Several of her stories needed endings and she was beginning to get a nagging feeling that if she waited much longer to face her computer she’d get the dreaded block so many authors feared. Personally, she’d never had it. Words seemed to flow from her fingers to the keys when she was disciplined enough to let them.
Forty minutes later, she shook her head as a reprimand; she now knew the distraction that came from being a writer afraid to face the blank screen. So far she’d opened a package of post-its—each pad in a twenty-four pack was now unwrapped; clicked back and forth from her email to her iTunes account; re-arranged the icons on her desktop, and taken the empty plate all the way to the kitchen on the other side of the house just to leave it in the sink.
She walked over to the built-in bar and removed a bottle of wine from the custom wine rack and decided a nice deep robust cabernet was exactly what she needed. Rabbit in hand, she uncorked the bottle effortlessly and filled a Reidel stemless wine glass half way. Then she walked slowly back to the desk.
Three glasses later, she admitted she had a problem. Not a block she hoped, but definitely she was troubled. She plopped into the leather sleeper chair that she’d fell in love with at G & M Interiors and pulled her booted feet to rest on the matching ottoman. She’d never felt leather so supple and warm. Buttery soft like the finest kid glove, she’d bought the floor model, afraid if she ordered one that it wouldn’t feel the same. Burnt sienna wasn’t one of her favorite colors, but the chair with the gooseneck lamp behind it, had quickly become the focal point of her study and her first choice for a place to read and edit. Now she pulled the cashmere throw over her legs and melted into the chair.
What the hell did she need to do to move on? She thought about calling Tessa . . . or Viv . . . Cat she knew was out of town. A big smile widened as it occurred to her exactly what she needed to do to get closure on that damned flash drive. She sat bolt upright and let out a gusty sigh. In her excitement she sloshed wine over the rim of the glass and had to lick the side of the glass to keep it from running down her arm. Dripping onto the light Berber carpet was not an option so she hurriedly finished what was left in the glass and put it on the marble-topped side table.
She remembered that Cat, Tess, and Viv had each had a matchmaking-type ceremony, something witchy and crazy involving a big ol’ tree on the Maples Course in Sea Trail. Within days they’d each met their future mates. All of them attributed their newfound love to the ritual they had performed as they had chanted to some deity that was supposed to be living in the tree. The name Merlin seemed to float in her memory.
Would something like that work for her, could she get closure on this dumb flash drive by having a stupid symbolic ceremony? She wasn’t superstitious and she certainly didn’t believe in magic, but she prided herself on being open-minded. She needed to forget the flash drive and get on with her life. There was nothing more certain than that right now. Nothing. Well, if the ceremony worked for them, maybe it would work for her.
She thought about it as she reached for her wineglass, just to find it empty. Thought some more as she climbed out of the chair, tripped over the throw, and half walked, half crawled over to the bottle on the counter by the desk to refill it. She came to the conclusion, when she only found a few drops left, that she had to try something. Had to make an effort—if only symbolic—so she could move on for Criminy’s sake!
She stumbled over to the computer and Googled “Pagan ceremonies.” After the first screen loaded, she watched, her eyes agog, as video after video showed a man and a woman marrying in the buff before a fully clothed, solemn celebrant. Panning out, she saw the wedding couples standing before completely dressed crowds of witnesses, as if this was the most normal thing they’d done in their lives.
It was the oddest thing, and it reminded her of her short story, The Rake and the Young Innocent. She smiled dreamily as she remembered the hero and heroine in that story and all the things Julia had been indoctrinated into before . . . before . . . Lauren fell asleep sitting on the floor, her head resting on the ottoman.
When the Westminster chimes on the mantel dinged the last of twelve tones she lifted her fuzzy head. Her calves were cramped from sitting on one hip with her legs curled beneath her. Stretching, and listening to her joints pop, she blinked as she realized she was horny, unbelievably horny. Her nipples tingled as thoughts of her dream came back to her and she knew she was wet under her jeans. I wonder if I’m ever going to find the man who’s right for me? A man who’s dreamy and strong, handsome and gruff, yet sensual—with an insanely wicked tendency toward kink to match my own?
Chapter Twenty-two
Laurel sighed as she idly shuffled one of her Tangram puzzle pieces around. She’d been up most of the night nursing her headache and trying to come up with a way to purge the emotions that were destroying her thoughts, keeping her from not only her writing, but her gardening, and golf . . . even shopping had no appeal. She glanced at the clock on the mantel as she sat on the floor playing with her beloved puzzles. The same ones she and her dad had played with on this exact same coffee table so many years ago. Tangrams were one of her passions now; they were a way of remembering a simpler time, when life wasn’t so uncertain or disappointing.
Thought to be a game women played with their children in ancient China, and handed down by the river traders, Tangrams ended up in the western hemisphere when sailors traded opium in the brothels. “The Chinese Puzzle” found its way to Europe and then to America in the 19th century, and amused all who shuffled the colorful tans. Soon there were books and picture card sets, puzzles made of wood or fired clay, then later more elaborate examples were carved from jade, some inlaid with ivory, some dressed with gold. It became addictive to some—especially those with a mathematical bent. The 1,942 proven convex designs were often inspirations for quilts, appliqué projects, and imaginative storytelling. Laurel’s father, a wiz at geometry and ratios, taught complex math principles to his young daughter as she played with the silhouettes and unwittingly learned about Sam Loyd and his colossal spoof with the publication of The Eighth Book of Tan, and the complex idea of paradoxes. The wonderful hours she spent playing with the firm, smooth pieces and listening to his low, melodic murmurs were what she knew of fatherhood, and at times she couldn’t breathe for the grief that moved through her. But still she kept every puzzle they had collected, polishing the pieces and adding to the sets of seven until she had to have a case built to house them.
It was just before nine. She wondered if it was too early to call her friends. Tentatively she picked up the phone, stared at it, and with each name that came to her mind she wondered if she’d be making a husband angry by calling at what easily could be warming the sheets time for either Matt, Roman, or Philip.
She put the phone down. She picked it up. Then jumped out of her skin and tossed it into the air when it rang. For the few seconds it took her to realize what had happened, it continued to shrill from the carpet on the other side of the table. Finally, she crawled around to it and hit the talk button as she put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey there, Cat just got back in town and Viv and I wondered if you’d like to meet us at the Bagel Dock for a late breakfast or early lunch.”
“You are a lifesaver, I really need to talk to you guys.”
“Okay. How soon can you be ready?”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll be on my way.”
“Great! The girls will be thrilled you can make it.”
“I’m the one who’s thrilled, I really need your help.”
“Do tell. Everything alright?”
“It will be. I feel sure you’re going to be able to help me out.”
“Well, we’ll certainly try.”
Twenty minutes later, she was pulling into the Bagel Dock, eager to chat with her friends, share her dilemma and solicit their
help. As they carried their food to a table by the window, Laurel confessed she’d about lost it last night, describing her stilted attempt to write and her cabernet-based hangover, she bemoaned her missing flash drive and described the angst that not knowing its whereabouts was causing her, ending with, “So I thought I could have a . . . well . . . you know, a Ya-Ya type ceremony to banish it from my thoughts, but I just don’t have any idea how to go about it.”
“Well that’s easy,” Cat said as she waved a chunk of her sesame flat bagel in the air. The melted butter was about to drip down her hand but she popped it into her mouth just in time.
“Yeah,” Tessa said as she slathered her own bagel with a thick layer of cream cheese. “We can’t have our favorite writer sidelined. It’s ridiculously easy. We’re practically experts.” Then, as if remembering she really knew nothing about witchcraft, she looked over at Cat with an arched brow. “How easy?”
Cat had a tendency to get them into trouble, and Viv always went along for the ride, but Tessa was learning to look before leaping. Roman encouraged her friendships with her zany friends, but she’d about had enough of his chiding her over bailing her out from their misadventures.
“Like lighting-a-match easy. Come on baby, light my fire,” Cat crooned.
“Really?” Laurel said, her eyes twinkling with excitement. Finally she could get back to her life and forget that stupid lost flash drive. She’d do whatever it took. Well . . . within reason.
“Really. All you have to do is write down all the reasons you need to get this out of your system—all the things that are scaring you and causing you so much stress. Just write them down. Then we’ll burn them and bury them by our tree.”
“Seriously, that’s all it’s going to take?”
Viv piped up for the first time. “Well it’s going to be harder than you think. You have to be truthful, confront each issue, dissect every feeling you’re having about it and get it all down on paper. If you forget one single facet, it may not work. You’ll still have something left over to deal with if you forget anything. You’re going to have to be very thorough.” The voice of experience, Laurel turned to see Viv nodding her head with mock seriousness. Everyone knew Viv’s mother, who fancied herself to be a witch, and Viv, while sure she herself had not been gifted, had grown up in a world full of caldrons and potions. But she was far from a believer. As far as Viv was concerned, Philip was the only thing magic had brought into her life.
But Laurel was already pulling out a notepad from her purse. Her earnestness brightly illuminating her face, she blurted, “I won’t forget a thing. How do I start?”
They all laughed.
Chapter Twenty-three
Clubs polished and ready, collared Columbia shirt ironed and pleated Dockers in lieu of jeans, Garrett waited at the Thistle bag drop for his cart to be brought around. It was 7:30 and one of the few bustling places in Brunswick County on this early Thursday morning. He’d been partnered with an older man from Charlotte who’d seemed less than pleased to be riding with a “youngster” as he’d dubbed him. At thirty-two, Garrett didn’t think of himself as being young, but guessed when you were seventy-some, age was relative, he mused.
By the second hole Garrett had dazzled the old geezer with his knowledge of stocks, complex banking issues within the man’s own city, and expounded with authority on biotech stocks, showing his expertise in the world of finance. Having been a medical administrator for one of the larger medical centers in Charlotte, the man had been pleasantly impressed. So he’d won the old coot over and kept him chatting long enough to scope out the homes along the cart path. He paid particular attention to the homes with O.B. markers, as his mystery woman had said that:
“The golfers looking for their out-of-bound golf balls often comment on the wonderful fragrances wafting over to them from my herb boxes. It’s often because they’ve actually brushed up against the rosemary bushes that mark my property line, but sometimes, it’s the peppermint or the lemon balm. For added color during the summer I add lavender because it goes so well with the paper white chive flowers and the green boxes, and of course, I sprinkle some marigolds seeds around to help keep the bugs at bay.”
But by hole fourteen he was disheartened, both by his game and by the absence of window boxes, rosemary bushes, and any flower remotely resembling lavender. He would have called the game if his real purpose hadn’t been so clearly defined. Despite the fact that he was twelve over par, he was still beating ol’ Henry from Charlotte. He stood to make a nice tidy profit of $9 from their wagers, despite treating him to hot dogs for lunch. Still, it bothered him immensely that he hadn’t found “his woman’s” abode.
Finishing up, he shook Henry’s hand, pocketed eight damp dollar bills and watched as two cart guys loaded his bag into the front seat of his car. Instead of getting in the car, he went up to the bag drop area where the guys were hanging around, ostensibly to tip the bag boy who’d helped him stock the cooler with water and ice, but instead, sidled up to one of the rangers and asked about the houses on the course. Window boxes? Nah. Rosemary bushes? Hmmm, nope, don’t think so. Lavender? Is that like heather?
He gave all four men at the bag drop a sizeable tip and thanked them for their help, then strode to his ‘vette and folded himself in. He was a tall man and he had to bend his knees at an angle before he could stretch them out toward the pedals. Normally that wasn’t a problem, but today, after standing on the sides of hills to take his shots, his muscles were protesting.
A soak in his hot tub was on the agenda after he reviewed the stock market. Then he’d arrange a tee time at the next course on his list. After that he’d be free to take a nap and dream of the woman who eluded him so completely. If time provided, there were more stories to read . . . more chances to delve into the love lives she created. He felt as if he’d unwittingly come across a Black Widow Spider spinning its web, and now she was luring him in.
Chapter Twenty-four
The next day the four women texted back and forth, questioning what Laurel had added to her list and offering their thoughts—refining the list so that when the deed was done, all her negative feelings would be too.
Cat sent a text suggesting they meet one last time at Tiger’s Eye Restaurant to go over the plan. They met on the back deck, enjoying the view of the tenth tee box and the eighteenth green. From that meeting Laurel was able to add her final and true concerns to the list: that maybe her flash drive had been found, and that while possibly in discrete and careful hands, that she’d never know whose. That for all the years she had yet to live, she’d have to wonder if the person in line at the grocery store, or at the post office, or sitting across from her at a restaurant, knew more about her than she cared for them to. That while acting prim and proper, they might secretly be reveling in all they knew about her wicked thoughts while she was totally unaware.
She pictured herself as having a soiled soul . . . running and trying to hide it from everyone in the universe like a bad girl covering a stain on her dress . . . running and turning away from leering eyes and condescending faces. In a particularly vivid nightmare she was Alice going down the hole with people watching and pointing as she zigzagged back and forth down the tunnel—only for her there would be no rabbit or mad hatter at the bottom of the chute, just scornful people wagging a familiar looking flash drive in her face.
Cat was the one who brought everything full circle for her. “So why do you care? What difference does it make if everyone knows you write erotica? Why not just step up to the plate and be proud of it instead of hiding from the knowledge that one elusive person knows and might tell all. Let everyone know and be done with it.”
“Yeah. Instead of fearing the worst, just let it happen,” Tessa murmured her assent.
“You mean go public? Publish?” Laurel said her eyes wide at the thought.
“Yeah,” they said at o
nce. Every one of them smiled, their eyes bright with glee. The idea sank in, took hold, and clearly pleased them very much, for they were all grinning broadly. “Yeah,” they chorused again with more enthusiasm.
Viv nodded, her short curls bouncing softly against her cheek, “Yeah, that way you kill two birds with one stone. First you erase the fear of being outed, then the fear of someone beating you to the punch and publishing your stuff as theirs.”
They sat and stared at her as all their thoughts jumbled, aligned, and jelled in her head. Then Laurel huffed out a breath of air and smiled, “Yes, I suppose I could do that. I could get the stories together, work on the ones that aren’t finished, and put together an anthology. I could be anonymous.”
“You’d use a pseudonym?” asked Tess.
“Of course. I might be willing to consider publishing, but I am not considering publishing as me. I don’t think Ocean Ridge is ready for that yet.”
“You’d be surprised, your neighbors aren’t all angels you know. None of us older women are. We’ve lived through too much. If there’s an innocent among us she’s either faking it or has old-timers and has forgotten the heady days. No, judging from the women I’ve seen hootin’ and hollerin’ at all the parties, we’re certainly not angels.”
“I know you three aren’t,” Laurel said with a laugh.
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