Morning Read Free

blissful months of painting woodwork and matching napkins to placemats, Sara had grown bored and had called on her old boss at Walpole and James for help. Donald James had gladly sent her work. In the past year she had edited a no-sugar-or-salt-or-alcohol cookbook, a nonfiction book about the slaughter of seals and whales, and a dreary novel about the end of the world. Jokingly, she had said to Donald, “Cheerful stuff you’re giving me to fill my days with,” and he had replied, “Cheerful? You want cheerful?” And he had given another Boston publishing house her name, more in jest than anything else.
    Heartways House, with a millionth the prestige of Walpole and James, but with more than five times the sales, specialized in paperback romances, the sort of books Sara had never even read before. To her surprise she found it a treat, like eating junk food, to edit these books, and for the past few months she had spent her days reading about lust, revenge, lace-covered bodices, heroines running from castles, dark-eyed mysterious men. The endings were all predictable—but at this point in her life she appreciated that.
    Her workroom was the living room (while the spare bedroom sat waiting for its baby). The manuscripts and notebooks and pencils were stacked neatly on a shelf in the bookcase. With a fresh cup of coffee on the table next to her, and an afghan pulled up over her knees, she settled down with the latest gothic from Heartways House. It was a lazy way to work, cozying up on the sofa, still in her nightgown and warm pink robe, but she loved it. No intrusions, no interruptions, no other people scurrying down a hallwayoutside the office, laughing, calling out, luring her mind from her work—just the warm silence of her house. Sunlight slanted through the windows, making a crazy quilt of dark and light squares on the faded ruby and azure Oriental carpet. Her body was still: no signs. She bent to her work.
Seraphina stood panting next to the mammoth wooden doors that led to the turret. The heavy brass keys were in her hand.
“Seraphina,” Errol called, “my darling! Let me out!”
Seraphina shuddered as fear and desire passed through her slender body like a flame. Should she let Errol out? Or should she run and fetch Jean-Paul? Which man was the murderer? Which man should she trust?
    Oh, for heaven’s sake, Seraphina, let poor old Errol out , Sara thought , sighing. We all know he’s the hero; he’s the one who’s got all the money and will inherit the castle .
    After a few more paragraphs (during which Seraphina let Errol out of the turret) Sara looked up, away from the manuscript. She stared out the window at the blue sky, but didn’t really see it. She was wondering whether when Seraphina and Errol got married they would have any trouble conceiving. That was the real mystery, the real adventure, Sara thought, getting a baby. But no, Seraphina would get pregnant right away and deliver a healthy baby boy, just like Princess Di. For some people it was as easy as slipping down a slide.
    She forced herself back to the manuscript. She had to be attentive, even with this writer, who was usually meticulous. Did she feel anything? Any twinge anywhere? No.
    She forced herself to concentrate.
    Errol, much to Seraphina’s (and Sara’s) surprise, once out of the turret, tied poor Seraphina up with rope and gagged her with his ascot, inflicting light bruises (and copping some feels, though the writer didn’t quite put it that way) as he did. Sara’s interest was whetted. She had been sure Errol was the good guy. She turned the page.
When I was twelve, I raised my own herd of polled registered Hereford for a 4-H project. I had five heifers who were old enough to be bred and to calve that year. I loved those heifers. I had a name for each of them. Myfather gave me one side of the barn just for them and I kept their stalls full of straw so fresh and golden that a princess could easily have spun it into gold; when the