Dante Writers’ Circle by Paula R C Readman, a glass or two of Champagne

“Hello everyone, please welcome Denise Kane to our group,” announced Tabatha Hargrave, the co-founder of the Dante Writers’ Circle, in the echoing village hall in Temple End on a chilly spring evening. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” she continued, gesturing wildly as the group members settled into their usual seats. “Oh, where is Lawrence?”

The eight members exchanged glances and shook their heads, each hoping someone else would speak up.

Tabatha gave Denise a half-smile. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll meet him later.” She turned to the group. “Right, I’ll get started without him. Even though we are a small group, we all get along well and are happy to support and help one another, don’t we gang?” Tabatha said enthusiastically.

The group smiled half-heartedly and gave slight nods before returning to their whispered conversations. Denise felt her enthusiasm about joining the group fade. She had joined on her aunt’s advice. A terrible car crash while working aboard had left her unable to support herself. At her aunt’s suggestion, she moving in to live with her in Temple End and now fully recovered she was ready to meet new people.

“You can sit here.” Tabatha said, pointing to a chair next to a woman dressed in a long gipsy-style dress and a large, chunky, red plastic beaded necklace that matched her bright red, unnaturally dyed hair. “This is Miranda Murdock who writes poetry and has had many of her poems published.”

Miranda smiled broadly, extended her hand, and said for all to hear, “More than most here have been published. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, you have, but we don’t want to discourage others,” Tabatha replied, then turned her attention to the white-haired man dressed in a dark grey tweed suit, who sat next to Miranda. “Denise, let me introduce you to Fabian Pritchard, who writes Wild West stories.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kane,” Fabian said.

“It’s Miss Kane, but please call me Dee,” she corrected him gently.

“Oh, right, Dee it is. I’m so pleased to finally have fresh blood in the group. How long have you been writing?” he asked.

“Seriously for about two years. I recently had an article published in a magazine, and my aunt suggested I should join a writing group.”

“What made you take up writing?” Miranda asked as Tabatha returned to her seat at the head of the table and pulled a folder out of her bag.

“Well, a combination of two events really: I had to take early retirement due to a long recovery from an accident.”

“Oh dear,” Miranda replied, but there was no trace of empathy in her voice as she pulled a notebook out of her bag. “I have some new poems to read out this evening.”

“It must have been a serious accident. Are you fully recovered now?” Tabatha called over her shoulder.

“Are any of your Wild West books available in print, Fabian?” Dee asked, changing the subject to avoid the attention. Tabatha was now in conversation with another member of the group.  

“I’m not writing Westerns anymore.” Fabian said through narrowing lips. “I’m now working on my second novel based on my undercover work in the Far East.”

“Wow, where can I buy a copy of your first book? I’d love to read it,” Dee said.

“Uh, it’s with my agent at the moment.” He coughed and turned to Miranda. “Any news on your book?”

The banging of the outer door heralded the arrival of another member, causing everyone to turn towards the entrance. A tall, thin woman dressed in baggy jeans and a suit jacket, with short-cropped grey hair, entered and unceremoniously dumped a large bag on a table.

“Hello, comrades!” Ruth’s bright and cheerful voice echoed around the hall. “At last, I’ve done it. I’m in print.” She pulled a magazine out of her bag and held it up like a magician presenting a rabbit. 

The room fell silent until Dee spoke up. “Congratulations! How exciting!”  

Ruth turned to Dee and said, “Thank you. I’m Ruth Honeywell, and you are?”

“I’m Dee. It’s my first time here.”

“Oh, Ruth,” Tabatha called from the other side of the room. “Have you see Lawrence?”

“Yes, he was just pulling in the car park behind me. When I got out of my car, he was still looking for a place to park. He’s not normally this late.”

“Damn nuisance that he’s late today! I’ve some exciting news to share with you all. Are you ready to get started?” Tabatha said. A ripple of excitement spread among the members, who were milling around chatting, causing them to return to their seats and pull out their notebooks and pens, eager to hear the news.

In the far corner of the room, a door opened, and a plump, middle-aged woman entered carrying a tea tray. She resembled the singer Dolly Parton, with her dyed blonde hair piled high on her head, bright red rouge cheeks, and matching red lipstick. However, unlike the singer, Agnes had a somewhat clownish appearance dressed in ill-fitting, dowdy clothes that even a charity shop would have rejected. The woman banged the tray down in front of Tabatha, spilling some of the contents onto a folder lying there.

“Please be more careful, Agnes,” Tabatha snapped, lifting the folder away from the spilt drinks and wiping it clean before passing the drinks around.

Agnes nodded, and with a bright smile, disappeared back through the door, only to reappear moments later with a tray of cakes.

Miranda whispered to Dee, “That’s Agnes. She's one of the founders of the writing group, but she never gets involved with the writing— just makes the drinks and brings in homemade cakes.”

“Thank you so much, Agnes,” Tabatha said, as the tray was set before her. “The cakes look delicious as always.”

Dee studied Agnes closely as she took her seat, pulled some knitting from a bag, untangled the needles from the yarn, and began to knit. Agnes smiled, aware that Dee was watching her, and waved the rainbow-coloured jumper she was working on in Dee’s direction.

Fabian, sitting next to Dee, leaned closer and whispered behind his hand, “For the life of me, I have no idea why she comes. All she does is knit: I’m sure she’s been working on that same jumper for years.”

“Maybe she enjoys the company,” Dee suggested, taking a sip of her drink.

“That may be true. She does live alone in a big, old house,” Fabian replied after replacing his cup.

“Doesn’t she have any family?” Miranda asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Tabatha knows. It’s funny; after knowing her all these years, I really don’t know her that well. She keeps to herself,” Fabian muttered.  

 “Are you all right, love?” Miranda called to Agnes sarcastically as the clicking of the knitting needles filled the silence. “How’s the jumper coming on? Will it be as nice as the one you are wearing?

Agnes smiled and nodded. The multi-coloured, faded jumper hugged her ample bosom, making it look as though it had shrunk in the wash. Miranda shook her head in disgust and turned back to the group.

“What is taking Lawrence so long?” Babs said to no one in particular as she opened her notebook. “I wanted his input on a new idea for the book I’m working on—”

 “Sorry to interrupt,” Tabatha said, “but I’ve something amazing to share with you all as soon as Lawrence arrives. It is about our annual outing. We have been invited—”

The door crashing open cut Tabatha off mid-sentence, as a tall, strong-jawed silver fox entered. “That bloody car park! I wish we could meet elsewhere. This place doesn’t help my creativity; I’m always worrying about whether I’ll be able to find parking.” After hanging his jacket on the back of his chair, he sat down and tugged a notebook out of his pocket. “Hello, a new face, and a young one at that.” A beaming smile lit up his face. “Hello, I’m Lawrence.”

“This is Dee,” Tabatha said.

Dee nodded in Lawrence’s direction.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dee,” Lawrence replied with a wink.

“If I may start,” Tabatha said, struggling to keep her annoyance out of her voice.

“Please, carry on.” Lawrence said and leaned back in his chair.

“To begin with, Lawrence,” Tabatha said, her eyes narrowing, “If you arrived early, you wouldn’t have a problem parking. We meet here because it is the most affordable hall available in the village. “Would you like to start the evening off by updating us on your publishing news, especially your book?"

Lawrence muttered something before meeting everyone’s stare. “I was late because I was on Facetime with my agent. He explained that he could secure a much better deal for my book, which is why it is taking longer than expected. What were you saying about our annual outing when I arrived?” Lawrence said, changing the subject. “I hope we’re not visiting another art gallery. If I see one more, I’m leaving this group.”

“I thought the experience would give us a spark of inspiration— Oh, never mind.” Tabatha stood to address the group. “Now, my fellow writers, as your chairperson, I’m pleased to announce to everyone—”

"For goodness’ sake, get on with it, Tabs! I could have written another book by now.” Lawrence interrupted.

Tabatha sat down; all of her excitement vanished. “What I’ve been trying to tell you is that we’ve received invitations to the International Writers’ Guild Awards evening next week.”

“We have! How is that possible? You can’t just show up there; it’s by invitation-only and they’re only sent out to—” Miranda stopped mid-sentence as Tabatha pulled the tickets from her bag.

Lawrence’s jaw dropped as if he had just discovered he actually did have an agent. He took the gold-edged card with his name on it from Tabatha and read aloud. “Prestige invitation.”

“How do they know about us?” Fabian asked, turning his card over. “Is it for real?”

“For goodness sake, Fabian, don’t knock it! At last, we have something good to post on our website. It will be great to mingle with real writers and agents. Oh my, I might find a publisher!” Miranda exclaimed.

“But I thought you had a publisher for your book, Miranda,” Babs said.

“You’re so naive. I’m self-published. Many self-published authors eventually get picked up by big publishers.”

“Oh, so you’re no better than the rest of us.” Fabian narrowed his eyes and waved the card about. “It could be fake and I don’t want to arrive there only to be turned away because someone though it would be a bit of a laugh.”

“Fabian, you’re a cynic.” Babs sighed.

“When I worked undercover in—”

“Oh, please spare us! I’m going. It’s about time I mixed with some real writers instead of a bunch of amateurs.” Miranda replied tartly.

Tabatha coughed. “Now then, there’s no need to be rude. We’ll all go. Transport has been arranged for us as well.

“I agree with Tabatha,” Babs said, “They look real to me. How many invitations are there?”

“Enough for us all.”

All eyes turned on to Agnes, who sat quietly knitting. The soft clicking of the needles was the only sound she made as she completed another row on the long-awaited new jumper. No one ever questioned why it was taking her so long to complete it.

Lawrence swung back around in his chair. “My God,” he whispered, lowering his voice further. “She’s not coming, is she? I mean, there will be some important people from the literary world at these awards.”

Tabatha lowered her head. “Why shouldn’t she come with us? Agnes comes to every meeting; She’s always on time and never cancels.” Sarcasm edged her voice as she glared Lawrence.

“Yes, but every card has our names on them, except one.Agnes isn’t included.” Lawrence pointed out.

“She doesn’t write, just sits bloody knitting,” Fabian snarled.

“Now, my old fellow, Tabatha is right. You know.” Lawrence smiled over to Agnes, who returned his grin. “She does make us drinks and excellent homemade cakes all year.”

Fabian tutted in disgust.

Miranda spoke softly. “Well, if anyone is interested, I think Dee should come with us as our guest.”

“But I’ve only just joined,” Dee said and smiled weakly at Agnes, who winked back at her.

“Yes, I absolutely agree with you, Miranda. Dee should come with us; it would help her with her writing.” Fabian said with a broad smile.

“Well, that’s a first—Fabian, you agreeing with me.” Lawrence remarked, and then continued, “The evening will be more beneficial to Dee than to Agnes. I expect she would only want to take her knitting with her.”

 

On the evening of the event, they climbed excitedly into the stretched limo in their fine evening clothes. As the limo glided through the evening streets, they all sipped the champagne on offer. Lawrence laughed. “This is just how I imagined my writing career to be: fine clothes, wine and—”

“Women!” Fabian finished with a laugh.

“I’m sad Agnes isn’t here too,” Babs said, “She would have loved the glamour of the evening.”

“How do you know that?” Tabatha asked.

“I don’t know. There’s always been something about our Agnes that I could never quite put my finger on.”

At their destination, The Dante Writers group found themselves seated at the front of the proceedings, surrounded by the literary greats. Once the diners finished their meals, the lights dimmed, while the stage lights brightened. The presenter approached to the podium and announced that the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase — known for her fifty-bestselling novels— would start the evening off by presenting the awards to the winners of each category.

The audience erupted in applause and began to stand as an elegantly woman with golden auburn hair, delicate make-up and dressed in a blue silk gown floated onto the stage and took her place on the podium.

“Thank you, everyone, for recognising my achievement. I would like to extend a big thank you to the many fans of my books and my heroine, Agnes Shepherd— the avid knitter and private investigator. I would also like express my gratitude to a special writing group, The Dante Writers. I’m so glad you could all make it this evening. You have all inspired me over the years.”

The Dante Writers’ group turned to each other as an usher laid a multi-coloured jumper before them.

“But, I don’t understand,” Miranda said, pointing at the jumper. “It can’t be— Isn’t that’s our Agnes’s -  the one she was knitting. 

“Oh no, she’ not here, is she?” Fabian said, finding his voice.

“Agatha Chase is my aunt,” Dee said, with a bright smile. “I guess you didn't know she was a published author?

“No! What, our Agnes is actually the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase!” the Dante Writers exclaimed in unison, finally agreeing for once.

“Oh yes, Dee said, “she explained to me that her success came from truly listening to others, and understanding her characters."

“So all the time she was coming to the group, she was listening to our conversations,” Tabatha said with a sigh.

About the author

 Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer who has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives with her husband, Russell, in a Garden Village in Essex. Just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

 

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Saturday Sample: Days Pass Like a Shadow by Paula R C Readman, builders' tea

 

The Meetings

 

As I sit on a park bench I trace the words engraved on the small metal plaque with my fingertips. By doing this simple act I recall the happiness I witnessed so long ago. 

Every day I come here to watch others enjoying the park. As I sit, I reflect on an unknown person who was once so strong and so full of life, all those years ago. Maybe the plaque could be a marker for my life too. As crazy as it may seem, I used to watch him and her, while I was busy working among the flowerbeds and borders.

Most mornings the young woman would arrive via the side road into the park.  Bohemian in her dress she walked briskly, her long, blonde hair streaming out behind her, like a veil of sunshine even on the dullest of days.  Her footfall on the gravel was so light it barely made a sound. If I happened to be busy either weeding, hoeing or planting I would miss her arrival.

Sometimes while I straightened my back I would catch sight of her waiting patiently at this bench. On seeing the unknown man’s arrival, her face would brighten and with a laugh she would rush to his open arms. The man, tall and elegant in his posture, dressed quite casually in chino trousers and a light jacket.  Some mornings he would arrive so early that the mist hadn’t time to clear to wait for her. He always came via the main entrance, with its large ornate gates of black and gold. A couple of hours later she would arrive with her beautiful smile. 

I never quite knew what time of day they would arrive. Sometimes if the weather was awful in the morning they came in the afternoon, but I never saw them arrive together.

At first, I wasn’t sure about their relationship, whether they were lovers, or not?  Not that it was any of my business.  I just saw them as two happy people enjoying each other’s company. 

Happiness is a rare thing these days. I considered myself lucky a silent witness to the pleasure they shared as I worked among the flowerbeds and borders. Not being a good judge of age I did think the man looked slightly older than the woman. The sun highlighted the passing of his years in the changing colour of his hair. However, in all honesty, I couldn’t begin to guess the woman’s age, as I hadn’t seen her close up, well, not at first.

I used to see them strolling, arm in arm around the park. The woman gazed into the man’s face as though she’d never tire of it. Occasionally, I would stumble across them standing close together down by the fountain, or up on the rise overlooking the town. 

He stood with his arm around her narrow waist, talking in his easy, gentle way while pointing out something of interest to her.  Like the multitude of colourful butterflies that fed restlessly on the globe buddleia bush. Sometimes, as if by magic, the man would produce a bag of bread. The young woman’s laughter carried on the air across to where I was working among the perennials. Together like children they would race along the path to the pond.  Her gentle, laughing voice was conveyed on the light summer breeze as she called back to him.

“I win again!”

At the pond, the swans were the first to know there was food on offer. They would haughtily swim over as the woman attempted to throw the bread to them, but the smaller, more agile, comical ducks would get in first.  Together the couple would laugh at the antics of the swans and ducks until all the bread had gone. 

Some days while I trundled about with my wheelbarrow I would come across them, sitting with their heads intimately close. They were especially fond of the bench under the spreading oak tree on a rise overlooking the town.

On one occasion while I dug out a flowerbed ready for the seasons planting I watched as the man produced a bag of nuts.  Within minutes as though by some sixth sense, from nowhere, squirrels appeared and came down from the branches above to feed on the nuts the woman held out.

The unexpected look of pure pleasure that crossed her face was a remarkable sight. It seemed to me the man brought a sort of enchantment into her life. I know he did mine, and I began to look forward to their visits, to share in the magic of their happiness. 

It makes me smile even now.  I remember sharing her birthdays and Christmas celebrations on this bench. The gentleman was like a magician conjured brightly coloured balloons and ribbons out of nowhere to decorate the bench before she arrived. 

As she came up the rise towards him, he produced a cake with lighted candles. Once she was seated, he’d arrange her flowing bohemian skirt around her sandaled feet and then set up his camera to take a photograph of them together while she blew out the candles.

 

The autumn seemed to arrive quite quickly that year. You could smell the changing of the seasons in the air.  I had only just unlocked the park gates when he appeared out of the early morning mist.

He walked much slower, unsteady on his feet and with the aid of a stick. He seemed embarrassed to see me and nodded his acknowledgement before making a slow progress up the slight rise to wait as he always did on their bench under the oak tree.  Shocked at the sudden change in his appearance I quickly turned my attention back to raking the first of the falling leaves. Their absence from the park went unnoticed by me, I’m sorry to say, with too many jobs needing my attention.

***

As the flowering season ended I began cutting back shrubs, digging out the annuals, dead heading the roses and splitting some of the large plants to make new ones. As I worked my way through the list of jobs my mind was already planning next season’s planting. The weeks flew by as I continued working my way around the park, tidying the edge of the pond and pulling out the invasive weeds. Soon I was clearing the flowerbeds, borders and urns ready to plant up with the winter flowering plants and bulbs.

Early one morning I woke to find the first snowfall of the season had fallen overnight.  After I had bought a pint of milk I hurried to the park as the snow began to fall again. As I turned the corner, on reaching the shelter of the park keeper’s hut, I found the young woman sitting huddled in her coat outside the hut door.  

On seeing me she rose. Tears stained her face. With a weak smile she greeted me like an old friend and held out a small, brightly wrapped parcel. Words tumbled from her lips in-between uncontrollable sobs. All I could understand was that she was trying to explain something.

“Please, come in and have a cup of tea. While you’re warm up you can explain.”

On unlocking the door the warmth of the hut hit us, adding colour to her cheeks and hands. I gestured for her to sit on an old park bench I had just finished repairing. While we waited for the kettle to boil she repeated what she had said outside.  As I passed her a mug of tea I noticed the fine lines around her eyes.

After taking a sip, she said, “I’ve been unable to face coming here, to our special place, since the funeral two months ago.” Tears bubbled up in her brown eyes as she picked up the parcel and handed it to me. 

On opening it I was unable to speak after reading what was written on the plaque in my hands.  I met her eyes and she smiled at the shock that must have registered on my face. 

“Yes,” she said with a rueful laugh. “He was my father. I was only able to search for him after my mother passed away.  On our first meeting my father promised me we would do all the things we had missed doing when I was a child.  So we flew kites, visited the zoo and built sandcastles on the beach, but mostly we enjoyed spending our time here in the park. I recalled coming here with him as a small child before my parents divorced and my mother took me away.  My father had remarried, but unfortunately, they were unable to have children. He kept me a secret from his new wife only wishing to protect her from any upset that might have arisen from our meetings.” She took another sip before continuing.

“Three months ago I received a call from Dad’s wife to say he’d been rushed into hospital. As his health was deteriorating fast he’d told her all about me. She phoned to ask me to keep her company at his bedside, wanting to share his last moments together. We’ve since become good friends and I spend my time visiting her now. I would like to have a reminder in the park of the wonderful times I’ve spent with my lost father and to remind other people of their fathers too. If it’s possible could we fit the plaque to the bench under the tree?”

I nodded picking up my screwdriver. Together we stepped out in the snow making our way to the rise. As the young woman held the plaque I fastened the last screw in place before she read the words aloud:

‘In memory of all the lost fathers everywhere: One day may your children come back into your lives so you can relive their childhood years together again.’

As I watched her leave by the main gates I recall the happy times I spent with my father playing on my sledge on sunny wintry days so long ago. As I made my way back to my hut I saw our footprints were the only ones in the freshly fallen snow and wondered whether I would see her again. 

 Find your copy of the book here 

About the author  

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her husband, Russell. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up.

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Dandelion Clock by Paula R C Readman, dandelion wine

 ‘You do know you can make three wishes with that?’ A deep, earthy voice pulled me from my thoughts as I sat on the stone step of a gothic folly in a beautiful garden. I looked up to see a tall, dark, handsome man smiling down at me. I frowned, not recognising him as one of the guests since he hadn’t followed Sally’s strict dress code; he wore jeans and a white shirt. The man pointed to the dandelion clock I had just picked, the only weed in a perfectly manicured garden. Like that dandelion, I felt out of place at the party.

The man repeated his question about making wishes. I stared at the dandelion clock unaware that I was rolling the delicate stem between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh, I thought it was for telling the time,’ I said, not interested in making wishes. After all everything I had hoped for had been taken from me.

‘Well, I would rather check my phone for the time,’ he replied, holding up his mobile. ‘I think they are more accurate than a dandelion clock.’ Uninvited, he sat down beside me. ‘Are you with the party at The Barns?’

‘Sort of,’ I said studying the delicate clock. So light, so fragile; a single puff could destroy it. I needed to escape the pitiful stares and whispers behind my back as I wandered among the party guests with a smile plastered on my face. I finally sought peace in the beautiful garden, full of perfume, birdsong, butterflies, and bees.

‘If you don’t mind me saying you don’t sound too sure.’

I met his stare. His brown eyes, the windows to his soul, were gentle and questioning, and I felt my anger begin to dissipate. I let my breath out slowly, unaware I had been holding it.

‘It’s my baby sister’s party— engagement party,’ I finally said the words aloud.

‘Aren’t you happy for her?’

‘Of course, I am.’ I forced a smile instead of voicing my true feelings. In reality, I was pleased that my ex-boyfriend had hit it off so well with my sister that my parents were glad he was still part of the family. Instead, I said, ‘It isn’t my scene— big crowds, lots of drinking, and a mountain of food. To be honest, I wish I could be anywhere else but here.’

‘Well, that’s your first wish,’ he said.

‘My first wish?’

‘Yes, you get three wishes if you blow on the dandelion clock carefully enough to clear its seed head— kind of like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake all at once.’

‘Are you a wish expert, Mr…? Sorry, what is your name?’

‘Gene Vincent. And yours?’

‘Gene Vincent?’ I repeated, frowning as the name sounded familiar.

‘Yes, my father enjoyed the singer’s music and, of course, the motorbike in his wild youth. And your name is?’

‘Philantha James.’

‘Oh, aren’t you the artist who paints wild flower pictures?’

‘Yes, I am. So, you know my work. Are you a friend of my sister or her fiancé?’ I didn’t recognise him as a friend of my ex.

‘Hmm, well, it’s a bit of a long story, with a few twists and turns along the way. For now, I’m helping out my parents who manage the gardens and the outbuildings on this estate. Both were architects and saw a way to transform the buildings into usable spaces for parties, conferences, and weddings. As they say, diversifying helps bring money into the estate, and having your work for sale in the gift shop helps. Your stunning paintings of the grounds and folly sell very well especially with wedding parties.' 

I laughed, knowing one couple who wouldn’t be buying my paintings. ‘Well, at least someone notices my art.’

‘Your work is beautiful and is one of our best sellers, as you must know.’

‘Thank you. Having a steady income has allowed me to move into the flat above my studio.’ I laughed inwardly at the thought a weed had allowed me to escape my sister’s condescending stares and offhanded remarks at home. 

‘So tell me the real reason why you’re not celebrating your sister’s engagement.’

‘I’m… happy for her and I wish her much happiness when they get married.’

‘That’s your second wish,’ Gene said.

I lowered the dandelion clock. ‘Why are you so interested in my wishes, Mr. Vincent?’

‘Because, Miss James, I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. Here you are, sitting in this beautiful garden on a warm summer day, holding the only weed in the whole garden.’

‘I’m not unhappy. Anyway, a weed is just a flower growing in the wrong place. Dandelions are loved by the bees and can make beautiful wine.’

‘True, but in this garden, they are considered weeds.’

‘That’s a negative thing to say, especially when most of these plants are regarded as weeds in other countries.’

‘My dear Miss James, I don’t want to get into a political discussion with you over a weed.’ Gene stretched his legs and leaned back, shielding his eyes against the sun.

I stood and walked away, wanting to be alone rather than with a silly man and his ridiculous theory on wishes.

‘Hey, where are you going?’ Gene called out. His footsteps echoed off the stone steps, telling me he was following me.

‘Back to the party to face my demons,’ I replied over my shoulder.

‘Wait,’ he said, catching me up.

‘Please, I wish—’

‘Shh, don’t say it, Miss James.’

‘Say what?’

‘Your last wish, because you might regret it.’ Gene took the dandelion’s clock from my hand and blew gently, sending the silvery seed-bearing parachutes off in one puff. ‘Now I can have my three wishes’ he said with a laugh. ‘My first wish is to get to know you better.’

‘Oh my goodness, I know who you are, Gene. You’re Sally’s mystery boyfriend.’

‘Yep.’ Gene took my hand and pulled me down to sit on the step beside him. I was just a holiday fling, so I wouldn’t say I was her boyfriend. She talked about you, saying you called yourself an artist, which intrigued me, so I Googled your work and fell in love with its delicate beauty. I showed it to my parents.’

‘Oh, of course, Francesca Vincent is your mother, and she commissioned me to paint a series depicting the folly and gardens. I often wondered how she discovered my work, but was always too frightened to ask.’

‘I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you, especially after I broke up with your sister. I wouldn’t say your sister and I dated, because it was over before it really began. Your sister was looking for high-maintenance lifestyle, which isn’t for me. When I told her my family ran a gift shop, she seemed to lose interest.’

‘Oh dear, you told a lie,’ I said, looking around at the splendid gardens, stunning barn conversions, and the gift shop.

‘Well, not exactly; I just didn’t elaborate,’ Gene said, pinching his thumb and finger together. ‘A tiny, wee bit, I suppose. For me, it’s about loving the person you are with and not their material possessions. I soon realised Sally wasn’t the girl for me.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. Simon wasn’t interested in the natural world; he was focused on being seen at the right nightclubs and looking buff for a camera. I’m much happier without him.’

‘I was hoping I could meet you in person when Mum told me who had booked The Barns this weekend. She’s a good judge of character, too.’

‘I’m so glad to know I meet your mum’s approval.’

‘You certainly do.’ Gene extended his arm to me. ‘Right, are you ready to enter the lion’s den with me, Miss James?’

I took Gene’s arm, feeling like a lady with her knight in shining armour. ‘It’s now or never, Sir Vincent,’ I said caught up in the magic.

‘My pleasure, Lady Philantha. Having you at my side is more than I could wish for.’

‘Then that means we both have a wish left,’ I replied as we walked away from the folly.’

‘You’re correct, but we might need those wishes later,’ he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. 

About the author

 

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer who has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives with her husband, Russell, in a Garden Village in Essex. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

A Bit of Preloved by Paula R C Readman, icy coffee

 Preloved! The word screamed at me from across the road as a banner fluttered above the window of a vintage clothing shop opposite to where I sat drinking coffee— the bitterness of the flat white only added to the sour taste in my mouth. I couldn’t believe the situation I was in after five wonderful years of marriage.

Preloved!

After five years of a loving relationship, I discovered I was married to a screaming banshee. A recent business trip had me away from home much longer than I expected, and it turned out to be far more difficult than I hoped as I searched for a good supplier to restock my shop. The moment I arrived home, an explosion of verbal abuse instead of a happy wife confronted me; it broke my heart, but no amount of sweet-talking could pacify Sabrina.

‘You are a liar and a cheat, Jethro! I’m tired of waiting at home while you fly off around the world. Oh, you say you have to travel for business reasons, but I’m not as dumb as you think I am. Well, enough is enough. I will wait no more. I want out.’

And, just like that, she left.

Preloved!

A marriage needs trust to survive. Hadn’t I video-called her every night to let her know how much I loved her while I sat eating fast food in the bedroom of the bed and breakfast accommodation?

The sun glinted off my wedding ring as I reached for my coffee cup— a reminder that, at least I had something worth selling. After knowing Sabrina for less than six months, I foolishly told my friends I was in love and I wanted to marry her. They said love is blind and quoted the adage: Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Blinded to the point of distraction by Sabrina’s beauty, I failed to see her faults and proved my friends were right.

The rings had cost a small fortune, along with the wedding. Our wedding day had been all about what Sabrina wanted, which should’ve been a red flag to me. Well, at least, the house had been what I wanted; I bought it before I met Sabrina. Still, she had walked away with it, along with the car and our savings— no, the savings that I had put aside to expand the business and to support our dreams. I tugged the ring off my finger and slipped it into my pocket.

A gush of wind raced down the alley, rattling the cables holding up the banner that read, ‘Fifty percent off all preloved clothes.’

‘If only the judge had awarded my now ex just fifty percent of everything, I wouldn’t have such a sour taste left in my mouth,’ I muttered into my coffee cup.

After leaving the courthouse alone, I hurried across the road seeking somewhere to sit and contemplate the worst morning of my life and to escape the gazes and bitter comments from my wife’s entourage.

Preloved!

The fluttering banner outside a vintage shop kept distracting me from my thoughts. Sighing, I wondered why I had wasted so much time and energy trying to keep Sabrina happy rather than focusing on what would make us both happy. Not once did she offer to find a job or help me build the business. For a woman who loved spending a fortune on clothes, with money she hadn’t earned— I was surprised when she showed no interest in my line of work.

Preloved!

Sabrina always said she wouldn’t be seen dead wearing someone else’s cast off and would only wear branded clothing. Lucky for me, she didn’t know how much my business turnover was, because in her eyes, it was as worthless as a charity shop to her. Having made a decision, I set my cold coffee down and stood. Now that I'm preloved, it's the perfect time to sell my vintage clothing business, and make a fresh start.

About the author 

 

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her husband, Russell. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Rift by Paula R C Readman, Craft beer: Old Speckled Hen, distinctive rich malty ale bursting with toffee character, fruity aroma and deliciously smooth.

‘Ethan, are you ready?’ Martin called me.

‘Yes, I won’t be a minute.’ I replied, stepping away from the bedroom window. The view of the park, an oasis of green amidst an ever-expanding city, caused me to reminisce on a chance meeting between our mums shortly after we were born that led to a friendship between Martin and me that’s lasted a lifetime.

As children, we explored every corner of the park. From the duck pond to the ice cream parlour, we raced our bikes along the paths. On the boating lake, we were pirates, while in the rose garden, knights with our wooden swords. As we grew older, Martin’s mum would drop him off before school and pick him up after finishing work. Sometimes, during the summer, my parents would invite them for tea. One day, I asked Mum, why Martin’s father never came with them.

 ‘It’s rude to ask such personal questions, Ethan,’ she replied. ‘People will share things with you, if they feel you have a right to know.’

It’s only now, after all these years that my question has finally been answered.

 

Martin’s mum and my parents passed away many years ago, along with our wives in recent years. Our children have emigrated for a better life so now; our friendship sustains us as Martin’s health declines. Most evenings and weekends, we would meet in the park to go to the theatre or for a meal out.

As children, Martin and I hated routine, but now we find it comforting. One morning as I reached the bench, where I always met Martin, a cosy spot under the spreading horse chestnut tree, with a view over the boating lake, I noticed a dark shape lay between the back of the bench, partially hidden by the laurel bush. I moved closer to get a better look. There appeared to be a bushy tail and paws.

 ‘A fox,’ I thought. The golden-red fur was dull and stained with dirt and blood. Had it crawled there to die after being hit crossing a busy road? I hoped the poor thing hadn’t suffered. Martin came from the opposite direction, and waved before pointing with his cane. I nodded, acknowledging that I had spotted the creature, too.

‘A dead fox?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ I peered over the back of the bench. To my surprise, a pair of sad, brown eyes met mine as the creature lifted its head and whimpered. ‘Oh, it’s a dog.’

‘Has it been hit by a car?’ Martin asked as he sat on the bench while I tried to coax the dog out.

‘It’s a corgi. Come on, you’re among friends.’  

‘A corgi,’ Martin repeated as though trying to remember something. ‘Apart from the old queen, who else do we know who owns one?’

I met Martin’s gaze as I gently stroked the dog’s head. He nudged my hand weakly as I reached for his shoulders and carefully edged him towards me until I could lift him into my arms.

 ‘Be careful; he might bite,’ Martin warned.

 ‘The poor thing is so thin; he hasn’t the energy to bite. We’ll take him back to mine,’ I said, hugging the corgi to me.

 

In the kitchen, Martin spread an old towel over the counter. The dog lay, breathing weakly, barely opening its eyes as I whispered soothing words while examining its legs and body, parting the fur to check for signs of injury.

 ‘No fractures or wounds, just undernourished. We need to get some fluids into him. Where’s Libby’s turkey baster? That’ll help us get the fluids into its mouth.’ I pulled out the cooking utensil drawer. 

‘I’ll look in the garage for a box to make him a bed,’ Martin said.

‘You’ll find a couple of old blankets, too,’ I said as Martin stepped into the garage.

After we managed to get some beef soup into the dog, and settled him in the box by the warm radiator. Martin asked, ‘Could I stay tonight, Ethan?’

‘Of course you can. We can take turns watching over our patient,’ I said, preparing us something to eat.

 ‘Shouldn’t we report finding the dog to the police, or at least someone?’

‘Let’s wait until the morning.’ I opened the oven door to check on the pies.’

‘The owner must be local. My mum and I often encountered a woman in the park who had corgis when I was young. Mum must have known her through working at the bank. The lady was always polite to me, asking about school, but she was always offhandish with Mum. Mum told me I must never be rude to her because her husband and son died in a car accident, leaving her all alone. She lived in the big house by the river, the one with the high fences.

‘Oh, I know the house you mean. The Lovejoys owned the jewellers in town.’ I said, placing the plates on the table.

‘Oh, Lovejoy… My Sally often encountered Mrs. Lovejoy walking her dog in the park and called her, Lady Penelope because she wore a hairband in her short blond hair and her corgi wore a diamante collar. Are you saying the lady, with the corgis, I met as a child is the same woman, Sally spoke about?’

‘I’ve no idea, Martin. All I know is the Lovejoy family owned the large Victorian house, with its gargoyles.’ I looked towards the sleeping dog. ‘It’s a pity this corgi doesn’t have a collar.’ I leant down to check him. His breathing seemed stronger as his legs twitched. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I said maybe someone removed the collar, because they thought the diamonds were real.’

‘That’s a possibility. Would you like a beer to accompany your dinner?’ I opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of Speckled Hen. Martin nodded, and I set a bottle and glass in front of him.

After taking a sip and setting his glass down, he said, ‘I could get used to this quickly. I expect you miss your Libby just as much as I miss Sally.’

‘Yeah, coming home to an untidy house and a cold kitchen makes you wonder whether you told them enough about how much you appreciate the time they took to keep everything homely.’

‘My mum ensured I knew all the shortcuts to tidying the home. Sally reckoned I could manage without her, but I miss her company the most.’

‘Yes, talking to yourself, isn’t fun. I thought about getting a rescue dog, or cat that needs a loving home,’ I said, between mouthfuls of food.

‘This pie is lovely. Full of rich gravy.’

‘I made them following the recipe Sally gave Libby,’ I laughed.

‘That’s why it tastes great. So what’s the plan for tomorrow?’

 

The night passed peacefully, with Martin taking the first shift. The little dog curled up on his back, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. I relieved Martin at three o’clock, and told him to get some rest. He nodded and went to the guest room. I stayed awake until dawn thinking about Mrs Lovejoy and her corgis.

Was the sleeping dog one of hers?

At eight o’clock, I decided to make a full English breakfast for us— an energy boost for the day ahead. With sausages grilling, I began to fry some eggs. Suddenly, something nudged my leg. When I looked down, I saw a bright, foxy face with brown eyes sparkling with life as a fluffy tail brushed the floor excitedly.

‘Hey, buddy. You look much better today,’ I said, scratching his head. He barked happily.

‘Shh, don’t wake Martin,’ I whispered. The dog lay down on the floor, tilting his head to one side.

The kitchen door opened and Martin walked in, wearing my dad’s old robe. ‘It wasn’t the corgi that woke me, but the delicious smell of a cooked breakfast.'

The corgi ran over to Martin, who rubbed his head, and then rushed back to me, sitting up to beg.

‘Yes, there are some sausages for you, too,’ I laughed.

 

After tidying the kitchen, I poured us fresh coffee and asked. ‘Do you think we should go to the Lovejoy house to see if our friend came from there?’

 ‘Definitely, but we need a lead and collar.’

 ‘Just give me a moment. I’ll phone my neighbour; she might have a spare one.’ When I returned from next door, I found Martin feeding slices of ham to the corgi.

 ‘What are you doing?’

 ‘Rhys is still hungry.’

 ‘Rhys?’

 ‘Yes, we can’t keep calling him Dog.’

 ‘Okay, it’s a good Welsh name. You get dressed while I put the harness on Rhys.’

 

Rhys seemed to know where he was going as we walked through the park. He trotted ahead quite happily. After leaving the park, we walked along the main road before turning onto an avenue lined with mature trees. Large, imposing Victorian properties had neat front gardens and parking for cars, but one stood out from the rest. Though it was the grandest, it was also the most unkempt. Two police cars stood on the weed-filled driveway. As we approached the front door, Rhys pulled hard on his lead.

 ‘He definitely lives here,’ Martin said.

 Before we had time to knock, the door opened, and a police officer asked sharply, ‘Can I help you?’

 ‘We came to see Mrs. Lovejoy,’ Martin replied, struggling to stop Rhys from wrapping his lead around the police officer’s legs.

 ‘I’m sorry, but Mrs. Lovejoy isn’t available. May I ask what you wanted to see her about?’

 ‘We think this is her dog. We found him in the park yesterday morning,’ I explained.

 ‘Just a moment.’ The officer closed the door and disappeared into the house. A few minutes later, a woman accompanied him.

 ‘Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Julie Roth. So you think you’ve found Mrs. Lovejoy’s dog.’

 ‘Yes, the dog was hiding under the bench, near the boating lake, but we’re not sure he is her dog. There’s no collar, you see. Has something happened to Mrs. Lovejoy?

 ‘How well did you know her?’

 ‘Not at all. I only knew her family owned the jewellers in town and she’s the only person locally we knew who owned corgis.’

 ‘My wife, Sally used to see her walking her dog in the park,’ Martin added.

 ‘Did the dog have a collar when you found it?’ the detective asked.

 ‘No. So you don’t think the dog belongs to her?’

 ‘Let’s have your details, if you’ll give them to my officer here. Would it be possible for you to look after the dog overnight again? He’ll be happier with you, than at a rescue centre. Tomorrow morning, I would like to come and see you both,’ she said, her serious tone leaving us uneasy.

 

On our way home, after picking up some tins of dog food, Rhys twisted free from his harness and darted for the shrubbery near where we found him.

‘Great, just what we need— a runaway dog, when the police are coming to see us tomorrow,’ Martin grumbled.

‘Don’t worry,’ I called over my shoulder as I pushed between two laurel bushes. At the centre of a shrubbery, I found Rhys digging. ‘Hey, boy, what are you up to?’

Rhys laid flat, his paws either side of a jewel-covered collar.

‘What do you have there, boy?’

‘Well, I never! It looks like he hid his collar. But why?’ Martin said holding back a laurel branch

 ‘Let’s go back to mine, and phone the police,’ I said.

 

Back home, I informed DI Roth what Rhys had dug up in the park, while Martin was busy examining it. Suddenly, he gasped and held up the collar.

‘These aren’t real diamonds on this collar.’

‘I didn’t think they were; just diamante.’

‘No, but these are real,’ Martin held up a tiny glass vial he found sewn into the lining of the collar. Stones of various sizes sparkled in the light.

‘DI Roth, we’ve just uncovered some raw diamonds hidden within the collar.’

‘Did you say diamonds?’

‘Yes!’

‘I’m on my way.’

I turned to Martin. ‘I don’t like this. How did the diamonds get into the collar?’

‘The question should be: why did Mrs Lovejoy hide them in the first place?’

 

The doorbell rang just as I finished preparing a bite to eat for us. Martin, followed closely by Rhys, headed to the front door while I covered the sandwiches, and popped them in the fridge. When I entered the living room, I found Martin chatting to DI Roth and a tall man in a well-cut suit.

‘Ethan, please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Iris Lovejoy’s solicitor, Mr. Robert Fiske. He’s here to speak with us about Rhys, whose real name is Bertie Lovejoy, ‘Martin said.

‘Bertie…’ I laughed as the little dog sat up and extended a paw. I gestured to the others to sit down. Mr. Fiske placed his briefcase on his knees and opened it.

‘What has this to do with the diamonds, DI Roth?’ I asked.

‘Please allow Mr. Fiske to explain, Mr. Quinn and Mr. Waters,’ Roth said.

Mr. Fiske pulled out a folder. ‘I’m delighted to meet you both, although it is under sad circumstances. Mr. Waters, two nights ago, Mrs. Lovejoy’s home was broken into. While she managed to raise the alarm, by the time the police arrived, she had suffered a stroke. In the chaos with the arrival of the ambulance, her companion Bertie escaped. Naturally, the focus was on Mrs. Lovejoy, rather than her dog.’ Mr. Fiske selected another sheet of paper and spoke directly to Martin. ‘Mrs. Lovejoy left strict instruction that should anything unforeseen happen to her I was to trace her grandson, Martin Waters and give him this letter.’

‘My grandmother! I don’t understand. Why wasn’t I aware of this?’

‘Everything will be explained in the letter,’ Mr. Fiske continued. ‘Mrs Lovejoy wanted to make sure should anything happen to her that her little companion, Bertie Lovejoy would have a loving home. Are you two gentlemen in the position to take on Bertie?’

 ‘Yes,’ We both replied without hesitation.

‘Right, if you would be kind enough to sign this paper.’

I turned to DI Roth.

‘It’s all above board, I can assure you, Mr. Quinn,’ she said with a smile.

Martin and I signed the paper.

‘Now, if I can have the tube of diamonds please.’ Mr. Fiske held out his hand. Once it disappeared into the briefcase, he continued, ‘Mrs. Lovejoy wished for the estate be sold, upon her death, which includes the diamonds which are Bertie’s inheritance. Most of the capital will go to animal charities. The good news is Mrs Lovejoy would’ve approved of you both taking care of her Bertie and her will covers all his financial needs.

I found my voice and asked, ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying?’

Mr. Fiske nodded. ‘Bertie is a wealthy dog.’

Bertie wagged his tail excitedly, seeming to understand the situation.

 

As Martin and I watched Mr. Fiske and DI Roth leave, Martin said, ‘Maybe I should move in with you and Bertie.’

‘Funny enough, I had the same thought. Let’s have a drink and talk about it.’

‘First, let’s see what my grandmother has to say.’ Martin’s face darkened as he tore open the envelope.

‘I’ll fix us both a drink. Oh, just a thought, Martin: if Mrs Lovejoy was your grandmother and her son was your father, does that make Bertie your uncle?’

 ‘I suppose it does,’ Martin said with a laugh. ‘I wish Mum had told me.’

‘Maybe she did in a way. She told you the lady in the park had a husband and son who died in a car accident.’

‘Of course, Mrs. Lovejoy was the lady in the park. That explains why she gave my mum the cold shoulder,’ Martin said as he unfolded the letter.

‘I’m sure the letter will explain everything. I’ll sort out dinner. Come here, Rhys—sorry, Bertie. Let’s get you your dinner while Martin concentrates on reading the letter.’

 

After our meal, Martin read parts of the letter aloud. ‘It’s unbelievable! Mrs. Lovejoy has left me my father’s inheritance. Tomorrow, I must go and see Mr. Fiske about what will happen next.’

‘Martin, that’s wonderful news. Maybe with the inheritance, you could move to Canada to be with your daughter.’

‘It’s a lot to think about, Ethan.’

‘At least, it’s good to know Mrs. Lovejoy was sorry for the way she treated your mother.’

‘Mum was right, she was a sad, lonely woman overwhelmed by grief at the loss of her loved ones. Maybe, if Mum and Dad had married before he died she might have felt differently about us,’ Martin said with a sigh. ‘I would’ve loved to know more about my father.’

‘Things were different in her generation. Anyway, we can do some research at the library. Maybe the solicitor will tell you more. Do you still want to move in with me?’

‘Yes, it would be far easier for us both to look after Rhys…I mean, Bertie. I’ll have to get used to his real name. I could buy a share in your house after the sale of mine; I can divide the money between your son and my daughter. What do you think?’

‘That’s a great idea!’

‘Thank you. I really wouldn’t want to move to Canada, Ethan. I can’t leave Bertie or you. With my health the way it is, I don’t suppose Canada would want me. We can have trips out together for the rest of our days.’ Martin said raising his glass.

‘Yes, we’ll make Bertie’s life a fun one.’ I raised mine, too. ‘We can finally relax and enjoy our golden years without any worries. Bertie will keep us busy and healthy.’

We laughed as Bertie barked his agreement.  

About the author 

 

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer. She shares her life with her husband, Russell, and two cats. She collaborates with three publishers and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Saturday Sample: The Best of CafeLit 13, Cupid's Black Magic by Paula R C Readman,sweet white wine

 

This year contributors were asked to select stories they enjoyed the most. For each story they had published, they could select one. This produced quite a long list.

It is a bumper volume but it is within range, coming in at about 61,000 words; 70,000 is probably the limit. It’s pleasing that all of these stories had several votes.

It was interesting putting it together; I didn’t recognise all of the titles and so it was very rewarding to reread some of the stories.

There is real mixture of authors here: ones we’ve published several times and know really well, others we are just getting to know and some who are published with us for the very first time.

We’ve arranged it in months again, so you may like to read it that way. Some of the stories are very seasonal, some less so.

It is a real privilege to edit the e-zine as well; it’s usually my first task after lunch to look through the submissions of the last forty-eight hours and pick the most appropriate story. Only very occasionally do we have to dip into the archive. Sadly we do sometimes have to decline some very good stories. Yet we ask their authors to resubmit and to submit other material.

Enjoy our selection and the recommended beverages.       

 

January

Cupid’s Black Magic

Paula R C Readman 

Sweet white wine 

‘Oh, please Mandy, come with us. You’ll have a good time.’ Jan, dressed in her Friday night finery, begged from the doorway. I sat on the sun-lounger, outside the French windows, book in hand. Once Jan’s best friends, the twins, Anvi and Diya had arrived, they would head into town for the evening.

I shook my head. Clubbing wasn’t my thing. Ever since I moved into the flat to share with Jan, she’s tried to fix me up with a date. At first, out of politeness, I had joined them.

‘It’s a great way of making new friends by meeting mine,’ Jan had said. Until I noticed, most of the people she introduced me to were single men she hardly knew. The doorbell rang, heralding my escape. After greeting Jan, Anvi and Diya popped their identical brown heads around the door and said in unison. ‘Are you coming with us, Mandy?’

‘Not tonight, I’m busy.’ And held up my book.

‘Girls, I’ve already tried to persuade her.’ Jan said. ‘Mandy, you’ve got to forget all about him, and live a little dangerously.’

 The twins giggled and said, ‘You’ve read enough books to build your own library.’

‘We’ve offered her the chance for a night out and she’s made her decision,’ Jan said from the hallway. ‘We’re off now, Mandy.’

‘Have fun,’ I called back.

‘We will,’ they said closing the front door behind them.

   

 After moving into the area to start a new job, and a new beginning, I came across Jan’s advertisement on the net. I wasn’t sure what to expect, having never shared accommodation before, but wanted something more homely than the B&B where I lived. Jan’s flat was in a perfect location and was within easy reach of the florist where I worked. 

On a bitterly cold morning, I found myself standing before an impressive Victorian house that overlooked a park. As I took in the ornate ceiling in the grand entrance, wondering, which one of three flat conversions, I would be living in, I was struck from behind and my bag went flying.

‘Oh, please forgive me,’ said a breathless fair-haired woman as she scrambled to pick up the contents of my shopping bag. Too early for my appointment, I had wasted a bit of time in the nearby bookshop.

With a bright smile the young woman said, ‘You wouldn’t be Mandy Kent, by any chance?’ she asked while slipping the romantic novels back into the bag and handed it to me. ‘I’m Jan Meadows.’

I nodded.

‘Oh dear, not a great start to our relationship, but at least you can tell people I swept you off your feet.’ She opened the door to her flat. ‘Please come in, if you trust me.’

Jan soon made me feel as though we’d known each other for years with her guided tour of the spacious flat. Within the week, I had moved in, and by the end of the month, it had become my home.

The sitting room French windows led out onto a communal garden. Jan used the low wall outside the patio doors to screen off a small area with trellising. This allowed us to have a certain amount of privacy when we had the doors open.

Once the evenings became warm enough, I curled up on the sun-lounger on the patio, with the latest romantic novel, a spotlight over my shoulder and a glass of white wine in one hand. With a myriad of twinkling stars overhead, I was in heaven as I turned to the first page. Now I could abandon myself into the strong arms of the handsome hero of my choice, rather than find a new boyfriend, especially after the grief, I suffered with the last one. 

For two years, my life was full of Gerard’s inconsistencies. Some evenings, if I were lucky, he would arrive on my doorstep either, very late, normally after I’d cancelled restaurant bookings or dinner dates with friends. Sometimes, he would arrive on time, but suddenly needed to be elsewhere, and had to go. On receiving a last minute call from Gerard, ‘Mandy, I promise this is the last time.’

 ‘No, Gerard, this is the final time,’ I said cutting the call, fed up at being left all dressed up with nowhere to go. That’s when I found romantic novels’ heroes were more reliable. There’s no chance of them letting me down. 

Lying in a haze of sweet summer jasmine, I turned the pages in quick succession, following the hero. Knight Theodore battled with the power of darkness to rescue his beautiful Abbelina from the wicked wizard’s tower of doom. Theodore climbed the crumbling stairs, swinging his sword as he cut his way through the army of night creatures. Before the heavy, locked, oak door, he lifted his sword high and sliced through it as though it was made of paper, and swept the love of his life up in his powerful arms, and kissed her.

‘Oh, my sweet love, my darling Abbelina, at last we are together,’ he murmured into her ear.

‘Oh, my darling sweet... Arrh!’ she cried.

Theodore swung round, his sword drawn, pulling his love close behind him.

In horror, I threw my book aside as something black and hairy dropped into my lap. A pair of bright, green eyes blinked up at me, before letting out a pitiful cry.

‘Hello, where did you come from?’ I asked, looking up into the starry night sky. The kitten clawed gently at my legs, turning around twice, and then settling down and promptly falling asleep. The sound of purring was quite soothing as I read on.

Suddenly, I woke with a jolt, the sound of the front door closing and Jan’s footfall coming into the sitting room.

‘Hello, you still up?’

 ‘I nodded off.’ My little companion was gone. I moved the lamp back into my bedroom, before gathering up my novel and the empty wine glass. ‘Would you like a hot chocolate?’ I called to Jan from the kitchen. 

 ‘Yes, please.’

While I added the chocolate powder to our cups, and waited for the kettle to boil. Jan, seated at the table, reached for my book and read the page I had reached.

‘Honestly, life isn’t like a romantic novel to meet the right guy, you need to go out rather than burying your head in this rubbish.’

 ‘It’s escapism.’ I took the novel from her and replaced it with a mug. ‘Anyway, did you have a good time?’ I sat opposite her. 

‘We had a wonderful time. We’re all meeting up for coffee tomorrow. You should come along, too.’

‘It’s very sweet of you, Jan, but I’m not in a hurry to find love.’ I took a sip of my hot chocolate, hoping that she would leave it at that.

Jan gestured to the book. ‘Why lock yourself away in a tower, waiting for a prince to rescue you. Climb upon a white charger for yourself, that’s the way to true love these days.’

I took another sip of my drink, while trying to come up with some excuse, which wouldn’t hurt her feelings. Jan and I are so very different. Where I enjoy being on my own, relaxing and reading into the night, Jan was the opposite, enjoying mixing and dancing the night away. So playing safe, I opted for changing the subject. ‘Do you know anyone who owns a black kitten?’

‘A black kitten?’ She frowned tiredness clouded her mind. ‘No, why?’

‘Well, one dropped onto my lap, while I reading on the patio.’

‘You need to get out more, Mandy.’ Jan glanced towards the sink, where an empty wine bottle stood. The one, I had left for recycling. She turned a questioning look on me. ‘Tomorrow, why don’t you come out for coffee, with us?’

 I laughed. ‘You know, full well there was only enough wine in that bottle for one glass. So can you think of anyone?’

 ‘Anyone, who’d make a hot date for you.’ She gave a light laugh and took a sip of her drink.

‘No, silly, who owns a black kitten?’

 Jan shook her head and set her mug down. “No idea.

‘Who lives above us?’

‘Lucy Wibberley does, but she’s away at the moment. Then there’s the Byfords. Mr Byford suffers from asthma so no pets there.’

‘Oh well, I expect it's found its way home by now.’

 Jan crossed to the sink. ‘Hmm, I need my bed, if I’m to look my best for the morning. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us tomorrow?’

‘I’m sure. Thanks for asking. I’m going to the library to find out about evening classes.’

‘Evening classes? What for? You’ll meet someone far more exciting with us, than you will at the college.’ Jan rinsed her mug under the hot water before setting it upside down on the drainer.

‘Jan, I’m not looking for love.’

‘Goodnight, sweet dreams,’ she said, with a wink, before disappearing into her bedroom.

I washed my cup and set it next to hers. It would be nice to meet someone special who enjoyed reading, and the quieter side of life, rather than clubbing, but maybe I’m too much of a dreamer, I picked up my book, and headed off to bed.  

  

The morning sunlight poured through the window as I threw the curtains back. My room was slightly smaller than Jan’s, overlooking the garden. From my window, a path led down to a garage block, half hidden by a collection of shrubs. Brightly coloured bedding plants edged the lawn, while pots of fuchsias and geraniums stood along the low wall surrounding the patio. As I took in the view, I saw something curled up on the sun-lounger. I grabbed my dressing gown and hurried outside. 

‘Hello you.’ The kitten yawned lazily before stretching and turning over. ‘You poor thing, you haven’t been out here all night?’ I stroked its tummy. ‘Are you hungry?’ I carried it indoors.

‘Not really, Mandy, but it’s always best to have breakfast.’ Jan rubbed the sleep from her eyes as we entered the kitchen. ‘Oh my, he’s so cute! Where did you find him?’

‘On the sun-lounger. He’s the little devil who dropped in on me, but how do you know, it’s a he?’

‘I don’t, but to be that gorgeous, it must be a male.’ She laughed, took a tin of tuna from the cupboard, and a small dish.

‘I wonder where he came from.’ I set him down. He wandered unsteadily over to the dish, sniffed it, and then tucked in.

 ‘I’ve got a basket he can sleep in until we find out who owns it,’ Jan said kneeling before the kitten, stroking its head as it chomped on another chunk of tuna.

When the twins arrived, they cooed over the kitten, while waiting for Jan. Just before leaving, Jan said, ‘We’re all meeting up at the coffee house at midday; why not join us.’

‘Not today, I’m kitten sitting.’ I set Black Magic, the name I had given him, on the floor and he ran after them. I raced after him and grabbed him just as they were closing the front door.

‘Well, Black Magic I need to get dressed.  Now you behave yourself.’

Moments later, I noticed the French windows hadn’t been closed properly. ‘Oh, Black Magic, I’ll never find you now.’ I checked the sun-lounger, just in case, but he was gone. With a heavy-heart, and no kitten to worry about, I set to work cleaning the flat. Jan and I were both tidy people, so soon the flat was clean, and the washing done and ready to hang out.

The rotary dryer was in a breezy spot near the garage block. As I began to peg the last item of washing on the line, I heard a faint mewling. ‘Black Magic, where are you!’ I couldn’t see where the cries were coming from so I hunted in among the shrubs. ‘Come on, show yourself!’ I pushed my way between two laurel bushes and found myself up against the back wall. The meowing seemed to be above me.

‘How did you get up there, you silly thing?’ Black Magic peered at me from the garage roof. ‘Come on, jump.’ He nervously leaned forward as though he was about to, but then gave a pathetic cry and moved back from view.

‘I should leave you there.’ I snapped in frustration as I began to hunt for a way to reach him. The shrubs attacked me, pulling at my clothes and hair, while his pitiful mewling floated down. ‘You should’ve thought about how you would get down before going up there,’ I called while struggling to free myself from another branch. The wall from the neighbour’s house met up with the wall from the garage. Between the two stood a large tree stump that almost reached to the garage roof. I held on to it and a drainpipe to pull myself half onto the roof. Now I could see Black Magic sitting in the centre whimpering at me.

‘What I don’t understand,’ I said, as though talking to one of my customers at the shop. ‘Why couldn’t you jump into my arms today? Yesterday evening you were quite capable of throwing yourself at me!’ I raise my foot higher, hoping to find a better foothold. As I struggled to shift my weight a forceful voice from below said, ‘What on earth are you trying to do?’

On turning my head to see who had spoken, my foot slipped and I lost my grip and fell backwards. Then unexpected strong arms encircled me and the most delicious smelling aftershave filled my nostrils. I lay still, feeling safe and not wanting to open my eyes, in case I was dreaming.

‘My God, Mandy, are you all right?’

For a moment, I wasn’t sure. Had I been dreaming? On hearing Jan’s voice, I was sure I was going to wake up on the sun-lounger with a book over my face. She continued, ‘Oh, hi Charles, when did you get back?’

‘A couple of weeks ago,’ a deep, silky voice said.

‘Oh, Lucy never said anything about you coming to stay again, before she left.’

“A last minute favour.”

‘Charles?’ I said opening my eyes slowly to find two golden, amber pools staring down into mine. I sighed. I was in heaven.

‘May I ask what you were trying to do up there?’

‘Rescuing the kitten,’ I muttered, feeling a little silly.

A small, black face, with bright green eyes and tiny pink tongue, meowed at us.

‘Oh Jack, what have you got yourself into this time. Come on down.’ Without a moment’s hesitation, Black Magic aka Jack jumped straight into my lap. ‘You'd better hold on tight.’

Not knowing whether Charles was addressing Black Magic or me, I held on to his neck as he carried us over to the sun-lounger. After carefully setting us down, Charles sat on the low wall. ‘I’ve been wondering how I would break it to Lucy that her kitten was missing after she'd entrusted him to me.’

‘I didn’t know Lucy had a kitten. Black Magic is adorable.’ Jan winked at me. 

‘Black Magic!’

‘Well, that’s what Mandy named him after he dropped in on her last night.’

‘It’s a great name! After the vanishing act, he pulled; it is a far more suitable name than Jack. Lucy, my sister, named him after her latest beau. Jack gave the kitten to her just before they left on holiday. That’s how I became its sitter.’ Charles held out his hand to me and said, ‘I hope Black Magic didn’t give you too much of a fright.’

My hand trembled as I took his. ‘No, not really. I was just reading.’ I tried to keep my voice steady, but his wavy dark brown hair, wonderful smile, and rugged looks sent my heart racing. 

‘Would you like a glass of wine to steady your nerves, Mandy?’ Jan asked her voice edged with laughter.

 ‘Err no, I don’t like drinking alone,’ I mumbled, without taking my eyes off Charles.

‘I wouldn’t say no to a glass myself,’ he said with a smile,

Jan nodded and disappeared through the French windows.

         Charles rubbed the top of Black Magic’s tiny head with his forefinger allowing me the opportunity to check to see if he was wearing a ring. As if right on cue Black Magic stood up, stretched, and then settled back down again half on Charles’ leg and half on my lap.  

        ‘Look, if you’re not doing anything tonight, would you care to join me for dinner? I mean, I cannot take you out as Black Magic might do a vanishing act again, but I can cook us a meal while you keep an eye on him.’

‘I would be delighted to join you both.’

‘That’s great!’ Charles slid the kitten into my lap. ‘You don’t mind keeping an eye on sleeping beauty while I do a bit of shopping for this evening, do you?’

‘Of course not. He won’t be any trouble this time.’

‘I’ll see you at seven then,’ he said. 

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I smiled, as my heart lifted. ‘Bye.’

Jan reappeared with a tray, a bottle and only two glasses. ‘That went well, I thought.’ she watched Charles walking along the path to the back gate.

 ‘You didn’t by any chance set me up?’ I asked, as she poured a glass of wine,

‘Call it divine intervention.’

‘Less stupid kitten, more Cupid’s kitten,’ I said kissing Black Magic’s purring head. ‘Could you watch him, while I have a quick shower?’

Jan raised her glass to me and winked. ‘Of course. Don’t forget to take this with you,’ she said tossing the romantic novel at me.

‘No, you can keep it.’ I laughed. ‘I’ve finished with it now.’

About the author

Paula R C Readman loves being creative, whether that’s with words or with paint. So far, she has five books and over a hundred short stories published. This year she hopes to enter more writing competitions. To find out more about Paula and her writing visit: https://paularcreadmanauthor.blog 

Find a copy of the book here.