The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  Copyright © 2013 C. Michelle McCarty

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1481107151

  ISBN 13: 9781481107150

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922853

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  *Jacket cover photograph taken at Leon’s Lounge in Houston, TX.

  This is a work of fiction, intended for recreational use only. While most fiction is based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or should be inferred.

  For my compass and shining star, my daughter Kim

  ~ In loving memory of Jack Mynier

  “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

  ~ Anais Nin

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  1

  A wise man once told me the universe drops bizarre beings into our lives for the purpose of developing our souls. Apparently the cosmos deems my soul a work in progress, because here comes another dose of crazy.

  I looked past my customer and onto the Strand, watching Delilah Carlino speed walk toward my antique shop. Despite living two hours from Galveston, my warped friend episodically drops into my world, hoping to create havoc. Her lunacy lost me a couple of sales over the past decade, so I wrapped and rang Sunday’s final transaction in record time.

  “Looks like your shipment of knockoffs finally got here from Taiwan,” Delilah shouted over the soft tingling of bells while bolting through my front door, intent on disrupting business.

  Momentarily ignoring her, I thanked my customer, ushered him out, flipped my “Closed” sign, and locked the dead bolt. Only days from Halloween and Delilah’s fiftieth birthday, she still wore the same garb she donned during the Sixties—jean shorts and captioned T-shirt. Unfortunately these days said T-shirts express her personal and often R-rated opinions, accentuated with her Bedazzle gun. I’m not one to criticize how people choose to present themselves, but her rhinestone revelations could use some censorship.

  “So, what time are they delivering that old bar?”

  “Around six.” Wishing I hadn’t answered her call this morning, much less mentioned the delivery, I reached over and gave her a quick hug. Speedy hugs were crucial with Delilah; otherwise one could be overcome by her fragrant salute to Oscar de la Renta. Today she was saturated bangs to bunions with Intrusion. “Jeez, Delilah, are you shooting perfume intravenously?”

  “Guess I went overboard soaking my short and curlies in concentrated oil this morning.”

  Nowadays most people respect those with allergies and refrain from basting their bodies in fragrance. Not Delilah. “Why marinade in perfume for a trek down to Galveston?”

  “Ya never know when I might run across some handsome hunk.” She dramatically shook her chin length, bobbed hair, revealing silver streaks. In her youth, beauty queen Delilah sported shimmering blue-black hair that fell below her waist and swung from side to side as she walked, leaving hordes of men with dangling tongues. She still possessed a perfect nose, flawless skin, and big baby blues she framed with midnight black eyeliner that extended to the corner of her eyes into flamboyant butterfly wings. “I’m not a willowy blonde like you. I have to woo men with my scent.”

  “You don’t need to be wooing anyone, Delilah.”

  “Yes I do. If Eric doesn’t stop asking for tush ten times a week, he’s gonna be out on his Bill O’Reilly-watching-ass.” She opened a jumbo pack of cinnamon gum.

  “Still not smoking?” I segued.

  “Almost a year now, but I dream about sucking sticks every single night.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you.”

  “Glad someone cares. Eric says my nicotine cravings are making me even more frigid.”

  I never lend credence to comments incapable of sustaining a shelf life of more than ten seconds. Fabricating stories about her hubby became Delilah’s source of entertainment after Caller ID technology put the brakes on her ridiculous routine of crank calling old boyfriends.

  “BTW I told my sex fiend husband to microwave dinner without me, ‘cause we’re looking for treasures in the sand this evening.”

  “NFW,” I said. Acronyms are synonymous with electronic communication, but face to face they’re about as charming as conversational burping.

  “No friggin’ way? Why not?” She propped her elbows on my satinwood Pembroke table, fashioning her hands under her chin in supplication. “Pretty please?”

  “Beg till you’re blue in the face, but those treasure hunting days are over.”

  “Dang it, Shaaareee.” Delilah intentionally inflated my name with country twang. “Why can’t we use that contraption to find metal on the beach? Is the moon in Uranus again?”

  “Lovely. I encourage you to watch one PBS special on the big bang theory, and now you’re spouting childish clichés. My attempts to enlighten you have once again backfired.”

  “Hey, I learned about dependent opposites who can’t live without each other. You know, the yin and yang thang.”

  “Ah, yin and yang.” I slipped out of my heels and wiggled my toes.

  “Yeah. You guys have it out the wazoo and Eric and I will never have anything remotely close.” Delilah likes to theorize all marriages are superior to hers. “Why couldn’t I have had a fantasy love affair like yours?” She revved into action.

  “Fantasy? What kind of fantasy involves anguish like we’ve gone through?”

  “Anguish aside, you’re definitely the Yin to his Yang. The Cleopatra to his Marc Antony.” She paused before loudly belting into suggestive song. “The Magic to his Johnson.”

  “I like your last analogy, but please lower your voice. Shops are closing and people passing by can hear you.” I waved at my neighboring kite store owner.

  “Okay.” Delilah dropped her volume about half a decibel. “But only if we can drag that silver detector along the shore to scoop up coins for me a boob job. No sense in Dolly having all the fun.”

  “Stop asking.” I shot her a stern look. Sharing my sentimental gift from Beau was not an option. “Besides, you’ve never missed out on fun, so don’t mess with what Ma Nature blessed.”

  “I’m not gonna. It’s a little late for me to be enhancing my mini-melons, and after all these years I’m not sure I could maneuver anything bigger than my B cups.” She rambunctiously began to shimmy her bosom.

  “Behave.” I placed my hands cease-and-desist fashion on her shoulders when I noticed the souvenir shop owner slowing her pace to stare inside my window. Irritating everyone in our interplanetary system has long been Delilah’s raison d’être, yet she wonders why our friendship waned. Some thirty-odd years ago, Delilah literally crashed into my world by ramming her ’68 Camaro in
to the back bumper of my new 1970 Mustang. She was frazzled over a recent job loss. I was frazzled in general. Married young, divorced before my daughter Nikki turned two, and one hell of a mess at twenty-three, I foolishly hired Delilah as an evening babysitter. Still, despite opposing viewpoints on almost everything, our alliance is sealed by a sacred bond. Delilah knows a shameful secret from my past. I don’t want it broadcast across Texas.

  “Cherie, they’re here.” Delilah tapped the window, signaling the truck driver to the back.

  I rushed to open the receiving entrance and greeted a somewhat pale but powerfully built, twenty-something guy. Delilah leaned against an oak armoire and was spraying on her third or fourth layer of Intrusion when in walks another mover.

  “Whoa,” Delilah said before making a beeline toward the incoming hunk.

  This second “Body-by-Adonis” was sun-bronzed and slightly older than the first. “Where you want this monster, ma’am?” he nodded my way, recognizing me as the one in charge.

  “In this corner by the window, please.” I motioned.

  “Texas sure grows some fine looking movers.” Delilah invaded his personal space and tugged her tank top downward to cleavage view level. Known for flirting with every three-legged man who crosses her path, she amplified her Mae West tramp act for this duo.

  The muscular men gingerly situated my bar in its window view for passersby, even with Delilah slithering so close I worried rape charges might get filed. I finally unglued her from their chest hairs and gave them their tip while offering an apologetic smile. “Thanks for maneuvering the bar around my unexpected obstacle.”

  “I’ll escort ’em out.” Delilah ignored my barb and latched onto their arms. “I need to buy some wine.”

  “Better hurry. They close in ten minutes.” I attempted to expedite matters so the guys could breathe fresh, less perfumed air. As the trio left, Delilah threatened to follow them home, but scooted off in the opposite direction after blowing a few farewell air kisses their way.

  The historic downtown Strand is only blocks from Galveston’s waterfront, and consists of unique shops, eateries, museums, live music venues, and horse drawn carriages to delight visitors during December’s “Dickens on The Strand” event. Unfortunately almost every shop but the liquor store closes at six. I optimistically hoped Delilah would find a better caliber of grapes than those fermented into Boone’s Farm—her staple wine of the Seventies. She returned in speedy fashion, flaunting the surprisingly decent bottle of wine she scored.

  “Cherie, get some wine glasses and sit down so we can celebrate your finding this bar.”

  “As long as we keep the celebration to one drink.” I grabbed glasses from a China hutch. “I’m in a crunch for time, but I’ll crank up the oldies. Gotta have Sixties music.” I turned on KLDE, escorted our wine glasses to a settee and motioned her to join me. My favorite disc jockey, Colonel St. James was hawking good times and great oldies, and promising to play Treat Her Right by Houstonian, Roy Head.

  “He can still do the alligator.” Delilah popped a huge gum bubble. She knew Roy back in the Seventies when she was recycling bass players. “So how the heck did you stumble across this bar?” She clutched the bottle of Ruffino while digging through her purse for a corkscrew.

  “An antique shop in Warrenton.”

  “You’re so lucky.” Delilah lifted the cork with the agility of a professional wine steward.

  “It was kismet.” I smiled.

  “And there’s Beau’s old metal detector.” She pointed to a wall near the bar.

  “We encased it last weekend. Don’t you love the glass and mahogany display box?”

  “Now remind me how you wound up working for Beau,” Delilah dug for facts I had never divulged. She tossed her gum into the trash, plopped beside me on the settee, and snuggled into a cushion with the insouciance of someone intent on making an ass groove. “And why the hell he changed your name from Jill to Cherie.” She paused to fill my glass with wine.

  Only my mother still calls me by my given name, so hearing “Jill” spoken by anyone else always sounds off mark.

  “Some other time,” I fibbed. Exactly how I met Beau was one detail she didn’t need for her diary. “I don’t mean to be rude Delilah, but one glass of wine truly is my limit. I’ve got a special evening planned and need to freshen up.”

  “I’d like to have a special evening just once in my life before I die.” She guzzled half a glass of wine and poured herself a refill as Sugar Sugar by The Archies played on my radio.

  “You’ve enjoyed countless special times with your husband, Delilah.”

  “My perpetually horny husband?” she asked in incredulous tone.

  “Pleeease.” I released two hair pins from my ballerina twist, letting my hair fall onto my shoulders. “Considering some of the scoundrels you dated during our younger years, you should be thrilled to have a decent man.”

  “At least the bad boys were exciting.” She swirled her glass of Ruffino. “I liked the good old days, back when you were wild and crazy like me. Before you got all sophisticated.”

  “Sophisticated? Puh-leeeze, Delilah, I’m still gauche as all get out. And my wild and crazy days were riddled with idiotic behavior I’d rather not relive. Talk about hard-earned lessons.”

  She sipped her wine without responding, seemingly preoccupied by something complex, like what effect quantum mechanics have on particles near a black hole or how to persuade scientists to invent Limpdix—a pill identical in appearance to Viagra but with opposite effect.

  The phone rang and I got up to answer Ellen’s customary check-up call. Albeit I’ve matured into a responsible adult post my “stupid is as stupid does” years, my older sister still worries about me. As she talked about Thanksgiving plans, her loving tone warmed my soul. If it weren’t for decades of Ellen’s guidance, I might be pondering the perfect lipstick shade to match my bright orange jumpsuit about now.

  My sister and I were raised in Lake Jackson, Texas, a sleepy little town sixty miles south of Houston. Ellen won homemaking awards. I won running medals. Ellen was quiet like our mother. I was mouthy like Dad. Ellen: calm, confident, respectful. Me: anxious, insecure, cheeky. My sister adored our family and seemed content with small town living. I never connected with either parent and dreamed about escaping to an exciting, big city life. Our timid, meticulous mother softly spouted quotes in lieu of discussing subjects necessary for maturing girls. A gracious woman of virtue, my mother Lynn regarded men as sole financial supporters in proper families and placed major stress on being chaste as though virginity resulted in eternal love with Prince Charming—or one of his well-heeled cousins. The word “virgin” got mega air time in our home, yet requests for in depth details about sex turned Mother’s face beet red as she fidgeted with her pearl necklace. After constant explanations filled with Mother’s indecipherable quotes, we finally stopped asking.

  At the opposite side of the spectrum was our dad, George, a six-foot, fun loving extrovert whose jovial comments and high-spirited harmonica tunes resonated throughout our otherwise quiet home. Dad worked Dow Chemical’s evening shift, making his sightings rare. But never dull. Occasionally Dad’s cheerful temperament changed, and he walked around ranting and spewing expletives. Mother countered his cursing by running our noisy vacuum or floor buffer to shield our genteel ears. Her attempts to hide his erratic nature were futile, and by my teens it was obvious my parents got their spiritual enlightenment from differing sources. Mother’s straight from Betty Crocker and Dad’s straight from Jack Daniels.

  The sound of pouring wine and clinking glass interrupted my childhood mind drift. “I’m sorry, Ellen. Delilah’s here funneling wine down her gullet and if I don’t intervene it might take the Jaws-of-Life to detach her from my settee.”

  “Get to it, then. I’ve gotta slap on some dye to combat gray hairs invading my crown. You’re lucky you got Mother’s champagne blonde hair color. I’m stuck with Dad’s dark brown shade that shows every n
ew tiny strand of gray.”

  “But you’ve got his big brown eyes to distract from those incoming enemies. I’ll chat with you tomorrow.” I hung up and headed over to take charge of Delilah’s wine situation. No more vino for Mrs. Carlino. The time to end our visit had commenced.

  “Thanks for the wine, Delilah, but I really need you out of here so I can get my butt in gear.” Being blunt was mandatory once wine hit her system.

  “I know, I know.” Delilah stood to leave. “What the heck is this?” She pulled a Jack of Clubs card from between the settee cushions.

  I grabbed the thin piece of plastic from her. “Just one lost from its deck.” I momentarily placed the card against my heart.

  “Oh.” She seemed oblivious to my trembling hand as she flung her purse over her shoulder. “Well, good thing you’re booting me out cuz if I’m not home by nine, Eric starts dialing those 900 sex numbers.”

  “You’re bent beyond repair, Delilah.” I corked the remaining wine and walked her to the door. “And thanks again for the surprise drop by. Seeing you is always my distinct pleasure.”

  She hugged me before heading out the door. “Give Nikki my love,” she yelled.

  I nodded, thinking how after three decades, my daughter barely knew Delilah. After all, she only babysat Nikki briefly in 1970. It seemed so long ago, yet like only the blink of an eye.

  Bliss comes from unusual sources. Looking at my bar, tears of happiness began to well as I walked over, placed the Jack of Clubs card front and center, picked up Delilah’s abandoned pack of cinnamon gum, and ran my fingers across the bar’s surface, touching every little groove. I slid a stick of gum into my mouth while sliding onto one of four barstools I’d moved alongside the bar earlier. Delilah’s curiosity about my working for Beau left me with wide ranging emotions. Vexation. My friend knows too much of my personal business and teases about dragging skeletons from my closet for entertainment purposes. Details. In a few decades my grandchildren will be asking that same question, and unlike Delilah they deserve an answer. Truth. Nothing sets the heart free like revealing secrets that can haunt your soul and govern your life.