Passions Read online

  As for your manuscript, I noticed you made the changes I suggested. Excellent work. You have a firm grasp of dialogue composition. Their conversations are believable. But, I do suggest that you avoid writing from the male point of view. This is not meant as an offense to you, but you obviously do not understand the inner workings of the male mind. As a writer, if you narrate strictly from the female’s perspective, you will sound more competent in the genre you have chosen. Nonetheless, your story is coming along just fine. I look forward to reading more. Yours sincerely – G

  Chloe was stunned. She leaned against the slatted back of the chair and stared dumbly at the wall.

  She didn’t know what to think. Whoever this was had noticed the changes as well as read through the additions she made the day before. Not only that, but they commended her for it and exonerated her dialogue style. She took no offense to their comment about writing from the male point of view. It was difficult and uncomfortable to put herself inside the male brain and try to figure out how their thought process worked. It had always been something of an impossible task, and she took no joy in it.

  Deducing from that comment alone, she assumed her mystery correspondent must be a man. Why else would he be so knowledgeable on how the male mind does or does not work?

  If she adhered to this instruction, there were many changes she’d have to make to the story. There were several scenes with only her male protagonist present and his thoughts on the female. She’d have to change the whole book to an omnipresent perspective if she wanted to keep those scenes. But wasn’t that pretty much the same thing she was already doing?

  Chloe groaned and held her head in her hands, propping her elbows on her closed laptop. She hated herself for taking these notes so seriously. The thought that a complete stranger was somehow breaking into her home, just to write these silly critiques, was far from her mind. All she could think about was obeying the suggestions as if his opinion was valid and worth her consideration.

  Then it occurred to her that she wasn’t writing for this stranger. She was writing for herself. Why did she have to change her entire story just to accommodate him, of all people? A stranger she had never met and was forcing his way into her home somehow without any trace or reason.

  She sighed and thought that maybe a cup of coffee would help clear her head.

  Chloe brewed her usual blend, generously stirring in cream and sugar to offset the bitterness. She’d been drinking coffee for years, but there was something different about this cup. The coffee from the previous morning got thrown out after growing cold in her car while she was in the hardware store. Chloe didn’t care for the blackness of the raw brew anyway. And in the heat of writing, she never poured herself another cup.

  But the tawny liquid swirling around in her bright green mug had a special appeal to it. It would be the first cup of coffee she drank in her new home. Perhaps it was a way of christening her new life. This cup of coffee would be the first of many she drank in the cabin. Chloe could already see herself a few years older, drinking coffee while looking over her royalty reports from all the books she’d published.

  Gripping the warm ceramic mug in her hands, she moved to the window that overlooked the back deck and forest beyond. The sun warmed her skin, seeping through her pajamas to warm her very soul.

  The mountains were a beautiful place. She’d been a fool as a child to not want to escape from the big city. Chloe was glad she had seen the light and made the decision to come back. Often times she wondered what made her decide to return to her ancestral home. Was it really to write or an excuse to flee Atlanta and all the things she hated about the city? But she didn’t want to think of that now and spoil the serenity of the late morning scenery.

  A soft, contented smile crept across her lips as she watched the still woods. Just beyond, she could see the glittering waters of the creek where she had spent many happy hours as a child.

  Why was she still inside?

  Without a second thought, she slipped on the pair of boots she had left by the door for just this occasion. There was no time to change into more suitable clothes for walking around in the woods. The wilderness was beckoning her to return to that special place in her memories. Just for a moment, she’ll be the old Chloe again; the one with bright eyes and an imagination as big as the mountain this cabin sat upon, the Chloe before puberty consumed her and the hardships of life broke her down.

  Stepping outside with her coffee in hand, nature contradicted itself. The sun still shone down bright and warm, but the chilly wind whipped at her long, slept-in hair and seeped through the fibers of her robe to give her skin momentary goose bumps. It took her a while to get used to such contrasting effects. But her flesh warmed and the breeze felt good upon her brow.

  She nearly slipped on some fallen autumn leaves after stepping off the deck, but she gained her footing quickly and continued down to the creek with an eagerness she hadn’t felt in years, leaving behind the confusing mess she had somehow gotten herself into with her mysterious literary critic and the notes he left for her.

  She left a path of crumbled dead leaves in her wake as she approached the creek. Chloe heard the trickling sound of ice-cold spring water cascading over the smooth stones, and she stood on the creek bank and watched as the sun shimmered in the rippling tide. It was just as she remembered it. The town may have changed, the cabin changed, but this creek was timeless and untouched.

  Just below the crystal clear surface of the water, Chloe spotted schools of little fish fighting against the current to travel upstream. A turtle basked upon a protruding rock just a little distance from where she stood on the shore.

  If she weren’t wearing her favorite robe, she would have sat down on a nearby log or squatted in the rich, damp soil to watch the water break against the rocks further upstream. The creek wasn’t deep enough to swim in, but she remembered a time when she’d take her shoes and socks off, roll up the legs of her jeans and wade into the shallows.

  Chloe still remembered how it felt to have the cool current flow past her, wrapping around her ankles, and how the mix of prickly and smooth rocks felt on the tender undersides of her feet. She’d have to come back and do that one day. Maybe every day. But not right now. There was too much going on right now.

  Taking a sip of her coffee, she watched as two birds flitted and twirled around each other in the open space above the creek. They chirped a few times and then disappeared into the branches. Chloe swallowed, letting the warm liquid wash down her throat. Was there anything more tranquil in all existence?

  The scenery did wonders for her nerves. She was able to think clearly, more rationally.

  So, it was evident that whoever was writing those letters was not a burglar. If it were a burglar, there would be obvious evidence from when they broke in. It couldn’t have been someone with a key like the real estate company because she changed the locks already. Their old key wouldn’t have worked that second night. It was obviously someone who knew a secret way into the house that she was not aware of and that same someone couldn’t have been far from here.

  Maybe there was a friend of Aunt Mary Anne’s who lived on the mountain near the cabin. They could have seen Chloe move in and were curious. But where was that secret entrance into the cabin? Then again, she saw no other driveways on her way up the mountain, and her cabin’s driveway was at a dead end. If there was any other way up or around the mountain, she didn’t know of it.

  Somehow, in the train of reasoning, Chloe thought of Rosie’s warning. When they met in the grocery store the other day, she mentioned that something was wrong with the house; that it was haunted.

  Chloe was a grounded person. She didn’t believe in ghosts, spirits, or paranormal phenomenon of any kind. But the more her mind played Miss Rosie’s words, mixed in with all that had happened in the last two days and the uncanny presence she felt in the cabin, the more she began to wonder if there was some validity to what she was saying.

  Maybe the reason there
was no evidence of a breakin was because there wasn’t any breakin to begin with. Whoever or whatever was leaving her the notes lingered somewhere in the house, unseen and undetected. It was an absurd theory, but what else could it be? Locks were still intact, nothing was stolen, and she now had two letters written to her from some anonymous critic. She took that back. The critic was not anonymous. He signed his name with a “G”. G for Ghost? It was ridiculous all around.

  But in the silence of nature, Chloe came up with an idea. She would debunk this haunted myth and play along.

  Hiking back up to the house, she began to mentally form the words she needed.

  Chloe took the last swig of coffee, set it down in the sink and then hurried to the notepad. She would beat this ghost at his own game.

  Grabbing the big yellow notepad, she sat on the couch, pen in hand and began to formulate her response to his second letter.

  Mr. G,

  Thank you for the advice. I am struggling with putting myself into Ben Johnson’s shoes. But how can I change the whole perspective of the story now? If I change it to strictly the female’s prospective, I lose a lot of scenes I had planned for later in the story when only Ben is present. Might you have a suggestion to remedy this problem? If so, I’d love to hear it. If not, I might as well scrap this story and be done with it. I have plenty more I can start writing. If you’ve poked around on my laptop, as I suspect you have, you’ll see all of the folders on my hard drive just waiting to be started. I’m glad you have enjoyed it so far, though. You may feel privileged to know that you are the first person to ever read my work, let alone like it. I hope to hear from you in the morning.

  Your resident aspiring author, Chloe

  P.S. Forgive my terrible handwriting; it’s chicken-scratch compared to yours.

  Chloe sat back and examined the letter. Perhaps it was too light, maybe a little teasing, but it would have to do. She had no confidence that she would receive a response. And if it was, she didn’t know how she would react. She wasn’t sure what exactly it proved. That she was crazy?

  She didn’t want to think about that right now. She still had plenty to do, but none of it included writing. She didn’t want to continue writing if she’d just have to scrap the story in the end, if Mr. G suggested it.

  There were still plenty of her things left in Atlanta that she needed to pull from storage and a man to call in Carter Lake about a jeep.

  Chapter 4

  A smile pulled across his face as he read Chloe's reply to his letter. He had never imagined that she would be so receptive to his criticism. And never had he felt such joy; the first hint of it in years. Decades

  It had been a sheer gamble to write at all. No one knew he was here, and he didn't want to risk such a relatively peaceful existence just for the chance to communicate with someone he barely knew. Actually, he knew her quite well. He knew her father, her mother, her grandmother, and so many others who had passed through this house. Though, except for one instance, he had never revealed himself.

  There was so much that could go wrong; so much to somehow explain if this simple correspondence grew into something more. He wondered if he would have the nerve to stand so openly in front of her, disclosing his identity. He had done it once, but could he do it again?

  But when he realized how much raw, unpolished talent she possessed, he had to reach out to her. A letter was the most subtle way, at least for now.

  Though he had not heard her voice in years, he could somehow imagine how adulthood had changed it. He could tell simply through reading her reply. It was light, but not too airy; husky, yet with a playful bounce as was evident in the way she casually teased him about his handwriting. It was not flirting, but it tugged at something within him that he hadn't felt in a very long time.

  He lifted his head and listened to her steady breathing coming from one of the upstairs bedrooms. How he would love to meet her now, to see if his preconceived impression of her held any truth. He hadn't even seen her face yet, but already he felt captivated. He didn't want to think that it was because she was the first bit of excitement that had walked through those cabin doors in so long. If her writing style was any reflection of her personality, he wanted to know her more than he wanted anything else.

  He turned his gaze down to the notepad and penned his reply, carefully wording it so that she may not be frightened by what he had to offer. There was a fine line between the two of them—one that he dared not cross. Not yet.

  ***

  Holding the third letter from the mysterious Mr. G, Chloe thought she would have gotten used to seeing the beautiful cursive letters waiting for her in the morning. But her nerves failed her now, just as they had the first two times. This man, ghost, thing… was no physical threat to her, but she was terrified nonetheless.

  Dearest Chloe,

  It takes great courage for an author to say they struggle with writing. If you had replied with anything else, I would have thought you prideful and too inept to continue this book. In contrast, I say that you should not discard the novel. It has a strong start and deserves a strong finish. I did not previously see your numerous manuscript folders, but after taking a peek through each of them, I believe you made a fair choice in beginning this story as opposed to the others.

  To address your aforementioned concern about telling the story from a different perspective, I can understand your dilemma. If those scenes with Ben Johnson truly matter to you, I would gladly offer my services as a ghostwriter. This way, you can continue the story from Rebecca’s point of view, and I will substitute for Ben. If this compromise agrees with you, we can start immediately. You need only to stop and write a note to let me know you are ready for me to take over. I have also read through the plot outline you constructed, so I can follow the storyline fluidly. You’ll find that no editing is necessary for my part. I will do my own.

  And thank you. I do feel privileged to be your first audience. I sincerely hope you have many more.

  At your service, G

  P.S. Your handwriting is indeed deplorable, but readable.

  Chloe sat there, trying in vain to remain calm. Her lips twitched violently in an attempt to smile, but she wouldn’t allow herself.

  Last night as she fell asleep, she had hoped that he would agree to scratch the story and move on to something different. It would have been the easiest option and one that she almost preferred. Instead, he was offering to go out of his way and help her with the novel.

  How could she possibly credit him for his work? It would throw her readers off if the dedication page listed her aunt, parents, and English teachers, and then at the very bottom of the paragraph say, “Oh, yeah. And thanks to that ghost in the cabin who wrote the guy parts for me. Great help, Mr. G!”

  No publisher in their right mind would accept such a thing in one of their books.

  The ridiculous became real as Chloe sat there, racking her brain, trying to find a more logical explanation for this. Now in possession of three letters, she still had no clue as to this man’s identity. She wasn’t even sure if he was a real man or a ghost. Or were they the same?

  Chloe shook her head, and tangled locks of hair tumbled against her flushed cheeks. She must be losing her mind. Nothing else could explain this. She wasn’t even in the cabin for a week and already the isolation was getting to her.

  She set the letters on the coffee table and then let her eyes wander over the numerous boxes that crowded the wooden floor. They were filled with books and other personal belongings from the storage unit. That job had been tedious, to say the least, cramming the boxes into the back of her sedan, filling it to the brim. Chloe managed to make them all fit, but she still had no bookcase. She resolved that they would just have to remain packed away until something could be made to hold them, but she dreaded the task of hauling them upstairs just yet.

  After letting out a great yawn, Chloe shambled into the kitchen for her coffee, and perhaps this morning she would have some breakfast.

&n
bsp; As she heated up the oil in the frying pan for scrambled eggs and let her coffee pot brew, Chloe caught herself mulling over Mr. G’s offer.

  It would sure be a help to her if he wrote the part for Ben. She never understood the male mind, not even when she was with Brent. His very name still sent her heart and mind into a dizzying turmoil that was hard to pull out of.

  Not having to worry about those bits of the story that terrified her would make writing this novel so much easier. And the easier it was to write, the quicker it could be finished. Then, of course, the sooner she could send it off to a publisher.

  Ben’s parts were just about half of the book anyway. And if Mr. G could write a chapter a night, and if she could write a chapter a day, it’d be done in no time. Sure, there was still the task of editing, but the hard part would be done.

  Chloe felt like a fool to be thinking of such things. But she couldn’t pour enough of herself into making a simple batch of scrambled eggs to forget about the letters and the strange affair altogether.

  She ate breakfast and sat down at her writing desk to work, but the words just wouldn’t flow. Her creativity was clogged by her bizarre correspondence with Mr. G. But what else was there to do but write? She brought no movies with her, she still didn’t have a fast Internet connection to stream her favorite Food Network shows, and God knows there was nothing to do in town.

  She had already taken care of a lot of business the previous day. She emptied the storage unit in Atlanta and after unloading her car, she traded it with the hardware store clerk for the jeep she had seen the other day. It was now parked outside the cabin, and she hadn’t had to pay any extra except for the documentation fees that she settled with the DMV the afternoon before.