by Conn, Claudy
His stare into my eyes isn’t one that sends waves of love through me. Instead, I sense him searching inside us both and questioning just how much he is ready to share. I get it. There is so much I want to tell him, but telling anyone about the daisies I follow is a long way off. I won’t blame him in the least if he doesn’t utter a word about his time away.
“Yeah,” he says, setting me down. “I did find it. I’m not going to share it with people either, for reasons that will become obvious, but I’ll show you.”
“Please don’t feel you need to explain anything about yourself to me.”
“I don’t, but I like you being in my life. I hope that someday you will see this anyway, but I’d rather just come out with it. With what I am learning about myself, being around me is tricky enough. If you can understand what I did then … Well, let me just show you.” He removes his leather jacket. “This is going to be weird.”
My heart skips a little. I like him being in my life, too. Did he really feel the need to warn me, of all people, about something being weird? What could he—
Chris unbuttons his shirt and pulls it open at the chest. I can’t help but let my eyes wander to every exposed piece of flesh. Dear lord of all that is firm and carved by heaven! I suspected it was decent under there but …
Did the heater just come on? I could swear I turned it off.
Wait, what’s up with the bandage over his heart?
As Chris pulls away the tape, the fact that he got a tattoo becomes apparent. It looks like an outline of a cross but … Did someone drag an unloaded tattoo gun across him?
I step closer and see that the outline was done in white. Since it is still red around the edges, it doesn’t look so much like a tattoo, but more like a brand from an iron that had only been warmed.
“I warned you that it was weird,” he says.
“A cross isn’t weird, but why so faint?”
“My wack job family got one thing right. They taught me to believe in something greater than myself. However, they would have gotten through to me a lot more if they had not shoved their beliefs down my throat. God wants us to be humble. Is telling someone that if he gets a tattoo, he will burn in hell, humble? No, it is saying you think you are better than they are because of your choices. I can’t see how God would want that.”
“So, you got a tattoo to show your family you know your own mind. Why is it so faint and put where they won’t see it?” He starts to button his shirt. My eyes wish he wouldn’t, but my mind is being held captive by his words.
“Faith is personal. I am the only one who needs to know that a mark of any kind is on my body. That cross is a part of me now, just like my faith always has been. If and when I decide there is something else I want on my body for the rest of my life, I’ll have it put on how and where I feel it is best.”
Chris takes back his jacket and puts it on before reaching to the sofa for my coat.
“So, do you think I wussed out?” he asks.
I snicker at my own memories of becoming self-aware. “No. I think you dyed your hair. On the way to Mulligan’s, I’ll tell you the story of the Christmas when Bailey bought me my first real makeup, and how it led to my glorious mane.”
He runs his fingers through my hair. Though his look of admiration is aimed at my locks, the simple gesture steals my breath. He might as well be whisking me off to Heaven. “I love this about you. Why doesn’t it surprise me that it wasn’t done on a whim?”
God, that word. That big, scary, four-letter word that he used so freely regarding who I am. He doesn’t weigh his thoughts nor does he measure his words, and that is one of the things that I love about him. “Everything that reflects who we are has a story behind it.” Someday I hope to tell him the full version, but for now, I’ll stick to the basics.
We head out to meet our friends, but not before detouring by Rox and Jacqueline’s place. With the aid of the key they gave me for emergencies, I let myself inside, head down the hall to the family room, and open the closet door. The smell of musty records tickles my nose, but how that aroma is a fine bouquet to my comrade in quirks warms my heart.
“Rox, you and your affair with music is a grand love story all its own. Sonnets could be written about it.”
I barely manage to slip Ouija between Monopoly and Risk. She’ll probably think it is the same board we used at slumber parties when we were kids. Funny how it blends in as if it were just another game, yet it is anything but that. Then again, GranGran said I never truly needed it, so maybe it is just a game after all.
Faith is a funny thing. It makes what seems impossible real.
Goosebumps rise as I kiss my fingertips and touch them to the box one last time. How painful it is to say goodbye to cardboard surprises me; however, I find joy in knowing I will keep GranGran’s love in my heart forever.
“Happy New Year, GranGran. I love you.”
The slightest tingle floats across me, as if I am being smiled upon. Tears fill my eyes, because even though I don’t hear her saying it, I know GranGran is telling me she loves me too. I blow a kiss toward Heaven before leaving the board behind.
Chris and I head off to Mulligan’s, the place where we gather with friends and celebrate life. It is not the place that counts; it is the love everyone brings there.
*****
Discover the future of the Ouija board with Rox, Jacqueline, and Darla in the novel Scary Modsters … and Creepy Freaks. Then follow Darla and Bailey into the companion novels, Voices Carry and Moonlight Serenade. All books are a part of The Rock and Roll Fantasy Collection—a set of stand-alone novels and novellas. The novels revolve around characters whose deep-seated love of music is a driving force of the story, while the novellas focus on the supporting characters that you can't help but love.
The Rock and Roll Fantasy Collection - a mystical world where rock and roll will save your soul.
Play List
“Parade Of The Wooden Soldiers” - The Crystals
“Christmas Wrapping” - The Waitresses
“Santa Claus Wants Some Lovin’” - Mack Rice
“Christmas Bop” - T. Rex
“Someday At Christmas” - Jackson Five
“It’s A Marshmallow World” - Darlene Love
“Super Sunny Christmas” - Redd Kross
“Getting In The Mood (For Christmas)” - Brian Setzler Orchestra
“Joy To The World” - Chuck Negron
About the Author
Enjoying San Francisco as a backdrop, the ghosts in Diane’s one hundred and fifty-year old Victorian home augment the chorus in her head. With insomnia as their catalyst, these voices have become multifarious characters that haunt her well into the sun’s crowning hours, refusing to let go until they have manipulated her into succumbing to their whims. Her experiences as an actress, business owner, artisan cake designer, software project manager, Internet radio disc jockey, vintage rock n’ roll journalist/fan girl, and lover of dark and quirky personalities influence her idiosyncratic writing.
Visit Diane’s Website
Want to hear about upcoming releases? Join Diane’s mailing list. Newsletters are only sent to announce releases and special events.
Find Diane on Facebook.
Unwrapping Noel
By
Jennifer Theriot
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, essays, and reviews.
Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Theriot
Cover copyright © 2015 Jennifer Theriot
Acknowledgements
Each story has its own set of heartfelt thanks. I have to thank my family first, because … Well, because they
’re the joys of my life. To my husband, kids and grandkids, I love you all more than you could ever know. Thanks for letting me “do my writing thing” and for understanding. Your support means the world.
Next on the list is a woman who prefers to fly way under the radar, and that’s okay. She is a phenomenal beta reader with an innate talent for inspiring me to be a better writer. She knows my limits and pushes me far beyond what I think is possible. Somehow, it works, and I’m grateful. So T-Bird, my dear friend, I raise my wine glass to the beautiful woman you are. Love you :)
For the daunting task of editing, I went for the big guns, and enlisted the help of another dear friend, and talented author, Diane Rinella. (Note that I italicized enlisted.) With her crazy, busy schedule, she somehow made the time to edit and format my manuscript. She’s still speaking to me, I might add.
Diane, your room at my house is always ready, and I adore you beyond words—if that’s even possible! #RinRiot
I owe my beautiful cover design to JC Clarke of The Graphics Shed. She is truly an author’s dream come true, and I’m in awe of her talent with each cover she does.
Chapter 1
Noel Calabrese, PR
Public Relations or Pathetic Relationship?
Gaww! I absolutely hate this day—December eighth, Catholic holy day, feast of The Immaculate Conception, and my sister, Holly’s, birthday. Did I fulfill my holy obligation today and go to mass? No, I did not. I’m a faltering excuse for a Catholic. Did I call Holly this morning and wish her happy birthday? Did I send her a card? No, to both of those. My parents are probably cursing me from their graves for the way I’ve turned out, not to mention the deity above.
It’s freezing cold. Drizzling rain and the bad weather make for a horrible commute home on the freeway. The approaching holidays make it even worse, so I shake my head and spew out a few, choice, cuss words. I flip my middle finger at the plethora of stupid drivers who believe it is their right to drive like idiots.
Tapping impatiently on my steering wheel, I look at the mall parking lot and wonder how people actually find joy in buying shit, just to be giving it away. Half the time, what you give gets returned anyway. I sound jaded, but it’s the truth. Think about it. You spend countless hours wandering around the stores, buy a gift you think someone will like, for the sake of giving, spend time wrapping it, and then the day after Christmas, everyone is clamoring to get to the mall to return their presents. A futile waste of time. Stores are open on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The whole world is after the almighty dollar instead of focusing on the reason for the season. Growing up, my sister and I were lucky to get a doll from Santa. These days, I think people just buy gifts to be buying them. The whole meaning of Christmas is pissed away by greed and material things. Isn’t Christmas supposed to be about celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ? It’s His birthday after all. Why do we need gifts? I swear, this gets worse every year, and I keep telling myself that I’m not buying any more presents for anyone. I’ll just give them a card that explains the true meaning of the season and be done with it.
The red brake lights of cars, and the annoying sounds of horns honking, coupled with the blaring of an ambulance trying to meander its way through the congested traffic, have me wanting to scream. I pull into the right lane, letting the ambulance pass, and make the sign of the cross, hoping the person in the ambulance is safe.
On the other hand, I’m angry, and I’m tired. I’m stressed out, and I just want to get home, peel off my clothes, grab a glass of wine, and unwind. Pounding my fists on the steering wheel does nothing to expedite the process, so I talk myself into taking a deep breath, turn on some classical music, and deal with the anxiety.
Traffic opens up, and I push my foot on the pedal—bumping me ten miles over the speed limit to get to my safe haven. Finally, I pull onto my street, stop my car in front of the mailbox, and reach in to grab the day’s stack. I see Dave’s Mercedes parked in the driveway, but the damn front lights to the house aren’t on. So typical! It’s dark, and the floodlight on the driveway must be out as well. I get out of my car, grab the shitload of work files out of the back seat, and proceed to slip on the wet, slick driveway, falling forward.
I break the fall with my hand, but my knee hits the pavement, and immediately I feel the sting and swelling. I told Dave that having pavers installed on the driveway wasn’t a good idea. I’ve slipped more than once while walking on them, and it’s even more dangerous when the ground is wet. My file box hits the ground, flies open, and papers begin to blow away in the rainy breeze. My knee is bleeding from the fall and is stinging like a mother. Frustrated, I scream out, “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!”
I hear the back door open and see Dave at the side gate. “Noel? Is that you?”
Agitated, and running low on patience, I scream out, “Yes, of course it’s me, Dave. Who else would have fallen on her ass in the driveway? Why aren’t the damn lights working? I thought you said you were getting them fixed.”
“Where are you?” he calls out.
My chest is heaving from anger and embarrassment. I’m also fighting back tears. I will not cry! I’ve torn my hose, I’ve broken the heel off my Jimmy Choo shoe, and the kick pleat on the back of my Donna Karan, grey, wool skirt, that I paid a small fortune for, is now torn all the way up to my ass. I scream out, “I’m on the fucking ground! I slipped and fell. If the goddamn lights worked, you’d be able to see me, asswipe.”
“Oh no. Are you okay?” he bellows over the fence with less than a compassionate amount of concern.
Does he rush over to help me up? Hell no.
I respond, sarcastically. Sarcasm, by the way, seems to have become the norm in our relationship. “No, I’m not okay, Dave. Do you think you could at least grab a flashlight and help me pick up these damn papers?”
This is my life. Welcome to my world.
I was married for thirteen years. I’ve been divorced for a year, and I hate my life. I’m Noel Calabrese, and my ex-husband, slash roommate, Dave, is a hotshot litigator.
Chapter 2
Knowing I’m in no mood to be reckoned with, he hurries over, helps me gather the contents of the box, and we go inside. Blood is trickling down my leg, and I can see flecks of dirt in the wound. I toss my purse and the mail on the kitchen counter and quickly head to the bathroom to do a little first aid on myself.
I gaze into the mirror and shake my head in disgust. I look like hell, but I don’t give a damn. Or do I? I’ve totally let myself go—something I swore I would never do, if I were in my right mind—and it pisses me off. Obviously, not enough to do anything about it though. My weight just keeps blooming, and I’m now into what I call my “fat wardrobe.” I peel off my one-size-too-small, now torn skirt and torn panty hose, kicking them angrily to the side.
My wound is dripping blood, and I cover it with a piece of toilet paper while I reach for some first aid supplies from the medicine cabinet. Propping my leg up on the vanity, I become squeamish as I bend to clean the ugly, oozing wound with peroxide. I grit my teeth as the cold liquid froths and bubbles around the wound, followed by a stinging sensation. With my teeth, I tear open a gauze square, carefully cover the area, and apply the adhesive tape. I think back to my childhood, remembering Mom bandaging my wounds. Holly and I were the tomboys of our neighborhood, and we always had either a bandage or a cast on. Mom teased us that she’d given birth to boys in female bodies. I laugh as I remember those days, and I wish more than ever that Mom were here right now to bandage me and give me a hug.
Now, in the comfort of my navy blue yoga pants and my favorite Houston Texans sweatshirt, I stroll into the living room, shocked to see Dave standing by the bar. He’s smiling, and in a conciliatory gesture, hands me a glass of wine. “Sorry you fell, baby. I just called Julio, and he’ll be here tomorrow to fix the lights. I’ve got it handled, I swear. Truce?”
“Sure. Truce,” I tip my glass and coolly reply. I’m not buying into his random act of kindness. The only reason he’
s doing this is because I fell, busted my ass, and called him out for not getting things fixed.
“Sorry for the outburst.” I smile slightly. Dave has become a master at dealing out the guilt lately.
Thinking back to last year at this time, our divorce had just been finalized, and I was on the road to starting a new life —or so I thought. I desperately needed to find my independence again and recover from the pain of a cheating husband. I’d suspected Dave had been sleeping around, and one day, when I was gathering his dry cleaning, I noticed one of his shirts smelled like Chanel Number 5 - a perfume I was familiar with but did not wear. I further inspected the shirt and saw traces of makeup on the collar. It hit me like a ton of bricks.
I started piecing things together, and my worst fears came true when I finally stumbled on the missing link to the puzzle. Dave was in Boston on a business trip, and I needed to print an email. His home office remained locked, which he justified by saying he had confidential, client files on his computer. I never gave it much thought, because it made sense. I knew where he kept his key, so I grabbed it from the top left side of his underwear drawer and headed upstairs. I flipped on the light and lifted the screen to his laptop. His email account had been left open, and I noticed it was a Gmail account, dc1019, and not his regular Outlook. How fucking original Dave, I thought to myself—Dave Calabrese October nineteenth—his name and birthday.
Shaking my head, I started reading email after email as uncontrollable tears fell from my burning eyes. Apparently, Dave and this ‘mystery woman’ had been seeing each other for quite some time, as the emails dated back a year or so. Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I felt like such a fool and wondered, could she be the infamous Miss Chanel Number Five? I grabbed my chest and gasped when I read the last one, which had been sent to chelle0821, two days ago. Attached were an airline ticket and a hotel reservation for The XV Beacon Hotel in Boston. I Googled the hotel, and not surprisingly, it’s a landmark, five star hotel. I scrolled through the picture galleries of the rooms and viewed the room Dave booked—the Contemporary Classic. I looked over the amenities, which included a Jacuzzi tub. I was livid and grabbed the heavy, Baccarat crystal paperweight, that Dave was given for making partner in his firm, from his desk and heaved it across the room with all my might, leaving a gaping hole in the wall.
