Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen

stein full of water. I made up the futon and opened my suitcase, pulling out my Versace nightgown. Its familiarity was soothing, but I wished with all my heart that it would transmogrify into a cozy pair of flannel pajamas.
    Before I got in bed, I picked up my book again. That near-orgasmic thrill didn’t return, but I did like the cover—a clever design of a silver tray displaying the title on a calling card. The silver filigree design went around the spine and curled to encompass a stylized tree. “Major Oak Books,” it said.
    I clutched the book and felt its weight. This place might seem surreal, but here was a solid, actual book. Mine. It was going to save my career.
    I opened it slowly, savoring the moment.
    But all the pages were blank: not a bit of printing on any page.
    I would have cried, but I was too exhausted for tears.

Chapter 14—The Major Oak
     
    I woke to see Peter standing above me, backlit by sunshine streaming through the window behind him. He was still wearing his tuxedo trousers, but he’d exchanged the jacket for his San Francisco green hoodie. He held two steaming mugs.
    “You’d not forgive me if I let you sleep past noon, lass. You’re missing a fine day. Even the lads are stirring in their burrows.” He gave me a boyish smile, set down the mugs, and opened the curtains, revealing what looked like the establishing shot of a Masterpiece Theatre episode.
    Fluffy white sheep grazed on an idyllic greensward across the majestic river. Ancient buildings loomed in the distance: England’s green and pleasant land.
    Why had I been so terrified last night? I’d landed in a charming place, to work with people who might be unorthodox, but were kind and polite in their way.
    I sat up. “Is that tea?” It smelled as lovely as the scene outside.
    Peter smiled. “I put in one lump. I hope that’s how you take it.” He handed me one of the mugs, which, on closer study, rather spoiled the mood. It was decorated with a cartoon of a naked male posterior and the caption, “Don’t use this mug. Davey farted in it.” The tea was milky and sweet—not my usual unsweetened with lemon—but delicious.
    I would have liked to dress and make a run to the loo, but Peter seemed engrossed by the painting of the tree that hung on the wall above me.
    “Tom Mowbray painted that: the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest. Over six hundred years old. “If you choose to believe the folklore, Robin Hood himself hid from the Sheriff of Nottingham in that very tree. It’s hollow inside.”
    I nodded, trying to remember the men I’d met last night. I thought Tom Mowbray must have been the paint-spattered one with the pierced nose and eyebrow.
    Peter gave me an inquiring look.
    “Do you think it will work as a logo? You can make out it’s a tree, can’t you?”
    Okay, we were going to have an art discussion. I trotted out my galleryspeak.
    “The palette is calming—those greens and browns. It’s stylized, but I’d say it has a firm anchor in realism.” I sat up, pulling the duvet around me. The floor felt icy on my naked feet.
    Peter kept studying the painting as if it held some hidden message.
    “My partner Henry Weems thinks it’s bollocks. He wants to use a photograph.”
    I tried to sort through the names I’d heard last night as I rummaged through my suitcase for shoes.
    “Have I met Mr. Weems?”
    “No. He’s in Nottingham. Has a family there. Wife and three ankle biters—two boys and a girl. You’ll meet him on Monday. He comes in three or four days a week, when he’s not working on a book. He has a literary opus he’s been slogging on for years—about Mr. Darcy’s childhood. He churns out Dominion books as well, under a pseudonym of course. His latest effort is due in the shops next month.” Peter lifted various heaps on his desk until he unearthed a small paperback decorated with a black and white drawing of a woman wearing stockings, stilettos and not much else. The Chiller font lettering