Reason and Romance (eBook)
284 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-2773-5 (ISBN)
A serious author, George Austen believes romance is a worthless genre, until he's challenged to write one of his own by a rival author. "e;Reason and Romance"e; follows George along his way as he faces the questions of what love means and the people it's meant to be shared with. Enjoy wit, humor, and discover the true meaning of romance. Join George as he is challenged with the question, "e;Is romance more than just a genre?"e; "e;Reason and Romance"e; is for anyone looking for a romance novel that transcends the stereotypical title. George's pursuit to outdo his rival brings a refreshing take to the very genre George thinks is worthless. This contemporary tale finds a way to weave love, determination, and wittiness into one great package, promising you an experience that will feel new and special.
Chapter 2
When the ceremony ends, the real occasion begins. At the reception, George took his place with the rest of the wedding party. His eyes darted around the room, looking over faces both familiar and new. Anthony and Katherine were glowing, their expressions beaming their joy and happiness. It wouldn’t last, George reflected. Emotions never did. Somehow, people thought themselves the exceptions to the natural law of entropy. Everything ends, and feelings manage to do it quicker than most. Books, on the other hand—they endured longer than even the most ardent feelings anyone could ever possess.
Among the members of the audience he recognized were Samantha and the Newcastle party. Margaret Clarke had joined them, apparently. If Katherine and Helen knew each other from college, it stood to reason she knew Margaret also. Where was his mother? Gazing around the room, he found her seated next to a young woman near his own age, talking with a broad smile. She caught his gaze and waved him over. He shook his head. She waved again; he shook his head again. Finally, she and the young woman came to him. Not the result he had intended.
“George,” Mrs. Austen said, “this is Kelly Masters, a friend of Katherine’s from college.”
“Hello,” George said, restraining the mortification growing inside.
“Hello,” Kelly replied with a laugh.
“She’s a big fan of your books,” Mrs. Austen explained. “I said you were always happy to talk with your fans, especially the cute ones.”
George smiled and tried not to commit matricide with his glare. “I’m happy to talk with any fan,” he corrected, then turned back to Kelly. “Which book did you enjoy most?”
“I think it was the one with the tower,” she decided.
“Ah, yes, Born in Babylon. One of my earlier books. What about it attracted you?”
Kelly pondered. “I think it was the female protagonist.”
Born in Babylon didn’t have a female protagonist. George needed an escape, as this conversation was not going anywhere he wanted to follow. “Watch this,” he said, lifting his champagne glass and tapping it with his dinner knife. The sound echoed throughout the room as more people joined in, forcing the newly married couple to kiss. After the cheers had finished, George rose and excused himself to Kelly, saying, “Always great to meet a fan. Be sure to be on the lookout for my next book, to be published soon.” Retreating to the bar, he ordered a gin and tonic and toasted his masterful handling of the situation. She might even buy his next book, even if she never read it.
George’s relief was short lived. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his mother approaching again with another “fan.” This time she didn’t even try to warn him in advance. Ignoring her, he dropped a fiver on the bar and walked into the obscurity of the crowd.
Safety was discovered in a small chapel off the lobby to the reception hall. Deciding an unlocked door was permission enough, George let himself in. It was not a large room, but perfectly adequate for his needs at the moment. Drink in hand, he relaxed on a padded pew near the small lectern at the front of the room. The stained glass window behind it depicted familiar imagery: the cross and an empty tomb. “Original,” George muttered, taking another swig of the gin and tonic. Removing the notebook from his breast pocket, he scratched out a note about stained glass. It could be a powerful image to use in his next book, providing it captured something poignant and possessing.
Hearing the chapel door creak open, George stiffened. He hadn’t anticipated either being found this quickly or his mother being so aggressive. Surely he could be permitted a fraction of peace and quiet. He didn’t move a muscle; like a child caught in the cookie jar, he hoped an absence of movement would prevent his detection. The door widened and a woman in a pale yellow dress crept inside, a look of relief on her fine features.
“I can leave,” George said, rising from his seat, “even if I was here first.”
Margaret Clarke jumped. “What are you doing here?”
“Hiding. The better question is, what are you doing here?”
She crossed her arms. “Just because I’m nicer than you doesn’t mean I don’t get tired of being around people too,” she said, but added, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” She flopped, delicately, on the pew opposite George.
Resuming his seat, George took another sip and sighed.
They sat in silence. He didn’t have anything he could immediately think to say, and the quiet was nice. He didn’t expect it to last long, but it did. Maybe she was expecting an apology, but he had already given the closest thing to one she’d hear at the dinner party the other night. She seemed to be content taking her time. When her eyes drifted his direction, he realized she was reading him again, just like she had the other night.
“A picture would last longer,” he said with a smirk.
This seemed to draw her out from whatever evaluation she was making. A laugh dropped a second after she had time to think of it. “Good to be the one saying that for a change?” She teased.
“If you think I ever waste my time leering, you are a worse judge of character than I thought,” he said, a cold note chilling the sentence.
“If you take that remark personally, you’re softer than I thought,” she countered with a half smile. “Did you get tired of your mother herding women your direction?” she asked with a chuckle.
“She’s not the most subtle woman in the world,” George agreed, rubbing his temples.
“But that wouldn’t matter, you believe you’d notice even if she was,” Margaret observed.
“Reading me again, Ms. Clarke?”
“Speculating, for the most part,” she admitted. “You don’t need to read people to know if someone believes themselves to be smarter than everyone else, they tend to exhibit it openly.”
“And some people do it nicer than others?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “You usually don’t. In fact, Helen was telling me you believe yourself to be the smartest man in the room, and to make matters worse, you usually are.”
“I’m shocked she was capable of complimenting me so directly.”
“She’s as committed to realism as you are. Said something about how it is better to deal with an unpleasant truth than a comfortable lie.”
George took another drink. “She borrowed that from one of my books.”
“You borrowed it from a book too,” Margaret observed. “Nothing anyone really writes is original. It’s just a retooling of another story from another story. As a matter of fact, there were a few very handsome young men out there with some wild stories about the famous author they know… Can you imagine they mentioned the connection the moment they heard I was a writer?”
“A man trying to form a connection with a woman based on the slightest of acquaintance? Shocking, really.”
“Really,” she agreed. “One of the groomsmen, I think his name was Tommy—”
“Bobby.”
“—was telling me about how you kept them busy with this wild tale before the wedding. From what he described, it sounded an awful lot like the legend of the Hound of Ulster.”
“Good catch,” he admitted. “Anthony wanted me to tell them a story, I used the Irish legend as a template.”
“I’ve always been partial to Greek myths myself.”
“They tend to be overplayed,” George said with a shrug. “Using an unfamiliar story gives me more liberty than aping Ulysses.”
Margaret said nothing, instead returning to studying his expression. George did his best to return the favor. Try as he might, there was little he could attempt to learn from analyzing her features. She was, as he had assessed the other night, a beautiful young woman with wide eyes that would trap you in their depths. Beyond this, he couldn’t discern anything about her character or actions. Observation was not why he became a writer.
“Why are you hiding?” she finally asked.
“You know why,” he answered. “To avoid having my mother constantly shove adoring fans in my direction.”
“That’s the reason you gave, but I doubt it’s the whole story. I know from firsthand experience you don’t mind ruffling a few feathers if you can do it politely.”
George almost winced. Instead, he stood up, walked to the stained glass window. Tilting his glass, the melting ice cubes began to settle.
“You write for ‘why,’ don’t you?” he asked.
“Sorry?” Margaret asked in confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“I haven’t read your book, but I’m pretty certain you write to answer ‘why.’ My theory is all writers write to answer a question of ‘who,’ ‘what,’ ‘when,’...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 3.5.2022 |
|---|---|
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen |
| ISBN-10 | 1-6678-2773-1 / 1667827731 |
| ISBN-13 | 978-1-6678-2773-5 / 9781667827735 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
| Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt? |
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