Until the Stars Fall From the Sky

by Mary Crawford

  Until the Stars Fall from the Sky

  By

  Mary Crawford

  Copyright 2014 by Mary Crawford

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgements:

  To my son, Brandon, may I always have your love of learning. As proud as I am of what you’ve accomplished, I’m even more proud of the man you’ve become.

  To my son, Justin, who gave me the most practical writing advice I received during this process — When I told you that I was planning to write a really long story, you said, “Well, that sounds pretty simple. You need people and they need names. Then they have to do a bunch of stuff.” After dropping those pearls of wisdom, you went on the internet and chose names for my lead characters. Perhaps, most crucial to the creation of this book, you kept checking in to see if I had actually written anything. Well, it seems I’ve done it. It’s a really long story (although it will be several years before I let you read it).

  To my real life Heather, because everyone deserves a best friend like you — but I’m actually am privileged enough to have one. For that, I thank God every day.

  To Linda, who gave me the push that I needed to stop living in everyone else’s imagination and start living in my own — Without your patient mentorship and guidance, this book would simply not exist.

  A special thanks to all of my friends (unruly and otherwise) who took the time to help me with the editing process.

  ~Mary

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Leonard, because no matter how lofty my dreams, your response is never “Why?”, but rather, “Why not you?”

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Jeff

  Chapter 2: Kiera

  Chapter 3: Jeff

  Chapter 4: Kiera

  Chapter 5: Jeff

  Chapter 6: Kiera

  Chapter 7: Jeff

  Chapter 8: Kiera

  Chapter 9: Jeff

  Chapter 10: Kiera

  Chapter 11: Jeff

  Chapter 12: Kiera

  Chapter 13: Jeff

  Chapter 14: Kiera

  Chapter 15: Jeff

  Chapter 16: Kiera

  Chapter 17: Jeff

  Chapter 18: Kiera

  Chapter 19: Jeff

  Chapter 20: Kiera

  Chapter 21: Jeff

  Chapter 22: Kiera

  Chapter 23: Jeff

  Chapter 24: Kiera

  Chapter 25: Jeff

  Chapter 26: Kiera

  Chapter 27: Jeff

  Chapter 28: Kiera

  Chapter 29: Jeff

  Chapter 30: Mindy

  Chapter 1: Jeff

  It is a lazy, sweltering day on Blue Lake as I pull into the parking area and lock my faded blue Ford pickup. It is old and decrepit with blistering paint with an all-over speckling of rust. It’s so junky that someone would actually be doing me a favor if they would just steal it. My grandfather, Charles, taught me a man’s automobile should be respected, no matter how old it is. I grimace when I consider how disappointed he would be if he could see the state of disrepair that has befallen his once prized possession.

  I try very hard to live up to his expectations because he was one of the few people who believed I could be somebody. Jeffery Charles Whitaker is on a mission to change the world and maybe someday I will. However, right now it would be nice if my life were a little less real and a bit more like a neat and tidy television sit-com with everything neatly packaged in one hour.

  I try to shake off my mood. The public doesn’t really need to see “sad, introspective Jeff”. They want “hunky, lifeguard Jeff”. As a naturally shy bookworm, the outrageously flirtatious persona does not come easily for me. I guess it’s a case of “fake it ‘til you make it” because the gap between my public self and private self is narrowing considerably.

  As I walk up to the lifeguard station, the bronze musclebound teenager I’m replacing fails to notice my approach because he is busy texting on his phone. I can feel my heart start to pound and my fists clench. I want to take his phone, throw it in the lake, and fire his lazy ass. Instead, I clench my teeth and say in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “While your laser focus is impressive, it would be helpful if you were actually watching the people you were hired to protect." The slightly sadistic part of me finds it amusing when he jumps about three inches at the sound of my voice, but I mostly find it profoundly sad and disappointing that he takes such a critical job so lightly.

  “Oh, hi Mr. Whitaker, I didn’t see you there,” Steven mumbles, while looking down at his shoes as if they were the most exciting thing he’s seen all week.

  I raise an eyebrow and smirk, as I think to myself, obviously not.

  Astonishingly, he continues his explanation, “My friends are having a party — I mean get together. I’m in charge of bringing the beer…I mean — beverages.”

  “Is your party more important than the people you pledged to save when you became a lifeguard?” I ask, my anger rolling off me in waves and my voice tight with rage.

  “Okay, okay, just chill out dude!” he responds defensively, rolling his eyes. “I was only texting for like 30 seconds.” He puts his hands up as if he is surrendering.

  I try again while I draw in a frustrated breath, “No dude, I can’t just chill. Because 25 years ago, some surfer dude like you was on “duty” when my father’s Jet Ski was hit by a wake. He was knocked unconscious and drowned only 20 feet from shore.” I explain, as I attempt to keep the emotion out of my voice. “He is dead because the lifeguard was too busy flirting to notice him struggle.

  “Dude! That bites. I’m sorry; I didn’t know,” he exclaims looking contrite, yet curious.

  “Now you know. The speck of color you are watching on the lake isn’t random. That person is somebody’s everything. So, watch them carefully,” I respond, suddenly feeling old and parental. I actually am a single college student. I’m anxious to cut off any further questions, so I ask him, “Anything out there I need to be aware of?”

  “I didn’t notice anything. There are a few boats and tubes out,” he replies shrugging casually as he pulls out his phone to check it again.

  “How many are out today?” I ask as I glance toward the lake.

  “I don’t know! It’s not like I counted each one,” he snaps back with an eye roll for emphasis.

  I just shake my head in disbelief at his lack of professionalism. I take a mental inventory of the guests. I count three pedal boats and four oversized inner tubes.

  I wave to Kimberly, the other lifeguard that just came on duty as I reach the top of my observation deck. I place my orange buoy diagonally across my chest and my silver whistle around my neck. She is my favorite team member because she takes this job as seriously as I do. Television and movies have done lifeguarding a tremendous disservice. I usually see lifeguarding portrayed as if it’s one big pick up scene. It is actually very fatiguing work. You really don’t have time to play Casanova if you are doing your job correctly. Kimberly and I trade off scanning the water and patrolling the beach every ten minutes to prevent object blindness and fatigue. I scan my field of vision again. Two of my regular elderly anglers are pulling their tubes on shore. My count is now at three pedal boats and two tubes.

  I scan the water slowly and take note of the people under my care today. In the tubes, I see some high school kids. These kids are regulars
and very responsible. In fact, the other day they helped with beach cleanup. Although they are loud and dramatic with squeals and laughter, I know them to be strong swimmers. The yellow pedal boat has what looks like a family from a Norman Rockwell painting.

  When I was growing up as the athletically gifted son of a successful dentist, things looked pretty perfect from the outside too, nothing ever hinted at the chaos behind closed doors. I hope things are different for this household and things are as perfect as they look. The toddler appears to be about two with light blond curls. The little guy does have a life jacket on, but he resembles a turtle with the life jacket bunching at the shoulders. This is an indication that it’s too big or incorrectly tightened. After I identify the potential danger, I move on to the green pedal boat. Ah, it’s Bert and Ernie. Yes, that’s really how they introduce themselves. Their real names are Albert and Ernestine, and as retired children’s book writers, no one has called them anything else for decades. As my grandfather would have termed it, they are canoodling. They park in a shady area and they are safe for now.

  I see the blue boat on the left and I immediately dub them “Charlie’s Angels” because I can see three women. The first one has her dark black hair in a thick braid down the middle of her back. She is wearing a suit worn by competitive swimmers and even from my vantage point; I can tell that she is seriously in-shape. The second woman is blond. Everything about her strikes me as vintage, from her curvy 40’s pinup girl figure to her modest pale blue suit and her Jackie O. sunglasses. The third woman really catches my attention. At the moment, she has her head thrown back, and her arms crossed over herself holding her sides, and she is in the throes of a full-on belly laugh. Her grin is completely unaffected and real. I desperately want to be in on the joke. My life is way too serious, and I know it.

  Her hair is red. To simply call her a redhead would be an injustice. In the bright sun, her hair reminds me of copper pennies in a fountain. She is wearing a tie-died tank top suit and bikini bottoms, and her hair is in braided pigtails. Yep, she makes one hot Pippi Longstocking. Hey, when I was eight, I thought Pippi was the greatest thing ever. They say you never get over your first crush. Since I was so shy, I guess all of mine were literary. Watching this boat full of beauties is going to brighten my day considerably. Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away and continue my scanning pattern.

  Chapter 2: Kiera

  “No way! There is just no way a stranger would come right out and say that to you!” my friend Heather exclaims with just the right amount of righteous indignation for someone with best friend status. “Tell me one more time because I’m positive no one in this green-granola-crunchin’ state of yours would ever be so rude.”

  My side hurts because I’m laughing so hard. “It’s true! I swear on my Dove chocolate bars,” I confirm. “He asked me point blank ‘Can you have sex?’ Since having sex on an airport shuttle isn’t high on my bucket list, I gave him my iciest stare and responded with ‘not right now, thanks for asking though.’ I was actually keeping a pretty straight face until the shuttle driver choked on his coffee and nearly hit a parked car.”

  “Face it Heather, Kiera is telling you the truth,” says Tara as she joins our discussion. “She wouldn’t wager Dove bars if she wasn't. Besides, she knows I’m like a human polygraph machine. I always sniff out all of her tall-tales. Clearly, that guy was never housebroken. He is a jerk!”

  “I guess I must be sending out some serious attract-every-jerk-in-the-universe pheromones lately,” I lament with a long sigh. “Did I tell you my boss patted me on the head the other day?” I shudder as I remember the look of shock on my co-workers faces as we sat in the conference room. “Who does that? I wanted to disappear into a parallel universe. I’m not really vixen material, but to be patted on the head as if I were an errant puppy hits a new low. Yesterday, as I was leaving work, I was sure this hot guy from the IT department was going to hold the door open for me, and the next thing I know, the door slammed right in my face. It’s like guys don’t even see me.”

  To my shock, tears are gathering in the corners of my eyes. I try to wipe them away before Heather and Tara notice. They are great friends; the best kind a girl could ever dream of having. Intellectually, I know they have my back and never judge me harshly. Even so, I’m not sure I’m ready to share my feelings. I have inadvertently blurted out one of my deepest fears during one of my epic overshare sessions. What happens if I never find the one person who really sees me? I have never had a type because I’m not exactly in a position to criticize someone’s appearance. My wish list is much shorter than most; I just want someone who sees all the parts of me and loves me anyway. My dad had that with my mom until she died, even though to the outside world she had done the unforgivable. My dad is my hero because somehow he gathered the strength to forgive her and love her until she drew her last breath. I want a man to love me like that. All the rest is like a second helping of pumpkin pie after Thanksgiving dinner. It’s satisfying and delicious but completely superfluous.

  I am startled out of my stroll down memory lane when Heather throws her arms around me in a huge hug. “Did it ever occur to you, Sweet Pea, that you have never been the problem? Just because a bunch of self-centered assholes who couldn’t find their right-butt cheek if they were standing in front of a three-way mirror can’t see what’s right in front of them — doesn’t mean it’s not there to be found,” she advises.

  “Butt cheeks in a three way mirror! You do realize that my brain can’t un-see that visual collage, right?” I wheeze, barely able to breathe as I collapse into peals of laughter.

  Heather shoots me a smug look over her shoulder as she pedals the boat. “Yes, I know. Aren’t you glad you don’t have an active fantasy life? I won’t even tell you about the blind date who inspired that image. It is just a horror story that shouldn’t be retold in polite society.” She tries to look cool and regal to match the ‘50’s Kennebunkport look she is sporting today. Heather is always classy; yet if you look closely enough you can see a twinkle in her eyes that belies a sharp-witted woman with a truly irreverent sense of humor.

  Suddenly, Tara spins in her seat to look at me and says in a teasing voice, “I hate to interrupt this little pity-party you are throwing for yourself, but check out Mr. Lifeguard over there. I’ve been watching him. In my opinion, he would like to be guarding Ms. Ashley a little more closely.” She wiggles her eyebrows and winks like Jessica Rabbit.

  “Nun-uh! How can you tell?” I ask in a loud whisper although I have no idea why I feel compelled to whisper; the man is several yards away. I suddenly feel as if I’ve morphed into an awkward 13 year old with braces and bad hair. I mean seriously bad hair. I strongly resembled the comedian, Carrot Top. He is the personification of my teenage years. My “ugly-duckling-phase” spanned across both junior high and high school. I take a deep breath and try to redirect my thoughts. Calm down. You are not that person anymore. You are a dynamic, powerful, professional woman. You’re one class away from getting your Master’s degree in Social Work. You have vanquished the ghosts of the girl you were back then. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in Tara’s aviator glasses. It’s then I remember that I’m wearing my hair in braids, and currently I’m sporting Birkenstocks with a tie-dyed tankini. All things considered, perhaps I haven’t really come that far.

  “I don’t know…” Tara says speculatively, “maybe it’s because he is looking at you like you’re the last piece of pizza at a frat party?”

  “There is no way you can tell that from way over here. We are probably like blurry pieces on some elaborate game of Battleship to him,” I argue emphatically.

  ‘Oh really, that’s your argument? Okay, answer this question for me, Ms.-I-Need-Empirical-Proof; how well can you see him?” she asks triumphantly.

  Oh fabulous! She is calling my bluff. Therein lays the danger of verbally sparring with my best friends; they know all of my weaknesses. I’m going to have to look at him. If I do, I’m likely to blush, given the
direction of the discussion on the boat. It’s hard to look sexy when you are all red-and blotchy. I glance over at the lifeguard as surreptitiously as possible. I relax slightly as I realize he is looking in another direction. I take the opportunity to examine him further. Wow! He has a whole Blair Underwood vibe going on. I’m very familiar with Blair Underwood because my dad still has the series L.A. Law on VHS. It’s one of his favorites, and he is obsessed with watching the show even though it first aired in the mid eighties. I share his obsession for entirely different reasons. I suspect he would be less than thrilled to know all those hours I spent watching the show were not entirely dedicated to gaining a keener understanding of the legal system.

  Holy Moley! The lifeguard is climbing down from the observation tower, and the view from the backside is just as nice as the front. Now, he is suddenly much closer than he was. Geez Louise! Tara is right. There are no games of Battleship going on here. He is probably close enough to see I’m gulping down Vitamin Water like a camel on spring break to deal with my suddenly overheating body. What if Tara is right about everything else too? It’s an overwhelming thought. I’m tempted to forget about the possibility and dismiss it outright. There is just one problem. I know that Tara tends to have an uncanny sense of these things.

  “Well, the good Lord definitely spent a little extra time on that one didn’t he?” Heather drawls. “He is like Venetian marble in a Formica store.”

  I break out into a fit of giggles. I wonder how she comes up with this stuff. So, I ask her, “Really, Heather? Where do you come up with the things that come flying out of your mouth?”

  Heather responds with a careless shrug, “What? It’s true isn’t it?”

  “I think he looks like Denzel Washington,” responds Tara.

  “I can see that,” adds Heather studying him, “but he’s got an athletic build like Michael Jordan. That’s a whole lot of hotness in one package.”