Other titles by Kathy Johncox
The Last Generation of Women Who Cook
Praise for The Last Generation of Women Who Cook
“Lovers of the best fiction will feast on this banquet of stories, literate and lush, exploring the inextricable links between food and family. The author takes you into the hearts of the characters by way of their taste buds in stories that keep you involved long after you’ve put the book down or shut off your Kindle. This is fiction of the very best kind for women and men, young and old, who want a better understanding of each other and themselves.”
Steven Spruill
Author of Rulers of Darkness and Ice Men
“These stories—all about food—delight the senses and satisfy our hunger for a good narrative. Cookbook writers seduce poets and men try to rekindle love though buying apple pies. The settings vary, the characters differ, but the stories all entice. Worth reading. Bon Appetit!
Gail Hosking
Author of Snake’s Daughter: The Roads In And Out Of War
What A Kiss Can Do
Kathy Johncox
2014
Copyright© Kathy A. Johncox, 2014
All rights reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1495265433
ISBN-10: 1495265439
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and situations are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Elizabeth Berry, Touchpoints Creative Photograph: Mark Benjamin
Visit www.createspace.com or www.Amazon.com to order additional copies in print or on Kindle.
Many thanks to Tom, Steve and the rest of my family, and my team of friends and fellow writers, proofreaders and editors who have faith in what a kiss can do.
CONTENTS
Chapter One: The Stage Is Set
Chapter Two: It’s Probably Nothing
Chapter Three: Time to Make a Resolution
Chapter Four: Happy New Year
Chapter Five: Resolutions Continued
Chapter Six: Probably the Doldrums
Chapter Seven: Spring Fever
Chapter Eight: Another World
Chapter Nine: Being Pursued
Chapter Ten: Strange Happenings
Chapter Eleven: Everyone Knows
Chapter Twelve: Fathers
Chapter Thirteen: Stranger Happenings
Chapter Fourteen: The Non-Virgin and the Gypsy
Chapter Fifteen: Flight of Fancy
Chapter Sixteen: Don’t Eat the Candy
Chapter Seventeen: There’s Hope
Chapter Eighteen: The Prodigal
Chapter Nineteen: Still Hungry
Chapter Twenty: Close Encounter
Chapter Twenty-one: It’s Time
Chapter Twenty-two: A First and Last Chapter
About the Author
Chapter One
The Stage Is Set
On a cold December night, standing on the porch of a mansion owned by a person I didn’t like, going to a party I didn’t want to attend, and celebrating a season that held mostly bad memories, I sighed, rang the doorbell and thought about my life.
I’m 32 years old and having given recent and thoughtful consideration to the places where men and love have taken me, I was pretty sure I was done with both. Attending a holiday party I didn’t want to go to, because I knew there would be men—love, probably not—plus the hated mistletoe, I was even more convinced. I only was here because I am both a freelance writer and full-time reporter routinely assigned to cover community theater for my suburban newspaper beat. And, I had been assigned, at the last minute and against my will, I might add, to interview some fancy attorney newly ensconced in town who had some connection to the arts.
The mansion belonged to the queen of the local thespian set. I shivered, partly because it was cold, but also because Caroline Jorgensen’s Gothic eighteenth-century house, with its wrap-around stone porch and shadowy peaks spiking up into the darkness, felt even more forbidding than usual. I looked around me. Even hundreds of tiny white Christmas lights didn’t brighten the dismal, gray feel. It always felt to me that Something Wicked This Way Comes, the name of an old scary “B” movie, would have been a good warning to post on one of the porch columns. I’d been at Caroline’s before, but not with the trepidation I felt tonight in this season of peace on earth, goodwill toward—well—people. Bah.
I heard laughter and music inside. It was cold standing there waiting in elegant high heels because I was too vain to wear the only cold weather boots I had—hiking boots—with a party dress. I just wanted someone to open the door. It was when I rang the bell the second time that I heard a grunt and a thud behind me. A little spooked, I looked over my right shoulder down at the steps where the sound came from. I thought at first it was a child, so I bent down to see what was wrong.
“Honey, are you okay?” I asked.
“I’ve had it with these goddamn steps,” an unexpectedly deep voice cursed loudly. “Every time I come here it’s dark, and I scrape my shins on the cement. Last time I even ripped my trousers.”
Then, I saw the person was a dwarf, sporting a black cashmere sport jacket and a silk tie, quality discernable even in the semi-darkness. His gold watch, probably a Rolex, glinted in the lights from the porch. He stood up, rubbing his knees. My heart still was pounding so loudly that I really had to concentrate to process his additional expletives and pejorative remarks about Caroline’s porch, house, neighborhood and ultimately, attending this party.
I thought it odd that I’d never met, talked to or even been close to a dwarf, and now both of us were going to be at a party where neither of us wanted to be. Paying more attention, I discerned a British accent which kicked the weirdness factor of this encounter up a notch or two.
I felt the least I could do was apologize for calling him “honey,” but before I could open my mouth, he nodded semi-politely, lunged by me, opened the door and disappeared inside. Before I could grab it, the door closed. The fragrance of expensive lemony cologne wafted behind him.
Having been raised to be a considerate guest, unlike some people, I decided to ring one more time before I let myself barge in.
This time, the door slowly creaked open—what a surprise—and the tallest woman I’d ever seen beckoned me into the foyer. I was mesmerized, staring at the woman. Who was a giant. Her arms appeared as long as I was tall, and I’m five foot eight inches in bare feet, but her French maid outfit still looked surprisingly feminine on such a tall frame.
“Your wrap,” she intoned in the same monotone that Alfred Hitchcock made synonymous with really scary movies. She had a British accent as well, and I was thinking about involving her in some kind of conversation to hear more, when Caroline gushed over to me.
“Vilkommen. Bienvenu. Welcome!” She sang the lines from Cabaret effortlessly but terribly off-key. “Celeste will take your coat.” She nodded up toward the heavens.
Caroline’s outfit was swishing so loudly I could barely hear her voice. Her shiny gold leggings and glittery tunic were covered by a gilded ostrich feather cape that fell off one shoulder and dragged behind her. My black shimmery sheath was, well, quiet and understated, more fitting for a New York City art opening than for Caroline’s cave. With my, some would say, statuesque height, shoulder-length dark auburn hair and workout body, I knew I looked passably good, albeit possibly way too normal for this occasion.
“Why, Rita Jensen, how elegant!” Caroline said and twirled me around. “So glad you’re here. Appreciate you covering for Alicia.”
Alicia was my boss, and at work, “Boss” was her name. Boss had wanted to do the intervi
ew herself, but at the last minute couldn’t. She had texted me the assignment with nary a qualm, said something about make sure to take advantage of the opportunity to meet men there, since she couldn’t, and said she’d see me Monday. We’d had the “importance of having a man” discussion many times with constant disagreement. Monday would no doubt be another such session.
Caroline stopped twirling and pointed me toward the great room. When I turned around to ask her who the lawyer was, or where he was, she was gone. My attention turned to the great room where many of the guests were hovering around a gargantuan table laden with odd-looking foodstuffs, or maybe it was just the ornamental cabbages decorating the tiered table that made me immediately suspicious of all the edibles. That, plus looking at the clothing and makeup of guests around the table, made me begin to wonder if I had walked in on a filming of Stanley Kubrick’s latest flick, something I wouldn’t put past Caroline. Then I remembered Stan was dead.
Something that looked like slimy candy worms was draped over a crystal pedestal bowl filled with ice. Angel hair pasta tossed with small perfectly round bits of a marbleized substance filled yet another huge crystal bowl. A platter of small fish with heads, fins and scales that looked like they simply were asleep, was accompanied by dip that looked like caviar, except that it was bubbling. By the quantity of people around it, you would have thought it was shrimp cocktail at any normal holiday party, which is where I wished I were right now, except for the possibility of the mercilessly ubiquitous holiday mistletoe at such soirees. Luckily, a quick inspection of the archways and doorways so far revealed none.
Truth be told, mistletoe is one of the main reasons why generally I’m a reluctant guest at holiday parties. I have a holiday rant that is legend in my circle of friends, about how the introduction of mistletoe into the civilized world had to be the brainchild of some frustrated male, who had identified someone he wanted to kiss, but didn’t dare. I know that this white-berried parasitic plant life held some kind of mythic importance for the Norse gods, a topic of occasional interest in my Scandinavian family. And, I might have bought into the mythic importance had I been a contemporary of Thor and Odin. Now all I believe is that mistletoe’s raison d’être is to allow someone to embarrass an unwitting, and unwilling, victim at a party where he or she—mostly she—is surrounded by strangers.
There’s a deep-seated reason for why I feel this way. And it’s not the fat-boy Dolton twins in third grade, although they did entertain the entire school by chasing me around holding mistletoe high in front of them, cackling and trying to kiss me. And it’s not the horror movie that has the young lovers alone, kissing under the mistletoe, when the slasher arrives and you know what comes next. It’s something much more personal.
Needing to get my mind off mistletoe, bizarre food and strange-looking guests, and to find the lawyer, I set off to cruise the downstairs. With my observational antennae in full array, I scanned the rooms, thinking about how I could use this experience as a jumping-off point for an additional holiday article or column for the paper.
Across the great room, the dwarf was sitting on an ottoman in the corner, chatting with a person sitting in a matching wing-backed chair. That person seemed to be divided down the middle, and on one side of, let’s just say the body, this person wore a tailored man’s suit, white shirt, tie, wingtips—the full corporate drill. On the other side, this person wore a red lace party dress, and patterned nylon stockings. On one side, a short but stylish haircut and on the other, long blond hair in that tousled style that was made popular by those incredibly thin and whiny actresses on soap operas. He/she had an interesting face, but still the word “circus” popped into my mind. After an initial stab of guilt, induced by my non-politically correct thinking, it struck me that these guests really might be from a bona fide circus sideshow. When I saw the shoeless lady with the elephantine legs and feet, and the man with the pale white skin and the tiny red third eye between his two real eyes, I thought, bingo. I was guessing none of these people were the lawyer in question.
I have to say that here I had a moment where I didn’t know what to do. I don’t have many like that, at least I pretend not to, as confidence is a reporter’s best friend and I always try to bring mine along. But, right now, I wasn’t having such a confident thirty-second year. The newspaper job was fine, but my freelance writing gigs weren’t coming as regularly as I’d like, and that’s where my mad money came from, that would be money for the extra things that made life worthwhile. All those magazines that I thought would clamor for my witty articles were not clamoring. It seemed generally like something in my life was lacking. I had sometimes wondered if what was lacking was a man, but I always laughed that idea off, along with the memories of the last three men I’d dated. Perhaps what really was lacking was my inability to act on the creative inspiration for the novel I knew I had in me, the book that in the best of all possible worlds would make all my troubles, both financial and emotional, disappear. Or maybe it was just what the French call “ennui.”
In social situations to help myself unwind, I call on my love for fiction, and often make up stories about people so I can relax in a world I can create—a shrink might say control. Seeing the dwarf on the ottoman reminded me of the circumstances of my meeting him, if you can call it that, on the porch. “Dwarf” was a word I was having trouble saying, even to myself, so let me say very short man. “Little person” seemed not to apply here. I observed that he was an attractive, very short man, when he wasn’t being officious and brusque. His black, wavy hair flecked with gray was cut in the short stylish way that was popular, and he wore thin-rimmed glasses with black frames. He had the look of a career guy, a corporate fellow, someone who would have the respect of colleagues and clients. Hmmm, clients. And the reason I was to interview this attorney was that he recently had been featured in a highly regarded British publication and it would be a coup for this small-town newspaper to get the first U.S. interview. Could he be the lawyer? My God, the story possibilities there.
Caroline confirmed my hunch when she appeared next to me with a large goblet of something and said, “Dahling, isn’t this just the most interesting bunch of people you’ve ever seen? They’re directly from a circus up north, here for a few absurdist plays we’re producing. That, um, short man there, he’s the one, the lawyer that Alicia was going to interview. But now you get the privilege. Too bad we couldn’t have a photographer here from your newspaper to capture the ambiance of this night, and share it with the community, too, of course.”
Now I generally cruise in “fix-it” mode. If anyone presents me with an opportunity to make a positive contribution, I am there. However, in this case, I wasn’t sure a photographer here would be a plus. I wondered if I should count on Caroline’s judgment, which in the past had been dubious, or if I should go with my gut feeling that photos tonight could be a journalistic faux pas. But then, I reasoned, most of these people would be used to being looked at, stared at, and photographed. It wouldn’t do any harm to have a few shots for the story I sensed I might find.
“I’ll make a call,” I said.
Chad Fergeson answered on the first ring, and said he could be on his way in a few minutes. Fergie, as he preferred to be called, made his money as a freelance photographer and was very good at it, so good that he was basking in the good graces of my boss, and so getting many assignments. He and I work together often and I thought he liked my wit and sense of humor, and I knew I liked his laid-back style and his excellent eye. I also liked that he is about my age and taller than I am, plus his green eyes, wavy longish, blond hair and well-manicured goatee were appealing. But then, I had sworn off men, love, and pretty much lust as well, so all of that didn’t mean anything.
I started roaming around looking for an angle, which would give me a reason to do the story, which would make me legit to Fergie, which was, for some reason, important to me. Just when this had turned from mostly a party to mostly a job I wasn’t sure. It was like many other th
ings in my life. It happened and I reacted to it. I used to have a poster in my office that said, “Act. Don’t react.” But one day in a fit of pique, I ripped it down.
All this time, of course, I had continued to scan for mistletoe and had not detected any. I wandered into a small sitting room with lofty ceilings, a high-hanging chandelier and a fireplace that was casting a warm glow.
There was an elegant punch bowl in the corner of the room and the fragrance of apple, cinnamon and booze pulled me toward it. As I dipped the ladle into the drink, I noticed that even though there were quite a few people there, everyone was standing, but not in the center of the room. It reminded me of a scene in a movie based on one of Jane Austen’s novels where all the extras are directed to navigate to the periphery. Then the stars play out their developing relationship in the middle of the drawing room with veiled looks and delicate touches as they swirl in an elegant English country dance. I think it was Pride and Prejudice.
I looked around and saw Kevin, the college professor from the local community college drama department, who had directed the last community players’ effort. I must’ve been in a mellow mood then, since I reviewed it favorably, with the proviso that it was a good “community production.” But everyone glossed over that and I was now the media darling of the theater set, which can be both a good and a bad thing. After all, it got me invited here tonight. Now he waved at me.
“Good to see you here, Rita,” he said. “Reporters should get out and have fun sometimes.”
For some reason, that statement galled me and I was about to make one of my retorts which I often immediately regret, or regret later when I think about it. But I was being good, I remembered. It was the holidays, I recalled. So I smiled and said, “Even Bob Cratchit eventually got a Christmas goose and a raise.”
He laughed, genuinely entertained by that comment.
“Interesting group of people here tonight,” he said. “Caroline has outdone herself this time. I’m getting an idea for a play, a quirky play.”
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