Table of Contents
Chapter 1- To Grandmother’s House We Go
Chapter 2 – Unpacking the Crates
Chapter 3 – Boxcar Willie
Chapter 4 – Is She Alright?
Chapter 5 – Pip. Pip? Oh Hey!
Chapter 6 – I’m Confused and Uncomfortable!
Chapter 7 – Eye of the Tiger
Chapter 8 – You Don’t Want What I Want
Chapter 9 – Time, Clock Watching, Travel
Chapter 10 – Tell Me What You Need
Chapter 11 – A Saucy Sunday
Chapter 12 – What the Hell Did I just Say?
Chapter 13 – Say What Now?
Chapter 14 – Closing the Book
Contents
Chapter 1- To Grandmother’s House We Go
Chapter 2 – Unpacking the Crates
Chapter 3 – Boxcar Willie
Chapter 4 – Is She Alright?
Chapter 5 – Pip. Pip? Oh Hey!
Chapter 6 – I’m Confused and Uncomfortable!
Chapter 7 – Eye of the Tiger
Chapter 8 – You Don’t Want What I Want
Chapter 9 – Time, Clock Watching, Travel
Chapter 10 – Tell Me What You Need
Chapter 11 – A Saucy Sunday
Chapter 12 – What the Hell Did I just Say?
Chapter 13 – Say What Now?
Chapter 14 – Closing the Book
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Davonshire House Publishing
PO Box 9716
Augusta, GA 30916
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely a coincidence.
© 2017 Olivia Gaines, Cheryl Aaron Corbin
Copy Editor: Teri Thompson Blackwell
Cover: Koou Graphics
Olivia Gaines Make Up and Photograph by Latasla Gardner Photography
ASIN: B073WNQDFY
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address, Davonshire House Publishing, PO Box 9716, Augusta, GA 30916.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 10 9 8
First Davonshire House Publishing September 2017
DEDICATION
For All the Pippi’s of the world who had and have yet to find their voices.
“Easy reading is damn hard writing.”
- Nathaniel Hawthorne
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thank you to the Tuesday Sushi Club, Jessica and Hildie, for keeping me grounded.
To all the fans, friends and supporters of the dream as well as the Facebook community of writers who keep me focused, inspired and moving forward.
Write On!
Also by Olivia Gaines
The Slice of Life Series
The Perfect Man
Friends with Benefits
A Letter to My Mother
The Basement of Mr. McGee
A New Mommy for Christmas
The Slivers of Love Series
The Cost to Play
Thursday in Savannah
Girl's Weekend
Beneath the Well of Dawn
Santa’s Big Helper
The Davonshire Series
Courting Guinevere
Loving Words
Vanity's Pleasure
The Blakemore Files
Being Mrs. Blakemore
Shopping with Mrs. Blakemore
Dancing with Mr. Blakemore
Cruising with the Blakemores
Dinner with the Blakemores
Loving the Czar
The Value of a Man Series
My Mail Order Wife
A Weekend with the Cromwell’s
Other Novellas
North to Alaska
The Brute & The Blogger
A Better Night in Vegas
Other Novels
A Menu for Loving
Turning the Page
This is Scott and Zelda
Chapter 1- To Grandmother’s House We Go
Michael gripped the steering wheel tightly as his head flooded with thoughts about his sister, Zelda, who was sitting next to him writing in her diary. In his heart, he had always known she would be some kind of journalist because she had such a way with words. Even as a child, she managed to capture emotions, feelings, and minute particulars often missed by others. It was by accident that he picked up one of the notebooks, his eyes drawn to the words written by a ten-year-old whose ability to chronicle details brought fear into his heart. Details most kids wouldn’t pick up on, let alone understand the nuances of adult relationships, but she did.
Zelda even captured on paper the clever dance between their mother and Mr. Bautista, the Pilipino neighbor. So clever was her wording that Michael hid the diary from their parents. It didn’t stop his sister, who picked up a fresh journal and began a new one.
There was something special about her that no one could put their finger on, but everyone who came in contact with her recognized. It was that same year that their lives all began to unravel. If a child could have a power, Zelda’s started manifesting at the age of ten, drawing boys and often grown men to her. Like an army of ants to a picnic, they came from high and low, sniffing, seeking out the bearer of sweetness. It terrified him, sending him into a protective mode to watch over her from eyes that would rake over her young body with a hunger that was unnatural.
Iris, their mother, saw this power in her as well. Her solution was to either punish Zelda by locking her in her room all weekend or beating the child until she feared opening her mouth. Retreating into the world of her pen, she scribbled on paper every emotion which raged through her young body.
Richard Fitzsimmons, an engineer on the move, was also drawn to his young daughter. His love and affection for Zelda often sent Iris into fits of rage, which she unleashed on Zelda when they were alone. Michael, noticing the constant bruises on his sister's arms, legs, and back, stayed close to her, never leaving Zelda and his mother alone. It had become a tricky balancing act because he couldn’t take her around his friends—she would distract them all—and he couldn’t leave her at home.
Instead, he opted to have Grandma Lula become an intermediary. He didn’t know which was worse, the frying pan or Grandma’s constant rants of fire and hell stones. At least with Grandma Lula, Zelda didn’t get beat, at least not physically. Emotionally, it was another story.
The one story which replayed over and over in his head was the horrific weekend at the lake on a family getaway for Labor Day weekend. Celebrating Richard’s promotion, their father rented a cabin at a nearby family fun spot, only to have the whole weekend turn to shit. The weekend was also the moment which instilled the fear of swimming in fresh water in Zelda’s head.
At the age of 10, Zelda understood she was pretty, but the power she wielded, she didn’t know how to harness for good, if there was such a capability in a precocious ten-year-old. Her long black, wavy hung down her back swinging in the wind as she walked. The almost Asian like eyes would cut to the side, practically glancing flirtatiously at young boys.
The trip to the lake should have been a healing time for the family; instead it fractured an already tenuous familial dynamic to its breaking point. The second day into the weeklong getaway broke the bough, forcing the family tree to a slow, deciduous rot. A rot that ate through everything until that fateful night when Richard and Iris ceased to exist.
Zelda, left to her own devices, had been sent outside to play.
After nearly an hour, Michael feared the worst for his sister’s well-being and set out looking for her. Iris and Richard, also concerned, set out as well looking for little Zelda, only to find she’d create a lemonade stand out of an old crate and was selling kisses for $1 to the little boys. Upon their arrival, the empty mayo jar held at least twenty dollars with the line curving around a tree of others waiting for a kiss.
“Where did all these lil’ boys come from?” Richard asked in dismay.
“There’s a boy scout camp over there, Daddy,” she said with pride. Holding up her jar of hard-earned loot, she beamed with pride at her ingenuity at earning money to buy more notebooks.
Iris, unamused, flew into a tantrum, coming after Zelda, who felt brave and did not bother to move or run. Instead, she puffed up her chest, speaking with braggadocio to her mother.
“I know you are not going to hit me in front of all of these people, Mommy. They will call the police on you. I was thinking, the next time you hit me, I may call the police myself,” Zelda said with her cute little button nose turned up in the air.
“I brought you in this world, Zelda, and the Lord will forgive me for taking you out,” Iris said to the child.
“And if you do, Michael will give my notebooks to the police and you will go to jail. Do you think Mr. Bautista will come and visit you there?” Zelda asked innocently.
The cat had left the bag and was running freely about the lake, scent-marking everything it came in contact with. Richard balked at the softly spoken words, troubled and confused as well as concerned about what the child was inferring. The line of boys had dwindled to one pimply faced kid holding a five-dollar bill and would not be deterred from purchasing his first kiss.
“Go on, get out of here!” Richard yelled at the kid, who reluctantly walked away. It was in that flash of his head turned that Iris went after Zelda.
In a blaze of energy, Zelda was on her feet, running, but with the woods behind her, she ran into the lake. Unable to swim, it was unclear to Richard if Iris was trying to save Zelda from drowning; to Michael, it looked as if she were trying to do the opposite. A cold shudder ran through him as he went over the details in his head.
“Mike, the light has changed,” Zelda said, touching his arm, bringing him back to the present. “Are you okay? You went down the rabbit hole there looking for Alice.”
“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, turning right into the Settegast district, heading towards their grandmother’s home. Three more turns down the suburban streets and he pulled into the driveway of the brick home, the yard bursting with flowers and bright colors.
“I’m not. I don’t want to go in there for dinner at 2:00 in the afternoon. The moment I walk though those doors, she is going to start in on me and I am not in the mood today to let that crap roll off my back,” Zelda said.
“Be a duck, Zelda,” he told her.
“Nope. I don’t want to be a duck sitting calmly in the pond. If she comes at me, I may just swim over and peck her ornery old ass,” Zelda said.
“She only sees us once a week. The tradeoff is if we come here, she won’t come to us,” he reminded her.
“That is a pitiful tradeoff. At least in my own home, I can go to my room and close my damned door and shut her out,” Zelda said.
“It won’t be so bad,” Michael assured her. “We go in, listen to her have a little talk with Jesus, tell Him all about her troubles,” he started to sing.
“Then you can hear my faintest cries as I sock her in her eyes,” Zelda sang along with him.
“Be nice,” Michael warned.
“It would be nice if you gave me your keys and let me come back and get you after you choke on her dry ass cornbread,” Zelda chuffed.
“Come on, let’s get this over with, and besides, a few more of these and you are off to Vegas for almost two months,” he said.
“Yes, but Scott wants to come meet the Devil when he gets back from Europe in three weeks. I so want say no to that shit,” she added.
“That should be a fun, saucy Sunday afternoon,” he said.
“It is going to be Hell wrapped up in meatloaf and smothered in greasy gravy,” Zelda said with her lips twisted as Michael climbed out of the car. She followed behind him, entering the home which smelled of spice, liniment, and old grease. Grandma Lula was one of the primary reasons Zelda learned to cook at an early age, to avoid the woman bringing over greasy meals which made her face break out in pimples.
“There are my babies! Right on time,” Grandma Lula said. She gave Michael a big embrace but stopped when she reached Zelda. Frowning at her granddaughter, she scrunched her nose, sniffing Zelda. “Hmmph.”
“Good to see you too, Grandma,” Zelda said softly, skirting the old woman’s embrace.
“I know why you are stepping to the side, walking in my house, smelling like the sin that’s been rolled in all night long,” Lula said, looking over the rim of her glasses.
Well, if I showered, I would have missed my flight. Zelda thought to herself, not wanting to engage the woman for it to turn into a war of words and being prayed over with olive oil applied to her forehead by the use of a withered old chicken foot.
“Don’t sass me with your eyes, child. I may not have brought you in this world, but Jesus will forgive me if I take you out,” Lula said.
“Well, your daughter tried and look where that got her,” Zelda said with her hands on her hips. Oh shit! I said that out loud.
Michael’s mouth opened wide in disbelief at his sister’s words.
“Oh, so whatever sin stick you’ve been riding has given you some courage, I see,” Grandma Lula said.
“No, I just get sick and tired of walking in this house having you attack me for no apparent reason,” Zelda told her, feeling emboldened.
“Oh, there is a reason. I will bring you to Jesus even if it takes my last breath,” Lula told her.
“And it just may be. You need to stop worrying about saving my soul and my relationship with the Almighty and worry about yourself,” Zelda threw at her. This was how it always started. The sparing match with the old Devil. She could not remember a single time her Grandmother had said something nice to her, even when she’d won first place in gymnastics competitions. Her words of praise were always attached with a ‘but’. As far as Zelda was concerned, Lula Mae Peterson could kiss hers.
Lula opened her mouth, but her words were halted by a loud crack of thunder followed by flashes of lightening. A second boom sounded as the power went out, the sky turned black, and buckets of rain poured down from the heavens.
“I’ll find some candles,” Michael said, leaving the two women in a standoff in the living room. The heavy curtains on the windows blocked the small stream of natural light fighting to enter the home filled with years of darkness.
A strong gust of wind surged, swaying the trees, and followed by a lightning strike on the old Shumard oak in the back yard, snapping off a large limb, crashing it into the storage shed in the back yard.
“Oh Lord!” Lula cried out as she ran to the back door.
“Grandma, is anything of value in there?” Michael asked.
“Just those old boxes of Zelda’s diaries you stored in there, a few Christmas items, and the like,” Lula said.
“My old diaries?” Zelda asked. “Michael, you stored my old diaries here?”
Chapter 2 – Unpacking the Crates
Fear held on to Michael, hindering his ability to breathe. If the rain soaked the contents of the shed, her words would be faded into the damp sheets of paper, doing what he’d been unable to do—destroy the words she’d written about their lives. In his heart, he knew he should have gotten rid of the journals, but the books didn’t belong to him. The words were hers, as well as the ugliness she’d penned inside of the pages.
“Mike, please go get the dairies before they are soaked and ruined,” Zelda pleaded, holding on to his arms.
“You want me to go out into a torrential storm, entering into a broken-dow
n building to get your boxes?”
“Take an umbrella or something,” Zelda said, pushing him towards the door.
“Great, now you want me to be electrocuted as well,” he said, frowning at her.
“I didn’t put my diaries in there; you did. I wondered for years where they went and they are all here. My memories recorded on paper. All the missing gaps in my head about my childhood are in there,” she said.
“Maybe this is God’s way of telling you something,” Grandma Lula said.
“Or maybe this is God’s way of letting me know they are in there,” she snapped at the old lady. “Fine. I will go and get them myself!”
Zelda pushed past Michael, heading out the back door into the storm. Forceful winds blew her hair into her face, the rain nearly blinding her as she reached the shed. Idiot. You didn’t get the keys. Now you have to go back in there soaking wet and looking like a damned fool in front of Michael and Grandma Prays a Lot.
Michael materialized behind her with keys, fumbling with the lock, yanking it open. He held her hand as they stepped inside the old building, which should have been torn down when Zelda was a child. The large branch of the old oak tree held down a corner of the roof, allowing water to pour in like a divining rod, the water pooling just below the stack of boxes in the corner. The base of one of the boxes were saturated whereas the ones on top of it were still intact.
“It never dawned on you to store them in plastic containers?” she asked her brother as she made her way to the corner, moving aside years of dusty boxes filled with God only knew what.
“Honestly, with so much going on, I never gave them much thought,” he lied.
She knew he was lying. Zelda just didn’t know why.
“I’m stronger than you think, Mike,” she said.
“That, I am finding out,” he said.
“Hiding the memories in the corner doesn’t stop them from coming back. Pieces of my life are missing from my brain; these could be the connectors,” she said, pulling at the box on the top.
A Saucy Sunday (The Zelda Diaries Book 4) Page 1
