by Paisley Ray
THE RACHAEL O’BRIEN CHRONICLES
FRESHMORE: SUMMER FLAMBÉ
A Novel by
PAISLEY RAY
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Text Copyright ©2012 Paisley Ray
Cover Art by Chantal deFelice
Edit by Kristin Lindstrom
Copy Edit by Margie Aston
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9885528-1-4 (Ebook)
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Marcel Bradley, Louella Nelson and the Tuesday night writers. Also thanks to the Wikipedia community for their invaluable information on various subjects.
Also by Paisley Ray
Freshman: Deep Fried and Pickled (No.1)
Freshmore: Summer Flambé (No.2)
Sophomore: Shelled and Shucked (No.3)
Euro Summer: Toad in the Hole (No.4–)—Coming Soon
Table of Contents
Prologue
JUNE 1987
CHAPTER 1
Stale and Soggy
CHAPTER 2
Bad Energy
CHAPTER 3
In the Cards
JULY 1987
CHAPTER 4
Electrical Storm
CHAPTER 5
Pesky Annoyances
CHAPTER 6
Enlightenment
CHAPTER 7
Clairvoyance
CHAPTER 8
Allegorical Guise
CHAPTER 9
High Highs And Low Lows
CHAPTER 10
Vanished Under a Kaboom
CHAPTER 11
Parallels
CHAPTER 12
Stew Me in a Saucepan
AUGUST 1987
CHAPTER 13
Planned Coincidence
CHAPTER 14
Cleansed and Feng Shui’d
CHAPTER 15
Precautionary Measures
CHAPTER 16
Juju
SNEAK PREVIEW
SHELLED AND SHUCKED
“A man’s kiss is his signature.”
~Mae West
Prologue
I began counting the days left in my über-lame Freshmore break. Sixty-six. I wasn’t a Freshman anymore—hallelujah! I’d left that journey behind. The fall term hadn’t started yet so I didn’t consider myself an official Sophomore. Trapped in Canton-Ohio limbo, away from my friends and lust-interest/potential-boyfriend, I held low expectations for my first college summer at home.
Still intact, I considered my virginity to be like an unsightly mole that I needed to lose. But my entrance into womanhood would have to wait until I returned to North Carolina College. It wasn’t likely I’d meet anyone lust-worthy over the summer.
Nothing eventful ever happened in my hometown, not that I wanted another run in with fakes and scammers. I was over knock-down dramas and hidden agendas. The best summer I could hope for was a quick one with as little face-time with Dad’s girlfriend as possible. I was nineteen, practically a twenty-year-old. I’d come to terms with the fact that my father now dated, but hadn’t warmed to the specimen he’d chosen. She was bound to materialize and when she did, I planned to lay low and avoid her. My dad and Trudy Bleaux had nothing in common that I could see. The thrill of their tonic’s fizz had to be receding, and I was betting that their tryst would go flat before the Fourth of July.
JUNE 1987
CHAPTER 1
Stale and Soggy
I needed a distraction, some sort of flambé in my SUMMER. Alone in my Canton, Ohio, bedroom the only light came from my lit cigarette. I amused myself by touching the tip to a lone maple leaf that stuck to my windowsill, watching the dark green sear yellow and orange, before turning black and ashen. Sucking my cheeks in, I made fish-lips in an attempt to blow smoke circles out the window. The stifling night air hung about me like a velvet curtain. A barn owl screeched somewhere outside, and I strained my eyes against the darkness to locate the feathery predator. Ignoring the distant ringing phone, I inhaled deeply and held a tobacco plume in my chest. With summer in front of me, I had loads of free time to learn how to make creative shapes from nicotine smoke.
Lately, Dad got more calls from Trudy than I did from my girlfriends. That was not right! In defiance, I’d turned off the ringer on my bedroom phone. Contouring my lips, I huffed a controlled breath from my lungs. The stairs creaked and Dad shouted, “Rachael, it’s for you.” I choked while quickly snubbing my cigarette out on the metal window frame channel. Hiding the unfinished portion of my cigarette in a wooden box that rested on my nightstand, I shouted, “Who is it?”
“Not sure. Someone with a Southern accent.”
Hoping it was Clay, I unwrapped a wintergreen Certs and placed it on my tongue. Last time I’d seen him, my bra was on the floor of his dorm room. My higher learning was progressing nicely until Agent Storm Cauldwell interrupted our end-of-the-year “study” session. When I’d left his room to give a statement to the FBI, things were awkward. Hoping to get back on the romance track, I mustered up my inner sultry, picked up the phone, and whispered a sleepy, “Hello.”
“Rach, you’re never going to believe what’s happened to me.”
I waited until I heard my father hang up the receiver. “Katie Lee, what’s going on?”
“It’s Nash, he’s left town for the summer.”
“Wait a minute, you two broke up. Why do you care?”
She sighed. “I think I drove him away.”“You two broke up. How could you drive him away?”
“I was in Big Blue with Gavin Snarks.”
“Nice. Have I met him?”
“Maybe at Billy Ray’s.”
Hearing that name made me cringe. As much as I wanted to forget Billy Ray’s thick fingers strangling my neck, I hadn’t.
“After store hours we parked Big Blue in the Piggly Wiggly lot and moved into the back seat.”
“Did you use protection?”
“We didn’t get that far. The windows steamed up. When I cranked em down to let air in, I smelled cigarettes. Nash was lurking in the shadows. He’d parked his truck on the street and was leaning against it. He knows Gavin and I were fooling around. The next day I went over to his house. Told him to quit following me around town.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“So he’d follow me around town.”
“Katie Lee, that’s mental.”
“I can’t help it, I miss him.”
“So what exactly is the problem?”
“His mama told me he’d packed up and left. Gone to live with his daddy and work on the oyster farms in Mobile for the summer.”
Outside my open window, a car door slammed and I pried my curtain aside. The moon had set the night landscape aglow in crisp black and white. I watched a woman
climb out of a Volkswagen convertible. “Forget him,” I told Katie Lee. “Why don’t you pay more attention to the guy you had in the back seat of Big Blue?”
“Gavin’s good looking but his personality’s as dry as a saltine cracker. When we’re together, he never says more than two words, and I do all the talking. He’s too much work to be around.”
“Why were you with him anyway?”
“I don’t want Nash to think I’m still sweet on him.”
Even in the dark, I could see a leotard and tights carrying a pillow and an oversized shoulder bag. “Damn.”
“Exactly,” Katie Lee said.
The doorbell rang, and instinctively I knew I was about to ingest a higher-than-recommended dose of Dad’s girlfriend, Trudy Bleaux.
“Katie Lee, I gotta go. Trudy just rang the doorbell. She’s carrying an overnight bag. This can’t be good.”
“Oh Lord. Call me back when she’s gone.”
DAD HAD A SECRET and kept it hidden. Even though he’s a staunch Cleveland Brown football fan, his favorite beer is made in the biggest rival’s hometown. Dad drinks Iron City Beer, brewed and canned in Pittsburgh. I’d been in relax-mode until Trudy’s high-octane rasp rattled my inner ear. She had missed Kindergarten 101, and didn’t remember to keep a quiet inside-voice. She used an all-purpose, perkified frequency range, which I imagined she amped-up when she taught aerobic classes.
I’d promised myself, for Dad’s sake, to tolerate her and mind my own business. That task was easier when I was at school, separated from her by two states. I snuck down the stairs and turned a corner toward the garage to snatch a cold one from the fridge. I guzzled a quarter of the can to dull my sensitivity to her presence in our entryway, and hid the rest behind a gallon of paint. Careful not to let the door into the house slam, I scurried halfway up the stairs, and ducked behind the half-wall where the railing ended.
I’d never witnessed Trudy’s evening look. Whenever I saw her it was in passing, and I mostly wished she’d disappear. She didn’t have her makeup-mask on and a butterfly wing constellation of freckles splattered her cheeks. Her hair had been styled with a mixer. Not the dough or batter attachment, but the wire one for blending dry ingredients. She’d woven her hair in and out of the spaces between the beater blades.
“Trudy,” Dad said. “It’s near midnight.”
“John,” she blurted. “Someone broke into my apartment. Have you been reading the newspaper? There’s been a rash of home robberies and I’ve been victimized.”
Dad wrapped his arm around Trudy, and guided her to the sofa. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She grabbed a crumpled tissue from an outside pocket in her gym bag and blew her nose. “I taught the nine o’clock step class. Afterwards, I showered and changed at the gym. I needed flax seed, sardines, and spinach for my morning smoothie so I went to the Valu-King. When I got home, I unlocked my door and my apartment was—all tidied up.”
Leaning forward, I peered at the two through the wood railing slats. They were oblivious to my presence. What a cockamamie story. Of all the bullshit things to say. Dad was not going to fall for this. It was the most asinine reason for throwing yourself at someone that I’d ever heard.
Dad tipped his head. “Tidied up?”
“You know. Cleaned, organized.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’ve seen my apartment. I live eclectically. I don’t believe that kitchen utensils should be confined to drawers, and I like to style my hair and makeup in the entry closet.”
I thought about interrupting to ask if she used the kitchen sink instead of the toilet, but refrained.
“Someone,” she sniffled, “violated my apartment. Kitchen stuff is in the kitchen and bathroom stuff is in the bathroom. Throws were folded, mirrors moved—you can see the furniture—and my bed’s been made. My apartment smells like Windex.”
Dad rubbed Trudy’s shoulder, which made me want to hurl. These two were so opposite they couldn’t possibly last. I told myself he was just rebelling against Mom’s abrupt departure. Inside my head, I chanted the mantra, “Trudy’s just a phase.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation. Someone thought they were doing you a favor.”
“Who would do that? I can’t find a thing.”
“Maybe Sky stopped by.”
Trudy scoffed. “Cleaning my apartment is spiteful.”
“Give her a call. At least you’ll know if it was your sister’s doing.”
Trudy puffed an anxious breath and turned her puppy eyes on my father. “I guess I could call her in the morning, but can I stay here tonight?”
Clearing my throat, I walked down the stairs. “What’s going on?”
NOTE TO SELF
Katie Lee and Nash finally spending some quality time apart. Hoping it lasts so sophomore year will be drama free.
Trudy is weaseling her way into our house. Must come up with diversionary tactic.
Trudy has a sister, Sky Bleaux. Figures.
CHAPTER 2
Bad Energy
Dad was an early riser, and by default so was I. Trudy was not. Every morning before I left for the restoration shop, I warmed an icing-coated strawberry Pop Tart in the toaster. Working for Dad had pros and cons. On the plus side, I could wear whatever. On the negative, I carpooled with Dad, spending more hours in a confined space with a PU—parental unit—than recommended by a recent poll in Marie Claire magazine. Luckily he and I didn’t delve into any overly personal conversations. Mostly, we focused on work.
In late June, someone flicked a circuit breaker, and the heat-index seared to sweltering hot. Being sweaty in a house without central air-conditioning, and confined in close quarters with Dad’s girlfriend, brings on irritability. I needed to convince him of two things: first, to install central A/C—admittedly dicey since our house is a fifty-year-old antique—and second, to ditch his Trudy habit.
To ease her visitor-imposition conscience, Trudy initiated annoying acts of helpfulness. She’d step aside when I met her in the hallway, and in the evening, she patted the sofa with her hand in an attempt to lure me into the prime TV viewing seat. She preached the benefits of folic acid, fiber, and a slew of vitamins whenever I ate something from a box. She said she needed a new sports bra and wanted me to go to the mall with her. Yeah, right. She was a master irritator, and by week two her over-exercised, bounce-a-penny ass that still slept on our sofa grated under my skin. Leaving empty cereal bowls on the kitchen table for me, and washing a load of my laundry, triggered menacing thoughts toward her well-being. I’d met an abundance of fakers my freshman year at college. Having experience with deviant unstable types, I determined her nicey-nice façade had to be a ruse. She wasn’t right for Dad. He couldn’t possibly be happy with her. She was just the first thing that came along since Mom left. Unselfishly, I decided to take it upon myself to crack her sun-shiny shell.
Step one, surveillance. I kept a close eye on her and interrupted any potential lovey-dovey PDA—public displays of affection—she initiated toward Dad. I became a regular, Late Night with David Letterman viewer, and slept with my bedroom light on to give the illusion that I was still awake. I hoped this ploy would curtail after-dark, alone-time between the two. The mere thought of her eggbeaters on Mom’s side of the bed harmed my sanity. Step two, extermination. The sooner Trudy moved her jumping-jacked glutes back to her apartment, the less professional time I’d need to restore my mental health.
THE GRAVEL IN THE driveway outside Dad’s shop crunched beneath his feet, drowning any early morning nature noises. I’d stayed up late the night before talking on the phone with Katie Lee, and secretly smoking cigarettes. The conversation was one-sided. She wallowed over Nash, and I listened. It was no use trying to talk sense into my roommate. I knew better. Occasionally I interjected questions for her to ponder. “If he were behind bars, would you still want a relationship? Don’t you think t
here is more than one person out there who you are crazy-attracted-to?”
She rebutted my second question. “You tell me. Is there another Clay out there? Or is he the only one?”
I hated when she did that. “Smartass.”
Some things had to be worked out in your own head, and currently Nash, her ex-boyfriend, ranked at the top of Katie Lee’s list.
My father was a walking history book, and rattled on about seventeenth century ripple-molded frames in polished hardwoods. Dad appreciated repairing the pieces that had traveled through time. He walked quickly. I lagged behind. “We received a commission from the Canton Museum to refurbish twenty picture frames. Touching up stain and gold leaf, making sure the molding is intact. I can really use your help. I said we’d have them completed in a week.”
After disarming the alarm, he headed for the coffee maker. I looked at him suspiciously.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. We both knew that Trudy preached the ill-effects of caffeinated drinks. While the coffee pot finished percolating, he and I slid on our aprons and surgical gloves. He laid two of the frames on the worktable, and pointed out where time, extreme temperature, and mishandling had cracked the wood and damaged the carvings. As he and I worked, my mind morphed on the intricacies of the task, sweeping me away from time and place. He showed me how to apply an epoxy on chipped carvings, adjusting viscosity so it didn’t ooze and dry in globs. Once we finished, we’d have to wait for the chemical bond to dry.
Dad pointed to a pair of Louis IV armchairs. “Think you’re up for repairing the chairs?”
I gave him a nod-shrug. Moving toward the chairs, I stared at the ornately carved frame. When I started a new project, I found myself wondering how many homes the piece had lived in. My fingers brushed over the curves of the chairs. I guessed these hadn’t been look-see antiques, chosen to be displayed as a tribute to acquired or pretend wealth. These had been owned by someone who didn’t know what they had or didn’t give a rip. Dings and chips around the legs had been delivered like a round of ammunition that lodged precise and deep. I imagined a child, unfairly disciplined, releasing frustration with a steady kick on the supple wood, while administering a sharp fingernail or edge of a toy on the arm carvings. It would take a lot of work to make these look new, and I didn’t know if I could piece the carving back together without making it look amateur.
