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

Do you want to know what I think?”

“Sure, fire away,” he says leaning forward. As he awaits my simple solution to his dilemma he casually brings the glass of wine to his lips.

“Don’t go swimming anymore. Go get your pen and tablet of paper and sit down. Like the TV commercial says, just do it.”

Matthew is amused by that suggestion and grins over the edge of his wineglass. He swallows what is in his mouth, and his eyes twinkle as he stares across the table at me. But he doesn’t say a word.

“What? Not a good idea?”

Finally, “Oh, it’s a great idea, just not practical. First off, I never write on a tablet or in a notebook—I’d never finish a book. Second, you just don’t sit down and crank out great writing.”

“Then crank out not-so-great writing. Or crank out junk if that’s what it turns out to be. I guess my point is, crank out something. You can always change it, and who knows, maybe some of that junk will be really good junk.”

Matthew slowly lowers his glass onto the table, knocking over his King and Queen. The smile fades into a serious look, and I’m all the sudden beginning to think; I’m not as dumb about his game as he assumed I was! He remains quiet for a long time. Too long. He isn’t just staring, he’s…he’s…I can almost feel him trying to enter my mind through my eyes. It’s disconcerting, and I blink. What, Mr. Klutz, Mr. World-Famous-Author, Mr. Matthew…Swimmer In The Sea? What are you thinking, and do I want any part of it?

“Say something…”

He blinks and then releases me from…whatever that was. I’m relieved, and he begins. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

I do not, and I tell him so.

“You’ve given me the very same advice that every instructor of writing I ever sat in front of gave me, and that somehow I’ve forgotten. It’s that old thing—you nailed it—write something, even if it’s crap!”

“Sooo…now you’re back on track, right?” I sip a bit of wine from my glass. It’s smooth and flavorful, and so I take some more, waiting, again, for Matthew. He seems to be contemplating something deeper than just an agreeing laugh, or a yes, or even a no—designing some response that is entirely out of the ordinary.

“Why don’t you help me? Be my editor? Sit with me and help me finish it?”

I laugh out loud. Nothing ordinary about those small requests.

“No, I’m serious. You hate my books, you’d be perfect!”

“I don’t think so. Thanks anyway. And I don’t hate them—just that one.”

“But you read a lot, right?” he asks with an excited edge to his voice. The faraway look that he had in his eyes a moment ago is gone. Matthew lifts the glass again and this time takes a healthy drink. Yes, he’s excited, but something tells me it’s not so much about my ability to help him as it is…

Still, the thought of participating in the writing of a book, of actually helping a famous author, is intriguing. I consider it, but only for the length of time it takes me to jump two moves ahead in my mind. He’s been writing for years. I’ve never written anything more profound than a grocery list. Checkmate, we both lose. Not only has he written another loser, he’ll probably stick my name on the acknowledgments page—or worse, alongside his on the cover.

“No…”

“Isabella, you’re the first person I’ve ever met who’s had the courage to tell me what I honestly thought myself about ‘Saving Isabelle’. I know you can do it! Help me!”

“Please don’t use my name and the title of your book in the same sentence…”

“Please! I’m stuck.”

We met less than an hour ago. I mean, really met.

He doesn’t move a muscle; he’s like a statue, or a photograph that’s come to life that I find myself studying. I’m wise enough to the world; I’ve heard them all, still…

“I don’t know the first thing about…”

“That’s precisely my point. You don’t have to, and in a way it’s even better that you don’t.”

“Don’t your editors advise you what to leave and what to cut out after they’ve read what you’ve written? They’re your best shot I should think.”

“I have to get them a manuscript first. Even so, they’re not concerned with literature so much as the house’s bottom line. ” Matthew laughs at that in a mocking way. “You’re an intelligent female reader—about mid-thirties? You’re my market. You can show me immediately—at least from where I am right now—where I’ve fallen down and…I think…how to change course and get back on track again. Whatd’ya say? Just your opinion, nothing technical.”

Put in those terms, I believe he’s right. At least I can tell him that his story sucks, which, judging from ‘Saving Isabelle’, I’m betting it does. And then I think, what if…what if my suggestions actually enable him to…?

“I have to leave next week. That doesn’t give me much time to even read what you have, let alone suggest ways to fix it. Like I could anyway.”

“That’s plenty of time.”

“I have no experience, no qualifications…”

“Yes you do. You’re a great chess player. That’s an analytical thing. You can do it, Isabella.”

I think in a way he’s right. I want to think he’s right, anyway. He has leaned forward, elbows resting firmly on his side of the board, chessmen scattered as though the cavalry arrived during our conversation and ripped through their flanks. His hands are folded, resting on my side of the board, the sides of them barely touching my Queen. His smile is soft and genuine and despite the misgivings I have, my ego tells me to go for it. I can always walk away.

I am intrigued by his offer. I am flattered. But I’m not stupid.

“No. Thank you for asking, but no.”

He leans back slowly. I know he wants to say, ‘Please!’ Instead he merely shrugs.

“Well, at least think about it, okay?”

“I’ll give it some thought. Good night Mister Ash,” I say. I rise and leave him sitting there on the chair, rubbing another wound, and I head for the stairs.

I have no intention of ever thinking about his offer again.

Daybreak

Matthew

 

 

I slept well last night except for the pain in my knee that woke me three times, the need to pee that woke me another, and the image of Isabella that kept me up during the time in between those. Yet, oddly enough, I am refreshed, having gotten at least half an hour’s worth or sleep.

The wine sat well—a 2003 vintage Chateau St. Michelle. Hardly what I might have expected from an out-of-the-way mountain lodge, and its selection by the Davenports lifted my opinion of them from earthy all the way to complex. Mrs. Davenport might prefer coffee sludge from a percolator, but her taste in fine wine showed nothing of that peculiarity.

I am not a religious or superstitious man, but the entire day seemed driven, or at least prodded onward, by hands outside my range of knowledge. If not by divine ordinance, then by what command did I stumble into the orbit of Isabella Barrington? Simple fate cannot explain it adequately. Neither can prayer, as I have forgotten, even, the words to grace before dinner. But then, what?

It is four fifty-eight a.m. Here I lay, my eyes following an imaginary spot on the ceiling that moves along one minute, and then is thrust back to its starting point the moment I blink. As though it had never moved to begin with. My brain, however, is following the movement of Isabella; the raising of her hand, the turn of her head that makes her hair hesitate before following, the forming of a tiny smile. I need not concentrate or force the images, needn’t try to keep them in focus, unmoving, captive. They do not wander, but rather hold themselves constant, like shadows in the moonlight that refuse to be shaken off the ground.

I feel the soft touch of her. The sensation of fingers that inadvertently brushed against mine is here with me, occurring again, again, again, as though she stands invisible before me with the intent to conquer me in yet another way.

She has, and probably doesn’t even realize it.

It is five a.m. A soft glow of silver has begun to make the features of my room lighten to the point where the bathroom door is identifiable, and other objects as well. The chair with my pants draped over it and the table beneath the window are the most clear, and I notice that I didn’t fold my pants last night. I admit to myself that I was, and am, perhaps, a little obsessed.

She said no, but then followed up by saying she’d think about it. That means she will, if I play my cards right. I’ve always been a lot better at poker than chess. Jesus, it hits me, she’s probably president of some poker club somewhere too!

We’ll see.

How much longer did she say she had here? I think a week. How long will it take me to break through her defenses, I wonder? No matter. She’s here. I’m here. I’ll start at breakfast.

God, I hope her schedule doesn’t include hiking. There must be other pretty much non-physical activities to do. I mean, it’s a lodge! What I’d give to see a swimming pool out there behind the place. What I’d give to see her lounging beside it…

The book, the book. I know she’s intrigued. What if Patterson or King asked you to read and comment on one of their next best sellers? Asked you to read the manuscript? I am in their league…or used to be. Certainly she must know that.

Phase one: begin to charm her to death at breakfast, but no more chess.

I have all day.

Daybreak

Isabella

 

 

My first thought as I open my eyes…I wonder what that guy’s book is all about?

Why do I wonder something as ridiculous as that? Maybe I was dreaming of becoming a footnote of thanks on his acknowledgement page. Something a little more glorious than my name on a bill from a supplier or the gas company.

Shower time, girl. Get up! Let’s see if Mr. Davenport will let you take one of the horses out for a trot into the forest after breakfast!

The morning sun lights the window on this side of the house in a warm glow. I pad over and push the curtain aside. The sky is dark blue still, but stunningly clear. My eyes dart left and right.