If you're looking for the Wendy Marcus interview, go to the previous post.
398 words.
It's great to be home again after a wonderful trip. I always suffer from jet lag (try 21 hours on a plane), but this time it's combined with a vicious virus as I explained in my previous post. So here's my first post for Romantic Friday Writers which I set up before I left. I knew I'd be rubbish all week. I look forward to getting around and visiting all your wonderful blogs as soon as I get my land legs again.
Now to #RomanticFridayWriters post for Friday 22 July...The theme for the week is 'Coming Home' in honour of my return.
My entry is an excerpt about three-quarters of the way through my first (unpublished) novel called 'Ruby', genre, Sweet Romance.
The hero and heroine had broken up. The hero, Michael, had left for Antarctica to join the anti-whaling movement, while the heroine, Ruby, had been busily running her boutique hotel at Noosa in Queensland. She is stunned (and delighted?) to find him on her doorstep at three in the morning…
COMING HOME
The steady throb of a motor bike crunching the gravel woke her. She glanced at her mobile. Three a.m!
Who could it be? If she screamed, would anyone hear? Having her own quarters next to the hotel had its downside.
She hadn’t locked up, so comfortable was she in the sleepy resort town. She stumbled out of bed, tripping over her slippers. Merde! She reached the door, turned the lock, then grabbed her phone and started to tap in ‘000.’
Someone knocked. Softly.
‘Who…who is it?’ she called, before she hit the final ‘0.’ The phone fell, she snatched her robe and slipped it on. She ran her hands through her hair, and stood, trembling.
‘Ruby. It’s Michael. I’m back.’
Michael was back? But he was never coming back.
She ran to the door and fumbled it open. She stood, her eyes full of him.
‘Michael.’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘I’m not dreaming?’
‘No, here I stand. The one and only.’ He flipped his palms outward.
His face had carved into hard angles, his eyes like cold crystal. Where had the warm ocean gone? A soft gasp whispered from her throat.
‘Why do you look like a homeless person?’
‘Oh this?’ He lifted his battered Akubra and slapped it onto his crumpled cargo shorts. His hair now fell to his shoulders and hadn’t been combed for sometime.
‘I’m sorry I don’t meet your dress code for middle-of-the-night assignations. I forgot I was wearing rags, but I couldn’t wait to see you.’
Sudden panic gripped her.
‘Michael, why are you here? Has something happened?’
He stepped forward, reaching up his arms, leaning them against the doorframe, enclosing her.
‘Look at you,’ he whispered, his eyes raking up and down her body, ‘your mop of curls, your lovely face, your silly robe.’ He flipped the belt. ‘I haven’t seen you in this get up before either,’ he chuckled. ‘But I don’t see any scars. I thought you might be left with some scars.’
Scars? Is that why he was here? He couldn’t know about the fire, surely.
‘For God’s sake, Michael, give it to me straight. Why are you here?’
‘I just got off the boat. I’m an uncivilized cretin. I must have scared you. Sorry my darling.’
These were the words she’d dreamed of hearing.
‘Michael,’ she whispered, as she reached for him and drew him inside, ‘you’ve come home.’
***
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