The Time of Aspen Falls

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Copyright © 2009, 2011

  The Time of Aspen Falls by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  Published by Distractions Ink

  ©Copyright 2011 by M. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by ©Photowitch/Dreamstime.com

  and ©Iakov Kalinin/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design by

  Sheri L. Brady/MightyPhoenixDesignStudio.com

  First Printed Edition: February 2009

  Second Printed Edition: September 2011

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,

  created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  The Time of Aspen Falls: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  ISBN: 978-0-9838074-7-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011937945

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Groovy Gina—

  Autumn Angel,

  Jewel of the Pacific Northwest!

  Thank you

  for wearing orange sweaters,

  for loving pumpkins,

  for enduring and treasured friendship

  always…

  and especially

  when the time of aspen falls!

  Chapter One

  “I thought autumn would never get here!”

  Aspen sighed. She smiled and bit into a crisp, tart apple. The early autumn breeze was cool; the sun blushed a soothing orange and gold. The sweet perfume of ripening apples and pears in the orchard caressed the air like some rich, intoxicating delight—respiring harvest fragrances—whispering the serenity of the season.

  Gina reached out, plucking an untimely apple from a nearby branch. She rubbed it briskly on the front of her shirt. Biting into her own apple, Gina winced as the sharp taste of fruit harvested too soon soaked her tongue.

  “We’re gonna get sick eating these too early, you know,” she said.

  Aspen smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “So? Some things are worth a stomachache. Don’t you think?” she asked.

  Gina shrugged and grimaced as she bit the apple again. “Like what?”

  “Like sitting in the branches of an apple tree, eating apples that aren’t quite ripe,” Aspen offered.

  “Or really, really spicy, warm-from-the-oven pumpkin cookies,” Gina added.

  Aspen nodded. “Really spicy pumpkin pie too.”

  The orchard was so peaceful, slathered in the comforting feel of summer’s hushed leaving—of autumn’s ambrosial arrival.

  Gina frowned as she studied the apple in her hand. “You know…it wouldn’t be so sour if we had some caramel to drizzle over it.”

  Aspen giggled, shaking her head. Gina thought everything tasted better with something drizzled over it. Peaches tasted better with a hearty helping of thick, delicious cream drizzled over them—pot roast tasted better drizzled with gravy. Gina Wicksoth drizzled something over nearly everything solid she ate. Still, Aspen agreed. The tart apples they were eating could’ve used a little sweetening—a little drizzling of caramel. Actually, a generous, mixing bowl full of caramel would’ve been better. Yet, as they were actually eating their apples while sitting in an apple tree, a mixing bowl full of caramel just wasn’t handy.

  “I don’t know how you stay so skinny,” Aspen said. “You drizzle everything over everything and eat like a horse!”

  Gina tossed her head as she giggled. Her short, wavy hair seemed to feather a cocoa colored sigh in the cooler autumn breeze. “I just have a high metabolism.”

  “You have a good luck streak going,” Aspen said.

  “That’s probably true,” Gina admitted. “Still, this apple is making my stomach feel nasty.” Gina reached out, plucking another apple from the tree. “Here,” she began, briskly rubbing the new apple on her shirt sleeve, “maybe this one is riper.”

  Aspen smiled, amused by her friend’s determination. She relaxed against the tree trunk at her back, gazing up through the lacy lattice of apple tree leaves overhead.

  “I cannot wait until October,” she sighed.

  “I know!” Gina said. Aspen watched as Gina took a bite of the new apple in her right hand, then a bite of the first apple now held in her left. Chewing, she looked back and forth between them, her blue-green eyes curious, a puzzled expression furrowing her brow. “I’m gonna get sick, Aspen Falls,” she said, taking another bite of the new apple.

  Aspen giggled. “Like I said, some things are worth it.”

  Aspen loved sitting in the old apple tree with Gina. Every autumn they would spend hours and hours perched in the branches of Old Goldie—eating apples, talking, planning, and dreaming. They’d dubbed the tree “Old Goldie” the year they both turned twelve. It seemed fitting that the old tree bearing such beautiful Golden Delicious apples should have a special name. When they were younger, Aspen and Gina had spent days on end laughing, eating apples, and planning out their lives perched up in Old Goldie’s branches. Now in their early twenties, neither young woman had “days on end” to spend in such serene contemplation. Yet they managed to climb up into the old apple tree a couple of times a week each autumn. The apple tree times with Gina were some of Aspen’s most treasured memories.

  “You know what’s worse on your stomach than sour apples, don’t you?” Gina asked. She tossed the apple in her left hand to the ground and took another bite of the remaining one she held.

  “Love!” Aspen answered in unison with Gina.

  Both women giggled, and Gina put her hand over her heart. “Join me now in a recitation of our creed.”

  Aspen giggled again as she placed her hand over her heart and nodded.

  Simultaneously, they began to recite a poem they’d written and memorized as silly little girls—written and memorized after Aspen had her heart broken by Mike Archuleta in the fifth grade.

  “I’ll never throw up again, I say,

  The way I did this rotten day

  When jerk-faced Mike gave back my note

  (the one I shoulda never wrote).

  I’ll ignore the cute boys, each one, and then…

  When I’m grown up—the handsome men!

  ’Cause it sure ain’t worth the stomachache…

  Or all the cookies that we bake!

  And if I throw up again, I’d like

  To barf on guys like stupid Mike!”

  Aspen nearly toppled off the tree limb she was sitting on—for, having finished their recitation, she and Gina were nearly rolling with uncontrollable laughter.

  “W-we so stink at poetry!” Gina laughed.

  “W-w-we so stink at love!” Aspen gasped. Her back hurt; her stomach hurt. It was the best hurt she knew—the pain of irrepressible laughter!

  Still laughing, Gina nodded and gasped, “We do! We totally do!”

  Aspen sighed as her laughter began to subside. Naturally, she experienced the little syncopated bursts of giggles that always followed a belly-busting laugh session. Still, it did subside, and Aspen bit into the tart, juicy apple in her hand.

  “Of course, it’s not our fault we stink at love,” she said, wagging an index finger at Gina.

  “That’s right!” Gina nodd
ed and tossed a juicy apple core to the grassy orchard ground below. “How can we expect to be successful in love when there aren’t any real men left in the world?”

  It was a subject Aspen and her best friend had plowed through time and again—the sad lack of “real men” in modern society.

  “I mean,” Gina began, plucking a leaf from the tree and rubbing it between her fingers, “where did they all go? All those guys our grandmas talk about? I remember when I was little I saw an old Marlboro Man ad in some antique magazine my grandma still had in her garage—you know, some handsome, rugged, tough guy out riding the range on his horse. Oh, sure, it was a cigarette ad…but still, those guys were totally masculine!”

  “The kind of guy who would sew up his own wound while defending a woman’s honor with a bare-fisted, mean right hook,” Aspen added.

  “Yeah,” Gina sighed. “What happened to those kinds of guys?”

  Aspen smiled and shrugged. She’d always loved the old Marlboro Man magazine ads too. She brushed a strand of stray nut-brown hair from her cheek and said, “Well, in truth…they probably all succumbed to health complications brought on by smoking during the photo shoots.”

  Gina nodded. “Probably. What an awful thought…and how sad! Still, you have to admit they were hot! Real men, you know?”

  “Oh, I totally know!” Aspen agreed. “I can honestly say that the only real-men types I’ve ever seen in real life—other than my dad and brothers, of course—are always really old…like, elderly.”

  “Oh, totally!” Gina agreed. “I was down in Corrales the other day getting a sack of green chili for my grandma, and there was this guy—an old, old, old man…I mean, like, he had to be, like, eighty—and he was wearing these worn-out, tattered old Levi’s, banged up old boots, a long-sleeved button-up white shirt, and a beat-up cowboy hat. He had a big scar down one side of his face and gnarled hands…skin like leather.” She paused for a moment, reflecting on seeing the man.

  “And?” Aspen prodded.

  Gina sighed. “And he walked around to the side of the building—you know, over there at Wagner’s Produce where they roast chili. He walked around over there and got on a horse. He rode past me toward the river, tipped his hat, and said, ‘Mornin’ miss.’ I thought, what the heck? Why can’t he be twenty-five or thirty instead of a hundred and ninety-three?”

  “I think I’ve seen that guy!” Aspen felt her heart pinch a little in her bosom. She’d seen an elderly man fitting Gina’s description riding along the riverbank only days before when she’d been on a picnic with her family. “I thought the same thing! But eighty—that’s just a little too old for me.”

  “And I bet he’s a war veteran…World War II, probably. You know, a man with honor, patriotism, and values.” Gina sighed. “They’re gone…all of them. At least, there aren’t any our age.”

  Aspen bit her lip. Should she tell Gina? Should she tell her what she’d discovered just two weeks before? Part of her was afraid to—afraid that in telling Gina her treasure-find would be lost somehow. Still, Gina was her best friend—her trusted and loyal friend. They’d shared nearly every secret of their entire lives. It was time to share this one.

  Aspen lowered her voice and said, “I know where one is.”

  “One what?”

  “A real man. At least…I get the feeling he’s one. I’ve been watching him, and I think—”

  “You’ve been watching him?” Gina interrupted. “You mean, like, from a window with binoculars or something?”

  “No, you dingdong!” Aspen giggled, shaking her head at her friend’s imagination. “In the park—near the shop during my lunch break. He runs past me every day on my lunch hour.”

  “Runs past you? You mean like a burglar? Or a UPS guy? I always wanted to go out with a UPS guy.”

  Aspen shook her head and giggled. “No. He runs past me—like, jogs…for exercise.”

  “Oh!” Gina exclaimed.

  Aspen smiled, knowing full well Gina was still thinking about her imaginary UPS guy.

  “Well, who is he?”

  Aspen shrugged again. She rolled her deep green eyes and answered, “I don’t know. Just some guy! He’s, like, totally gorgeous, of course.”

  “Of course,” Gina giggled.

  “But there’s a lot more to it than that.”

  “Like what? Like…give me some examples.”

  Aspen sighed. She frowned for a moment as she tried to think of a way to give details to Gina.

  “Well, a lot of it is in the way he moves—the way his shoulders sort of dip back and forth when he slows to a walk. He saunters instead of walks. Do you know what I mean?”

  Gina nodded. “Nice start. What else?”

  Aspen frowned. “It’s hard to explain. I mean, there was the time he picked up this boy who’d fallen off his scooter. A little boy—like, four or five—was riding a scooter thing, and he fell. The guy stopped, picked the boy up, and then bent and inspected the boy’s little banged-up knees. I heard him say, ‘Let’s find your mom, okay, buddy?’ and then he took the kid’s hand and led him over to his mom.”

  “Very heroic indeed!” Gina teased.

  “No, I’m serious! I can’t explain it,” Aspen argued. “It’s in the way he moves—the fact that he’s got a big scar running up the side of one calf.”

  “Scars are always nice,” Gina said. “Like a masculinity bonus or something.”

  Aspen nodded. “Total bonus.”

  “Nike or something else?” Gina asked.

  Aspen knew exactly what her friend meant. Gina and Aspen had always judged boys and men—always gauged their potential to be perfectly masculine—by the brand of athletic gear they wore. It was the only brand they paid attention to—that and Levi’s.

  “Nike,” Aspen said.

  “Good start!” Gina smiled, her eyes twinkling with intrigue. “What kind of Nike stuff?”

  “Kind of ratty, worn-out Nike T-shirt…black. And basketball shoes,” Aspen answered. “Perfect, huh?”

  Gina nodded. “It’s a good sign—that he’s not all decked out in perfectly matching sweatpants and running shoes. Shows he’s not a prima donna.”

  “And absolutely no jogging shorts,” Aspen added. “Nike basketball shorts.”

  “Nice!” Gina’s smile broadened. She rubbed her hands together in mischievous anticipation. “Hair color?”

  “Like…dark, dark brown…almost black. Sometimes I can’t even tell.”

  “Perfect! Eye color?”

  Aspen shook her head. “I haven’t been close enough to see.”

  “We’ll hope for blue or brown. Skin color? Is he pasty or tan?”

  “Totally tan…like he works outside a lot.”

  “Like…farmer’s tan or all-over tan?”

  Again Aspen shook her head. “Hard to tell with a T-shirt on.”

  “Hmmm,” Gina mumbled, pensive. “Height and weight?”

  Aspen giggled. This was a game she and Gina had played for years. In their quest to find a real man now and then, they had a standard of details that must be met.

  “Over six foot, for sure. Maybe one ninety?”

  “Now,” Gina began. Aspen had a hard time keeping a straight face—Gina’s was so serious! “Have you had a good look at his hands? I mean…neat, girly, manicured nails? Or a few scrapes, scratches, and calluses?”

  “Again, I haven’t been close enough.”

  “Well, it sounds like this one’s got potential,” Gina said. “When can I get a good look at him?”

  “He’s mine! Finders keepers, remember,” Aspen warned, wagging an index finger at her friend.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Gina rolled her eyes with exaggerated exasperation. She waved one hand as if the finders keepers rule didn’t hold any weight. “Should I meet you for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Aspen answered. “Tomorrow’s good. Meet me in that park near the shop. I’ll be there at, like…around noon. There’s a bench under a little cottonwood tree, right where
the sidewalk bends.”

  “I’ll have to take my lunch a little early and drive over there,” Gina mused. “Should I bring my camera?”

  “Are you crazy?” Sometimes Aspen thought Gina was nuts. Still, what it boiled down to was something to be admired: never being self-conscious. Gina had no inhibitions at all!

  “I’ll stick it in my purse…just in case,” Gina said. She smiled and plucked another apple from the branch before her.

  “I thought you were feeling sick,” Aspen reminded.

  Gina shrugged her shoulders. She rubbed the apple on the front of her shirt and bit into it. “Some things are worth it,” she said.

  

  “When will he be here? I haven’t got all day!”

  “Shhh!” Aspen scolded her friend. “Any minute. He might have had to stop a crime or something.”

  Gina sighed with impatience, rolled her eyes, crossed her legs, and began shaking her foot.

  Aspen smiled, amused as the entire park bench wiggled with Gina’s impatient foot wiggling. She was nervous herself, butterflies fluttering in her stomach the way they did every day at lunch, each time she thought about the handsome real-man stranger jogging past the bench—jogging past her.