My favorite book in the series is Anne of the Island. Gilbert proposes to Anne, Anne refuses him, Anne goes around with Roy and Gilbert with Christine; but in the end, Anne and Gilbert, who are meant to be, are.

But supposing Anne knew she loved Gilbert when she refused him? Supposing she had loved Gilbert Blythe with every fiber of her being, but had been too afraid to marry him, because she was afraid that, as in the line from the movie, “We’ll just end up like two old crows. Fighting. All the time!”

And supposing she hadn’t told Gilbert that. Supposing she had lied and simply told him she didn’t love him, and (knowing that he, being Gilbert, would not give up if left the slightest bit of encouragement) would rather not be friends with him at all anymore.

So Gilbert would have gone on his way, sorrowfully, still in love with Anne, perhaps trying to turn the tragedy over and over in conversation with mutual friends until they, too, left him out of disgust at his seemingly obsessive repetition and denial. Oh, he might have tried again with Anne—but at the slightest hint of more than friendship—for, fearfully, Anne’s eyes would be peeled for lovelorn excess this time—she would cut him again.

Enter Roy Gardner.

Enter Christine Stuart.

As we all remember, Christine was possessed of a beautiful face and a very ordinary exterior. But supposing, too, that her lot was reversed. Supposing Christine was plain of face, as drab of personality as in the book, but possessed of an extraordinarily kind and loving heart, which heart helped her to be the only one to listen to Gilbert when everyone else would not. And supposing Gilbert, wounded, bleeding, had fallen in love with that heart.

Exit Roy Gardner.

Re-enter Anne, her attempt to forget Gilbert failed, her pain doubled at the sight of Gilbert with Christine. Anne thinks Christine a fool—too naïve even for Anne’s taste, with a face only a little more interesting than her personality—but her analysis is probably greatly darkened by jealousy.

So, supposing Anne goes to Gilbert and confesses all.

Don’t they end up together now?

No.

Gilbert has healed as much as a man cut by real (if not true) love can, and now loves Christine. He thinks of Anne as more than a friend but less than a love.

Suppose all of this had happened, and suppose how very deeply into the depths of despair Anne would have fallen by the end of such a tale.

And thusly, I hope you can understand why I left you for six months, and am still fighting to not stop typing and run. Now that summer vacation is upon us, I will have more time and less pain to write with.

I hope.

-M.R.

Chapter Three: And Again

The writer merely has some people in his mind, and an incident or two, also a locality. He knows the selected locality, and he trusts that he can plunge those people into incidents with interesting results.

-Mark Twain

The original plan was to have tea in Anne’s little parlor—Anne having found a very comfortable, “kindred” boarding house—but engaged (and to a very wonderful, beautiful…naïve woman) or no, Gilbert would not ignore the proprieties.

The little tea shop they chose was out of the way, small, and somewhat dim, but clean and respectable all the same.

Gilbert was still reeling from the shock of that morning. In order to effectively remove Dr. Powell’s betrayal from his mind, he asked Anne, “So how was your morning?”

Anne gained time by choking on her tea. “Sorry. So different from Earl Grey, isn’t it? Or chamomile. Chamomile was always one of my favorite flavors. And peppermint. Especially at Christmas—”

In much earlier days Gilbert would have made Anne stop beating around the bush. However, from weariness and long experience, he instead waited for Anne to run down. Although he was listening to her every word, Gilbert had become a great multitasker when it came to Anne Shirley; he counted to seventy-nine while waiting.

He was also beginning to have a sinking feeling. Had they turned her away altogether? Turned away sweet Anne, who was so crushed by criticism and failure?

“—kind of a word is Pekoe, I ask you? It sounds like some exotic bird.” Anne sighed, and still paused before answering. “They offered me…an important editorial position.”

Not turned away altogether, then. Gilbert masked his immense relief with his own gulp of orange pekoe before leaning towards Anne—relief turning to chagrin. “But Dr. Powell assured me they were interested in publishing your work!”

Anne gave him a look that said as plainly as day, After what happened between you and Dr. Powell this morning, can we really trust him?

And for that, Gilbert had no answer. “Anyways, Anne, you’ve got to continue your own writing—not working on someone else’s material!”

But Anne caressed his cheek reassuringly. “It’s all right, Gil. I really want this job. And I intend to have Winfield publish a book of mine if it’s the last thing I do!”

Gilbert knew better than to doubt Anne when her determination roused its fiery head. And indeed, by the next week, Anne told Gilbert excitedly over her afternoon tea that her work-in-progress novel (about a missionary teacher in the Himalayas, to be paired off with an unfortunate wild British colonel) now had…a TITLE.

“Forever Into Eternity, by Anne Shirley,” she announced dreamily. “Isn’t it absolutely marvelous?!”

Gilbert would not have called it marvelous. “Forever Into Eternity” was…melodramatic, cliché…and of Anne’s own creation, so he simply agreed, “Marvelous.”

But Anne read his pause and laughed aloud. “You can tell me the truth, Gil. You always have.”

“You can’t hit me with something if I do, Anne,” Gilbert cautioned. “You always have.”

Anne laughed even more; but as always, her laugh always brought wondering smiles and not annoyed frowns to the people around them. “It’s all right, Gil, Mr. Garrison didn’t think so either.”

“Oh, well, then,” Gilbert grinned, relaxing. “Anne Shirley, ‘Forever Into Eternity’ is the…wait a minute. Jack Garrison?”

“He said I was going to jinx myself with a title like that,” Anne chuckled reminiscently.

“Anne! THE JACK GARRISON?”

“Why yes.” Anne sounded surprised at Gilbert’s insistence. “Winfield is his contracted publisher, didn’t you know? So he’s almost always there.”

“Of course I knew that! I know ev—” Gilbert caught himself. “Er, a lot about him. I…His books aren’t half bad.” Actually they were wholly bad—more clichéd and melodramatic than Anne’s story title, the hypocrite—but Gilbert adored them. Which was something he kept secret. “But Anne,” he continued, trying to sound casually interested, “working in the same building is one thing. Passing is one thing. But he talked to you. That’s very…What did he look like?” Gilbert imagined a portly, bearded professor, with a meerschaum in one hand and several unfinished manuscripts in the other, his beard ink- and ash-stained…

“Hm, dark hair, slim, very tall—a little taller than you, Gil. Early thirties, maybe…He’s very handsome.”

“Hm,” Gilbert repeated, as his own mental image went flying out the window. He wasn’t sure he liked where Anne’s description was going. Or the look in her eyes. Anne loved beauty and recognized it, both physically and soulfully, but…

Gilbert was even less sure he liked Anne’s having met Jack Garrison when a rapt Anne disclosed the very next day that had requested her as his sole editor!

“I’m nervous,” Anne confessed to Gilbert. Only complete nervousness, indeed, would have dragged that confession from her. Even to Gilbert. “There’s no one more experienced, either. I’m to meet him at the hotel address Mr. Winford gave me in…” Anne flipped open the enamel watch pinned to her blouse. “Ten minutes! Sorry to leave early, Gil, but I don’t want to be late!”

“Not at all,” Gilbert grumbled, watching the door swing.

It’s short and bad. I’m sorry. I’m trying to get the hang of this again.

-M.R.