Yesterday life threw lemons at us. Not soft pitch, either. When I got downstairs and said 'good morning' to my MIL, I knew instantly that she'd had a stroke. She couldn't enunciate, at all. The words would form but couldn't get out in anything but a hairball, all knotted up and unintelligible.
She spent last night in the hospital for observation and the improvement, what there's been, is remarkable. Between yesterday morning and last evening, her ability to speak has come back about eighty percent. Her mental acuity is slower than it was, and she still has trouble expressing sentences or thoughts. They form, you can see that they're there. But getting them out is sometimes impossible. Particularly if she's anxious for some reason.
That threw me off here - I was planning on starting this, continuing to write 'First Dig Two Graves', but it went nowhere.
Had to get hubby up without causing him to have a panic attack. Had to get the paramedics here and see her packaged for delivery. Had to get to work, etc.
That was hubby's insistence and, frankly, he was right. She was being well cared for. It wasn't imminently life threatening - it was a mini-stroke, a TIA - and she wasn't at Death's door.
The doctors and nurses didn't need the distraction of another family member hovering. They needed to get her stabilized and do their tests and so on. So I went to work, and called the hospital a couple of times, just to see how she was doing.
This morning, though, I'm back. Here's the next installment of 'First Dig Two Graves', picking up from where we left off. And, going forward, I will try hard to end at the end of a chapter instead of leaving you hanging in the middle, as I did last time.
* * * * *
Jeffers pulled out one of the chairs around the table,
hitched his pants and sat down.
Equal footing.
Nick thought with an inward smile. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Been
there, done this, you know.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Interrogation 101, been there, done it. You don’t go into
the service, particularly into a battle zone, without that training, too.”
Jeffers tried to look confused, pulling his bushy blond
eyebrows down over his hazel eyes and squinting.
Nick smiled more widely and leaned forward. “Your buddy
here,” he looked over at the other man, portly, balding and sweaty even though
the room was little more than warm. “He’s probably going to take the role of
bad cop, the heavyweight who’ll rough me up if I get out of line. You’re the
good cop, the nice guy, only here to help a poor slob out of a jam.
“Thing is, boys, I don’t need convincing, don’t need a
father confessor. I’ve already started and I’m willing to go on. When we’re
done, I’ll chill out in one of your rooms back there while your stenographer
types up what we’ve said.” He shot a pointed look at the ubiquitous dark glass
panel set into the wall across from where he sat. “Then, when it’s all neatly
typed and proofed, I’ll sign it. I got no beef with doing that, or I wouldn’t
have walked in your front door. So, now that we’ve cleared that up, let’s talk
about why I shot my ex-wife.”
Sheryl - 1984
Twenty-year old Sheryl Baumgartner tossed her black, waist length
hair back over her shoulder. “I don’t know, mom, why do I have to go to these? What’s
the point? They’re such a bore.”
“You know why, sweetie. It’s expected, as I’ve told you
again and again, ever since you were old enough to go to these things.”
Margaret pushed another pin into her hair, securing another curl. “I agree that
they’re boring, but it’s good for the men, and more importantly, it’s good for
your father.”
With an ill-natured sigh and shrug, Sheryl capitulated. “How
much longer do we have to do this, anyway?”
“Until your daddy either retires or we get transferred back
to the States.” Through the reflection in the mirror, Margaret looked at her
daughter who was sitting on the end of the bed, noting the pout. She smiled in
amusement, remembering when Marc had all but dragged her to them by her hair.
That was before she had realized how good they were for his career. “Or, until
you meet some nice young man and get married.”
Irritated, impatient and not willing to concede the point,
Sheryl spiked to her feet. “Yeah, that’ll be the day.”
Two hours later, her face feeling as if it would crack from
the smile she had pasted in place, she greeted yet another young man. “Hello,
welcome. My name is Sheryl and yours is…?”
“Nick.”
His hand was warm in hers, dry and his grip was firm, but
not hard with trying to impress, or limp, like holding a dead fish. Dark brown
eyes under straight brows glinted in the lights. They met hers directly,
without waver. Those two things were unusual and she really looked at him, the
first young man she had looked at since taking her place in the reception line
that evening. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she felt a quaver of interest
deep inside.
“Hello, Nick.”
He nodded and moved on, greeting her mother. Her eyes
followed until drawn back by another of her father’s guests.
“Hello, welcome. My name is…”
Finally, the last of the guests had passed in front of her,
her face could stop smiling and her aching muscles could rest. That’s the worst of it and at least it’s over.
She strolled over to the bar. “A martini, dry, with two olives, please.”
From behind her, a voice she remembered said, “Make that
two, sir. On me.”
Even before she turned she knew who it was. Her hackles were
up.
“Thank you, lieutenant, but…”
“You don’t like strange men buying you drinks.” His smile
took the sting out of his words. “I, however, am not strange, I assure you. A
bit weird sometimes, maybe a little odd now and again, but I am most decidedly
not strange. If you doubt me, you can ask my friends.”
She fought a smile, tried to look angry and cool. “Do you have friends?”
“One or two.” He turned and pointed to one of the callow
youths. “There’s one. That’s Walt. He escaped from Bedlam a couple of months
ago.” His finger moved, pointing to another young man, dancing with her friend,
Daphne. “Steve’s on the lam from the state hospital in California.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” The bartender set the drinks down. Nick reached and
picked one up, handing it to her, handed the man a bill and took the other one
with a nod of thanks.
She smirked up at him, “Which one?”
He winked, “The one at Atascadero, for the criminally
insane.”
She couldn’t help it. The smile broke free, “A dangerous
man, then.”
“No. He’s a pussycat, unless you make him mad. So we’re
careful not to make him mad until we’re ready to go into battle. Then we kick
sand in his face, or tell him his sister wears Army boots. You know, get him
riled up and then set him loose on enemy forces.”
The smile became a giggle that she stifled by filling it
with a sip of martini.
“Would you care to dance?”
“No.” Her cool was back. This guy, just like all the others,
would be gone in a matter of weeks or months. It wasn’t worth getting invested
with a military man.
“Good.” He relaxed and looked around the room. “I can’t
dance to save my life.” He glanced down at her with a wink, “In fact, in the
old west, if I’d been in a gunfight and told to dance, I’d rather die.”
She turned toward him, cocked her head, and said, “You
probably dance really well.”
“Care to test that theory?”
“Yes. Yes, I would.” She set her glass back on the bar and
held up her arms.
He was a good dancer, smooth and confident without being
pushy. On the crowded floor, he maneuvered them between the other couples without
bumping elbows or shoulders. His hand remained square in the small of her back,
light enough to guide her, not tight enough to pull her against him. It
bothered her.
When the music ended, they applauded along with everyone
else, and then he offered his arm, in classic ballroom style.
“I thought you didn’t know how to dance.” She said
accusingly as they reached the edge of the floor.
“A true gentleman is capable of rising to any occasion, as
my grandmother liked to say.” He said with a slight bow.
Before she could respond, her mother reached their side. “Hello,
Sheryl. Hello, young man.”
“Hello, Mrs. Baumgartner, it’s nice to see you again. My
name is Nick, Nick Welles, with an extra ‘e’ at the end.”
“Oh, it’s a pleasure, Nick.”
The way she studied him made Sheryl’s
hackles twitch again. Biting her lips in vexation, she looked away. Good grief. It’s like she’s sizing him to
see if he’ll fit.
“Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” Her smile was like a
lighthouse beacon between them. “I’m sure Nick won’t mind, but General Mitchell
was asking after you, and I thought it would be nice if you took a minute to
say ‘hello’.”
Sheryl well knew that wasn’t a polite request. “Of course,
if you’ll excuse me?”
Nick held his arm out again, “That crowd looks dangerous,
Ms. Baumgartner. You might need an escort.”
Irritated by the interruption of her mother and his
presumption that she was feeble, she whirled away, shooting, “Thank you, but I’ll
take my chances” over her shoulder as she stalked off.
Taking the direct route, she cut across the dance floor,
ignoring the annoyed glances in her wake. There, on the other side, was a group
of brass standing around her courtesy ‘uncle’, one of her father’s oldest
friends.
There's a bit more, but then I'd leave you hanging in the middle of a chapter again, so I'll stop here. I will be back tomorrow (God willing and the creek don't rise!) and will post another piece.
I'm at 3,685 words right now - a bit behind my goal of 5,000, but I'm not doing too badly, all things considered.
I hope you're enjoying this - I'm posting all of this on WriteOn, too, so maybe I'll have something worthwhile once the NaNo dust settles.
In the meantime, have a lovely day!
Best~
Philippa
Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories
No comments:
Post a Comment