by Scott, D. D.
“It’s going to be okay.” She hugged me tighter. “Think good thoughts, honey.”
I tried not to inhale too much of the Chanel Number Five that she must have poured on. I pulled away.
“I know. Good thoughts.” I said trying to smile through the tears.
Marlene was there for me and she barely knew me. She asked me to keep her precious jewel safe and I couldn’t even do that.
I sobbed some more. Some from worry about Willow, and the other from guilt. I should tell her.
“Marlene.” I touched her arm.
“Ladies.” Doc Johnson came back into the room. He put the x-rays up on the light box.
I wasn’t sure whether I should kiss him for interrupting me and stopping me from telling Marlene, or smack him from coming in and making me lose my courage to tell her.
There was all of Willow’s insides were right there in black and white.
“This is Willow’s stomach.” He pointed to her cute little round image. “There seems to be something lodged in there.”
Marlene and I stepped closer to the light box. I squinted to see what it could be. But I couldn’t make it out.
“Holly, where is my Spinet?” Marlene asked while still looking at the image.
“At the shop?” It sounded more like a question than answer.
“No, I think it’s in that swine of yours.” Her acrylic nails jabbed at the x-ray. “I’d know my Spinet anywhere.”
I squinted more. Surely Willow didn’t eat the jewel.
I smacked my head. She was the only person in the room other than Bernadine, Sean, Flora and Cheri.
But how? How did she get the Spinet? It was in the drawer.
Asshole!
I recalled walking in on Sean with Willow in his lap. He did say he had to shut the drawer, and she’s one quick swine. I bet she’d snatched it up without Sean even seeing it.
“That little pig really does hate me doesn’t she?” Marlene eyes were ablaze.
“I will need to operate to get it out of there.” Doc Johnson looked over top his glasses. “Is that a real Spinet?”
He looked at Marlene with more interest.
“You know what a Spinet is?” Her eyes turned sweet and gentle along with the accent.
“Of course I do.” Doc Johnson winked again and disappeared into the other room, preparing to take out the expensive gem.
Marlene fanned herself.
“A man after my own heart.” She sat back in the chair. “Did you know my precious gem was missing?”
I knew I was caught. Now that the mystery was solved, I knew I could tell her the truth.
“That’s why I called you.” I told her the entire story, including how the Divas thought I was crazy.
She laughed the entire time.
“It’s funny now, but if you hadn’t found it, then we would’ve had a problem.” She said.
Marlene was right after all. She was growing on me, leopard print and all.
“After all, we Divas take up for each other, right?” She questioned.
I smiled. Marlene was a Diva whether we wanted to accept her or not. She was going to fit in just fine.
“That’s right.” I hugged my new friend. “How can I make it up to you?”
“I wouldn’t mind having a part-time job.” She said. “Agnes just doesn’t have enough for me to do. And you need to get my Spinet wrapped and finished.”
“Fine.” I said, giving in.
I’m not sure what I’ll have her do, but I do owe her.
“Oh, and I wouldn’t mind a date with Doug Sloan.” Slowly a smile crept across her face. “You’ll need to clear that with Ginger for me.”
“Let’s do one thing at a time.” I patted her leg, and waited for my Willow to come out of surgery.
Yes, my relationship with Marlene Dietrich was going to be one thing at a time.
Strung Out To Die
A Divorced Diva Mystery
Available Spring 2012
About The Author
Tonya Kappes is an Amazon Mover and Shaker bestselling author in the United States and United Kingdom. She writes about quirky characters in quirky situations.
Anthologies where you can find Tonya Kappes short stories:
Something Spooky This Way Comes, Masked Souls short story
Believe, Another Quirky Christmas short story prequel to Carpe Bead 'em
Madness Under The Mistletoe, A Superstitious Christmas short story prequel to Never Tell Your Dreams Before Breakfast
She is co-founder of The Writer's Guide to E Publishing (thewritersguidetoepublishing.com) and part of the elite blog team at The Women’s Literary Café (www.womensliterarycafe) that gives back to readers and writers.
When she's not writing, she's busy being the princess, queen and jester of her domain which includes her BFF husband, her three teenage boys and two dogs.
Find more information about Tonya at her website, tonyakappes.blogspot.com.
MISTLETOE AND THE FIVE-YEAR ITCH
By
Talli Roland
Jem Ryan turned her smile on the eager crowd in front of her.
‘And that, ladies and gentleman,’ – she sighed as she spotted a man at the back of the room; there always had to be one who turned up, thinking the women were easy pickings – ‘is how I’ve gone five years without sex.’
The women clapped and looked up at her as if she’d just given them the recipe to calorie-free chocolate.
Jem held up her hands.
‘It’s my five-year anniversary today, actually. The day before Christmas, half a decade ago, was the first celibate day of the rest of my life.’
Or at least the foreseeable future, Jem added inside her head. The applause swelled and she nodded graciously, smoothing down her pencil skirt and straightening the cuffs on her fitted shirt. With her glossy long brown hair and size eight figure, she always made an effort to show that even though she didn’t desire, she could still be desirable. The funny thing was, ever since she’d vowed not to have sex, she’d practically had to beat off fanciable men with a stick.
‘There are CDs and T-shirts at the back, and I’ll be signing books in the foyer for the next hour,’ Jem said when the clapping finally stopped. ‘Pre-dinner drinks start at seven in the hotel bar. Since today is Christmas Eve, dress is festive. And remember: sex-free is sexy!’
She came down off the podium and into the swarming crowd, smiling and shaking the hands of women who gushed how she had helped them find a new direction, a new confidence... ugh. She wrinkled her nose. Some of them needed to find a new deodorant.
Jem settled behind the table in the foyer and picked up her pen.
‘Oh!’ she said in surprise as the man she’d seen at the back of the room smiled down at her. Close up, he was even better looking, with thick blond hair that waved over his forehead and just the right amount of stubble poking through his chin. What the hell was he doing here? If he thought any of her women would succumb to his looks, he had another thing coming.
‘Can you sign my book?’ The man put a copy of Living Sex Free and Loving It onto the table. Jem stared at his hands, with their long, solid fingers. Just the right amount of knuckle hair, no wedding ring... an image of his hands on her skin flashed through her mind, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. In horror, of course.
‘Are you all right?’ the man was asking.
Jem cleared her throat and looked up again. ‘Who should I make it out it to?’
‘Trevor.’
Jem relaxed her grip on the pen and let out her breath. Trevor. Any man called Trevor was sure to be the type who stopped in the middle of sex to have a dump, or something equally hideous. Jem had encountered his type several times over – it was men like him that made being celibate easy. She scrawled her name across the page, omitting the kisses she usually put.
‘Here you are, Trevor,’ Jem said, handing him back his book. Her fingers brushed his and her cheeks went hot.
‘T
hanks.’ He moved to the side so the woman behind him could take his place. Jem’s eyes followed his perfectly sculpted arse.
‘Oh, it’s such a pleasure to meet you!’ the woman in front of her burbled. ‘I’ve been sex-free for three years now!’
Jem tore her gaze away and back to the snaggle-toothed woman.
‘That’s great,’ she said, signing her name on the book. Get a grip, she told herself sternly, as Trevor’s perfectly-haired knuckles drifted through her mind.
Finally the foyer was empty and Jem stood and stretched. A good steam before dinner would clean out her pores, make those strange twitches disappear. Up in her room, she threw on her one-piece swimming costume then made her way down to the pool area.
Ah, now this was exactly what the doctor ordered, she thought as she sank down onto a tiled ledge in the steam room, breathing in the moisture swirling around her.
‘Hello,’ a deep voice came through the clouds of steam. A voice she recognized all too well, even from the brief book signing.
Jem’s heart dropped and she draped her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling exposed. She gulped and tried not to look at Trevor, but the curves of his muscular body practically leaped out from the steam towards her.
‘Why are you at the conference?’ Her voice came out a bit harsher than she intended.
Trevor smiled. ‘I’m one of your biggest converts. You practically saved my life, you know. I’ve been sex-free now for two years, and it’s brilliant.’
Jem’s mouth fell open but she snapped it closed. One of her biggest converts? A man, like Trevor, celibate?
‘So, I just want to say thank you.’ Trevor met her eyes.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Jem managed, unable to drag her gaze away from his. Her heart pounded and sweat trickled down the little furrow in her brow she kept meaning to get Botoxed. She should feel calmer, knowing Trevor was celibate, just like her. But every nerve in her body was straining towards him with such force she could barely stay seated.
‘I have to go,’ she mumbled, stumbling out of the steam room and gulping in the fresh air. Turning on the shower on full force, she slung the dial as far over as it could go. Cold water stung her skin, but still she throbbed. Throbbed, for God’s sake! She snorted with disgust at herself, but the sensation didn’t subside.
Up in her room, Jem shaved her bits with a precision she hadn’t for years, slathered herself in her favourite moisturiser, and surveyed her dress. Perhaps choosing a fire engine red silk slip-dress had been a mistake. It had seemed so Christmassy and cheery back in the shop, but now the skimpy garment only served to ramp-up the strange feeling of longing. The strapless design showed off her cleavage to its best advantage, and already Jem could picture Trevor peeling it off her... she shuddered.
Jem strode into the bar, smiling at the women around her. Where was Trevor? She’d have to be sure to stay away. Far away.
‘Gin and tonic, please,’ she said to the barman as she scanned the dim room. Ah, there he was, sipping a drink alone in the opposite corner – right under the mistletoe. In his crisp suit and kelly green tie, he was like all her Christmas presents wrapped up in one. Trevor’s eyes locked with hers. As if her mind was disconnected with her body, Jem’s legs propelled her toward him.
‘Hello,’ she said, unable to resist laying a hand on his arm when she reached his side. Her breath quickened. Steady, steady.
Trevor scanned her dress and took a step back. ‘Hello again.’
Jem moved forward, manoeuvring her body so she was pressed against his side. Her insides tightened even more and her pulse roared in her ears. She swivelled so she was facing his chest and her arms shot out, gripping his waist.
‘Stop!’ Trevor yelled, jerking out of her reach. His voice cut through the buzz in the room and every head swivelled toward them.
Jem stepped away and looked around the now-silent room. Fifty pairs of accusing eyes stared back.
‘Just, um, just a little mistletoe test!’ she called, her voice unsteady. ‘Checking resolve!’ She patted Trevor’s arm. ‘Well done, you passed!’ She smiled brightly and held her breath.
The low hum of conversation resumed and Jem slumped down at a table. Had they believed her? How much damage to her business had she done – and did she even care? Only one thought clogged her mind: Trevor.
A burst of pain exploded behind her eyes and Jem pressed her fingers against her temples. Every pulse sent shards of glass deeper into her skull.
Trevor sat down next to her. ‘All right?’
Jem lifted her head and met his eyes. She reached out her hand and placed it on his thigh, watching as his cheeks flushed red. Slowly, she inched her fingers along the side of his leg.
Trevor leaned in closer. ‘Jem? Are you OK?’ His voice shook and Jem noticed beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, but he didn’t move away.
‘I will be,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I will be now. Merry Christmas, Trevor.’
THE END
About The Author
Talli Roland has three loves in her life: chick lit, coffee and cupcakes. Born and raised in Canada, Talli now lives in London, where she savours the great cultural life (coffee and cupcakes). Despite training as a journalist, Talli soon found she preferred making up her own stories – complete with happy endings. Her debut novel, The Hating Game, was an Amazon Top 100 bestseller and shortlisted for Best Romantic Read at the UK’s Festival of Romance, and her second, Watching Willow Watts, was selected as a 2011 Amazon Customer Favourite. Build A Man is her latest release. Talli blogs here and can be found on Twitter here.
Jade O’Reilly and the Ice Queen
By
Tamara Ward
Okay, so I was at the party dateless and in an unlit pantry with the door closed. But my situation wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Really.
I could hear the string quartet humming a sweet Sinatra tune on the back patio. I could almost feel the eight-foot outdoor space heaters radiating waves of warmth to combat the January chill in the coastal North Carolina air. The refraction of twinkling lights through the small window danced on the ceiling. The scents of fresh strawberries and milk chocolate intermingled into a mouth-watering aroma appeased only by indulgence or by swigs of champagne. The tinkling of glasses and laughter of guests enjoying the evening permeated the wall.
Yes, technically, I had tucked myself into a pantry and closed the door. But Penelope and Gregory Bouleneau-Baker’s pantry couldn’t exactly be considered standard. Not with its window overlooking the porch with its sweeping views of Sweetwater Lake. Not with its walnut, glass-fronted cabinets and semicircular interior window that opened onto the wide second-story hallway of the massive house. Through the opening, I could see the front door, flanked by two indoor trees. With a sink, mini fridge, and granite countertops, the pantry actually felt more like an additional prep area for the larger kitchen.
Finally, Sarah had released me from my assistant-to-the-caterer duties. After the dessert had been served, Sarah had said that she and her paid staff could finish out the evening. And where else could I eat my second helping of her triple chocolate fudge brownie cake with its strawberry dipping sauce in peace?
Every year, Sarah, my sister-in-law, catered Penelope’s January celebration. I lived in the apartment over Sarah and my brother’s garage, and I frequently mooched from her home-cooked meals and took advantage of their backyard pool. My own job as a private investigator paid well, so freely lending a hand at the biggest private party of the year in Sweetwater served as one way to begin to pay Sarah back for her graciousness. Plus, unless I wanted to pay eight bucks a pop at Sweetwater’s gourmet coffee store for just a sliver of her triple chocolate fudge brownie cake, I’d have to wait until my birthday for another chance at eating Sarah’s rendering of paradise on a fork.
Here’s to Jade O’Reilly breaking New Year’s resolutions, I thought, as I dipped another moist forkful of fudge cake into the gooey berry sauce. So what if I had vowed just two
weeks ago on New Year’s Eve only to eat one serving of dessert a day in an attempt to live healthier? If an exception was to be made, Penelope’s annual winter celebration served extraordinarily well. As I scooped up another bite, I heard the rustling of thick jackets near the front door.
“Let’s go already,” a woman’s voice said. “Ricky!”
I peeked over the countertop and down the hallway toward the rounded staircase that led to the front door. From somewhere below, near the front doorway, a dog barked. Its voice sounded muffled.
“Careful with that,” the feminine voice said.
“I know,” Ricky said.
“Ricky!” Penelope’s voice sang above the clacking of heels against hardwood flooring downstairs. “Tara!”
“I told you that you didn’t need to see us out,” Ricky said.
Finally Ricky and his wife came into view beside the front door, one story down. Ricky’s navy blue winter jacket, zippered partially over his bulging belly, mismatched his black slacks and tie. His wife, Tara, stood beside him, her frazzled gray flyaway hair losing the battle to static against her black sweater, which appeared faded above a darker black skirt.
“Nonsense,” Penelope said. Her deep voice was melodic and rich, reminding me of coffee liqueur. “Of course I’ll see you out.”
As she stepped into view, Penelope’s figure reminded me of a retired ballerina—tall, taut, and lean with muscled shoulders rounded slightly by age. The jewels encircling her neck reflected the small white lights on the indoor trees, throwing sparkles on the walls. But Penelope’s necklace was no costume jewelry. The sizable diamonds and sapphires drew attention up from her glacial blue satin gown to her high cheekbones and dark brown eyes.
She hugged her brother, her thin long arms encircling him delicately, as if he were the one who would break from an embrace.