Tales of The Painted Lady #5: From Downstairs

Micro-story #5

From Downstairs

She was burning up one minute, freezing the next. Perpetually her skin was slick with a cold sweat. She was comfortable on her right side for a while and then her lower back would cringe and tighten up and she’d have to roll over to look up at the ceiling to gain any sort of comfort. It was only a few breaths before the muscles in her neck, shoulders, all the way down to the backs of her calves, would twinge and she’d turn onto her left. An ongoing cycle. She couldn’t taste anything, smell anything, and whatever she coughed up had the consistency (and texture) of tapioca.

Awesome.

Fortunately her husband, thus far, had managed to avoid catching any of it. And it wasn’t for a lack of exposure. He’d made more rounds to their bedroom than a nurse in a maternity ward, bringing with him all kinds of fever reducers, expectorants, food and juice that felt like swallowing glass when she ingested it. All the while, not one sniffle out of him.

Just as well, thought Stephanie. Had her husband come down with whatever flu this was, she wasn’t able to reciprocate the care he’d shown her. Not now anyway, and probably not for a while. She hardly had the strength to blow her nose when she needed to, or carry herself to the bathroom to pee. The latter she kept to herself. Her husband had been right there with a box of tissues every time but she didn’t need him traipsing off with her to the pot.

Poor Miles, she thought. He would do it if she asked. Poor, sweet Miles. He hadn’t wanted to leave her for his art panel in Scranton but she felt terrible that he’d already missed a prior engagement on her account. She wasn’t going to let him put everything on hold for her. They’d been together too long for that. It was cute when he did this kind of thing during the short time they dated thirteen years ago, but now that they’d been married the last twelve it still kind of shocked Stephanie that he hadn’t changed much in his devotion to stick by her side.

She smiled at the thought that he would stay with her on a sinking ship if the last lifeboat had only one seat. Even if her own death was imminent, he would not leave her side to save his own life. Kind of reminded her how a frog would stay put, remain sitting in a pot of cool water on a stove that was set to boil.

This was also a reminder that she needed to stop watching The Hallmark Channel while she was sick.

She supposed though, as she lay in their bed trying to find the best position to appease her aches, Miles had proved long ago he wasn’t going anywhere despite whatever situations arose, and that it was silly to even question him at this point. He remained with her, loving as ever, after they found out there would be no children.

That’s not to say he had been all smiles.

But that was nothing to think about now. It was long behind them.

And Stephanie was in no condition to go back, tearing off that old scab.

She’d found a good spot on her right side, and was about to doze off, when there came the incredible explosion of glass breaking. She nearly sat herself upright despite the pain in her back. The noise had come from somewhere downstairs.

“Miles?” Her voice was raw, hoarse.

He didn’t answer. Her husband was long gone by the time she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

Tales of The Painted Lady #4: At All Costs

Micro-story #4

At All Costs

With little effort, he strong-armed the cap off the neck of his beer before realizing it wasn’t a twist top. Bryan stared at the impression of the ridges of the cap embedded in his palm and realized he was more nervous than he thought. Standing alone in the kitchen, gripping now at the base of the sweaty bottle—hoping he himself wasn’t perspiring nearly as much—he drowned what he could of his apprehensions in a long pull and then poured a glass of Riesling from the bottle on counter next to him. He took a moment to gather himself—adjusting his tie and his sunglasses, going over his strategy one last time, and tilted his head both ways left and right, far enough to crack his neck—before taking both drinks out to the porch that looked over his wooded yard.

In one of the two Adirondack chairs facing the tree line was a woman whose years were at least a decade shy of him. This was a little off-putting because while Megyn was young, she held a great responsibility as the intern to the curator of the Garland Gallery. And Bryan wasn’t going to make any deals unless he went through this pup first.

“Thank you,” said Megyn, accepting her glass.

“No problem,” said Bryan, taking his seat next to her. They didn’t sit basking in the quiet serenity of their surroundings for long.

Megyn took a modest sip. “So what’s all this been buttering me up for?”

Bryan drank again, taking more than a modest sip, giving himself time to contemplate an answer. “What’s that?”

She shot him a glare that said he was kidding no one. “At first I wondered if this lunch date was a way of you offering to represent me. You’ve seen my work at the gallery. When Liza lets me put it up that is.”

He cracked a smirk. It was no secret between them that Liza Machiavelli, curator of the Garland Gallery in downtown Serling Oaks, had an extremely tough outer shell to crack when it came to getting stuff hung on her walls. The pickiest of the picky. And she could afford to be so. But usually once you wormed your way inside you found how soft (and accepting) she really was. It just took a lot of boring to get there. Bryan could only recall a few times he ever saw Megyn’s work displayed (and she’d been working under Liza for three years), and those days were usually stuck in the middle of the week when attendance, and eyes on the walls, was low.

“Then,” Megyn continued, “when you brought out the salted lamb that your wife prepared instead of you cooking burgers on the grill, and decided to wear a suit to your own house, I realized you didn’t want something for me. You wanted something from me.”

Bryan sighed. “You’re right, Meg. I should have treated you as smart as you are.”

She grinned. “You’ve already greased the entryway, Bry. Now, what do you want?”

There was no other way to go about it. She had him. Bryan dropped his act, removing his shades.

“You’ve heard of Miles Greene?”

She blinked her eyes a couple of times in recognition. “He’s local, right? Is that the artist whose wife was murdered back in…?” It could clearly be seen dawning on her then. “That was your sister, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. She gave her condolences.

“Miles is an amazing artist,” he said. “But the thing is he hasn’t had a show in forever.”

“You want him at the Garland.”

Bryan quickly picked up that she wasn’t asking. “I do.”

Megyn took a moment considering this. The wine in the glass in her hand swirled around the inside with turns of her slender wrist. “Didn’t he paint movie posters?”

“For some of the highest grossing films stateside as well as global,” added Bryan, slipping back into sale mode.

“He’s too commercial,” said Megyn, putting her glass down on the wide arm of the Adirondack. “Liza won’t go for it. You know her, she likes people to think her featured artists were discovered and grown by her. Miles is too well known.”

“The gallery has a vacancy in July,” said Bryan. “You said the featured artist had to bow out the other day when we spoke. Would Liza risk having no one during the First Friday Art Walk and be closed when all of the other galleries will be open, with fresh work by artists on their walls? She could have one of the biggest names to come out of our little area of nowhere. That’s a guaranteed full house.”

Again Megyn went quiet.

“Plus, it would mean a lot to me,” said Bryan. “Miles…he’s had it rough. And he would kill me if he knew I was here begging for him. But he needs this. He needs this, Meg.”

She sighed, fully aware her good nature was being taken advantage of.

“I need to know it’ll all be new stuff,” she said. “He can’t hang posters in the Garland Gallery. Liza will have my head, and my internship.”

Bryan made that promise. The show was only a few weeks away and he didn’t know if he could keep that promise, but he made it. He had to. “Does he have the spot then?”

Megyn eyed her glass of Riesling. “You’re a good agent, Bryan. Miles is lucky to have you as his. Which is why, if you want me to fight for him with Liza, I want you to represent me.”

In her piercing eyes and her unwavering tone he could tell there was no budging on this.

He had used her good nature and now it was he being held over the barrel. Bryan admired her tenacity, how she played the game.

She extended her hand. He shook it.

Interview and Excerpt and Possibly More? Oh My...

I am absolutely thrilled to share the news of what will be happening over the next two weeks leading into The Painted Lady's release on August 5th - these are things that will be in addition to the final two Tales of The Painted Lady micro-stories that will be dropping, respectively, Friday, July 24, and Friday, July 31.

First, this week I'll be featured in an interview with author Kathryn Mattingly (Benjamin, Fractured Hearts, and the upcoming Journey), where we go over some writerly topics such as where my story ideas come from and what tales I have lined up for the future. I'll post a link later in the week when the interview goes up.

Second, on Wednesday, July 29, (one week before Lady's release) horror author Armand Rosamilia (the Dying Days series) will be hosting an exclusive excerpt from The Painted Lady, which will appear on his blog. This will be your first look into the novel. Can't wait to share that with all of you - I'll be sure to post that link also. 

So to recap:

- This week: interview with author Kathryn Mattingly.

- Friday, July 24: Micro-story #4

- Wednesday, July 29: excerpt of The Painted Lady, hosted by author Armand Rosamilia.

- Friday, July 31: Final micro-story.

- Wednesday, August 5: The Painted Lady release day!

In the works are some other possible news items that I hope to share soon.

Tales of The Painted Lady #3: Anniversary

Micro-story #3

Anniversary

The first temperamental thaw to cut a swath across upstate New York came early, revealing the grass had grown mangy and long at Hillside Cemetery. Except at the grave where Miles Greene stood. The swollen mound of dirt that was fresh in October of the previous year had settled. Wiry patches of grass had sprung through the soil at his feet while all around him sporadic piles of snow still blanketed the earth. The morning had dawned gray in the valley, but now peeks of sun were burning through the cloudy canopy.

The stringy, naked limbs of the weeping willow beside Miles hung still. There were no bugs, no other nuisances like cars driving by on the cemetery roads snaking through the hill, and only the distant sound of a maintenance worker running a pressure washer could be heard among the solemn air hanging about the headstones. He had complete privacy and yet didn’t know what to say. It often felt absurd, and a bit cliché, to speak aloud at the grave. Yet it also never felt like he was talking to his wife at all if the words weren’t coming out of his mouth.

With the day being one of significance, Miles decided first to set down the pot of blooming white gerbera daisies he had brought, sweeping aside crusty snow and browned, dead leaves from the base of the marble stone. The flowers would likely be dead by this time tomorrow, but, he supposed, tomorrow didn’t matter, in more ways than one.

“I know it’s been awhile.” He swallowed, and shrugged. “I have no excuse.”

The distant pressure washer cut out. Miles looked around to make sure he was still alone.

“Thought I saw you the other day. In the apartment. Even said something to you before I realized….”

He scratched at the length of growing beard irritating his neck. It would be nice, he thought, when the new facial hair got past the itching stage. On the plus it had been keeping his face warm against the winter chill.

“I’m…” He had a difficult time getting it out. Miles took a deep breath, cleared his stuffy nose, and resigned to the uncomfortable truth. “I’m gonna go see a therapist. Your brother’s idea actually. I guess to him it’s a weird thing that I keep seeing you everywhere. Maybe I just shouldn’t share everything with him. Anyway…my first appointment’s on Thursday."

His eyes wandered away.

“Not really anything else going on. Just…kind of…here.”

The pressure washer started up again.

“You got a subscription renewal notice in the mail for Cosmo. Kind of strange that you still get mail when I go back to the house to grab the bills. I cancelled it, by the way. Your Cosmo.”

Miles sighed, a long trail of steam exited his mouth. His minute attempt at levity did nothing to ease the heavy lump in his throat, in his chest, anchoring his sorrow.

“Can’t believe it’s been thirteen years since that day in the café. Right about this time I was sitting in the lounge, looking out the front glass, waiting for you.” He shrugged, shoving his freezing hands deep into his coat pockets. “And now...here we are.”

There was not much else to say. He had satisfied the urge, and obligation, to be there. Miles knelt down and, as he always did when he visited, placed his hand on the top of the stone, just above where Stephanie’s name had been etched.

“I’ll try not to stay away too long this time,” he said. “Happy anniversary.”

With that his steps crunched off the frozen ground as he turned and walked away, forcing himself not to look back at the settled mound of dirt, at the the small pot of white daisies giving company to the lonely grave, through the lifeless arms of the willow tree.

THE PAINTED LADY arrives AUGUST 5th!

Big news today, my dear readers and friends: my second novel, The Painted Lady, will be available Wednesday, August 5th!

Even the strangest things happen for a reason.

Miles Greene once spent his days creating beautiful works of cinematic art, all the while treasuring the deepening love for his wife, Stephanie. Currently his days are filled with the mundane as Miles, a recent widower, hides away in his ground-floor apartment, leaving his once-successful art career - and his drive to carry on - to complete indifference. With the sudden appearance of a mysterious woman in his building, Miles quickly realizes he is no longer in control of his destiny as forces beyond his control begin to influence his future. The path that unfolds in front of Miles may offer redemption at its end, but it promises a confrontation with the past, as well as coming to terms with the demon hiding within Miles and the burden of guilt he has carried all these years.

I've just had the wonderful fortune of seeing the digital galley and it is beautiful. I'm so excited to see - and HOLD - the book in its final form. 

I'm currently investigating options for an online release party. Details to come, but for now...mark those calendars!!

The Painted Lady will be available for  purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and where all books are sold.

Tales of The Painted Lady #2: For Rent

Micro-story #2

For Rent

When the touch screen of her cell phone lit up from an incoming call at eight-fifteen Wednesday evening, Evelyn’s leathery brow knitted. She didn’t recognize the number, though the area code said it was local, which meant only one thing: someone was calling about a vacancy in one of her rentals.

She took a long drag off the half-spent cigarette piped between her lips and considered whether or not to answer. It was late in the evening, for her anyway (especially when her internal clock still roused her at four every morning despite her being long retired), and she was comfortable lounging out on her back deck, taking in the scent of menthol mixed with the enticing smell of burning cherry wood wafting her way from down the block. The late November air was chilly but tolerable.

Though she was really in no mood to talk business, Evelyn had been faced with an exodus of many of her tenants as of late. Revenue was down. Young people either moving back home because they claimed they could no longer afford the rent (which she believed was quite fair in terms of being competitive with what else was out there), or they were shacking up with significant others to save on expenses. They claimed they were in love. Evelyn grimaced. In love or not it was costing her dollars and making more work for her to fill the empty spaces. She picked up the ringing phone; she couldn’t afford to miss this call.

“Hello?” Her throat was perpetually raw, her voice a constant rasp. Probably a result of too many smokes. But then she’d never had any other complication as a result of a habit that’s been keeping Big Tobacco in the black since she was sixteen. She just cleared her throat and said again, “Hello?”

“Yes, hi, I’m calling about a listing you have for a first floor duplex on Paden Road.”

Ah, yes, Evelyn thought, the end of the cigarette glowing bright from her deep inhale. Her lips pursed tight around the ashy tasting cylinder. Paden. That duplex was one of the few properties she had in her arsenal that featured a low turnover. The location was in the middle of a quiet suburb stretch of mostly retired folk like herself. The upstairs unit was occupied by an elderly man named Lou who had been there almost a year. Poor man had been stricken with Alzheimer’s, one of Evelyn’s biggest concerns as she approached her eighth decade on Earth. A concern far greater than whatever mounds of tar were covering her lungs. The downstairs of the Paden duplex had only recently become open after a four-year occupation by a student taking early-education courses at the university.

“Have you spoken with Jimmy already?” she asked the caller.

“I did try the other number in the listing but no one picked up.”

Evelyn sighed. Typical that her grandson, who was her handyman and filter for most of her prospective tenants, couldn’t be bothered to answer. Likely too busy lighting up himself. Except he didn’t dabble in the legal stuff.

“Well,” she said, “if you’d like to see the apartment, I can arrange sometime tomorrow in the late aftern—”

“I don’t need to see it,” said the man. “If it’s available, I’ll take it.”

Evelyn snuffed out the last quarter of her smoke, sitting straight up in her wicker porch chair. “You don’t even want to see the place?”

“No need,” said the caller. “Just let me know what you want in terms of first month and a safety deposit, and whatever else you need. I’ll bring you a check tomorrow.”

Evelyn didn’t know what to say. This was most peculiar. Never before had she heard of someone taking an apartment sight unseen. She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling skeptic and a little irritated. She wanted to huff on another cigarette immediately. “Is this a joke? Did my grandson put you up to this?”

The man on the other end of the line assured her this was no joke.

She didn’t know why, but Evelyn believed him. Something in the sincerity of his voice.

“Well,” she said, “rent is eight hundred, deposit is the same, and I require first and last months.”

“I’ll make you out a check,” said the man.

Evelyn almost laughed, not because she found the situation funny, but strangely absurd. “Who is this, by the way?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the man. “My name is Miles.”

“Miles,” she repeated.

After the call ended, Evelyn sat back in her chair and lit a new smoke. For the longest time she remained under the starry ceiling of the clear night, a trail of smoke rising over her, wondering what would cause a man, relatively young by the sound of his voice (and young compared to her) to settle so quickly on a home, one that would initially set him back twenty-four hundred dollars, that he’d never seen before.

What was he running away from?

Tales of The Painted Lady #1: Moving Dad

Micro-story # 1

Moving Dad

The last box of her dad’s things came out the front door, carried in the arms of the tenant who lived on the first floor of the duplex. Claire could have carried it herself—it wasn’t heavy, just the odds and ends: a few paperback books with the spines completely intact, the roll of packing tape used to seal the other boxes, some dishtowels, packages of loose batteries, a pair of scissors, a fork discovered in the back of a drawer—but the man insisted on helping when she first started carting boxes out the front door, said with a smile that he had nothing better to do.

“Thank you so much.” Claire accepted the last bit of her father’s things and slid it atop the other boxes stacked in the back of her van. She wore a weary smile while sweeping the strings of her blond bangs away from her forehead.

The man waved this off and shrugged, letting her know it was no big deal. “Your dad gonna be OK?” With his bearded chin he made a passive gesture at the front passenger seat where the elderly man named Lou sat, staring blankly out the front glass.

Claire sighed. “Yeah. This will be better for him, anyway. And me. Just got to be too much to keep coming here and taking care of things every day. I have a husband who’s needy enough and doesn’t have Alzheimer’s.”

The man shared in her laugh. It felt good to laugh, even if it came more out of exhaustion and relief than it did pure joy.

“Well,” said the man, “I’ll sure miss seeing him up on his porch and waving to him every day. Seemed whenever I came out to go for walks your dad was looking out, just keeping watch over the street I guess.”

“Did he ever wave back or say anything to you?”

The man didn’t need more than a moment to think. “Umm…no. I can’t say for sure he ever did.”

Claire accepted this truth with a heavy heart, but flashed another tired smile to reciprocate. This wasn’t surprising news but it was still difficult to hear. Many months after the diagnosis had time to sink in, she accepted her father was no longer the outgoing, independent, and aware person he once was. Right before her eyes, like some evil magic trick, he had withered away, his liveliness receding into an invisible shell. It was rare anymore to catch little bursts of his character come out of dwelling so deep within a blank slate. For Claire the struggle now was imagining her father spending the days she couldn’t be at the apartment every waking hour as a complete vegetable. Or doing something dangerous.

That’s why he was coming to live with her and Eric. Besides it being easier to tend to her father’s needs in her own home instead of driving to the apartment every day, he just couldn’t be left alone anymore. No telling what would happen. In a best case situation he would just sit all day, but that left messes of its own kind for her to later clean up. Her worst fear was what if he got a bit of inspiration and tried to use the stove? Or worse yet, what if he went for a walk and forgot where he was? This was all dependent on him climbing out of his chair, of course, but these weren’t impossible scenarios. At least Eric worked from home and could manage the small things during the day in between Skype sessions with the home office in Fort Worth.

She closed the rear door, resigned to her fate. “Thank you again for helping, Mr. Greene. And for trying to give my father some attention. Hopefully it won’t be long before someone comes and takes the second floor.”

I'm not worried about it. I'm sure someone will come along." He then extended his hand. "And please," he said, "call me Miles."