CATHEDRAL by Patrick Sean Lee (novels to improve english .txt) 📖

could have picked for her lover, Matthew, why that?

I plow onward.

 

This has all been too ghastly. The opening five words weren't too bad, I suppose, but after that my eyes began to tear—and not out of sympathy for the horrid Sylvia or her brain-dead lover boy. They are tears of laughter, of repulsion, of knowing I am the first set of eyes besides Matthew’s to read the most awful excuse for a book that anyone has ever written. And I think that that is a very kind evaluation of it from an intelligent woman reader’s perspective.

Sylvia—gosh that name!—has the morals of an alley cat, the libido, like Isabelle, of a tramp, the brains of a shrimp. Page after page details her falling in love, but then realizes it’s simply lust, then denying that and reaffirming to herself that, indeed, she loves this kid Daniel with a penis the size of a fencepost. Yes, a kid!

Oh God, I’d rather perform heart surgery on myself than read another page, the chapter is too, too hideous.

What time is it? I need a Xanax.

Dare I tell him what I really think? Maybe I can just say that it didn’t exactly grab me, that it could use a little work. Let Marian, or whatever his agent’s name is, suggest…improvements. I know he’d press me for details. I’d have to crush him. Still, he’s a professional, he should be used to honest reviews by now.

How do I tell him?

 

 

I Am Out Of Here

 Matthew

 

Dinner wasn’t quite what I expected. When she came into the dining room, I was sitting in my usual place across from motor-mouth and Frank. Isabella hesitated, holding the edge of the door open, and then walked to her place to my right and sat. I couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t brought the chapter. But then, that made sense. Not the best or most comfortable place to go over the good and the not-so-good of it.

 

A minute or two has passed. Michael is at his best—or worst depending on how I view it—rambling on to Isabella about her dress and hairdo, her eyeliner and makeup. His. Blah, blah, blah. I pay little attention, simply gawking at the profile of her face. Her gaze is fixed on Michael, but she lifts a hand and inconspicuously places it on top of mine, and then she turns her head full and smiles the strangest smile at me.

Michael shuts up. He’s staring across the table. Of course Frank has been quiet all the while, probably not hearing a word of his wife’s staccato carrying on either. In the weird silence, I flash an eye quickly to him. His gaze is fixed on our hands. The tiniest of smiles is gracing his handsome face.

What’s up you two?

Suddenly Michael starts up once more. As he speaks, Isabella brings her face closer to mine and whispers.

“Maybe in the living room after dinner. I asked Bernie to make sure to put an extra log into the fireplace.”

Oh yes. Now, how to ditch the audience.

Frank, if you don't mind, Isabella and I would like to be alone...The simple, direct way to accomplish it. I can already see Michael getting all gooey. I’ll have to endure a few minutes alone while she goes to her room and gets the pages, but I’m fine with that.

I wonder why she didn’t just bring them along with her to dinner?

 

The fire is cheery and warm, and there are no lights, save the dancing glow of the logs burning. Instead of retrieving the pages, Isabella has walked by my side into the living room. We sit on the sofa…she places herself a foot or so away from me, and she’s biting her lip, looking down. Uh-oh.

“Matthew,” she finally says, looking up, “you can’t send this to your agent. I’m sorry.” Her eyes are sad. Her tone of voice is even sadder.

I shudder. What? That bad? I press her for details, but she only answers that the writing—everything about it—is sub-par. And then she lands the killer punch.

“The entire manuscript is due now?”

“Yes, but…”

“Judging from what I’ve read, I have to assume that…well, that the rest of it is just as…bad. I don’t have time to read the remainder, but, but, you can’t send it.”

My mouth is on the floor, and she goes on.

“I saw a few nice sparks, but they are buried in kitsch and the horrible storyline. I’m positive, based on those sparks that you can do better. Call your agent, beg for more time. Tell her you broke your leg, or your dog died suddenly. I don’t know, tell her anything, but do this. Throw the book away and start a brand new one. One that won’t put what’s left of your career into the toilet.

“I know you’re deeply attracted to me. Let that in some way guide you in plotting and inventing real characters. Do that.”

And then she finishes.

“I’ll miss you. I saw something special in you after our shaky start. I have to go, now.”

And I thought my knee hurt. This is ten times more painful. She rises, and without looking back at me, walks out of the room toward the stair.

I have to sit for a moment to digest what she said. Start all over? Impossible! Isabella was honest, okay, but she has no idea how the business works. Marian will dump me.

Screw writing. Screw the world. I am that hack. I don’t care anymore.

If she is leaving, I’m leaving right behind her.

Reconsidering

Matthew

 

Isabella’s door was closed when I left the living room and plodded upstairs. There was no light seeping out from the space beneath it, and so I didn’t dare knock. I went into my dreary room instead.

I hadn’t expected her to slap me so hard. It’s true, the Royal Family ripped me pretty good after Saving Isabelle hit the bookstores, but The New York Times praised it at the same time. The Chicago Tribune and a basket-full of other papers. Maybe her intense dislike of Isabelle colored her perception of Sylvia? No, I doubt that. Deep down I know as much.

I’m depressed. I bring the file up on the laptop and read the opening again…for the thousandth time.

It stinks. Was I in some dreamland when I thought the juvenility of it was genius all over again? It doesn’t matter, horrible or otherwise I have to upload it and send it to Marian. She believes in me. She’ll be kinder, maybe suggest a few minor edits, and then…what’s left of my status as a writer will sink deeper than the Titanic after it’s published. Penguin will publish it.

I click compose. Marianagent@Cox.net. Subject, Matthew-manuscript.

Hi Marian,

Here it is. Let me know what you think. Call me tomorrow.

Matthew.

Attach file.

Or don’t call me if you’re in shock. Really, I don’t care anymore. Moon Drenched was simply my ticket into Isabella’s life. Yeah, I knew it sucked, but it opened the door. Here I am, the world-famous author. You’re impressed by that, right? You’d be overwhelmed to read my latest best-seller before it’s published, wouldn’t you, Isabella?

I’m not impressed, Matthew. Trash it.

My finger hovers over Send.

How did Isabella put it? “You can’t send this, Matthew. You can do much better…”

I move the cursor down to the right. Discard draft.

Fuck, now what? “…start a new one…” she said. Oh God, I am so burned out. Even if I could, if I was inspired to, it would take me six months to crank out the first draft. Face it, Matthew, you either send Moon Drenched, or you start looking into a real estate career.

Over my dead body. I don’t work weekends.

Open Word. New Blank Document. Shit, shit, shit.

CHARACTERS: Umm. Maybe later. No, another priest. A real one this time. Think! Father…Father Michael. No, not Michael. God forbid. That would be like naming my main female character Isabelle…or Sylvia. Sorry Michael. Father Frank. Father Francis? Okay, for now that will work.

Solitary. Like me. Flesh him out. Where is he in his life? What drives him? His quest…for what?

I’ll do this if it kills me, if no one other than me ever reads a word of it.

Except for Isabella.

Tomorrow. Before she leaves I have to beg her to give me her number. That’s priority one. Why didn’t we have just a little more time here, my beautiful Isabella?

I push Isabella’s face from my mind with great difficulty and return my eyes to the screen. A woman. Involved somehow, maybe, with Father Francis.

Name…

 

Leaving Paradise

 Isabella

 

Stepping onto the polished wood floor at the bottom of the stairs I begin to do my goodbyes. A hug for Frank, who smiles warmly at me when we separate. Nothing overly-emotional on his part in response, which is more than I can say for his wife standing beside us in his chic, Vince Camuto pantsuit. Well, that’s how Michael is. Is that a tear I see in the corner of his eye? Gertie, biting her bottom lip, does have a tear in her eye. Good grief.

“When ya’ coming back, sweetheart?” she asks.

“Oh I don’t know. Maybe next Fall when the Aspens start to change color? Before the lake freezes? The day you text me and tell me Frank and Michael have booked here again.” I smile at that. Gertie shoots Michael a look.

Bernie is smiling his Papa-sad-smile. He nonchalantly takes hold of my hand and we walk out the door into a cool morning breeze that murmurs through the pines so, so softly. Maybe the single-most captivating sound of this magical place. Gentle spirits whose songs I’ll never ever forget.

Will I return, I think as I climb into the front of Bernie’s Land Rover? I don’t know. Honestly I don’t. What began as an ill-conceived attempt to wash Brad from my mind and heart quickly turned into