Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. Why is it that the older you get, the faster time flies? Here it is the end of June. Half of 2022 is over and done. Soon, we’ll be talking about Christmas again. For my Canadian friends, enjoy Canada Day on Friday, while I wish my American friends a Happy Fourth of July on Monday.
This week’s word prompt is EASY. This is the last post from Trouble with Eden, my contemporary romance.
Jackson’s books sold well, and with the money from the sale of the condominium and what he’d gotten from his mother, he wasn’t financially strapped in any way and was willing to invest not only his time but his money into the business.
Now, she felt confident that they would be able to make things work. Not only had he listened to her, he’d accepted her opinions and had treated her like an equal, the way Dad always had. This time, instead of acting on Dad’s suggestions, she would be taking the lead. She’d known from the start that Jackson would be as different from Jeff as day from night, and he’d proved it.
But it hadn’t been his decision to leave Toronto, the garage, or his books that had filled their lunchtime conversation. He’d wanted to talk about Dwayne, probing her memory about her father, making her dwell on the happy recollections from her childhood. It had been so easy to talk to him, to share all the memories that would’ve brought her to tears a few days ago. The burgeoning attraction she’d felt yesterday had grown exponentially. Could something more come of it? Might Lorraine and her crazy idea about them fated to be together, as her mother and Dwayne had been, have merit?
After they’d finished eating, E J had taken Jackson through the house to see Dad’s oil paintings, explaining what memories they’d captured. She’d taken him into her own room, expecting a comment on the pink canopied bed and frilly drapes, the same ones her mother had chosen all those years ago, the ones she’d been unwilling to change, fearing it would sever her from her mother’s memory once and for all. She’d forgotten about the small, framed sketch Dad had made of her dressed as Tinkerbell for Halloween when she was six. That had been just after they’d moved here… before Mom has lost the baby. There’d never been a second one, and then uterine cancer had taken her.
“You know, I could use that image to create a character in my new book,” he’d said, examining the sketch. “Would you mind if I reproduced it?”
“If you want to,” she’d tried to be nonchalant but was secretly pleased he would want to add a drawing of her to his books. No one else would know it was her, but it would still be a thrill to see one of Dad’s drawings in print.
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Welcome to the first official day of summer, and this week’s edition of Tuesday tales. Our word prompt today is RAKE. I’m continuing with Trouble with Eden, my contemporary romance.
Jackson raked his fingers through his hair, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, but determined to be heard. “Like you, whatever Dwayne was thinking when he drafted his will is a mystery, but rest assured, it’s not my intention to take anything away from Eden.” He preferred using that name for her. “In fact, I’d like to make things easier for her. You say she belongs here, and yet I feel a sense of belonging as well. Call it an instinctive recognition of home. Like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn.” Or an elephant finding his way to the graveyard when it was time to die. He shivered.
“When I got word of the bequest, I knew in my gut it was where I was meant to be.” He paused and cleared his throat. Time to lay it all out there and see what Eden’s friend really thought of his chances. “Don’t you think Eden and I can coexist here? Share the business like she and Dwayne did? Share this house, too? It’s certainly big enough. We’re both alone, or so I’ve been led to believe. Neither of us has any other family. I could move into the apartment. Don’t you think we can make all this work? I’ve washed my hands of Toronto and all the sad memories there.”
“So, you are planning to stay here.” She cocked her head. “I suspected as much when you asked to have your med file updated. I used the business address instead of this one, but if it all works out, that’s an easy fix.” She drank from her cup once more and broke off a piece of the pastry. “You’re right about this being a big house. Dwayne’s grandparents built it just after the war. They had four kids. Sadly, Dwayne’s father was the only one to have children, and it looks like you’re the last of that line.” She buttered the scone, added a dollop of jam, and popped it into her mouth. She swallowed. “Try the scones. Betty is the best cook in the area. I don’t know about the apartment though—you must go down five steps to get to it, something that won’t be easy with a wheelchair, but Betty might not want to give up her new home. She and Eden came to an arrangement that gives her the apartment as part of her salary.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. Our word prompt is BAUBLE. I’m continuing with Trouble with Eden, my contemporary romance. This scene follows last weeks as Eden recalls her parting with Jeff.
As she’d expected, a furious Jeff had followed, but his rage hadn’t even come close to hers. The scene played itself out in front of her eyes.
“How dare you be so rude to Phil! He’s my best client,” he whispered, his jaw clenched.
She turned toward him, wobbling on the damn heels she’d worn at his request to give her height. “How dare you tell him I would take his lousy job,” she hissed in return. She pulled the engagement ring off her finger and shoved it in the pocket of his jacket. “We’re through; you can keep this and all the other baubles you want to decorate your pigeons with. Give them to someone more in keeping with your needs. I’m a mechanic, and I have no intention of being anything else, including your doormat. I’ll find my own way home.”
He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “Don’t make a scene,” he growled. “You ungrateful bitch. Wait here. I’ll make our excuses, and we’ll talk about this at home.” The muscle in his jaw had jumped and she’d been afraid.
E J exhaled, the room restoring itself. She hadn’t stayed. Instead, she’d left the hotel and had taken a cab back to Easton Corners. It had cost her a fortune, but she’d been home safe. He’d texted, claiming to be concerned about her, asking where she was. She’d replied with one word, home, and had turned off her phone. He called the office, the landline at the house, but she’d refused to speak to him. Finally, he’d sent a dozen roses with a message saying, that since she needed space, he would give her some and to call when she was ready to talk, ending with “I love you. I know what’s best for both of us.” She tossed the roses and the message in the trash can.
Lorraine had been her confidante, assuring her that what she’d believed had been Jeff’s love had been nothing more than obsession on his part. The man had always wanted what he couldn’t have, and now, that was her.
Hurt and lonely, Eden had retreated into her job, the one thing that had never let her down. Dwayne did his best to see to it that she was happy, but she knew he blamed himself for encouraging her to follow in his footsteps.
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. Our word prompt for this week is SIMPLE. I’m a few words over the 400, so bear with me. I’m continuing with my Contemporary Romance, Trouble with Eden. Enjoy.
She removed her work boots, put on the slippers she always left by the door, and went into the kitchen for her usual cup of warm milk before bed. The calming drink was one her mother had insisted on for as long as E J could recall, and Dad had continued the ritual.
Memories of sitting at the table with Dad, joking about Thanksgiving dinner, flooded her. God, was that really this weekend? Her eyes welled with tears. She would gladly forego the traditional turkey meal for Dad’s favorite macaroni and cheese if she could have him by her side once more. Dwayne had loved the simple things. Unfortunately, her life now was anything but easy and peaceful. Everything was topsy-turvy. How long before she had to face the possibility of losing this house and her job? It didn’t sound as if Jackson would insist on selling the business, but the house? Sure, they could share it while he was recovering, but once he was back on his feet? Two healthy adults cohabitating? Jeff would have a field day with that. No, she wouldn’t go there tonight. There’d been more than enough unpleasant surprises today. Why invent more?
Leaving the kitchen, mug in hand, she went into the family room and stood before the photograph of her mother, Dwayne, and herself on their wedding day. Mom had worn an ecru dress with a feather fascinator rather than a veil. She stood in front and yet between them, dressed in a long, pink gown, styled in the same fashion as her mother’s, the basket of rose petals she’d carried almost empty. A headband of rosebuds held back her hair. Dwayne, still in the army reserves, had worn his dress uniform. No one could doubt the love radiating from their faces, certainly not the little girl whose toothless smile was as broad as theirs. Would Jackson see the resemblance between her mother and herself? Between him and his father?
She frowned, slowly reexamining her reaction to her houseguest. Jackson was the first man who’d kindled any interest in her since the debacle with Jeff. No doubt her ex would say she was having “Daddy” issues again— spout some bullshit nonsense about transference. One of his pet peeves had been that she’d turned to Dwayne more than she’d turned to him. Why wouldn’t she? He was her father, a man who treated her as an equal and had put her happiness first.
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Wow! June already here, and the world is simply getting crazier. Mass shootings in the US, strange new diseases and variants making headlines, meteors coming closer to the Earth than ever, close friends losing relatives, or being seriously ill themselves, and insane weather patterns causing destruction unlike anything we’ve seen. And that was just last month. I shudder to think what this month will bring.
This month’s question is ” June 1 question – When the going gets tough writing the story, how do you keep yourself writing to the end? If have not started the writing yet, why do you think that is and what do you think could help you find your groove and start?
To be honest, my head gets so caught up in the dismal news that it saps my desire to write, so if I haven’t started a story, and there are a few on the backburner waiting for me, that’s probably the reason. It’s hard to write happy go lucky stories when the world around you seems to be falling apart, when people you know personally face pain and sorrow, and when there is no guarantee that tomorrow will be a better day.
As to the first part of the question, I tend to function better when I have a deadline to meet and some degree of pressure to do so. Left to my own devices, I usually manage to find other things that sap the time from me. If I have a deadline, I can get my butt in the seat and get things done. I may have to reread what I’ve written, if I’m stuck, but usually knowing time is running out is all it takes to get me motivated to finish. Sometimes, I find it hard to be as upbeat in the story, but I get it done.
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. As hard as it is to believe, May is over and we’re on to June. Time certainly moves more quickly these days. I’m continuing with Trouble with Eden, my contemporary romance.
“Thanks.” E J turned to him. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
Before he could stop her, she was out the door and down the hall.
“Do you want to use the bathroom before you get into bed?” Betty asked, the suitcase already open in front of her.
He chuckled. “I would. If you’ll wheel me closer to the door, I can manage the last couple of meters with the crutches.”
She nodded. “Have you got pajamas in here?” She indicated his case.
“No, but I have boxers and t-shirt. It’s what I normally wear, and if you open the case, while they may be wrinkled, they’ll be welcome. My toiletries are in there, and I’ll brush my teeth. I don’t think I have the energy to eat.”
The woman smiled. “I’m sure you’re tuckered out. I doubt missing one meal will set your recovery back, but you must have your pills. I’ll take out what you need for tonight and look after the rest. You’ll see, back in your own clothing, with a good night’s sleep under your belt, you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
“I hope so. The last thing I want to be is a burden. It looks like Eden has enough on her plate.”
“Ach, E J’s fine. That girl’s a tough little cookie as Dwayne used to say. No matter how busy she is, she always finds time for those in need. I was quite disappointed when her wedding plans fell through, but then I never liked that Jeff. Not country born and bred—although I suppose I could say the same about you, but you have Dwayne’s genes. That will make a difference. A man who can’t stand to get his hands dirty isn’t what our E J needs. People around here would do anything for her. Now, you get yourself changed. I’ll get the bed ready, and you can get to sleep as soon as you’ve taken your meds. I’ll be staying up until eleven, and I’ve programmed my number into that cellphone. If you wake up and you need anything, just call. I’m right next door. The sooner you get your strength back, the sooner you and E J can get matters settled.”
Jackson shook his head. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Betty’s face grew stern. “That’s easy. Don’t hurt my girl.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. Hard to believe we’ve had our first long weekend of summer, but the weather has been good, so here’s hoping for many more. This week, our word prompt is PIPE. I’m continuing with Trouble with Eden, my contemporary romance.
Betty frowned. “Have you been doing breathing therapy?”
“Yes, ma’am. Twice a day using a blue plastic pipe that they gave me.”
“Good.”
“I told you that Betty would take care of you.” She chuckled. “Now, I’ll get your stuff inside. Do you want a quick tour now, or are you ready to lie down?”
“More than ready for that. I’m not going to be much company tonight I’m afraid.”
Eden shook her head as she grabbed his computer bag, suitcase, and crutches, handing him the bag with the breathing machine and the one from the drugstore.
Nodding his thanks, he let Betty push him up the ramp.
“Was this always here?” he asked as they navigated the ramp.
“No. E J had the boys whip it up a couple of days ago when she thought of borrowing the wheelchair.”
He looked up at her as she stood by the door. “Thank them for me.” He sighed. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Somehow, this wasn’t the way I’d planned to make myself known to you.” But maybe this was better. This way she would at least have a little sympathy for him.
She chuckled. “You can thank the guys from the garage yourself. As much as you might’ve enjoyed a lot of peace and quiet at the hospital, you’re going to be the main attraction around here for the next couple of weeks. You might as well get used to it—especially if you plan to stick around. Dwayne was well-liked and well-respected. People are going to want to meet his son.”
He wrinkled his brow in concern. Playing goldfish in the bowl wasn’t one of his favorite games. “Does everyone know our history?”
“No. That’s your story to tell, but I’m sure they have a lot of different theories.” She held the door open for him and Betty and then, bypassing the front of the house, led him down the hall. “My bedroom is over here on the left.” She indicated the door as they passed it. “The two on the other side are guest rooms that share a bathroom. I have my own, and there’s a powder room off the kitchen. Betty has an apartment attached to the back of the house. It used to be Dad’s smoking room before he gave up his pipe.” She opened the door at the end of the hall and stepped inside. “This was Dad’s room.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Welcome to the middle of May and this week’s Tuesday Tales. I’m continuing with Trouble With Eden, my contemporary romance. Today we have a word prompt, CHEESE. I’ve used a variation of the word. Here’s your 400-word scene.
“So, are you getting another Mercedes?” she asked, pulling out of the hospital lot and onto the street.
“Yes. I’m not sure I would’ve done as well with a lighter car.”
“Those German cars are built to last. Too bad that moose didn’t watch where he was going. He didn’t make it, but I’m glad you did.” She bit her lip.
Jackson laughed and winced. “I am, too; otherwise, I would never have met you.”
“The feeling is mutual, although according to Uncle Eli, Dad was planning to contact you. The pandemic screwed up his plans—and everyone else’s, too. I understand you’re a writer from Toronto. I tried to look you up, but I guess you must use a pseudonym or whatever you call it.”
“I do. I’m not much for sharing my personal life with every cat and canary, but Cecil Longtree, my alter ego, has a large online presence with several thousand followers.”
“Then I suppose the pandemic didn’t really change your life much. I know from Uncle Eli that your mother died before it started, and I am sorry for that. I didn’t know either of you existed. Dad never said a word, although when Uncle Eli explained it … Damn, I’m running off at the mouth like a bloody teenager. I … I’m rather a private person, so meeting strangers, isn’t easy for me. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t know about you either. If you have questions, ask away.”
“Will your wife be joining you? It’s not a problem since we have lots of room.”
“My wife’s dead. She was one of the pandemic’s casualties, a nurse in a Toronto long care facility.”
She glanced at him quickly before focusing on the traffic once more.
“I’m so sorry. So many people died.”
“Yes, and a lot more would’ve, had it not been for the vaccine.”
“Too true. So what were you doing on the 138 the night of the accident?”
“I was coming to see the house, to see you. Not my smartest move as it turned out.”
Surprised filled her eyes. “Did Eli know you were coming?”
“No one knew. It’ll sound cheesy, but I anticipated this great family reunion—you know like twins separated at birth. I wanted to surprise the brother I never knew I had.” He laughed. “Turns out the moose and I were the ones surprised.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
A fake husband, a color-blind painter, a pair of frustrated nudists, crazy neighbors, a cowboy doctor, a tipsy pig and more.
Laugh at their antics as they bring love and joy into UNIQUE AND UNPREDICTABLE adventuress.
Enjoy fun-filled stories with diverse settings. From an English garden to the shores of Sicily, a billionaire’s lair to the Tucson desert with a stopover for a glass of dandelion wine at Algonquin Park, Canada.
Grab your Kindle and get ready for a laugh-filled ride into the world of make-believe in this Romantic Comedy Box Set created by nine New York Times, USA Today, and Award-winning authors of THE AUTHORS’ BILLBOARD.
Susan Jean Ricci – The Charming Chameleon: Can karma inspire a mismatched couple to forgo masquerading and reveal their true selves for love?
Dani Haviland – The Wizard of Odds: Two co-workers take on an impossible challenge and wind up with a menagerie of unusual animals looking for a second chance in the desert. Will the mismatched couples get one, too?
Mona Risk – Husband for a Week: Sicilian vendetta, fake husband, and an irascible matchmaking grandmother complicate their lives. Can love conquer all?
Leanne Banks – Cowboy MD: Could he cure what ails her?
Susanne Matthews – The Tipsy Pig: A socialite, a recluse, and a tipsy pig—the perfect recipe for romance?
Katy Walters – Love Your Neighbor: Moving into a new neighborhood has more challenges – and nuts – than they thought possible.
Angela Stevens – Whitewash: The Tricks of the Trade: What could go wrong when a Pinterest addict lets a color-blind painter and decorator fix up her dream home?
Patrice Wilton – Night Music: A little magic can make anything happen in South Beach.
Stephanie Queen – Small Town Hot Shot Bride: Will Tammy foolishly get swept up by charming out-of-towner Roark and his runaway train attraction? Or will she derail him for good?
Here’s a sneak peek at The Tipsy Pig.
Chapter 1
Childless, divorced, unemployed, and almost forty. A fate worse than death, and yet there wasn’t one damn thing I could do about it. I couldn’t decide which of the dreaded Four Horsemen of my Apocalypse was the worst, although at this moment, the unemployed option stung the most. Not that I really needed to work. I’d lost a fortune, but I wasn’t penniless. It was just that I’d worked at one job or another my entire adult life, dedicating myself to the family business, and now I would have nothing to do. It sucked.
Before I’d reluctantly assumed the position of CEO for Larson Pork Enterprises, I’d worked my way up from graphic design to head of the marketing department, constantly searching for ways to keep up with the competition in this dog eat dog—or rather pig eat pig—world, forced to work long hours to try and hang on to our market share, especially once COVID 19 hit, creating havoc in the meat processing plants which led to shortages. Finding ways to stay competitive without raising prices or cutting employees had been a delicate balancing act, but then the virus had hit too close to home, and everything had changed.
Sadly, after only nine months in the big chair, I was forced to sell the pork processing company that had been in my family since 1890 when Toronto had been known as Hogtown. No more bringing home the bacon. Not exactly a banner line for the resumé or a plus at a job interview. I could picture the scene now.
So, Ms. Martin, I see you’re applying for the position of CEO. I can see you have experience in the field, but tell me, why did you leave your last job?
I sold the company to an international competitor after I fired myself on the grounds that I’m an idiot who didn’t have enough commonsense to realize my ex-husband was robbing me and my company blind.
I see, and would you consider that a strength or a weakness?
I groaned. It would probably be even worse than that.
I sat behind my great-great-grandfather’s ebony desk one last time, staring down at the Moroccan leather blotter. I ran my fingers over the S M L I’d carved into the material a lifetime ago, and sighed. I wasn’t ready for this, not now, not ever. I reached for the cooling cup of coffee I’d picked up from the Java Shack on my way to the office.
According to my best friend Miranda who’d dropped by before going to court this morning, I was giving an Oscar-winning performance as a corpse, even though I’d narrowly escaped being one. It was all a matter of perspective. As she put it, with a little effort I could probably land a walk-on in the filming of the next zombie apocalypse movie. She was exaggerating, but sadly there was too much truth there to ignore.
I’d always been slender, but following weeks in the hospital, the black pantsuit and shell I wore under it hung from my emaciated frame, the only color other than the waxy pallor of my skin coming from my grandmother’s pearls, a fitting costume for a corporate funeral. Saying goodbye to the company and the only jobs I’d ever known was so much harder than I’d expected.
“What the hell are you going to do now, Sahara?”
My voice echoed in the office devoid of family paintings, books, and the soft-surfaced furnishings I’d opted to keep, bouncing off the Lavish Lavinia Larson pig statuette.
A single tear trickled down under the frame of my dark, tortoise-shell glasses. I swiped at it. I would not cry—not now, not ever again. As Dad had always said, tears were for sissies, and while I might be a lot of things—naïve, anxious, and disheartened, despite being a girl, I wasn’t a wimp. I was a survivor.
When I’d turned twenty-one and had graduated from university with a degree in Fine Arts, Dad had given me a job in the marketing department. It had been a far cry from my imagined future restoring masterpieces and creating some of my own, but since I’d spent most of my life trying to make up for the fact that I’d been born without a dick, if that was what Dad wanted, then that was what he would get.
I reached for the statuette on the desk, my biggest success. Lavish Lavinia Larson, the company mascot, was a cartoon pig, loosely based on Miss Piggy, the Muppet character I’d loved. In her silver sequined gown and tiara, holding a lorgnette up to her eyes, she ruled over the porcine realm selecting only the best of her subjects for Larson Bacon. While my father had had his doubts, claiming people would be appalled by the idea which in some ways smacked of cannibalism, I’d pointed out that it was really no different from Charlie the tuna, Chiquita banana, the life-sized M & M candies, or Mr. Peanut—all products selling themselves.
Eventually, he’d backed down, and after a consumer study that showed the pig immensely popular with children and female shoppers, Lavish Lavinia became the star of all Larson bacon ads and commercials. Within a year, the Lavish Lavinia slogan, a cut above the rest, and her cute piggy face had graced Larson bacon products.
As another means of drawing in more consumers, I’d added unusual bacon recipes under our package labels, along with mini pig stickers that could be saved and redeemed for a Lavish Lavinia plush toy. Shoppers loved the idea, and the sale of Lavish Lavinia products increased until our bacon was our most popular commodity. Larson’s might be a far cry from the industry giants, but we had a firm grip on our markets.
Within five years, in addition to selling trademark items like lunch bags and t-shirts, we’d put out two Lavish Lavinia Cookbooks, with recipes for everything from Bacon Stuffed Artichokes, Bacon Brownies, and Bacon and Cheese Baked Ziti in Zucchini Boats to cocktails. After all, love made the world go round, and everybody loved bacon.
Shortly before my father’s untimely death, we’d expanded our product line, adding bacon-flavored simple syrup, candied bacon, bacon-flavored potato chips, and pre-cooked woven bacon taco shells to our list of products. We’d partnered with a micro-brewery and had given our blessing to bacon flavored beer, with Lavish Lavinia on the label, and most recently, after we’d joined forces with McPhee’s Distillery, she’d been featured on their newest product, premixed Tipsy Pig cocktails, a favorite of mine, the perfect drink anywhere, anytime. What I wouldn’t give for one of those now—I would even settle for just the three ounces of bourbon in it.
Stiffening my spine, I placed the statuette back on the desk, stood, and paced the floor, the heels of my Jimmy Choo’s rat-tat-tatting on the polished oak, sounding like some demented woodpecker, as I waited for Saul Levett, the company lawyer.
While selling Larson Enterprises had been the only thing to do, doing so had left a hole in my heart—as if the damn thing didn’t already resemble Swiss cheese.
I glanced at my watch. Where was Saul? He’d been gone almost two hours. The meeting shouldn’t have taken this long.
Nature abhorred a vacuum, and the longer I waited to hear my fate, the more worries and memories combined to fill the void.
How I wished for a do-over, a mulligan, a chance to go back in time to change something, make a different decision, run away from what would turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life—even if I hadn’t been the one to orchestrate it—but karma never gave anyone a second chance. I’d lost it all. Whatever I had left was all I would ever have, and while the Coronavirus had been the last straw, stealing my father from me, it had been my ex-husband who’d taken everything else.
I wrung my dry, chapped hands, desperately searching for answers. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t used to disappointment, but this time, there didn’t seem to be any light at the end of the tunnel.
Glancing at the mirrored wall behind the empty display shelves, I examined my reflection. I’d never deluded myself with the idea that I was a great beauty. I resembled my father, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. While he might’ve been considered handsome in a Nordic sort of way, I was as plain as they came, with a wan complexion that could burn in the shade, a nose that might be slightly too big for my face, thin, colorless lips that had long ago forgotten how to smile, and myopic, watery blue eyes that necessitated the constant wearing of glasses. I’d tried contact lenses, but putting them in and taking them out was far more trouble than they were worth. I’d considered laser surgery, but the severity of the myopia meant I would still have to wear glasses, so why bother?
Blonde hair, pulled back into a chignon, exposed the inch of dark roots that would probably grow even longer before I could do anything about them. With this area of the province still in partial lockdown, it was almost impossible to get an appointment with a hairdresser, and the last time I’d tried to do my own, my hair had come out a most unattractive shade of mauve. Thankfully, we’d been in total lockdown, and I’d been working from home. Eventually it had washed out.
The pale face staring back at me had dark circles under overbright eyes, visible behind thick frames, and bloodless lips. I suppose I could’ve made an effort, put on some of the makeup I’d started to wear when I’d been introduced to Randy, a little blusher for color, lipstick, maybe even eyeshadow to draw the observer’s eyes away from what was really there, but to what end? There was no one left to impress.
I reached for the Financial Observer lying on my desk and glared at the headline on the front page of the rag that passed itself off as a newspaper. Larson CEO Sells to Sapphire, Cuts Randy Loose. Not quite the truth, but what had I expected? Sensationalized headlines sold more papers than facts ever did. I dropped the broadsheet into the recycling bin and resumed my pacing.
The ancient intercom on the desk, a holdover from my Dad’s years as CEO, buzzed, and I reached for it.
“Yes, Nancy.”
“Saul Levett is here, Mrs. Smithers.”
I cringed at the name. How many times had I asked her not to call me that?
“Not Smithers, Nancy. It’s Larson, remember? Send him in.”
If she couldn’t remember something as simple as my name, which was still the same damn one on her biweekly paychecks, maybe it was a good thing she was retiring—or rather being retired. While Sapphire Foods, the company absorbing mine, had agreed to keep some employees, she wasn’t among them.
I reached for the Van Gogh Sunflowers’ mask on the desk and put it on.
You can get your copy of Cute But Crazy 3, Unique and Unpredictable for any Amazon retailer. It’s also free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. This week our prompts are images, and we are limited to three hundred words. I’m continuing with Trouble with Eden my Contemporary Romance. Here’s the image I’ve chosen.
Enjoy!
It was the woman leaning against the black SUV, her head back, chin pointed at the sun, her eyes closed as if in prayer. She was magnificent. What he wouldn’t give to be able to grab his sketch pad and draw her now. He would replace the vehicle with the trunk of an old tree, and instead of a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, she would be garbed in the green and brown commonly worn by his wood nymphs.
“I’ll be right back,” Nancy said, leaning his crutches against the wall beside the chair.
“Hey, Pete,” Nancy said to the guard. “I take it your Mr. Rivers’s ride?” She smiled at the man who’d been signing the form.
Jackson pulled his eyes away from the woman to focus on his new relative. The man, about his height, was in his mid-forties, with graying hair and a paunch. Somehow, he’d assumed that his sibling would be younger not older than he was. Like him, he wore glasses, but the lenses were tinted, so he couldn’t see the color of his eyes.
The man frowned. “I’m sorry. You must be confusing me with someone else. I’m here for my mother.”
Frowning, Jackson looked around. So where was his ride?
Nancy turned to Pete. “I thought you said he was here.”
“Not he, she. She’s out there, leaning against the van.” He flipped the clipboard around and read the name. “E J Walford. Easton Corners. Here to pick up Jackson Rivers.”
Jackson’s head jerked up, his jaw dropped, and he gasped at the sudden, sharp pain the motion had caused. That was E J Walford? It couldn’t be. E J was a man, his brother, not this gorgeous nymph he’d created in his imagination months ago.
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales
Living the Dream 