200397 wrote:Chapter three of my duel MC romance. It's taken me a while to finish this one, but I think it's pretty satisfactory.[I'm sure it is more than satisfactory =D] Enjoy!
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Lucy [It's my name!! Wow, I think I like this story already...
hehe
]
I [Now, I'm sorry to start off with one of my rants, but you're a very talented writer, who can most definitely think of another way of opening a chapter, than the use of 'I' - so go ahead, be inventive!! (: ] don’t regard my cluttered apartment as home. It’s just a place I have to live in while I earn money for . . . well, life.
I do regard the Fairfield's Mansion to be my home. I mean, the main house is not familiar to me; it’s where I used to follow my mother around while she dusted and cleaned and straightened and beat rugs with brooms. Those fancy, immaculate places mean no more to me than the story behind them.
It’s the servant’s quarters that mean something to me. The kitchen, the shed, the solarium, the attic. Places where I grew up, learning about real life and how to make a living by really working [maybe you could change this to: real work - what do you think?][s]:[/s]
Sid, the gardener, had taught me the names of flowers and plants, which were best for the climate in Long Island, and which had been imported from unknown places. Elsa, the main cook, showed me easy, delicious meals to make for myself when I[s]’m[/s] was “finally too good for the rest of us.” Tyson, the butler, let me pop the cork on a bottle of champagne on homecoming week when Nathan’s football team won the game, and thus I rose to theoretical adulthood.
Nathan. As I wander around the grounds of the Fairfield’s mansion, the sloping lawns and shady trees, I think of him [I would like you to expand on this, do a bit of showing. What are the emotions your MC feels from the mentioning of his name - you've obviously put his name in italics as your MC has repeated the name inside her head, so show us the reason why she does this... am I making sense?].
I do have a boyfriend. His name is Troy, and I like him, I guess. I mean, he wouldn’t be my boyfriend if I didn’t like him, right? But the primary reason I agreed to go out with him is so everyone else at college would leave me alone. [what do you mean by this?] I was waiting, but I couldn’t bring myself to reject dozens of good boys whilst I was waiting. So I picked Troy.[Expand? Why did she choose Troy out of the numerous boys that were asking her out - show us her acceptance, or something like that to show us why she chose specifically him out of all the other guys (: ]
I’m still waiting for Nathan. I’m sure somewhere, in the back of his beautiful head, he knows I exist. One day when he’ll wake up and remember that I’m here. On that day, he’ll realize that the girl he’s always wanted was always there.
[why is she still waiting for him, when it's obvious to her that she apparently doesn't even exist - I know you can't explain the workings of love, but try and show us her reasoning for waiting for him - a bit of character descriptions, maybe?]
I know this is wishful thinking, but in my position, you can't help but be wishful.
[I would add an extra gap here to separate the move from what she's thinking about, and what she's doing now - what do you think?] Heading for the shed [of where? Give us a little bit of scenery descriptions, as well (: ], I control my excitement for the party tonight. I’m not a real party-buff, but Moira’s birthday celebrations are always something to look forward to. I've bought a special dress for the occasion, treating myself in honor of the party. It’s silk, midnight blue and fluttery. Three or four years ago I would have given anything to wear such a garment, and now I can. I’m proud of my size two, one I worked hard to achieve.
Now I dream a little about seeing Nathan in a tailored tuxedo, his blond hair sleek and combed, even though I like it messy. I imagine him waltzing gracefully across the dance floor with his mother, and then his sister, spreading his glory even in his courtesy dances.
Absently, I hum a snatch of “Moon River,”[move the comma to here] a song I once heard Moira’s preferred birthday band play,[replace with semi-colon] quiet and smooth, the kind you rock gently to instead of actually dancing. It would ruin the song to have to concentrate on the steps. I wish I’d written that music.
I sigh. For a year now I’ve been trying to get a job as a public singer, for weddings and parties and such. The agency I found listened to my CD and said that bars and restaurants would pay through their noses to get someone like me to sing for them.
It hasn’t happened yet, that paying-though-the-nose thing.
My arm curves around a strong tree trunk as I walk slowly past it. Dismal, discouraging thoughts enter my head, but I try my best to ignore them and change the subject [I would rethink this, as it sounds like she's having an actual conversation, which she's not, so maybe have: I set my thoughts on a different track, something like that, as I think it's the wrong terminology to use, and it sticks out a little, which we definitely don't want!! (: ].
Nathan’s coming home, [How does she know this - expand] I think, and I smile. As I walk up the path, I pass Sid crouching over a patch of pansies, extracting the withered petals and leaves.
“Hey, kid,” he calls to me as I approach. “Admiring my art?”
“What are you doing down there today?”I said/I grinned. [or something like that needs to be put in here]
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
I laugh. “Are you telling me you’re cleaning up dead pansies on the day of Moira’s colossal birthday bash?”
“Of course,” he answers. “And all the guests will tell the mistress what lovely pansies they are too.”
I pass him, laughing and waving to Bridget’s [who is she?] figure in one of the windows, pulling silly faces at me. I send one back at her and head for the garage. I like admiring the family cars, and Moira doesn’t mind. She[s]’s[/s] has tried to talk me into letting her get me one, but I’m sure I’d die sooner at the steering wheel of a Mercedes-Benz than the broken half-wheel of my old Mini.
Pete Walsh, the chauffeur, nods at me when I enter. He’s cleaning the Cadillac, his front damp and sudsy, a foaming sponge in his hands. He squeezes it, spraying his face with bubbles. I giggle, and walk over to the bucket by his feet, reaching for the other sponge hidden underneath a layer of fluffy foam.
“I don’t think so,” Pete says, pushing my hand away with his own wet one. “Moira says you’re not to work while you’re here.”
“Moira won’t notice,” I say, plunging my hands into the mildly warm, soapy water. “It’ll be our secret,” I add idiotically in a whisper—and bring the sponge, heavy with water, onto the hood of the car with a splash! [I would lose the exclamation mark here, and just use a comma instead]
It’s fun washing the car with Pete (it’s more like playing than working, but I prefer it over wandering all over the place until seven o’clock.) Pete is a few years older than me, but I grew up with him and his endearing shyness. He has a hard time looking me in the eye [why? Expand on this, and maybe a bit of character description, too?]when he sprays my face with soap. But I don’t mind; he’s nice enough company.
We both are wet and foamy but laughing when a flashy yellow convertible roars into the driveway, yards away from where Pete and I stand dripping, admiring our work. I’ve seen this ostentatious vehicle before, and my heart turns a few back flips before settling on a continuous quiver.
It’s Nathan’s car.
The sponge slips from my fingers and hits the asphalt as the door opens, and he steps out. Oh[comma] my gosh. He’s as handsome as ever, taking off his sunglasses and popping the trunk open. You would think the youngest son of a wealthy family would wear a tailored suit and two-toned shoes, his hair combed and respectable[comma, and deleted NP>>] but Nathan is all but that. He’s wearing a faded New York Yankees T-shirt, a fact I, a die-hard Boston Red Sox fan, am willing to overlook. Picking up the abandoned sponge, I study him surreptitiously: loose jeans hugging his slim waist, ordinary Converse shoes, and messy blond hair. It’s his noticeable imperfections that make him perfect. [Brilliant descriptions here - great job
He’s pulling his suitcase out of his trunk when Sid runs up and shakes his hand. Sid says something notably witty and Nathan throws back his golden head and laughs. I duck my head and will myself to remain calm.
It’s painful, this almost-pleasure of seeing the man I desperately want, but being so far away from him. I close my eyes. He’ll give his suitcase to Sid, pocketing his keys and surveying his childhood surroundings coolly but lovingly. He’ll wave to Pete and perhaps exchange, “Hey, how are ya?” with him. He’ll walk right passed me and not even bother saying hello.
But I can’t stop my head from lifting as he passes. It’s an impulse, an involuntary movement to look at him one more time before he disappears into the house.
Our eyes lock, and I catch my breath.
“Hi, Nathan,” I say, willing my voice to stay cool but pleased. I’m not sure if my eagerness would turn him off. Or if he’s already turned off. But then he does something I would never think he’d do:
he stares. [deleted NP >>] At me.
[NP >> Nathan[s]’s[/s] _____ [his surname] is staring at me.
[NP >>]I force myself to suck in some air, because it would be beyond embarrassing if I fainted at the one moment Nathan Fairfield actually acknowledges my existence with genuine curiosity. [Brilliant descriptions of MC's emotions =D!!]
“L-Lucy?” He’s stuttering! What is going on? [He has also said your MC's name. Earlier on your MC thinks that Nathan doesn't know her name, so maybe you could acknowledge that here, too?]
“Yeah,” I answer. “How are you, Nathan?”
“I’m . . . well, I’m great,” he says, grinning awkwardly, his eyes still locked on mine. He looks at me like I have a soap beard; I hope I don't. I’m sure my heartbeat is audible, but Pete just takes the sponge gently from my hands and walks into the garage.
“Your mom’s in the kitchen,” I say, for the sake of conversation. “She’s been waiting for you.”
“Yeah . . . Thanks, Lucy.”
And he walks away, glancing once or twice over his shoulder. Back at me. I’m still standing there when I hear the door slam behind him.
Even if he never looks at me again, my life will be complete forever.[Aww, cute ending (: ]
I have a boyfriend. His name is Troy, and I like him, I guess. I mean, he wouldn’t be my boyfriend if I didn’t like him, right? But the primary reason I agreed to go out with him is so everyone else at college would leave me alone. I was waiting, but I couldn’t bring myself to reject dozens of good boys while I was waiting. So I picked Troy.
I’m still waiting for Nathan. I’m sure somewhere, in the back of his beautiful head, he knows I exist. One day when he’ll wake up and remember that I’m here. On that day, he’ll realize that the girl he’s always wanted was always there.
It’s the servant[s]’[/s]s' quarters that mean something to me. The kitchen, the shed, the solarium, the attic. Places where I grew up, learning about real life and how to make a living by really working[s]:[/s].
One day, [s]when[/s] he’ll wake up and remember that I’m here.
It’s silk, midnight blue, and fluttery.
Absently, I hum a snatch of “Moon River,” a song I once heard Moira’s preferred birthday band play, quiet and smooth, the kind you rock gently to, instead of actually dancing.
For a year now, I’ve been trying to get a job as a public singer, for weddings and parties and such. The agency I found listened to my CD and said that bars and restaurants would pay through the nose to get someone like me to sing for them.
“And all the guests will tell the mistress what lovely pansies they are, too.”
I pass him, laughing and waving to Bridget’s figure in one of the windows, pulling silly faces at me.
I giggle[s],[/s] and walk over to the bucket by his feet, reaching for the other sponge hidden underneath a layer of fluffy foam.
The sponge slips from my fingers and hits the asphalt as the door opens[s],[/s] and he steps out. Oh my gosh. He’s as handsome as ever, taking off his sunglasses and popping the trunk open.
He’ll walk right pass[s]ed[/s]t me and not even bother saying hello.
And he walks away, glancing once or twice over his shoulder.
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