Escape From Reality (10 page)

She briefly
wondered who was responsible for purchasing all of it. Whomever it was had
exquisite taste. The garments, again, fit perfectly. But even the beautiful
clothing did little to lift her spirits.

 The
ballet flats were where she’d left them and she slipped them on, absently noting
her foot was no longer swollen, the abrasion gone. Maybe she’d dreamed all of
that as well.

Cheryl was seated
in the dining room near one of the large windows next to a table set with delicate
china cups and saucers. She rose, resplendent in a long rose-colored dress and
shawl, graciously extending her hand toward Leila.

“Sit, dear.” Cheryl
indicated Leila should take the other seat. Dominick materialized, silent as
always, holding a silver coffee pot.

“Leila. So lovely
to see you. I thought we’d discuss your writing over coffee.”

Leila sat in
the chair, watched as Dominick filled her cup, and nodded her thanks. She added
sugar and cream, stirred, and took a sip, waiting for the blow from Cheryl.

“I wanted to
tell you, Leila, that your writing is coming along quite beautifully. You’re
really drawing me in to the story between your characters. I’ve been in this
business for a long time and sometimes I confess; I’m a bit jaded. But your
story is so very original.”

Leila’s cup
rattled against her saucer. Words of praise weren’t what she had expected at
all.

Cheryl looked
at Leila over the edge of her coffee cup. “What’s the matter? You look surprised.”

“I…I thought,
because you wanted to see me—in person—that you weren’t pleased.”

Cheryl threw
her head back, her rich laugh echoing in the large space. “Oh, my dear. Quite
the contrary. As I’ve said before, you have talent. You just need encouragement
and a perhaps a bit of direction.”

Leila relaxed
with a tentative laugh of her own. “I guess my mind is still at the conference,
where nothing seemed positive.”

“Well, your
writing is much better here. More focused, and you’re taking my advice to
heart. There are a few things you can work on though.” Cheryl set her coffee
cup down.

“First, you
really need a name for your hero. I know sometimes names are the hardest part
of the story. You want that perfect name, masculine without being over the top.
Something that’s not in use by every other romance writer. It is rather
important. After all, you give him life when you give him a name.”

Leila sighed. “I
know. I just haven’t decided on a name that suits him.”

“And you set up
the first meeting in such a way that a name wasn’t crucial. But your readers
want to call your hero something besides ‘him’. They want to fall in love, and
for that, their lover needs a name.”

“I understand. I’ll
decide on a name shortly.”

“Good. Now, on
to the love scene.” Cheryl’s manner was matter of fact, but Leila cringed
inwardly, knowing pretty much where this was headed.

“You did an
excellent job of getting the mechanics of sex accurate, the
who-is-where-and-when, which some writers struggle with. Sometimes there are
just too many arms and legs to keep track of, and in that respect, your scene
was perfect. But…” Cheryl hesitated.

“You left out
some crucial emotional elements. You have the physical; we all know how our
heroine’s body reacts, how the hero makes her feel physically. But we don’t
always get how she feels emotionally, what her thoughts are. It may be too soon
for declarations of love from either of them, but she should have some
emotional attachment to her hero. Do you understand?”

Leila nodded.
“I do. It’s something I’ve heard before, at the conference.”

Cheryl nodded.
“Then you know what to work on. Emotion can surface outside the bedroom as
well, so don’t forget to pack the emotional punch in those scenes.” Cheryl’s
eyebrows quirked up, her eyes twinkling. “And you left out one other critical
detail.”

Leila frowned.
“In which area?”

“Regarding your
hero, you neglected some very important details. You stopped describing him at
the waist.”

“Oh.” Leila’s
face grew hot. She knew exactly what Cheryl meant, and she was embarrassed both
by Cheryl’s words and her own shortcomings.

“There’s no
need for vulgarities when describing your hero and his physical attributes. You
can learn to be subtle but still be evocative. We’re not looking for clinical
details, but most readers do like at least a hint of what the hero has to offer
our heroine.” Cheryl tilted her head, fixing Leila with a sympathetic smile.

“It takes
practice. There are ways, you know, of fudging it a little, until you gain
confidence with the words. You can have them in the dark, or softly lit by
candlelight, or the occasional flash of lightening. Not all encounters have to
happen in daylight or with the lights on. Although...” The corner of Cheryl’s
mouth turned up in a grin. “…sometimes those scenes are the most fun to write,
and for our readers, it’s the best part of the story.”

Images from the
previous night flashed through Leila’s mind, the moment he’d blown out the
candle, leaving them in darkness, and the frustration she’d felt. It was eerily
reminiscent of her own written scene, and Cheryl’s words made complete sense.

The whole
question of the actor who’d visited Leila rose in her mind. Should she talk
with Cheryl? Would the visits continue? If she wrote the story she wanted,
events would escalate. She wasn’t sure she could write knowing he would reenact
every scene…with her.

Yet knowing he
might sent a thrill through her. The man’s visit last night had been so
arousing, so incredibly erotic. But would she want to—could
she—repeat that, night after night? And, if he followed the story she
wrote, they’d be torn apart by the conflicts, romantic and otherwise, every
romance novel had. There was no way she could fudge that plot point with Cheryl.

Leila’s flush
deepened, but she decided to forge ahead. “About the hero…or rather, the man
you’ve hired to play my hero. I…I appreciate the thought, the idea, I guess…but
maybe things have gone a bit too far.”

It was Cheryl’s
turn to look confused. “I’m not sure what you’re saying, Leila. What man are
you talking about?”

“The man who
was there yesterday, at the cove while I was swimming. And last night…” Leila’s
face flamed but she knew she couldn’t stop now. She took a deep breath.

“The actor who
came to my room during the night, the one who recreated the scene I gave you
yesterday.” The look of confusion on Cheryl’s face was not what Leila expected.

“Leila…there is
no actor. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cheryl leaned
forward, her hand resting on Leila’s knee.

“Are you
certain you’re alright? Was yesterday at the cove something more than you’ve
told me?”

“I’m …” Leila
wasn’t sure what the right answer was. The last thing she wanted now was to
alarm Cheryl or have the woman think she was unbalanced. If there was no actor,
than what was happening?

“Maybe you’re
right, maybe yesterday was a little more…traumatic than I thought.”

“Perhaps you
should rest today, Leila. No writing. Maybe I’ve been pushing you a little too
hard.”

“Oh, no,
really…” Leila held up her hand. “Please. I’m fine. I don’t want to lose
momentum or waste your time.”

Cheryl
hesitated. “If you’re sure.” Concern was evident in Cheryl’s face, and it
touched Leila deeply.

“I am.” Leila
managed a weak laugh. “Maybe it’s a case of reality blurring just a bit. You
know, us writers and our over-active imaginations.”

Cheryl’s face
relaxed and she gave Leila a hesitant smile. “As long as you feel up to it…”

“I do. I’ll be
fine.” Leila squared her shoulders, trying to put as much confidence in her
words and posture as she could.

“Good.” Cheryl
hesitated a moment longer, then rose. Leila joined her as they walked across
the dining room. “Then I’ll leave you to your day’s work. It’s going to be the
conflict that pulls them apart. There’s a fine line between rushing a section
and having it drag. Pay attention to pacing, make the conflict realistic, and
don’t pull your punches. You need to give them a challenge, something that
makes them fight to be together.”

Leila nodded.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. And
rest, dear. I don’t want to worry about you.” Cheryl leaned toward Leila,
planting a kiss on each cheek. And then she was gone in a swirl of rose-colored
silk.

Leila watched
her disappear around the corner at the end of the hall. She turned with a deep
sigh.

“There’s a
beautiful garden on the south side of the island.”

 “Oh!” Leila’s
hand flew to her throat. Dominick stepped from the shadows of the dining room
into the hall.

“I’m sorry,
Miss Connors. I didn’t intend to startle you.”

“It’s alright, Dominick.
What were you saying about a garden?”

“If you’ll
follow me.” Dominick turned and Leila followed him down the hall past the
dining room. She recognized the large iron-banded front door. He pulled the
door open. Bright sunshine spilled across the stone floor and Leila blinked,
hesitating for a moment behind him.

“If you walk
down the stairs to the first landing and then continue across, you’ll come to a
garden. It’s in full bloom at the moment and quite lovely.” He turned, a
knowing look in his eye.

“It might be
just the restful place you need today to work.”

“You may be
right.”

Dominick
smiled. “I was hoping you’d agree. You’ll find a seating area and a box with
paper and pens. I’ll bring brunch down shortly.”

“Thank you, Dominick.
That’s very kind. And I appreciate it.”

He bowed,
stepping back into the doorway. “Then I’ll leave you to your work.” And then he
was gone, the door closing behind him.

Leila followed
the stone stairs down the first flight. It had been dark when she’d arrived,
and she’d been less than focused on the surroundings as Dominick had led her up
the stairs. But now she walked slowly, enjoying the patches of sunshine, the
cool shade where the foliage grew over the path.

The stairs
swept out, ending at a patch of grass. Leila remembered these and saw the
stairs to her right, descending down to the beach where the plane had landed.
And, just as Dominick had said, she glimpsed a garden through a break in the
foliage. Walking forward, she pushed aside a large palm frond and stopped,
momentarily confused at what she saw.

Ahead lay a
small oval emerald lawn, surrounded by, of all things, an English cottage
garden. Stepping onto the grass, she gazed around in amazement. A profusion of
blooms billowed out of beds, rich purples and blues highlighted by ethereal
clouds of yellow flowers. She recognized delphiniums, lilies, but beyond that
there were just too many different varieties to identify any single bloom. It
should have been incongruous in the tropical setting, but it was perfect.
Absolutely perfect.

Set in one
corner was a three-sided garden structure covered with pink roses. Leila was
drawn to it out of curiosity. As she drew closer, she saw it was a rose arbor
arching over a pillow-covered bench. Set in front of the bench was a
wrought-iron table holding the writing box Dominick mentioned.

Kicking off her
shoes, Leila walked beneath the arbor, opening the box. Inside was fresh paper,
slightly intimidating in its blankness, but holding the promise of a new scene
for her story.

She settled on
the bench, adjusting the pillows behind her, the writing box resting on her
lap. Cheryl’s advice came back to her and Leila sat for a moment, imagining the
next scenes in her mind. And then she began writing.

The words came
easily, her pen moving quickly across the page. The name for the hero came to
her and she smiled.

“Sebastian Phillips.”
She said his name softly, almost shyly, testing the feel of it on her tongue. “Sebastian
Phillips.” She said it a second time, with more confidence, then nodded,
satisfied she’d found the name for her hero.

A fitting name
for a man who was strong, almost arrogant, but so masculine he was irresistible
to the heroine. He was everything she had ever wanted, someone who would love
her, protect her without holding her back, cherish her without smothering her.
And all of that came with a passion so fierce it sometimes threatened to
consume them both. A tall order, certainly, but she felt confident she could
create him and all that depth with her words.

The longer Leila
wrote about him, the more she came to know Sebastian, the more she thought
those were the qualities she’d want in her hero as well.

And then it
dawned on her: she was falling in love with Sebastian, right along with her
heroine.

After some time,
she became aware of movement beside her, Dominick leaving a tray of food. But
she didn’t stop to acknowledge him and he left as he had arrived, in silence.

Only when her
hand finally began to ache did she stop. Absently rubbing her fingers, she read
back over her pages, a faint smile on her lips. She’d done what she’d set out
to do: she’d given her characters scenes outside the bedroom, strengthened
their relationship, and then torn them apart.