Pirates, Parrots, and Pumpkins

Pirates, Parrots, and Pumpkins

October sunlight streamed through the grove of tall trees, its golden fingers reaching in to touch the quiet clearing in the woods. Already the leaves had put on their most brilliant scarlet and orange hues. Now, the glorious autumn colors shimmered in the warmth of the early afternoon. Although the day had dawned crisp and cool, the weather had turned perfect -- perfect for pumpkin-carving, face-painting, hayrides, and the rest of the child-oriented activities the community center had planned for the annual Halloween festival.

Natasha gripped the knife in her hand and forced a cheerful smile to her face. “How do I look?” She nudged her best friend, Pamela. The motion jarred her witch’s hat, nearly knocking it from her head.

“Ridiculous.” Pamela -- serene and lovely in a princess costume complete with magic wand -- grinned. “I’m joking. You look great. For a witch.”

“Thanks.” Natasha sighed. “I feel ridiculous.” She gripped the knife tighter. “Guess I’d better get started on the pumpkins.”

“They aren’t going to carve themselves.” Princess Pamela waved her wand toward a bale of hay surrounded by fat, round, jack-o-lanterns-to-be. “Have fun.”

Natasha took a step, stopped, and whirled around. “Wait a minute. Isn’t Ashley supposed to help me? Is she here yet?”

Working at the festival was a volunteer project for the bank where Natasha, Pamela, and Ashley worked. A way of strengthening ties with the community, the bank manager explained. A chance to meet people in the town and establish friendly relationships. Taking part in the service project also meant a day off with pay, which, in Natasha’s opinion, would have made it worth every minute -- had she known anything about carving pumpkins.

Unfortuntely, she didn’t.

“Ashley?” Pamela looked down at the toes of her satin slippers. “Uh, well, she called early this morning. Didn’t she call you, too?”

“Don’t tell me she bailed! She can’t do that.”  Ashley had a reputation for being slightly irresponsible. No, not true. She was totally irresponsible outside of work.

“Don't worry, Tasha. She’ll be here...later.”

“How much later?”

“Just go ahead and get started,” Pamela urged. “She’ll be here as soon as she can.” She pointed her wand toward the pumpkins again. “Looks like you’ve got your first customer...and he sure is a cutie.”

She’d do her best, Natasha, decided. That’s all she could do, really. How hard could carving pumpkins be?

Turning around, she expected to see a young boy standing beside the bale of hay, probably dressed in a Star Wars costume complete with light saber. She’d noticed several of those as she’d walked through the tree-filled park. She did not expect to see a swashbuckling pirate, complete with a parrot on his shoulder. A very grown-up -- and very handsome -- pirate, at that.

“Oh, my! That parrot--”

“Stuffed.” His voice was deep and mellow -- and enticingly familiar. He patted the bird’s fake green plumage.

Natasha looked closer. At the bird. And at the pirate.

“Quinn? Is that you?” The smudges on his cheek, the bandana tied around his head, and the silver hoop dangling from his earlobe made it hard to be sure. “You work in Bank Operations, right?”

A blush heated Natasha’s cheeks. She barely knew Quinn Marston. He’d only come to work at the bank a few weeks earlier. Plus, he worked in a different department. On a different floor. Now, he’d probably think she’d been stalking him. She hoped he hadn’t noticed the way she started drooling every time she’d seen him.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

Natasha licked her lips.  “Natasha Turnbull. Human Resources. Our offices are in the same building.” She stuck out her hand, knife and all, then jerked it back. “Sorry, I’m not trying to draw blood.”

Quinn laughed. “You’re a witch, not a vampire.”

“Yeah, right.” She glanced down at his outstretched hand, carefully tucked the knife into her belt, and reached out. His touch felt as warm and comforting as the sunlight pouring down around them. “I didn’t know you’d signed up for the project.” She’d checked the list yesterday before leaving work. Surely Quinn Marston’s name would have jumped out at her.

“I didn’t sign up. I just got hired at the first of the month. The sheet for volunteers had already been passed around. I just happened to hear about it a couple of days ago. Thought I’d stop by and see if I could help out.”

“Do you know anything about carving pumpkins? Anything at all?” Natasha held her breath.

Quinn’s face lit up like a smiling jack o’lantern. “I’ve carved a few. Actually, more than a few. I grew up on a farm. We raised pumpkins.”  His grin broadened. “Would you like a little help?”

She pulled the knife from her belt and held it out to him, but he shook his head.

“I brought a few of my own.” He tapped his own belt where a collection of knives glistened in the sunlight. “Tools of the pumpkin-carving trade.”  Quinn nodded toward the hay. “Why don’t you have a seat, give the kids a bit of a fright, then send them my way?”

A fright. She probably looked a fright, all right.

Instinctively she patted her hair, knocking the witch’s hat askew again. Quinn laughed, straightened the hat, then placed a hand at her waist and guided her to her seat on the hay.

Children were already heading down the path to the clearing, their excited voices ringing through the air. Despite Natasha’s earlier misgivings, the children’s laughter proved contagious. She loved making scary sounds and wicked faces...and she loved watching Quinn work. 

The hours passed pleasantly. Natasha felt as though she sat in an enchanted forest. She could almost feel magic in the air. Maybe even a little more than magic, she thought, as Quinn glanced at her and smiled from time to time. It had turned out to be a perfect day, all in all.

Even without the irresponsible Ashley’s help.

No sooner had the thought crossed Natasha’s mind than she heard the squealing, high-pitched voice coming at her. She jerked her head around to see Ashley prancing through the grove of trees, her long, blonde hair blowing in the breeze.

“I’m sorry I’m so late, Tasha. I tried to get here on time but--”

“Where’s your costume?”

“Something came up. Sorry. This is the best I can do.” She was speaking to Natasha, but she wasn’t looking at her. Her pretty green eyes were fixed on Quinn. “I’m here now.” She turned her full attention to the knife-wielding pirate. “I’m ready.”

“Hmm? For what?” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder then turned back to the snaggle-toothed mouth he was carving.

“Ready to help. What do you want me to do?”

“You know how to carve jack o-lanterns?”

Ashley shrugged. “Well, yeah, sure. I guess so.”

A broad grin spread across Quinn’s face. He got to his feet and turned toward Natasha. “Let me see that knife of yours.”

Suddenly the air seemed uncomfortably chill. The enchantment faded, and Natasha wasn’t having quite so much fun now. She should have known that once Ashley showed up, any chance of getting to know Quinn better would disappear like a coin in a magician’s palm. His eager expression said it all. He couldn’t wait to get Ashley carving pumpkins at his side. Oh, what a great time the two of them would have. Meanwhile, Witch Natasha could sit on her bale of hay making frightful faces at the youngsters in town.

“Boo!” she said, waggling her long fingers. Nice that she’d taken so much time to add the long, pointed, blood-red nails. She wished she could run them down Ashley’s fair-skinned cheeks.

No, not really. She wasn’t vicious. Just a little jealous. A little disappointed.

But, why? It’s not like she had any claim on Quinn. They hardly knew each other.

She glanced over at the pair, surprised that Ashley was actually showing a little skill as a pumpkin-carver. Well, of course. She had a good instructor. No doubt, Ashley wanted to please.

Quinn happened to look up. His storm-gray eyes met Natasha's gaze, and he smiled. Embarrassed that he’d caught her staring, Natasha turned away.

“I think you’ve got the hang of it, Ashley,” Quinn said, approval reeking in his deep voice. “You’re doing an excellent job.”

Natasha could easily envision the beaming smiles passing between the pair. She sighed, waggled her fingers again, and wondered if she might be witchy enough -- or bitchy enough -- to cast an evil spell. Should she curse Ashley? Or Quinn?

Neither, of course. She wasn’t the vindictive sort.

But she felt very out-of-place now sitting on her stump of hay, sort of like an unwanted bump on a log, or a wart on a witch’s nose. Maybe the best thing would be to gracefully bow out, hobble around the festival a bit, see if anyone else needed help.

Stiff from sitting, she groaned just a bit as she got to her feet.

“Natasha?” Quinn held up a finger. “Hold on, all right?”

She nodded. At least he had the courtesy to bid her a fond farewell. She waited, tapping the toe of her heavy, pointed boots. She tried not to watch as Quinn bent down and said something to Ashley, his voice low.

“You’re doing what?” Ashley’s screech would have made a banshee proud.

“We’ll be back in about an hour, right?” He looked at Natasha. “Maybe two hours. Depends on how long it takes us to get through the lunch lines.”  He slipped beside Natasha and placed his hand at her waist again. Tingles coursed through her just as before. “She was about two hours late, wasn’t she?” he whispered.

Natasha hesitated. It seemed a tiny bit wrong to leave poor Ashley on her own. 

The hesitation passed quickly.

“Want us to bring you a sandwich back?” she asked.

Ashley didn’t reply.

“I’m really glad she showed up,” Quinn said as they strolled together through the clearing. “I was hoping we might have a chance to get better acquainted. I’ve seen you around the bank, you know.”

His face reddened slightly. Probably from the wind, Natasha guessed, although she knew better. She smiled.

“I look a little different when I’m at work.” Natasha laughed. “A little less frightful, I hope.”

“Even with your somber black dress, your pointy boots, and that crazy witch’s hat, you can’t disguise those beautiful blue eyes.”

“Quinn Marston! Are you flirting with me?”

“Aye, m’lady.”

 “You’re teasing now.”

“Do you like it?”

“Very much,” Natasha admitted. “I like the parrot, too.” With a smile she brushed her fingers over the stuffed creature’s bright feathers. Quinn’s hands came up to catch hold of hers.

“Shiver me timbers, but it’s an enchanting witch ye be, casting a spell on this sea-faring fellow.”

Natasha leaned her head on his shoulder. “Let’s have lunch. You can tell me all about a pirate’s life.” She closed her eyes, dreaming of the treasures they might find together. 

- The End -

I hope you've enjoyed this short story about Pirates, Parrots, and Pumpkins. 

Click HERE to return to TUESDAY'S TALES!

The Birthday Gift

Welcome to this week's "Tuesday Tales" post. I hope you enjoy this short, short story. Please leave a comment and share your thoughts. And don't forget to check-out the other stories and excerpts included in this week's edition.

The Birthday Gift

Matt McFarland grinned when he saw Katie Sloan coming through the wheatfield toward him.  In her arms she held a squirming ball of fur with big brown eyes and a wagging tail.  Matt had given her the puppy as a special gift for her birthday. Katie had turned thirteen just yesterday.  Matt remembered when he turned thirteen last year. It was a special event, turning from twelve to thirteen. He wanted to make Katie's birthday special, too.

But his grin faded when he saw the glum expression on her face.

"You've got to take him back."  She held out the wriggling pup.

"You don't want him?"  Matt's shoulders slumped.

"Course I want him, but Mama says I've got to give him back. Dogs are too much trouble, she says."

"It's not a dog. Just a little puppy."   He reached out to take the animal from Katie, and when his hands brushed against her, he actually felt a little giddy.

"Yeah, but I can't keep him, Matt.  Thanks, anyway. It was nice of you to remember my birthday."  She turned and trudged back across the field toward home, stopping just long enough to smile and wave.
 
Matt watched until Katie disappeared from view. With the whimpering little ball of fur in his arms, he headed home, too.

"Looks like you get to go back with your brothers and sisters, little fellow."  He scratched the pup's soft ears and let out a long breath.

***

He left another gift on Katie's porch a couple days later, after he'd gotten his allowance for doing his chores and had made a trip into town.  Just thinking about how surprised Katie would be when she found it brought a big smile to Matt's face. He could hardly wait for evening, and once he'd finished supper, he hurried out to the wheatfield, hoping Katie would soon be there.

When he saw her already waiting by the old fallen oak at the edge of the field, Matt stood a little taller and put a little more swagger into his step.

"You found my gift, I suppose."

She planted her hands on her hips and frowned.  "Matthew McFarland, you know you shouldn't --"

"I wanted to buy it, Katie.  Your thirteenth birthday is a special time."

Still frowning, she fumbled in her shirt pocket and pulled out the small golden ring with the heart-shaped stone.  "It's too expensive, Mama says.  She won't let me keep it.  If you go to the store right away, maybe you can get your money back."  She held out the ring.  "Go on, Matt, take it.  If you don't, I'll drop it, I swear, and then you'll never find it."

"All right, Katie."  The tiny ring felt heavy in his hands.  Keen disappointment settled over him as he stood watching Katie trot back across the field toward home.

He would have to find another gift for her.

***

"Do you like the book, Katie?" he asked a few evenings later when they next met at the fallen oak.  He'd been pleased to see her reading it when he'd spotted her sitting on the tree's broad trunk.

She slammed the book shut and glared up at him.  "You know I can't accept this. Mama says it's not decent."

The warm evening breeze ruffled Katie's white-blonde hair. Matt thought at once of the corn husks he'd shucked for dinner that evening.  He wondered if Katie's hair would feel as soft as the silken tassels.  He wanted to reach out and touch it.

"I don't know what's not decent about it," he said, unable to keep a slight touch of hurt from his voice.  He wanted so much to make Katie happy, to give her a special birthday gift she'd always remember.  "It's a classic.  That's what Artie down at the bookstore told me.  Shakespeare's Sonnets."

"Have you read some of these?" Katie whispered, a delicate blush of rose coloring her fair cheeks.  "Mama says it's not suitable for a girl my age."  She held out the book.  "You've got to take it back, Matt. If Mama catches me with it again, she'll have one of her hissy fits."

He nodded, tucked the book beneath his arm, and plodded off toward home.

***

For two long days and nights, Matt McFarland pondered his predicament. Katie's birthday had long since come and gone, and he'd still not given her a suitable gift
.  
Then, he smiled.  He had the perfect present in mind.

***

He didn't see Katie again for another two long days and nights, but when he finally spotted her coming across the wheatfield, his heart beat with anticipation.

"I've got a gift for you," he said when they stood beside the old oak.

"Matt, not again! You know how Mama is --"

He silenced her with a tender kiss.  "Happy birthday, Katie."  Surprised to find that kissing her felt even better than he'd thought it would, he drew back, wanting to look at her, to see if maybe she'd liked it, too.

Her blue-gray eyes went wide with wonder.  "You know Mama won't let me accept a gift like that," she said, and her voice sounded a little odd.  And then Katie grinned.  "I have to give it back," she whispered.

Closing her eyes, she leaned forward and returned his kiss he'd given.

- The End- 

Please click HERE to return to TUESDAY'S TALES.

The Gift - Prologue

Hello, readers! Sorry I've been away from the blog for such a long time. A lot has been going on in my life over the last few months. Now, things are settling down a bit, and I'm eager to return to my writing desk.
Due to conflicts with my time, I've had to temporarily put "Love Spells" aside, although I hope to get back to it soon and have it submitted to a publisher.

Meanwhile, I'm excited about the new line coming from No Boundaries Press. It's called Bayou Heat. This prologue is the opening of my story "The Gift", targeted specifically for that line.

Enjoy! Feel free to leave comments and let me know what you think of this prologue. Would it entice you to read on?

The Gift - Prologue

Bayou Bay, Louisiana 1835

“Marissa.”

The feeble voice whispered her name. Marissa shuddered as she cast a glance over the cold, stone floor of the asylum toward the shabby bed. Guilt and fright washed over her.

“Yes, I’m here.”

But not by choice. She’d come to Bayou Bay only because Dr. Benjamin had summoned her, and she’d come to see her grandmother only out of obligation. Not that she didn’t love the frail old woman. She did. But her shame and fear were stronger.

“Come closer, dear.”

Marissa forced her feet to move, edging nearer to the filthy cot tucked in the shadowed corner of the room. With the high, barred windows, little light entered the dingy cell. As she reluctantly stepped forward, she trembled.

Was this the fate that awaited her?

For years, the question had haunted her.

Insanity, some said, ran in families. Madness could be handed down from one generation to another. If it were true, Marissa had little chance of escaping. On her father’s side, she had Granny Swann who’d spent the last twenty years  -- almost all of Marissa’s lifetime -- shut away in the dank, dirty confines of Bayou Bay Rest Hospital. Her mother, too, had gone mad, ending her life in the swampy, alligator-infested waters of the Louisiana bayous.

But not without reason.

Marissa blamed her father. His drinking and gambling, his lies and infidelities would have destroyed even the strongest woman.

As she reached the bedside, a bony hand slipped from beneath the rumpled covers. Thin, gnarled fingers tightened around her wrist, tugging her closer still. The force of her grandmother’s grip startled her. How could a dying woman possess such strength?

“Your father came to see me last night.” An eerie light burned in Jemma’s pale blue eyes.

“Father’s dead. You know that.” Marrisa turned away. Her whispered words would not bring the old woman back to reality. Granny Swann believed in the voices she heard, the visions she saw. She deemed herself an oracle for divine wisdom and claimed to possess the power of the touch. That’s what she called it.

Marissa called it a shameful sickness.

Her grandmother’s cold hands pressed against hers.

“He came for me. It’s time for me to join him.” Her eyelids fluttered, and her thin, cracked lips parted.  A long, slow breath slipped from her throat. “Before I leave this wretched world, dear, there is one thing I must do.”

Bending closer, Marissa pushed tangled strands of white hair away from the woman’s cheeks. Her grandmother’s death would be an act of mercy. No longer would Jemma be forced to endure the harsh treatments Dr. Benjamin prescribed; never again would she suffer the stigma and ridicule that had followed her through the years.  No more tasteless gruel for breakfast, no more vermin-ridden bedding, no more dark, dungeon-like cell to call home.

And once she’s gone, I’ll never have to come here again.

Guilt stabbed at Marissa’s heart. Despite the pain, she couldn’t deny the welcome sense of liberation that lay just beyond the moment. When she walked away from Bayou Bay this time, Marissa would be free. She would never again have to set foot in that squalid asylum. She would never again breathe the fetid air of her grandmother’s cell, never again feel the bone-chilling dampness that reeked from its stark stone walls. And never again would she fear for her own sanity. The madness would die with Jemma Swann; its fearful curse would pass from the earth.

Marissa marveled at the blissful smile upon her grandmother’s aged face. Already the woman had found peace. Jemma’s bosom rose and fell in shallow breaths.

“I have to go now.”

Marissa blinked, unsure whether her grandmother had actually spoken the words or if she’d only imagined them.

Bony arms reached upward . With her eyes now closed, Jemma used her hands to study her grand-daughter’s face. Her fingertips danced lightly over the skin, exploring the high cheekbones, the delicate arch of eyebrows, the smoothness of supple, young lips.

“Soon I will be young again, too.” Jemma dropped her hands to her sides. “I have so little strength. And I have so little to show for my time in this world.”

“Rest now,” Marissa urged.

The skeletal hands shot upward again and grabbed for Marissa’s shoulders. “I have only one thing to give, one precious gift.”

Gooseflesh rose on Marissa’s forearms.

“Granny, no, you needn’t think of --”

“I will the gift to you, Marissa, dear.”

With a last gasp, a strange rattle echoed in Jemma’s throat. Her body stiffened, and a jolt of energy coursed through Marissa’s veins, as if a bolt of lightning had come down from the sky and struck her body. Her raven-black hair stood on end. Prickling sensations assaulted her shaking limbs as fire surged from her head to her toes.

“No! I will not accept it!” She wanted no part of Jemma Swann’s strange powers.

Eerie laughter echoed from the dark corners of the room. Marissa swiveled her head around, shocked to see Grandma Swann lurking in the shadows. She looked young again, beautiful again. Long, dark hair swirled around her ageless face. A chill wind blew across Marissa’s skin.

“Use the gift wisely, Marissa. Use it well.”

The apparition vanished.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you've enjoyed this opening excerpt from "The Gift". 

Please visit the other "Tuesday Tales" contributors and read their stories.

Click HERE to return.

Grandma's Garden

Welcome to this week's story for "Tuesday's Tales." Today's prompt was to use DADDOFILS -- or any other flower -- for our story or excerpt. I thought this would be a good opportunity to share a short story I wrote a few years ago. I hope you enjoy it.

To return to Tuesday's Tales, please CLICK HERE.

As I strolled through Grandma's garden, stopping to touch a tender bloom or to pluck away the weeds, memories warmed my heart.

Zinnias meant friendship, sunflowers were wishes, and the gray-green moss symbolized charity. Growing up, I spent summers with Grandma, and she made a game of teaching me about the flowers.

"They speak a language all their own, you know."

I looked up to see Grandma standing at the edge of the garden. "I thought you were napping."

She shook her head, and leaned heavily on her cane. "Can't sleep too well these days. Every time I close my eyes, I see this." She gestured with the cane toward the overgrown garden. "I can't keep up with it any more, Allison. I'm afraid it's as bedraggled as I am.”

Grandma was nearing seventy. She was still a beautiful woman in my eyes, yet I could see the changes age had wrought over the four years since I'd last visited. And I saw the sadness as she gazed on her beloved garden. For as long as anyone in Benton Springs could remember, Muriel Porter's dazzling roses and climbing clematis, her carefully-tended junipers and creeping myrtle had won the town's annual blue-ribbon award.

"The garden club will be here Sunday afternoon,” she told me. "Won't be much for them to look at this year." Slowly she turned and walked up the cobblestone path to the house. Sprigs of mint and lavender rippled in the breeze, their fragrance sweet in the evening air.

As Grandma climbed the porch steps, I made up my mind. I had to call Josh and ask for his help. It would break Grandma's heart if she didn't win that ribbon, although seeing Josh again would probably break my heart. No matter. Grandma's garden came first.

As I child, I loved visiting Grandma, and l always looked forward to seeing Josh Barron. We went swimming together in the old creek and played games of tag in the fields. Late at night, when the scent of tea roses and heliotropes hung heavy in the air, we’d sit on the porch and watch the stars.

But when we grew older, Josh wanted things I wasn’t willing to give. Even my friends called me old-fashioned, but it hurt worse when he said it.

“I don’t have time, Allison,” he said bluntly when I got up the nerve to call him. “Your grandma’s got to accept the fact she’s too old to take care of that garden. She needs to let it go.”

I wasn’t ready to let it go. The next morning I walked through the garden again, noting the work ahead of me. Weeds. Overgrown shrubbery. Rotting timbers. I barely knew where to begin. With no time to waste, I set to work.

“Still stubborn as ever, I see.”

I looked up from a petunia I was replanting. “Josh? What are you doing here?”

He pulled a hammer from the toolbelt at his waist. “I’ll nail those timbers up before they fall.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t.” His dark eyes studied me. “I know how you are once you make up your mind about something.” He looked away. "It's not a problem. I'm working for Dad's construction company. He's got a full crew right now, so I can take a little time off."

"I can't afford to pay you."

"Don't worry about it."

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, I nodded, and we settled down to work. Now and then we exchanged a few words or a glance or two. Mostly we remained silent. I wondered if Josh felt as awkward as I did.

Memories of the times we'd spent together in the past sprouted inside my head. I tried to yank them out as fiercely as I tugged at the weeds in the garden but with little success. My feelings for Josh were rooted much too deeply.

A few hours later, Grandma brought out a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies.

“Just like old times.” She smiled at both of us.

* * *

The next few days flew by. Little by little, my defenses came down, and I began to feel comfortable with Josh again. Maybe too comfortable. I looked forward to seeing him each day and enjoyed being near him as we worked and chatted casually.

On Friday evening, a lot of heavy work still remained, but Josh assured me he would finish it the next morning. When he suggested we head down to the creek for a picnic, I didn’t hesitate.

I found Grandma's wicker picnic basket, grabbed an old quilt, and together Josh and I hurried off to the corner store to pick up our usual picnic fare: sandwiches, soft drinks, and potato chips.

We spread the blanket out beside the little creek and unpacked the basket. We laughed and talked as we enjoyed the food.

But then, I realized what a huge mistake I'd made. I should never have accepted Josh's invitation. I should have known where it would lead.

Our laughter faded to quiet conversation, and the quiet conversation soon became sweet whispers. Whispers turned to tender kisses, and Josh's arms drew me close in a passionate embrace.

It felt good. So good, I could barely resist.

But somehow I found the strength I needed. I shook my head and pulled away.

"The rules haven't changed," I told him. "I can't give you what you want."

"Oh, come on, Allison! Everything's changed. We’re not kids anymore.”

“Nothing‘s different.” I hastily began putting things away. “I’m still an old-fashioned girl with old-fashioned values. I won’t compromise who I am for you, Josh.” I picked up the basket and turned toward town.

“If you walk away, Allison, don’t expect to see me again.”

I didn’t even bother looking back.

* * *

I woke up early the next morning, stirred a lump of sugar into my tea, and considered the consequences of my actions the previous evening. The garden club would be coming on Sunday. Rejecting Josh meant that Grandma's garden wouldn't be finished on time. Even if I worked all day, I couldn't complete the task alone.

Grandma would be disappointed, but I'd done the right thing, and had she known what had taken place down at the creek, she would have been proud of me for holding fast to my old-fashioned ways. That thought gave me a little solace, at least.

I finished my tea, and with a sigh, I stepped outside. I wasn't quite ready to give up yet. I'd do all I possibly could before I admitted defeat.

I heard a rustling in the garden. My eyes grew wide.

"Josh!"

He looked up from a patch of crepe myrtle.

"Morning, Allison."

"I don't need your help," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I don't need you in my life, Josh."

"I know. But I need you."

"What?"

"I need you, Allison. Today. Tomorrow. Forever." He plucked a few of the spreading vines and held them out to me. Their periwinkle blue flowers glistened with early morning dew. Josh smiled at me. “I've never told you this, but when we were kids, I used to come over here, even after you’d gone home at the end of summer. Being here made me feel good.”

“Grandma’s garden is a special place,” I acknowledged.

“She’d come out and sit with me, and tell me about her flowers. Did you know they have a language all their own?”

I stared down at the vines in my hands.

Myrtle. The symbol of marriage.

“You know, Allison, the truth is I've always respected you for being so strong, for being who you are. I love you and your old-fashioned values," he said. Still on his knees, he reached for my hand. "Will you marry me?”

* * *

If Grandma’s garden had won another blue ribbon, our story would have a perfect ending. But Grandma decided it was time to let it go. She called the garden club and told them not to bother visiting.

Yet her garden will always be a special place for Josh and me. We were married there a few weeks later. Afterward, Grandma served lemonade and cookies, and the flowers whispered their own sweet words of love.

- The End -

I hope you enjoyed this story. If you did, please leave a comment.

To return to Tuesday's Tales, please CLICK HERE.

In the Driver's Seat

Welcome to my blog and to my "Tuesday's Tales" contribution for the week. When I read the prompt -- car -- an idea immediately came into my head. So, instead of continuing with "Love Spells" this week, I jotted down this short little story. I hope you enjoy it.

Be sure to check out the rest of Tuesday's Tales! Just CLICK HERE.

In the Driver's Seat

Margaret Beaumont opened the door of the old Buick roadster and slid inside. She stared at the bewildering array of levers, knobs, and gauges spread out before her. For the first time in her life she was sitting in the driver’s seat. Her heart pounded. She struggled to catch her breath. She’d lived more than a half-century without learning to drive. A half century plus a decade! At age sixty, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“I don’t think I’m ready for this.” She reached for the door and she probably would have bolted had her instructor not placed a hand on her arm.

“Don’t worry, Maggie. We’re not going driving quite yet. I just want you to get familiar with the car and the controls.” He smiled, and when she nodded, he leaned toward the driver’s side. “Horn,”he said, placing a big, callused hand on the center of the wheel. “Wipers. Lights. Fuel gauge." His voice droned on as he pointed from one gadget to the next.

How would she remember it all? And what about those pedals on the floor? Was she supposed to know how to work them, too? Sweat beaded on her forehead. She pressed a hand to her brow, worried that she might faint at any moment.

Closing her eyes, she tried to remember all the things George used to do before they set off on a trip to town. Her late husband had been a cautious fellow, always concerned for their safety on the road.

“What about the tires?” Margaret opened her eyes and turned toward the man in the passenger seat. Charley Fisher was more than her driving instructor. He’d been George’s best friend for thirty years, and he’d now become her greatest comfort and her source of strength. With George gone, she’d come to depend on Charley. “George always checked the tires,” she told him. “He checked something under the hood, too.”

“Oil. Water." He flashed her another smile. “I’ve already checked things out. The car’s in great shape. It’s ready to roll.”

“You’re sure? I mean, well, it is an old car."

"A classic. 1952. It was a good year."

"Yes, I suppose so." Margaret blushed. She'd been born in 1952. Did that make her a classic, too? "But it's been sitting in the garage for nearly two years. Ever since ..." Ever since George passed away. Margaret sighed. She’d come to terms with losing her husband, had adapted to widowhood as well as any woman could --except for one thing.

She couldn’t drive. Which meant she couldn’t go across town to visit the grandchildren without a harrowing taxi ride or hours wasted waiting at one bus stop or another. She couldn’t go into town to even pick up bread or milk without imposing on a neighbor, or calling Charley and asking for his help. He never seemed to mind. In fact, he said he enjoyed the company. He’d lost his wife ten years before, and he probably did get a little lonely.

Still, that didn’t give Margaret the right to inconvenience him, nor did it mean she should take advantage of his kind-hearted nature. That’s why she had to learn to drive. Even at her age, she could become one of those “independent” women, couldn't she? The sort who didn’t need a man around to solve every problem, a woman who could make her own way in the world. Or if not in the wide, wide world, at least across town once in a while.

“Trust me, Mags, the car is fine. It’s all legal, too. Tags are current, and --"

“What about insurance? There’s no coverage. I stopped paying the premiums when George died.”

Charley leaned back in his seat. “Actually, I’ve been keeping the insurance payments up even though nobody’s been driving this old roadster. It hasn’t cost much.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Guess George never told you that he signed the title over to me when he got sick.”

“He did what?”

“Signed the car over to me. Asked me to look after it, take care of it, you know.”

Margaret smiled. She could easily imagine her husband doing such a thing. He loved the old roadster. He knew, too, that she had no use for the fancy automobile.

“Why haven't you taken it? I mean, it's yours. You shouldn’t leave it sitting in my garage. You could be driving it, getting some use out of it.”

“What about you?” he asked. “There are places you want to go, things you want to do. It's not too late, Maggie." He reached out and placed a hand over hers. "I’m not just talking about driving, you know.”

She stared down at their wrinkled hands, mesmerized by the way his long fingers stroked hers, moving slowly back and forth. His touch felt warm and reassuring...but strangely exciting at the same time.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What are you saying?”

“I’m talking about life. About two people who’ve found themselves alone now. Two people who’ve known each other for a long time. Two people who’ve come to care about each other.”

Margaret leaned back against the upholstered seat. George had taken very good care of this car. He'd loved it, cherished it. He’d taken very good care of her, too.

Now, the roadster belonged to Charley. He would cherish it as George had done. And what of her? Had Charley truly come to care for her? As much as she cared for him? She'd never dared admit her feelings until now -- not even to herself.

She closed her eyes. “Have you ever read about dreams, Charley?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Years ago, I bought a book about dream symbols. George thought it was all rather silly."

"Dreams do have meaning, I think."

"According to the book, if you dream about being in a car, it symbolizes going places in life, moving on, that sort of thing.”

“Might be some truth to that.”

“What’s really important, though, is who’s in the driver’s seat.”

“At the moment, that would be you.” His hand tightened over hers. “You’re in control, Maggie.”

She nodded. She was in the driver’s seat, and it was time now for her to move on. But not alone, not as some independent woman who had no need for others. She needed people, needed her children and grand-children, and most of all, she needed Charley in her life.

“I think I’m ready.” She drew in a deep breath. “It’s a little scary, Charley, but I want to learn to drive,” she said, opening her eyes and turning toward him. “I want to learn to live. Will you show me how?” As she spoke, each leaned toward the other. Their lips met in a tender, tentative kiss.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Maggie. We’ll take it slow,” he whispered.

She sighed. Being in the driver’s seat felt good. She could make choices, could determine the direction of her life. And Charley would always be at her side.

Margaret looked down at the seat. Even though the car was a classic, vintage 1952, George had been a stickler for safety. He'd installed all the necessary safety devices.

“Better fasten your seat belt,” she warned. A wicked grin spread across her face.

-- The End --

I hope you enjoyed this story. If you did, please leave a comment. And don't forget to check out the rest of the stories and excerpts in this week's "Tuesday's Tales". CLICK HERE to return.

Love Spells - Chapter 6

Welcome! For today's "Tuesday's Tale", I've posted another chapter of "Love Spells". If you're new to the story, you can find previous chapters here:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

TO RETURN TO TUESDAY'S TALES, CLICK HERE!

Chapter 6

“It wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked,” Ellie explained to Miranda the following morning. The two friends had taken their coffee out onto the balcony and were relaxing in deck chairs. “It scared the wits out of me, I’ll admit, but --“

“But how could you have been so careless?” Miranda huffed out a breath. “What were you doing lighting candles so close to the curtains?”

Earlier, before Miranda arrived for their usual Sunday brunch, Ellie had dismantled her altar and put away all evidence of her spell-casting. Miranda would never approve. Rather than face another lecture about David Cameron’s unworthiness, Ellie preferred to keep her desires for love -- and her rituals -- to herself.

Stefan Blackwell shared her secret, but no one else.

Ellie smiled, liking the thought of sharing something so deeply personal with the man from the magic shop. Stefan intrigued her.

“What’s wrong with lighting a candle now and then?” Ellie closed her eyes. “It brings me a feeling of peace.”

“Like meditation, you mean?” Miranda sighed. “I swear, I don’t know where you’ve picked up all these crazy ideas. Next, you’ll be doing yoga and chanting like a Buddhist monk.” She made a point to give Ellie an exaggerated eyeroll.

“And what if I do?” For some odd reason, Miranda’s negative attitudes rubbed Ellie the wrong way. Usually she listened to Miranda; most of the time, she even allowed herself to be influenced by her worldly friend’s opinions. But not this time. “I’m expanding my consciousness,” she said, parroting words Stefan had used the previous day. She wasn’t sure what the words meant, but saying them gave her a feeling of power.

Miranda stretched out her long legs, then swung them over the side of her deck chair. Slowly, she rose. She peered down her nose at Ellie. “This doesn’t have anything to do with David, does it?”

“No, of course not. David’s gone, and I’m moving on.” Ellie suspected the lie was written all over her face, but she staunchly folded her arms across her chest and dared Miranda to challenge her.

“Good.” Although Miranda did not look convinced, she offered no further argument. “Now, the important thing,” she went on, “is to get out, meet people, and start socializing again. Once you find someone new --“

Ellie cut her off with an agitated wave of her hand. “No. Don’t even think of fixing me up. No blind dates, no ladies’ night out. I’m not ready. I need a little time.”

“It’s been weeks, already. The sooner, the better.”

Ellie shook her head. “Don’t rush me. It’s like I told you yesterday, Miranda. I want to get to know myself, to learn more about who I am, to figure out what I really want and need.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Wanting to cut the conversation short before it veered in unwanted directions, Ellie swung her legs over the chair and straightened. “Did you want more coffee? Another pastry?” She gestured toward the open doorway that led back into her apartment.

“No, nothing more for me.” Miranda glanced at her watch. “I suppose I should get home and leave you to your self-discovery. Call me when you find yourself, all right?”

For a moment, Ellie remained silent, a dozen different thoughts flitting through her head. Was Miranda joking? Teasing? Taunting? Or was she being serious...in her own way? Ellie couldn’t be sure, and she didn’t know how to respond.

“Well, I --“ she began, but a heavy knock sounded at the front door, so loud and insistent that Ellie and Miranda both heard it clearly from the balcony outside.

“Expecting someone?” Miranda asked.

Ellie’s heart pounded. “No, no one.” She thought at once of her ritual. If she opened the door, would David be standing on the other side? With Miranda following on her heels, she hurried to answer.

“Hi, Ellie. I thought I’d stop by to check on you. Everything all right this morning?” Stefan Blackwell leaned against the doorframe. Dressed in faded denims and a loose T-shirt, he still exuded confidence and masculine energy.

She felt a tug at her arm. Suddenly Miranda was dragging her toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right back, Stefan,” she called. Once out of the man’s sight, she jerked her arm away from her friend’s grasp. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You have been keeping something from me! Who is he? Where did you meet him? Tell me everything!”

“Not now. And it’s not what you think. I’ll explain later, all right?” Ellie left Miranda in the middle of the kitchen and returned to the doorway. “Sorry about that, Stefan. Would you like to come in?”

“No, that’s all right. You’re busy.”

“Not really. You’re more than welcome to come in. I’ve got coffee. And pastries.”

“I don’t do coffee, and sweets aren’t exactly my thing, either.” He grinned. “But thanks, anyway.” He reached into a back pocket. “I brought you something, Ellie. This might be a good way for you to begin your spiritual journey.” He handed her a small box. “Tarot cards,” he said.

Ellie stared at the colorful box. She’d seen different decks of cards at Stefan’s shop. The pictures had caught her interest. He must have noticed.

“What do I do with them?”

“There are instructions with the deck, if you want to read them. But mostly, for now, just look at them. Lay them out. Touch them. Think about what you see. Think about what you feel.”

Ellie nodded. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if Miranda were listening. When she turned back, Stefan had disappeared from view. She heard his footsteps retreating down the wooden stairway of the apartment building.

With a sigh, she closed the door.

Miranda practically ran from the kitchen. “All right, tell me! Everything. He’s gorgeous!”

“It’s not what you think,” Ellie said again. “He’s --“

My friend.

My teacher.

My rescuer.

“He’s...what?” Miranda prompted.

Ellie grinned. “Sort of like my guru, I guess. He knows a lot of things. Eastern philosophies. New Age ideas. Spiritual practices.”

“Oh, I see. So, that’s why you’ve suddenly developed such a keen interest in meditation.” She raked Ellie with a knowing gaze.

“He gave me these.” Ellie held out the deck of cards. “Do you have any idea how to use them?”

Miranda drew back. Her face paled. “Ellie, those are dangerous!”

“Dangerous? They’re nothing but colorful pasteboard.”

“They’re the devil’s picturebook. That’s what they’re called.” She reached out and took hold of Ellie’s shoulders. “That man may be handsome, but don’t trust him. He could very well be the devil himself.” She shuddered. “As for those cards, I’d suggest you burn them.”

Visions of Stefan surrounded by flames crept from Ellie’s memory.

Her knees went weak as she recalled the raging fire, the billowing smoke. Stefan had stepped into the inferno, yet he’d not been burned. Once he’d put out the flames, there’d been virtually no damage...just a bit of soot, a few ashes, and the charred remains of her love spell for David.

What mysterious powers did Stefan Blackwell possess?

Perhaps she should be frightened, but Ellie wanted only to learn more.

“I’d like to be alone now,” she said, and even as she spoke the words, she heard something new and different in her voice. She walked toward the door, opened it, and turned to Miranda. “I’ll call you later.”

“All right. But be careful, Ellie. Burn those cards! And don’t let that devil get too close.”

She closed the door behind Miranda and clasped the cards to her chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beating of her heart.

Whoever Stefan Blackwell was -- friend, teacher, rescuer, or devil -- he had a powerful effect upon her.

He’s shared his power with me.

Ellie glanced down at the deck of cards she held. Holding her breath, she tore the wrapping from the box and opened it. She closed her eyes and pulled a single card from the deck.

Listen to your intuition. Trust what the inner voice tells you.

With trembling hands, she turned the card over.

The devil stared back.

- TO BE CONTINUED -

Love Spells - Chapter 5

Here's the next chapter of Love Spells.

To read previous chapters, click on the links below:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

To return to TUESDAY'S TALES, click HERE.

"Ellie! Ellie!"

She heard someone calling her name but couldn't identify the voice. Was it even real? She couldn't be sure. It was only when someone grabbed her arms and dragged her away from the heat and smoke that she knew she was not dreaming. She tried to look at her rescuer, but the thick, acrid smoke burned and stung her eyes.

“Climb down,” the man instructed, pushing her toward the railing of the balcony. “It’s only a short drop. You won’t hurt yourself.” He left her standing there alone.

She forced her eyes open and looked toward the doorway, ringed in flame. The man who’d saved her now slithered through the entrance, crawling below the billowing smoke. Ellie coughed. Her nose itched and her lungs burned.

Her face burned, too -- from sheer embarrassment. How could she have been so foolish? So careless? As so often happened, her thoughts of David had taken possession and she’d lost all good sense.

She still stood near the railing, staring at the doorway. She saw a pair of blanket-covered hands reach out and press against the doorframe, quickly smothering the flames. Moments later, the fire was extinguished and Stefan Blackwell stepped through the sooty, blackened opening.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I told you to climb down. Are you all right?”

“Yes, but why are you here?”

“Fate, I suppose.” He grinned. “A psychic connection, maybe? I must have known you were in trouble.”

Ellie gasped. “But -- how?”

Stefan laughed. “Actually, I was returning your handbag. You left it at the shop earlier.” He came to the railing and pointed to the grass below. “I dropped it there when I saw the fire and realized what was happening.”

This man must think her a complete idiot! Losing her handbag, setting her apartment on fire...and performing nightly rituals to win back an unfaithful lover. What foolishness!

Staring down at the wooden slats of the deck, she stammered her thanks.

Stefan shrugged off her words. “Glad I was able to help. Like I said, it must have been fate that brought me here at just the right time.” He took a step toward her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Shaken up, but otherwise fine, I think.” Ellie looked at his smoke-smudged cheeks. “What about you?” Funny, but she’d never noticed before how attractive Stefan was. Seeing him now in the pale moonlight, she trembled slightly. He seemed to almost glow.

“I’ll survive. I always do.” He touched a hand to his forehead in a salute, then swung his long legs over the railing. He dropped to the ground, picked up Ellie’s bag, and tossed it up. “Got it?”

“Yes, thank you. For everything.”

She stood watching as Stefan disappeared into the darkness of the night.

With a sigh, Ellie stepped inside. Although the fire had frightened her out of her wits, it had actually done little damage -- thanks to Stefan Blackwell’s fortuitous arrival on the scene. She winced when she glanced at her makeshift altar, the silk scarf now covered with globs of melted pink wax. Bending down, she touched the paper where she’d written David’s name along with her own. The charred page crinkled and fell to pieces in her hand.

How fitting. Just like our relationship.

Ellie squeezed her eyes shut. Earlier, when she’d been at Stefan’s shop, he’d spoken to her of signs and symbols. She could learn much by simply observing, he’d said. At once, she recognized the truth behind his words -- and behind the calamitous events of the night.

Maybe her love for David was too hot for her to handle.

Maybe winning him back could be a dangerous thing.

And maybe Stefan Blackwell had come into her life for a reason.