Sherry Morris's Blog, page 41

Excerpt: Immaculate Deception Chapter Three

Excerpt from Immaculate DeceptionBy Sherry Morris
This book won the Romantic Times Book Reviews Magazine Reviewers Choice Award for 2007 Best Small Press Paranormal Romance  Chapter Three
He stopped in front of the door. I heard music seeping out. The "Donna" song. My bladder was really full. As soon as I turned the doorknob, I felt the wind swarming like a whirlpool of summer gnats. I tried to shut it quick but it was too late. I was standing in Momma's lavender bathroom. Dream over. Back to my sucky reality. Sigh. These connected dreams were really bizarre. I sure did like Mr. Jones. If only he were real. A draft wafted in from the open window. Momma always left her bathroom window cracked, even in the middle of winter. She had this suffocation phobia or something, always needed fresh air. Hey, wait a minute. How did I get in her bathroom? I fell asleep in the basement closet. Jeeze, now I was sleepwalking. What next? I did what needed to be done, washed my hands and stared into Momma's magic mirror, the full-length one on the back of the bathroom door. Momma had always said she needed a cushion to sit on when forced to sit in a hard chair because "I don't have any padding in the back". Oh yes, she did. So I figured her magic mirror must do a liposuction reflection. I stood sideways, hoping to see magic. Nope. Apparently, it only worked for Momma. Gosh, Tammy was right, I did look like crap. Well, I had been in a major auto accident, I didn't have my own clothes and furthermore, I really could use a day of beauty. But with all the sleep I'd over-caught up on, you'd think my face would be rosy and taut. But no. A yellow-green bruise blanketed my forehead and seven scabby little slashes radiated through both blond eyebrows and continued to the tip of my nose. My skin was a tapestry of irritated red and pasty white, with a zit forming on my chin. Great. I heard the doorbell chiming incessantly. I inhaled deeply and then shuffled into the living room. Kneeling on the leather couch in front of the picture window, I peered through the heavy gold drapes. Two vehicles were parked in front. One in the driveway, one on the street. The mourners had arrived. I ran my fingers through my curls as I stumbled down the steps and opened the front door. Mr. Meddlestein said, "Oh good, you're here. We thought we'd gotten the time wrong. Well, move aside, it's hot out here." Furrowing my brows into a scowl, I turned, opened the basement door and then stepped out of the way, onto the first stair leading back up to the living room. I said, "Down there," and pointed down. Seventy-ish Roddy Meddlestein, Esquire, ever tall and dapper in his three-piece linen summer suit, led the way, followed by his missus. Retired District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Chief Bubba Wrigley removed his football cap before stepping onto the landing. He ran his fingers through his thick white mane. He looked great. I wasn't sure how old he was because as Daddy always said, "Black don't crack". I couldn't get used to Daddy being gone. A Jack Nicholson look-alike, Doctor "Farts" Goldfarb, took up the rear. Disheveled thinning salt-and-pepper hair, wild eyebrows and thick-framed eyeglasses. He was a semi-retired proctologist, back in the days when specialists actually called themselves such. The new politically correct term would probably be gastroenterologist. Dr. Goldfarb worked on Tuesday mornings as the medical consultant at Heavenly HMO. Yep, that's how I acquired my job there. These three gentlemen were Daddy's buddies from the Sportsman's Club, a group of old geezers that went deer and wild turkey hunting every year on property they jointly owned in Virginia, up on Mount Storm. As soon as Farts cleared the top basement step, I shut the door behind him and locked it. Felt great. I sighed and unlocked it. Stumbling out the front door, I stopped by the first azalea bush. Its new green growth hadn't shed the brown remnants of the big spring blossoming. I realized that I didn't have my Suburban with me. A flashback from the accident quickened my pulse. Well, I imagined I'd not be driving that vehicle again. I wondered what they did with it after sweeping the debris into a dustpan. Great. Now I'd have to haggle with the auto insurance company. Fun. Okay, so how was I getting home? I went back inside my parents' house and grabbed the fluorescent orange goody bag. Well, let's see here, I had three dollars, one dime, six pennies and another dime left. I didn't think a cab would take my Hilton Honors American Express Card. But I did wanna go home. Oh did I wanna go home. What to do, what to do when your foot is stuck in the glue? Boy that was a stupid old rhyme. One of Perry's probably. I heard the herd climbing the stairs. I moved out of the way and sank into the leather tub chair. It had been Daddy's favorite. He'd slung his old arthritic knees over it and curled up into many a nap there. One by one, they each shook my hand and offered deepest sympathies. I noticed Farts—um, Doctor Goldfarb—wandering through the kitchen. I asked Mr. Meddlestein, "What's he looking for?" "The booze and grub. Where's the buffet set up?" All eyes eagerly anticipated my response. I felt my face go flush. "I'm very sorry. This is all so sudden…and horrific. My sister Tammy had ordered KFC and I thought that Daddy would have wanted something home-cooked with love for his special send-off so I shooed the guy away." Doctor Goldfarb hollered from the kitchen, "Nathan loved KFC. That would have been very appropriate. What got into you, girl?" It always amazed me how the hard-of-hearing could detect a whisper in another room but never answered when you asked them to do something. One of Momma's sore spots with Daddy. Roddy Meddlestein chimed in, "Damn, an extra crispy fried chicken leg would hit the spot now." Chief Bubba Wrigley said, "Would you believe it's not fried? Yessiree, I know the secret. It's pressure cooked. Saw that on the cable television one night. Hey, Meddlestein, did you see the fly-fishing tournament last Sunday?" Farts Goldfarb rummaged through the kitchen, slamming cabinets. I bolted up and went to see what he was doing. He'd found a partially used bottle of vodka and was pouring some into a tea-stained tumbler. Two saltine crackers were disappearing into his mouth. I shook my head and went back to face the butt holes, um…mourners. Farts followed me. As we returned to the living room, Mrs. Meddlestein said, "I've got a brisket in the crock pot and a lemon cake. You all are welcome to come over to our house." A tall, elegantly dressed African American woman had come in the front door. The three caballeros leered as they sized her up and guffawed to each other. Mrs. Meddlestein greeted the lady. "The body is downstairs, dear. I don't believe we've met. I'm Gloria Meddlestein. I've lived across the street from Nathan for thirty-six years. And what is your name? How did you know Nathan?" As the new arrival proceeded downstairs with the interrogator, Chief Bubba Wrigley called out, "Ain't no food or cocktails here, cheap-assed party." My stomach knotted up. Teardrops singed my cheeks. I escaped into Momma's bedroom and shut the door. I lay down in her mattress dip and rubbed my hands back and forth on her lavender chambray bedspread. I rubbed and rubbed until my hands felt fiery. I really needed to blow my nose. I glanced at the bedside stand and noticed Momma's big beige leather pocketbook. Momma always had tissues. I stretched across the bed and reached out. I lay still for a moment and then rose up and scooted over and picked it up. I plucked a folded sandwich of tissues out of her purse and blew and blew. I wiped my eyes with a fresh one. I picked up the pocketbook and lifted it back onto the nightstand. It was heavy. Momma always had a heavy purse. Lots of loose coins, a paperback novel, scarf, letter opener for protection, keys… That's it! I'll borrow Momma's car. I eased the purse straps on my shoulder, threw the snotty tissues in the black and gold metal wastebasket and headed down the hall. I marched right by the geezers and out the door. Down the steps and into the driveway, I trekked past a vintage hospital scrubs-colored green pickup truck, no doubt belonging to Doc Goldfarb. Blocking the driveway on the street was Chief Bubba Wrigley's shiny blue Ford Crown Victoria, duly equipped with the police package. And under the carport, there she was, Momma's fiftieth anniversary edition Corvette. I pressed the automatic key and heard the locks disengage. I opened the big wide door. Putting Momma's purse in first, I then slid my body into the low seat. I shut the door and locked it. I slipped the key into the ignition and turned on the accessory power. The sound system kicked in, picking up the CD track that Momma had last listened to. The Bee Gees hit song from the sixties, "I've Gotta Get a Message to You". For a fleeting moment, I listened hard, trying to hear if she was trying to send me a message through the song. Then I realized how foolish that was. I remembered hearing about the teenagers who used to think if they played the Beatles' pop songs backward there were secret messages. It was hot. Really hot. I cracked the windows and lowered the volume. Since I couldn't go anywhere, blocked in by the other cars, I reclined the driver's seat and closed my eyes. My arid mouth annoyed me. I licked my lips. Gum, yeah, gum. I dug around in Momma's purse and extracted a pack of cinnamon gum. One piece remaining. I unwrapped it and sucked on the powdery cinnamon. I chewed. Momma always popped her gum. She was great at it. It was a trait that I hadn't inherited. She was also a great cruncher. She nibbled in fives. Bite, crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch…bite, crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch. Great molars, my momma had. Oh Momma. How did it come to this? I can't believe they really locked you away. So what if Mrs. Meddlestein saw you waving Daddy's cane and yelling at him. She didn't see you hit him. And neither did Perry. I didn't notice a bump on his head before he died. I don't know why Daddy would tell me that you killed him. None of this makes sense. If Perry locked you up in a mental hospital, then you could not possibly have murdered Daddy. I wouldn't be one bit surprised if he staged the whole thing to set you up. Why? I shrugged my shoulders. Ouch. Daddy had always manipulated people and situations for his own amusement. To think that I believed every word out of his mouth until I was thirty-six years old. He had told me Tammy had uterine cancer. I cried and cried and regretted all of the stupid sibling rivalry. We had squandered our time together. I was terrified to lose my sister. I tried to call her, she wouldn't pick up the phone and talk to me. I made a mix tape CD for her, all of the songs I loved that were upbeat and happy. I mailed it to her with a Get Well card. I prayed for her three times a day. Two weeks later, I bumped into her at Bella Hair. She was having her hair straightened. I asked her if that was a good idea, worried it might make it fall out quicker when she underwent chemotherapy. She laughed in my face and told me she most certainly did not have any type of cancer. When I confronted Daddy, he had told me to wise up. Why did Daddy lie to me about such a horrific thing? The only reason I could come up with was for his own amusement. Or maybe he wanted me and Tammy to get along better and assumed it was my fault we didn't. I loved my sister. And I always believed that deep down she loved me too. I should go see Momma. They did allow visitors at the mental hospital, didn't they? I checked the time on the little clock on the dashboard. Eight fifty. They probably wouldn't let me see her, let alone check her out at this hour. Or? Maybe I was just trying to chicken out. I couldn't deal with another family crisis just now. I'll go tomorrow. I always heard the general prison population was rough on cops. Surely they hadn't put Momma with criminals. They also wouldn't think a sweet old lady used to be a Secret Service agent. After all, she'd been a registered nurse for the last thirty years. I was so glad when she changed careers. I couldn't have survived the pain of losing Momma if she had to take a bullet for the President. And look at poor Jim Brady. He was just a press secretary and now he was paralyzed because he was with President Ronald Reagan when a nut tried to assassinate him. Jim took a bullet for the Commander-in-Chief. Wonder what it would be like to be a presidential press secretary. I could do that. Well, had I an education, I could do it. But I didn't. So a good union job in the file room at Heavenly HMO was where I toiled. Daytime, nighttime, Saturdays too, we open our doors— No, that was the old "Citizen's Bank of Maryland conveniently yours" jingle. I only had to work weekdays and sometimes on Saturday mornings. Not bad. Not bad at all. Old Bully next door was barking up a thunderstorm. He instigated a chain reaction. The call of the wild commenced doing the stadium wave around the cul-de-sac. I opened one eye and then squinted the next one open. I watched in the rearview mirror. The mourners were shaking hands, slapping backs and—yes!—they were leaving. I ducked back down and peeped in the sideview mirror. As soon as Bubba's navy blue Crown Victoria squealed out of the oil-stained concrete driveway, I popped the seat upright. As I buckled the safety belt, I watched Roddy and Gloria Meddlestein's front door close. I moved the seat forward. Momma was six inches taller than me. Didn't inherit her height either. I didn't mind being five foot two. It was fun being little and cute. Sometimes anyway. But not when I needed a baking dish from the top kitchen shelf or when I was reaching for the latest How To Find A Literary Agent and Get Published book from the top shelf at the bookstore. Did those people even realize that some of us had short arms to go with our short legs and coupled together, we couldn't reach the top shelves? The last time I had been in there, I had tiptoed and stretched and had been able to yank one down, scraping my wrist on one of their little shelf signs. When I had turned around to walk to a comfy chair, I had noticed the stepstool. After kicking it, I had plopped down and opened the book. I remembered moaning dramatically as soon as I'd realized it was written by hoity-toity Fifth Avenue New York literary agent extraordinaire, Miz Tiffany Crigler-Hufnagle. She'd sent me a form rejection on my one-page query letter, seeking representation for my first completed romantic suspense novel, Hundred Dollar Bill. It was no different from the other eighty-odd rejections I'd received. A poor-quality photocopied Dear Author letter. I have personally considered your proposal and I am afraid it does not sufficiently excite me. I am much too busy with all of my celebrity authors to be bothered with a nobody. The writing is not strong enough to be commercially marketable. The characters didn't come to life. Lots of luck finding representation elsewhere. The writing isn't strong. The characters didn't come to life. How the hell could she tell that from a one-page query letter? She hadn't even seen the manuscript. That's okay. It was business. I just needed to find the right agent to match-make me with the acquisitions editor at a publishing house who would adore my characters. If I would have been able to attend the writers' conference last week, I could've pitched my book live and in person to both an agent and an editor. And since my submission finaled in the writing contest, all the agents and editors there would have been chasing me down the red carpet, begging at my Cinderella-slippered feet. Well, if I won they would have. All I knew was I made it into the top ten in the suspense category. I'd probably get the scores in the mail. But I'd never get the mail if I didn't get across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and home. I started the engine, turned up the music, shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, halfway into the Meddlesteins'. I shifted into overdrive and let the horses run down the block, to a rolling stop at the corner. Oh yeah Momma, you do know how to select an automobile. There was no residual rush hour traffic tonight, it was after nine and the moon rose fast. I turned up the volume and stretched my back. Shoot! My driver's license was in my wallet in the bag behind the wrought iron railing in the living room at my parents' house. I'd better be mindful of the posted speed limit. Shoot! A sea of red lights. I slowed to a stop. Well, either there was an accident or they had raised the bridge again and it was stuck open. What imbecile designed a drawbridge on the Capital beltway? And just who was that important that we needed to inconvenience thousands of commuters so that his or her yacht could pass through this section of the Potomac River? Could be an accident. I called this area of the beltway the Wilson Triangle. Cars traveled two thousand miles across the country and by some misalignment of the planets and underwater craters, they crapped out on this bridge. Then the bridge was shut down for hours. I had gotten caught on it once. On my wedding day. I had missed it. The whole thing. That was back in the days before cell phones. My groom Joel had thought I stood him up at the altar. Tammy had suggested it, surely enough. By the time I had arrived at the United Methodist church in Maryland, it had been locked up tight. I turned up the music. So that's what brought up this memory, the Bee Gees love song "Too Much Heaven". It had been our song. The first song Joel and I danced to at one of Tammy's wedding receptions. I sure didn't get too much heaven. I interlaced my fingers and positioned my thumbs side-by-side. Here is the church. I unfolded my index fingers. Here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people. I pulled my hands apart and sat on them. The church was empty. Well, my church had been empty by the time I had gotten there, four hours late. Nobody left skulking around but Daddy. I hadn't even been sure that he would've walked me down the aisle. He was opposed to the marriage. He and Momma had paid for my eighty-dollar wedding gown. I had slapped the rest of the wedding expenses on my charge cards. Poor Perry had needed their help with the down payment and closing costs on his move-up house. Apparently he also needed them to pay off his home equity loan on the first house so the sale would go through. Tammy had wanted to make a career change and they had paid her tuition to become a personal trainer. My parents couldn't have paid for my wedding. They had had to help my siblings out, they were such good children. I knew this because Momma and Daddy had told me so. Every time I called or visited. And besides, Tammy never wasted money on a big church wedding. Yeah, she always got her potential moneybag grooms drunk or high and eloped before they sobered up. Of course there would be a wedding reception after the deed was done, the bills no doubt footed by Momma and Daddy. And it had been Daddy there at the church, waiting to tell me I told you so. "Your groom took off for the Poconos without you. But he won't be crying in the champagne glass bathtub. The best man and your sister Tammy are kissing him and making him all better." Ouch, did that hurt. Daddy always did have a way of humiliating and embarrassing me, the way he told the truth as he interpreted it. So that was how my last great romance had ended. Considering how easily that scumbag had consoled himself, the wedding day traffic jam had probably been a fortunate twist of fate. I eyed the clock. Nine twenty-one p.m. I could be here for a while. So I cut the engine, unbuckled and reclined the seat. My eyes blinked in the darkness. Red taillights. Red sparkles. Beautiful red sparkles. Music. Another song by the Bee Gees, the brothers Gibb, "Technicolor Dreams". They wrote and recorded it in 2001 but it was in the style of the big movie musicals of the thirties and forties, back when their dad was an orchestra leader and their mum a girl singer. I loved the clarinet solo. Just like the song I danced to with that guy in my dream. My recurring dream. Please recur. Please recur…please recur. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~The car door opened. "Hello, Cinderella." I couldn't control my smile. "Hey you, step right into my dream again." "Actually it'd work better if you stepped outa the car." So I did. A valet climbed in and drove off. My man offered his arm and we strolled down the cobblestone boulevard.  "Gee, the stars are beautiful tonight. Hey, look up there. Can you see that really bright one?" Dream guy pointed. I tore my eyes away from his amazing-to-me, handsome face and followed his arm, gazing up. "Yes, I see it." "That's Venus, the planet of love." A smoky haze surrounded it. "Look! A shooting star!" I jumped up and down and then silently launched into a wish. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. I wish to find my momma safe and sane. I wish peace in eternity for my daddy. I forgive him for his sins. He did not know that he was hurting me…all of us. He meant well, in his own weird way. I wish that my sister Tammy stops being so narcissistic and lives happily ever after. I wish that my brother Perry finds peace within himself and loses sufficient weight to get off his blood pressure medication and insulin. I wish that he also finds a life partner to adore him. I really, really wish that my brother and sister will put the past behind us, forget about all the childish rivalries and look at me as a friend. A grown-up woman, with my own interests and fascinating qualities to admire and respect. And oh, by the way, keeper of the stars, if it's not too much trouble, I'd like to sell my novel and live happily ever after underneath the bedclothes with the dream man. Amen. My dream man said, "I'm going to transport you from Mercury to Mars, love." All right, I'll play along. "Why not Venus?" "Too many women." I winked at him. "Good, I'll have you all for myself then." I thought for a moment. "But I don't have a spacesuit. I won't be able to breathe. And the temperature will freeze me or burn me, whichever way it goes in space." My author's brain played around with the idea. If we were going toward the sun, it would be hot. I didn't know if Mars had a sun or not. I guessed it was cold there. Darn, I wished I had a better education. Not that I was ever too interested in astronomy. Just still jealous of Perry and Tammy talking our parents into carte blanche for their career needs. I sighed. I needed to let go of this jealousy and anger and forgive everyone. It was the only way I would be able to heal my Swiss cheese heart. Staring at Venus, I heard music. The "Donna" song. Well, at least I won't suffocate or freeze solid this time. * * * * *I woke up to honking. It was dawn on Wednesday, back in the real world. The traffic was moving. I started the engine and inched along. They had replaced the old drawbridge with this wider one. The additional lanes hadn't helped one bit when it got stuck open. Unbelievable that Congress hadn't approved something more practical, like building it high enough so any ship could pass under it. The traffic jam finally opened up once I got over the bridge and passed the first two Virginia exits, Mount Vernon and Alexandria. I sailed on home with the sunrise.  "Ouch." The Corvette bottomed out on the speed bump in my neighborhood. It didn't actually hurt me but I dreaded looking under the front of the car. I turned into my concrete driveway and shifted to park. I stepped out and peeked underneath. What a relief, no damage. I trudged up to the garage and punched seven–seven–one–five into the keypad. I had lost the remote in the accident. The door wheezed and squealed open. I needed to get the chain oiled or something. My roommate's car wasn't there. Not that I'd ever even seen it or the roommate for that matter. Ashley had answered my ad via email and that's how we communicated. If not for the oil-stained floor on the left side of the garage and the seven hundred bucks she electronically deposited into my checking account every month, I'd say she was all a figment of my imagination. She lived in the basement and went in and out through the French doors in the backyard. There was a fire grade door between the first floor and the basement. I kept it closed but unlocked in case of fire or some other emergency. I didn't even know if she was neat or not. Didn't care either. Ideal roomie. She was gone most of the time, driving the tour bus for one of the big rock bands of the seventies. The grandpas played stadiums and state fairs, something like two hundred gigs a year. But Ashley was a writer wannabe, a songwriter. That was what clicked it for me, when she mentioned that. Another soul in a sucky job like mine, aspiring to be a writer. We had developed a nice relationship via email. We'd gossip about the neighbors, discuss major weather events, talk politics and we'd even touched on religion. So far there didn't seem to be anything we couldn't chat about. I noticed mail stacked on a shelf next to the potting soil. That was sweet, Ashley brought it in. Must've been piling up out in the common box on the corner. I grabbed it and went back out to the Vette. I drove her in the garage and proceeded back outside. I punched in the close code and the door did just that. I fumbled around on Momma's key ring and felt clever. Clever and relieved I had the keen forethought to give Momma a key to my house, just in case. I ascended the steps to the stoop. I opened the door, shuffled in and shut it behind me. Be it ever so humble and all that important stuff but it felt so good to finally be home again. I meandered into the kitchen and tossed the mail along with Momma's purse and keys onto the granite island. I washed my hands and then popped a store-brand diet cola out of the fridge. Good and cool, all the way down. I opened the off-white cloth vertical blinds on the wall of French doors and let the morning sunshine flood in. I sifted through the week's mail. My fingers trembled as I ripped the side of an envelope from the writers' organization. I shook out the white paper and shook my head. I'd come in dead last in the romantic suspense category. Oh well. What was it that the other authors often said? Something like making it to the final round of the contest was honor enough. Agents and editors would look favorably upon this distinction. I tossed the letter on the counter. My heart sank, recognizing two of the self-addressed stamped envelopes that I'd sent to literary agents in New York. I'd never once gotten an invitation to submit my work to them back in one of these. I always received form rejection letters instead. In the only request I ever got by snail mail, the agent used her own envelope. Must've liked my stamp. I always got the pretty ones, hanging up on racks on the post office walls. I bought the Reston branch out of the Cary Grants. They weren't making him anymore. Limited editions, those were. I carefully ripped open a letter from the District of Columbia Department of Health. I'd ordered a certified copy of my birth certificate. I needed it to apply for a passport. I'd need a valid passport when I was taking the UK by storm on my book tour. I just had to sell my novel to a publisher first. Maybe I'd be escorted around by one of those handsome Englishmen or even a Scot. Their soft-spoken accents just melted me. Not the working-class cockneys imitated in American movies, nor the hoity-toity royal accent. But the cadence in between. Like my dream boy. He sounded, well, like he was born in England to a nice proper but not royal family and perhaps they'd immigrated to the United States when he was a young man, as his accent wasn't overpowering but smooth and attractive. Momma had taken me down to the Department of Motor Vehicles when I was sixteen to get my driver's license. She wouldn't give me my birth certificate. She'd said, "You'll lose it. I'll keep it in a safe place." So I'd never actually even seen it. A couple of weeks ago, I snuck and applied for one. Forty-two years old, sneaking and doing things behind my mother's back. I grinned. So here it was, typed and official. Orpha Donna Payne, female, date of birth, May 1, 1964, singleton. Mother's maiden name, Chloe Sue Lambert, age 41, born in Shrew, North Carolina. Father's name, Nathan Lucifer Payne, age 50, born in Sacramento, California. Usual occupation, physician. Other children born to this mother, two. I read the last line again. Other children born to this mother, two? What was that all about? No wonder Momma didn't want me to see this! She had had two babies before she had me? I had two more siblings! Where were they? Who were they? Why didn't she ever tell me? I tasted a cool swig of soda and stared out the back door. The mixed-color flowers—cardinal climbers, blue morning glories, red sunflowers and white pineapple lilies—in the pots on the deck looked great. Ashley must've watered them. Gosh, I was lucky to have her. My mind was racing at the news. I didn't want any new siblings. The two that I had were bad enough. I shook my head. Okay, I'm just going to slip the certificate back in the envelope and stash it in the metal filing cabinet and pretend I have never ever seen it. I held the first self-addressed stamped envelope up to the light. I could see the outline of a small slip of paper. I carefully ripped the end of the envelope off, not the one with the stamp on it. I squeezed it and a wisp of white paper floated out. It was a piece of notepad, folded in half, embossed with the fancy-pantsy New York literary agent's name and Broadway address. Dear Author, Excuse the nature of this form response. I am overwhelmed with submissions and obligations to my clients preclude me from considering your work. If I did have the time to answer you personally, I would encourage you to buy my book, Writing the Wright Way. This would be a big step in your long and winding journey toward your dream. Regards, Juanita Wright Me thinks Juanita Wright is a tad bit full of herself. Her loss. Perhaps the other one had better news. I opened the second self-addressed stamped envelope. I removed my one-page query letter, along with the first page of my manuscript, which I had begun to slip in so they could get a feel for my voice. Scribbled on the query letter, in purple ink, gel pen probably, was Amateur. I moaned. My head throbbed over my left eyebrow and the pain zipped around to my right ear. This guy didn't even bother to include a form letter. What, was my query and page one so repulsive that he had to eradicate them from his office? He couldn't even shred them? I swiped the envelopes, rejection letters and birth certificate and stomped into the living room to my desk and filed them. I tallied up the two new query rejections. Eighty-seven down. Never lose hope, Donna. The one agent who believed in me was bound to come. And odds were, he or she was right around the next plot twist. Back in the kitchen, I swallowed two aspirins, washing them down with the diet soda. Daddy always told me that aspirin plus caffeine was the quickest headache cure. He was a great diagnosticator. One of his silly terms. Daddy always knew precisely what ailed me and would have me on the proper antibiotic before I saw our family doctor. Momma worked as a private duty nurse at the Washington Hospital Center, on their exclusive 6–D ward, where people of wealth went. Anyhow, they dispensed medicine in little brown pillboxes and she'd bring the leftovers home in her pocket. So we always had a bolus of antibiotics on hand. Daddy had always bragged about his pioneering organ transplant research. Too bad his patients had lost a dedicated physician when he lost his vision in the early seventies. And now I'd lost my daddy. A lump of mucus gagged my throat. I was so sick of crying. Loping out to the living room, I plopped down in the chair at the desk built into a niche in the corner. My Men Out of Uniform calendar screensaver was half-blue and frozen. Of course it had to be the lower half of the screen that was blue. My favorite, Mr. July, Firefighter Johnny, was cut off at his six-pack. I sequentially pressed the Ctrl, Alt and Del keys, holding them down. Nothing happened. I tried again. Zip. So I turned the power off and then back on. I had been surfing when Daddy had called last week and then I had rushed out, leaving the computer on. Yes, it booted fine. I clicked to check my email account. I was happy to see the little magnifying glass on the envelope icon. I was receiving mail. Just one message, from my roomie Ashley. SUBJECT: Are you okay? Donna, Where are you? What happened? Your boss Cynthia came by the house this morning. She was just "checking in". I wasn't dressed, so I talked to her through the door. I peeked out at her from the peephole in the front door and man, she looks mean. So I found out about the accident. BTW, the real purpose of her visit was to inform you to report back to work immediately. Your accident sounded horrific! I called the hospital and they said you'd been discharged, so I figured you must be okay. Post me ASAP and let me know if I can help with anything. Oh I stuck your mail on the shelf in the garage. Please don't be mad at me for coming upstairs. Cynthia was ringing the bell incessantly and that song you have on your chimes was driving me nuts. I thought maybe you'd locked yourself out or something. I didn't touch any of your stuff. By the way, your house is beautiful. How do you keep it so clean? We're headed west, this leg of the tour starts in California and heads up through Oregon, Washington and into British Columbia, then through Canada, down through New York, Pennsylvania and home for almost a week. Maybe we can hook up then? See you in September, Ashley I clicked the reply button and began typing. SUBJECT: Re: Are you okay? Hi Ashley, Other than I feel like I was pummeled by an airbag, impaled on a deer, thrown through the windshield and pitched down a hill, I'm just dandy. The antler didn't do any damage to major blood vessels or nerves but it nicked a muscle. They repaired it and stitched me up. My lovely supervisor Cynthia probably found out about it because the hospital called for verification of insurance coverage. They kicked me out after four days anyway. Ashley, my father died yesterday. Or was it the day before? I'm all fuzzy. Let's see. According to the little date and time icon on my computer, today is Wednesday, August 2 already. He died Monday afternoon. July 31. August Eve. He had a heart attack. There was a long delay before help arrived. Well, no, they sent a fire truck and those guys did CPR and used the shock thingy on him. But by the time the ambulance arrived, they pronounced him dead. My brother is ranting that my mother murdered him. He had her admitted to a mental hospital. Four days before Daddy's cardiac arrest. So how the heck did she get an opportunity to do him in? As if my eighty-three-year-old mother could have escaped from the hospital. Perry (my brother) is the one with the mental deficit. Oh it's been awful. My sister set Daddy's coffin up in the basement, one of those eight-sided Dracula boxes! But he's not inside. There was a fake Irish wake and his friends were just horrible. I borrowed Momma's car and came home. I was stuck on the Wilson Bridge all night. Has that ever happened to you? Hope you're having a great time on the road again. It was sweet of you to worry. Of course I'm not mad at you for coming upstairs. I only wish I'd been here to finally meet you face-to-face. Thanks for letting me know about Cynthia's visit. Yes, she is mean. Write when you get an internet connection. Hey, how's your love life? Oh thanks for bringing in the mail and watering my flowers. Donna I clicked send, took a shower, dried off and went to bed naked. My throbbing head and the sun pouring in through the skylights interfered with slumber time. I stumbled to the bathroom and swallowed one more aspirin and two tiny pink and white Benadryl capsules. Washed them down with water though, the last thing I needed was more caffeine to keep me awake. I wasn't taking Benadryl because of an allergic reaction and I wasn't tormented with sinus congestion. But I knew there was a side effect to Benadryl that caused drowsiness and it usually knocked me out. Momma had taught me about it. There were many nights when she couldn't turn her mind off and she relied on Benadryl. Now I was doing it. I crawled back under the covers. Of course, the phone rang. I checked the caller ID Payne, Perry. I growled and answered. "Hello?" "Oh-Donna, Saint C's just called. They're booting Chloe out if someone doesn't come and sign a financial contract. The cashier's office is open until four. Can you make it in time?" I snarled my face into a ferocious sneer. Too bad we didn't have video phones. "No way!" "But you've gotta go down and pay. Just give them a credit card or something. We can't have her loose on the streets." "Oh so you admit that she didn't escape and kill Daddy then. Momma is not a deranged murderess and she does not belong locked up at the cuckoo's nest! And why do you always think that I'm a billionaire? You're the big important judge. I just do peon cog-in-the-wheel work, because I have no education, because there was no money for my college, because you needed it. And sweet pretty Tammy." My brother fired right back at me. "If someone dies or is injured because they let a mental patient loose, then the cops will go after you for not making arrangements. You will be the responsible party, Oh-Donna." I hyperventilated. Something ugly and nasty from deep inside of me spat out. "Don't you threaten me." I threw the phone. I heard a crack as it smacked my bedroom window. "No!" Shaking all over, I stumbled across the midnight blue carpet and dragged the broken off-white plastic mini blinds back to inspect the glass. Good, I didn't break the window. I went to the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom and popped one more aspirin, just because. I couldn't stop thinking about poor Momma. Oh what was it like in the mental hospital? Was the room cold and barren? Was she locked up in a ward with a dozen screaming women? Was she frightened? Did she have her pain medication for her back? Oh Momma, I've got to get you out of there. Well, now if what Perry says is true, if nobody pays your bill, then they will release you. That will work. That is one way to spring you from the hokey- pokey. But then what? Do they just shove you out the front door and lock it behind you? What would you do on the streets of Anacostia? An elderly white lady would not blend in with the neighborhood. Wait, don't you still have some friends there from the old days? Could you walk to their house? Do you have your purse? Could you pay for a cab ride home? Wait, I have your purse, with the keys, wallet and all. Tears of guilt flowed down my cheeks. I was drowsy, the Benadryl was finally kicking in. I'll come and get you, Momma. But tomorrow. I can't drive like this. Back in my bedroom, I turned on some soothing-sounds music, waves. I jabbed my finger on the cooler button on the thermostat and then dropped my body onto the queen-sized four-poster bed. I stared up at the crocheted lace canopy and listened to the waves lapping the shore. I heard the rush and whirr as the air conditioner kicked on. I tried to conjure up a beach at midnight… I felt the sand under my toes. A strong summer wind blew off the ocean. The foamy tide lapped my calves. Bells rang, a soothing little echo. A saxophone melody materialized. Sounded like, wait, I knew this one. Something from the forties. "Sentimental Journey". Who made it famous? Right. Doris Day and the Les Brown band. I smelled marshmallows. No, I really did. I turned around. Down the shoreline, I detected a flicker. An irresistible flickering. Like a magnet, it propelled me. I blinked my eyes at a campfire. And there he was.  Buy Amazon Kindle Buy eBook at Smashwords  

Houseguest

 
This essay won third place for Nonfiction in the 2002 Mid-Atlantic Writers Conference First Published in The Writers Post Journal December 2004 Houseguest

Do you have an e-pal across the world that you've "known" for years? Ever wonder what it would be like if you met one day, face-to-face? From someone who's been there, I implore of you, dont! Wendy and I had great fun over the years, bantering on a Bee Gees fan emailing loop. She was such a fun girl. When she said she was coming to visit for three weeks, my family met the REAL Wendy.

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Old Folks Joke #5

From my witty Brother-in-Law, John
Couple in their nineties are both having problems remembering things. During a checkup, the doctor tells them that they're physically okay, but they might want to start writing things down to help them remember ..



Later that night, while watching TV, the old man gets up from his chair. 'Want anything while I'm in the kitchen?' he asks.



'Will you get me a bowl of ice cream?'



'Sure..'



'Don't you think you should write it down so you can remember it?' she asks.



'No, I can remember it.'



'Well, I'd like some strawberries on top, too. Maybe you should write it down, so not to forget it?'



He says, 'I can remember that. You want a bowl of ice cream with strawberries.'



'I'd also like whipped cream. I'm certain you'll forget that, write it down?' she asks.



Irritated, he says, 'I don't need to write it down, I can remember it! Ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream - I got it, for goodness sake!'



Then he toddles into the kitchen. After about 20 minutes, The old man returns from the kitchen and hands his wife a plate of bacon and eggs.. She stares at the plate for a moment.



'Where's my toast ?'
 

Review: Hope and Prey

Hope and Prey by Sharon Horton

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I was sucked right in when I opened this Kindle. The gripping first scene in the dark had me before even the title page. Excellent suspense. Palpable tension. Believable romance.

A great romantic suspense!



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Review: Finger Lickin' Fifteen

Finger Lickin' Fifteen by Janet Evanovich

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


When Bail Skip Enforcer Stephanie Plum's BFF, Lula, witnesses a celebrity chef getting his head chopped off with a meat cleaver by a giggling maniac, she is his next target. Firebombs, wild west gun slinging, and cars blowing up en mass. Stephanie and her on again/off again boyfriend, Morelli the cop, is off. Fine by me, because she is working and living with Ranger, the dark, mysterious bad boy whom you don't question. I've always been a Ranger fan, not keen on cops.

A funny read with cute twists.



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Excerpt: Immaculate Deception Chapter Two

 Excerpt from Immaculate DeceptionBy Sherry Morris
This book won the Romantic Times Book Reviews Magazine Reviewers Choice Award for 2007 Best Small Press Paranormal Romance Chapter Two
At that very instant, I felt a force field enveloping me. The best way I can describe it would be a tingling sensation with a mix of adrenaline, endorphins, laughter, inebriation and orgasm. It started at the top of my head and then split down both sides, wrapping my body in a glorious package. What was going on? I didn't even believe in destiny. So how come I was so sure something wonderful was about to happen? I smiled. I smiled so hard my face hurt. I couldn't help it. I felt like a sublime dumbstruck ingénue. His grin answered mine, radiating a sense of total approval. For the first time in my life, I wasn't concerned about my physical shortcomings. I sized him up. He was wearing a gray overcoat, matching fedora, nice trousers and shoes. The man was holding a paper sack and was looking at me looking him over. He eyed me up and down, his gaze lingering in all the usual spots. It had been so long since anyone had leered at me. And his grin just grew larger. He seemed to genuinely like what he saw. And so did I. Finally the stranger spoke, in a low gentle voice, with a hint of an English accent. "Hello, Cinderella. Do you know me?" "Should I? I mean…I feel like I've dreamed you into life." I sighed. "Something like that." "Do you know me?" I asked, searching his face, not knowing whether to hope he did or hope he didn't. "Of course." I stuttered, "Who are you?" In the sweetest, knowingest voice I'd ever heard, he said, "I'm your mate. Your soul mate across history." He took my hand into his and kissed it. I thought I was going to swoon. I felt like I'd yearned for this moment all my life. I didn't know what to expect but he was so much more than I expected. I was overwhelmed. Wait. This guy must be a nut. What exactly did he mean he was my soul mate across history? That was the most preposterous come-on line I'd ever heard. My mate? Did he mean in a sexual way? Well, not that I minded. He was very hot. For some reason I couldn't explain, I wanted to believe him. My mate…across history. Did that mean I was born into the wrong generation? Was that why I was so different from the rest of my family? I felt a very strong connection coming from him. A warm and fuzzy feeling that rubbed me in just the right places. He stuck his hand inside of the paper bag and pulled out a hamburger. "Hungry, Donna?"  "Yes." I grabbed the burger, removed the patty from the bun and gobbled just the meat. "Here, have another." He handed me a second small hot burger and snatched the empty buns from me. Tearing them into tiny pieces, he lined the bread on the bridge railing. He plucked a third burger from the bag and joined me in snacking. "What are you doing out on such a treacherous night, Cinderella?" I thought about it for a while. I remembered trying on Momma's fur coat and looking at her pictures. I wondered where she was. I had been waiting for her at her house. Perry had said that he had locked her up in a mental hospital and that she had escaped and killed Daddy. Damn him. Poor Momma. I had to find her. "I'm looking for my mother, Mrs. Payne." Wait, silly. I'm dreaming in 1945. "Um, maybe you know her by Chloe Lambert?" "Right. Girl Secret Service agent. Works over at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing." This was getting really weird. Maybe I'd lost my mind, maybe I'd fractured my skull during the accident. I had to be dreaming. But in my dream, I could actually taste the ketchup. Grease was dripping down the side of my face. What a burger! This guy was still staring at me. He was so cute. My stomach started fluttering. What color hair would he have under that hat? He interrupted my thoughts. "So would you like me to accompany you?" "Sure, why not. Where're we off to?" "I thought you're looking for your mum?" A pair of fat ravens landed on the railing and pecked at the bread. I began shivering. Snowflakes dropped down in big swirls. They spun around in the glow of the gas lamps. "Button up your frock, love. You shouldn't be gadding about…um, nude…in this kind of weather." "Nude?" I felt the snow melting on my tummy. Oh my gosh, I'm not wearing anything under this fur coat! My numb fingers fought to shove the silk buttons through the loops. Great, just great. Now he's seen the finer parts of my anatomy, all bandaged and bruised. Wait a minute, where is the new dressing I taped on the wound? I began rubbing my shoulder and chest. He said, "Need any help?" I looked at him. "What?" I had smooth, completely healed skin. No scar. I buttoned the top button. He winked and threw the hamburger wrappers and sack in a wire trash bin. He playfully tipped the brim of his fedora and offered me his arm. I entwined mine and we began walking, back toward Washington. Wait a minute. I stopped. I was stumble-galloping. "How'd you lose a heel?" he asked me.  "Don't know." I turned around and saw the heel sticking out of the grate in the sidewalk. "I guess it broke off." "Well, we'll not get far like this." Before I could process the situation, he hoisted me off the ground and over his shoulder. My hair flopped down. All I could see was his backside and the cobblestone sidewalk. "Hey, what's with the caveman carry?" I asked. The blood rushing to my head felt kind of nice. I got a little high. My mate laughed in a low deep voice. "Fireman's carry, love." "Oh." I burped. And blushed. What am I doing embarrassing myself in my own darned dream? Leave it to me. "What'd you say?" "I didn't say anything, I just belched." "Oh." He started patting my rear end. "Hey!" "Sorry, I thought you needed to be burped." He laughed. So did I. This apparition was a fun boy. The blood rushed out of my arms. I was hanging on to the hem of his overcoat. Felt itchy, like wool. I flailed my right arm up and swatted his fedora off. "Hey, what did you go and do that for?" He stopped and set me down. I brushed the hair from my face. "You're a blond." I smiled. "And so are you." "I like your flat-top haircut." "I like your curly-top haircut." "Well, then it's settled. We are blond soul mates through history. Come on. Let's go and find my mother." The wind picked up. And dream boy picked me back up. This guy was strong. Couldn't wait to see his muscles. Nah, with my luck, I'd wake up before I could even get a kiss in the dark. My mate walked. He set me down again. I fixed up my hair and squinted around. Washington loomed dark under a heavy cloud cover. He said, "This is it. The United States Bureau of Engraving and Printing." "Sounds boring. What do they do in there? Print up invitations to Internal Revenue Service parties or something?" "Nah, nothing that exciting. They just print new United States currency in there." "Currency? You mean dollars?" He nodded affirmatively. "Sweet. Well, thanks, let's go in and get my mother." "It's oh–one hundred hours. She doesn't work in the middle of the night." I noticed a light approaching from the center of the street. It grew brighter. I listened to the squeal of the brakes. My apparition boy had unbuttoned his overcoat. He fumbled in his left front trouser pocket. "Need any help?" I grinned. He raised his eyebrows. "Some other time, love. I'm just fishing for these." He produced two round wooden objects. "Streetcar tokens." "But they paved over the tracks decades ago…" "What?" he asked. Why would a streetcar be running after midnight? Better not scare this hunk away with boring questions. "Oh nothing." He helped me up the steps. I plopped down on the hard wooden bench right behind the driver. My mate settled next to me and slipped his arm around my shoulders. He smelled so good. Very manly, like he'd just showered with a strong refreshing deodorant soap. I leaned my head on his shoulder and cuddled right up. I was so tired. * * * * *Great. Now I heard the "Donna" song, my nickname song, resonating through the trolley car. I covered my ears. I didn't want this extraordinarily dreamy man to hear it. If he would call me anything, then not "Oh-Donna". A loud wooden thump woke me. I reluctantly opened my eyes. Darn it, I saw the lone light bulb with the brown shoestring pull. My dream was over. I let out a big disappointed sigh. Didn't get to kiss him. I was back in the real world and my reality sucked. I heard voices out in the rec room. It sounded like Spanish. Spanish…and…Tammy. Just great. I sat up. "Owww!" My pain rushed back with fury. The closet door flew open. My sister asked, "What're you doing…lurking back in there? Perry said you found the body. What, did ya spend the night in the closet? You're so freaky, Oh-Donna." "Nice to see you again too, Sis." I looked at her. Tammy was about ninety-five pounds of tawny-complected toned muscle, makeup and satiny jet-black hair. Implants and Botox in just the right places. She really was gorgeous…on the outside. "What time is it? And what day is it?" Tammy screwed her little forehead up and said, "It's after five p.m. on Tuesday. You look like crap. What happened to your face? Cut yourself shaving? Isn't that Mom's blouse? And what's with the pants? Retro orderly? Ya look like a bag lady, Oh-Donna." I plodded past her into the rec room. Two men were occupied setting up the Dracula box. Daddy's coffin. Daddy's dead body was in there. Heat rose from my feet, up my legs, through my torso and into my face. Oh no. I knew this sensation. The room commenced spinning. My stomach went along for the ride. Shouldn't have had those hamburgers. Wait a minute, that was just a dream. I didn't have anything in my stomach to throw up. I tried swallowing it down. I was so hot. Everything around me was swirling and then everything went dark. I came to, with cold water dripping off my face where Tammy had evidently thrown it. She hovered over me with a tea-stained floral plastic tumbler. I wiped my palm across my face. "Why didn't you just shove my head in the toilet?" "Get up, Oh-Donna. Why'd you faint? You always were the little sissy-girl. I know you can't be pregnant." She shot a look toward the Latino men as if to humiliate me. "You need to vacuum upstairs and dust before the food gets here." I sat up, trying to sling water droplets at Tammy. "I can't believe you're having an Irish wake… And what's Daddy doing here? Did they finish embalming him that quick?" "Embalming costs money." I was so confused. "But-but didn't the coroner order an autopsy?" "He was old, it was his time to go." "But-but Perry made accusations about foul play. He said the police were coming to process the scene. Did they? If so, the coroner would perform a postmortem exam and prove Perry wrong. Was Daddy autopsied?" "I don't know anything about a police investigation. I haven't seen or talked to any cops. And you know good and well that we Paynes do not believe in autopsies." If no autopsy had been performed and the body had been released to the family, then quite obviously the authorities thought he died of natural causes. "Then you agree there was no crime. Daddy just had a heart attack." "Whatever. He's dead." I lurched up, gritting my teeth on the pain. The men were gone. I shuddered and turned my back to the coffin. Tammy sashayed over to it. I hated that thing. It basically terrified me. I heard a creaky squeak as she opened the lid. "Look at what a good job I did on his makeup." "No!" I bolted upstairs. My sister chased me, laughing. Tammy said, "I'm sorry, hon. I know you were his favorite." I was his favorite? Excuse me, but you are the one he gushed over, going on and on about all of your great achievements, how you did so and so's makeup in the blockbuster movie du jour. And then after you switched careers, he'd gossip about Senator so and so's abs you six-packed. Tammy said, "The viewing is from seven until nine. You need to get the place spiffed up before the mourners arrive. And change your clothes, huh?" "But-but the attendants left. They can't legally leave the body." The doorbell rang. Tammy sailed down the three red-carpeted steps to the landing. She turned to me and said, "Of course not. Those were plumbers working on Mrs. Meddlestein's place. I had them set up the Dracula box for me. Daddy's not actually inside but the mourners won't know. It'll save us money. Let me and Perry know how the viewing went." Tammy opened the front door. A fast food deliveryman from Kentucky Fried Chicken gripped a large cardboard box. He had an orange turban, a long gray beard with a handlebar moustache and black basset hound eyes. Tammy told him, "Take the food downstairs. The lady up over there will pay you." Then she wiggled past him. Grinning with bright yellow jumbled teeth, he turned his head and leered at my sister. All right, that's enough. I stumbled down the steps and grabbed a large side of mashed potatoes from the box. I lobbed it at Tammy. Whoo hoo! Potatoed her right in her pretty black ponytail. She screamed. Who was the sissy-girl now? I shoved back inside and slammed the door in the poor delivery guy's face. Okay, that wasn't nice. I reached back through the wrought iron railing and felt around inside my orange plastic hospital goody bag. I fished out a five. I opened the door and handed it to the guy. "Sorry, but I didn't order this food. Here's for your trouble." He insisted, "You must pay!" "Take it up with Mrs. Potato Head." I shut the door and locked it. I slumped down on the slate landing. My anger gave way to a tirade of tears. Daddy, oh Daddy… I love you. Why now? Why did you do this to me? I know you didn't love me the way you loved Perry and Tammy. But that's okay. I still loved you. I tried to come and referee the fight you had with Momma on Thursday. But I was in an accident and I couldn't get to you any sooner than I did. I don't even know what really happened. Did Momma really turn that deep freezer over on you? Is that what killed you or was it your heart? Momma wouldn't do that, would she? Where is Momma? Oh Momma, come and hug me and make it all better. Momma, please Momma? The doorbell forced me to my knees. I peeked through the waist-high peephole. Daddy had drilled it for me when we moved in, so I could see through it. I was about five or six years old at the time and frequently left home alone. Perry was a teenager, off on his own fun. Tammy had a special babysitter she went to, called Mommy Kay. There was a cop outside. Perry's technician probably. Bet he'd ask me more unpleasant questions about Daddy and Momma, investigate the crime scene and all that stuff. I was so tired. I didn't want to deal with any more questions right now. I was in no shape to blindly defend Momma though I had no doubt she was innocent. There was no murder scene here, therefore no evidence that needed processing. I fled down the basement stairs. The Dracula box momentarily stunned me. I hid in the walk-in closet. No more Perry, no more Tammy. I just wanted to be left alone for a change. I could still hear the cop pounding on the front door. Just go and give me some space, will ya? I breathed with my mouth open in the dark mustiness. My fingers were greasy from handling the potatoes. I laughed, enjoying the mental picture. Should've thrown the hot brown gravy too. Hmm, no more knocking or ringing. I swatted in the dark and felt the soft shoestring. I yanked the light on. Looking around, I realized Momma's sable coat was missing. I knew I had been wearing it when I fell asleep. I opened the black steamer trunk again. After I'd rifled through layers of oddities, no coat materialized. So I opened the closet door and peeked into the rec room. Spotting the coffin, I decided to stay put. This was just too creepy. Surreal, sad and sickening. Oh my God, Momma is in Saint Christopher's Mental Hospital! I have to get her out. And if she really had been committed to the nut house, she would still be there because she didn't escape and murder Daddy, because he wasn't murdered. I couldn't believe that Perry tossed his own mother into a mental institution. Well, okay, so his real mother was the slightly famous movie actress from the forties and fifties, Vera Blandings, but my mother had raised him lovingly as her own. She worked so hard, trying to do right by that boy. No, Momma hadn't played opposite Cary Grant in a Hitchcock flick, like Vera Blandings had, but she was a darned good woman. Wait a minute, I shouldn't be so hard on Perry. He was an orphan now. His mother Vera had been murdered when he was just a teenager and now our daddy had passed on too. Maybe he wasn't thinking straight in his grief and that's why he accused Momma of murder. But that was no excuse for putting Momma away. And what was that stupid story of his, what happened on Thursday, when Daddy called me and said Momma was trying to kill him? Something about a bent cane. And then, four days later, I found Daddy pinned underneath a deep freezer. His deep freezer. And it wasn't that big. Just about four feet all ways, tall, wide and deep. A small chest-type freezer. Heavy though. It had a brown paneling finish, to match the paneled basement. Daddy had it plugged in at the end of the hallway. He was always putting food in there while Momma slept, telling me that she had the Alzheimer's disease, buying too much. She didn't have Alzheimer's. She just never accepted that her nest was empty. She always bought enough to feed a family of five. If anyone had a mental problem, it was Daddy. I strongly suspected he was a pathological liar. I looked up the definition once. It was a synonym for sociopath. Calling him a liar to myself was one thing. I would never believe my father was a sociopath though. That word was frightening. Every time I came to visit, he'd always call me downstairs and try to load me up with bags of frozen lettuce, shredded cheese and meat that was three years past the "best if used by" date. Frozen lettuce. The salad bowl incident. What a nightmare. Momma had taken her annual Palm Springs spa trip. She'd been treating herself to this yearly respite the same week every year for as long as I could remember. The first week in August. The day after she returned, I received a frantic call from Daddy. Asking me if I had the salad bowl. Momma accused Daddy of giving away her things to his girlfriend while she was gone. Nonagenarian Daddy had a girlfriend? What was Momma thinking? And what was the girlfriend thinking if she in fact existed? Momma threw him out, had the locks changed and burned his Army discharge papers, his medical license and his autographed photo of Marilyn Monroe. Perry took him in for a night and then dumped Daddy on my front stoop. Daddy followed me around, crying and telling horribly twisted secrets of Momma's past, which I didn't want to hear and didn't believe. Blackmail, booze, espionage, counterfeiting, crimes against nature, you name it. He was un-shut-up-able. I couldn't stand the unrelenting emotional devastation he forced upon me. Trying once again to manipulate me into doing whatever master scheme he had in mind. I stuck him on a plane to California, where some of his people lived. And I felt immediate guilt. He was my father after all. I was duty-bound to love him no matter what. I kept thinking that if I loved him long enough, hard enough, he would someday realize that I was a good girl and be proud of me and love me the way he doted on Tammy and Perry. Why didn't Daddy love me? He made the rounds of his siblings in California. His youngest brother Howard finally had enough and flew Daddy back home. Momma let him back in. But wouldn't give him a key. I heard music. The melody of Dean Martin's sixties hit "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime". Yeah, I guess they did. But why in the world did Chloe Lambert marry Dr. Nathan Payne? They bickered my whole life. Had separate bedrooms too. I never witnessed them kissing, not once. And how come they would never reveal the exact year they got married? I knew their anniversary was February twenty-ninth but what year? Leap day… And why did they adopt Tammy? I was still a baby when they brought Tammy into our home. She was only fourteen months older than me. What, were they disappointed in me? The music was getting louder. And why did Tammy and Perry get everything they asked for, the never-grateful children that they were? And then there was me, their only biological child together. Or wasn't I? If I were to believe any of Daddy's salacious whispers, Momma had had affairs with Poppa San at the Chinese restaurant, the entire gang of Frank Sinatra's "Rat Pack", including Sammy Davis Jr., the "Negro" as Daddy called him, and even President John F. Kennedy when she was working in the White House. And lest I forget his latest mind game, telling me Momma wasn't my real mother. As if I could be the natural daughter of a movie star who had died before I was born. Probably Daddy's lifelong fascination with Marilyn Monroe had taken over his final moments… No, he was just trying to play one last trick on me. I ran my fingers over my face then shook my head. Daddy loved telling stories about when he met Marilyn. His first wife Vera had been cast together with her in a movie. Bus Stop? No, maybe it was How To Marry a Millionaire? Hey, perhaps I was JFK and MM's love child. That's why I never even received a pittance, I would be coming into my inheritance one of these days. I giggled. Oh it felt good to laugh, punch-drunk on emotion. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~The music was different now. Dooley Wilson's song "As Time Goes By" from the forties movie Casablanca. Where was it coming from? I stumbled around the corner and under the stairs. I felt the wind picking up. Sucking me in. All I could see was a beautiful shade of green. Dark Georgetown green, nearly black. The irresistible forward momentum propelled me into a tunnel. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I was walking up a wooden ramp with handrails on both sides. I tugged open a door and stepped inside a huge closet full of canned tuna, onions, potatoes, flour, sugar and Maxwell House coffee. A pantry. I opened another door. That fella from my dream was seated at a butcher-block counter. I was so happy to see him again. This was the first time I dreamed about the same thing twice. Talk about a dream lover. Perhaps I'd get a chance to kiss him in this one. I said, "Hey you, come over here and step right into my dream again." Grinning, my soul mate hopped off the wooden stool and buttoned his crisp black tuxedo jacket. "I've been waiting for you, Cinderella." My stomach growled. I scanned the huge industrial kitchen. Uniformed cooks, waiters and waitresses—or were they butlers and maids?—bustled around. The place really sizzled. And it smelled heavenly. I closed my eyes and sniffed roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon and baked Alaska. All right, so baked Alaska had no real aroma, it was just ice cream covered in meringue, but hey, it was my dream. "Come on, love, let's check your coat." "Huh?" I glanced down at the sable coat I was wearing. Good, it turned up. Momma would kill me if I lost her coat. He grasped my arm and escorted me outside. A vivid full moon illuminated the night. Shimmering stars mesmerized me. We strolled on a massive brick driveway and into the porticoed entrance of the White House. Cars dropped people at the steps. A line formed as invitations were verified. He scooted me around the queue. The invitation checkers nodded to my mate. We sauntered right past them all. Oh the marble…the grand staircase…the chandeliers. Just like I'd imagined. We meandered to the cloakroom. Dream boy unbuttoned my coat. Hey, naked at the White House? What the heck, this was my dream. Our eyes locked as his long fingers tenderly undid each button. I shivered as he softly brushed my bare shoulders while removing the frock. He handed it to the coat check girl. My soul mate leaned down and whispered, "Breathtaking, Donna." I squeezed my eyes shut and then open, before nervously checking to see if I was wearing anything. I heaved a sigh of relief upon the sight of my powder blue taffeta ball gown. Strapless, low-necked and cinched nicely at the waist and then full and sassy to the floor. I kicked out one foot to see a sparkly silver pump. I kicked the other foot out. Good, two shoes, both had heels and they matched. He presented me with a corsage, white baby roses around a small blue carnation. I allowed him to pin it on me. He smelled really good. Soap. I heard his breathing deepen as he slid one finger inside my cleavage in order to fasten the big teardrop-shaped pearl-headed pin. I exhaled. He smiled and offered his arm. We traipsed into the gala dining room. Waiters scurried about, fussing with place settings and floral arrangements. "Hungry, love?" my mate whispered in my ear. "Sure. Got any hamburgers?" "Not tonight. Do you like shrimp?" "Yes, I adore shrimp." He grabbed a silver serving tray from a young African American waitress. She said, "Agent, these are for the guests." "Katherine, I'm escorting Miss Donna tonight and she needs nourishment." Katherine looked at me and rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Miss Donna. He's always snatchin' goodies. Would you be wantin' some champagne to wash them down with? How about a tray of cheeses and crackers too?" "No crackers, I'm on a low-carb diet." "What's a low-carb diet?" Katherine asked. My mate said, "She eats meat." Sure I ate meat. Wouldn't mind eating some of his right now. I blushed. Katherine's eyes bulged. "I'll be back with some drinks and cheeses. Why don't you all make yourselves comfy up in the second-floor gathering area?" My mate laughed and watched the pretty girl walk away. I felt a ping of jealousy. He had said he was my mate. Did that mean literally man-woman mating or did I misinterpret and he meant mate as in friend, pal? He carried the tray of jumbo shrimp and escorted me to the elevator. We nibbled while being transported to the second floor. "Katherine-the-maid called you Agent. Are you?" "Yes." "What kind of agent? Secret agent, IRS agent, ticket agent, real estate agent, talent agent or literary agent?" Dream boy shoved a big chilled shrimp between my lips and said in an oh-so-sexy whisper, "Secret agent, at your service, sweetheart." Gosh, that whisper sent down shivers down my spine. He brushed the hair back from my ear first and I nearly squealed in anticipation of his lips touching my skin. The elevator doors opened to an informal gathering area, with a big Palladian window at the end of a hallway. "The family living quarters are right through that door." He gestured with his hand. He had long, strong fingers. No rings. No telltale tan line either. Good. "Oh we should go." I turned to get back on the elevator but the doors had shut. I tried to find a button to push. "Relax, it's okay, I work here." "But…" I couldn't think of any reason why we needed to leave, even though I felt like there should be one. I followed my mate over to an oval mahogany coffee table, where he placed the tray. He motioned for me to sit on a red velvet sofa. I did. He switched on a large radio and tuned in a station. The host announced the next song, "Technicolor Dreams" by the Hugh Gibb orchestra. Dream boy reached for my hand. I stood and he led me out to the center of the hallway. He slid one hand around my waist and squeezed my hand with his other one. We floated around to the movie musical song. I felt like Ginger Rogers in one of those nineteen-forties movies. I loved dancing and somehow tonight I seemed proficient at it. He was an amazing partner. I couldn't help giggling when he dipped me. The song ended. Dream boy kept swaying as the station break came on. He asked, "Where have you been all my life?" Yes, it was just a clichéd pick-up line like in the movies. But he made it sound so real. I couldn't think of anything to say in response. I focused on his full lips. They inched down closer to mine. Closer… Shoot. I felt eyes watching me. Katherine cleared her throat. "Cheeses without crackers, deviled eggs and a popped bottle of champagne are on the table." She handed us each a bubbly-filled glass. "It taste like duck water but they don't give Miz Stoneburner a good 'nuff budget. Call the kitchen if you be needin' another bottle." My man told her, "Thanks, doll." Katherine departed in the elevator. He smiled at me and raised his glass. "May our dreams always be in Technicolor." We clinked glasses and intertwined our arms. As I brought the goblet to my lips in slow motion, a red rubber playground ball knocked it out of my hand. He said, "Play dead! I'll be right back. Don't you move now." I dropped to the floor, curled into the fetal position and covered my head. People scurried around, red balls flying. I peeked to see Vera Blandings run past me, propelling a rolling desk chair with a top hat on the seat. The hat appeared to be full of eggs. Vera Blandings? Daddy's first wife, Perry's biological momma and Cary Grant's co-star in Hitchcock's classic Mother May I? Why was I dreaming about her? I stayed as still as I could but I developed a cramp in my foot and had to take off one shoe. I glanced around, everything appeared to have calmed down and I was alone. I shook my foot like a dog. "All clear. The drill was successful." My secret agent man knelt down and grasped my stockinged foot. He drew both of his thumbs up and down the middle bottom. It felt so good it was amazing I didn't come. He read my face and appeared very pleased with himself. "There, does that feel better?" "Yes…" I cooed. As he slipped my sparkly silver shoe back on, I noticed the opaque stockings. I screwed my face up. They weren't sexy and didn't fit so well. Tight at the ankles. And I didn't have thick ankles. "What's wrong, love?" "The stockings. I don't like 'em. How come they aren't silk or even nylon?" "Nylon? They don't make 'em anymore. All nylon is being sewn into parachutes for the war." Oh right, I was dreaming in the forties, World War Two and all that stuff. My mate helped me up. "Did you say something about a drill?" "Yes, all White House employees practice evacuating the President in case of attack. There have been recent credible threats… Um, I won't elaborate." "Did I just see Vera Blandings, the movie star, run through here pushing a hat full of eggs on a rolling chair?" "Probably. Movie star? No. Vera is presently President Roosevelt's personal secretary." "But she's my daddy's first wife. And my half-brother Perry's mother." "Not at this moment in time." Dream boy popped a deviled egg in his mouth. "Sit down. Eat." I did. The cheese tray was beautifully arranged. Waffle-cut cheddar, small discs of Gouda and tiny triangles of Swiss. The White House, the food, this great guy… This dream really couldn't get much better. I was having more fun than I ever remembered in my real life. I dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce and devoured it. I washed it down with champagne. "President Roosevelt? Oh of course, that makes sense now. The hat with the eggs in it represents the President, she has to be careful that it doesn't fall off and he doesn't get hurt. And the chair is because of his polio." He nodded to my cleavage. Normally I'd be mock offended but after all, this was my mate. Dream boy kept topping up my champagne. "You're trying to get me drunk, aren't you?" He drained the last drop from the bottle and licked the green glass rim provocatively. "I assure you, Cinderella, my intentions are honorable." "Drat." We both laughed. I set my ever-filled glass on the coffee table. I cocked my head, smiled at him and asked, "What's your name?" He looked as though he was trying to suppress a grin. The resulting expression was adorable. "Well?" "I told you, I'm your soul mate." I hiccupped and patted my lips. I really was in no shape for metaphysical discussions. "Yeah, I know. My soul mate across history. Whatever that is. Let's just keep it simple to begin with, handsome. So come on now, what is my soul mate's name?" "Jones." "Well, Mr. Jones, I am very pleased to meet you. Now what's your first name?" "I'm not at liberty to reveal it…at this point in time, love." I laughed and shook my head. As I exhaled, I sighed. "Okay, I'll play along. Jones is a fine, strong name. My roommate's name is Jones." "Is it now?" he grimaced. I nodded. "I take that as a very good sign that we will get along famously, you and I. Why are you suddenly sullen? My roommate is a woman, Ashley Jones. I'm not living with a man, for heaven's sake. As a matter of fact we haven't even met face-to-face yet, we have different schedules." "No, love, I am not jealous of your roommate. It's just… We need to enjoy every moment we have together." "So smile." He did. I stood up. "Leaving so soon, love?" "Huh? Oh no, I don't want to leave. Not at all. Just need to use the necessary room." "The closest toilet is through that doorway and make a left." He pointed to where he'd told me the private family living quarters were. "I can't go in there."  "Sure you can, love. Follow me." And so I did. Buy eBook at SmashwordsBuy Amazon Kindle

Review: Never Give Up!: Relentless Determination to Overcome Life's Challenges

Never Give Up!: Relentless Determination to Overcome Life's Challenges by Joyce Meyer

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Joyce Meyer writes like she preaches: with an open mouth and an open heart. She'll give you plenty of ah-ha! moments, and kick you into motion. If you've given up on your dreams, they'll never come true. You must believe, must remain positive, and must be disciplined to put in the work to make them happen. You cannot give God deadlines. His clock is not the same as yours. When it's time for your reward, he will provide.

I truly recommend this book to writers everywhere. Don't let the rejections in this totally subjective business wear you down. It's not ability, it's availability. And she who quits is no longer available. So press in, press on and press through.

Don't give up!



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Save Time! Buy Stamps Online

I love using the unique first class stamps the Post Office produces every year. I don't like waiting in line at my local branch. They have reduced staff to one employee and it seems nobody goes in person to the Post Office unless they have issues. Then it's disappointing to find their selection of stamps is severely limited, sometimes just to the Forever stamps I could have picked up at the grocery store.

Friday I ordered the Sunday Funny stamps and the Hawaiian Rain Forest stamps online. My local branch never had any when I requested them in person. There was a total $1 handling charge to mail both of  them to my house. Very fair, considering the price of gasoline and my time. They arrived today. I highly recommend buying U.S. postage stamps online.

Hundred Dollar Bill

Hundred Dollar Bill--from Ellora's Cave Blush
The year is 1945. Roosevelt is President. World War II is coming to a head. Thieves, spies and other wise guys are working everywhere…including in branches of the U.S. government.

Chloe Lambert is a sweet little thing whom mothers love to love and sailors love to pinch. She's also a sharp-tongued Secret Service agent—a Secret Service agent who has been framed for murder by a band of counterfeiters.

Mike Taurus, also an agent, is tough as nails, cool as ice and devilishly handsome. He also has a past with Chloe. As the two of them make a mad dash from Washington, D.C. to Miami Beach, they'll stop at nothing to solve this monumental caper. It's a made-for-the-movies adventure that Alfred Hitchcock could only wish he'd dreamed up himself! READ Excerpt |  
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Old Folks Joke #4

From my witty Brother-in-Law, John
Hospital regulations require a wheel chair for patients being discharged. However, while working as a student nurse, I found one elderly gentleman already dressed and sitting on the bed with a suitcase at his feet, who insisted he didn't need my help to leave the hospital.



After a chat about rules being rules, he reluctantly let me wheel him to the elevator.



On the way down I asked him if his wife was meeting him.



'I don't know,' he said. 'She's still upstairs in the bathroom changing out of her hospital gown.'