Dinner and a Show

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.