Talk of the Town, Chapter One

This is the beginning of the fifth book in my Small Town series. It's set in France, a decision I'm debating. I like that it's set in France, because book six will take place in Egypt. I've been to both places but only as a tourist for a few weeks at a time. I can't claim to know either country super well. There's so much I don't know, I wonder if the story, and the series, would be better served they take place in my fictional town in the Pacific Northwest. Do you love stories set in small towns? Do you think a series set in a small town should have books veer to France and Egypt? The first four books are firmly rooted in my fictional town, Cascadia, Washington. As a reader, would a detour to France and Egypt for books five and six be too jarring? Books seven and possibly eight will both be set in Cascadia. I'm about fifty pages into the story and I don't want to write any further if I'm going to make a change. I welcome all feedback!

TALK OF THE TOWN

CHAPTER ONE

Blanchet peered over the edge of the sheet, his eyebrows looking like bristly caterpillars resting on his wrinkled brow. His cheeks sunken, gray, and his lips blue. “Luc is most undoubtedly and indisputably a beauf—a ridiculous beauf.” His black eyes skated away from mine. “His mother’s fault,” Blanchet went on, “it’s not so bad in a woman, and she was pretty, which Luc isn’t. Pretty and a prig, my sister Sarah——”

There was a faint emphasis on the word sister, and I remembered having heard my mother say that both Julien and William Blanchet had been in love with the girl whom William married. “And a plain beauf my nephew Luc,” continued the old gentleman. “Curse it all, I, why can’t I leave my money to you instead?”

“Because I wouldn’t take it.” I sat, unprofessionally, on the edge of my patient’s large four-post bed. If Blanchet hadn’t been so frail, I would worry about him kicking me off, but in his weakened condition, I was safe.

Blanchet scowled at me. “You’re a fool. How much would you take—eh, Gabe? Come now—say—how much?”

I laughed. “Not a euro.” I swung my arm over the great carved post beside me. There were cherubs’ heads upon it, a fact that I found amusing.

“Nonsense,” said Blanchet, and for the first time his thin voice was tinged with earnestness. “Nonsense,” he repeated, “you’ll see. I’ll have my way.”

I started at his earnestness, wondering what he could possibly have in mind.

Blanchet’s eyes changed. They were very deep-set eyes. It was only when he laughed that they appeared grey. When he was serious, they were so dark as to look black. Apparently, he was moved and concerned.

My voice took a pleading tone. “I can’t take it, you know.”

“And why not?” Blanchet folded his hands on his chest as if praying.

I rubbed a hand over my face, tired of the argument. “I appreciate the gesture,” I said. “But I can’t benefit under a patient’s will. I haven’t got many principles, but that’s one of them. Doctor Renee drummed it into me from the time I joined him.”

Blanchet lifted his prickly coal black eyebrows that made his shock of white hair seem like a lie. I would have found the old man’s vanity amusing if it wasn’t also very sad. “Your morals offend me,” he said with a sniff. “No one likes a saint, Gabe.”

“Then you will have a hard time in heaven.”

“Maybe I’m not going there.”

“You are,” I said with absolute conviction.

“You don’t know all the things I’ve done,” he said.

I wrapped a hand around his foot and gently squeezed it. “Can we not talk of your death. This cold will pass. There’s no reason for you not to live another three to six years.”

Blanchet barked out a laugh that turned into a cough. I leaned over to snag a couple of tissues from the box and handed them to him. The laughing-cough shook the old man’s slender frame and when the fit ended, he leaned back against his army of pillows and pressed the tissues to his lips. He closed his eyes, exposing the blue-veins on his lids. “You won’t take a thousand?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“Not a centime.” I grinned, even though the old bastard couldn’t see me with his eyes closed.

Blanchet opened his eyes to glare at me. “Beauf,” he muttered. Then he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow, and pulled out a long folded paper. “All the more for Luc,” he said. “All the more for Luc,” he repeated, “and all the more reason for Luc to wish me dead. I wonder he hasn’t poisoned me. Perhaps he will. Heavens, I’d give something to see Luc tried for murder! Think of it, I—only think of it—Twelve French Citizens in one box—Luc in another—all the citizens looking at Luc, and Luc looking as if he was in church, and wondering if the moth was getting into his collections, and if anyone would care for ’em when he was dead and gone. And Nicolette—like Niobe, all tears——”

I had been chuckling, but at the mention of Nicolette, my stomach twisted. I interrupted my patient, “You mustn’t tire yourself.”

“Like Niobe, all tears,” repeated Blanchet, obstinately. “Sweetly pretty she’d look too—eh, I? Luc’s a lucky dog, isn’t he?”

Any laughter within me died. I studied the old bastard.

“You think me a beast?” Blanchet cocked one of his eyebrows and my a great show of arranging the bedclothes in an accurate line across his chest. As he did so, his hand touched the folded paper, and he gave it an impatient push. “You’re an idiotic fool,” he snarled. “I’ve made my will once, and now I’ve to make it all over again just to please you. All the whole blessed thing over again, from ‘I, Julien Morell Blanchet,’ down to ‘I deliver this my act and deed.’ Oh, heavens, what a bore.”

“Do you wish me to call Fenwick?” I asked.

Blanchet flared into sudden wrath. “Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” he barked. “I know enough law to make a will they can’t upset. Don’t talk of ’em. Sharks and robbers. Worse than the doctors.”

I shifted uncomfortably at the insult to my profession.

“Besides young Fenwick talks—tells his wife things—and she tells her sister.” Blanchet paused for a long, labored breath. “And what Aimee Bowden knows, the town knows. Did I ever tell you how I found out? I suspected, but I wanted to be sure. So I sent for young Fenwick, and told him I wanted to make my will. So far, so good. I made it—or he did. And I left a couple of thousand pounds to Bessie Fenwick and a couple more to her sister Aimee in memory of my old friendship with their father. And as soon as Fenwick had gone, I put his morning’s work in the fire. Now how do I know he talked? This way. A week later I met Aimee Bowden in the Grand Rue, and I had the fright of my life. I declare I thought she’d ha’ kissed me. It was ‘I hope you are prudent to be out in this east wind, dear Mr. Blanchet,’ and I must come and see them soon—and oh, heavens, what fools women are! Aimee Bowden never could abide me till she thought I’d left her two thousand pounds.”

“Fenwicks aren’t the only lawyers in the world,” I said, trying to calm him.

“I did go to one once to make a will—they say it’s sweet to play the fool sometimes—eh? Fool I was, sure enough. I found a little mottled man, sat blinking at me, and repeating my words, till I could have murdered him with his own office pen-knife. He called me Moral too, instead of Morell. ‘Julien Moral Blanchet,’ and I took occasion to inform him that I wasn’t moral, never had been moral, and never intended to be moral. I said he must be thinking of my nephew Luc, who was damn moral. Trying to save some species of larvae from extinction. Oh, heaven, here is Luc. I could ha’ done without him.”

Luc crept through the ajar door as if apologizing for his existence. He was a slight, fair man with a well-shaped head, a straight nose, and a chin that disappeared into his shirt collar. He wore Dexter glasses because he was short-sighted, and high collars because he had a long neck.

“If he hadn’t been for ever blinking at some bug that was just out of his sight, his eyes would have been as good as mine, and he might just as well keep his head in a butterfly net or a collecting box as where he does keep it. Not that I should have said that Luc did keep his head.”

“I think you make him nervous, sir,” I whispered.

“I know I do,” Blanchet barked.

Luc, looking like he was entering a boxing ring without a mouth guard, shut the door.

Blanchet watched him with black, malicious eyes.

Luc took a chair beside the bed. “Nice weather, huh?”

Blanchet, adopting the solemnity of a mortician, nodded twice. “Indeed.”

There was a pause.

Luc made another stab at conversation. “I hope you are feeling pretty well.”

“Do I look like I’m feeling well?” Blanchet pinned his nephew with a hostile gaze. “I’m dying. I don’t expect to live for another week. At least, I hope not.”

I stood by the window looking out. A little square pane was open. Through it came the drowsy murmur of the village. Blanchet’s house stood a few yards back from the road, just at the head of the Grand rue. Le Castellet was a very old town, and the house was a very old house. There was a staircase which was admired by American visitors, and a front door for which they occasionally made bids. From Blanchet’s room, I could see a narrow lane hedged in by high old houses with red tiles. Beyond, the ground fell sharply away, and there was a prospect of many red roofs. Farther still, beyond the river, were the great black chimneys of Blanchet’s foundry, and the smoke billowing from them. Blanchet employed half the town, including my mother. What would happen when he was gone? Luc didn’t have a head for business.

I looked down into the Grand Rue and watched one lamp after another spring into brightness. A long ribbon of light traveled down to the river and rose again. I had lived here most of my life. I feared I would never leave.

“Gabe!” Blanchet barked. “Tell this fop how I feel.”

 I turned back into the room. “Why, you know best how you feel, sir.”

“Oh, no,” Blanchet said in a smooth, resigned voice. “Oh, no, Gabe. In a private and unofficial sort of way, yes; but in a public and official sense? Oh, dear, no. Luc wants to know when to order the headstone, and how to arrange his vacation so as not to clash with my funeral, so it is for my medical adviser to reply, don’t you think, Luc?”

The color ran to the roots of Luc fair hair. He cast an appealing glance in my direction, but did not speak.

Trying to put Luc, the lucky dog, at ease, I said, “You might outlive both of us.”

“Seen any more of young Stevenson, Luc?” Blanchet said, with an abrupt change of manner.

Luc shook his head and studied his shoes. “No, sir, I haven’t.”

“No, and you aren’t likely to.” Blanchet coughed and waved his hand. “There, you’d best be gone. I’ve talked enough.”

“Then good-night, sir.” Luc Blanchet looked cheered, as if he’d been released from a jail cell. He practically sprinted for the door.

Blanchet’s reply sounded angry and I guessed he was masking his fatigue and fragility with hostility. As soon the door had closed, Blanchet trained his gaze on me. “What’s the good of him? He’s not a business man. He’s not a man at all; he’s an entomologic—a cursed lepidoptofool.”

When the old gentleman paused for breath I said, “Someone has to study insects.”

“Why?” Blanchet demanded. “Who cares about larvae?”

“Is there something else bothering you, sir?”

Much like a dragon, Blanchet blew out a noisy breath through his nose. “He’s muddled the new contract with Stevenson. Thinking of butterflies, I expect. Pretty things, butterflies—but there—I don’t need to fret. It won’t bother me. I’ll be dead. It’s Luc’s concern, isn’t it. My income won’t be important very much longer.” He was silent for a moment. Then he made a restless movement with his hand. “It won’t, will it, eh? You didn’t mean what you said just now? It was just a lie? I am not going to live much longer, am I?”

I hesitated and the old man broke in with an extraordinary energy.

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, I, I’m not a mamby-pamby—out with it! How long do you give me?”

I sat down on the bed again. “Really, sir, I don’t know,” I said, “I really don’t. There’s no more to be done if you refuse the treatments.” I held up my hand to stop the torrent of words. “No, we won’t go over all that again. I know you’ve made up your mind. And no one can possibly say how long it may take. You might have died this week, or you may die in a month, or it may go on for a year—or two—or three. You’ve the constitution of a donkey.”

“Three years,” Blanchet muttered. “Three years, I—and this damn pain all all the time—gettin’ worse——?”

“Oh, I can relieve the pain.” I tried to sound cheerful. “There’s no need to suffer.”

“Much obliged, Gabe, but no thank you. Some horrid drug that’ll turn me into an idiot? No, thank you, I’ll keep my wits, if it’s all the same to you. Well, well, it’s all in the day’s work, and I’m not complaining, but Luc’ll get tired of waiting for my shoes if I last three years. I doubt his patience will hold out. He’ll be bound to hasten matters on. Think of the bad example I shall be for the baby—when it comes.”

He studied me for a long moment, before continuing. “Lord, what d’ ye want to look like that for? I suppose they’ll have babies like other folk, and I’ll be a bad example for ’em. Luc’ll think of that. When he’s thought of it enough, and I’ve got on his nerves a bit more than usual, he’ll put strychnine or arsenic into my soup. He’ll poison me yet. You’ll see.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Luc I know,” said I with half a laugh, hoping the old man was joking.

“Eh?” Another rise of the caterpillar eyebrow. “What about Pellico’s dog then?”

“Pellico’s dog, sir?” I repeated as if I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“What an idiot you are, Gabe—never heard of Pellico’s dog before, did you? Pellico’s dog that got on Luc’s nerves same as I get on his nerves, and you never knew that Luc dosed the poor brute with some of his bug-curing stuff, eh? Luc’s not so unhandy with a little job in the poisoning line.”

My mood darkened. I remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, but I didn’t like being reminded. Old Pellico’s dirty, evil-smelling shop still jutted out of the farther end, and the grimy door-step upon which the dog used to lie in wait for our ankles was still as grimy as ever. Sometimes it was a pant-leg that suffered. Sometimes an ankle was nipped, and if Pellico’s dog occasionally got a kick in return, it was not more than his due. It surprised me when I reaChloeed Luc actually minded the dog—so little ruffled Luc, then or now.

Luc had denied being afraid of the dog, but said he claimed the dog hurt his hears with his howling and kept him awake at night.

The dog died the day after our conversation.

I sat there frowning and remembering.

Blanchet laughed at my expression. “Aha, you know what I’m getting at,” he said, “Luc’ll poison me yet. You see, he’s in a fix. He hankers after this house same as I always hankered after it. It’s about the only taste we have in common. He’s got his own house on a seven years’ lease, and here’s Nick Anderson going to be married, and willing to take it off his hands. And what’s Luc to do? It’s a terrible worry for him not knowing if I’m going to die or not. If he doesn’t accept Nick’s offer and I die, he’ll have two houses on his hands. If he accepts it and I don’t die, he won’t have a house at all. It’s a sad dilemma for Luc. That’s why he would enjoy seeing about my funeral so much. He’d do it all very handsomely. Luc likes things handsome. And Nicolette, who doesn’t care a jot for me, will wear a black dress that will make her look gray and washed out, and she can play the Christian martyr. And Chloe won’t wear black at all, though she cares about me a lot more, and she’d look a deal better in black than Nicolette—eh, Gabe?”

I swallowed hard, trying not to think of Nicolette…

Or Chloe.

 

The Boston Marathon and Stealth Blessings

 

On the day of the Boston Marathon, I had what I call a stealth blessing—one of those blessings that come disguised as nuisance.

The day started early, mostly because Larry couldn’t sleep. Unlike the other marathons he’s run, the Boston Marathon started mid-morning. He didn’t actually cross the starting line until 10:50 a.m. Still, wanting to be Johnny on the Spot, he left our apartment around 6 a.m.

Because we had a 5:30 a.m. flight on Tuesday, we moved from our apartment to a hotel closer to the airport, and picked up a rental car.

While Larry was running, I played spectator at Heart Break Hill, because Larry specifically wanted me cheering him on the hardest part of the race. I parked in a shopping center about a mile from the course that was also near a train station, so, after Larry passed by, I could hop on the train in time to watch him cross the finish line.

Sadly, the trains were jammed. Three trains came and went, each about 20 minutes apart. When the last train arrived, I told myself if I couldn’t get on, I would give up on trying to get into the city, especially since at this point I knew Larry would beat me to the finish line.

I did make it on a train, although it was a sardine’s situation. Along the way, I dropped my water bottle and since bending to retrieve it was an impossibility, I thought I’d never see it again. Luckily, someone who had a seat rescued it and several people played pass the baton with it until it returned to me. Finally, I arrived in the city, and the celebration was worth the wait and stranger hugging.

Larry and I reunited, stood in line for so his medal could be engraved, wandered around in the crowd, cheering those still crossing the finish line, and, eventually, once again braved the train, walked to the where I’d parked the car, and drove to the hotel where I dropped Larry off, and then I went to fill the car with gas since I didn’t want to try and do that at 4 a.m. That very long run-on sentence was to let you know that, even though I hadn’t run the marathon, I had walked about eight miles that day and had spent about six hours on my feet. I was tired. Not as tired as Larry, but still tuckered out.

On our drive to the hotel, we passed several signs telling us the TWT Tunnel would be closed on Tuesday morning until 5 a.m. Since we hadn’t driven through a tunnel, we assumed that the tunnel didn’t impact our route to the airport.

Once we were finally back at the hotel and ready to kick back and relax, I realized I had left my IPad at our other rental, which was 30 minutes south of Boston. So, I got back in the car and on my way to the rental, I realized we would indeed need to take the TWT Tunnel to get to the airport the next morning.

Fortunately, I found my IPad at where we had previously stayed, refilled the car with gas, and made it back to the hotel without mishap.

The next morning, I checked Apple’s GPS and it had me taking the TWT Tunnel. But I had seen all the signs. I didn’t trust it. So, I checked Google’s GPS, and it had us take a very circuitous route, bypassing the tunnel—which I took.

Here’s the stealth blessing: I’m sure that if I hadn’t gone back for my IPad, we would have missed our early morning flight. Which makes me wonder how many other stealth blessings—those mishaps disguised as nuisances—have I missed?

Larry finished the marathon, but it took him 30 minutes longer than he had expected or hoped. The course was more challenging than he had expected. On the day after the marathon, he said he might do it again in ten years. A week later, he said he wants to run it again but train harder. 

Why You Need a Critique Group

 I meet with OCFictionaires bi-monthly. I found and joined the group about 15 years ago. You can read more about them here and here.

They make me a better writer (and also a better person.) I love what they do for my stories, and the bonus is I enjoy their company. I'm posting what I read last night followed by their feedback.

First, a brief recap:

This is from chapter two of book four of my Small Town series. There are dual timelines. There’s a modern-day story and also the story of when Max and Bailey first met twelve years earlier. In the first chapter, we’re introduced to Max and Bailey in current day. Bailey has shown up at a community fundraiser, The Policeman and Fireman’s Ball, looking for Max. She tells Jamie and Belle, the couple from book three, that she’s Max’s wife. There’s also a flashback to twelve years prior to Bailey trespassing on a piece of property Max’s family owns and considering asking if she could rent the abandoned barn. While there, she sees Max, a guy she knows from the university, and runs away without speaking to him. It’s also important to note that Bailey’s sister and brother-in-law had died six months earlier. The brother-in-law had broken all contact with his family because he thought they were crooks. Six year-old-Layla had been left under Bailey’s grandmother’s care, but Lady G, Bailey’s grandmother, is sickly. (Lyme disease.)

 

CHAPTER TWO FOR FICTIONAIRES

They say still waters run deep. Which is another way of saying don't judge a book by its cover. The bible says it this way, The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

I wish I had done a better job of studying my scriptures all those years ago when I first met Max, because I could have used that counsel. Sure, the Lord was talking about King David, but he could have been talking about anyone.

 Max seemed quiet and laidback, but inside, he was a bundle of deep thoughts and strong emotions. A super complex personality. So, just because his face looks as impassive as Mount Rushmore, that doesn't mean he’s shallow. Appearances can be deceiving. There's a lot more going on beneath Max’s beautiful surface. I should have dug a little deeper and really gotten to know him before marrying him.

Max had always been an impossible poker opponent. Not that we played much poker, but he’d also been an impossible read during Scrabble—a game we had often played during our brief time together.

I placed my fingers on my lips to keep them from trembling, because I wasn’t as good at hiding my emotions as he was. Why had I ever thought that meeting him again in the crowded setting would be a good idea?

But it hadn’t been my idea. I blamed Jess. Her degree in operational behavior led her to believe she knew all the best techniques in handling awkward social situations. And this was definitely awkward. Until Max smiled and held out his arms for a hug.

I fell against him. He was solid. Safe. Warm. And still smelled of leather and cloves. His arms held me against him and my thoughts went back to that one night. The last night.

Max drew away and took my hand. “Come on. Let’s talk outside.”

The curious gazes of his brother, friends, and neighbors followed us through the barn’s wide doors.

Max pulled me to the dark side of the barn. The cold December air bit my skin. Moonlight sparkled on the snow and an owl called from the nearby woods.

“So, twelve years later and you’re finally ready to admit to marrying me?” He didn’t sound as angry as I thought he might, but he did drop my hand, sending a chill up my arm.

Why had I let Jess convince me this was the best course of action?

Take the upper hand, she had said. Start in a place of power.

But I had always been the weak one in our relationship. I had hoped that now, after all these years, it might be different. I might be different. And, yet, here I was, feeble-kneed and tongue-tied standing in front of him, ready to ask another impossible favor.

“You’re here for a divorce,” Max said, his voice steady and as conversational as if he were asking if I wanted a cup of coffee.

“N-no,” I stammered. “Unless, of course, that’s what you want. I owe you that much…”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, smiling at me, looking genuinely happy to see me.

Why did he always have to be so nice? I had forgotten that too-good-to-be-true quality that had made it so easy to make all of those long-ago mistakes…

I swallowed hard. I wasn’t that person anymore, and, yet, here I was and here he was…

“It’s Layla,” I said. “She’s missing.”

 

TWELVE YEARS EARLIER

 

I loved my sister. Her death left a huge, gaping hole in my life. I missed her every day when I heard or saw something funny I wanted to share with her. I missed her every day when a disappointment hit and I wanted her to commiserate with me.

But as much as I loved her, as much as I missed her, there was a small evil part of me that resented her for upending my life. For abandoning me and leaving me myself to care for the two people I loved most in the world. One of whom trotted by my side, holding onto me with one hand, and clutching her ridiculous Frisbee with the other.

Together we navigated through The University of Washington’s bustling quad. Sunlight filtered through the towering trees, casting patterns on the manicured lawns. I took a deep breath when we rounded a corner and the Fine Arts Building came into view. Meeting my professor with my niece in tow wasn’t ideal, but what choice did I have?

Layla tugged at my hand and used her Frisbee to point at a group of students gathered on the lawn. Their laughter and Cold Play’s A Sky Full of Stars coming from a vintage boombox made my heart skip.

A friend had played the song on his cello at Danica and Parker’s funeral. An unconventional choice, but since it had also been sung at their wedding, it seemed more appropriate than any of the hymns the funeral director had suggested.

Layla’s stiffening told me she recognized the music, too.

Lost in memories, I barely noticed Max emerging from the nearby tech center. His presence caught me off guard.

Layla, ever perceptive, gave him a shy smile.

"You again,” Max greeted, his voice a familiar echo from the physical science class we’d shared my sophomore year.

"Max," I replied, a mix of surprise and uncertainty lingering in my tone.

As if sensing my roiling emotions, Layla looked up at me with questioning eyes, reminding me I had somewhere to be.

“I’m Layla,” she said, extending her hand in a formal gesture that made her seem like an old, very short, business man.

“Max Haywood.” His big hand engulfed Layla’s small one and he stooped to look her in the eye.

My gaze went back toward the Fine Art’s Center. "I've got a meeting with Professor Anderson," I explained, my gaze drifting toward Layla.

Max's eyes softened as he looked at her. "No worries. I can watch her for a bit.”

“You would do that?”

“Sure. If you’ll tell me what you were doing on my property yesterday.”

Of course, there had to be a catch…everything and everyone has a price…I hesitated, but Layla took a step toward Max.

“I like your watch.” She pointed at the Mickie Mouse attached to Max’s wrist.

“And I like your Frisbee,” Max replied, nodding at the space ship designed toy cradled in Layla’s arms.

“I found it at the dog park,” Layla told him. “All of the other dogs had left and Buster told me I could have it.”

“Buster?” Max asked.

“He’s George’s boxer. Do you like boxers?”

“I’ve never met one that could talk,” Max said.

“George says all dogs communicate, but most can’t talk, like Buster.”

Max and I exchanged glances.

The bell tower sounded, reminding me I was going to be late. Unlike Buster, it really could talk—or at least tell time.

"Thank you, Max," I said, the gratitude genuine.

Layla and Max strolled toward a sunny spot on the lawn, and I jogged toward the Fine Arts Center. Cold Play’s music followed me, a happy song, but a grim reminder of the funeral and the pastor’s words.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

                      Hath had elsewhere its setting,

                         And cometh from afar:

                      Not in entire forgetfulness,

                      And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

                      From God, who is our home:*

William Wordsworth. Ode: Intimations of Immortality.  A sleep and a forgetting. Sometimes, I wished I could sleep and forget…But then I thought of Layla and Lady G. Without me, who would look out for them?

 

*MAX

Who was this child? Was she Bailey’s? Where was the dad? Anger for this unknown, irresponsible loser ripped through me.

“Will you introduce me to George and Buster sometime?” I asked the child. I didn’t tell her I wanted to beat George to a pulp.

Layla had Bailey’s creamy pink skin and caramel colored hair. They were related somehow. Bailey couldn’t be that much older than me, could she? Teenage pregnancies did happen, but I hoped it hadn’t happened to Bailey. Not that I would wish Layla out of existence, but Bailey had a whip-smart wit and, when we had worked together in Physical Science, she’d been in class as steady as the Bunsen burners. But I hadn’t seen her recently.

And then she’d shown up at the farm—and took off without speaking to me. What was that about? Maybe the child knew…

Layla held the Frisbee up. “Wanna play?”

“Huh, sure, but not here. We’ll have to find an open space.” My gaze swept over the quad and the clusters of lounging students. This happened whenever there was a rare sunny Seattle day, the students sprouted like mushrooms over the lawns.

Layla planted her tiny sneakers on the cement. “We can’t go too far or Bailey won’t be able to find us.”

Bailey…not mom. So, who was George?

“I’ll go easy on you,” Layla marched onto the quad as if she knew I would follow.

I did.

Layla found a patch of unclaimed lawn and pointed at it. “You stand here.”

I followed her instructions and watched her back away from me.

“You have to focus,” she informed me. “Keep your eyes on the Frisbee.”

“I’ve played before.”

“Not with me,” she said in a serious tone.

“True. But I play football with some really big guys.”

Layla placed her hands on her hips and gave me a don’t be stupid glare. “Do I look like a big guy?”

“No, but—”

“The trick to playing Frisbee is paying attention. Buster is really good at Frisbee. Do you think you can be as good as Buster?”

I had a mental image of a boxer flying and snatching the Frisbee out of the air. “Probably not.”

“Do your best. That’s all anyone can do,” Layla said, sounding a lot like my mom.

Layla contemplated me for a long moment, then tossed the Frisbee behind her and over her head.

I sprinted past her, but, of course, couldn’t reach it before it crashed to the ground.

Layla chortled and dashed for the Frisbee. She plucked it up and wiped off a few free-loading grass shoots. “Max is a loser!”

“You cheated.”

“I did not!” she said, looking indignant.

“You threw it behind you.”

“So what?”

“That’s not how you play.”

“Say’s who?”

I waggled my fingers. “Give to me, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“You have to earn it,” Layla announced. “It’s still my turn to throw it because you’re a loser.”

“I am not—” I began.

“You didn’t catch it, did you?”

“No, but—”

Without waiting for me to finish my sentence, Layla tossed the Frisbee toward a couple spread out on a blanket.

I darted after the Frisbee, but the guy easily caught it before me.

“Loser!” Layla called out, laughing.

“Sorry, dude,” the guy said. “Looks like you need to up your game.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I grumbled.

“We’re rooting for you,” the girl said, flashing her dimples at me.

Layla gave the couple a hostile glance. “This is our game,” she informed them. “Max needs to learn how to focus,” she said, as if I was a puppy that needed to be house broken.

After fifteen minutes, I had yet to catch the Frisbee, but I had worked up a sweat, and we’d gained an audience. The crowd cheered every time Layla tossed the Frisbee and, with even more enthusiasm, booed when I missed the throw. Spurned on by her fans, Layla’s throws grew increasingly ridiculous.

Bailey emerged from the Fine Arts Center and my heart lifted at the sight of her. Her smile warmed when she caught sight of Layla. She trotted toward us.

When Layla spotted Bailey, her demeanor completely changed, she dropped the Frisbee, and she ran toward Bailey with her arms extended.

Bailey swept her up and swung her around. “We’re going to be okay,” she said, and I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince—Layla, or herself.

“Thanks, Max,” Bailey said with a smile.

Layla encircled Bailey’s waist with her legs and laid her head on Bailey’s shoulders. I had a fleeting image of Bailey clinging to me that way and it hit me so sudden and sharp, it took my breath. “Any time.” The two words came out strangled and breathy.

I watched them walk away, Layla still clinging to Bailey like a koala. The child mouthed the word, loser, as her head bounced against Bailey’s shoulder.

Mike Payne (fantasy writer) was worried about the placement of the Frisbee. So I rewrote a couple of sentences. 

Layla placed her hands on her hips so the Frisbee stuck out a ninety-degree angle like a lever. She gave me a don’t be stupid glare. “Do I look like a big guy?”

AND:

Layla encircled Bailey’s waist with her legs and laid her head on Bailey’s shoulders. The Frisbee dangled from her fingers like a flag at half-mast. I had a fleeting image of Bailey clinging to me that way and it hit me so sudden and sharp, it took my breath.

Biff (who is writing a literary novel about stolen Russian gold) questioned I'd chosen the word ridiculous to describe the Frisbee. Since my goal was to illustrate how desperate their financial situation was that Layla's favorite toy was a Frisbee she'd rescued from a dog park, I reworded the sentence to:

One of whom trotted by my side, holding onto me with one hand, and clutching a half-chewed and dog-mangled Frisbee with the other.

Greta (author of the Mortician and Seven Deadly Sins murder mysteries) was concerned about Bailey trusting her young niece with a man she barely knew. Since this seemed like something that would also give me pause, I added this:

Max, the oldest of seven children, had tried to lead a group project without being interrupted by his host of younger siblings. The project had ended when a member of the class, Marc-someone, had attempted to demonstrate the properties of invisible ink using lemon juice. But, when it came time to reveal the messages under heat, Marc-someone accidentally set the paper on fire, sending smoke billowing across the kitchen and prompting a hasty evacuation as the smoke alarm blared. What stuck with me was how when everyone else went scrambling out the door, Max quickly marshalled his siblings into a well-oiled battalion, directing the next older brother to take his little sisters outside while the another was sent in search of the fire extinguisher. Max used a pitcher of water to put out the flames. By the time his parents had returned, only a whiff of smoke lingered in the air to tell of the near disaster.

I knew I could trust Max with Layla, but could I trust Layla with Max?

Terry (a horror writer best known for writing the screenplay Dead Heat) wondered if a six-year-old was too big to carry. I assured him that six-year-old girls, if they're small, are indeed portable.

These might not seem like monumental changes, but even small things can wrench a reader out of story. The more engaged the reader remains, the more satisfying the story.

How about you? If you were in my critique group, what suggestions would you offer?

 

Wednesday's Words: MAYOR. An excerpt from Small Town Shenanigans

  Welcome to Wednesday's Words where I share a snippet from one of my stories using yesterday's word from the New York game Wordle. Yesterday's Wordle was MAYOR. 

FREE IN KINDLE UNLIMITED

The search and rescue team had restarted their hunt at dawn. According to Mayor Ellsworth, a tall formidable woman who looked as if she’d descended from an African queen, Sydney’s mom and Reagan had hired a local crop-duster so they could conduct an aerial search. It killed me I had to be here holding Mr. Gerard’s hand when every part of me was screaming to help find Sydney.

“You ready for this?” Mayor Ellsworth asked. She wore a cranberry-colored pantsuit that brought out the warm tones in her skin.

“Yes, indeedy,” Mr. Gerard said.

The news van rolled up in front of the city hall steps, and a tall, thin blonde dressed in a pair of no-nonsense blue pants and a crisp white shirt climbed out. A pair of men head-to-toe in black followed. The woman flicked her hair over her shoulder and studied her reflection in a small hand mirror. One man retrieved a camera from the back of the van while the other set up a tripod holding a light.

The mayor held open the door for Mr. Gerard and Brit. I followed in their wake.

The blonde seemed confused by our appearance.

“Miss Miller,” Mayor Ellsworth stuck out her hand, “I’m Inez Ellsworth, mayor of Cascadia. Let me introduce you to Mr. Gerard, aka MaryLu Bellmont.”

Miss Miller’s gaze flickered over Brit and came rest on me.

Mayor Ellsworth pushed Mr. Gerard to the forefront and Miss Miller’s eyes dimmed with first disbelief and then disappointment.

“Mr. Gerard,” Miss Miller said in a valiant attempt to cover her shock. “This is a surprise.”

“Surprises make for good TV, right?” Brit asked.

“Excuse me, who are you?” Miss Miller asked Brit.

“I’m his grandson.”

“Aw,” Miss Miller said. “Can I have you stand over there?” She motioned at a distant step. “And who are you?” she asked me. “Another relative?”

“My attorney,” Gerard said.

Miss Miller simpered. “I guess I can’t get rid of you as easily.”

“I would guess not,” I returned. “If Mr. Gerard wants me, I’m here.” Even though I really wanted to be somewhere else.

After a few minor adjustments to the lights and cameras, Miss Miller stuck her microphone in Mr. Gerard’s face. “I’m Maisie Miller with Channel four news and today we’re in Cascadia, home to the Musing saga. We have Tommy Franklin! The actor who played Camden in Musings.” Miss Miller waved for Tommy to join her on the steps. “Tommy, does this place bring back happy memories for you?”

Tommy preened in front of the camera. “Why yes, Maisie, of course it does.”

“How would you feel if there were another Musings movie in the works?”

“The same as everyone else,” Tommy said. “Thrilled.”

Mr. Gerard frowned at this strange turn in the interview, but he didn’t say anything.

“And what if I were to tell you that the author stood beside you?”

Tommy shot me a quizzical glance.

Miss Miller put her hand on Mr. Gerard’s arm and drew him forward. “Tommy, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the real MaryLu Bellmont, Mr. Bob Gerard!”

 Mr. Gerard’s cheeks had turned an ugly shade of red and he glowered at the camera.

“Tell us Mr. Gerard, what made you step forward now?” Miss Miller asked.

“These shenanigans have gone on long enough. The crowds, the noise. The contest.” He made air quotes around the last word. “Some idiots set off a smoke grenade at one of the clue sights and now a woman’s gone missing. That should be the real news story. Not me or my silly books.”

Miss Miller ignored everything he said. “And you contend that you have had nothing to do with the contest.”

“I had nothing to do with any of this,” Mr. Gerard growled.

“I believe the woman responsible for setting up the contest has been arrested?”

Mayor Ellsworth leaned in. “That’s right. She’s being detained.”

“There’s a gal missing,” Mr. Gerard said with a harrumph. “A woman who works for my publisher—”

Mayor Ellsworth stepped forward again. “It’s unknown if her whereabouts has anything to do with Mr. Gerard. She’s from New York,” she added, as if creatures from New York were capable of just about anything.

“And we won’t know until we find her!” Mr. Gerard said.

A ripple of excitement rose from the crowd. People turned to stare when Sydney, with her flaming red hair, wearing some sort of lacy nightgown, came riding into town on a horse.

I bolted off the steps. The crowd parted for me. The horse pawed the ground when Sydney pulled on the reins. I reached for her and she slid into my arms.

I held her against my chest with one arm and used my hand to brush the hair out of her sleepy eyes with the other. “What happened?”

“You’ll never believe me,” she said.