SO FAR:
A still grieving widow Carson Robertson hospitalizes in a vehicle accident the author of the bumbling detective book series that is growing in popularity, Guilty at injuring the creator of the fabulous character Jessie Chicago, Carson takes Harry Truscott into her home to help in his rehabilitation. Harry has a broken shoulder that is encased in a gunslinger brace. Carson reads back copies of the series and finds she is beginning to share the persona of Jessie Chicago and is influenced by Harry suggesting she ought to lace herself with more 'bite' -- he calls it mongrel. Carson's niece Sara and Carson create a website they link to the new Jessie Chicago fan club in Chicago; the article announces that the missing author is alive and well and is working on the hotly awaited twelfth book in the series in which Jessie is expected to propose marriage to the Bumbling Detective.
*
With baby Lydia asleep and author Harry Truscott and her niece Sara George away at the gym, Harry's hostess and benefactor Carson Robertson poured a coffee and began reading
The Bumbling Detective Duels with Baron Von Hoff
.
It was selective reading of course, a piece centered on Jessie Chicago's fears as master swordsman Baron Von Hoff crosses blades with the bumbling Diomedes who is about to be carved up like a roast unless he puts aside his personal code of conduct, draws out his .38 Smith and Wesson Special and shoots the villain.
During that quiet time, tears dampening her cheeks, Carson came to realize what Sara had attempted to tell her: The over-riding thing that Jessie Chicago had that Carson didn't was passion. Jessie had it galore, enough for two people.
Carson put the book down. She was doomed to remain an ageing Barbie Doll -- good gracious, did Sara really have to say ageing -- if she truly lacked passion. Her one hope was perhaps she did have passion but had never learned to release it. Barbie dolls! Carson had never been into them, but her Molly and Susan had been dolls of character. Dolls with passion? No, they were always perfectly behaved. Carson wasn't sure if she preferred the word bitch or the word mongrel -- both were pretty repulsive. But if that's what it took to drive passion out of her then she'd have to find the switch.
One niggle remained -- what if she could become something like Jessie Chicago -- her friends would probably think she was on drugs. Did that matter? No! Her mom was to be blamed for creating the Barbie Doll likeness, ruminated Carson, an edge of resentment running through her belly. Her mother always wanted Carson to be so good and made it so difficult for her to resist her mother's persuasive charm.
The deceitful bitch -- all she wanted was to hear her friends say her daughter was such an adorable child. With resentment rising, Carson hadn't been aware that she's just tagged her mother with an awful word she never used. 'Bother' and if really wound up, 'damn' were about tops for sweet-mouthed Carson, who'd rate as the perfect antithesis in character to Jessie Chicago.
Picking up the phone Carson began calling friends -- she decided to host an impromptu barbecue party beside the pool tomorrow night. Her parties were legendary -- everything was always so nice, the people so well-behaved. A very predictable Mrs Barbie party.
"Grrrrrr," growled Carson aloud. "Let's try to let out the mongrel."
Sara came in first, her tights almost dripping sweat.
Carson was about to frown and say, 'Darling, perhaps it would be best if you shower before coming home' but caught herself. "Oh, look at that lovely sweat, darling; you must have thrown yourself into it this morning." Sara gave her a peculiar look and said something about going to shower.
Harry came in, red-faced and still perspiring. Carson walked over and kissed him, saying, "Did you give it heaps this morning, Harry. Come, I'll help you shower."
"Nice try, you sound almost authentic."
"Get into the fucking shower!" yelled Carson, pointing at the door to his bedroom. She did her best to look furious.
"Sorry, baby. But my mind is made up; I'll not try to touch that body of yours until I'm rid of this brace."
"Oh men!" wailed Carson, and stomped off to her bedroom, slamming the door.
Harry stood, mouth open, scratched his head with his good arm and went to shower.
Lydia began crying.
Thirty minutes later Carson came out, announced Lydia was asleep and told Harry she could put a couple of hours in working with him before she went shopping. Harry offered to accompany her shopping but Carson said no, quite defensively, he thought, unable to figure out why.
Harry and Carson were moving along quite well with the new novel, which was half completed when Carson took over on the keyboard. She resolved that she was not comment on Harry's dictation -- she was simply there to hit the keys and correct literals; it was, after all, his book.
Being soft by natural, Carson found it fairly easy not to interfere. Temptation to comment critically came only when they were working on the best part -- the red-head Jessie herself, especially during introspective musings. Harry would utter some uncharacteristic thought, quite unlike Jessie would think, but before Carson could type those words he'd call 'halt', and reword that passage. Eventually Carson had to concede that Harry knew Jessie better than she did, as he possessed future action thoughts about Jessie.
Initially the team -- Harry dictating and Carson keying in the words -- was anything but a team. Harry was unused to dictating and changes were rife.
"This is hopeless, it won't work," Harry had said. "With all these interruptions to correct myself, my thoughts are just not flowing on to screen."
Harry was sitting right up against Carson, she found this very acceptable. She could smell him -- his signature odor. It was very masculine and without doubt pleasant. She wondered if she could smell her womanly scent -- she believed that was what her natural body odor was called -- through her perfume? If he did, he gave no sign of it like...like what? As if sniffing the air.
Oh God, what was she thinking!
She was becoming interested in sex again, and knew it, and not only because of erotic dreams. A couple of days ago she'd seen a man, working on ripping off covering on a pitch roof, stop, and take off his shirt. The site of bared, sweaty flesh caught in the morning sunshine had stirred her.
During her mourning, sex had been the last thing on her mind, and during times of depression she'd often thought she would never be with another man again -- not after Philip, he was so special. That preparedness to remain celibate in tribute to Philip nosedived at a small party once evening. Sally Quirk, who rather away on gin, mentioned the company's assistant general manager was also missing Philip.
"Why?" asked Carson, with enough sparkling wine aboard to retort before she thought.
"Because they occasionally were at it."
They'd both giggled until Carson comprehended what she was giggling about. She was devastated, sank to the floor in a heap and had to be put to bed. Everyone thought it was post-death syndrome -- that she was at a social function and realized Philip was not there alongside her.
Carson has left her bed thick-headed next morning, ready to feed Lydia, absolutely determined to pull her money out of the company. It was either that or getting the adulterous woman fired, but that woman had a child and out-of-work husband to support.
Harry had returned from a nervous visit to the toilet.
"Harry, you are sitting all hunched up by me, looking at each word as I type it, this can't be a creative way of doing this. Why don't you try walking around the room, hands in pockets, looking at the carpet, looking out of the window -- looking anywhere but at me and the computer? Just walk and talk." Miraculously, that worked. They made great progress that day on
The Bumbling Detective Considers Jessie Chicago's Offer of Marriage
.
Carson loved that title. Harry explained that the publisher wouldn't want such a long title, but the executives could go to Hell; either they accepted that title or no book.
"I can't imagine publishers accepting ultimatums, Harry, not even if you were an A-list author.
"Well, it sometimes pays to have a bit of mongrel in you, Carson. You know that, the jerk Diomedes Mantell doesn't but you know who does, don't you Carson?"
Carson knew Jessie Chicago did; Jessie had mongrel when it counted. By having that she's managed to get them out of tight corners time and time again. Mongrel, eh. That's never come to the surface with Harry before, and she'd never heard him refer to Diomedes Mantell in such an uncomplimentary way before. He called Diomedes a jerk!
Oh oh!
Carson clamped a hand over her mouth to cut off an anguished scream. She knew why Harry had just admitted something to her, in a very obtuse way...Diomedes the jerk was going to reject Jess's proposal of marriage!
Carson began to cry; she didn't want to cry but the tears still came.
"Oh Carson, Carson -- what's wrong?" called Harry, coming to her and placing his good arm around her. "Oh, you're shaking. Is it Philip?"
"Don't do it; don't do it Harry," she said, running from the room.
