by Diane Moody
Cover design by OBT Graphix
Front cover photo: © SerrNovik | iStockphoto.com
Front cover photo: © DenisTangneyJr | iStockphoto.com
Interior: “Rufus” | King Charles Cavalier Spaniel
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
At Legend’s End │ Book Four of the Teacup Novellas
Copyright © 2013 by Diane Moody
All rights reserved.
Other Titles from OBT Bookz
(click the title for more information)
From Author Diane Moody
The Runaway Pastor’s Wife
Blue Christmas
Blue Like Elvis
Confessions of a Prayer Slacker
Tea with Emma
The Teacup Novellas (Book One)
Strike the Match
The Teacup Novellas (Book Two)
Home to Walnut Creek
The Teacup Novellas (Book Three)
At Legend’s End
The Teacup Novellas (Book Four)
From Author McMillian Moody
Ordained Irreverence
Elmo Jenkins (Book One)
Some Things Never Change
Elmo Jenkins (Book Two)
The Old Man and the Tea
Elmo Jenkins (Book Three)
The Elmo Jenkins Trilogy
Love is our true destiny.
We do not find the meaning of life
by ourselves alone . . .
we find it with another.
—Thomas Merton
“For I know the plans I have for you,”
declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.”
—Jeremiah 29:11
Prologue
“Lucy, I’ve got to hand it to you. I’ve never lived anywhere but here in New York, but that last novella had me packing my bags for Tenne—”
I yanked my cell away from my ear as my editor’s hacking cough filled the airwaves between us. Again. Always. I’d had the The Talk with her so many times to no avail that I no longer bothered. Right now, as Samantha’s body wracked itself in search of a single minuscule breath of non-nicotine-stained oxygen, I knew that she knew what I would say. And I knew that she knew what her response would be. Words were no longer necessary.
“You were saying?” I asked, as the final wheeze afforded me a chance to speak.
“Oh, yes. I was saying I practically had my bags packed for Tennessee. And that’s not the half of it. I went online and spent an hour browsing the Harley Davidson website. I’m not kidding you. Did you know they have trikes?”
“What, like a tricycle?”
I remembered the three-wheeled bikes the senior adults in Florida often rode. I have distinct memories of seeing a group of elderly women dressed in their two-piece swimsuits riding those three-wheelers, their bronzed wrinkles flapping in the breeze. Somewhere I had a file full of ideas for a geriatric romantic comedy based on seeing those women sailing along, oblivious to what anyone else might think. I made a mental note to look for that file.
“Lucy? Hello?”
“I’m here. Sorry, Samantha. You were saying something about a trike?”
“Yes, the trike. I have the brochure here on my desk. I think I’ll make an appointment to test ride one sometime.”
I bit back a giggle. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
“What I’m trying to tell you is, I loved the biker story. Your writing transports your readers into whole new worlds. Which is what I taught you to do when I first signed you. You’ve come a long way, baby.”
“That’s really sweet. Especially coming from you.”
“Yeah? Well, enough of that. I need you to get started on the next novella and stay on task. I’m leaving town for a few weeks, and I don’t want to be worrying about our next deadline while I’m away.”
“Now, Sam, you know we’ve never missed a deadline. Don’t worry. Are you heading off on vacation?” I asked, knowing better.
“No, it’s Pauleen.”
“Is she okay?”
I remembered the picture of the two of them on the windowsill in Sam’s office. Pauleen was two minutes older than Samantha, but I’m fairly confident Sam was running her twin’s life before they exited the birth canal. Sam had told me they were leap year babies born on the twenty-ninth of February. Which accounts for my yearly confusion as to how old my editor actually is.
“No, her heart’s about to give out on her. She never listens to a thing I tell her—”
Must be genetic, I thought.
“—so I’ve got to take time off to drive up to Maine and see if I can’t knock some sense into her before she keels over and dies on me.”
I pressed my lips together. So many responses, right there on the tip of my tongue. “Well, give her my best. I’ll keep her in my prayers, okay?”
“Forget her. I’m the one who needs prayer. My sister can drive me to drink faster than Mario Cuomo.”
“I think you mean Mario Andretti.”
“Whatever. Listen, I’m outta here. Get moving on the new story. I’ll let you know when I’m back in the office. Don’t let that boyfriend of yours steal all your time. Got it?”
“Got it. Not a problem.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say. Gotta run, Lucy. Ciao mein.”
“Right backatcha,” I said to a dead line.
Gertie waddled into my office, her pointy tail slowly wagging as she tilted her head and pinned me with those sympathetic doggie eyes.
“I know. You always hate it when Samantha calls.” I tilted my head at the same angle. “But enough about her. Time for a walk?”
She took off for the front door, her nails clicking a dance beat on my hardwoods. It dawned on me a while back that God gives dogs to people like me because He knows it’s the only way to get me outside for some fresh air. When Gertie was a puppy, I proudly walked her around the block a couple of times a day. Even with those short, stubby Scottie legs, we kept up a steady pace.
But the truth is, now it seems she’s the one walking me, forcing me to push back from my laptop and get outside where I can fill my lungs with fresh air, be it hot or cold. Even when I try to talk her out of it, she parks her haunches on the rug by the door and gives me The Look. I’m a sucker for The Look, and she knows it.
Which begs the question—who trained whom?
I snapped the leash onto Gertie’s collar, grabbed my windbreaker and off we went. I shouldn’t complain, really. Some of my best plot and character ideas pop in my head during these walks. Today was no exception. Something Samantha said was toying with my mind. I knew that Pauleen still lived just outside of Caden Cove, Maine, where they grew up. Sam went through marriages almost as fast as she smoked through cartons of Virginia Slims, but Pauleen had never married. What would that be like? Not just living in the same town your whole life, but being middle-aged and still single. Was there still a stigma against women who’d never married? I’d touched briefly on the subject in my last novella. Tracey’s sister, Alex, was completely content with her life. But is that the norm or the exception among women these days?
As Gertie led me around the corner, I looked up just in time to notice a big flash of brown coming toward us. My heart skipped a beat. Who knew a color could spark such a reaction? I grabb
ed the lip gloss out of my pocket and took a quick swipe at my lips just before the UPS truck pulled up beside me.
The handsome driver leaned out his window. “Hey, lady, I think I’m lost.”
“Oh yeah? Where you headed, big guy?” I stepped close enough to catch a scent of his manly cologne.
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Anywhere you are, sweet pea.”
I rolled my eyes for his benefit. “Is that the best you’ve got? Surely you’ve got a better pick-up line in your arsenal.”
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s against company policy to pick up riders.”
“I see. Well, then, sweet pea, I guess you and your GPS will just have to find your way without me.”
He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Yes, but where’s the fun in that?” He floated me a wink. “Hey, Luce.”
“Hey, Mark. How’s your day?”
“Better, now that I’ve seen you. Have you got dinner plans tonight?” he asked, twisting and turning the narrow silver ring on my thumb. It was a habit I’d grown to love.
“Actually, I do. I’m making ziti for this guy I’ve got a crush on.”
“Yeah? I love your ziti.”
“What a coincidence. I could set an extra place at the table, if you’d like to join us.”
He smiled as his eyes danced. “I’d love to—if you think he won’t mind?”
“Oh, no. He won’t—”
Suddenly, the leash wrapped around my wrist yanked hard, nearly knocking me off my feet. Gertie was in hot pursuit of a squirrel, pulling me along behind her. “Gertie! Stop!”
Behind me, I heard the truck roar to life. “See you at seven, Lucy!”
I turned just in time to see his wave as he pulled away. I waved, hoping he might look back. He did. He always does.
I tried scolding Gertie in my best alpha voice, but she wasn’t having it. The squirrel long forgotten, she happily took off down the sidewalk with me in tow. I didn’t mind. I was still basking in the moment. I always love it when Mark is in the neighborhood so he can stop by. He’d never go off route, of course, and never come by the house unless he has a package to deliver. He’s honest and faithful, even to his employers. I admire him for that. It says a lot about his character. And I’d grown rather fond of his character over the last few months.
As Gertie and I continued our walk, I tried to steer my mind back to my new story. Something was there, just under the surface. I could feel it, but I couldn’t seem to connect the dots. “Focus, Lucy. Focus,” I chided myself. “Okay, I was thinking about Pauleen. And about middle-aged women who’ve never married. And—”
Gertie stopped to squat for the fourth time. She looked at me with the sweetest expression on her face. I often imagine her conversations. Which makes sense, considering I’m a pro at putting words in people’s mouths. She was in rare form today.
Isn’t this fun? Aren’t we having fun? Don’t we love it out here? There’s so much to see! So many things to sniff! Gee, we could stay all day; if you like! Can we? Can we, huh?
And that’s when it clicked. All of it, like an elaborate maze of dominoes falling one after another.
Gertie … the spitting image of her political canine hero, Barney—the official First Dog of the George W. Bush presidency. We’d mourned Barney’s passing a while back, but now all I could see in my head was the famous home of the Bush family there in Maine. I’d spent a weekend in Kennebunkport years ago at a bed and breakfast. I loved the charming coastal town, thinking someday I’d like to move there.
Gertie. Barney. The Bush family estate at Kennebunkport, Maine . . .
That’s it!
The perfect setting for my new novella—a fictional town similar to Kennebunkport.
The perfect setting for an unlikely love story between two unsuspecting forty-something characters.
The perfect setting for a not-so-ordinary blue and white teacup.
The perfect setting for a local legend bridging the past with the future.
I took off, racing Gertie back to the house. “C’mon, girl! We’ve got a story to write!”
Chapter 1
As Olivia Thomas joined the mass exodus of commuters through the thick ribbons of Atlanta’s afternoon rush hour, she answered her cell phone. Right on time. She and Ellen dubbed it their private Happy Hour, chatting to pass the time as both headed home from work.
“So how was your day?” asked her best friend.
“Exciting. Thrilling. Breathtaking. You know—the usual.”
“That bad, huh?”
“No, not really. Just not too many folks applying for loans right now. Such a strange market with this economy. But it is what it is. How about you? Good day?”
“Never a dull moment.”
“That good, eh?” Olivia checked her rearview mirror. Some kid in a bright red sports car was riding her bumper, his head jerking in motion to a pounding beat she could feel inside her own car. As his eyes met hers in the mirror, he mouthed off and waved his middle finger at her.
Yeah, you’re so tough. See me shaking in my boots?
“You still there?”
“I’m here. Just wishing I was anywhere but here. Tell me again why do we do this every day?”
“Do what?”
“Spend an hour every morning and another every afternoon on the road with all these crazies.”
“Oh that. But when else would we have this much time to talk?”
“I know, but don’t you find it all rather pointless?”
“Hey, Olivia?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on? You’ve made this commute every weekday for more than twenty-five years. Why’s it bothering you today?”
“Just the Monday grumpies, I guess.”
“Did something happen today?” Ellen pressed.
“Not really.”
“Out with it. You know I won’t let up ‘til you tell me, so just spit it out and save us some time.”
Olivia pictured her friend’s inquisitive blue eyes, her fashionable salt and pepper hairstyle, her mischievous smile. They had way too much history between them to play games. Transparency ran deep on both sides. Well, most of the time. She knew Ellen wouldn’t stop prodding until she coughed up whatever was bugging her.
But that was the problem. Olivia didn’t know what was bugging her.
“I’m just so tired. I’m still fighting those eight pounds I put on over the holidays. I still haven’t been back on my treadmill. It’s been over a month now, but I can’t seem to find my motivation. You know the drill.”
“Uh huh. And?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever wondered if there’s more to life? If, maybe, somehow we’ve settled for these ruts we live in, when we were meant for something greater? Something more significant?”
“Well, sure. Who doesn’t have thoughts like that? But then I . . .”
“Then you think about Brent and the kids and your grandbaby on the way, and you think, how could life be any better than this?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth.”
Olivia stretched out the kinks in her neck. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“C’mon, Olivia, that’s not fair. Besides, I think you love my family more than I do. And I’m quite sure they love you more than me.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Stop derailing the conversation. Talk to me.”
Olivia huffed a sigh. “Okay. Fine. I’ll tell you. I went to work this morning just like every morning. And as I walked into my office and turned on the lights, all I could hear was that irritating buzzing sound—you know, when the florescent light tubes try to blink on? I don’t know why, but it just got under my skin. And stayed there. All day. Then I realized how much I despise the color of paint on the walls. It hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve been there. It’s the color of Band Aids. Who in their right mind picks a color like that for the interior walls of a ba
nk?”
“Someone who likes Band Aids?”
“You’re just hilarious. Really. Hear me laughing? No. Then Ted strolled into my office, and he went on and on about the gas grill Rene got him for his birthday. And the whole time, he kept subtly picking his nose. Digging for gold right there in front of me.”
“Ew?!”
“I kept wishing I had one of those high-powered water guns so I could just blast that stupid smirk off his face.”
Ellen’s giggle chirped through the speaker on her cell. “That, I’d pay money to see!”
“Then when I took my break this morning, someone had left a near-empty carafe on the burner, which burned the coffee residue in the pot. The break room reeked. I took it off the burner, set it in the sink, and walked away. I told Marilyn I’d be back in twenty minutes, walked down the street to The Daily Grind, ordered a fresh cup of coffee, and took my break on a park bench.”
“Atta girl. Fresh air. Just what you needed.”
“I’ve never understood how grown men with MBAs aren’t smart enough to turn the coffeemaker off when the pot’s empty. How hard is it? And I’ll bet dollars to donuts not a single one of them know how to change the toilet roll when it’s out.”
“It’s because the women in their lives have trained them to be that way,” Ellen explained. “First Mommy wipes their behinds and spoon-feeds them until they leave home, then Wifey picks up where Mommy left off. Naturally, they expect their female co-workers to do the same. ‘They cain’t hep’ it,’” she twanged. “‘They don’t know no better!’”
Olivia laughed. “You have a point, Elle Mae.”
“Of course I do! Hey, it’s nice to hear you laugh. All kidding aside, please tell me what’s got you so gritchy today.”
Out of nowhere, Olivia’s eyes began to fill. “I honestly don’t know. For some reason, it all just got to me today. And I realized, I’m so bored with my job . . . but I’m too old to start over. And what’s worse, even if I could start over, I don’t know what I’d do. And I just feel so . . . trapped.”