Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
Page 18
There wasn’t a soul in sight as Lauren approached the barn. The farmer who owned the property was probably relaxing over a second cup of coffee and the Sterling Sentinel, she mused wryly. But it would be silly to have come this far and not check. Maybe the farmer was compulsive about his life’s work and was inside the barn tuning his tractor or whatever it was farmers did inside of barns.
Peeling paint covered the clunky door latch, but the hinges must have been well-oiled because they swung open with silent ease.
“Hello,” she called into the shadowy recesses. “Anybody here?”
She sighed and was just turning to leave when she noticed it. The shaft of light shining into the barn from the open door illuminated a steel gray tool box. Lauren frowned, one hand still bracing the tall door. Black, block-lettered decals positioned on the battered metal lid of the tool box spelled out FLYNN.
Irritation jutted Lauren’s jaw as she muttered, “Dilapidated shed. Yeah, right.”
One good shove opened the door fully, and then she took several more steps inside. Dust danced on thin fingers of light peeking through the slatted walls of the barn.
A wide workbench ran the length of the wall closest to her. And as her eyes became more accustomed to the dim light, she made out two metal supporting posts extending toward the ceiling. She was making a bee line for one when she caught sight of two huge, black eyes staring at her through the shadows. Lauren slapped a hand over her mouth and gasped, and at the very same moment she realized that the animal wasn’t real.
She let out her pent-up breath, every muscle in her body going soft. But she’d been startled enough that when she swiped shaky fingers across her brow, they came away damp.
Curiosity to drew her deeper into barn’s dusty recesses. Her lips parted in awe as she saw not one but many pairs of eyes.
A tiger. An elephant. A giraffe. A zebra. A lion. A llama. A leopard. And horses. Lots of fanciful horses.
A merry-go-round of circus animals.
Not until she stepped up onto the platform did she realize she was smiling. Broadly.
When she’d been a young girl and her mother had still been alive, her parents had taken her to the Maryland seashore every summer. There, at the boardwalk amusement park, she had ridden a merry-go-round. The gaily painted animals glided up and down, carrying her around and around to the spirited sounds of circus music. She had laughed and waved to her mom and dad with each swift revolution.
Lauren reached out and smoothed her hand over the fierce lion’s mane, savoring the happy memories. Her hand came away grimy and she wiped her palm on her jeans.
Even though the brass poles and railings were dulled by tarnish and the paint on the animals was worn and chipped, the merry-go-round was amazing. She moseyed along the platform, noticing that the ride was made up of three circles. Exotic circus animals comprised the outer ring. The inner most one was made up fancy, plumed horses. The center circle consisted of fixed items—an elegant sleigh, a lavish wagon, an old jalopy, an antique fire engine.
She stepped off the platform and brushed her hands against her thighs. The entire contraption was coated with what must have been dozens of years of dirt and dust. Lauren stepped back a few feet, hands on her hips, taking in the enchanting sight.
How did it end up here? Where had it come from?
The idea that this amazing piece of machinery with its whimsical circus animals and stylish, prancing horses belonged to her—or very soon would—made her grin. The land, the shed and all its contents were hers, the judge had ruled it so.
How wonderful would it be to see this old girl cleaned up and twirling to the happy tune of an old-time Wurlitzer? Lauren reached out to stroke the giraffe’s long neck but went still when she heard a noise.
Then another short, soft scuffling sound drew her gaze toward a rough-hewn door at the far side of the barn.
A barn cat, maybe? Trapped in the room and searching for a way out?
Rats? That thought sent a cold shiver shooting up her spine.
She heard a thump—if that was a rat, it was a huge one—then a muffled expletive. Whatever was behind that door, it sure wasn’t a rodent.
The inclination to flee had her turning toward the door. But she hadn’t taken even a single step before this odd protective instinct squared her shoulders and had her frowning. This was her land, her barn, her merry-go-round. She refused to let some vagrant or group of partying teens vandalize her property.
“I don’t know who you are,” she called out sternly, “but you’d better come out. Now.”
The door wobbled a bit on its hinges as it was pushed open.
“Lauren?” Greg stepped out, shirtless, the top button of his jeans undone, the leather laces of his work boots loose and dragging on the dirt floor. He reached to scratch an itch on the flat of his belly. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” she asked. “What are you doing here?” Before he could answer, she said, “You look like you just woke up.”
“I was working on a project last night.” He indicated the pieces of cove molding stretched out on the workbench, then he covered a yawn with his hand. “I got tired and crashed. There’s a cot back there.”
“Weren’t you cold? It was chilly last night.” For some reason, her questions sounded accusatory.
“I found a blanket.” He rubbed his bare chest with his palm. “Guess I got hot in the night. Tossed my shirt somewhere. It’s dark in there. Stubbed my toe before I could find my boots.”
Even hazed with sleep, Greg’s coal black eyes were drop-dead sexy. His rumpled dark hair invited a woman to finger-comb it into some semblance of order.
The thought made her angry. She lifted her gaze to Greg’s face. “You’re trespassing.”
He didn’t even blink. “No I’m not. Yet. I have a day or two before I have to hand over the deed.”
Silence settled over them like so much barn dust. But they were both used to that by now.
Finally, she glanced over her left shoulder at the carousel, then up into the high rafters of the barn. “A dilapidated shed, huh?” she taunted.
He didn’t respond, only shook his head and disappeared into the darkness of the back room. When he returned, he was pushing his arms into the sleeves of a black t-shirt.
“When are you going to let go of the anger, Lauren?” He began tucking his shirt into the waistband at the back of his jeans.
Without missing a beat, she said, “When you admit that being married to you was no picnic for me.” But the victory offered by the zinger lasted a mere nanosecond before the top of his zipper parted and his belly button flashed at her like the teasing wink of an eye. A rush of pure lust shot through her.
“I messed up,” he told her. “I know it. You know it. Lew knows it. The whole town knows it, Lauren. Why can’t we just move on?”
“Messed up? Is that what you call it? You lost the store, Greg.”
He bent down and tied the leather laces of one boot before lifting his chin and capturing her eyes with his. “Yes. The store went under. That fact was established months ago.”
He was weary of the reminder. That much was clear from his expression. But Lauren didn’t care if the truth wearied him or not.
“You lied to me. You hid things!” Ire sent blood whooshing through her ears and she welcomed it, clung to it, because anger was an emotion she knew how to handle.
Greg remained silent as he dipped his head and tied his other boot. Then he stood and just looked at her for several long seconds. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key ring.
“Being married to you was no circus for me, either,” he said before turning on his heel and heading back into the room from which he’d emerged.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she called after him.
All he said was “See you later.”
Seconds later, Greg’s truck engine revved to life. He must have been parked behind the barn because she hadn’t seen his truck when s
he’d pulled onto the property. Once he’d driven away, the shadowy interior of the barn was filled with utter quiet once again.
Lauren ground her teeth and clenched her fists. The man was infuriating. The demise of their marriage had been one hundred percent his fault. He’d hidden things from her and lied to her. His behavior had completely destroyed her trust in him. She refused to take any blame for their divorce.
Slowly she turned and let her gaze sweep across the merry-go-round. The enchantment she’d felt just minutes ago was gone. Now the thing looked old and dirty and just plain worn out. On a lark, she picked up a rag from the workbench and rubbed the brass pole that held the giraffe upright. The metal remained dull and lifeless. She rubbed some more, this time harder. Only a chemical tarnish remover could take away the years of abuse and make the brass shine again.
She took a backward step as realization struck. Surely her husband the visionary extraordinaire had good reason to keep her in the dark about this property. He had probably taken one look at the carousel and started fantasizing. In fact, he’d probably conjured some sort of wild pipe dream about opening an amusement park on Skeeter Neck Road.
Lauren tossed the rag back onto the bench as though it had caught flame and singed the skin off her fingers.
If there was one thing she knew about herself it was that she always kept her feet firmly planted in reality. She wanted one thing from this property and one thing only—to recoup the losses she’d incurred when the store went under.
Recovering that money would allow her to set her retirement account to rights. It would also enable her to once again help her father with his rent so he could enjoy his own living space.
The thought had her glancing at her watch. She’d better get a move on or she was going to hear an earful of grumbling, that was certain. Her dad was the kind of person who would show up thirty minutes early for his own funeral. She’d agreed to meet him at ten, but when she arrived he’d probably be pacing the curb in front of his apartment building with his suitcase in hand.
Clapping the dust from her palms, Lauren felt better. Clearer headed. Grounded. She gave the animals one last look before heading for the door. There had to be somebody somewhere who was interested in purchasing an acre of ground and a ramshackle merry-go-round.
Of course there was. And she intended to find them.
*
She weaved through the parking lot of the Holly Oaks apartment complex, confident that she’d be arriving right on time. Just as she expected, she saw someone at the curb. But as she got closer she realized that someone wasn’t her father.
Greg had his shoulder rammed against the back of her father’s ugly, green leather easy chair and he was shoving for all he was worth, trying to load it onto the back of his pick up.
“Greg,” she called, slamming her car door shut and stalking toward him, “what are you doing?”
“I think—” he strained and grunted, moving the chair an inch “—that’s fairly obvious.”
“What are you doing here?” she clarified. He’d said not twenty minutes ago that he’d see her later, but she’d thought that was an all-around, general-purpose goodbye. “I hired some muscle. They’ll be here in just a few minutes.”
Again, Greg grunted and pushed. “I’ll say it again.” Another shove. “It’s obvious what I’m doing here.” After a third grunt, he said, “You want to give me a hand?”
She wasn’t touching that chair. As far as she knew it was going on the curb for the Good Will pick up she’d scheduled for later.
Just then, the chair slid into the bed of the truck as if it were on wheels. He straightened and heaved a sigh. “Thanks so much,” he said, his tone missing any hint of appreciation.
She tucked her keys into her back pocket. “I have guys coming, Greg. I’ll have plenty of help once they arrive.”
He lifted a shoulder with nonchalance. “Talk to your dad. I agreed to help because he asked.” He turned away from her and reached for the length of rope sitting next to the chair leg.
Shifting her gaze toward the brick building, Lauren shook her head and grimaced. She hadn’t planned for the day to go like this. What was her father thinking asking Greg to help him move? She stalked toward the front door.
The living room of the apartment was littered with cardboard boxes, some of them already taped shut, others with flaps hanging open.
“Dad,” she called, closing the door behind her. “Where are you?”
“Back here.”
She followed his voice toward the bedroom at the back of the unit.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why did you ask Greg to help?”
Her dad was folding up a pair of pajama bottoms. “Because he has a truck.”
“But we talked about this. I have two college students coming. One owns a truck and the other one owns a van. We’ll be fine.” She peeked at her watch. “They’ll be here any minute.”
He chuckled. “If they didn’t party too hard last night.”
Lauren pursed her lips. He had a point. But these young men had seemed responsible when she’d talked to them. That’s why she’d hired them.
“They’ll be here, Dad.”
He snorted as he tucked the pants into his suitcase.
“And what about that chair? I thought we decided—”
“I need my chair. I want it.”
He hadn’t looked at her, not even a glance. Lauren went quiet for a moment, wondering what was really going on. “Okay,” she said calmly. “If it’s important to you, we’ll find a place for it.”
He said nothing.
“Look, today was supposed to be a good day. A fun day. Remember?” She slid her thumbs into her back pockets. “Now he’s here and I just know he’ll irritate the heck out of me.”
Her father zipped the case with more force than was necessary. “Could you suck it up for one blasted day?”
His bellow took her aback, knocking every last trace of wind out of her sails.
“If your boys don’t show up,” he continued, “we’re going to need Greg. And even if they do, he’s agreed to offer another pair of hands. Try to see it as a good thing, would you?”
He picked up the case and stormed out of the room, leaving her standing there all alone.
Wow. Eeyore was extra grumpy today. Then it hit her; of course, he was upset. He didn’t want to leave his apartment. This had been his home for years. Sorting through his things, deciding what to keep, what to give away, had to be traumatic. He didn’t want this change. Didn’t want to move in with her. What seventy-year-old man wanted give up his independence?
Guilt nipped at her for making such a fuss. About the chair. About Greg. She decided to cut her dad some slack. She’d suck it up, just as he’d asked. She’d do what she could to make this easier for him. She’d smile her way though the day. She’d get along with Greg if it killed her.
Oh, Lord, it was going to kill her.
Find The Merry-Go-Round Online
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Smashwords
*
Katherine Owen
One Fictionista’s Literary Bliss
I was anointed a female fictionista by an overzealous Georgia Bulldog fan on Twitter. I immediately took it for my job description. So, here’s what you should know. I write. I write a lot. And, when I’m not writing, I think about writing a lot. You may think we’re having a conversation, but invariably I’m stealing your name, asking how to spell it, and secretly describing the look on your face in five words or less in my mind. My writing tends to be dark, moody, and sometimes funny. Sometimes, it can be a bit lyrical or even literary. It’s often edgy, so be forewarned. My readers complain they can’t put my books down. Or, just when they think they’ve figured the story out, it changes and becomes something else. My stories tend to be dark and comprised of broken heroines; even the heroes in my books have a few flaws that cause trouble. It’s true; my characters m
ay disappoint you or surprise you or piss you off, but I think you’ll understand why they do what they do because of the way I write them. I strive to reveal the deepest underpinnings about life, about love, and about human nature, but it’s not for the faint of heart. I’ll take you through a proverbial emotional ringer before reaching resolution and it’s never as predictable as you might think. Do I sound like your kind of fictionista? Come along, darling. This way.
Something else you should know about me is that I’m a huge George Clooney fan. Maybe, Up In The Air wasn’t one of his usual gigs, but I loved that movie. And, let’s be frank, I watched ER without him for years, but it was never the same. Never. Anyway, I digress. There’s a scene in Up In The Air where he’s telling this guy to follow his dream after George has told him he’s been laid off. When I saw that scene, it was as if George was practically speaking to me because I was there, two years ago, when I was laid off from a high tech sales job, had always harbored a dream to write full-time, and went for it after that. Is it a coincidence that Up In The Air came out about the same time? I think not.
So now, this is what I do. Write. Write all the time. I’ll admit it was hard at first. It still is—hard, harrowing, humbling. Believe me, it would be easier to go out and get another high paying sales job than write for a living because writing causes me to question my mental toughness so much of the time. Can I do this? Am I good enough?
Yet, here’s what I’ve learned: you just have to turn off that voice in your head off or ignore what is being said. Sometimes, all you need to do is stand up for yourself, stop depending upon the opinions of others, and just go after what you really want.
For me, that’s writing. For you, it might be anything else, but just pursue your passion whatever it is.
With this anthology, my debut novel, Seeing Julia is featured. Seeing Julia is a labor of love and representative of a whole lot of hard work. Truly, this book has caused me as much grief as it has joy. After I first wrote this novel, I entered it into a literary contest and promptly forgot about it. I was busy. I was taking classes at The Writer’s Studio, becoming literary savvy, and writing another novel called Not To Us.