by Rhett DeVane
Her mood was light, effervescent: the feeling of shrugging off life’s cares. The forest quickly became dense, the trail narrowing severely. Clinging vines grabbed at her calves and ankles.
Then, the cave. She stopped and stood, frozen. The opening beckoned like a gaping maw ready to swallow an intruder in one gulp. Something lived inside: a dark being banished to the underworld for sins unfathomable. The demon slept, his tortured breathing barely audible.
The dreamscape reappeared without warning or predictability. Karen awakened clammy with sweat, heart racing with the jolt of flight-or-fight adrenaline.
Following her diagnosis, the dream increased in richness. The images became more tumbled and dark. Leaves glowed in vibrant emerald and lime hues. The sky was blindingly blue with high cotton ball clouds scudding on invisible wind currents. Her nose detected the faint banana-tropical scent of flowering magnolias. The cave entrance appeared more shrouded and ominous. A foggy green-tinted mist hung in swirls in the stale air, where she stood rooted to the rock-strewn ground.
Karen shook her head to clear the images. Several deep inhalations helped to squelch the knot of fear deep inside.
Crumbling like a house of cards. The phrase popped, unbidden, into her consciousness. If not for the illness and impending struggle ahead, would she be witnessing her self-destruction?
No, it wasn’t as simple as that. Her first mistake had been returning to North Florida for her grandmother’s birthday party. The documentary on graceful aging she filmed and narrated had won accolades, but with consequences. The family gathering stirred something buried carefully and painstakingly deep; she had not been able to repress the emerging feelings. It was only a matter of time until Karen Fletcher and Mary Elizabeth Kensington would have to come to terms. Which selected reality would be allowed carry her forward?
With one visit to Evelyn Fletcher, her British persona suffered a clean, bloodless death. No time to mourn or look back and wonder. Finally honest with herself for the first time in as long as she could recall, Karen had to admit a desperate need for her family. Two doses of chemotherapy had painted a clear picture; she could not do this alone. The thought of possibly losing her breast kept her from confiding in the one person in the city who could stand by her side—her fiancé. Karen dragged two Louis Vuitton Pullman suitcases from the hall closet and wheeled them toward the master suite.
The Marinated Mushroom Bistro was discreetly tucked between two attorneys’ offices. Offering a perfect evening retreat, the intimate Italian eatery provided a respite from downtown Atlanta’s frantic pace.
D. J. checked his watch for the fifth time in less than ten minutes. “Typical. If that woman ever got anywhere on time, it would throw the balance of nature.”
Karen paused briefly by the maître d’ station, gave a small wave, and glided to the table. “Sorry, luv. Time gets away from me.” The British accent came automatically. She leaned over and planted a kiss on D. J.’s temple.
He hopped up and helped her into a chair.
“Nice little place.” She glanced around the dimly lit room. “Smells wonderfully of roasted garlic.”
A waiter appeared and poured two glasses of wine.
“Gerald in marketing told me about it. Highly recommended the vegetable lasagna. Said the red sauce was better than his Grandma Celia’s.”
Karen took a sip of wine. “Perhaps he’d best not mention that to her.”
A warm flush of affection coursed through D. J.’s body and settled uncomfortably in his nether regions. “You look beautiful tonight. A little tired, but beautiful all the same.”
“Thank you, Donald. It’s probably just the low light. Travel always makes me look positively ghastly.”
“So, everything turn out okay?”
“As well as expected, I suppose.”
“Anything I can help with?”
The server appeared beside their table. After they placed their orders, Karen took D. J.’s hand. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”
“Name it.”
She caressed the back of his hand. “Watch over the kitties for a while. I can’t take them with me, and it would be dreadful to board them for so long.”
“So you’re leaving again.”
“Yes, Donald, I’m afraid so.”
“I take it you’ll not tell me where or how long.”
“I’d rather not.”
D. J. clenched his teeth to repress a rising sense of frustration.
“Don’t be cross.”
“It’s a little odd, don’t you think? After all, we are engaged.”
Karen’s eyes glittered. “And you believe that entitles you to monitor my every move?”
D. J. took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Let’s not argue. I don’t want to take away from my time with you, Mary E.”
Karen’s eyes watered slightly at the sound of the nickname.
D. J. reached over and caressed her cheek with the side of one finger. “What’s wrong, honey? What is so bad that you can’t tell me?”
“So many things, Donald.” Her voice broke slightly. “But for right now, no questions. I don’t think I can take it.”
“Hey, hey.” He held her hand. “No more.”
D. J. smiled slightly. “Good damn thing I love you like I do. Your cats are little hellions. I can’t believe you’re going to leave me alone with them. You’ll come home to find me brutally murdered and covered up in litter.”
Karen laughed. “Oh come, Donald, they can’t possibly be that bad.”
“Oh, yeah? Last time I spent the night, I had to pitch the Italian loafers your little darlings peed on.”
“We’ll have to close your shoes snugly in the closet tonight, then won’t we?”
D. J. weakened. “I’d walk barefoot through the Royal rose garden for one evening with you.”
Karen leaned over and kissed D. J. gently on the lips. How could she bear the loss of this man?
“Pot roast. Cooked in a cast iron deep Dutch oven. Loaded with onions and garlic. Later Mama would add chunks of Irish potatoes and chopped carrots. Sometimes, celery. The vegetables would soak up the mingled flavors of the beef and spices, and the gravy would turn out thick and brown. Sop that up with cornbread or biscuits. Umm! Last few years, I’ve been leaning toward vegetarianism, but still I remember her pot roast.”
Pinky Green
Chapter Five
Pinky Green crushed a clove of garlic for homemade vinaigrette dressing. A mixed spring greens salad chilled in the refrigerator, and organically grown vegetables diced for stir-fry lay in mounds on a pine cutting board. A pot of brown rice simmered on the stove. Finally, Wanda Jean Orenstein was coming for a visit.
Funny thing: she had invited herself to his farm two miles west of tiny Sycamore, Florida. He had been working up to it. Four more sideburn trim appointments and he could’ve broached the subject, for sure. Wanda had stepped up to the plate and knocked the ball clean out of the park.
Fine with me, he thought, since words just stick in my throat when I’m around the woman, especially if it’s about anything serious.
Pinky’s mind transported him back to the first time the two had met. His regular barber on Washington Street was out following hemorrhoid surgery. On a whim, Pinky walked into the Triple C Day Spa and Salon to set up a time and date for a quick trim.
“C’mon back, hon,” a red-haired woman wearing tight hot pink pants said, “I’ll squeeze you in right now. I got a deep-heat conditioning treatment under the dryer, and I can’t stand to twiddle my thumbs.”
Pinky loved the fast-talking New Jersey female from the first second he set eyes on her. There wasn’t one single piece of Wanda that wasn’t alive. Even standing still, she seemed to vibrate. As she chatted and laughed her way through the best haircut he had experienced in his fifty-five years, Pinky felt himself relax. It was the first time he had let go and enjoyed himself in over eight years, since Alice Jo died.
He could put hi
s finger exactly on the reason Wanda grabbed his attention. She possessed the same lust for life as his only sibling. Even as Alice Jo lay dying, the melanoma spreading its deadly cells to her major organs like dust in the wind, his sister had embraced living with a fierce gusto. Born with a wanderlust he didn’t possess, she had traveled the globe from one end to the other, sampling the lifestyles and beliefs of faraway places. When she had joined him on the family farm after their mother passed away, Alice Jo had transferred her enthusiasm to the land.
Pinky smiled. Alice Jo would’ve loved Wanda: dragging her around the vegetable and herb gardens, pointing out this and that, and working in a lecture on the importance of medicinal herbs and organic farming. Then, the two women would’ve rocked on the porch with tall glasses of lemongrass tea, speaking on all things female and just plain making the world a place worth visiting.
He heard a cacophony of canine doorbells announcing Wanda’s arrival and hurried to the front screened door.
“It’s okay to get out.” He descended the porch steps. “They sound a whole lot worse than they are.”
She rolled her window down a crack and asked, “You sure your dogs will be all right with Scrappy?”
Wanda’s mixed-breed black Labrador female danced from one side of the back seat to the other.
Pinky sauntered over to the car. “I have the alpha female, Francis, in her kennel. She can be a little over protective. The rest of these guys and gals are friendly enough. Let Scrappy out so she can run. I’ll close the main gate, if you’re worried about her taking off.”
Wanda eased from the front seat. Pinky admired the simple ensemble of dark blue jeans and white shirt. The highlights in her auburn hair glistened in the afternoon sunlight. A faint aroma of citrus and cinnamon reached his nose.
I’m in big trouble, he thought.
Wanda flashed a smile. “You kidding? My girl’s such a wimp, I’ll be lucky to take two steps without her tripping me up. Where’d you get all the dogs?”
“They find me. Mostly people drop them off. I’ll spot them wandering around the roadside, half-starved, and there’ll be another one to take in and feed.”
“Your vet bills must be enormous.”
“I also have half-a-dozen goats, five turkeys, chickens, one milk cow, and at least ten barn cats.”
“Bet you never get lonely.”
He shrugged. “Well . . . ”
Pinky motioned to the front porch swing and disappeared into the house for a moment. He returned with a carafe of wine, two stemmed glasses, and a hand-thrown pottery plate filled with goat cheese, grapes, and toasted wheat bread squares.
Wanda cocked one eyebrow. “This is a surprise. I would have never pictured you for a wine and cheese type of guy.”
Pinky grinned. “Just because I’m from the sticks of Gadsden County doesn’t mean I have no class.” He settled onto the swing beside her. “Actually, you can thank my sister for trimming off my rough country edges.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister. Does she live with you?”
His face clouded briefly. “Used to. She passed a few years back.”
The lingering sorrow in his voice touched Wanda to the core. She laid a hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry.”
Pinky’s freckled face flushed. They watched the dogs playing in the grass and sipped in silence.
How unusual, Pinky mused, to be with someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill every second with meaningless chatter. It wasn’t exactly what he had expected, given her professional persona. He studied Wanda’s profile.
“Like what you see?” She turned to face him.
“Very much.”
Wanda leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. “There, now we don’t have to feel all awkward with each other.”
Pinky laughed. “You’re something else, Wanda Jean.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” She cocked her head to one side. “Something I been wondering . . . what’s your real name?”
Amazed at the unaccustomed ease of the conversation, he replied, “Norman Pinkston Green.”
“Lord, hon! You sure don’t look like a Norman. And Pinkston? What a hell of a name to push off on a poor innocent baby boy! It’s a good thing you picked up a nickname.”
“Suits me, too. Besides,” he pointed to the clusters of freckles across his pale face, “I couldn’t tan if I tried. Mama always said I’d be brown as a berry if I could just connect the dots.”
Wanda laughed. “What’s for dinner? I’m famished. Elvina left me hardly any time for lunch today, so I just grabbed a handful of peanuts.”
“I’m making a vegetarian stir-fry. Hope you like tofu.”
“I’ll try anything once. If it doesn’t kill me, maybe twice.”
He stood and held the screened door open. “Grab your wine glass and come on in. You can keep me company while I throw it together. It’ll be ready in no time at all.”
After lingering over dinner peppered with comfortable conversation, they moved to the porch rocking chairs, and Scrappy took a position at their feet.
Pinky said, “You seem a little sad. I didn’t bring you down with all my talk about Alice Jo, did I?”
“Not at all. It’s actually refreshing to find a man who can talk about feelings.” She rocked gently for a few moments. Obviously, something weighed on her mind. Pinky respected the silence.
Wanda’s shoulders drooped. “It’s just . . . I found out yesterday that the daughter of one of my friends at the day spa has cancer. She’s only a year or two younger than me.”
“Seems like it’s everywhere, anymore. I don’t really buy the explanation that it’s because of better detection. There’re too many people of all ages with cancer. So many lives touched, so many taken away.”
“Like your sister.”
“I hope your friend’s daughter gathers her family around her and is ready to fight. Cancer will make you get real about things pretty darn fast.”
Surrounding the farmhouse, the sounds of animals and the earth settling in for slumber reached the porch.
“Alice Jo did a lot of research on medicinal herbs after she got sick—things for easing the nausea following chemotherapy and boosting the immune system. I still grow and harvest the plants. Alice Jo taught me to make tinctures, infusions, and teas. I’ve got all of the notes saved on the computer in the study—hours and hours of her careful work. If your friend is open to help, I’d be glad to share the knowledge. I know my sister would lend a hand, if she was here.”
“Thanks, Pinky. I’ll be sure to pass that along.” Wanda spotted an old guitar propped next to a plant stand. “Play me something. You do play, don’t you?”
“Most every night, I sit out here and pick awhile. Can’t swear I’m much good at it.”
“Sing me a song then, Pinky Green.”
“You sure you want me to do that? Sometimes it makes the dogs howl.”
She boxed his shoulder playfully. “I like most any kind of music. Since I can’t carry a tune except in the shower, I won’t be a harsh critic.”
Pinky swung the old instrument into his arms and plucked the strings one by one into tune. “Hmm, I’ll play my sister’s favorite song. You’ll probably remember this one.”
Wanda listened as his rich voice sang James Taylor’s “Shower the People.” She closed her eyes and rocked in time with the mellow folk tune. The evening air held a slight chill, and the crickets tuned up to accompany the music.
Somewhere, between the homemade vegetarian meal, finger-style guitar picking, and gentle romance that followed, Wanda Jean Orenstein tripped and fell headfirst into love.
“My mother makes the best chocolate pound cake. She uses real butter—the kind that comes in a round waxed paper wrapping. She let me lick the batter from the beaters when I was a little girl. We never worried about getting some weird funk from the raw eggs, not at all. The batter was the best part, but I couldn’t eat too much or I’d get a stomach ache. She still makes the same
cake now and then, for special occasions. I eat a small sliver. Heavens, I don’t need all those calories. I would look just horrible in a swimsuit if I let myself go!”
Ladonna O’Donnell, local beauty queen and model
Chapter Six
The formal waiting area for the Triple C Day Spa and Salon was barren. The only noises came from a trickling waterfall fountain in one corner and the low volume new-age music from a hidden CD player. The locals eschewed the fancy holding pen for the down-home atmosphere of the large treatment room farther back in the restored mansion.
The hair stylist salon was a buzz of activity. Ladonna O’Donnell, local beauty queen and model, perched on Mandy’s chair with a flower-printed plastic drape protecting her clothing. Lucille Jackson, wife of Reverend Thurston Jackson of the Morningside AME church, occupied Wanda’s station. Two professional dryers were in use, and Melody huddled over the hands of her nail patron, manager and head waitress of the Homeplace Restaurant, Julie Nix.
“My outfit’s kindly oriental looking,” Ladonna said. “So, I’m thinking I’d like one of your up-do’s, Mandy. You know, like the one you did for the Miss Lake Seminole Contest last summer.”
“I got just the thing.” Mandy picked up a section of Ladonna’s bleached blonde hair and experimented with different positions. “I ordered these miniature gold fans that will be perfect. Why don’t we go with an asymmetrical look?”
Ladonna smacked her bubblegum. “Fine by me. Just so I look right for Unc’ David’s retirement party.”
“Law, I can’t fathom Chief Turnbull’s retiring,” Lucille said. “What’s he gone do with hisself after being a police man all these many years?”
“Says he’s gonna catch up with his fishing.” Ladonna expanded and popped a large fuchsia bubble and gathered the spent gum with her shell-pink painted lips.
