I picked up "Pesto Packin' Mama" the other day and couldn't put it
down! I was on the edge of my seat (okay, the couch) when the loan
sharks were really putting the heat on Maggie.
"Maggie Duncan is 50-something but still doesn't have everything quite
figured out. Her business, Pots & Pearls, is barely bringing in enough
money to cover her expenses, her apartment is being sold out from
under her, and her boyfriend, Bruce Herring, is hiding some major
secrets, specifically the one that involves him raising his infant
brother, Jorge. Then again Maggie has secrets of her own, and she's
not quite willing to share those quite yet.
Enter Brenda, Maggie's best friend, who has an idea that they could
market and sell Maggie's fabulous marinara sauce, but who ultimately
tangles with the wrong people while trying to get their product
available for distribution. Add Mrs. Herring, Bruce's pushy mother,
and Thomas, Maggie's new widower neighbor and you have a recipe for
disaster. Maggie must conquer her demons if she wants a
happily-ever-after and a potential walk down the aisle with the man of
her dreams.
I couldn't put "Pesto Packin' Mama", the sequel to "Hitting the High
Notes" down! I loved that even though Maggie was technically "over the
hill" she didn't have everything all figured out. So often we women
think that we should have things all figured out by a specific age
deadline, but realistically how often do things just magically fall
into place when we want them to? Maggie muddles her way through the
obstacles that she finds in her way, and ultimately she's determined
to make the best of things, no matter what.
The characters were well-developed, and even though I found Maggie's
best friend, Brenda, to be rather grating and pushy at times,
especially when she was determined to get her way, her personality
seemed to compliment Maggie's often indecisive character. Even Mrs.
Herring, Bruce's pushy mother won me over. Despite her intrusive and
sometimes harsh behaviour, you could tell that she had her son's best
interests at heart and that at her core she remained a good, although
at times misguided, person.
Pesto Packin' Mama is a reminder that you can be pushing 50 and still
have great sex, intriguing romance, good friends, memorable times, new
business ventures, and ultimately, fun. After all, 50 is the new 40!
Nan D. Arnold has written fun contemporary fiction for what she calls
"boomer babes" and she certainly delivers on this front. Expect to
pick this one up and be unable to put it down until long after bedtime
has come and gone, because you just have to know what happens next."
Reviewed by: Jonita :)
--
http://book-chic.blogspot.com
www.twitter.com/jonitabookchick
Showing posts with label Nan Arnold. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nan Arnold. Show all posts
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Excerpt - Hitting the High Notes by Nan D. Arnold
As nervous as a lizard under the gaze of a stalking feline, Maggie said, “Tell me, Lorenzo, will I be no more than another conquest?”
The opera singer replied, “Not a conquest, a confection.”
Maggie coughed. “That’s all I am, a piece of…candy?”
“No, no. I meant a concession. We will enjoy a mutual granting of pleasure.”
He’d moved closer to answer and the words he’d whispered ignited fires within her. His tongue took little liberties, then larger ones. They kissed. A long, slow, exploration followed. His fingers expertly massaged her until she was wet, warm, and ready.
Problem was Bruce Herring’s visage intruded into Maggie’s fantasy zone.
Why, now? She slowly pulled off her underpants as suggestively as possible before she fumbled with Lorenzo’s belt buckle, finally giving over to his more expert hands.
The big mount was about to progress when another aggravating detour down memory lane interceded: Bruce gently draping a blanket about her, leaving, and engaging the thumb lock on her front door after he did. Bruce possessed a give and take personality. Lorenzo merely took.
Lorenzo offered her what? Sex. Okay, sex with an internationally known opera star. But.
“Wait,” she said.
“Wait?”
Maggie was ready, willing, and waiting for an act of love, but with whom?
~~~~~~~~
Endorsement and review:
Maggie Duncan is fast on her feet for a nearly fifty year old and as snappy with witty comebacks as Ali was in the ring. This humorous tale keeps you in suspense wondering who gets the girl or if she wants to get caught, and what the opera star, the cop, and the environmental group, The Green Socks Gang, have up their sleeves. Maggie will reveal all, but definitely keeps you laughing until the very end.
Carolyn Hughey, Avalon author of Cupid's Web
Told with a similar humoristic style to Janet Evanovich and Sarah Strohmeyer, Hitting the High Notes grabs the reader with a lot of lively dialogue and non-stop action. With a protagonist who needs cold bursts of air to temper her hot flashes, the author has created an amusing, down-to-earth character that many Boomers will find themselves relating to.The story itself is fun and entertaining... Hitting the High Notes is a good read. Reviewer: Lisa Haselton, Allbooks Reviews
Monday, October 26, 2009
Hitting the High Note by Nan D. Arnold
HITTING THE HIGH NOTES
A novel of women’s fiction
by
Nan D. Arnold
FEBRUARY 2010 RELEASE
By Champagne Books
Details at www.nandarnold.com
We all know Maggie Duncan. She’s the woman in the grocery isle who could be our next door neighbor. The one who made bad choices. Staring the big five oh in the face, she takes stock. Having married unwisely and eschewed children, she now finds herself widowed and unattached. She is gaining weight everywhere but where she could use some fat-in the heels of her feet.
Looking for a spark, she finds one in the form of a blue knit dress promising to remain wrinkle free no matter what. Maggie thinks that would make a good article for a travel magazine and gives the premise a real workout once she meets an AWOL opera star by chance in a convenience store.
Lorenzo Pazzazzi, an aging baritone nursing a bruised ego following bad reviews, poses as a tourist called “Stavros”. He sees instantly that Maggie is pedaling along life’s highway without amoré; so, he commences to romance her as only The Great Pazzazzi can. He invites her to his place for a glass of wine but his brother, in drag to foil paparazzi, shows up unexpectedly at the front door. Fearful Maggie may learn who he really is, Lorenzo shoos her out his back door. Trouble is, wine-befuddled Maggie forgets her purse-the one holding a favorite photo of her deceased mother. She rounds the building to collect her purse, and what’s left of her pride, but Stavros is no where to be found. Instead, Maggie is greeted by an inhospitable Amazon who gives her the bum’s rush. Miffed, Maggie decides to involve cops. Detective Bruce Herring enters the picture and there’s an immediate attraction between he and Maggie.
Soon, Lorenzo’s shenanigans not only involve Bruce Herring but also The Green Socks Gang, wacko pie-chucking environmentalists, when the singer pretends to be a member of the group.
The Green Socks Gang is harmless unless you’re befouling the oceans, ripping out trees, or reneging on political promises germane to the environment. The worst punishment they administer is lemon meringue pie in the kisser. However, when the gang learns Lorenzo sometimes poses as a member, they’re displeased. They decide to kidnap this poseur to their cause and teach him a lesson about honesty.
Lorenzo, unaware he’s actually being stalked by the gang, pretends to Maggie he’s not really a member of the Green Socks Gang, but their potential kidnap victim targeted for ransom and he needs her help because he can’t involve the cops. He hopes this ploy will engender sympathy, thus speeding their way along to l’amour.
Maggie remembers Bruce Herring wore green socks when first they met, with black pants. The fashion faux pas was, he said, due to an affliction: color blindness. Perhaps, or is he, too, a Green Sockser? No, he’s really a cop, and one of a disparate cast trying to lure bad boy baritone Lorenzo back to Italy before he garners any negative press.
Along the way, the attraction between Maggie and Bruce grows. Then she’s dragged into the fray between Lorenzo and The Green Socks Gang while trying to reclaim her purse and that precious photo. Who teaches her to hit the high notes of life’s song, the sexy singer or the rock solid cop?
A novel of women’s fiction
by
Nan D. Arnold
FEBRUARY 2010 RELEASE
By Champagne Books
Details at www.nandarnold.com
We all know Maggie Duncan. She’s the woman in the grocery isle who could be our next door neighbor. The one who made bad choices. Staring the big five oh in the face, she takes stock. Having married unwisely and eschewed children, she now finds herself widowed and unattached. She is gaining weight everywhere but where she could use some fat-in the heels of her feet.
Looking for a spark, she finds one in the form of a blue knit dress promising to remain wrinkle free no matter what. Maggie thinks that would make a good article for a travel magazine and gives the premise a real workout once she meets an AWOL opera star by chance in a convenience store.
Lorenzo Pazzazzi, an aging baritone nursing a bruised ego following bad reviews, poses as a tourist called “Stavros”. He sees instantly that Maggie is pedaling along life’s highway without amoré; so, he commences to romance her as only The Great Pazzazzi can. He invites her to his place for a glass of wine but his brother, in drag to foil paparazzi, shows up unexpectedly at the front door. Fearful Maggie may learn who he really is, Lorenzo shoos her out his back door. Trouble is, wine-befuddled Maggie forgets her purse-the one holding a favorite photo of her deceased mother. She rounds the building to collect her purse, and what’s left of her pride, but Stavros is no where to be found. Instead, Maggie is greeted by an inhospitable Amazon who gives her the bum’s rush. Miffed, Maggie decides to involve cops. Detective Bruce Herring enters the picture and there’s an immediate attraction between he and Maggie.
Soon, Lorenzo’s shenanigans not only involve Bruce Herring but also The Green Socks Gang, wacko pie-chucking environmentalists, when the singer pretends to be a member of the group.
The Green Socks Gang is harmless unless you’re befouling the oceans, ripping out trees, or reneging on political promises germane to the environment. The worst punishment they administer is lemon meringue pie in the kisser. However, when the gang learns Lorenzo sometimes poses as a member, they’re displeased. They decide to kidnap this poseur to their cause and teach him a lesson about honesty.
Lorenzo, unaware he’s actually being stalked by the gang, pretends to Maggie he’s not really a member of the Green Socks Gang, but their potential kidnap victim targeted for ransom and he needs her help because he can’t involve the cops. He hopes this ploy will engender sympathy, thus speeding their way along to l’amour.
Maggie remembers Bruce Herring wore green socks when first they met, with black pants. The fashion faux pas was, he said, due to an affliction: color blindness. Perhaps, or is he, too, a Green Sockser? No, he’s really a cop, and one of a disparate cast trying to lure bad boy baritone Lorenzo back to Italy before he garners any negative press.
Along the way, the attraction between Maggie and Bruce grows. Then she’s dragged into the fray between Lorenzo and The Green Socks Gang while trying to reclaim her purse and that precious photo. Who teaches her to hit the high notes of life’s song, the sexy singer or the rock solid cop?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Excerpt - Hitting the High Notes by Nan Arnold
Hello, everyone. I’d like to share a blurb and excerpt from my February 2010 release HITTING THE HIGH NOTES available from Champagne Books. Check out my website for sequel and other works in progress. (Also: Contest underway at website for heart-shaped pin that closes August 20th). www.nandarnold.com
Blurb: Widow Maggie Duncan relearns life is a song when she meets by chance an AWOL opera star and a certain color-blind cop. Who will teach her to hit the high notes?
Excerpt:
Maggie Duncan’s fourth decade on earth sped along at warp speed as she clung to its coattails, widowed, childless, and unattached.
Currently seated in the eat-in kitchen of an attractive townhouse, she considered the wine glass her host, a man called Stavros, set before her. The balloon shaped bowl on a long fragile stem looked half as wide and approximately as deep as that big zero in Florida’s abdomen known as Lake Okeechobee.
“So, your name is Stavros.” Maggie’s blunt tipped finger rimmed the glass. She’d met him by chance at a convenience store only an hour before. “Just Stavros?”
He nodded.
“Mysterious.” She took a tentative sip. The wine coated her tongue and slid down her throat. The merlot’s warmth wrapped second thoughts about why she’d accepted his invitation into a snug blanket and Maggie gazed into mesmerizing eyes as dark and shiny as moonlit water. What color were they? Dark … brown. No, actually, they were green and as dark as malachite.
He chuckled. “Call me Stav, if you prefer.” The man of Mediterranean heritage filled his own glass but offered no last name or details. Maggie wondered if the name he’d given her was real, or created just for her. She didn’t normally engage in pick ups, in fact never before, but wandering the dateless desert for some time prompted Maggie to know if she could attract a man as comely as the man sitting across from her.
“Excellent wine, no?” Stav’s voice settled on her eardrums like a zephyr. The resonant timbre, such that any pied piper would envy, seduced her into tagging along with Stav after she’d purchased bottled water following a long bike ride.
“Very good.” Maggie replied. Even she tasted the difference of this wine compared to the swill in her pantry, boxed in four-packs, used primarily for cooking. She pulled away a strand of graying ash brown hair that strayed to her blue dress and clandestinely studied Stavros. Maggie noticed gray in his hair, too, and age creases on his forehead.
Wait. Wasn’t wine supposed to dull reality? She took another sip, then another, and finally one bold gulp for good measure.
Stav reached for her hand and held it. Maggie didn’t object. He’d already charmed her out of her commons sense. So, she wondered, what could he charm her into? Taking into account the lap-pool capacity of the glass, the amount of wine she’d imbibed, and how warm her hand felt in his, and her current emotional vulnerability, probably a lot.
Blurb: Widow Maggie Duncan relearns life is a song when she meets by chance an AWOL opera star and a certain color-blind cop. Who will teach her to hit the high notes?
Excerpt:
Maggie Duncan’s fourth decade on earth sped along at warp speed as she clung to its coattails, widowed, childless, and unattached.
Currently seated in the eat-in kitchen of an attractive townhouse, she considered the wine glass her host, a man called Stavros, set before her. The balloon shaped bowl on a long fragile stem looked half as wide and approximately as deep as that big zero in Florida’s abdomen known as Lake Okeechobee.
“So, your name is Stavros.” Maggie’s blunt tipped finger rimmed the glass. She’d met him by chance at a convenience store only an hour before. “Just Stavros?”
He nodded.
“Mysterious.” She took a tentative sip. The wine coated her tongue and slid down her throat. The merlot’s warmth wrapped second thoughts about why she’d accepted his invitation into a snug blanket and Maggie gazed into mesmerizing eyes as dark and shiny as moonlit water. What color were they? Dark … brown. No, actually, they were green and as dark as malachite.
He chuckled. “Call me Stav, if you prefer.” The man of Mediterranean heritage filled his own glass but offered no last name or details. Maggie wondered if the name he’d given her was real, or created just for her. She didn’t normally engage in pick ups, in fact never before, but wandering the dateless desert for some time prompted Maggie to know if she could attract a man as comely as the man sitting across from her.
“Excellent wine, no?” Stav’s voice settled on her eardrums like a zephyr. The resonant timbre, such that any pied piper would envy, seduced her into tagging along with Stav after she’d purchased bottled water following a long bike ride.
“Very good.” Maggie replied. Even she tasted the difference of this wine compared to the swill in her pantry, boxed in four-packs, used primarily for cooking. She pulled away a strand of graying ash brown hair that strayed to her blue dress and clandestinely studied Stavros. Maggie noticed gray in his hair, too, and age creases on his forehead.
Wait. Wasn’t wine supposed to dull reality? She took another sip, then another, and finally one bold gulp for good measure.
Stav reached for her hand and held it. Maggie didn’t object. He’d already charmed her out of her commons sense. So, she wondered, what could he charm her into? Taking into account the lap-pool capacity of the glass, the amount of wine she’d imbibed, and how warm her hand felt in his, and her current emotional vulnerability, probably a lot.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Chapter 1 - Tall, Dark and Handy by Nan Arnold (work in progress)
CHAPTER ONE
Never date a guy named Nero.
From personal experience, Melody Guilcrest could tell you there was some mystic connection between “your” Nero and that ancient Roman imperial flame starter. Okay, so Nero was rumored to be out of town when Rome burned down and the fiddle had yet to be invented. We get the connection? Right?
Anyway, Mel would tell you that the first thing “your” Nero would flambé would be your cool reserve. Oh, first he’d warm the dark places in your heart with a controlled burn. But later? Suffice it to say your heart would be nothing but ash in that crematorium where past love dwells.
Nero Nouri resided in another state, the last Mel heard,
So why was he currently seated across the diner from Melody? There he was in a corner banquette, looking as dashing as ever, snuggled next to a pretty young thing in a wrong-for-the-season strapless sun dress.
Then again, with Nero’s gym-taunt arm draped around a girl’s shoulders, she had little need for sleeves or straps. They’d be removed altogether at some point anyway.
Isn’t’ this special? Mel thought watching Nero who sat over there like an altar boy to Eros while she tried, as inconspicuously as possible given her chronic post nasal drip, to hover over a steaming bowl of chicken soup at a neighborhood diner.
The diner, decked out in a feel-good-fifty’s motif, all chrome and cheer, failed to lift her soggy spirits and Mel wondered what had happened to her erstwhile waiter.
Her head cold rendered Melody less patient than usual. She’d requested crackers, twice. Slow delivery was par for St. Sams, the barrier Island off Georgia’s southeast coast. The waiter was on “island time”, a pervasive languid attitude instilled in residents and service people alike around this resort town where Melody now lived and worked.
She took a breath for the courage and, defensively, raked her eyes over him one more time.
Yes, her bosom was heaving but the cause wasn’t lust or even unrequited rage; it was congestion. From a final glance in her hallway mirror before venturing out, Mel knew her baby blues were red and runny, like her nose. Nor had she washed her dark brown hair in days.
“Somebody, please shoot me now.” Mel grumbled no longer feverish, just miserable. And now, anxious. If only she were in the pink of health and sitting here, well groomed, with some great looking guy.
As if.
The only man on Mel’s horizon was some home inspector coming tomorrow since her landlord advised he wouldn’t entertain a lease extension on his condo. Lucky for Melody, the real estate market on St. Sams was presently deader than a gay guy’s future in Tehran.
Dead-pretty much what she’d be if Nero—
Darn. He saw her. His expression trumpeted disbelief at seeing her again
Ditto, buddy. Of all the diners in all the resort towns in all the world, why’d he pick Alfie’s today of all days?
“Check!” She called out and raised her arm.
Right. Like Gen-Y guy who took a half hour to bring her a bowl of soup would hop too before Melody’s complete and total humiliation unfolded for all to see.
Too late. Nero pried his arm from Honey Babe and strode toward Melody’s table. Strutted, actually. Nice hip action as usual.
Melody’s cell phone rang. Saved by the bell? She answered with a nasally, “Yeah?”
“Ms. Guilcrest?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Andy Ricardo. I’m filling in for my brother-in-law, a home inspector, who was to look over Mr. Wordworth’s condo tomorrow. Will you be home around nine, or can you leave a key with a neighbor, so I can get in?”
“I’ll be there.” Hoping to forestall his appointment, she upped the cold to a public health threat. “I’m sick and it’s not spring fever. I’m recovering from the flu; just warning you I might be contagious.”
“Too bad, but that’s okay, I never get sick.”
She recalled the small print in her lease wherein she promised to allow such inconveniences and surrendered. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Ricardo. Bye.”
“Wait. The realty agent might come, too.”
“Fantastic. The more the merrier. Goodbye.”
Nero leaned over. “Melody Guilcrest?”
How irritating. Two words from his lips and her body responded. She reprimanded that tingle between her thighs while his cologne fought valiantly, easily penetrating Mel’s phlegmy respiratory passages. A rascally black lock fell provocatively over his forehead as if trained.
She saw he wore his sideburns longer this year and there was a new addition, a goatee. Combined with his velvety black eyes, he looked like a Spanish Conquistador. Not to worry, she’d already made Nero’s List Of Conquests.
“Yes, Nero, only today, it’s less Melody and more like—Malady.” She sniffed and snorted for good measure. Mel’s nose, red and sore, probably turned wooden and grew several inches when she said, “That was my boyfriend on the phone. He’s coming over with fixings for a hot toddy.”
Had any other woman ever tried to look provocative while honking into a tissue? Pride made her lie to begin with and then gild the lily. “Says he has a new technique with Vick’s vapor rub.”
Nero grinned. “Maybe we can get together—he looked over at glaring Honey Babe— for a foursome while I’m here.”
“Don’t think so. I haven’t played golf in a l-o-n-g time.”
At the sound of his laughter, every woman in the place from six to sixty went on red-hot alert.
“Never met a woman with your wit.”
“Check!” Her arm shot skyward again.
“Are you in the phone book?”
“Enjoy your stay and spend lots of money like a good tourist.”
He chuckled. “Spoken like a tax payer. That tells me you live here, huh? I’ll call. Wouldn’t be right, not chatting over old times.”
Mel jerked her head to the right. “Don’t bother. You’d better chat up Miss New Times.”
“Let me buy your lunch.”
“How gracious.” What? Five or six bucks for a bowl of soup, including tip. “You were always too, too generous. But. Thanks.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Got that right. Mel rose, braced herself on the chair back, and stood, careful not to leave before she saw Nero put down the cash for the idiot waiter.
“I’ll call.”
“Don’t.”
“It’s serious then, this current relationship?” Acclimated to southern drawl, she’d forgotten the brusque cadence of a Northeast accent. “I love a challenge.” She’d also forgotten the swagger that went with his.
“Goodbye.” Head high, Mel weaved out of the diner on the residual effects of Nighttime Nyquil-influenced feet. Gasoline had jumped almost a quarter in the past week and her earlier fuzzy thinking had convinced her she was within “easy” walking distance of the diner.
Normally true, but taking ten steps today was tough going, ambling a couple of blocks was a real test. She breathed deep, or as deeply as her lungs, in their diminished capacity, permitted.
Pine pollen dusted the world with a pale frost of yellow. Live oak boughs blew in the March breeze under the spell of the season’s last cool snap. Mild by most of the country’s standards, Melody’s wool blend sweater set and twill pants provided adequate warmth.
The partly cloudy day turned dark and the wind rose.
“Uh-oh.”
As if fan dancing, the trees shed a teasing spray of elongated tear-shaped leaves. In the distance, lightning sparked. Thunder rumbled over St. Sam’s Village area, where tee shirt merchants, art galleries, and tourist-favored restaurants plied their trade.
One or two rain drops fell on the bike trail, congested with weekend bikers and joggers alike, all trying to beat the storm. More drops baptized Mel’s head. She hadn’t brought an umbrella and hastened her pace.
“Good goin’, Mel.”
With luck, she’d be down with pneumonia when Handy Andy showed up tomorrow. Mel smiled; envisioning him fleeing, tool belt flying, after one glance at her prone, bed-ridden body. Nah, he was probably the conscientious type. Fussy Mr. Wordsworth wouldn’t hire any other kind.
An annoying drizzle ensued. Seconds later, a car shadowed her. The wiper blades scraped reluctantly across a mildly wet plane of glass and a power window slid down with a whirring sound.
Nero said, “Melody, get in.”
She wanted to blow off the invitation but precipitation suddenly escalated from damp to wet. Pride’s one thing, practicality was something else. Relax, Mel. There was a chaperon, of sorts.
“Obliged.” Mel scooted into the back seat of a sleek, black, foreign sedan. No introductions were made which was fine with her. “Drive about a block. It’s a terra cotta painted stucco building on the left side of the street.”
The leather seat held her like a warm, gloved hand. Only minutes later, they’d arrived at a small, neat building where she lived in one of four condos nestled among live oaks and a water oak or two. Melody didn’t want to leave the comfy seat but said, “Stop here.”
Nero gave the place a once over before his focus changed to Mel. “Feel better.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
For the first time, the perky brunette talked, “Yeah, better get right under the covers.” She shot Nero a look that implied hers was sound advice all around.
Melody hurled her fanny out of the car and ran for it, afraid to look back. Afraid she’d turn to salt, the kind you find in tears. Curiosity won out though.
Nero watched her, too. He waited until she unlocked her apartment door before he drove off. It occurred to her that, in the deepest sense, the man still knew where she lived.
Exactly what Melody deserved for ever having dated a guy named Nero.
**************
http://nandarnold.com
Never date a guy named Nero.
From personal experience, Melody Guilcrest could tell you there was some mystic connection between “your” Nero and that ancient Roman imperial flame starter. Okay, so Nero was rumored to be out of town when Rome burned down and the fiddle had yet to be invented. We get the connection? Right?
Anyway, Mel would tell you that the first thing “your” Nero would flambé would be your cool reserve. Oh, first he’d warm the dark places in your heart with a controlled burn. But later? Suffice it to say your heart would be nothing but ash in that crematorium where past love dwells.
Nero Nouri resided in another state, the last Mel heard,
So why was he currently seated across the diner from Melody? There he was in a corner banquette, looking as dashing as ever, snuggled next to a pretty young thing in a wrong-for-the-season strapless sun dress.
Then again, with Nero’s gym-taunt arm draped around a girl’s shoulders, she had little need for sleeves or straps. They’d be removed altogether at some point anyway.
Isn’t’ this special? Mel thought watching Nero who sat over there like an altar boy to Eros while she tried, as inconspicuously as possible given her chronic post nasal drip, to hover over a steaming bowl of chicken soup at a neighborhood diner.
The diner, decked out in a feel-good-fifty’s motif, all chrome and cheer, failed to lift her soggy spirits and Mel wondered what had happened to her erstwhile waiter.
Her head cold rendered Melody less patient than usual. She’d requested crackers, twice. Slow delivery was par for St. Sams, the barrier Island off Georgia’s southeast coast. The waiter was on “island time”, a pervasive languid attitude instilled in residents and service people alike around this resort town where Melody now lived and worked.
She took a breath for the courage and, defensively, raked her eyes over him one more time.
Yes, her bosom was heaving but the cause wasn’t lust or even unrequited rage; it was congestion. From a final glance in her hallway mirror before venturing out, Mel knew her baby blues were red and runny, like her nose. Nor had she washed her dark brown hair in days.
“Somebody, please shoot me now.” Mel grumbled no longer feverish, just miserable. And now, anxious. If only she were in the pink of health and sitting here, well groomed, with some great looking guy.
As if.
The only man on Mel’s horizon was some home inspector coming tomorrow since her landlord advised he wouldn’t entertain a lease extension on his condo. Lucky for Melody, the real estate market on St. Sams was presently deader than a gay guy’s future in Tehran.
Dead-pretty much what she’d be if Nero—
Darn. He saw her. His expression trumpeted disbelief at seeing her again
Ditto, buddy. Of all the diners in all the resort towns in all the world, why’d he pick Alfie’s today of all days?
“Check!” She called out and raised her arm.
Right. Like Gen-Y guy who took a half hour to bring her a bowl of soup would hop too before Melody’s complete and total humiliation unfolded for all to see.
Too late. Nero pried his arm from Honey Babe and strode toward Melody’s table. Strutted, actually. Nice hip action as usual.
Melody’s cell phone rang. Saved by the bell? She answered with a nasally, “Yeah?”
“Ms. Guilcrest?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Andy Ricardo. I’m filling in for my brother-in-law, a home inspector, who was to look over Mr. Wordworth’s condo tomorrow. Will you be home around nine, or can you leave a key with a neighbor, so I can get in?”
“I’ll be there.” Hoping to forestall his appointment, she upped the cold to a public health threat. “I’m sick and it’s not spring fever. I’m recovering from the flu; just warning you I might be contagious.”
“Too bad, but that’s okay, I never get sick.”
She recalled the small print in her lease wherein she promised to allow such inconveniences and surrendered. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Ricardo. Bye.”
“Wait. The realty agent might come, too.”
“Fantastic. The more the merrier. Goodbye.”
Nero leaned over. “Melody Guilcrest?”
How irritating. Two words from his lips and her body responded. She reprimanded that tingle between her thighs while his cologne fought valiantly, easily penetrating Mel’s phlegmy respiratory passages. A rascally black lock fell provocatively over his forehead as if trained.
She saw he wore his sideburns longer this year and there was a new addition, a goatee. Combined with his velvety black eyes, he looked like a Spanish Conquistador. Not to worry, she’d already made Nero’s List Of Conquests.
“Yes, Nero, only today, it’s less Melody and more like—Malady.” She sniffed and snorted for good measure. Mel’s nose, red and sore, probably turned wooden and grew several inches when she said, “That was my boyfriend on the phone. He’s coming over with fixings for a hot toddy.”
Had any other woman ever tried to look provocative while honking into a tissue? Pride made her lie to begin with and then gild the lily. “Says he has a new technique with Vick’s vapor rub.”
Nero grinned. “Maybe we can get together—he looked over at glaring Honey Babe— for a foursome while I’m here.”
“Don’t think so. I haven’t played golf in a l-o-n-g time.”
At the sound of his laughter, every woman in the place from six to sixty went on red-hot alert.
“Never met a woman with your wit.”
“Check!” Her arm shot skyward again.
“Are you in the phone book?”
“Enjoy your stay and spend lots of money like a good tourist.”
He chuckled. “Spoken like a tax payer. That tells me you live here, huh? I’ll call. Wouldn’t be right, not chatting over old times.”
Mel jerked her head to the right. “Don’t bother. You’d better chat up Miss New Times.”
“Let me buy your lunch.”
“How gracious.” What? Five or six bucks for a bowl of soup, including tip. “You were always too, too generous. But. Thanks.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Got that right. Mel rose, braced herself on the chair back, and stood, careful not to leave before she saw Nero put down the cash for the idiot waiter.
“I’ll call.”
“Don’t.”
“It’s serious then, this current relationship?” Acclimated to southern drawl, she’d forgotten the brusque cadence of a Northeast accent. “I love a challenge.” She’d also forgotten the swagger that went with his.
“Goodbye.” Head high, Mel weaved out of the diner on the residual effects of Nighttime Nyquil-influenced feet. Gasoline had jumped almost a quarter in the past week and her earlier fuzzy thinking had convinced her she was within “easy” walking distance of the diner.
Normally true, but taking ten steps today was tough going, ambling a couple of blocks was a real test. She breathed deep, or as deeply as her lungs, in their diminished capacity, permitted.
Pine pollen dusted the world with a pale frost of yellow. Live oak boughs blew in the March breeze under the spell of the season’s last cool snap. Mild by most of the country’s standards, Melody’s wool blend sweater set and twill pants provided adequate warmth.
The partly cloudy day turned dark and the wind rose.
“Uh-oh.”
As if fan dancing, the trees shed a teasing spray of elongated tear-shaped leaves. In the distance, lightning sparked. Thunder rumbled over St. Sam’s Village area, where tee shirt merchants, art galleries, and tourist-favored restaurants plied their trade.
One or two rain drops fell on the bike trail, congested with weekend bikers and joggers alike, all trying to beat the storm. More drops baptized Mel’s head. She hadn’t brought an umbrella and hastened her pace.
“Good goin’, Mel.”
With luck, she’d be down with pneumonia when Handy Andy showed up tomorrow. Mel smiled; envisioning him fleeing, tool belt flying, after one glance at her prone, bed-ridden body. Nah, he was probably the conscientious type. Fussy Mr. Wordsworth wouldn’t hire any other kind.
An annoying drizzle ensued. Seconds later, a car shadowed her. The wiper blades scraped reluctantly across a mildly wet plane of glass and a power window slid down with a whirring sound.
Nero said, “Melody, get in.”
She wanted to blow off the invitation but precipitation suddenly escalated from damp to wet. Pride’s one thing, practicality was something else. Relax, Mel. There was a chaperon, of sorts.
“Obliged.” Mel scooted into the back seat of a sleek, black, foreign sedan. No introductions were made which was fine with her. “Drive about a block. It’s a terra cotta painted stucco building on the left side of the street.”
The leather seat held her like a warm, gloved hand. Only minutes later, they’d arrived at a small, neat building where she lived in one of four condos nestled among live oaks and a water oak or two. Melody didn’t want to leave the comfy seat but said, “Stop here.”
Nero gave the place a once over before his focus changed to Mel. “Feel better.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
For the first time, the perky brunette talked, “Yeah, better get right under the covers.” She shot Nero a look that implied hers was sound advice all around.
Melody hurled her fanny out of the car and ran for it, afraid to look back. Afraid she’d turn to salt, the kind you find in tears. Curiosity won out though.
Nero watched her, too. He waited until she unlocked her apartment door before he drove off. It occurred to her that, in the deepest sense, the man still knew where she lived.
Exactly what Melody deserved for ever having dated a guy named Nero.
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http://nandarnold.com
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