It's A Marshmallow World: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Parade Of The Wooden Soldiers

  Christmas Wrapping

  Santa Claus Wants Some Lovin'

  Santa Claus Is Back In Town

  Someday At Christmas

  It's A Marshmallow World

  Super Sunny Christmas

  Getting In The Mood (For Christmas)

  Joy To The World

  Play List

  To My Readers

  Scary Modsters … and Creepy Freaks

  Queen Midas In Reverse

  Voices Carry

  Moonlight Serenade

  Something To Dream On

  Praise for the Forbidden Flower Series

  Love's Forbidden Flower

  Time's Forbidden Flower

  About the Author

  Playlists for all of the Rock and Roll Fantasy stories are listed at the end and can be found on my YouTube Channel.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, essays, and reviews.

  Copyright © 2015 Diane Rinella

  Cover art copyright © 2015 Diane Rinella

  Cover art and design by Heidi “Azurylipfe” Darras

  http://azurylipfe.daportfolio.com/

  For the real Darla.

  Acknowledgements

  Fate is a funny thing. One day, Joanne Brothwell, an author whom I had admired for quite some time, awarded a few of her favorite new releases as prizes in a Christmas contest. One of those books was a copy of my first novel, Love’s Forbidden Flower. Some chick named Darla won. I took a moment to hope she would like it, and then went back to my Christmas shopping.

  A few days later, that same chick sent me a Facebook friend request. Could it be that I had a fan? How cool!

  Since then, Darla Roybal has become my stalker in the most wonderful sense of the word. She is the fan that every author dreams of—friendly, supportive, laughter-inducing, and inspiring. Somewhere along the line I got even luckier, and she became my dear friend.

  Darla also (in her wonderful, charming, stalker way) harassed me about naming a character Darla. The character didn’t have to be anything like her, but the name did matter. (Okay, it wasn’t truly harassment, but more of a mischievous hint at something she thought would never happen.) When Scary Modsters was released, she got her wish in the form of a minor character with a wacky sense of humor, questionable taste in music, and hair that shares the same colors as peacock feathers. But the laugh was on me. While I had fun with the little, be-careful-what-you-wish-for joke, so many people fell in love with fake Darla that it was obvious she needed a tale all her own. I now give you Darla's story—a stand-alone, prequel to Scary Modsters.

  But before I do that …

  Every author has a few special ingredients that make her work complete. I owe many of my lovely covers, including this one, to artist Heidi “Azurylipfe” Darras. Together, we make magic.

  Parade Of The Wooden Soldiers

  Christmas Day, 2000

  For seventeen years, Christmas mornings have left me crawling through mounds of Santa-covered paper, knowing that somewhere under the rubble lay my gifts. My family doesn’t know when to stop buying. That is, except for Dad. Once he buys Mom jewelry and a couple of gift cards, all there is left for him to do is sneak cookies out of the freezer. He’s the sane one.

  Mom is always at such a loss for Dad’s gifts that November first has become Day of the Dread. By that morning, she had better come up with an idea for his present, because it is either spend a month and a half hunting it down on eBay or succumbing to evil, going to Amazon, and clicking her index finger into traction.

  For Dad’s grandma, we head to Claire’s and The Gap. Mom stocks her up on sweaters while Bailey and I buy her the latest accessories. GranGran is the wildest person I know. Getting her something “suitable” for a woman of her age would be an insult not only to her, but also to all those who live without restrictions. She rules!

  Bailey and I spare Mom agony by making our wish lists before we decide on our Halloween costumes. Within reason, Mom’s itchy trigger finger clicks us whatever we want. She then wraps everything individually—hence the avalanche.

  Bailey reaches under the tree, and I can’t help but be jealous of her new hair color. It looks black, but in the right light it is deep purple. First I am going to win the battle with wearing makeup my way, then I will tackle dying my hair. Somehow it will happen, and I won’t have to wait until I turn eighteen next year like Dad says.

  Bailey hands me a present about the size of a shoebox but twice as tall. The motion causes something inside it to shift. It’s got some weight to it. I give it a little shake. It seems like there are a lot of little things sliding around. Could it be?

  Oh please!

  Oh please! Oh please! Oh please!

  My hands tear at the paper, yet when it comes time to open the box I exercise caution. My tilted head and squinted eyes project my thought of “I don’t know if I trust you.”

  The sparkle in Bailey’s chocolate eyes is as bright as her laughter. “I’d wonder about anything coming from me, too.”

  Inside is a makeup case—a cute, scaled down version of what the pros use. My heart starts skipping all over the place. Although Dad has really tried to keep his cool about him, ever since my boobs started growing faster than the rest of me, he has been in panic mode. As a result, the only colors I’ve been able to get away with adding to my face are twenty shades of drab. I’m so tired of blending in with the wallpaper. It’s time to bloom!

  The click of unsnapping the locks sends a wave of hope through my stomach.

  Bummer. The contents bring about a reserved smile. It contains some lipstick, mascara, an eyeliner pencil, and an eyeshadow palette with colors that are only a step above boring. But hey, this is better than the stuff I already have.

  Now that Mom and Dad have turned to check on GranGran, Bailey clears her throat and then nudges her head towards the bottom of the box.

  The outside looks like the inside should be deeper than it is. Actually, the inside bottom looks unstable, and the fabric doesn’t quite match that on the sides.

  I dig at the corner and have to fight off my gasp when I see container upon container of professional-quality eyeshadow forming a rainbow of delight. Tucked into the corners are tubes of lipsticks. The one I slip a peek at is bright, nearly neon, pink. This rules! Bailey has hooked me up, epically!

  How did Bailey afford all of this? Mom and Dad always finance our gifts to each other, but this one is a little heavy handed.

  Mom is peeking over her shoulder. I see what is really happening here. She thinks she is being sly. If this comes from Bailey, Dad can’t get angry at her. That’s why she tossed me extra money to buy my sister something special. I thought it was because Bailey plans to move out soon. While that may have something to do with it, Mom is trying to hide the real agenda.

  Dad turns his head, and I race to conceal the rainbow. He snickers before turning away.

  Snickers? Dad is snickering?

  He knows!

>   Does Mom know he knows?

  He turns back with wide eyes and rattles his head, warning me not to say a word. Oh yeah, he knows all right, and he is having fun by letting everyone think they are pulling the wool over his eyes. My family is wacky.

  Bailey eyes Mom and Dad. She sees through the act as much as I do. “That comes with makeup lessons, too,” she says. Sweet! Bailey is studying to be a professional makeup artist. Those lessons may be the main reason why this gift has been parentally approved.

  I thank her, profusely. Oh my God, Rox and Jacqueline are going to be so jealous! They may be the sweetest friends in the universe, but they are hard to stand next to. Rox always looks so funky and fun, while Jacqueline could wear mud and look perfect. I can’t wait for them to get a load of me with some of this on!

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch GranGran smiling. Her too? Well, duh! Of course her too. She was probably the mastermind that got everyone on board with this. I race over to show her the goods—the bright and sparkly stuff that is tucked away. She kisses my head. “Awesome!” She then whispers, “I am totally jealous.” By the way her eyes twinkle, I believe her. She and I are the only ones in the family with green eyes. The more time that passes, the more I see that genetic traits are not all that I have gotten from her. Being like her is an honor.

  I bend in and whisper, “I know that somehow you had a hand in this. Thank you.”

  She winks.

  Yeah, I thought so.

  After getting this haul, now I really can’t wait to give Bailey her gift. I hand her what is obviously a wooden, crate-type box wrapped in Christmas paper. She rips the paper away to find a set of four, small bottles of flavored, balsamic vinegars. The look on her face is priceless. She is too gracious to ask what is up, even though she has got to know there is a joke behind this.

  “Thank you. I’ve wanted to experiment with cooking more.” It takes all I have not to laugh until reality strikes her. “Wait a minute. This crate has been messed with. Why are the seals around the necks of the bottles removed? And why is it that even though some of these say they are flavored things that should be dark, all of the fluids are colorless?”

  “Maybe you should open them and find out.”

  She unscrews a cap and raises the bottle towards her nose. Hesitantly, she inhales. “Intensity,” I say.

  She gasps. “No!”

  “Keep going.” She pulls out another bottle and goes in to smell. “Scentimental Journey,” I tell her.

  “No way! You bought me the perfumes I’ve been wanting? This is incredible.”

  “It was kind of amazing that with all the cool perfume bottles out there, the ones for those were boring. Plus, even though I don’t want to admit it, we all know you are dying to move out of the house. If every morning you look on your vanity and see vinegar bottles, you won’t forget the sister you left all alone and wallowing in misery.”

  Bailey races over to give me a hug that nearly knocks me onto my back. “I love how you never do anything like a normal person would.”

  Her words make my heart sing. I can’t think of a fate worse than being boring.

  GranGran’s semi-bouffant bops as she tosses her hands in the air. “Finally, it’s my turn!” Her youthfulness always seems to amaze everyone but me. Her cane may not suit her personality, but the red highlights that cover the signs of aging seem as natural on her as they would on a woman a quarter of her age. She’s not some elderly great grandmother; she’s GranGran—a force all her own.

  She hands Bailey and I boxes that are tightly wrapped in red, metallic paper and green ribbon that cascades over the edges. Bailey and I exchange smiles. Gifts from GranGran are always sweet and sentimental. We look forward to them more than anything else on Christmas morning; that is, with the exception of what she gives us later in private.

  Bailey and I open our presents in unison, both stopping at the sight of something precious. This year GranGran has given us treasured memories preserved on paper—photos of us taken with her on Thanksgiving. The frames are perfect—red and white cloisonné roses for Bailey—pink and yellow daisies for me. The frame reminds me of the hair clips she gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I love those so much that I fear losing them and only pull them out for special occasions. Daisies are so beautiful. I love how they burst with life and—

  A chill travels up my spine, as if words of horror were whispered in my ear. There is something eerie about this photo. I can’t quite place it but …

  The dining room chandelier is in the background, just below GranGran’s head. The glow of its lights reminds me of a halo. My stomach squeezes. Never before have I thought of GranGran as being mortal. My distorted perception has told me she will always be around. Suddenly reality is swooping in. Eventually life ends for all of us. It is inevitable.

  “Something to always remember our good times by,” she says.

  GranGran’s words strike a chord of sorrow, driving home what my heart is telling me. She knows something. Now I do, too. Judging by the hollowness in Bailey’s eyes, I see that she senses it as well.

  Bailey and I dash to hug her. My words choke out. “I absolutely love it. Thank you, GranGran.”

  I am so grateful that she is here. I pray that I live to be ninety-two years old, and that I do it in the health and style that she has. She is a woman who loves life—a woman who evolves. When she was born, people scarcely had electricity in their homes. Now she is so in love with technology that she bought Bailey and I cell phones with texting plans so we can share our whims. All of my friends are jealous that I have my own cell phone, and while that is awesome, it is not what matters.

  I kiss her cheek, take her hands in mine, and lock eyes with her. My tears flow with the pride of being her descendant. In light of my revelation, fear makes it hard to keep my words steady. “Thank you, GranGran. You are always the best Christmas present I could ever get.”

  Lord, please let me be wrong. Please bless us with more Christmases together.

  Once the official festivities are over, my favorite part of Christmas arrives. Bailey and I each go to our rooms so that GranGran can give us what she considers to be our real Christmas presents. The gift is secondary to how much we cherish this time with her—a time to tell stories, share secrets, and to just be girls.

  Laughter travels through the wall of Bailey’s room and in to mine. Knowing those two, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that GranGran is telling war stories again. Not just war time stories, but stories about the men she met during World War II—ones who figured a daring advance on a lady was far less dangerous than what they would soon face on a battlefield. Bailey is fascinated with old movies, Big Band Jazz, Swing dancing, and vintage fashions. Her makeup collection is filled with compacts and lipstick cases that date back to the nineteen thirties and forties, all thanks to GranGran’s love of eBay.

  The laughter subsides, and Bailey’s door closes. Feet, aided by a tapping cane, shuffle down the hall. I surprise GranGran by answering before she can knock. We both laugh. “My gosh,” she says. Her hand flies to her heart like I’ve shocked her. It nearly causes her to drop the long, short box that is tucked under her arm. “You darn near gave me a heart attack. Remember, people claim that at my age I am a little on the fragile side.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah, right. If there is one thing I know, it is that you are anything but fragile.”

  She shakes her cane at me. “I’m the toughest weed in the garden, and don’t you ever forget it! Life has dealt me so much that I’ve become immune to weed killer.”

  Something about her smile says she is telling tales. There is a wobble to her step that didn’t exist at Thanksgiving, and it brings back the ache my heart felt when I opened the picture.

  She drops onto my bed and pats for me to sit. “You are in trouble.”

  I plop down next to her while not buying into her firm tone for a second. “Why?” I ask, although I suspect I know the answer. I just want the whole mess to go away.

/>   “I’ll give you a hint. Today is Monday. That means I’ve been waiting three whole days!”

  I groan and drop my head. Busted.

  “I’ve talked to you twice since Friday, and not once have you filled me in on what happened. I know that had it been great, you would have told me. If it had been truly bad, you would have been on my doorstep. Silence leaves me to believe that the event didn’t lead to another date, the loss of your virginity, or police involvement.”

  Lord! Again she is my freaking mind reader. “You’re right! I should have told you. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t filled in anyone but Bailey, and that was purely out of necessity.”

  GranGran raises her brow. “Oh, this sounds bad. Not even Rox or Jacqueline?”

  Time to blurt it out so she can stop worrying. “No, and as I am sure you can tell, I am fine. The real reason that jerk asked me to the Winter Ball was so he could spy on his bimbo ex.”

  “Oh, that bites,” she says.

  “No kidding!”

  GranGran leans back and sizes me up. “There’s more.”

  Gah! I’d ask how she knows, but we can’t seem to keep secrets from each other. Why won’t that night go away?

  Oh shoot, as much as this sucks to admit, she’ll get a kick out of it. I really had planned on telling her the next morning, but my frustration got the best of me. “Long story short, it takes a lot of balls to ignore your date the entire time, and then expect her to spend time alone with you in an empty parking lot.”

  She rolls her head back. “Oh, I’m betting this one has a doozy of an ending.”

  “I spike-heeled him in the junk, and then called Bailey to come get me.”

  GranGran smacks her cane on the floor. Her laugh sounds like a howl. “Oh, that is my girl! You’ve been raised right!” The cane gets tossed aside, and she applauds. I respond by standing to take a bow. The howls lead to a catcall. She then wipes a tear away before the laughter ends. As soon as I take back my seat next to her, she gets serious. “You okay now?”