Sunday Kind of Love Read Free Page A

for all Kent’s many attributes, he was fiercely driven to succeed. He was the son of Thomas Brookings, a wealthy industrialist, but rather than coast along on his father’s coattails, Kent desperately wanted to make his own way. After earning his law degree and passing the bar exam, he’d joined the firm of Woodrell, Hamilton, Carr & Wilkinson, one of the most successful, prestigious outfits in all of Chicago. Soon Kent was working impossible hours, burning the candle at both ends, doing whatever was asked of him in order to make a strong impression.
    Through it all, Gwen had tried to remain supportive. Every time she got stood up for dinner, was left standing alone outside a movie theater, or felt a bit lonely because of his absence, she tried to put it all in perspective. Besides, it wasn’t as if they did nothing together: they attended the lavish parties thrown by Kent’s firm, where Gwen wore pretty dresses and strings of pearls; they boated on Lake Michigan with his friends; and they drove through the city in his Oldsmobile 98 Starfire, fresh off the assembly line.
    Kent was aware of her hurt feelings. Often, when he was forced to work late, he would apologize by sending a bouquet of flowers or by writing the sweetest letters. Gwen knew that he truly cared for her, that he loved her; Kent Brookings was the first and only man who had spoken those three magical words to her. But Gwen still couldn’t help but wonder what came first in his life, her or his career. Sometimes she suspected that she didn’t really want to know the answer.
    But his wasn’t the only career causing problems between them.
      
    When Gwen had started taking classes at Worthington, she’d liked most of her subjects, math and piano lessons notwithstanding. But writing had been her absolute favorite from her very first attempt at telling a story. Gwen had marveled at how easily she could make her characters fall in love, lie through their teeth, fight for what they believed in, even live or die. She agonized over getting each word just right; sometimes she couldn’t sleep until everything was exactly how she wanted it.
    From the beginning, Gwen had had encouragement. Her English teacher, Dwight Wirtz, was a balding man with a bright red beard and a habit of quoting Shakespeare in a deep, theatrical voice. He pushed Gwen to get better with a word of praise here, a criticism there. During her second year in his class, Mr. Wirtz suggested that she submit a short story to a magazine.
    “I…I can’t…” she’d replied with a shake of her head. “What if I’m rejected?”
    Mr. Wirtz had taken off his glasses and given her a patient smile. “Then you try again, my dear. Success in life rarely comes without a measure of failure.”
    Incredibly, Gwen’s work had been accepted; seeing her story in print had been one of the greatest moments of her life. When she’d told her parents about her accomplishment, they had gushed with pride, even if, as their daughter suspected, they couldn’t quite understand her love of the written word.
    As the years passed, writing had become her passion. Everywhere Gwen went, she saw a story just waiting to be told. It was in the sights, sounds, and even smells of a busy city street. It was in the clink of glasses and silverware in a restaurant. It could be found in the conversations she overheard; that was one of the reasons she’d been so interested in the businessman back in the train station. Writing about events as they actually happened, the type of investigative journalism found in a newspaper, appealed to her every bit as much as spinning tales of make-believe. Words were all around her all the time, ready to be put down on paper. Gwen could no more deny her urge to write than she could ignore the sun in the sky.
    The problem was Kent.
    When Gwen had first told him of her interest in becoming a writer, she’d hoped he would be supportive, that he might even have some suggestions about how she might