by Penny Reid
“Bill called.”
“What a prick!” I said, running my hands through my finger-length, dirty blonde hair. “I know you're friends...”
“No, it's not like that,” my mother sobbed, shaking her head and sitting down on the chocolate brown suede couch.
“Well, spit it out!” I could feel my blood start to boil as I envisioned my father-in-law calling my parents about what happened in court.
“It's Dana...”
“Of course it is. What the fuck does she want? I just saw her thirty minutes ago. Remember I was in court with her all day?” I gestured, my hands flying in the air to emphasize how angry and irritated Dana made me feel.
I sat on the couch next to my mom, not wanting to talk about my ex for one more minute of the day.
“Just shut the fuck up and listen to me!” my mother snapped at me. Tears started to run down her face as she started to speak again. She stood to face me, and my heart stopped. I didn’t understand why she would be crying. “After leaving the courthouse, Dana got into a...car accident...”
Yes, at that moment, I hated Dana, but she was my daughter's mother, and even though I had wished her dead thousands of times in my head, I never meant it seriously. Cheyenne needed her mother, and the thought of Dana being in a car accident stunned me.
“Is she okay?” I whispered, trying to hold back the tears I was on the verge of crying.
“No,” she whispered back, shaking her head again. “She was airlifted, but it was too late. Dana died before they made it to the hospital.”
I don't know why they say grown men don't cry. That was the day my daughter lost her mother. That was the day my daughter didn't get to say good-bye to her mother. That was the day I lost my first love. And that was the day I cried into my mother's arms, whispering sorry over and over again.
~End Sneak Peek~
Find Tattooed Dots on Amazon Kindle: http://www.smalllinks.com/19FY
Geoducks are for Lovers
By Daisy Prescott
Chapter 1
Geoduck (Panopea generosa)
(pron.: gü-ē-ˌdək “gooey duck")
n. The world’s largest burrowing clam
~~~~~
Do laundry.
Stop by the farmers’ market and pick up the weekly produce box.
Make the beds in the guest rooms.
Find blankets for the twin beds upstairs.
Put extra towels in the downstairs bath.
Ask John for firewood.
Locate some fresh caught salmon and make a couscous salad.
Start restaurant review and article on huckleberry recipes.
Check that Bessie has gas.
Confirm Quinn’s flight arrival.
As Maggie takes the shortcut through the woods she makes a mental list of everything she needs to get done today. The cool shadows of the trees are a nice break from the strong August sun. Her dog, Biscuit, dashes ahead of her after spotting a squirrel on the trail. He’s an island dog through and through and loves when she cuts into the woods on their daily runs almost as much as he likes getting squirted by the clams on the tidal flat. Speaking of biscuits, Maggie makes an additional mental note:
Buy ingredients for scones.
The trees end, and she rejoins the main road. It’s another perfect summer day with a cloudless sky. Turning for home, Maggie sprints down the hill to her beach cabin. It still feels strange to call it hers even after over a year of owning it outright. So much has changed over the past few years. Yet the road beneath her feet, and the view over the bay and beyond Double Bluff to the Olympic Mountains, is the same from her childhood summers.
* * *
Coffee in hand, Maggie sits at the table on her deck facing the water. A cargo ship heads north toward Admiralty Inlet and out to the Pacific Ocean. Beyond the stray piles of sun-bleached driftwood and rock-strewn beach at the foot of the stairs, the tidal flat that gives Useless Bay its name lays exposed with the ebb tide. Shallow streams and deeper pools create continents of wet sand extending for nearly a mile out to the receding water.
With her long hair pulled into a messy bun after her shower and wearing her favorite black shorts with her ancient Evergreen geoduck T-shirt, she copies down her mental to-do list to prepare for her house guests. Biscuit romps on the lawn with Babe, the Yellow Lab from next door. They appear to be in a tug o’war with a piece of driftwood and Biscuit is losing.
“Knock, knock?”
Maggie hears a voice call out and glances up from her laptop to see her neighbor, John, waving at her from the steps. He’s holding a large freezer bag.
“Please tell me that is some freshly-caught salmon. You’ll save me a trip to the store or having to thaw some of my frozen stash.”
“It is indeed. Caught a King earlier this morning,” he says, laying the bag with a large piece of gorgeous salmon on the table.
“You are the best. Can you put it in the fridge for me? And as a reward, there’s coffee in the pot if you want some.”
“Sounds like a fair deal. Need a refill?” John brings her cup inside.
John rents the house next door from his uncle. Their homes sit in a row of four similar modern, weathered cedar-shingled cabins on Sunlight Beach. Most of the original, more modest houses along this stretch have been razed and replaced with larger summer homes for tech elite and other wealthy Seattle weekenders.
There are worse things in the world than being a single woman of a certain age and having sweet eye candy next door, who can also dispose of giant spiders and mice, and provide free crabs. Over the last several years, the two have settled into a regular routine of coffee and walks on the beach when their schedules allow. Quinn nicknamed him Paul Bunyan because of his ‘lumberjack good looks,’ as he calls them. Tall, with dark hair and matching beard, John does resemble the legendary lumberjack. A dog named Babe and his ever present plaid shirt only add to the similarity.
“So no walk with the dogs this morning?” he asks when he returns with their coffees.
“Sorry. Can’t. Got up and took Biscuit for a run already. Must run errands, write an article, and get ready for Quinn’s arrival tomorrow.”
“Babe will be disappointed. I wondered why you were showered and dressed. Normally when I stop by this time of day, you’re still in your pajamas. Nice T-shirt, by the way. Geoducks are for lovers, huh?” He winks at her.
Their easy-going friendship is one of the things she loves most about living on the beach year round. John’s lived on the island his whole life, but moved down to the beach three years ago, right before Maggie came back. Winters are quiet and still. It’s nice to have someone to play Scrabble with when the power goes out from the latest winter storm.
“Hey now, don’t diss my alma mater. You know I’m a writer. Pajamas are practically a required uniform—along with yoga pants and fleece. Admit it, you love catching me wearing my PJs just so you can tease me.”
John laughs. “You are fun to tease. Your feistiness is one of your best traits. But speaking of yoga pants, the new wife in the compound at the end of the road was doing yoga again in the smallest shorts ever seen. I’m pretty sure they’d be underwear for anyone else.” He sits down at the table.
“Ooh, did she catch you gawking at her?” She pokes his arm.
“Nope. Was wearing my shades.” He doesn’t deny the ogling.
“You better behave. I heard the husband is a big deal lawyer in Seattle. We don’t need you being the scandal of the week.”
John has a habit of flirting with the summer wives, although he doesn’t go further. He’s certainly better looking than most of the husbands—and a decade or two younger. Their wives love the attention from the hot local guys and probably think it comes as part of the island lifestyle package that accompanies their enormous “cabin” on the sand.
“Mags, I only have eyes for you.”
“Ha!” Maggie knows about John’s little crush on her. Being ten years older than John isn’t what holds her back
from encouraging his pursuits. No, it’s more to do with her feelings about ruining their friendship for some hanky-panky. Things would be awkward if they fooled around and didn’t work out. She knows how getting physical with a friend can change everything, and frowns at the thought of repeating history.
“College gang coming up this weekend?” he asks.
Her mood lifts when she thinks of seeing her old friends again and she nods. “They are. I’m excited. It’s been a while since we’ve been together.” Thoughts of her friends distract her for a moment. “Picking up Quinn tomorrow. The rest arrive Thursday.”
“Is the gorgeous Selah part of the gang?” He looks a little sheepish asking about her sexy friend right after declaring his fidelity to her.
“So much for only having eyes for me. Yes, Selah drives up from Portland tomorrow. I think she’s bringing a date, though, so you might not get the chance to flirt with her again.”
“Flirt? Me?” He attempts to act insulted.
“Yes, you. You are the king of flirts. Certainly of this beach if not all of south Whidbey, but you’ve met your match in Selah.”
“I need a crown, then. And a T-shirt.” He finishes the last of his coffee, his eyes brightening with mirth.
“I’ll start right on that,” she says, laughing. “But before that, I must finish up this writing business and get going.” While she loves her morning coffee and walk ritual with John, he tends to linger if he isn’t working.
“Need any help before the invasion?”
“Oh, thanks for reminding me. Actually, there is something you can do for me. We want to have a beach fire Friday night and maybe Saturday. Can you get me some wood? And don’t make a lewd comment about your wood.”
“You’re no fun. Yes, I’ve got firewood. I’ll drop it on the beach for you on Friday morning, since I’m off island tomorrow and Thursday for some meetings. I might set the traps if I get up early enough to take the boat out Friday. You want crabs if I pull any?”
“Do I want crabs? What kind of silly question is that? Of course. Dungeness is my lobster.”
He furrows his brow. “Wouldn’t lobster be your lobster?”
“I meant for most people lobster is the ultimate shellfish, but for me, Dungeness crab is the best, especially fresh caught and free.”
“Gotcha. I’ll stop by Friday morning with wood and crabs.” He snorts at his own joke.
Maggie rolls her eyes at him. “If you come over early enough, you might be able to see both Selah and me in our jammies.”
John’s eyes sparkle. “I’ll be over early. Definitely.”
She watches his backside as he walks the short distance between their houses, stepping between her overgrown flowerbeds that serve as a property line of sorts.
Biting her thumbnail, she wonders if maybe she should be brave and give in to his flirtations.
~End Sneak Peek~
Find Geoducks are for Lovers on Amazon Kindle: http://www.smalllinks.com/19G0
With This Heart
By RS Grey
(coming March 24, 2014)
Chapter 1
On a rather insignificant Saturday afternoon, I stood in a funeral home, searching through rows of urns as if I was browsing down the aisles of a super market. There were quite a few options to choose from. That fact surprised me. I thought there was a standard issue size and color, but no. They’d become a product of our economy long ago. Not to mention the guilt. Why would you want your loved one stuffed into a black, ceramic eyesore, when instead you could opt for a more personalized touch? They had it all: camo-print in the shape of a deer head, bedazzled hearts, and the ever-patriotic American flag emblazoned beneath a bald eagle.
Anyway, that’s where I was standing, ogling all of the ridiculous choices, when he walked in.
The little bell on the door chimed merrily, which I thought was a strange touch for a funeral home, but I didn’t turn around. Funeral homes are depressing and I had one mission: to pick out an urn and get out as quickly as possible. The echo of footsteps sounded behind me until a figure came to stand in my peripheral vision.
I froze.
Out of every aisle, this person needed to browse directly next to me? Wasn’t this sort of a personal process? Does no one have any decency anymore?
I didn’t bother moving my gaze from the urns lined out before me, but he didn’t let that deter him.
“I would definitely pick that one. Nothing says ‘these are the remains of my loved one’ quite like red and white polka dots,” offered a gravelly voice.
It was that voice that convinced me to lose focus.
My gaze shifted to the left just enough to make out a guy with his hands tucked into his jean pockets and a navy baseball cap sitting on top of unruly brown hair.
His wry smile hinted at the fact that he was teasing me. In a funeral home.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to assess his motives, but I came up empty.
“I’ll be sure to count your vote,” I muttered flatly, and then turned to walk down another aisle. He didn’t follow me right away and I thought perhaps my curt response had offended him.
I was dragging my finger pad on the ledge of a shelf, letting it pick up dust, when an employee rounded the desk. I hadn’t noticed him before, but now he was impossible to miss. The grizzly looking man was a blob of black. He was trying in vain to fit into a cheap suit that might have fit him about ten years ago, perhaps when he could still see what his toes looked like.
“Hello. Welcome to Al’s Funeral Parlor. Can I help you find anything today during your time of need?”
The spiel was obviously rehearsed, yet I still felt a pang of disappointment that his voice was bored and expressionless. Obviously the last thing he wanted to do was help me purchase an urn.
I didn’t get the chance to answer.
“Yes. Al, is it?” said Gravelly Voice from behind me. I hadn’t realized he’d followed me down the new aisle.
The employee shifted his thick eyebrows into a furrow. “No. I’m his grandson, Fred.”
I didn’t turn around, but I could feel the stranger stepping closer behind me. “Fred. What a great name. I do believe this young lady needs help. She looks sort of lost.”
My head whipped around and I’m sure I was staring daggers at him. He said ‘young lady’ as if he wasn’t a year or two older than me.
“What the hell. I’m not lost,” I argued with a sharp stare.
His goofy smile never faltered. Who the hell was this guy?
My eyes swept down to his soft black t-shirt that read: “don’t do school, eat your drugs, stay in vegetables”. Then I glanced back up at his shadowed eyes. I could barely make out the color with his hat covering them, but everything else was there: the cheek bones, the straight nose, the sensual lips, the long lashes, and the strong eyebrows. If I wasn’t standing in a funeral home, and if he wasn’t borderline harassing me, I might have wondered if he traded his soul to look the way he did.
“Ma’am?” Fred asked, reminding me of the task at hand.
“Yeah, actually I’m looking for a simple black urn. Do you have any of those?” I gestured to encompass the parlor’s entire stock. “It looks like I can get a black one if I also want it to have glitter, but that’s about it…”
Fred did a poor job of hiding his eye roll before shifting his hefty weight and turning toward the door to the side of the front desk. “I’ll check in the back,” he grumbled like I was asking for the moon.
My eyes followed the man for a moment, and then I glanced up toward a sign hanging over the desk that read: “Our prices are six feet under the competition”.
Tasteful.
“Well then,” Gravelly Voice guy offered, rocking back on his heels and narrowing his eyes on me.
“I’m sorry, are you here to pick out an urn or…?” I asked, looking around for clues to his strange, albeit interesting, behavior.
“No,” he answered simply.
“No?”
He shrug
ged his shoulders innocently. “I like coming in and checking out the latest models. Never know when you’ll need one.”
I gaped. “Are you serious?”
Cue a sexy smile. Damn. “No. I was getting a slurpee across the street and I saw you walk in, so I followed you on a whim.”
I narrowed my eyes in confusion. Of course. He’s too hot to be normal.
“So you’re a stalker?” I asked with a hard stare.
He smirked, a knees-turning-to-jelly kind of smirk. “I prefer gravitationally linked by your presence.”
Oh c’mon. I’d be lying if I said his answer didn’t take me by surprise. I had to recover quickly and stay on task.
“Right. Uh, well you’ve successfully annoyed me so you can go about your day now.” I was being harsh, but his entire demeanor felt like a threat to my rock-solid plan.
We stood there locked in an awkward moment and neither one of us made a point to end it. Most people I’d met in life were satisfied with surface content and meaningless pleasantries. Like the fact that everyone’s default answer to “How are you?” is always “Good.” But this guy was the exact opposite. He seemed curious, stubborn, and persistent, yet I didn’t know him at all.
“What’s the urn for?” he asked with brazen curiosity.
What?
“What? Who actually asks something like that? Don’t you have a filter?” I could feel my eyebrows tugging together to form a judgmental scowl.
He slowly nodded his head once and I could tell he didn’t want to drop the subject, yet he still backed off. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s for my dog.” I crossed my arms and cocked my head to the side with a hint of attitude. There, now go away.
He licked his lips, trying to hide his grin. Shouldn’t he feel terrible about bringing up my dead dog? Well, my fake dead dog, but he didn’t know that.
“Ah, I’m so sorry to hear that. What was its name?”
He sounded sympathetic, but his eyes were narrowed on me as if he didn’t quite believe me. It felt like he could see right through me.
