Quivers and Quills

April 10, 2009

Columbus, Ohio

Jill Mason’s life was far too predictable. As she studied the birthday cake she shared with her sister Joanna, Jill knew exactly how the situation would play out. Dad would tell the twins to lean over the dining room table and get closer to the cake for the picture. After the first photo, he would take another. Dad never liked anything—or anyone—on the first viewing. Mom would sing Happy Birthday off key while Dad’s mustache twitched—the closest he ever came to smiling.

And that’s exactly how it happened.

Someone in the world likely longed for such familial bliss and tranquility. But grateful as she felt, Jill couldn’t help wondering if she had been born for more than this.

Atop the cake sat two molded candles spelling out twenty-five. After wincing through the birthday song, Jill automatically leaned toward the number two. Having been born three minutes after her sister, Jill’s designated candle since the twins turned ten had always been the lower number. The system, created by her mother, eliminated arguing over the birthday cake and had worked quite well except for the twins’ eleventh birthday when special clarification had been required. After that, birthdays sank into another routine without even the adrenaline rush of arguing over a candle flame.

Jill didn’t make a birthday wish. What was the point?

Seated at the dining table in her parents’ home, Jill, Joanna, Mom, and Dad ate the cake in comfortable silence. Jill picked up the camera and flipped through the digital images her father had taken. She marveled again at the resemblance between her and her sister, a similarity all the more amazing since as children they hadn’t looked anything alike. People expected all twins to look identical, even fraternal ones, and had been surprised the girls were twins after noting the five-inch height difference when Joanna towered over Jill at age 13. But now, Jill understood why people mixed them up. Their shoulder-length hair, dark like their father’s, differed only in that Joanna parted her hair on the left and Jill the right. Beyond their almost identical trim figures, both had endured years of careful orthodontia resulting in perfectly straight, white teeth and too-broad smiles, even when they were unhappy.

Noting the differences required more careful study. Joanna’s nose sloped to a sharper point, but more freckles adorned Jill’s nose and cheeks. Jill had her mother’s blue eyes, Joanna her father’s brown ones. Joanna wore every emotion on her face, especially her eyes, although Jill imagined Joanna hid her feelings better around strangers. In the photo, Joanna’s discouragement leaked out the corners of her mouth and eyes in a drooping effect. But the sight of Jill’s own eyes in the photo disturbed her more. The sparkle of mischief she treasured had faded to a sad, glassy expression that revealed how bored she felt.

It’s so nice to be the four of us, isn’t it? As Mom smiled, laugh lines spread around her eyes. Her hair, which became blonder every year, framed her delicate features. Although I do love when you bring friends home, too.

"It would be nice to have grandchildren someday." Dad took a bite of cake without making eye contact with anyone.

Dad! Joanna shot him a dirty look.

Dad enjoyed getting the family worked up, something he had started for his own amusement years ago as a way of coping with a household of women, Jill imagined. His joking didn’t bother her too much, but it made her think. She had never brought anyone home to meet the family. Only once had she considered it, but the relationship dissolved before she could extend the invitation. On the other hand, Joanna’s parade of boyfriends resembled a Hollywood casting call for Mr. Right, but no one got the part. Behind Joanna’s back, Jill and her parents created secret monikers to keep her male interests straight. Chris the Psychology Major had looked promising for a while, especially in comparison to Sam with the Nose Piercing and Ricky from New York. Mark the Writer positioned himself as a serious contender, but he had dumped Joanna a month ago, and she was the only one surprised.

Twenty-four was a rotten year. Joanna raised her glass of milk. Here’s hoping the next one’s better.

Joanna was in one of her dark moods. Jill did a quick self-assessment and assured herself that despite her own discontent she still felt much happier than Joanna. Love and competition between the twins had been intermingled for so long they were almost the same thing.

Jill raised her glass and clinked it against Joanna’s. I’ll drink to that.

Jill, how’s your self-defense class?

Mom deftly changed the subject, but her topic choice was unfortunate. Jill wished she could say, Fine, and move the conversation on to something else, but her mother was too good a therapist for that to work. Honesty and brevity were the only responses that would hold off a deeper inquiry.

I stopped going. I sort of beat up the instructor.

Mom’s eyes opened wider. This I have to hear.

He wanted a volunteer for sparring. Jill shifted in her seat. He showed us how to spot an opponent’s vulnerable areas, and I noticed his pretty quickly. He told me he wanted me to hit him as hard as I could, so I did. And he cried.

Mom and Dad both chuckled.

Get this, Joanna added. After she made him cry, he asked her out. But she didn’t go.

Mom folded her napkin and ran her finger along the crease. Why not?

Jill’s holding out for someone rich.

Nothing could have been farther from the truth. However, Jill suspected Joanna fantasized of a wealthy patron who would fund her writing and rescue her from a string of bad jobs. Recognizing the opportunity to shift the focus of the conversation to Joanna, Jill said, Jo, have you told Mom and Dad about what happened in your writing group?

Mom took the bait. I loved those two stories you wrote. What did the group think?

They kicked me out.

What?

They hated the medieval story. Joanna’s voice took on a tone she probably meant to sound nonchalant but instead came across as bitter. They thought it lacked ‘authenticity.’ All plot and dialogue with no description that pulled them in.

That’s ridiculous! Mom scoffed. I thought the story had beautiful description.

Not the kind they wanted, apparently. Joanna shook her head. You know what bugged Gordon? The doorknob. He said that if I have a character open a door, the reader has to see the knob. He said I shouldn’t write about anything unless I can describe it in detail.

Doorknobs? Mom made a hissing sound to show her disgust. "As if those are important! Who looks at doorknobs?

Joanna blushed. I went to three home improvement stores and checked out what they had.

Jill felt her right eyebrow rise. They have medieval doorknobs at the Home Depot?

Well, no, but I thought I could get an idea of the mechanism.

I guess you’ll have to leave that part out of the story, Jill said.

But it’s bothering me now. I looked up a bunch of stuff on the Internet, but nothing really describes exactly how the door opened. If I ever had the chance, I’d study a medieval doorknob until I knew exactly how it worked.

Sounds enthralling. Jill glanced at Dad after she made her comment and saw his mustache move.

Do you know how a plane is able to keep you in the air? Dad asked.

Joanna frowned. Something about the air across the wings creating lift. I should look that up.

And yet, you managed to get on a plane today and fly here from Minneapolis. How’s that possible?

You’re saying I don’t have to understand exactly how something works in order to use it?

Now we’re getting back into your mother’s territory, Dad replied. I don’t do psychology.

Mom rolled her eyes. Your father’s got a point. These doorknobs sound like an excuse to avoid writing.

Excuse or not, they got me kicked out of the writing group. Joanna sneered as she took another bite of cake.

So the doorknobs weren’t the only problem?

Joanna blushed. They said the ‘love conquers all’ storyline was overdone and hackneyed. I was mortified.

One look at her father told Jill that he hadn’t the faintest idea what hackneyed meant, and neither did she, but Joanna’s tone communicated the word was definitely an insult.

Then they told me my wedding planner story read like a bad romantic comedy. Gordon said the main character—and everyone knew it was me—had superhero fantasies because there was no way a wedding planner could solve a case of mistaken identity, settle a family feud, and still get the bride down the aisle in time.

But that’s exactly what you did.

Apparently, reading my work is like eating cookie dough—too many spoonfuls made people sick. Twenty-first-century writing calls for sex, profanity, darkness, and despair—and possibly an appearance from the undead.

Well, phooey on them, Mom said. Someday when you’re a best-selling author, you can look down your nose at them.

Joanna’s wan smile indicated her lack of belief in her mother’s prediction.

Mom turned to Jill. And someday when you’re running a company, all those people at work who don’t listen to you will have to.

Jill appreciated Mom’s attempt to keep the future predictions equitable, but Jill had no intention of running a company. She didn’t really know what she wanted to do except go on an adventure—and corporate America didn’t offer many opportunities for her style of excitement.

After the twins helped clean up the kitchen, Joanna and Mom retired downstairs to check out bedroom curtains on the Internet for Mom’s plotted redecoration project. Jill excused herself from weighing in on the decision (she had never developed an interest in home décor) and settled on the couch at an angle from her dad who sprawled in his leather armchair reading his tablet computer.

I found something you might be interested in, Dad said. It’s the press release on your company’s new vice president. Have you seen it?

He passed her the computer, and Jill read the headline: Goodwin new VP at Houston’s GDB Oil.

It was sent to the company yesterday.

What do you think of him?

She passed the tablet back to him. Hard to tell from an article.

The writer makes it sound like he’s some sort of entrepreneurial prodigy. But I’d bet anyone whose father was a billionaire shareholder in the company can buy whatever credentials he wants. Did you know he was British?

It’s a British-owned company, Dad.

Her father shook his head. I don’t see why they can’t hire an American. After everything that’s happened in the Gulf, it’s hard to believe anyone from England could appreciate our resources. We have 300 million people in this country, and they couldn’t find one American qualified to run the site? Didn’t we learn anything from taxation without representation?

Afraid the queen will try to retake the colonies?

Don’t forget your ancestors were patriots. Zachariah Mason fought under George Washington.

Jill flashed back to vacations of her childhood when her father used to drag his wife and daughters across Boston’s Freedom Trail in ninety-degree weather, all the while reciting family history.

‘The Mason family has always played an important part in history.’ Isn’t that what you always say?

It’s the truth. I’ve been working on our family tree.

Find anything interesting?

I’m just getting started. But I suspect that our family has been at the center of everything important that has happened in the western world.

Obviously, Dad. Obviously.

Dad looked like he was pondering the level of sarcasm in Jill’s response when Joanna and Mom returned to the living room.

"Joanna likes the purple curtains." Mom’s emphasis indicated Dad had supported a different choice.

He snorted. She doesn’t have to look at them every day.

Mom curled in her floral armchair next to Dad and faced the couch where Joanna had joined Jill. Are you ready for your presents?

When the twins nodded, Mom looked expectantly at Dad, her smile fading at the seconds of silence ticked by.

Frank? The presents?

What presents? I don’t remember presents.

Mom shook her head in frustration. Dad’s mustache twitched as he slid two envelopes out from underneath a lamp on the table and handed them to the twins. Jill passed Joanna the one with her name on it.

You have to open them both at the same time, Mom instructed.

Used to the ritual, Jill watched Joanna out of the corner of her eye to ensure their motions of opening the flap, pulling out the card, and reading the front were synchronized. On the inside, after the birthday message, Jill read this handwritten note:

Redeem this card for $300 toward a plane ticket to the destination of your choice.

Jill didn’t know how to respond. Her parents didn’t have a great deal of money, especially to give both twins such a gift.

We want you to take a trip together, Mom explained. Since you’re spread out between Minneapolis and Houston and you don’t get to see each other very often, we thought the two of you might enjoy a little outing.

If you’re willing to fly at odd times, that money could get you to Disney World, Dad suggested.

Or New York, Mom countered. Wherever you could have an adventure.

Adventure. Jill’s heartbeat quickened.

We thought about planning the trip for you, Mom said, but your father and I couldn’t decide on the destination.

You did love Orlando when you were kids, Dad offered.

But you could have some great shopping adventures in New York, Mom argued.

I like the idea of a trip. Jill met Joanna’s eyes and knew Joanna already agreed where they were going. The twins had kept this secret for a long time. While the money wouldn’t pay for an entire plane ticket, it provided the motivation to actually do what they had been planning for years.

Orlando and New York are great ideas, Joanna ventured, but Jill and I want to travel out of the country. We both have our passports already.

Mom blinked. Well, that’s great!

You’re not going to Cozumel, are you? Dad asked. I read an article about women getting kidnapped down there.

Joanna laughed. We have someplace much more civilized in mind—England.

Lovely! Mom exclaimed. They speak English there.

Jill looked at her father to gauge his reaction. His mustache remained still.

There’s a simple psychological principle at work here, Frank, Mom teased. You’ve railed against the Brits for so long that it’s had the opposite effect you intended.

Dad grunted. All they’ve got over there is a bunch of old rocks and hot dishwater that passes for the national beverage. I don’t see the appeal.

Oh, come on, Dad, Joanna teased. I was an English major for crying out loud.

Dad’s lips pursed. If it’s what you want, you should go.

Jill and Joanna would have gone even without their dad’s blessing, but having him agree to a scheme always made everyone’s life a little easier.

I’m glad you’re getting this out of your system, Dad continued. I won’t worry about you over there. Once you see what England’s really like, I’m fully confident that you’ll never want to stay.

2

Joanna hung her damp towel on the rack in the bathroom and combed her wet hair. Studying her face in the mirror, she sighed. She was gaining weight. No one had mentioned it this weekend, but Joanna had been keeping a careful eye on her own figure in comparison to Jill’s for years. Jill was definitely thinner.

But the problem lay deeper than expanding cellulose. It lay in unfulfilled ambition. On Joanna’s fifteenth birthday, she had promised herself that she would have her first novel written and published by the time she turned twenty-five. S.E. Hinton and Mary Shelley had experienced literary success before the age of twenty, but Joanna knew not everyone who wrote found fame as quickly, which was why she had allowed herself five additional years. Her birthday loomed before her as yet another missed deadline. She cringed, remembering the bragging she had done in front of her fellow college students who were now published while Joanna’s portfolio included not novels or short stories but photos from the weddings she had planned. If she had pursued her writing with the same tenacity she pursued men, would she be published by now? Would she have found fulfillment? Would she feel any less lonely?

The one thing she wanted to do more than anything was write books, but she had abandoned eight attempted novels before finishing them. Stacked in her closet were enough false starts to wallpaper her townhouse.

If only she and Mark had worked out. The security of a husband and second income would have allowed her to produce literary greatness. But no man wanted her. Every morning she looked in the mirror and recognized the great failure staring back at her. If only she could curl up in her old bedroom and hide for the rest of her life!

The money from her parents was a nice surprise, but Joanna had weddings booked through June, so the trip would have to wait a few months. When she got back to the office on Monday, maybe she could work a deal with one of the other wedding planners to get a weekend free in July.

Pulling her robe around her, she walked to the living room where Jill sat in Dad’s chair, watching television with the sound low as their parents had already gone to bed. Joanna curled up in her mother’s chair and pulled a blanket around her.

What are we watching?

Jill’s eyes didn’t leave the television. "I started with this cheesy sci-fi movie about time travel, but it was so unrealistic I couldn’t stomach it. Now I’m watching Prince of Thieves. It’s half over."

Joanna tucked her legs underneath her. I think we read or watched everything we could about Robin Hood when we were kids.

Was that before our western craze?

Yes, and before the World War II obsession. Joanna smiled at the memories of all the twins’ make-believe games. "Didn’t the 1940s thing start after you watched The Great Escape and fell in love with Steve McQueen?"

Jill chuckled.

It always starts with a good looking guy, Joanna commented, thinking of her writing group.

Jill didn’t reply.

The movie came back on. Joanna had seen the film multiple times so felt free to comment over the dialogue. Robin Hood comes off a little bland.

She checked Jill’s expression to see how she received the critique. Jill had always been protective of any actor’s portrayal of the famous outlaw.

Here’s hoping he was much more dynamic in person, Jill conceded. Have you ever wondered if he was real or not?

Sure I have. Joanna thought of the shelf of books on Robin Hood, castles, and medieval history in her home office. "Do you think he was?"

I want to think so. But my engineering brain gets me into trouble. He seems a little too good to be true. Could one guy really be noble, self-sacrificing, heroic, intelligent, clever, an excellent shot, charming, and good looking? I doubt it.

Joanna shrugged. I guess the legend could be a conglomeration of the best traits of several different men that meshed together over time.

I guess. Or maybe it was something more calculated.

Joanna noticed the thoughtful expression on Jill’s face and asked what she meant.

Maybe he was good looking, charming, and noble, but some of the other stuff he had help with. Like, maybe he had a savvy advisor who helped him build his image. The guy’s a medieval superhero. You don’t get an image like that from being a decent person.

And you think I’m cynical!

Jill frowned. Something as genius as a righteous outlaw doesn’t happen by accident. There’s got to be somebody behind the scenes shaping things.

Joanna knew her sister didn’t reveal her opinions or speak this passionately about anything unless she had spent a lot of time in consideration.

Anything in particular get you going on this idea? Joanna asked.

Jill paused before replying. Do you ever wonder why we’re here?

Now this was unusual. Jill rarely got philosophical.

Are we talking religion?

I’m talking our purpose in life. There has to be more to our existence than getting up, going to work, and coming home to watch TV.

Agreed.

So what is it?

Joanna grimaced. The two things I’ve always wanted more than anything are to write books and be in love with the right guy. But since neither one of those has happened, I’m not sure I’m serving any purpose at all. What about you? What do you think your purpose is?

I don’t know.

Are we talking about your job, true love…what?

Falling in love isn’t the complete answer. I’ve seen enough bad relationships to know I want more than that.

Joanna immediately thought of Mark and felt defensive. Jill had never approved of any of her boyfriends. I’m guessing my life has been a cautionary tale for you since day one.

That’s what you get for being older.

Joanna waited to see if Jill would bring up Brian, Jill’s boyfriend in college, but Jill had made it clear several years ago the subject was off-limits.

Pulling the blanket tighter around her, Joanna leaned back in the chair and allowed her thoughts to turn to Mark since Jill didn’t seem interested in further discussion. Joanna should have seen his betrayal coming. He read from the same script most of her other boyfriends had: he flattered her, lied to her, cheated on her, and she was surprised every time. She knew she’d had a good guy or two in the mix, but somehow the relationships never seemed to work out. Apparently, she couldn’t inspire commitment in the opposite sex. Certainly she had initiated some of the breakups, but being dumped this time was particularly painful since Mark did it via text message. Classy.

No one in the family knew that when Joanna joined her writing group, she had done so out of attraction rather than a desire for constructive criticism. Joanna had met Gordon at a downtown coffee shop when he posted signs about a writing group. With his dark-rimmed glasses, spiky hair, and soul patch, she imagined him a Romeo and literary genius, her ticket to romantic and publishing success all wrapped up in one brooding-but-attractive package. She had joined the group to catch his attention, but after the first meeting, Mark, a fellow attendee, was why she stayed. Mark’s sandy blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw, and genial nature were infinitely superior to anything Gordon had to offer.

The chemistry between Joanna and Mark sparked immediately. After the first meeting, they arranged to meet privately to read each other’s manuscripts. The experience fulfilled every fantasy she had treasured while reading Walden in her college library and checking out good-looking guys who walked by. She and Mark drank coffee, read pages fresh from the computer printer, discussed writing techniques and famous authors until late into the night—yes, Mark had been the one. But he skipped writing group the night her stories had been critiqued—the coward—and broke up with her the next day.

Retreating to her home to lick her wounds after the writer’s group kicked her out, Joanna burned all the manuscripts with the snide comments in red, blue, and black ink. She could still see the flames leaping from her barbecue as she dropped page after page into the fire.

Mark sold a book, Joanna said, not worrying if Jill would follow the new discussion thread. Some gritty drama that was all style and no plot. I even proofed it for him before the breakup.

Ouch.

What hurts, Joanna continued, is that I’m a better writer than he is. At least, I think I am. But the rest of the world doesn’t agree.

Forget the rest of the world. You’re still writing, aren’t you?

Joanna shrugged. Writer’s block.

Muting the television volume, Jill inhaled as though she was about to speak, then closed her mouth.

What?

Jill pursed her lips. You don’t need a man to write.

But every breakup kills my confidence, and trust me, you’ve got to have a lot of confidence to fill a blank page with words.

Doesn’t it also take a lot of confidence to start a new relationship after a breakup?

Sure.

Jill raised her eyebrows and spread her hands as if to say, There you have it.

I get what you’re saying, Joanna admitted. I’ve been trying to have both the brilliant writing career and torrid love affair. But I can’t have everything—or any of it, for that matter.

No, Jill said, because then you wouldn’t be tortured like all writers are supposed to be.

Joanna turned back to the television. She felt Jill’s eyes on her but did not look her way. They watched the movie on mute for several seconds before Jill spoke.

Dad took the news about England pretty well, didn’t he?

Especially since he thought we’d choose Disney World. Poor Dad! He can’t see us as adults yet, much less exploring the streets of London.

We’re going to see more than London, I hope.

What did you have in mind?

Jill grinned almost devilishly. A little adventure in Sherwood Forest.

The word adventure had caused Joanna a great deal of trouble throughout the twins’ childhood—the zip line they built in the backyard that snapped the minute Joanna got on it, the bike ramp that collapsed and resulted in seven stitches in Joanna’s scalp, the riding lawn mower that got out of control and knocked down a section of fence. Jill’s propensity for adventure always leaned toward acts of physical danger. Joanna preferred to get her own adrenaline rush pursuing adventures of the heart.

"What exactly do you mean by little adventure?" Joanna queried, warning bells going off in her head.

There’s this place I found on the Internet that specializes in horse tours of Sherwood Forest, complete with running commentary on the Robin Hood legend.

Sounds cheesy. Joanna did not want to admit that the idea of riding a horse made her extremely nervous. She still had nightmares about the Bartoski-Olson wedding fiasco. Plus, you know Sherwood Forest isn’t really that big.

If I’m going to stand for three hours at the Globe to watch Shakespeare with you, you can handle a little pony ride through a park.

Fair enough. Joanna knew further arguing was hopeless. I’m going to bed. You staying up?

No. I’m turning in, too. Jill used the remote to shut off the TV.

Sleep well then, Joanna said, folding the blanket and hanging it on the back of the chair. May you have pleasant dreams of the handsome men you’ll meet in England.

"Men you’ll meet, you mean."

You never know, Joanna replied, already fantasizing about a dark, handsome stranger who spoke the Queen’s English. You never know.

3

July 16, 2009, 9:30 a.m.

Edwinstowe, Nottinghamshire, England

As she stepped out of the cab, Jill brushed back the hair that clung to her damp cheek. She was dressed for the day in jeans, a green V-neck T-shirt, and hiking boots with her Eagle Creek purse slung across her shoulders. Putting her hands on her hips, Jill surveyed the scene of the stables before her and felt her cheeks tighten into a broad grin.

Clouds hung low over the green tips of the great oaks on the edge of Sherwood Forest. Usually, Jill didn’t care for poetry, but the moment seemed as close to a poem—a good, rhyming poem that an average person could understand—as she could imagine. The gray air, the mist, and the green trees peeking in and out of the fog promised mystery and adventure that the trip up to this point had not provided.

Joanna’s voice from inside the cab interrupted her thoughts. Jill, do you have five quid on you?

Jill unzipped the back pocket of her bag, pulled out her wallet, and retrieved the bill which she passed inside the cab.

We’ll give you a call, Joanna told the driver before he drove away.

Joanna was dressed in khakis and a button-up pink blouse. She gripped the strap of the purse slung over her shoulder with one hand as she held a business card in the other. Usually, her open expression implied earnest intensity. The prospect of a horseback ride made her look more guarded than usual. But even as her features pulled together, creating furrows on her forehead, she had an innocent look that Jill hoped was not mirrored in her own face.

What’s that? Jill pointed to the card.

The driver’s phone number so we can call him for the ride back. He said he knows a good pub when we’re done.

You two had quite the conversation.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Do you share your life story with every man you meet?

Joanna scowled. I like to be friendly.

Mentioning that sharing too much information early in a relationship might be contributing to Joanna’s turnover in boyfriends didn’t seem like a good idea, so Jill settled for saying, Next time, share your story all you want, but leave me out of it.

Joanna rolled her eyes and deposited the business card in the pocket of the small journal she kept in her purse.

You’re bringing your journal?

I might want to write something down.

On horseback?

I like to be prepared.

It’s three hours, Jo. Three hours. What could you possibly need?

Sunglasses.

Jill pointed to the sky. Cloudy.

A compact mirror, a comb…and lipstick.

Seriously?

And pens. I might run out of ink.

Several possible options for responding danced in front of Jill’s head like the flowcharts she produced so often at work as she debated which response was more appropriate. But she didn’t want to argue today. So, she sighed and said, Whatever.

This would be a good place for a picture, Joanna commented. Too bad cameras aren’t allowed. Whoever heard of horses getting spooked by the flash? Couldn’t I just turn it off?

You’re not hiding a camera in your purse, too? When Joanna shook her head, Jill sighed. I’m kind of glad there are no photos. It takes the pressure off, you know? We can focus on enjoying the moment.

I don’t know. Joanna tucked her