| To my dear readers, This is to all of you, who have written me so faithfully these past months. I haven't been able to write back, and I apologize. I have yet to update the e-mail list, *sorry*. Love, Luck, and Luna, Crystal Heart Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but this story is mine. A Romantic Story By Crystal Heart The first time Serena Gibbons saw Darien Krest, she knew she'd fallen in love. At the time, she also thought love was simply some fairytale thing that worked out for perfect people like her. Like always, she was soon corrected of the notion, and Darien Krest graduated, and like all creative minds trapped in small town America, he fled as far as he could. Harvard. Like all heroines of romantic stories, Serena decided that crushing on guys was a big waste of time, and stopped. She studied hard, because she didn't care to participate in trivial things like a social life. She graduated as well, not surprisingly, at the top of her class. SHE went to MIT. So now Serena's got a comfortable degree in chemical engineering, and a very comfortable job with Gilette. So Serena is pretty much set. But like all heroines, she now realizes that she's missing something in her life. She has friends. She has Katorque and Luna, her cats. Too many cats. Somewhere, something went wrong. Is she, at 22, already an old maid? Of course, now is not a sane time to ask. She's at HOME, visiting. Worst time to go through self-evaluation. Suddenly, it all makes sense: don't do engineering! She doesn't act then; she has to find her direction first. She quits her $100,000 a year job six months later, after garnering some nice money to "get by on" for the next few months, before her first hit is on the bestseller list. The hero of our story is Darien Krest, and he's a lawyer. A rotten kind of lawyer. The kind that defines slime. He's horribly handsome, and very intelligent, as all heroes should be. However, he only uses these tools for the wrong things. So Darien's at this big social thing. It's Christmas. Like all handsome heroes, he's dressed sharply in a black tux that makes him look sexy. Serena, meanwhile, is inspired, and proceeds to write furiously this night, in her home, which is just a street away from where Darien is staring out the window. Her eyes are focused on the computer screen. She's going to get over this almost half-year-long writers' block. Who cares if it's Christmas. Who cares. Blah humbug! He turns back to the party. A year has done much for Serena. She is now a prolific writer of small sappy Harlequin romance novels. But she yearns for more. Sitting in her room, she ponders the Great American Novel. A nice, serious, depressing book. Something as tragic and fulfilling as The Awakening. A commentary about being a single woman in the 90s. It's about time females this day in age had a recent book to talk about. Darien has realized that his job may not be as fulfilling as he thought. He feels ill when he defends people he doesn't like. The money is still good, but he's bored and disgusted with life. He continues to go to the office for the lack of something better to do. She proceeds from room to room, admiring the Christmas decorations. In artsy getup, she is relaxed. She hides in the shadows. He is again bored. Like all heroes, he can have any girl he wants, but is now realizing that they all bore him. SIGH. She smiles weakly as her mother finds her, and brings her back to the party. He's 26 now. His best friend is a father. The Christening is tonight. He shifts uncomfortably in the pew. Not comfortable with his life. He doesn't know what's going on. It REALLY bugs him. He's decided to retire from law. Maybe he'll write, like Gresham. What does he have to say, though? She's back in the industry. Writing's driving her to the brink of insanity. Nothing to show for all her work. She's retreated back to the land of sense. She hopes that one day she'll be brave enough to write once more, but now, no. All she can write are sappy tales that never happen. No matter. All mirth. All fluff. Happy fluff, though. She smiles as she cuts a star from the cookie dough she's rolled out. She smiles to her mother, who is now beginning to sleep well again, now that her daughter is back in the land of the securely paid. He'll live on his own, away from other people, he concludes, walking out of the church, into noisy clatter of holiday cheer. She's moving up the ladder and doing well at Proctor and gamble. She works with cosmetics. This project is eyeliner. She drolls her boring story until finally her conversation partner leaves. She gives him points for stamina. He really tried. Sipping her punch, she pushes up her glasses and looks around, bored. Christmas HAS to be a FAMILY holiday, doesn't it? He puts the kettle on the stove. No need to be with the family this year. He's "unfortunately" snowed in this season in his cabin in the Rockies. His family is not anxious to see him anyhow. Lost the enthusiasm once they found out that he wanted to write. The Great American Novel, he muses, stirring the cocoa, taking his first test sip. He walks back to the computer. She sighs, looking out the window. Blah. He wrote it about himself. She huffs as she drops the hardcover on the comforter, and sits up in bed. How lame! The picture of that smiling writer, Darien Krest, in black and white. He wrote the Great American Novel about himself. How stupid! There she was, only one or two years ago, struggling to squeeze out a word, and according to this bio, Krest has only been retired one and half years, and of COURSE he is a bestseller! About himself! She's comfortable this Christmas, except for this discovery. But curiosity had her grabbing the book at the airport. Darien Krest. Name sounds familiar. Name sounds familiar. He cannot deny that he's heard it somewhere. Serena Gibbons. No idea of a face. He and his writer friends are all drinking coffee and discussing their book tours tonight. One of them has brought an enormous Christmas goose. Sitting back in his leather lazyboy and smiling to his guest, he tries to place the name. No he cannot remember where he's heard it. Someone refreshes the memory. An engineer that had the brief stint with romance writing. Ah. That one. He acknowledges, but it's not settled. Her mother calls her downstairs. She looks to the door of her bedroom, and back at the book. She scowls at it, and leaves it. The holiday spirit is lost. She's loaded now. Putting the worn, well-read biography of Darien Krest on her bookshelf, she stands back, looking around the bare room she has just initiated. Her new house. She will settle down this time. New outlook. New company. She's starting over, but this time in yet another industry. She starts teaching next semester. She never thought she'd end up back at MIT, teaching chemical engineering. The fluid mechanics curriculum will never look the same, she vows. For the first time in years, she hums a Christmas carol as she unpacks. Her parents are in Europe this Christmas. Good riddance, he thinks, as she slams the door on his now ex- girlfriend. With relief, he leans against the door, and then pushes off, as he has a new idea in mind. His second book was an instant bestseller, but he admits the quality is not as good as the first. For weeks, he's been wondering if he'll ever come up with another idea, ever again. He fears it's up. He's still got quite a fortune, and he will be comfortable the rest of his life, from his previous career. But still. Now, he's also got an idea. Agitatedly fidgeting, he stares at the ceiling in his desk room. Focus refuses to come. Blurs, images. He sits up. Turns on the computer. How in the world did she find time to write? She contemplates the manuscript. Her child, ready to be sent off and criticized. This Christmas, she pours herself a class of champagne, and toasts the air. To little brothers who live on the other side of the continent. And grandkids. She celebrates alone, thankfully. She needs time to think this through. He just can't go through with it. He looks at the woman before him, the one he's gone out with these past eight months. He can't propose to her. And why not? She asks, hurt. He shrugs, trying to convince himself that she is not at all hurt. He can't. She's so confused. If she sends this off, if it is a success, what would happen? She's already got a pretty full life. With her professorship going from associate to full, and the kickoff of her own lab, she'll be beside herself in work. But maybe just this once. It shouldn't take up too much time. After all, the writing is over and done with. The hardest part is over. He just needs to sit back, he assures himself. Life is in order, he claims, as the guest exits. His third novel is still a success, a nine month streak on the New York Times Bestseller list. All written in one week, Christmas week, last year, this time. Harvard has offered him a guest lecture position. He may take it. Change would be good, he supposes. It's an important choice. She must choose one of the other, she tells her mother, as she puts on the apron. Christmas dinner. He's a perfectly nice young man, her mother remarks. She just doesn't have time for him. He's making her choose. Her book's a success. She's doing great at MIT. She's making groundbreaking innovations in the world of chemical engineering. She's at her prime. She's 29. The hill is just around the corner. She's unmarried. No family of her own to preside over. But she claims that the only man she wants in her life is her father. What else could she possibly want? A new razor, he muses. He should have asked for a new razor. He throws the old one away, and decides to grow a beard. He's in a nice penthouse apartment on Beacon. Quite a walk to Harvard, but still, he eyes his homey apartment, well worth it. Besides, it's nothing a bus can't handle. He picks up the latest book he's been asked to review for the Boston Globe. Serena Gibbons. Sounds familiar. Her brother's home in California is nice. She only wishes for snow. It's never Christmas without snow. Home sweet home. Years away. Never realized she's missed it. Walking around the party, she sighs in appreciation for that good old familiar Midwest weather, from indoors. She does not recognize many people, only her family, and a few close friends. Soirees were never her style. Certainly not the type the Joyces give. She moves to the shadows as she hears someone approach. He hears someone approach, and hides in a corner, in the shadows. First Christmas in a long time that he's spending in the company of the old friends. Been an eternity since he was last in Michigan. The woman's shadow stretches across the hardwood floor. Serena! Silence. No answer. His arm is grabbed. There you are. He looks at the young woman at his arm. You're not Serena. No, he is not. The young girl forgets about the object of her search. Her name is Irene Gibbons. Reeny for short. She's sure he'd be great for a few weeks. Smile in the shadows, as the two exit. It's the next day, and Serena is walking in the park. She is content. She's finally content. She's achieved all that she's ever dreamed. Funny enough, the old ache from 8 years ago is not gone. She's done everything to feed it. But it grows. And it drives him insane. He can't even write anymore. Eight years ago, she thought she ought to quit chemical engineering. But that wasn't it. She loves it now. She loves her job. She loves her life. It's so wonderful. He has a wonderful home in a wonderful suburb outside of Boston. He's got a cat named Arty, short for Artemis. His latest book is yet another hit. He just can't put his finger on it, but he knows… There's something else. It always tells her to change. And change her life. She's sick of change. What is it? Love? Is it love? No she knows it's not love. She would have married the other guy if it was love. She was a nice woman. She could have offered an embrace to wake up in, a smile to sleep with. He could have married her. But he didn't. No, not love. That was love. That wasn't it. Love was useless, she hits her fist on the bridge. Completely useless, he concludes, walking up the path, his favorite path. In the park. USELESS. Eyes meet. The second time Serena Gibbons saw Darien Krest, she knew she'd fallen in love. And she stayed that way. The End Comments? crisinti@hotmail.com |