by Lindy Chaffin Start

The happiest day of my life

It’s late for me, ten-thirty on a Friday night and I’m standing in my bedroom folding clothes. It’s warm out. There’s a salty breeze blowing off the water through the window. It feels like rain. I hate doing laundry. lots of laundry. I lift a turquoise T-shirt to my face to take in a deep, fragrant breath of Mountain Fresh detergent, hoping that the sunny scent might improve my enthusiasm for the task at hand.

The television is droning on in the background. A show about a team of paranormal investigators helping families rid themselves of unwanted spirits. I can’t help but laugh a little. I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it. To wish you away is unthinkable.

A static charge fills the air around my body. The delicate hairs on my right arm stand straight at attention as a bone-deep chill cuts through me. I hear a slight crackling but haven’t touched another piece of clothing in the basket. Maybe it’s the breeze shuffling the white linen paper on which I wrote to you. Maybe it’s not.

“I know you’re here.”

The chill intensifies.

“I’m not afraid of you. Just talk to me. Touch me,” a tear rolls down my cheek followed by a desperate plea, “hold me.”

Silence.

I want to wrap my arms around my body in a warm, welcoming hug. Instead, I resume my laundry duties, ignoring my intuition. The silent chill lingers for another minute before the humid night air again fills the room.

“I miss you, Paul,” I whisper.

###

Eight years ago today, I awoke to the warm sun in my face and the sound of the waves crashing over the rocks along the shoreline outside our bedroom window, accompanied by the melodious sound of you playing the Steinway piano in the great room.

I didn’t want to get out of bed that morning but the temptation of you playing in only your pajama bottoms drew me up.

You played Rachmaninoff.

I sat in a formal barrel-back chair behind you, listening to the music, swinging my feet back and forth in midair to keep time. Where I would usually rehearse with you, I felt naked without my cello, but it made me so happy to watch you instead. the muscles in your back, shoulders and arms tensing with each movement, your strong arms easily stretching the length of the keys.

You always looked more like a body builder than a concert pianist.

When you finished, I took the rose from the bud vase on the table next to me, tore apart the petals and scattered them over you shouting, “Bravo. Bravo.” You laughed and called me a goofball.

I loved your laugh.

“Thank you, kind lady,” you said in a fake English accent, bowing.

“Getting ready for tonight?” I asked, as if playing a concert for a few thousand people was no big deal.

“What about you? Want to join me for a while?”

“Nah, my fingers are broke.”

Again you laughed at my silliness, “Can I kiss them all better?”

Feeling a bit feline, I slunk over to the piano bench and handed you my thin, nimble fingers. I couldn’t help but tremble as you kissed each one gently, teasing me, looking into my eyes as if to say “I want you” with each tender kiss. We wiled away the morning making love on that Steinway, convinced a rehearsal wasn’t necessary.

###

Finally finished with the laundry, I walk out onto the deck to look out over the Atlantic. The ocean is my backyard. It is the place we flew your handmade kite, played in the waves, and talked about our future together. I long to feel the sand between my toes, but since that night, I cannot bring myself to set foot among the shells.

That was the last time we walked here, that afternoon before the concert. Remember?

The biting electrical charge returns, lifting the hair on my right arm and sending shivers through me.

I took your hand, pulling you off the deck into the warm sand. Guiding you through the dunes down to where the water had washed all the way up to the sea grass during high tide making the sand hard, sturdier under our feet. The wind whipped down the beach taking with it a sheath of sand that bit at our ankles. But it was the perfect day to fly your cherished kite. To me, the wind and the waves exemplified raw power and reminded me of you at your fiercest, creating exquisite sounds, pounding passionately on ivories.

After a few minutes of traversing tidal pools, we stopped at the breakers. “It’s so beautiful here.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, unraveling the twine wound tightly around the red nylon kite. “And there’s more than enough wind. Great idea honey.”

“It’s never a bad idea to take an afternoon off.”

I laid on the sand watching you race down the beach pulling the kite behind you like a kid. The wind caught it and tugged it into the sky with great ease, spreading a smile across your face.

That was the happiest day of my life.

I never thought you were childish in your notion to hold onto some of the playthings you loved as a child. The rickety antique push car was a little closer to the junk heap than the others, but I loved your sense of nostalgia so much that I didn’t care. And when you spoke about how our children would one day enjoy the toys as much as you had, well, my heart soared at the thought.

That day marked our eighth year of marriage.

“It would be really neat, don’t you think,” putting my hand on your shoulder, “if we could bring our kids down here?”

The look on your face was telling—furrowed brow, the corner of your mouth curled up into a knowing grin. It was easy for me to confirm your suspicion.

“I love you with all my heart, Paul, and…”

“Gilly! You’re pregnant?”

Remember how I jumped into your arms? Your kite almost got away.

I held a tiny brown Atlantic auger shell between my thumb and forefinger. “She’s about this big.”

“She?”

“He. She. We’ll have to wait and see.”

###

Standing in the grand foyer of the opera house that night, we fought the urge to hug. We received accolades from every passerby leaving the concert. Our conductor and friend Adair Gutierez joined us, paying profuse compliments giving us almost all of the credit for the event’s success.

“You both are simply amazing!” he lauded. “Can you hear the crowd? You are all they are talking about.”

“Adair, the entire orchestra did an amazing job,” I countered.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Adair agreed waving his hand, then pulled you off to the side, as he usually did after a performance.

I saw you roll your eyes.

Then all of a sudden you were gone and I was left surrounded by people I admired and couldn’t escape. I felt an odd sense of disconnect, like finding you was the most important task for me at that moment.

I excused myself only to be stopped once again by Mom and Dad, who blessedly offered to help me carry my cello to the car.

“Honey, you and Paul were amazing tonight,” Mom cooed. “You carried the entire performance.”

“She’s right, Gillian,” Dad agreed. “You two were the highlight of the entire show.”

As much as I appreciated the compliments, I was so uncomfortable. You were all I could think about.

Emerging through the side door of the Opera House, I finally found you. You were standing next to the car in the alley where we parked earlier that evening. Dad offered to carry my heavy instrument down to the Cherokee, but you had already ascended the stairs to take it.

It was obvious by the look on your face that you wanted to tell them right then. Instead, you took the cello from Dad’s hands then carefully walked back down the stairs carrying the large black case.

I’ve never seen my mother at a loss for words. Stunned to silence, she watched a car turn the corner and come barreling down the alley.

You never saw it coming.

Shifting my gaze to track hers, I watched paralyzed as the car careened toward you. Seconds passed in slow motion as you slammed the rear hatch and stepped around to the driver’s side. The speeding car sideswiped the Jeep tossing your body up into the air. You came to rest on the curb in front of the Jeep with a loud thud and an odd splitting crack, your once smiling face bloodied by the impact.

I don’t remember how I got to you.

I knelt down next to you. You were so weak and broken I was afraid to touch you for fear of doing further damage. Your breathing was erratic, uncontrollable. I lay down on the ground next to you and rested my head next to yours on the curb. I put my hand on your chest, desperate to feel you breathe. There was an overwhelming smell of blood and asphalt that made my stomach churn.

“Hold on. Please, hold on.”

Every word was somehow calculated to reassure you that everything would be all right.

But you weren’t all right, were you?

“I love you so much,” I whispered, as the police and ambulance, sirens blaring, arrived.

Your eyes sparkled in recognition, then, all at once, they grew dim, lifeless, glassed over like a china doll. Your balled up fist relaxed as your body fell prey to darkness and in it was a dainty gold chain with the tiny brown auger shell. Not even thinking, I took it from your hand and put it on.

###

“Mom?” a small voice draws my attention back to the present.

Sliding a scroll-like letter written on white linen paper into an ancient beer bottle along with my shell necklace, I turn to see Paul bounding down the deck stairs toward me in his Transformers pajamas.

“You are supposed to be in bed.”

“I was. What are you doing?”

“Sending a note to Daddy.”

“Did you tell him how big I’m getting?”

“I did. Want to do the honors?”

Paul takes the brown bottle from my hand, swings the hinged cap over the opening, locks it in place, then stares at the bottle in silence. Moments pass before he looks up at me and says, “Is this the last one?”

“It’s bound to be,” I respond with a smile, knowing by the electric charge surrounding me that there will be more.

Running across the sand, Paul pitches the bottle at the sea. It sails through the air with ease reminiscent of a bright red, handmade kite that glided just as easily over the ocean. A faint splash signals the amber glass is on its way to you. We watch in silence as it drifts away.

###

Lindy Chaffin Start became unstoppable the moment she started writing. Only one of her many passions, Ms. Start also loves to cook, create anything with her hands, play with her daughter, apple orchards and a good ghost story. Emerging better in her new normal.

###

Well if that didn’t make you get out the tissues, I don’t know what would. What a great story.

Tomorrow, just for a change of pace, we’ll have (ahem!) moi (Linsey Lanier). I’m offering the next installment of The Clever Detective series, A Clever Season for your reading pleasure. I know it’s Christmas Day, but I hope you’ll stop by for a smile.

Dreams of Yesterday

by Sandra Elzie writing as Sandra McGregor

Surely life wasn’t over at twenty-nine.

Caroline stood on the knoll, the wind whipping fine strands of her shoulder-length, gold-streaked red hair into her face. It seemed only yesterday she had built sandcastles using a rusted one-pound coffee can and her mother’s garden trowel.  Her lips lifted slightly at the remembered punishment she got for misplacing the trowel.

She would never forget that memorable summer spent in a rented beach cottage before they moved to live with Grandpa Mosley near Sacramento.  Her mother had been sad and lonely, except for visits with Crystal, her mother’s best friend who lived three cottages down.  She remembered reading a lot that summer since the only other kid on that strip of beach was Crystal’s bratty son, Matt.

Again, she smiled.  The innocence of youth. She had been nine to his ten, but she’d never forget the day he called her a baby and told her she was stupid…then promptly left her standing ankle-deep in the sand with her hand full of shells she had collected to add to her jar.  He had raced down the beach…returning later with a black eye.  Of course she had asked what happened, but he had only glared as he stomped by without a word.

Now, twenty years later, she was back.  Divorced, childless and disillusioned with men and life.  She was tired of trying…and failing.  She had a job she hated and since her mother passed two years earlier, she felt totally alone.  Her friends were busy with there own lives and….

“Okay, Caroline,” she admonished herself, “stop whining and wallowing.”  She slid her feet from the sandals and stepped down into the warm sand, closing her eyes as she scrunched her toes and basked in the familiar feeling of the shore.  She loved the sea, but she lived a little too far to come often.  Usually a happy time, today’s trip wrapped her heart in memories and sadness. In the morning she would be saying good-bye to her mother’s best friend …and she would, no doubt, be seeing Matt again.  He would never know how many nights she had lain awake as a preteen, dreaming of him on a white stallion, riding up to whisk her away to live happily ever after.

Caroline bent to retrieve her sandals, then turned her back on the sea and climbed the path to her car.  She needed to check into her hotel room.  She had a lot to think about…but one thing was definite.  It was time to lay a childish dream to rest.

###

The following morning a thick mist hid the sun, but by eleven, it burned off and Caroline was seated near the back of the small chapel.  Within minutes, the family filed in to sit on the front pew. Three men, all about the same age, and all with broad shoulders and thick brown hair.  Which one was Matt?  Her heart thumped faster as she admitted it was crazy to have a crush on a man just because she’d had one on him twenty years earlier.

As the minister stood and walked to the podium, Caroline dragged her gaze from the three men and glanced at her hands, focusing on the one wrapped around the pamphlet that was now crushed. With a soft sigh, she leaned over to drop the paper into her purse.

###

Matthew Scott sat between his cousins, his mind blank as the minister droned on.  He had remained close to his mother, spending summers with her until he left for college to study architecture.  He had kept track of Caroline Shepard’s life through his mother…at least until her mother passed a couple of years earlier.  When his cousin offered to help with funeral arrangements, he had supplied a list of names and addresses of people from out-of-town who needed to be notified.  He had added Caroline’s name to the list, but he had no way of knowing if she’d made it or not.  Regardless, he knew his mother would have been pleased that so many of the small seaside neighbors had come to her funeral.

He shook his head and forced his wandering thoughts back to the present.  Even if Caroline were here, she was probably with her husband.  He hadn’t seen her since the summer when they were kids, but for some unknown reason, he had never totally forgotten her.  As a teen he had been drawn to redheads.  Of course, looking back, he could see that he had dated and eventually married Melanie because she reminded him of that summer at the beach.  Unfortunately, within a year, they both realized it wasn’t working and divorce had been the humane way to rectify the mistake.

When the minister sat down and the director indicated that the family should leave first, Matt slid one hand into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the shell he had picked up on the shore during the summer so many years ago.  He had kept it in his desk over the years, never sharing its significance with anyone, not even Melanie when she started to toss it in the trash.  Those days belonged to two kids who were now grown up.

As he neared the back of the small chapel, he glanced at the people.  Most were older versions of his mother, but then his gaze landed on a younger woman with long red hair that hung down to obstruct his view of her face as she bent to reach something near the floor.  His heart thudded, then jolted into overdrive when she lifted her head and turned to look at him.  His cousin rammed into his back as his step faltered.  The momentum sent him forward with a muttered apology tossed over his shoulder. The jackhammer in his chest was tapping a cadence.  She’s here.  She’s here.  She’s here.

Just outside the double doors, Matt stepped from the flow of family now murmuring among themselves as they headed for the parking lot.  His mother had chosen cremation, so there would only be the memorial service.  Everyone was now invited to his mother’s cottage to eat the sinful display of food that had been delivered earlier by all the generous neighbors.

“Matt, I was going to ride over to the house with my parents,” his cousin said near his elbow.  “Would you rather me wait and ride with you?”

Matt glanced at Thad, his cousin and partner in Scott Construction.  “No, thanks, man.  I’m fine.  I just saw someone I want to speak with in case she doesn’t come by the house to eat.”  There was no way he was going to let Caroline walk out of his life again without them at least having a chance to talk for a bit.  He had been up against a contract deadline when her mother passed, making it impossible to attend the funeral with his mother. He needed to pass along his condolences to Caroline.

With a nod and a slight wave, Thad strode down the corridor toward his parents, leaving Matt to watch the stream of people slowing leaving the small chapel.  When he saw Caroline step into the lobby, he stared for a moment before moving to intercept her.  Her hair was still long and the same light red with gold strands, but everything else had changed—and definitely for the better.  Her skin was…peaches and cream…or so his cousin Ruth had once called it. The description seemed appropriate.  But man oh man, the bookish little girl had grown up.

He stood rooted to the spot, watching her hips sway as she walked toward the front door.  She was wearing a royal-blue suit that perfectly displayed her slender build and the spiked heels showcased her model-length legs.  He swallowed twice before he realized that the teenage fantasies he’d had about long-legged redheads had materialized right in front of him…and had caused his saliva glands to work double time.  She stopped near the front door to speak to the minister and one of his cousins, interrupting his thoughts and galvanizing him from his stupor to stride toward the woman he didn’t want to get away.

“Matt, we’re sorry for your loss.”  “Matt, we’re so sorry.”  “Matt, we loved your mother.”  “Matt, your mother will be missed.”  Numerous people wanted to personally speak to him, leaving no choice but to momentarily stop and thank each of them and invite them to the house for lunch.  When he finally had a clear shot at the door, he made a mad dash for freedom, not glancing at anyone to the right or left, but keeping his eyes and his mind on his mission.

Just outside the front doors, he jolted to a stop and scanned the small groups of people for Caroline’s distinctive hair.  Nothing.  Panic kicked up his heartbeat.  Then his gaze slid to the cars.  By the time he recognized her through the windshield of the silver Mustang, Caroline had just started the engine and was preparing to pull out.  With one arm raised to flag her down, he trotted across the glistening asphalt, relieved when his gaze connected with hers and he knew she had not only seen him, but would wait.

She lowered the window and smiled up at him when he arrived at the side of her car.  “Hi.  I wanted to speak to you, but when I came out, I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry about your mother.  She was always such a good friend to my mother and always so sweet to me.”

Her voice washed over him like a gentle wave.  “You’re the daughter she always wanted and never got,” he answered, returning her smile.  “Listen, are you coming over to the house for lunch?”  When she shook her head, his mind screamed silently.  This can’t be happening.  He wasn’t sure why it suddenly seemed so urgent that he have a chance to talk with her, but something inside told him that he’d always regret it if he didn’t convince her to give them a little more time.

“I have a long drive back home and…”

After a quick glance at her left hand, and relieved that she was single and available, he was confidence he could convince her…for old times sake if nothing else.  Of course, if necessary, he’d pull out the guilt card and tell her it would help him to talk about the summer their mothers had forced them to spend time together.  Thanks Mom.  

 “Um,” he started slowly, leaning down slightly and bracing his hands across the windowsill, “I was wondering if you’d reconsider.  The neighbors have brought in a ton of food and …” he allowed his words to trail off, not sure how to say he needed a friend.  His mother knew these older people, but he didn’t.

She sat, silently staring up at him as if running the pros and cons through her mind before answering.  When a smile spread across her face and she nodded, he released the held breath.  “Great.  I’ll see you there.”  He straightened and turned to trot down the row to his Ford F250.  Soon he was leading the way out of town toward the weather-bleached cottages that lined the coast.

“Well, Mom,” he said aloud, ignoring the country western tune playing on the radio, “I think you’d be happy about the turn of events.  I’m going to miss you…but thanks for everything.”  He felt at odds.  On the one hand he was sad about losing his mother, but yet the day had taken a turn, giving him something to smile about—something to give him hope that the future might be brighter.

By the time he reached the cottage, doubts had set in.  Was he just grabbing at a straw to take his mind off the loss of his mother?  Was this fair to Caroline?  He parked, stepped out, and waited until Caroline joined him.  She had slipped off her suit jacket and replaced her heels with white sandals.  She had to be only four or five inches less than his six feet, but the royal-blue skirt she wore perfectly displayed her slender build and her long legs.

“Gosh, this brings back memories,” she told him as she gazed out toward the ocean.  She raised an arm to keep the wind from blowing loose hairs into her face, but her expression was one of wonder and appreciation.  “I’ve always loved the ocean.  It’s so soothing—so restful.”  She turned to smile at him, reaching out to take his hand.  “Come on, you’re guests are waiting.”

Neighbors were already arriving, but Mrs. Billings had borrowed a key, so lunch was spread out on the L-shaped counter and people were already helping themselves to tea and food as he and Caroline walked in.  He was grateful that Caroline stuck by his side, helping to carry conversations with everyone who wanted to say a few words about his mother or share good times they had spent with her.  Within a couple of hours all the neighbors and family had gone, leaving him more tired than the days he put in ten to twelve hours in the sun at a construction site.

“You haven’t eaten.  Sit down and I’ll get us each a drink and you a plate of food.”  Caroline was gently pushing him toward a cushioned glider chair.  “Put your feet up and relax.”

“Skip the food for now, but I’d love some tea.  Then maybe we can walk down to the beach.”

“Great.”

Her smile encouraged him.  She was no longer a skinny, pig-tailed girl with a misting of freckles across her nose and cheeks.  Now she was a beautiful woman with a pure complexion that should have been on magazine covers.  Just when he thought he’d swear off women forever, in walked a vision from his past that he wanted in his future.  Forever?  Happily-ever-after and all that romantic stuff?  He wasn’t sure, but he darn well wasn’t going to let her get away without getting to know her better.  Suddenly, his future looked brighter.

###

Caroline poured tea into two travel mugs, but her mind was focused on Matt.  He no longer appeared to be the selfish kid of twenty years ago.  Now he was a successful co-owner of a construction company.  Her mother had bragged about him occasionally over the years and she had hung on every word.  Could there still be a connection between them?

She sighed, turning to glance at Matt who had his head back and his eyes closed.  She hoped they could be friends…maybe even a bit more than friends.  She was at loose ends and during one very long night of private soul searching, she admitted that Matt had always been her standard.  Her poor husband had never seemed to measure up.  No wonder he finally gave up trying and eventually filed for a divorce that she didn’t bother to contest.  Well, maybe Matt would be in her future and maybe not, but she wasn’t going to leave until she knew for sure if they had a chance for the fairytale.

“Here you go.”  She sat the mugs on the glass-topped table and straightened.  “Do you think I could borrow a pair of your mother’s short?  I’d hate to get this suit all beachy.”

“Sure, help yourself.”  He stood.  “I’ll take these and wait for you on the porch.”

All the woman’s pants were several sizes too large, but she found a wrap-around skirt that she was able to use and soon they were strolling slowly down the path toward the sea.

“You know, I remember being rude to you…and maybe even a bit mean.”  Matt darted a sheepish grin in her direction.  “I’m sorry.”

She returned his smile.  “Yes, but that’s ancient history.”  Today she would forgive him anything.  “But I’m wondering if you’ll tell me what happened the day you went down the shore and came back with a black eye.”

His chuckle was lifted on the breeze and carried over the dunes ahead of them.  “I’d forgotten about that.  Wow, you’ve got a great memory.”  When she lifted her eyebrows and cocked her head at an angle as if encouraging him to continue, he nodded.  “Okay.  My aunt and uncle…along with my cousin, rented a cottage for the weekend on the far end of the beach.”  His lips twisted into a slight smirk as he continued.  “He teased me about you.  He said I was a sissy if I like girls.  So, since I wasn’t about to admit that I liked you, I punched him in the face.”

Caroline cringed, joining him when he started laughing.

“But the rest of the story is that we became better friends as we grew older and now we’re…”

“Let me guess,” she said, turning her head to look directly at him.  “I bet he’s your partner now.”

“Yep.  It was Thad.  Now he’s married with two children.  No more teasing.  Instead, he keeps telling me that all women aren’t like my Ex and I should try again.  In fact,” he said, stopping and taking her hand to turn her to face him, “he told me just a bit ago that if I didn’t grab you and hold on…those are his words…he’ll kick my rear.”

Still holding her hand, he squeezed gently, sending a shiver up her arm that had nothing to do with the chilly breeze bringing in the unique smells of the ocean.  Caroline sucked in a breath and held it a moment while she gathered her nerve.  Once she exhaled, she allowed a smile to slowly lift the corners of her lips.  “Well, we can’t let that happen.  What do you suppose we do about it?”  She watched his shoulders relax and his grin broaden.

“Well, maybe we should start with something I wanted to do that summer.  You see, at ten, boys are supposed to think girls have germs and all that, but I got the bright idea that our parents just wanted us to think that because there was something they didn’t want us to find out.”

“Go on,” she encouraged, chuckling as she lifted the hand holding the travel mug to brush stray hairs from her face with one finger.  Her eyes widen as he leaned closer…and closer.  When his eyes closed, she relaxed, allowing him the freedom to orchestrate the moment that would fulfill her childhood fantasies.  No longer would she have to imagine what his lips would feel like—no longer would she wonder if he could ever be attracted to her.

Her lids fluttered down, blocking out the sun and putting her senses on high alert.  The masculine smells of musk and spice swirled around her to fuel the anticipation that begged to be satisfied.  An eternity slipped away before his lips touched hers to sear them with a heat that sizzled…heat that branded despite the feather touch.  On a soft sigh, she sank under the spell he wove—a spell that held her prisoner.

The kiss deepened by degrees, drawing her in and making silent promises as it plundered and possessed.  No longer could she ignore her body’s traitorous demands for more.  Even as a groan slipped from his throat, his hand slid from hers and slowly snaked around her waist to draw her in until their bodies aligned, sending her heart into erratic overdrive.  Surely he could feel the pounding against his chest as her out-of- control heart thundered at her temples.  Like someone starving, she moved her lips under his, opening to his tongue when it requested entry.  Please, God, don’t let this stop.

Matt was the one to pull back.  Caroline was panting, her breaths coming in quick, shallow spurts.  She was relieved to see she had a similar effect on him, but the arm around her back kept her plastered intimately against his body—a body that was rock hard and so much more than she had even imagined.  He was the handsome prince and the capable warrior—gentle, but strong enough to slay her dragons.

Their gazes locked and held, allowing them time to consider the change in their situation and whether to step back or go forward.  Matt spoke first.  “Did you see the movie, The Bridges of Madison County?”  When she nodded, he continued.  “Well, we can agree to come back here every year on this date…like in the movie…or we can agree to stay in touch and see where this kiss takes us.”

Her mind was numb, unable to think of any logical reason to deny them what they both appeared to want.  Finally she nodded.  “I vote we see where this takes us.”

Matt gazed down at her as if willing a certain response, but with her answer, a smile splashed across his face.

He leaned in for a lingering kiss before pulling his lips away to trail along her jaw.  He deposited tiny butterfly kisses along the way until he reached her ear where he sucked the diamond-studded lobe into his mouth and laved the gem with his tongue before pulling back to stare down into her eyes.

Without a word, he stepped back and took her hand and led her to the top of the sand dune.  They stood close, his arm around her back as they silently gazed out toward the sea.  Caroline released her childhood dreams, silently saying farewell as she imagined them cast away on the receding waves.  At the same time, she bid welcome to new dreams—dreams that included a lifetime of love that she and Matt might have together.

By mutual consent, they turned toward the cottage.  “Do you still have that jar of shells you collected that summer?”

“Um hum.”

“Add this one to it.”  He pulled the shell from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Is this from today?”  They had stopped and were now facing each other.

“No,” he said, shrugging slightly as he glanced away for a moment.  When his gaze returned to hers, he smiled.  “I picked it up that summer and I’ve had it ever since. It’s a reminder.”

She didn’t know what to say.  He had thought about her?

“You know,” he said, again taking her hand.  “If we end up making this a long-term relationship, we can come back here every year for our anniversary.”  When she smiled, he continued.  “And add a new shell each year.”

Her heart melted.

“And I can throw sand on you to remind you of the good old days when we were kids here.”

“What?!”  She stopped and turned to face him as she pulled her hand from his and planted a fist on her hip.  His playful laugh egged her on.  Her eyes narrowed for a moment and then she quickly reached down and grabbed a handful of sand.  Before she could straighten, he darted up the slope, his laughter floating to her on the breeze.  Was he the one to make her life complete?  Only time would tell…but things were definitely looking good so far.

************************************************************************

Sandra, thank you for a great story!  I know we’re all hoping that Caroline & Matt will find their own happily-ever-after.  But there’s more !!

Now on Monday, we hope you’ll return to read another fantastic story presented by Lindy Chaffin Start, but in the meantime, leave a comment below and you’ll be eligible not only for a chance to win a $5.00 Starbucks gift card that Sandra is offering today to one of her readers, but your name will also go in the pot to win a number of fantastic gifts–winners to be announced on December 31st.

About the author:

Sandra Elzie was challenged by her husband to not wait for retirement, but to start writing the stories she had told him were running around in her head.  Several years later she sold her first book.  After selling the second book, her publisher was purchased by Amazon, but her first release, The Diplomatic Tutor, can be purchased in print and in e-book on Amazon.

Sandra also writes under the name of Sandra McGregor and her six e-book releases can be purchased on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

So, we set the stage for my recently retired mom to come for a four day visit with the intent of Mom leaving Saturday morning before Red went to stay with her dad for an overnight. It was the perfect set up that would have allowed me an entire 18 hours to do some things for me, not the least of which being a pedicure, a chick flick, and a glass of wine. But, the best laid plans, at least, that’s what they say, right?

Mom woke up at her usual time on Saturday morning, feeling good and talking about heading home. Thirty minutes later, she was poised over my toilet eliminating the last of the previous night’s meal. Gruesome. She thought it was acid indigestion that would quickly dissipate then she would head home. Wrong. She caught Red’s stomach virus from the week before, and now, Sunday morning, is still here, and still sick. Poor thing.

I feel helpless and horrible. I know how bad it stinks to be caught with a bug far away from home. It’s no fun puking in someone else’s toilet, scrounging is someone else freezer for anything cold, or poking through unfamiliar cabinets for saltines and bananas when that would be the very last thing there. She’s managed well and though it’s not been easy, we’re almost at the end…I hope.

So, during this last couple of days, I’ve discovered a lot about myself:

1. I’m not a good nurturer to grown folks. I can provide the things they need most – a cold cloth, a clean pillow, bananas, saltines and ginger ale – but I cannot pat them on the back, hold their hair back, or anything I would otherwise do for my child. That needs to be alone time.
2. I have become a germophobe. Okay, so this probably has a whole lot to do with the fact that we are leaving for the beach on Tuesday and the last thing I want is to be stuck in a one bathroom condo a third of the size of my 1,000 square foot house with three other people and the virus from hell. My house wreaks of Clorox and Lysol and I cannot wash the linens fast enough.
3. This has re-emphasized my choice of companionship while I am sick. I don’t like anyone patting me on the back or holding my hair. Instead, I prefer someone run to the store, bring me a cold cloth, and from a distance, ask if I am okay. They too can slather the house in Clorox and Lysol. That is just fine. So what if I live by the Golden Rule, treat others as you wish to be treated. What’s so bad about that?

Mom should feel better in a few hours and I will likely drive her to Macon after Red’s little friend’s birthday party this morning. Dear Lord, heal my mother and keep Red and I safe from this bug so we can enjoy our vacation. Please and thank you. Amen!

How are you on the care giving scale? One being the uncomfortable type and 10 being an angel. I consider myself right there in the middle.

Hope you have a wonderful and virus-free week.

When writer’s block sets up camp in your soul and refuses to leave, it’s only natural a writer find another way. My other way comes in the form of Letters to My Daughter. Mind you, they are housed in a black leather-bound journal, but they begin with a date and “Dear Lovey”  and end “with love from Mom.” To me, that constitutes letters and it’s letters I’ve been writing to her since December 5, 2011, 372 days after her dad, my ex-husband announced he was leaving. It was at that point I decided that I had to get some things off my chest, exorcise a few demons.

I must admit, not every day has been filled with love. In the beginning I poured out my heart in the only way I knew how, talking about the pain, the games, and how the torture just kept going. The clocks kept ticking. The sound that made me insane when my daughter was first born – tick tock tick tock – reminding me how quickly she was growing became the sound that my heart synced up to in order to keep beating. And with every heart beat life moved on, slowly. Lovey grew upward, up to 44 inches in March, and my heart grew a little stronger. I’m still waiting for wings to sprout, but for now, at least it can beat on its own.

It kept time with the world yesterday and granted me joy in experiencing the little things and the ability to write about them. Things like:

The color Moroccan red, which now artfully adorns our kitchen and makes me smile each time I glance in that direction; cats purring and mewing around my ankles as they seek out a snack, and a little Buddy who refuses to leave my side; the smell of roses and gardenia growing together; any blue bird God ever created followed closely by red, then yellow; the romantic trill of a cowbird; a bullfrog croaking along with the sound the water makes as it pours over the rocks; the smell of rain as storm clouds begin to loom; the sight of brightly colored leaves and flowers spreading out across our vegetable garden knowing tasty, fresh vegetables aren’t far behind; learning Lovey had written her very first stories in school yesterday and her confidence as she proudly read them to me; the sound of her sobs as she begged, “Mommy, please, please let me sleep in your bed tonight because I miss you and…I’m crying” – sweet, funny girl; the sound of her softly snoring as she lay on the pillow next to mine; the breeze rustling the leaves outside my window and the tinkling sound of rain drops bouncing off the window; the sound of friends laughing, especially Mickey who has the heartiest laugh ever to leave a man’s chest; my mom and aunt as they feed off of one another’s hysterical laughter until they both begin to cry and the priceless looks of confusion on my father’s and uncle’s faces; the sound doves make as they launch into the sky; and the moment I once again experienced true joy.

Every day I write a letter to my little girl. Each day is different, yet each one offers the promise that life really is getting better. MAybe someday she’ll accept it as my gift of wit and wisdom about how purely crazy our lives were way back when. Maybe someday the pain, the games , and the torture will stop. Maybe someday my heart will sprout wings and lift my soul whistling as doves do when they fly away.

What little things have you experienced that have brought you joy?

My munchkin, fiery red-head that she is, was slated to camp with her father in Chattanooga this year. Alas, Spring Break  arrived and off they went. I kept my distance allowing them much needed time together. Then miraculously I got into my own grove. Totally unexpected, but here’s how it happened:

Monday I felt lonely. I missed Red with all my heart like someone had removed my head and left my body behind to poke and clod around. Body bumping into all the things it desired to accomplish, without my head I just couldn’t see those things at my fingertips.

On Tuesday, I took the proverbial bull by the horns and made dinner plans with a couple of good friends. We met early and enjoyed a pitcher of margaritas and plates full of carnitas. Giggling ensued and I finished the night feeling a lot less lonely and a lot more empowered.

Wednesday was pure bliss. It was the one night I planned in advance – dinner and tickets to Ghost Brothers of Darkland County at the Alliance with a man. Yes folks, a man. This special man I’ve known for over 25 years. In fact, he was my date to my fifteenth birthday dinner – ah, memories. It was the first night in about six months I’ve allowed myself to be a woman; not a mom. I put on makeup, a dress, and the extra special perfumed lotion I love. My friend arrived, handsome as ever with salt and pepper hair and tanned skin. My stomach did a little dance but I didn’t let on. We sat at my table and enjoyed brisket with cherry barbeque sauce for dinner. Then out the door we went. What happened next left me star struck. I am a huge theatre fan and opening night at the Alliance can be thrilling, but Ghost Brothers, a Stephen King / John Mellencamp collaboration, was the best yet. The completely unexpected but very King story accompanied by classic toe-tapping honky tonk of Mellencamp made this play one I would see again. At the beginning of the second act I inadvertently eves dropped on the couple behind us. They spoke of how disappointed they were for not talking to “him”.

Hmmm, I wondered. Who’s him?

Seconds later, they mentioned “Steve”. I had a hunch…

“Handsome date, check the program to see if there is a Steve in the cast.”

Nope. I turned around a looked at the woman sitting, now a little jittery, behind my seat, “Sister,” I said, “please tell me you are not talking about who I think you are talking about?”

Oh, heck yes she was. Stephen King was there in the audience for opening night. Wow! I mean really – WOW! I just finished reading On Writing a week ago and once finished felt like I was this man’s confidant, apprentice, friend. It was that book that we all long to write – the one that changed my life.

I only caught a glimpse of this man whose writing life I long to mimic, but that glimmer of greatness burned an indelible impression on my heart. Combined with sitting next to a man I’ve known and at times loved throughout the last three decades, I friends, was blessed to feel bliss, passion one more time. Just WOW!

When the night came to a close, and I had finally stopped jabbering about the play, the music, and my hero I told my friend that he was no Stephen King. He looked at me with a slight grin and maybe a tinge of disappointment then I finished, “but you leave me just as star struck.” With a kiss goodnight it was back – passion.

An inescapable feeling of excitement lingered on Thursday. It came in wafts and waves throughout the day leaving me unnerved, waiting for the next phone call like a love struck teenager. Ugh. Dinner and wine with a dear friend at my kitchen table brought me a little closer to myself and normal.

The house was silent for five days and in those same days I learned to be a woman again. I learned: 1) my life feels less without Red; 2) I enjoy drinking wine while I cook; 3) being in the company of the right old friend can be both comfortable and sexy; 4) and finding passion at 40 leaves you star struck and longing for more.

Were you on Spring Break this week? Did you find yourself? Experience something amazing or unlikely?

Until next time, I wish you passion.

But this year life, and my beliefs, changed. I liken it to ice skating:

You lace up your skates and wobble to the edge of a pond you know for certain is so frozen you don’t question the ice’s stability. You step out with zeal, believing your skates, ankles, and legs are sturdy. You dig in your toe pick and push off. It feels at first like your leg might glide not-so-gracefully right out from under you, but the fear fades as both feet come together in an elegant ballet. You find your rhythm. You feel as if you are floating, not scraping, across the pond. You reach the middle of the frozen sheet. Stop. Look around. Confidence fills you as you see that you’ve made it to the center of your current existence. That was easy! The silence of the ice and new fallen snow take even the subtle sound of your breath away into nothingness. There it is. Peace.

“POP!”

Loud popping captures your attention. The silence is broken by the screams emanating from the ice where you were just skating so effortlessly. One large crevice splinters into thousands of tiny others. Panic fills your mind and body. Do you retreat? Move at all? Stand perfectly still and hope the frigid temperatures can freeze the ice solid again before you die from exposure? Do you have FAITH that everything will work out? Do you BELIEVE God is with you in your darkest moment? Will the Lord giveth? Or, will He taketh away?

Hmmm.

I think Monday was the day God chose to show me that I am not in control. When I woke up Monday morning all the promise of a new day existed in my soul. The Lord giveth. By the end of the day, the domino-effect had so concisely splintered my solid ice into tiny, fragmented pieces that I was barely able to balance on the shard of HOPE that remained. The Lord taketh.

The thing is, as I look back on Monday writing this post, I see that there is a reason for all of it. I see that God might not have given to begin with. Maybe that was my design, not His. And maybe, just maybe, He took away the barriers to me doing what He wants me to do. Am I strong enough, do I have FAITH enough, to BELIEVE that the small fragment of ice is enough to hold me until His plan comes to fruition?

I’m human. FAITH. BELIEF. HOPE. Have they eluded me? Let’s HOPE not.

For me the longing to create comes with the Fall. Her early chill was in the air this week in Atlanta. A cool breeze whispered away the misty air of dawn each day to reveal crisp blue skies. Every year at about this same time I get drawn back to when life was very different; a time when exuberant youth and a yearning to create pulled me out into the wee hours of the morning to work in my woodshop, to paint, to write.

Each year, my mom and my aunt would work diligently on charming arts and crafts to take to various craft shows throughout Georgia. Some were based in church parking lots, others were much larger. Some, like the Mossy Creek Barnyard Festival and The Arrowhead Arts and Crafts Show, you might even have heard of or attended.

I enjoyed going along to help them on those brisk Fall days and then eventually joined their ranks. One of the fun little things I made were these cute puzzle magnets that were hand-painted and came in their own little coordinating hand-sewn drawstring bags. I would cut them out on my scroll saw then paint them, and so on. I sold them for a mere $4.00 each at the craft fairs. Do you have one on your refrigerator? Twenty years later, I still have a select few in a box downstairs to remind me of what it was like having my own woodshop and hand-painting crafts for people to purchase and enjoy.

“Creativity is inventing, experimenting, growing, taking risks, breaking rules, making mistakes, and having fun.” – Mary Lou Cook

I miss the early morning set up at the various fairs; the heavy fog hanging low in the trees and the air having just enough of a chill to make your nose cold, but too warm to need a heavy coat. I regret not keeping up with the floral designers who made the beautiful wreaths and the wood workers who were much more advanced but applauded my cutesy puzzles anyway. The smell of caramel apples and popcorn balls haunt my memories and so too does the sound of children giggling as they’d ask if I could paint pumpkins or ghosts or witches on their rosy, cherub cheeks (yes, I painted faces too).

Honestly, I don’t know if any of those kinds of craft shows even still exist. They were loads of fun from both sides of the booth.

There are more stories for another time, but for now I want to know if you ever packed up on a Saturday morning to head out for a cup of hot cider and some early holiday shopping. Did you visit crafters at outdoor fairs? Pick out pumpkins in the field? Ride in a hay covered wagon? Did you craft yourself? What kinds of projects did you enjoy the most? Do you still make time to work with your hands?

Dreaming of one day having my woodshop again, I wish you and yours a chilly and nostalgic Fall.

Phobia n. a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it.

As a writer I oftentimes ponder the quirky attributes of characters to make an appearance in the latest WIP. It’s fun to dream up ideal people and their strange mechanical and emotional peculiarities that make them who they are. But, I didn’t consider until recently that, as a writer, I could end up a character too. The idea of a writer afraid of writing or the business of writing started my wheels spinning.

Can you imagine never being able to use the word pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis? (Yes. It is really a word.) Oh, I’m sorry. You say you are afraid of that word. I can’t blame you. I am too. But if you are truly fearful of all long words then you experience a phobia known as Sesquipedalophobia.

If you suffer from Allodoxaphobia you might not want to ever consider entering a contest or critique raffle. Forget having a crit partner or group. People with Allodoxaphobia fear opinions.

What are you afraid of?

What if you were so blocked you just had to get out of the office? If you suffer from Scriptophobia then writing in public is not an option for you. There goes my Starbucks!

Here’s a good one. What about all those agents and editors you query? Looking for an immediate response? I hope you don’t have Macrophobia. This is the fear of long waits. For that matter, don’t head to downtown Decatur on a Friday night for dinner or the doctor’s office or DMV.

Forget about writing or reading, and stay away from the library, Kinkos, and Office Depot should you have Papyrophobia. Paper is the cause of great anxiety and even fear in people who struggle with this unusual phobia.

Oh, and recall all those agents and editors you queried, well your Nomophobia will keep you connected. This modern phobia affects people who are afraid of losing cell phone contact. I don’t know about you, but I’d go to just about any length to keep in touch with the rest of the human race, especially my editor.

As writers I think we deal enough with our own self-directed fears. Who needs a phobia too? I make no joke of phobias. They are serious business. I hope if you suffer from one, be it mild or extreme, you seek help to get you past yours.

As for me and my character defects…I am terribly uncomfortable with heights, fear falling and rolling backwards, and panic when I cannot breathe through my nose. Do you suffer from a particular writer’s phobia or any for that matter? Share it with us.

It’s funny, sitting here trying to find a video or something poignant to share with you that’s not just my opinion, but instead based in fact, leads me to just write what’s in my heart.

I’m a girl. I’m a mom raising a little girl. When I look at myself in the mirror I question what I see. Should I focus on the little imperfections, or embrace them? Should I race to fix the wrinkles or stretch marks that are much like hard earned badges placed so obviously on a body that creeps toward forty? Do I whiten, straighten, strengthen, color, or attempt to improve all of the little things that make me crazy about my outward appearance? What kind of example does that set for my little girl? She’s paying attention to every single move I make whether it’s cooking versus going out for dinner, making up the bed versus leaving it unmade, brushing my hair and teeth and washing my face before bed . What is the good and healthy example?

I tell you, it’s hard being the mom of a little girl. Like peer pressure alone is not enough, let’s try to instill enough responsibility to take care of our homes, bodies, and families but let’s not go so far as to teach a little person how to be a doormat, or even how to be neurotic. I mean, where’s the balance?

I read a really good article tonight by Lisa Bloom, author of “Think: Straight Talk for Women on How to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World about how little girls perceive compliments. As she offered, when we meet little girls our first impulse is to compliment them with how sweet, cute, adorable they are and how unfortunate it is that we do that. What we do is impact the perceptions of the little people we want to raise as emotionally healthy, stable adults. How? In her book, she reveals that “fifteen to eighteen percent of girls under twelve now wear mascara, eyeliner and lipstick regularly; eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and twenty-five percent of young American women would rather win America’s Next Top Model than the Nobel Peace Prize. “ Is outward beauty really all we want for our girls to see or be?

I know my daughter is beautiful, but should I tell her so? Sure. But I should also talk to her about her interests, her school, her perceptions of the world around her and do my full-level best to help her grow into a well-adjusted, smart, earthy, well-mannered and beautiful little girl who brushes her teeth and her hair, washes her face and her hands, makes her bed in the morning, eats right and exercises, follows her dreams and does it all with grace, caring and compassion. Like I said, being the mom of a little girl is not easy.

So how do I accomplish all of this?

1)      I lead by example

2)      I read well-written books on the subject

3)      I teach, preach and act with accountability

4)      I pray, a lot

5)      I count on my village for help

Are you raising a little girl(s)? What do you want to pass along to your child(ren)? Are there other ways you work to encourage solid values? Share your thoughts, hopes and dreams for your kids, right here.

As per Wikipedia, the phrase “to go the way of the dodo” means to become extinct or obsolete, to fall out of common usage or practice, or to become a thing of the past.

There’s just something about that phrase that tickles me and as the latest addition to the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales it is the last thing I want. However, as a primer, I wanted to share some things about me that have gone the way of the Dodo. We’ll call it my version of an introduction.

I have stopped wearing leg warmers. I know. I know. They are all sorts of “back in fashion” among young people, but I gave those up sometime during the 80s. They don’t look good on apples even though we have nice legs.

I’m built from good farm stock. I accept that. So, I’ve stopped worrying so much about my weight and started spending more time on my health and happiness. Does that mean I look good in a bikini? Oh, heck no. But I wear a one-piece and all of my wrinkles and stretch marks with pride.

I’m a relatively low-maintenance gal. I don’t really like massages, mani-pedis, or spending four hours getting my color done. I’d rather do it myself for a quarter of the cost, less tip. Personally, I’d rather hire someone to cut the grass.

I have been a plumbing salesperson, a construction project manager, an advertising professional, a nonprofit executive and now a graphic artist and the one thing that remained constant in each of these chapters in my life – writing. I started writing poetry when I was fourteen – very stupid albeit funny poetry.

Here is the only example I can recall without going into the archives (clearing throat shyly): Jimmy Jack, Jimmy Jack, where did you ever get that knack to please a girl to tease a girl to leave her standing there. Jimmy Jack, Jimmy Jack, where did you ever get that knack to please a girl to tease a girl, I love you Jimmy Jack.

Go ahead and laugh. I really don’t’ mind. Aside from poems I have written short stories, memoires, children’s stories, articles and two and a half novels. I have edited two published memoires and countless business publications. I love the written word like I love working out – no joke – the endorphin boost improves my well being.

So, as you can see, some parts of me have gone the way of the Dodo. Thank goodness my poetry joined the exodus. But the most important parts of me, especially the wisdom I have gained (like not rhyming or making fashion statements), have not.

Stick around. You never know what might come, or go, next.