by Ann Charles
The poor woman, she probably rued that day now that we’d taken over her home.
“Mom?” Addy hollered, the sound of her footsteps coming toward my room.
I closed and locked the book, shoving it under my mattress for safekeeping before she stepped through the doorway.
“What do you need, Addy?”
She came in and sat on the bed next to me. “I’ve been wondering something.”
“What’s that?” I pulled her toward me, tucking her against my side. She smelled like bubble gum flavored toothpaste.
“How old were you when you wrote in that diary?”
“In my twenties.”
“Am I in there?”
“Yeah, at the end.”
“How come I can’t read it?”
I decided to be honest. “Because it takes place during a time in my life when I did something I’m not really proud of.”
“You mean getting pregnant with me and Layne?”
“No, Sweetie. It’s not that. I’m very proud of you two.” When she just stared at me with her golden brown eyes, so like her father’s, I explained. “I haven’t always been as nice as I am now.”
“When are you nice?” I poked her in the ribs, making her giggle. When she sobered, she asked, “Were you mean to someone?”
“Yes. Your Aunt Susan.”
“What happened?”
“I made her cry.”
“How?”
By telling her the family secret—that Dad would never love her like he loved me because she wasn’t really his daughter.
“I said something hurtful to her that I can never take back.”
“Is that why you two don’t ever talk?”
It’s part of the reason. “Yes.”
Addy was quiet for a moment. “Do you think you’ll ever love someone besides my dad?”
I never loved the jerk, but I didn’t mention that. “I already have—you and your brother.”
“What if my dad came back around and wanted to spend the rest of his life with you? With us?”
I’d probably end up at the Deadwood police station charged with assault and battery. “That’s not going to happen, Addy.”
She sighed. “Do you think I’ll ever find someone to spend my life with?”
“Well, there’s Layne.”
“He smells.”
“And Elvis.” Long live the King—or queen in this case.
“Mom, she’s a chicken.”
“And me.”
“Yeah, but you’re a smelly chicken.” She giggled again. “Will you let me read your diary someday?”
“Yeah, someday.”
“Coolio.” She hopped off the bed and slid in her stocking feet over to the door. “Elvis is lonely when I’m not home with her. Can we get a pet pig to keep her company?”
Nearly Departed in Deadwood Cover – Contender #1
Interview of Violet Parker
Following is an interview I had with Violet Parker before I began writing Nearly Departed in Deadwood. Sometimes I interview several of my characters, sometimes just one. For this book, since I was going to be solely in Violet’s head, I only interviewed her.
Enjoy,
Ann
*****
Tin Cup Café in Deadwood, SD
The morning sunshine has just crested the tree-covered hills overlooking Main Street, lighting the red brick road in an orange glow, creeping through the coffee shop’s front door. The air drifting through the open door still holds a breath of coolness, the sun’s rays haven’t heated the sidewalk to a boil yet. From the radio perched on the shelf over the bottles of flavored coffee syrups, Eric Clapton is singing Willie and the Hand Jive on the local station.
The smell of steamed coffee beans makes my mouth water. Unfortunately, they don’t have any soy milk on hand, so I’m shit-out-of-luck when it comes to a flavored latte. A big, burly axe-swinging type of a guy lumbers by me on the way to the counter, the century-old, scuffed wood floor creaks under his feet. In his wake, my Diet Coke can wobbles on the small, round table where I sit waiting for Violet Parker to join me.
I shift on the hard, wrought iron seat again, sip some soda pop, and check my cell phone for the time—Violet is fifteen minutes late. She wanted to be at the office by 9 a.m, so our scheduled meeting time of 8 a.m. should have given us just enough time to get acquainted.
I glance out the window. Not many tourists line the sidewalks yet, mostly retirees who are up early to gamble away some of their pensions and fast-walking, uniformed folk obviously on their way to work. The espresso maker steams loudly, hissing over Clapton’s swanky tale about Way-Out Willie.
A curly-haired blonde appears in the doorway, pausing to scan the room. I recognize Violet’s face from her picture on Calamity Jane Realty’s website and wave at her. Her tight smile and wrinkled brow show a mixture of frustration and tension as she approaches. Then I notice the child-sized blue handprint on the shoulder of her pale pink blouse and I can’t help but chuckle.
Me: Is that paint?
Violet: (She drops into the chair opposite of me.) Is what paint?
Me: The blue handprint on your shoulder.
Violet: (She looks down at her shoulder and the furrows in her brow deepen.) Oh, shit (she says under her breath as she brushes at the blue print, which merely spreads further across her shoulder). Nope, it’s chalk, compliments of my son.
Me: Let me buy you a coffee.
Violet: (Still smudging the chalk around on her shoulder) I would love a caramel latte, but you don’t have to buy it for me.
Me: I owe you one for letting me interview you. I’ll be right back. (By the time I return to the table with her steaming latte, she’s given up on the blue smudge and is holding her cell phone up in the air.) Here you go (I set it down in front of her).
Violet: I need a new provider. (She snaps her phone closed.) What good is a Realtor whose phone gets a signal only when she’s standing on top of Terry Peak?
Me: How’s the realty business treating you these days?
Violet: (Her grin twists at the corners.) I’d be better off selling encyclopedias. Thanks for the coffee (she sips from the steaming cup).
Me: How many houses have you sold so far?
Violet: A big, fat zero.
Me: How long have you been working for Calamity Jane Realty?
Violet: Two and a half months. And in that time, I haven’t had a single bite. I’ve shown a handful of clients a vacation house or two, but nobody has signed any offer letters. And if I don’t land a deal soon, I’m going to be out on my ass.
Me: What do you mean?
Violet: Jane, the owner, took me on as a favor to my Aunt Zoe with the deal that I had to make a sale within the first three months or she’d have to let me go. She can’t afford to carry me if I’m not bringing in any money.
Me: What will you do if she lets you go?
Violet: I don’t know. I could try to get my old job back, but I don’t want to work with those jerks at the car dealership any more. And I hate being tied to that place for five days a week, plus every other weekend. Being a Realtor has been so much more freeing. I can have lunch with my kids in the park, or take them to doctor’s appointments in the middle of the day. They seem so much happier since we moved out of Rapid City.
Me: You’re living with your Aunt currently, right?
Violet: Unfortunately.
Me: Don’t you get along with her?
Violet: Oh, yes, Aunt Zoe is wonderful. She’s happy to share her house with me and the kids—at least that’s what she keeps telling me. It’s just that I hate mooching off her so much. She lets us stay in her house for free. She won’t even take money for a portion of the bills. The most I can do to repay her is keep the cupboards full, which is getting harder and harder with Layne’s ever growing stomach.
Me: Is Zoe retired?
Violet: No, she owns and runs the art gallery just up the street. She creates her own glass designs and sells them for an i
nsanely cheap price. She could get four times as much if she wanted, but she insists that her art is for the average American pocketbook. She says there is more money in selling to the masses than the elite, especially in Deadwood, although she does have this deal going right now with an art gallery in Denver. The gallery’s owner visited Deadwood last year and stopped in at Zoe’s place. He was so impressed with her work that he wants to display and sell her stuff in his gallery. She’s hard pressed right now to finish the last four pieces of the twenty he requested by the end of this month.
Me: I’ll have to go check out her gallery while I’m in town. So, tell me about your kids.
Violet: (She smiles and grabs her purse, pulling a couple of pictures from her wallet.) This is Adelynn—but she insists on being called Addy. (She shows me a picture of an adorable little blonde holding up what looks like a long, green ribbon toward the camera.)
Me: She likes ribbons?
Violet: Ribbons? (She looks down at the picture.) Oh no, that’s a dead snake.
Me: Eww.
Violet: Yeah, I know. She’s really into animals—alive and dead. She wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up. Aunt Zoe thinks Addy should be a taxidermist since she has no problem handling dead things. (She holds another picture out.) And this is Layne, Addy’s twin brother.
Me: Twins, huh? (I stare down at the picture of another cute face surrounded by dark blond hair. The boy has Violet’s hazel eyes.)
Violet: Yep, born a few minutes apart. Addy came first, so she considers herself Layne’s “older” sister. She takes care of Layne, from picking out his clothes some days to making his lunch for school every morning. Not that Layne likes her choice in clothes or healthy foods.
Me: And what does Layne like to do when he’s not in school?
Violet: (She stuffs the pictures back into her purse.) This summer, he’s learning Spanish with Mona.
Me: Really?
Violet: Yes. He wants to be an archeologist, and he’s set his sights on South America.
Me: Wow. How old is he?
Violet: They both turned nine last month.
Me: That’s ambitious for a nine year old.
Violet: He’s watched Raiders of the Lost Ark too many times. My dad loves that movie. He and Layne watch one of the three movies from the Indiana Jones series every time they’re together.
Me: Who is Mona?
Violet: She’s another Realtor at the office. She wants to retire in Mexico in a few years—her sister lives down there and runs a property management company for vacation homes on the beach. Mona bought some learn-Spanish software, and she and Layne are practicing together. She adores my kids, the crazy woman.
Me: Where do your parents live?
Violet: Down in Rapid City.
Me: Was it hard to move away from them?
Violet: Not really. My mom has been pressuring me to date a guy from the neighborhood for the last year. He’s about seven years older than me and is pretty good looking, but he’s about as exciting as a snail race. Mom often had Ed “joining us” for dinner. I actually folded to Mom’s will this last winter and went on a date with Ed. Biggest mistake I could have made. Mom started talking about wedding dresses and reception halls. I could feel the world closing in around me. That’s when I saw a billboard for a Realtor school and decided to get out of the rut I’d been spinning my tires in and take a chance on something new and exciting. The kids were game in spite of having to leave their school and friends behind. They have always loved visiting Aunt Zoe and the idea of living up here in the hills seemed pretty romantic to them.
Me: And here you are.
Violet: Yep, here we are. (She swallowed a gulp of coffee, and then her lips curled into a smirk.) And if I don’t make a sale in the next couple of weeks, we’ll be on our way up shit creek.
Me: Do you like working at Calamity Jane Realty?
Violet: For the most part. Mona is great and Jane is nice. But then there’s Ray …
Me: What’s wrong with Ray?
Violet: If there was an award for the World’s Biggest Horse’s Ass, Ray’s walls would be lined with first-place plaques. He’s an egotist drowning in “old-boy” mentality, and he has it in for me.
Me: Why?
Violet: Because his nephew is going to school to be a Realtor and Ray wanted him to get the job that Jane gave to me. He is counting the days until the end of the month and the end of my job.
Me: Sounds like a fun guy to work with.
Violet: One week with him and you’d be ready to stab a number 2 pencil in his eye and pray he dies a slow death from lead—well, graphite—poisoning. Natalie wants me to spike his coffee with arsenic, but I don’t know where I can buy arsenic these days.
Me: Who’s Natalie?
Violet: She’s a good friend of mine. She grew up here in Deadwood. I’d hang out with her every summer when I came to stay with Aunt Zoe for a month or so while I was growing up.
Me: What does Natalie do?
Violet: Natalie does a lot of things—she’s a dabbler. She dabbles in photography, carpentry, astrology, and the male sex. For money, she is the caretaker for a private campground and lodge just outside of town. She’s a jack-of-all-trades.
Me: Sounds like someone else I know named Claire Morgan—especially the campground caretaking bit.
Violet: I know a girl named Claire Morgan. She’s Natalie’s cousin. Her family lives next to my parent’s place. She was in the grade below me. I played kick-the-can with Claire and her younger sister, Kate, all of the time. (She chuckles and swallows the last of her coffee.) Their older sister, Veronica, always insisted we wear reflective vests when we played. How are you supposed to sneak up and kick the can when you stand out like a freaking runway beacon?
Me: Yep, that’s Claire and her sisters. It’s a small world.
Violet: Especially in the Black Hills. Do you have the time?
Me: (I look down at my cell phone.) It’s eight-forty.
Violet: (She grabs her purse and stands.) I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should head to the office. I want to get in before Ray brews a pot of coffee this morning.
Me: You found a place that sells arsenic?
Violet: (She winks.) Something like that. Thanks for the latte.
Me: You’re welcome.
Violet: (She pauses at the door and smiles back at me.) Don’t be a stranger.
Me: Oh, I won’t.
Nearly Departed in Deadwood Cover – Contender #2
Nearly Departed in Deadwood Cover – Contender #3
Nearly Departed in Deadwood – ARC Cover
Nearly Departed in Deadwood – Final Cover
Candy Lover
A Very Short Story from the Ann Charles’ Vault
“I want a lover,” Candy announced.
Larry nearly choked on his corndog.
Candy pushed a strand of ash-blonde hair out of her face and tipped her head to the side, her expression thoughtful. “Someone who will accept me for who I am.”
She stared across the midway at an old man leading his wife toward the grand stand and sighed. The hot afternoon sunlight reflected off the pool half-full of floating rubber ducks next to her balloon-dart carnival booth, the rays shimmering on her smooth, tan cheeks.
Larry wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and frowned at Candy. “You’re pregnant.”
Candy grinned at him. “Only seven months.”
Adjusting the straps of her dark pink sundress, she focused on the two teenagers who’d stepped up to her counter. Their fingers were entwined, their gazes starry, as if cupid had just knocked their heads together. Candy handed the boy three darts.
A drop of sweat rolled down the middle of Larry’s back as he watched the kid throw the first dart. Moving up next to Candy, Larry reached for her as she wavered on her feet. He needed to buy a couple of fans for her. The summer heat roiling off the blacktop couldn’t be good for her or the baby.
He helped her sit on the stool next to th
e helium tank. “Sweetheart, you’re so pregnant you can’t even see your own shoelaces,” he said for her ears only.
Pop! Pop! Pop! The kid nailed three balloons.
“Winner winner, chicken dinner!” Candy called out.
The kid’s girlfriend squealed and clapped, pointing at the green stuffed frog hanging on the wall.
Candy used Larry’s shoulder to push herself up on her feet again. “Yeah, but some men find pregnant women attractive, don’t they?” she asked, grabbing a broom handle with a hook at the end. The frog fell after two nudges. Larry bent down and picked up the frog for her. She took it and handed it to the young girl, watching with an almost wistful smile as the kids walked away, arms around each other, hands in each other’s back pockets.
When Larry moved to her side, she looked up at him and asked again, “Don’t they, Larry?”
Larry shifted under the weight of her gaze. The gold flecks circling her brown irises seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, mesmerizing him. The heat roiling from the blacktop in front of her booth knocked him back a step. He pulled a rag from his pants pocket and wiped the sweat off his neck.
Across the way, a group of young boys eyed his fake rifles. Maybe it was time to return to his shooting range booth. “I s’pose some do, Candy.”
“Then how hard can it be for me to find a lover?”
Grimacing, Larry said, “Why now? Why can’t you wait for a couple of more months?”
“Months?” Candy laughed and nudged him with her hip. The smell of her raspberry-scented shampoo mixed with the sweet aroma of Candy made him gulp.
“Come on, Larry,” she said, rubbing her hand over her round stomach. Her eyelashes looked white-blonde in the sunlight. “Do you think that just because I’m pregnant I don’t want to have sex? That I don’t miss being in a man’s arms, waking up next to someone, being touched and stroked until I howl at the moon? I may be pregnant, but I’m not dead.”