Bridges

by Janice McLeod

  Bridges

  By Janice McLeod

  A Collection of Short Stories

  Connecting the Diversity of our Human Experience

  AuthorHouse™

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.authorhouse.com

  Phone: 1 (800) 839-8640

  © 2017 Janice McLeod. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Published by AuthorHouse 04/11/2017

  ISBN: 978-1-5246-8642-0 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5246-8643-7 (e)

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  CONTENTS

  A Collection of Short Stories

  Acknowledgements

  The Floating Heirloom

  Here And Beyond

  Legends And Legacy

  Savannah

  Behind The Gate

  Front cover art “April in Beacon Hill Park” by Charles H. White.

  Charles H. White, born in Quebec, won his first national art contest at age 10 and sold many works while still in his teens. He refined his artistic talents and business skills at Brigham Young University and now resides in California. In 1994, when income from art exceeded secular earnings, White decided to pursue a career as a painter.

  A member of Oil painters of America, White’s work proves his classically crafted attention to design, color and contrast, and has a luminous, multi-layered effect that welcomes viewers into a world of tranquil beauty and elegance. His originals are now collected around the world.

  White’s awards include featured artist for Masterpiece in Miniature International Show and Sale, May 2006 in Alberta, Canada, and he was named Artist to Watch in a recent issue of “U.S. ART”.

  The author of this book found White’s work delightfully descriptive of her stories and thanks Mr. White for allowing its use on the cover.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First, a special thank you to my darling husband, Donald who listened to each story through its development with enthusiasm and encouragement.

  I dedicate this body of work to my two best friends, Sue Moss and Joyce Loadholtz, who, through their unique brand of love and support, gave me the courage to explore the realm of writing, thanks so much.

  What happens, when two middle aged women, seasoned by time and life experience, escape their otherwise normal, if not predictable lives, and cruise the high seas in search of paradise? During their short adventure, they manage to solve a mystery that brings two unsuspecting families together, in a most surprising and unusual way. Set sail with Eve Gladwell, in her amazing story, “The Floating Heirloom”.

  THE FLOATING HEIRLOOM

  Between the hedgerows, that is the way she had always thought of it; those straight, long, narrow country roads cutting through the Florida landscape. Those roads that box you in with thick vegetation that seems to loom over the road, as if ready to swallow you up and hold you captive along with so many other secrets being hidden in the miles of dense pines, Black Jack Oak with their shaggy moss beards and Palmetto Palms, spreading their fans in the tropical tangle. Human kind seems almost alien and unwanted in this primal lushness, but there it is none the less, that long, straight ribbon of road piercing the jungle, and humanity moving up and down, in and out like ants, living life among the hedgerows.

  Often the air is thick and pungent, humming, buzzing, palpable with life. Evelyn Gladwell, otherwise known as Eve, smacks at the bite of a no-see-um as she works in her garden. Plucking black and orange oleander caterpillars from her flowering bushes, she wishes they had a respectable appetite to help with the microscopic demon’s swarming in the morning sun. Across a small expanse of lawn she hears the ticking of her rain bird as it drenches the bright blue plumbago, azaleas and dogwood that mark the perimeter of her garden, holding the forest at bay. Tick, tick, pregnant water droplets bring birds in to splash, preen and dance under the rainbow of cascading water. Tick, tick, splash and still Mr. Whiskers does not move his sleek, feline, sun bathed self. His once vigilant squinted eye, now in quiet repose, is dreaming of bird another day.

  As Eve pulls off her more than worn garden gloves and tucks a roaming strand of gray hair behind her ear, she surveys her kingdom, her glorious patch of turf and smiles. She loved being out in the garden at this early hour when the sun yawns and stretches its rays across a big, blue sky to begin another day. The sweetness of the air and damp earth filled her with a sense of renewal and promise; a natural high she had come to expect and appreciate. Eve’s roots were as strong and sustaining as the hundred year old oaks that surrounded her modest home. She, like the oaks’, had spread her seeds of heart, soul and life experience deep into the sandy loam of central Florida. Home, all that she knew and loved was an integral part of this unique landscape; its comfort, security, peace and contentment. All created a sense of belonging she had always known.

  Reveling in the thought of that first cup of coffee she had set to brewing earlier on her way through the kitchen, Eve was now drawn back inside to pour a cup and plop down for a few minutes of rest. Casper purred and curled around Eve’s legs as she stirred in her cream and sugar. Sipping at the fresh brew, she reached down for the meowing tabby and ruffled its fur. Now one would have thought two cats plenty enough for care and company but they would be wrong. There were four others roaming, patrolling and lounging about; Ginger who was spotted in multi colors, sporting the alley cat look, Samantha, or Sam for short was plump, long haired and a soft solid gray; Harley a neutered tom was white with one black foot to match his one bad eye; too many turf battles in his past; and Muffin, somewhat timid, still a kitten with brown and white markings. Yes, Eve had heard all the goofy jokes about old women living with too many cats to be regarded as sane or sensible, but it mattered little to her what others thought. One by one she rescued, or had been adopted by, her furry family and was perfectly content with their unconditional love and companionship.

  Taking her steaming cup to the porch rocker, Eve settled back and moved in a gentle, contented rhythm, the creaking rocker keeping perfect time. Having been a widow for six years and with three grown children dispersed here and there, Eve now enjoyed the small creature comforts. Sam jumped into her lap and playfully swatted at the strings of her peasant blouse, then kneaded herself into a spot on Eve’s lap to be rocked to sleep. Closing her eyes, Eve felt the light, morning breeze brush her cheeks and whisper through the trees beyond the doorstep. Rocking and sipping at her cup she thought . . . . . . . . . . . .

  I suppose there are many ways to live one’s life. Our attitudes, experiences and circumstances help to nudge us down one path as opposed to another. Eve had crossed paths with many other sojourners in her lifetime, laughing with pleasure at the thoughts of some while trying to forget others. As she reflected on her own life, random images crowded her mind.

  The exuberance experienced primarily in youth, seemed to exist between the parameters of great expectation and liberal doses of naiveté. The picture of turnips falling off a truck tickled her imagination.

  Then there were the phobias. The choking narrow paths with their deepening shadows, where fear of the unknown had become more daunting than the known that could no longer be coped with or endured. Boo! She shouted out loud as one side of her wiry mouth turned up in an uncanny grin.
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  For Eve, optimism was akin to her unwitting desire for survival. She had tenaciously latched onto the life force that filled the cup she was swimming in. That cup that was half full and sometimes overflowing. There had been surprising moments when she was full of an unquenchable excitement and bravado, her well spring of hope, desire and possibility; lemonade anyone?

  Her pessimism had been relegated to the confines of her self-made mire of doubt and anxiety. Oh if it were only true that this kind of misery had been caused by others or outside forces, that others could be blamed. But the truth had to be examined as she stared out wide eyed. Her angst had all been self imposed. Yes, she had wanted cheese with her whine, but none appeared, just more anxious moments of second guessing.

  Oh, but what of the lovers. Those with their feet planted firmly on terra-firma yet literally shimmered in pixie dust. It is they who really understand and fully experience this epic, magic adventure called life. Those whose hearts are filled with awe and gratitude each day at the wonder of it all. Those who stand with outstretched arms ready to embrace with peace and pleasure, the people, sounds, smells and cultures that season to taste our very existence. It is the lovers who understand the transcendence of body, mind and spirit that is eternal. It is the lovers of the world who posess a spark of the divine.

  Eve knew others who were stuck in one mindset or another and paid a dear price for their inability to budge. She herself had floated in and out of these stages with the passage of time, struggling with the human stuff of self awareness. She experienced moments of mountain top euphoria as well as the vagaries of deep despair. What she now longed for, at the age of sixty-four, was to find contentment in her own skin and to distill wisdom from lessons learned; to accept her present life with all its blessings and limitations and count it good.

  As she continued rocking and philosophizing, she detected a ring at her kitchen door. Disposing of Sam, she rounded the corner of her wraparound porch to find Happy Crenshaw at her back door, nervously ringing her hand as if agitated with great anticipation. She had seen her this way before. Happy was used to using Eve as a sounding board on all important issues, both foreign and domestic. Foreign would be anything Happy just couldn’t understand, like why the Garden Club had to move the spring fundraising bazaar to the first of June instead of conforming to club rules that clearly dictated the third weekend in May. Domestic issues had mostly to do with Hubert, Happy’s husband of forty—three years and their continual tug of war over who actually wore the pants in their family. One could only guess the complaint of her mission this morning. With a sigh and a smile, Eve called to her friend who exhibited instant relief at the sight of her. “Hello Happy”, Eve called out, her coffee mug set aside on the window sill and arm extended for the usual hug. “Isn’t it a perfect morning, you are out and about early,” she continued as Eve opened the kitchen door and ushered her friend inside. “Would you like some coffee?” she inquired as she lifted the pot.

  Once they had their mugs filled and were seated at the kitchen table, Happy looked straight into Eve’s eyes and blurted out her exciting news. “Eve, do you remember that horticultural contest I entered four months ago?” Eve motioned her acknowledgement. Well she went on, wide eyed with exuberance, “I won! I won! “You are joking,” said Eve in a conspiratorial giggle, hands brought to her mouth in amazement. “Oh my word I love it,” she shouted out. “So what is the prize, what have you won?” Eve enquired. “Only a luscious seven-day cruise for two to a tropical paradise!” she shrieked, now pulling a colored brochure from her purse. Happy went on to explain that the port of call was Bermuda, surrounded by beautiful, clear, turquoise waters, sea breezes and thatched cabanas where one could lull about strung up in a hammock and eat sumptuous food prepared by someone else until you literally explode. “What’s not to love,” said Eve as she sat back in her chair smiling.

  As the conversation drew on Happy further explained that her darling Hubert, though proud of her success and good fortune at winning a prize, was not remotely interested in floating about the sea with a bunch of total strangers, trying to make small talk and kill time, a look of despair mixed with agitation washed her face. “Will you come with me?” she pled as she hugged her mug for security; “Oh please say you will come!” Eve for once was truly dumbfounded and taken by surprise. “I don’t quite know what to say,” Eve replied, truly stunned by the invitation.

  As the two middle aged women bustled up the gang plank and onto the main promenade deck of the royal vessel “Oceana”, they poked at and smiled at one another, like two adolescents set free to explore the fair. Neither Happy nor Eve had ever sailed before except to Gilligan’s Island with Ginger, Maryann and the Skipper who were mostly marooned rather than negotiating the swells of the open sea. Such had been their exposure to exotica. But, today under the bright blue skies of the port of Miami, true adventure and excitement filled the air. With great anticipation, they waited along with their fellow passengers for their departure, when the anchor would be drawn and the fabulous, gleaming vessels bow would slice the deepening waters just beyond the port. Shouts of goodbye rang out, along with excited, waving hands, bidding farewell coming from both the ship and dockside, where all shared in the thrilling moment when the ten-story, floating hotel budged from its moorings. “Here we go,” shrieked Happy; “Oh I just can’t believe it”, said Eve.

  The first duty of all passengers of the Oceana, was to become familiar with the life saving drill of evacuation, should the ship decide to take a turn downward instead of proceeding on as planned. Once all guests were gathered on deck, each person was handed an orange life vest and then the complicated instructions of adjustment were given; throw it over your head, around your neck and tighten the belt. It was actually amusing to see how many people struggled with this amazing protocol. Eve and Happy performed like the two girl scouts they had been. The life vest badge would be theirs. After marching like orange penguins to their assigned launch boat locations, everyone was dismissed and told to explore their quarters and give the stewards office a ring if anything was needed.

  As the two women made their way along the narrow corridors of C deck, C being short for “Celestial”, they entered cabin 301C, a somewhat spacious accommodation by ships standards, that possessed a small balcony, with a spectacular view of the sky and sea, divided by an endless horizon. They found their luggage neatly stacked to one side near the door and crisp white linens folded on their beds in the shapes of birds, fans and sea creatures. Tucked inside their shell shaped wash cloths was a chocolaty, minty morsel that said “Welcome home for the next few days”. Eve and Happy threw their arms around each other and sqealled with delight. Chocolate had never tasted so good.

  Eve and Happy entered the dining room for the first call and to their astonishment were seated at the Captain’s table; a perk Happy had not anticipated. The table they were directed to was large and round with seating for twelve. It was set with creamy, white linens, beautiful china and cut glassware, arranged in a pinwheel around a sumptuous, fresh cut centerpiece all under a glistening chandelier. Such opulence was resplendent throughout the dining room. Oh, and there he was just ahead of them in full regalia, the Captain, a man in his 60’s in formal, dress whites for evening dining. His brass was shining just like the sparkle in his bright, blue eyes. This striking man in uniform stood six feet tall, was slim and had a handsomely trimmed gray beard to match his thick thatch of hair, cut short and neatly combed. Captain Henry Jenkins was a fine looking fellow, with an even arrangement of manly features all tied together with a healthy tan and a charming broad smile, that now greeted his guests this first evening at sea. With everyone seated, there was a clanking of glasses as the Captain lifted his goblet, poetically invoked comforting words concerning smooth sailing. The twelve diners smiled, greeting one another with an exchange of names, where they were from and what sort of work they were engaged in, if any. What fun to meet new people, from many different p
laces, all with their own story to tell, thought Eve smiling, as she looked over the assembled and placed her napkin in her lap to commence the serving of the first course. It was just then that she noticed something interesting about the lady sitting directly across from her.

  Miss Rochelle Hemings, an attractive if not voluptuous, young woman of twenty—nine, had introduced herself as a New Yorker, though having been born and raised in Madison, Wisconsin. She had fled her home town at the age of twenty—three to pursue an acting career in the Big Apple, but the apple apparently had a worm, for she struggled and failed to attract a top agency to represent her, and so had been relegated to random performances in off, off, off Broadway, in what amounted to dank, small rooms in the basements of old hotels, but like all ingénues, the dream lived on.

  The facts about her budding career as an actress, however, were not what had caught Eve’s attention, interesting though they were. No, it was the diamond pendant, hung on a delicate gold chain around Miss Heming’s slender, ivory neck that caught her eye. It had a beautiful spray of modest diamonds with a distinct, antique design. The mounting was shaped in a semi circle with a larger stone that dangled in the middle of its lustrous crescent. It was a unique design she had only seen just once before, in a picture of her aunt Helen Marcum taken in the 1920’s.

  The family story was, that uncle Jim Marcum as a young man, had worked for the railroad helping to develop passenger service to central and south Florida just as tourism to the state, was beginning to boom. As a newlywed he wanted to dazzle his young bride with a fabulous first anniversary gift she would always remember. He commissioned a jeweler in Miami to create a stunning design on a lucky horseshoe theme, a key ideal they would share as an excited young couple, full of the usual hopes and aspirations, rushing hand in hand into the future, and that extraordinary decade known as the roaring twenties.