By GWHARGIS
| Author Notes | This is book number two of the Detour series. Both Rachelle Allen and myself will be posting weekly. Stay tuned for this newest adventure |
By GWHARGIS
| Author Notes |
This is a co-authored book - Gretchen's and my second in the Detour series - so, in order to get the full effect of the story, be sure to read her chapters (GW Hargis) as well, each week. We're so happy to have you along for another adventure!! xoxo
And, for some added fun (and a little history), you can also check out our original book, Detour, which is in both of our portfolios! |
By GWHARGIS
So far, Gretchen Hargis and Rachelle Allen are getting themselves together to start a crash course on writing a book. With deadlines and families to consider, they are due to meet at a beachfront cottage on the southern stretch of the Outer Banks, for a week. Maybe this time they would be lucky enough for no distractions or odd incidents ... but they aren't counting on it.
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I pull the tired old duffel bag from the top shelf in my closet. I haven't used it since the trip to the first annual FanStory convention over a year ago. I'm not much of a traveler. If I can't find it close to home, it doesn't need to be found.
After talking to my husband for a couple of hours, he was on board. He looked up where to beach house is, and then figured out how many miles away it is. It was just before the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. That's a pretty good trek from my lovely little house in Kitty Hawk. (Fun fact: The Wright brothers first flight wasn't really in Kitty Hawk. The town merely gets the credit because the initial announcement was posted at the closest post office, which happened to be the Kitty Hawk location. The flight took place one town over, Kill Devil Hills, a place with a very interesting name, but that's a story for another day.)
I drag the duffel bag over to the antique Lane cedar chest at the foot of my bed. I only need to pack the essentials. I'm really good about not over packing. Being October here on the Atlantic coast, the weather will be a mix of sun, rain, wind, heat and a flurry of the gnarliest mosquitoes to ever fly.
I just start grabbing and stuffing things in the bag. I nod, satisfied that I have enough clothes to survive anything that Mother Nature throws at me. I can grab a new toothbrush, and some fresh toiletries when I set out.
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Friday morning I start my Suburban (Old Reliable) and back down my steep driveway. This is it. I'm really doing this. Diane Lennon, the publisher, calls me on my cell and I pull into the parking lot of the CVS.
"The realtor just called to give me the code for your rental house. Do you have a pen to write it down?"
I rummage through the center console and pull out a tiny spiral notebook and grab a pen off the floorboard on the passenger side. "Shoot," I say, trying to sound upbeat but not giddy. "This is really nice of you to put us up for the week."
"I'm expecting big things. I checked out that website, and read some of Rachelle's pieces. You both have very distinct writing styles, but you're linked with humor. Sometimes, writing with someone else can be difficult. Just do the best you can. We have editors and proofreaders for a specific reason."
I nod silently, knowing she can't see me. "I'll let her know. Now, what was the code?"
"2-4-3-1. Got it?"
"2-4-3-1," I repeat back.
"That's it. I look forward to talking to you. I'll probably call you either Wednesday or Thursday to check on your progress." Diane doesn't waste time with goodbyes, just ends the call.
I go to put my phone back in the front pocket of my purse when it chimes. Rachelle's name pops up on the screen. I scroll to the messages and open hers. "Getting ready to land in Norfolk. See you when I get there."
"See you later, Gator." I type.
I put my car in drive and start the two hour journey to Hatteras.
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The further south you head in the Outer Banks, the more you realize how much the ocean is in control. The only road to and from, is Route 12, a tiny two lane stretch of asphalt that has been washed out and rebuilt more times than I can remember. If a storm comes through, and the ocean sees fit to reach over and shake hands with the sound, well, you, my friend, are going to be stranded in Hatteras until the ocean decides to recede. Chuck, my husband, had scoped out the tropical depressions that were pushing off the coast of Africa, one right after another this time of year. There were three. Hubert, tropical disturbance #8, had just strengthened to a category one, but was pretty unformed and had no real speed. It was predicted to go straight up the middle of the Atlantic. There was a pretty little tropical storm called Irie, still hundreds of miles from the closest island of Bermuda. Then there was depression number ten, yet to be named. Most of the American and European storm experts said it was weak and would most likely become nothing more than a tropical depression. My husband had his fingers crossed for good surf. I had my fingers crossed for clear skies and calm waters.
I pull over into the visitors center on Pea Island, which was appropriately named, seeing as how I had to use the facilities. I'm really in no hurry to get to the house, so after I finish and come out of the restroom, I look around. There are several wooden paths that wind through tall weeds and sea grasses. I also know that if I follow it, it will take me to the sound. Now, I'm crazy about marshes. One of the prettiest things about where I live is the marsh lands. If you're lucky enough to see one, you can see all kinds of wildlife. There are otters, turtles, rabbits, ducks, and egrets and herons, and if you're extra lucky, you might see a beautiful broad banded water snake.
The boards creak under my feet, and I look out at the grasses that move in the slight breeze. Each grass moves individually, yet is part of the bigger dance. The soft whistle of the wind as it glides through the blades, mixes with the distant sound of the water. I tug a piece of the grass and hold it tightly in my hand.
This is going to be a good week. I can feel it. A week on the ocean, no work, no kids, no worries. Yes, siree. This is going to be a good week.
| Author Notes | This is the third chapter but Rachelle will be posting a fourth soon. Don't miss out on reading hers. |
By GWHARGIS
The minute I arrive home from lessons, I head upstairs to our bedroom to pack, my husband, Bobby, close on my heels.
It’s twenty-six years in with this man, and I crazy-love him with all my heart. Still, he does have two “little quirks” – that’s me being generous – that drive me out of my ever-loving nut.
The first is that no one – and I do mean NO. ONE. – worries more than this man I adore. We’re quite the yin and yang that way because I honest-to-gawd never worry about anything. I am that confident with my coping skills. There is nothing I cannot handle.
The other “quirk” my husband has is his knowledge of weather. When I met him, he was wearing – I can’t make this stuff up – a barometer watch!
I imagine this gives you an idea that he’s a Poindexter type: buck teeth, thick horn-rimmed glasses, buzz cut, lab coat, orthopedic shoes. Nope. Not on your life. I’m far too shallow for that.
In his thirties and forties, people always remarked that he looked exactly like JFK, Jr.
So that was the reason that even though he was wearing a huge, clunky barometer watch – replete with all kinds of knobs and stems protruding along its perimeter – I still agreed to a second date. Trade-offs, don’tcha know…
This morning, immediately after I spoke with Gretchen, I’d called Bobby to explain that while he would be slaving away at the office with the last of his clients’ tax returns, due October 15th, I’d be at a rented beach house in North Carolina with Gretchen. We’d be writing three chapters about our escapades en route to the FanStory International Convention. All this was per the request of a Random House editor.
I shared further that Gretchen had mentioned that the house was in a town named “Hatteras,” so isolated that its ingress and egress is Route 12, a tiny two-lane stretch of tar-topped gravel. “It’s every writer’s dream!” I told him.
But after a day to ruminate and research it all, Bobby-the-Worrier/Meteorologist now says, “Honey, this is NOT a good idea.”
I pull out two trunk-sized Burberry suitcases on wheels and begin filling them with swimsuits. I did the math for this in the car earlier, between lessons. Four suits a day times seven days, then pull out thirty from my stash of forty-eight.
“Bobby, Sweetie,” I begin but am interrupted immediately.
“No, seriously! Listen to me!” He holds my hands, each one clutching a swimsuit. “Right now, there are three tropical depressions pushing off the coast of Africa.”
He waits for this to alarm me.
“Africa,” I repeat in a tone that is intentioned to reflect its ridiculousness.
“But they’re one right after another!” He pulses my hands with every syllable for emphasis.
“Africa, though,” I remind him.
“Hubert is tropical disturbance #8, and it’s strengthened to a category one!”
I gently wrestle my hands – and swimsuits – from his grip and continue filling my trunks-on-wheels. Then, I go to my armoire and begin bringing out matching dress-length hoodie cover-ups.
My husband continues. “Now, yes, Hubert is fairly unformed and has no real speed, and they imagine it will go right up the middle of the Atlantic. BUT!” He’s now just inches from my face, a hand pressing on each of my shoulders.
It’s these moments when I take in his cocoa-colored eyes with the girly-thick lashes and his soft, smoochy lips. They mitigate the Young Sheldon side of my worry wart husband.
“BUT right behind Hubert is tropical storm Irie. AND…there’s a yet-to-be-named tropical depression, too! It’s #10.”
As he continues with what I refer to as “weather talk,” I concentrate more on my swimsuits and cover-ups, add in sundresses and various colors of wedge heels – gawd knows stilettos and beachfront houses don’t mix – and let my sweet husband’s voice become like that of Charlie Brown’s teacher in the Peanuts TV specials: “Wah-wah-WAH-wah-wahhhhhh!”
Finally, I hear him implore me. “Rachelle! Why are you still packing? I’m telling you: this is NOT a good idea!”
“Bobby, Sweetie, I love you with all my heart; you know this. But you worry to epic proportions every moment of your day. If it were up to you, I’d stay in our house 24/7, wrapped in pillows, and under a glass dome.”
He gives me puppy eyes.
I continue. “Right now, opportunity is knocking for Gretchen and me, and we’re going to go for it.” I hug him hard and give him a really long, good kiss. “I love that you worry about me. But you always tell me I am the most capable woman you’ve ever known. And Gretchen is capable, too. Worst case scenario: it’s a week of rain. So what? We’re creative types, Gretchen and I. We’ll stay inside and do art and sew and get additional chapters written.”
I fold in several sun hats and zip up both my trunks then take down the matching Burberry satchel from its shelf and fill it with a good ten tubes of 50 SPF sun screen.
Bobby sighs then grabs the extended handles on each of the trunks and wheels them out into the hallway.
“You’ll call me every day, though, right?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I promise and give him another good kiss.
It’s good to be loved.
| Author Notes |
Just like in our first book in this series, Gretchen and I interweave truths from our real lives into the fabric of our fiction.
In this chapter, for example, the following are my truths: 1.) My husband is honestly a doppleganger for JFK, Jr...and an accountant 2.) He did, indeed, have a barometer watch that he wore all the time we dated (5 years) and he absolutely is the worrier of all worriers 3.) I am very shallow 4.) I honest-to-gawd do have forty-eight swimsuits...and twenty-four cover-ups and two Burberry trunks on wheels and a matching satchel...well, actually TWO matching satchels of different sizes, but I am bringing only one with me to NC 5.) I use #50 SPF |
By GWHARGIS
I’m in line in the rental car section of North Carolina’s Norfolk Airport, trying to re-calibrate after my flight here from East Rochester, New York.
This was the first time I’d been on a plane in thirty-five years, since the trip for my brother-in-law’s destination wedding in Israel, back in the days when I was married to the man I now refer to as “The Crazed Israeli.”
The trip started off in what can only be described as a World War II crop duster of a plane. Advertised as a “commuter flight,” it taxied travelers between Rochester and Buffalo, New York, in just over fifteen minutes. It seated ten, had a propeller, and passengers could actually see the pilot at his controls in the open cockpit for the entirety of the flight. As we entered the aircraft, the stewardess honest-to-gawd asked each person his or her weight so that, for optimal aerodynamics, she could determine where to seat us.
I was terrified to fly as it was, but that question sent me over the edge. I was a dance teacher and choreographer at the time and wailed, “I don’t weigh enough to possibly make a difference!”
After our return from The Land of Milk and Honey, I vowed I would never board an airplane again for the remainder of my life. But even Control Freak Me knows that spending ten hours driving rather than using it to write our story at our rented beach house would be as stupid a use of my time as ever existed.
So, I put on my Big Girl panties and did what I swore I never would again.
My seatmate in Business Class is an enormous, veiny-nosed, majestically bearded ginger who’s already drinking as I reach up to stow away my satchel.
“How’dja do,” he says with a raise of his half-full glass of noxious-smelling, amber-colored spirits.
The smallest trickle sloshes over the lip of his glass, and he guickly stops it in its tracks with a swipe of his mammoth grizzly bear tongue.
“Can’t be wastin’ any!” he says and smiles.
“No, no; gawd forbid,” I say and give him the smile I usually reserve for the mischievous students who always delight me.
“What’s yer name?” he asks as I take the baronial-sized seat beside him and try to assess my surroundings: call button, hatch for the drop-down oxygen mask, emergency exits.
“Rachelle,” I tell him.
He closes his eyes and savors it. “Ra-SHELLLLLLLL,” he says as if it’s a rich chocolate mousse in his mouth. “Ra-SHELLLLLL.”
I’m already amused by – and grateful for – this shameless man-child ballbuster who’s hopefully going to distract me until we’ve returned to terra firma.
“A bonny name for a bonny lass,” he says.
“And yours?” I ask, not even trying to hide my amusement.
“Slap,” he says and pantomimes cordially tipping his hat.
“Slap?” I repeat. “Is that a name that works?”
He tilts his head and asks, “What’s that mean, Lassie?”
“Well, here in Rochester, there used to be a newspaper columnist who would always share his most recent discoveries of what he termed, ‘names that work.’ For example, there was a local attorney named Michael Law, an ophthalmologist named Dr. Seymore and - everyone’s favorite – a urologist who specialized in vasectomies, whose name was Dr. Stopp.”
“You’re playing with me, Lass,” he says slitting his pale blue eyes my way.
“I am absolutely not.” I put up three fingers, Scout’s-Honor style. I wait a beat then ask, “So? Is yours a name that works?”
“Not so far today,” he says and gives me a wink. “But the day is young.” Then he says, “Betcha wanna ask me my last name, right?”
I fake-sigh and smirk. “Sure. What’s your last name, Slap?”
“McKeester,” he says, then adds, “My parents obviously hated me from the minute I arrived.”
I take this moment to appreciate that, in a classroom situation, he would be the rabble-rouser every fun teacher finds irresistible. Fortunately for him, I am just the fun teacher for this challenge. Game on!
I feign surprise and exclaim, “McKeester? Omigosh, Slap! I know your sister, Kiss!!” I toss a wicked smile his way.
He is momentarily stunned then wags a finger at me.
“Ahhh, yer a plucky one, you are,” he says. “Kiss McKeester. That’s a good one, Lassie. You a stand-up comedian or somethin’?”
“Close. A teacher.”
“Ahhh.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I’m a professional wrestler,” he tells me.
I take stock of the enormity of his stature. Even in a sitting position, his height is exceptional. His palms are like two Christmas hams, and each of his fingers is the size of a mallet head. He has shoulders that outsize his own roomy seat and encroach a good four inches into mine. Plus, he has that outrageous personality.
He interrupts my silent assessment. “With a name like mine,” he says, “being a pro wrestler was pretty much my destiny, don’tcha think, Lassie?”
I smile and say, “Or you’re one of those people who tells lies to their seatmates on airplanes because they figure they’ll never see them again. There’s always that, right?”
He gives me a huge smile. “I like you, Lassie. I think I’ve met me match.”
I smile back and say, “Oh, you should meet my friend, Gretchen. She has her PhD in sassy comebacks! She makes me look like Amateur Hour.”
He shrugs and says, “Maybe someday I’ll have the pleasure.”
As the plane begins its ascent, Slap closes his eyes and affixes noise-canceling headphones over his ears. I crack open a fresh novel.
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The sun is in non-stop shimmer mode as I make my way down Route 12 toward our rental house. The scent of the ocean drenches my nostrils and fills me with untold joy.
When at last I pull into the driveway of our beach house, I cannot believe my eyes: bright white, three stories, windows galore and a two-tiered back deck that overlooks the ocean.
I can already feel creative juices flooding my mind with writing ideas.
The door clatters open and a high-pitched, “YOU’RE HEEEEEEEEEEEEERE!” pierces the space between us.
We run toward each other with outstretched arms and smiles that overtake our faces.
“MY LITTLE LOW-CLASS DIXIE CHICK!!! I scream.
“MY FROU-FROU LEOPARD YANKEE PRINCESS GIRL!” she screams back, and we hug and hug.
“Let me give you the grand tour of our digs,” she says.
First, though she helps me wrestle my two trunks and satchel up the fifteen steps to our front door, grousing all the way:
“Who the hell are you dressing for, Allen?”
“Is the Queen coming for a visit or something?”
“I swear, if I throw out my back doing this, I’ll write ugly things about you in our book!”
It feels so good to be back in the presence of my beloved partner in crime. All is right with the world.
| Author Notes |
Keester: old-timey slang for "buttocks."
As mentioned before, Gretchen and I interweave truths from our Real Lives into our fiction. Here's mine from this chapter: 1.) I did, indeed, travel to Israel for my Crazed Israeli husband's brother's wedding. 2.) We did have to take a commuter flight to Buffalo in a proper plane that seated ten and gave us a full view of the cockpit and pilot. 3.) The stewardess did ask us our weight. 4.) I cried all the way to Israel - and home - and have never flown again since...though for additional beach house time with Gretchen Hargis, I probably would. 5.) There was a Gannett Rochester newspaper columnist (Peter Taub) who collected and featured "Names That Work," and every one I included here is real. 6.) My quick retort skills are absolutely, positively honed to an art form...and the mischievous students have always delighted me on sight. Be sure to check out Gretchen's (GW HARGIS) version of this chapter, too. Each week, we both tell our own side of the same developing situation. |
By GWHARGIS
Two very real women take a fictional trip to the Outer Banks.
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Even though I've lived in this little but mesmerizing strip of sand for thirty years, I am still in awe. To be able to walk to the beach at sunrise, or finish the day watching the sunset on the sound, is something that I don't brush off as ordinary. I feel so lucky. It's hard to make it down here. The job market is tight, unless you want seasonal work. With that, you have the feast or famine lifestyle. You can easily put in fifty to seventy hours a week in the height of tourist season, and then dwindle down to twenty hours in the off season (if you're lucky enough not to get laid off.)
The first thing I do when I go in the over sized house is stake out my room. There are six bedrooms to chose from. After looking at all of them, I leave the second floor master bedroom for Rachelle. She is the type to need the spacious white on white room with its ocean facing windows, and the master bath with a steam shower, Jacuzzi tub and floor to ceiling mirrors.
I walk further down the hall to a pale blue bedroom, with four windows facing the dunes and sea grass on the side of the house. There is a little en-suite bathroom complete with a claw foot tub.
I toss my duffel bag onto the chair in the corner and head back downstairs. I probably should have stopped at a grocery store but I just wasn't thinking. Everything happened so fast.
I grab my phone and call Chuck, just to let him know I made it to the house safely.
"You wouldn't believe the size of this place," I say, tilting my head to hold the phone in place while my fingers are touching every surface I walk by. "Six bedrooms. Who wants a house with six bedrooms?"
"Someone with five kids, would be my guess," he says.
"I guess so. The view is spectacular. It is right on the beach. I mean right on it."
"Has Rachelle gotten there yet?"
"No, but her plane landed about an hour ago, shouldn't be too much longer. She's renting a car at the airport. Look, I need to run to the grocery store. I didn't think about stopping before I got here. I love you. Call you later."
"Love you, too," he says.
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Eighty dollars poorer, I leave the little grocery store with two bottles of wine, some ground beef, sauce and noodles for spaghetti, some fruit, and a few snack items.
The real estate rental company had placed a basket with some goodies on the coffee table in the living room. Not sure how I missed it before, but it was full of muffins, cookies and hand dipped chocolates. I stare at it. I should wait for Rachelle. I touch the satin ribbon that is tied around the clear cellophane wrapper. I mean, if the bow comes untied, its going to look like I have already dug in. I should wait. That's what a good friend would do.
Even as the words are circling around in my brain, my greedy little fingers are tugging the ribbon. I toss the flimsy ribbon away like a stripper throws her G-string. I pluck a chocolate covered strawberry and cast a cautious glance towards the door. I take a small teasing bite and let the dark chocolate melt on my tongue. Oh, but I could get used to this.
I'm amazed at how quickly I eat all six strawberries. Amazed and just a little bit embarrassed. After tossing the evidence in the trash, I hear the low rumble of an approaching car. She is here. At long last, Rachelle Allen is here, on my turf. No Amish, no goats, no Jersey shore, just good old Atlantic ocean and Carolina blue skies.
I open the front door and run down the steps. The breeze is tossing red curls around her porcelain skinned face. "I made it!" she squeals. "I can't believe it."
"I know. And I'm sorry about the chocolate covered strawberries. I was just gonna have one, but, they were just so good. You're here!" I step back from our hug, wave my hand at the house and grin. "Can you believe it!?! We're doing this."
Rachelle motions for me to follow her to the back of her rental car. She pops the trunk and pulls out not one, not two, but three bags.
"How long are you planning to stay here, Allen?"
"What, this is just enough to get through to Wednesday. I'm planning on going shopping at some point."
"Where? At all of those malls you passed driving down here?"
Rachelle frowns. "I don't remember any malls?"
"Exactly. No place to shop around here." I say.
She looks clearly disappointed. "Oh, well. Let's get these bags in the house and settle in. We have a novel to write."
I hoist the suitcase up and hobble to the steps. "What the hell did you pack, Allen? Cement?"
"You owe me, Hargis. You ate all the strawberries, so put a sock in it and carry that bag in the house."
"Yes, Ma'am."
And so it begins. One glorious week together. Writing our story, enjoying a little bit of paradise here on the Outer Banks.
It's going to be a good week. Yes, siree. I mean, what could go wrong?
| Author Notes | We are at it again. One seasoned Hurricane survivor and one tough little Yankee. |
By GWHARGIS
Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are reunited for an adventure in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
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Rachelle and I investigate the house together. It is pristine and screams excessive coastal design. There is nothing in the entire house, or dare I say, castle, that hasn't been approved by an interior designer. Rooms are themed. Rachelle's room is like a high dollar spa, and I find myself checking her closet for someone ready to pop out to handle her every whim. My room is like something from years gone by. A small ornate writing desk, placed in front of the window.
Several abstract paintings of coastal dunes and flying gulls are lined up on the wall over the queen size bed. If I didn't have a real life waiting on Monday, I could easily lose myself to this little fantasy.
"This is unbelievable," Rachelle says, taking everything in while nodding her approval. "Is your house like this one?"
"Not even a little bit," I answer. "I have a little of this and a lot of that. I like to call my vibe Eclectic Coastal."
"That sounds interesting."
"I'm a writer. I tend to take liberties," I say, a laugh tacked on to the end of the words. "What do you say, I start dinner and we open a bottle of wine. We have all week to explore this little cottage."
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While I busy myself with chopping an onion to toss in with the ground beef, Rachelle tells me about her flight. "I hate flying, Gretchen . The minute that plane starts taxiing down the runway, I'm frazzled. Except for this time. Somehow, as fate would have it, I was partnered with a man who took my mind completely off what was happening."
I sneak a look into the cabinet over the six burner stove and look for any spices. "Well, that was fortunate," I say, glancing over my shoulder at her.
She rises from the stool at the large marble island and starts rummaging through drawers for a wine opener. "Hold that thought. I didn't necessarily mean he saved me. I just couldn't think of anything but the lines he kept feeding me the whole trip."
I turn the burner down to let the onions and meat meld together before I unscrew the cap of the sauce and pour it in. I know to a lot of you, jar sauce is a cop out, but to me, as close to homemade as you can get when I'm in the kitchen. "He was hitting on you, hunh?"
"Maybe he thought he was. He was a very colorful character, for sure. Guess what his name was?"
"Tom!" I giggle, thinking of the numerous interactions she has had with the mysterious Tom from FanStory.
"Slap."
"Slap? Was that a warning or his name?"
"His name. Slap McKeester, to be exact."
The name starts whirling around in my brain. It's an awesome name if you're a carny or a beagle. A man with that name, I picture in a plaid sportscoat and polyester pants, all held up with a wide white leather belt. "Damn. That's an awesome name. I'm sure he was just pulling your leg. It was probably Carl or Dan. He was on vacation, away from the wife and kids and having some fun."
Rachelle, tiny though she may be, pulls the cork out with little effort. "I saw credentials."
"Damn, bet he got shoved into a few lockers when he was growing up."
She grins. "Enough about that. Let's toast to a productive week."
We raise or glasses and clink, then each take a healthy sip. "Should we tell the guys on FanStory?"
"I don't think so. Let's just see how things are going and play it by ear. This is chaotic as it is. I don't want to be asked a bunch of questions that we really won't have any answers to. Does that sound good to you?"
"Sounds good to me." I take another sip and something in my peripheral moves. "Hey, watch the sauce for me," I say, holding the wooden spoon until she walks over.
I move to the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. Whatever it was, was too big to be a bird and was flesh colored. I open the door and peek out. Nothing in my wildest dreams could have prepared me for the sight I was about to see.
His name was Methuselah (at least that's the name that came to my mind). A man, shriveled and whiter than God ever intended the human body to be, was doing yoga on the deck next door. He was clad in a skimpy banana hammock. If you don't know what that is, a grape smuggler, man's bikini bottom, a nylon noodle net, if you will. I feel the wine bubble in my esophagus, then quickly close the door. "Oh my gosh, Rachelle, you have got to come here. You will not believe what I just saw."
"What is it?" she asks with a mixture of mild interest and fear in her voice.
"I have no words. This is something you will have to see for yourself."
As she walks towards the sliding door, I grab the open bottle and top off my glass. I no sooner take a sip when she lets an enormous laugh erupt from her tiny frame. Of course, my sip rains over the spotless and glistening island. "What is it about us that attracts these oddities? I've lived down here for thirty years and I've never seen anything like this."
Rachelle grins wickedly. "Should we introduce ourselves and ask his name?"
"I'm gonna guess his name is Free Willie."
Rachelle howls and tosses back a swig of wine. "This week is gonna be another book in itself."
I shake my head and give in to the giggles. "A romance. Slap McKeester, Rachell, me and Willie."
"We're terrible."
"That's why we bonded, Rachelle. Shameless."
Another of clink of the glasses and our adventure begins.
| Author Notes | Check out Rachelle Allen's post |
By GWHARGIS
I’m agog at the vastness and splendor of our digs. The bedroom Gretchen left for me is Barbie Dream House perfect: two, count ‘em, TWO enormous walk-in closets, mirrors everywhere (well, okay, not the ceiling. This is the Deep South, after all, not Vegas…), a wall of tasteful ocean-themed oil paintings of varying shapes and sizes, arranged into the shape of a sailboat, and a spa room! This writers’ life is definitely for me. Sign. Me. Up
I take a half-hour to unpack then join Gretchen in the kitchen, where she is already hard at work chopping onions and browning some ground beef.
“Mmm. That smells so good,” I tell her.
“Basic, but satisfying,” she says and brings out a hefty bottle of wine from one of the shopping bags. “What do you usually make for dinner?” she asks.
It’s not often I get handed such a perfect opportunity for a cheap joke.
“Reservations,” I tell her with my best Jewish-American Princess accent.
She laughs, and I immediately add this to my ever-burgeoning list of why I adore this woman. Even when I tell an obnoxious old joke, she still shows the decency to laugh like she means it. Oy! Such a keeper, this one!
I extricate the cork, hear the satisfying Pop! and, as I over-fill our glasses, relay some of the back-and-forth I had with Slap McKeester,starting with him licking his glass as alcohol slipped over the edge. We raise up our vessels, clink them, and toast to a productive week.
“Are we going to let the FS members in on our gig here?” I ask. “With as much as we post, I worry that, if we go radio-silent for a full seven days, someone might alert the police in our towns or something.”
Gretchen swigs down her wine then says, “Naaaah. We don’t want premature feedback or potential suggestions.”
“True,” I say, and swig down my full glass, as well. I’ve flown in an airplane today for the first time in over thirty years. I’ve earned the luxury of letting loose.
This should probably be the point at which I mention that when it comes to alcohol, I am the all-time cheapest date ever since the world began; NO hyperbole.
Three-quarters of a glass is my limit. After that, I giggle Muffy-the-Head-Cheerleader style: high-pitched, warbly, and incessant.
I also become REALLY LOUD, and the right side of my upper and lower lips take on the appearance of a Novocain-riddled dental patient. Not. Attractive.
“Hold the spoon,” says Gretchen. “I swear I just saw something outside that was not a bird.”
I hear her gasp, then she races back inside, breathless. “You have GOT to come see this!” she says.
Before we head onto the deck, though, Gretchen re-fills our glasses, and we both take a long pull for courage.
Gretchen points to the neighbor on our right, and all I can do is think: ‘Oy! This wine is affecting me already! There is no way this is real.’
It is a vision only Anna Nicole Smith could appreciate: a bona fide geezer, with skin so fish-belly white I guarantee it glows in the dark, who is positioned in a hubba-hubba pose while clad in a canary yellow banana hammock swimsuit. WHERE is the Women’s League for Decency when you need them most?
I gulp down my wine and ask Gretchen, “WHO IS HE POSING FOR?” Then, when I see the iPhone, I add, “NOOOO! HE’S TAKING A SELFIE?”
She gapes at me and stage whispers, “Be quiet!! Why are you shouting?”
“FIRST OF ALL, GRETCHEN HARGIS, I AM NOT SHOUTING. AND SECOND, HE’S, LIKE A HUNDRED YEARS OLD. I DOUBT HE CAN HEAR ME FROM THIS DISTANCE!”
Then we see him start to turn toward the sound of our voices.
“Get down!” Gretchen hisses at me and yanks me to a crouching position.
She does the universal sign for ‘follow me’ and squat-walks us, Mama-Duck-and-Baby-Duckling style back into our house.
We close the sliding glass door then sit on the floor and howl. She snorts, “Let's write a romance novel instead. Slap McKeester for you; Free Willy for me!”
As we unfold back to a standing position, Gretchen’s wine sloshes over the side of her glass and makes a lovely purple Rorschach-like splotch onto the granite island.
“IF SLAP MCKEESTER WERE HERE,” I tell her, “HE’D BE LICKING THAT UP!”
And once again, we’re off on another laughing jag, mine high and giggly, hers like a braying donkey. We promptly glug down another glass, though a sizable amount of mine does trickle out the side of my now droopy lips.
“Listen,” says Gretchen, “I think you’re right about letting the members know why we’re going to be incommunicado this week.”
She’s returned to the stove now, spoon in one hand, her re-filled wine glass in the other. How the sauce has not scalded or burned is nothing short of a miracle.
“OKAY,” I say and open my laptop. “YOU DICTATE, AND I’LL TYPE.”
DEARRRR FANNYSTERY FIENDS:
WE’RE ARE IN NUTH CARULINE WRITTING OURE BOKKK FORER CONDOM HOUSE PUBLISHINGER THIS WEK. DONUT WORRIED ABUOTT UZ. WEE-WEE AR OKEY-AY!
LOVE,
GRETCHN AND RACHELLLLE
xoxoxoxox
| Author Notes | The only truth I wove into the story this week is that I am not able to consume more than three-quarters of a glass of wine without getting giggly and VERY LOUD. |
By GWHARGIS
I awaken to the taste of the Mongolian army tramping barefoot through my mouth, a boa constrictor around my head and the cast from My Six Hundred Pound Life jumping on my stomach.
Worse yet, the oversized brass clock next to my bed reads “10 a.m.,” thus turning me, Miss Four-Hour-A-Night-Sleeper, officially into Rip VanWinkle. What the hell was in that wine? I think a moment then remember the answer: my glass…for at least 900 helpings.
I labor to a sitting position then immediately gasp and surpass all land records with my ten-yard sprint to the resplendent attached bathroom. I defile it in record time.
Great start to the work week, I think – one that has the potential to change Gretchen’s and my life forever. If we can just incorporate our love for writing and some fun-filled turns of phrases about our Amish escapade into a story with enough crackle to stoke Diane Lennon’s interest, we can potentially broker a deal with Random House. This is every writer’s dream. But it’s not going to happen if we don’t get our act together and fast!
I afford myself the luxury of dredging my murky memory bank for the dregs of last night’s activities. The last image I have is of Gretchen dictating an announcement for me to type and post on FanStory so we can apprise our fellow members of our adventure and impending absence.
I rub my temples in agony then open the door of my gorgeous bedroom. A miasma of coffee vapors envelopes me and catapults me back toward the bathroom to defile it once again.
When I finally make my way to the first floor, I see Gretchen on the deck in a dark hoodie and sunglasses as she nurses a cup of joe. I open the sliding glass door and shuffle out to join her.
Immediately, she puts a finger to her lips and whispers, “Shhh. No. Talking.” There is a pathetic mewl to her phlegm-riddled voice. I watch as she drops her head into the crook of her elbow, the arm of which is draped listlessly across the table.
I look to the horizon to try to find solace in the sand and water that will be our back yard for the next six days. But the undulating waves and the incessant sound of their rhythmic slapping against the shore make my musician’s ears ache and my stomach lurch. I race back inside and defile the gilded half-bath just off the lavish kitchen. Then I repeat this activity once I spot Banana Hammock Guy next door, this time decked out in a “Do Me” red shade of yesterday’s same ensemble. Again, he is taking a selfie. Who could he possibly have as his followers?
***********************************
It takes until nearly 4 p.m. for Gretchen and me to recalibrate enough to regain our sea legs. Even then, we are both pasty and bedraggled as we open our laptops and endeavor to begin our first chapter. First, though, we agree to read through some of the responses to our previous evening’s post on FanStory.
MRS. KT (six stars): Hello, Gretchen and Rachelle! I have a hunch you will need this healing recipe today: Amaretto Sours. That’s right; the proverbial hair-of-the-dog! Get right on that, and please keep us in the loop with your progress.
Onward!
CECILIA HEISKARY (two stars): Wow! There’s more mistakes in this one post then I’ve made in all the times you’ve corrected all of mine put together, Rachelle. What gives?
T.B. BOTTS (six stars): Okay, easy does it now, gals; no going into the ocean for a midnight swim! Keep yourselves safe so we can enjoy your story on here!
GYPSY BLUE ROSE (five stars): Dearest Gretchen and Rachelle:
With the morning light
Will come depth and certainty
Of treasures untold
JIM WILE (six stars): Oh dear, Rachelle and Gretchen. I believe you have unintentionally written some FS gold with this post! Thanks for letting us all know you’re okay, though it seems like maybe you’re way more than just “okay.” Good luck with the book…and feeling good enough in the morning to write it!
TERRY BROXSON (five stars): Uh-oh, you two! Do I sense bourbon was involved in the making of this post? If so - and I’m pretty sure I’m right – I sure hope you’re drinking it out of Waterford crystal like I always do! Definitely enhances the taste!
BEGIN AGAIN (five stars): Girls, Girls, Girls! And you didn’t invite me along???
DOLLY’S POEMS (six stars): Looks like you two are taking to beach life beautifully. Not sure how much writing you’ll be able to do if you keep this behavior up, but at least you’ll be having lots of fun. X x x
MICHELE HARBER (three stars): Rachelle, I have PM’ed you a flawlessly edited copy of your post. You’re welcome.
JUDIVERSE (six stars): HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You two are hilarious! Enjoy!
MRS. ANNA HOWARD (6 stars): What Judi said…and raise a glass for me!
TOM HOROZNY (five stars): I’m not sure what it all means, but if you two write it, it must be good. Slkqpoeglaoijgeldlwizoxslwuxibeizxkehne
PAM LONSDALE (five stars): WHOA! You two are off the rails. Good luck trying to ever get back down to business!
MICHAEL LUDWINDER (six stars): Rachelle and Gretchen, you are the two funniest writers on this site. I always look forward to everything you post. This was fantastic.
ROY OWEN (five stars): My daughters used to love the beach when they were in elementary school. They gave concerts with their little recorders for everyone who was there to enjoy while sunning themselves. Bless you both.
SANDRA STONER MITCHELL (six stars): This should be quite the collaboration…once you actually get down to it, that is. Feel well soon! Love you both! X o x o
POME LOVER (six stars): You are both wild and crazy! Looking forward to all the updates.
HARRY CRAFT (five stars): Well, this was an exciting article and there was no mispelings or bad grammer or any incurrect punctuality marks. Good job even though you didn’t sight any sources. That’s very importent, you know. Its why I took off a pointe from your ratting.
NOMI (six stars): Girls!! PLEASE GIVE ME YOUR ADDRESS IMMEDIATELY!!! xoxox
“I think we needed this,” says Gretchen, as a smirk raises one side of her cracked and pasty lips.
“Very much so,” I respond, finally at one again with my sense of humor.
But just as we begin to write, the doorbell rings.
Gretchen looks toward the front porch from her perch on the stool in the kitchen and gasps. “OMIGAWD! It’s Banana Hammock Guy!” Then her eyes gape even more as she says, “And what the heck! He’s with what’s got to be that guy you sat next to on the plane! What was his name again? Whomp Mahbooty?”
| Author Notes | The only truth interlaced with this week's chapter is that I am a four-hour-a-night sleeper and have been since high school. Thankfully, my husband is, too! (As my mother said, "You people saved two other marriages.") |
By GWHARGIS
Two very real women, in a not so real situation.
***************************
I don't throw up, but there is a sadistic part of me that really wants to. It is like paying the piper. Throw up, feel better and start this damn book. When I was at home, packing my essentials into my duffle bag, I just knew Rachelle and I would be finishing our first chapter by the end of day one. Damn that bottle of native sweet muscadine. If it wasn't for that, we could have gotten something done. Instead, we spent a good hour reading reviews on our impromptu post.
"Are you getting hungry?" I ask, sitting down at the long dining room table. "I have some deli meat and sandwich bread," I continue, glancing to see if Rachelle's skin starts to turn green with nausea at the mention of food.
"Not quite yet. I need a little more time." She scrolls on her lap top and squints. "Gawd, this is so embarrassing. It looks like a drunk wrote this," she says, a northern whine in each syllable.
I laugh and immediately grab the sides of my head. "A drunk did write that, Rachelle."
"Don't remind me."
I open my own lap top and get to my Windows Office tab. "Come on, let's, at least, get something accomplished today."
I'm pretty sure, Rachelle is feeling the same way I do. I just want to nurse a large glass of ice cold water and stretch out on the beach. But the beach will have to wait. We have a book to write.
"Chapter One," I announce. "If ever there was a time when I wish I could take back what I said, it would be while we were sitting on the side of the road in Pennsylvania. Despite Rachelle's gracious offer to drive us, in her new car, to the FanStory Writers Convention in Atlantic City, I had quite proudly said no. I think I had referred to my Suburban as Old Reliable. I think I said it several times. That information turned out to be false. My Suburban stopped with a dramatic lurch and a cloud of smoke that billowed from under the hood. I thought that would be the end of a burgeoning friendship, but I was wrong. Rachelle and I bonded in a way that only happens in the movies. From hat eating goats, to rooster at dawn, to a way of life that was foreign and new, we found out what few others do. When there is no noise to distract you, life can be amazing. All those roads that rise up to greet you, may take you down some unfamiliar paths, but if you can get past the fear of the unknown, you just might enjoy the view." I lift my fingers off the keyboard and look over at her. "Well, what do you think?"
"I like it. Should I take over or do you want to continue?"
"Maybe we could split the chapters. I write my recollections and then you write yours."
"How about, I take over from the time the car breaks down and start with me muttering something like 'I'm sorry, Gretchen, but what did you call your vehicle?' Does that sound good?" She looks up, hopefulness shining through her bloodshot eyes.
"I love it."
I start to reread what I've written, looking for ways to spruce the intro. I see lots of commas, several words that run together, but I like it. I drum my fingers on the table while I think about what else to write. I frown as the drumming seems unusually loud. Rachelle tilts her head to look past me to the front door.
"We have company," she says, nodding for me to go answer.
I freeze several steps from the door. "Shit! It's Banana Hammock dude, and someone else. Holy crap, Rachelle, it's Freaks McFlang, or Skippy Suppleton," I start spouting off the the oddest names trying to remember what the name of her plane seatmate. "I can't open the door, Rachelle. Suppose he isn't wearing any pants?"
"Get a grip, Hargis. You're a grown woman, act like it."
I dramatically take a deep breath and walk to the door, pulling it open with a smile that shows confidence I don't feel. "Can I help you?"
Banana man grins, dull teeth that peek out of skin that has spent too much time in the tanning bed. "Hello, darling, we're just going around the neighborhood, introducing ourselves."
"Are you a registered sex offender?" I ask.
His smile falters for a millisecond before he recovers. "Uh, no. Just here to offer our services."
I cross my arms. "What kind of services?"
"Well, I, um, we noticed that you don't have any men here, so if you gals need anything, just come over or call from the deck and we will be happy to help," he says with a wink of his eye. "Sorry, didn't introduce my self, I'm Larry Lipschitz. This is my oldest and dearest friend Slaps."
I cast a wary look at the other man. He looks like a Dollar Tree version of Dean Martin. You now, all the talk and none of the walk.
Somewhere behind me I hear Rachelle make a noise, something between a gasp and gag. "Well, gentlemen, thank you for the offer, but I'm gay and she's Jewish."
Larry grins. "Me, too."
"You're gay," I say, a big smile coming to my face. "Well that explains the bathing suit bottoms."
He flinches. "No, I'm not gay," he says, his words coming out tinged with frustration. "I'm Jewish."
"So, Jews can't be gay?"
He glances at Slaps who shrugs. "We're right next door," he says, then turns to leave. Slaps nods and looks past me to see Rachelle. If he recognizes her, he doesn't let on.
After watching them cross the lawn back to their cottage, I lock the front door and then walk through the kitchen to lock the door that leads to the deck. I rejoin Rachelle at the table. "Weirdos," I say.
"Who? Them or you? Did you really tell him you were gay. A woman who has four children, been married for twenty-eight years?"
"They don't know that. Besides, if they were sincere about being available if we needed help, they sure as hell wouldn't have come over in neon grape smugglers and smelling like Aqua Velva. They came to check us out."
"So, may I ask why you didn't tell them I was gay?"
"Ew. I certainly don't want them thinking we're over here...you know, being gay together. No, I think the gay and the Jew thing was better."
Rachelle shakes her head and starts to type again. "One day, there will be a cure for that."
"Cure for what?" I ask.
"For what ever you have that makes you the way you are."
I shrug and smile. "I'm a delight and you know it."
She doesn't think I see it, but she nods her head.
| Author Notes | Sorry I'm late posting this. Out of town on Sunday and a new puppy Monday. |
By GWHARGIS
By 8 p.m., after a soothing dinner of broth and rice, I am finally my bright-eyed, high-octane self again. Gretchen and I have gotten into a symbiotic rhythm with our book, having roughed out a vague outline of what we want to cover in the Prologue and first chapter.
We’ve also catalogued some of the highlights to cover in later chapters – the torrential rainstorm we experienced after being stranded on the side of the road, the time-warp lifestyle of our Amish rescuers and, of course, later on, encountering Jaaaaaaane, with the whiny syntax, the world’s most obnoxious road trip tagalong ever.
We’re feeling encouraged that we’re on the right road again now, but a little uneasy as the deadline clock ticks away. As an all-my-duckies-in-a-row-as-early-as-humanly-possible kind of girl, this current state of catch-up has me jangled.
Just then, another jangle hits – this time, in the form of Gretchen’s phone.
She reads the Caller ID and gasps. “Oh, gawd!” she says, closing her eyes in pain. “It’s Diane Lennon from Random House. I was supposed to call her an hour ago and give her a progress report.”
I grimace, imagining how this conversation will go.
Gretchen hits speakerphone and says, “Hi Diane!” with a big, warm smile in her voice. “I’m so sorry I neglected to call. We’ve been so immersed in writing our book that we’ve lost track of time.”
“Ah,” says Diane, like a dubious mom who’s listening to the excuse by her teenage daughter of why she missed curfew.
“Rachelle’s here. You’re on speaker.”
“Hi, Diane,” I say, using my best I’m A Good Girl voice. “So nice to meet you. Thank you a million zillion for this opportunity.”
“I hope you’ll make me proud,” she says, which seems encouraging on its face but also carries a dark undertow to it. Or at least that’s the sense my guilt-riddled, post-hangover slacker self internalizes.
“How is the writing coming?” she asks. No warmth. All business.
“Great!” says Gretchen. “I’m thinking we have almost fifty pages so far!”
I gape at her and scribble a note that I quickly hold up: Eight pages is NOT ‘almost fifty,’ Hargis!
She flips me off.
“Okay! That’s encouraging,” says Diane, a bit nicer now. “Keep up the momentum. How’s the house?”
“Oh, unbelievable!” says Gretchen.
“Couldn’t be more wonderful,” I add.
“Alright, good,” says Diane, her business tone returning. “Check back in tomorrow night at 7.”
“Will do,” says Gretchen.
“Not 8,” Diane adds with the subtlest of bites to her tone.
“Got it,” says Gretchen but gets cut off by Diane’s click halfway through.
I give Gretchen raised eyebrows. “Tell me she’s a taskmaster without telling me she’s a taskmaster,” I say.
“You’re not kidding,” says Gretchen. “Looks like we better get down to business.”
“Yep,” I say. “I’ll tell you what: while you write your chapter, I’m going to go take a walk on the beach and formulate mine. Sound good?”
“Perfect,” says my favorite low-class Dixie chick.
********************************************
The October night air is crisp, but it’s not like the New York State crisp with which I’m familiar. North Carolina crisp is mellower and appealing.
The waves with their muffled gargle against the sand throw a salty, invigorating mist across the side of my face that feels good. I slide easily into ideas of what to do with my first chapter.
Suddenly, though, my Little Voice tells me I am not alone out here in the dark on this deserted, unfamiliar beach.
I whirl around – because subtlety has never been my strong suit – and see a behemoth steamrolling toward me. Even in the limited moonlight, I can discern glints of ginger and a massive beard.
“Ra-SHELLLLLLL!” Slap McKeester sings out to me.
Oy.
“Slap!” I say. “We are now on coincidence number three. First, our side-by-side airplane seats, then our side-by-side beach houses, and now our beach-walking habits.”
“I’m thinkin’ we’re meant to be together, Lassie,” says Slap.
“I don’t know, Slap,” I say. “I’m thinking my husband would not agree with that.”
Slap McKeester smirks.
“And, for the record,” I add, “I don’t agree with it, either.”
“And fer sure that gay girl you’re roomin’ with also wouldn’t agree,” Slap says.
“Oh, no. DEFINITELY she wouldn’t.” I shake my head and smirk to myself.
“So, what are the two of ye doin’ out here together?” he asks.
“We’re co-writing a book,” I tell him. “And you and Larry? Why are you here together?”
“He’s me promoter,” Slap says.
“Wow. So, you really are a professional wrestler then?” I ask. “I thought you were pulling my leg.” Then I give him a wicked smile and say, “Like what I did there, Slap? Professional wrestler? Pulling my leg?”
“Ye must be a comedy writer, Lassie; yeah?” I feel that his smile of admiration is genuine.
“So then do you have a match coming up soon?” I ask.
“That I do, Lassie,” he says. “Me trainer’s comin’ in tomorrow morn. He’s stayin’ at the mansion just down the beach, gatherin’ with his whole clan for a family reunion. They’ll be partyin’ while he and I work me back to fightin’ strength.”
I give him a nod of understanding.
“I’m headed there now. Want to see it?”
“Sure,” I say and try to keep up with the gargantuan strides of the bearded Shrek of OBX.
By GWHARGIS
Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are together again in Hatteras, North Carolina, to write a book about their adventures along the way to the Annual Fanstory Writers' Convention in Atlantic City. Little do they know they are embarking on another adventure.
*****************************************
I run upstairs to grab my phone from the charger. I haven't talked to Chuck since last night, and should be home from work by now. He answers on the second ring.
"Hello," he says. "Getting much writing done?"
"Some. I'd really be stretching the truth if I were to say lots. We drank too much last night. I was feeling terrible for most of the day. I haven't had a hangover since Tracy was in diapers," I say, referencing our twenty-eight year old daughter.
"What did you drink?"
I shudder as the words come out of my mouth. "Muscadine wine."
"That's nasty, in the first place. Sweet wine makes you twice as sick."
I nod, even though I know he can't see me. "Oh, and we have weirdo neighbors."
"Oh, yeah? Let me guess, a family from Jersey."
"Nope. Worse. Two guys, one from Jersey, definitely. The other guy, looks like if Prince Harry and Hagrid had a baby."
He laughs. "Miss you," he says.
"Wait, I'm not done yet. The Jersey guy's name is Larry Lipschitz. The Prince Harry/Hagrid guy, his name is Slap McKeester."
"You're making that up."
"If I were making it up, I promise I would have them looking like Zac Efron and Paul Newman."
After hearing about his day, and saying our goodnights to each other, I end the call and lean back against the pillows. I miss him, miss our house, miss being able to sneak into my studio and work on a collage. I, once again, remind myself that this is an incredible opportunity. "Suck it up, you big baby," I tell myself.
I shake off the homesickness and walk over to the window. The house next to us, which had been vacant yesterday and most of today, was now looking like a college dorm. I see a multitude of twenty-somethings out on the deck. Guys, with starter mustaches and muscles that I can see from this distance, are tossing a frisbee to each other. The girls, in shorts that took me back to the old "Dukes of Hazzard" days. Their boobs defying gravity.
I let the curtain fall back and look down at my own breasts. When did they give up? It's like I went to bed with an above average rack and woke up with two very tired and lifeless sacks of tissue. Don't get me wrong, I still love them. They did nurse four children, after all, but when I weaned my youngest, they phoned out and never returned. I do a ceremonial bra strap tug and give each breast a sympathetic smile.
I trudge back downstairs and grab my laptop. Before I open the slider to the deck, I press my face to the glass and look to see if Banana Lipschitz is out. Thankfully, he isn't. With the coast being clear, I go outside. I check Google news and see that Hurricane Jane was spinning out in the middle of the Southern Atlantic. All the reports say she will dissipate by mid-week. I guess we sure lucked out this week.
I churn out nearly ten pages by the time Rachelle gets back from her walk. "Is the water cold?" I ask, without looking up. My fingers seem to fly over the keyboard with a speed I've never mastered before. I can see the barn, the guy with the scythe, the corn husk doll. I think about the bath in the hot spring. I try not to giggle as I replay Rachelle face planting in the mud when exiting the buggy.
"Give me a second, Rachelle. I'm knee deep in Amish Country, right now."
"No problem. I'm going to get some water, want anything?"
"Water would be great. Still feel a little dehydrated." I mutter, then start to read back what I have written up to this point. It's rushed , but I like it.
I take the glass of ice water from Rachelle when she returns. "How was your walk?"
"Interesting," Rachelle says. "I had company. Slap joined me."
I wrinkle my nose. "Why do I think we're gonna have a problem with these guys," I state it rather than leave it as a question.
Rachelle smiles. "Slap is harmless. Just think of him as a big loveable dog."
"He knows you're married, right?"
"Oh, he's not interested in me like that. He's just never met a person he didn't like."
I nod, hoping she is right, not just being naive.
I turn the laptop around and show her my progress. "Eight pages. Impressed?"
"Very." Rachelle sits on the adirondack chair beside me and sighs. "This is absolutely beautiful. You're a very lucky woman, you know that, Hargis?"
"I do. But, I do have to work for a living. It isn't like I'm on vacation here. Mortgage, insurance, the odd hurricane, those are like the thorns on the stem of this paradise rose."
"Very poetic," she teases.
Our peaceful evening is suddenly finished when Larry, the grape smuggler, Lipschitz comes dancing out onto his deck. He is still clad in those awful man panties, nursing a drink that is probably eighty proof and flammable.
"Evening, Ladies," he says. "It's a marvelous night for a moon dance." He starts dancing around the deck like he's at the Trubadour or Cocacabana Club.
Rachelle starts to reply but I shake my head. "Don't encourage him."
I steal a glance over at him. There isn't anything even remotely attractive about him. Some men are on the low spectrum of looks, but make up for it with wit and charm, or some redeeming quality that makes them stand out. Banana Hammock Larry isn't one of those. I don't know what it is, but I don't trust Mr. Lipschitz.
Maybe Slap is just what Rachelle says he is. Maybe he is a big friendly dog, but I'm gonna keep my eye on those two. My gut says Larry isn't to be trusted, and I listen to my gut.
|
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