by Freda, Paula
"Hello," she greeted.
Florence looked at her apathetically.
Sensing the woman’s annoyance, MJ entreated, "Hi, can I come in?"
Florence regarded her. There was genuineness about the white girl. Not like the one sitting further up, that Miss Santini . . . Carole, was it? An elegant ass, as in donkey. Florence relaxed and offered her a genuine smile. "Sure, come on in."
Mary Juliette sat down beside her. "Florence—," she tried to recall the woman’s surname.
"Mallory," Florence said.
"Right. And I’m—"
"Mary Juliette. How could your parents do that to you?"
"It was easy. Mom wanted ‘Mary,’ and Dad wanted ‘Juliette’; so they compromised. Mom calls me ‘Mary’ and Dad calls me ‘Juliette’, and I’m stuck with both," she explained, laughing.
Florence commiserated. They kept their conversation light. At length Florence asked, "You draw?" She had noticed her sketching earlier.
"Some. I like to record memories, and create new ones."
"Can I see?"
"Sure. I’ll get my sketchbook."
She rose unaware that Hennessey was heading up the center of the bus. Her shoulder caromed into his midriff. His left hand shot to his midriff and the other caught her before she could fall. "Whoa, girl!" he said, his eyes again crinkling with amusement. MJ straightened and waited for Hennessey to remove his hand from her arm. He had large, strong hands. Inexplicably, the touch of his fingers felt familiar and warm, despite that he was a stranger to her.
"You okay?" he asked, feeling her stiffen.
"I’m just fine, thank you," she replied.
He let go.
Without further acknowledgment of his presence, she fetched her sketchbook. Pad in hand; she sat down next to Florence.
Hennessey had not moved. "Are you good at drawing . . . or is it just a pastime?"
MJ met his gaze. I’m fair at it; but it’s for my own pleasure."
"Mind if I see the ones you did of me and Connors?"
How did he . . .? "Okay," she answered, feigning indifference. She turned to the page where she had drawn a side profile of both men, facing each other, and since he remained upright, she handed him the sketchbook.
"You missed a zit. Here," he pointed to a spot on the picture and then to a corresponding spot on his left temple near the hairline. "And Connors has a small scar, here. The jugular vein, to be exact. He was attacked by a jaguar when he was five." Not asking further permission, he browsed backwards through the book, studying each of the sketches. "Who’s this?" he asked.
"The man I’m going to marry," MJ replied, and marveled at her daring. If he noticed how closely the sketch resembled him, he did not mention it. "So why isn’t he here with you?"
"Maybe he is."
Hennessey started to ask if her fiancé was invisible, then thought better of it. He handed the sketchbook back to her. "Enjoy the scenery, ladies," he said, and returned to the front of the bus.
MJ turned to Florence who had sat quietly evaluating the two. "I’m never comfortable with arrogant rapscallions," she said.
Florence grimaced. "Rather say ‘scoundrels’. ‘Rapscallions’ sounds like some kind of onion." Both women broke out into laughter. . .
The name "Mary Juliette" had sounded ludicrous at first. But on second thought, Hennessey had decided it was appropriate for its dark-haired, nose-upturned, pink-faced owner." He stretched his legs and leaned back in his seat. He pushed his wide-brimmed hat forward to cover his eyes. There were still two hours before they reached the mission, where his duties as a guide would actually begin. But the name "Mary Juliette" kept intruding on his rest. She found him attractive; he had no doubt about that. When they had collided and he had caught her by the arm, he had felt her quiver, an instant before she had stiffened and fought back the attraction. He was used to women openly soliciting his attention, but this one appeared to belong to a vanishing species. Only an inexperienced female could turn her nose up so indignantly and freeze so prettily, all at the same time.
The girl brought his parents to mind. His father, a rich, sophisticated gentleman, had never been around when his son needed him. His mother, in all fairness, had never shirked her duty as a mother. She was always there when Hennessey needed her. But the older he grew, the quicker she let go.
Mary Juliette Kensington reminded him of his mother. She had that same guileless look. She was built like his mother, as well. A touch on the plump side, yet not enough to be called overweight. Give her a husband, three kids and ten years, and she would round out considerably.
Mary Juliette would eventually land a husband. That kind usually did. That innocence and plainness was a banner proclaiming "wife material." Although most men ran for cover before its colors, there was always that one man who was in the market for what it represented. But he had to admit she had talent when it came to drawing. Her sketches were good. They were lifelike and expressive. She was also an excellent judge of character. She had captured his cynicism and his acceptance of the realities in life. Her sketches were a reflection of her mind. As for the image of the man she was going to marry . . . he suspected no such person existed. The first few buttons of his shirt collar were loosened, yet he tugged at a too-tight invisible neckband.
He fixed his thoughts on Carol Santini. Now there was a woman. Experienced, for sure. The hungry pout on her mouth, the blue eyes, provocative and inviting. The slender, curvaceous body under her slacks and blouse was intoxicatingly sensuous. He was most comfortable with that sort. He knew how to handle that kind, if he chose to, that is. He made a mental note that when Carole Santini was no longer a passenger on his route, he would ask her out . . .
Excerpt 3:
Conversation between the two women had dwindled to a mutually enjoyable silence. Florence Mallory closed her eyes. Bus trips bored her. Life bored her. Struggling to keep body and soul together bored her. The three love affairs in her life had left her weary and suspicious. No one had ever cared enough to see her through the hard times. Love was wonderful, the first few months. Roses, dinner, passionate nothings — the works. Then the newness wore off and one night he did not call. Of course, he eventually called to apologize . . . something came up. But when it happened time and time again — she had not even cried this last time. Ben had seemed different from the others. With Ben she had even considered marriage and children. She believed she had finally found a man who could stand up to the responsibility of commitment and family life. She had no false notions about wedded bliss, not after watching her parents struggling to feed and shelter her and her brother and sister. But the kind of men you read about in romance novels, they did not exist. They were a product of women’s fantasies. All well and good, she supposed. It helped ease the torment of being alive. She blanketed further thoughts, and finally dozed.
Mary Juliette discerned Florence’s even breathing. She returned to her seat. Opening her sketchbook, she took a soft charcoal pencil from her tote bag, and began to draw the dark-skinned girl, accenting the long straightened hair that glistened with pomade; the dark matte complexion, powdered and blushed; the skeptical look in her eyes, and the full lips, tinted and frosted.
When she finished, she shifted to the opposite page and began to draw Florence Mallory minus the embellishments. She curled her hair and rounded it in an Afro. She left her face without powder and gave it a shine. She replaced the skepticism in her eyes with the sparkle of enthusiasm. She darkened her lips and parted them into a smile. She closed her sketchbook, but on impulse reopened it to a clean page. Referring to her previous sketch of Connors, she drew a profile of him facing a profile of Florence – her conception of the real Florence. She sketched yet another picture. This one of their full-length figures seated on a velvet couch, holding hands. When the picture was completed, she gave a tiny shrug. At least in her sketchbook, Florence and Connors would know happiness....
Excerpt 4:
The passengers intent on their own
personal lives, no one except Connors noticed the figure perched in a tree, holding a long firearm ready and aimed directly at them. "Deus—Nao!" Connors uttered, as the dissatisfied Mestizo opened fire on the motor coach and its occupants.
Enrique never knew what hit him. He slumped forward over the steering wheel.
Blood seeped through the yellow weave of his shirt where the bullets had struck. Connors screamed as he dove to his knees and made a grab for the steering wheel, ducking as another volley of bullets hit the windshield and shattered the glass into a frosty kaleidoscope of blues and whites. He managed to turn the wheel trapped under Enrique’s bleeding chest, and steer the bus away from the river and its hungry inhabitants. More bullets riddled the metal monster on wheels as it veered and careened off the road, and finally crashed into a clump of gnarled vines and close-knit trees.
Hennessey, on all fours, crawled down the center of the bus, simultaneously shouting at the passengers to get down under their seats. Mary Juliette’s movements were too slow for her own safety. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down, and pushed her under her seat.
In the opposite aisle, Florence sat stunned, having just come awake. Hennessey yanked her down as well, oblivious to her damning expletive at being so rudely pulled off her seat and thrust under it.
Carole was already on the floor. Her reactions had been razor sharp. Hennessey went for the Professor next. "Professor Rut—" He stopped. Blood spurted from his forehead where the bullets had lodged. Hennessey checked the man’s pulse. The Professor was dead. Oddly enough, the Professor was smiling. Connors, also on all fours, joined Hennessey.
"The Krausners?" Hennessey asked.
"They are not injured."
"What in God’s name—"
"Snipers," Connors summed up in one word.
"Why us?"
Connors shrugged.
Enrique’s body had fallen to the floor when the bus crashed. At Hennessey’s unspoken question, Connors shook his head.
"Damn!" Hennessey swore, bowing his head.
From the corner of his eye he saw Mary Juliette sliding out from under her seat into the aisle. "Where do you think you’re going? Get back under!" he ordered grimly. Big dark brown eyes stared defiantly back at him.
"Go ahead, stand up, give those hell hounds a clear target," Hennessey told her in earnest.
He was right, of course. But his tone rankled. Without comment, she slid back under her seat. All she wanted was to find out what happened. Hennessey turned back to Connors. His friend watched him curiously. "We’re trapped here," Hennessey stated the obvious. "Whoever they are, they can pick us off one by one; or if they choose to be magnanimous, wipe us out in an instant."
"It is for me to go outside," Connors said.
Hennessey grasped Connors’ shoulder. "No, I don’t think—"
The black man’s large hand covered his friend’s. "As you said, we are trapped here. Once they close in for the kill, it will be too late. If it is one, or two, even three, I will know what to do."
"And if there’s an army of them?" Hennessey inquired.
"Then I will die."
"Connors—"
"I must go. I am sure they have seen the women."
Hennessey took his hand away and nodded. Ira Krausner would serve the snipers’ domestic needs and within the year turn into an old hag. Carole Santini would serve their sexual needs, and survive. Mary Juliette? His mind’s eye saw again the upturned nose, the guileless eyes, and the rosy blush. He felt a tiny knife pierce his gut. "I’ll go with you," he volunteered.
"No!" Connors said adamantly. "I am better alone. And you must see to the passengers. I will leave my rifle with you. For myself, my knife is sufficient." Unbuttoning his shirt, he withdrew the long knife he carried strapped to his dark bearded chest.
"I’ll cover you," Hennessey said.
"Good."
Connors’ exit went quietly and unnoticed.
"Excuse me," a feminine voice asked.
Hennessey turned, rifle in hand. Mary Juliette sat back on her heels. Hennessey’s face mirrored his exasperation. "Are you still looking to die young?" he inquired.
"Kindly tell me what is going on?" she demanded. Her chin rose resolutely. She was not moving until she had an answer.
Her hair was mussed. There were black smudges on her dark green slacks and on the palms of her hands from crawling on the rubber matting. Her nails were short and uneven … a nail biter, he guessed. "I don’t know what’s going on, except that those men out there are not our friends."
He felt a distinct urge to smooth back her hair. "You better get back under your seat," he told her. Her eyes reminded him of milk and coffee. The bus shook and metal splintered as the marauders renewed their fire....
Excerpt 5:
Florence asked, "What are we going to do now? The bus is wrecked. Do we walk the rest of the way to the mission?"
Connors startled her by asking, "Why do you straighten your hair? And wear these false colors?" His fingers brushed her tinted cheeks....
The e-book novella from which these excerpts are taken is available at amazon.com and smashwords.com, among other websites, under the title, "The Sketchbook" by Paula Freda. It is also available as part of an anthology novel titled "Heart Bouquets" by the same author, both as an e-book and a paperback.
OTHER NOVELS, NOVELLAS,
SHORT STORIES, AND ARTICLES
BY PAULA FREDA
E-BOOKS
Roses in the Dark
(Also available as four stand-alone Novellas)
The Blue Jay and the Sparrow
Driscoll's Lady
Henderson Sands
Adventure in Panama
Rubies, Sapphires,
Red, White and Lavender Blossoms
(Inspirational Four Romance Novellas)
The Heart Calleth
The Sketchbook
Inspirational Stories - Set I
Inspirational Stories - Set 2
Inspirational Stories - Set 3
Blonde Angel
The Ugliness Without
The Lord's Canine
Is There More To Life Than What The
Realists Claim
(with a special bonus) The Giftless Christmas
The Camellia Lady / My Three Fathers
Cathy and the Dolphin
A Valentine Bouquet
Stardust (Old Woman in the Park)
A Cup of Humanity
Shannon and the Angel (A Mortal Man)
Welcome Home, Amy
The Scent of Camellias
The Intangible
The Lonely Heart
A Ghost of a Story
The Gently Cursed
The Offering
The Good People
The Novices Guide
To the Art of Writing
The Adventures of Grace Quinlan and
Lord William Hayden
(five stand-alone adventures)
The Adventures of Grace Quinlan and
Lord William Hayden
(the complete novel)
Blossoms in the Snow
Sunrise in Paradise
Lilac in the Spring
Sapphire Blue in the Straw (Jenny's Story)
Orange Blossoms in December
The Consequential Heart
PAPERBACK EDITIONS
Time Encapsulated (Poetry of the Soul)
Romantic Short Stories
Science Fiction and
Fantasy Short Stories
Inspirational Short Stories
The Complete Collection (Sets 1, 2, 3)
The Novices Guide To the Art of Writing
The Adventures of Grace Quinlan and
Lord William Hayden
(the complete novel)
Roses in the Dark
(Also available as four stand-alone Novellas)
The Blue Jay and the Sparrow
Driscoll's Lady
Henderson Sands
Adventure in Pana
ma
Rubies, Sapphires,
Red, White and Lavender Blossoms
(Inspirational Four Romance Novellas)
Heartsongs
Blossoms in the Snow
Sunrise in Paradise
Lilac in the Spring
Sapphire Blue in the Straw
(Jenny's Story)
Driscoll's Daughter
(a sequel to Driscoll's Lady)
Orange Blossoms in December
The Consequential Heart
Paula Freda's websites
http://www.angelfire.com/falcon/dpfenterprises.com
http://www.thepinkchameleon.com
VIEW A VIDEO TRAILER OF SEVERAL OF MY BOOKS AT MY WEBSITE
