Opposite of Frozen

by Jan O'Hara

  Page was completely baffled. “I don’t understand,” she said to Oliver as the two men briefly embraced and broke apart. “You’re going to play baseball again?” She would have thought his injuries precluded that. After all of Oliver’s resistance, was he going to coach kids or play on an alternate team?

  “Oh, no,” Oliver said. “That’s done. I’m talking about the team fighting aging, entropy, and—” Oliver turned to Mr. Lee, who was pulling abreast of the doorway. “What was that last one, Vince?”

  “Doubt,” Mr. Lee said, as he stepped aboard the plow and brushed off his already impeccable jacket.

  “Right. Aging, entropy and doubt—the forces of chaos.” Oliver was totally sober as he turned back to Page. “But back to a most pressing matter.”

  While Bart grinned in the background and Mr. Lee watched with an inscrutable expression, Oliver dropped to one knee and seized her hand.

  “The best day of my life was the day you sneaked into my luggage hold. I thought I wanted easy and controlled. Instead I found what I needed: a girl who’d sass me back and ask the tough questions. In duck-covered pajamas, no less.” His laughing, blue eyes became very earnest. “So marry me, my stowaway. Make me the happiest partially-blind, former pro ballplayer in Harmony.”

  Page laughed and shook her head at his absurdity. With an offer like that, how could she refuse?

  “Yes, Oliver,” she said. “With every ounce of this defrosted heart, I accept.”

  * * *

  ✽

  From her position leaning against the closed personnel door, Page watched idly as the men dealt with Curtis. She waited for the moment they’d discover their problem.

  They made quite a production of it, using meltwater from Mr. Lee’s portable stove to wash Curtis’s eyes. They used duct tape from Mr. Lee’s backpack to truss Curtis up in the jumpseat, and more tape yet to anchor space blankets over him. They were even generous enough to pile a miserable, shivering Curtis high with their own coats.

  When it was all done, Bart was the first to twig to the situation. His head swiveled from the control panel to Curtis, from Curtis to the console again. “Uh…one minor problem, folks. With Curtis like that, how we gonna get back?”

  Oliver looked at the radio doubtfully. “Guess we can call for help.”

  It seemed so anticlimactic, even Mr. Lee seemed deflated as he shrugged.

  Page cleared her throat. “I might have a solution.” She laughed at their baffled expressions as she claimed the engineer’s seat. “What? I spent a few months in Winnipeg, working for a railway museum.”

  She didn’t mention how she’d been watching with a keen eye earlier, as Curtis operated the train, or that she’d have been hooped if he turned the engine off, rather than put it in idle. Why ruin the mystique?

  “Bart and Vince, you watch out the rear.” She smiled at Oliver to take the sting out of the next declaration. “Hey, my betrothed, come sit with me.”

  As Oliver claimed the brakeman’s seat, Page took off the independent brake, put the reverser in position, and moved the throttle until the plow heaved into motion—slow backward motion. Under her hand, they’d be taking it easy, but at least they’d be going the right direction.

  “Let’s go home, boys.”

  Back to Harmony. Back to the Thurston. Back to planning her future with Oliver. Back to Buck and forty-one anxiously waiting oldsters.

  Epilogue

  Dear Diary:

  * * *

  Today I turned ninety-six. Except for when my Verna hired me that singing telegram man for my eighty-fifth, I’d be hard-pressed to name a better birthday than the one Page and Oliver gave me.

  My twelfth medicinal is starting to work, so I need to get this down quick before I take my beauty rest.

  It all started at the airport this morning. Oliver offered to hire Buck to drive me out, but after hearing all the stories about our time in Harmony, my Verna was more curious than a celebrity in a scent factory. She insisted on taking me. Since she’s in charge of my pills, I didn’t think it wise to disagree.

  Oliver arrived first on a plane straight from LA. He says he’s over the irony of playing a baseball man on TV when he can’t play worth a hoot in real life. I believe him. He looks healthy, and happy, and a darn sight stronger than the last time I saw him. And when he finally caught sight of Page, he lit up brighter than Marva-Jean’s wig that time she caught it in the curling iron, and set it afire.

  Course, it probably helps that he’s making a killing in money and only has to be away from Page for a few days every so often.

  He come up with his brother and that friend of his. Ask me, Bart is three-quarters flirt and one-quarter fool. But I can’t deny how good Bart is for Shawn. The two of them just finished their second Strippers and Dippers tour, which is for dirty old men who like to combine their fishing and leering in one trip. I.e. all of them. Course, if my William was alive, he’d be one of their charter members, so I got no right to judge.

  While we was waiting for Page, Shawn pulled out his phone and showed me their reviews. Lord A’mighty, what a world we live in! On the left side of the page there was all these circle-photos of men with names like The Gray Avenger or WrinkledButStraight. On the right, a bunch of comments you’d expect from college kids. Things like, “Best. Trip. Ever.” They’re booked solid for the season. Can you believe that?

  We waited an hour for Mavis and Page’s flight to get in. It got delayed on account of a storm over the Rockies. I guess Page’s luck when it comes to weather ain’t one bit better than the day she took her fool ride on Oliver’s bus.

  Verna said she didn’t mind, she’d taken the day off work and was due some fun. I caught her watching the men’s buttocks when they went to fetch us snacks, and she took to dropping her things left and right, like Perry Williams did that time he had his stroke.

  I hadn’t seen Mavis in a month but she’s looking the best I seen her since Avis passed. The work in Victoria must help by giving her a place to apply her bossiness.

  Page says Mavis is a marvel with all them hospital administrators and regulators and what-not, and she wouldn’t be this far ahead without Mavis’s help. The renovations on Page’s grandmother’s house are coming along. They expect the first patients to the Myrtle Maddux Hospice in six months. One room’ll be named after Avis, of course.

  I’m invited to come for a visit when it’s all fixed up. They’ve got a lift, plus everything required to cater to a woman of my years.

  We all got into cars at that point and drove back to the retirement village, where Page and Oliver arranged me a catered lunch in the private dining room. And a gigantic birthday cake! Chocolate with buttercream frosting. Lord A’mighty, the folks in this place are nosy. The other residents kept poking in, angling for a piece, though most are already running to fat.

  That Mr. Lee came by, only, he wouldn’t eat a bite. Actually said so instead of just acting out his words. Now that he’s laid down the law with his family, he’s talking more. Said he couldn’t afford to get stomach cramps. He was on his way to filming an episode of Parkour for Seniors for his YouTube channel.

  Of all the folks there, Page was the only one not looking up to snuff. She smiled a lot, and laughed, but she was tired and paler than a nun’s behind in February. When she wasn’t picking at her food, she was burping something awful and covering her mouth with her napkin.

  She’s changed her hair, too, going with red stripes now. She said Mavis tried to talk her into keeping both colors at once, to express solidarity with the LGB—LBT—whatever that alphabet soup community is for the gay folk. Ask me, since folks got to know about her and Avis’s marriage and didn’t run her out of town, Mavis has gone a little bonkers. She likes to see rainbows everywhere.

  But Page stuck to her guns, said she guessed she wasn’t in a blue-haired mood any more.

  By this point, I’d already seen the lay of the land, what with her running to the washroom every time I picked up my fork. I said
, “Gal, I’m surprised you didn’t go with green stripes, on account of that being the color of your gills. Course, maybe that’ll pass in a few weeks, when you’re in your second term.”

  Lord A’mighty, you could have heard a pin drop. Everyone’s eyes got real big—Page’s included—and Oliver let out a whoop that brought the staff members running, in case I’d gone and had a heart attack. And he picked Page up and twirled her around until I feared he’d lose his balance and fall over and injure his fool head again. And then the whole dang lot of them ran out to get one of them pregnancy sticks.

  Afterward, we realized they’d gone to the drugstore where Page met Avis and the whole frozen-girl-on-the-bus thing got started. Now that’s what you call a circle of serendipity.

  We all shuffled to my quarters then and shoved Page into the bathroom for a shade of privacy. Oh, the cheers that went up when she come out! Looks like her blue stripe done migrated from her hair to the test paper, where it belongs.

  After that, Page’s cheeks had more color in them than the time she dove off that stage to save me, her nips flapping in the breeze.

  I should mention she still doesn’t know I was pretending to sleep that time, on account of her being all self-conscious and me not wanting to make it worse. Meanwhile, I was watching with my eyes scrootched up. Truth tell, her technique had a lot to be desired. Course, even if she’d known about my dancing days in Whitehorse and come to me for pointers, I wouldn’t have been much help on account of the arthritis in my hips.

  What with all the yelling and hoopla, the new gal next door, Monica, banged on the door to say we was making too much noise. She’s jealous of me, I know. In the four months she’s been here, I ain’t seen her with one visitor, whereas my Verna is here four times a week, minimum. So I have a certain amount of feeling for her. But does she need to act crankier than a hyena with a sore hump? I wanted to tell her to wheel herself on out and shove her designer dentures where the sun don’t shine.

  But Oliver and Page and them hauled her in and got to work on her, like they do. My Verna complimented her on her sweater, which was the color of fish slime and nothing special, truth be told. Bart teased her and laid a smack on her cheek. Wouldn’t you know, by the end, Monica was giggling like a girl. It was kinda cute, even if her voice is squinchy, so she sounds like a gargling nanny goat.

  Speaking of avalanches, that uppity Mrs. Arbuckle called to wish me a happy ninety-sixth. She’s still lording it over the Thurston Hotel, presiding over the lounge at night. She said there are all kinds of goings-on in that town of hers—people getting married left, right and center with her playing a starring role. She says there’s something magical about that town that brings people together and heals their hearts.

  I’m not one to truck with superstition. Still, I have to admit there was something special about our time there, and how it done knit two generations tight. With Page’s baby coming and my Verna, guess that’ll make four.

  Which only goes to show that most times, folks do better when they stick together, whether they be young, old, or in their middle years. Probably even them teenagers with tongue piercings, and them horrible sleeve tattoos.

  Dear Reader: Thank you so much for reading Opposite of Frozen. If you made it this far into the book, I hope you enjoyed it.

  Whether you did or not, thank you for the investment of your valuable time and money, and for giving me the opportunity to try and entertain you. I am truly grateful! After decades of putting my writing dreams on hold to practice family medicine, people like you are the reason I’m crafting my stories.

  * * *

  If you have a moment, please help other people discover this book by writing a review or leaving a rating where you bought it, or wherever readers visit. Positive reviews are a critical factor in how well a book sells, so by leaving me one, you are directly helping me continue my writing journey.

  * * *

  To find out more about my other books, please visit my website at: www.janohara.net

  Stay connected in other ways:

  Sign up for my quasi-monthly mailing list: http://janohara.net/newsletter (for exclusive giveaways, sneak peeks, and writing news)

  Come like my Facebook page: http://facebook.com/JanOHaraBooks

  Email me! jan@janohara.net

  Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/jan_ohara

  Turn the page for a peek inside Cold and Hottie, a second-chance romance set in Jamaica in which Mr. Lee has a cameo role.

  The blurb:

  She’s being sent to Jamaica for a team-building exercise. It will be led by a crazed psychologist and the man she done wrong…who is now her boss.

  Oops.

  A decade ago, in a messy breakup with the only man she has ever loved, Olivia Prosser behaved badly. She has lived with the consequences since.

  Then bad news comes in rapid succession: the company she works for has been purchased; her ex, Finn, is her new employer; and she’ll be reconnecting with him during a mandatory retreat in Jamaica. Five days filled with forced emotional intimacy and corporate-speak, not to mention memories better left in the past.

  A white knight’s armor will rust in salt water.

  For years, Finn Wakefield has known who to blame for his breakup with Liv. Then new information comes to light. Liv might be innocent, and the party who framed her might be lodged within Finn’s company, continuing their acts of sabotage.

  But Liv shows no interest in righting the wrongs of the past. Is that for ominous reasons or because she is over Finn? Either way, for the sake of his company, Finn must push for the truth — even if the cost is a twice-broken heart.

  Cold and Hottie was previously published as part of the Tropical Tryst box set, which became a #1 international bestselling ebook anthology (Aug. 1/17). See why readers call it “…a delicious page-turner set in an exotic setting,” and why it appeals to fans of Penny Reid, Lauren Blakely, and Penelope Ward.

  Turn the page to read the first chapter.

  Cold and Hottie Excerpt

  LIV

  At 4:37 p.m. on Friday, after weeks of dread and just when I’ve convinced myself I’ve been spared, a dossier bearing the title Jamaica lands on my desk. Tucker had probably been aiming for my in-basket, but since he’s standing in my doorway and the basket is overflowing, the folder tips over the edge and continues its horizontal motion. It comes to rest on the refinery drawings I’ve been marking up, the right lower edge touching a pump that needs modernization.

  When I find my voice I say, “You’re kidding me.”

  Tucker’s smile is his signature blend of cynicism and amusement. “If you pull yourself together and need to talk, I’ll be in my office for another five minutes.” He pivots on a well-shod foot and vanishes from sight.

  I turn the pencil in my hand and use the eraser to tease out the top sheaf of paper, willing this to be one of his practical jokes. Easy enough to put a label on a folder and pack it with documents destined for the shredder. Then to stand in the hall just out of sight, ready to pop in with a, Haha, Liv, got you good this time.

  Alas, this evening brings no such luck. For there in black and white, issued in the name of one Olivia Prosser, is an e-ticket for this coming Monday morning. I’m flying from Columbus to Kingston, via Atlanta.

  I use the pencil to extract the next sheaf. Apparently the resort and I have corresponded, most recently when I confirmed an ocean-facing, non-smoking room with a king-sized bed.

  At least I was smart enough to avoid having a roommate.

  I close my eyes and bend forward to clunk my head repeatedly on my desk. Having seen fellow staffers open their envelopes, I don’t need to examine the rest of the paperwork to know what it contains. There will be a shiny brochure on the all-inclusive resort’s amenities. (Seven pools! Six restaurants featuring international cuisine! Unlimited soft drinks and booze in your room’s mini-fridge!) There will be a listing of optional paid activities, both inside the resort and on the island. Finally, there wil
l be the handout delineating the source of my dry mouth and blossoming headache.

  I don’t need to look at the handout but…I stop banging my head and do it anyway, because some masochistic impulses can’t be resisted.

  Three months ago, the company I work for, HMZ Consulting, was purchased by Wakefield Enterprises. When I say “purchased,” I really mean “swallowed whole.” We were the krill to Wakefield’s blue whale. Now the time has come for us to “harmonize our corporate cultures.” Accordingly, for the past several months, select employees within my office have been receiving invitations to the upcoming retreat in Jamaica. Once trained in the ways of the mothership, they—and I guess that includes me now—will return as ambassadors to the home office, where we will spread the ways of enlightenment.

  Most of the five-day retreat will be run by Wakefield’s second-in-command, Yolanda Perez. The brochure photo shows a woman in her early forties with tight black braids and a confident smile. She’s a psychologist, reportedly half-crazy in her own right, and the rumors about her outdoor group exercises are downright intimidating.

  Then there’s the CEO, Finnegan Wakefield. I don’t know if his photo has been retouched, but thirty-four looks good on him. Even better than twenty-four did, if that’s possible.

  Finn is giving the Tuesday noon keynote—one hour is his full commitment for the entire program. Depending upon how he receives me, that one hour could be all it takes to upend my life.

  I seize the dossier and jam all the papers back inside, then locate my shoes under the desk.