Meg Perry's Blog, page 6

New Pete and Jamie short story!

This story is not brand new. I wrote it a couple of years ago but never did anything with it. This takes place in 2018 some time, around the time of Cloistered to Death. Enjoy!

Who’s Your Daddy?

Thursday evening, 5:00. I shut down my computer and stuffed a book into my messenger bag…then stopped. Did I honestly think I’d spend any time writing or reading this evening? No, I did not. I laughed at myself, left my messenger bag where it was, and locked my office door behind me.

I was meeting Pete at the LGBTQ Center on campus, where he was working as a counselor four hours a week. He saw clients from 3:00-5:00 every Tuesday and Thursday. He should be done writing notes by the time I joined him. I didn’t have rugby practice this evening, so we were going out to dinner, then home for a quiet evening of conversation and other pursuits. 

Or so I hoped.

I waved goodbye to Andy Narahashi at the circulation desk and strode through the front door of the library. It was a gorgeous evening. Just right for hanging out on our deck or front patio after dinner with a glass of wine.

When I walked into the counseling center, the student receptionist, Ivy, smiled up at me from her desk. Ivy was a delightful young woman of indeterminate ethnicity, with close-cropped curly hair that she dyed in various shades of blue. “Hi, Dr. Brodie. Dr. Ferguson’s running a little over. His last client is still with him.”

“Cool, thanks.” I chose a seat and pulled my phone from my pocket to check email while I waited.

I wasn’t alone in the waiting room. The other occupant was a woman of student age, but she wasn’t dressed like a student…or, at least, not a current student. Maybe a college student of the 1960s. She was wearing an ankle-length flowered skirt and a long t-shirt with a tie-dye bullseye in the center. She was fair, nearly to the point of translucency, with blue eyes, a snub nose, and long, white-blond hair pulled back into a French braid.

I was punching my PIN into my phone when she spoke. “You’re here to see Dr. Ferguson, too?”

I looked up, but Ivy beat me to the punch. “Dr. Ferguson doesn’t have another appointment slot today. If you’d like, I can make an appointment for you.”

The girl smiled. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I just want to catch him before he leaves.”

Ivy persisted. “We do prefer that you schedule an appointment to see the counselors.”

“I don’t need counseling. I just want to say hello to him. He’s my dad.”

I froze, my finger hovering over my phone. Ivy froze, her finger hovering over her mouse. I felt certain that my face displayed exactly the same expression as hers – eyes and mouth all O-shaped. 

The girl noticed. “Is something wrong?”

I said slowly, “Dr. Ferguson is your dad? Dr. Pete Ferguson?”

“Yes. UCLA class of 1997. First baseman on the baseball team. Dr. Pete Ferguson.”

Ivy didn’t move, but shifted her gaze to me. I said, “What’s your name?”

“Sarah Gray.”

“Well, Sarah Gray, what you say is utterly fascinating to me. Because I’m Dr. Pete Ferguson’s husband.”

Now it was Sarah Gray’s turn to have O-shaped eyes and mouth. “But…oh. Oh.”

Ivy relaxed, leaned back in her chair, and crossed her arms. Her expression read, This oughta be good. 

I said, “I guess your mother told you that Pete is your dad?”

“Yes. She said they’d dated all through senior year of college.” Sarah was talking fast, her words tumbling over each other. “She said that she didn’t find out that she was pregnant until after they’d graduated. She’d already moved to Nevada. She knew that my…that Dr. Ferguson was going straight on to graduate school, and she didn’t want to derail his career with a baby.”

Ivy raised an eyebrow; I suspected that she knew Pete’s employment history. I said, “Sarah. Pete didn’t go to graduate school after college. He was a police officer for eight years before he even thought about grad school.”

“But my mom said…”

I tried to be gentle. “Sarah, your mom wasn’t entirely truthful with you. Pete’s known he was gay since he was twelve years old. He never dated women. He definitely never had sex with a woman.”

Sarah had a stubborn set to her jaw which, if I didn’t know better, resembled a certain Ferguson’s trait. “Maybe he wasn’t entirely truthful with you.”

“Why do you suppose Pete is a counselor in an LGBT center?”

“Okay, so he’s gay. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t date my mom.”

“You’re right. Do you look like your mom?”

“Not much. She has dark hair and eyes. She’s always said I looked like my dad’s family.”

Ivy clamped her lips tightly shut. I asked, “Does your mom know you’re here?”

“No. She forbade me to track down my dad. She’d be so angry to know I was here. But I…” She swallowed. “I had to meet him.”

I had a view down the hallway of the door to the counseling room, which now opened. Pete’s client would have left from another exit to preserve anonymity. I said, “Well, then, here’s your chance.”

Pete strode into the waiting room and grinned at me. “Hey, hon.”

“Hey.” 

He picked up on the tension in the room and cocked his head at me in a “what?” gesture, but handed a pair of folders to Ivy. “Here you go, Ms. Ivy, please and thank you.”

“No problem, Doc.” Ivy locked the files into a metal cabinet behind her and snatched up a backpack. “I’ll see you Tuesday.” She shot me a look of sympathy as she zipped out the door.

Pete turned to me, ignoring Sarah. Of course, he didn’t have any reason to think that she was there to see him. “Ready to eat? I’m hungry.”

I said, “Yeeeaaahh. This young lady has something to discuss with your first.”

He turned a quizzical frown to Sarah. “Can I help you?”

Sarah was taking in Pete’s dark brown hair, eyes, and tan. She whispered, “I don’t look anything like you.”

His frown deepened, and he looked back and forth between Sarah and me. “Why would you?”

Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it. She was near tears. I said, “Pete, this is Sarah Gray, who came here from Nevada to meet her dad. More precisely, to meet the guy who her mom told her was her dad.”

Pete practically squeaked. “Me?? What the hell??”

I said, “Sarah, what’s your mom’s name?”

“K-K-Kiersten Gray.” Sarah’s gaze hadn’t left Pete’s face. “She…she said you dated your entire senior year of college.”

“What??”

I asked Pete, “Does the name Kiersten Gray sound familiar?”

“No.” Pete pointed to me, but spoke to Sarah. “Did he tell you that he’s my husband? I’m gay, Sarah. I never dated women in college.”

“She lied to me.” As reality sunk in, Sarah was getting mad. She slapped the edge of Ivy’s desk. “She lied to me!” She yanked her phone from her skirt pocket and started punching numbers. “I’m calling her right now!”

I said, “Uh…”

Pete held out his hand. “Let me talk to her, Sarah.”

Sarah tapped her foot, listening to the phone, glaring at Pete. “You said you didn’t know her.”

“I don’t. But let me confront her first, okay?”

“Fine.” Sarah spoke into her phone. “Mom? I’m with someone who wants to say something to you.” She handed Pete the phone.

Pete said, “Hello, is this Kiersten? Hi. My name is Pete Ferguson. I’m fairly sure that you and I have never met. Your daughter is here, and she’s laboring under the impression that she’s our daughter. Now, you and I both know that’s not true. I’d love to hear your reason for telling her that.”

He listened for a moment. “Uh huh. Nope, I’ll tell her no such thing. This is entirely on you. Even if she hadn’t come here, you lied to her about something that apparently is incredibly important to her. Why would you do that?”

Pete listened for a while longer. Sarah started pacing and muttering under her breath. “That bitch. That bitch.”

Hoo boy. Pete said, “Well, I can tell you that there is an extremely angry young woman in front of me, so I’d say that your hopes in that regard are tanked anyway. You might as well tell her the truth. At this point it can’t wreck your relationship any more than you’ve already done.” There was another pause. “Oh, no. That information is gonna come from you. And, just FYI? You could have picked nearly anyone else on the baseball team and had a better shot at convincing him that he might be a dad. Because the name you picked out of your yearbook was the only GAY player on that team. That’s right. Uh huh. That would be my suggestion. Do you want to talk to her now?”

Sarah shook her head firmly. Pete said, “Okay, seems that Sarah isn’t ready to speak to you either. I think a cooling down period would benefit both of you.” He barked a laugh. “You bet. Have a nice life.” He hung up and handed the phone to Sarah. “Your mom has promised to tell you the truth once you’re home.”

I had an idea of what Kiersten would say. Sarah was apparently no dummy; she figured it out, too. “She doesn’t have any clue who my father is, does she? She probably slept with the entire baseball team, right? Except for you, of course.”

Pete sighed. “You need to hear what your mom has to say.”

“Pfft. I already know what she’ll say. She’s promiscuous now. I can’t imagine what she was like in college. Seriously, I should have known. She’s never dated anyone for more than a month, much less an entire year.” Sarah stuffed her phone back into her pocket. “You seem like a nice man. I’m sorry you’re not my father, and I’m sorry that I bothered you today.”

Pete said gently, “You haven’t been a bother. I’m sorry that today didn’t turn out like you hoped.”

I asked, “Can we help you find transportation? A place to stay?”

“No, thank you. I have a hotel room nearby.” She gathered herself, reclaiming her dignity, and held out her hand to me. “Thanks for your help. You’re a nice man, too.”

I shook her hand. “Good luck, Sarah.”

She smiled – it didn’t reach her eyes – and turned to Pete. “I’m glad I came, Dr. Ferguson. Thanks for talking to my mom. And I’m sorry again.”

Pete squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you came, too. Take care.”

We saw Sarah out, then Pete double-checked that the offices and filing cabinets were locked. He held the door to the center open for me, then locked it behind us. “Well. That was unexpected.”

“No shit. Poor kid.”

“Seriously.” We started walking. “She guessed right.”

“Her mom doesn’t know who Sarah’s father is?”

“Nope. Kiersten did sleep with most of the baseball team, and a lot of other guys. Sarah wouldn’t stop bugging her about who her dad was, so she picked a name from the yearbook.”

“She couldn’t see that you had dark hair and eyes?”

“No. It’s a black and white photo, we’re all wearing ball caps, and it’s the entire team, so each person is small. I’ll show you when we get home. Where do you want to eat?”

We ended up at 800 Degrees. Once we’d ordered pizza and had our drinks I said, “Sarah’s mom didn’t remember the names of the guys she’d been with, I guess.”

“No.” Pete winced. “But…I think I know who Sarah’s father is.”

“What?? Does she look like someone on the team?”

“The second I saw her, a name flashed into my head. Skip Lester. He wasn’t a player, he was the pitching coach. He was pale blond like that, and she looks just like him.”

“You didn’t tell her.”

“No. A, I’m not sure. B, at the time, he was married to a super-cute girl and they had a super-cute baby. His wife came to all of our games, with the baby dressed in little Bruin outfits. If he’s still married… No good would come of it.”

Our pizzas were ready; I collected them and we dug in. Once the edge was off my hunger I asked, “How’d she know you were a psychologist?”

“Dunno. My guess, though? When Kiersten provided her with my name, Sarah Googled me. She knew what year I’d graduated from college, and my credentials are listed on the LGBTQ Center’s web page.”

“But not your photo, apparently.”

“No.”

“There weren’t any other Pete Fergusons who graduated from UCLA in 1997?”

“Probably not. When Sarah showed her mom my information, Kiersten probably made up the story about not wanting to derail my career. Neither of them paid attention to the date I’d received my Ph.D.” He gave me a narrow look. “You didn’t believe her for even a second, did you?”

“Of course not. A, she looks like a Tolkien elf, not a Ferguson. B, you’d told me you never slept with a woman. And for the record, neither have I, so there won’t be any stray kids popping up in my future, either.”

He grinned. “Good to know.”

I stuffed pizza in my mouth, ruminating on Sarah’s plight. Pete noticed. “What?”

I washed down the margherita with Sprite. “Just imagining how it would be, to not know who your dad or mom were. Seems like there would always be an unmoored place in your…being.”

He nodded. “Unmoored. That’s a good description, I think. I have a client right now who’s dealing with, among other issues, just learning that he was adopted. He’s having trouble describing his feelings. I’ll ask him if that fits.”

“Happy to be of service. I’m glad that you and I resemble our dads so strongly.”

“Yup. No question about who our daddies are.”

“None whatsoever.” I drained my Sprite and wiped my fingers clean, wadded up my napkin and dropped it in the center of the pizza pan, then cupped my hand behind my ear. “Hear that?”

He listened, frowning. “Hear what?”

“There’s a bottle of wine at home. It’s calling, ‘Pete… Jamie…’”

He laughed and tossed his own napkin onto the table. “Then let’s not keep it waiting.”

To mask (in fiction) or not to mask…

There’s been quite a bit of discussion among authors recently about whether or not to mention the pandemic in their fiction. The general consensus seems to be “Ignore it.”

All well and good, unless (ahem) one writes books that take place in real time. The first Kevin Brodie book will start with the second day of his new job, which was July 2, 2020. (He spent all day of July 1 in new employee orientation. Y’all know how that is.) That’s been set up in previous books and I can’t change it. Nor do I want to. I also don’t feel that I can ignore the overarching event of 2020.

There’s an argument both ways. Yes, mentioning the pandemic will “date” the book. But the book is already dated; pandemic or no, “Thursday, July 2, 2020” will be at the top of the first page. If I ignored the virus, surely there are people who would say, “Wait. Where are everyone’s masks?”

Therefore, you’ll be seeing masks and social distancing in Painted to Death, Kevin Brodie Mystery #1. This will be the only book that will be so constrained, though. The second Kevin book will take place next spring, after everyone’s had their vaccines and COVID is mostly (let’s hope) behind us.

My plan is to write the third Space Coast book in between Kevin #1 and #2. It will take place before the pandemic, so no problems there.

The next series I write (more on that later) will not come with dates! LOL.

Subscribe to My Newsletter!

The first issue isn’t ready yet, but you can now go ahead and subscribe so you won’t miss out! The subscription link is in a page (look above the posts). The about page, the timeline, the Jamie Brodie Mysteries page, and now the subscription page are all up there.

I anticipate that the first newsletter will be out at the end of February, and the plan is to publish one every other month.

I hope this works!

True Crime

I’ve been on a true crime kick lately. It started when I re-read a book that I own, Ghettoside by Jill Leovy, which is about homicide detectives in the South Central area of the LAPD. Then I re-read another book, Homicide Special by Miles Corwin, to refresh my memory (since Homicide Special is where Jon Eckhoff has landed now). Then it was on to The Run of His Life: The People vs. OJ Simpson, then The Killing Season: A Summer Inside an LAPD Homicide Division. Coming soon: Fire Lover by Joseph Wambaugh.

Why, you ask? Well, for one thing, true crime books often offer excellent insight into police procedure. Ghettoside is the best I’ve ever read for that. Also, since Kevin is going to be working with homicide victims’ families, and about half of LA County homicides happen in South Central, I wanted to get more familiar with his new stomping grounds.

Fire Lover is a true crime story about arson. The third Space Coast Mystery is going to involve arson, so I want to start reading about that. 

Tex Texin from Blogosphere, Cyberspace, CC BY 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

There are true crime documentaries, too–lately I’ve watched The Night Stalker on Netflix and also one about a man in Colorado who killed his wife and two children because he had a new girlfriend.

I think I need to exit this mindset at some point, but for now it’s fascinating me.

Do you like true crime? Or is it too much for you?

Resigned to Death e-book is available!

The cover photo isn’t showing on Amazon yet for some reason, but here are the links:

Amazon for print and Kindle

Smashwords for Kindle and all other platforms

Resigned to Death available in print!

If you’re into print books, the print version of Resigned to Death is now available here! If you’re waiting for the e-book, all versions will be out as soon as I get the cover back from my cover artist. Hopefully by Monday or Tuesday. I’ll let you know as soon as it happens.

There’s a new director at UCLA’s Young Research Library. Ward DeWitt’s reputation has preceded him: everywhere he works, half the librarians resign in the first year. Jamie Brodie, Kristen Beach, and Liz Nguyen can’t figure out why he was hired over far more qualified candidates. As they dig into his history, some disturbing facts come to light–but there doesn’t seem to be anything serious enough to remove DeWitt from his position. Then tragedy strikes, and the librarians of YRL come together to take back their library. Can they get DeWitt out? Or will Jamie, Kristen, and Liz be forced to resign, too?

How about a newsletter?

Happy New Year, y’all! I’m thinking of starting a newsletter. It would be monthly at the most, maybe bimonthly. It might include snippets from WIPs, updates on what Jamie and Pete are up to, and…other stuff.

Are you interested? Would you subscribe? (It would be via email.) And if so, what else would you like to see in it?

Thanks!

Chapter 1, Resigned to Death

Just a taste of what’s to come for you.

Just for fun: Jamie’s CV

I created this a long time ago and stumbled across it recently. I thought it might be fun for you all to see what I imagine Jamie’s professional output might be. A CV (Curriculum Vitae), in case you aren’t familiar with the term, is what we in academia call our resumes. Yeah, I know, I’m rolling my eyes, too.

Cover photo for Resigned to Death

Pretty sure this is the one that I’m going to use.

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