Ute Carbone's Blog, page 5

J is for Jar #A-Z Writing Challenge

In the first, and title, story of The Lilac Hour, Sara finds herself having an amazing dream world, so real that she wonders if it is a dream at all 

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 figure I must still be dreaming. I have had dreams where I knew I was asleep, and I think that this is one of those. Though I have never had a dream with such clarity—I can feel the cool spring air wafting through the window against my skin.
I go out to the back porch to drink in the spring air. There, in a jar filled with water, are the lilac shoots Delilah had given me right after I married. They were gangly things, those shoots, just twigs but they had developed strong roots—you could see them magnified under the glass jar. I touch the water. Wet. Well, of course it is. I have never felt wet in a dream before.
I have a notion to plant those shoots, so I grab the garden trowel—right from where it always hangs on the hook attached to the side of the porch—and I take the shoots out to the back yard. I know the exact spot down near the fence. The spot is bare, as by now I figured it would be. I remember planting those shoots there years ago. They had grown up into an enormous bush, so tall and full that the blossoms bend the branches near to double when the rain comes.
I dig a hole deep enough for the soil to cover the roots. The earth feels cool and damp—rich with the promise of growth. I plant the shoot carefully, thinking the whole time how right it is I do this, that my dreaming sojourn into the past ought to be commemorated with a touch of the future.
I should wake up soon, I think as I clap the dirt from my hands. I should wake up. I go back into the kitchen and wash in the cool spring water from the well. I cup my hand and take a sip—the water is as sweet as it ever was—and I feel sorry again that the old well, dried out. The water never tasted like this. I said so to Maggie, who said back that it was foolishness, that water is water and it all tastes the same.
Thinking of Maggie makes me think of waking again. She will be worried if it has gotten dark. Here inside my dream, it is still the lilac hour; time hasn’t moved an iota past it. I want to stay longer, but I hate to make her fret. So I pinch myself, a bright hard pinch that makes me say “ouch” right out loud. Nothing happens. I am still standing in my old kitchen, only now I have a bright red mark just above my wrist.

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I is for Ice Cream #A-Z Challenge

Ice Cream plays a big role in Afterglow, so much so that it's mentioned on the cover. And when things go sideways, what better way to have a pity party than with eight pints of Ben and Jerry's finest flavors? That's what India, her daughter Allie, and best friend Eva decide to do.

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​“This party needs Oreos,” Eva said. She’d pulled into her drive, dressed in red with heels to match, just after we returned from our Ben and Jerry’s run. We lined the pints up on the counter like ducks in a shooting gallery.
“Got those,” I told her, pulling the cookies from the bottom of the bag.
“Also martinis,” Eva said.
“Can you have martinis with ice cream?” Allie asked.
“Of course, darling. martinis go with anything.”
I pulled Oreos from the sleeve and passed one to Eva. “You’re back early.”
“It’s over,” she said. “You’ve timed your pity party perfectly.”
Eva made martinis and I got spoons, one for each flavor.
“Tell the truth,” Eva asked, handing me a drink, “Has he always been a bore or did he get zapped by the quotidian fairy while I wasn’t watching?”
“Honest truth?” I asked, sipping the near-overflow from the wide-rimmed glass. I glanced at Allie, who looked up from sampling Cherry Garcia and shrugged. I didn’t want to say anything I’d regret.
“Boring, right?” Eva said into the silence. “I knew it. I knew it when he said he hated the shoe idea.”
“He said that he hated it?” Allie asked.
“He didn’t say hated, exactly. I outlined it for him, all the stuff your mother and Mitch and I talked about. Five thousand shoes, five thousand flowers. Which, by the by, is a great slogan. He pursed
his lips and said it was an interesting idea.”
“Interesting idea, hah!” Allie said.
"It’s a really dumb idea,” I said
“It’s a brilliant idea, Mom.”
“She’s right, India. The man can’t tell a brilliant idea from a lost boy. All he ever talks about is the Battle of the Bulge. And the Spanish-American War. And the invasion of Granada.”
“He was pretty awful,” I said, burying my spoon into New York Super Fudge Chunk. “The quotidian fairy conked him on the head long before you came along.”
“Why did you go out with him?” Allie asked.
“I don’t know,” Eva said. “He was available. He owned his own car. He knows how to read.”
“You need to up your standards,” Allie said.
“Yes, well. I’m not the one hosting this ice cream social.”
More A-Z Challenge More on Afterglow

H is for Historical Society #AZChallenge

In Searching for Superman, the heroine  Stephanie works in an old regional theater. Her boss, Conrad, has a mother who curates the local Historical Society Museum.   A job no one else wants and job she does with questionable ability as this scene attests: she's gotten herself trapped in the junk she's collected. Our hero, Doug, goes with Stephanie and Conrad to rescue her.  It was small wonder that Leona Finch had gotten herself trapped in the office. And a bigger wonder that it hadn’t happened sooner. As though reading his thoughts, Stephanie smiled at him as she helped pile the magazines back along the side wall. “You see why Conrad suggested shovels.”
She had a dazzler of a smile. “It’s…interesting.”
“It’s a big mess.”
Conrad had meanwhile stepped over the scattered debris and was knocking on a door at the far end of the hall. “Mother? Are you in there?”
“Where did you think I would be? Dining at Sardis?”answered a shrill voice from the other side. Doug imagined a cartoon mole, and smiled again involuntarily.
“No problemo, we’ll get you out!” Conrad sounded as though he were trying to rally himself for rescue.
“Who is this we of which you speak?”
“It’s me, Ms. Finch. Stephanie.”
“Stephanie who?”
“Stephanie Holbrook. From the theater?”
“Ah, yes, Conrad’s little helper. So nice of you to come.” If sarcasm were acid, it could have melted the blocked door. Stephanie bit her lip and shook her head. Conrad put his shoulder to the door and strained to open it. Doug came in next to him and the two of them pushed. The door budged an inch, just enough room to pass a copy of National Geographic through, then would go no further.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” came the voice from the other side. “What is taking so long?”
“Doug and I can’t budge this thing.”
“Who, for the love of all that’s holy, is Doug?”
“Doug Castleberry, ma’am. I’ve come to help.”
“Doug Castleberry, I’ve come to help,” mocked Leona. “Well, you’re not helping, are you?”
Doug had never in his life felt the urge to slug an old woman until just that minute.
“We’ll have to think of something else,” Stephanie said.
Conrad looked around, as though maybe the clutter would provide some clue as to how to solve the dilemma.
“We could go through the window.” Doug wasn’t sure where the idea had come from. Stephanie and Conrad looked at him, two sets of raised eyebrows. Doug shrugged. “Can’t go through the door
then go through the window.” He thought he’d heard it quoted somewhere. He couldn’t be sure where.
“Why not?” Stephanie was smiling at him again. God, he wanted to kiss her. Stop it, he told himself. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Can you open the window, Mother?” Conrad sounded hopeful.
“Are you joking? I would have opened it by now, don’t you think? Besides, it is freezing outside.”
It was, in point of fact, not freezing outside. It was a nearly perfect spring day with sunny skies and temperatures running into the seventies. They stepped outside and found the office window, despite Leona’s lack of confidence. On the sill perched a pile of books that stretched to mid-window.
“If we can get it open, we can move the books.” Doug felt full of good ideas.
“How can we get it open?” Stephanie asked.
“It’s not locked.” Doug pointed to the lock at the center. “So if we can get something to pry under the sill, we’re in.”
“Breaking and entering.” There was that Stephanie smile again, directed right at him. “This could be fun.”
“Oh, yeah, burglary is a blast.”
“Will a screwdriver do?” Conrad handed him the tool and shrugged. “I found it among the artifacts on the stairs. Thought it might come in handy.”
“You have burgled before.” Doug took the proffered screwdriver.
“Nope. First time, believe it or not.” Conrad studied the window. “How do you propose we get up there?” The sill was about a foot over their heads.
“Easy peezy lemon squeezy,” said Stephanie. “Get me up on Doug’s shoulders and I’ll do the deed.”
“Okay.” Doug squatted and Stephanie climbed onto his shoulders like they were getting ready to play a round of Marco Polo.
Doug had to admit he kind of liked the idea of playing Marco Polo with Stephanie.
“Steady.” Conrad held out his arm as Doug stood up and handed Stephanie the screwdriver.
“A little closer,” she said and Doug sidled as close as he could to the building while holding tight to Stephanie’s legs. Not a bad sensation, holding Stephanie’s legs. Stop it, he told himself.
Stephanie leaned forward and wedged the screwdriver between the pane and the sill. She pushed and prodded. “It’s not budging.”
“Try again,” Conrad said.
Stephanie prodded again, leaning forward so Doug had to lean forward, too. “One, two, three. Oh, shit!” Stephanie waggled around, making Doug waggle until they both toppled into a nearby
juniper bush.
“You okay?” Doug asked. To his relief, Stephanie began to laugh, kicking her head back in a loud unladylike guffaw.
“I’m great. You?” she managed.
Doug hadn’t seen this laughing Stephanie. He liked her a whole lot. “Terrific. We suck as burglars.”
“You can’t give up.” Conrad came over to give them a hand out of the bush. “We’re so close.”
“Sorry, Conrad, but I can’t budge that window anymore than you could budge the door.”
Conrad turned to Doug. “All righty, then. What’s plan C?”
“There is no plan C.”
“There has to be a plan C. We can’t leave Mother trapped. She’s libel to chew off her arm.”
“I think we have to call in the professionals.” Doug got out his cell phone.
“Mother will never forgive me. She may never speak with me again.”
“If I call, will she still speak with me?” Stephanie lifted her brows.
“Doubtful.”
“Hand me the phone.”
More A-Z Challenge More on Searching for Superman

G is for Goat #A-Z Challenge

In the novella A Whisper of Time,  Gwen is searching for a new life. She buys a farmhouse tucked into the Green Mountains of Vermont sight unseen. When she arrives at her new home, she finds she's bought a whole lot more than just a house.
​  ​I parked the bug next to an ancient brown Plymouth that looked as though it had been restored. Vera was waiting on the front porch, a bottle of champagne in one hand. She was quite the statement- blonde hair turned into a flip, a pair of flowered Capri pants. Very retro.
“Welcome home!” she said, handing me the bottle. She fished into her purse and brought out a set of keys. “You are going to love it here.”
Tyrone was already sniffing the porch rail and Miss Kitty had scooted under the porch the minute I’d opened the VW’s door.
“This is Tyrone.” I had to introduce him once he began sniffing Vera. “Miss Kitty has made herself scarce. I hope she’s okay under there.”
Vera chuckled and gave Tyrone’s ears a scratch, making her a friend for life. “I’m sure they’ll both do well here. They have lots of company!”
I heard several bleats. They seemed to come from the back of the house. “What’s that?”
“Why the goats, of course! Would you like to meet them?” Vera stepped off the porch and started around to the side field, Tyrone and I following in her wake. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the field was completely fenced by a thin barbed wire. “Forty in the herd!” said Vera. The wind came up and there was a manure smell in the air. A strong smell.
“Forty?”
“Oh, you will love the goats. They give milk and cheese—a little side biz!”
“I don’t remember you mentioning goats.” I have to say, I was concerned. There was nothing in the contract about a herd of forty.
“It is a farm. Farms have animals.” Vera looked as though this ought to be self-evident.
It hadn’t been. It hadn’t occurred to me, really, that the farm still had animals. Then again, I was always doing things without weighing the consequences. 
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F is for Flower #A-Z Challenge

Beanie MacKenzie, the main character in Blueberry Truth, is having a hard time connecting to her new student, Blueberry Truth Crowley.  Blue, a feisty and troubled seven year old, wants nothing to do with Beanie, her classroom, or the school. In this scene, Beanie finds a way through to her young charge and begins forging a relationship with her.
​Be forewarned, there's some strong language in this one. 

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 The intervention room is a small cube of a place with a big rug, a gym mat, and one glider chair. Truth collapses onto the rug and eyes me with distrust.
I sit in the glider and eye her back. “I know you’ve had a rough afternoon, but it wasn’t the bookcase’s fault.”
“Fuck you. Stupid motherfucker.”
“That isn’t helping, Truth.”
“You don’t know nothing, you stupid shit.”
I cross my arms. “Are you done? Because we can sit here all afternoon. We can just stay here in this little room.”
“My mama can kick your ass.”
“You let me know when you’re ready.”
She sits for a long time, sputtering like an overfilled teapot, but I can see it start to close down. Nobody has the energy to keep up a tantrum all day.
“You don’t know nothing,” she says again, the shout gone out of her.
“I know it’s nearly bus time.”
“I ain’t staying in this stupid place.”
And now we get down to it.
“There are no other good choices, Truth.”
“My mama come, she can fix it. She tell you all don’t even know my name, you so stupid.”
I rack my brain to figure this one out. Truth Crowley. What’s the deal with the name? Blueberry Truth Crowley. “Your Mama calls you Blueberry?” This may inspire another tantrum. Or not. She looks at me with a hint of newfound respect. So I take another chance. “I’ll bet it’s because she likes blueberries. My real name is Verbena. My mom likes flowers. I have four sisters, and they all have flower names, too. Rose, Lily, Daisy, and Violet.” I glance over at Blueberry Truth. Maybe I’ll get another "fuck you." But she’s looking at me with shiny eyes.
“My ma call me Blue,” she says so softly I barely hear it.
“That’s a good name.”
“My ma in Florida.”
“I know.”
“How much a bus ticket cost to down there?”
There’s a question I can’t answer. I don’t even try.
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E is for Empire State Building #A-Z challenge

In my newest romantic comedy, Georgette Alden Starts Over (written under my pen name Annie Hoff), the title character is figuring out her life after 30 years on daytime tv. Part of her new life might include a new love in the person of Tony Rodriquez, a quadriplegic who lost use of his legs in a car accident.  The book is set in New York City and what better place to begin a new romance then at the top of the Empire State Building?  The building was busy, but not overly so. It was a Thursday and a bit overcast besides, so tickets to the
observatory were available, though pricey, and the line to wait for the elevator wasn’t out the door. The elevator was fast moving and her stomach heaved as it raced to the top of the building. It was a feeling she wasn’t particularly fond of, but this time she didn’t mind. She could have ridden up and down all day long, standing behind Tony and studying, unobserved, the whirl of chestnut hair at the crown of his head and the hard broad muscles of his shoulders under the cloth of his shirt.
When the elevator opened, Tony took the wheel and steered himself out to the observation deck. Whether this was out of habit or because he had intuited her ogling him, she couldn’t be sure.
They made their way past a school group to the windows. “What a fabulous view,” she said.
“Not too high?”
“I could get to like it,” she said. “Being a tourist is kind of fun. We should do all the sites—the Statue of Liberty, the Bronx Zoo.”
“Times Square, Rock Center,” Tony added.
“I could give you a personal tour of Rock Center.”
“Do you miss it?” he asked more seriously.
“I haven’t had time to miss it,” she answered with equal seriousness. “There was this big hole in my life and it got filled in. At least it has been so far.”
“I know what you mean. Sometimes you lose something and it makes room for something else.”
“Yes, exactly. I hadn’t expected it to be this way. It’s not so bad, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
They stopped by one of the massive windows to admire the view. The city spread before them in
miniature as though it was a plaything and Georgette could imagine a child’s hand reaching down through the clouds to rearrange the buildings and the bug-sized yellow cabs.
“I haven’t been up here in twenty years,” Tony said. He studied the scene before them. “My wife and I came here on our second date. She was from this tiny town in western Pennsylvania and I was using Manhattan to impress the hell out of her.” He glanced down and Georgette wasn’t sure if she was pleased he’d shared something so personal. He had mentioned wife and that word twisted her feelings.
“Your wife? You mean Vida.”
Tony looked at her as though she’d said something both fascinating and appalling. “Vida? You thought Vida was—”
“You and she went to Hampton for the weekend.”
Tony laughed. “Oh God. She’s my therapist and my trainer and she’d probably be more interested in you than in me. Though I warn you, she has a girlfriend. It’s serious, they’re talking marriage.”
“Oh.” Chagrined and relieved, she tried to figure out the mystery wife. He wore no ring. He hadn’t
brought the wife to Hampton. “Ex-wife?” she ventured.
“I’m a widower.”
The word widower hit her like an electric shock. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. Ten years.”
“She died young.” Georgette imagined a tragic heroine. Electra had been at death’s door more than
once before her final demise. Sad and beautifully dramatic.
“In a car accident. The reason I’m sitting.” He brushed a hand over his thigh. “I’m the one who ought
to be sorry, dragging you down my maudlin memories. You’re surprisingly easy to talk to.”
“Why is that surprising?”
“Because your—you seemed larger than life when I first met you.”
“And now you’ve figured out I’m just a Jersey girl who got lucky.”
Tony appraised her again. “It’s more than luck. You’re talented and beautiful.”
It was the second time he’d called her beautiful. Was he flirting? Georgette decided to take a leap of faith. “Have dinner with me.” Thanks for stopping by! More A-Z Challenge More about Georgette Alden Starts Over

D is for Dog #A-Z Challenge

Mandy, the heroine of Confessions of the Sausage Queen, has an on again off again relationship with her husband, Randy. Randy lives in a camper trailer parked near Over's Pond with the couple's dog, Alpo.  Mandy has moved out of the trailer, but she's in no hurry to move on from Randy. In this scene, she's been chased off the property of her nemesis,  Hughes Flint, by Hughes' butler and his giant guard dog.  Mandy's ready for a fight and just so happens that Randy and Alpo live nearby. Randy has a softness for Eastern philosophy and Mandy knows how to pull his chain.  I sped over to Randy’s trailer. I found him, freshly showered after work, throwing sticks into the pond for Alpo. Alpo is a golden retriever on his mother’s side—on his father’s side he is anyone’s guess—and he has a strong retrieve instinct. He’d pull sticks out of the pond until the entire forest was denuded. I slammed the Hummer door and marched down to the picnic table.
“Hey, get a load of this.” Randy held up a stick and pretended to throw. Alpo hurled himself into the water and looked around, confused. Randy threw the
stick, and Alpo, confusion forgotten, paddled after it. “Gets him every time.”
“He is a dumb dog,” I said as Alpo climbed from the water with the stick and shook himself. “A big, dumb, wet dog.” I took the stick and hurled it as far as I could. Alpo, always game, made the marathon paddle to retrieve. “Big, stupid, dumb, smelly mutt.”
“Hey, don’t diss our dog,” said Randy.
“I wasn’t talking about our dog.”
Randy threw another stick and began to rub my shoulders. “Tension. It’s not healthy.”
“Yeah? Tell me about it. Tension, blah, blah, chakras out of alignment, blah, blah, blah. Throw in some tantra while you’re loading on the bull.” I’ll admit I was cruising for a fight. And since I wasn’t about to defy the big, hulking dog nor be humiliated by the big hulking butler, Randy was the obvious choice. Randy took his karma pretty seriously, and I knew how to pull his chain.
“Bunch of new age mumbo jumbo crapola.” Which was enough to get Randy to pick me up, set me on the picnic table and kiss me hard.
“Why don’t we skip the crap,” he said, “and move on to the make up sex.”

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We're plowing through week one at warp speed! Thanks for stopping by. More on the A-Z Challenge More About Confessions of the Sausage Queen

Doing the A-Z shuffle

This month's blog is short, because I'm doing an A-Z blog challenge. A-Z is a bit of April madness in which blogger post every day of the month except Sundays. Most bloggers have a theme, and I've chosen to do excerpts from my books as mine.  I did this for a few reasons--first, it's easy because it means I can limit the actual new words I write to a paragraph introducing the excerpt.  It's also a sneaky (okay not so sneaky) way to give my back list a  shout out.  And also, did I mention it's easier? 
Not too easy, though. Coming up with stuff for each letter of the alphabet and posting on time can be tough.  They don't call it a challenge for nothing.  More Writer Insecurities

C is for Captain

In Sweet Lenora, the first novella of my historical series of the same name, Lenora Brewer is being forced into an engagement with a man she finds loathsome. Plucky Lenora will find her way out of her dilemma, with the help of a young sea captain named Anton Boudreaux.  She first learns of Anton from her uncle, who has commissioned the captain to sail The Sweet Lenora, the ship christened by Lenora's  late father in her honor.  That evening, George Settle dined with us as he had so often done in those weeks. He cast furtive glances my way and would touch my arm or knee as we sat at table. The very thought of him made my flesh crawl. On that evening he spooned potatoes to my plate and told me I must eat. His indiscretion made me wish I could throw my dinner plate into his lap, but I had, despite Aunt’s notions to the contrary, some sense of propriety.
I smiled politely and thanked Mr. Settle for his concern. Then I mentioned that I had seen the Sweet Lenora on the quay.
“Aye.” Uncle John stabbed at his beef. “She sets sail Thursday dawn.”
“You have found someone to captain her then?” Settle asked. It was well known that Uncle sought a commander who could run the ship against the wind full speed.
“I have decided on Anton Boudreaux.”
George Settle put his fork on his plate and stared at Uncle. “Surely you jest, Sir.”
Uncle sighed deeply. “He has proven himself aboard the Carmen Ann. She would have broken Spitfire’s record if not for a gale as they rounded the Horn.”
“He is a pup. He has never held command. Furthermore, he is a half breed and a scoundrel.”
“True enough. But he is fearless. And well respected by the seamen. So he will be our man.”
“We are courting disaster, I dare say.” Mr. Settle pointed to my plate. “Eat.”
I ignored him. “Why do you think him disaster?” Aunt Louise shot me a look meant to keep my tongue silent. But the question had been asked.
“I fear Mr. Settle feels that Mr. Boudreaux is not experienced. And he does have a reputation as a rapscallion. He comes from New Orleans, though few know his background.”
“He’s not so young, surely?” I asked. Aunt scraped back her chair, ready to haul me to the lady’s parlor and give me a firm talking to, I suspect, about appropriate dinner conversation.
“Eight and twenty. Or so he says. He is a scoundrel, sure enough. And the finest sailor on the seas.”
“Why a scoundrel ?” I asked.
Aunt cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should change the topic?”
I swung on her. Bad enough she would have me married to Mr. Settle, who even now had his hand on my knee under the table. “What would be allowable conversation, dear Auntie? Tatting, perhaps? Or roses? Are you aware Aunt Louise chose roses similar to those of Queen Victoria at Windsor?”
Aunt came out of her chair. “We shall retire to the parlor, now,” she said staring daggers at me. I had no choice but to go.
Though as I left, I heard Mr. Settle say, “It is said he killed a man in New Orleans.” I did not hear Uncle’s answer.
Thanks so much for stopping by on day three of the challenge! More A-Z More on Sweet Lenora

B is for Boat

The P-Town Queen gets its title from a boat.  Our heroine, Nikki, has had the grant money for her shark research revoked. Not one to take a set-back sitting down, she writes a new proposal and begins to look for a research vessel. Eventually, she ends up with the Queen, but early in the book, boat shopping has some unforeseen consequences.
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On the night before my big meeting with the senator and Ned, Rusty called to say he’d found the perfect vessel for my research. A beautiful sparkler of a morning that promised spring also seemed
to portend a bright future as Rusty and I climbed aboard the Mona Lisa.  Rusty pulled the throttle and morning birdsong gave way to the cough and rumble of an engine. Dark clouds scattered to the horizon and perfumed the air with motor oil.
“She’s a little rusty,” Rusty said, chuckling at his pun. “but she’s ship shape, don’t you worry about that.”
I all but rolled my eyes at him. My brothers were fishermen, my father and uncle had been fishermen, and my grandfathers, both of them, had been fishermen. In short, I came from a long line of fisher folk and I knew from boats. I would have bet my Portuguese American ass that the Mona
Lisa was hardly ship shape. “Does she come with a bailing bucket?” I asked Rusty.
Rusty chuckled again. “She’s a good boat. A good boat,” he said, petting the wheel as though she might be asked to go fetch.
“Did Leonardo da Vinci christen her himself?” I asked, scraping a flake of rust from her side.
“That’s good. Funny. No. How about we go below deck? I’ll show you the galley,” Rusty said, nearly running for the ancient stairs that led to the ship’s aptly named bowels. Below deck the Mona Lisa smelled as though she hadn’t been aired since she was built some fifty years earlier. Rusty, seemingly oblivious to the overpowering mildew, put a pudgy hand to the two-burner stove wedged into a dark corner.
“The stove’s near new,” he said, running his hand, which still bore his Provincetown High class ring, along the burner’s rim. The hand landed on the control knob and he turned the gas, which didn’t light the gas ring. He tried again, still nothing but a mild gassy odor accompanied by a strange hum that rose from the stove well.
For a minute I wondered if mildew could make a sound. Though if it could, I imagined it would be more like the hiss of a snake than a hum or a buzz. This noise had a definite buzzing quality. The pudgy class-ringed hand that Rusty had been using to turn the burner knob off and on and off and on
came up and swatted its owner on the ear. And in another half minute the buzzing materialized into a swarm of bees. Bees angry at being disturbed after long months of peace in the bowels of the Mona Lisa.
I grabbed the stair rail and chugged up the stairs, Rusty and the bees tight on my heels. And, although I was not inclined to swim the Atlantic in April, I hoisted myself over the boat’s side into the icy water. Rusty cannonballed in beside me, causing a wave that set the water around the Mona into a tizzy.
We climbed onto the dock looking like half-drowned seals. I’d worn the same dress and suede pumps that had so impressed Ned a month earlier. The pumps had changed from soft gray to ruined wet.
“The bees are no problem,” Rusty brushed down his chinos as though taking a dive into the North Atlantic fully dressed was something he did routinely. “We can fumigate. That’s all it will take. A little call to the exterminator and she’ll be right as rain. Important thing is she’s tight. She’s
one seaworthy boat.”
Rusty’s impromptu sales pitch was followed by a pop, which was followed by a hiss, which was followed by an earth-shattering boom. Rusty and I were hurled back into the water by the percussion. The tsunami in the explosive wake lifted us, flung us onto the beach, and left us there like
flotsam. What was left of the Mona Lisa was floating in bits and pieces on the waves, as was what was left of the dock and the Mona’s neighbors.
Ears ringing like the bells in the steeple of Notre Dame, Rusty and I were left dazed and numbed by the icy water, each looking to the other for proof that we had survived.
“That will solve the bee problem?” my brother Pete said over coffee at Ella’s Place the next day. “Please don’t tell me you actually said that to Rusty.”
I told him again that I did not blow up the boat. As to the comment, I take the Fifth.

Thanks for stopping by for day 2 of the challenge. There's lots of letters and excerpts left and I hope you'll join me again!
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