Glimmers
by Barbara Brooke
Copyright © Barbara Brooke 2012. All rights reserved.
First Kindle Edition: March 2012
Cover by Streetlight Graphics.
LICENSE
Glimmers is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Epilogue
Recipes
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Coming Soon
One
Gliding along metal hangers, my hand lightly brushes over lush designer fabric. Moving slowly, I shift the clothing apart. Each piece has a personality of its own and each clamors for my attention. My heartbeat quickens and my hunt shifts gears. A treasure is hidden in here somewhere. I can feel it.
A cashmere sweater falls into my arms. I hold it to my chest in deep embrace, caressing its velvety sleeves. But when I look in the mirror, I see its color is just too dull against my complexion, and right now, that’s the last thing I need.
I catch a glint in the mirror and glance over my shoulder. A golden mannequin stands there with attitude, wearing what must be the cutest pair of jeans I've ever seen. I rush over, and somewhat rudely, strip the jeans off the plastic goddess. With bated breath, I peek at the size . . . yes! I hug them tightly and continue on my expedition.
And suddenly, there they are: suede fold-over ankle boots. I pick them up and gently turn them over in my hands. The leather is smooth and supple; its color is rich and warm. There are only a few signs of wear on the soles, but they really are in great shape. These are true designer boots all the way from the eighties.
But what if they don’t fit? Don’t even think that way, Paige, they must, they just have to. After all, they will go perfectly with my new favorite jeans. Ever so carefully, I slide my foot down into the tan colored boot. I push a little further, and my toes barely graze the tip. The fit is absolutely perfect! Now, if only I had somewhere to wear them. No, I will wear them: to the grocery store, PTA meetings, and maybe even for Hailey’s bridal shower . . . or maybe not. I mean, who wears boots to a bridal shower?
~ * * * ~
Suddenly, a familiar sound drifts from the backseat of my minivan, “I am not a baby!” From a blurry distance, my daughter’s voice manages to find me. And just like that, my most recent shopping daydream is over.
“You are too!” Liam shouts back.
“I am not!” Elle exclaims.
I peer into my rearview mirror and see the reddened faces of my children.
I sigh and ask the dreaded question, “What’s going on back there?”
“Liam said I was too old to wear a kitty on my t-shirt. He said the other kids would think I was a baby!” Elle says, pointing toward the Hello Kitty graphic on her shirt.
“Liam, that little kitty is all the rage on the kindergarten playground,” I say, trying to lessen the tension in the car.
“The girls in my class wear shirts with guitars and cool stuff on them,” he replies.
“Well, you are also two years older than Elle. If she’s happy with her clothes, then that’s all that matters,” I say.
Liam rolls his eyes before looking out the window. I can barely hear him mutter, “I was only trying to help.”
Elle rests back in her seat, and a smile spreads across her sweet heart-shaped face. I know I must’ve said something right. I take another moment and stare at her reflection. Since the day she was born, Elle has resembled my husband: golden-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile to brighten my day. Today, she looks a little different. Is it possible she is beginning to resemble me? Her hair has darkened, and her waves are straightening . . . hmm, maybe.
Liam, on the other hand, looks remarkably like me. Except, his hair is golden, (like his father’s), his complexion is fair (like his father’s). All right, Liam still resembles Elliott, but he does have my chocolate brown eyes.
~ * * * ~
Sunshine Elementary School appears ahead . . . time to be herded like cattle. A person adorned in an orange vest whistles and motions for all of the cars, minivans, and SUV’s to merge into the right turn lane. I pull up to my assigned spot, and my kids hop out of the car.
“See ya,” mumbles Liam, leaving with a little wave behind his back.
“Okay my little man, see you later! I love you and will give you big hugs later!” I say very quietly to myself.
Elle’s a different story; she still allows me to dote on her with great affection. I receive a large hug goodbye, before she heads for her class.
First mission accomplished. Next, pick up a few groceries . . . sigh.
~ * * * ~
“What to cook for dinner, what to cook for dinner,” I agonize on my drive home from the supermarket.
Even after purchasing a cart overflowing with food, I’m still not sure what to throw together. If I’m being honest here, I dread coming up with meal ideas. I know in my heart, my feeble attempt in the kitchen will most likely fail in a major way. And although I loathe the process, I believe I owe it to my family to prepare something home cooked and healthy.
Over the years, my husband Elliott has endured countless sub-par meals . . . poor man. I suspect our lack of company at the dinner table is due to the fact dinners at the MacKenzie household are typically served burnt, dry, or tasteless. It’s very frustrating, to say the least.
My cell phone rings, and I rummage through my purse. Let’s face it; I already know it will be one of three people: Elliott, my little sis Hailey, or Mom. Who will it be this time? After finding the phone, I look at the screen . . . and it’s Hailey.
“Hey!” I say into the receiver.
“Good-morning, Paige,” she chimes. “So what’s on your agenda for today?”
I laugh a little in response. “Why do you even bother asking? You know it’s going to be the same answer: drive kids to school, grocery shop, clean house . . . and help my little sister plan her wedding.”
“Sounds fun, especially the last part,” she sighs before adding, “I like the article you sent on art inspired centerpieces.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Which do you like the best? Which do you want to use?” I ask eagerly.
“I like them all. I can’t choose. Why don’t you pick one?”
“Hailey, you’re the bride, and the wedding is only two months away! Speaking of which, have you sent out the invitations?”
“I’ve been so busy with my designs for Julian . . . my new client. Maybe you and I can work together on the invitations tomorrow night?”
“Sure! It will give me an excuse to wear my new jeans and boots!”
“Paige, i
t’s just me. Don’t dress up on my account.”
“Hailey, I need to dress up on your account. In fact, if I don’t make up reasons to wear my new cloths then they’ll just sit at the bottom of my closet, collecting dust. Actually, I’m wearing my new boots today—just for the grocery store.”
“Have you been hitting the consignment shops, again?” questions Hailey, and I know she’s smiling on the other end.
“I did a couple weeks ago. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to shop much. I miss the old days when I was able to shop and have a social life. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Elliott and the kids. It's just sometimes, I wish I could escape for a little while, explore different places, and meet new and interesting people. Just once, I’d like to spend a few hours in someone else's shoes,” I say dreamily.
“Paige, that’s what books are for. In fact, I have a fantastic one at home; remind me to give it to you.”
“Right,” I sigh. “Listen, I have to go. These groceries aren’t going to unload themselves.”
“Talk to you later!”
“Later,” I say, and toss my phone back into my purse.
After flinging my bags of groceries onto a counter, I begin to shuffle and sort them. Hmm, where did this shrimp come from? I never buy shrimp! I shrug my shoulders and throw the bag into the sink. I come across another strange item, paprika. Did I end up with someone else’s cart? I search and find something I recognize, frozen mini-pancakes—these are definitely my bags. I reach for the paprika and stare. What sort of dish would call for paprika? Hmm . . . and just like that, I am inspired! Tonight, I am going to be creative!
I grab an onion and dice it! After wiping the tears from my eyes, I wander over to my prep area, both arms overflowing with ingredients.
"What the . . . " I groan. Something has just popped under my “new” suede boot. Without even looking down, I know what has just squished and smeared across the floor. It’s something small and round; a little burst of liquid has broken free of its skin. I bend down and check. A veritable army of purple grapes cover my wooden floor; most are still whole, but one is squished flat.
“Nice!” I lament and sit on one of the high-top stools. I lean over and clean off the purple-red goo. Thank goodness the stain’s limited to the sole of my boot and hasn’t ruined the upper portion. I rub a rag over the messy substance, and the back of my finger grazes my boot’s surface. It’s both smooth and soft.
All of a sudden, something strange occurs. My vision is clearer. I look around my kitchen and everything appears sharp. I’m immersed in high definition! This is kind of cool! Wait, what’s going on here?
I stand, and the room starts to shift. My hand clutches the counter, and the area around me begins to swirl. Its circulating motion revolves faster and faster, making me dizzy. I squeeze my eyes shut. This isn’t right, something is terribly wrong! In an effort to steady myself, I concentrate on my breathing…one, two, three…all right, this isn’t working! Finally, when the room feels like it may have stopped spinning, I reopen my eyes.
I’m in the kitchen, but not in my kitchen anymore. Where am I? The cabinets are replaced by dark Formica. The walls are plastered with beige wallpaper overflowing with images of fruit and birds. And . . . is that an avocado green stove? I haven’t seen one of those in decades. I’m standing on gray linoleum. My boots, now those I recognize.
Hmm, what’s that? Something smells yummy in here. I wonder what’s simmering on that green stove. I inhale deeply and pick apart the scrumptious fragrance. Ooh, I can smell a sautéed onion, along with stewed tomatoes and bell peppers. Strange, this isn’t my nose; it belongs to someone else.
All right, I must have slipped and hit my head. Surely, I’m hallucinating and this is just an illusion. Strange, I am aware of someone else’s thoughts and feel the motion of her body. Yes, it must be a female. I can hear her boots crossing the floor. No, I mean my boots! This has to be a dream.
Frantically, I search for a reflective surface. This is difficult, because I have little control. I can’t move! Thank goodness, she’s looking for a mirror . . . hold on. How do I know this?
Long delicate fingers reach for a cabinet door. It opens and attached inside is a round mirror. Wow. I’m not me. I mean, this is not me. I don’t have strawberry-blonde hair, light freckles, and a soft pouty mouth . . . and I’m definitely not a teenager.
Delilah’s Story, June 1988
Lewisburg, West Virginia
“I’m not sure what you’re makin’, but it sure does smell good.”
“Dad, when are you gonna learn to stop sneaking up on people?” I admonish, turning away from the mirror.
My dad smiles, and his weathered face tells a tale all on its own—he has spent his entire life working hard outdoors, while raising a daughter all on his own. His salt and pepper hair is matted to his forehead, beads of sweat cling to his skin, and his white t-shirt and jeans are smudged with dirt from the day.
He peers down into the bubbling pot. “I can’t wait to have a bowl of whatever you’re cookin’.”
“It’s called crawfish etouffee. I found it in the gourmet cookbook you just gave me,” I explain excitedly. “I had trouble finding crawfish, so I substituted them for shrimp.”
“Well, I’m lookin’ forward to tryin’ something new from my little girl. One thing I just don’t get; why is it when everyone else around these parts makes mashed potatoes and gravy, my Delilah comes up with a strange new dish?”
“I suppose I take after the man who raised me . . . always ready to try something new. In fact, I noticed there’s a recipe in here named for you, ‘Sheppard’s Pie.’ I’m assuming that’s why you bought this cookbook for me.”
“Hmm, that’s funny. I didn’t realize that was in there,” he says, but I can tell he’s fibbing. “I suppose since it’s in there, you’re just gonna have to practice makin’ it. I expect it will be a huge success at your future restaurant.”
“I expect all my meals will be a huge success,” I tease. “I’ll have the shrimp etouffee ready for your supper.”
“I feel bad eatin’ a meal you’ve put together, when you aren’t here enjoying it with me,” he says, looking me sincerely in the eyes.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll just have to taste this meal for myself before I run off to work. Since it’s my first day at The Greenbrier Resort, I want to make a good impression. Besides, you know I plan on earning lots of money this summer to help pay for culinary school.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Now go, get back to work.”
“Yeah, I suppose the cows won’t feed themselves. I best be gettin’ off.” He heads toward the door and places his cowboy hat on his head. “Now, I’m serious, when you get to work I want you to march straight over to your boss and tell him what you’re all about. Why, you’re the best cook south of the Mason Dixon Line.”
“Thanks Dad, but the truth is I’m just lucky to have a job.”
“Now Delilah, what you have there’s a God given talent. The only person who doesn’t believe in you is you,” he says, his voice stern.
“I’ll talk to my boss about working towards a position in the kitchen. But, can I at least start the job before I go blabbing my mouth off to him?”
“Well, alrighty then. I’ll see ya later.” He tips his hat and walks out the door.
Two
I fill the saucepan with ingredients from my shrimp etouffee recipe. It’s spicy and bold, yet celery adds crisp and refreshing coolness. After tasting it, I’m pleased with the outcome.
I look over at the clock . . . . Oh for heaven’s sake, I need to get ready for work!
I finish cleaning the dishes and rush to my bedroom. My uniform hangs in my closet, pressed and ready for wear: a black skirt, white dress shirt, and black vest. I sit on the edge of my bed and remove my tan ankle boots. I stare adoringly at them for a brief moment, remembering how I had saved up all last summer just to pay for them. It was the first time in my life I splurged on something after seeing it in a magazin
e.
I search under the bed for my uncomfortable, black, work pumps. After hitting my head on the white bed frame, I sit and stare around my room. I am surrounded by faces from my favorite bands: U2, Madonna, and REM. My pink phone sits on my wicker nightstand and tape cassettes are sprawled out over the shaggy carpet.
Just then, I hear my friend’s car horn, blaring through my open window. I literally fly around my bed, knocking my quilt to the floor. After leaping over piles of clothes, I stop in front of the tall whicker mirror. Quickly, I dab on more petal-pink lipstick and plaster my hair with Aqua Net spray. I spritz on some perfume, reminding me of fresh orange blossoms.
I’m finally ready and head out the door.
My friend Lydia waves to me from behind the driver’s seat, “Hey sugar, are ya ready to roll?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. Thanks again for helping me get this summer job. I’ll work real hard at it,” I say, hopping into her car. My foot nudges something balled up on the floor. It’s Lydia’s “Class of 1988” t-shirt, in a heaping mess. “You oughta show more respect to our senior class,” I say and toss the shirt onto the backseat.
“Aw, who cares about that grubby old shirt? I’m ready to leave high school behind and hit the big time!” Lydia says enthusiastically.
I smile in agreement, feeling lighthearted just thinking about all the fun we’re gonna have this summer. After all, Lydia’s my best friend and we always have a great time together. We grew up knowing each other our whole lives and feel more like sisters than friends.
Lydia reaches over and turns up the music. The radio’s playing The Loco-Motion by Kylie Minogue. We pay little attention to the beauty around us, as we sing and bob our heads from side-to-side. The drive’s familiar, since we both grew up here. The road cuts right through the small town of Lewisburg before weaving around mountains.
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