And now for something completely different.

For months, I've stared at my towering bookshelves like my son often stares into the open door of our refrigerator.

"There's nothing to eat." He'll say.

I look at my grocery receipt. "There's plenty. Just find something."

He sighs, closes the door, and pours a bowl of cereal.


My stacks of neglected new releases, the forgotten RWA booty, all the hard cover books I splurged on ( by favs)-- this wealth of novels I've avoided-- lie dust covered on either side of my desk. Nothing appeals to me. I wrote to a friend the other night: I need something different!

Tucked onto the fourth shelf (two books deep and each row capped with more novels) was a very slim book which had journeyed from the wilds...er... Edinburgh, Scotland. I had forgotten it.

Poor dear.

My fair Tumperkin reviewed Charlotte Lamb's old Mills & Boon novella, Obsession, at Bam's place in late 2007. She sent me this little lovely as a reward for the spectacular point accumulating final chapter in The Unfeasibly Tall Greek Billionaire's Blackmailed Martyr-Complex Secretary Mistress Bride.

Have you read it? A good time was had by all.

But I digress.

I've started and from page one, I'm drawn in. It's a boss secretary story, dated as hell, and it's charming. The book opens with three pages of exposition--something I usually detest--but it's told so well that it's practically an art. Lamb lays this back story out quick and unapologetic while putting us smack dab into Nicola's mind, and her day. The scene is set, the voices clear, our course obvious. It's not that I expect surprises here--it's that this is a classic story told well. It's predictable, but comforting.

And I like it.

To her relief the telephone rang. It was Lois again. With Lang watching her, Nicola lied smoothly and then had to listen as Lois asked her: 'Is there someone else? I didn't do anything. Oh, I'm so miserable! I love him.'

Nicola wished she hadn't become slightly friendly with her in the past; she wouldn't now have to listen to this. 'I'll tell him as soon as he comes back,' she promised. 'Yes, I know. Yes, I won't forget.'

When she had put the phone down, Lang straightened and gave her a nod of approval.'That's better. I'm not in if she ever rings again. And don't pretend to forget again.' He moved away, whistling under his breath, and she looked at the back of his black head and wondered how it would feel to heave half a brick at it. She was just in the mood to do it this morning.

It's dated even for its time, isn't it? But that's even more fun. I feel myself tensing as I read, ready to mock Nicola as the kind of heroine I don't ever relate to. And yet each sentence moves me both to the expected conclusion (the boss is teh hawt--why does he make me feel so restless inside!) and to a wonderful appreciation for Lamb's writing. Her characters move in blocked scenes that neatly present sexual tension and character conflict. Every word has weight and is carefully doled to the reader.

Why did I never read these? I was so busy reading the flashier, trashier stories and I should have taken the time. I mean...really.

But for me, the tiny pencil scribblings, so light they are almost illegible, make this book a true treasure. My friend, thousands of miles away, made notes. They are infrequent, unintelligible, and abrupt. But they reveal clues into the reading life of someone I am so fond of. I wonder not just 'what the hell does that mean, T?' but 'why here? why this part? what are you thinking?' and I find myself taking a deeper look. Often to no avail.

We read alone. We come together in this community online to reflect and discuss. To champion or disparage. To forge friendships and to find acceptance for our love of a genre that is more often than not...maligned. The end product of our reading is discussion, that's true. But reading is a solitary endeavor. These faint markings in a worn, well loved novella---it's quite literally a small thing to note. But I know that my friend T made these. I feel her thoughtful presence as I read. I see history in these pages, and joy in these graphite markings.

It's funny to me, how much I enjoy stumbling across her notes. Like a little extra prize inside my prize. They've made my first reading of Charlotte Lamb unexpectedly memorable.