The Morning After by Brenda Whiteside

The Morning After by Brenda Whiteside

Chapter One

The throb behind Abigail’s eyes scraped at her temples like chiseled fingernails. She squeezed her lids tight. Was the sheet twisted around her? She patted her waist. No, it was her dress, the purple flowered sarong. One hand moved across her chest while the other slid down her hip. Strapless bra gone, no nylons. What the hell?

She inched the covers down, so her head didn’t jar, and eased her feet to the floor to sit on the edge of the bed. Last night’s mascara weighed heavily, stinging her eyes when she opened them. How disgusting. She hadn’t gone to bed without washing her face in fifteen years. With a hand to her forehead, she raised her gaze to the reflection in the full-length mirror on her closet door.

Her breath caught in her throat and Abigail froze. Another body, partially covered, came into focus behind her.

Think. The headache got in the way of last night’s memories, the strain not worth the pain. And this was exactly why she never had more than a glass of wine. A bad headache and now a strange man in her bed. Her stomach lurched.

What have I done?

Had she made a fool of herself at her best friend’s wedding? She silently groaned. After three times a bridesmaid, to have just one marriage would be nice. Damn that biological clock.

Aching calves evoked images of the bar and dancing, dancing for hours. She could’ve danced all night. She should’ve. Maybe her head wouldn’t hurt so much. Damn tropical blitz things. They called them boat drinks, and they went down like fruit punch. Such cute pink and purple glasses, and they let you keep them. Abigail rubbed her temples. She must’ve tried to drink herself to a full set.

As delicately as possible, she rose, careful not to disturb her sleeping companion. Her head pounded with each carefully placed shuffled step to the bathroom. The last time she vomited, she was ten years old and sick on pumpkin pie. Vomiting was not an option.

Cold water in her face, a deep breath, three aspirin. She backed up to the sink, rested her bottom on the edge. Two more cleansing breaths and the queasiness passed.

Dancing and drinking and what? Think. The wedding was clear. Her oldest friend, Sue Ellen, had tied the knot for the third time. A Tahiti honeymoon prompted a sarong wearing wedding party and champagne served in plastic coconut shells. The affair, held at The Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk, had been pretty tacky considering the wealth of the new husband, JT Cushing, owner of the largest ranch this side of the Rio Grande. She hadn’t gone to the wedding with anyone, but she’d certainly come home with someone.

Tiptoeing back to the bedroom, Abigail leaned against the doorframe and considered her surprise bedmate. The sun, slanting rays from the window over the bed, held him in a spotlight—as if announcing the presence of a featured guest.

A moan. The man rolled to his back, kicking off covers. Abigail gasped. Her gentleman visitor wore only a bow tie and black socks.

She crept to the edge of the bed. His face was turned away, further hidden by red curls hanging down the nape of his neck and onto his cheek. A visual sweep of the attractive body brought a smile to her face when she paused on his more than ample endowments. A true redhead. An encounter of this magnitude should be easy to remember.

Abigail smiled in spite of her throbbing temples. Inching closer, she nudged his boots aside with her foot and leaned over to see his face. Mmm. He smelled good, like rich leather and fresh cut wood. As she bent to get a closer look, Kirby, her sixteen pound Siamese cat, entered the room and announced his hunger.

The visitor stirred, grasped her arm, drawing her down across his hips.

He rose up on his elbows and looked at her. “So, Abby, you’re a morning person, are you?”

Abigail launched off the bed, trying not to come into contact with anymore of the warm body than she already had. Tripping over the boots, she ended up sprawled on the floor. “Who…” She gulped. “Who the hell are you?”

“Who am I? “Darlin’ I know I told you, you’ve got to believe it’s true.” He paused his singing. When she sat speechless, he sang out again, slightly off key. “Real love comes along once, and that real love is you.”

“You sure as hell aren’t Lance Dugan.”

He sat upright, feet to the floor, and Abigail found herself eye level with embarrassment. With hands to her face, she pleaded in a quiet voice, mindful of her head still adjusting to sobriety. “Please, cover yourself. You look ridiculous.”

Author Brenda Whiteside

“Why, there’s a blow to a man’s ego. I hope you mean the bow tie, darlin’, and not my prodigious maleness.” The sheets rustled. “You can open your eyes now and greet your husband with a little more enthusiasm.”

Her hands slid from her eyes and splayed on her cheeks. She had to have heard him wrong. Large green eyes looked at her, eyes she thought were missing glasses; no more than a flicker of thought easing into her astonishment.

“W-what?”

“I’ve heard of shy newlyweds, but I would never have guessed you for shy. Abby, honey, don’t tell me you were that drunk. I knew you were more than tipsy, but not mind-numbing drunk.”

Speechless, she studied the thin lips forming a crooked smile, topped with a trim auburn mustache. She dug her fingers into the carpet, flashing on burying her fingers in his tousled copper curls while burying her tongue in his most kissable mouth. Her head spun and not from the lingering effects of tropical drinks.

“The night was all too perfect. Damn near a double wedding with Sue Ellen and JT.”

“Shut up.” She raised her voice as loud as her throbbing head would allow. “What…what the hell are you talking about?” Her fingers renewed their grasp on the carpeted floor.

“Abby…”

“Stop calling me Abby. My name is Abigail.”

“But last night you asked me to call you Abby.” He ran a hand through his jumble of curls. “You said only your mother and your husband could call you Abby. And since I’m not your mother…”

“And you’re not my husband. I don’t have a husb—”

“Ah, but you do now, Mrs. Bobby Stockwood. Although, I’m guessing you’d prefer Ms. Abigail Stockwood. Abby, you act like you’ve forgotten the most important night of our lives.” He leaned his elbows on his knees, smiling his kissable crooked smile. “I should make coffee while you take a shower. You look kind of sick.”

Sick wasn’t the half of it. More like insane. His voice did ring sweetness when he used her name. Every time he said Abby, his voice caressed, sending a pleasurable warmth over her. She closed her eyes for a moment and recalled him on his knee in full tux, peeking from under the brim of a black Stetson. Her lids snapped up like the shade on a window.

“Oh, my gawd!”

“Abby?”

She stood awkwardly, the purple sarong impeding any grace she might possess. “Yes, make the coffee and I’ll take a shower.” A shower would give her time to retreat, to think. “The kitchen is upstairs, to the right of the front door.” She backed up a step, his gaze on her every movement, her gaze on his seductive mouth and sheet wrapped hips. “

Don’t much want to put my tux back on. Do you have something? Maybe some sweat pants.” His head tilted up then down, surveying her body. “I’m not much taller than you.”

Abigail nodded. She might’ve had a retort any other time for his lack of descriptive after giving her the once over, but the need to withdraw and think spurred her shaky legs across the room to her dresser in search of a pair of baggy, gray sweat pants. She grabbed a T-shirt from her old-clothes drawer and the sweats. For herself, she chose her oldest Levis and a plain white shirt.

“There’s another bathroom upstairs, beyond the kitchen, if you want to shower.” She tossed the sweats and T-shirt in his general direction and retreated to the bathroom.

Hot water soon pummeled the top of her head, washing away a film of drunken forgetfulness. The night came to her in disjointed scenes, as if looking at a photo album missing a few pictures. Stop action shots and posed smiling moments. Two-stepping with the redheaded stranger to the band’s rendition of Dugan’s Real Love at The Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk. A karaoke duet. Ordering another tropical concoction. Talking. Dancing cheek to cheek to Patsy Cline’s, Crazy. A faceless man in a black suit holding a bible while Red kissed the palm of her hand. A toast with yet another tropical concoction.

A knock on the door echoed in the bathroom, and the not so strange stranger entered her steamy domain. “Coffee on the counter by the sink. Strong and black, just the way I think you like it.

BRENDA'S LINKS:

www.brendawhiteside.com 

FaceBook 

 

 

More Books by Brenda Whiteside:

Sleeping with the Lights On
Tattoos, Leather and Studs
An Elfin Secret and On the Way to the Snow Ball (anthology)
Honey on White Bread

Store Wars by Vicki Batman

Book Cover for Store Wars by Vicki Batman

            "This stuff is crap." I ran a finger along the edge of a faux-finished table parked inside the store's entryway, flicking more than a hint of dust from my fingertip. My best girlfriend, Tracy, and I were scoping out the competition in the Sommerville Historic Depot District, one of which was Tejas Souvenirs owned by an old flame's mom. So far, no business we'd visited had measured up. The other stores all looked...tacky touristy.                    

            I walked through to the next section, thoroughly disgusted with what lay before me. This store needed major first aid. No quality merchandise anywhere. The overpowering scents of vanilla and cinnamon from the cheap candles loaded on another table top caused me to have a major sneezing fit.

            Tracy passed a tissue. "Janie, need this?"

            "T'anks." I stuffed the used wad in my pant’s front pocket, praying the urge to let loose again would bypass. "Why in the world is a huge candle display by the front door, assaulting a customer when he-slash-she walks in? I can't be the only one who's allergic. And look..." I pointed to the section at the top of four steps, "room diffusers up there. Another brand of candles over there. And yes, people, let's combine those with scented bath products. A whole lotta stinky people and stinky homes are out there in the big wide world."

            Tracy scribbled notes as I surreptitiously took pictures of the store's contents. "Undoubtedly," she said in a hushed tone. "So what else turns you off?"

            In one corner, imitation leather purses embellished with rhinestone crowns had been stacked on a glass and chrome shelving unit. Cheap, gemstone bracelets decorated a nearby display stand. I pointed to a shirt rack and said in a soft voice, "I'd never wear these clothes."

            With a frown, Tracy cupped her mouth. "Me, neither. They're aimed for the nighttime crowd—if you catch my drift."

            "I do. Yuck." Taking in the whole enchilada, I stopped when I spied the jean-clad backside of a male employee sweeping the floor. God, I hope he hadn't heard us. I steered Tracy aside and whispered, "We'll have no problems with Twinkle Toes succeeding in the Depot District. Even better than the mall."

            "I agree. Let's split up, take mental notes, and meet out front in fifteen minutes."

            I peeled off to the left, and she went to the right. The man cleaning glanced over his shoulder and straightened. "May I help you?"

            Instantly, my body froze like an icicle. It couldn't be— Could it? Fletcher? As in my once upon a time boyfriend, Fletcher Babcock? When had he abandoned the bright lights of Big D and return to Sommerville?

            I pressed a hand to my stomach. The same twisting sensation I'd felt when he'd left eight years ago after he'd said, "I can't be with you anymore," had returned. He'd prefaced that statement with, "I'm going to architecture school in New York, and we all know how well long distance relationships work out. They don't."

            His words had demolished me like a sledgehammer taken to a plaster wall. All breath had been ripped from my entire being. I remembered how my legs had gone wobbly, how trembles wracked my body, and how I wanted nothing more than to bolt out of his car and run for the security of home.

            "Hi, Janie. It's me, Fletcher."

            Stretching my spine, I regained my composure and slid the camera into my pocket with care. "Oh, hey, Fletch," I said with a je ne sais quoi preservation attitude while fluttering fingers his way. "Funny seeing you here. When did you come back to Sommerville?"

            "Two weeks ago."

            "I'm surprised I hadn't heard."

            He propped the broom upright and tilted toward it."What are you doing?"

            "Me? Oh, I never left Sommerville. I went to State Tech—"

            "I know."

            I blew a breath and continued, "After working for other retail establishments over the last four years, I decided to leap and open my own business. Perhaps you've seen it?" I pointed down the street. "Twinkle Toes?"

            "I heard."

            His immovable stance told me he wasn't overly thrilled about my news, maybe because I would be a strong rival to his mother's store. Who knew? All I knew was I needed to finish my assessment and get back to work. "I thought you became an architect."

            "I did."

            Typical irritating male. His uninspired answers drove me batty. "What brought you back?"

            "This and that."

            I'd had enough of his one-sided conversation and decided to go for broke. "Something's obviously going on. You can tell me."

            He gave a barely-there squint. "Tell the competition?"

            He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered toward me. This man wasn't entirely the same boy who'd abandoned me. Some details about him were as familiar as my own name; others, new. I'd always admired his lengthy frame. Since then, he'd filled out. His shoulders wide, his muscles hard. The sharp edge of his nose. His short blond hair had been messily styled as if some woman had run her fingers through it.

            What woman?

            "I had no choice," he said. "Mom was running this place and the Sommerville Historic Depot District by herself since Dad passed. You heard?"

            "I went to the service."

            He pulled a dusting cloth from his back pocket and polished a wooden banister. "I didn't see you."

            "For obvious reasons."

            "Sorry, Janie."

            A smidge of compassion replaced my frustration. Softening my stance, I lifted a shoulder. "You didn't see me because you needed to help your mom. Did she say I called on her a few weeks later?"

            He was so close now, I saw lightening flare in his grass green eyes, and caught the waft of the lemon-scented soap he'd used. His cutie-pie factor roused my long-shelved heartache from the ashes of despair. That, too, mixed up my brain.

            "She did. She appreciated your zucchini bread." With a mischievous tilt to his head, he said, "I ate all of it."

            There was only one thing to say. "Pig."

            He chuckled. "I'm sure I am in many ways."

            If he only knew.

                                                            * * * *

            Stepping outdoors, I blinked in the bright sunlight. Tracy grabbed my arm. Positive it had to be bruised from her grasp, I pulled away and rubbed the spot.

            "What took you so long, and why are you quaking like a leaf?"

            "I-I have to go." We walked down the wide pavestone sidewalk. Turning a corner, I picked up the pace, making for a bench in front of Sommerville First Methodist Church, a white wooden structure from the 1870's. I plopped on the bench I'd spied and dropped my head between my knees.

            "What's wrong, Janie?" Tracy edged in next to me, setting her hand between my shoulders, pushing in an up and down, up and down massage. "Did the strong scents make you dizzy?"

            "No." I shouldn't be feeling so odd about Fletcher. "You didn't see him?"

            "Who?" When I didn't answer, she asked in her smart aleck way, "Shall I use a can opener to pry the name from you?"

            "Let's just say a guy from my ugly past."

            "I wouldn't say your past is ugly." Then cha-ching! She knew. "Not—"

            Arching my back, I heaved in a long slow breath. "Yep, the very same. Fletcher Babcock."

            "The low-down snake." Rising, she said, "I'll go give him a piece of my mind."

            I dragged her back down. "Don't say anything. It's been eight long years. I'm over him. Way over."

            "Then why act this way? Why are you nervous?"

            "I don't know. Maybe because I was caught...off-guard."

            "You cried for two months straight after he dumped you."

            "Silly me thought my first love would be the man I'd marry someday. Color me stupid. Eventually, I toughened up."

VICKI'S LINKS:

Website: http://vickibatman.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Vicki-Batman-sassy-writer-of-sexy-and-funny-fiction/133506590074451?ref=hl

Twitter: @Vicki Batman

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/vickibatman

Where to buy this book:

MuseItUp Publishing

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Dead: Winter by Todd Brown

“Steve!” Dr. Zahn yelled, almost making me lose my balance and plummet into the trench surrounding the hill that the former visitor’s center we now call home rests atop.

“Jon says that two of the camps haven’t had any signs of activity in at least the past three days.”

“You trying to get me back under your knife, Francis?” I quipped.

“What on earth are you talking about?” the doctor asked flatly, trying to ignore my use of her first name. What is it about doctors and the whole thing where they insist you refer to them by title?

“I was trying to dredge out some of the crap in this trench from the last burning.” I indicated to the gaping chasm I was standing on the edge of with a giant claw-like device that Ian had fashioned to fish out the bones and such that build up when a few hundred of them get torched.

“You scared the crap out of me and almost made me fall in.”

“Then you aren’t paying attention to your surroundings and should consider yourself lucky that it was just an elderly doctor who managed to surprise you.” She had a good point. I had, in fact, been daydreaming. It had only been three weeks since Melissa and I were married, but it had been three of the happiest in my life. Funny. Here I am, trying to stay alive when the world was being overrun by the walking dead, and I’ve never been so happy. How miserable was my previous life?

“When did Jon get back?” I asked, deciding that this conversation with Dr. Zahn needed to change course.

“He and Sunshine just set their packs on the porch and are in the examination room waiting for my check up.” It was a standing rule: if you go out on a mission, you get inspected for bites or scratches first thing. Even though we now knew that the disease that turned you into a zombie wasn’t a hundred percent lock if you were “nipped or clipped” as Jon liked to say, you still got checked out upon arrival.

“But no newcomers?” I had to ask. Dr. Zahn was the type who only revealed things under direct questioning. I think it has something to do with her being a military doctor for so long.

“No.” She looked as if she were about to say something, then stopped.

“But…?” I tried to lead her.

“It’s just that Jon seems distracted and Sunshine seems antsy about something.”

“I’ll see what’s up,” I sighed. “Just let me pull out these last few pieces.” I looked down into the pit at the fully intact ribcage that I’d been about to grab before the doctor showed up. The cart was already brimming with bones; they would all be busted up and hauled away.

“Also, I need to see Melissa tonight for her baby check up.”

“Will do…and you’re sure that you don’t mind Thalia and Emily being there?” Both girls were, for all intents and purposes, my daughters. I’d rescued Thalia the night the whole zombie thing started, and Emily had been entrusted to me by her father when he had us abandon the military outpost-slash-small town that went by the name Serenity Base when it was believed that a massive horde might be coming. It had.

“I think it is a fine idea that Melissa has the girls with her,” the doctor said. “And it wouldn’t hurt for you to make an appearance as well.”

“Isn’t that sorta private?”

“Husbands and boyfriends used to go to these things all the time…it is actually quite normal; besides, I doubt there is anything I’ll be checking that you haven’t seen.” Leave it to the good doctor to put a blunt edge on something and hit me over the head with it.

“I will be there…but I don’t really see the point.”

“Steve,” Dr. Zahn let loose with a sigh of obvious exasperation, “normally you are a good guy. You have a great heart, and it is obvious how much you care about everything. So how can you be so clueless about this?”

“I don’t—” I started, but she cut me off.

“Exactly! You don’t get it. This is a stressful thing in the best of circumstances. We left those circumstances behind a long time ago. Pregnancy is not going to be easy. All the medical marvels we took for granted are gone.”

I felt like a complete tool. So, besides the fact that I am an entirely clueless father to a pair of orphan girls, I can add “Idiot Husband” to my title.

“I’ll be there, Doc,” I assured. Dr. Zahn knew I was serious when I called her by title. I watched her walk away, and then returned to work. After all, the bones weren’t going to come out of the trench on their own. God, please don’t let them come out of the trench by themselves. Almost on cue, one of the heads rolled so that the face—or rather where the face would be if there were still flesh on the skull—stared up at me with empty eye sockets. The mouth opened and closed—a charred hunk of what I assumed to be the tongue twitched back and forth. Not all the heads had suffered sufficient damage to affect the brain enough to immobilize the zombie. Picking up the long poker nearby for just such circumstances, I thrust down, effectively spearing the head and added it to the pile in the cart.

After another hour of sifting, I was ready to pack it in. Putting all the gear in the cart, I grabbed my cane and was ready to head up the hill. I was looking forward to the day I wouldn’t need that damn thing anymore. I have no idea what sort of therapy people went through before, but I’m pretty sure Dr. Zahn makes some of the stuff up just to torture me. Of course it could’ve been worse when I fell off that picnic table and broke my leg trying to deal with a few zombies that had been led intentionally to our little hideout. From what I was told, I was real close to joining the herd.

“Steve?” Ian’s voice called from the other side of the wagon.

“Right here,” I answered and gimped my way around the open back end of the bone-laden cart.

“Jake and I want to make one more trip to La Grande in the morning,” he said, reaching over to fasten the bone-picker securely. “We can take the cart on our way out if you’d like.”

“Super,” I agreed. “And I need you to do me a favor while you’re out.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to find me something special for Emily; her birthday is coming up. Also, baby things…not just for Melissa and me, but for Teresa, too.”

“Yeah…” Ian let the word hang for a moment. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the baby situation.”

“You mean what are we gonna do if we get mobbed and have to make a run for it?”

“That’s putting it bluntly, but yes. I don’t want to sound like a dick but…”

“If it comes to it, you will be expected to do what it takes to survive.”

“That sounds good.” Ian stopped walking and turned to face me.

“But you know there is no way some of us can simply take off and leave you, Melissa, Teresa, Jamie and the girls to die. Throw in two babies? It isn’t gonna happen. And I don’t know anybody who is here with us that would willingly leave you guys behind if it came to that.” I listened to what Ian said, but it took me a moment for the gravity to really hit me. Melissa’s and Teresa’s pregnancy weren’t just an issue for those of us intimately involved; our situation had an impact on everybody here. Crap.

TODD'S LINKS:

Purchase Dead: Winter here: http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Winter-TW-Brown/dp/1936730561/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343851627&sr=8-1&keywords=dead%3A+winter

http://www.amazon.com/TW-Brown/e/B00363NQI6 (My Amazon Author page)

http://twbrown.blogspot.com/ (My Blog)

Chill Waters by Joan Hall Hovey

WHAT IF EVIL STALKED THE ONE PLACE WHERE YOU FEEL THE MOST SAFE?
CHILL WATERS
By
Joan Hall Hovey
It’s like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It’s like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It’s like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed
You’re dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.

Anonymous; Nursery Rhyme

He stood near the ancient gnarled apple tree that for years now had produced only sour, wizened apples, waiting for her. The hot thick air hummed with the chirping of crickets. Behind him, an occasional fat June bug bumped against the screen door, drawn by the night-light. Now and then a car passed by, seeming only to emphasize his sense of aloneness. Not much traffic on Elder Avenue since they built the thruway.

Three houses down, Nealey’s old black lab set to barking excitedly at something – a raccoon scavenging in a garbage can, most likely, but it could just as well be shadows. The mutt had a game leg and was as deaf as his mother’s turquoise plastic crucifix that hung on the wall above the TV. The old man oughta have him done away with, put the damn thing out of its misery. Maybe I’ll do it for him one of these days, he thought, a grin playing at one corner of his cruel mouth. As he retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, he heard Nealey’s door open, heard the old man’s low, gravelly voice call the dog inside.

He gazed up at the starry sky, grin fading as he envisioned Marie and that hotshot kid in the fruity white blazer slow dancing under these very stars. Bodies molded together, the kid’s hands moving over her, groping… his breath hot in her ear…

With a muttered curse, he shook his head as if to banish the image, checked an impulse to crush the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Instead, he struck a match against the tree, but his hand was unsteady and it took a few tries before he managed to get it lit. Leaning his back against the tree he closed his eyes. The rough bark of the tree stabbed like jagged stone through his thin nylon jacket. He sucked smoke into his lungs, exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.

He wasn’t usually a heavy smoker, but four hours later, when he finally heard the car drive up, a small mound of butts had accumulated beside him on the ground. With slow deliberation, he mashed this latest one out too, and rose to his feet. Although stiff from sitting, at the same time a power born of rage surged through his veins like electricity.

Music drifted through the open, car window – a soppy Manilow ballad about a girl named Mandy. Above the music, her laugh floated to him, high and lilting as wind chimes. Mocking him. The flirtatious note in her laugh made his throat tighten, his hands curl into fists at his sides. But it was the maddeningly long silence that followed, while the music went on playing, that made him want to fly at them, yank them both out of the car and beat that scummy kid with her until he had to crawl home through his own blood. He wanted to do it. He saw himself doing it. It took all his will to remain where he was.

At last she got out of the car. He could see the pale flair of her skirt through the leaves.

“Night, Ricky. I had a really nice time.”

“Yeah, me too. Okay if I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“You wanna go to a movie? Christine’s playing at the Capital.”

“Sounds great.”

The car door closed with a solid thunk. The kid’s old man was a dentist; the car was a graduation present.

As Marie turned away and started up the path toward him, the kid gunned the motor and drove off, taillights glowing like twin rockets, swiftly disappearing into the night.

Now the only sounds were the crickets and the soft click of her shoes on the cement walk. Yet she looked to be almost floating toward him, her white, strapless dress blue in the moonlight.

When she left the house tonight, her black glossy hair had been swept up into a satiny swirl, a few wispy curls trailing down past her ears; now it was messed up. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he moved deeper into the shadows.

Her pearl drop earrings swayed lightly above her bare shoulders as she walked. He knew how smooth those shoulders would feel beneath his hands because he’d touched them before. He had touched her. Had tasted the warm, throbbing hollow of her traitorous throat, crushed her mouth beneath his own, sometimes to silence her crying. Even now, he could taste her salty tears on his tongue.

As she drew nearer to where he stood in the clot of darkness, she touched her fingertips to her mouth, a small secret smile on her lips like the goddamn Mona Lisa. Face all soft and dreamy – all of it for someone else – never for him.

He waited until she was directly parallel to him, then stepped out of the shadows. He enjoyed hearing her gasp of shock, in seeing her hand leap to her breast in fright, the smile vanish as she stumbled on the walkway, nearly falling.

“Damn you! You scared me half to death. What’s wrong with you? Why are you always sneaking around? Always watching me. Can’t I have one normal…”

His hand clamped hard and sudden over her mouth, cutting off her words. It made him feel good to see those lovely eyes widen with shock, then fear. Fear that turned swiftly to terror, then to pleading. But it was too late for that. Too late. The beast had risen up in him.
“It’s midnight, Cinderella,” he whispered.

JOAN HALL HOVEY'S LINKS:
Purchase Chill Waters and other books by Joan Hall Hovey at
http://joanhallhovey.com/
Award-winning suspense
kindle/paperback
http://amzn.to/M7mVAR

Hear Joan Hall Hovey read an excerpt from Chill Waters complete with sound effects/music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3laspGpkxc

That Ghoul Ava by Todd Brown

“Because you’re broke, that’s why.” Morgan glanced at my “I Hate Cats” coffee mug like it was filled with pureed crap. Well excuse the hell out of me for not having anything better than instant. As it was, I’d splurged and bought the kind with Flavor Crystals, so she should be grateful.

“She’s right you know,” Lisa chimed in. Super, my roomy and only friend was taking sides with Morgan-the-psychic-bitch and current pain in my ass. I shot a nasty glance Lisa’s way, but she pretended not to notice.

“Okay,” I nodded, “I’m broke. Does that mean I have to hunt down some crazy vampire with an improper taste for human blood?” Those last few words, I tried to imitate the snooty way Morgan had spoken when describing this little problem that seemed to be a danger to the entire supernatural population of Portland.

“You are the newest to the ranks,” Morgan shrugged, “and thus, in your probationary period.” She folded her hands on my table and leaned forward like a banker about to tell you that he was foreclosing on your house. “And you aren’t starting off on a very good foot.”

That last remark was undoubtedly the result of Belinda being a big-mouthed tattletale. You see, Morgan is the Psychic of Portland. Not the kind you call and pay by the minute so they can lie to you about generalities that they pluck from things you unwittingly reveal to them; and not the kind with a neon sign hanging in her window. Morgan is a true psychic that can sense every supernatural being in her district. As for Belinda, she is a slutty little vampire that uses her jailbait looks to entice her victims. We don’t get along.

“So...what am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Do I really need to explain it to you?” Morgan huffed and pushed the coffee cup away with obvious, and in my opinion, rather rude disgust.

Obviously, I thought. “Please, just so I am clear,” is what I said with my outside voice.

“Find this crazy vampire and eliminate it.”

“You mean kill it?” Who the hell does she think I am, Buffy?

“That seems the most preferable choice.” There was that I’m-talking-to-an-idiot voice again.

“Wouldn’t you be better off sending somebody who knew what they were doing?” I asked. “And besides, you’re the all-powerful, all-knowing psychic. Why don’t you just use your locating ability, or whatever it is you do, and stake the bad guy in the middle of the day?”

I’d felt the sun on my skin once. It wasn’t something I would be doing again...ever. At least not by choice. It was like grabbing a pan of fish sticks from the oven without using a mitt. That meant I would be going after a vampire…at night. That didn’t seem like any fun at all.

“This vampire did not turn in my district,” Morgan said like that explained everything. The blank look on my face made it pretty clear that I still wasn’t getting it. “I do not have its signature imprinted in my mind. I do not have any idea where it came from, so I cannot contact whomever runs its home district and ask for an imprint exchange.”

“Uh-huh.” She might as well be explaining the Theory of Relativity for all the sense that made to me.

“So psychics receive some sort of mental fingerprint whenever somebody flips the supernatural switch in their...territory?” Lisa piped up from the kitchen where she pretended to be doing the dishes. Lisa Jenkins is my best friend and a completely normal human. Err...mortal; whatever we’re supposed to call regular, warm-blooded, non-monsters…that is Lisa Jenkins.

Lisa is seventeen and recently liberated from her pedophile boyfriend by way of my digestive system. After giving birth to a baby and forced to abandon it in a garbage can a few weeks earlier, she was now my roomie. Oh yeah, and the baby is fine and being adopted by a wealthy family from Wilsonville.

“Perhaps you should be who I talk to when come.” Morgan turned her gaze to the petite blonde in the kitchen. Geez, just a few weeks and already the baby weight was almost gone; of course, our being broke and barely able to buy groceries might have something to do with it.
“Excuse me,” I snapped. “Sitting right here.”

[caption id="attachment_103" align="alignleft" width="246" caption="Todd Brown"][/caption]“To answer your question,” Morgan continued to ignore me, “while somewhat crude in your understandings…” she paused long enough to flick her eyes at me, then back to Lisa, “…that is basically the idea. Supernatural beings give off a very distinct vibration when they first turn or change. The psychic responsible for that area feels it instantly. From that day forward, the psychic can tap into that vibration and locate the being.”

“What lets you exchange information with other psychics?” Lisa blurted. “You said that another psychic could…transfer information to you.”

“That is beyond your ability to really and truly understand,” Morgan sniffed. I didn’t believe her. I just think Little-Miss-Snooty-Britches enjoys feeling superior.

“What about if something turns and there is nobody...no psychic...in the district? Or what if the psychic dies—”

“Enough!” Morgan barked.

Ooo, somebody is menstrual. Wait…did Supernaturals menstruate?

“I am not here to answer questions.” Morgan quickly recovered her composure. “I have offered you a job that will pay nicely. Will you take it or not?”

I glanced into the kitchen as Lisa opened an almost empty cupboard and considered which flavor of Top Ramen would be dinner. I sighed and looked back at Morgan who wasn’t even trying to hide her smirk.
“Do I really have a choice?” I asked.

***

“I am serious, Lisa,” I scolded. “I don’t want you our here when that fanged tramp shows up.” I popped Cinderella’s Night Songs CD into my stereo. “I still don’t know exactly what vampires can do for real. All I’ve ever read was Anne Rice and seen that Keanu Reeves movie.”

Mmmm, Keanu Reeves. He couldn’t act his way out of a grade school Thanksgiving program if they cast him as Plymouth Rock and covered him in a gray paper mache lump that had the words written at the side. Still…there was something about him that really did it for me.
“But I’ve never met a vampire.” Lisa was on the verge of that whine that all teenaged girls learn early and have honed to perfection in their twenties to wrap boyfriends and husbands up in knots. “It would be so cool!”

She still didn’t remember that night in the grocery store and I was afraid that telling her how close she’d come to death—not for the first time that night—make cause her to decide that being my friend was too risky and not rewarding enough. The time would likely come when I would have to tell her myself…just not today.

“Until I can get a handle on what sorts of powers they have, you will stay someplace safe.” Not that the bedroom was Fort Knox, but at least it was something. “And I want you holding that cross until I come in and tell you that it is okay to come out.”

“Party pooper,” she whispered, knowing darn well that my hearing could pick up her grumblings if she were outside and two doors down.

“I don’t—”

A knock on the door interrupted my attempt at a reprimand. I shifted my focus to the door and heard the static hiss that I’d learned only recently was the sound of a vampire. The good thing was that I’d know whenever I heard that particular sound that a vampire was near. The bad thing was that I wouldn’t know who it was or if they wanted to gouge my shining black eyes out.

“Ava,” an irate voice whispered, sounding for all the world like a child who’d been forced to visit some smelly and embarrassing relative who pinched your cheeks way too hard.

I opened the door, not bothering to don my sunglass. A human would freak if they saw my all-black eyes staring at them from a primer-gray face, but the vampire at my door didn’t even blink. We stood there, staring at one another for a handful of seconds. I heard my bedroom door click shut and stepped aside.

Belinda was the first—and only, up to this point—vampire I’d met. She had her impossibly blonde hair twisted up into a dozen pencil-thin braids and was wearing a tight, black tee-shirt that revealed her too-perfect midriff. She finished the look with a pair of bun-squeezing white shorts. I felt a tingle in my toes and fingertips. I swallowed, refusing to let her goad me into anger with her obvious display of such a truly amazing body. Having talons sprout from my fingers wouldn’t be terrible, but I was wearing my brand new Nikes and didn’t want my toe-talons punching through.

“Well?” Belinda crossed her arms under her tiny breasts. She was bra-less…what a slut.

“Well, what?” I shook my head slightly.

“Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to invite me in?”

I saw something flicker in her babydoll-blue eyes. It was probably in response to the obvious look on mine. She had to be invited in! Myth number one confirmed. I stepped back and said with as little of a smirk as possible.
“Please, come in.”

Belinda stepped past me, looking around the living room like she was entering the city dump. She paused, and I caught a flash of her fangs.

“Still have your little human friend,” she said, emphasizing the word “friend” in a very unpleasant way. “I suppose Morgan has her reasons.”

“Look,” I struggled to keep my fingers and toes from going switchblade, “we’ve got to work to—”

“We?” Belinda interrupted. “No, little ghoul, we don’t have a thing to do. You have a job. I’m only here to instruct you on what you need to do your job right.”

“Why can’t Morgan do it?” I asked. “I don’t really want you in my house.”

Belinda’s eyes went black—sorta like mine—and she hissed like she was being scalded. In a flash, she was back out my door and on my beat-up doormat with the plastic daisy that was missing three of its nine petals.

“Bitch!” Belinda snarled, barring her teeth.

“What?” I was stunned.

“You did that on purpose!”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Dammit, I thought as my razor-sharp toenails tore through my socks and shoes. I was still so new to this whole supernatural thing. Seeing Belinda all fangy with her eyes like that and…

“Hey! You’ve got ears like Spock!” I couldn’t help but point.

TODD'S LINKS:

http://www.amazon.com/That-Ghoul-Ava-Adventures-ebook/dp/B004NIFWOO (The Amazon link for Ava)
http://www.amazon.com/TW-Brown/e/B00363NQI6 (My Amazon Author page)
http://twbrown.blogspot.com/ (My Blog)

Hester's Daughters by Elayne Clift

An excerpt from HESTER’S DAUGHTERS
(A contemporary, feminist retelling of The Scarlet Letter)
By Elayne Clift
~1~
 
 My mother, Hester Adele Prinsky, burst into the world at precisely 12:06 p.m. on October 29th, 1929, just as the stock market crashed. That day marked the start of the Great Depression, and became known as Black Tuesday, a metaphor she would come to reflect upon several times as her life unfolded.

Her birth was not easy. My grandmother, Emma, labored for two nights and a day until she was nearly dead from exhaustion and the hard work of delivering her stubborn daughter. She did it alone, too, but for the uncertain aid of a young midwife new to her trade who was less encouraging than she might have been.

Some members of the family called Emma a weak woman, but she had a survivor’s strength. She had, after all, lived through the worst thing a mother can be called upon to bear -- the deaths of three of her four children -- and hadn’t she tolerated a tyrannical husband longer than many other women could have done? Who knows what she might have made of herself under different circumstances.

Hester’s father Henry, my grandfather, frightened at the thought of losing the woman who tended his every need, waited impatiently in a corner deli for news of the birth. Pacing the black and white tile floor in front of greasy booths that had emptied by ten o’clock, he spewed invectives.

“Another mouth to feed! Who needs it? Qvetching women, squalling kids! Pheh! Shoulda never married her in the first place. Not like she was a raving beauty or something.”

So disappointed was he when word came at last that he had a daughter, and that mother and child were safe, he cursed both his wife and baby even as the man slicing corned beef behind the glass counter offered him a “Mazel Tov!”

“Mazel Tov, Schmazel tov! Who needs it? Just another damned weight on my back. Useless woman, spreading her legs always at the wrong time!” But what else could

be expected from a man whose own father had begun each day with a prayer on his lips thanking God he was not born a woman?

Years later, Henry liked to say that his third-born daughter was a devil so powerful that she could make the bottom fall out of Wall Street. But Emma, stroking her little girl’s head, said, “Pay no attention to him, Sheina punim! Why, you’re so special there’s a street named after you. It’s called Hester Street. It’s in New York, where many Jews, even some of our lansmen, came to live after the troubles in Russia. What’s more,” she added, “a great book was written about a woman named Hester. She had courage and dignity. I hope you grow up half as brave as that Hester,” Emma told her young daughter. “I would be very proud of you!”

“Ach, from your mouth to God’s ear,” Henry scowled, waving his hand as if to swat a fly from his nose.

Hester, moved by what her mother said, promised to be as special as the woman whose name she bore, the woman upon whose breast The Scarlet Letter had been emblazoned.

Emma and Henry were immigrants, her father from a shtetl near Kiev, her mother from Odessa in the Ukraine. Each had made their way to New England by way of Ellis Island, and in Henry’s case, Philadelphia. He was a tailor and furrier whose older brother Sidney had preceded him, first to Philly, then to Boston. Sidney had worked initially delivering for a laundry. Then he moved up to being a presser. Somehow he’d managed to save enough money to move to the suburbs of Boston where, with a friend, he bought a dry cleaning business. Eventually he’d become comfortably middle-class.
Henry, on the other hand, a closet Communist, made a meager living sewing men’s suits, hemming women’s skirts, and mending their minks and fox-pelt collars. Emma, who’d attended school only through sixth grade, had been a bright young woman with dreams, if not fully developed ambitions.
“Oh,” she told her sisters, “I do so long to be out in the world! I want to get on a train and go to Chicago, maybe even farther! Don’t you ever just want to go somewhere, anywhere? Is it only me who wants to be somebody?”

Instead, because the longings of girls were considered frivolous and irresponsible when she was young, she became a lonely homemaker, and ultimately an eternally grieving mother. For by the time Hester was five she had become Emma’s and Henry’s only child, her two older sisters having succumbed to a sudden, terrible influenza outbreak that rolled swiftly through their school pulling children under like a riptide.

Some years after Emma nearly went mad with grief at the loss of her two daughters, she bore a son named Paul. “At last I have something to live for,” she whispered to Sidney’s wife, out of Hester’s hearing. “At last, I’ve made Henry happy. Who doesn’t want a son? It’s a mitzvah!”

Paul grew to be a lively boy, full of mischief, and Emma’s devotion to him knew no bounds. She played with him for hours, sat by his bed without respite when he was sick, knit him tweed sweaters and argyle socks, held him in her lap till he was nearly out of short pants, and nearly always yielded to his demands. No one minded because he was the only one who could make Emma laugh or dance.
As his bar mitzvah approached, he teased his mother mercilessly. “Come, my shaina mamela,” he said, lifting Emma from her chair, his dark eyes forming crescent moons of mirth. “Dance with me, my sweet Mama, now that I’m a man!” And Emma twirled around the living room with her beloved son, daintily holding the corner of her apron as if it were a satin gown, and her sturdy, lace-up shoes Cinderella’s own glass slippers.

When Paul perished in the Korean War at the age of seventeen, Emma’s heart stopped beating too. Although she existed for another seventeen years, her soul was dead. Her face became frail and tragic so that it seemed she would crumble if anyone touched her sallow, sunken cheeks. She sat by her window in Newton for hours, a shell of a woman, looking out upon a vacant world, sitting shiva into eternity.

It pained Hester deeply that her presence wasn’t enough to rescue Emma from her tomb of despair. She began to fear that she might end her days like her sad, distracted mother, for she had intuited that such a life of service to husband and children was a kind of passive suicide. Still, when Henry said she must stay home after high school to work and care for her mother she acquiesced. There seemed no viable alternative.

Then something happened that changed everything, something so huge and dramatic, something so unimaginable in Hester’s world that the question of her remaining at home was rendered mute.

Hester had become pregnant.

Henry, enraged nearly to the point of physical violence, threw Hester out of the house, shouting, “Slut! Shiksa!” Shaking clenched fists at her, he screamed, “There are no whores in my house, under my roof! As far as I’m concerned, you are dead!” In one furious motion he tore his coat sleeve from its seam while Emma, clutching her breast as if she were having a fatal heart attack, begged hysterically, “Stop! Stop! Henry, you’re killing me!”

Ten years later, Hester became pregnant again. I am the child of that pregnancy.

My name is Pearl. I was named in memory of my uncle Paul. Hester chose my name because I was a love child and because she thought of me as the proverbial pearl of great price. The biblical reference seemed especially apt under the circumstances. Like my own daughter, Aviva, I grew up with an absent father, but I came to love him deeply before he died.

Aviva is my beloved “café au lait.” Her African father, Elson, was an extraordinary man who left this world far too young, before he’d had a chance to truly make his mark on the world. Aviva has only vague memories of him because he died when she was very small, but her memories, like mine, are warm, happy ones.

Aviva is like Hester, and like Emma might have been had she been born in a different time and milieu. I hope I am like them too, especially Hester. She is so strongly spirited that some might say she is prideful. The way I see it, that’s a worthwhile legacy and a true gift.

ELAYNE'S LINKS:
Elayne Clift, a Vermont Humanities Council Scholar, is a writer, journalist and lecturer whose work has appeared internationally. Her creative work includes poetry, short fiction, memoir and creative non-fiction. This is her first novel. www.elayneclift.com

The Methuselah Man by Will Dresser

[caption id="attachment_94" align="alignright" width="213" caption="The Methuselah Man"][/caption]"GOD, I NEVER KNEW A MAN WHO WANTED SO MUCH TO BE DEAD…or deserved it more.”

Joe Rosenfeld gazed down into the shallow hole at the plain, unmarked, lead container, slightly larger than a cigar box. A thick marine layer hung tight to the ground, swirling a puff of foggy cloud as Rosenfeld tossed a shovelful of wet dirt into the hole and handed the shovel back to the groundskeeper. The funeral service — if one could call it that — was small, only three people: Dr. Joe Rosenfeld, his secretary Liz Charles, and Jefferson the groundskeeper.

"That’s it?” said Liz Charles. “An entire lifetime comes down to a dozen words or so, one sentence?”

"What am I going to tell God He doesn’t already know?” said Rosenfeld.

"I don’t know, but damn, that’s it?”

"Look around, Liz. Do you see throngs of people wailing? Have the masses gathered for a tearful farewell? Is there a wife overcome with grief at the loss of her dear husband? Children, grandchildren, their eyes reddened by the loss of the family patriarch? A business friend, a best buddy? No. There’s you, me, and the groundskeeper. And Jefferson there is on the clock.”

The groundskeeper remained silent.

"God, that’s sad,” she said.

"You know, for the first time since we met Jared Kennan Cain, I’m starting to think maybe he was right. Maybe God can abandon some people. I always used to think no one was beyond His reach; that even the smallest sparrow couldn’t pass without His taking notice. Now I don’t know. Is it all just a fairytale, self-delusion, a nice bedtime story to scare away the dark?” Rosenfeld looked down at the grave and asked the groundskeeper, “Do you believe in God, Jefferson?”

"Jus’ Jeff, sir. Do I believe in God? In this business? Yes, sir!” chuckled the groundskeeper quietly. “If I didn’t, I guess I’d be little more than a garbage man,” he said, hesitating a moment before giving a more considered answer. “Yes, sir, I believe there’s a good and righteous God.”
"Well, tonight when you get home,” said Rosenfeld, watching the fog swirl around the hole, “light a candle, or a novena, or whatever you do, and thank Him for making you imperfect.”

The groundskeeper didn’t really understand the suggestion, but acknowledged it.

"Yes, sir. Imperfect. We sure are that! Only made one perfect one.”

Rosenfeld lifted his eyes from the hole in the ground with an ironic smile but let the statement pass. “Jeff, you can wait till we’re gone to finish this.”
"Yes, sir. But what about a headstone, sir? I don’t have any instructions about a headstone or ground plate.”

"There won’t be one. Also,” Rosenfeld looked around the grounds, “are there other places available where this could be buried? Some remote out of the way spot?”

"Yes, sir,” said the groundskeeper beginning to point. “There’s a couple plots over….”

"No, that’s okay. I don’t want to know,” said Rosenfeld, pushing the groundskeeper’s hand down. “After we’re gone I want you to put this someplace else. You can put it anywhere you want. I just want to be able to say honestly that I don’t know where these remains are buried. Understand?”

Jefferson nodded.

"And if anyone should come around asking about this, you don’t know anything about it, right? You don’t know where the exact site is, you don’t know who’s buried here, you don’t know anything. Okay?”

"Well, on that one, sir, I’d have kind of a tough time. We keep good track of where we lay folks; got to, it’s the law.” Jefferson fidgeted where he stood, uneasy that he was being drawn into something that could only get him in trouble.

"Okay, okay, I understand,” said Rosenfeld. “I’m not asking you to break the law, Jeff. I just want to make sure those remains never see the light of day again, wherever you decide to put them.”

Jefferson wore a worried expression as he looked down at the hole.

"Look, Jeff, most likely no one will come nosing around anyway,” said Rosenfeld, taking a different tack, trying to find some compromise language that would put Jefferson at ease and still get him to comply with the request. “But if they do, try to take your own sweet time about finding the place, all right?”

"Yes, sir, I ‘spose I could do that,” said Jefferson, sticking his hands in his pockets, nervously stretching the coveralls. “Memory’s not all it once was,” he seemed to be rehearsing what he’d say if asked. “And with an unmarked grave this small, it could take a little time to get the exact spot.”

"Good,” said Rosenfeld. “I have every confidence in you, Jeff. And here’s a little something for your trouble.” Rosenfeld extended two folded fifty-dollar bills.

Jefferson looked at the money. A hundred bucks! he thought. They really don’t want this guy found! He smiled and stuck the money in his coveralls. “Yes, sir, don’t worry about a thing, sir. I’ll take care of everything as soon as you and the lady are gone.”

[caption id="attachment_95" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Will Dresser"][/caption]Rosenfeld and Liz Charles took one last look at the grave, gave the groundskeeper a smile and a good-natured pat on the arm, then turned and walked back to their car.

Rosenfeld said “I’m glad that’s over” then went quiet. After a moment he said, “Liz, when we get to the office, we need to do a little cleaning up. I want you to take Cain’s file home with you tonight.”

"Then what?” she asked, shifting in her seat to look at him, curious at the instruction.

"Get rid of it.”

Rosenfeld’s eyes stayed glued to the road ahead in an effort to avoid eye contact with her.

"Get rid of it?” Liz was surprised by her boss’s order. In fifteen years she had never been asked to do anything like this.

Rosenfeld was adamant. “Yes, get rid of it. Don’t hide it. Don’t throw it away. Don’t shred it,” he said. “Just take it home and burn it!”

"Joe, are you sure you really want me to do that?”

She asked this half-heartedly. She already knew he was serious. And the truth was if he hadn’t come up with the idea himself, she might have given him a suggestion along those same lines.

"Yes, absolutely!” said Joe, who then added a softer explanation. “I already started a dummy file; before we left for Vegas. I pulled the intake form and a couple of pages from the real file. That will now be the official version.”
Liz gave him a quizzical look.

Rosenfeld became somewhat defensive and annoyed — as much at himself and the circumstances as anything Liz might have said or done — so he feigned irritation at having to explain what to him was obvious.
"The Feds already know he was a client,” he argued out the car window to no one in particular, “so I have to have some record of treating him or they’ll pile all kinds of legal BS on me for tampering with — or worst case destroying — evidence.”
That thought made Liz bristle.

"I can’t believe they can just come in and demand to see your records. What happened to Doctor-Patient Privilege?”

"Damn PATRIOT Act!” thought Rosenfeld, his irritation churning inside over the misguided clarion call for heightened security, especially when it came at the expense of certain liberties and expectations of privacy. “National Security,” he fairly spat the words under his breath as they reached the car, “…trumps everything these days.” Rosenfeld opened the door for her, babbling as Liz climbed in, “In a post-nine-eleven-world, blah, blah, blah,” he said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Liz, doing less than Rosenfeld to hide her anger. “It’s just a lot of trial-by-fear if you ask me! No patriot came up with that act!”

Rosenfeld had to smile at her passion. “I know, but for now it’s the environment we live in,” he said, as if surrendering, “so let’s at least keep up appearances. Besides, as far as the dummy file is concerned, if I ever did go to court, I’d have a much easier time discussing the dummy notes than the real ones.”

"You sure got that right! No one in their right mind would believe the truth.”

Rosenfeld said, “On the other hand, I think we’ve already established that the people who’d want that file aren’t necessarily in their right minds. Anyway, let’s just hope it never gets that far, that the Feds just drop the whole thing. I mean, the guy’s dead! Isn’t that enough for them?” He shook his head and tried to refocus on trying to go about their business as usual. “Who’s on my schedule for today?”

"I cleared your morning appointments. I thought you might like to ease back into it.” Liz studied Joe’s face and watched it tense up at each name. “You’ve got Betty Murphy at one, Jill Edwards at two, and Jo Haggerty at three. I left four o’clock open in case you’re exhausted by then.” Liz could see him struggling with it. “If you want I can call and cancel them all.”

Rosenfeld took a deep breath as if to brace himself against an onslaught of reality.

"No, let’s keep things at least looking normal.”

Liz laughed. “Normal! Nice word for a shrink!”

Rosenfeld gave her a cynical smile. “Yeah, well, don’t worry,” he teased, “it’s no term I’d ever apply to you!” Rosenfeld had to laugh. She could see right through him.

Their fifteen-year relationship was, to say the least, atypical. It was strictly platonic; there was never anything physical between them. Their feelings were familial, not sexual, and had been like this since day one. In front of the clients, they were consummate professionals, always on their best behavior, tended to communicate in full sentences. But when it was just the two of them, they seemed to slip easily into characters out of the screwball-comedies of the 1930s and ‘40s; if Joe threw out a line from a Spencer Tracy movie, Liz would be right on top of it with her best Hepburn; if Joe gave her Bogey and asked if she knew how to whistle, Liz was right there with a pretty good Bacall and the perfect response, “Just put your lips together and blow.”

She was priceless! And almost always right!

Liz fluttered back a coquettish smile. “Hey, sweetie, I keep your life interesting, so don’t knock it!”

Liz Charles was, by all standards, a very attractive and engaging young woman. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a thin nose set against soft lush lips, and a thirty-six year-old body that wouldn’t quit — generally draped in a wardrobe of dubious business acumen that tended to advance that notion. She routinely wore thick black mascara that ovaled her eyes then flared to a point where someday she would have — from a lifetime of smiling — shallow crows’ feet — but not yet! Her eyelids were always painted blue, a soft blue. But the combination of that soft blue and heavy black outline, which would have screamed whore on the average woman, appeared on Liz Charles more like the understated elegance of an ancient Egyptian queen, the royal consort to a pharaoh. She was, all things considered, probably the perfect synthesis of both.
And where competent secretaries were concerned, Rosenfeld didn’t know what he’d do without her!

Joe Rosenfeld turned left out of the Hills of Eternity Jewish Cemetery, aiming the Prius south on El Camino Real for the thirty-minute drive from Colma to their Menlo Park office. It would have been faster to take 280 or 101, even at this time of day, but he wasn’t in any particular hurry just now. In fact, after the last five days, he just wanted the whole world to slow down again. And a quiet drive back would go a long way toward meeting that objective.

"Can you believe it’s been less than four weeks since this all started?” He glanced over at her and half whispered, “How’s your shoulder?”

Liz Charles stretched and twisted her right shoulder, testing it. “It’s fine,” she said, massaging it with her left hand. “Unbelievably fine, actually.” And after giving it some due consideration, she gave her final judgment. “Better than new, I think.”
Rosenfeld took in the answer absently, his thoughts already drifting back to early November and the first time he set eyes on Jared Kennan Cain.

WILL DRESSER'S LINKS:
Purchase Methuselah Man here: http://www.amazon.com/The-Methuselah-Man-ebook/dp/B007PRKCO0/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1341414610&sr=8-2&keywords=the+methuselah+man
Will's website: http://www.willdresser.com