No Dark Valley (78 page)

And she looked chastened and said yes, yes, he was right, it wasn't a chance meeting at all but an appointed one. And forgetting about all the clichés, she said, which didn't matter anyway because they certainly wouldn't ever write their story for publication, in her opinion the two of them had more than enough differences to provide interest and variety.

They had already talked at some length about the ways they were alike—their mutual dislike of storms, for instance, the fact that they both drove Fords, their disapproval of sweet corn bread. They both loved the South, had moved to other fields of work outside their original college majors, and dreamed in color. And they had found out less than fifteen minutes ago that they were both fascinated by Eldeen Rafferty.

“By the way, did I ever tell you I had a grandfather who was a science teacher?” Celia asked Bruce. No, he said, and had he ever told her that his grandmother had been a portrait artist as a young woman and had a small gallery in Mississippi where she displayed her work?

But all the coincidences would never fly in a book, Celia pointed out. “I mean, two messed-up single people over thirty-five living in basement apartments right next door to each other and falling in love? Why, readers wouldn't stand for such tripe in a plot.”

Tripe? he said. How could she call reality tripe? And who was she calling messed up? Even if there was a little bit of truth in it, well, the world was full of messed-up people. The chances of two of them living next door to each other were enormous. He ought to know. He had taken math courses in probability.

“Well, besides all that,” Celia said, “another big reason we could never write our real-life story would be because of all the parts we'd want to leave out. A lot of readers want to see everything right out in the open, you know, and a lot of writers feel compelled to give it to them in living color.” She groaned. “You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've edited. No sense of subtlety—it all just slaps you in the face.”

Bruce nodded. “Yeah, same goes for plays and movies. The worst ones show it all.”

Readers would complain, Celia said, if the story wasn't finished. “They'd want to be seated in the front pew to observe every detail of the wedding. They'd want to stand by the car to throw rice and peek out from behind the curtains in the honeymoon suite. They'd want to know if we bought a house, how many kids we had, and on and on.”

“Well, hey, I can sympathize,” Bruce said. “I want to know those things, too.”

Celia laughed and related something she had read once about Kafka's story
Metamorphosis
, in which the main character turns into a gigantic insect. When the publisher was considering ideas for the cover art, someone suggested a picture of the insect, to which Kafka replied, “No, please, not
that
.” His point being that you had to leave certain critical parts to the reader's imagination.

“And
you
would never be a convincing male character in a book anyway,” Celia continued. “Nobody would ever believe a man like you could exist. It would all sound made up. And it would cause strife in homes everywhere. Women would be reading it out loud to their husbands, saying, ‘Why can't
you
be like that?' and you'd get calls from all kinds of men threatening your life.”

“But think of what a difference our story could make in marriages all across America,” Bruce said. “After our book hits the New York Times Best Seller list, then we'll start the talk-show circuit and . . .”

“Books about Christians don't hit the New York Times Best Seller list,” Celia said.

“Yeah, you got a point there,” Bruce said. They were pulling into the parking lot of Juno's now. He parked his truck, turned off the engine, then looked up into the sun. “Too bad it's not later in the day.”

“Why's that?”

“Because when we leave here, we'll be driving west.”

“And . . . ?”

“Well, that would make a great thing to stick in the ending somewhere—you know, driving off into the sunset and all.”

Celia shook her head. “Enough already.”

“No, one more thing. I have the perfect closing sentence for our book.”

She sighed. “What?”

“‘And they lived happily ever after.'”

She moaned.

Bruce smacked his palm with his fist. “No, think about it! Christians everywhere should rise up and reclaim that ending for their stories. We're the ones who really will live happily ever after. That's what eternal life is all about, right?”

One thing she knew for sure. Life was never going to be boring living with Bruce.

Bruce snapped his fingers. He also had an idea for a good title for their book, he said.

“You mean the one we're not going to write?”

Yes, that one, he said. To go along with the fairy tale ending, they could use something like
The Prince's Good Fortune
.

“The prince being you, I assume?”

Yes, he said, and the “good fortune” part could mean so many things—for starters, wasn't it in the opening sentence of
Pride and Prejudice
, something about a single man with a good fortune?

Celia nodded and held up her left hand. “Although, of course, you made a considerable dent in your good fortune when you bought this.”

But the word fortune went far beyond mere money, Bruce pointed out.
The Prince's Good Fortune
would be a wonderful, multidimensional title, including a spiritual reference to the fact that the title character was a son of the King, with a capital
K
. Furthermore, he hurried on, it would indicate a love story, since a prince would necessitate a princess.

“So I'm the good fortune in the title?” Celia asked, and when he nodded, said, “Okay, I don't mind being somebody's good fortune.”

And then there was the whole future implication of the word, too, he said, your fortune being your destiny, your ultimate success, and all that. “So there you go, we're back to living happily ever after. See, it's a great title.”

She smiled. “And it adds one more cliché to the pot—the title with tricky multiple meanings. That's something amateur writers really go in for.”

Bruce scowled. “You're a very critical woman, you know that? Very hard to please.”

Celia laughed. “Okay, you've got the title and ending. Now I'll do the beginning: ‘Once upon a time a tall, dark, handsome prince knocked on Celia's door and asked for a toilet plunger.'”

He suddenly grew serious. Was she sure, he wanted to know, that she could live with a man like him?

Celia appeared to be considering this. Well, to tell the truth, she said at length, she didn't see how she could live without him.

JAMIE LANGSTON TURNER has been a teacher for thirty-two years at both the elementary and college levels and has written extensively for a variety of periodicals, including
Faith for the Family
,
Moody
, and
The Christian Reader
. Her first novel,
Suncatchers
, was published in 1995. Born in Mississippi, Jamie has lived in the South all her life and currently resides with her husband and son in South Carolina, where she teaches creative writing and literature at Bob Jones University.

Books by
Jamie Langston Turner

Some Wildflower in My Heart

A Garden to Keep

No Dark Valley

Sometimes a Light Surprises

Winter Birds

Suncatchers

By the Light of a Thousand Stars