CATHEDRAL - Patrick Sean Lee (best books for 8th graders txt) 📗

one like this in years. Well, you two enjoy your dinner,” she finishes, and then waddles back out of the room.

After she’s gone, Matthew says, “It was Michael, afraid of a little snow. I'm sure Frank would have chanced the return trip up the canyon.”

I giggle. Might be true.

“You first,” he says after that.

Naturally.

Michael, after turning up his nose at the vegetarian dinner, I’m thinking as I move the dish closer to my plate, would have tried to jump into it. Shame on me again.

We eat with small spatters of conversation, and the only other interruption is my wonderful Bernie bringing in a bottle of delicious wine. Like a good Maitre d, he pours a little in my glass and then waits for me to smell and taste it. I approve, although I wouldn’t know a classy wine from a mutt. I nod, and he fills my wine glass, and then Matthew’s. Post Matthew-approval, without a word, but with an impish smile, he leaves.

 

The casserole was outstanding. I lay my fork on the linen-covered tablecloth beside my plate and reach for the half-full glass, take a sip, and then wait. Matthew finished his dinner a few minutes ago, has his hand on his glass, although he hasn’t drunk more than two sips. He has revived that nervous look again, not letting his eyes meet mine for more than half a second before he spirits them elsewhere.

“What is it?” I ask.

He looks over at me, then quickly away. Back again, biting his lower lip. Here it comes.

“Dinner was fantastic,” he says.

Duh.

“Fantastic, but didn’t set well in your beef craving stomach?”

I think he wants to laugh, but he looks away once more, then quickly back, gathering up some good old-fashioned courage to spit out whatever it is that's bothering him.

“The book…” That’s all he manages. His eyes fall.

“Work on it today?”

Now he takes in a deep breath and unloads. “Probably one last page to wrap it up…but I’m a little in doubt about parts of it, especially that damned first chapter. I’ve always had the worst time with them.”

“Do say? Why not delete it and write another one then?”

Didn’t I already tell him to let his agent tell him? I don’t see the problem. Finish the last page, kiss the laptop, then upload the file and send it off. Seems pretty simple to me.

He shrugs, then picks up his glass and takes a healthy drink.

“I don’t know. I mean, it might be okay the way it is, but I just don’t know for certain. I’m my own worst critic. It picks up just fine after two or three chapters, I think, but that first one…”

He lets the sentence fall away, then once again raises his glass, not letting his eyes find mine. You’d think he was painting a picture, or chiseling something in marble that with one errant strike of the hammer ruins the sculpture forever. Of course I know what he’s up to. He once again wants me to read that book. Crap, how many times do I have to tell him no?

It’s pure genius, Matthew. Suddenly you’ve knocked me off my feet, and now I’m thinking differently about you…

Is that what today was all about?

“Please reconsider, Isabella. Just the first chapter. Tell me if it captures your interest. Nothing further.”

Uh-huh. Sure.

“I can’t. Just finish it and then send it off like I said last night. Anyway, I’m leaving in a few days. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t possibly help you.”

“The night before you leave, then. Just one chapter, please.”

“Why don’t we go outside and do a toboggan run?” I say, trying to sidestep the question.

“Please.”

Shit. Crap. He’s not going to give it up.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Goddam’, thank you!” His face is all lit up. “Let’s go to the living room and finish the wine in front of the fire! We don’t have to talk about my book again tonight, just get comfortable and…”

Yes? And what?

 

 

 

Crap, They're Back

 Matthew

 

I kept my promise. I didn’t mention the book again that evening, but, oh God, simply sitting in front of the fire beside her sent goosebumps up and down every part of me.

Two days ago, however, I did as Isabella suggested—I wrote that last page. Moved down a dozen lines then and typed “The End”. I have my doubts, but…who knows?

We walked through the snow this morning after breakfast. Just the two of us. As I suspected, Michael shivers at the thought of getting snow on himself. Well, I would have told him absolutely no if he’d asked—no, brazenly invited himself and poor Frank to come along. After getting back the afternoon after the blizzard, they holed up in their suite. God only knows what they talked about…or did…for twelve hours until breakfast, but Michael, at least, was all a big grin in the dining room. I’m fine with them, though. Okay with Michael in his brand new outfits, hinting about the new friends they made down in Denver, desperately wanting to give details until Frank jabs him in the ribs.

I’m ecstatic, and the world is right for the first time in ages, and honestly, I could give a damn about “Moon Drenched”. No, no I actually do. She’ll read it I know, and then I’ll revise it.

I’m such a stooge. I want Isabella to see what I can do, what I am capable of writing with her as my inspiration.

I want Isabella.

Tomorrow she leaves, and then what will I do? Change my flight, pack my bags and leave on Saturday? She lives somewhere in Santa Monica. I’ll find her. Maybe run into her at her store with a shocked look on my face.

Oh my God! I had no idea this was your boutique!

Would that be considered stalking? Anyway, she’d see through that little sham without even a blink.

Get her number somehow, Matthew. Just ask her. It ain’t no big deal, people do it all the time.

She said she'd think about it again. Isabella is getting my first ten pages by lunch! Fifteen minutes to read them, then we have all afternoon and evening to talk about how beautiful...or ugly...it is.

Thank you so much, Isabella. Oh, by the way, could I get your number? I'd like to stay in touch...

So easy, but I’m shaking in my boots. On with it, then. Less than twenty-four hours until she leaves.

I dress in a version of what I wore a few nights ago for dinner, grab the pages, and then leave to hopefully spend the remainder of the day with her. I rap softly on her door once and then wait. Rap again after several seconds elapse, this time in triplicate. She isn’t in the room. Shit. I wanted to walk with her down the hall one more time. I hear muted laughter bounce up the stairs, coming from the dining room. Isabella’s laughter. I’m down the stairs in a flash. I burst into the dining room. Too quickly, the door bangs against the wall and then ricochets back. Everyone stops talking and in unison rip their eyes over at me. I feel the blood rush into my cheeks. Oops.

Michael is the first to speak…of course.

“Oooh, Sweetie is in a hurry! What on earth could make you…” Frank jab. Shut it, Michael.

Yes, close your mouth, sweetie-pie. Isabella is grinning, probably a leftover from whatever Michael was saying before I flew in. She is wearing a maroon sweater and Levis. She should model them. Her hair this afternoon is pulled up high in this do that shows the elegance of her neck and ears, large hooped, silver earrings. Dark eyeliner. Her cheeks are lifted in that smile, even as she looks across the room at me. I notice her eyes drift down to my right hand grasping the pages in a choke hold.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling the red in my cheeks race upward. “Hungry.”

“Well do come sit next to me!” Michael says. I’d rather not, thanks. Certainly the three of them sitting there know without giving my “Hungry” explanation much thought that food is the farthest thing from my mind in this instant. Definitely Isabella. She is staring with a noncommittal look at the pages. Suddenly, as Michael continues on, she grins and then pats the seat of the chair to her right.

“Last lunch. I can see that you’re very…hungry,” she says with a little chuckle.

Last lunch. Fuck it. I answer, “ Last lunch together. I…” I don’t know what else to say suddenly. It’s like I’m this dorky high school kid who’s been invited to sit beside the head cheerleader.

“Oh no! Are you leaving too?” Michael lame-brains.

“Shut-up, Michael. God almighty,” Frank says. “Can’t you see he’s talking about Isabella?”

Michael says something back to him, but I don’t even hear the words. I’m in my chair by then, the pages in my lap. Isabella is smiling at me. We zone out on Frank and Michelle.

Last Day

Isabella

 

So, he blurted it out right in front of Frank and Michael. Not in so many words, but out it came. I knew it, of course. The twin cupids, Bernie and Gertie for sure. Now Frank and Michael. But I’m leaving tomorrow, and that’s the end of that.

“No, I’ll read them alone, Matthew. I have some more packing to do anyway. I promise, I’ll let you know what I think at dinner,” I told him after we’d finished eating.

He seemed a little disappointed. Undoubtedly he wanted to read the reactions on my face, sitting in the living room. Or maybe in his room, or mine. Sorry, Matthew, not going to happen.

I have to admit I like him, though. He turned out to be funny at times, interesting, nice to be around, but now it’s time to get back home and get down to business again.

Brad. I’m dreading seeing him. That unfinished business.

I sigh and forget Brad for a minute. Okay, let’s see what the great author wrote. I straighten the slightly crumpled pages and read the title.

Moon Drenched.

Oh lord, he has to change that.

I begin to wade through the pages. Oh my God…you can’t be serious, Matthew.

His opening page a few lines down.

Sylvia Ortin stepped out of the mall entrance door, stopped under the covered area in the wind…Choke, choke, choke…not knowing, not caring whether her long blond hair got wet, or if the passing traffic mowed her down like wheat in a pregnant Nebraska field.

WHAT? Spare me!

I’m lost for words. A pregnant field?

Her husband beats her. She meets a house painter—a house painter? Matthew! Of all the occupations you