For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (best books to read for teens txt) 📕

the question of whether she should peek inside Quentin’s notebook, these considerations didn’t enter into her mind. She slipped the letter out of the envelope and quietly unfolded the paper.

Sandie. Always Sandie. The more Renata learnt about Quentin’s adoration of his daughter, the more enamoured she became with him. Was it the contrast between a mind capable of such horrors, yet such love? Yes, the curly words written in pink ink were Sandie’s, but words such as these could only be written to the most loving of fathers.

Frantic retellings of the most menial news from back home; proposed plans for days out together upon their reunion; demands for him to recall that time you got custard all over your face at dinner and we ended up having that food fight and Mom just watched on, like, literally freaking out: the love bubbling out of the letter warmed the damaged heart inside Renata that, not so long ago, she believed could only remain forever cold.

Every passing day with Quentin was convincing her further that, after a life without love, this was her time.

She replaced the letter back in the envelope, peering over her shoulder to make sure the slumbering form of Quentin was still asleep, then replaced it at the back of the drawer.

Her hand brushed against cold leather.

The notebook.

Couldn’t hurt.

She lifted it out of the drawer, feeling the weight in her hands. In the wrinkles of its heavy leather cover she could feel the hours invested within. She removed its elastic closure then stood marvelling at the closed notebook, this hub of a creative mind ready to be opened. He’d told her it was the heart of his new novel’s development; that in these pages were the pilings of all his thoughts and ideas for the project. In the notebook was the core of this grand, truth-infused horror opus on which he was working.

She cracked open the cover and skimmed through its heavyweight pages.

It was filled with notes on her.

Step by step accounts of their interactions, from their meeting at the airport right through to the previous night; observations and precise detailing of her reactions to the truck explosion, the surprise dinner in the clock tower, their time spent working on the scripts; an exacting narration of her confession of love. Even her awkward waiting on the edge of the bed as he’d finished writing the previous evening. Everything. It was all there. Every nuance of her character, every nervous little habit, spelt out on paper amongst a network of arrows and highlighter ink, underlined sentences and circled sections.

The notebook was her.

She jumped as Quentin awoke with a yawn. For a second she thought she was going to drop the thing, its hardbound thump on the floor surely enough to alert him, but somehow she managed to replace the elastic ribbon and slip it back into the drawer.

The shape under the covers shifted. ‘What you doing up?’

‘Just, uh…’ She reached for a glass of water on the chest. ‘…sorry, just getting a drink.’

‘Mine’s a scotch on the rocks,’ he chimed with that New England cadence. He swung his legs out of the bed then walked towards her, naked, his bare feet padding across the panelled floor. He took the glass from her and downed its contents, before reaching for her hands. ‘Ren, you don’t know this yet, but today’s a big day for you.’

The notebook’s pull on her was stronger than ever. What did it mean? Was this a romantic gesture? A novel about her? But everything was in there. What could he possibly do with such obsessive detailing, with this character study? She stared at him.

‘Real big day,’ he continued. ‘Bigger than you know. I got something to show you, something wonderful.’ He pulled her into his nude frame. ‘But I need you to tell me again. I need to know it’s true, Ren.’

Her lips were dry, locked shut. She ripped them open. ‘I…love you, Quentin.’

He grinned. After dressing, he fastened his watch, checking the time as he did so, and stepped over to the chest of drawers. He pulled out the notebook and the wrapped rag sitting next to it. ‘Good enough for me! Let’s go.’

The morning was still and silent as they walked through empty streets towards the airfield. They said little. Renata struggled to keep up, feeling like a dog on a leash as she trailed behind Quentin’s hurried strides.

He wrote as they walked.

No one was stationed at the entrance. He lifted the barrier and stood to one side, nodding for Renata to go first as he fidgeted with the pen between his fingers. She looked out at the abandoned marquees, trailers, and rigging that dotted the tarmac expanse. Then, in the centre of the airfield, the aircraft hangar. A smile widened on Quentin’s face. He pointed a finger to the enormous structure. Was he trembling? ‘Lead the way, Ren.’

The hangar rose through the mist as they approached, Quentin now following her like an excited child. She’d been told the metal building, which had surrendered to several decades of rust, had been housing the centrepiece of the production, a set of such importance that entry was strictly limited. A huge section of the half-cylinder’s front facing was retractable to allow access by aircraft, with NO ENTRY signs covering the colossal door. It was open just enough for them to enter. She stopped at the entrance and looked back at him.

‘Please,’ he said, motioning to the gap, ‘it’s time to take our work to the next level.’ Hesitantly, she ducked under the hangar door. ‘I told you, Ren,’ he said, his words infused with anticipation, ‘it’s a big day for you. For us both.’

The space was so expansive she felt like she’d traded one outside for another. A man-made sky curved over them, the sounds of fluttering birds audible from above.