Just My Opinion

Chapter 1

July 2, 2013

Life can change in the blink of an eye. This blink came when a cop car cruised up The Seacrest’s white shell driveway on a hot Saturday in July.

I’ll never forget the moment. You know how folks remember where they were when John Lennon died? Or when President Kennedy was assassinated? It was like that, every detail stamped into my brain, forever.

A fresh breeze laden with the scent of the sea rustled blue flowers in a nearby hydrangea hedge. Hot and sweaty, I stood in the blazing sun, feeling like a fool. I’d just finished weed wacking around the paddock fence posts. Unfortunately, said weed wacker had spooked Libby Vanderhorn’s favorite mare, Serendipity, who I secretly called Dippy, because she was such a loose cannon. She’d bucked three times and knocking down several fence boards. Libby was a good rider, but this time she’d landed in a sprawling heap on the soft dirt, swearing at me.

The boss’s gorgeous, stuck-up daughter didn’t mince words, and the sting of her accusations still sounded in my head. How stupid can you be, Finn? What’s wrong with you?

Libby’s father held great power on Cape Cod. Rudolph Vanderhorn sat on so many boards, I’d lost count. His father’s fish canning company made a fortune back in the eighties, and he and his daughter had enjoyed the spoils ever since.

I stooped to pick up a hammer from my toolbox, planning to reattach the fence boards before any of Libby’s horses got hurt on the protruding nails. Curious now, I watched the Brewster Police car circle the long drive, heading toward the mansion. The local authorities stopped by every few days to discuss town matters with my boss. But today the blue light was flashing, which didn’t look like a casual visit.

A shudder went through me, and I turned cold. Something bad had happened. I sensed it.

The front door opened, and Rudy watched them approach, one hand shading the sun from his eyes. Like a majestic lion, he stood broad-shouldered and strong, his longish white hair lifting in the sea breeze.

Libby stopped hosing down her big white mare, who thankfully hadn’t hurt herself in the fit she’d thrown earlier. The horse snorted and rubbed her big head against her owner’s arm as if to scratch an itch. Long, dark hair blew around Libby’s face, and she stared with open curiosity at the cruiser, rhythmically combing her fingers through the mare’s curly mane.

Time froze.

I stood still, gripping the hammer, studying the patrol car as it drove past the front porch with its impressive columns and portico. It didn’t stop for Rudy, but passed the six-car garage, followed the driveway to the barn, and rolled to a stop ten feet from me, lights still flashing.

Police Chief Kramer and Deputy Lowell stepped out and ambled toward me, their eyes somber.

I dropped the hammer, letting it thud to the grass near my feet.

“Finn?” Kramer said, approaching slowly. “I’m afraid we have bad news.”

There is nothing worse than hearing that bad news is about to be delivered. My brain went wild, imagining the worst scenarios. But somehow I didn’t quite picture what he was about to tell me.

“There’s been an accident,” Kramer said.

Lowell, a high school football star in his day, kicked the dirt at the edge of the path. “Car went over the cliffs,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“For God’s sake, guys.” I looked from Kramer to Lowell. “Who was in the car?”

Kramer pulled out a piece of paper. “I regret to inform you that your wife, Cora Mae McGraw, and your brother, Jaxson Robert McGraw, have been killed in a vehicular accident.”

Deputy Lowell touched my sleeve, then awkwardly stepped back. “We’re real sorry, Finn.”

“Car went into the ocean,” Kramer said. “We believe they were dead on impact.”

I stared at them, numbness creeping up my spine. “What the hell?”

“Er, look, if there’s anything we can do…” Lowell seemed remorseful, and he offered a hand when I lost my balance and grabbed for the fence.

Libby and her father appeared at my side in seconds, but in the dreamlike state of denial and shock, I caught only brief snatches of their words, as if the wind had grabbed them, teasing me with the bits and pieces.

“What happened?”

“Bad accident.”

“She died?”

“Who was with her?”

And so on.

Libby guided me across the lawn and around back to the mansion’s cavernous kitchen. I leaned woodenly against the refrigerator while the family’s beloved cook, Fritzi, bustled her big, ample self about the kitchen making coffee and pushing fresh corn muffins at the officers.

Someone guided me into a chair. I sat, dazed and unmoving. The voices warbled around me and now my brain began to pick through the new knowledge, still not comprehending.

Cora’s dead?

It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real.

Jax is dead?

I hadn’t seen my brother in ten years.

Ten years since I’d even talked to him. I sometimes almost drove past the blueberry farm, thinking of my old life. But I never actually stopped there.

Ten years since my parents died in that fire. Since I lost my little sister, Eva. Ten years since my family burned because of that cigarette smoldering in the couch.

Ten freaking years.

I didn’t even know what Jax looked like anymore. Had he lost hair? Gained weight? Turned prematurely gray like our father did at age thirty?

Ten years.

A shudder passed through me. A great gulping sound sputtered from my throat. I think I started to hyperventilate.

I locked eyes with Libby, whose mouth was moving. I couldn’t hear her.

Cora is dead.

Jax is dead.

Laying my head on my arms, I silently convulsed.

One thought wandered around the edges of my brain, refusing to go away, in spite of the enormity of what had happened.

What the hell was Jax doing with Cora?

Chapter 2

July 2, 1997

I’ll never forget the day I fell in love with her.

There she stood, all tall and lanky, dark hair blowing in the breeze as if it loved caressing her face.

She held a beach ball and faced the sea.

She was sixteen.

That’s all it took. That one salty, sandy, sunshiny day—forever staked in my memory.

Her father had claimed a spot on Paines Creek Beach, right next to ours. They laid out a red-and-white striped blanket and matching umbrella with beach chairs, a cooler filled with watermelon and soda, and white paper bags that smelled of fries and burgers.

I’d settled on a beach towel next to my grandfather, Dex McGraw, surreptitiously watching them.

Gramps sat beside me, drinking from a cold thermos of gin and ice, his favorite. He sat with his shirt off and long legs stretched out, his head back and shaggy silver-blond hair glinting in the sun. He always told me his time was “before the hippies,” but I had a feeling he would have made a good one. He was one helluva rebel. And he always stood up for what was right, no matter what.

He saw me watching the girl and casually appraised her, gray eyes slit and his head nodding in approval. With a low whisper, he turned to me. “Pretty girl.”

I know I blushed, because at sixteen that’s all I seemed to do when girls were involved. “Yeah. I guess.” I traced circles in the sand with my forefinger. The sun burned the skin on my back and shoulders, although I’d slathered plenty of sunscreen on earlier at my mother’s insistence.

He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, but closed his eyes, soaking in the sun and soft breeze. I wondered what he was thinking about. Adventures at sea? Lost loves? I knew he had many, and that some of them had died awful deaths. Once in a while he talked about it. But it seemed I never got enough of his stories. I always wanted more.

“Finn?”

“Yes, Gramps?”

“I want to tell you something.” He opened his eyes, and caught me watching her again. She’d dropped into a chair while her father dutifully rubbed white suntan lotion on her shoulders.

“I’m listening.” I stared up at his leathery skin, his eyes so full of wisdom. He didn’t look like my friends’ grandfathers. Lean, muscled, and strong, he didn’t use a cane, or bend over when he walked. His body boasted scars earned from long-ago adventures. I bragged about those badges of courage to my friends.

He leaned in close to me. “Grab life with both hands. If you love someone, put your whole heart into it. Give it your all. Your everything.” He glanced sideways at the girl, and a wistful expression crossed his face. “Nothing is forever, my boy. So enjoy every single second.”

“Okay,” I said.

He locked eyes with me. “I’m serious.”

I nodded. “I got it.”

“Why don’t you go say hello? I think she’s looking for someone to toss that ball with.”

I nearly froze, but he gently urged me with his eyes. Summoning my courage, I stood up, brushing sand from my legs and arms.

“Go on. You’ll have fun,” he said.

I glanced at her.

Now her father rubbed lotion on her back. Creamy skin. Soft skin. Touchable skin.

She held her hair aloft with one delicate hand.

Piano playing fingers, I thought.

Be strong.

Be brave.

You can do this.

As if reading my mind, Gramps nodded in her direction again. “You’ve got this, Finn.”

“Right.” With heart thumping, I took a deep breath and headed toward her.

Chapter 3

July 5, 2013

On the day after Independence Day, I stood beside the grave, staring at the casket.

Cora.

Oh my God.

Cora.

The pain spread through me like hot oil in a frying pan, searing my insides and coating my brain with sticky, gooey nothingness. For the past two days, I’d been disconnected from the world and had rarely responded to people’s questions. I hadn’t met anyone’s eyes. And when they’d finally left me alone, I stayed in my dark bedroom for hours. No lawn mowing, no weeding in the Vanderhorns’ gardens, no stall mucking.

It was embarrassing, really, in that part of my brain that still connected tenuously with normal thought. But the double loss of Cora and Jax, coupled with my unresolved anger at him, was quite simply—unbearable.

My wife’s coffin lay in the rectangular hole covered with fake green grass carpet, sparkling white with lavender flowers. With a detached inner smile, I thought she would have liked it. That is, had she been standing here beside me and able to ignore the issue of her own death.

Maybe she was standing beside me? Maybe her spirit lingered in the salty sea breeze.

I wasn’t so sure. Because in the end, I didn’t even know if she still loved me.

Libby and Rudy Vanderhorn stood on either side of me, alongside a small group of our friends who crowded around the grave overlooking the cliffs, the very spot where my wife and brother had plunged to their deaths.

It was too much. Seeing those craggy bluffs, imagining—over and over again—the car bursting through the guardrail and plunging into the deep green water.

But I had no choice, really. The Shady Pines cemetery hosted the plots my parents bought long ago, and I didn’t exactly have enough pocket cash to buy two new gravesites. Okay, I’ll admit it. I didn’t have enough money to get the muffler fixed on my old Jeep. Or pay for that stack of overdue bills on the kitchen table. Worst of all, I didn’t have enough to cover the cost of flowers or funeral services.

Cora and I had sunk everything into paying off school loans. Me with my useless degree in fine arts, she with a performance degree in cello. Together we’d owed almost a hundred grand.

We both tried for years to get jobs in places like museums and orchestras. Occasionally, we’d get part time gigs. I sold some of my watercolors once when I lowered the price at the town sidewalk sales to ridiculous levels. But it was never enough to pay the bills, and over time, both Cora and I had given up our elusive dreams and fell into the jobs as groundskeeper/groom and housemaid at the Vanderhorns’ mansion by the sea.

The Seacrest wasn’t a bad place to work, and part of the deal was free use of a one-bedroom cottage on the far side of the barn. Where I used to sleep every night with Cora. Every night with Cora. Never again with Cora. Never.

Cora.

I surveyed the contiguous plots beneath the tree. Beside the graves of my parents and little sister, there was a space for me, a plot for my brother, and two adjacent spots for our wives. Jaxson’s wife had left him years ago, so I had no idea who would end up buried between him and me. My brother and Berra had produced no kids, thank God.

Cora and I had no little ones, either, although I’d always wanted a family. She’d said we “weren’t ready” every year, for the past eleven years. It always came down to finances, the fact that we had no home of our own, and her insistence that she wasn’t ready to be a mother.

Now she’d never get the chance. And I’d probably never be a father.

Another stab of pain hit me hard in the chest. I’d really wanted a family.

I clutched at the tie I borrowed from Rudy, loosening the choking fabric. The sun blazed overhead, and I’d broken into an uncomfortable sweat since we left the shelter of the cool limousine. I wore the same dark suit I’d bought for the triple funeral when my parents and sister died in the fire. It hung loose on me now, especially since I’d worked all day, every day for the past five years outdoors.

Today Rudy and Libby flanked me, also dressed in black. Rudy had kindly arranged for the funeral details for both Cora and my brother. Somehow, the flowers and service were ordered and paid for. Jax’s funeral was yesterday, a complete blur. I was certain it had displaced a number of July Fourth barbecues. I remembered very little, except some of the hymns we used to sing in church when we were a whole family. A complete family. A living family.

How can I be the only one left?

Reverend Mitchell droned on and on, but I didn’t process his words. He hadn’t known Cora. His words were hollow, and I almost resented the way he talked about her as if they’d been best friends.

I watched his mouth move, his hands holding a worn bible. His wizened mouth puckered and turned to a frown when a crow tried to compete with him and yammered in the white pine overhead, seeming to mimic the pastor’s words.

I almost laughed out loud.

I hadn’t stepped foot in the quaint little Presbyterian Church where he preached since the deaths of my parents and sister.

I was still mad at God for that one.

But I was also equally mad at Jax. I was certain it was his cigarette that started the fire.

“Finn?” Libby took my arm and guided me toward the car when the coffin was lowered. Someone’s hand—maybe my own—had dropped a handful of soil on it.

I held in my grief like a man.

My father would’ve been proud. My mother would have wept. And my little sister would have comforted me, holding my hand and telling me she loved me with those big green eyes.

But I felt it welling up in my throat, and if someone approached and was too nice, I was afraid I’d lose it.

“Finn? Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Libby had been kind for the past three days, sparing me her usual quips and complaints. Her father had treated me with respect and kindness, also out of character. Yet both of them had tactfully avoided the question I still agonized over.

Why had Cora been in Jax’s car?

I didn’t think they’d ever met. She’d asked about him, of course. Wondered why he inherited the farm and I got nothing.

She’d treated me like I lost my mind when I told her I’d rejected the inheritance and told him he could have it. All of it. The three hundred and fifty acres of blueberry fields and woods. The house and barns. The stand for the berry picking operation.

I’d given it all up to flee the horror of that night.

With a sigh, I slumped in the back seat of the limo. Libby touched my hand, and I felt my resolve crack.

Just five more minutes. Hold on for five more minutes.

Chapter 4

July 2^nd, 1997

We played with the beach ball for about an hour, laughing and churning up sand three hundred yards up the beach, away from the sunbathers and family picnics. After the first few nervous minutes, the whole thing felt very natural, as if we were just kids and there were no boy-girl elements to be embarrassed about.

But there certainly were boy-girl elements.

I watched her tawny arms as they flailed and whapped the ball and marveled at her long, delicate legs when she ran back and forth along the quiet stretch of sand we’d chosen. Her eyes had a way of widening in mock horror when I tossed it too high and she missed it, quickly followed by a wide smile that dizzied me.

She had a nice figure, with slim legs, a narrow waist, and pretty shoulders. Her one-piece black suit covered areas I tried not to stare at, but couldn’t help wanting to. I wondered how it would feel to touch her. Probably softer than silk. Her hair cascaded along her back, bouncing dark against her summer brown skin.

We collapsed on the sand with the ball between us, breathing hard and laughing.

“You’re pretty good at this,” she said.

I leaned back on my arms and chuckled. “So are you. For a girl.”

She sat up and hit my arm. “What? For a girl?”

Afraid she’d storm off, I took her hand and pulled her close to me. “I’m just kidding! Really, you’re good, even for a guy.”

She smiled that lazy, sweet grin again and I felt my heart melt.

“Okay. That’s better.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Guess.”

“What?”

“Guess.”

“Okay.” I sat up, furrowed my brow, and placed fingertips against my temples, staring at her. “I’m getting something. It’s coming.”

She laughed and poked my chest. “Oh, really? What do you see?”

I gave it a shot. “Jennifer?”

She snorted. “No!”

I tried again. “Sarah?”

She giggled. “Heck, no.”

I tried to think of the most popular names of our generation, hoping it was one of them. “Allison?”

“Uhnt-uh.” She shook her head.

“Give me a hint.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on!” I frowned. “How can I guess?”

“You have to.”

“Okay. Hannah? Jessica? Carly? Jenna? Lisa?”

“No, no, no, no, and no.”

“Hey. How ‘bout if I tell you my name?”

“What is it?”

I hesitated. “It’s a weird one.”

“Tell me.”

“Okay. It’s Finn.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not weird. I like it. Finn.” She seemed to taste the letters on her tongue, enjoying the feel of it. “It’s different. But nice.”

“Okay. Your turn.” I sat forward expectantly.

“Nope. I’m not telling. You have to keep guessing.”

I ran through all the names I could imagine, and didn’t hit on it. Frustrated now, I flopped back on the sand. “Okay. Then I’m gonna make up a name for you.”

She made a face. “Really?” Quickly, she leaned over me, her face blocking the sun.

In a sudden rush of feeling, I wanted to pull her to me, to smother her in kisses, to taste the salt on her skin.

“Okay, what’s it gonna be? What’s my new name?”

“Let me think.”

Her hair danced over my bare chest. I caught it and played with it. “You are sweet. I could call you Honey.”

“Boring,” she said.

“How about Candy?”

“Sexist,” she pouted.

“Bambi?”

“Even worse! I’m not a playboy bunny!”

“Okay, Well, you look delicious. How about Cupcake?”

She hissed. “That sounds like a chubby girl. Or a pony.”

“Okay, okay. Let me think. Maybe I need some inspiration. How about a kiss?”

At first I thought she’d reel back and hit me. But to my surprise, she lowered her lips to mine, stopping just an inch apart. “Okay. Just a little one, though.”

I reached my arms up to her neck and pulled her toward me. At the last minute, just as I felt the soft sweetness of her mouth brushing mine, she pulled back.

“Nope. Too soon.” She got up and laughed, twirling around with the ball. “Come on. What’s my nickname?”

I sat up, trying to control the heat surging beneath my bathing suit. “Okay. I’ve got it.”

“What? What is it?”

“Sassy.”

She pranced toward me. “I love that! Okay. From now on, I’m Sassy to you.”

Her father appeared out of nowhere, his face a study in disapproval. I think he hated me from the moment I’d asked her to toss the ball around. I also figured he’d probably seen us lying near each other, and got nervous.

He glared at me. “Time for lunch. Let’s go.”

There was no arguing with his stern tone. She tossed him the ball and wiggled her fingers at me. “See ya ‘round, Finn.”

I grinned like an idiot. God, she was cute. “Okay, Sassy. See ya.”

I watched her link arms with her father and sashay away from me. The sun winked on the brilliant sand, almost blinding me. As if hypnotized, I stared with slack jaw until I could barely make out her figure among the crowded, colorful throng of beach-lovers.

Sassy.

Oh, Sassy. You’re the one for me.

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Genre - Romantic Suspense

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The sound of a footfall on the coral shingle had us all looking toward the land. A human had moved onto the coral path.

“There is a human outside your land house, Vanessa. It appears that he is a new deckhand for the Dolphin to replace the one who was injured,” I remarked.

Maria’s words were as dark as the shirt she removed as she glared at the new human. “I hope this one has better manners.”

“He certainly has a physique which is more pleasing to the eye. His upper body musculature is well defined and his rear is particularly shapely.” Vanessa was thoughtful.

I tried not to laugh. “A cute bum and big muscles don’t say anything about his manners, Vanessa.” Sometimes human words were more expressive, particularly when using the vernacular to describe human anatomy.

“I didn’t say he had a cute bum, Belinda.” She inclined her head, clearly evaluating him. “I would say he has a damn fine arse.”

All three of us laughed. Nothing was as funny as one of our people admiring a human, for it was so unlikely. Humans were a source of information or products. They produced what we needed and were used accordingly; contact was as limited as necessary to ensure our people remained hidden from them.

I started to remove my clothing in preparation for a night-time swim.

Vanessa gathered her choice of fish. “I will go and speak with him, so that I may examine him more closely.” She took one fish in each hand and started down the jetty toward the human.

Maria and I slid over the side of the vessel and sank into the water, watching.

I kept my voice low as I addressed my comment to Maria. “Why do I feel this new human means trouble for us all?”

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Sarah, Rebecca’s long-limbed daughter, bounded up to Lisbeth on the bench. “Miss Lisbeth, Auntie Mattie says to teach you somethin’.”

“Oh, that is all right,” Lisbeth stammered, blinking away tears. “Thank you, though.”

“She says I got to!”

Mattie yelled across the way, “Learn somethin’ new, Lisbeth—Sarah gonna teach you.”

“All right,” Lisbeth acquiesced, though she was uncertain.

“It go like this—put your hand up, fingers open by your shoulders, like this.”

Lisbeth followed Sarah’s directions and mirrored the posture of the girl across from her. Sarah pounded out a rhythm in a complicated pattern alternately clapping her hands together and slapping them against her own knees or Lisbeth’s hands.

Sarah chanted while her hands flew,

Little Sally Walker, sitting in a saucer,

Rise, Sally rise, wipe your weeping eyes,

Put your hands on your hips and let your back bone slip

Shake it to the east, shake it to the west,

Shake it to the one that you love the best.”

“You are so fast!” Lisbeth exclaimed when Sarah finished.

“Everyone always sayin’ how fast I go,” Sarah boasted. “I the fastest tobacco picker for my age.”

“I could never clap like that.”

“’Course you can! I show you slow now.”

Sarah’s callused palms clapped against Lisbeth’s smooth skin. Over and over Sarah moved her hands slowly, chanting out the song until Lisbeth sang along. After a while Lisbeth dared to move her hands along with the rhyme, often making mistakes. The girls burst out laughing whenever Lisbeth missed a step and clapped up into Sarah’s face instead of her own knees or hands.

“You gettin’ it,” Sarah encouraged.

“Not as good as you.”

“Just practice, you gonna get better.”

“I have no one to practice with.”

“Auntie Mattie real good at this one. Practice with her.”

Lisbeth jerked her head in Mattie’s direction. “Mattie knows this game?” Lisbeth’s eyebrows furrowed as she stared at her nurse.

“Oh, yeah. Auntie Mattie know lots of hand clapping games. She taught me some good ones.”

Lisbeth studied her nurse playing with Samuel and Emmanuel in the distance. There was so much about Mattie that she had not seen before. Mattie’s head was thrown back, her mouth open wide in hard laughter as her son and husband ganged up to tickle her. Lisbeth felt her understanding of the world come apart and slowly reform. A sickening realization dawned: Mattie loved her life here, away from Lisbeth.

Sarah studied Lisbeth studying Mattie. Waiting patiently, Sarah stood in front of Lisbeth ready to resume the game whenever the young mistress of the plantation wished.

 

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Several months after the club opening, one afternoon, Scooter left the front entrance to the club, and noticed two Negro men on the street corner, with a tin cup at their feet. The older of the two gentlemen, would watch people as they went by, and select someone. He would greet them and casually reach up toward their ear and produce a coin, as if taking it from their ear. This aroused the interest of those chosen and others passing by. The man then would perform other slight of hand moves that amazed the crowds gathered to watch. The man approached Scooter, shook his hand, and then offered to sell him a watch; Scooter’s own watch! The crowd laughed and Scooter was amazed. “What is your name, pal?” Scooter inquired. “The man replied to Scooter, “My name is B-roy.” “B-roy?” Scooter mused. “Yeah, you see, on the plantation in Charleston, they called me ‘boy’, but my little brother here, he don’t talk too plain and he stutters, and he called me ‘B-roy’ and it kinda stuck.” B-roy tried to explain. “Well, what is your brother’s name?” Scooter asked. “We call him BD.” B-roy said. “BD? Why BD?” Scooter said as he smiled, waiting for the reply. He thought this may be interesting. B-roy patted his brother on the shoulder and said, “BD stands for ‘brain dead’. You see, he ain’t quite right in the head.” Scooter and the others gathered around laughed heartily. BD laughed and shook his head too. The crowd started to move on and B-roy was concerned they didn’t leave much money.

 

Scooter saw B-roy as he looked into the tin cup, and BD picked it up and shook it. “Don’t worry about that B-roy,” Scooter said as he reached in his pocket, removed some money, and placed it in BD’s hand. BD excitedly put it into the tin cup. B-roy looked at Scooter with amazement. Scooter spoke up, “that should be enough to feed you two for a couple of days, and have a little left over. By the way, where do you two live?” B-roy hesitated, then replied, “We been sleeping in the alley beside the saloon up the street.” The same alley Scooter slept in when he was on the street. “Come with me,” Scooter said. He took B-roy and BD around to the side entrance to the apartment and told them the two rooms were theirs as long as they needed them. B-roy spoke up, “thank you Mr. Scooter, but we have to pay for our room, and we only need one. BD is scared to sleep by himself.” “I have jobs for both of you here at the club. B-roy you will be a magician, entertaining the folks, and BD, well, we’ll find something for him.”

 

Scooter and O’Hara began to work with B-roy on his magic performance, and surprisingly he had quite a repertoire of moves to amaze people. BD was learning to help Ella keep trash up at the bar.

 

The economy was booming in St. Louis in 1874. The railroad was expanding with the opening of the Eads Bridge across the Mississippi River, for both traffic and rail. The first train robbery by the James Gang took place at Gads Hill on January 31 and began the crime spree of the gang. The High Cotton Club was growing in popularity, so much so, that Sugar began to look for new ways to attract business. But it seemed no matter what he tried, the St. Louie saloon was struggling. A new club also had opened across the river, in East St. Louis.

 

October 4, 1874, the High Cotton Club had experienced the largest crowd ever, partly due to the entertainment of some special guests from Europe who were touring in the U.S. Lydia Thompson, and her troupe, known as ‘the British Blondes’, were a very popular traveling burlesque show, that drew large crowds of men and curious women. O’Hara, after seeing the troupe in Nashville, managed to book them to the High Cotton Club.

 

The new club , in East St. Louis, catered to a slightly different clientele, by offering much the same as the High Cotton and the Saloon, but also offered ‘burlesque’ style entertainment, and personalized services from the ladies in the club.

 

O’Hara was also looking to help Sugar with entertainment at the Saloon, and booked a very popular pantomime show to appear the week after the burlesque show. George Fox, produced and performed a show called ‘Humpty Dumpty’, which eventually became the most popular and the most successful pantomime show in the Americas.

 

With the performance of these two shows, the East St. Louis Club, known as Harley’s, saw its clientele begin to return to the High Cotton Club and the St. Louie Saloon. The owner of Harley’s, Edward Harley, had a few choice words for Sugar, Scooter, and especially O’Hara, vowing to close their businesses.

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Jess stepped off the transporter and right into the bustle of alien activity around her.
What kind of fresh holy hell did I come to?
Alien races, some of which she recognized, others she didn’t, streamed up and down the walkways, coming and going. Transporters of various sizes occupied every available space of the four long rows of docking stations. She and JB had waited half the day just to get a spot in line for landing. From what she could see, the Sonis palace had a slew of visitors.
She could have easily retreated back into the confines of secured safety. But to do so would be an open admission of fear and weakness. She was neither. The days of being scared of every alien who came her way were long over.
Jess took a long breath, filling her lungs with so much air that her chest puffed out. It burned as she held it there while a group of Zarcarians, blue aliens with small, seemingly vacant slits for eyes, meandered by her, deep in conversation. Their white hair was cropped just above where their ears should have been. Silver robes covered their tall, lanky frames and brushed the ground as they walked.
Although she couldn’t make out the hushed whispers that came from mouths that were devoid of lips, she still stood ridged, prepared to fight if needed. She didn’t relax even after they finally moved past her and away.
Stay calm. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out.
JB rustled from behind her at the transporter’s door. She didn’t startle as he held onto her  waist and pushed her gently to the right, out of his way. He exited and stood by her side. Unlike her, concern and apprehension didn’t show on his face as he raised his arms in the air and stretched. Standing six-feet-two, he was only two inches taller than her.
“Whew, sweet Jesus. Look at all these people.”
“They’re not people.” She scanned the transport bay. “They’re aliens and…things.” She cringed as she caught a pair of Rasdons emerging from a transporter.
Their species resembled a snarling dog. They were taller than her and JB with black, coarse hair covering most of their body. Long snouts sat just above yellow fangs that hung out of their mouths. Their beastly black eyes darted from side to side, taking in everything around them.
Their sexual tastes…ran to the obscene. She’d been the subject of their affection at the brothel more times than she could remember. To her, next to the Loconuist, Rasdons were what nightmares were made of.
One of the Rasdons turned her way and ran a tongue over the tips of his fangs. At her hiss, JB followed her gaze. He straightened, prepared for a confrontation. “You know them?”
She shook her head. “No.” She didn’t need to know them. She knew of them and it was all the same.
“Don’t pay them any mind then,” JB said, relaxing.
Right. Ignore the dogs.
“What about them?” Jess nodded in the direction of two males golden in appearance and with more muscles that should be allowed on aliens. Each towered above eight-feet tall. “They’ll be too hard to ignore.”
The tribal tattoos covering one side of their faces, necks and exposed torsos indicated they were members of the Sonis Royal Guards. The jangos strapped to their backs and blasters clipped to their black indicated they were dangerous. Their pants were so tight that every muscle was visible in their legs as they walked.
She grabbed a hold of her own blaster that she kept strapped tightly to her thigh. Her heart sped up. The erratic beat sent blood rushing through her veins, drowning out the other sounds of the room. Against her will, she took a step back, almost falling into the transporter.
JB gripped her arm firmly, stabilizing her. “Whoa, take it easy. They’re not coming this way. You’re safe.”
She closed her eyes and took the breath that had begun to burn in her chest.
Safe.

Excerpt
Dalton
Ava looked more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Aiden and I looked over at each other in disbelief. The long green carpeted isle seemed too long for me to wait to put my arms around Ava. Her sinfully draped dress swept back and forth across the floor as her long golden hair was loosely braided down her back. I was right; the diamond headpiece was the perfect accent to her impeccable gown. Her skin seemed luminescent, sparkling in the light that surrounded her perfect body. I looked over to see an equally transfixed Patrick staring lovingly at Ava.

Monday morning, still hungover from Saturday afternoon, Camille checked out of the hotel and back into reality. As she waited for the appliances to be delivered at the house, Jana called to say that Delia’s funeral was scheduled for Tuesday morning. Camille hung up the phone and started making calls to transfer the electricity, gas and water into the new tenant’s name – not a student, thankfully, but a visiting professor of European history.

Bunny called in the afternoon to inform Camille that one of the firm’s forensic accountants had taken a look at Walker’s finances.  As it turned out, Walker had created a holding company with Dusty Hamilton and had already purchased a house in foreclosure at Lakeway.

“I want alimony,” Camille replied.

“The State of Texas isn’t kindly about alimony, but how about we ask him to buy you out of his assets at ten thousand dollars a month with adjustments based on tax assessments each year.”

“How much is it worth?”

“Right now, maybe five hundred thousand dollars, but at the rate the economy is booming, it’ll be worth much more later on. You could have payments for a few years,” Bunny said.

“Wow.”

“Do you know what his law practice is netting?”

“No,” Camille said, feeling like one of those stupid women that get victimized by putting their husbands through medical school and getting left for the beautiful Asian pediatrician.

“The bankruptcy business is booming,” Bunny said. “You’re entitled to money from the business?”

“I want two thousand a month from the business,” Camille said.

“Don’t be silly,” Bunny said. “You need to ask for ten thousand.”

“Really?  Can he afford it?”

“Who cares. We’ll ask for it,” Bunny said. “It’s just a negotiating point. Since the house is paid off, he can afford a bit more.”

“What!  I’m lost. The house isn’t paid off. I’m still making checks out each month for my half of the mortgage to Redbud Holdings. We refinanced eight years ago and they gave us a low rate.”

“Redbud Holdings?” Bunny said. “What an asshole. Him. Not you. That’s the holding company he formed with Dusty Hamilton.”

“But when did he pay off the house?”

“Eight years ago.”

“Eight years ago!  Did he have this thing, this company with Dusty Hamilton all this time?”

“No. They formed that four years ago.”

“Oh. Oh my god. I’m going to be sick. Oh.”

“Hey, butch up. This is your chance to get even.”

“I’m sick.”

Bunny said. “Bring me copies of your last ten years tax returns.”

“Walker took everything.”

“Pick up copies of your tax returns from the IRS this afternoon and get them to me.”

What a fool she had been, Camille thought to herself. What a dope. What a dummy.

“Why would he do this?  Was he planning to leave me?”

“Oh honey, you’ll never know why he did any of this, and you might as well stop trying to understand it.”

“Do I ever have to see Walker again?”

“No,” Bunny replied. “I just need you to calm down. You don’t want to be hasty and feel like an idiot later on.”

“I was giving him a check from my personal account every month to pay half a nonexistent mortgage. How much more idiotic could I feel?”

Bunny said, “I’ll call you soon.”

“Thanks, Bunny,” Camille said, unscrewing the top on the bottle of Jose Cuervo.

On Tuesday morning, Camille took a seat in the back row at the funeral home on Lamar Boulevard. Jana looked bleary-eyed. She had seen Delia pulled from the wreckage and was sitting with Delia’s family. Delia’s mother occasionally let out a wail for the loss of her thirty-seven-year-old daughter. Paul and eight-year-old Lindsay sat like soldiers at attention. Delia’s brother gave the eulogy.

“Delia wouldn’t want us to be crying,” he said, which elicited another wail from Delia’s mother.

Delia wouldn’t want anyone to be crying, Delia would have preferred everybody to be dancing, but Camille wished she could cry. It would feel much better than the stony feeling of dread that was lodged in her chest. She stared at a wreath of flowers on a stand until people started getting up to leave, surprising her. At the door, she gave her condolences to the family and went to her car where she sat until every other car, except two, had left the parking lot to join the procession to the cemetery. Camille did not go.

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“Pearl had no chance to answer. At that moment, osteoblasts came storming out from everywhere! They were all over the place. Merrin and Pearl tried to jump out of their way, but the osteoblasts were on a mission and didn’t even notice them. They were lucky, very lucky, not to have been knocked over. They watched the osteoblasts secreting something.”

 

 

A little bit more about Dr. Heather:

Dr. Heather Manley, who in 2001 received her medical degree from the National College of Naturopathic Medicine in Portland, Oregon, is a practicing physician whose primary interest is preventative healthcare for families. She is the author of the award winning Human Body Detectives, her children’s elementary educational series of story-telling books, curriculum, eBooks, and iPhone/iPad apps.  She also promotes wellness and naturopathic healthcare on her website DrHeatherND.com. She lives on the Big Island of Hawaii with her husband and two daughters, and is currently at work on the next human body adventure for kids.

Follow Dr. Manley on twitter and facebook and on her HBD blog

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Rating – G

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He felt rather than saw her behind him and waited for Amanda to announce her presence, but she said nothing.

“You just going to stand back there and stare at my half naked body, Miss Taylor?”

Amanda jumped at his sudden words.

Will set down the ax, picked up his shirt, and turned to face her. He wasn’t prepared for the image before him. She wore a simple wrapper over her nightgown, and the full moon cast shadows through both layers of the thin fabric. Her black hair was fashioned in one long braid that had fallen over a shoulder, covering one breast. His mouth went dry and he worked to control his breathing. She was an extraordinary vision.

He took a deep breath and forced his gaze to her eyes. “What can I do for you, Miss Taylor? Did you need something from me?”

“I…well…” She couldn’t force the words out—they’d become locked in her throat.

“Yes?” Will chuckled at her obvious discomfort.

She recovered when she realized he found the situation humorous. “I heard noise and came to check it out. Why are you out here, chopping wood so late? It’s after midnight, Mr. MacLaren.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I often can’t, and need to do something physical to calm my mind. Any problem with that?” He continued to let his eyes roam over her beautiful form as the wind whipped the fabric around her legs and the folds clung to her body. She’d become a stunning sculpture. He tried to drag his eyes away, but found he could not.

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After his inspection he said softly, ‘I tried to contact you in England after you were attacked, but you just disappeared.’

The reminder of what had been done to her hurt, as always, and she hung her head in totally unreasonable embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t alone, as you know,’ she said painfully, wishing he would stop even though she knew he was motivated solely by concern for her.

He made a wry face, ‘Peter’s a great guy, but he’s no therapist, now is he?’

‘Therapy isn’t everything,’ she responded lightly, ‘I just needed to get away from the rest of the world for a while.’

He shook his head disapprovingly, ‘Dealing with your problems by running away from them?  For an experienced counsellor you’re remarkably shy about analysing yourself, your own actions and motives.’

‘It’s none of your damned business what I did, or do!’ Kate flared suddenly, ‘So don’t come the psychiatrist with me!’

He smiled with maddening calm, ‘On the contrary it is my business, because I love you.  Oh, I know our affair ended after you took up with that awful guy but I still care about you.  I don’t have many close friends and I try to look after the few I do have.’

Her anger faded and she smiled sadly, ‘I love you too, Trev, but like I said, I had Peter then, and I didn’t need anyone else.  Just time away from the whole world to lick my wounds.  I’ve always dealt with things my own way, in my own time.  You know that.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘I do know.’  By pretending they don’t exist, he thought but had enough sense not to say.  Instead he grinned and said slyly, ‘You buried yourself somewhere and wrote those bloody awful books.’

She instantly rose to the bait.  ‘Awful?  Did you bother descending from Mount Olympus long enough to actually read any of them?’

He roared with laughter and spun his swivel chair in a complete circle until he was facing her again.  ‘Yes, I did, actually!  Oh, it’s good to have you back, if only because you’re so easy to get a rise out of!  I read them, and thought they were pretty good.  The first was a bit simplistic, but I guess it was aimed at the intelligent layman rather than mental health professionals.  The second was better, and the last was the best of all.  Quite scholarly, but still accessible.’

He waved his hand at the vast bookcase that dominated one whole wall and she saw hardback copies of all three of her books.  She turned back to him and shook her head, ‘Damn you, Trevor Jordan, you’re impossible!  And if you think the last was the best you should talk to my publisher; it didn’t sell at all well and now I think she’s avoiding me in case I ever finish the fourth.  Which, I may say, right now doesn’t seem very likely.’

He made a sympathetic face, ‘It went too deep for public consumption, I think.  Too much scholarship and not enough sentiment and glib, chat-show solutions.  The public want to be entertained, not educated.’

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Incense wafted through the tiny room filled with books about healing, dreams, and self-actualization as I sunk into the dark brown overstuffed couch in Nola Raymond’s small office. There were pictures of dogs dotting the walls, ceramic poodles and Labradors on the shelf, and even a stuffed Dalmatian sitting next to me, quietly comforting me as I fidgeted. The gentle trickle of water flowing slowly over polished rocks in a bowl soothed my racing brain.

Decorative clips loosely held Nola’s strawberry blond curls away from each side of her face. I admired her long golden skirt adorned with embroidery and beading as I waited for her to make a few notes in a book on her cluttered desk. Suddenly, as she turned toward me, her bracelets jangled, signaling the beginning of the session.

“I understand you’re having dreams that seem disconcerting.” She spoke quietly with a lovely accent that reminded me of old New England families. “Do you recall when they began?”

“A week ago, and I’ve woken in a panic each night.”

“Ah, yes, waking in a panic is a problem.” She scribbled some notes into her notebook as she probed the history of my sleeping habits and dreams. I was relieved to be able to tell Nola everything I could remember about the strange dreams I had early in sobriety. Years ago, Sarah told me that it was normal to experience ultra vivid dreams once I stopped torturing my brain with alcohol, so I didn’t think anything about it. They subsided within the first year, but I had an eerie feeling they were coming back for some inexplicable reason.

“Do you think I’m seeing something important?” I asked.

“I think we need a lot more detail before we can determine that. You cannot live in a state of hyper-vigilance wondering when, how, and if something is about to happen to you,” she explained.

“I just want to know. I want to know what to do so I can get on with my life.” I looked at the dogs around the room hoping to get an answer since Nola sat silent. She stared at me, and I thought maybe she was reading my mind, so I thought about the dream, making it available for her to gather through extrasensory perception.

“Do you see people or animals in your dream?” she finally asked, which meant either she wasn’t reading my mind or my dream was as unclear to her as it was to me.

“I think it’s a girl.” I paused and then added, “The worst dreams, when I wake screaming, are when I think my daughter is being hurt. I just can’t handle thinking it might be her.”

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Excerpt 6: Reflections on Fundamental Matters: Not for the Satisfied Mind – Chapter: On
Knowledge and Truth
Historical Disillusionments
Four key disillusionments in Human History are important to know about, not only in order to have a
concrete context of what is pure Speculation in opposition to actual Knowledge, but also in order to derive
some important lessons about mistakes of thought not to repeat in the future.
116. Of the last two thousand years, a large part of our knowledge, particularly Western knowledge, has been
intertwined with Religion. Some of the greatest thinkers were also great religious figures such as Saint
Augustine or Saint Thomas Aquinas. Moreover, some of the great religious notions were built on earlier
secular knowledge, and in the process, re-biased this knowledge sometimes in a rather unjustified manner
towards the doctrine advocated by the religion in place. The reason behind this is rather easy to understand:
in the tumultuous political times following the fall of Rome and the increased dominion of barbarous kings,
religious institutions were the only place where Knowledge was possible. Under the umbrella of Religion,
‘Metaphysics’, which was essentially a wide spectrum of Knowledge subjects, could develop more easily;
however, this did not happen without an influence from Religion. It is mostly at the age of Enlightenment
that the two, Metaphysics and Religion, started to take separate distinct roots again.
117. Under the influence of Judaeo-Christian and Islamic religions, and likely coupled with the strong
psychological human need for feeling and wanting to believe that it is a species of a special kind, it was taken
as ‘knowledge’ that Man and the place it inhabits, Earth, are the centre of everything. Man was considered to be a
very special creation; even some religions went as far as describing Man as the image of God. Man is fully in control
of himself and his decisions, and he is therefore under some sort of a ‘trial period’ by God on Earth to do the
good. Finally, this existence on Earth is not the last; once Man passes the trial, there is immortality, the
ultimate salvation from our mortal condition. God created the world for our trial, and once the trial is over, we are
recalled back from this world.
Four major concepts of Humanity up until the end of the Middle Ages conditioned and honed generations
after generations, four speculations with no duty of proof or validity behind them, and four great historical
disillusionments based on speculative reasoning. For the religious readers, the writer begs not to take the
below as an affront on all religious belief. It is rather an attack on elaborate speculations taken as irrefutable
doctrine without a duty of demonstration. One can very well be religious and not believe in purely false
speculations; the Church does not claim any longer that Earth is the centre of the world. No person valuing
Rationality and all that has been achieved by Humanity through decent rational effort should have a problem
rejecting these false speculations.

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Rory sighed. Caleb wasn’t very attractive, but he did look kind of cute in his football uniform. The shoulder pads made his head look overly small. The goofy smile, the crooked nose, and the sandy hair contrasted with his giant jersey to make him look adorable, if ridiculous.

“He needs to quit flirting with you,” Cameron said, sounding concerned. “The coaches will never put him in if they don’t think he’s paying attention to the game.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied with a chuckle. “The score is close. He won’t get to play.”

Poor Caleb. He was so sweet, but he wasn’t much of a football player. She wasn’t even sure how he made the team.

“I don’t know about this boy you’re dating,” her mother said.

            “Mo-om,” Rory sighed. “Can you please let it go?”

            “He seems nice and all,” her mother continued.

            “Mom, I don’t want to hear this,” Rory said, pulling her math book closer to her on the kitchen counter. “I’ve got a calculus test tomorrow I need to study for.”

            “And he’s on the football team, which is good,” her mother went on as though she hadn’t heard. “But he never plays. I’ve watched. He only ever gets in if we’re winning by at least three touchdowns, and that’s only been once all season – against Shawnee Mission West.”

            “Not everybody can be a star, Mom.”

            “Well, that’s my point. He’s a senior, Rory. He can’t be any good if he’s a senior, and he doesn’t get in.”

            “I don’t care how good at football he is, Mom,” Rory said.

            She stared hard at the calc and tried to ignore her mother. God, she was sick of this conversation, especially since she knew what was coming next.

            “But there’s no point in dating a bad football player, Rory. That won’t help make you popular.

            “Now, see, back when I was at LHS,” her mother said, “I was one of the most popular girls in school. You see—”

            “Yes, Mom,” Rory interrupted. “You dated the middle linebacker on a team that won a state championship two of the three years you were in school. LHS won six championships in seven years, and Dad was on a team that won two of them. And he went on to play at Oklahoma. Yee-hah. You were so freakin’ popular.”

            Her mother looked irritated. Her blue eyes bored into Rory. The black hair that was the same shade as Rory’s hung over her ears as if to keep Rory’s sacrilege from reaching them.

            “He played safety, not linebacker, Rory,” her mother scolded. “And don’t call him, ‘Dad.’ He’s not your father.”

            “Oh, right,” Rory said, turning her own blue eyes in an angry gaze on her mother. “He knocked you up and left you pregnant with me. But he didn’t stick around to help out. He went off to play football at OU and left you behind. He met some other girl there and had children with her too. But he married her, and he doesn’t want anything to do with us. I always forget that part of the story.”

            “Don’t you speak to me that way!” her mother shouted. “You don’t understand!”

            “Whatever you say, Mom,” Rory said, but her tone wasn’t as bitter. Somehow, it was all too sad to really be cross with her about it.

            “Look,” her mother said. “I made a huge mistake. I had sex with Darrell, and I got pregnant. Obviously, I don’t want you to go having sex while you’re in high school, especially with a third-string running back, who has no chance at a scholarship.

            “But the point is high school only comes along once, Rory. You have to seize your opportunities. It’s your senior year! This is your last chance to be somebody.”

            “I am somebody, Mother!” Rory shouted. “I’m the editor-in-chief of the school paper! I’ve been working for that since freshman year! I’ve got a 4.0 GPA. I’ve got tons – Tons! – of activities, and I’m going to nail the SAT and the ACT, so I can go to Yale! Unlike you, I’m getting out of Kansas, and I’m going to make something of myself. And I don’t need to date the star of the football team to make that happen!”

            Her mother stared at her first in shock. Then her expression turned to disappointment. She shook her head slowly, as though Rory was a very stupid person, who just didn’t get it.

            “Some day,” her mother said as she turned and walked away. “Some day you’ll understand what I mean.”

Rory felt sick. She just did not understand. Why was football so important to everyone? Why did it matter a damn how many games the team won or who was the starter at any given position? Lawrence High hadn’t won a state championship since her mother went to LHS, and that was before Free State got built, splitting one high school into two. Why did anyone care now?

And what the hell good did winning a state championship do anyway? Her father won one. Hell, her father won two, and did it stop him from running off on her and her mother? Did those titles bring anything besides a child support check every month?

No. All it did was keep her mother drowning in nostalgia and Rory wrapped in bitter dreams of a better life. All it resulted in was young men getting concussions as they bashed each others’ brains out and forty-year-old men walking like they were eighty.

She just didn’t understand why everyone thought it was such a big deal. She just couldn’t see how football made someone like Holly popular and someone like Rory unimportant. It wasn’t fair.

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Chapter 3

The Duke left two days later, having concluded his usual business of hearing petitions, settling disputes, and overseeing his holdings. He took his duties very seriously, I learned, and when he worked on the business of his estates, he applied himself wholly to it. When he listened to the disputes of the peasants, his eyes were fixed on the petitioners, his brow furrowed; his expression said that he would not take kindly to being troubled for a little matter, but I saw that he listened to each dispute fully, and decided fairly, even against his own soldiers and retainers.

He rode out with the builders himself to oversee the maintenance of the defenses—an important piece of our lives here, on the border of Ismir. The peace of my childhood had been hard-fought and hard-won by the Duke himself, but whatever memories he might have had, looking over the place where he had led his men to battle and glory and death, were hidden deep beneath his habitual scowl.

He would work through the dinner hour with the record-keepers, the stewards, the guard captains, leaving his chair empty in the great hall—though we served a dinner to it in any case, and the cooks made rich meals fit for a feast, to celebrate his presence there.

The Lady presided over these meals like a queen, calling for wine and music. She had done her hair very fine under her headdress, I noticed, and she wore gowns with gold embroidery and all her jewels. She had dressed the little Lady Miriel finely as well, although Miriel’s hair was allowed to tumble over her shoulders. The girl was wearing velvets and silks, even little chains of gold and silver at her waist and pearls at her neck.

On the last night of the Duke’s visit, I was serving wine to his soldiers, and so was standing by the little side hallway as he came into the hall. I knew, from creeping partway up the stairs to his tower chamber, that he had been discussing the increasing number of raids on our outlying villages, and I thought he looked tense. He looked up as he came into the hall, a figure in all black, hidden in the shadows at the edge of the room, and only I saw the look of contempt on his face as he observed the high table.

Later Temar would tell me, sometimes one moment can give you the whole key to a person. I did not know enough yet to have the whole key to the Duke, but this moment gave me one of many keys. It reminded me that he was a man, a man who could be spurred to anger like any other. For now, I saw that although the Duke publicly observed every pleasantry that a brother should, he loved the Lady not at all. More so, she was distasteful to him, worthy of no respect.

And I saw that the Duke’s eyes flicked from the Lady, posturing and smiling, to Miriel, who sat quietly at her side. He watched his niece carefully, as if he would see everything about her from the curve of her cheek, as if he could learn everything about her from the set of her shoulders. He looked at her as he looked at his stone walls and his guard towers: something in the making, something to be perfected.

And then he looked over at me, and I shrank back against the wall.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wine?” I offered, and I held out my pitcher.

He stared at me for a moment. “Are you sure about her?” he asked, and I realized that Temar must be standing out of sight in the hallway. I craned my head to look.

“Very,” Temar said, and he gave me a smile. “You should eat, milord.”

“Yes.” The Duke narrowed his eyes at me and strode away to the high table, and Temar shot me a wink before following. I smiled after him, and then went to refill the soldiers’ cups, for they were shouting for more drink.

Later that night, as I shared the day’s knowledge with Temar, I asked him, “Why am I to study with the Lady Miriel’s tutors?”

“To see what you can learn,” Temar said easily.

“But why?” I persisted. “No one tests the other servants. Why me?”

“That’s a very good question,” Temar said. “Keep thinking on it, little one.”

“But why?” I asked. I felt my face warm when he smiled at me, when he called me by a nickname; but I had the sense that I did not want him to think of me as a child. He only laughed at my frustration, and I flushed.

“What if I were to lie to you?”

I was shocked. “You wouldn’t.”

He looked very serious, more serious than I had ever seen him before. “Wouldn’t I?” His face softened. “You must learn to find things out without ever asking what you are after. I know you can do it, Catwin.”

I was warmed by his praise, but still discontented. I looked down at my hands and nodded. Temar stood and stretched.

“Time for you to get some sleep. I will see you in three months’ time.”

“What?” I looked up, and Temar smiled his easy smile. “Don’t worry. You will have much to learn while we are gone. Study well, make your tutors proud.” Before I could move to hug him, or speak to beg him not to go, he was gone.

That night, I dreamed that I walked through driving snow, surrounded by the eerie whistle of a winter storm, engulfed in white. I knew this wasn’t real; I had been out in enough blizzards, securing the flocks and battening down the shutters of the castle, to know the merciless bite of the wind on my skin, the slow seep of water into my old boots. No, instead I walked as if the wind could not touch me. I could feel nothing.

I craned to look about me, and could see only hovels, unlovely little shacks, battered and leaning. The path curved away and up, and I looked ahead: the castle, my home, rose into the sky at the peak of the mountain. It was half-lost in the swirling snow. White-out, I thought—a term I had heard the guardsmen shout to each other. No wonder no one was about. They were hunkering down, wondering if their supplies were lost on the trail. As soon as the snow cleared, they would venture out to see if any caravans needed help, and they would demand the goods in return for aid.

A cry caught my ear, the wail of a baby. It was coming from the shack near me, and after a moment’s hesitation, I pushed open the door and went in. I knew that I was not truly here, but habit ran strong, and I closed the door carefully behind me, as Roine had taught me to do. In the little shack, a weak fire burned in the hearth, and a woman lay on an old cot, a man at her side with a baby in his arms.

“Just hold her,” the man pleaded.

“No, no.” The woman was wild-eyed. She looked so gaunt and so feverish that I wanted to draw the man and the infant back from her; there was death in those eyes. “I don’t want her!”

“It’s over, now,” he assured her. “It’s over, and we’ll get the healer. I promise, you’ll be well soon. Just hold her.”

“No!” She pushed him away with her feverish strength, and fell back onto the pillows. The baby was screaming at the top of its lungs, wrapped awkwardly in a blanket. So small, I realized. Hardly any cause for the blood I saw on the blankets.

The woman was shaking her head; I could see her cracked lips still forming the words: no, no, no, over and over. Her eyes were half-open, and I saw that they were the same grey as the storm clouds of winter, an omen of the blizzard.

“Take her away,” she said. “She’s…”

“What is it?” The man held the baby close to him and leaned over to hear his wife more clearly. She whispered something and I could see his brow furrow.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, but he looked worried. He looked down at the bundle in his arms, her little face still screwed up, yelling.  “Please, rest. I’ll go to the castle now, myself—“ he cast a glance outside at the blizzard, and I saw his lips move in a silent prayer. It was foolhardy at best, and more likely it would be the death of him. Then he looked back at his wife, and his face twisted. He could not let her die. “Rest. Daniel will take care of you. I’ll go now.”

“Take her with you,” the women rasped. “Take her, and leave her outside.”

“What are you saying?” He recoiled, but she reached over to grab his arm.

“She’ll be betrayed.” The woman’s voice had a sudden, awful clarity. “She was born to be betrayed.” She had lifted off the pillows, but now she sank back. She was shaking her head again. No. “Kinder to let her die now. See how she cries…” She was slipping back into the fever haze. “Take her,” she whispered.

With a start, I recognized the squalling little bundle as myself.  Even knowing this for a dream, believing that this could not possibly be them, I took a step closer to look at my parents: my mother, with honey-colored hair and grey eyes, on the edge of death, and my father, with the strenuous leanness of the poor, holding my tiny self awkwardly in his big, work-roughened hands.

Was it possible that these were truly my parents?

The man laid my tiny self carefully in a cradle, out of reach of my mother, and he grabbed his hat and his cap and hurried out into the storm, quite oblivious to my silent presence. But when he was gone, I saw the woman’s eyes focus on me.

“Are you an angel?” she asked, and after a moment, I shook my head. She was shivering, and as much as I knew it to be a dream, I walked over to the bed and pulled the covers more snuggly around her. Still, she shook with cold; she was far gone. Her head lolled towards me. “Please…” she whispered, and I leaned forward to her.

“What?”

“You need to take her away,” she pleaded with me. “My daughter. She’s cursed. She was born to be betrayed, and when it happens…” Her voice trailed off and I leaned closer still.

“What?” I asked urgently. “What will happen?”

“The balance…tips,” the woman whispered. “Endings.” She was fading away from me. “Promise me…” she whispered, and, with a start, I woke soaked in sweat, throwing the blankets from me and heaving for breath. Roine, already awake and at work, looked over at me curiously.

“Bad dream?”

“Strange dream.” I sank my head into my hands. “I saw the day I was born.” Roine put down her work and came over to me, kneeling beside my cot.

“What did you see?”

“It was only a dream,” I said, irritable in the wake of my fear, but she shook her head.

“You dreamed of the prophecy,” she guessed.

“I saw my mother. I thought.” I shook my head. “I mean—I know I didn’t.” She only watched me, and I swallowed. “She said, I would be betrayed…and the balance would tip. It would end things.” The words, so prophetic in my mother’s feverish rasp, half-obscured by the howl of the blizzard, were ridiculous now. I shook my head again, to clear it. “It’s nothing. It means nothing.”

“She said the balance would tip?’” Roine clarified, as I got up and began to move about the room. I cast an annoyed look at her over my shoulder.

“In the dream, she did.”

“And end something...”

“Yes,” I said impatiently. “It was just a dream.” She did not respond, and I looked over at her. She was gazing at me, as sadly as I had ever seen her. Repentant, I ran over to give her a hug. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

“I know,” she said, into my hair. “Go get some breakfast. You’ll need to go to your lessons, if you’re to go to court.”

“I thought you said we weren’t going,” I said, surprised. I felt a flush of joy at the thought of going after all, of seeing someplace new, of seeing Temar’s smile again.

“Things change,” Roine said simply. “Go now.”

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Genre - Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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A TEXAN GOES TO NIRVANA

Chapter One

“Welcome to Louisville International Airport.  For your convenience, this airport is a smoke-free zone.  Please refrain from smoking except in outside, designated areas.”  ‘Oh crap,’ thought Wendy Tate, ‘I’m in the frigging Fatherland of smokers and you can’t even light up in Kentucky anymore?’

After collecting her new navy blue suitcase with the white leather piping from baggage claim, Wendy headed straight for the outside-designated smoking area.  Her new luggage made her feel like Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.  She was off on another adventure like Holly, and following the character closely, she was afraid that she was running away just as Holly had done when things seemed too much for her.

Wendy had caught an earlier flight from Boston so she had plenty of time before her escort was to arrive to take her to the ashram.  The late summer breeze felt good on her skin.  She had time to smoke and time to go back over the conversation she’d had in Boston with the deaf psychiatrist, Dr. Monique Maples, a plump, brunette with a PhD and thick, bushy eyebrows.

“Well, Wendy, tell me a little bit about why you came to me.”

To her surprise, Wendy’s chin began to quiver as she replied, “Well, Dr. Maples…”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you,” said the doctor.

“Well, Dr. Maples, I haven’t really started yet.”

“I’m sorry, did you say you haven’t parted your bet?  You’ll have to excuse me, but I am hard of hearing, so you’ll have to speak clearly, slowly and loudly if you don’t mind,” said the doctor.

“I’M MISERABLE!  MY MARRIAGE IS IN BIG TROUBLE!  CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

“Yes, thank you, Wendy,” replied Dr. Maples.  “Is this your first marriage, dear?”

“UM, WELL, NOT EXACTLY.”

“So, you were married once before, correct?”

“ACTUALLY ONCE BEFORE THE ONE BEFORE THIS ONE.”

“I see,” said Dr. Maples.

Wendy had heard every psychiatrist in any movie whose theme was dysfunction say that same thing, two little words filled with judgment and suspicion.  It wasn’t Wendy’s fault that her third husband had carried on a flagrant affair with a co-worker and left an evidence trail as long as a wagon track on an endless dirt road.

Wendy thought she’d learned everything there was to know about relationships when Mister Three came along.  She was thirty years old, a tall, striking, west Texas beauty.  He was a tall, dark, handsome and successful, young man.  He was supposed to be the perfect yang to her yin.  Everyone said so. He had married her and moved her to Boston, which might as well have been Mars to a native Texan.  If Wendy had given herself more than fifteen minutes to decide that her entire future would be intimately intertwined with his, she might have taken pause, instead, she chose to ignore his affinity for blonde twenty-somethings in short, tight skirts.

Her outwardly perfect match with Mister Three had lasted ten years, leaving Wendy a full decade older and wanting out.  She realized that the days of running back to her mother and sister had played themselves out long ago with Mister One and Mister Two.  Besides, she’d learned most of her dysfunctional behavior from her family, and they weren’t any smarter or better off than she was.

“Please refrain from smoking within fifteen feet of any entrance or exit.”  Wendy wanted to tell the Kentucky airport message narrator to go fuck herself, but she lit up a Winston instead, visually counting the twenty-two approximate steps to the entrance.  The day was lovely, the sun was shining, she was in the beautiful state of Kentucky, and Wendy already wanted to kill someone.  She took a deep three-part yoga breath and remembered why she had come.  She was so determined to get a handle on her life that she had signed up at the ashram after her yoga teacher in Boston, Miranda, suggested that she attend a teacher training course there.  She had even written a recommendation letter on Wendy’s behalf.

Wendy was damn good at yoga, but never much liked all the cosmic, Sanskrit hooey that went along with it.  Boston was a big city that held dangers and stress for even the happily married.  As the city and her marriage began to close in on Wendy, her yoga classes had at least kept her sane.

Even though yoga started out as a non-competitive form of exercise, Wendy couldn’t help but try to stretch higher, hold the poses longer and breathe deeper than her yoga peers.  Everyone in America did it, but no one ever admitted it.  As far as Wendy could determine, the ancient philosophies and traditions of yoga had given way to busy Bostonians who gave cursory shrift to their newly found spiritualism with sayings like Om Shanti, Namaste and Hari Om.  Then, it was all about who was better than the next yogi.

Wendy hadn’t known that one had to get an actual certificate to teach yoga, but she was proud to know that upon ditching her third husband, she had a plan and a place to go.  She sat on the cold stone bench in front of the Louisville International Airport and tried to make sense of the call she had made to her mother, Mary Ralph on the eve of her departure.

“Mother, I’ve decided what to do when I leave this deadbeat.”

“Well, it’s about time, darlin’, and of course we’d welcome you home again honey, you know that, but…” Mary Ralph had always been a bit competitive with her girls so her pregnant pause to Wendy’s declaration hadn’t been a bit surprising.

“The house might be a bit crowded,” continued Mary Ralph, “because your sister, Margaret, arrived just last week for some much needed R & R after her grueling experience volunteering with those people who build houses for people who can’t afford them.”

“You mean Habitat for Humanity?”

“I suppose so,” said Mary Ralph, “but you’d think that those people would feel badly about allowing other people to build them nice, new houses for FREE!  I mean, they all have their own lives and families to attend to.  I just don’t understand why they do that.”

“Well, Mother, since I haven’t a clue how to respond to that, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, which probably won’t lighten your mood any either,” said Wendy.  “I need a break.  I mean, I REALLY need a break from everyone and everything.  I wasn’t going to ask if I could come home again.  I called to tell you that I am going to what is called an ashram to get a teaching certificate for yoga instruction.

“What in the HELL is an ashram dear?” Mary Ralph asked as she listened with her other ear to The Price is Right on television. Wendy’s eyes rolled as she inhaled her cigarette through her mouth and nose simultaneously, a trick she’d learned from watching her mother smoke.  She could hear her mother puffing away on the other end of the line and she knew that Mary Ralph was lounging on her chaise holding her cigarette in a six-inch cigarette holder between two long, skinny fingers lacquered with Chinese red polish.

“An ashram is a place where I can go to change my life,” said Wendy, “I’ve read up on it and people from all walks of life go to these places to find peace and happiness.  I need to take an ‘inner’ look at why I fuck up in my relationships and I need to rest.  Then I’ll come back to Texas and open a little studio and make my living as a yoga teacher.  Besides, I’ll only be gone for a month.”

Mary Ralph said, “Sugar pie, you’ve always done whatever the hell you wanted to do but this sounds a little fishy to me.  This place is probably in California, isn’t it?”  If it’s anything like that volunteer group of Margaret’s, I hope you know what you’re doing because those people bent Margaret’s mind, and I don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry Mother.  This ashram is in Kentucky, and we won’t be doing anything for anyone else, just for ourselves,” said Wendy.

Wendy had already made the call to the ashram earlier that day.

“Hari om, Wendy,” said the ashram office manager, Purnanda, “You have chosen the right place for the rest you seek.  We have indeed had a cancellation for the teacher-training course next week, and we welcome your presence.  Swami Rom will collect you at the airport and drive you out to the ashram.  Any friend of your instructor, Miranda, is always welcome.  She gave us a glowing reference for you as well. We very much look forward to eating you.”

“Excuse me?” said Wendy.

“I do beg your pardon, of course I meant to say that we very much look forward to meeting you.  Silly slip of the tongue.  Please accept my apologies.”

“Of course,” said Wendy.  But, she was really thinking, ‘WAIT a friggin’ minute.  What in the hell did she mean by that?’

“Tour buses for Louisville’s historic tobacco plantations are located at the southern end of the airport terminal.”  Wendy thought briefly about canceling the ashram and touring the tobacco plantations instead when her escort pulled up to the curb.  She knew this man had to be her escort because he had a turban wrapped around his head.  Her IPod ear buds fell to the ground as she pretended to lift her arms in a yoga-like stretch, dropping the lit cigarette behind her back.  She was expelling the last of the smoke as he approached her.

“Hari om.  I am swami Rom, and I’ve come to pick you up.”

“Oh, hi,” said Wendy.

“Sorry I was late, but there was much work to do at the ashram which had to be accomplished before my mind was prepared for travel.  One must clear the mind from each finished task before one can accept the next experience,” said swami Rom with his eyes looking at Wendy’s enormous suitcase.

“Yeah, I guess so,” responded Wendy with no clue how to converse with a man in a turban.  ‘This must be ‘ashramspeak,’ she thought.

“Help you with your bag?”

“Uh, yeah, ok, thanks.  It’s kind of heavy.”

“Heaviness is only a product of wrong thinking,” replied the swami.

Wendy knew that the drive out to the ashram would take another hour so she steeled herself for an upcoming lecture about the inner workings of the mind and the universe   ‘Should I sit in the front with this guy, or do I sit in the back?  Oh hell, here goes nothing.’  She sprayed a quick sprits of Chanel No. 5 on her hair to cover up the smoky smell as she entered the front passenger side of the dilapidated, old station wagon.

Swami Rom was in another zone and was no happier to see Wendy than she to see him.  He immediately hand-rolled his window down, coughing and gagging at her perfumed head. She needn’t have worried about any lectures on the universe or anything else, because swami Rom did not utter a single, additional word for the entire drive to the ashram.  ‘Great way to start out,’ Wendy thought, ‘Lovely way to welcome your guest, you turban-headed swami asshole.’  Wendy was also a bit paranoid that maybe this was some sort of initiation rite…to see if the yoga tinhorn could keep her pie hole shut for two full hours.

As Wendy and swami Rom rode through the lush, green hills of Kentucky, she leaned her head against the filthy car window and remembered the conversation with her best friend, Sally the night before she left Boston.

Wendy had downed a few glasses of wine when she announced to Sally, “I’ll be damned if any pansy-ass weenie at a yoga ashram is going to brainwash me.  I’m from west Texas by God,” said Wendy.  “I am a powerful force with whom to be reckoned, but I reckon they fancy themselves a pretty powerful force too.  They’re powerful enough to get me to pay an extra grand for a private room over the two grand I already shelled out for the month-long course.”

“And, you’re sure you want to do this, right?” said Sally as she sat alone in a diner on West 61st Street in midtown Manhattan.  “I have heard scary stories about cults and stuff and I hope this place isn’t one of ‘em.”  Sally continued to eat her pasta as Wendy spoke.

“Well, it’s done, Sally, and as our childhood gal pal, Cynthia sang to me when she watched me swallow my first tab of acid lo those many years ago, “Well, it’s too late, baby, now it’s too late.”

“Then, fuck ’em if they try,” said Sally, “you’ve been through enough.”

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Genre – Humor Mystery

Rating – PG

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