Laura saw Peter staring at the car and she gave him a wave. There was no need to be rude.
“I guess," she replied. "But if you think about global warming, then we should worry.”
“No," Dean responded. "I recycle and try to walk everywhere. I figure, providing we all do our bit, then we should be okay. Leave it to the scientists of this world to tell us what we’re doing wrong.”
Dean pulled up outside his house and they walked together through the main door. He stopped as they got to another door.
“I have to warn you. No human besides me has ever passed through this doorway. What you see is top secret and shouldn’t be told to anyone else,” he warned her.
“Cross my heart. I won’t tell another living soul about your place,” Laura assured him.
Dean waited and the waiting was killing her. She wanted to see where he wrote and the type of room he’d created in which to write his stories. She’d tried to search his name on the Internet, but nothing came up, only a backdated paper describing the accident with his wife and child. She hadn’t read any of the papers. She figured in time he’d tell her about it.
He finally opened the doors. The room was large with minimal furniture. A few bookcases lined the walls. A sofa was positioned in front of a fireplace and next to the large French windows sat a dark mahogany desk with his computer on top.
“Have I ruined any of your ideals about writers?” he asked her.
Laura shook her head. “It looks perfect to me. This is exactly what I’d have wanted for my office.” There were few distractions. “May I?” She pointed at the desk.
“Be my guest.”
She placed her bag on the sofa and walked to sit behind the desk. “Do you work often in here?”
“Every day. When the words come, I sit and write,” he said.
“It’s amazing.” She rubbed her hands along the edge of the desk. The computer was switched on and she saw a few documents he had left open.
“I searched your name on the Internet, but couldn’t find any of your titles.”
“Interested little minx, aren’t you?”
Laura nodded and stood. “Always.”
“You wouldn’t find any titles because I use a pen name," he explained. "I’m not going to tell you my pen name yet. Did you bring those stories I asked?”
“Yes.” She grabbed her bag and pulled out a folder. In every aspect she had tried to be mature. There were a few explicit stories she’d written after watching a particularly raunchy film on a cable channel. She didn’t have a clue what she was writing. The words had just flowed from her heart, which she thought was a good thing.
“I’ll begin reading through some of these while you go and make us both a drink. I like mine with milk and two sugars.”
“I’m a glorified slave,” she moaned.
Dean chuckled. “No. You’re here for me to help you and nothing in this life comes free. Be careful or I’ll have you cleaning the walls.”
Making the drinks was easier said than done. Every draw and cupboard needed to be opened to find what she was looking for. When she glanced at the clock, she couldn’t believe twenty minutes had already passed. She needed to go back in and give him his drink. Would he hate her writing? More nervous than she liked, Laura walked back into his study.
Her folder was open and Dean was bent over reading her words. She placed the cup on his desk and turned away to sit on the sofa. The silence was unbearable. Laura tried to think of all the words she’d written over the past five years when she had started writing.
Her rubbed her hands together and the clock suddenly sounded very loud in the small space. She felt open as he perused her work. After some time she heard him close her folder. There was no way he’d read everything. The folder was thick with sheets of paper and all in order with the very first story she’d ever written at the back. She glanced his way and saw him staring at her.
“Are they awful?” she asked.
“How old are you again?”
“Twenty.” She bit into her bottom lip. What would she do if he said they were crap? Shit, doing this was a mistake. She should have kept her writing dreams a secret.
“Okay. Your work is great. Brilliant for your age, but I can sort of tell that you don’t have a lot of experience with this stuff. There’s a lot of head hopping and mistakes that a publisher or editor will catch you out on.” He spent the rest of the afternoon showing her mistakes and giving her advice on writing.
She loved every second being in his company and learning from him.
“Do you really want to learn?” he asked.
“Of course, I’m here.”
“Right, how about you starting a fresh story? We can work on these at a later date. College is almost out and I think we can have a summer project. You write a story in any genre you want, romance, crime, whatever. You decide and I’ll help you work through it and by the end of the summer I expect a fully completed manuscript.”
Every word he spoke sounded like a dream come true.
“Deal.”
“But, I’ll expect you to work around the house and explore every avenue. By working and trying out new words will help develop your writing skills.”
“Double deal. I agree with all the terms. I promise that you won’t be disappointed.” She walked over and shook his hand to confirm the deal. She also tried to ignore the tingle as he touched her and his fingers wrapped around hers.
“Bring your laptop and I’ll set up a desk and new portal for you,” he told her.
Laura nodded her consent and as Dean drove her home, her future looked brighter already. She’d be spending most of the summer with the man she loved. No better way to pass the time.
* * * *
Dean made sure she got home safely before pulling away. He then drove for three hours straight until he pulled up outside the cemetery. The wedding band still lay on his finger and he got out of the car. His wife and son lay together under a tree. He hadn’t brought any flowers with this visit. All he wanted to do was see them and to let them know he would never forget them. Other people were visiting a relative or loved one. He ignored the others and attended to the graves of his own loved ones. The dead flowers from his last visit were removed.
“I’m sorry, Carla. I didn’t bring any fresh ones for you to look at.” He spoke to the stones often. “I’ve been a little busy. You wouldn’t believe what I’m doing. I’m tutoring a young girl, well, a woman. She reminds me a little of you, filled with dreams, but scared to unleash them. You’d like her.”