A Slice of Orange

By Dana Diamond

I married Mr. Perfect.

Trust me, I hate me too. I mean, as I write this, he’s bringing me homemade hash browns and scrambled cheddar-eggs in bed. And he doesn’t even know I’m writing this! He did it Just Because!

But this is supposed to be about romance so I was wracking my brain trying to think of the most romantic thing he’s ever done for me. But he’s done so damn many romantic things, they all blend.

It’s not that I’m spoiled, well, maybe I am a little, but really, it’s how do you decide which is the most exquisite rose from a perfect bouquet? They’re all so magnificent, I couldn’t possibly choose.

And, I guess, when you get down to it, the most romantic thing he ever did for me wasn’t the gorgeous European rose arrangements he had delivered so often that the florist knew me by name. It wasn’t the way he surprised me by proposing with my grandmother’s wedding band in the jewelry box that snapped opened with a press of a button like I’d dreamed of being proposed to with since childhood. It’s not the way he holds my hair and gets me water when I’m sick. And it’s not the love notes he leaves on my pillow Just Because.

It was the way he wore me down.

See, he knew we were perfect for each other long before I did. It’s a long drawn-out story, but suffice it to say I was otherwise engaged when we met. And by the time we were both single, he’d become such a good friend, I never wanted to “go there” with him and ruin a great friendship. I know, total “duh!”, but I was young and dumb. I’m human.

So one day, my brother says to me, “You’re gonna marry him.”

And I’m like, “You’re on crack. I can’t marry him. He’s my buddy.”

“I’m tellin’ you. He’s gonna wear you down.”

My brother’s not exactly the kinda guy to pay too close attention to relationships and girly things, but he’d said it with such utter conviction that I couldn’t forget it. Frankly, it creeped me out.

But he was right. Actually, now I cringe at the hell I put my husband through, poor baby. He listened on the phone when I excitedly told him about my engagement to another, he went to a surprise party for me that another boyfriend threw, he waited, he dated, he baked cookies with my two year old niece and told me it was fun…while football was on!

So when I think of romance, it’s not Mr. Gorgeous who looked hot on my arm or Mr. Gorgeous-Body who looked hot in the sack, or Mr. Bad-Ass who when my mom’s best friend found out I was dating him, she gasped, or Mr. East-Coast-Prep who took me great places and chauffered me around in his Porsche or Mr. Card-Carrying-Member-of-Mensa who was cerebrally sexy.

Don’t get me wrong. They were fun and wonderful and they had their place. But it’s the guy who isn’t any one of those things, but is a little of all of them and more who gave me the romance I needed. It was sweet Mr. I-Will-Cherish-The-Hell-Out-Of-You-Until-My-Dying-Day that I wanted to come home to…my Mr. Perfect-For-Me.

That’s what I want for the little girls in my life. When they grow up, I hope they too will marry Mr. Perfect.

Dana Diamond
http://www.danadiamond.blogspot.com
http://www.thewritersvibe.typepad.com

By Sandy Brown

My husband, Bob, is my ultimate hero. When I tell him this he acts embarrassed, but I can see the slight puffing up of his chest. Whenever I’m writing and need to figure out how my hero should react to a given situation, all I have to do is think of Bob. For thirty-three years he’s been by my side supporting me when I’m down, laughing with me when I’m up.

Bob will be the first to admit that he was not blessed with a silver tongue, but there are occasions when he manages, seemingly without his knowledge, to say something that simply melts me. Looking back over the years I can think of many incidents when he’s shown his love for me through word or deed. One time sticks out in my mind, though, because of its poignancy and timing.

A few years ago, I was diagnosed with three aneurysms on the carotid arteries in my head. Any surgery is frightening, but knowing they are going to drill through your skull and move your brain around to reach the aneurysms is completely terrifying.

There’s something about having three brain surgeries within five months that defines your life afterwards. Everything is divided into pre-aneurysms and post-aneurysms.

I have to tell you by the end of that five month time span I was pretty well worn out. The length of the recovery period and the exhaustion factor is unbelievable. Plus—put this image in your mind—my hair was shaved in a two-inch swath on both sides of my head from the center of my forehead down to the tops of my ears. I certainly did not look like our typical heroine. Unless, of course, you’re writing Goth! The half-shaved look might fit into that frame.

Bob sat by my bed in the hospital everyday, all day. Each time I opened my eyes there he was letting me know by the strength of his presence that everything was okay.

One day after I came home I must have been feeling blue, because I remember Bob looking at me with that expression of tender love men can get when they don’t realize it. He said, “You know, honey, I thought I was losing you. But, every time you opened your eyes in the hospital and saw me, you always smiled. That was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

Wow! It gives me goose bumps just retelling my story! Is it any wonder that I love to write Romance when I live every day of my life with Bob, my ultimate hero?

Sandy Brown
Ways & Means Director, 2006

By Louise Knott Ahern

Everything I know about love, I learned from a letter my grandpa wrote to my grandma during World War II.

Darling,
Well, today is VE Day. I am glad that much is over… There is no celebrating here. We had a parade and several speeches today, but no shouting. Everyone is restricted to the post until things quiet down. I think everyone should wait and celebrate when the whole thing is done…

Henry “Hank” Shellenbarger was a big John Wayne of a man. A bomber pilot, the Army recruited him to teach others how to fly. Helen Mary Shellenbarger was a teacher – a college-educated woman far ahead of her time.

As I knew them, they were always old, always wise. Grandpa could take one look at the sky and tell you if it was going to snow that night. He could build or fix anything, including our first house. Grandma kept a stash of every grandchild’s favorite treat in her pantry. She had a saying for every situation, a collection of old colloquialisms she picked up in her youth. Most of the time, I had no idea what they meant, like when something got lost, it “went the way of the rug.”

When I got old enough to understand, I would beg Grandpa to tell me about the war. Was he a hero? Did he ever get hurt? Could I be a pilot, too? One day he answered with his silence. He got out of his well-worn rocking chair and went into his bedroom. A moment later, he came out, his hand closed tightly. He told me to hold out my hand, and I obeyed. In it, he placed a tarnished set of Army Air Corps wings.

“Now you can be a pilot,” he said.

It never occurred to me to ask Grandma about the war until college. I interviewed her for a history class term paper, and being a natural writer, I used her answers to craft a creative narrative of a woman struggling on the home front.

It wasn’t until after I discovered the letter in Grandma’s dresser drawer – neatly creased inside a yellowed envelope along with a single dog-tag – that I realized I had asked both of them all the wrong questions.

They are moving the whole engineering training school to some other field. We don’t know where for sure but it looks like Shepherd Field… Don’t worry. I will still be in the same program, just in a different place.

Grandpa died in June 1997. The day he passed, the entire family gathered at their home in the small farming town where I grew up. One by one, we filed into the bedroom, where he lay in a hospice bed, to say good-bye. And one by one, we all cried. But not Grandma. Not that day.

She didn’t cry in front of us until she viewed him for the first time in his casket. I hung back and watched as Grandma moved toward the front of the room. She stared for a moment and then reached out her hand. She placed hers over his. And then she began to cry.

“Oh my Hank, my Hank,” she sobbed.

Before my eyes, she was transformed. She wasn’t my grandma anymore, and he was no longer my grandpa. Instead, I saw them as they were fifty years earlier, a young couple passionately in love. A young couple about to be separated by war and distance.

I miss you and love you very much, sweetheart. I am glad we are going to have the baby. I guess I’ll read and go to sleep.
Forever Yours,
Hank

Today, I hang onto Grandpa’s wings and the letter. Grandma hangs on to his heart.

Louise Knott Ahern is a freelance journalist and public relations coach who writes contemporary romances. She’s the author of “Opting Out: A Career Woman’s Guide to Going Home Without Going Crazy,” a blog for mothers at www.optoutguide.blogspot.com. She is also a contributor to The Writer’s Vibe (www.thewritersvibe.typepad.com), a blog for professional writers.

By Michelle Thorne

I love ROMANCE as a concept, although I haven’t really had much success in the real world. Don’t feel sorry for me. I have a store full of heroes who are romance personified. There’s Phillip from Tom and Sharon Curtis’ Lightning That Lingers. Was there ever a more caring, sweet or HOT guy than that? A stripper with a PhD. Sounds about right to me. How about Archie Goodwin from the Nero Wolfe series. I have loved him since I was twelve years old. Stylish dresser, snappy patter and a really good dancer. What’s not to like? Then there’s Nick Lightfoot from Jayne Ann Krentz’s The Golden Chance. What a guy!

Janet Evanovich has created quite a conundrum with Joe and Ranger in her Stephanie Plum series. I’m like Steph, I just can’t make up my mind. Then there are ANY of Linda Howard’s heroes. They all need the help of a good woman to save them from a life that is cold and without any soft place to land. I could be that woman, really. Consider Linda Lael Miller’s Vampires. Wonderful, very human and great looking, forever. Just a thought. Susan Elizabeth Phillips has all those Chicago Star football players and who could resist the guys in shoulder pads and tight ends. Not me. Don’t get me started on Robert Crais’ Elvis Cole. Great boyfriend material. Love him! And the “Bob” ain’t to shabby in the good lookng and funny area either. Yes, I am stalking him but in “a public place and he knows all about it, literary ” sort of way. Sue me.

There are many more fictional heroes who are very real to me but this is a blog not a book. Alas, I have to mention, The Man, The Guy, He who makes my heart stop on a regular basis.

For the last 11 years there has been one man who never fails to meet my expectations of a romantic hero. He is the whole package. He is suave, but has an edge. He is gorgeous, but isn’t afraid to get a little mussed. He has more money than God, but he made it himself and does good works with it. He is a great friend and a feared enemy. He’s funny and smart and he loves his woman with every fiber of his being and she’s not always that easy to love. Eve Dallas is one very lucky woman. Nora Roberts has created the PERFECT romantic hero in Roarke for the In Death series. OH, MY GOD. I want him. I don’t really know that I would have a clue of what to do with him once I got him, but it’s probably like a bicycle, you never forget. Roarke is the gold standard for me. Twenty five days of romance, ALL ROARKE, ALL THE TIME.

I’d love to hear about your fictional guys, I could always use another man to keep.

Reality, it’s overrated. Fiction ROCKS.

Michelle Thorne
Bearly Used Books…123