Welcome to Paradise

by Carol Grace

  “You've got me hooked. I'd come. Just to see the genial hostess meet me by horse-drawn coach,” he said.

  “You think I couldn't do it?” she asked standing in front of the hearth with her hands on her hips. “Just because I can't ride a horse doesn't mean I can't drive a team, does it?”

  “Sweetheart you can do anything you put your mind to,” he said, pulling her into his lap. He lifted the curls off the back of her neck to kiss her soft skin and inhale her intoxicating scent “Who else could convert half a cattle ranch into a luxury spa?”

  She snuggled into his arms. “Not quite yet. But I couldn't have even made a start on this project without you. You're the one who rerouted the stream, who dug into the side of the hill to find your own spring.”

  “Our own spring,” he reminded her. “Our own spring. Our own ranch and our own bull and our own Jacuzzi.”

  “Which reminds me,” she added. “One of the great pleasures of winter is soaking in our new tub and watching the snow fall outside the window.”

  “One of my great pleasures is sharing that tub with you. In any season. Right now, for example,” he said, easing them both out of the chair and wrapping his arms around her.

  “Zebulon Bowie,” she said slipping her hand under his flannel shirt to rest her palm against his chest. “Are you trying to get me into hot water?”

  “Have been since the day I met you,” he said with a glance at the gently falling snow outside. “And I'm not going to stop now.” Then he scooped her up in his arms and took the stairs two at a time.

  * * * * *

  Here’s an Excerpt from Mail-Order Millionaire

  Miranda was never sure how she got up the stairs to the one-room observation tower, but she knew she’d never been happier to be inside anywhere in her life. It was warm, it was bright and it was dry. She pulled her hat off and her hair tumbled to her shoulders. She stood in the middle of the room, panting from the climb up the ladder, and stared at the man across the room who was staring at her.

  “You certainly aren’t Fred,” he said.

  “Miranda Morrison, from Green Mountain.”

  His eyes traveled the length of her black stretch pants to her lined boots and back up to her face. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

  She felt the heat rise to her face. “I brought the boots. They’re in the tractor.”

  “Where’s Fred?”

  “He couldn’t make it. His wife’s having a baby.”

  “So he told you to drive up here by yourself?” Max was still staring at her as if she’d materialized out of the mist, although he was quite sure she was flesh and blood.

  “It was my idea,” she confessed. “You said you needed the boots. He said you needed food.”

  She looked as if she needed food herself, this woman who’d just driven a two-ton tractor up a mountain in the fog. She looked as if she were going to keel over if he didn’t do something fast.

  “Sit down.” He pointed to the daybed in the corner and he was glad he’d taken the time to drape it with the brown plaid cover it came with. She sat down gingerly, as if she were afraid it would collapse under her, and he saw her gaze sweep over his desk in the corner, scattered with papers, books and, in the middle, the Green Mountain catalog. She turned her head toward the window that faced east and regarded what would have been an awesome view of the White Mountains if it hadn’t been for the fog.

  He crossed the room and went to the built-in shelves above his desk, casually shoving the catalog under a stack of papers. “What can I get you, a brandy, some sherry? I usually have a drink before dinner. It’s a little early, but under the circumstances...”

  “Nothing, thanks,” she said, straightening her spine. “I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”

  With a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, he paused. “No, you don’t. I thought I mentioned that you couldn’t leave. Not tonight. There’s fog out there so thick you could cut it with a knife.”

  “Oh, but I have to leave tonight. Right now, before it gets dark.”

  “Is someone expecting you, your husband?”

  “No.”

  “No, you don’t have a husband, or no, he isn’t expecting you?”

  “I don’t have a husband, but there are people who will worry if I don’t get back.”

  He poured two glasses of an old mellow sherry he’d been saving for some special occasion. “Who?”

  “My sister.”

  He handed her the glass of amber liquid. “You can call her. Tell her there’s zero visibility and that you’re safe.” He watched her eyes narrow as she looked him over. “You are safe,” he assured her, taking the swivel chair and straddling it. “I’m not a sex maniac or a serial killer.”

  A nervous smile played at the corner of her mouth. “How do I know that?”

  “I’ve got letters of recommendation from respectable scientists and even one from the president of the American Chess Association.”

  She pulled the zipper of her jacket up to her chin. “Some of the most devious people in the world are chess players.”

  “Are you?”

  “What, devious?”

  “No, a chess player.”

  “Yes, but I’m not very good at it.”

  He felt the sherry slide down the back of his throat. “We’ll see after dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let you starve, did you?” He stood up and handed her the phone. “Call your sister and I’ll go get the stuff.”

  “You have a service all the way up here?”

  “If not, we’ve got a shortwave radio for emergencies. All the comforts of home.”

  Miranda held the telephone in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Max’s dark blond head bending over to snap his boots on, his old worn rubber boots. She wanted to wait until he left to call, but she had nothing else to do, no reason to put it off except she didn’t want him listening in on her conversation.

  She punched in the numbers slowly. “Listen, Ariel, I’m stuck in some bad weather so I won’t be back till later.”

  “Morning,” Max said from across the room. “At least until morning.”

  “Where are you? Who’s that with you?”

  “I’m at the weather station and that’s the weatherman.”

  “If he’s the weatherman, how come he didn’t know about this bad weather?”

  “I’ll ask him that. And I’ll be back tomorrow.” Whatever happened she didn’t want Ariel to worry. She’d gotten herself into this mess and she’d get herself out.

  “You’re spending the night with the weatherman?” Ariel’s voice went up a notch. “You don’t even know him.”

  “That’s right, but I have no choice. I’m fogged in on top of Mount Henry.”

  “Well, is he really extra large?”

  Miranda’s gaze wandered to the tall man with the very broad shoulders who was putting his jacket on at the door. He was large all right. But she couldn’t tell her sister that. And if she ever found out he had money too she’d never quit. “Uh...I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye now.” She handed the phone back to Max. “Can I help bring in the boxes?”

  He shook his head. “Take off your jacket and boots. Turn up the heat and make yourself at home. When I get the food in here, we’ll talk about dinner.” A rush of cold wind blew in before he slammed the door after him.

  Miranda stood in the middle of the room, staring at the heavy storm door. She was stuck overnight in a forty-foot square room with huge windows on four sides, storage cabinets and a desk, but with no visible kitchen or bathroom. The man seemed harmless, but how could she tell? She had no instincts for judging men, that was Ariel’s specialty. What would they do here until dark, and more important, what would they do after dark? She gave a little shiver as the wind and fog swirled around the building. And braced herself for a long winter’s evening

  Buy this book at:

  http://www.amazon.com/Mail
-Order-Millionaire-ebook/dp/B005RFI2MG/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1317510300&sr=1-1

  For a change of pace here’s an excerpt from Andrew Culver’s coming-of-age story Yellow Days:

  One Night at Kinko’s

  I work for a man who wants to be famous. Over the months I’ve come to understand that he is totally unworthy of fame. Quite simply, “Hollywood” Syd Ross has no viable skills. Somehow, however, he is independently wealthy and has no trouble paying me a good living wage. Often I get called at strange hours and given strange tasks. I am expected to promote him, but I often have trouble selling him to comedy clubs because he is a terrible comedian.

  One night, Syd called around six. His Brooklyn accent was gruff and urgent. “Andrew, you have to come to Kinko’s. It’s the one on Sunset, do you have time?”

  ”Yeah, I guess.” I had just finished my second Miller light.

  ”Because there’s a woman here, she is gorgeous. She’s from Australia, can you come?”

  ”Well, sure.”

  ”I’m too old for her. You could date her though. She needs help with her resume. So can you come?”

  ”Yeah, okay.”

  ”The one on Sunset, west—no wait—east of Fairfax. excuse me—Derrick! What’s the cross street? The cross street here! It’s Curson—the only Kinko’s on Sunset, come quick. Okay? Come quick. She’s an actress. She’s beautiful.”

  ”Yeah, I’ll leave now.”

  ”The only one on Sunset.”

  ”Yeah.”

  ”Curson.”

  ”Okay.”

  I hung up and went to my car, wondering why I had a lunatic for a boss. I got in the Hyundai and started driving west. “Hollywood” Syd Ross was expecting me to promote him as a comedy act. But I’d seen his act, and it was terrible. He just bungled old Jewish jokes he learned from Jackie Mason. I cut over to Sunset and forgot the street I was supposed to be looking for. Eventually I got to Crescent Heights and realized I had gone way too far. It took ten minutes just to turn left to go down to Santa Monica, where I figured I would double back and find it.

  But Santa Monica was a parking lot full of morons going home from work. So I sat in traffic. I thought about telling Syd to write some of his own jokes, but I realized that his act would stink no matter what he did. After twenty minutes of frustration, traffic started moving. Finally I got to Curson and remembered to turn left.

  Then there was the mystery of how Syd had enough money to pay me a living wage in the first place. I got up the hill to the Kinko’s but I couldn’t tell if there was parking for customers or not so I had to find street parking way up the hill. Finally I got to the goddamn Kinko’s and I could see “Hollywood” Syd Ross (originally Rosenberg), through the window.

  There he was. All fifty-three years of him. He was wearing tiny yellow running shorts and a T-shirt that said “Arnold for Governor.” He was pacing frantically, his hunched frame and mass of curly grey hair unmistakable. I got in the door.

  ”Andrew! Where were you, what took you so long? Come here, look at this!” He showed me a young bottle blonde with bright lipstick, a pink tank-top and tight ass-hugging pre-faded jeans sitting at a computer, looking confused.

  ”Isn’t she gorgeous? She’s beautiful, right?”

  ”Yes,” I lied.

  ”Tell her, tell her!” he admonished me.

  ”You’re very beautiful.”

  She was totally frustrated, trying to print some document on a Mac. Syd tried to calm her.

  ”I brought my assistant. He’ll fix everything, Jessica.”

  ”I’m Sofia,” she said. Her Australian accent was thick.

  ”I brought my assistant, Sofia. Andrew will help you. HELP HER! HELP HER!” He pushed me towards the computer. She got out of the way and I looked at the computer. She was trying to print something off a CD ROM and had obviously never used complicated machinery before. I fiddled around, trying to open the document.

  ”This was due three hours ago,” Sofia wailed. “I’m going to freak out!” She put her head in her hands. “Fix it! Can you fix it?” Syd shouted. “Calm down, Sofia! Calm down Sofia! It’ll be okay, Sofia. I promise. Andrew will fix everything.”

  ”I’m not going to get the job.”

  I was dealing with a pair of monkeys. They must have been here for 45 minutes, why hadn’t they asked the clerks to help them?

  ”Can’t you do something?” Syd asked me.

  ”I don’t know. I’m not familiar with Macs.”

  Just then her credit card popped out of the machine and her time was up. The computer screen went black. Sofia stood up violently.

  ”Oh-my-God-this-is-not-happening. I just want to print my resume. I can’t believe how FUCKING COMPLICATED THIS IS!” Heads began to turn towards us as Syd frantically tried to calm her down.

  ”Sofia, no! Sofia, it’ll be okay.”

  ”I’m freaking out, what’s wrong with my credit card?”

  ”You can use mine!” Syd ripped out his card and shoved it into the machine. Nothing happened.

  ”We need some help,” Sofia said.

  ”Help! We need help here!” Syd ran to get an employee.

  ”Someone help this woman,” he chastised the staff which consisted of several black guys. Finally a guy came over and helped her. Syd and I watched.

  ”She’s beautiful,” Syd said.

  ”Yeah.”

  ”She’s gorgeous, I mean this is ridiculous.”

  ”I know.”

  ”This is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  ”Uh-huh.”

  ”She’s completely amazing, don’t you think?”

  ”Yeah, totally.” I noticed a copy of the Time article under his arm. He had been mentioned briefly in an article about Will Ferrell.

  ”You made copies of the article?”

  ”Yes! Because I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine” he sang, dancing around while “Lucille” played over the stereo. Customers looked over with blank faces, trying not to react. Syd looked over at the black guy helping Sofia.

  ”Derrick!” he shouted, running over to them. Derrick turned around.

  ”Derrick, you need a tip.” Syd pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to Derrick.

  ”Hollywood, I can’t take that.”

  ”Take it, take it, take it, just take it, I tell you what, I tell you what: America is a racist country and guys like you work hard. You know? It’s hard enough to be black in America and I’ll bet I’m the first guy who tipped you all day.”

  ”Yeah that’s true.”

  ”Take the tip Derrick, that’s for you. Just tell ‘em it came from HOLLYWOOD SYD ROSS!” he bellowed, then began to dance again, waving the article in the air. “I’m in Time magaziiiiine, I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine.”

  Then he went over to Sofia, still in a state of aggravation, and said “Jesus Christ, Sofia! You DON’T KNOW how gorgeous you are. Can I have your number?”

  ”No.”

  ”Do you want to go out?”

  ”No.”

  ”Here. I’ll give you my card.” He gave her a card, then pulled me aside.

  ”See Andrew, she probably won’t go out with me. But it’s worth a try. You know? That’s what I’m trying to teach you. Everything is worth a shot. Even if you get discouraged. Don’t EVER give up. In life. Just don’t give up. For your acting career, too. Same advice. It applies to everything. Do you hear me?”

  ”Yeah.”

  ”Do you understand?

  ”Sure.”

  ”You get it?”

  ”Uh-huh.”

  ”Don’t EVER give up. Have you had dinner?”

  ”No.”

  ”I’ll buy you a burger. I have to get home in time for Britney Spears on Dateline. You like Britney Spears?”

  ”Yeah, she’s alright.”

  ”Can you drive me home?”

  Oh my God.

  ”Sure, Syd.”

  As we left Syd said goodbye to Sofia, who didn’t respond. As
we walked, Syd had to jog to keep up with my long strides.

  ”This Time article is great. Do you know how many people read this magazine? I mean, this is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. It’s a mitzvah. I want to be famous so fucking bad, Andrew. I’m on the verge.”

  ”Yeah, this could be it, Syd.”

  ”Sofia probably won’t call me. What a schaunder. Oh well. See if you can get the number to Rolling Stone Magazine, maybe I can get an interview. And Spin Magazine, the E! Cable Network, the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Call them and tell them about the article. I can do segments on the Daily Show. I can do anything! Tell them that. Tell them, tell them—remember this— ‘When you fly air Hollywood, you fly first class.’ It’ll be a catch phrase. Hahaha, that’s good. Air Hollywood, first class.”

  ”Yeah, that’s funny.”

  We got to the car.

  ”We can do this, Andrew. I’ll take you straight to the top. You’ll write my jokes.”

  We drove to the In-N-Out on Sunset and parked. Inside there was a huge group of USC kids in Trojan Marching Band jackets milling around waiting for burgers. Immediately Syd whipped out a copy of the article and waved it around, announcing “Hollywood Syd Ross here!! I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine!”

  The marching band kids all looked over at Syd, laughing. Relishing the attention, Syd announced, “My assistant Andrew Culver, a USC graduate! I love the Trojans!”

  I went over to order our burgers. Waiting in line, I looked over and saw Syd surrounded by a Mexican family. He was handing out copies of the article, speaking fluent Spanish.

  All I could make out was “No soy Latino, pero hablo Espanol. Tengo amor para la gente hispanica.” Pretty soon the marching band members, Mexican families, skate-boarders from Hollywood High, hoboes, and guys from some punk band were surrounding Syd and reading copies of the article. He was in heaven.