Iris held the copy of 'Everybody Drops The Dime' close to her chest, as she walked along the country lane. Every so often, she opened it up and took a look at the author's picture; black and white, Mort Rainey wearing a wide brimmed hand, his hands folded beneath his handsome face.
This was the revised edition, with the re-edited version of the title short story. She had the original, of course, but the ending in this new copy was even better; it was perfect. Mort had faced much criticism over it; those no-good reviewers had claimed he was cheating his fans. They said he was a medico writer who got lucky, and now, unable to produce anything new, was prolonging his career by recycling his old stuff.
These comments made Iris angry; the rumours about his private life had upset her even more. She would tell him how it hurt her to hear the lies people told. She would tell him that she trusted, and believed in him. Most of all, she would tell him that she was in love with him.
In her mind she saw them cradled in each others arms, locked in a passionate kiss. She would take care of him; bring him cups of coffee while he worked on the new book that she knew he had in him. She would fix his meals, run his bath, slip in next to him and make love by candle light. She would go with him into town, ignoring the suspicious eyes of the local people. They would wander through thrift stores, and he would buy her anything she desired, because he loved her, like she loved him.
When she reached the house, (she knew it because she had seen it on the News on television), she decided to take a look around before going in.
The garden was wild and overgrown. The grass reached up her slender calves, the flower beds were chocked by weeds, it would need her attention first. Scanning the ground, she saw only a spade, she would need to go into town and pick up a few gardening tools. The house was in good condition, though it could do with a coat of paint, she would start pestering Mort to do something about it. She smiled to herself.
"Can I help you?"
Iris turned to see him standing on the back porch; "Mort," she smiled.
"Yes?" He said. "I'm Mort Rainey, and you are?"
"Iris," she said, walking towards him. She saw him back away, and so asked; "What's wrong?"
"Why are you here?" said Mort, and then seeing the book in her hands; "You want me to sign that for you?"
Iris nodded.
"Let me just get a pen," he said, glancing at her over his shoulder as he went back into the house.
Iris followed him and found him in the living room, searching through a sideboard draw. He jumped a little when he saw her.
"Here," he said reaching for the book. He signed the inside cover, handed it back; "There you go."
"Thank-you," Iris hugged the book tightly to her chest. "Thank-you, so much."
"You're welcome," he said, smiling awkwardly. They stood in silence for some time, their eyes locked, until he finally said; "Well, I'm sure you need to be getting on."
"Yes," Iris said, suddenly remembering the garden. She stepped towards him; noticed his body tense up as she kissed his cheek. "You get some work done," she smiled.
Iris walked back along the country lane to her car. She spent over half an hour looking at the signature, running her fingers over the page. Then she drove into town and spend the rest of the afternoon looking around the shops. She picked up some things for the garden; a lawnmower, a trowel, some plants, a small cherry blossom tree, and a stone bird bath. She also bought some new underwear; black lace, and when she got back to the car, she opened the trunk and put them into her suitcase along with the rest of her clothes.
Night was approaching by the time she reached the house. Not wanting to walk alone in the twilight, she parked in Mort's drive.
Looking through the window, she saw him asleep on the couch, his back to her. She got the lawnmower out of her car, and in the failing light, she began work. She cut the grass, and picked out a spot for the bird bath, lugging it into place. She planted the flowers she had bought, as well as the tree, which was little more than a twig, but would flourish and blossom, she was sure.
When it was finished, exhausted, she crawled into the back seat of her car, covered herself up with a blanket, and drifted off to sleep; satisfied with a job well done.
