Writing in Public: Story #1, Scene 2

Writer’s note: Since this is a live story, I’m moving around in it, or called cyclical writing, which I do as the story evolves. One of the character descriptions above changed (marked in bold), and I added the main character’s name.  I’m also expecting Martin Harrington’s name to change.  At least one of the characters in my stories always ends up with a name ends up being changed.

I also did spot research for this scene, and the watermelon I got at the grocery store this morning lives forever in the story.

[image error]

2

The fog had burned off by the time I escaped from the podiatrist, leaving the sky clotted with gray clouds. The sun didn’t like to come out much out here. The rain debated about it a bit, then deposited messy splatters on the windshield with little patters. The Auto-Driver’s programming turned on the windshield wipers for us, though the car certainly didn’t need it.

Annoyance tugged at me the entire trip as I listened to the hum of the engine. There wasn’t much in the way of specialized medicine out here, so it was nearly a fifty mile drive one way. I could technically drive, especially with the Auto-Driver, but I’d have to be out of the boot in case anything happens. But it wasn’t legal.

And I hated asking Granny to help me out. But she kept insisting she was fine and I was trying to figure out if that was a grandmother thing or something else.

We returned to her house in Morro Bay, which was one of the many small towns that dotted Central California. Morro Bay was particularly memorable—aside being the place where my grandparents lived—for the dome-shaped Morro Rock. The town sat on the hillside, so all the streets were roly-poly—sometimes in two directions at once. I’d thought the streets fun as a child, but as a woman on crutches, they were a curse.

Three balance checks later, I managed to get up the hill to Granny’s house without falling down. The house was bigger than most of the houses in Morro Bay, painted Easter egg purple (her favorite color) and with big picture windows. The grass was all perfectly mowed, with a line of perky white marigolds under each of the front windows. The garden perfection was not Granny’s doing. Black thumb came from that side of the family. We touched a plant, it died. So she’d hired a gardener. It was much safer that way. The plants had a fighting chance of survival.

I got in through the entrance without the door trying to eat me. Cool air hung in the living room like we’d left the house abandoned.

I shed the crutches for the last few steps and got one-footed to the sofa like I was playing hopscotch. Managed to bang my good knee on the coffee table. The crutches—I could never figure out what the hell to do with them—went on the golden hardwood floors under my legs. I dragged off my small backpack and deposited it next to the crutches..

Granny set her purse on the entrance table, her gaze flicking up to a melting clock on the wall. “I’ll fix lunch.”

What I wanted to say was, “I can do it.” And I knew I couldn’t. The first three days of my crutch captivity, I’d tried cooking for myself by balancing on one leg and leaning against the counter while the crutches fell to the floor. If it was liquid, I knocked it over. Using knives was outright scary. I’d ended up eating eggs three times a day because they were easy to make.

The refrigerator door opened, followed by the sound of chopping on a wooden cutting board.

I stretched out on the sofa, wincing as pain shot through my right foot to remind me it was broken. I wanted to take off the boot because my foot was all sweaty, but it was to much effort. I’d only worked half a day and I was exhausted.

Granny stuck her head out of the kitchen opening. “Do you need a Tylenol, Erin?”

“No, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

I wanted to bark out, “Yes, I’m sure.” But getting angry wasn’t going to help either one of us.

Instead, I said, “I’m fine really. It’s not too bad. The boot’s helped a lot.”

While I waited for lunch, I took my iPhone out of the backpack and checked my email messages. There was an email from the insurance company asking for a status that I didn’t want to answer.

Heels on hardwood made me look up. Granny entered the living room carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and a large bowl of salad. On a paper napkin were six vitamins, including one that was an elephant pill.

Seeing my expression, she grinned. “Trust your body-building grandmother, Erin. It’s not going to hurt to provide extra nutrients to your body. Vitamins first.”

Honestly, I did not need to be told to take my vitamins. But she was standing there, waiting. I took the whole handful and swallowed them with a gulp water and a tilt down of my head. Even the elephant pill went down. She continued to watch me until I turned to the salad.

I’d expected just limp iceberg lettuce, since that’s what my family always served. But the lettuce was deep green, with watermelon slivers and walnuts. She’d also added bits of leftover chicken and feta cheese. Sweet, salty, and peppery all rolled into one place. I found myself trying to get a little bit of everything onto the fork.

Granny went back into the kitchen for her salad bowl and returned to sit across the coffee table from me.

“So tell me about Martin Harrington,” she said. “He looked familiar to me. Could I have met him?”

That had me raising my eyebrows. I took a sip of the iced tea she had brought me. Unsweetened, with a wedge of lime, and seltzer water for bubbles. Granny was going to spoil me at this rate.

“You’ve probably seen him,” I said. “He’s an actor.”

I pulled over my iPhone and hunted down my folder in Evernote. The photo I showed her was the classic head shot all actors took, name printed at the bottom and his agent’s name. He hadn’t gone cheap with it, spending money on a color photo. He had on a sports coat and a white button down shirt with the collar open, no tie. He stared at the camera as if he were calling to it.

Granny pushed her glasses further up on her nose to see the image better, stretching her arms out. I wondered if my eyes would be like that when I got older.

“He’s nice to look at,” she said. “But unremarkable.”

Impressive. I’d had to research his history on-line in detail before I came to that opinion.

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“Seeing a lot of movies. The ones who stick are more distinctive. He probably had everyone growing up tell him that he was so good-looking that he should get into Hollywood or be a model.”

“He started out as a model, but wanted to be in film.” A lot of models did that.

“What kind of roles has he had?”

I took back my iPhone and consulted my notes. “Police detectives, businessmen, serial killers. He’s worked on a lot of TV shows, but nothing breakthrough. He was filming on the set of a new show about the FBI when he fell and injured his back.”

“Did it get written up in the news?”

“Didn’t rate. The insurance company is suspicious because no one saw the accident. He said he fell over a cable and can’t work. That was a year and one other private investigator ago.”

Granny blinked. “He’s a good actor.”

Unfortunately, that was true. I’d been on him for two weeks, and he hadn’t let up the act. Not for one moment. I hoped I wasn’t running out of time.

Filed under: Writing in Public Tagged: Futuristic, Morro Bay, Mystery, Writing in Public