by James, Anne
These rare quiet moments in life would sometimes open the door to a place of melancholy. Sadness could steal up behind her, grabbing her by the throat, choking hope and happiness, as if those feelings weren’t allowed to be a part of her present. The past would haunt her. Fighting to hold onto the present, dreams of the future were the antidote that gave her ballast from a listing ship of gloom floating on a river of despair.
A shrill shriek from a red-shouldered hawk caused Laurel’s eyes to open and scan the gathering evening sky. Through the open screened window over the tub a lone hawk soared and dipped on the evening currents.
Laurel sat up as scampering, clawing sounds came from the tall longleaf pine about four feet from her window. A Sherman fox squirrel scurried up the tree, but froze on the trunk as he made eye contact with the woman in the tub.
Thrilled to be eye-to-eye with this long-faced creature, Laurel held her position, not daring to move.
Calypso music tinkled through the air. The squirrel shot up the tree trunk like a furry rocket.
Blowing out a deep sigh, Laurel decided to answer her cell phone. As she heaved her body up from the frothy water, she reached for a towel. She wrapped it around her body, as she scurried to the ringing phone. That particular music was dedicated to her close friend, Mary Helen. Being one hundred percent Greek, Mary Helen lived life as if each moment was from a bottle of ruby red port that should be sipped with a long swallow of unadulterated delight.
Laurel’s contributing personality to this rich friendship was a dash of practicality intended to tame the zestful spirit of Mary Helen’s latest spontaneity.
Drying her right hand on the towel, she reached for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Girlfriend, I don’t care what you are doing, you must stop!” Throaty, sensual tones entered Laurel’s ear. She pictured her friend’s voluptuous curvy body and long, thick black hair. As Mary Helen was a hairdresser, Laurel never knew what hairstyle her friend would have. The do changed monthly. Sometimes weekly. The style was always the latest description of the word, chic.
Laurel’s voice was dry as she asked, “Just why must I drop everything?”
“St. John’s in twenty minutes. There is the most divine, Irish dish to mankind playing bagpipes at the pub!” Noises reflecting panting, car keys, a car door slamming all came through the phone.
“And just why do I have to be there?”
“Because you know, I can’t go alone, Laurel. I need your support. He’s the one. He was born to be with me!” A wicked giggle accompanied the next comment. “A looker, a charmer and God’s creation to make love to this lonely woman!”
Dripping water on the tiled floor, Laurel smiled before she spoke. “I just got off a burn. I’m bone-weary. If I drank alcohol, I’d pass out on the floor.”
A racing engine was heard through the phone. A jangling of what sounded like several bracelets. “Dammit, Laurel! Kurt left his bike behind my car again.” Another slamming of the door.
Laurel thought of Mary Helen’s hectic life. Raising two teen-age children, Kurt, age thirteen, and Helen, a fifteen-year-old beauty going on twenty-five, her friend was in a constant state of mild hysteria. Divorced from a sleazy car salesman, Mary Helen had moved to Lake Mary, Florida. Her aging parents had retired to central Florida several years earlier, leaving the cold, windy winters to their vast numbers of Chicago relatives.
Debating the wisdom of dragging her weary self to the Irish pub when she had to get up at 5:30 the next morning, she knew the counterbalance was a case of the blues settling on her just as the purplish, pink twilight turned to night. A rewarding bottle of single malt Scotch would lure her to have a glass. Glenlivet would be her companion of the night.
“Laurel? Can I count on you?” A rich, chuckle preceded the next words. “Don’t give me any crap about how early you have to get up. Park Ranger that you are, you’re not getting any younger!
“If I come, it will be in my oldest jeans, wrinkled cotton shirt and scuffed-up boots. Sure you want to be seen with this 48-year-old worn-out woman?”
Between the car sounds, muffled curses, happiness still came through Mary Helen’s answer. “Right then, darlin’. See you in a few.”
Just as Laurel was about to hang up the phone, Mary Helen spoke.
“Are we looking for a boyfriend or a girlfriend for you tonight?”
“Give it up, Mary. Remember. There is someone very special in my life.”
Lush laughter preceded Mary Helen’s voice. “Then why don’t you combine households? You are much too beautiful and intelligent to be living alone out in the forest!”
“You might not ever give up, but you might as well accept what is.” She hung the towel up. “Some things just take time. And this is my time to heal. Please, don’t push me.”
“You know I won’t, Laurel. I do accept you just as the whole, beautiful woman that you are. No more teasing. I promise.”
“Who was it that said, ‘Promises and pie crust are made to be broken’?”
More laughter. “True.”
“That comes from one of your beloved Irish dudes. Jonathan Swift.”
Mary Helen breathed a throaty, sexy purr. “Irish? Can I meet him?”
Endeavoring to pull on her worn-out faded blue jeans with her head cocked to the left to hold the cell phone, Laurel said, “Speaking of age, this hunky, Irish author died in 1745.”
“Right then! Little too old for my taste. See you soon!”
Chapter 4
Laurel’s fingertips caressed the cool condensation seeping down the glass of Scotch. Eyes half-closed, she stared at the lines her fingers created as she rotated the glass. Cubes of ice floated on the amber liquid. The closeness of the small Irish pub hadn’t awakened a claustrophobic need for more air, but she knew the reaction was coming. The contrast of the fiery single malt and the ice melting into the liquid reminded her of taking a cool drink of water while working on the prescribed burn earlier that day. Hot and cold. Her throat so parched and dry that swallowing was difficult. Sandpaper.
“Laurel?”
The single word floated through the smoky haze with a happy, beckoning tone that penetrated Laurel’s philosophic reverie. Lifting her head, she squinted at the sensual gyrations as Mary Helen’s shapely bottom grinded into the pelvis of a small, dark, well-built man.
His arms lifted, bent at the elbow, fingers snapping in time to the Irish ballad. The man’s black T-shirt fitted his muscular torso like a second skin. A heavy, dark green jade cross hung on a black leather necklace pulsing as he flexed his steel-toned pectoral majors.
Laurel watched in disbelief as the man’s mouth clamped down on the back of Mary Helen’s neck. An octopus couldn’t have done better. The snapping of his fingers in harmony with the pulsing of his pecs was too much to watch.
Sending a hard stare toward Mary Helen was not effective. Wasted effort.
A shriek accompanied by a sultry giggle came from Mary Helen.
Weary of the smoky pub, Laurel stood. Weaving her way through the inebriated crowd, she navigated to the bar. Paying the tab, she attempted to get her friend’s attention.
After a few long moments, Mary Helen noticed her friend standing at the bar. She frowned, shaking her head in a NO gesture.
Laurel gave a half-smile, a small wave and turned to leave.
“No, Laurel!” The voice rose over the music.
With a hand on the door, Laurel looked over her shoulder.
Mary Helen was dragging her octopus lover behind her. Her hand held his in a tight grip. Her voluptuous breasts swaying as they spilled out of her low-cut, red knit top, she reached the door as Laurel pushed it open. She grabbed Laurel’s arm.
Now she had two victims. Laurel decided to push on.
Panting as if in heat, Mary Helen pleaded and begged. “Laurel, you’re here! Sta
y and enjoy.”
Heading toward her vehicle, Laurel towed the two people behind her, as she attempted to shake off Mary Helen’s hand. Now her friend had become an octopus. She began to doubt her sanity.
Reaching her silver Toyota Tacoma 4X4 double cab pickup truck she stopped. Looking down at her friend’s hand, she pried it off her left arm like a large piece of lint.
“I’m beyond tired. Music was good. My drink was good and now I’m going home.”
“Let me introduce you to this delicious Irish gorgeousness!” Mary Helen’s voice was slurred and full of excitement. She pulled the smallish, muscular man forward.
“Laurel, Ty Murphy. Ty, this is my very best friend, Laurel Grey.”
As his hand wrapped hers in an iron handshake, Laurel thought she might never have the use of her fingers again. She struggled to keep from wincing, as she endeavored to match his Tyrannosaurus Rex grip. No good. Her hand was going painfully numb.
The look in his dark eyes sent a shiver down her spine. His mouth mimicked a smile, white teeth sparkling in the street light glow. The incisors appeared to have been sharpened.
“Hello, Ty.”
No response. Just the relentless power squeeze.
“You can let go of my hand now.” Darned if she was going to say please to this prehistoric Napoleon!
“Oh, no, lassie. The pleasure is all mine, to be sure.”
His Irish accent seemed way over done. Perhaps she was judging too harshly. Right, dude. Take a walk on the wild side.
Something caught her attention in the cab of her truck. Turning her head she glimpsed a red blinking light on her Nextel work phone. Mitch Herman, assistant park manager, had asked her to fill in for him for the evening as he had a wedding to attend. Neither of them had expected any problems.
Laurel glanced at her friend for help. Mary Helen was too absorbed in the alcoholic glow of all that’s right in the world. Both of her arms were wound around Ty’s loose arm.
“Ty, nice to meet you. Now, release my hand!” A harsher, stern quality was in her voice.
Gallantry emanating from every sweaty pore, he gave a courtly bow as he dropped her hand. “Ah, but I forgot meself. Your hand is so smooth and small. Like Irish butter ‘tis.” He shrugged his head sideways at Mary Helen and continued. “Your lovely friend here was tellin’ me that ye are a park ranger. Is that so?”
With her eyes, Laurel lasered a beam that should have drilled through the core of the tipsy woman.
“Come on, Mary Helen. I’ll take you home. We’ll come back for your car in the morning.”
“Now, now, no need for that luv. I’ll see this little lady home.”
Mary Helen tilted her head back and gave a sappy sweet smile, even as a frown knitted her brow.
Watching this expression, Laurel knew that Mary Helen was beyond logic and too befuddled for any decision making.
Lying through her teeth, Laurel said, “I drive right by her house. She has two children to see off to school in the morning. I’ll get her home.”
Ty seemed to resent this idea. “Being a ranger lady and all, I know you feel the need to care for your friend here but no worries, Lassie. She’s in good hands with me. Trust me, love. I won’t be takin’ advantage of your lady friend here.” He kissed the side of Mary Helen’s head, not being able to quite reach the top.
Gritting her teeth, Laurel, resented his possessive takeover. The phone inside the truck was niggling her to get moving. She needed to see why there was a message at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night.
A breeze stirred the steamy night. She turned her head sniffing the air. Trade winds. Southeasterly trade winds blowing around the warm Bermuda High fan warm, humid air over the peninsula of Florida keeping cold fronts at bay. Although fall, nearly every afternoon, central Florida had been having scattered thunderstorms—a collision of air from the Gulf sea breeze and the Atlantic sea breeze meeting in the middle of the state.
An enormous clap of thunder made all three of them jump.
Snugging Mary Helen to his side with his strong left arm, Ty made the observation in soft whisper, “Thunderplump.”
Laurel said, “Excuse me?”
A deep chuckle resonated from his muscular chest. “In Ireland, we refer to that as a thunderplump!”
A streak of lightning sizzled to the ground searing their eyes with a brilliant blast of light.
Ready to hop into her truck and let Mary Helen go to the devil with her newfound infatuation, Laurel froze in position, as she listened to Ty’s next words. The Irish brogue was a tad mesmerizing.
“Disney, Sea World, Cypress Gardens, Universal Studios, Cape Canaveral, the best beaches in the world.” He nodded toward Laurel. “Timucuan Springs, a lovely state park with water so clear and fresh from our Floridan aquifer. Florida’s great underwater reservoir. Incredible!” He turned back from staring at the night sky where the lightning streak had appeared, grinning at Laurel’s open mouth. “A natural resource that is not understood by our thronging tourists are the numerous thunderstorms that occur. But you know what really intrigues me, ranger lady? What really tickles my fancy?”
Laurel snapped her mouth shut and perched on the edge of the seat. Who was this man? Evil or brilliant?
“Lightning! God’s magnificent energy shaped into a spear and thrown ta the ground!” he gave a hop of excitement.
Mary Helen detached herself from his arm. She appeared a bit disenchanted.
“Some big storms generate up to 40,000 lightning strikes. Do you know what this area is called?” he stared at Laurel with a gleeful look.
Feeling quite disconcerted, Laurel shook her head.
“Lightning Alley!” he raised his voice as his excitement rose. “The most lightning strikes are in an area between Tampa and Titusville, Lightning Alley. Right where we are standing!”
“Who are you?” Laurel demanded. Rare were the times that she didn’t intuit a person with immediate accuracy. This guy had her flummoxed.
“Phenomena of the atmosphere. Meteorology. Climatology.” A wicked gleam appeared in his eyes. “Hustler of the Gods. Student of the ancients.”
Laurel pulled both legs into the truck, ready to close the door and see what the call was about. Responsibility was stronger than her curiosity for this leprechaun.
He leaned closer to her, resting a hand on the edge of her truck door.
She looked down at his hand.
He nodded at her. “Just one more thing before you go, lassie. Central Florida has one of the highest density lightning strikes in the world. And has about one million cloud-to-ground lightning strikes each year.”
“If you call me lassie or love one more time, I’m going to slam this door on your crazy Irish hand.”
Ty tilted back his head and roared a belt of belly laughter.
He did take his hand off the truck, Laurel noted.
Slamming her door shut, she looked at Mary Helen, who was now hugging herself with both arms. She looked a bit forlorn. “You going to be okay?”
Mary Helen summoned a huge smile as she tucked a hand back under Ty’s arm.
“I’ll be fine, girlfriend. Call you tomorrow.”
Nodding at Ty, she asked. “Weather? Hobby of yours?”
Another chuckle from the bewildering man.
“You might say that. G’night, Laurel.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of an Irish accent.
Before she started the engine, she picked up the phone and listened to the message.
A campground host was asking her to call as soon as possible. An altercation between campers on site 58 and site 60 had escalated to a fight.
Laurel considered telephoning Lt. Meer, the Florida Park Service (FPS) Law Enforcement Officer on call for the night. Pondering the message left on her cell, she figured she could handle it alone. Carolyn Meer would jump on the r
equest. Laurel ranked her up there with one of the people in this world she regarded with high respect.
By the time she arrived at the campground the campers had resolved their issue over which breed of dog was better, a Great Dane or a Chihuahua. This argument had escalated into a full-scale war, or so she was told by the volunteer campground hosts. The size comparison seemed to have nothing to do with the disagreement.
After parking her truck across from the now serene camping sites, Laurel opened the door and closed it with a quiet click. Walking over to the adjoining campsites, she noted the large quantity of Miller Lite bottles lying on the ground. No wonder they had fought. She doubted that there was a single bottle of this particular beer left in Seminole county.
The phone vibrated on her waist. Squinting at the light of the phone, she saw her sister, Kathy’s, name and number. With a feeling of foreboding, she answered in a very quiet voice in the still of the night.
Their ninety-three-year-old mother was in the hospital and not expected to live long. Could she come right away?
Chapter 5
Gordon Cemetery. The chill wind lifted the brown, ankle-length down coat of Laurel Gordon Grey as she stared at the tombstone of her mother and father. Lifting her gaze, she stared over the old post and wire fence row across acres of prime farm land. As the small family cemetery rested on top of a hill, a vista of land and sky met in a line on the gray horizon. Modern grain farming with huge equipment raped the Midwestern terrain of almost all natural resources, leaving bare, rich soil. Turning her head slightly to the right, she saw the old Gordon homestead—a white clapboard two-story house with a hipped roof where her father, Charles Knight Gordon, had been born. In the early 1900s, he was fourth in the nine siblings born to Gertrude and Victor Gordon.
Shivering from the cold November breeze that swirled around her ankles and up her thighs, she pulled the coat collar tightly around her neck with both leather-gloved hands. A strand of ebony hair escaped from the hood of the coat, catching on her long black eyelashes. Tears filled her eyes, but that's as far as they got. Her determination made months earlier to not give into the grief of her mother's death was a false strength. She knew that postponing this grieving was taking a toll on her physical and emotional health. Not time yet.
