Promises: Do You Know Where the Poison Toadstools Crow?

by Lori Beasley Bradley

  The next six weeks went by unbearably slowly. Carl had gone away on business again with an added few days visiting his grandchildren in Wisconsin on their dairy farm. She rarely heard from him on those trips, and she missed him.

  They’d only spoken once between returning from Missouri and his leaving again the following week, and it had been strained. He’d called to see if she’d reviewed the information about the reservation software and made note of her lack of enthusiasm.

  “Ivy, if you’re not interested in this project, let me know now before I make a huge investment.”

  “Carl, it’s not that I’m not interested,” she sighed, “I just have a lot to think about, and you know how I am with technology. It makes me nervous. I’d need to have somebody personally instruct me on using the software before I could feel comfortable with it.”

  “We can do that, I suppose. Don’t they offer a tutorial?” he asked.

  “I believe so. I’ll look at it again.” Ivy picked up her coffee cup and sipped at the cooling brew. “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “I’m not certain. I’m going to stop off and see the kids. The baby’s birthday is coming up, and they’re planning a party.” Ivy smiled. She knew his youngest granddaughter was turning six, but he still called her the baby.

  “Well, have a good time. They grow up fast. Before you know it they’ll be throwing her a sweet sixteen party.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he groaned. “Being closer to the kids is one of the reasons I want to make the move to Branson. It would be a nice place to bring them during their summer break from school. Arizona is too damned hot and too far from their mother.”

  “It would be nice for mine too. You know how much my sons like to hunt and fish.”

  “So, you have been giving it some consideration then?” He sounded relieved.

  “Of course I have, sweetie. I’d much rather be sitting in the shade by the lake fishing than cooped up here in this apartment because you take the chance of spontaneously combusting every time you walk out the door here.” Ivy laughed.

  “OK, baby, got to run now. Look over that program again, and I’ll call when I get back in a few weeks.”

  “Sure, have a good trip and be safe.” She very nearly added I love you but held it back. They weren’t there yet.

  Ivy’s dryer buzzed, letting her know her load was dry. She set aside her laptop and stood to walk to the machine to fold her clothes into the basket when her phone chimed. Ivy picked it up but did not recognize the number. She thought about ignoring it but opened it and put it to her ear.

  “Hello.” Ivy sat back onto her faux-suede couch.

  A female voice on the other end answered, “May I speak with Ivy Chandler, please?”

  “This is Ivy.”

  “Hello, Ms. Chandler. This is Janice Strider from the Strider Agency in New York. How is your day going?”

  Ivy thought she was going to faint but took a deep breath and continued. “It’s going well. Do you need any more files? I thought I sent you everything you requested regarding my book series.” Ivy fumbled for words.

  “Oh, no, we have everything we need. Thank you for getting it to us so promptly.” There was an awkward silence. Ivy suspected this was when she would hear they really weren’t interested after all for some reason. “Did you have an opportunity to study our client agreement that I sent you?”

  “Yes. I had an attorney friend of mine look it over, and he told me it looked to be on the up and up.” Ivy bit her lip.

  Did that sound like it was coming from the mouth of a stupid hick? On the up and up?

  “Very good, because we’d like to offer you representation for your proposed three-book series. I’ve been tentatively shopping it to some publisher friends here in New York, and I’m happy to say there has been some interest. I’d like to FedEx a contract for you to sign today if that is amenable to you.”

  “That sounds wonderful. Thank you. Do you have my mailing address?”

  “Yes, I got it from your website. I’ll get this out today. I’m meeting with the acquisitions editor this afternoon from one of the Big Five, and we may just have an offer in the works for your manuscripts. How are things going in that regard? I know you have books one and two completed, but what is your projection on book three?”

  “I’m about ten chapters into book three as we speak.”

  “Marvelous. Can you send me the first three chapters of book three? I’d love to have them to show the editor when she arrives.”

  “Of course. I’ll send it off as soon as we hang up.” Ivy saw spots before her eyes, and her heart was beating a mile a minute in her chest. Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

  “I’ll let you get to it then. Have a wonderful day, Ms. Chandler.”

  “You, too, and thank you.” Ivy heard the line go dead, and she closed her phone. She snatched up her laptop again, logged in, and sent the requested file. Ivy went ahead and sent all ten chapters of book three, though she hadn’t edited them thoroughly yet. She wanted Ms. Strider to see that she wasn’t lying about her progress. After tapping the send key, Ivy slumped back on her sofa, breathless.

  Is this really happening, or am I hallucinating? I have an agent and possibly a three-book deal with one of the Big Five publishers. I’m going to wake up any minute now and need coffee.

  But she didn’t need to wake up. She was sitting on her sofa with her laptop open and her phone on the cushion next to her. It had all really happened. Ivy thought about going to her Facebook page to announce the news but thought she’d better wait. She didn’t want to jinx anything. She’d keep it all to herself until the FedEx man showed up with the contract and she’d signed it and sent it back.

  She wondered if she should share the news with Carl. No, she’d wait to tell him, as well. She wasn’t even certain where he was at the moment. The last word she’d had from him, he was in Milwaukee taking care of some business before going to the farm to see the kids. She hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks, but that wasn’t unusual when he was off on business.

  9

  Ivy spent the next day waiting anxiously for the doorbell to ring. When it had not by three in the afternoon, she thought about calling Ms. Strider but decided to wait. There was a three-hour time difference, and already six in the evening in New York. She resolved to call tomorrow if nobody showed up by one. It puzzled Ivy. The woman had sounded so excited the day before about getting the contract out to her that very day. Perhaps after sending the unedited beginning of the third book, she’d lost interest, or the publisher’s editor had.

  Ivy’s stomach clenched with doubt and nerves. If she’d changed her mind, wouldn’t she have at least sent an e-mail letting Ivy know? She checked her electronic mailbox for the hundredth time but found nothing from the Strider Agency.

  Ivy’s head pounded as she took her evening meds and crawled into bed that night, exhausted from fretting over why the contract had not arrived as promised. Ivy switched on the light and opened the newspaper. As she leafed through the pages, a familiar smiling face caught her eye. Carl, dressed in a tuxedo, stood beside a beautiful blonde in an elegant black gown, smiling up at him. Ivy’s eyes flew down to the caption beneath the photo.

  Real estate investor Carl Anderson and his lovely companion, Judith Merriman of the Merriman Group, attend the Arizona Realtors’ Symposium, where Anderson was awarded Realtor of the Year. Last night’s awards dinner was held at the Point Resort—

  Last night? Ivy looked at Carl’s beaming face and then that of the beautiful woman with him. Ivy put the woman in her early to mid-forties with beautiful blonde hair, ample breasts, and a slim waist. They were holding hands standing on a patio with the lights of the city shining below.

  Ivy had dined at The Point, where a meal easily cost a hundred dollars a plate with wine. Jealousy surged through her, looking at the lovely woman on the page holding her man’s hand. She couldn’t understand why Carl hadn’t let her know he was back in town. She looked down at t
he photo of Judith Merriman again. Maybe she did understand.

  Look at her. I’m no competition for that. She’s ten or fifteen years younger than me and has money, no doubt. I bet those rocks around her neck and wrist are real, and that dress didn’t come off the rack at The Dress Barn either.

  Tears streamed down Ivy’s cheeks, and she pitched the paper onto the floor, the pages scattering over the carpet. The noise of the pitched pages sent Cheshire scurrying from the room. “Cowardly male,” she yelled at the fleeing cat. “You’re all just a bunch of damned cowards.” Ivy switched off her light and sobbed into her pillows.

  The combination of her nightly medication, worry from the day about the contract, and the news that Carl was back and sporting about town with a pretty young socialite got the best of Ivy. She drifted off into an exhausted but fitful sleep.

  Nightmares about the Tulsa incident plagued her sleep. Judith Merriman replaced Joanna in her dreams, and rather than shielding Ivy in the planter, Carl held the elegantly dressed woman from the newspaper. Ivy woke in tears and looked at the time on the cable box by the television. The blue lights said three forty-five.

  Ivy got up and trudged to the bathroom, where she relieved herself, turned on the shower, and stepped under the hot spray. It felt good, and she let the water wash away her tension from the restless night. It was a new day. Early, but a new day nonetheless. During one of her waking moments in the night, Ivy’d had an idea for her manuscript and was eager to get to it.

  She made a pot of coffee, opened her laptop, and went to work on her manuscript. By noon when the rumbling of her belly told her she should eat, Ivy had finished three new chapters and almost ten thousand words.

  Pleased, Ivy got up, made a sandwich, poured some root beer over ice, and returned to the couch. She considered calling New York but did not. She considered calling Carl but did not.

  The doorbell rang as Ivy was taking a drink, and she choked. Coughing, she set the glass on the coffee table and went to the door. It was a Federal Express courier with a cardboard envelope. Ivy took it with a smile and signed the computer tablet. “Thank you,” she said and closed the door. With shaking hands, Ivy pulled the cardboard zipper tab to open the envelope. She pulled out a stack of papers and sat down to read the cover letter from Janice Strider.

  Ms. Chandler,

  I’m sorry for the day’s delay, but I wanted to allow my editor friend to read your additional chapters. We are both thrilled and impressed. I’m happy to inform you that her company would like to sign as your publisher for the three manuscripts and have offered the sum of three hundred thousand dollars against royalties for each book as it is submitted. They are confident, as am I, that there is a good market amongst women for your work.

  Please read, sign, and date the enclosed contract. As soon as you get it back to me, I can finalize the contracts with the publisher and send you a check. I will forward you the particulars about the publishing house and what they will require from you as one of their authors.

  I look forward to working with you. Janice Strider

  Ivy read and reread the letter several times. Three hundred thousand dollars for each book? She reread it to be certain she hadn’t misread it.

  What if the books don’t sell? Will I have to give the money back? At fifteen percent, that agency is making forty-five thousand per book. Will they have to give theirs back too? I bet not. I’d better read that contract again. They already have the first two books. Does that mean I’m going to be getting a check for a half a million dollars? Oh, my God!

  Ivy took out the contract, read it, and dressed. She checked her computer for the nearest FedEx depot and drove there as quickly as she could. She had the man at the counter sign the contract as a witness to hers and had both their signatures notarized by the in-house notary. Next to buying her first house, this was the most exciting piece of business Ivy could recall. She addressed the envelope, rechecked that it was correct, and paid to have it sent off for next-day delivery.

  Walking on air, Ivy returned home. She looked in her refrigerator and smiled. After getting a big check, she would be able to fill it with more than Hillshire Farms deli meat, Kraft singles, and cheap Wal-Mart root beer. Ivy wanted to dance, but dancing alone was no fun. Maybe she’d throw a party, yes, an ‘I sold my books’ party. Maybe she’d have it by the pool at The Point Resort and buy a sparkly black gown.

  Ivy thought about calling Carl and sharing the good news. He had to know she’d seen the paper. She read it every day, and he knew it. He still hadn’t called or texted her. At this minute, Ivy couldn’t give a shit. She’d keep her happiness to herself for a little bit longer.

  On second thought, she opened her laptop, logged in, and opened her Facebook page. She announced her good news about signing with the Strider Agency and the news that they’d possibly secured her a three-book deal for her latest work. After Facebook, Ivy did the same with her blog. Carl didn’t have a Facebook page, and she didn’t know if he followed her blog or not, but all her writing friends and fans would get the news, and that made Ivy happy at the moment.

  Soon Ivy was receiving texts from friends and family members, congratulating her and asking questions about the particulars like how much money she was getting and how soon she would be getting it. Sadly, Ivy knew exactly which ones would be hitting her up for loans if she gave them details. She thanked them but refused to talk about money, saying she didn’t want to jinx things.

  This day was certainly better than the last. Her head swam, and she couldn’t concentrate on her writing. She was happy she’d gotten up early and accomplished three chapters before the FedEx man showed.

  The phone rang, and Ivy picked it up. It was not a number she recognized, but it wasn’t a New York area code either. She opened the phone.

  “Hello, Ivy Chandler here,” she chirped.

  “Miss Chandler, this is Norman Powell from Branson. I showed you and Mr. Anderson some properties a while back.” Ivy recognized his nasally Southern accent now.

  “Yes, Mr. Powell, what can I do for you?” Ivy couldn’t remember giving him one of her cards, but she must have.

  “I’ve been tryin’ to reach Mr. Anderson. We have a date set for the closin’ on the condos, but I wanted to let him know that the little cabin I showed y’all is available again. I thought twice that we had it sold when he made an offer on it, but those deals fell through, and it’s available again.” Powell paused and coughed. “Do you happen to have another number where I might reach him?”

  “No, I’m sorry. His cell is the only phone he has. He’s been traveling, but I think he may be home now. If you leave a message, I’m sure he’ll return your call.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been leavin’ him messages for a few days now, and I haven’t heard from him. If you happen to talk to him, will you let him know the cabin is available again and his offer of one fifty could still be presented to the owner? After this last deal fell through, I believe the seller might be open to it. If not, I’ll be seein’ Mr. Anderson at the closin’ on the condos in two weeks. Will you be accompanyin’ him?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Powell. Mr. Anderson doesn’t generally take me on his business trips. We were together there because the Tulsa conference was canceled, and we thought we’d run up to Branson for a little working vacation.” Ivy sighed, thinking of the quaint little cabin. “If I talk to him, I’ll be sure to let him know about the cabin.”

  “Thank you, and you have a nice day, ma’am.” He hung up, and Ivy closed her phone.

  Should I call him? Was he going to buy that cabin for me? For us?

  Confused, Ivy picked up the phone and punched in Carl’s number. It rang several times before going to voicemail. Ivy hung up. She would not leave a message for him on voicemail. He’d recognize her number and return her call, or he wouldn’t.

  10

  Carl did not call. Ivy scanned the paper every day but found no more pictures of him with Judith Merriman. Ivy had googled
her and found that the woman was forty-six, twice divorced, and the mother of two sons. Since the death of her father, Howard Merriman, two years ago, she’d returned to using her maiden name and headed the Merriman Group, a real estate investment firm that owned several shopping malls in the valley, Tucson, and Flagstaff. To say the woman was rich would be a gross understatement.

  There’s no way I can compete with that. She’s younger. She’s beautiful. She’s rich, and she knows his business better than I ever will. What do I have to offer compared to her? She probably puts out, too.

  Ten days after returning the contract to Janice Strider, the FedEx man was back at her door with another envelope. Ivy sat in stunned disbelief staring at a check for five hundred and ten thousand dollars. Her stomach lurched, and she hardly had time to grab the metal wastebasket next to the couch before she emptied her stomach. Ivy sat shaking for several minutes then threw up again, staring at the large check on the cushion beside her.

  What am I going to do with this kind of money? Does half a million count as rich or just wealthy? No, just damned lucky is what it is.

  Ivy tucked the check carefully into her wallet. She changed into jeans, a tank top, and a light linen jacket. She brushed her hair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She needed a haircut. She could certainly afford one now. Ivy picked up her wallet and went out to her car. She looked at the dusty old sedan. She needed a new car, too. Ivy clutched her wallet, holding the ridiculously large check. She could afford one of those now, too.