YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU

RLB Hartmann

There he was. Drunk. I could see that at first glance, as he sprawled on his back on my bed. One arm over his eyes shut out the spring sunshine, while from one hand dangled a nearly empty flat brown bottle.

He opened bleary eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning them on me. “I came to visit you.”

I’d gone down to the livery which I owned, just to check on things, and he was trying to talk my stableman into giving him a job. “You don’t look like the kind of gent who’d take to shoveling out stalls,” I observed. “You look like an out-of-luck gambler.”

Raymond and I had loved each other. My feelings hadn’t changed–and I didn’t believe his had, either. His cryptic note, I’M SORRY, gave no clue as to what had gone wrong. I didn’t know where he was, or why, but Brewer was right: I waited for him to return.

He staggered back out with the whiskey bottle raised to his mouth, draining the last dregs. He flung the empty container across the floor. “Yell if you want to,” he challenged. Suddenly, he laughed softly–mocking, I thought–and sat down, legs extended carelessly in front of him and arms reaching above his head in a stretch. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, crouching as if prepared to spring.

I gathered myself, ready to run for the door if he twitched a muscle. We sat for a minute, separated by eight feet of faded carpet, examining each other. All the time, however, I was thinking of what Brewer had said about Raymond. It couldn’t be true. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked at last.

“You got a right to know, don’t you? Figure I can do that much, after you hired me, an’ all.”

Clenching my fists, I kept myself from flying into him and beating him even more senseless than he was. I told myself he didn’t know what he was saying, but I listened to his addled discourse.

“She was top-notch. I give ol’ Ray this much: he knows how to pick ‘em. You think I’m jealous? Naaaw. Let her love him. I don’ care.” He looked up, eyes narrowed. “But you care, don’t you.”

We rode for nearly half a mile in silence, sneaking glances that each hoped the other hadn’t seen, until I finally inquired, peevishly, “Why aren’t you at the stable?”

“What I had in mind is my business.”

“Not when you’re interfering in MY life.”

Since I wasn’t making any progress in escaping, I ducked my face against his shoulder and set up a wail, partly from annoyance at being here at all, mostly from frustration over not knowing whether he was right about Raymond. The idea that Brewer had comforted dozens of women this way distracted me somewhat, so that gradually I stopped and waited to see what he would do next.

“What do you care.” He was sullen.

“I told you about Alice, didn’t I? How pretty she is. I gave her a dress once, back in Laramie. We were goin’ to get married. Then she met Raymond. They were in love, they said.”

When I returned to where Brewer sat, I decided he needed that coffee more than I did. His eyes seemed vague and unfocused.
 
He began searching the floor, the sofa cushions, the dress box, his pockets, for the bottle he had forgotten was empty. It had rolled under the sofa. I could see the neck of it sticking out. “Here.” I thrust a cup at him.

“You’re still here,” he observed.

“I live here,” I reminded him.

He stared at me, then rapidly rubbed his face as if to clear his brain, and stared some more. “You’re keeping it.”

“Yes. Thank you.” We were self-consciously silent while my hall clock ticked two dozen times. “How did you know it would fit?”

“I like El Paso. I might not like Laramie.” I’d heard it was cold and snowy there in winter, and I was used to desert heat.

“The world is a big place.”

Read short story below and winner of the February “Featured Short Story contest”.  Going…going….Gone?

If not for a messy break-up with a man I had considered marrying, I never would have set out on this trip, using vacation time to drive through three states to see someone I’d met once, two years ago. My best friend had suggested calling Brandt’s Auction House to conduct the sale of my childhood home and its contents. So I did.

Stephen Brandt’s phone voice was pleasantly regional and businesslike, and he was willing to travel. When he arrived, dressed in a faded blue shirt and jeans, he looked as if he was auditioning for a commercial for prime western steaks. Doubts vanished as I watched him direct his crew in sorting and tagging furniture, rugs, linens, and a few antiques.
 
After the sale, we had dinner and I found him intelligent and easy to talk to. We dawdled until midnight over coffee and key lime pie…but parted with only a handshake. For weeks I entertained romantic thoughts about the handsome, craggy man who cajoled strangers to exchange their cash for someone else’s keepsakes.

Sunlight bounced off the asphalt, and I welcomed the cool of the gymnasium. People were milling around, peering at quilts, toys, board games, glassware, and boxes of books. At the front, chairs wore paper labels taped to the back stating “Reserved” and fifty or sixty hopefuls sat fanning themselves with a mimeographed list of lot descriptions.

“Is this seat taken?” said a male voice.

I looked up into wide blue eyes. A smile beneath a boyish mustache made me retrieve my handbag from the chair beside me. “No, it isn’t.”

He settled a giant umbrella behind his loafers, spilling a little coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. “You don’t think it’s going to rain, do you?” I joked.

“Never can tell.” He grinned. He was wearing a cotton shirt with narrow blue stripes, and tan dress pants. His hair was light brown. “I’m Greg Carr,” he said, tucking his list under his arm and changing the cup so he could offer his hand.

“Martha Collier.” Needing a morale boost, presently I asked, “Where are the refreshments?”

Following the aroma of coffee and raw onions, I found the cafeteria, adorned with children’s artwork. Beyond a counter stocked with hotdogs, hamburgers, soft drinks, and a 50-pot coffeemaker, there were tables and chairs. And–Stephen.

He smiled. “You talk funny.”

My burst of nervous laughter caught their attention. With the girl hanging on his arm, Stephen came toward us, hesitated, stopped. “There’s a book dealer here,” he cautioned Greg. “Don’t let him spook you.”

“He won’t go too high on the lot I want,” Greg said. He appeared about to introduce me when Stephen held out his hand. “Martha…Collier. Two years ago. Estate sale.”

“I’m on vacation, and I saw the fliers, and–” Stop babbling, my pride cut in silently. The girl was Kelly… Somebody. Saying, “Enjoy your vacation,” she tugged his arm. He went with her.

“No, thanks. I thought you were guarding my chair.”

“Now you know why I carry such a big umbrella.”

One hundred and four lots later, Greg had his books, and the breathless auctioneer mopped his face with a handkerchief. “Now to give you folks a break,” he said, “I’m going to turn this mike over to my favorite partner, Stephen Brandt. Come on up here, Steve.”

My tense body relaxed. In the front row all along, he’d been screened by a sea of people. I craned my neck, but Kelly must have had better things to do.
 
I listened to Stephen’s hypnotic voice describing framed paintings, a pair of brass lamps, Art Deco glass bowls, an antique radio, and innumerable pieces of Sterling silver. Most of the objects were out of my price range, but soon I toyed with the notion of bidding. Remind him of my presence. “Darn!” I cried softly, and Greg asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to get a number.”

“Here,” he said. “Use mine.”

Anxious, I took the 6 x 8 card inked “45″ in black felt tip. Searching the list for some likely item among gallon jugs, cast iron beanpots, and duck decoys, I heard Stephen call, “Who will bid twenty? Four albums for twenty dollars,” and shot the card into the air.

A runner brought the cardboard box, wobbly with its weight of tattered albums. Instead of photos, they contained post cards.

I shoved the box between our chairs, hoping that Stephen had seen only the card and not the person who held it. The crowd was thinning, and people were moving to more desirable seats. Some had been to the cafeteria for hotdogs and soft drinks. My adventure had taken a wrong turn, and it didn’t appear that the road was going to get any better.

I lay across the bed, head pounding, brain playing over the events of the last few hours. Over-bidding on a lot no one else wanted was embarrassing enough, but my greater mistake was in coming here at all.
 

“Hi,” he said, his hazel eyes warm and friendly. “I had a devil of a time finding you.”

“How DID you find me?” I felt dazed, standing so close.

Note: Winner – Featured Story Contest!“

To read an excerpt from Fredric Maffei’s novel see link.  

On the top step of her and Deb’s cabin, Eve stood soaking up the loveliness all around, one bit of birdsong in particular so fetching as to tilt her head and bring a smile in the listening. A nightingale? But, city girl as she was, she knew those only by reputation. She could, however, recognize so obvious a human whistle as the one she now heard, so sudden and intrusive upon her ear.

Immediately her “nightingale” was no more and Eve’s bemused lis-tening had given way to a pained look, some serpent in her garden.

And there it was again, a pretend bird whistle. Turning toward where it seemed to be coming from, Eve spied Davy beckoning to her from amongst the brush. Quietly, she went to him; quickly, he drew her deeper in amidst thick overhanging branches.

“Your bird whistle sucks,” she said. “You’d be an endangered species overnight.”

“I might be one already,” he said in an anxious whisper. “Eve, sweetheart, I need a favor.”

“You want me to put in a good word for you with Debbie,” Eve said. “Pah, bah, fie, and a pox on you. May the flesh wither from your – ”

“Okay, I’m properly chastised,” he said, shushing her and drawing her in even farther. “Now help me out a little, will ya?”

“Me? Help you out? Now? After it didn’t work out so well for you – your helping yourself?” said Eve. “No, I won’t second guess two grown people who supposedly know better, despite that one of ’em has his head up his ass.”

“Then explain to me what the hell I did that was so wrong,” he half-pleaded. “And then why can’t I even *****ing apologize for it? Am I such an evil guy, after all? I salivated a little. Who wouldn’t? Jesus? I mean – Christ!”

Looking across at Eve’s serious yet kind eyes, all warm commiseration emanating out, Davy sighed relief, sense of some subtle little denting of her armor. But then her sudden odd little smile sweeping all of that away.

“Kneel!” she ordered.

“What?”

“Kneel down!” she ordered again. “Kneel down before me.”

“What the hell’s this?” he said, laughing. “I’m not gonna kneel down.”

“You’ve riddled me a riddle. If you’re wanting the answer, you’ll kneel down,” she said.

Several strange face twistings of inner turmoil later, Davy at last lowered down onto his knees. Looking up, he found an Eve fighting valiantly not to smile.

“Now beg me to marry you,” she said.

“What?”

“Now beg me to – ”

“Chrissakes, Eve – stop playing!” he said, leaping up.
Quick as surprise itself, she’d caught his hand firmly in her own. He looked across at her, stared almost frightened of her, of her eyes so opened out and alight.

“What do the plainest woman and the most beautiful woman in the world have in common?” she asked.
He tried to take back his hand but it was in as good as a vise.

“Answer!” she demanded.

“Beyond the obvious, I have no idea,” he said, appalled.

“No one looks at the plain, the quiet one. No one sees her,” said Eve.

“Not so with Debbie,” he said, grasping little but doing it instantly.

“Yes so!” said Eve. “With Debbie too! Everyone looks at the beautiful, the gorgeous. The men can hardly tear their eyes away. And the women as well.”

She waited for the realization to sink in – and waited some more. But there he stood. Until at last it seemed to her he had ossified into one great and eternal question mark, the look of him just that foolish.

“Which is every bit as impersonal,” she insisted. “Every damn bit as impersonal, Davy. Think about it.”

Davy looked down and away.

“Except the plain gal has one advantage,” Eve explained. “When at last some caring man comes along and takes her hand, she knows it to be any-thing but impersonal. It’s real and it’s palpable. She’s made beautiful in his eyes, and it’s a life’s treasure to her. And so to him.”

Caught fast in Eve’s too-bright gaze, easing subtly back from her grip yet unable to free himself, Davy watched again that odd little smile touch her face, the same as before.

“Whereas a beautiful gal like Debbie might marry ten times over before she gets lucky,” she said. “Hell, you could maybe be one of the lineup – and does it even matter to you which? See, Deb was smart enough to know all that. Even while your head was too far up your ass to even consider it.”

“Well, it’s not like we were in love or anything,” he said, wrenching free.

“Yes, but then why proposition her? Have you no sense of propriety, sir? No sense of delicacy at all?”

He spent a long moment sighing, blinking, purs-ing his lips.

“I guess if I’m gonna eat crow, I have to first take my head outta my ass,” he said at last.

“Today you are a man,” said Eve.

In a room somewhere high up in the great house, a forgotten room dark as night, sheets covering not only the bed but the furniture as well, the door opened and Cliff’s head peeked in.

“Hark, an obscure place.”
Sara edged in around him. Leaving the door open, for light, they immediately began exploring.

“Cameras? Hello, anybody here but us spar-rows?” said Cliff. And with a sharp little turn of his head toward her, “They can’t have bugged the whole house, can they?”
He lifted edges of sheets and Sara did the same. “Peep-peep,” she chirped, peering under them. “No busybody here, just a wee little birdie. Peep-peep.”

“This seems a good place,” said Cliff, drawing the covering sheet off the bed completely. “It only wants warming.”

Sara’s eyes lowered shyly, then bravely looked across at him, the made-up bed between them. She sat upon it, bounced lightly. He came round and sat beside her.

“Do you think a bed, an old retired bed like this, remembers its bygone days, when it was young?” Sara wondered aloud.

“If I let myself drift a little, sure I do.”
“Do you think it ever sees itself unused, without purpose?”

She’d lowered her head and turned slightly away.

“You’re not talking about the bed now,” he said. And placing a reassuring hand on hers, “You’re not even talking about yourself. Life burns bright in you still, Sara Stewart.”

“Why do you call me by my last name?” she asked, facing him and returning his smile.

He squinted an eye, puzzled. “Why? Does it sound formal to you, start to finish? I call everyone else by their first names. Not you, though. Or not always.”

She lifted his hand to squeeze in both of hers. “So analytical, my young chess player,” she laughed.

“So, Sara first-name-only, do you want to re-hearse?” he asked.

They looked at one another, neither of them quite knowing anymore what the word meant, what it had come to mean to them. Rehearse? No more the bright little winking at one another, no more the warming light behind their veils – more an ever-increasing electric current between them. And risky. But there it was even now, and sparking. So that whatever was at risk hardly mattered.

“Close the door, please, Cliff?” she said.
He shut it almost but not quite all the way, leaving a thin ray of light to see by. Even still, he had to make his way slowly toward her, unsure of the furniture roundabout. She saw him a dark form approaching, standing before her. He could only just barely make her out in the shadows. Her eyes glistened, two dark little mirrors capturing some distant spark.

“So who are we then, we lovers?” he asked, not yet certain of the role he was to play.

“We’ve kissed once,” she reminded him.

“Yes, just like we have already – you and I, Cliff and Sara.”

“Yes, very much like the two of us,” she repeated. “They’d made a beginning. There was no putting it aside. It only seemed unfinished in them.”
They could see one another a little better now, their eyes adjusting.

“The love scene then? How do you envision it?” she asked, that same shyness about her.
He sat beside her again, took her shoulders in his hands, and drew her around to face him. And upon seeing his secret smile, the one he always wore when he had some surprise chess move up his sleeve, a sharp little flame of anticipation leapt in her.

“I see them – these lovers who, I hasten to add, are not us, not us at all…” he trailed off slyly.
There was Sara’s quick little spurt of laughter after which he sat silently waiting. Waiting, perhaps, for her to catch up with him? That was it then, his subtle move. She saw it in the patient tilt of his head, the sure bright irony of his gaze. How tenderly he had seen through her and how gently he’d teased her. How much, after all, did this dream she was living have to do with the script she was writing? The answer hardly mattered. The only answer that mat-tered wouldn’t come from her anyway.

He touched her face, his hand lingering. “They should go slowly, these lovers,” he said. “In the words of the great poet, ‘You, the new season’s lovely perennial and I your questing bee, this odd and instinctive little dance of ours across the generations’ – end quote. Don’t you agree?”

Looking up at him, her round, slightly over-whelmed and wondering face in his hands, Sara only just managed to stammer a reply.

“It’s – it’s lovely. Who was he, the poet?”
He laughed aloud. “Me, last night. I wrote it,” he said.
He hardly gave her time to laugh. Bending toward her, his lips touched hers in so slow and delicate a kiss it took her breath away.

“Cliff, this – this rehearsal, I – ”

“Some words are for tasting,” he shushed her, his thumb brushing her lips.

He kissed her again. Hardly knowing what she was doing, her hands crept up beneath his loose-fitting shirt.

“So soft, so smooth your skin,” she said.
Turning her, he lifted her legs and guided her so that she might lie back comfortably. But when she lapsed suddenly limp in his arms, it startled him. Helpless, he watched her faint away.

She’d fallen back and onto the pillow, an odd little swoon in her. Sitting beside her and looking down, he turned her face toward him, forcing her to look up at him. Or trying to, for she had drifted away, quite, quite away and fully entered into some dreamscape he could only envy in her… and of course rejoice within himself at having brought her to.

Laughing electric, he gave her shoulders a little shake. Her eyes opened, a waking and wondering little smile on her. And this time when he kissed her, her tongue was alive and tasting honey, her shoul-ders a warm tensile strength in his hands. And when he looked down at her, her face lit with wanting him, he was amazed at how the years had fallen away, turned her young again, and, to his eyes, most beautiful.

Of course they rehearsed well into the evening.

Tony led Dilly by the hand, around the side of the house and across a sandy stretch to where, with a gradual sloping up, they reached the edge of the wood; then farther up into where it seemed they’d reached a darkened little pinnacle of privacy, a blind of branches shutting out what little tip of sun remained.

“Oh look,” said Dilly in a breathless whisper.
Hardly twenty feet away stood three deer watch-ing them, ears straight up, tails flickering white. They turned suddenly, disappeared without a sound into the shadows.

“Oh!” she said again.

Tony saw her in profile, the sudden hurt in her at the deer having so quickly gone. But when he touched her arm and she turned toward him, she had hardened herself, not a bit of warmth filtering through – a look he met with a cold resolve of his own.

“Best we leave it here in the woods,” he began. “If it’s ended, why fight?”

“Yes, why fight?” she agreed, or seemed to. “It’s what they want us to do. Act it out for the cameras.”

“Exactly. I don’t wanna do it. That’d be the death of me,” he said.

“Really!” she cried, mocking him. “The very death of you? Or only the virtual? Why do you always wear ’em on your sleeve, your life or death? So dramatic.”

“Don’t start. I’ll fight if I have to. I just don’t want to.”

“Is that a challenge, oh impotent one?” she said, her biggest of all guns blazing.
And of course it was true what she had said, no softening the sting of it. Not once, not in the two months he had known her, had he ever quite brought it off. But it was one thing suffering in silence, his forever wilting at her altar – yet quite another having it dished up in his face.
Taking a step back from her, a sharp little breath escaping him, he eyed her like some horror expelled. She, however, advanced a step nearer him, maintain-ing the distance.

“We were a mistake,” he argued. “You insisted I read you. I did. I still do. I’m interested, you see.”

“I can’t read you. I won’t read you,” she argued back. “Your female characters – they’re boring. They’re nothing but insulting to women.”

“Maybe they only start out that way,” he said. “How would you know? You want that they should be strong, indomitable – superior! Right from the start. Like your own perfect self.”

“Hence your impotence?” she asked, a mocking little slit of a smile on her.

“Poor sad little thing,” he said looking down, “but how glad he’d have been for some warm, welcoming place to go into.”
Immediately he saw that he had hurt her, a quivering in her lower lip, a quaver in her voice.

“You think I’m a cold ***** – just a cold ***** – don’t you?” she cried.

With eyes softening and shoulders a-droop, some supreme tiredness inside, he looked at her.

“No such summing up,” he said. “We’re a bad combination, that’s all. It’s so simple really. But here we are playing it out all over again.”

“You’ve a new apple to your eye then?” she said, her face twisted into a look he’d not seen before – “The lady Eve, so accommodating, fashioned from your own rib, as it were.”

He shrank from her, but inwardly. No good taking another physical step back if she was only going to close the distance.

At his silence, a silence all too telling to her, her eyes flashed fire.

“A cold *****! That’s all I am to you. And after I did that certain thing for you – hour after hour. A cold ***** is all I am.”

Unprepared as she was that he would be the one closing the distance, her eyes widened in surprise if not fear. But there he was before her, hands lifted and gesturing Italian.

“What hours? What hours?” he demanded.
His fire too fierce to stand against, she stalked off, Tony close behind her, the leaves crackling underneath as if they, too, were on fire.

“They seemed hours to you, these minutes?” he fire-breathed, following her up, singeing her ears. “And all scripted. You playing the hottie – always running the show – like something you saw in some damned porno flick.”

The faster she walked the quicker he followed after. “Maybe I didn’t want to be leapt upon, gobbled up,” he said cruelly. “Maybe slow is better. And as for your hours’ spent – the thing’s not for siphoning gas, you know. It wants gentler treatment.”

Dilly, slowing, stepping aside, holding her ears, began to weep.

“You’re abusive. You’ve an abusive personality!” she cried again. After which she collapsed down onto the leaves and whimpered childlike.

Crouching beside her, he’d have taken her hand, but she pushed him away. “We abuse each other,” he said without touching her. “We can’t help it. When one of us is going strong the other’s wiped out entirely.”

“Why did you make me love you then?” she wept, her wounded doe’s eyes looking up at him. “There’s a light in you, Tony. Why isn’t it constant? Why do you abuse me like this?”

He shook his head miserably and looked away.
“Oh, that light,” he said, not unkindly. “It wants generating. It fades. I wilt. I turn mean.”

Her hurt eyes melting him down, he’d have lowered his forehead to hers, but she moved aside. Lifting her chin, he forced her to look at him. There was a plea in his voice. “Like grownups, Dill. Let’s not just rip it across.”

“No! You’re an abusive man!” she yelled, leaping up.
She’d turned her back to him and was walking away.
“Why do you have to be so *****ing scripted?” he called, unable to stop himself. “If I’m not this, then I must be that! Abusive personality, *****-all!”
She was running, out-distancing his voice. And so he shouted out.

“Those goddamned women’s magazines – they’ll ruin you every time!”

Perhaps she’d heard, perhaps she hadn’t. Slowly, despite that he could no longer see her, he followed after. At one great tree trunk thicker than all the rest, he paused. He leaned against it, his head sunk down upon it: “***** it then,” he said, his breath choked off in him. “Just ***** it,” he said again, his face deathly, hands two claws dug into the trunk of the tree.

And so he’d managed it at last.

He’d got it done.

It was finished.
There’d be no more screaming. No more tearing. Only the echoes to contend with, and those he could manage – especially now, while he’d made a begin-ning elsewhere.

“

 Joe is an average guy, one of the affluent 20 something professionals, marketing guys are always trying to attract the attentions of. He has a steady job in a bookstore and a fairly large disposable income. He has a beautiful wife and they are very much in love. He is the perfect consumer, buying and watching whatever is in vogue, experiencing whatever pop culture tells him to.

Alice is the complete opposite. Very unstable, has been in and out of mental institutions for the past five years. She drifts from place to place, job to job and when she runs low on cash, she steals just to survive. She hates the world and the world hates her. She refuses to live like a normal healthy consumer and thinks it’s all a lot of lies, a vicious circle of empty consumerism. She wants out. She wants out of this stupid life, the petty mind games the ridiculous nature of western society. In other words she wants to die.

Joe and Alice form a connection that pulls Joe further and further into danger and makes him deal with questions he’s never dealt with before and see the world in a whole new light. – S. Clark

Infatuation is about  Georgine Louvelle, a young woman who travels to Paris to star in a French stage play. On arrival, she quickly learns that she has been duped by her shady agent, when the establishment he sends her to turns out to be a “pussy cat” bar…a far cry from the sophisticated Paris she’d always dreamt of visiting. She meets her new boss Joe, a cheapskate who not only goes out of his way to make life difficult, but is secretly conspiring with a rich suitor to keep her in Paris.  Things don’t always go according to plan when she falls for Renard, the poor but sensitive, French actor.  Who will our heroine choose?

I truly enjoy writing romance novels.  My hope is to inspire and enrich the lives of my audience with sweet tales of love, fantasy and strong women in search of themselves.

In my novels, the ills of the world cease to exist save for the complicated intricacies of human emotions and the notion that love conquers all. - E. Hughes

(THERE MAY BE SPOILERS BELOW DO NOT READ AS THIS ENTRY MAY REVEAL SOMETHING TO YOU AS YOU READ THE BOOK. P.S. CHARACTER NAME OMITTED AND CHANGED TO ____”

 EXCERPT:

The drive to her parent’s house was over an hour away and not long after, they had arrived.

The house was in the heart of Cornwall just over a windmill bridge and part of a nearby apple grove of which her father was the caregiver. Georgie told ______ that her father bought the land after her parents retired, just before her graduation from high school.

The Louvelles lived in a typical country house. It had large scenic windows and a view of the countryside and a wrap-around porch trimmed with rose bushes. It was a cool windy day. The shutters of the old house rattled and the screen door blew open and closed in the breeze.

______ sat in a rocking chair on her parent’s porch as Georgie pushed their unlocked door open and walked inside.

“Georgie?” a female voice called in surprise.

“Louis! Oh dear Lord, Georgie’s home!”

“Hey mom,” Georgie said.

The door closed behind her, leaving ______ outside before he could properly stand and introduce himself to her mother. But the window was open. He could hear them loud and clear as they stood in the kitchen and talked.

“Where on earth have you been? We thought you were dead! We called the café, they told us you abandoned the show. We called the Embassy, and they said they haven’t heard from you since the day you arrived. We called every airline we could possibly think of, but they wouldn’t give us information.”

“I quit my job at Le Caniche Rose and went to Italy.”

“Italy! What on earth were you doing in Italy? You couldn’t call? Your father is so upset. And what about Olivia and Oliver?”

______ wondered who Olivia and Oliver were.

Georgie sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“All of us were worried sick.”

“I had a terrible time in Paris at first, but I was determined to work my way out of it. I got myself into that mess and I was going to get myself out. Then something wonderful happened and next thing you know, I was in Italy!”

“What kind of wonderful are you talking about?”

“So you finally decided to show up?” a voice interrupted. “Your mother and I were worried sick.”

______ figured it was probably her father speaking.

“I’m sorry dad. I didn’t mean to scare you or upset Olivia and Oliver. I went to Italy.”

“I thought we agreed that you were going to France?”

“Agreed? Jeez, dad. What am I? A five year-old?” she rolled her eyes.

“You’re right. We’re flying off the handle,” her mother said, taking a deep breath.

“How was your trip?”

“You were right, dad. Lucky lied about Le Caniche Rose. Turns out, it was a seedy run down café in the Red Light District.”

“I know,” the father said. “Your mother and I looked it up on the internet. The place was a real shit hole.”

“…So I went to Italy.”

“What were you doing in Italy?” her mother asked.

Georgie took a deep breath.

“Promise you won’t overreact.”

“Brace yourself Irma. You know what happened the last time we heard those words.”

“Dad… please.”

“What is it?” Irma replied.

“I’m married.”

She showed them her ring hand as she backed toward the door. ______ stood as the screen door swung open and Georgie stepped out.

“This is my new husband, ______ ____.”

Georgie’s parents appeared in the doorway behind her – slack jawed.

“M-M-arried?” her father grumbled.

“______, this is my father Louis Louvelle. This is my mother… Irma.”

“Nice to meet you,” ______ said, extending a hand.

Louis stared at first then brusquely gripped his hand.

“No need to stand outside for the entire world to see. Come on in.”

“Thank you,” ______ replied.

They stood in the kitchen. Louis looked him up and down.

“I saw you in the paper last week. The article said something about getting married.”

“You saw ______ in the paper?” Georgie asked.

Louis shot her an angry look. “I have nothing to say to you right now.”

Irma grabbed her husband by the arm. “It’s her life. She has a right to get married if she wants.”

“To him? I-I’m trying to figure this out. Just how did the two of you meet in France of all places? I wouldn’t be surprised if they planned the whole thing from the beginning.”

He cocked his head to the side and stared at ______ and Georgie.

Louis was tall, dark and imposing with a mean stare and a sharp baritone voice. The mother was petite with salt and pepper hair and a gentle face that looked a lot like Georgie’s. ______ could tell the woman was probably as beautiful as her daughter at one time. In fact, she was still a very pretty woman.

“Don’t worry about him,” Irma said. “He’ll come around. You kids have a seat at the table and have some dinner.”

______ reluctantly sat.

Louis’ impact on Georgie was sharp. Her hands were shaking and her shoulders were trembling. She couldn’t look him in the face. But the man wasn’t looking at his daughter. His eyes burned incisions through ______.

Irma cluttered around the kitchen moving plates from the cabinet to the table. Georgie helped. They were standing near the stove stirring sauce when a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties with a thin resemblance to Georgie came bustling in with two noisy children.

“Hey, Georgie!” the young woman called.

She met her sister at the stove and gave her a hug. The two children, Olivia and Oliver followed.

“Hey you!” Georgie exclaimed. She pulled the kids into her arms and kissed them on their foreheads. “I missed you.”

“We missed you too,” the boy answered.

The little girl Olivia laid her head on Georgie’s chest as she hugged her.

“Are you moving in with us again?” Oliver asked.

“No, but I’m just an hour away. You can visit any time you want. For as long as you want.”

Georgie stole a look at her mother and father.
“Well, it’s about time you came back. Where in the hell have you been?” the sister asked.

“Watch it. You’re not too old to get your mouth washed out with soap,” Irma chided.

Georgie smacked her lips. “In Italy. I got married.”

The young woman opened her mouth wide with shock. “You got what!”

“Married, as a matter of fact. ______, this is my sister, Anne.”

“Oh, hello! So you’re the big pink elephant in the room. Nice to meet ya. I was wondering why everybody was all tense and everything.”

Georgie rolled her eyes.

“The two little ones are Olivia and Oliver,” Georgie continued.

“And who are they?” ______ asked.

“Her brother and sister,” Louis interrupted.

He gave ______ and Georgie a curious look. Irma stopped stirring the sauce in her pot and was looking at them.

______ noticed the kids looked nothing like Georgie’s parents.

“Wow,” Anne said. “Married? I think I need a drink.”

She shook her head.

“By the way, I’ve seen you before. In the newspaper. Aren’t you…?”

“______ ____.”

Anne gave Georgie a look of utter astonishment then sat at the table across from her new brother-in-law. “Where did you guys meet?”

“In France, at the café.”

“Wow, Georgie, that place was a real dump. We looked it up on the internet.”

Georgie looked over her shoulder at Anne and rolled her eyes. “I know. I can’t say I regret working there. If not, I never would have met my ______.”

She looked at him and smiled.

Louis and Irma exchanged bewildered looks but Georgie seemed completely oblivious as she set the table.

A few minutes later everyone took turns washing their hands at the sink then sat down to eat. Irma and Georgie served the plates. Homemade lasagna, broiled chicken, salad, bread rolls, soup, and lemonade.

Georgie stared back and forth at ______ and her father while Louis took bites of his food and quietly stared at Georgie, ______, Olivia and Oliver who all sat beside each other. The longer he stared, the angrier he looked.

Irma rubbed his shoulder every few minutes as if to calm him down.

“So, what do you for a living?” Anne asked. “Your family owned a lot of businesses right?”

“Yeah.”

______ slurped soup from his spoon.

“You must be loaded.”

“Anne!” Georgie wailed. “It’s rude to talk about money.”

“It’s rude for rich people, but I’m not rich so what do I care?”

Irma bit her lip and signaled with her eyes to get Anne’s attention, but the young woman refused to look.

“How’s the job?” Georgie interrupted.

“Boring.”

Anne cut into her lasagna. “Did you guys take wedding pictures?”

“Actually we did. I made copies for everybody. Don’t worry, we’re getting married again. I want Olivia and Oliver to be a part of the ceremony, of course…”

“Can we see the pictures?” Olivia asked.

“Sure…”

Georgie opened her wallet and flipped through some of her wedding photos. The family leaned toward Olivia for a better look.

“Nice…but how was the honeymoon?” Anne wriggled her brows.

Louis dropped his spoon on the table and glared at ______.

“May I have a word with you outside?”

______ knew the family would be surprised by the marriage, but was hoping, not so contentious. Irma wiped tears from her eyes and Louis looked ready to rip ______ in half.

“Daddy? Is everything okay?”

“Stay here. I need to have a talk with ______. Man to man.”

“Dad, don’t do anything crazy!” Anne called.

Louis grabbed his hat.

Georgie turned in her seat as the two men walked toward the door. ______ gave her a pointed stare. “We’re going for a walk. I’ll be right back.”

Louis scoffed as they opened the door and walked out.

______ and Louis descended the porch steps and walked across the field toward the apple grove in total silence. For the first time in a long time, ______ was actually nervous. He knew what the old man was angry about and now it was time to hash it all out.

When they were far away from the house, away from where anyone might hear them, Louis stopped. There was an empty basket near a tree. The family probably used it to carry apples.

“You just couldn’t’ stay away from her, could you?”

______ looked over his shoulder toward the house. Georgie had stepped out onto the porch, searching for them in the distance.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know who you are.”

______ narrowed his eyes.

“I told you to stay away from my daughter.”

“I love Georgie. I would never do anything to hurt her.”

“Then why did you do it? Why come back?”

“Because I love her.”
Louis walked toward the tree, bent down and put a fallen apple into the basket.

“You’re not in love with my daughter. You’re infatuated. After all this time you’re still pining and lusting after her.”

He turned and strode toward ______ again like he wanted to hit him.

“We still don’t know what you did to her that night.”

“Ask her yourself. She’ll tell you, I didn’t do anything to hurt her.”

“How can I ask Georgine about something she doesn’t even remember? You rich little shit, you think you can have anything you want, don’t you? And the one thing you couldn’t have, you just had to take. Not once, but twice.”

“It wasn’t like that. What Georgie and I have is special. Why would I marry someone I didn’t love, honor or respect? Why would I give her my family’s name?”

“Damn your family name! Let tell you something, boy. If it wasn’t for the fact that you married Georgie, showing your face around here would look real bad right now. In fact, I would have taken my rifle and shot you clean off of my property. But Georgie’s happier than I’ve ever seen her, and I won’t take that away. For my daughter’s sake, I’m gonna give you a chance to explain yourself.”

“Just hear me out,” ______ said. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt his wife by getting into a tussle with her father. But he was just about run out of patience.

Louis folded both arms across his chest and waited.

A burned-out American college student travels to the threatened rainforests of Australia where she becomes embroiled in ecological intrigue. Here she meets her soul mate only to be separated from him for twenty years before she finds the strength within herself to go in search of lost love.