by Joyia Marie
Tree Climbing for Beginners
By Joyia Marie
Copy write 2014
Black Cat Publications
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying, offset, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages to be printed in a magazine or newspaper.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances of characters to actual persons, living or dead are purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Warning: This material is intended for mature audiences only. This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual content.
Table of Contents:
Table of Contents:
Also Available by Joyia Marie
Dedication:
Prologue: The Storyteller
Chapter One: Helen
Chapter Two: Helen
Chapter Three: Harold
Chapter Four: Harold
Chapter Five: Jillian
Chapter Six: Helen
Chapter Seven: Helen
Chapter Eight: Helen
Chapter Nine: Helen
Chapter Ten: Harold
Chapter Eleven: Harold
Chapter Twelve: Jillian
Chapter Thirteen: Helen
Chapter Fourteen: Helen
Chapter Fifteen: Helen
Chapter Sixteen: Aiden
Chapter Seventeen: Harold
Chapter Eighteen: Jillian
Chapter Nineteen: Helen
Chapter Twenty: Helen
Chapter Twenty-One: Helen
Chapter Twenty-Two: Helen
Chapter Twenty-Three: Helen
Chapter Twenty-Four: Aiden
Chapter Twenty-Five: Aiden
Chapter Twenty-Six: Aiden
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Harold
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jillian
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Helen
Chapter Thirty: Helen
Chapter Thirty-One: Helen
Chapter Thirty-Two: Aiden
Chapter Thirty-Three: Harold
Chapter Thirty-Four: Jillian
Chapter Thirty-Five: Helen
Chapter Thirty-Six: Helen
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Aiden
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Aiden
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Aiden
Chapter Forty: Harold
Chapter Forty-One: Jillian
Chapter Forty-Two: Helen
Chapter Forty-Three: Helen
Chapter Forty-Four: Helen
Chapter Forty-Five: Aiden
Chapter Forty-Six: Aiden
Chapter Forty-Seven: Harold
Chapter Forty-Eight: Jillian
Chapter Forty-Nine: Helen
Chapter Fifty: Helen
Chapter Fifty-One: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Two: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Three: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Four: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Five: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Six: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Helen
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Helen
Chapter Sixty: Helen
Chapter Sixty-One: Harold
Chapter Sixty-Two: Jillian
Chapter Sixty-Three: Helen
Chapter Sixty-Four: Jillian
Chapter Sixty-Five: Harold
Chapter Sixty-Six: Aiden
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Helen
Epilogue:
About the Author:
Other Books by Joyia Marie
Sorry Trilogy
Sorry, Book One of the Sorry Trilogy:
Synopsis:
Chapter One: Diane
Crush Saga
Crush, Book One of the Crush Saga
Synopsis:
Chapter One: Tracie
Also Available by Joyia Marie
Sorry Trilogy:
Sorry, Book One
So Sorry, Book Two
Unapologetic, Book Three – coming Fall 2014
Crush Saga:
Crush, Book One
Crush, Book Two
Crush, Book Three – coming Spring 2014
Crush, Book Four – coming Summer 2014
Tree Climbing for Beginners
For samples of other Joyia Marie books, continue reading after the author’s bio.
Dedication:
To my cousin, Elezya, the best alpha reader, a writer could ask for. Thanks for muddling through the typos and grammar errors and seeing the story. In addition, thanks for letting me bounce plot ideas off you and burble on about my imaginary people. You were a rock.
To Nan, my cousin Elezya’s less kind alter ego, the worst slave driver a writer could ever work for. Nan’s impatient calls every morning with the demand of ‘where’s my chapter, bitch’ kept me on task and got this book finished in record time. I like to believe it would have been written but not as quickly without Nan’s ‘encouragement’. Love you cousin, and the whip marks are almost faded.
Prologue: The Storyteller
Gather around, ladies, let me tell you a story. You might want to send the men and boys out, as this isn’t a story for them. This is a story for just us girls.
It’s not the story you’re expecting. It’s not the story you’re used to. You know that story. We all know that story. It goes a little something like this: boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, get married, and have children. Then, boy meets new girl, decides he no longer wants old girl so he leaves the old girl and children to ride off into the sunset with a new girl.
As I said, it’s not that story or not exactly that story. I guess it’s kinda that story with a slight twist. Wait, wait, I’m confusing you as well as myself so let me just tell you a story.
Like all good stories, I will begin at the beginning.
In the beginning, there was a girl. She was a pretty girl, a happy girl, a girl who made other people happy as long as their happiness didn’t impede her happiness, as that would be unhealthy.
This girl came from a family of wonderfully talented people. This girl’s talent was she told stories. Wonderful stories. Stories that could change your mood or your life depending on how closely you paid attention. People paid her for her wonderful stories. This made our happy girl even happier, and all was right with the world.
One day our girl met a boy who made paper. Is there anything more perfect? A girl who told stories and a boy who produced the method for recording them for all time? This girl and this boy fell in love, got married, and had children. Everyone was happy… for a while.
The next part of our story begins when our girl says…
Chapter One: Helen
“Okay,” I said to my husband of 14 years, reached under the bed, and pulled out my suitcase.
Harold looked me and stuttered, “I wasn’t planning on leaving now, right this minute. I know there are things we need to discuss, like how to tell the children etc.…”
He paused here because he noticed that I wasn’t throwing his clothes into the suitcase but mine. You would have thought he had a clue when I got out my suitcase, which is lavender, and not gray like his and everything else in his life.
I ignored Harold as I packed. I was in stunned disbelief. I couldn’t believe I married a man named Harold. I couldn’t believe I had stayed married to him for 14 years. I really couldn’t believe Harold was leaving me or thought he was leaving me for another woman.
Not so much. Harold could have his other woman, I couldn’t care less. If she thought Speedy Gonzales was
the best she could do in bed, then she was welcome to him.
However, if he thought he was leaving me with twin teenagers he was certifiable. For the past 12 years, I was a single parent while Harold was working his way up the corporate ladder at Peterson Paper, the family firm, and now that he finally had the position he had put me thought hell to get, he thought he could get out?
Again, not so much. I took the first 12 years, which I figured was the hard part. He could get the last six. I figure teething, colic and potty training equaled teenage hormones so we’re even. I was so out of there.
“Helen, what are you doing? I wasn’t going to kick you out of the house, although I could, as I’ve been the one paying for it. Nevertheless, I was going to give you the house in exchange for no alimony. I’ll pay child support,” he finished with a big smile, which quickly faded as I only packed faster.
“Harold,” I said as I walked into the bathroom for my toiletries. “You’re not leaving I am. You can have the house, but you will have the kids as well. Tonya is premenstrual, Tony just had first nocturnal emission, and if you think you’re leaving me with that, you’re crazy. Tell the kids whatever you like,” I said as I dropped my toiletries into the open suitcase and snapped it shut.
Harold looked like he was poleaxed and I allowed an evil smile to come over my face. “Oh, I get it you were going to leave me here with the kids while you go off and play house with your girlfriend. Pick up the kids on the weekend, buy them lots of stuff they don’t need and drop them off for me to do the heavy lifting of school and activities? Wrong answer.
“I was content with our marriage, but you’re not so why should I be the one to suffer because you got buyer’s remorse 14 years down the line. So, I wish you luck with your new love and I hope she likes kids because now she’s got two,” I said as I walked toward the door.
“But you’re their mother,” Harold said as if that should be the ultimate answer.
“You’re their father, Harold. A father they have seen far too little of but I guess we know why now between work and your little side piece. I’m sure you’ll make up for lost time now,” I said firmly. I looked into my huge mom bag and pulled out the kids’ schedules. I know, I know I’m a Luddite, but I still like paper.
“You’ll need this,” I said, slapping the papers in Harold’s outstretched hand. “Oh and this too,” I said, giving him a big bottle of aspirin.
Harold looked at the paper in his hand and his eyes bulged. “When did they start doing all this stuff? I can’t take them to all this. I have to work,” Harold said, trying to thrust the papers back at me.
I raised my hands and stepped back. No take backs, I though evilly. “Maybe Bitsy or Muffy or whatever your girlfriend’s name is can help you,” I said with a sunny smile.
“Her name is Jillian,” Harold said proudly as if I really cared. Then I remembered this tall, thin blond named Jillian at the last office affair and thought, ‘what a schmuck’. Jillian didn’t love Harold. Jillian loved Jillian, as a proper 20-something should. Anybody could see that, anybody but my stupid soon to be ex-husband Harold.
“The thing is…” Harold said from behind me as he followed me to the front door, his voice sounding slightly frantic, “Jillian doesn’t really do kids.”
I turned around at the front door and looked at my idiot of a husband and really hoped my kids got my brains because if not they were screwed. Harold is a classic ‘book smart, street stupid’ man. Harold was the only child of older parents who never expected him after all those years, so greeted his arrival like the second coming.
They cosseted and petted Harold his entire life. You know that expression, ‘the world is my oyster?’ Harold believed that, and up until now had no reason to doubt it.
“Mom?” I heard questioningly from behind stupid Harold’s back. Ah the moppets are awake, I thought hefting my suitcase higher. Harold grinned as if saved by the bell. He just knew there was no way I’d leave with my children awake and looking at me with those ‘please, don’t desert us’ eyes. Ha, I thought, just watch me.
The twins emerged from behind Harold’s back and he stepped back to let them do what he had not been able to do, namely keep me at home. He leaned back as the twin terrors, otherwise known as Thing One and Thing Two converged on me. I wasn’t going to miss this, I thought grimly.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my children, I do what mother doesn’t love her offspring, Susan Smith aside. However, lately they were wearing on me. My babies, who had arrived early, crawled early and potty trained (thank God) early were starting puberty early. Oh happy day.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I had female issues or male issues to deal with but no, I got both. Therefore, I have one measuring her breasts on a daily basis, then calling her giggling tribe of girlfriends to compare notes. The other measuring his penis and yes, I walked in at that Kodak moment, and calling his grunting tribe of guy friends to compare notes. Frankly, I was bushed and without the hope of Harold coming to spell me every now and again, I wasn’t going to make it.
There were two of them, idiot Harold and his future child bride, Jillian, and one of me. They were better equipped for the job. I could retire to my loft and write in peace. Harold could call me when they were ready to graduate high school.
“Mom?” repeated Thing One, otherwise known as Tonya, when I failed to answer her first hail. Tonya was the first born by 10 minutes, hence was the leader, and designated spokesperson for the twins. Tony, or Thing Two, preferred to watch with eyes peeking through his ridiculously long bangs he refused to cut.
“You going somewhere?” she asked when I merely arched a brow at her.
“Yes, sweetie, I’m going to the loft for a while. Your dad’s taking you to school in the morning.”
“Oh, okay,” Tonya said calmly before turning around and heading back up the stairs her brother behind her.
Harold looked poleaxed for the second time in less than an hour. It didn’t look any more attractive for him now than it had before. He expected the kids to kick up more of a fuss, but I could have told him that would not be the case. Lately, all the kids cared about was how they were going to get from point A to point B and what there was to eat.
“Harold, I’m going to go and let you get to bed. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow, so you’ll need your rest,” I said, as I turned to the door.
Harold rushed over and grabbed the doorknob and my fist that was holding it. Sad to say this was the most passionate touch I had received from him in months. “Wait, this is stupid. You can’t leave. You’re their mother. As I said, Jillian doesn’t do kids. So the best thing all the way around is you stay here and I leave,” Harold said firmly.
“Harold repeating facts already in evidence doesn’t make them any more true,” I said calmly. I guess I should mention here I watch a lot of Law and Order and true crime shows so it tends to slip into my conversations.
“Yes, I am their mother, but as noted before you are their father. Which makes them just as much yours as they are mine. As far as Jillian, on what planet do you think your mistress’ wants and desires are going to affect my decisions? If Jillian doesn’t do children, then she really shouldn’t have gotten involved with a man who had two. Now get your hand off mine before I rip it off and shove it down your lying cheating throat,” I hissed.
Harold removed his hand with alacrity and I opened the door and stepped out. “Bye kids,” I shouted up the stairs to where my two junior CIA agents were spying. This was why I tried to talk as softly as I could when I was giving Harold the facts of his new life.
Children should not hear from their mother that their father is a lying, cheating scumbag that boinks women just a little older than themselves. Some stuff they should discover on their own or from the lying, cheating scumbag himself as nature intended.
“Bye mom,” yelled Thing One and Thing Two from much closer than their bedrooms. Do I know my kids or what?
“Be good for your father. Love you. Talk to yo
u later,” I tootled before walking out the door.
Their reply was indistinguishable. It could have been ‘love you, too’ or could have been ‘bring back some Cheetos’. With my kids, you never know. I’ve learned to put the most positive spin on things and move on.
The last thing I saw before gently shutting the door was Harold’s shocked face. I actually rather felt sorry for him. Not because of the kids, he’d be fine. If not, his mother would step in as she was dying to do from the second I popped them out.
No, I felt sorry for him because this was the end of an era for him. The era of ‘always gets my own way’ had just ended for Harold and I didn’t know how he’d handle it. Ah well, I thought, should have thought about that before you started boffing the bimbo.
Chapter Two: Helen
I traipsed down the stairs to the driveway, hopped into my car, a minivan don’t you know, and drove away. I felt okay about things. Yeah, I was going to miss my kids, but it wasn’t as if I sold them into child slavery. I left them with their father, who was about to get a rude awakening.
Up until now, he had gotten to be ‘Fun Dad’. You know Fun Dad, usually only seen in guilt stricken divorced weekend fathers? Well, somehow, my husband managed to be ‘Fun Dad’ while still married. He showed up for games, handed out money when allowances ran short and took the kids out for ice cream.
Because he showed up late in the evening, he never had to help or yell at the kids about homework or eating their vegetables or cleaning up their rooms. He never had to check 15 times to make sure they were snuggled into their beds asleep instead of hiding under the cover playing one more DS game or talking to their friends on the phone. No, those jobs fell to me, AKA ‘Mean Mom’.
With ‘Mean Mom’ out of the picture and I really didn’t see Jillian stepping up to the plate, ‘Fun Dad’ was about to become ‘Mean Mom’ or ‘Mean Dad’. May heaven have mercy on his soul.
Now I know you’re probably wondering why my kids weren’t more upset about me leaving in the middle of the night, suitcase in hand. I’ll tell you. They’re used to it because of my job.