Jordan Castillo Price's Blog, page 70

Breaking news: Zombies overtake Chicago

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

I just love the screamy-dance Oprah does behind Vic!

And since I've been hearing a lot of "where's PsyCop 6?" lately, let me reassure everyone that I'm working on it. I'm digging into some rewrites because what I've got is somehow not quite working. I know you'd all rather have it be good than have me throw together any old thing just for the sake of publishing something quickly. It's gratifying to know you're all so eager to see it! Thanks for all the well-wishes. And Happy Halloween!

Trick or Treat

The goodies have arrived!
Petit Morts now for sale at JCP Books and Amazon for Kindle.

(And somehow my sale email managed to fire two hours early! Hopefully not too many people clicked for an hour going, "Where...is...it?" I assume it was operator error; I probably calculated the time difference between my mail client and myself incorrectly.)

Petit Morts Countdown...#10

Tomorrow's the big day! Release day! Yay!

Summary
Dying with dignity. Passing on one’s own terms. Approaching the end in a caring, nurturing atmosphere. There are plenty of reasons people check in to Hospice House…but Eddie Flynn’s just there for the morphine.

Eddie’s lung capacity is down to 15%, he’s in continual pain, and he’s constantly burning up with fever from the infection he just can’t shake. Given his physical condition, he’s baffled to find himself fawning over the hot guy stocking the vending machines.

Eddie figures it’s futile to even flirt with someone, considering how little time he’s got left. But there’s something about the guy with the name “Chance” embroidered on his coveralls that he just can’t stop thinking about—not only for Chance’s naughty smile and bedroom eyes.

It seems Eddie’s somehow ended up with Chance’s pen.

Excerpt

His shop was gone, too. No subtlety whatsoever. There one minute, gone the next. The Fates must have been in quite a hurry. The thought of them scrambling, breathless and frantic, to fling everything into place for his next task—that notion pleased him. He smiled to himself.

The hall in which he now stood was plain. A hint of disinfectant that was supposed to smell like something pleasant, but didn’t, lingered. A bank of vending machines spanned the wall. On the corner of the plexi that covered the front of the nearest machine, a gold sticker read:

Sweets to the Sweet Vending Co.
Comments? Complaints?
Call 1-888-CHOKLAT

Cute.

Chance supposed it explained the hand truck stacked with boxes in front of him, and the butch work clothes—black, of course, with his name embroidered in red over the place his heart would have been. English, like the sticker. American, to be precise, judging by the toll-free number. He ran a hand through his hair. It was long enough in front to tuck behind his ear, short in back. Then he peered down at his shoes: steel-toed work boots. Terribly butch, indeed.

While the hall was empty, for the moment at least, the sounds of humanity were close. Voices, a television, a phone ringing. Chance opened his senses. The place felt good. It felt right.

Which was more than he could say for most places.

He tore open the top box, and the smell of cheap, commercial chocolate momentarily blocked the scent of chlorine and phenols. As he stared into the box, a couple rounded the corner—no one he needed to concern himself with. They stepped around him like he was invisible, and fed some quarters into a nearby vending machine. The machine whirred and clunked, a cup dropped into place, then syrup mixed with hot water and sprayed into the cup. Chance saw the workings of it as it went through its motions. It made him miss his espresso machine, all steam and bombast.

Ridiculous. He unlocked the machine directly in front of him and began stocking the plastic-wrapped cupcakes with sure, economical movements, and he told himself that sentimental nonsense about the espresso machine was unacceptable. He was perfectly at ease here in this—what was it, a clinic? A hospital? He didn’t miss the shop.

“It’s nice here,” the woman said to the man as he waited for the spout to stop dripping. Accent? Midwest. Ohio, maybe. Michigan. The flat, nasal A and hard R danced at the edge of Chance’s tongue, should he need to speak. “Homey,” the woman went on. “And the staff is so nice.” The man nodded. If he answered her, Chance saw, he would cry. Once his cup was ready, they stepped around Chance again, blowing on their coffees, and disappeared around a corner.

The gluttony, the dirty, secret pleasure, the want, the need. Missing those things from the shop was understandable. Wherever he was now, though…it reminded him of other things he missed, too. The weight of human mortality settling around his shoulders was comforting, like the embrace of an old lover whose leaving would always be a mystery. He’d enjoyed his old vocation. He’d been good at it. And yet….

He squeezed a pair of plastic-wrapped cupcakes packaged side by side on a cardboard strip. They sprang back into shape the moment he released the pressure.

One didn’t want to become stale.

It had been a long time. He’d come a long way. Farther than he would have ever thought possible. So many people, so many pleading faces, all of them yearning for one simple thing. Love.

The tempered glass had gone opaque. Frost rimed the interior of the vending machine, sparkling on the crimped edges of the plastic packaging. Chance wondered how long he’d been lost in his thoughts. If anyone had come or gone while he’d been wandering down memory lane, he hadn’t noticed them, nor they him.

They weren’t The One.

Since the cases were refrigerated, it took quite a while for the glass on the first machine to clear. Traffic in the hallway was not exactly bustling. Chance began to work more slowly. With his shop, it was at least more obvious what he was supposed to do—tend the counter. If The One didn’t show up, eventually Chance would lock the door and make candy. The next day, he’d do it again. Sometimes The One showed up within a day, or a week—then again, it might take months. But surely it would only take so long to re-stock the vending machines. And then what?

• • •
Blip. Blip. Blip. Blip. Blip. Beeeeee….

Eddie glanced at his heart monitor. Funny, he didn’t feel dead. He’d always imagined halos and wings and a chorus of harps. Or maybe a long tunnel with a light at the end.

A couple of months ago, once the laundry lists of diagnoses had begun, he’d tried to shape his vision of the great hereafter into something a bit more exciting. Men with washboard abs, tanned skin glistening under the sun as they mopped their brows with the T-shirts they’d just peeled off. Doing some sort of non-specific construction work, he supposed, although why they would need hot, gay builders when St. Peter could just wave his hand and make it so, Eddie hadn’t quite worked out.

…eeeeeeeee...

If there even was a heaven. Eddie wasn’t exactly sure, because his boon pal Leah always said he was made of “source,” and that he and everyone else were all “source” having experiences, and when his experience was over, he would be re-absorbed into the energy that was everyone, and everything. Conceptually, it intrigued him, but the thought that Eddie Flynn’s thirty-eight years of life on the planet would add up to the same shapeless, formless energy as everyone else’s—including the bacteria who died their quiet deaths every time the cleaning crew hit them with Lysol—made him feel melancholy, and preemptively disappointed.

…eeeeeeeee...

A face poked around Eddie’s doorjamb. Travaughn, his day nurse. Travaughn looked more like a gang-banger than a nurse. Whenever his sleeves rode up, Eddie couldn’t help but ogle the do-it-yourself ink, indigo against brown skin, and wonder what all the blotches and symbols were supposed to mean. Probably nothing good, given that Travaughn had ended up with the spooked look of someone who’d seen more death than even a hospice nurse was supposed to.

…eeeeeeeee...

“Sorry, man. We had a power surge. Knocks everything all crazy.” Travaughn leaned across Eddie’s bed railing and turned off the monitor.

…eep.

Eddie took the clip off his forefinger and set it on the tray beside his untouched tapioca pudding. He felt too hot to do dairy. Especially tapioca. He’d never been clear on what that stuff actually was.

“You been up for your walk today?”

Eddie would have sighed, except that it hurt to sigh.

Travaughn looked him over. “You makin’ that face that say no.”

Eddie almost did sigh. And then he almost coughed—and coughing was the worst, because even though the doctors said the shunt in his right lung was nowhere near any nerves he should be able to feel, he swore that when he coughed, he could feel it stabbing him, tearing his lungs up from the inside. “Can’t I just lie here and listen to the chorus of a half-dozen heart monitors malfunctioning?”

“You could…but you’d feel better if you get yo’ ass outta that bed and walk.”

Eddie loved Travaughn. He wouldn’t say as much—undoubtedly it would just be awkward. Travaughn: straight, black, alive…Eddie: gay, white, and barely.

Travaughn said, “I’ll come get you once I let everyone know what’s happening.”

Eddie pushed down his bed rail and swung his feet over the side of the mattress. His slippers felt cool, for a moment. And then, like everything else his fevered body touched, they warmed. “No, s’okay. I’m good to walk.”

Pop would hit the spot. Either he could drink the thing—no need to worry about the dangers of high fructose corn syrup anymore—or he could roll the can around on his body, at least until it grew as warm as everything else he touched.

Travaughn pulled the I.V. stand around so Eddie could use it to steady himself, and when it seemed that all systems were go, left to help the other patients discover that they were not yet dead, either.

Walking. Such a pain in the ass. Yes, he knew he would feel better afterward—even though it was looking like the COPD or one of its many complications would finish him before bedsores set in. But walking meant breathing, and breathing meant that little fucking shunt tearing him up from the inside out.

Minor commotion in one of the rooms. Evidently they’d taken the heart monitor’s word over the evidence of their own two eyes. Maybe. Or maybe someone had actually died. The first time it had happened, Eddie freaked out—quietly, to himself, without a lot of heavy breathing. But after the second or third, he’d come to terms with the fact that dying was what people came here to do, so being a drama queen about it would get old, fast.

Eddie walked to the end of the hall, turned, and made his way through the double doors that led to the public areas. The sound of the few heart monitors still bleating silenced as the doors swung shut behind him. Lights clacked on overhead, one by one, activated by an energy-saving motion detector, and a gentle fluorescent tube buzz filled the newborn silence. Eddie turned another corner.

Hel-lo.

Too bad his heart monitor wasn’t on, because the guy filling the vending machine looked suspiciously like the last gasps of a dying brain, and the reality check would have been welcome. Because if it was all a wish-fulfillment fantasy, Eddie would have liked to take a big, deep breath. Shout, sigh, wolf-whistle. All of the above.

Pain, however, had made Eddie more cautious, as pain tends to do. He took a careful breath. It hurt.

Too bad. Eddie had been hoping it might be a fantasy. Because then some music would have piped in, the hot vending machine guy would have turned toward him, grinding his hips, and the strip show would begin. Instead, the guy glanced at the ingredients on a candy bar wrapper, shook his head in disgust, and stuffed the candy into the corkscrew-shaped dispenser.

It wasn’t that Eddie thought he could cruise someone in hospice—especially given his 15% lung capacity. More that old habits died hard. And that maybe it was beneficial to check someone out—like walking. He didn’t technically need to do it. But it did feel good.

Suddenly the I.V. was an embarrassment, like maybe he should have hung a few jackets and a hat on it and pretended he just happened to be leaning against a coat tree. But the vending machine guy hadn’t noticed the clack of the wheels against the tile, nor had he acknowledged Eddie’s approach.

Probably for the best. After all, with his arm tubed to the I.V. with a six-inch midline catheter, it wasn’t as if any sort of fantasy, however brief, could come to fruition. He couldn’t act as if he was there visiting a dying friend because he was such a great guy. He couldn’t pretend he was skinny because he liked the way it made his ironic T-shirts hang. And seeing the look on the vending machine guy’s face once he got a load of the I.V. would not likely be something Eddie wanted to dwell on.

Eddie fed his quarters into the pop machine and pressed a button. A series of elaborate clunks sounded. A wisp of frosty air escaped the flap on the bottom. But no can.

Great. Now he’d have to talk to the cute vending guy, I.V. or no I.V. “Excuse me.”

The guy—“Chance,” according to the embroidery on his shirt—turned and locked eyes with Eddie. He didn’t look startled. He didn’t look dismayed. He didn’t look…much of anything. A blank slate. A very pretty blank slate. A blank slate Eddie would have cruised in a heartbeat, if his gaydar bleeping like a heart monitor on the fritz was anything to go by—if not for the damned I.V.

Oh well. He’d settle for a can of pop.“The machine ate my quarters.”

Chance considered Eddie’s statement with profound gravity, and then he swiveled his gaze onto the offending soda machine as if he expected an explanation from it. His brow furrowed—great eyebrows, wickedly peaked—and then he pulled a slip of paper and pen from his pocket as if he’d only just realized they were there. “Here you are. Fill this out, and the company will send you a refund in four to six weeks.”

Eddie couldn’t help it. He laughed—and dear God, how it hurt. He held his breath, pressed his eyes shut against the pain, and sagged against the side of the machine. “Are you kidding me? I don’t even have four to six days.”

Chance cocked his head and looked at Eddie again, a soul-deep look that made the hairs on Eddie’s forearms stand at attention. “Funny, how that works.”

“Funny weird. Not funny ha-ha.”

“No. Not really.”

“All I want is a Pepsi.”

Chance narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Don’t tell anyone I told you, but if you pull that ring on top, you can get to the fizzy sweet stuff inside and drink it.”

Undaunted, Chance eased forward. Eddie stared. If it weren’t for the I.V. propping him up, he would have sworn he was getting cruised in return. “What I meant,” Chance said, “before you bowled me over with your oh-so-rakish wit, was that I wonder why a Pepsi is all you want?”

“Color me a realist. I find it more useful to want things I have some chance of getting.” Eddie’s gaze dropped to the open vee at the neck of Chance’s work shirt. Tendons played under the ivory skin of his throat. He looked profoundly smooth. Eddie wanted to lick him, right there where his top button was open, and feel the sublime smoothness beneath his tongue. He wanted it much more than he wanted a soda. But he was indeed a realist. “Can’t you just open up the machine and nudge the can the rest of the way down?”

Chance pushed the pen and paper, both cool to the touch, into Eddie’s hand. He turned toward the soda machine and gave it a long, critical once-over, then whacked it on the side. It shuddered and groaned. A Pepsi dropped from the chute. Vapor rose from the aluminum as Chance held it out to Eddie, and white frost spread from the bottom of the can halfway to the rim.

The frost inside the machine must have stopped up the works. But Chance didn’t seem keen to investigate.

When Eddie reached for the can, Chance pulled it back and smiled a teasing smile. “Be careful what you wish for. Isn’t that what they always say?” Eddie looked deep into Chance’s eyes, though he couldn’t say for sure exactly what color they might be. “And yet…I’m not so sure I agree. Why is it such a crime to get what you want?”

The can was so cold it hurt Eddie’s fingers to touch it when Chance finally held it still enough for him to take it. He wanted the pop, yes. But more than that, he wanted to lean in farther and close that distance to Chance’s lips; he wanted to do so even more sharply than he wanted to take a long, deep, pain-free breath. And he’d been wanting to breathe for months. As Eddie hovered on the cusp of initiating the kiss, he agonized about how, and what if, and why even bother when it wasn’t as if it could lead to anything…and the pause stretched just a moment too long.

Inside that pause, Chance backed away. He smiled his goodbye, kicked his hand truck back on its wheels, and carted his stack of half-empty cardboard boxes down the hall.

Eddie watched the spot where Chance turned a corner and walked out of sight. He shook his head. The sexy vending machine guy would have kissed him, he realized. A pit of hurt blossomed in his chest that felt something like the shunt in his right lung, but filled more deeply with regret.

Petit Morts Countdown...#9

Josh crammed this over-the-top novelette full of the most wonderfully overused horror movie tropes, to my giddy delight! Petit Morts batch #2 will go on sale Friday, just in time for Halloween!

Summary
If there’s one thing film critic Crispin Colley can say about his ex-boyfriend Rey, it’s that Rey likes to remain friends with all his former lovers. Rey’s a friendly guy. Maybe too friendly, judging by the incident that drove the first and last nail in the coffin of their relationship.

But now Rey’s been hired for a DVD commentary on a classic horror flick. In typical Rey-fashion, he’s used his clout as a lauded director to win Cris a spot on the commentary right beside the star of the film, his idol, Angelo Faust.

The recording of the commentary goes about as smoothly as a half-decayed film through a stuttering projector…but that’s nothing compared to the strange scene that unfolds once the tape’s done rolling.

Excerpt

The minute he saw Rey’s car, Cris knew he’d made a mistake.

That 1964 fire-engine red Mustang convertible symbolized everything that had gone wrong between them six months ago. That was not the car of a guy who planned on settling down anytime soon. That was the car of a player. A player in every sense of the word.

Hey, nothing wrong with that. Unless you were trying to build some kind of relationship—life—with the player in question. In which case, if you had any brains at all, you’d pay attention to the signs, which happened to be about as obvious as bad news in a goat’s entrails.

Well, it was too late now.

Cris slammed his own car door shut and walked briskly up the flagstone walk to the house. The landscaping consisted strictly of grass, dark green hedges, and tall Tuscan-style cypress trees. But there all resemblance to sunny Tuscany ended. There were no flowers, no fountains, no color or life at all. It reminded him a bit of Forest Lawn. The estate itself was nearly large enough for a cemetery. Twenty-nine acres set in the hills above Sunset Boulevard.

Cris spared a grim smile for the hunched stone gargoyle peering around the dormer window three stories above. From the outside at least, the house looked exactly as you’d expect Angelo Faust’s home to look: creepy.

But creepy in a severe and stately way.

The wind, one of those legendary Santa Anas that periodically scoured the Southland in the late summer and early fall, whispered through the maze of hedges. Unease rippled down his spine. He hated the wind. Would always hate the wind.

The mansion entrance consisted of forbidding wrought iron scroll double doors. Cris touched the doorbell and jumped at the sepulchral moaning sounds that bounced off the portico. That got a quiet laugh out of him at both his own reaction and the sense of humor behind the trick doorbell. The Whiterock Estate would have been a huge hit with the neighborhood kids. If there had been any kids—or neighborhood—in walking distance.

The doors swung open soundlessly. A very tall, very bony man in black trousers and black turtleneck studied Cris for a few unimpressed seconds.

“Hi. I’m Crispin Colley. I have an ap—”

“Oh, yes.” The tone was more like Oh, no. “Mr. Faust and the other gentleman are in the screaming room.”

Was this human fossil Faust’s PA? Butler? A misplaced zombie from one of Faust’s later films?

“Screaming room?” Cris let the inflection that suggested gentleman was doubtful, pass.

The fossil raised a single disapproving eyebrow. “Screening room.”

Cris had excellent hearing, sharpened through years of listening closely to fuzzy, terrible old movie soundtracks. He began to be amused.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it at you. I am Neat.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Neat didn’t crack a smile. “This way, Mr. Colley.”

Cris followed Neat down the vast center hall. Three tall archways adorned by carved woodwork and decorative moldings offered a glimpse of a grand staircase and two corridors leading east and west.

Baguès crystal chandelier, wrought iron wall sconces, a marble bust of Louis XIV, a large marble-topped table, silver candlesticks, cloisonné boxes, and marble benches…it was nice to see that Faust had fared better financially than some of his contemporaries.

Neat, sounding like a bored tour guide, said, “To the west is Fhillips’ Grand Ballroom, the Garden Retreat, Gentleman’s Study and Salon d’Art. The east corridor leads to the Library, Drawing Room, Morning Room, Solarium and the Salon de Thé.”

“Impressive.”

“Possibly.”

Cris bit back a smile, but his amusement faded as he realized he was going to have to face Rey in a minute or so. It was irritating to realize how nervous he was. He’d known when he accepted the offer from Dark Corner Studios that Rey was the other commentator on the voiceover of the legendary The Alabaster Corpse. The film’s director, Paolo Luchino, was long since dead, so Rey would be offering his insights along with Faust, who had starred in the film. Cris wasn’t sure why the studio thought they needed a third opinion, but he wasn’t about to turn down the project. If it wasn’t a problem for Rey, it sure as hell shouldn’t be a problem for Cris.

“The theater is this way.” Neat turned off another hallway, this one lined with framed posters of Faust’s most famous releases, starting with 1956’s The Island of Night.

There was no poster for The Alabaster Corpse, but then it wasn’t one of Faust’s major works. It was a cult favorite, having caught the critical attention of film historians and reviewers in recent years.

Cris knew all Faust’s films. He’d seen them all many times growing up, and he’d watched them all again before he’d written Man in the Shadows, the one and only filmography of Faust’s work. The filmography Faust had declined to authorize or even be interviewed for. In fact, given how steadfastly Faust had refused to contribute to the filmography, Cris had been more than a little surprised to be invited to take part in the project. Surprised but thrilled. Dark Corner was repackaging and releasing Faust’s early films in a sumptuous five disc collection. The studio must have backed Rey’s choice, which underscored just how much clout Rey had these days.

Rey, on the other hand, was an obvious choice for the project. The critics—with the exception of Cris—were hailing him as the new Wes Craven. There was even a rumor that Rey might be luring Faust back to the big screen.

Good for Rey, if it was true. Cris didn’t grudge him his—well, maybe he did a little. Better not to go there.

Speaking of going places, they had apparently reached their destination.

An open door led into a home theater papered in old-fashioned red and gold stripes and complete with slanted floor. Thirteen plush theater seats were arranged in a half moon. Crimson draperies hid the screen.

“Mr. Colic,” Neat announced.

“Colley,” Cris corrected automatically. Though he was looking straight at the elderly man who rose and came to greet him, his focus was on the room’s other occupant.

Rey.

Cris’s heart sped up just as though he’d received a bad shock, just as though he hadn’t known the whole time that he was going to see Rey again. He was not looking at him, not even watching him out of the corner of his eye, really, and yet he was painfully conscious of Rey’s motionless figure. Cris suspected that even if he closed his eyes and turned around three times he’d be able to pinpoint Rey’s exact location in any room. Reydar.

He forced himself to concentrate on the man before him. There had been a time when the opportunity of meeting Angelo Faust would have wiped out all other considerations. That needed to be true again if he was going to get through this afternoon.

Even at seventy-something (assuming the age on his official bio was close to being correct) Faust was unnervingly handsome, almost angelically so. The surprise was that he was so much smaller than he looked on the screen. Of course, people did shrink with age, but Faust couldn’t have been much over five eight even in his youth. He was about five six now. His hair was still—well, no, that was a wig, actually—was thick and black and curly as it had been in his youth. His eyes, those wonderful expressive light eyes, were still bright, still so blue they made you blink.

“So you’re Crispin Colley.” Faust didn’t offer his hand or a smile. He scrutinized Cris with those amazing eyes, and his expression suggested skepticism.

“It’s an honor, Mr. Faust,” Cris said, and he meant it. To finally meet Faust…all his intentions of playing it cool, keeping a little professional distance, went flying right out the window. He offered his own hand. “I’ve been a fan since I was…gosh. Forever.”

Oh God. He was gushing. But maybe it wasn’t a bad thing because Faust unbent slightly and shook hands, albeit briefly.

“Christ, you’re young.”

He wasn’t really. He was thirty-three, but thanks to genetics and a very fast metabolism Cris looked younger. Sometimes it was an asset. Sometimes it was a pain in the ass. Not as much of a PIA as it had been in his twenties.

He opened his mouth to make some disclaimer, but Faust waved it aside. “No, no. I merely expected…someone different.”

Who? Cris managed not to ask the question. He probably didn’t want to hear the answer.

Faust turned away. “I think you know Mr. Starr.”

“Rey,” Cris said automatically.

Not for the first time, Cris wondered what it was about Rey. He was good-looking, but not in a Hollywood way, not in a stop-you-in-your-tracks way. He was a little over medium height, square-shouldered and compact. His face was strong and sensual. His eyes were a very light hazel, his hair dark. His hair was longer, but other than that he looked disconcertingly unchanged. What had Cris hoped to see? Shadows and pallor? Some sign that Rey had suffered a little over their breakup? Suffered as Cris had?

“Cris.” Rey was holding out his hand. It seemed a little formal, a little weird to be shaking hands with someone you’d once—but really he didn’t want to start thinking like that. Did not want those images in his mind any more than he wanted to slo-mo through Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Cris pressed his palm to Rey’s, tightened his fingers. The mechanics of a handshake. The last time he’d touched Rey it was to take a swing at him. The swing had not connected. Rey had grabbed him and then let him go, and they had never spoken directly—let alone touched each other—again.

It was strange to hold hands, to feel that warm, strong grip, even for a few fleeting seconds. Strange, the memories that seemed to be waiting in the wings to rush the stage of this moment.

It was Cris who let go. Cris who stepped back.

“How do you like the setup?”

“What?” A second later it dawned on Cris what—duh—Rey meant. “Nice. Very nice. It will be great to see this on 35mm at last.”

Rey turned to Angelo, though he was still addressing Cris too. “Okay, just to run over the basics. The plan is to record this as a feature-length, screen-specific commentary in one session this afternoon. The studio is hoping for an extempore but informative audio track. They’ve been slammed for the commentary on some of the other releases in the Tales from the Vault series, so they’re hoping to recoup a little credibility here.”

“Once again looking to me to bail them out,” Faust said.

Rey didn’t even blink. “Angelo, you’re doing anecdotal stuff and reminiscences. Cris, you’re doing the film background, significance to the genre, et cetera, and I’m talking about the film from a technical aspect. Is that pretty much what everyone expected?”

Cris nodded.

Angelo said, “No drinking games?”

Rey laughed. “Maybe later in the film.”

Angelo winked at Cris. Cris smiled back with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Everyone liked Rey. He was easy to get along with. Sincerely charming. He liked people and they liked him. The fact that he was a two-timing, cheating adulterer was beside the point. It really was, because other than the fact that Rey couldn’t keep his pants zipped, he was a great guy—and a very good director. Including Crispin in this project had been typical of him. He liked to stay friends with his ex-lovers. Hell, when it was possible he liked to stay friends with people he’d fired from sets. He was a nice guy. A nice but tough guy. That was the word in Hollywood.

They weren’t in Hollywood now, though.

“We have two options. We can watch the film first, make notes, and then record our commentary on the second viewing. Or we can just view it cold and say whatever pops into our heads.”

“I haven’t seen this film in over thirty years.”

“It’s a great film,” Cris couldn’t help saying, and that time Angelo actually beamed at him. Yes, it looked like the ice was breaking. Too late for Cris’s book, but it would make for a better audio commentary.

“Personally, I think it’d be great to get your first reactions on seeing this film again after all that time.” Rey turned to smile at Cris. “And knowing Cris, he’s already viewed the film a couple of times and made his notes on it.”

Given the fact that Rey was smiling, and that making digs wasn’t his style, he probably didn’t mean that in a derogatory way, but Cris was nettled all the same. It just underlined the difference in their styles. Cris liked to do his homework and Rey liked to wing it. Or, in other words, Cris was staid and uptight and boring and Rey was creative and innovative and exciting. No news there.

“If it’ll float your boat,” Angelo said breezily.

Cris recognized that too-grave expression on Rey’s face and his own mouth twitched in an automatic, quickly repressed, grin.

“Anybody have any other questions?”

Cris shook his head.

“Then let the curtain rise.”

They took their seats in the front row behind three mic stands. Rey sat down next to Cris and began to explain how to use the high-powered mics. Angelo sat on the other side of Rey.

It was too cozy with all of them lined up in the front row; Cris would have preferred they spread out a little, but it would have entailed repositioning the mics and in any case, would have surely looked ridiculous. Why weren’t they doing this in an editing bay at the studio? Not that he seriously objected to getting to visit Angelo in his lair.

Angelo pressed a button on the remote control. The overhead lights dimmed.

He pointed the remote and the crimson velvet curtains slid slowly open to reveal a 130-inch screen.

Rey settled back and stretched his long legs out. His arm brushed Cris’s on the rest. He asked quietly, “You have enough room?”

Cris moved his arm away. “Yep. I’m good.”

Rey smiled at him.

Don’t. Just don’t. Cris smiled politely back and stared straight ahead.

 Angelo pressed the remote again.

Anticipation of the movie relieved some of Cris’s uncomfortable awareness of his proximity to Rey. Whether he liked it or not, it did feel very natural sitting here like this. They had watched a lot of films together.

Angelo pointed the remote again.

The screen before them stayed gray and blank.

Angelo swore and pointed the remote behind him at the light in the small projection room behind them.

Still nothing.

Rey began, “Is there something I can do?”

“No.” Angelo hit intercom in the center console. “Neat!”

Silence.

“What the hell is he doing?”

A rhetorical question if there ever was one.

“Why don’t I take a look?” Rey began. “I have a lot of experience with everything from projectors to—”

“No. No. Absolutely not.” Angelo punched the intercom button again. “Neat!”

With an exclamation of impatience, he rose and left the theater.

“Run, Neat,” Rey murmured as Angelo disappeared down the hall.

Cris acknowledged with a little huff of amusement.

A couple seconds passed. It was so quiet he could hear Rey’s wristwatch. How weird was it to sit here side by side alone in the dark? But to get up would be obvious. Cris forced himself to relax his limbs, to at least offer the illusion that he was at ease and perfectly comfortable—and wasn’t jumping every time his arm brushed Rey’s.

It wasn’t easy.

And it didn’t help that he was trying to present this picture of ease to the person who knew him better than anyone else in the world.

“How’ve you been?” Rey’s voice sounded abrupt.

“Fine. You?”

Rey nodded. He turned his face and Cris caught the gleam of his eyes. “You look good.” The glimmer of his smile was rueful, flattering. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” Grudgingly, Cris added, “Congratulations on the Saturn Award nomination.”

“Thanks.” Rey rubbed the edge of his thumb against the tip of his nose. One of his little mannerisms when he was bored or nervous.

He clearly wasn’t nervous, so…good. Polite chitchat out of the way. Cris slid lower on his spine and stared up at the in-ceiling speaker system.

“I heard you’re working on a book about Hammer Film Productions.”

“Just Hammer Horror. The gothic films.”

“You’ll be going to England for research, I guess?”

Cris nodded.

“When? I’m going over in October for the British Horror Film Festival.”

“I haven’t decided.” Cris continued to study the shadowy ceiling with its decorative moldings and seven mounted speakers.

Hopefully Rey would get the message. It probably wasn’t very sophisticated of him, but Cris didn’t want to be a good sport about their breakup. He appreciated being included in this project, but he didn’t want to be friends with Rey. He didn’t want to let bygones be bygones. Rey had broken his heart and maybe that was a cliché, but it still hurt like hell. He still wasn’t over it. He was still angry—although that probably wasn’t rational. Like being mad at a cat for chasing mice.

They could work together. Cris was a professional after all. A grownup. But they weren’t going to be pals. He wasn’t going to be another Teddy or Evan or Mark or Phil.

He couldn’t handle it. He wasn’t built that way.

The speakers suddenly crackled and ominous organ music poured from the sound system overhead. Both Cris and Rey jumped—and then laughed sheepishly.

A hooded figure flickered on the screen, time code numbers burned in at the bottom of each frame. The figure began pouring potions from jeweled flasks. The camera panned slowly to skulls littered on the floor of a tomb. The hooded figure hurried past and spared a kick for one of the skulls.

Cris had always loved that shot. It was so outrageous. Especially for 1963.

Rey reached the remote control as the credits flashed up. He pressed and the screen froze on the image of the hollow-eyed flying skull.

Angelo returned. He was a little out of breath but impressively spry for a man of his age. He took his seat. “What did I miss?”

“We’re fine. We can re-sync the audio. I just want everyone to remember that the mics are hot. So if you don’t want it potentially on the audio track, keep it to yourself.”

“Got it,” Cris said.

Angelo waved a lazy hand.

Rey pressed the remote. The credits began to roll, the jagged graphics looking like the black and white embodiment of a migraine.

Petit Morts Countdown...#8

Welcome, welcome Sean Kennedy to the Petit Morts team! Sean brings his delightfully wacked-out sense of humor to the project! These stories will go on sale Friday.
Summary When he hung his brand new psychology degree on the wall, Jason Harvey had imagined working at one of the many hospitals or clinics in Melbourne. The want ads, however, hadn’t cooperated. Now Jason finds himself facing the newly bereaved across the counselor’s desk of the Newlin Funeral Parlour.

Certainly all people deserve sympathy and patience in their time of loss, but Jason’s current client has him at wit’s end. What’s worse, the deceased has included a bizarre request in her final wishes: that her passing be commemorated…with chocolate.

Things start looking up for Jason when amicable young Fred takes over the funeral coordination duties from his sour aunt, but despite their best efforts to honor the departed in the manner she’s requested, they find the memorial service sliding inexorably out of control….
Excerpt

 

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

Adele Conway was a strange fish. Most people would have asked Are you okay? but she was too formal for that. She sat rigidly on the chair with a perfectly ironed handkerchief held in one hand. One perfectly ironed, perfectly dry handkerchief. Jason had seen many people sitting across from him in what passed as his poor excuse of an office, and none of them were this composed. Usually he was exposed to raw emotional displays every day, but Adele was sizing him up instead, and obviously waiting for him to say something.

“Please continue, Ms. Conway,” Jason managed to choke out. His face was burning from trying to suppress the cough. He wondered how red he looked.

“Miss,” she corrected him. “I never married.”

She didn’t look old enough to be from that generation that cared about such precise gender pronouns, as if using Ms was the equivalent of burning your boyfriend’s draft card along with your bra, but Jason decided not to fight it.  “Miss Conway, sorry.”

“We were talking about Mother’s chocolates.”

“Of course.” And that was weird as well. Mother. Not Mum. Or Ma. Or anything that could be seen as even remotely affectionate. But Adele was no different from any of the other Conways; at least those that Jason had met so far. It was a strange mix of disdain and reserve that seemed to hold them upright. “You want some kind of display?”

“I’m not certain I would say I want it particularly,” Adele said. “But appearances must be maintained. And people always seem to appreciate spectacle. I’m sure that’s probably why she had it written into the will, as just one more thing to have people running around doing for her!”

Jason wasn’t exactly sure what she meant, but he nodded, hoping he had his suitably concerned mask on. Adele was the kind of person who seemed to want you to know exactly how busy she was, how much of her time she spent on other people, and how she never got any thanks for it in the end.

Adele gave a hearty sniff, and wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief. Jason couldn’t help but notice yet again that the eyes and the handkerchief remained entirely dry. Yet he couldn’t silently accuse her of crocodile tears; it just didn’t seem to be her way. He had been waiting throughout their whole appointment for the dam to break, but there must have been some hardy beavers keeping watch over it in her brain. “Mother always liked her chocolates.”

“Don’t we all?” was what he said, and immediately regretted it. It was so easy to overstep the mark with some clients, even with the lightest tone. Most of them wanted you to be as sombre as they were in their darkest moment, and that was what Jason often had trouble with. In fact, he had had trouble with it ever since he started with the Newlin Funeral Parlour.

And Adele Conway was one of those clients. She straightened up, if it was even possible for her to get any straighter, and looked down at her dry handkerchief. Sighing, she closed it away in her handbag, obviously deciding it was going to remain that way and its presence was therefore useless.

“Of course, what I meant to say—”

She waved him off. “May I be blunt with you, Mr. Harvey?”

Jason had been Mr. Harvey to her from the very first moment they had met, even though he had stressed he would prefer to be called by his first name. That had been ignored immediately. “Go ahead.”

“The Conways are not known for their...I guess it would be...emotional displays?”

Jason nodded, even though he had to bite his tongue rather viciously.

“Frankly, when they said it was part of the service here at Newlin’s to deal with a counsellor when making the arrangements for my mother’s funeral, I almost decided to go elsewhere. If I wanted to see a therapist, I would most certainly pay for one who possessed comfortable furniture and didn’t look as if he just graduated from high school.”

Feeling as if he was withering beneath her steady, unflinching gaze, Jason didn’t even really feel like he could argue the point—after all, didn’t he think exactly the same thing himself? He felt like a fraud every time he met with a grieving family member. This hadn’t turned out to be exactly the job he envisioned when he stepped off the stage at graduation with his psychology degree in hand. Jobs were hard to get at a clinic in Melbourne at that point of time, so the advert in the paper calling for a combined counsellor/funeral arrangement assistant had seemed pretty grim, and he’d been sure that the competition wouldn’t be that fierce given the work involved. After all, who really wanted to work in a funeral parlour? It wasn't exactly every kid's dream job. At the very least it would be good enough to tide him over until he decided what it was he actually wanted to do with his life, and then figured out exactly how he was going to achieve it.

Hell, he had even gotten used to the bodies, once he started seeing them as bizarrely life-like wax dummies that smelled a bit too much of cleaning chemicals.

“I may look young—”

“You look fifteen. I don’t know what on earth they’re thinking putting a child in such a position—”

A child? “Ms. Conway—”

“Miss!”

“Miss Conway, I assure you my age has nothing to do with my ability to plan your mother’s wedding—”

“Funeral!” she barked.

Jason could feel his face burning again. “That’s what I meant.” He wished the recent sinkhole in Guatemala had a cousin that would open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole. “Anyway, this is my job, Miss Conway, and I aim to do it satisfactorily—”

Her eyes were lasers that could have destroyed planets.

“Beyond satisfactorily. I will do an exemplary job with your mother’s wed—funeral. I promise you that. Now, let’s get back to the chocolates.” Oh, please, God, or whatever god may be out there listening to me, let’s get back to the chocolates!

Adele sighed again. “Chocolate. Mother loved it. And even though she wasn't prone to emotional displays in life, she specified in her will that she would like us to have some at the service to share around. Personally, I think it's a bit bizarre, and I'm not sure if everyone at the service will even participate. Perhaps those people can just take some home—I suppose with your obsession with weddings you would probably think of them as bonbonniere, Mr. Harvey?”

Jason smiled weakly, and accepted his public flogging. “It’s a nice idea.”

“So you think you’ll be able to arrange this?”

Pick up some chocolates? Yeah, I think I’m capable of that. But Jason would have laid money on the fact that Adele would think he wasn’t. She probably had visions of him turning up at the service with a couple of Freddo Frogs and a carton of Cadbury Favourites.

The thought of chocolate made his stomach start to rumble. He hoped Adele couldn’t hear it; it would be another black mark against him. His lunch break wasn’t that far away, and he was looking forward to getting out of the office. Now he was dreaming of Caramello Koalas, and the crispness of the chocolate shell breaking beneath his teeth and the smooth caramel flowing out onto his tongue.

Not right now, though. He could never eat at work. He knew it was stupid, but the proximity of the bodies always made food seem tainted. Some mornings he could swear he tasted embalming fluid in his coffee.

Thankfully, Adele was now on her feet—she had decided their meeting was at an end.

“I’ll investigate the chocolates,” Jason said, “and present you with some options tomorrow.”

She shook his hand. Her grip was firm and unrelenting. “Until tomorrow.”

Jason resisted locking the door behind her.

• • •

Free for an hour—sixty glorious minutes on his own. Jason took a deep breath as he headed outdoors. Sure, he was sucking in a huge lungful of exhaust fumes from the passing traffic and the smell of burning rubber from the nearby tyre factory, but it still seemed better than the chemical-with-an-undertone-of-rotting-flesh that permeated his workspace. Locating a funeral parlour in the 'industrial' part of Moonee Ponds should have affected business, but as the saying went, people always wanted alcohol, and people always died. Pubs and funeral homes were the only businesses that would never go out of business.

Perhaps he was exaggerating about the smell, as he knew it was more of a psychological force than a physical one, but he was always relieved when he got to escape it.

Jason diced with death to get to the other side of the road, lunch weighing heavily on his mind (but not in his stomach) when he tripped over the metal A-frame sign in the street. He threw out a hand, slamming it against the store window to balance himself. The glass shuddered beneath the force of his touch; for one brief moment he had a vision of it shattering and was already figuring out what the cost of replacing it could be, but it calmed itself like a ripple on the water that spreads outward and is seen no more.

Breathing heavily, embarrassed, and just a tad angry, Jason stared at the sign that had almost caused him to crash through plate glass.

It read Sweets to the Sweet, and before Jason could even guess the obvious, the sweet, rich and familiar aroma of chocolate wafted out of the door.

He was still hanging on to the window when a face loomed out of the darkness on the other side and stared at him. Jason jumped back, his heart racing. His heart raced even harder when he took in the finely chiselled features and dark hair of the man looking at him, but this time for another reason entirely. The guy was hot. The face disappeared, and Jason watched it move towards the door.

No longer obscured by glass, it was even handsomer than it first seemed.

“Are you okay?” the young man asked. He was dressed in a red and black chef’s apron with a nametag pinned to his chest, but Jason couldn’t make it out.

Jason could only gape, though finally he remembered to nod. This was not your run-of-the-mill chocolatier. It wasn’t even Willy Wonka, unless it was Willy Wonka by way of the annual Rugby League nude calendar.

“Thanks for not breaking my window. It would be annoying and time-consuming to have to get it replaced. Not to mention expensive.”

Indignation replaced the fire of attraction in Jason’s belly. “I only almost broke it because I tripped over your shitty sign!”

Unperturbed, the chocolatier looked down at the offending article. “It’s in plain sight. Were you daydreaming?”

Jason continued to sputter, but was unable to form coherent sentences.

“Come inside,” the other man said, although he seemed less than happy about it. “The least I can do is buy you a drink.”

That scent of chocolate hit Jason again, and that made it impossible to refuse despite the clerk’s demeanour. “I guess it’s the least you can do,” he grumbled.

The smell of the shop was even better once he was inside. Jason found himself feeling envious, reminded of the reason why he often fled his own workplace. You would never go home at the end of the day from here thinking that you smelled like death. It just increased his resentment of the spunky chocolatier. In any romantic possibility, who would choose the undertaker over the Adonis with the chocolate shop?

“I’m Chance, by the way,” said the chocolatier over his shoulder as he moved behind the counter and set the fold back down into place.

“Jason,” he replied, his attention now captured by the symmetrical rows of chocolate lined up behind the cool glass beneath the counter.

“Is coffee, tea or chocolate your poison of choice?” Chance asked, busying himself behind a coffee machine, which looked slightly outdated in comparison to the modern trappings throughout the store itself. Before Jason could even answer, Chance frowned as he looked him over and nodded to himself. “Scratch that, I have just the thing. Sit down.”

Jason did so, and just as his butt hit the seat his mobile rang. He groaned when he saw Adele’s name flash up. “Jason Harvey,” he said wearily.

“I’ve been thinking about the service,” Adele said, without any pleasantries. “Quite frankly, I think it would be better if you worked with another member of the family. One who is perhaps more amenable to your suggestions.”

From the way she had started, Jason was expecting to be fired. So it was a surprise to discover Adele was actually firing herself.

“Mr. Harvey, are you there?”

Chance was watching him from across the store. Jason expected him to look away, but his gaze remained fixed upon Jason as he continued frothing milk at the counter. “Yes, I’m here. Have I done something wrong, Miss Conway?”

“We just think it might be easier on everybody if Frederick deals with this.”

“Frederick?”

Chance grinned as he began pouring from a metal jug, using a spoon to keep the froth at bay. Jason wondered if he should take his call outside, but stayed put.

“My nephew. I’ve given him your cell number, and you can expect a call from him presently. Goodbye, Mr. Harvey.”

She disconnected the call before he could even reply. Formal to the end, Miss Adele Conway.

Jason stuck his mobile back in his jacket pocket. Chance was now carrying a glass on an elegant silver tray to his table. He placed the glass before Jason, who took an appreciative sniff and was calmed by the rich chocolate perfume that managed to overpower even the rest of the fragrances within the store.

“Xocolatl,” Chance announced. “Although it’s a bastardised version of the original drink that was consumed in the time of Montezuma. ¡Ese sí era un hombre!”

Jason was about to ask him what he had just said, but Chance didn’t even seem to realise he had lapsed into another language. He opened a small silver box on the tray and sprinkled a pinch of blood-red powder over the top of the beverage. “Chilli flakes,” he continued. “They give it the hit you need. Probably the best kick you can get out of a non-alcoholic drink. You looked like you needed it, especially after that call.”

“Difficult client,” Jason murmured, while wondering how on Earth chilli and chocolate would taste combined.

“I get a few of those,” Chance said.

“Here?” Jason asked, his eyebrow raised.

“My customers often aren’t as sweet as my wares.” Chance lifted the tray and disappeared back behind the counter.

Try working in a funeral home, Jason thought. Your clients are either dead, or you wish they were.

He knew that was harsh. It was just that Adele was getting to him. He took a sip of the Mexican hot chocolate. It was rich and velvety, but tasted just like an exceptionally good cocoa.

Then the chilli hit. He felt it on his lips first, and it spread from there throughout his body, coursing through his veins, warming him from within. If Jason could have looked at himself in a mirror, he would have expected to see his body glow from the diffused heat. A contented sigh escaped him.

“Good?” Chance asked. He had poured himself a cup, and sipped it while standing by the register. Jason thought Chance was undoubtedly experiencing the same burning-lip sensation, but he remained cool and collected. He was obviously used to it; Jason couldn’t even formulate a response, other than a nod.

“Good,” Chance said. “I can tell you’re impressed.”

After his second mouthful, Jason found he could speak again. “I don’t know why this place isn’t filled with customers, if your chocolates are as good as this.”

Chance shrugged. “I haven’t been open that long. Besides, you could say I deal with a specialised clientele.”

Jason had no idea what he meant, and couldn’t press him any further as his mobile rang again. The number was unfamiliar. “Excuse me,” he said to Chance, and hit the screen to answer it. “Hello?”

“Hi,” came a light, breezy voice. “Is this Jason Harvey?”

“Speaking.”

“My aunt Adele gave me your number. I’m Frederick Conway.”

Great. He couldn’t even have a Mexican hot chocolate in peace without a damn Conway spoiling the moment. However, Jason turned on his best dealing-with-Adele tone. “Hello, Mr. Conway.”

“Oh God, don’t. Call me Fred.”

Jason almost replied with Your aunt wouldn’t like that, but he stopped himself in time. This Fred person was a Conway. He would probably report back to Adele, and then Jason would really be in trouble. In fact, the whole of Newlin Funeral Parlour would be fired this time. And good old Grace Conway would never get her arse in the ground. “Uh, okay, Fred. I take it your aunt told you about our...” he faltered for an appropriate word, “...difficulties?”

Fred laughed, so loud that Jason was sure even Chance would be able to hear it. “I’m surprised you lasted so long with the old chook. The only difficulty in that equation would be her.”

It wouldn’t be right for Jason to join in the laughter, so he gave a sort of uneasy chuckle. “Your aunt suggested that she would like some chocolates to be distributed at the service.”

“Yeah, they’re telling each other some sort of fairytale about my grandmother being a chocolate fiend. If she was, she never let any of us grandkids get a glimpse of her secret stash. The only biscuits she ever had on hand were Milk Arrowroots, and she never even let us butter them because we would enjoy them too much.”

Biting at his nail, Jason could only imagine. Something had to make Adele turn out the way she did. And it obviously skipped a generation, at least judging by the limited interaction he had with Fred so far. “Are you available to come in for a meeting after you finish work tomorrow?”

“I’m actually on bereavement leave, so I’m entirely at your disposal.”

He did not sound like Adele at all—where her voice was crisp and officious, his was honeyed and languorous. Maybe he was adopted. “Is ten o’clock too early?”

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

Distracted by Chance moving behind the counter, Jason closed his eyes with pleasure as another wave of chocolate scent washed over him. “About the chocolate, I may already have something in mind.”

“That’ll make it easier, then.”

“Actually, maybe you should meet me there. It’s a shop called Sweets to the Sweet, and it’s just around the corner from the funeral home.”

“I’ll Googlemap it. See you at ten, Jason.”

Jason said his goodbyes, and pocketed his mobile again just as Chance came up to him with a small plate on which a perfectly formed chocolate lay on a square of shiny black paper. “Try this,” he said.

“I couldn’t,” Jason said. “You already gave me a drink, and really, it was my fault with the sign.”

“Just try it.”

Jason did as he was told. The thin shell of chocolate broke easily upon his tongue, and rich cherry and coconut spilled across each and every tastebud. He moaned, unable to stop himself. He had often heard people joke that chocolate was better than sex, and truth be told it had been some time since Jason had gotten laid—but right now, he could believe it. He would pass up an offer of sex for a box of these gastronomic orgasms.

“So good,” he said, pretty sure that Chance could only make out half of it as it was so muffled.

But Chance seemed pretty pleased with himself. “I know they’re good. And it seems your new client sounds much easier to deal with than Adele.”

It was only as he was walking back to the funeral home, that Jason remembered Chance had called Adele by her name. And Jason was sure that he had never once said it in his presence.

But he must have, surely. There could be no other explanation. Jason shrugged it off, and had forgotten about it by the time he sat back down at his desk.

Roadside find: The Remains of the Lottie Cooper, Sheboygan WI

Last week I took a field trip to Sheboygan, which is about a three hour drive. Lots of people do a lot of driving in October around here to see the "Fall color," and it was a bit late for that, but it was still a balmy day for October, and they had a kick-ass new exhibit up at the Kohler Center.



After I saw art, I bummed around by the water and had lunch on the pier. I also checked out the downtown and poked around in their massive library. They have jigsaw puzzles you can take home on the honor system--how fun! A great big stack of them. I love the old buildings downtown. It's very affordable to live there, and I could totally see myself in a brick loft like the one above (you know, just like Vic and Jacob but without the annoyance of home ownership). Maybe someday...

I was telling Pete, "Let's go back to that park and check out the fake shipwreck," and he said, "I don't think it's fake." Good thing I didn't bet money on that! In the spirit of the Boeing by the side of the road, I found myself exploring a shipwreck by the side of the road. It was a lot older than the Boeing, but no money box that I could see.

Thankfully, there was a sign so I could know what I was looking at! "The Lottie Cooper capsized off Sheboygan during a fierce gale, on April 9, 1894. Much of her original structure was salvaged September 1, 1992 during construction of the Carbor Centre Marina. The 89-foot long center section on display here is believed to be the largest section of a Great Lakes schooner on public exhibit.

"The Lottie Cooper was built by the Rand and Burger Shipyard, of Manitowoc, WI in 1876, and was named for the daughter of one of the original owners. The vessel was 131 feet long, 27 feet wide, 9 feet in depth of hold, and measured 20 gross tons. She represents an historic period when thousands of commercial wooden sail and steam vessels worked the dangerous waters of the Great Lakes."

Do non-Great Lakes denizens in general have a sense of the size of the lakes? Their area is about half that of the Baltic Sea and they contain 20% of the Earth's surface fresh water. I grew up on Lake Erie. Chicago, Milwaukee and Sheboyban are all on Lake Michigan.



 Yay, orbs. I love orbs. It was blindingly bright so I took a picture of the light coming through the hole in the wrecked hull just to see how it would turn out.

Here are a couple of textures I shot. I cranked the ISO way down to try to capture some good midtones since it was really bright out and it seemed to do the trick. It's inspired me to dig a bit deeper and learn more about photography. Since I subscribe to Lynda.com, I can take advantage of some of their photography courses...two of which I watched mostly for the lingo and procedures when I was writing Pretty Ugly.

My one great disappointment was that Chance had closed up Sweets to the Sweet already by the time I got there.

Petit Morts Countdown...#7

Seeing what Josh comes up with in this storyverse is something I always look forward to with delicious anticipation!

Summary

When Michael Milner opens a dojo down the street from Ethan's bookstore, Red Bird Books, he makes ripples not only because he's a newcomer in the small desert town of Peabody, but because half his face has been horribly scarred. How? Ethan isn't sure. Michael's not exactly the chatty type, which only adds to his allure.

Michael may not be the most sociable person in Peabody, but he's quick to defuse a tense situation when Ethan finds himself cornered by Karl Hagar, fellow writing group member, and creepy author of even creepier serial killer tales. Ethan's sister Erin is convinced that Karl himself is responsible for the bodies turning up lately in the desert—after all, don't all the advice books say, "Write what you know?"

While Erin's idea seems pretty far-fetched, Ethan does have to wonder why Karl's eerie focus has landed squarely on him.

Excerpt


Not Mike. Not Mikey. Certainly not Micky. 

Michael.

Like the archangel.

Michael Milner of Milner’s Martial Arts. Two doors down from Red Bird Books and Coffee in the self-consciously rustic Viento Square mini mall. He’d been in business six weeks, which was a long time given the economy—and a town the size of Peabody. That was two weeks longer than Paper Crane Stationery had lasted. He wasn’t packing them in like the candy shop, but he seemed to be doing all right. He had students. Mostly skinny boys and girls needing to be kept busy during their summer vacation. 

Michael looked like an archangel too. He was built like a runner or a knight of old. Tall, lean, wide shoulders and ropy muscles. His hair was nearly shoulder length—when he didn’t have it tied back—and of the palest gold. Not that Ethan—who owned the book store half of Red Bird Books and Coffee and hoped to be a published author one day—would have normally used that kind of hyperbole to describe Michael, but blond just didn’t seem to cover that particular shade which somehow brought to mind the gleaming tips of arrows or reverberating harp strings. Michael’s eyes were blue, the blue of a cloudless sky or the color you believe water is when you’re a little kid. His face was beautiful. Really beautiful. Elegant, almost exotic, bone structure—at least on the one side of his face. 

The right half of his face had been destroyed at some point. Smashed and burned, it looked like, though Ethan was no expert—and he tried very hard not to stare. They—whoever they were—had tried to rebuild Michael and they’d saved his eye, but the skin looked like it had been stretched too tight over reconstructed bones. It had a stiff, shiny, inflexible quality. Since Michael was mostly expressionless, it wasn’t as noticeable as it might have been if he’d been the smiley, chatty kind.

Ethan figured he’d had about thirty words out of Michael in the weeks since he’d opened the dojo. Actually it was more like one word thirty times—Thanks when Ethan handed him his change.

It was Chance from next door’s Sweets to the Sweet who had told Ethan that Michael had been Special Ops in Afghanistan. 

“How’d you find that out?” Ethan asked through a mouthful of divinity fudge. Chance was generous with his samples. Maybe that was why Sweets to the Sweet had been a hit practically from the moment the doors opened.

Chance raised a negligent shoulder. He reminded Ethan of a cat. Sleek and graceful and inscrutable. Chance and his boutique chocolates seemed even more out of place in Peabody than Michael Milner’s kajukenbo lessons.

“Do you know what happened to his…?” Ethan put a hand to his own right cheekbone rather than complete the sentence. It was probably in bad taste to ask such a question but it wasn’t possible to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He found Michael fascinating. He wanted to know everything about him. He told himself it was his writer’s imagination wanting fuel for the fire.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Chance had returned too innocently.

Ethan had retreated instantly from the suggestion. Of course he would never ask—who the hell would ask that kind of question? Even if his previous attempts to be friendly to Michael hadn’t fallen flat. Michael was unfailingly polite and unfailingly distant. On the rare occasion that he bothered to make eye contact with Ethan, he seemed to see something slightly off center that made him narrow his gaze.

Ethan swallowed the last heavenly bit of white fudge. How was it that everything in Sweets to the Sweet was so delicious? He half suspected Chance of adding addictive substances. It wouldn’t surprise him. He made Ethan a little uncomfortable sometimes—like now when he was studying Ethan as though he could see right into the secret corners of his mind. The places Ethan himself was afraid to explore too closely. 

“I should get back.” Ethan rubbed his fingers, trying to remove the lingering sugary sweetness. He headed for the door.

“Ethan?”

Ethan glanced back.

Chance smiled that sly smile of his. “He’s not married.”

• • •

“What’s the matter with you?” Erin asked when Ethan returned to the bookstore.

Ethan wiped his forehead. “Nothing.” 

“You look like you have sunstroke.”

It was hot enough for sunstroke. Summers in Peabody were like vacationing in Hell. Minus the scenery.

“It’s just…hot.”

“Understatement. Here try this.” Erin leaned across the counter and handed over a tiny paper cup with chilled pale green liquid.

Ethan took an incautious sip. He was still badly shaken by the encounter with Chance. It wasn’t that he was closeted exactly. Being the only gay man in Peabody—the only gay person as far as he could tell—his sexuality was as irrelevant as if he’d taken a vow of chastity. Erin, his twin sister, was straight and had pretty much the same problem. With a population of 339, there were not many unmarried eligible people of their age in the little desert town.

No, it wasn’t that Chance had correctly identified him as gay. Heck, Ethan had originally wondered if Chance might be gay. It was that Chance had correctly identified Ethan’s interest in Michael. Ethan himself had strenuously avoided recognizing his interest for what it was, but he could no longer avoid the truth. The fact was he…well, he had a thing for Michael.

Had it bad. Bad enough that other people had noticed.

Had Michael noticed?

Ethan nearly choked as the mint green slime slid down his throat. 

“What do you think?” Erin asked. 

Frozen Nyquil? Chilled hemlock? One could never be sure with Erin. Ethan cleared his throat. “Uh….” He took another sip to avoid having to answer. It seemed to be mostly ice, mint with perhaps a hint of coffee. Whatever it was, it wasn’t very good. But then most of Erin’s experiments weren’t. She was a passionate and spectacularly ungifted barista. Luckily for everyone in Peabody—and the financial stability of Red Bird Books and Coffee—she stuck mostly to the premixed recipes. 

“Hmm. I don’t know.”

“What do you think it needs?”

 “Chocolate?”

Erin brightened, looking past Ethan. “Here comes Michael.”

Ethan stiffened. A hasty glance over his shoulder offered a view of Michael pushing through the front door of Red Bird Books and Coffee. As usual, when he spotted Ethan, Michael’s face grew more impassive than ever and he got that squint like Ethan was a foreign particle that had flown into his eye.

 If Chance had so easily recognized Ethan’s attraction to Michael, it was more than probable that so had Michael. No wonder he looked pained every time he spotted Ethan.

Ethan mumbled an inarticulate hello and retreated hastily for the back of the store and the comfort of the stock room.

Michael usually came in twice a day. In the morning he ordered a medium house blend. In the afternoon he ordered a fruit smoothie. Sometimes the mixed berry with acacia and sometimes the citrus cooler with passion fruit. Once a week, usually on Friday, he’d buy a book. Those brief Friday encounters had been the high point of Ethan’s week for the last month and a half.

He lurked in the back for a few minutes waiting miserably for the coast to clear. He could hear Erin’s cheerful voice and a lot less frequently, the dark, blurred tones of Michael, and then Erin called, “Ethan, what are you doing back there? You’ve got a customer.”

 Ethan groaned silently and walked out to the front. 

“Were you working on your book?” Erin teased.

Ethan scowled at her. Erin found the idea that Ethan was seriously trying to write a book endlessly entertaining. She’d told everyone they knew that Ethan was working on A Novel. He could see their customers laboring over some polite question to ask—besides how’s it coming? Except Michael. He had greeted the intelligence of Ethan’s literary aspiration with raised eyebrows and a reminder of no strawberry in his mixed berry smoothie.

Now he stood at the book counter holding a copy of History Man: The Life of R. G. Collingwood. He looked up at Ethan’s approach.

Usually Ethan couldn’t shut up around Michael, chattering away about a lot of stuff Michael obviously didn’t give a shit about. Today he took the hardcover Michael handed him, rang it up quickly.

 “Twelve seventy-three.” He stared determinedly down at the cover photograph of the English countryside.

Michael got out his wallet and selected the bills. A ten and three ones. 

Ethan took the bills, made change, and handed the coins over, trying to avoid physical contact. He was horribly, painfully conscious of how transparent he’d been all these weeks. God. Like a teenager with a crush. No wonder Michael made a point of being as standoffish as possible.

Michael dropped the coins in the Jerry’s Kids container on the desk next to the cash register. 

Ethan realized he hadn’t bagged the book. He grabbed a bag, shoved the book inside, and handed the bag to Michael, who took it unhurriedly.

“You didn’t read this one?”

Ethan’s head jerked up. He stared at Michael. He couldn’t have been more startled if the bonsai tree on his counter had addressed him. As far as he could recall, it was the first time in six weeks Michael had initiated conversation between them. 

“Who, me?” Ethan said brilliantly.

“You’ve always got something to say about the books. You didn’t read this one?”

The books were all mostly used at Red Bird Books and Coffee. Ethan ordered a few paperback bestsellers, but he actually preferred the old books. According to Erin, the bookstore was just Ethan’s excuse for buying and reading all the books he wanted. She wasn’t far wrong.

“I read it. It’s good.” Ethan made an effort. “You’ll enjoy it.”

Michael nodded politely. He turned and left the store.

“Bye, Michael!” Erin called as the door swung shut him. She looked across the floor. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

“You acted like you were mad at being disturbed. Were you working on your book?”

“No I didn’t and no I wasn’t.”

“I thought you liked him?”

“I don’t like him!”

“Come off it. If you were a puppy, you’d be on your back and wriggling every time he walks in here.”

Ethan’s temper, generally mild, shot up like the red strip of fake mercury in the giant thermometer outside the Bun Baby Restaurant. His voice rose with it. “Like him? I’m so sure!”

The door to the shop swung open. Ethan registered the chirping bird, saw out of the corner of his eye that the door was moving, but it was too late to stop the angry words already spilling out. “I think I can do better than the Phantom of the Dojo.”

Erin’s stricken expression told him what he needed to know. He turned to the front of the shop expecting to see Michael, and sure enough Michael stood in the doorway, frozen in place—just as the scarred half of his face was frozen. 

Ethan swallowed. Even as he was trying to tell himself that Michael could only have heard half of that outburst and no way could connect it to himself—and that “Phantom of the Dojo” could mean anything, didn’t have to be a reference to a scarred and tragic monster—he knew he was sunk. If Michael hadn’t heard enough, Erin’s patent horror filled in the necessary blanks.

The longest two seconds of Ethan’s life dragged with agonizing slowness. Neither he, Erin, nor Michael moved. Neither he, Erin, nor Michael spoke. Ethan’s fervent prayers for the earth to open up and swallow him went unanswered. 

If he’d been the one to overhear that ugly comment, he’d have backed up, closed the door, and never returned to Red Bird Books and Coffee. Michael stepped inside, closing the door after him, and crossed to Erin’s counter. The wooden floorboards squeaked ominously beneath his measured footsteps. Ethan’s heart thudded heavily in time to the thump, creak.

“I’m working late tonight. I thought I’d get one of your sandwiches.” Michael’s voice was even, without any inflection at all.

It was the bravest thing Ethan had ever seen. 

“Sure!” Erin said brightly. Too brightly. “What kind did you want? Tuna fish on whole wheat, chicken salad on sourdough….” She babbled out the options. 

“Tuna on wheat.”

Ethan couldn’t stop staring at the uncompromising set of Michael’s wide shoulders, the straight way he held himself. His throat felt too tight to speak, practically too tight to breathe. He’d have felt sick about anyone hearing him say something that stupid and cruel, but for Michael to have heard it….

Erin was still gabbling away as she got Michael’s sandwich. 

Shut up, Ethan willed her. You’re making it worse. But silence would’ve probably been worse. It would have been a dead silence. Michael hadn’t said a word since he’d requested his sandwich. The back of his neck was red. It probably matched Ethan’s face, which felt hot enough to burst into flame. Now there was a solution to his problems. Spontaneous combustion. 

As though feeling the weight of Ethan’s gaze, Michael turned and gave him a long, direct look. 

That look reduced Ethan to the size of something that could have taken refuge beneath the bonsai tree. After an excruciating moment, his gaze dropped to the counter. He scrutinized the schedule of California sales tax beneath the clear plastic desk blotter as though he was about to be tested on it.

When he looked up again, Michael had his wallet out. 

Erin waved his money away. “Oh, no. On the house!”

Ethan could have put his head in his hands and howled. Why didn’t she just sign a confession in blood? Couldn’t she see that undid all Michael’s efforts to put things back on a normal track? 

Her eyes guiltily met his own across the floor. Had she been a mime making sad eyes and upside-down smiles she couldn’t have more clearly conveyed distress. 

“Thanks,” Michael said. “But no thanks.” He handed her a bill and Erin, her face now the shade of her hair, quickly made change. 

Michael unhurriedly took his change and his sandwich. He nodded to Erin. 

The bird-bell cheeped cheerfully as the door swung shut behind him.

Petit Morts Countdown...#6

Frankie just sat on my Wacom tablet, pushed some buttons with his toes, and made Photoshop crash. I take that as a hint that it's time to segue out of cover art and into pimping my upcoming release!

Coming this Friday at JCP Books - Petit Morts 6-10

I think this batch should be read in order, as Chance is starting to develop a character arc. Here's the skinny on #6, Pretty Ugly.

Summary
Just because Dominic Mann personally lacks beauty doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it. His keen eye has made him one of the most celebrated and sought-after photographers in Nashville.

The grand re-opening of the Cypress Mansion is an event for Nashville’s truly elite, and Dominic is the official photographer of the evening. Not that he’d need that excuse to introduce himself to up-and-coming singer Johnny Palomino and grab a few shots…but it doesn’t hurt.

Dominic hopes to take his flirtation with Johnny to the next level at the Cypress Mansion tea, where they’ve arranged to meet. But what greets Dominic in the mirror the next morning is such a shock, he’s almost late for the party.

No one at Cypress Mansion is acting like they notice anything different. Or do they?



Excerpt


The light in Cypress Mansion was nothing at all like the light in Hoboken by which Dominic had learned to shoot. Here in Nashville, the days were tinted gently blue, unless it was raining, in which case the light took on a subtle, cool, diffuse quality. Twilight gave a delicious carnation cast to white skin, and a striking amber highlight to black. And evening—which should have been the same as anywhere else in the civilized world, lit as it was by ambient incandescent bulbs and his cherished Nikon SP900 speedlight—held a magical radiance he had never seen anywhere but Nashville.

He stood in the foyer shoulder to shoulder with everybody who was anybody in the Cypress Estate Preservation Society. On one side, he brushed elbows with a tall historian in a tuxedo, and on the other, a twenty-something kid in a string tie and a spray tan.

Dominic braced his elbow against his chest and captured a shot of Mimi just as she drew breath to welcome her exclusive guests. He might not be able to capture the exact quality of the light, but he’d damn well try.

Mimi was a vision in orange, crowned by a severe silver wig. Most women her age—mid-eighties if she was a day—would have chosen a traditional black dress, or maybe a muted earth tone, if black made them feel as if they were celebrating their husbands’ funerals prematurely. Not Mimi. Orange was a difficult color to wear, but standing there, framed by the meticulously restored banisters, Mimi beamed down at the throng as slender and graceful as a daylily.

Dominic couldn’t think of any other person who’d attempt a wig like that, aside from Lady Gaga. But Mimi Van der Berg worked it as if she’d been born with it.

“Welcome, one and all, to the grand re-opening of Cypress Mansion.” Her accent was southern, and incredibly genteel. There was a hint of throatiness to her voice, not from cigarettes, but possibly bourbon. “We at Cypress Mansion are opening our doors for the first time since February, when the restoration of the dish pantry and the family dining room began.”

If Dominic had retained an assistant, he would have positioned that lucky soul to Mimi’s side with a gold reflector to smooth out some of the less flattering shadows. But since most people had a hard time acting natural with a crew of assistants and interns around them, Dominic usually worked alone. It just meant he needed to look more closely for the opportune shots.

“While last spring’s unprecedented rains delayed some of the restoration, thankfully Cypress itself escaped the flooding with minimal damage.”
Toward the foot of the stairs, a hand popped up out of the crowd as if someone was gauche enough to interrupt Mimi’s speech with a question. Light from the overhead chandelier glinted off shiny black plastic: a cameraphone.

Mimi gestured toward the door without breaking stride. “It would have been such a shame if harm had come to this mansion. Cypress is a rare and wonderful example of the Italianate style, which was very popular in the North at a certain dark time in our history, but is quite uncommon in Tennessee.” Just as Dominic, who was a Yankee through and through, was wondering if he should look dutifully ashamed of the Franklin-Nashville Campaign even though his predecessors had been scattered throughout Europe at the time, an extremely tall and disturbingly broad man in a tuxedo and an earpiece pushed past him, and escorted the woman who’d attempted the Hail Mary shot with the cameraphone toward the exit.

“I am truly delighted to present the fruits of the labors started by the Society in 1973 with a viewing of the latest renovation, made possible by all of you. Won’t you please join me for a glass of wine in the family dining room?” Dominic took another shot of Mimi descending the staircase like American royalty. As she reached the bottom, and the crowd shifted to give her plenty of room, she added, “If you’d like a photographic memento of the evening, call the Society’s secretary Monday morning and have him put you in contact with Dominic Mann who, of course, you all know. Mr. Mann is tonight’s official photographer.”

She beamed in Dominic’s general direction, and he captured a shot of her with the chandelier in soft focus behind her. “Mr. Mann’s latest photographs of the upstairs library appeared in Harper’s Bazaar, so his work should certainly be adequate for all of your needs.”

Mimi swept her imperious gaze over the crowd, daring someone else to attempt an unauthorized snapshot. No one dared. Satisfied, as always, with weight of her own authority, she turned and led the way to the new restoration.

Dominic passed through the main hall, the downstairs library, the map room and the women’s parlor, all of which he’d photographed for the Cypress’ website when he first moved to Nashville. He didn’t remember the rooms themselves so much as his images of them. If a piece of bric-a-brac that appeared in one of his photos had been moved to a new position, he noticed. And yet, overall, the place felt unfamiliar, museum-like, and not particularly welcoming.

He’d never been beyond the women’s parlor. Along the walls of the narrow hallway, prior inhabitants of the Cypress stared down at him, stiff and pale-eyed, from tintype prints. In the exterior shots, the building looked much like it did today—minus the group of townhomes and bungalows that had sprouted up around the building in the 1920’s, when Lydia Van der Berg had sold much of the grounds to pay off her late husband’s gambling debts. He passed beneath Lydia’s silvery stare, and emerged into the newly renovated family dining room.

The addition of the word “family” to the dining room had conjured up images of relatives relaxing together, passing plates of scones and offering to top off that mint tea. That wasn’t the case. This “family” dining room seated twenty, and was filled with enough faux-Italian scrolling metalwork to shock the Pope.

Dominic braced his elbow and poised his camera, but instead of shooting right away, he looked. At times like those, the camera was more of a prop for him, a way to let the people around him know not to disturb him, because he was looking.

The other members of the Cypress Society streamed around him, their numbers doubled as they reflected in the gilt-framed floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall. Dominic spotted himself in the center of the reflection as the only person who was still, and turned to scan the rest of the room before he picked his mirror image out of the crowd in any great detail. He’d lived with himself long enough to know exactly what he’d see. Immaculately tailored suit. Passably fit, for a guy in his forties. And plug ugly.

Dominic turned away from the mirror. There was a buffet against the west wall brimming with wine. Beside it, Carlton Jeffrey from Jeffrey Imports & Exports stood, scanning the crowd, most likely anticipating who would call him Monday for a case of the Pinot they sampled at tonight’s event. His gaze lit briefly on Dominic, then hurried on without lingering. Such was the way of one-night stands that never had enough momentum to develop into anything more.

Dominic allowed his attention to slide past Carlton—no hard feelings, pal—and on to the second buffet on the north wall. The top groaned under a spread of flowers and fresh fruits, and among that precisely coordinated swath of color and shape, on gleaming silver pedestals, the star of the show: chocolates.

He snapped a few shots of the crowd filling the room, then turned away from Carlton, and away from the mirror (wondering how the family dining room had become an obstacle course of avoidances) and made his way against the tide of cocktail dresses and suits to the chocolate buffet.

The spread couldn’t possibly have been laid out by an amateur. Dominic knew all the top food stylists in town. He tried to place the work. Ashford? No, not formal enough. The Robinson Sisters…if it was them, it was the most graceful arrangement he’d seen them do yet.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mimi drifted up beside Dominic and looked upon the buffet with such pride, he wondered briefly if she’d arranged it herself. That wasn’t Mimi’s style, though. Mimi didn’t do things herself; she hired skilled artisans to do them for her. “That young man is a genius. When Blanche Montague sold her shop, I braced myself for some terrible chain store to open in its place. But Sweets to the Sweet blends in with those lovely old Victorian storefronts just like it’s been there for three generations.”

Dominic framed a shot of the candy, and clicked. Immediately he spotted another. And another. It seemed as if he simply couldn’t find a way to aim his camera that didn’t result in a dynamic, engaging composition.

“Pretty as it may be, we’re celebrating the restoration tonight,” Mimi reminded him, “not the catering.” Dominic lowered his camera. He felt slightly dazed.

A young couple approached the buffet and helped themselves to a piece of candy. They did it furtively, as if they felt guilty for touching it, but simply couldn’t help themselves. “It’s so good,” the girl whispered to her beau as they sank back into the crowd with their guilty pleasures.

“And where is your date for this evening?” Mimi inquired. “I specifically invited you to bring someone.”

“Nah.” Dominic’s Jersey accent contrasted with Mimi’s soft southern cadence as if it was another language entirely. “I just wanted to focus. It’s too distracting to have someone tag along to a shoot.”

“I see.” It was perfectly clear that she did. “Forgive my candor, Dominic, but there’s no reason at all that a man of your quality should need to remain single.”

“Quality.” Dominic laughed out the word before he could stop himself. “Is that the southern equivalent of a great personality?”

Mimi didn’t deign to answer. “You never know. Maybe you’ll find something in common with a member of the Society. We have our fair share of ‘bachelors,’ you know.”

Dominic knew. He’d entertained one or two of them, though none had ever seemed interested in a repeat performance.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Mimi said. “You have plenty of important connections. A younger man might be very appreciative if you help him launch his career.”

The very thought of it made Dominic cringe inside. “How about you cut me a break, Miss Mimi? What can I say—I’m an incurable romantic.”

Mimi was not deterred. With a subtle gesture of her chin, she indicated a young man nervously sipping his wine in the corner. “I could introduce you to him. Actor.” She cut her eyes to another nubile gentleman admiring a painting. “Or him. Artist.”

Dominic couldn’t think of any way to tell Mimi, who was twice his age, and who undoubtedly counseled her female friends it was perfectly acceptable to marry for money rather than love, that her matchmaking left him embarrassed rather than intrigued. Some guys in his position wouldn’t think twice about being served some fresh meat. They figured a little hookup was their due after a few decades of building their careers. Not Dominic. Looking into a set of sparkling young eyes and realizing the attraction was not about him, but the idea that he was a coveted rung on the ladder to fame and fortune, made him feel like a pathetic old troll. “C’mon. When you say Cyrus, those kids think you mean Miley, not Billy Ray.”

Mimi swept the room with her regal gaze, and stopped cold. “That one. Trying to break into music. Johnny Palomino—he’d be perfect for you.” A broad-shouldered brunet in a vintage western-cut suitcoat stood with two guys in tuxedos, smiling modestly. The coat was a real showstopper, black with a piebald yoke framed in red piping, and the aspiring musician wearing it carried off his flashy finery like it was his birthright.

One of the tuxes bookending him owned a radio station; the other, a dark, broad, goateed man whose waistline was putting a strain on his cummerbund, Dominic didn’t recognize. “Palomino’s handsome,” Mimi said, “but look at the corners of his eyes. He’s got to be at least thirty—a little long in the tooth for a breakout act. I’m sure he’d be appallingly grateful to have some head shots taken by the illustrious Dominic Mann.”

Dominic opened his mouth to dismiss Mimi’s suggestion out of hand—but he couldn’t. Johnny Palomino had stolen his breath away. Dominic had grown up among plumbers and hockey and meatball hoagies. Cowboys were the stuff of fantasy; they might as well have been superheroes or Martians.

Sexy Martians.

“You see? There’s someone out there for everybody.”

Mimi began to raise her arm to summon the would-be singer over, but Dominic stopped her. “Wait. Not yet. Just lemme see if….”

“He already knows who you are, darling. Everyone here does.”

“I know, I know. I was just hoping it’d feel a little more natural if I tried to strike up a conversation myself.”

“Do have one of the waiters flag me down if you change your mind.” Mimi primped her lustrous silver wig. “I’ve always thought ‘natural’ was highly overrated.”

A leafy day

My Occasional Assistant was in town so I had him over to help me with the "leaf situation." (It's so terrible you can't even call it "raking leaves.") He was here to take the GRE and he was so mellow about it. He's so much more together than I was at his age, that's for sure. Or maybe he's just much less melodramatic. I would love to see him skip the Master's and go right for the PhD.! I'll have to see how the test went and where he decides to attend; he had lots of options in mind.

A few years ago, he was a member of a NaNoWriMo group I led that consisted of teenagers and senior citizens. I guess no one in the mid-range was interested! One thing he mentioned that got a lump in my throat was how his NaNoWriMo experience played into his college scholarship competition. He was competing for a scholarship where he and the other candidates were put in a room with 1/2 hour time and told to write an essay. He noticed all the other kids with their proper typing posture as he settled into his NaNoWriMo slouch! (AND HE WON THE BIG SCHOLARSHIP!)

*snif*

That was so awesome to hear!

Anyway, he taught me a word. Onomotomania. It's when you've got that word on the tip of your tongue and you can't remember it AND IT'S DRIVING YOU CRAZY. I was, of course, experiencing it at the time. I was trying to tell him where I'd gone in Iowa, and it was like, "Not Boone. Near Boone, but not Boone. It's got a university. Not Boone. NOT. DAMN. BOONE. (And not Perth. Sean lives in Perth. That's in Australia. Not Perth. And NOT BOONE."

It was Ames. We had to look at the map!

Anyway. Five van-loads of leaves to the village compost pile later and I determined I have as many leaves as the whole rest of the village. Ethan says the extant leaves were sort of chopped up and compressed BUT I DON'T CARE. I'm sore.

JCP News is up

-Corny musings
-An interview with Chance
-Goodbye to Packing Heat
-A special sale at Rainbow eBooks

All in the October 15 issue of JCP News!