Welcome to
Bee Dazzle, a short story Tag! written by Saint and Me.
The truck stopped on the side of the road in front of the garden and I heard the driver’s side door slam shut.
S**t. Now what was I supposed to do? My well-thought-out plan, crafted in a split second of ingenuity, was now working against me. What possible excuse could I give for lying prostrate between the rows of corn and its companion plants of butternut squash? I frowned in concentration, waiting for the inspiration to hit me.
Nothing.
I sighed and pushed myself up off the ground, brushing loam from my bare knees and thighs and the front of my ragged cotton shirt. Who could this be? I lived in the boondocks and vehicular traffic was sporadic, at best. I rarely had visitors. Even the mailman didn’t venture this far up the road, but left my letters in a box at the bottom of the hill. I liked it that way. I learned a long time ago that I’m socially inept. When I open my mouth, the most foolish things come pouring out. Even knowing this—I can’t seem to help myself. I open my mouth anyway.
And… I suffer the humiliation afterwards. That’s one of the reasons why I live alone up here on my little farm.
I looked up as I heard the footsteps approach. It was a man. Figures. It would be bad enough to be caught half naked and bra-less by a strange woman. I mean, I don’t normally receive visitors with nothing but panties covering me from the hips on down. So naturally, the stranger would have to be a man. At least there was still a chance that he hadn’t seen me dive between the rows. My knees were a little grubby, sure. But perhaps he’d assume they got that way by kneeling in the garden to weed. In my underwear.
Uh-huh.
I crossed my arms over my breasts. Like that would help matters any. With my luck, rather than hiding them, I was probably making them lop-sided. I resisted the urge to look down to check out the status of my ‘mammarian equilibrium’. It begged the question: Which was preferable--uncovered or crooked? And really… why did I care? They’re just boobs, after all. Everyone has them, right?
A sudden flash of brilliance hit me and I stooped and snatched up the small basket I’d carried from the kitchen. I’d been on my way to pick some high-bush blueberries to throw into my muffin batter when I’d heard the vehicle approach and I’d flung the container away when I threw myself to the ground to avoid detection. The basket just might preserve my dignity.
I positioned it in front of my upper thighs, keeping the other arm braced in front of my chest and clasped my upper arm with my hand. A perfectly natural stance, right?
Right.
He was almost upon me and I tried to arrange my face into a nonchalant and welcoming smile. The morning sun was in my eyes and I squinted to get a look at him. Okay…maybe it was more like a welcoming smile accompanied by a fierce squint. I probably looked like a rabid dog. With the sun at his back, the stranger wasn’t much more than a moving silhouette. At this point all I could tell was that he was fairly tall but not overly so. As the silhouette neared, it stretched forth a hand. Like it wanted to shake mine.
Aw, hell. I don’t even like blueberries.
****************************
Post #2, by Saint
Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see this clown again.
“Hi. I’m Jessie... Jessie Bingham. Uh... but my friends all just call me ‘Bing’. I’m your new neighbor.”
OK... this is different.
Wondering to himself if this was “The Crazy Lady Down The Road” (every place has one, you know) Jessie Bingham tried his best not to look
there. Or
there. Or
there. She did seem awfully busy – for just standing there. Guys can tell a lot in a millisecond. Even a short millisecond. She was cute. Kinda grubby but cute. Nice squint – for those who favor such things. Probably clean up real nice.
Not knowing how long he should keep his hand extended before it would look like he was grabbing for something, Jessie was relieved when she dropped the basket to take his hand. His relief was short lived as the bright morning sunlight deepened what needed deepening and highlighted what needed highlighting. Holding them up for display like that didn’t help matters as the notion of that fine line between grin and out’n’out leer wafted through the back eddies of his mind.
Not knowing how long he could keep his hand extended before it would look like he was grabbing for something, Bee was relieved when Jessie stooped to snatch up the basket with a, “Here, let me get that,” before a gust of wind could take it. It bought her time. Time to formulate a plan. A solid plan.
OK. OK. Be cool. Just act casual – you’ll get through this. That’s the plan. Casual. Cool.
The plan really hadn’t allowed for the next gust. As gusts go... one might say this was
the gust as her shirt billowed up and what Bee held down... stayed down. From his vantage point Jessie could tell those babies had tops to ‘em. His mind torn between those and a beneficent little fruit basket... he opted for the fruit basket. This time.
Girls can tell a lot in a millisecond.
****************************
Post # 3, by Kaz
And I could tell this guy was trouble. Yeah, he averted his eyes when the wind lifted my shirt, but not before taking a picture. A telephoto shot, even. I could almost hear the click of the shutter and the advance of his mind’s-eye film as he looked away.
Damned wind.
Damned men.
“Nice to meet you, Bing,” I lied. Bing? If I had a name like Bing, I sure as hell wouldn’t advertise it. What was the matter with ‘Jessie’, for crying out loud?
“My new neighbor, huh? That must mean you bought Dingleberry Bog?”
There was only one property for sale up here: a 300 acre homestead which had been abandoned for years. “Dingleberry Bog”, named after the wild cranberries which grew on the shore of the 40 acre woodland pond at the property’s northern border, had once been a thriving homestead until the previous owners just up and left one cold winter’s night. It abutted my acreage, and I’d played with the idea of purchasing it, myself. Anything to keep new neighbors at bay. But with a daughter in her first year at the university, I couldn’t afford to throw money around. My second novel was due to be released soon, but there were no promises that it would have the success that “Beat, Flay, Shove” had enjoyed. I mean, readers had stood in line to purchase my dark thriller. Would they also have a hankering for a novel with no violence or murder or suspense? “Tattered Blankets and Dancing Pigweed” was a sappy story about raising a daughter as a single, working mother. It was full of love and humor and hard-learned lessons. I was almost ashamed of its sentimentality.
Which is why I wrote it under a pen name. Bee Beecham.
I took a couple of steps towards the house. My only thought? To get some clothes on. Actually, that’s not true. I had two thoughts. The other one included a scenario in which ‘Bing’ would just… LEAVE.
“Yep. That’s me. Bing of Dingleberry Bog.” The man smiled, and now that I wasn’t facing into the sun, I could see the dimple that appeared briefly in his left cheek. Big deal. I worked hard not to give a return grin. If I smiled, he might take that as friendliness, and I didn’t need some stranger popping over for a chat whenever he felt like it. I’d worked too hard to maintain my privacy.
“Well, what can I do for you, Bing?”
Short of giving you a nudge on your way…
How was I going to get into the house? If I walked in front of him, he’d have a full view of the cheeks of my rump underneath the tail of my shirt. I couldn’t very well hold the basket over my butt, could I?
No.
I sighed. It was full disclosure, one way or another.
“Look…obviously, you caught me by surprise. There’s rarely any traffic up here, and I just popped out for a second to pick some blueberries for the muffins I’m making. I really didn’t intend to put myself on display for passing traffic. If there’s nothing I can help you with, I’ll just go back inside, now…” There. How was that for a confession and a brush-off, all in one?
“Actually, there’s something important I’d like to discuss with you. I was going to ask after you down at the town office, but when I saw you out here….well, stopping here saved me a trip into Moxie Falls.”
The idiot. What kind of man sees a scantily dressed woman in her garden and purposely stops to chat? “How about this?” he continued. “I’ll take this and go pick some blueberries.” He waved the round basket in the direction of the bushes at the edge of the garden. “You can go inside and find some clothes, and by the time I come in with your berries, you should have those babies covered.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Excuse me???”
“Muffins. If you don’t keep them covered they won’t rise. Come out all flat,” he added with a wink. As hard as I tried to feel outrage or disgust, I simply couldn’t pull it off. A snort escaped me, and then I lost it. The embarrassment gave way to laughter, and I’ve gotta say—it felt good. Really good. I’d almost forgotten how good it felt to laugh. And anyway; they were just boobs, right? Everybody has them.
I turned and strode towards the porch in my bare feet. Let him look. Everybody has a butt, too.
“So… I’ll pick you some blueberries, right?” I could hear the chagrin in his voice, and the humor, too. I just waved my arm at him without turning around.
“Hey! What’s your name?” he called out again.
At this, I stopped, just shy of the steps. I rolled my eyes and sighed in irritation. I hate this part. Without looking back, I hollered.
“Serendipity.”
I heard him cough. Clear his throat. And then… silence. I stepped up onto the veranda, and as I did, I heard his rich baritone jumble up the famous words of Uncle Remus in “Song of the South”.
“Dippety-doo-dah, Dippety-ay. My, oh my, what a wonderful day…”
Yep. I could tell this guy was trouble.
****************************
Post #4 Saint
Watching the last bit of Serendipity disappear into the house, Bing turned and set his mind to the task ahead.
Hmmm... blueberries, huh? I can do blueberries he thought to himself, adding
No worries, mate in an Aussie accent.
“Dammit! Get back here! Brillo! You GET back here!”
Rather than listening, like most Labradoodles Brillo thought it more interesting to charge past Bee and out the front door – hell-bent on challenging this idiot who dared come into his yard. Bing spun on his heels, standing his ground…
“Aaat!!! This is a warning tone. Dogs understand warning tones,” Bing said in a very warning tone, pointing and adding, “You are a dog,” to which Brillo instantly melted to the ground with a whimper.
Kneeling down, Bing patted his knee while Brillo groveled his way up to him for pets.
I’m a good dog. I’m a good dog. Everybody says so. You can ask HER. Brillo probably didn’t realize HER was standing in the doorway clutching her heart in panic thinking about the ramifications of owning a killer beast – imagining herself pleading
no conteste to whatever they call it when your dog eats a new neighbor. Manslaughter? Negligent Homicide? Other expensive sounding words.
“Good boy, Brillo. Good boy.”
See? See? I'm a good dog. Even this guy thinks so. I’m a good dog.
With that, Brillo’s new best buddy turned with a “C’mon, Boy” and headed for the clump of blueberry bushes nestled at the far end of the Crazy Lady Down The Road’s garden – the big black dog prancing happily in circles around him the entire way but for a couple stops for pets and a “Yeah, I know, boy. She was yelling at you wasn’t she? Yeah, I know, boy. I know.”
Of course, Serendipity didn’t know whether to fume or feel relieved.
That sonofabitch took my dog. He didn’t take your dog. He took my f*****' dog -- that sonofabitch. Yeah, well you’re lucky he isn’t suing the pants off ya. What pants? You’re jealous of a dog, huh? Tell me you’re jealous of a dog. I am NOT jealous of a gawdammed dog! Yep you are. Am not. Are. Shouldn’t you be covering your muffins or something? Grrrrr...
Closing the door behind her, Bee Becham stood for a full minute watching through the kitchen window while the new guy and what used to be her dog scoured the bushes for blueberries.
Like I said... everybody’s got one. That reminded her... she really ought to cover her muffins.
****************************
Post #5 by Kaz
It was a good save. I had to smirk.
Cover my muffins, indeed. Obviously, my new neighbor wasn’t a whiz in the kitchen, or he’d have known that muffins are ‘quick bread’, and don’t need to rise. No slow-activated yeast—the baking powder took care of the rising during the baking process.
Still, it was a good save, and I’ve always appreciated people who could think on their feet.
I zipped into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a bigger, baggier button-down shirt. No holes or ragged edges, this time. I even—dammit-- grabbed a bra. That irritated the hell out of me, for some reason. I mean, I live up here so I don’t have to entertain people. So I can run around half-dressed if I want to. So I can be left alone to be ‘me’, and not other people’s vision of who I should be. So, yeah… it irked the hell out of me to have to harness myself for this stranger. Although—realistically--there probably wasn’t much point, at this late stage in the game.
Aw, hell. They’re just boobs. Everybody has them. And this was my home. I didn’t ask him to come here, and if I wanted to go bra-less, I’d damn well go bra-less!
I pulled my shirt off over my head and tossed it into the hamper. Looked at myself in the full-length mirror. Ugh. I rarely waste time with regrets, but I found myself wishing for the days of firm, perky boobs and an unlined face. Crow’s feet? Yuck. I gazed at myself for another second, and sighed. I was almost forty years old.
I put the bra on, anyway.
Damned men.
Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a mug and poured myself a cup of coffee. Black. Reluctantly, I took down another mug from the cupboard. I suppose the gracious thing to do would be to offer
him a cup of coffee, too. Just this once. But no way was I going to be so hospitable that Bing got the idea I’d be a sociable neighbor. I’d nip that notion in the bud, post-haste! If he ever returned with my dog, that is.
I couldn’t believe Brillo had warmed up to him like that! Brillo was my baby. Well, mine and Martie’s. I’d adopted the curly haired black beast from the Humane Society almost six years ago, as a birthday present for Martie when she turned thirteen. Figured a teenager ought to have a dog, and learn the responsibility of taking care of one. Now that she was in college, it was just Brillo and me banging around the place. Most of the time, I liked it that way-- but I missed my daughter. She was taking summer classes—wanted to get her degree in three years—and so I was spending the summer alone. For the first time in… forever, it seemed like. There were plusses and minuses to that, but I was dealing with it. No empty nest syndrome for me. I had too much to do to waste time mourning the end of my active parenting days.
I heard footsteps on the veranda and looked up. Bing and Brillo stood on the opposite side of my screen door. The stranger smiled, catching my eye, and I tossed him a nonchalant “Come on in.”
Brillo bounced in through the doorway and scuttled to my side, looking way too happy and carefree. The traitor. He was my dog, and this sonofabitch stole him. Just like that.
“Hey. Great dog you’ve got there.” Bing placed the basket on the counter. “I wasn’t sure how many berries you needed, but there’s a pint or so there…”
“That’ll do. Thanks.” I scooped up the basket and a colander and retreated to the opposite side of the center island, to rinse off the dust which always settled on the bushes after having been kicked up from the dirt road.
“This is a great place you’ve got, here.” Bing shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around. My house was simple, but nice. Open and airy, but not very big. Just enough for a woman and her daughter. And their traitor dog.
“Thanks.” I sounded like a broken record. But what was I supposed to say? I didn’t invite him here, and I didn’t have a clue what he wanted.
“What do you want?” There. Now that sounded rude. Even though my question got to the crux of the matter—it was too abrupt. Like I said—there’s a reason why I live alone, up here. I don’t ‘do’ people.
He raised his brows and grinned, not the least bit put out by my brusqueness.
“Hmmm. Direct and to the point. I like that. May I?” He indicated the coffee pot. Dammit, I’d intended to offer him some before now. I really am a social clod.
“Help yourself.” Am I the ‘hostess with the mostess’, or what? I sighed inwardly, a little disgusted with myself. He didn’t deserve such rudeness. Not yet, anyway.
“Right.” He moved to pour his coffee and I registered a slight accent in his voice. What was it? Where was he from? I found myself full of questions about this man, but there was no way I’d ask them. After all, I wanted ‘Bing of Dingleberry Bog’ to leave. Asking him questions was inviting him to sit down for a chat.
I wasn’t interested in that. Nope.
He poured his coffee and I noticed he drank it black, too. I threw the blueberries into the batter, mixed it up, and scooped spoonfuls of it into the muffin tin. Popped the pan into the oven. Washed my hands--aware that his eyes were on me every second as he sipped his coffee and leaned against the sideboard with Brillo sitting there at his knee, looking for all the world like he’d just discovered a long-lost friend. He was really beginning to get on my nerves. The man--and the dog.
Finally, I turned to him.
“So….?”
“Right.” There it was again—a small inflection in his voice. “First, let me say—you clean up nice.” There was that dimple, again. I rolled my eyes and folded my arms across my chest. For the second time that morning. “Not that I didn’t appreciate your gardening attire, too.”
Oh, he HAD to bring that up again. Of course he did.
“Look, Mr. Bingham…”
“Bing, please. After all, we’re neighbors. And I’ll call you Serendipity, if I may?”
I groaned inwardly. No one but my teachers and my mother had ever called me that. And my mother was wacko. Who else but a total space cadet would name their daughter Serendipity Benevolence? Thank God my last name was somewhat normal. James. You couldn’t go wrong with a name like that.
Unless your first name was Jessie, that is. I smiled reluctantly. Sheesh.
“Bee. Don’t ask why, but that’s my nickname. It’s a little easier to wrap your tongue around.”
He grinned and I was suddenly nervous. What had I said this time?
“Okay, Bee. To the point! As I said, I’ve purchased the old Holden farm. ‘Dingleberry Bog’, to the people in these parts. My intention is to fix it up and resell it, eventually. The old homestead has a lot of potential, and I think it will be a good investment. But that wasn’t the main reason I was interested in the property. You see, that particular piece of real estate came with something besides a ramshackle farmhouse, a pond and 300 acres. It came with a story.”
He set his coffee cup on the counter and leaned forward, bracing himself on the island and looking directly into my eyes.
“It came with a story. And I’m a mystery writer. ‘Stories’ are what I do.”
A writer? Bing was a mystery writer? Was he any good? Why hadn’t I heard of him? I’m a voracious reader, but I’d never heard of Jessie Bingham! Of course, he might write under a pen-name, like I do. Interesting….
The oven timer dinged. I snatched up a potholder and turned away. I decided to make one more attempt to be a gracious hostess.
“Would you like a muffin?”
“Mmmmm. Absolutely. I’ve had those babies on my mind since I got here!”
I could hear the laughter in the writer’s voice. The innuendo. I worked hard to bite my tongue.
Yep. This guy—this writer--was trouble, for sure.
****************************
Post #6, by Saint
Oh my god. What are these... f***ing sawdust? Bing sat enjoying his first bite of woman-cooked food in what seemed like ages.
Oh thank god... a blueberry.
“Well? What do you think?”
Smiling across the table, Serendipity Benevolence James seemed genuinely interested in a response. A response Jessie Bingham would have loved to have given had he been able to speak – his first attempt being more of a puff.
Oh my god, was that a chicken toenail or what? Knowing his only hope lay in a blast of coffee didn’t keep Bing from flashing on that video of what happens when you drop Mentos into a bottle of Coke. Holding up a “one moment please” finger as to not relinquish the token, Bing drew in as much coffee as was possible – and still seem normal. Finally able to choke down the first bite, he continued,
“They’re something else. Like Mama used to make.” He wasn’t kidding.
“Oh good. I thought about what you said – about them not rising and all – and doubled the baking powder.” Picking up another muffin from the stack and handing it to her new neighbor, “Just that first one though.” With a girlie smirk.
A gawdammed girlie smirk. He’d not underestimate her again.
“I won’t underestimate you again,” Bing smiled through a coffee toast. The dimple was back.
“I should think not.” The faintest hint of a mock curtsey. “A story?”
“Ma’am?”
“You said the Holden place comes with a story. I’ve never heard any story and I’ve been here sixteen – going on seventeen years now. More coffee?”
“That’s because
nobody’s ever heard it. Uh... Please.” Bing extended his cup.
Maybe she decided to grow some personality after all. He rather liked the Crazy Lady Down The Road. Certifiable, yes... but a known quantity. Wasn’t too sure about the lady who’d poison him as readily as show him her tits. A Black Widow? “Truth is, I haven’t finished it yet.”
“Oh... you mean one of
your mysteries.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say just yet. I’m still putting the pieces together.”
Bee looked at her watch. She wasn’t actually wearing a watch but that wasn’t really the point. She didn’t have time for this – even though she actually did. Actually. What the hell, maybe she could write a book about this schmuck.
“Please... do go on. Mr. Bingham.”
With that, Jessie Bingham withdrew two pieces of aged paper from his pocket, unfolded them and handed her the first one. Bee studied it carefully. A copy of the text to be sent via the local Western Union office, rubber-stamp dated February 24, 1945.
TO: Baxter Argyle Worthington III
Am dying. Come quickly. Please.
Winston
“OK.” Bee traded Bing for the second letter – the received response from Western Union – Paris Office. Dated February 27, 1945.
ATTN: WINSTON HOLDEN
ON MY WAY [STOP] BOOKED PASSAGE ON INDIGO STAR [STOP] ARRIVE BOSTON MARCH 15 [STOP] HANG ON BROTHER [STOP] CLAYTON
“OK.”
Bing then produced a photograph of a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman standing on a pier, dwarfed by a huge cargo vessel. From that perspective the name on the tramp steamer clearly stood out – Indigo Star.
“OK.”
****************************
Post #7, by Saint
“Hmmm... where to begin... where to begin... Well, I was at a flea market one day. An old-timer had a tableful of stuff he was going to throw out at the end of the day -- assuming no one bought it first. Amongst the items was a beautiful old Bible. Now, I’m not what you’d call a very religious man myself but I could just see my mother rolling over in her grave if I let that Bible end up in the trash – so I gave the guy a buck and tossed it in the back of the car. Eventually it made its way onto one of my bookshelves and sat there for, oh... a couple years I guess. I found these telegrams and that picture pressed inside that Bible.
“Well, being a writer and all, I’m always looking for the next big story. What did you think when you read those?”
Considering the question for a moment, Bee shrugged her shoulders, “Not much really. I guess I kinda I wondered if they got back together
in time," with air-quotes.
“My thoughts exactly. So... I did a little research. In the very front of the Bible was a family tree covering a few generations of Holden kin, you know... birthdays, anniversaries and so forth. Sure enough, on January 21st, 1903 twin boys – Winston and Clayton -- were born to a Pete and Margaret Holden. Later it says, ‘Winston Holden Jan 21, 1903 – Mar 10, 1945’.”
Bee thought about it.
“So... they never did get back together, huh? Kinda sad really.” Bee thought of all the little sadnesses that occur in life. Little things. Local things that go unnoticed by all but a few -- not long remembered but by mothers and such. Feeling somewhat drawn-in by the story, “Did you check the obits?”
“Yep. First thing. Yep, checked the Moxie Falls Dispatch archives. Winston Holden died of consumption on March 10th, 1945.”
Hmmm... Logical question. Who’da thunk it? “That’s what they used to call just about anything people died from back then if they didn’t know what it was.”
While Bee sat pondering the sadness of consumption, Bing happened to glance at the watch he
did just happen to be wearing. “Ach... already?” Then looking up to Bee, “I’m really sorry, Miss Bee... I’d love to sit here and discuss twins and muffins all day but I’m afraid I must run into town and meet with my editor. That’s something I seldom enjoy.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” A raised eyebrow from Bing prompted her to continue. “I mean, I can imagine it would be. Something you’d seldom enjoy I mean. Meeting with your editor I mean. Uh... you never did tell me what you stopped by to tell me... did you?”
“Oh no, love... that’s just the beginning. Tell you what... how’s about you come over for dinner at my place tonight. I’ll throw some shrimps on the bar-B and tell you the whole thing. Here. Here’s my number, call me.”
Writing his cell number on a fold of her newspaper, Bing slid it over to Bee as he hopped up from the table. “Sorry, love. Gotta run.” Spinning, he slammed his last dab of coffee and setting his cup on the counter, headed for the door, Brillo up and ready to go at his heel.
“Not all that great a story so far you know,” Bee called after him.
Oh my... people come and go so quickly around here.
Giving the screen door ample time to slam first, Bing called back over his shoulder, “That’s because you don’t know what the Brothers Holden were up to.”
She could tell he was grinning.
****************************
Post #8, by Kaz
Grinning in self-satisfaction, no doubt. Had I even accepted his invitation?
Why in hell didn’t I just say ‘no’? Because I was intrigued, that’s why. But really….what was I doing, going out to dinner? Dinner with a stranger whom I’d just met? Dinner at my
neighbor’s house, for crying out loud! Accepting an invitation to his home was NOT the way to keep a new neighbor at arm’s length.
And besides…. I didn’t have anything to wear.
I can’t believe that thought even crossed my mind. I didn’t ‘do’ dates. No way, no how. I was simply captivated by Bing’s story, that’s all. NOT by Bing. So it didn’t matter what I wore, right?
This was
not a date.
I parboiled a peck of tomatoes and removed their skins, then stuffed them into quart jars, added salt and boiling water and lemon juice, and put them in the canner. While the canner boiled merrily, I sat down at my computer. At daybreak I’d written a chapter in my newest novel, affectionately called ‘Book Three’ until I could come up with something a little catchier. This time, I was trying my hand at romance, with a little adventure thrown in. My agent had encouraged me to stick with thrillers and capitalize on the success of my first novel, but I wasn’t ready for another dark tale, just yet. And I hated the idea of being cast as an author in one particular genre, only. I was a talented writer and I knew it. And I wanted to try my hand in several different categories to see if one suited me better than all the others.
I skimmed back over the chapter, sighed, and hit ‘delete’. I was a talented writer, yeah. But I sucked at writing romance. “Write what you know.” Every author worth his or her salt knew that adage. And I didn’t know diddly-squat about romance.
On a whim, I googled “Jessie Bingham”.
“Let’s see who this fellow is, huh?”
Brillo’s tail thumped on the floor in response.
“Yeah, sure, you traitor. You would have gone home with him if he’d asked you, wouldn’t you?” The Labradoodle’s tail thumped even faster. “That’s what I thought.”
My screen lit up with 'Jessie Binghams' and I scrolled down through the list. Most were 'Jessicas'-- but there was no doubt my new neighbor was a male. There was a Jessie Bingham Swann, mother of a WWII veteran from Indiana named Joe Bingham Swann. There were a few Jessie Binghams with Facebook pages. There was one Jesse--sans ‘i’—but his website showed a photo of a young man wearing a dust mask and talking about Theoretical Computer Science and Math, and “formal verification” and “theoretical depth and practical use”. Somehow, I was quite sure that wasn’t my Jessie.
Well, not MY Jessie….
Damned men.
I typed in “author Jessie Bingham” and there was the young brainiac, again. “Efficient SAT Solving” was the name of his published work. And while that sounded like a mystery to me, it didn’t sound like the kind of mystery writing my morning visitor practiced.
Yep, old Bing must write under a pen name.
For the heck of it, I googled both Clayton and Winston Holden with several variations—first, “Moxie Falls” and then, “Indigo Star”. But my timer sounded and I left the computer to turn off the burner under the pressure cooker. From there, I moved to my other chores—I had another bushel of tomatoes waiting to be picked, corn to husk and blackberries to pick for jam. It was August, and I was elbow deep in harvesting and preserving the bounty from my little farm. Old habits are hard to break. When Martie was small there’d been a year or two that had been incredibly lean. If it hadn’t been for my well-stocked pantry, we would have been up shit creek.
Before I knew it, it was late afternoon. I was sweaty and grubbier than all get-out from a day in the garden. My fingers were stained purple, too. How attractive. I whistled for Brillo, who was laying in the shade of the honeysuckle, and went into my cool little house. Shed my clothes and climbed into the shower.
And wondered what I’d wear.
If I went, that is. I still hadn’t made up my mind.
“Hi, it’s Bee. Is that invitation to dinner still open? I thought maybe I’d come. Over! I thought maybe I’d come over.” I knocked my head against the wall by the telephone as I listened to his enthusiastic response. There’s a reason I live up here in the country.
I hung up the phone and made my way to the bedroom. My wardrobe was meager. But it was barbequed shrimp, after all. Certainly nothing to dress up for. Feeling mutinous, I grabbed the first thing I laid my hands on—a clean pair of snug jeans and an even snugger blouse. And a damned bra. I shoved my feet into my cleanest pair of sneakers, ran my hands through my damp hair to get the tangles out, and whistled to the dog.
“Come on, Mop-head. You wanna walk up to the neighbor’s house with me? Huh? Huh?” The idiot dog danced around my legs and I grinned at him. I grabbed a jar of freshly made blackberry jam to take to my host and walked to the other side of the room to shut my computer down.
I touched the mouse and the screen flashed on.
What I saw there was very intriguing. I was suddenly anxious to hear ‘the rest of the story’ from Bing of Dingleberry Bog.
****************************
Post #9, by Kaz
The old Holden place was a mile up the road. Brillo and I often walked up this way, just as we used to do with Martie. My girl was a good walking companion. Quiet, speaking only occasionally when she had something important to say—she didn’t jibber-jabber the whole time but allowed us to take in the peace and beauty of our surroundings. I missed her companionship more than I liked to admit.
The lane was somewhat steep—just enough to give me a little bit of a work-out if I walked at a good clip, and anyway-- the walk back home was downhill. Sometimes I even jogged back to the house. Not that I would ever admit that to anyone else.
My thoughts strayed to the stranger. How interesting--that this Bing Bingham was a writer. Or so he said. I wanted to ask him if he wrote under another name, but I didn’t want to show an interest in him. It was one thing to be curious about his ‘story’. It was quite another to express curiosity about the man, himself.
Was he married? I hadn’t noticed a wedding band, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of men didn’t wear rings. Most likely, though, he was single. A married man wouldn’t invite a woman to dinner, right?
Oh, right! I shook my head. Of course a married man would do that! Hell, I knew from first-hand experience that a married man would sleep with a woman barely out of her teens, and never say a thing to her about the little lady waiting for him at home… Just like I knew that a married man would dump that girl as soon as he discovered she was pregnant.
Damned men. I was getting pissed at this Jessie Bingham. I walked faster, the dog loping at my side.
I stopped at the beginning of the driveway to Dingleberry Bog, hands on my hips as I caught my breath. Now I was hot and sweaty again. I considered turning around to go home. After all, I really didn’t want to act like I was glad to have this new neighbor. I didn’t want to appear too welcoming. And… I was all hot and sweaty again. I took a quick whiff. Well, I still smelled okay. Not that I expected him to get close enough to smell me…
I sighed. I might as well get it over with.
The driveway was long and curved. I’d only been here once when the homestead was occupied—the former owners’ dog had wandered down to the farm one day, years ago, and I’d caught him chasing my Rhode Island Reds. He hadn’t hurt them any… just scared them out of egg production for three days. I’d grabbed the spaniel by the collar, put him in my Jeep, and delivered him to the Bog. It was an embarrassing way to make introductions, but still… today’s ‘first encounter’ was far worse.
Practically naked, for God’s sake.
“Come on, Brillo. Let’s get this over with. Enjoy your visit with your new friend, because this is probably the last time you’ll see him.”
I rounded the final corner and the old farmhouse came into view. Wow. It was a mess. Alders had sprung up everywhere--creeping up to the buildings--and the small field was thigh-high in grass and goldenrod. The paint—once a charcoal gray with white trim, was faded to a dusky blue—the window trim and soffits, a weathered, dingy gray. It was hard on a house, being abandoned for years like this one had been.
I heard a single deep bark and looked to the right. A dog trotted around the corner of the farmhouse and stopped to look at us. It was a magnificent dog. A brindle Great Dane. I reached down to grab Brillo’s collar, but I was too late. He was off like a shot.
“Brillo!” My heart was in my throat as I pictured the massive canine making a quick meal out of my leggy but lean mutt. But Brillo skidded to a stop in front of the dog. They stood at stiff attention for a moment, staring at each other. Then the co-sniffing began in earnest, both tails wagging a mile a minute. Brillo crouched and feinted an ambush, the big dog returned the favor, and they were off, tearing around the rear of the house in long, delighted leaps.
“Brillo! Get BACK here!”
Bing appeared from around the same corner. He was dressed in a light white cotton shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans, and tennis shoes without socks. He looked cool. He looked good.
I looked hot and… not so hot.
“Hey, you made it! Don’t worry about Sally. She’s harmless. Nothing but a big goof.” He grinned. There was that damned dimple.
“I’m sorry. I should have asked if it was okay to bring Brillo with me. The way they’re going, they’ll…”
“Tear up the flower beds?” He indicated the disarray of the yard with his hand as we neared each other. “As you can see, they can’t hurt anything. It’s a disaster. But, oh….” He looked down into my eyes and winked, “it’s gonna be gorgeous when I’m done with it!”
I couldn’t believe it! For some stupid, idiotic reason, I suddenly felt bereft. I knew he intended to flip the property. And I didn’t care, except for the fact that the buyers would be another unknown quantity. At least I knew Bing was good with dogs. He couldn’t be all bad.
Could he?
“Come on out back and have a seat in the shade. It’s been hotter than hell this afternoon, huh?” I walked along beside him. In the shade of the house he’d set up a table and chairs next to a gas grill. The grass had been cut here, at least. And there were a few wild day lilies which hadn’t yet gone by, to give color to the space. Bing had begun to strip the cedar shakes from the rear of the house and there was a neat pile off to one side. A pile of planks. Something else covered by a blue tarp. “Would you like a beer? Or, if you don’t drink, I have some lemonade. Country Time, not fresh squeezed, I’m afraid. It’ll still make you pucker, though.”
He looked at my boobs when he said that! For a split second, his eyes dropped to my chest. I swear they did.
I should have just walked up here bare-assed.
I squirmed. I didn’t usually drink alcohol, but now seemed as good a time as any to take up the habit.
“Sure, I’ll have a beer, thanks.” The dogs tore by in a frenzy of slobbery euphoria. I had to grin. They looked like they were having a blast, but they had to be getting overheated, too. Bing must have thought the same thing.
“Sally! Come!” The beast skidded to a stop, tossed a look at the black dog who almost collided with her hind end, and changed direction, trotting over to Bing’s side. Long strings of drool swung from her massive jowls. “I’d introduce her to you, but I’m afraid she’d drown you.”
I crinkled my nose. It looked gross, all right.
“Come here Sally.” I patted my knee and the Great Dane came to me, tongue lolling. Brillo ran up to me at the same time. A little jealous, maybe? Good. The traitor ought to know what it felt like!
I grabbed a shingle and swiped it under Sally’s jaw, gently scraping the froth from her face. I tossed the shingle back into the pile and stooped to stroke the big head.
“You are one gorgeous, incredible girl.” The tail wagged, banging against the side of the table. Brillo forced his way up under her chin, asked for a pat, too. I smiled and scrubbed behind his floppy ears. “Good dog, Brillo. Yes, you’re handsome, too. But Sally is beautiful.”
Bing handed me an icy bottle from the cooler underneath the table.
“That makes two of you,” he said.
Oh, boy. He was trouble, all right. I twisted the top off the Budweiser and took a swig. Condensation dripped down my chin and I wiped it off. The dogs plopped onto the grass at my feet and I looked directly at Jessie Bingham. I resisted the urge to burp. Resisted it really hard. He’d already seen the cheeks of my butt and what was under my shirt. If I got much more earthy than that he’d think I was nothing but white trash. Not that I cared what he thought, but well…maybe I should. I didn’t want to be a public figure—not at all. But I just might be, some day. After all, I was a best-selling author. Had a movie deal in the works. My second novel was due out in a month. And I had a third written. Almost written. I thought about the chapter I’d dumped that morning. Karen Sommers didn’t have a clue how to be sexy, and so I’d had to delete her very first love scene. But I’d figure it out, somehow.
“You had a ‘story’, remember? And you wanted to talk to me about something?” I raised my brows and tried to ignore his compliment. I think he called me beautiful. It was time to change the subject. I took another pull from the bottle. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got.”
****************************
Post #10, by Saint
“Aaat!!! Don’t even think about it. I will eat your babies.” Bing hopped up from the table, shooing the dogs away from the stations at which they’d posted themselves to keep close tabs on the wraps of aluminum foil now sizzling on the grill.
“That really does smell delicious. What is it?” Bee made her way over to see just what was cooking. The dogs hadn’t gone far.
“Barbequed swordfish steaks. Mmmm...” the mystery writer cum master chef winked. “I went to get shrimp, as advertized, but didn’t like the looks of ‘em. Too big for one thing. 21-25s. They’re not as good when they get that big and these looked like they weren’t all that great to begin with. Ah, but the swordfish was beautiful.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever tried it. I know I’ve never tried it barbequed.”
Peeling back the foil to sneak a peek, Bing was happy with their progress. “Whelp... you’re in for a treat. Good eats. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted barbequed swordfish. Not just barbequed swordfish but MY barbequed swordfish. Mmmm mmm.”
“I’m sure I’ll forever loathe my impoverished life up ‘til now.”
“Lady, you’ll hate yourself in the morning.” Dimple. Happy (if sarcastic) grin. “There, we’ll just let that cook for awhile. Nothing worse than clear fish, eh?”
“To be honest, I’m not much of a ‘fish person’.”
“Yep... and tomorrow you’ll be saying, ‘I’m not much of a fish person EXCEPT for Bingo’s Barbequed Swordfish’.”
“Bingo?”
“Yeah. Was a farmer had a dog...” Bing motioned for her to “take it’ but she didn’t. Wouldn’t. He’d try again later.
“Turns out... the Holden brothers were heavy into the Black Market in Europe. Even had connections in the Pacific Theater. Baxter Argyle Worthington III had been under surveillance by the OSS, the ICPO (those are the INTERPOL guys now) and even the Nazi SS. Nobody really knew who he worked for but each was convinced he worked for their team, just for someone higher up than they. Baxter didn’t really care who he dealt with. Whoever paid the most. With governments failing right and left, paper money wasn’t worth much back then so payment was typically received in the form of some other commodity. Then Baxter would be in the business of selling that commodity. Except for gold bullion. That he ferreted away to be shipped to Winston.
The bottom line is... they figured Baxter was about $4 million to the good. Keep in mind that’s in 1945 dollars AND it was based on the then current price of gold which for years had been frozen at 32 dollars an ounce. So we’re talking roughly $80 million in today’s market. Another beer?”
“Uh... OK. Sure. Please... do go on.”
****************************
Post #11, by Kaz
I knew better than to take another beer. As a woman who doesn’t drink, it didn’t take much alcohol for me to feel light-headed and stupid. And it simply wouldn’t do for me to be ‘stupid’ on my second encounter with my new neighbor. I mean… the guy had already seen me half-dressed. Or… half-naked. If I acted as foolish as I’d looked this morning, I’d never be able to convince him I was calm, cool, intellectual, sophisticated….
Not that I cared what he thought of me.
The stuff Bing was showing me was interesting, sure. A family drama, a historical setting, with tie-ins to World War Two and the Black Market....he could hardly go wrong. If he was a decent writer, that is. Who knew, really? His writing might suck, big time.
He sure smelled nice.
Okay. It was obvious that I shouldn’t be drinking. I mean… since when did I smell men? Since when did I have dinner with them? And
swordfish? Where the hell did this guy come from? We ate beef in these parts. And pork. And chicken. Shrimp? Swordfish? Nuh-uh….
I took the cold beer Bing handed me. Patted Sally’s huge head, and Brillo’s curly one. I thought about his story.
Eighty million bucks. Wow. That much money was beyond comprehension. Hell… FOUR million was beyond comprehension. I’d been the sole bread-winner all of my adult life, and until “Beat, Flay, Shove” had made a splash, Martie and I had--mostly--lived hand-to-mouth. Our lives had never been easy… but we’d been okay. Happy, after a fashion. I’d at least had the confidence to know that I could provide for my offspring, without help from a man—married, or otherwise.
Still… like most people, I’d always had dreams of being wealthy. Of never having to worry about the mortgage payment, the electric bill, the car insurance. I’d dreamed of being able to send Martie to a good college, so that she would be able to have a
career, instead of working at ‘jobs’, like her mother had always done. I wanted my daughter to start her adult life with freedom from responsibility. With a leg up, instead of feeling like she had one foot in the grave.
I took another swig of beer and wiped my chin, again. Damned bottles were covered with condensation and I looked like a slob, constantly cleaning up after myself. Bing took another peek at the fish, and hauled the foil-covered meat away from the flame. He threw some vegetable kabobs on over the fire… pieces of onions, peppers, potatoes and carrots brushed with oil and sprinkled with some kind of seasoning. It all smelled great.
Damned men. The last thing I needed was to meet a competent man, who was also good-looking and smelled nice.
Not that I gave a damn about all that…
I wondered if he could really write.
****************************
Post #11 by Saint
“So are you saying they never caught up with him? I mean… you’d think they’d have really gone after him for $4 million. That's a lot of money. Well... I guess like $80 million now.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean but look at the dates and think about what was going on in Europe at the time. Hitler had just thrown everything he had into one last desperate effort to keep the Allies off of German soil. His Panzer Divisions nearly broke through too – that’s why they called it the Battle Of The Bulge. In fact for the Americans it was the bloodiest battle of the War. But... when all was said and done the Allies prevailed and at that point even the Nazi High Command (if not Hitler) had to concede – the end game was a foregone conclusion. The war was lost.
“The people knew it though. They knew from that point forward everything west of the Rhine would be safe from Nazi oppression – forever – and they began going back in droves to find out what had become of their homes; their families. Refugees by the hundreds of thousands turned around and headed back the other way. Nobody wanted to end up stuck in East Germany under Stalin’s thumb. Nazi soldiers – whole battalions at a time – were surrendering to anyone who’d take them. To anyone
other than the Russians. After what Hitler had done to Russia they knew just what they had coming. It would be a bad comeuppance. That’s what happens at the end of war.
“A lot of dust has to settle after a World War. Hard to keep track of folks amidst all of that chaos and the OSS had much bigger fish to fry than Baxter Argyle Worthington III. They wanted the
real bad guys – the Goebbels and Mengeles. Von Ribbentrops and the like. Now their attention focused on stuff that would ultimately be presented at the Nuremburg Trials. Throw in a Cold War that was just in its infancy and you’ve got a real mess. I can’t imagine we’d handle things any better nowadays – even with all the new technology. Anyway, in 1949 Baxter’s file, like so many others, crossed somebody’s desk who deactivated and rubber-stamp closed it. That was that. He was officially off the books.
Sipping her coffee, Bee could see where this all might end up fitting neatly into a novel. “So... we know Clayton didn’t get back in time to see his brother. What’d he do after that?”
Bing thought about the inclusive we before answering, “That’s the thing... Nothing. Not a word about him anywhere that I was able to find. At first I thought that was the end of the story but something bothered me. I guess it was the complete and total lack of information from that point on. Seems there’s always
something more. A little blurb somewhere. You know... ‘Hundred year old Clayton Holden dies in sleep’.
Something. But there wasn’t. Isn’t.”
“Probably lived out his life of luxury in Tahiti playing with all the topless girls or something like that, eh?”
Oh my god! Did I just say that? Pbbbfffttt... He he he... burp... good beer.
“Yep, that’s what I figured too...” Reaching around, Bing lifted his MacBook from a patio chair, set it on the table and turned it on. While the system booted he continued, “...until I saw this.” Once the screen came up Bing scrolled through the directory structure then, finding what he wanted, double clicked on a video file. Standing and moving next to Bee, he turned the computer so the Crazy Lady Down The Road could better see along with him. She smelled nice.
Somewhat anxious, Bee didn’t know quite what to expect.
No doubt it’s a video of this psychopath’s last kill. Probably called “Swordfish-26” or some catchy shit like that. Look at Brillo would ya. Not a hint of concern – the sonofabitch. He he he...
Bee was relieved when what appeared to be an old World War II black and white film documentary began rolling on the screen. The scene was the aftermath of a naval battle, viewed from an airplane circling high above the event. Below, ships were scattering in all directions – the ones that could anyway. Others were ablaze, billowing huge clouds of burnt fuel oil. Great patches of confused roiling water, where obviously there had once been other ships, punctuated a sea of devastation and mayhem.
“Take a close look at those ships. See how they’re painted?”
Bee looked at the ships and noted, “Yeah... I’ve seen that before. Painted all weird shapes and all.”
“It’s called ‘dazzle’. It’s kind of a camouflage for ships. Of course there’s no hiding a ship at sea but when you see one of them tied up to a harbor wharf it’s amazing how well the dazzle works – especially when viewed on black and white enemy reconnaissance film. Even if you can see it’s a ship it’s still hard to tell which way it’s facing, the type of armament she carries, stuff like that. In a World War every little bit counts. I’d say it’s pretty obvious that no two ships painted like this are identical – wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah. I’d say the odds are pretty slim of running across another ship wearing that same dress,” Bee smiled. An interested smile. An “I reckon this guy isn’t out to ‘throw a little Bee on the bar-B’ (yet anyway)” smile. A pretty smile.
Bing stood in silence, watching the footage roll – to a point – then clicked pause.
“Here, you see this?” Bing pointed to a ship in her final gasps – she was sinking. “Look at this ship’s fantail. See what I mean?”
“Fantail?”
“Here, sweetie,” tapping the stern-quarter of the ship frozen on his screen. “The back of the boat,” he smiled.
“OK.”
Pressing the photograph of Clayton and the Indigo Star up to the ship in the movie – showing them to be identical – Bing watched as the light bulb in Bee’s mind’s eye blinked on.
“He never made it back,” She realized aloud.
“Nope. He never made it back.”
“No, really... he never made it back.” She was suddenly very excited about the whole thing.
“Never made it back,” Bing agreed again.
“Then that means...” Bee Beecham thought for a long moment before looking up at her new neighbor, “...he never made it back.”
“Never made it back.”
OK. The swordfish bit was good but this... this was better. He never made it back. “So, how do you know Clayton Holden was actually onboard?”
“He wasn’t.” Handing Bee a copy of the ship’s manifest, Bing smiled and followed along over her shoulder as she read through the passenger list.
“Oh my god... he wasn’t on the ship. Baxter Argyle Worthington III was.”
“Baxter Argyle Worthington III was,” Bing nearly sang. “That’s the Indigo Star and you just saw her sink. The official report said she went down with all hands. Passengers and crew. No survivors.”
“I have to admit this is interesting.” Then raising an eyebrow, “Probably not something one would normally stop by to introduce himself and tell a new neighbor about.”
“I should think you’d be interested in knowing why you should marry me.” The dimple was back.
****************************
Post #12, by Kaz
Now it was apparent—I really WAS drunk! Marry him? What in the hell was he talking about??
“Hah!” I set my bottle down on the table and pushed myself away. Stood up. Brillo got up and came to my side, long tail wagging in nervousness. He could tell when I was upset.
How many beers had I had? This guy had just said I should marry him, right?
“Marry you? You’re funny.” I didn’t know whether to be mad, or amused. Whichever emotion had the best chance of forcing him to change the subject, I guess. Or whichever would elicit a logical response. There had to be one.
Didn’t there? I mean… surely he hadn’t stopped on the side of the road with the express intention of asking a total stranger to marry him! I had decent boobs, but they weren’t
that good! Besides… everyone had them.
I backed away from the table and reached down to place my hand on Brillo’s head. A familiar head. Comforting.
“You’re joking, right?”
He had to be joking.
****************************
Post #13, by Saint
“Ach, better flip those.” Jessie Bingham hustled to the flaming grill with a water bottle to mist the kabobs before giving each skewer a twist. Looking back to Bee...
“Well, I suspect this does all seem a bit sudden, eh? That’s exactly what I thought too.” Bing smiled as he quoted his prior thought, “Why, I hardly know this lady. She can’t be serious.” Bigger smile.
“OK. Now you’re creepin’ me.”
“Hey, what do you want? I write mysteries.”
“They any good?” Girlie flippant.
There. I just came out and asked. He he he...
“Eh... they do OK. They’re no
Beat, Flay, Shove or anything.” Bing registered her reaction. Guys can tell a lot in a millisecond. Her response seemed surprisingly measured.
“You didn’t ‘just happen by’ today did you, Mr. Bingham?”
“Well, to be honest... I’ve ‘just happened by’ a few times this week. This time you ‘just happened’ to be outside.” Noting her expression, Bing added, “And yes... I know quite a bit about you. Like for instance....”
****************************
Post #14, by Kaz
So this Bing—this stranger—proceeded to tell me what he ‘knew’. I couldn’t decide whether to be ticked off or amused. It appeared he’d done his research—as far as he could take it, anyway. I mean… who can really know another person, unless that person allows them access to the ‘real deal’?
He told me the typical facts that are easily available in a small town by simply asking a few questions. He knew I was not a local and that I’d moved to Moxie Falls as a young, single mother. He knew I purchased half of Dingleberry Bog several years ago, and named my homestead
Martie’s Haven. He knew how much I’d paid for the place, knew I’d built the house practically by myself-- he even knew how much I’d had to borrow from the bank to get it all done. Yep, he knew the salient facts—that Martie graduated second in her class, that I’d never married, that I’d begun a successful farmers’ market in Moxie Falls and that I wrote for an organic gardening magazine… these things, Mr. Bingham knew. And he knew I was the author of a best-selling novel.
But those facts consisted of
data, only. Stuff gleaned from locals, or maybe from the internet. He knew nothing about Serendipity “Bee” Benevolence James. He didn’t know
me, at all.
What could possibly be so interesting or desirable about me as to make this stranger talk about marriage? He didn’t know
diddly if he thought I’d have any interest in that. For all I knew, Bing could be a murderer. A druggie. A child molester. A dog-napper. He could be married already. A bigamist.
The possibilities were endless.
Besides, I still didn’t know if he could write.
And yeah… what ever happened to romance and falling in love and all that dumb stuff I’d given up on, so long ago? Marriage? To a stranger? Just because he had a terrific dog…and a dimple and nice legs, and he smelled good…
Pfffttt! Besides, I didn’t even know if he could write.
****************************
Post #15, by Saint
Moving his computer to one side, Bing unrolled a land survey – spreading it flat on the table.
“This is the original Holden estate. Here’s you. Here’s me. Here’s the bog. You can see where the Johnson place was already parceled off.”
Pointing to a small square in the center of the map falling directly on top of the boundary now comprising the Bingham/James property line, “This is Winston Holden’s memorial plot. It’s on that little knoll overlooking the bog.”
“Yes, I’ve been up there a couple times. What’s the deal with that? Kind of a creepy place if you ask me.”
“Well, originally Winston had had that plot prepared for Margaret Holden – his and Clayton’s mother. They leveled the ground, erected that tall wrought-iron fence around it and planted all those hedges you see up there today.
“Well, when Winston died Margaret was heartbroken. She apparently had the memorial stone engraved and placed there in his honor. I guess she’d go up there and talk to Winston for hours nearly every day while she waited for Clayton to return. But... now we know, Clayton never returned.
“One of the last things Margaret did was will the estate to a Trust. The Trust stipulated that Winston’s memorial would be maintained until such time as either Clayton returned or until the Trust equity ran out.”
Bee said, “Yes, I’ve seen them. Three, maybe four times a year some guys would be up there trimming back the hedges, painting the fence and just generally cleaning things up.”
“Well, you know a piece of property can’t just sit there in perpetuity. Little by little the property taxes and maintenance costs will chip away at the Trust so it was also stipulated in the Trust that the estate would be sold off “as needed” to maintain the memorial – the last piece to be sold being the plot itself. To her last days, I don’t think Margaret ever gave up hope that Clayton would someday come walking through the door. Come home to take over whatever remained of the Holden estate.
“That’s all written into the Trust. It’s all a matter of public record. Everything was going along fine... then the funding ran dry. That’s when the State jumps in. Actually it’s all pretty straight forward because there’s no body.”
“No body?”
“Yeah, it’s a memorial. That is to say there’s nobody actually buried there. It’s different if there’s an actual body. The State keeps pretty close track of that stuff. For one thing, if there’s someone buried there then future owners of a property have the right to know it. Plus, if someone runs across human remains on the property then they’ll know whether or not they ought to be there. And you can’t just exhume a body you know – even on your own property. It’s a big deal. Memorials are different. I suspect that’s why Winston had the plot constructed way out there overlooking the bog – figuring it would be a long time before anybody would want to build on that site.”
“Ah... I see. And therefore I should marry you. Of course. It makes perfect sense. Duh me.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, Bing pressed on. “Anyway, like I said, the Trust ran dry. That means the State is obliged to put the land up for sale – to auction it off.
“Here’s where it get’s interesting.” Bing turned the skewers one last time. “Local ordinance states that because there is no body interred on the property and the lot is under the 10 acre minimum lot size -- per subdivision standards around here -- then it must be sold to an adjacent landowner and all easements invalidated. That means it has to go to either you or me. There is no deeded access or right-of-way, and the state can't sell land-locked land--they'd have to come to you or me to purchase access, anyway. So... now that piece of land is coming up for auction.”
“I’m sorry but I still don’t see...”
“Where’s the gold?”
“What?”
“The gold. Where’s the gold? Winston didn’t spend it. Clayton never made it back. Obviously Mama Holden didn’t include it in the Trust or it wouldn’t have dried up. So... where is it?”
“You think it’s buried up there on that knoll?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, why are you telling me all of this? Why not just buy the land at auction and be done with it? I would never have tried to outbid you on it. If you know so much about me then you should certainly have known that.”
“Ah, don’t think I didn’t consider it, love. Here, hand me your plate.” Bee grabbed a plate from the table and held it up. “Ahh, eee, ooo. Hot hot hot...” Bing quickly transferred one of the kabobs to her plate followed by a tin foil of Bingo’s Barbequed Swordfish. “And what exactly would I gain by doing that?” Bing stopped what he was doing – expecting an answer.
“Well for one thing... you’d get the whole $80 million. Uh... assuming there’s anything to be got.”
“Yeah. Then what? Look at it from my perspective. The way I see it, I’d already have $40 million. Do you honestly think the first thing I’d want to do is screw somebody else out of the other 40? Can’t I just be happy with my $40 million?” Big Bing smile. He was serious.
“I guess it makes sense when you put it that way. I still don’t see what any of this has to do with getting married.”
“OK sweetie, follow my logic... IF we find anything – and I’m not saying we will but IF we do – then what? They suspected Winston of being in cahoots with Baxter – not Clayton – and when Winston died he was dropped from the active participants list. They thought Baxter Argyle Worthington III had gotten away clean, remember? If we go finding a bunch of gold then it will be no time at all before they reconnect it all back to Winston and Baxter.
“That was International Law they were breaking and there’s no statute of limitations on that. Folks with art treasures looted by the Third Reich don’t get to keep them you know. There are organizations out there that that’s what they do. Everybody and their brother will be showing up here. God-only-knows who will be claiming it was theirs. Some might even have the goods on Baxter and where he actually acquired the loot. Who knows? At a bare minimum it could end up in court for years. Is it worth the risk to find out?
“The good new is... as it stands, they don’t even know there’s any gold to
be found. As far as anyone is concerned that gold doesn’t exist anymore. So, what if, on the other hand, we find something but DON'T tell anyone? Then it’s just “our gold”. Nobody’s going to be making any ridiculous claims against it. Problem solved.
“Of course the IRS isn’t going to be very happy about that. We’d both be living in glass houses. It’s not easy keeping a $40 million dollar secret. One false move by either would jeopardize both. We’d each be forever at the mercy of the other’s discretion, eh?
“I suppose so. I guess. Maybe.”
“Right now it’s all nothing more than speculation. Just two people talking about ‘what if’. BUT if we do find something... then our marital status ‘at that moment’ will make a huge difference. Then the gold would be not mine, not yours but ‘ours’. Legally there’s no comparison. As a married couple we couldn’t be compelled to testify against each other about any of this. Where the money came from. How we knew about it. None of that. Being married would automatically entitle us each to half of our shared wealth – whether anyone knows about that wealth or not. Getting married ‘after the fact’ doesn’t count. See? Simple. Simple...
if we're married.”
“Oh my god...” it occurred to Bee, “...this swordfish is great!” She was genuinely impressed. “My compliments to the chef.”
“I knew you’d like it. Get used to it, love.”
Bee Beecham couldn’t help but notice, there was that dimple again as Bing gave each eagerly-patiently waiting dog a grilled carrot. An excellent grilled carrot.
****************************
Post #16 by Kaz
Get used to it, love.
He couldn’t be serious. Not about marriage, and not about 80 million bucks. My head was too fuzzy to take it all in. I mean, it sounded like he’d put a lot of thought into this…all that talk about statutes of limitations and exhuming bodies and such. I hoped I could remember it all when this buzz faded, so I could do a little research of my own. There was no way I was accepting Bing’s story without verifying it for myself.
Wow, could this guy barbeque fish! And I don’t even like fish! He’d already ruined Brillo, though… the dog was not allowed to beg but there he sat next to a frothing, salivating Sally, waiting for another tidbit from my host.
“Brillo. Go lay down.” I pointed to a spot on the ground away from the table.
The brown eyes darted to me, then to Bing, then back to me.
“Yes, Brillo, I’m speaking to you. Go. Lay. Down.”
The canine’s eyes darted hopefully to Bing.
“You’d better do as your mother says,” he leaned down and whispered loudly and exaggeratedly, “or she will eat your babies.” My dog cocked his head at Bing, took one last (damn if it wasn't worried!) look at me, and moved away from the table, laying a few feet away in the shade.
I snorted and rolled my eyes.
“You might as well keep him. Obviously, he’s defected and he’s your dog, now.” I popped a grilled onion into my mouth. “This food is delicious, Mr. Bingham. Thank you for inviting me to dinner. But as to all the rest,” I waved my hand at the laptop and the survey map, “it’s a great story. An intriguing one. Whether or not it’s true?” I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s anyone’s guess. I wish you luck with your treasure hunt, but I think you’ll have to devise another way of keeping it—IF it’s there, to begin with. I’m a sole proprietor.”
A sole proprietor? What the hell did that mean? I took another swig of beer to lessen the pain. This was embarrassing. Marriage to a total stranger? A somewhat handsome one who could cook and was good with dogs? Hell, he couldn’t be good at everything, could he? He was probably a crappy writer. I intended to find out, one way or another. It was time to ask to see one of his mystery novels.
“You sure you’re not already married?”
Aw, hell. That wasn’t what I intended to ask. There’s a reason I live up here in the country…
Not that it was doing me any good, today.
**************************
Post #17 by Kaz
I couldn’t believe I’d asked that. By doing so, it almost sounded like I was considering his proposal! I mean-- considering his scheme! For he surely hadn’t proposed! Not in any traditional sense of the word.
Bing smiled and shook his head.
“Nope. It’s just Sally and me. I was married, once. For twelve years. It didn’t work out. No one’s fault really.” He got up and removed the plates from the table. “Come on inside. I’ll show you around.”
I was curious about the house. I followed behind him after grabbing another beer from the cooler. Boy, for a woman who didn’t drink, I was sure pounding them down. Nervousness? I didn’t know what else to lay it to. I’m just not a social butterfly, I guess. I’ve never been good at mingling, or carrying on a polite conversation. Or talking about marriage with a man I’d known for twelve hours.
I opened the beer and took another swallow.
Bing set the plates in the sink and then turned around to lean against the counter. He met my gaze.
“I have been divorced for nine years. I don’t have any children. My parents are still alive and married—to each other--and living in New South Wales. I’m a dual citizen of the United States and Australia, having been born in Oz to American parents working for the Peace Corps. I have two younger sisters, three nieces and two nephews. I served in the U.S. Navy as a weapons officer aboard a nuclear sub. When my marriage fell apart, I lost interest in a seaman’s life. Too hard to have a strong relationship when you’re gone for six months or more at a time. She found someone who wasn’t. And I didn’t re-enlist.”
Sally and Brillo came wandering in through the open doorway. The big dog made her way to a bed in one corner and flopped down with a sigh. Brillo paced for a few moments, glancing occasionally at the sofa in the adjoining room.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.
*****************************
Post #18 by Kaz
“Or she will eat your babies….” Bing whispered loudly, winking at me.
I had to grin. It was an idiotic thing to say.
“Number one: I don’t eat babies. Number two: Brillo’s a eunuch. He’ll never have babies. Or puppies.”
Bing bent down and placed his hands over Brillo’s ears as the mutt looked at him adoringly.
"Hush! You never, ever call attention to a gentleman’s lack of baby-making paraphernalia! Sheesh!” He uncovered the dog’s ears and scratched behind them. “Never mind, boy. She’s not herself tonight and doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s the new moon, you see--and all her juices are pulled to one side….”
I snorted. This man was a nut.
“I think you’d better keep Brillo, Mr. Bingham. Clearly, you’ll pay more attention to his tender sensibilities than I will...”
“If you marry me, we’ll both get to keep him. And I sure do like your dog!”
“Oh, come on! Back to that?” I tipped the beer up and took another sip. This guy was relentless. How was I going to get out of this? Change the subject? Clearly, the only remedy was to just go home. I said as much. “Are you gonna show me around this place, or what?”
Damned men.
“Absolutely!” His grin widened and he walked over and crooked his elbow at me in a courtly gesture, as if expecting me to thread my arm through his. So, I did.
This man was a nut, and I simply
had to be drunk.
The structure was pretty much what I expected it to be—a ramshackle old farmhouse. Ah, but I could see the potential. And I was happy to see that Bing did, too. I’ve always hated it when people bought up these old homes and promptly tore them down, replacing them with houses of contemporary ugliness or common-place redundancy. These old farmhouses had character and history. They had charm and permanence. If they managed to retain good roofing systems and had decent foundations, almost all of them could be saved.
Bing took on the role of a real estate agent, showing me the good features of the home, and telling me how he was going to update it. He’d already jacked up the house and replaced the 100 year old sills, which now rested once more upon the solid granite foundation. The floors were as level as they were going to be—and they didn’t appear to cant in any particular direction. Perhaps Bing knew what he was doing.
The plaster-and-lathe walls had been removed in the upstairs rooms, and new wiring was strung through the exposed studs. Rolls of pink fiberglass insulation were stacked in the corners, waiting to be inserted between the studs and stapled into place.
“I’m saving that job for a day that’s a bit cooler than this one,” Bing smiled.
“Mmmm. Good call. Nothing is worse than having fiberglass stuck to all your sweaty spots.” I smiled back. I’d been there, and done that. Ouch.
The floors were of wide spruce, painted in browns and dull greens. Bing planned to sand them all down to the bare wood and stain and seal them. My mind’s eye could see the finished product. Impressive. The upstairs consisted of two bedrooms—one in each gable end-- and a large walk-in closet at the top of the stairs. This, he intended to convert to a three-quarter bath with a shower. He was opening up the eaves on both sides of the bedrooms to expand into storage space. It was a light, cozy area. Very nice. Or… it would be when he was finished.
On the first level the rooms still retained their original plaster and were covered by an assortment of blowsy wall-paper. The kitchen, parlor and living room were typical, small rooms, each accessed by a conventional door. Old farmhouses were hard to heat, and cordoning them off like this allowed the homeowner to heat the rooms in use and close off those that weren’t. Bing told me of his plan to knock down the walls and open up the space. The living room had a fine old stone fireplace, built all the way up from the floor of the basement. He’d already had a mason come in to inspect the integrity of the fireplace and double-flue chimney, and he’d declared the massive stonework to be ‘a keeper’. It was beautiful, and would make a fine centerpiece for the common living area.
A small birthing room and pantry had been converted to an old-fashioned bath years earlier, and a claw-foot tub dominated the room. The exterior of the tub needed to be painted and the fixtures needed replacing, but the interior enamel was pristine and clean. It, too, had potential. I could picture a tiled floor and cypress walls and hanging plants to give the room an exotic look. Yep, this old home had great potential. But boy--was it going to take a ton of work! It was a job I’d love to tackle…
“But, where do you sleep?”
It was a stupid thing to ask. It wasn’t as if I was curious about the man’s bedroom! It was just that—as I looked around—I realized I’d seen it all. The tour of the house was over. And it was obvious that Bing wasn’t bunking amongst the mess upstairs, nor was there a bedroom on the first floor. But to go back and attempt to explain that now would sound even more stupid… so I let the question hang in mid-air.
You’d think I’d learn to keep my mouth shut.
“Ah! Good question! That’s the best part of the house. Come on.” He took my hand and I let him lead me out through a side door off the living room. There was a small ell on that end of the house, and we entered a utility room, of sorts.
“That,” Bing pointed to a door on the opposite wall, “leads to the woodshed. This,” he indicated a set of steep stairs, “goes to the shed ‘chamber’. My bedroom.” He stepped back and indicated that I should precede him in climbing the stairs…
Even half-plastered, I was conscious of the proximity of my back to his front as we climbed into the loft. Geez, I hoped my ass didn’t look fat in these jeans!
Stepping up and emerging into the chamber, I began grinning.
“I love it!”
The room was approximately twenty by twenty feet square. Wide pine planks on the floor--polished to a sheen--were covered here and there by antique braided rugs. The walls were covered in more pine—ship-lapped and running top to bottom at a 45 degree angle. Lots of waste when it was done that way—but it wasn’t my money, and it looked beautiful, varnished to a brilliant gloss, the way it was. Two large skylights let in the fading light of day, and there were two more windows centered in the gable end. The walls were covered in treasures gleaned from a life on the sea. A shelf held a sextant, and some other instruments which I couldn’t put a name to. “Caulking mallet” came to mind when I spied a tool resembling a wooden hammer with iron fittings. A military stopwatch. A brass compass. A pewter hip flask with the naval insignia etched into the front. On one wall hung a ‘man overboard’ life ring and some colorful buoys. From the peak of the ceiling a huge brass lantern was suspended, and it gleamed as the last ray of the setting sun hit it.
It was all quite charming. Masculine, neat, airy. The only thing the bedroom lacked was… a bed.
As if he read my mind, Bing chuckled sheepishly.
“I have all my large furniture stored. Didn’t think it was wise to move it in and then try to work around it. Some of it is in the barn, and some is in a dry rental unit in Moxie Falls. So…” With his foot he nudged the huge feather tick covered by a light patchwork quilt and mounded with pillows that lay on the floor underneath the skylights, “I’m camping out. After a fashion. In all honesty… I’ve never slept better. Don’t know if it’s the pallet on the floor, the great air you’ve got here or…” he smiled into my eyes from only a couple of feet away, “the fact that I’ve never worked so hard in my life!”
God, he had a nice dimple. A fantastic smile. I took a deep breath and moved away. No more beer for me! Lots of men had great smiles. What was the big deal? There wasn’t one. No. Big. Deal.
I walked to the pair of windows at the end of the room.
“Oh, wow. Wow, Jess.” I didn’t even realize what I’d called him. My focus was on the view. “This is amazing!”
Stretched out below and to the west was Dingleberry Bog with a backdrop of distant, cobalt mountains. The bog was patterned with the scrub and cranberries for which it was named, and the water glinted as it reflected the orange sunset streaking the sky above. To the north was the tiny knoll where Winston’s memorial was erected, and beyond that—
Martie’s Haven. My home. To the south of the bog lay the thick forest that rose beyond the end of the road. I’d never seen this view. I couldn’t see this view from my house.
It was magnificent.
“What a view!” I turned to compliment my host. “I could
live with
this!”
What the hell did THAT mean? What I meant was that the view from Bing’s bedroom was stupendous.
Dammit. No more beer for me.
****************************
Post #19, by Saint
The air had cooled with the slight breeze. The sunset was gorgeous.
A guy can tell a lot in a millisecond.
I can’t believe she’s getting hammered. What a lightweight. Guess I can scratch “biker moll” off the list. Talk about a cheap date, eh? He he he... As the pregnant pause reached its third trimester Bing slapped his hands together.
“Ya know... I was just about to throw on some coffee. That sound good to you?”
“OK.”
He he he... O...K… Ooooo kay.
Bee held her beer straight out and waited. Smiling.
“Uh... let me get that, love.”
Taking the bottle from her hand and setting it on the windowsill, Bing took her still outstretched arm in his.
“C’mon. Let’s get you downstairs.”
Carefully leading her down the steps, Bing tried not to stare anything in the face – at least not so much as to forget he was walking backwards down steps. Bee Beecham, on the other hand was, like any woman, emboldened by the fact that her ass didn’t look fat from that angle.
“So... tell me again why you want to marry me.”
Pfffttt... Trying desperately to spin around halfway, ‘”Is it because... of my butt?”
Pbbbfffttt... He he he...
“Yep. I’d say it’s time for some coffee.”
“Because if it’s about my butt then... you know what?”
“What?”
Leaning close as to not be overheard, Bee grinned, “There’s dogs at the bottom of your steps, Pbbbfffttt... Sheee he he he...!”
She was right.
From the bottom of the stairway, with dancing dogs running interference, Jessie Bingham assisted the Crazy Lady Down The Road across the living room and with a “Here we go,” seated her on an antique steamer trunk. “Now, you just sit there while I get some coffee brewing, OK?”
“Hey, Mr. Bingo, I don’t have to sit here if I don’t...” trying to stand, she gave up the notion and plopped back down.
Ooooo... OK... OK... "I’m just gonna sit right here for a minute IF YOU DON’T MIND.”
He he he...
“No. You do that, sweetie. I’ll just be a minute. Actually, this coffee maker takes three minutes,” Bing corrected but Bee was too engrossed in petting the dogs to notice.
“You are such good babies. You are SUCH GOOD BABIES.” Pets and scratches behind the ears.
Looking up from his task, Bing couldn’t help but smile as he watched Bee interact with Sally and Brillo. Pouring the coffee he called out, “Black?”
“Whatever color it comes in I guess. So... why did I ask you to marry me again?”
“Ah, sweetie... I’ll explain it all tomorrow. OK?”
“Well now, I’m afraid the cat’s already out of the bag isn’t it?”
Sally sprang to her feet with a “chuff” and began pacing and sniffing. Looking under things.
Holding his hand up beside his mouth, Bing whispered, “Uh... can’t use the C word.”
“Oh... I see. You can’t say c.a.t.?”
Boewoawoawoa whoaoooooo...!
“Nope. Can’t even spell it.”
“Aw, c’mon... don’t tell me this dog can spell.”
“Well, love, that is a pretty easy word after all. I mean, that’s the first one they teach you isn’t it?” Bing held up an invisible flashcard, “What’s that spell? C’mon... what’s that spell?” he chided.
Bee studied the invisible card for a moment before dropping her eyes, smiling and admitting, “Cat."
Boewoawoawoa whoaoooooo...!
****************************
Post #20, by Kaz
“Love,” he’d said.
How many times had I asked him about getting married? Oh, gawd… I was getting plastered! I
never get drunk!
I hate coffee, but it sounded like a good idea. Based on the fact that the room was swirling around in front of my eyes, I didn’t think I’d be able to make the walk home without laying in the ditch—by choice or accidentally—for awhile, first.
I must have been making a hell of an impression on Mr. Bing Bingham. Oh, well. All the better. He’d drop that dumb idea of marrying me.
“So… this marriage thing… it’s kind of a wild idea, huh?” Was my grin lop-sided? It sure felt lop-sided. But then… the whole room was tilted off to one side. Oh, man….. this wasn’t good.
Had we discussed my butt? No! Of course we hadn’t. Had we?
Damned men. I surely wouldn’t have brought up the subject, that’s for sure.
He handed me a steaming mug of coffee. I looked at the cup. The wording on the side said “Be Alert… The World Needs More Lerts.” I snorted. Completely unladylike. Holy cow…..
“Cheers.” Bing raised his mug in a salute. I wondered what his cup said. “Be Adept… The Word Needs more Depts”? Or maybe, “Be Adroit… The World Needs More Droits”??? I snorted again. This was getting embarrassing. “Drink up, love.”
Why did he keep calling me ‘love’, anyway? As far back as I could remember no one had ever called me ‘love’. I had no intention of getting used to the endearment. I took a gulp of scalding coffee.
“That’s nasty…”
Bing grinned and came to sit beside me on the steamer trunk. There was hardly enough room for him, but… okay.
“Yep. That’s Aussie coffee, grown in New South Wales. A little plantation next to my folks’. Ma and Pop have a small vineyard.
‘Mudgee Waters’ is its name. Good stuff. Great wine.”
He had crows’ feet, too! When he smiled, he had
crows’ feet! Thank God. It wasn’t just
me. They looked better on him, though. I looked away and took another big swallow of coffee. Damn, that was gross.
“Yeah, well…. I don’t drink.”
He chuckled.
“So I’ve noticed.”
The sunlight faded. The room was lit by one small light on an end table. In the dim glow, the outrageous rose-patterned wall-paper didn’t look nearly so hideous. I said so.
“If this was
my house, that shitty wall-paper would be the first thing to go.” I smiled up at him, somewhat befuddled as I realized my head was on his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t change a thing in the bedroom.”
There I went again… talking about his bedroom! What ailed me, anyway? I sat up straight and downed the rest of my coffee.
“I’ve gotta get home. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.” For the life of me, I couldn’t even remember what day it was—say nothing about what I had to do tomorrow. I stood up, and the room swayed. “Whoa! You’ve gotta do something about the yaw in this floor!”
He stood up beside me and took my upper arm.
“Hold on there, Bee. If you’re so hell-bent on going home, I’ll give you a ride. There’s no way you’re walking down to Martie’s Haven. Not in the dark, and not like… not with Brillo.”
I bridled. Not with
Brillo? He’d done it then. Absconded with my dog!
“I
beg your pardon? I’ve walked myself AND my dog home in the dark since before you were out of diapers!” The image of this handsome man standing before me dressed in diapers flashed before my eyes. Hehehe….. I snickered. I hate it when I snicker in the middle of being pissed off…. “Maybe if I just lie down for a minute…” Suddenly, I didn’t feel so well. It had to be that disgusting Aussie coffee. I felt like barfing.
“I might even barf.” I looked at him in horror. “Aw, Jess… I think I’m drunk!”
He grinned.
“No question about it, sweetie. You’re three sheets to the wind. Come on… if you can make it upstairs, you can lay down on my bed for a few. And when you’re feeling better, I’ll zip you and the Labradoodle home.”
“Labradoodle! You’re funny!” There were two of him, now. Oh, my gawd… I was three sheets to the wind. Drunk. Stinking drunk. Oh, my gawd….
“That I am. Come on, now. Let’s get you settled. Is your tummy okay? You’re not going to lose your supper, are you?”
It was FISH in my tummy! I didn’t even like fish! I leaned against him and let him lead me back to the stairs to the loft.
“That was excellent fish, Jess…”
“Yep. Bingo’s Barbequed Swordfish. Get used to it, love.”
Love.
Damn, I was drunk...
- - - - - - - - - -
"Good morning, love.”
It was dark—or practically dark--except for the glow of the lantern suspended from the ceiling above—so I thought he was a little bit off on his timing.
I was in his bedroom. Oh, gawd… I was in his
bedroom.
“Would you like to try another cup of coffee? I can’t guarantee it’ll taste any better, but maybe your stomach will tolerate it, this time.”
He was sitting on the floor beside his bed. His feather tick. His pallet.
Whatever the hell it was called. I propped myself up on my elbow, taking stock. I was dressed. So was he. I was in his bed. He was beside it. My mouth tasted like crap. His looked delicious.
“I got drunk.”
“You got drunk.”
“Did I get sick? Make a fool of myself? Aw, Jess… I’m sorry. I hardly ever drink. Honest.” I could feel my face flame. I took the coffee cup from his hand and took a sip. “This is still gross.” The wording on this cup was different. ‘World’s Greatest Lover’, it said. My face got even hotter.
“Still gross. But… it’ll put hair on your chest.” He grinned. Even in the soft light, I could see that damned dimple. I didn’t want to think about that, or his chest. Or his hair. Any part of his body, at all. “And no, love… you didn’t make a fool of yourself, and I know you hardly ever drink. It was fairly obvious. What’d you have… three beers?”
“Four. I think….” I smiled sheepishly and took another sip. It was better this time. “I guess you want me to go home, huh? So you can get some sleep? I’m really sorry…”
I was. Sorry, and embarrassed. What a way to impress the new neighbor.
“What time is it, anyway?” I sat up and looked around for a clock.
“Around two a.m., I guess. I don’t have a clock in here, but it’s pretty close to two. And I’ll be happy to take you home, if you feel up to it—but you’re
not walking. Aat!” As I opened my mouth to protest, he held up his hand like he’d done to the dogs. I was NOT a dog…”I will be happy to drive you home. Or….” I cocked my head, interested in this
‘or’ of his. Honestly? I was still suffering the after-effects of the alcohol. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and go back to sleep in this cozy space… in this comfy bed. “Or, you can stay right here and rest for a few more hours, and I’ll cook you breakfast. Bingo’s Famous French Toast. But… you’ll have to scoot over. Share your nest. I promise, I won’t snore.” The dimple. The damned dimple.
I swallowed. Hard.
He wanted to lay down with me. Sleep beside me. I hadn’t been in bed with a man in… well, it seemed like I hadn’t been in bed with a man since Bing was in diapers. Suddenly, I wasn’t picturing him in diapers, though. I was picturing him in…
“Dressed, right? You’d stay dressed?” Sheesh…. How lame was
I? And why was I even considering his suggestion? I’d known him for less than 24 hours. He might be a dog-napper, after all… “I’d really love to go back to sleep for awhile….”
“Sweetie, I’ll be completely dressed. Just like you are. Except I won’t have my shoes on, either.” I realized my feet were bare. He must have removed my sneakers…that was rather… intimate, wasn’t it? I glanced surreptitiously at his feet. Not bad. Some people have ugly feet. It would have been good if Jessie Bingham’s feet were ugly. It’d be nice to have something to find fault with.
Damned man.
I was an adult. Right? So... what was the big deal? No big deal. No. Big. Deal.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He smiled warmly and took the coffee cup from my hand, setting it on the floor away from the mattress. “Okay. And in the morning, we’ll continue our conversation.”
“About getting married?” I scuttled down under the quilt, tired and head-achey.
“If you’d like. About the Holdens, and the gold, and our dogs--who are obviously very attached to each other, already. And maybe… about getting married.” Bing climbed onto the feather tick. I turned my back to him and hugged one of the soft pillows. Gawd, this bed was comfortable! No wonder he slept so well. I felt him pull gently on the quilt. “So, you’re a blanket hog, huh?” His voice was teasing. Husky. Nice.
“Yeah. I guess so.” I felt his hand descend briefly on my hip. He gave me a friendly squeeze before removing it.
“Good night, love.”
Love…
“Nite, Jess…” I drifted off to sleep, mildly surprised to find myself looking forward to waking up next to Jessie 'Bing' Bingham.
****************************
Post #21, by Saint
Bee bolted upright then instantly froze – certain the maneuver had ripped her brain in half.
OK. That hurt. Judging by the angle of the sunlight attacking her, she’d slept in. Way in. Way in... but
where in? That same sunlight seemed to glare off of well... everything. It instantly dawned on her that something should be dawning on her but wasn’t.
Lying back, she pulled the blanket over her head and buried her face in the pillow – she would just stay right there. No problem. Her eyes popped open.
He’ll find me. No he won’t – not under this blanket. You gotta pee. No I don’t. Yep... now it’s worse. Chill out. Oh yeah, timer’s started. Sonofabitch. OK. OK. Just be cool. Just act casual – you’ll get through this. That’s the plan. Casual. Cool.
The plan hadn’t really allowed for the full length mirror hanging halfway down the staircase.
Oh my god! Who let Phyllis Diller in here? Ahem... time’s ticking, Bee.
“Is that you, love?” came from the bacon in the kitchen.
Oh my god! Oh my god! Serendipity Benevolence Bee Beecham James was stuck. As one might expect, her mind instantly flashed to Omaha Beach. June 6th, 1944. D-Day.
Those guys know what I’m talking about. They were stuck too. Ocean to their backs and bad guys to their front – none of their options included staying put either. Yeah, those guys... they know what I’m talking about. Managing to get her hair to stay in one clump, Bee made her way down the beachhead.
OK. OK. Cool. Casual. I’ll just bip on through, saying something whimsical on my way to the bathroom. That’s the plan. Bip. Cool. F***ing whimsical. Writers can do whimsical.
In fact, Bee Beecham was prone to whimsy “...as Margo rounded the corner into the kitchen only to find Wade Eastman standing at the stove frying bacon – nude. ‘Oh my,’ she mock twittered.”
OK, now I’ve really gotta pee.
Bee rounded the corner into the kitchen only to find Jessie Bingham standing at the stove frying bacon.
“Oh my,” she mock twittered but like most writers had no idea where to go from there.
Oh yeah, ‘whimsical’. “Ya know, us getting married is about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” she chimed as she made her whimsical f***ing way to the bathroom.
****************************
Post #22, by Saint
The world seemed a better place when Serendipity B. James emerged from the bathroom. Not so hectic.
Jessie Bingham wasn’t standing at the stove frying bacon – not that it mattered so much now – rather, he’d set-up yesterday’s out-door entertainment ensemble in what was now the “breakfast nook” just off the kitchen. Buttered French toast, topped with grape jam and a sprinkling of confectionary sugar, coupled with a side of bacon and coffee adorned the table.
Looking up, the dimple smiled and said, “Thought you might like some breakfast. I know how it can be when you’ve been up partying all night. He he he...”
Oooo... the sonofabitch. Just never lets up about it does he? Sonofabitch. Harp harp harp. Grrrrr... Now I’m supposed to be all “You want I should put out before or after breakfast there – writer, chef, dimple dude?” Yeah, well rub a lamp, pal. It don’t work like that.
“It certainly looks delicious.”
OK. It certainly looks delicious.
I am freaking starved too. Resisting the temptation to plop down and scarf chow like there was no tomorrow, Bee casually – wistfully – turned, studying the contents of the bookshelf along the wall. Cool. Selecting a book at random (casually) she opened it to glance at a word or two. Maybe check the font size, paragraph format, front matter – cool writer-stuff like that.
Oh my god... it’s a first edition Callow. Taking Out The Flour Girl. Signed!
“My god, how old
are you?” Bee smiled – thinking herself amusing.
“No no, sweetie... my grandmother gave me that ages ago...” Bing chuckled, “...but yeah, I get that all the time. Uh... breakfast?”
OK. I’ve sidled wistfully long enough. Don’t want the poor schmuck to feel bad. The least I can do is choke down some breakfast I guess, seeing how's he went through all the trouble of making it and all.
Seating herself at the table, “I suppose I might be able to nibble about halfa dab... maybe... I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever tried French toast with jelly.”
“No other way to eat it if you ask me. Mmmm mmm. Bingo’s Famous French Toast.”
Taking her first bite, Bee was pleasantly surprised. ”Not bad. Not bad.”
Oh my god, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.
“Mind if I join you?” Big smile.
Taught not to speak with her mouth full – at least not as full as she was cramming it – Bee smiled, gesturing Bing to, “pees doo.” Close enough.
My god this stuff is good. A gulp of coffee and right back to it.
Bing grinned as he sat sipping his coffee and watching Bee devour her breakfast.
This poor child hasn’t eaten in... oh yeah... since last night. He he he...
Now I suppose this guy’s going to just sit there and watch me eat. Why do guys do that? Oh no, I’ll just sit here and watch your fat ass eat. Grrrrr...
“You did hear me, right?”
Bing thought for a moment. “If you mean about our getting married being ridiculous... yeah. That’s cool. No worries. Never mind.” Still all smiles.
OK. I gave her the opportunity. Her loss – not mine.
“Well OK then.”
Pbbbfffttt... Ha! Put the kibosh on that tack, eh? That was easy. The more Bee thought about it... the more she thought about it.
Too easy. OK. Let’s re-cap. This guy shows up out of nowhere, offers me half of eighty million bucks and wants to marry me and I tell him no. OK. So far so good. Guess I told him, eh? Yeah, Bee... guess you told him. What? Nothing... just guess you told him ‘sall. Don’t start that crap! What crap? He shows up and offers you forty million and you tell him f*** off, ‘sall. Well what am I supposed to say? Hey, a******, he said never mind so never mind, OK? It never happened. Go back to your life... ‘sall.
Go back to my life? “Oh just never mind,” he says. Now I’m supposed to just ‘go back to my life’? That sonofabitch. Who the f*** does he think he is. The sonofabitch. Well maybe you should have thought of that before you shot him down. Probably broke his heart ya bitch. Hey, f*** you. No... f*** us.
****************************
Post #23, by Kaz
In spite of my seeming schizophrenia, I really DID have things under control. I mean… there was no way I was contemplating marrying him, right? So his utter lack of concern about my disregard for his ‘proposal’ should have come as no surprise. In fact—it should be welcome.
So, why did I feel so forlorn, all of a sudden?
It was just that… well—he hadn’t tried hard enough. You don’t just make such a huge, life-changing proposition, and then abandon it without SOME kind of argument, do you?
Apparently, you do. Or…Jessie Bingham did, anyway. The sonofabitch. A typical man, for sure. Suddenly, my appetite was gone. I pushed my plate away.
“Good stuff, Mr. Bingham. Thank you for that—and for supper, last night. But, I’ve gotta get home. So… thanks for your hospitality, and I’m sorry I got… tipsy. Believe it or not—that’s a rare occurrence.” I could feel the heat in my face. He probably thought I was a lush.
Bing pushed a forkful of grape-jelly-covered French toast into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of coffee. Displayed that damned dimple.
“Hey. I know that. It’s obvious that you don’t drink very often. Otherwise… well. Three or four beers wouldn’t have… done you in, the way they did.” He, too, pushed his plate towards the middle of the table. “Bee, don’t worry about it. You haven’t embarrassed yourself. You didn’t break some ‘code’. I still have a high opinion of you. And, I’ve gotta say… it was damned nice waking up next to you, this morning. In spite of the drool…”
“Drool?” Aw, hell. Was he kidding?
“Drool.” Bing chuckled. “Not much. Nowhere near what Sally can put out on any given day. And… I still love her, you know.”
‘Love’…
He needed to shut up, before this conversation went totally awry. I pushed my chair back and stood.
“Yes, well… I guess I’ll take my dog and go home.” Brillo ducked under the table. The traitor.
Bing wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, too.
“Would you like a ride?”
“No. Thank you-- but no. It’s a short walk, and I could use the fresh air. Brillo!” I shouted, much louder than was necessary. I mean… the dog was right there! Sheesh….
“Come on, boy. Time to head home.”
Brillo came to stand at my knee, his tail wagging in dubious enthusiasm. Sally walked to his side and laid a slobbery kiss on his floppy ear. And then, another.
“That’s one disgustingly awesome Dane you’ve got, there.” I had to grin. Brillo had a loogey the size of a night-crawler plastered onto the side of his face. Gross. But funny, too. As long as he didn’t share it with me…
Bing ran his hand along the big dog’s back.
“Yep. Sally’s my girl. Or… one of them, anyway.” He grinned at me. “Hey… do you have something pressing to do at home? Or, would you like to walk over to Winston’s memorial with me? Before it gets hot…” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s gonna be another scorcher, I heard.”
I did have pressing things to do at home. I needed to….and I should…and anyway--what would be the point of walking over there? He’d already said he didn’t want to marry me. He’d dropped that idea like a hot potato. He was welcome to his eighty million dollars. If it existed—which it probably didn’t. More power to him. I wished him well, but I didn’t have time for such foolishness.
“Okay,” I said.
Damned men. Damned dimple. Damned cooking talent… What the hell was I doing?
“Let’s go.” I picked up our plates and carried them to the sink. Looked at Brillo and said—for Bing’s information, as well as the dog’s—“Dogs don’t get ‘people’ food! Back off!”
Brillo looked at me and then turned his head and glanced sideways at Bing. Like HE was his boss!
“You’d better listen to your Mum, Brillo. I have it on good authority,” he lowered his voice into a mock whisper, “that she will eat your babies!”
I rolled my eyes. Smirked.
“I told you! He’s a…”
“Aat, aat, aat! Hush!” Bing walked to me and put his warm hand over my mouth, grinning. “You must NEVER point out a gentleman’s lack of baby-making paraphernalia!”
Smiling behind his hand, I touched my tongue to his palm.
Damned men.
****************************
Post #24 , by Kaz
The memorial site was only a ten minute walk away, and at eight a.m., the day hadn’t heated up, yet. The air was still cool. It was a glorious morning.
I’d been here before. Martie and I had hiked through the woods a time or two, skirting Dingleberry Bog and sitting on the rise overlooking the water as we took in the view. The memorial was pretty, if a little creepy. A large granite stone surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence… with manicured shrubs outside that. I could understand wanting a little fence to protect the site, I suppose. But—protect it from what?
Bing pulled the gate open, and the dogs plowed through. They snorted and snuffed, and then Brillo lifted his leg.
“Brillo!” He sprinkled the stone and looked at me apologetically. “Get away from there!” He did as he was told, while Sally checked out his offering. “Geez… how’s that for respectful?” I was embarrassed. Why couldn’t it have been HIS dog who piddled on the memorial stone?
Bing folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the fence, looking me in the eye.
“I think it’s here. Aren’t you curious? Hell, aren’t you tempted? Don’t you want to know?”
I sighed. Of course I wanted to know. But…
“Look, Bee. I’ll say this once, and if you still hate the idea, I’ll never bring it up again. I’d like to marry you.” He held up his hand when I opened my mouth. “Please, love—let me finish. I know this isn’t the kind of proposal a woman wants. I know we are strangers. I know a man and a woman are supposed to get married because they love each other and want to build a life together. I know all that.” Bing straightened and took a couple of steps towards me. He reached out and took my hands.
“I’ve been divorced, so you might think that makes me a bad risk. But I believe in marriage. My wife left
me—not the other way around. I was an absentee husband and she wanted someone who wasn’t. But long and happy marriages run in my family. That’s what I want to have. And if you married me, I would try my hardest to make it work. Whether there is any gold buried in this lot, or not.”
“But…” Dammit, ‘but’
what?? “Look. I don’t know you. I know nothing about you! And you know nothing about me! You might find out you hate me! And then we’d be
stuck.”
He squeezed my hands.
“A guy can tell a lot in a microsecond, you know. And I could tell the moment I saw you that you are not the kind of woman people hate. I’ll bet you’re the kind of woman people love.”
I looked away. I was almost 40 years old and unmarried. Apparently, I wasn’t all that loveable…
“Bee, look at me. It’s a risk, sure. But people have made relationships work with a lot less going for them. You’re gorgeous. Aat! You are. Trust me. You are independent. Folks say you’re a devoted mother…that you work hard…that you are involved in the community. That’s not the kind of woman people hate. And, you’ve got a great dog! Plus… I love your muffins.” He grinned. I blushed.
Damned men.
“Well, sure! YOU’D be getting a great bargain. But what about me? Do YOU work hard? Are you active in your community? I don’t even know if you’re a good writer. AND… I’ve never tried your muffins!” I felt myself blushing even more. “What’s in it for me? Besides the gold, which probably doesn’t exist?” I stared at him, amazed that I hadn’t already walked away. I was nuts. Hung over.
Crazy.
“I work hard, but I like to play hard, too. And you’ve tried my swordfish and my French toast…. What did you think?” I rolled my eyes. Bing had me, there. He squeezed my hands again. “And my pen name is Johnson Seavers.”
Oh, my God. Johnson Seavers. Oh, my God.
“Okay, so you can write. Pfffttt!” I couldn’t believe I was holding hands with Johnson Seavers! “That’s still not a reason to marry you, is it?” Oh, my God…
“Nope. And neither is eighty million dollars, or barbequed swordfish or an awesome Great Dane. But I’m not a bad bloke. I’m a pretty good guy, actually. And… I like you.”
A laugh escaped me. It had a tinge of hysteria to it—which was even funnier. Oh, my God! I doubled over, pulling my hands from his. He LIKED me. The marriage proposal I’d secretly hoped for all my life came from a total stranger who said he LIKED me! Was that romantic, or what?? The irony of it was hilarious. What else did I expect? It was so typical of my life, my gaucheness, my…. Hahahaha!
Bing stood there and watched me as I laughed; a questioning smile on his face. I’ll bet he thought I was the Crazy Lady Down the Road, or something! Finally, my hilarity wound down. I leaned against the memorial and gasped, all strength gone.
“I’m sorry….” I tittered, still a bit on the edge. “I’m really glad you...like me.” My face hurt. “I like you, too, Jess. Thus far, anyway. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s do it. Let’s get married. Let’s buy the lot. Let’s dig for gold. And then, when we don’t find any—we’ll find out what this marriage thing is all about. Just remember-- I come with a daughter, as well as a great dog. And, I come with my own tools. I’m a hell of a bargain.” I snickered weakly.
“That, you are, love. No arguments, here.” There was that sexy dimple again.
I was nuts. Hung over. Crazy. What had I done?
I couldn’t wait to find out.
****************************
Post #24, by Kaz
“You’re what???” Martie squealed and I held the phone away from my ear. “You did NOT just say you’re getting married! To a guy you just met? Oh, wow, Mum. Wow.”
“I’m hoping you can make it home on Friday… it’ll just be a simple civil ceremony.” I sounded so matter-of-fact—when I felt anything but! What had I done?
“You’re kidding! Aw, Mum… my Native Studies class is climbing Tumbledown to see the petroglyphs, and then I have a paper due on them next Wednesday. I don’t see how I can miss the climb. Way to give a girl some notice!”
I grinned. Martie’s sarcasm was well-known at the Haven—and in Moxie Falls.
“No problem, baby doll. We’ll have some kind of celebration next time you come home. Really… this will be a short and simple proceeding. No real need for you to be there.” Martie was my only child and best friend, and I was getting married without her. Somehow, I’d never pictured my wedding day quite like this.
“Is he a nice guy, Mum? Because if he doesn’t treat you well, he’ll have to answer to me.”
My daughter was five foot three and as gentle as a lamb.
“I’ll make sure he knows he has to watch his step, Martie.” I longed to hug her. “Yes, of course he’s a nice guy. He would have to be to convince your old maid of a mother to marry him, right?”
“True.” I heard her giggle. “Oh, my God, Mum. I just realized. You’re practically a virgin! I’ll bet you haven’t had sex since… let’s see. I’ll be nineteen in… add nine months… Yep! You might as well be a virgin!”
She was getting a little lippy. It hadn’t been quite that long, but it sure seemed like it.
I heard a vehicle on the gravel road and looked out the window in time to see Bing’s truck pull into the yard. Brillo went to the door, his tail wagging. Not even a bark… he already knew who it was.
“Gotta run, baby doll. I love you. And don’t worry, okay? Your old mother knows what she’s doing.” That was an out-and-out lie.
“Oh, I love you too, Mummy. Be happy. Okay? Wow, I’m gonna have a dad! I hope he gives generous allowances!” She snickered. “Oh! And for God’s sake, get on the pill! Seriously, Mum… be happy. You’ve given up your whole life for me. I want you to be happy.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“I never gave up anything, Martie. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Aw… don’t you dare cry! If you do, so will I! And I’ve got a date tonight. I do not want to go looking all botchy and red-eyed!”
Smiling, I said goodbye as Bing rapped on the screen door. I beckoned him in, and Brillo wiggled in ecstasy as Bing rubbed his ears and scratched his belly. What a traitor that dog was. But I sure was glad Bing was so good with him.
It could have gone worse with Martie. I was relieved. I’d had visions of my daughter throwing a major fit when she heard I was getting married to a man she’d never met. Instead, she almost sounded happy about it.
Maybe things would work out okay.
“Hi,” Bing straightened and grinned at me. “You look pretty this morning.”
Well, I didn’t. I had on cut-off jeans and another baggy, holey shirt. I hadn’t been expecting him. But… I’d been thinking about him. Damned men. Damned man.
“Hi. Are you alone?” I smiled back.
“Yep, I left Sally at the Bog. I’ve got errands to run in town, and I didn’t want to leave her in a hot truck.”
“You could have brought her down here, you know. I mean… we’re almost family.” I smiled shyly. That sounded so corny.
“Well, thank you. But I was kind of hoping you’d come with me. We need to buy you a diamond, and pick out wedding bands, after all.”
I plopped into a kitchen chair, and then quickly stood up. I went to the window and looked out over the garden.
“I don’t need a diamond, Jess. Really. I spend a lot of time in the garden, you know. I’d probably ruin it, or lose it, or something. You should save your money…” My voice trailed off. A diamond? No one had ever offered to buy me expensive jewelry before.
He walked over to me and put his hand gently under my chin and turned my face until our eyes met.
“I want to buy my soon-to-be bride a diamond, okay? Please let me do that, Bee. I want to.”
Well, damn. Now how could I say ‘no’? A diamond. I glanced down at my rough working hands.
My first diamond. My first wedding band.
I found myself hoping they’d be my last. My only.
Forever.
I was nuts. The Crazy lady Down the Road. I wondered if Bing realized every place had one….and that he was about to marry her.
- - - - - - - - - -
“With this ring, I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow...”
Bing’s voice was low, but firm. He didn’t sound like he had any misgivings, at all. He smiled into my eyes and slid the cool gold band onto my finger.
Myrtle Potts stood front and center, looking like a proud aunt. Moxie Falls’ first assessor was also a JP, and she’d informed us that we were “her 50th wedding”. She followed that up by telling us that out of those 50 marriage ceremonies she’d performed, 27 had ended in divorce, and two… in suicide.
I’d given a nervous snicker. Bing had simply smiled benignly and said, “Well, Mrs. Potts, we’ll be your first golden anniversary! In fact, you’re invited to the party now, as our most honored guest.”
The old gal had melted when she saw that dimple, and simpered like a schoolgirl.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Myrtle removed her reading glasses and winked at us. “You may kiss the bride.”
I was about to receive my very first kiss from my husband. How often did that happen—that a bride had never before felt on her own mouth the lips of the man she was marrying? Bing had pecked me on the cheek a couple of times in the last few days, but that was it. What kind of a kisser would he be? What kind of a kisser would I be???
Suddenly, a scene from the movie Hitch flashed in front of my eyes. Will Smith and Kevin James standing on the steps of an apartment building… Kevin’s eyes closed, lips puckered and pursed, looking like a complete doofus. Suddenly, I knew that’s what I’d look like….
Oh, my God.
Bing’s lips were warm. His breath was fresh. For a second, his tongue touched my bottom lip, and then it was gone. I resisted the urge to chase it…
oh, my God.
I felt like a virgin.
****************************
Post #25, by Saint
Marriage certificate in hand, a quick stop at the County Courthouse netted the newlywed Binghams the deed to Winston Holden’s memorial plot – sans auction – along with several raised eyebrows at Bee’s new marital status. Hoping she wouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone before she’d had the chance to absorb it all herself, Bee simply smiled her way through the questioning looks. True to their nature the Moxie Falls locals were much too polite to just come right out and ask. Leaving the courthouse, Bee was glad to have that part behind them.
The ride started out quietly as, with Bing driving, they wound their way through the hills toward home. But which home? That was the first question.
“So... what happens now?” Mrs. Serendipity Benevolence ‘Bee Beecham’ James-Bingham wanted to know.
Bing had been wondering the same thing. In truth, he really hadn’t expected Bee to say “yes”. Hadn’t really planned for that eventuality.
“I don’t know, sweetie... what do most people do on their honeymoon?” All smiles.
Oh yeah… should’ve known. Should have f***ing known.
“Dig for buried treasure?” OK... that didn’t sound right.
“Mmmmm....” Still all smiles.
Oooo, that sonofabitch. I guess he thinks he owns me now. He is your husband, you know. Just barely! ‘Just barely’ is all it takes. He is kinda cute, I guess. ‘Kinda’ my ass... you’ve been wanting to jump his bones since you met him – lying out there in the cornfield in your panties and all. Hey, it’s not like I planned it that way. So... you’d ‘plan’ it differently today... hmmm?
“I don’t really know anything about you, you know.”
“Fair enough, sweetie. But... how about what you DO know about me?”
Bee thought for a long time before answering. Reaching over and taking Bing’s hand in hers, she admitted, “The short time we’ve been together has been... wonderful. I’d forgotten what it feels like to wake up wondering what the new day will bring. Now I actually look forward to finding out. Thank you for that. But what I don’t understand is... why me?” Then staring him in the eye, “Surely you know we could have accomplished the same thing by forming a corporation.”
“You saw right through that, huh?”
“Well, duh.”
“Well why didn’t you just say so right then and there? So... are you saying you knew that but married me anyway?”
“Uh... well, what about you? You knew the same thing, right? So I could just as easily ask you the same question.... Why did you want to marry me?”
Ha! That ought to cool his jets.
“I wanted to marry you because...” Bing took his eyes off the road long enough to show his sincerity, “...I love you.”
OK. This sonofabitch is good. Oh, he could have said because that way he’d be in on the whole 80 million – IF there is 80 million. He could have just said he likes my tits but nooooo... He has to say, “I love you.” The sonofabitch is good. You’re gonna cry aren’t you? NO! I’m not going to cry! You’ve never been loved you know... that, in and of itself is.... Dammit, I’m NOT going to cry! OK so don’t cry. Who cares?
Tears streamed down Bee’s face as she fumbled to regain her composure. “But how? When...? I mean....”
“In the garden. That’s when I knew. I think it was the blue panties,” Bing added with a wink and a dimple as he turned onto the long driveway leading up to Martie’s Haven.
Oh, well, that’s just f***ing great. My panties. Not even my tits for crying out loud. Well maybe if you weren’t squeezing them all lopsided and all they’d be more memorable, eh? OK. OK. Forget that. We’re home… now what?
Stopping in front of the house, the two sat watching their dust blow downwind as the air before them cleared. Bing had come to a decision.
“I’m going to swing by my place for a second. I’ll see you up there. Bring a shovel.”
Bee climbed from the Bing Family pick-up somewhat dazed as Bing sped off toward his house – still smiling.
Whelp, you asked “Now what?” so this is ‘what’. “Bring a shovel.” Just like that. “Bring a shovel.” I suppose now he figures he can bark a command and I’ll just hop to. Chop chop. And what the f*** is a shovel? Oh yeah... a shovel. His place. Not ‘our’ place. His place. Hmmm... So just where does one keep one of those things? What things? A shovel dammit! Oh yeah, a shovel. Out with the other shovels I reckon. Yeah, that’s where it is.
Stopping halfway through her doorway Bee couldn’t help but turn to watch Jessie “Bing” Bingham negotiate the last bit of driveway before pulling onto the road and disappearing behind a stand of elms. She closed the door behind herself and leaning back against it Bee surveyed her living room.
Oh my god! Just LOOK at this dump! Oh my god! What ‘Look at this dump’? This place hasn’t been this clean in years and you know it. That’s not the point! Well then, what pray tell is ‘the point’? The POINT is... I don’t know what the f*** I’m doing. That’s the POINT. And... this is news? You haven’t known “what I’m f***ing doing” in ages. So what’s so special about now?
Bee thought long and hard about what she’d been thinking before it occurred to her.
I guess what’s so special about now is – it matters. What’s special about now is – I haven’t felt this way in ages either. Bing makes me feel... I don’t know... alive I suppose. Well then, grab a shovel and go, dammit. Just like that? Just ‘grab a shovel and go’? Yep, just like that. I can’t just ‘go’. I have things to figure out first. Like what? Well like how’s about the long shovel or the short one. OK, NOW you’re just stalling. Never mind then, I’ll just stay here. The short one... uh... and a looser, button down shirt. Lose the bra too. You’re kidding right? Hey, you’re the one who doesn’t want to f*** up. Oh great – you’re a lot of help. Excuse me but I just looked through the entire handbook and, surprise surprise, it doesn’t say a word about me being here to ‘help’. Hmmm... the short one, eh? Do it. Just do it. Now go. Just go.
- - - - - - - - - -
When Bee arrived at Winston Holden’s memorial she wasn’t surprised to see Bing was already there. She was surprised that he’d set up the card table – adorned with a loaf of bread, block of cheese and a bottle of chilled wine. As she stepped through the wrought-iron archway Bing smiled and held up two glasses.
“I thought maybe we should start acting more like a married couple, eh?”
“What, do you want to argue?” with a girlie smirk.
Looking up from pouring the wine Bing simply smiled, “Nope.” He held up a glass. “Join me?”
OK, Bee... this is it – the moment of truth. What are you going to do? What’s it going to be? Your whole life hinges on what you say and do right now. Are you going back to your quiet peaceful existence? Just say the word and it’s done. OR... do you want to see what’s behind door number two?
“OK,” Bee sang, tossing her somewhat smallish shovel back over her shoulder to slam into the wrought-iron fence with a resonating clang. She walked up and accepted the glass from her new husband with a “Thank you.”
Hooking his arm through hers Bing raised his glass for a toast to his new bride. To their new life together. Then he stopped. Froze. He seemed transfixed – staring into space. His whole demeanor seemed distant as he changed the subject. Sliding his hand into his pocket Bing withdrew a pocketknife – snapping it open with a loud locking click.
“I realize now that Mother Holden never knew about the gold – that’s why she didn’t put more money into the Trust.” Taking the glass from her hand, Bing set it on the table. “You do realize there’s no gold buried under Winston’s monument, right?”
Staring at her own dread reflected in the shiny steel blade, Bee stepped back with a half-smile and an, “OK... you’re starting to creep me out a little.”
Bing looked down at the knife in his hand before letting out a loud and genuine laugh. “Here, sweetie... you hold this.” He handed her the knife and, taking her by the wrist, escorted her to where the shovel had chipped the paint from the wrought-iron fence. “Scrape off some of the paint, love.”
“What?”
“Just scrape off some of the paint.”
“Well, OK. If you say so.”
Hey, I’m just happy to have the knife.
Standing alongside the fence, Bee Bingham reached up near where the shovel had glanced off the wrought-iron and sliced off years of thick green oil based paint – revealing the shiny yellow metal beneath. The two turned slowly – each estimating the total number of bars in the fence before looking back to each other.
“Are you as horny as I am?”
"Oh my god yeah.”
****************************
Post #26, by Kaz
“Good morning, Mrs. Bingham.”
I smiled without opening my eyes. ‘Mrs. Bingham’. It sounded good. Right.
“Morning…”
I felt his hand under the quilt as it settled on my hip. His breath was warm on my neck, and his body was spooned up against mine. Back to belly, thigh to thigh. Heaven.
“Mmmmmmm…God, I like waking up next to you.” His voice was husky and his arm slid around my waist. I almost stopped breathing as I waited to see where it would travel next.
Boewoawoawoa whoaoooooo!!!
Wooof!
I jumped a foot in the air, and my eyes flew open. The dogs!
Bing chuckled.
“I think Sally’s jealous. She knows you’re up here.” He pulled gently on my hip and I rolled over onto my back, pulling the quilt up to my chin. I was still shy, even after….last night. Wow… last night. Martie was right. I was practically a virgin.
“I think I’m glad she can’t get up those steep stairs.” I smiled at him and watched the dimple appear in response.
“Oh, she can climb those stairs. She’s just a well-behaved dog, that’s all. She obeys. When I say ‘stay’, Sally stays.” His smile was one of smugness.
A godforsaken racket ensued, and seconds later Sally and Brillo scrabbled into the room. The big dog trotted over to the mattress and laid a long wet tongue along my cheek.
“Eeeeooh!” I pulled the blanket over my head. Laughing, I hollered a muffled “Well-behaved, my ass! Get her off me!” through the cloth. “Oof!” Feet poked themselves into my belly. “Brillo!” Off came the quilt and I looked down the mattress. Brillo was turning in circles, trying to find a way to settle down between us.
Sally stood over me, panting hot breath on my hair.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I looked at Bing. “Jess, do something!”
He chuckled and shook his head.
“Sally, Brillo, down!” He pointed towards the stairs. Sally gave an audible sigh and scrabbled her way back downstairs with Brillo hot on her heels. My husband grinned at me.
“Well, love, that was fun. Now that we’re wide awake, what do you propose we do?”
“Well,” I put my hand to his cheek. It was rough with stubble. Mmmm, I was in bed with a handsome man, and he was mine. “We’re writers. We could write.”
“Later. Later we’ll write, and work hard, and make plans for our new life. But remember… I like to play, too. And eat. Right now, there’s a muffin I’d like to nibble on…” I looked down at the top of his head and swallowed hard. The man did like his muffins.
Damned men. Mmmmmm……
****************************
THE END
****************************
Book Cover Designs:
Beat, Flay, Shove by Kaz Pease (that's my brain, btw!)
Death by Sunflowers by Kaz Pease (read
The Eggless Club by Eugene Saint and that title might make sense!)
Following Seas, by Eugene Saint (he painted that "Captain" painting, don'tcha know!)
Stayed tuned for the 'real' Following Seas, a full length collaboration by Saint and Me. Me and Saint. Or maybe...by Serendipity and Johnson Seavers....hmmm...
Photos: I'm not going to label all the photos I'm randomly adding to this short story, as I'm doing it willy-nilly and without much forethought. But I do want to 'place' a few of them. The labradoodle in the photos is Brillo (yes, he's a 'real' dog) my sister Chris' dog. The Great Dane is Sally, the gorgeous girl of Greg and Pat Drummond of Claybrook Mt. Lodge in Highland Plantation. The gent playing with the Lab is Larry Gilles and the setting is the Wire Bridge over the Carrabassett River in New Portland. The gorgeous photo from New South Wales was taken from my friend Ali g's farm in the heart of wine country. Other photos are taken here and there around The F.A.R.M. The black and white cemetary photo was taken by daughter Josie-Earl. The pics of the mutts in the car were beauts who were waiting patiently for their master to come out of the grocery store in Kingfield, and the photo of the ki-oat-tay with the kitten cuddling close is compliments of my friend Cathy at Fryewood Farm...and more...
