For Rye Gavin Gardiner (best book club books for discussion TXT) 📖

She flew towards the spectre. It raised its face, but not enough. Never enough.

Twelve

Her fist tightened around the handle of the spade.

Thirteen

She awoke.

The flames transposed into the warmth of Quentin’s sleeping body. She slipped out of bed and rubbed the sides of her head, massaging out the car, the spade, her black dream-hands, and the stabbing pains. She’d told no one of the dreams, only having mentioned to Quentin in passing that she had recurring nightmares. Maybe she’d be able to share the details with him. Maybe the dreams could go away.

She checked his discarded watch. Nearly 6 a.m. The mist outside had the faint glow of dawn. Birdsong dotted the morning silence. The echoes of the stabbing in her head still resonated. She reached for her satchel, her fingers begging for the comforting feel of coiled hemp, until she remembered: she’d left it at home, and with it the noose. She’d found a new comfort.

She looked at Quentin’s sleeping face.

In the weeks since they’d met, he’d had given Renata a gift completely unfamiliar to her: something to lose. Could there really be the hope of a normal life for her? She’d spent years writing of an emotion forever foreign. Now, it seemed, love had finally risen off the page to meet her. An image flashed before her of a house like this where they could live out their remaining years. Love and sharing and trust and romance still seemed disconnected and alien, but a part of her believed these things could be as real as she allowed them to be.

She slipped into Quentin’s dressing gown. Her duffle coat lay over a chair. Although she couldn’t match his gift to her, there was a modest something for him in its pocket. This, their second night together, had been as magical as their first. ‘Magical’: that’s the word in all her books, right?

‘Quentin, I don’t want to be alone anymore,’ she’d told him from within his embrace.

His fingers had melted into hers. ‘Ren, I want you to tell me something. I need you to tell me something.’

‘Anything.’

His eyes had poured into hers. ‘Do you love me?’ She’d felt his hands squeeze around her own before she allowed her eyes to dart away.

‘Quentin, I…’ He pulled her closer. ‘Yes, I do.’

She’d been relieved when he’d smiled. He hadn’t backed off, he hadn’t panicked, he hadn’t laughed at her misinterpretation of events. Maybe there hadn’t been a mistake after all. Maybe he felt the same.

He’d pulled her into the house and wrapped her in a woollen blanket. They’d gone upstairs. He’d sat her on the bed, then, pulling the notepad from a drawer, sat scribbling opposite her.

She’d watched, bewildered at his timing.

Just as her curled toes started to hurt, the scribbling had stopped. He’d turned an apologetic expression to her and stepped to the bed, a smile spread over his face as he’d lay her down on the cool sheets. She’d never seen this smile, never seen him this happy. Finally, he’d breathed in her ear, ‘I love you too, Ren.’

Their first time, just a few nights prior, they’d been like two threads intertwining. The second, more desperate expressions of yearning had reigned. Renata had clung to those broad shoulders as he’d taken her with such urgency, such hunger. In his touch she’d felt that unbelievable truth they’d shared on the doorstep: they were in love.

Renata pulled the dressing gown tight and walked to her coat, stepping over his crumped brown corduroys. In its pocket lay the Zippo lighter she’d had the locksmith engrave:

One truth: ours.

Thank you, Quentin.

The gift said what she couldn’t. She believed she’d finally come to understand his obsessional pursuit, this truth for which his work strived. Maybe, whether they knew it or not, everyone was in search of some truth – even her. Maybe Quentin was just more aware of it than others. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been looking in the wrong place. Maybe both their searches were over. Maybe their love was the only truth they needed. One truth: ours.

Whatever. All she knew was that she had to thank him for making her feel like a real person. She stepped towards the coat, then stopped. The chair over which it was draped sat against a walnut chest of drawers. In one of those drawers, she knew, was Quentin’s notebook.

There was no deliberation. It was immediately clear she was going to look inside. The stiff leather notebook’s confidentiality had been obvious. He’d stashed it in the drawer with such secrecy, not even realising she’d spied him in the dresser mirror. The more stealth with which he operated, the more endearing and intriguing the notebook became to Renata. What insight may its fabled pages offer into her love’s mind? Her interest was piqued past the point of no return.

Besides, it couldn’t hurt. Quentin’s passion was fascinating. She’d witnessed his intensity during their writing sessions, as well as between the bed sheets. Just a few weeks ago he’d been nothing more than the face on a book display, but the events of those few weeks had done nothing but arouse her curiosity. She wanted to see what he saw. She wanted to see the thoughts of an untameably creative mind.

She looked at Quentin through the morning glow. He lay facing away from her, snoring lightly. As she eased open the drawer, she was suddenly reminded of her night-time navigations down that creaky staircase. Luckily, this wood didn’t creak. She peered inside.

It was empty except for some bulk wrapped in a dirty rag. Not notebook shaped, that was for sure. Upon reassessing the drawer’s depth, she found there was space behind the object. She reached deeper. Her hand fell on an envelope.

It had an international postage stamp on it, was adorned with hand-drawn love hearts, and was unsealed. Should she? As with