Romance: Catching Helena Handbasket Read online

  Catching

  Helena Handbasket

  by

  Lily Flowers

  Copyright © 2015 by Lily Flowers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles or review.

  First edition, 2015

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter One

  Today was the first day of the rest of her life; which, depending on one’s point of view, could be pretty blasted problematic—if not downright depressing.

  True, Helena Vance could at least rejoice in the fact that she was leaving behind her quaint hometown of Murphy, Indiana (population: 50—and she was passing sure that none of those 50 people knew just who the heck Murphy was), to claim a spacious apartment and the job of her dreams in New York City.

  “Well, in the eyes of a gal that once shared a dilapidated farmhouse with six sisters, two parents and a pet goat, any residence that allows me to enjoy my own bathroom and a working trash compactor could be considered spacious,” she reasoned. “And I’m sure the position of junior level fiction editor in the mailroom at a NYC publishing house is someone’s idea of a dream job. In the eyes of a gal who worked her way through Drysdale U as head bun dresser at Murphy’s Weiner Mecca, it is indeed a cushy and exalted position.”

  And of course, she reasoned, the NYC social scene could be her playground; giving her the opportunity to expand her dating pool beyond the few available males currently residing in Murphy, Ind.—most of whom boasted very few of their own teeth and birthdates that predated the 1940s.

  “If he has at least some of his own hair and can drive at night,” she mused, running a self-conscious hand through her own mussy mass of dirty blonde locks, “We’re good to go.”

  Before she dipped her toe into the NYC dating pool, however, she first had to concentrate on getting settled in at Elmhurst Publishing; a place where she would actually get paid to edit the brand of schmaltzy romance fiction she used to mock openly in school.

  “Who bothers to read romance these days anyway?” she scoffed, settling into the back seat of the sharp yellow Taxi that would take her to her new workplace. “Still, I should have much fun mocking the improbable conflicts and incessant ‘meet cute situations’ found frequently in these books—only this time while I do so, I just have to check that the author has a decent hold on his/her pronoun usage, crosses her t’s and dots her I’s, and actually knows the difference between and the appropriate usage of ‘lie’ and ‘lay’—an especially important distinction in the romance genre, I venture to guess.”

  As she further considered this and related concepts, Helena barely noticed when her appointed taxi came to a dead stop about two blocks short of its destination—and in front of a news stand cleverly titled Ronald’s Reads.

  “Um, Sir?” she arched her eyebrows in the direction of the grey haired, rather grizzled gentleman hired to deliver her to an altogether different destination. “I know I asked you to drive slowly so I could take in the sights—but the odometer currently reads roughly 0 miles per hour—and we’ve stopped, not at the helm of the Statue of Liberty, but in front a place that sells books, not produces them.”

  The driver nodded.

  “Sorry, Ma’am,” he apologized, adding with a shrug, “The problem is that my engine is making an awful noise, indicating that my car here is about to break down—and I’m dropping you in front of the news stand because I do believe they sell umbrellas.”

  “Umbrellas?” Helena repeated, adding with a quick glance out the back window of the now defunct taxi cab, “I mean I know it looks a little grey outside, but the weather forecast predicted a nice, temperate day overall….”

  Helena stopped short as a second look out the cab’s back window produced a different vision altogether: The sight of a fresh torrent of fast pouring rain, hitting the street below it with raw ferocity.

  Ten minutes later she found herself also pounding the pavement—and in heels that were decidedly not designed to withstand the elements.

  As she made her way toward the illusive Fourth Street address that marked the location of her new workplace, Helena clutched in her wind roughened hands two new purchases procured with haste at Ronald’s Reads; one of them the brisk lime green umbrella that kept wrenching back with the force of the wind, thus exposing her hair and face (which she’d actually bothered to make up that day with the aid of some cosmetics procured at an airport store known as the Beauty Bayou—which, despite its sublimely cheesy name, still managed to claim three quarters of her final check from Murphy’s Weiner Mecca) to the continuing onslaught of pouring rain that showed little sign of abatement, the other a freshly minted hardcover copy of Hillary Clinton’s new autobiography—which, considering its current exposure to the elements, she hoped would prove just as tough and resilient as its central subject.

  “At least I’ve got plenty of time before my interview,” she mused, checking her watch before taking a cursory glance at the black heels that carried her—just barely—along the route of her precarious journey. “Good thing, as these boots weren’t made for walkin’, with all apologies to Nancy Sinatra for the slightly misplaced reference.”

  Her gaze shot upward as she took note of a beautiful stone cast monument; a tall beacon of dignity and majesty that seemed to hold court on the roadside. Helena stopped stock still for a moment, staring in sheer wonder at the clock’s superior architecture and impressive brass-rimmed face; which, somewhat less impressively, displayed a time that was 20 minutes past the hour reflected on her watch—a graduation gift from her parents.

  “I kept promising myself I’d buy that new watch battery,” she mused between gritted teeth, taking off in a dead run in the direction of a nearby building marked Elmhurst Publishing.

  Her delicate shoes slowly losing traction on the surface of the sidewalk, Helena soon stumbled into a long, slick side that collided her flailing, fully formed body against the surface of a brick wall.

  Or at least she thought it was a brick wall; but when said wall extended two strong arms to catch her up in a protective embrace, she found out otherwise.

  Holding and steadying her on the surface of the pavement was something out of a dream: a tall, muscular gent with bronzed skin, chiseled features, and pure azure eyes filled with concern for the woman he held in his arms.

  “He also seems to be one of those annoying people who looks really good wet,” she sniffed, noticing the way that his thick mane of midnight black hair shone like ebony gold in the midst of the rain; an element that also coated and served to highlight his carved cheekbones, full, thick lips and adorable cleft chin.

  “Criminy!” she bellowed outright, bracing her hands on his muscular shoulders as her umbrella and book clattered to the ground. “I always heard that NYC guys were hotter than most�
�but if I knew they grew ‘em like you around here, I would have relocated a heck of a lot sooner!”

  Pitching his regal head back with a smooth, sonorous laugh, the handsome stranger released her waist—much to her keen and acute disappointment. Yet she did appreciate it seconds later, as he retrieved and returned the book and umbrella that had fallen to the pavement below them.

  “Thank you for all the compliments, Miss, and may I give you one in return?” he asked, arching his feathered eyebrows in her direction.

  “Why sure,” Helena said immediately, drawing herself up as she anticipated a much required compliment.

  The stranger beamed.

  “You have great taste in reading material,” he praised, gesturing broadly toward her new book. “That new Hillary Clinton book is nothing short of excellent.”

  “Oh,” Helena’s shoulders slumped, then shrugged in a noncommittal manner. “Well she’s always been my idol—and I thought that, in the midst of all the trash I’m going to have to read every day at my new job, this book could prove a welcome distraction; it might even save my sanity.”

  The stranger nodded.

  “And just what type and category of job would require a person to read really bad books on a daily basis?” Again with those blasted arching eyebrows.

  Instead of offering him a verbal response, Helena made a broad gesture toward the tall, crystalline paned building before them; one with an auspicious brass lettered sign that read Elmhurst Publishing.

  “I’m now a new fiction editor at Elmhurst Publishing,” she informed him, adding with an overstated waggle of her own blasted eyebrows, “In the Romance genre, my luv. I just have to get in there, dry myself off and fix myself up before I meet my new boss.”

  Nodding, the stranger ran forward to open the door of Elmhurst Publishing; watching with a smile as a charmed Helena preceded him inside.

  “You’ve been too wonderful,” she praised him, reaching forward to plant a soft kiss on the carved cheek of her brave rescuer. “And as much as I hate to, I should probably let you go now—you probably have to get to your own job this morning.”

  The stranger grinned.

  “Well actually Helena, I’m already at work,” he told her. “And, as it turns out, I’ve just met my new employee.”

  With a smooth flourish he offered her his hand, announcing as he did so, “Trey Lawrence here. I’m editor in chief at Elmhurst Publishing.”

  Beaming brightly in response, Helena replied, “Helena Vance, here. I’m soon to be the recipient of unemployment benefits and assorted social services.”

  Chapter Two

  “So dear, how is your first day of work going?”

  “Oh, you mean aside from the fact that the cab broke down en route, I got soaked to my proverbial skin walking the rest of the way—well, actually running, when I realized that, technically, I was already late for work.”

  “No!” Miriam Vance released this single word on a low, frustrated whimper; one that Helena had grown all too accustomed to hearing during the course and span of her adolescent years—and, OK, a little ways into her teens, as well. Hey, the blooming and blossoming years of a purposeful young woman were always a challenge, to everyone involved. “Tell me it gets better from this point.”

  Seated in a glorified cubbyhole described to her somewhat skeptical ears as a ‘private office,’ Helena Vance shook her head in response to her mother’s question—then pondered just what an ineffectual move this was to make over the telephone.

  “Not from this point, no,” she continued between gritted teeth, adding with a cringe, “As I was making the mad final dash that would take me to the door to my future, humming the theme from ‘Chariots of Fire’ all the while, I actually managed to slip on the sidewalk.”

  “No!” Miriam’s voice now heightened to an almost inaudible level—Helena was quite certain, in fact, that canines on neighboring continents could likely hear and feel her mother’s pain. “Please tell me someone came to my baby’s rescue.”

  Miriam nodded—then again chided herself for making a nonverbal gesture during the course of a telephone conversation.

  “Oh yes, somebody came along all right—a very strong and handsome someone who caught me before I could fall,” she told her mother, adding with a smile, “He even listened, kindly and patiently, while I decried the nature of the job I was rushing to attend—one in which I would be paid to read trash, day in and day out.”

  Her grin broadened seconds later, as her mother’s mood seemed to shift entirely—expressing itself in a very unmomlike pronounced declaration of “Woo-hoo!”

  “So your first day in New York City and you meet a hot, muscular New York businessman—you go, Girl!” Miriam declared, adding in a breathless, near frantic tone, “Did you get his phone number? His annual income level? Where does he work? Does he happen to hold an executive position at his place of business?”

  “Ma, ma!” Helena interrupted, her own tone laced with just a hint of genuine concern. “Have you taken your heart meds and your melatonin tablets this morning? Anyway, the good news is that the hunk who saved me from sustaining one or more major limb breaks does indeed hold an executive position at his place of business. And I do indeed have his number here in my every trusty Hello Kitty address book. His work number, at least. He turned out to be my boss, the executive editor at Elmhurst Publishing.”

  A long, cold silence met her last words; suddenly she wondered if her poor, stunned mother could still be counted among the ranks of the living.

  “So you basically told your boss, right to his face and on the first day of your new job, that the books he publishes are trash,” Miriam said finally, tone matter of fact if a bit astounded.

  “Yes, indeedy! I sure did,” Helena affirmed, pumping her fist in the air for emphasis. “He just happens to be the same man that’s standing in my office right now, watching me talk to you on the phone when I probably should be working.”

  Miriam sighed.

  “I’ll keep you in my prayers, dear,” she told her daughter, adding a lower, confidential tone, “I’ll also put your currently unemployed cousin Jeffrey on notice that you might be needing your own room back here at home. And I’ll put your Wonder Woman comforter and throw pillows in the wash, so they’ll be ready to reapply to your bed set should you have to make a quick return home…you know, for any reason.”

  “You do that Mom,” Helena replied, adding on an extended sigh, “Gotta go now. Talk to you soon.”

  Hitting the ‘off’ button on her cellular phone—and, she figured, on the general course of her career track and true life’s destiny—she threw the phone into her open handbag, which sat square in the middle of her small but polished cherry wood desk.

  “Hey Mr. Lawrence—wasn’t that the name of a cultish David Bowie flick or something?” she arched her eyebrows, adding as she reclined back onto the cushions of a ruby red desk chair that she was pretty sure would be confiscated from her possession at any given moment, “Anyway, after blatantly insulting the source of your livelihood and chatting on the phone during work hours, you’re probably here to request that I clean my desk out, ASAP if not sooner.” She paused here, frowning as she contemplated her last words. “Is there indeed a promised and proposed timeframe faster than ASAP? No matter, Boss. I haven’t had time this morning to unpack my personal belongings into my desk—therefore, I should be able to move my shapely butt out of here by lunchtime…”

  “It’s already lunchtime—ten minutes past, in fact,” Trey interrupted, grinning broadly. “You can call anyone you so desire on your free time—especially after you’ve spent the duration of the morning doing downright spectacular work.”

  Helena froze.

  “Well, thank you,” she stuttered, adding with a shrug, “I’ve only edited one story so far, that ever memorable piece of mommy porn titled ‘Eleven Shades of Lime Green’—is that title even remotely accurate, by the way? I mean, lime green is in itself a shade of green…”

/>   Trey chuckled.

  “It’s a downright dreadful title meant to cash in on the success of a mainstream hit,” he clarified, folding his arms before him.

  Helena nodded.

  “I believe I am aware of the very mainstream hit to which you refer,” she declared, adding as she wrinkled her nose, “Do you really think we need more than one of that particular mainstream hit?”

  Trey thought a moment, then shook his head.

  “No,” he said, tone final and decisive. “I think the type of stories that we need to see more of, dear Helena, are those that feature strong heroines and stronger storylines, and that offer up a sound command of the English language—just to show that the author studies the modern English dictionary just as strenuously as they do the Kama Sutra. This is the story that you delivered today—and I for one am ecstatically glad that I hired you.”

  Helena nodded.

  “Coolness,” she affirmed, flashing him with a spirited thumbs up sign. “And I must admit that I am equally pleased to be working here. I mean, regardless of what I said earlier about the content of some of your books, I could tell by reading your first manuscript that you did have an eye for a good storyline and some mighty interesting ideas—plus those love scenes are…” she paused here, adding as she felt her cheeks flush what she supposed was an unnatural shade of beet red, “…compelling. That’s the word for them. I feel very, um, compelled, as I read them.”

  Trey chuckled.

  “It’s OK to admit that you enjoy a good romance, Helena—or maybe even a not so good romance that has some steamy scenes and a hunk on the cover,” he winked.

  Helena cleared her throat.

  “You have hunks on your covers?” she arched her eyebrows. “I mean, I didn’t notice the alleged hunk on the cover of the manuscript I reviewed today.”