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“Sawyer is such a hard man. With everybody except Charlotte. They loved so passionately, and it was the kind of love that even death couldn’t destroy. When they hanged him for his crimes, he was thinking about…”
Her voice trailed off. Embarrassed, she gave a slight shrug. “Forgive me, Parker. I guess you can tell how much I love that novel.”
“You talk about the characters as though they’re real.”
“Noah did such a fantastic job of drawing them that sometimes I forget they’re fiction. I actual
ly start missing them. When I do, I open my copy to any page and read a few paragraphs, and it’s like I’ve visited them.”
“Didn’t they make a movie?”
“It was junk that didn’t do the book justice. But to be fair to the movie makers, I don’t think any movie could have. Some critics touted The Vanquished as the best historical novel since Gone with the Wind.”
“Strong praise.”
“But, in my opinion, warranted.”
“So what’d he follow it with?”
“He didn’t.” Her exuberance waned considerably. “Noah got very involved with publishing The Vanquished and decided that his calling was in that arena, not writing. And, I suppose, when your debut novel receives such critical and popular acclaim, the thought of following it with something equally good is daunting. Even terrifying. He never wrote again. Not until recently.”
Parker’s gaze sharpened. “He’s writing again?”
“He’s set up an office specifically for that purpose. I’m very pleased.”
But she didn’t look very pleased, or even moderately pleased. A shallow but distinct vertical line had formed between her eyebrows. Parker doubted she realized how revealing her facial expressions were or she would school them better.
After a quiet moment, he asked, “What other fictional characters have played key roles in your fantasies?”
“Several,” she admitted with a light laugh. “But none to the extent of Sawyer Bennington.”
Parker leaned forward in his chair and spoke only loud enough to be heard above the pounding rain. “Maris? Is it remotely possible that you fell in love with the character and not the author?”
Her expression turned angry, but the anger came and went with the speed of a lightning flash. She smiled with chagrin. “Considering the way I’ve carried on about Sawyer, I suppose that’s a fair question. I’ve had authors tell me that readers frequently superimpose them onto a character they’ve created, and that when readers meet them at book signings, they’re disappointed to find that they’re ordinary people. They don’t live up to the larger-than-life image the reader had formed of them.”
“Good discourse, but it didn’t answer any question.”
Her irritation returned. “Don’t be ridiculous. I fell in love with my husband. His talent first and then the man himself. I’m still in love with him.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “What was he thinking?”
“Who, Noah?”
He shook his head. “The hero of the book. Sawyer. You said when they hanged him he was thinking…”
“Oh. He was thinking about the first time he saw Charlotte.”
She hesitated, but Parker motioned for her to continue.
“Noah wrote that passage so vividly, with such detail, that I could see the orchard, smell the ripening fruit, feel the heat. Sawyer had been traveling for days, remember? He comes upon Charlotte’s family’s farm, where he hopes to get water for himself and his horse.
“No one is around, the place seems deserted. But as he makes his way toward the water trough, he spots Charlotte sleeping on a pallet of quilts in the shade of a peach tree. A baby is sleeping beside her. Sawyer assumes the child is hers.” Maris smiled and added softly, “He’s glad to learn later that the child is her baby brother.”
Parker was entranced by the cadence of her voice. He felt himself being pulled into the scene.
“Charlotte is the most beautiful woman Sawyer has ever seen. Her long hair was unbound. Descriptions of it, her complexion, her lips, go on for paragraphs. Because of the heat, she had raised her dress as high as her knees, and she’s barefoot. Sawyer is a lusty young man. Seeing her bare calf and foot inflames him. She might just as well have been naked. He’s fascinated by the breathing motion of her bosom. And yet, there’s a reverent aspect to his admiration of her, as though she were as untouchable as the Madonna.
“He should have been a gentleman and politely withdrawn the moment he saw her. Instead, he stays and gazes at her until he hears a wagon approaching, announcing the return of her family, who had gone into town for supplies.
