennifer finally finds Domino Lodge (after several wrong turns, lots of boring flora on the trail) and meets faithful Irish housekeeper Mrs. O'Reilly, an amusing old alcoholic fond of misquoting familiar sayings, as in “Don't put all your eggs under a basset,” page 62. Mrs. O'Reilly takes a liking to Jennifer right away, fixing her a hot buttered rum, some scones, some fig preserves. Jennifer eats with interest. Mrs. O'Reilly explains the blood feud which has always existed between the Maidenfern family and the deRigeurs on the other side of the island: an insult, a slight, a missing emerald. Mrs. O'Reilly praises the exemplary conduct of the recent occupant Mr. Cliff (Ha! Ha!), relates the complete history of Domino Island, and is working up to its geographic configurations when thank God she is interrupted by the surprise entrance of Charles Fine, the young Episcopal rector from the mainland, who has sailed over in his lovely sloop
The Dove
especially to bid Jennifer welcome.

“Welcome.” He smiles.

“Why, thank you,” Jennifer returns.

Jennifer cannot fail to notice this young bachelor's peaches-'n'-cream complexion, his lithe body, the warm sincerity of his soft blue gaze.

“If there is anything I can do to assist you,” Charles Fine offers as he prepares to cast off, “anything at all . . .” His voice rings like a bell.

“I'll let you know,” responds Jennifer. She watches him sail away until his boat is a mere black dot against the shimmering sea; she approves of him, Jennifer does, with all her fluttering heart, and she cannot understand the recent blush that climbed her features unawares when Mrs. O'Reilly mentioned that blackguard Rock Cliff. Oh! A hand flies up to Jennifer's mouth. It is, of course, her own.

CHAPTER SIX

So Jennifer settles in. The island sun paints a glint of gold on her plain brown locks and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. One morning she's hard at work refurbishing all the furniture in the east parlor when who should arrive but Rock Cliff! Jennifer—caught barefooted, no makeup, in one of her oldest frocks—tries to flee the parlor, but he blocks her way with his muscled girth.

“Not so fast, young lady!” drawls Rock Cliff. He actually appears to be amused; how dare he? “I've been thinking it over, and I feel I owe you an apology.”

“I should say so!” snaps Jennifer. And then somehow she finds herself weakening, smiling up into those eyes. She can feel his breath on her skin. He leans down closer, closer, closer. . . .

Breaking free with a momentous exercise of pure will, Jennifer evades the virile visitor and commences to wash the woodwork on the other side of the room.

“Now Jennifer,” he entreats, following her slim figure. “I want to make it up to you, Jennifer, if I may call you that. I'd like to take you out to dinner tonight.”

Furiously, silently, Jennifer scrubs.

Rock Cliff edges even closer. “Come on now,” he implores. “I feel a real connection between us, Jennifer. I sensed it from the first. I'm sorry I lost my head, but your nearness combined with the hot charm of the night . . .” Rock Cliff has edged so close to Jennifer that she has been forced to retreat still further, has in fact climbed upon the windowsill itself, a precarious perch.

“Please, my dear,” he begs passionately.

“I'm warning you, Rock Cliff!” shrills Jennifer, but then she tumbles—scrub brush, water pail, and all—straight onto the wide-planked cypress floor, overturning a handsome old desk, an ottoman, and Rock Cliff himself, who sprawls violently beside her in the sudden sea of suds.

Jennifer giggles infectiously. Rock Cliff catches her merriment and guffaws heartily, then turns to her with yearning eyes and clasps her wet torso firmly in his rippling arms. “My dear,” he says.

“Oh, Rock,” yields Jennifer, as . . .

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I might have known!” cries Monica deRigeur. “Look at you, Rock Cliff, down there on the floor all wet and unkempt in a compromising position!”

“Now wait just a minute,” drawls Rock.

But Jennifer sees the emerald engagement ring on Monica's tapered digit.

“No!” Jennifer leaps up and stamps her petite foot. “Don't wait at all! Just leave! Both of you! I see right through you, Rock Cliff, you and your fashionable fiancée!”

Monica, by the way, is a real bitch wearing a low-necked blue-flowered voile dress which does nothing to hide her voluptuous form. White high-heeled sandals and a strand of priceless pearls about her swanlike neck complete the ensemble. Her upswept coiffure is elegant, implicit, or imminent, or something. I give up. “Move it, lover boy,” she directs haughtily.

“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” Rock states, but the force of Jennifer's grief ejaculates them both from the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jennifer sends for her retarded brother and adopts a wild raccoon which she names Bruce, then nicknames Posy. (?)

CHAPTER NINE

Jennifer and Lewis are sunbathing on the secluded pink shell beach when here comes Charles Fine in his nautically white sloop, ready to propose to Jennifer. “I need a help-meet,” he explains earnestly, holding Jennifer tight in his strong ecclesiastical arms where she sheds a single tear upon realizing who it is she really loves.

“The cat is out of the bag now, I guess!” and, oh no, it's Rock Cliff who has been concealed behind some hydrangea bushes observing this tender scene. Rock Cliff's statement about the cat confuses Lewis, who becomes quite frightened and begins to weep openly. As Jennifer rushes to comfort her poor brother, helpful Charles Fine attempts to explain things to the irate Rock Cliff.