The Influence of Place on Plot

If you enjoyed Under the Tuscan Sun, and Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, you will probably agree with me that the locale was vital to both of these stories. The first could only have been successfully placed in Italy, and the second was totally dependent on both the historic period, the Second World War, and the place, the Greek Island of Cephalonia. The stories grew out of their settings.

My novel, The Memory of Roses, is a tale that I believe could only have happened on Corfu. In it, I have tried to capture the innate beauty of that particular Greek Island, its hills and mountains, its forests of olive trees punctuated with tall cypress, its sandy beaches and small fishing villages, and its wild profusion of flowers, and I have also tried to reflect the indomitable spirit of the Corfiots who are fortunate enough to call this small piece of paradise home. I cannot imagine this story set in a different time or place.

However, for an American woman in her thirties, coming head to head with the immovability of an irresistible Greek male six years younger than she, is an unsettling experience. Brit thinks she is looking for a short fling. Andreas wants more. Much more.

In the following scene, Brit and Andreas are in the ruins of an old Corfiot cottage on her property.
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From the distance there was an ominous rumbling. Andreas went to the door. Great thunder clouds were blotting out the horizon, moving rapidly toward them. The sky was almost black. A streak of lightening illuminated the sky, followed closely by a loud clap of thunder. Then the rain came in great sheets.

He turned back to Brit to discover that she had turned quite white.
“I’ve never liked thunder storms,” she confessed. “When I was little, my father told me that Zeus was angry, and was throwing thunderbolts. He always assured me they were not being thrown at me, but, to this day,” she gave a small mirthless laugh, “to this day, I always want to run and hide when I hear thunder close by.”

Andreas pulled her close. “I’ve done nothing that could anger Zeus. Just stay here safe in my arms until the storm passes.” He kissed the top of her head. “Brit, I love you so. Why do you keep resisting me?”

Brit nestled her head against Andreas’ chest. “After what happened last night between us, how can you possibly say I resist you. You are without a doubt the most irresistible man I’ve ever known.”

He shook his head in frustration. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I’m not looking for a short affair, however sexually satisfying. I want marriage. I want a home, a wife, children.”

Brit pushed him away with a short, sarcastic laugh. “That’s the woman’s line, Andreas. That’s what the woman always says, isn’t it? I want a home, a husband, children. But I’m not saying that to you. You have never heard me say those words to you.”

Her voice took on a harsh, angry edge. “You’re too young to even know what you want. You think you’re in love with me? What will you think when I’m forty and you’re only thirty-four? When I’m sixty and you’re still a man in his prime?”

Andreas looked at her, shock written on his face.

With a sob, Brit turned and ran outside into the storm. Swearing, Andreas ran after her. By the time he reached her they were both soaking wet. He scooped her up effortlessly into his arms and walked swiftly with her the rest of the way back to the villa. There he stripped off her wet clothes, dried her body and her hair roughly with towels as her teeth chattered, and dumped her unceremoniously onto their bed, covering her shivering body with a thick down duvet. Then he stripped off his own wet clothing and joined her. Wordlessly he made love to her, bringing her body quickly to the heat only passion can create.

When they lay, exhausted and still, he murmured, “I will want you when I am eighty-five and you are ninety-one. I will go to my grave wanting you.”……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Watch for the release of Blair McDowell’s newest novel, The Memory of Roses in October.