Summers' Love, A Cute and Funny Cinderella Love Story (LPC Romantic Comedy Series) (7 page)

Stu turned his eyes away from the line of cars, motor homes, campers, and trucks waiting to board the Cedar Island ferry and asked Hattie, “You going to help me or not?”

“The heart is deceitful above all things, who can understand it?”

Stu studied the petite, gray-haired woman seated next to him, unsure how to respond. “That’s it? That’s all you got?”

“Jeremiah 17:9. And I
am
helping. I’m warning you of the judgment to come for those who refuse to repent and be saved.”

“Hattie, I’m serious. You need to fix this story.” To make his point, Stu slapped the unbound pages of the manuscript on his thigh. “My dog could write a better novel than this.”

“You don’t own a dog.”

“I could get one. There is no way Little Brown Pelican is going to publish this garbage. Believe me, I’ve already run it by my editor and been shot down.”

Beads of sweat erupted from his forehead as rings of perspiration seeped through his Louis Vuitton dress shirt.

“I understand.” Hattie removed a tissue from her purse and gently whipped perspiration from her upper lip. “Wide is the gate and broad is the path that leads to destruction.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Only that you and I are unequally yoked, Stuart. Spiritually speaking, I mean.”

“Ya think? Here you are …” Stu smacked the manuscript on his leg once more, this time squashing a mosquito in the process. “ … rocketing off to Mars in an alien spaceship with bonnet-wearing Mennonite cowgirls whose husbands have been snatched by flesh-eating zombies. Meanwhile, I’m trying to mend the hearts of codependent women who still believe in Cinderella stories. What made you think mixing dystopian, sci-fi fantasy with historical romance would sell?”

“It’s my true voice.”

“No offense, Hattie, but I’m paying you for love stories, not paranormal prairie thrillers with an evangelical bent. The only love found in this is the bond between Gina the three-legged dog and her friend Adam the talking whale.” He squinted at her from behind Ray-Bans. “By the way, what’s up with that?”

“I can’t believe you missed the symbolism. The Klingon cowboys trapped in the belly of the whale serve as a metaphor for how we’re transported to heaven. Or that
other
place.” She eyed the grass at their feet as though they were both five years old and forbidden to say “hell.” “It’s all documented at the end of the book after the study questions.”

“And speaking of which, are those
really
necessary?”

“The women in my book club say they help spur conversation.”

“Is this the same bunch that told you having multiple points of view in the same scene added tension in the story? Is this the crowd that told you every line of dialogue should be tagged with a
she snorted, quipped, moaned, snickered,
or
growled
? You planted so many adverbs in the first chapter, I felt like I was reading a Harry Potter novel.”

“I’m expanding your range.”

“You’re killing my career is what you’re doing.”

She patted him on the thigh. “Readers enjoy variety, son.”

“
My
readers do not. They want predictable, cliché, formula romances. Not wordy, head-hopping novels about Amish zombies. You want to expand your range, write speculative non-fiction.”

“Already working on it. I’ve started writing a Bible study that will tap into the zombie craze. I’m calling it
Mummies Little Helper: A Daily Devotional for Sleep-Deprived Mothers
.”

Stu buried his head in his hands. He remained bent forward as he reflected upon the disastrous novel in his lap. It was obvious Hattie was not going to help
him
fix
her
story. When it came to her religious convictions and her writing, there was no changing Hattie’s mind.

But her other comment about his soul being bound for hell had touched a nerve. For the past few months, Stu had spent a lot of time searching for a spiritual anchor, not that he was particular about
which
one. The female readers he’d met loved emotionally-sensitive authors and, if he was going to take his career to the next level, he needed to do a better job tapping into the moral beliefs of traditional religion. Beliefs like abstinence, purity, compassion … honesty.

That’s why, months earlier, on the advice of a bookstore owner from Berkeley, California, Stu attempted to become a vegan. He cut out all dairy products and began shopping at an all-natural foods grocery in Upper Manhattan. One that carried only the freshest organically-grown greens.

To be honest, though—as if that were possible—Stu’s real motivation for going vegan had less to do with spiritual enlightenment than with the growing paunch around his mid-section and a noticeable decline in book sales. After just four weeks, he’d shed eight pounds and saw his numbers rebound. He might have remained a vegan forever if not for Hattie’s famous cheese straws. These he consumed by the fistful over the Christmas
holy
days. (Hattie insisted Stu refer to them by their correct name.) Stu’s lust for dairy products returned with the fervor of a backsliding sinner.

A few nights later at a New Year’s Eve party, Stu met a practicing Rastafarian who introduced Stu to a whole new realm of spiritual peace, love, and enlightenment. Though not averse to petty criminal activity (he was, after all, defrauding the public by paying Hattie to write his novels), Stu
did not
want to launch his next book tour from Rikers. He declined the joint.

But on the drive to Ocracoke, Stu began to think he might buy himself a Bible and read the Gospels. Or at least scan enough of the important passages to see if he could make sense of what had come over his “holy” ghostwriter. If we’re going to verbally spar, he thought, I should at least know who the players are.

Stu lifted his head and looked over at Hattie. “I need a manuscript along the lines of
Paws on My Heart
and I need it by next week’s end.”

Hattie patted Stu on the back of his hand. “God is leading me to write for a different audience now.”

“What audience is that, Hattie? Trekkies?”

“We’re all aliens living in a foreign land, son. First Peter, second chapter, verse eleven.”

Stu leaned back on the bench and sighed. Shifting his gaze toward a large blue sailboat swinging away from the marina, he thought of how much he wished
he
could cast off the lines and point his yacht south. What he wouldn’t give to feel the wind in his face and the pitch of the deck beneath his feet. But given the maniacal mood swings of Little Brown Pelican’s fickle pub board there was almost no chance he would ever be able to provision
Summers’ Breeze
for anything more than a weekend cruise.

“We can fix this, Hattie. All you need to do is give me one of your ‘boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl and dies tragically for the good of others’ love story. And I need it by next Friday. That’s a whole seven days; I know you can do it.”

“I thought you told me on the phone that you were tired of pretending to be someone you’re not. That you promised yourself you would never autograph another book until the words were your own.”

“I developed a case of writer’s remorse on the drive down. I’ll begin my quest to find the authentic Stu Summers
after
we get my next novel onto the New York Times bestseller list. One more blockbuster, that’s all I ask.”

“I know this must be a big shock, the two of us parting ways like this. But think of it as God’s way of drawing you to yourself. Of Him forcing you to face your deepest fears.”

“What fear would that be? My fear of becoming a has-been best-selling author whose books sell for a penny on Amazon?”

“You only
think
you can’t write. I know different.”

“Here’s what
I
know, Hattie. I know I don’t
want
to write an eighty-thousand-word novel. I only
want
to sell books.”

Bright eyes, in spite of their age, met his. “But why?”

“How about because readers expect me to? How about because I make a good living at it? How about because I
like
being a best-selling author.”

“But you could be a great
novelist
if you’d work as hard at writing as you do at marketing.” Hattie patted him on the arm and smiled. “You can do this, son. I have great faith in you. But it starts right here.” She touched his chest. “You need passion, you need to love. You need to have your heart broken. And then you need to find the courage to put the pieces back together and move on. That’s God’s way. And the way of all great writers.” She opened her purse and handed Stu a church offering envelope.

“What’s this?”

“The money you paid me for the manuscript you cannot use.”

“Hattie, I can’t take your money.”

“Think of it as my investment in your career. Take some writing courses. Go to a writers’ conference.” She smiled. “Fall in love.”

“No disrespect, Hattie, but you’re full of – ”

She put her fingers over his lips. “Profanity is the sign of an unimaginative mind, dear. I know you, Stuart. You’re more creative than that.”

No he wasn’t. He wasn’t creative
at all
. “One last book, that’s all I’m asking, Hattie.”

She stared at him for a moment before asking, “What’s her name, the one who wanted those books signed?”

“I forget.”

“Son, you are a terrible liar.”

“Why do you care what her name is?”

“I want to pray for her.”

“Kate something. I swear, I can’t remember her last name.” But he remembered something else. Her moxie. The scent of her. And the way her eyes searched his when they’d faced off outside the bookstore.

“But you thought she was pretty, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Wow her. Show her she’s special. Pretend you’re First Lieutenant Reiker and she is your Alia.”

“This one is not my type.” Besides, if he were Reiker, he’d be dead soon.

“Type doesn’t matter when you’re in love. Only thing that counts is sacrifice. When was the last time you were in a serious relationship?”

“Don’t worry about me; I go out plenty.”

“I’m not talking about dating. I am talking about intimacy. And I don’t mean
that
kind of intimacy. Call her up. Invite her to dinner. Offer to sign those books she bought.”

Stu slid the sunglasses from the bridge to the tip of his nose and peered at Hattie from over the rim. “You really think I have talent?”

“You need to start believing the words in your novels, dear. Learn to love, and you’ll learn to write.” She stood. “I need to be going. The deacon in charge of setting up the chairs for tomorrow morning’s Bible study has come down with a virus. He says it’s nothing, but Bob Johnson caught something similar last March and died of pneumonia. At our age, you can’t be too careful. Would you like to join us tomorrow morning?”

“On a Saturday?”

“We put the doughnuts and coffee out around 8:30. Tomorrow we are studying the love chapter in First Corinthians.” She wiggled her brows. “Think of it as step one to become a writer of love stories.”

The very thought sent Stu’s stomach roiling. “You really are not going to help me, are you?”

“As soon as you get back to that cottage you never use, start writing. Doesn’t matter what it is, just write something.” Hattie took a step before turning back. “Oh, and if you see my husband, would you send him home?”

Stu watched Hattie drive away, then took a final wistful look at the sailboats nosing into the wind. He felt an ominous sense of dread settle upon him. For way too long he’d ridden the crest of success, dodging wipeouts and disasters, but now a tsunami appeared on the horizon, one that threatened to drown him. He was thinking figuratively, of course. That’s what writers did.

“Except that you’re not a writer,” he said under his breath. Stu got in his Jag and aimed it toward Summers’ Place
.
A cottage Hattie May thought full of inspiration. Well, inspiration was not what he needed.

A miracle, that was what he needed.

And he needed it now
.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Stu had seen women cry before. Hundreds of times. Sniffles and tears were a normal part of his book-signings. If the female contingent parading past his table did not offer up at least one misty-eyed, hanky-honking sniffle, then he wasn’t doing his job. But as he gazed at the woman standing on his dock, his heart sagged. Maybe it was the way her tears coated her cheeks in a silver sheen or the fact that her hiccupping sobs almost shook the dock. Either way, seeing the woman in such pain tugged at his heart.