by Kim Pritekel
Summary
As the dark days of the Dust Bowl came to an end, the midsection of the United States tried to rebuild and revitalize. In the small, dusty farming town of, Brooke View, Colorado, teenager, Eleanor Landry and her mother were dealing with her father, a self-appointment fire and brimstone preacher to his congregation of two. A plan to survive.
As the dark era of the robber baron comes to an end, giants of industry and innovation emerged with fabulous fortunes manifested in the mansions that dotted the landscape across the country. Lysette Landon, the teen daughter of the wealthiest family in Brooke View, was everything a good, proper girl of privilege should be. Only problem was, she wasn’t dreaming of finding a young man to raise a family with. A plan to be free.
One look, one touch, all plans are off.
Secrets deeper and darker than the grave would bring Eleanor and Lysette together, their families connected by a web of lies and broken promises. A plan to escape.
Be careful because, life has other plans…
the plan
the plan
kim pritekel
Sapphire Books
Salinas, california
The Plan
Copyright © 2019 by Kim Pritekel. All rights reserved.
ISBN EPUB - 978-1-948232-44-9
This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission of the publisher.
Editor - Tara Young
Book Design - LJ Reynolds
Cover Design - Treehouse Studio
Sapphire Books Publishing, LLC
P.O. Box 8142
Salinas, CA 93912
www.sapphirebooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition – February 2019
This and other Sapphire Books titles can be found at
www.sapphirebooks.com
Dedication
For Her
Acknowledgments
For all the women who came before us that had the courage to live their truth. We stand in your shadow.
Chapter One
Woodland, Colorado, 1956
“Hello, teacher! I’ve been a naughty, naughty girl.”
“Oh, yeah?” Eleanor Brannon muttered, her red pencil poised over the written page she was scanning. She paused at the stench of Anne’s Lucky Strikes. “Please put that thing out.”
“I know, I know,” Anne murmured, painted lips pursed around what was left of her cigarette before she grabbed the ashtray Eleanor kept on the shelf just for her. “You’re in a mood.” She smashed the butt into the glass dish as she walked over to the small table where Eleanor had her work spread out.
“Yes, well, you know I hate those things.” Eleanor waved her hand at the ashtray in Anne’s hands. “I don’t care what they say. I absolutely do not see how something can be good for you that smells so foul.”
Anne smiled, setting the ashtray aside as she sat in the chair perpendicular to Eleanor’s. “Yes, well, I’m a strong proponent of anything that can help calm my mother.”
Eleanor smirked, glancing up at Anne. “Is it her cigarettes or the quart of gin she drinks in a day?”
Anne chuckled. “Touché. You know,” she said, sitting back in the chair, a wrist dangling casually over the back. “My smoking didn’t bother you like this when we first met.”
Eleanor put her red pencil down and sat back in her chair as she let out a tired sigh. “Well, you didn’t smoke as much as you do now, and over time, it gets old. Things change.”
“As do people,” Anne muttered. “What are you working on? And where’s my hello?”
“The family tree project,” Eleanor said and leaned over, accepting a lingering kiss, which she allowed to deepen a bit before pulling back, discreetly wiping Anne’s lipstick away as Anne did the same.
“Can I help?”
Eleanor looked at her with raised eyebrows, her girlfriend of two years reaching up to tuck a strand of wavy hair in her ever-stylish hairdo behind an ear. She was ever the follower of anything Grace Kelly, and if the style was good enough for the beautiful blonde, it was good enough for Anne Sedgwick. Anne gave her a look of confusion.
“What?” she demanded, dark blond eyebrows falling in consternation.
Eleanor smiled and shook her head. She was surprised as Anne wasn’t typically one to volunteer to be helpful. To be honest, she knew Anne had a rough day at the office where she served as the secretary for an incredibly demanding boss in Fred Gallant, who was anything but.
Eleanor shook her head and reached over to the artistic portion of the assignment. “Okay, go through these,” she instructed, straightening the pile before sliding them toward Anne. “Each student had to create a family tree, minimum four generations, including them. See?” She tapped the pictures glued to the piece of brown sugar paper where the student had drawn a rudimentary tree. “See,” she said again, her voice rising with excitement. “Here, the student used his own school picture on this branch, and then up a few are his parents and—”
“I get it.”
Eleanor realized she was doing it again. “Sorry,” she said with a sheepish smile. “I don’t mean to go into lecture mode.”
“No worries,” Anne said with a sigh, gathering the projects before her.
“Anyway, so those that have either pictures or drawings of the four generations, put in one pile. If they don’t have either or both, put those in a separate pile.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Eleanor grabbed her pencil again and returned to grading the written portion of the assignment, where the students had to write a report on their family history. She spared a glance at Anne sitting a couple of feet away. “How was Fred today?”
Anne shrugged. “An asshole, as usual.” She smirked. “He’s lucky he pays decent, I suppose. But then, what choice does he have when it comes to women?”
“Anne!”
“Well, it’s true! You’ve seen him…”
Eleanor studied the attractive blonde for a moment before she dropped her pencil again. She pushed back from the kitchen table in her small one-bedroom apartment and walked over to the icebox. She pulled it open and peered inside, relieved to see she still had the bottle of wine Anne had brought over the previous weekend.
“Want a glass?” she asked, holding up the chilled bottle.
“Please.” Anne passed the project she was looking at over to one of the piles she’d created.
“What did he do?” Eleanor asked conversationally as she dug out her corkscrew from a drawer that held random kitchen gadgets and utensils she didn’t use.
“He’s just so demanding. And,” Anne qualified, “I’m not talking about demanding in expecting a good employee. I’m talking demanding as in an infant, replete with fits and tantrums.”
“Sounds like he needs to sit through my War of 1812 seminar.” Eleanor chuckled, pouring them both a glass of the sweet red.
“Isn’t that the one you said the kids fall asleep in?” Anne asked, taking the offered juice glass.
“The one and only.” Eleanor reclaimed her seat. “Sounds like he needs a good changing and a nap.”
Anne smirked as she brought the glass to her lips, eyeing Eleanor. “I’ve missed you,” she said before sipping the deep red liquid within.
“What are you talking about?” Eleanor asked, confused as she glanced up from the paper she was grading. “You’re sittin
g in my kitchen.”
“Yes, as I was last night and the night before. And like tonight, you were grading papers or working up a new project for your kids.” Anne set her glass down as she divvied out a couple more of the family trees to the piles she’d created. “Why do you think I offered to help you tonight?” She snorted, tossing another family tree to the pile to her left. “So at least we can be doing something together.”
Eleanor wanted to be irritated, but guilt immediately washed over her. She knew Anne was right. She knew she wasn’t giving Anne the attention she wanted and deserved. She knew she wasn’t giving what she needed to be. What bothered her the most, though, was that she knew she didn’t have it to give.
Pushing her irritation and guilt aside, she reached across the short distance and grabbed one of Anne’s hands, noting the perfectly painted and filed nails. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You’re right. I’ve been so busy.”
Anne gave her a small smile and squeezed Eleanor’s hand before pulling away. Eleanor knew she was hurt. Damn. “Who knows,” she said, setting aside the newest project she’d been looking over. “Maybe we can go away this weekend. To that place in the mountains we went to last fall, remember?”
“The one at the lake? What was it, Taylor Lake?”
“Are you related to any of the students in your class?” Anne asked suddenly, glancing up at Eleanor from the green sugar paper before her.
“No, definitely not.” Eleanor shook her head. “Why?”
“Well, if you’re not related to this kid, I’d say you have a doppelganger, darling.”
Eleanor accepted the stiff paper with the pictures glued to it. Her gaze immediately went to the picture where one of Anne’s deep red nails tapped. She took in what was before her and felt her breath stolen from her as her mouth fell slightly open.
“Ellie?” Anne said softly, her hand lightly touching Eleanor’s arm.
“Please don’t call me that,” Eleanor whispered, unable to take her eyes off the image, her own words not much more than a distant voice echoing in her mind.
“Eleanor? Are you okay? Do you know someone in that picture?”
Eleanor cleared her throat, desperately trying to clear the cobwebs out of the shadows of her memories as she did. She slid the page back across the table to Anne. “Um…” She ran her hand over her dark brown hair, cut into a pixie cut. “Listen, uh…” She met Anne’s concerned gaze, giving her a small smile. “Sorry. So we were talking about Taylor Lake?”
Anne looked down for a moment, her hand wrapping around her wine. “Someday, I hope you’ll share your secrets with me,” she said, once again looking at Eleanor. “I know we all have them, but yours seem to run deep.”
Eleanor let out a heavy breath, grabbing her own drink, the glass rattling against her teeth a bit as her hand trembled. “Yes, we all do,” she whispered.
****
Eleanor removed the toothbrush from her mouth before she leaned over the sink and spit the minty foam into it. She turned on the cold water to fill the glass she kept in the bathroom for the purpose of rinsing her mouth as she did then, spitting once again into the sink before using the remaining water in the glass to rinse the sink bowl free of toothpaste residue.
She continued with her bedtime routine, washing her face and using the toilet before she stood in front of the oval-shaped mirror mounted above the pedestal sink in the small bathroom.
Studying her face, she let out a tired sigh and reached up to remove the pale blue cotton band she’d used to keep her hair from getting wet or mixed in with the cold cream she’d used to wash her face. She looked as tired as she felt, her eyes deeply shadowed. She studied those eyes, the ones that more than one person said she stole from Elizabeth Taylor. But because she was fourteen years older than the beautiful young actress, she figured she deserved the credit for having the unusual violet color first.
Smiling at her own thoughts, she placed the cloth band on the edge of the sink before grabbing her comb and running it through her short dark locks. Though disappointed, Anne had gone home at Eleanor’s request. Eleanor had initially hoped the wine would give her the want for her girlfriend to stay, but seeing that picture, seeing her, she needed to be alone and had no desire to answer the many questions she knew Anne would toss at her. She did, however, agree to go away with her for the weekend, as promised.
Making sure the bathroom was tidy, she switched off the light and padded to her bedroom just across the hall, the light material of her nightgown flowing freely around her calves. The light was already on, revealing a small, rectangular room, not much larger than a prison cell with a full-sized bed tucked against the wall where the window was, its brass headboard polished to a shine. The quilt she’d made the year before was on it, which would be nice on a chilly late September night.
A chifforobe was placed against the wall opposite the bed, which left just enough room for a small bedside table where a lamp was perched, as well as her wind-up alarm clock, which she made sure was set for the next morning.
She covered her mouth as a yawn nearly split her jaw and walked over to the bed to pull down the covers and climb in. The mattress was a bit too soft and the springs squeaked annoyingly, but it was hers. She’d learned over that seemingly endless seven years, four months, and thirty-three days to never, ever again be ungrateful or take anything for granted.
The buttery hue of the lamp painted the ceiling of her bedroom in the second-floor apartment—placed right above the pharmacy below—and her gaze followed the artfully done paint strokes.
She let out a heavy sigh as her body relaxed into the softness, the quilt and sheet pulled up just beneath her breasts. As she settled in, she allowed her mind to wander.
After Anne had left, she’d cleaned up the papers and family tree projects, stuffing them back into her work satchel from where they’d come. She hadn’t looked at that picture that Anne had come across again. She couldn’t, had promised herself she wouldn’t.
Now she had nothing to distract her. Anne wasn’t there demanding her time, and for a scintilla of a moment, she wished she’d let her stay the night. She clicked her tongue in a steady staccato as her fingers tapped against her stomach where they rested, so easily imagining pushing the covers back and leaving the warm cocoon of her bed to make the short trek to the kitchen table where her satchel sat, ready for a new day at school.
Inevitably, her mind drifted to that black and white picture. She had to smile as she remembered thinking that day that the photographer would never get the image he wanted.
“I think my face is frozen with this smile,” she’d whispered.
“No talking, please!” the photographer had yelled out in frustration.
“Oops.”
“I said no talking!”
Eleanor chuckled as she lay in her bed. “Always the rebel,” she murmured.
Chapter Two
Brooke View, Colorado, 1933
August 1
Eleanor looked around her bedroom, making sure everything was perfect. She scanned over her perfectly made bed, her perfectly organized dresser top—her Bible centered. She opened the doors of her chifforobe to make sure all was hung and folded perfectly.
Certain everything was as it needed to be to pass inspection, she looked at her reflection in the mirror mounted to her dresser. Her long dark hair was pulled up into a tight bun, just as it was supposed to be. Her face was clean of any makeup—not that she had any to put on, of course.
She straightened the collar of her pressed white blouse, buttoned to the tippy top. She ran her hands down over the pleated front of her skirt, it too pressed and perfect.
She let out a breath and nodded. “Time to go.”
She turned to her bedroom door and opened it, making sure it was pressed back as close to the wall as it could be, the brass doorknob touching the plaster wall of the old farmhouse behind it. Sure that it was steady and wouldn’t swing away from the wall, she continued down the creaking stairs,
her father refusing to fix the aging wood to prevent “anyone” from leaving the house at an inappropriate time.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she was met by her mother, dressed similarly, though her updo had streaks of gray in it.
“He’s in a mood,” she whispered, reaching up to straighten Eleanor’s already-straightened collar. “Say nothing.”
Eleanor nodded, butterflies battering her insides with nervous wings. “I thought he was supposed to be at the store already,” she whispered back, reaching up to adjust what her mother had just done.
Emma Landry sighed, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “He insisted on giving you a ride to school.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows drew together. “He knows I’m only going for the picture, right? It’s not all that far and won’t take long.”
“Secrets are Satan’s Scripture.”
Both mother and daughter turned to see Ed Landry standing in the archway that led into the kitchen. “Eleanor, your breakfast is waiting.”
“Yes, Father,” she said, not giving her mother another glance before rushing by her.
The slap came quick and sharp by the stairs behind her.
The kitchen was small and furnished only with a round, simple table. No carvings, no embellishments, simple and made by her father before Eleanor was born, from what she’d been told. The kitchen was white and stark, only the bare necessities for her mother to cook simple, hearty food that was good with God, whatever that meant.
Her parents followed her in a few moments later, her mother wiping away tears as she scurried to the stove where a pot of oatmeal simmered. The table had been set for three, small glasses of orange juice already poured and bowls waiting to be filled.