Page 65 of Brian and Cora
Brian Bly
He shuffled to the next page, to the dedication, and had second thoughts about keeping something so vulnerable in this draft. It can go in the final draft. He stuffed the paper into his pocket.
"Brian!" Ant Gordon emerged from the Sweetwater Springs Herald office. His large frame would have filled the doorway, if the man hadn’t designed the doors to be higher than usual. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Three hundred and forty-seven pages of blood, sweat, and honesty," Brian confirmed.
The editor's eyes lit up. "Hot dang! Pardon my language. Delores!" He called to his secretary. "Clear your schedule. We've got Bly's book!"
Brian had met Delores Knickerbocker on a previous visit—a thin, efficient woman with steel-gray hair and fingers that flew over the typewriter keys like a pianist performing a concerto, although in a more staccato beat. She appeared now, spectacles perched on her nose.
"How soon do you need it typed?" she asked without preamble.
"As soon as possible. I'll pay extra for rush work."
"No need," Ant interjected. "I’m paying her. This is the story of the decade! And you arranged the contract with your publisher for us to serialize the book—the only newspaper in the country to do so."
The door across the hall opened, and Cora stepped out of the dressmaker's shop, winding a blue scarf around her neck. At the sight of him, she gasped and stopped.
She looked exactly as he'd pictured her a thousand times while writing—intelligent gray eyes, wisps of brown hair escaping from her practical bun, a determined chin he'd dreamed of kissing. But shadows that hadn’t been there before smudged the skin under her eyes, and she seemed thinner, honed, perhaps.
"Brian?" Her gaze dropped to the manuscript in his hands. "Is that your book?"
He nodded, words deserting him. This wasn't how their meeting was supposed to happen. He had planned to have the manuscript typed and bound, for himself to be clean-shaven and well-dressed. He wanted to present the book to her when it contained the flowery dedication that currently burned a hole in his pocket.
"You finished your book and didn't even tell me?" Hurt flashed across her face. "I thought I was part of... of..." She spun and fled.
"You are!" he called, but the door had already slammed behind her.
Fool. You absolute fool.
In that moment, Brian realized not only had his romantic plan just gone up in smoke, but that he had the wrong plan in the first place. He'd been so focused striving toward a perfect moment that he'd forgotten the most important thing: including Cora in the journey. He thrust the manuscript at Ant and raced after Cora.
The street was empty in both directions, with snow beginning to fall more heavily. She must have gone home. He started down the street, then stopped. He had no idea where Andre Bellaire lived.
Cursing his stupidity, he rushed back inside.
In the inner office, Ant and Delores were bent over his manuscript on the large desk, already absorbed in the first pages.
"I need to know where the Bellaire house is located," he said desperately. "Now."
Ant looked up, took in Brian's wild expression, and quickly rattled off directions. "Two blocks north, three west. Go left. Big pinkish-brown stone house with the tower. Can't miss it."
Brian dashed out the door before the man finished speaking.
Marshal, patient despite the cold, stood tied to the hitching rail. He swung into the saddle and urged the horse through the snowy streets, his mind racing faster than the gelding's hooves.
What should I say? How should I explain? All those months of silence when he could have written, could have sent word through Hank, or could have done something to let her know she haunted his every thought.
The Bellaire mansion rose before him like something from a fairy tale—all pink-brown rough-cut stone, copper trim and elegant windows. Brian tied Marshal to the post and took thesteps two at a time. "Cora Collier!" He pounded on one of the double doors. "I'm not leaving until you hear me out!"
The door opened to reveal a dignified Negro butler with white hair and an impassive expression. "Miss Cora is unwell and not accepting visitors," he intoned.
Brian's heart sank, but he refused to slink away.
Before he could plead his case, from within, a man called. "Now, Rufus,” he said in a Southern drawl, “let's hear what the man has to say."
The man appeared, who with his flowing white-and-amber streaked hair and elegant clothing, could only be Andre Bellaire. He surveyed Brian with shrewd hazel eyes. Even in his desperate state, Brian was aware of how much he owed this man—the cabin improvements, the furnishings, and Cora's presence in his life.
