Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
Page 58
“I’m guessing you’ll need to see the plans?”
“Correct, it’ll give me the dimensions I need for each room. Especially the rooms that aren’t physically constructed yet, I’ll still be able to draw up some designs for you. Friday it is, then.”
They raised their glasses and clunked them together.
Once their meal was finished Danielle cheekily asked him about his background.
“Well, just like your father, I’m an accountant.”
“Really? You probably know dad, then.”
He shook his head.
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of him. My firm is an international company in the heart of London, our clients are scattered around the world. We rarely pick up any accounts from England. I’ve worked there for seven years, but I’m considering branching out on my own in a few years, when the time’s right.”
“And do your parents live in London?”
“Ah, now thereby hangs a tale, Caroline and Sam Jordache used to be party animals about town. But a couple of years ago they upped sticks and moved to the country, Yorkshire of all places. The complete opposite to London.”
“Wow, what made them decide that?”
He shrugged and his gaze dropped to the table in front of him. “I don’t know … Anyway, they’re having a ball living the ‘good life’, they grow their own veggies and even have a stall at the local farmer’s market.”
Danielle had picked up the sudden change in his demeanour, but didn’t press the subject. There was obviously something in his parent’s past that he wasn’t willing to share with a stranger.
“What do they sell on the stall?”
The brief look of sadness lifted and the smile returned. “Well, I never would’ve believed it unless I saw it with my own eyes, my mother makes jams and chutneys, and sells them by the dozen. They’re delicious, too.” He chuckled then added, “I reckon she could have a thriving international business on her hands, but she says she’s not tempted to go down that route at her time of life.”
Bearing in mind what her client had told her about Scott’s personal life, she ventured, “And what about you, Scott?”
She didn’t say anything further in case she got Mrs Russell into trouble for divulging a friend’s personal secrets.
She watched his face for a reaction, it didn’t take long for it to show either. His smile vanished and his lips fixed into a hard line. He fidgeted in his seat, cleared his throat and beckoned the waiter to get the bill ready.
Oh crap, I’ve hit a nerve.
“I’m not in a relationship.”
The atmosphere had changed in an instant as if someone had flicked a switch. Relief flooded through her when the waiter appeared with the bill. He paid and rose to his feet. “Time to go, we’re both busy people.”
He set off before her, Danielle grabbed her jacket and had to run to try and keep up with him as he made his way through the restaurant.
Outside he asked, “Where’s your car?”
She pointed at her car, he turned and marched off towards it.
“Hey, slow down,” she shouted after him. Wearing stilettos all she could do was trot along behind him. Men, you have no idea what we women have to go through wearing these heels.
Scott waited for her to arrive at the car and held out his hand for the keys. She dug in her handbag, retrieved them and dropped them into his open palm. He opened the driver’s door and stood back. Danielle squeezed through the gap between him and the open door. Facing him, her nerves jangling, she opened her mouth to speak, but before any words had the chance to form his lips came crashing down on hers. It was the briefest of kisses before he pulled away.
“I’m so sorry.”
Gasping for breath she replied, “For what?”
Did he mean for the way he’d stormed out of the restaurant or was he apologising for the abrupt kiss he’d given her?
“For this,” he whispered huskily, gathering her in his arms.
He kissed her again. This time far deeper than before. His tongue navigated its way around her mouth with expert ease. Her knees gave way slightly and she fell against his chest. His hand travelled up and down her spine pulling her into him. A groan sounded in his throat before the kiss deepened further. She’d never experienced passion as deep as this in her young life. Giving into her desire she flung her arms around his neck, entwining her fingers behind his head. He pulled her tighter and it wasn’t until she felt his manhood crush against her thigh she came to her senses and pushed away from him.
Trying hard to regain her composure she apologised, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me, I can’t continue, I never mix business with pleasure.” Oh God, I can’t believe I just said that old cliché.
Scott looked devastated, but before he could respond she hopped into the safety of her car. Her hands were shaking so much it took several attempts to place the key in the ignition. Get a grip girl. After starting the engine she reached out to close the door and said, “I’ll see you Friday.”
She drove away. Looking back in the rearview mirror she saw him standing, staring after her. Suddenly his right arm flew up and he raked his hand though his hair. Then she watched as both arms flew out to the side and came back down again, his fists thumping his thighs.
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Melissa Foster
Life’s Little Gifts
I’ve spent my life living in a happy little bubble, following my own path. I’m a sister, mother, daughter, friend, aunt, and sister-in-law. I’m a hippie girl who craves summers on Cape Cod with friends and family, ice cream, brownies (I could live on brownies alone), Daisy Dukes, music, running shoes, and books. I have a love affair with Mr. Key Board, and run my hands all over him on a daily basis. I’m the luckiest girl in the world, married to a man I adore, slave to six beautiful children, and everyday I get to do work that I not only enjoy, but crave.
I could write pages about my children, my brothers, and my mother, or about writing and what it does for me, but I fear I would bore you with praise for those I love and elation about what I do. Instead, I’d like to share with you my thoughts on what it means to be an Indie Chick.
When Cheryl first approached me to be part of this incredible anthology, I looked at my over-burdened schedule and could see no way to squeeze in another project. I didn’t give much thought to if I wanted to be part of the effort or not, I simply could not see a path to make it happen. Cheryl graciously, though I think confusedly, accepted my answer. After clicking off of her email, I felt an internal pull. These women were doing something meaningful, something that I wanted to be part of, and I couldn’t fit it in?
For two days I worked furiously through my To-Do list, writing articles, rewriting scenes of my manuscript, coordinating the launch of COME BACK TO ME, my third book, and scheduling movers and packers because our house is finally done being built. In the back of my mind was an image of these women authors, all taking part in something that would bind them together for life, being part of something so magnanimous, and yet so miniscule in the grand scheme of things. I wanted in, and only I was holding myself back.
I sent a note to Cheryl the next morning and she welcomed me with open arms. I was home. As I’m typing this piece, I don’t yet know who each of the women are in the group. I’ve never met them, and don’t even have a list of their names. But I feel them. I feel the energy that surrounds the announcements of the happenings, and the light that illuminates the talk of this anthology, and I want to share in that.
This is what guides me in my life. It’s not money or fame, it’s not where I go or what I have, it’s this—being part of a meaningful group of people who care enough to share their lives with others, women who will set aside all else to be part of the effort, women who care. I am proud to be an Indie Chick, and I am delighted tha
t you’ve chosen to support the cause that is benefiting from this book. Thank you, Dear Reader, for your support, and thank you, Indie Chick sisters, for allowing me to share in this aspect of your lives, if even for a moment. I look forward to a forever bond.
Spreading love and light,
Indie Chick Sister, Melissa Foster
About the Chick
Melissa Foster is the award-winning, bestselling author of two novels, Megan’s Way and Chasing Amanda. She is the founder of the Women’s Nest, a social and support community for women, and WoMen’s Literary Café, a literary community. Melissa is currently collaborating in the film production of Megan’s Way. Melissa has written for Calgary’s Child Magazine, and Women Business Owners Magazine. She hosts an annual Aspiring Authors contest for children, and has painted and donated several murals to The Hospital for Sick Children in Washington, DC. Melissa is currently working on her next novel, and lives in Maryland with her family.
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The Women’s Nest
Chasing Amanda
Melissa Foster
An Excerpt
One
Molly kissed her husband goodbye and closed the front door of her colonial home, listening to the silence that echoed in her ears. It had been eight years since Amanda’s death, eight years since she’d escaped the painful memories of Philadelphia, and moved to the quiet community of Boyds, Maryland. In the stillness of the mornings, Molly found herself missing the incessant background noises of the city, which seemed amplified in the six weeks since her son, Erik, had left for college. Her bare feet lightly slapped the ceramic tile as she padded into the kitchen, stopping in front of the picture window to watch Stealth, her rambunctious Rottweiler, and Trigger, her playful black lab. Molly briefly envied their carefree lives, then turned to look at the calendar that was clipped to the refrigerator with an enormous magnet that read, Dance like nobody’s watching! The calendar was blank, as it had been every day this month, except for the third Thursday, where she had scribbled, Civic Association Meeting. Molly sighed, remembering a time when every day had held a different list of assignments and chores, schedules for Erik, and important meetings for Cole. Eight years ago she had needed a calm, almost boring, lifestyle to save her sanity. Now, she wondered if she hadn’t let it go on that way for too long. She coyly lifted her eyes to the magnet once again, remembering when Erik was young, and they’d danced unabashedly around the kitchen to silly songs from Sesame Street. The edges of her lips curled upward at the memory. That seemed like a lifetime ago. She raised her eyebrows, glancing around the empty kitchen, like a child about to reach into the cookie jar, and suddenly burst into spasmodic movements that did not resemble a dance by any stretch of the imagination. The phone rang, saving her from feeling any more ridiculous. “Yeah, right,” she said to the magnet, and answered the phone.
“Hey, Ma, what’s up?” Erik’s use of “Ma” rather than “Mom” made Molly smile. When Erik was about twelve years old, he’d suddenly started calling Molly “Ma” when he needed her help or was simply in a jovial mood, and he’d used the term “Mom” when he was angry, scared, or upset, just as Molly had called him Erik Michael Tanner when he’d misbehaved as a child. Molly had seen it as a sign of his maturing, testing the waters.
Molly blushed, her lame excuse for a dance fresh on her mind. “Not much. Are you okay?” A shadow of doubt about her mothering skills momentarily gave Molly pause. There had been a time, just before finally moving away from Philadelphia, when she’d been unable to care for herself, much less for Erik. Cole had stepped into the roles of both mother and father while Molly struggled to come to grips with the trauma that had befallen Amanda. Even now, years later, that fleeting trepidation was enough of a reminder to keep Molly on her toes.
“Yeah, ‘course. I wanted your opinion. There’s this girl, Jenna? We’ve been hanging out a lot, and, um, well, she used to hang out with this guy down the hall, and—”
“And you’re his friend, and you aren’t sure if you should keep hanging out with her, right?”
Erik breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, exactly.”
This was nothing new for Molly. She’d been helping Erik with everything from skinned knees to breakups forever. When Erik was younger, he’d draw Molly outside to discuss matters of the heart, as if the fresh air had somehow made things easier for him to discuss. Molly pictured the way he’d drop his eyes as he spoke, the way he bit his lower lip between thoughts, just as he had since he was four, and the nervous, crooked smile that always accompanied a relieved sigh when he’d heard her thoughts. She pictured that smile while she spoke with him, gently asking about his relationship with the other boy, how much he liked Jenna, and generally getting a feel for his long-term intent, of which, of course, he wasn’t really sure, although he “really liked” her.
“Okay, so basically, I need to decide if I’m good enough friends with this other guy to be worth the pain I’ll cause him if I keep seeing her?” The conflict in Erik’s voice was tangible.
“Yeah, in my opinion, anyway. Is she worth hurting someone else, and are you good enough friends with the guy to care?” Molly thought about how cold the latter sounded, quickly revising, “It’s all about karma, Erik. Would you care if you were him? That’s what you need to think about. Put yourself in his situation. Was it a painful breakup? Were they madly in love, or was it a college fling?”
“Right. Okay.”
Molly knew the meaning behind that particular response, This isn’t easy, so I don’t want to think about it right now. ”You’ll figure it out,” she said. “Everything else okay?”
“I guess. Thanks, Ma, for making it a little harder,” he laughed. “I gotta run. I’ve got class in five minutes, and it’s across campus. Love you.”
Before Molly could answer, the line went dead, and Molly longed for a hug from the boy who was no longer little, the boy who was now a young man and only needed to touch base with his mom rather than follow her around, hanging onto her every word. Molly missed those moments, feeling as though mothering a young man came with a whole different set of guidelines than mothering a boy, and accepting a phone dismissal without being hurt was one of the requirements. She missed building school projects and chaperoning field trips, taking pictures at soccer games, and standing at the sidelines, painfully silent, as her son had ordered her to remain because he was embarrassed by her cheering him on, “Go, Erik! That’s my boy!” Molly shook her head, missing the child that he’d never be again, and smirking at the trials and tribulations that accompanied youth—and motherhood—then she headed upstairs to put on her running clothes.
Molly had wondered, recently, if they’d done the right thing when they’d uprooted from Philadelphia and moved to the country. Those thoughts were immediately chased by painful memories of Amanda. Nine years ago, Molly hadn’t been sure she’d make it through each hour, much less each day. After Amanda’s death, she’d spiraled into an abyss of depression, wrapped in the guilt of her silence, paralyzed by the truth—if she’d only spoken up, told somebody besides Cole, then maybe she could have saved her. Memories of that dreadful afternoon haunted her, the nightmares that followed suppressed her only hope of escape from the mental torture. She couldn’t eat, and sleeping was out of the question. Losing her job had come as no surprise, since the commute to and from work, the sounds of the busy streets, had brought constant panic—an obsessive need to search the face of every child, looking for that hint of fear, looking for the deceit in the eyes of adults. Every screeching child had reminded her of Amanda, bringing forth a gut-wrenching visceral reaction, causing parents to guide their children away from the crazy woman who wouldn’t stop asking them, Are you sure this is your parent? Molly remembered the unease she had felt as Amanda’s abduction had unfolded before her.
It had been a cool October evening. M
olly had left Walmart with an armful of groceries. She popped open the trunk and threw the bags in, trying to ignore the little girl’s screams coming from the black minivan two cars over. She settled herself into the driver’s seat, and rolled down the window. The deafening screams continued. Molly backed out of her parking space and inched slowly past the van’s rear bumper. The child’s father frantically tried to settle the little girl into the van, the little girl’s arms and legs thrashed wildly. The frustrated father’s eyes shot in Molly’s direction.
“She didn’t get the dolly she wanted,” the man had said through gritted teeth.
Molly hadn’t realized she was staring. Embarrassed, she had driven away. It was three days later, when Molly had seen Amanda’s face on the front page of the newspaper, that Molly put her nightmares and the image of the man together, and realized that it had not been the little girl’s father she’d seen, but Amanda’s abductor, her murderer.
Molly shuddered. It had taken her years to understand the post-traumatic stress she’d been experiencing, to relearn normal reactions, and to retrieve her confidence. In small increments, she’d begun to move forward, to accept her failure. You did the best you could, her therapist had told her, and eventually Molly had found her footing again, slowly moving forward with her life. She pushed the distressing memories aside and reminded herself of how she’d come to grips with the nightmare she’d lived. For years, she had been confident that she would never slip back into that panicked, anxious state, but at times like these, when she remembered, she wasn’t so sure. Determined to remain strong, she employed the coping mechanisms the therapist had taught her, reminding herself how far she’d come, and telling herself, out loud, that Amanda’s death wasn’t her fault. Yes, she thought, moving to Boyds had been the right thing to do. Erik had quickly fallen into favor with the kids at school and neighbors, and Cole had transitioned seamlessly to a nearby practice. Molly liked the close-knit flavor of Boyds, where most of the residents of the small farming community had grown up and still remained. She found safety in knowing who her neighbors were, and that strangers were few and far between in the three thousand acres that made up the small town.