The Perfect Happiness(7)
“So, now I get to talk to the authoress,” said Jack, turning his heavy gaze on her as if she was the only woman in the room he wanted to talk to. She noticed the deep lines around his mouth and across his temples, slicing through his rough and weathered skin as he smiled, and felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time: the stirring of tiny bees’ wings in her stomach. “What sort of books do you write?”
“Fantasy novels for children. Probably not your thing, unless you’re into sorcery and time travel.”
“I’m definitely into those. I love Tolkien, and I’ve read all the Harry Potters. I suppose I’m just a big kid.”
“Most men are. The only thing that changes as they grow up is the cost of their toys.” He laughed and the crow’s feet deepened across his temples. “They’re a bit of fun, that’s all,” she added modestly.
“Children’s books are far harder to write than adult fiction.”
“I think I’m just too fanciful to stick to reality.”
“Which writer is your role model?”
“I’d hate to sound like I’m comparing myself to the greats. But I suppose I aspire to be Philip Pullman in the same way a painter aspires to be Michelangelo!”
“It’s good to aim high. If you focus hard enough on your goal, I’m sure you’ll get there. Philip Pullman’s a genius. Your imagination must be exceedingly fertile.”
“You have no idea.” She laughed. “I get lost in there sometimes.”
“I’d like to get lost in there, too. Real life is way too real most of the time.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s a place for a man like you.”
“Why not?”
“Far too fluffy. You have to swim through an awful lot of cotton wool to get to it.”
“I’m a good swimmer.” He smiled, running his eyes over her features appreciatively. “What name do you write under?”
“Angelica Garner. My maiden name.”
“I’ll look out for your books. I need a good book for the journey home.”
She blushed with pleasure. “So, what do you read?”
“While I’m on the porch?”
“While you’re on the porch.”
“Lots, simultaneously. I have books in every room of the house. I like mystery, adventure, love.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Love?”
“I have a strong feminine side.” He pulled a soppy face.
“Now that surprises me.”
“Why? A book without love is like a desert without flowers.” His gaze grew intense. “What is more important in life than love? It’s what it’s all about. Why we’re all here, and, when we go, it’s all we take with us.”
“Well, I agree with you, of course.” She was stunned by the emotion in his words.
“I’m a frustrated writer,” he confessed sheepishly, playing with his spoon. “Never had anything published, though. Not for want of trying.”
“What have you written?”
“Rubbish, clearly.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I’m Jack of all trades, master of none.”
“What are the other trades, besides writing?”
“There was a time in my youth when I wanted to be a pop star.” He pulled a face, anticipating her amusement. “I had long shaggy hair and leather trousers and smoked joints while I strummed my guitar. Now I make wine.”
“Not a poet then.” He gave her a quizzical look. “‘A book without love is like a desert without flowers.’”
He laughed and shook his head. “Just a hopeless old romantic.”
She watched him help himself to food, admiring the leonine strength in his profile, the big, pawlike quality to his hands, the very male ruggedness of his skin—so unlike Olivier’s polished European glamour—and wished the night could go on forever.
“Do you have a vineyard in South Africa?”
“How well do you know South Africa?”
“I’ve never been.”
He looked surprised. “Then you must come. I own a beautiful vineyard called Rosenbosch in Franschhoek. You would love it. You can set your next novel there.”
“I need something to inspire me. I’m growing tired of what I do. Right now I’m considering doing something a little different.”
“Which is?”
She hesitated. Olivier teased her about her fascination with the esoteric; she didn’t want to look foolish in front of Jack. “I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss it,” she replied, embarrassed.
“A love story?”
“No.”
“Murder mystery?”