Tuesday Tales - Mouth

 

Howdy do! Welcome to Tuesday Tales. This week we have the beginning of the story from last week. I shared a snippet of context. This week, I share a snippet of the beginning. The story is tentatively titled, "The Painting." I hope you enjoy it. When you're done, bop on over to read the wonderful pieces by the other Tuesday Tales authors. You'll find them HERE. 

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 “Hi! It’s me! I’ve come back for the painting. The one titled “The Front Porch”. Remember?”

The man with his back to her turned to face her. He had a pleasant face. One could almost call him handsome. His brow was furrowed. He frowned. “Who are you?”

Ignoring his remark, Sandy stopped in front of the woman. “Do you remember? I paid for it yesterday.”

The woman’s face colored. “Oh my gosh, yes. I do remember. There’s a little problem, though. It seems my husband also sold the painting.”

“What?” Sandy didn’t understand.

“It’s my fault, really. I didn’t mark it sold before I went to the ladies’ room. I mean, who knew someone else would come along that quick and want it.“

“He sold it to me. I paid cash. So the painting is mine,” the tall man said.

“Who the hell are you?” Sandy asked the man with he big mouth.

“Reid Carpenter Clark.” He nodded, but did not extend his hand.

“Sandy Katz.” She frowned. “The painting is mine.”

“Actually, she did pay for it first,” the artist said.

“But I paid cash. Credit card?” he asked, looking at Sandy.

“Yes. So?”

“It won’t clear until Monday. Therefore the legitimate payment is my cash. And the painting is mine.”

“That’s a whole lot of double-talk, Mr. Clark. I’m not buying it.”

“Where do you both live?” Burt asked.

“Manhattan,” they said in unison.

Burt raised his eyebrows. “Good. Makes this easy.” He walked behind the tent for a moment, returning with two bills in his hand. He handed it to Sandy. “Here you go. A hundred bucks.” Then he turned and slipped the other in Reid’s hand. “There. Now you’ve each paid a hundred for the painting and you both own it. Now you two can fight it out or whatever. We’ve got to finish setting up Sweetheart, give them the painting,” Burt said.

She handed it to Sandy. Reid put his hand on it, too.

“Let go. It’s mine. I bought it first,” Sandy said.  

“No.”

“Would you two please take that over there? We don’t want to chase customers away.”

“You’re the ones who got us into this mess,” Reid said.

“Look, I don’t want to call security. You look like a rich man. Offer her a grand for her share and take the painting home.”

“What makes you think I’d sell my share for any amount of money?”

That's it. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - APRIL 16 - BUTTON

 

Welcome! Today I'm trying something different. I'm taking a small break from "Two of Hearts" to throw out something I've been working on for a new book. I'm anxious to get your feedback. What do you think? Does this character intrigue you? Is he real? Interesting? Would you want to read his story? 

The setting is her art studio where she's using him as a model for a book cover. He's 45 years old, just the right age to portray the hero of the book. This is what's going through his mind as he's posing for her. 

He's an old money Christian and she's a second-generation American Jewish woman. They are not dating and have had a contentious friendship tenuously drawn together over the love of a particular painting they saw at an art show. 

The snippet is a little longer than usual and I apologize for that. Please let me know what you think. And be honest! 

PS. I know it's a lot of telling and not much showing. I will editing in the showing after I nail down the scene. 

When you're done, hop on over to the other authors. Find them HERE. 

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 He watched her gaze travel across his shoulders and down the open front of his shirt. She adjusted the opening to be just so, not exposing too much of his chest, but just enough for the picture. When she drew her lower lip between her teeth his eyes were drawn to her mouth. Then he noticed a slight pink creep into her cheeks as her gaze rested on his chest.

He didn’t want to notice those things about her. He’d been perfectly content for 45 years not noticing much of anything that didn’t pertain directly to his life. He’d ignored most of the world, especially the little nuances of women. He'd kept his focus on his life and the things he needed to button up to get through his day. And that’s all.

But not now. Now he noticed. He noticed her, everything about her. How she styled her hair and what clothes she wore. He noticed how tight her blouse was, emphasizing her tempting but forbidden breasts. He noticed that her eyes shone in a different way. Was that desire? Was it lust? He had no clue because he’d never noticed it in a woman before.

Oh he wasn’t a virgin. Quite the contrary. But sex had always been kind of a bargain, a reward for treating an attractive woman to an expensive meal or a night at the theater. Kind of bought and paid for in a subtle way totally acceptable to society. But not with her. He’d never ask her to dinner or the theater, and even if he broke every rule of his and his family’s, she wouldn’t go with him anyway.

No. Sex had never been about a willing look on a woman’s face. It had always been about him making a subtle pass and either getting the green light or getting turned down. That was it. Quite cut and dried. But not with her. With her nothing was cut and dried. She threatened his sense of the world. With her it was about emotion, raw emotion. He saw it in her art. The way she sometimes followed the rules and other times took liberties. He burned with jealousy that she could be comfortable taking liberties while he never dared to step out of the box that had become his life. Why should he? He’d been content with his situation. He lived an extremely comfortable life, one that everyone else on the planet would envy. But not her.

She laughed at his rigidity, his conservative values and ideas. Laughed, like he was some kind of clown or something. And she’d questioned him, relentlessly until he felt unsure, unsure of his own ideas and of what was right and proper. She was never proper and she didn’t care. And it made him mad.

He raised his gaze to hers and saw something flit through – was that desire? No, he was delusional. He was the enemy, the Nazi waiting to throw her in a prison camp. No, she’d never desire him. At that moment, though, he could swear she did. Then he felt heat come to his own cheeks because he desired her. Wanted her in a way he’d never wanted a woman before. All hot and sweaty, earthy, and primal. The feeling shook him so that he suddenly felt unsteady.

“Are you all right? It’s hot in here. I'll open the window,” she’d said.

Hell, what was wrong with him wouldn’t be fixed by opening a window. Nope. He’d done it. Crossed over the line. He wanted her with every fiber of his being. The forbidden fruit. What the hell was he going to do now?

TUESDAY TALES - GENTLE

 

Howdy! Welcome to Tuesday Tales, where authors write to a word prompt. We have more from "Two of Hearts" this week. When you're finished, hop on over to the other authors' works you'll find HERE. 

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“Why don’t I send you a text every night. Would that do?”

He exhaled. A text, a cold, impersonal, don’t-bother-to-reply text. His shoulders sagged.

“Sure. Sure. Whatever works for you.” He refused to appear clingy.

“Could you sleep then?”

“Yeah. About coming for a visit.” He shut his eyes tight, praying for the right answer.

“You mean this weekend? That won’t work. A bunch of us are driving up the coast. Kind of an adventure. Then we’re going to write about the trip. Someone suggested a road trip film. But we’d experience it first.”

“And I can’t come?” His heart twisted.

“I suppose you could. But the rest of the team might feel kinda funny. You not being a writer and all. Like how would you contribute?”

“Pay for your hotel.”

Silence.

Words tumbled from her in a rush. “I know I’m running up a lot of extra expenses, but when I sell my first screenplay, I’ll pay you back.” 

“Sorry. That came out wrong. It’s not about the money. Fuck the money. I want you to have this experience. It’s not that at all. If I wouldn’t fit in, okay, then.”

“Maybe we could plan a weekend for just us? Say next month?”

“We could do that.” A month? Christ, I have to wait a month to get her for a weekend? Fuck.

“Why don’t you get on that? Text me a choice of two dates.”

“Clare, texting doesn’t work for me.”

“You know how to do it, right?”

“Of course, I know how. That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Patience wore thin.

“Hey, no need to get belligerent.”

“No need to get belligerent? You’re relegating me to a text buddy? And you don’t think I should object to that? I’m your husband, not some acquaintance.”

“We knew this wasn’t going to be easy, Terry. Please don’t make it any harder than it is.”

“Didn’t you have fun when we Skype’d?”

Silence. Then her voice, lower, more gentle than before. “Sure, I did. It was amazing. I could almost feel you touch me.”

“Me, too. So, let’s do it again.”

“I don’t know. My roommate is here all the time. She’s a giant pain in the ass.”

“Then go to a hotel. I’ll pay for it.”

“It’s just not a good time.”

“Why? Why isn’t it? It’s a great time for me. I love you, Clare. I miss you.”

“I know. One month down and five to go.”

“It seems like forever.”

“It’ll pass before you know it. Look, I’ve gotta run. Get the stuff about our weekend together and text it to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you, Terry. Love you to bits.”

“Love you, too.”

And then she was gone. 

Terry headed for the kitchen. There was an empty take-out food container on the counter. He heaved it against the wall. The noise woke Queenie who came running in, barking.

Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - QUICK

 

Welcome! It's time for more FREE READS on Tuesday Tales. We're back with the continuing story of "Two of Hearts" and it's Terry's turn. When you finish hop on over to the other free reads by the great authors of Tuesday Tales. Find their works HERE. 

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After the walk, Terry pushed open the front door. He hadn’t overeaten like that in years. Closing his eyes, he could still taste the rigatoni. Covered in that sauce, that excellent sauce, it had created memories on his tongue. Clare cooked like that, too. As he unharnessed the pug, he remembered winter weekends when they didn’t get dressed, but spent the day cooking, eating, watching tv and making love. It had become a ritual. He’d pick one football game and she’d pick one movie.

Clare would make stew or soup or even a small turkey with stuffing, and bake cookies. And they’d pigged out. Snuggling up together on the sofa, Terry usually started things. A self-confessed breast fanatic, he’d start there. It wasn’t long before the tv was either on pause or totally ignored as they feasted on each other.

After toeing off his shoes, he sighed and padded into the living room. Might as well get some news in quick before he called Clare. While some perfectly made up and coiffed women and men fed details of the latest shooting or scam, Terry’s mind wandered. What would he say to Clare? How could he tell her he needed to talk to her, to connect with her, every day? He didn’t want to come off as needy, a tyrant, or, worse, a chauvinist. But he had rights, as her husband, and someone who adored her, didn’t he?

At ten of, his cell rang. It was Clare. Her being early was a good sign, wasn’t it? He smiled as he picked up the phone.

“Hi, baby,” he said.

“Hi.” Her tone was decidedly cool.

“We’ve been missing each other…”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. But, well, my schedule has changed,” she said.

“Right. What is your schedule? I don’t want to call when you’re in class.” He kept his tone even.

“Texting is really better.”

“I have to be honest. I can’t sleep if I don’t know that you’re safe, wherever you are.”

“You need to touch base every night?”

“Yeah. I do. You’re my wife, I want to know you’re okay.” There! He’d gotten it out on the table.

Silence. He paced in the living room.

That's all. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - WORD PROMPT "SILVERY"

 

Welcome to Tuesday Tales, where authors write stories to a word prompt. This week the word prompt is "silvery" or any variation on the word "silver". We have another episode of "Two of Hearts". When you've finished my story, please hop on over to the other authors. Find their works HERE. 

 

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“Why are you doing this? Needling me?”

“Because that’s what friends do.”

“Give each other a hard time?”

“Push each other to be their best,” he said, picking up the salad tongs to add more to his plate.

Jen mulled over what he’d said. She couldn’t argue.

“Okay, so you’re right. Big deal.”

“The big deal is that you start writing. Tonight, after I leave. And that you write every night. Isn’t that what writers say? They have to write every day?”

She nodded. “Clare?”

“Yep. That’s what she’s told me a thousand times.”

“She’s right.”

“Damn, lady. You are some awesome cook,” he said, refilling their glasses. “You have to take care of Stan, but you have to take care of yourself, too. If you don’t, there will be nothing left to give him. And your marriage will die.”

His words terrified her. Already overwhelmed with the responsibility of taking care of Stan, now she had to dance to Terry’s tune and do the right thing for herself.

“I’m going to be checking up on you. Don’t think you can pretend to write. I’m going to want chapter and verse, lady.”

“I’m going to find Willie another girlfriend.” She frowned.

He laughed again, lifting his glass.

When she offered dessert, Terry patted his belly and shook his head. But she brought out zabaglione and strawberries anyway. When he saw the silver bowl full of tempting cream and juicy berries, his eyes grew wide.

She asked Terry a few pointed questions about things with Clare, but he didn’t have any answers and seemed reluctant to put their relationship on the examination table. She left it alone. Having a friend who cared enough to tell you the truth was rare. She wouldn’t wreck it by poking her nose into his business.  By nine, they had finished their meal.

“Why don’t you get Queenie and we can take the last walk together.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll be back in fifteen,” he said, scooting out the door.

The house tour would have to wait. Perhaps that was a good thing. Taking him into her bedroom, probably wasn’t a good idea at the moment. Shame filled her. As she hooked up Willie, she talked to the pug.

“It’s okay to think Terry’s hot, right? I mean, thinking someone’s hot isn’t doing anything about it, is it? Of course not. You’ll keep me safe, Willie, right?”

That's all for this week. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - MARK

 

Howdy doodles and welcome!

 

The authors are writing stories to the word prompt "mark" this week. I have more of "Two of Hearts" this week. To read the other stories, click HERE. 

 

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She filled her plate a second time. “So how are things with Clare?”

“Not so good. She hasn’t answered when I’ve called. We’re scheduled to talk tonight at eleven. I’m sure there are good reasons. I don’t exactly know when her classes are. But I don’t like it. I can’t sleep if I don’t know that she’s safe, wherever she is.”

“I get that.”

“How’s Stan doing?”

“Moving into a private room tomorrow. They don’t know how long he’ll have to be there. Depends on his recovery. But I’m guessing maybe four days, then home.”

“How will you handle him here?”

“Good question.”

“Have you hired help?”

“I contacted a service. I hate having a stranger living in our house. But I won’t be able to handle Stan alone. He’ll be in a wheel chair because he broke the leg and wrist on the same side. So, he can’t handle a crutch. Not yet, anyway.”

“It won’t be forever.”

“I’ll have to move out of the guest room.”

 “You’re sleeping in the guest room?” His eyebrows shot up.

She took a drink of wine and blinked rapidly. “I can’t stand sleeping in our bed without Stan.”

It was his turn to comfort. Terry reached across the table and squeezed her shoulder.

“I understand. I hate sleeping without Clare.”

“Oh, of course. Then you get it.”

“I do.”

Terry finished the huge plate of food, then added a little more. “How’s your writing coming?”

“My writing?”

“Yeah.” He cut a meatball with his fork.

“I’m not writing.”

“Why not?”

“All day at the hospital. Making plans for bringing Stan home. Dealing with that fucking brat, Marcy.”

“But you’re home at night, right?”

“I get home around six, usually.”

“And what do you do with the evening?”

“I collapse.”

“That’s no excuse.”

Anger filled her. “What do you mean that’s no excuse?”

“You have plenty of time to write. You’re being a baby.”

She stiffened. “I need Stan.”

“Bullshit.”

“You don’t know…”

“You’re a grown woman. You can write or not write. It’s your choice. And all the excuses in the world aren’t going to change that.”

“You’re pretty high and mighty. What do you do with your empty evenings?”

“Ah, good one. Change the subject.” He smiled and looked at his plate, then up at her.

“I thought that was pretty clever.”

“You’re not going to weasel out of this so easily, Jen. If you want to write –and you say you do—then write, God damn it!”

Indignation warred with hurt feelings. Jen had no come back, no reply. She sipped her drink, staring at him with angry eyes.

“Why do you have to be so damn right?” She hated when she got petulant but couldn’t stop.

Terry burst out laughing. “Glad you admit it.”

That's all. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - SWALLOW

 

Welcome!! It's time for Tuesday Tales and another episode of "Two of Hearts". This week we're writing to the word prompt "swallow." Don't forget to hop on over and read the other stories by the talented authors of Tuesday Tales. You'll find them HERE. 

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The doorbell interrupted her sexy thoughts. Uh oh, not good to be thinking like that with an attractive man on the other side of the door. She swallowed a mouthful of water, fanned herself for a few seconds, then let Terry in.

His casual attire impressed her. She figured he’d come right from the office. But he’d changed. Too bad. Not that he didn’t look good in snug jeans and a T-shirt, but a man in a suit and tie made her swoon. But Terry wasn’t here to make her swoon, was he? Nope, he was here to be her friend, and help her eat a mountain of food. 

He handed her a heavy bag. She pulled out a bottle of fine wine. She recognized the label.

“I love this brand. Thank you! Come on in,” she said, stepping back.

“I’ve never seen a townhouse where one family lived in the whole thing,” he said, looking around.

“We only live on three floors.”

“Only?” He cocked an eyebrow and grinned.

She sensed a blush in her cheeks. “I don’t mean to sound like a snob. We rent out the upper two floors. Stan bought this twenty-five years ago for a song. The place was a disaster, so he told me. He spent a year renovating. Just because Stan won the Nobel doesn’t mean we’re rich.”

“I’m sorry. That was presumptuous of me.” He wandered toward the back.

“I mean, we’re not hurting for money, but not rolling in it either.”

“I get it. This is beautiful. Did you decorate it?”

“Yes.”

“You did a fantastic job.”

“Thank you. I can take you on the grand tour after dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” he replied, following her into the dining room. She had set the table in festive spring colors of pink and green. After indicating his seat, she handed him a corkscrew.

“Would you mind?”

“Of course,” he said, picking up the bottle while Jen retrieved wine glasses from a corner cabinet.

She headed for the kitchen and returned with a serving dish of meatballs and one with pasta. Last, she fetched a large wooden salad bowl filled with fresh greens.

“Wow! This looks great.”

“Rigatoni with meatballs. It’s my favorite,” she said, passing him the pasta.

Terry loaded his plate. She watched as he chowed down. Lord, it looked like he hadn’t eaten in a week. She smiled.

“Something funny?” he asked, between bites.

“No, no.”

“Come on, come on. You’re hiding something,” he said, gesturing.

She laughed. “Okay. You look like it’s been a month since your last meal.”

He blushed, immediately making her sorry she’d said anything. She squeezed his forearm.

“It’s a great compliment to the chef. To see you enjoying the food.”

“This is truly great. You have a gift. I don’t know about your writing, but you could be a professional chef.”

She filled her plate a second time. “So how are things with Clare?”

That's all. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - KICK

*

 Hello and welcome! 

I'm part of this group that writes to word prompt each week. This week the word prompt is "Kick". We are again taking a peek at "Two of Hearts" this week. When you're done reading my story, hop on over to read the excellent stories by the other Tuesday Tales authors. Find them HERE. 

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“I don’t have any single friends anymore, except maybe Kathy. And all she does is complain. I don’t need that right now. Terry’s a positive person. Even if he is going through shit with Clare. It’s okay.” When she faced the pug, he took a quick swipe, catching her chin with his tongue.  Jen laughed and gave him a quick pet. “Good boy, Willie.”

She closed her eyes but was too keyed up to sleep. She only asked Terry as a friend. Of course he was attractive. She might be upset, and distracted, but, hell, she wasn’t dead. He was taller than Stan, and broader in the shoulders. Could he have played football in college? Stop comparing him to Stan! Stan was her hero, and always would be. But Terry was a friend, a good friend.

She’d figured out that he bought both of those cream puffs for himself. Otherwise why did he have two? He couldn’t count on running into her. Yet he gave one to her, and it was the right thing to do. The cream puff brought her back, gave her the kick she needed to see that she’d do whatever was necessary to help Stan. Still those dark eyes held mischief, as if he had secretly seen her naked or something.

His wife was a lucky woman to be married to a man who could do that. Jen guessed they had an amazing sex life. She turned her thoughts to her first time with Stan. It had been the most romantic and erotic evening of her life. She’d never forget it. The way that man made love was enough to curl her toes just thinking about it.

She pushed up and padded barefoot to the kitchen. She plucked a bottle of water from the fridge. Stan knew how to get her hot, zero to sixty in ten seconds –and sometimes simply with a look. She smiled at the memory of seeing him across the room at a deadly dull party. He’d been buttonholed by a boring economist when he glanced at her. The heat from his stare, slowly caressing her body, had made her shiver as it traveled up and down. She had rubbed her forehead, made up an excuse about a headache to the hostess, and approached Stan, appealing to him to leave. He’d shaken hands with the economist, then returned home, and spent two hours making love to her.

TUESDAY TALES - ICY

 

Howdy do! Welcome! Tuesday Tales is where several talented authors gather to write to a word prompt. The prompt this week is "Icy". I'm continuing with my story, "Two of Hearts." Find the marvelous stories of the other authors HERE. 

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After making arrangements for a private room for Stan and setting up help when he arrived home, Jen had no patience for Marcy's icy attitude. She ignored the young woman as much as possible. By the end of the day, her head ached. She needed to get home, have peace and quiet and create something. That’s when the idea of an Italian meal hit her. Her favorite was meatballs with rigatoni.

With all the fussing, Stan was worn out. He fell asleep at three. Jen instructed Marcy how to feed him his dinner, blamed her headache, and left. In the taxi, speeding downtown, she thought about dinner. She didn’t have any single friends anymore. The last thing she needed was a happy couple buzzing around. Besides, Stan would want his condition kept private. Then Terry popped into her head. He’d be the perfect solution. He was alone and probably missing a home-cooked meal, and he already knew about Stan.

She called him from the cab. Nervous when she recorded the message, she hoped she didn’t sound like an idiot. Whatever the outcome, she’d reached out to him, as a friend. Next stop was the grocery store. She needed supplies.

Once she schlepped everything in the house, she dropped her purse, greeted Willie, and headed for the kitchen.  She flipped on the radio to a classical music station and donned an apron. As she prepared the sauce, she noticed her headache had vanished. Chopping, stirring, mincing, and tasting had taken her mind off Stan. At first guilt swept through her, then she rationalized that she needed to keep her strength up to take care of him. Besides, she deserved a bit of down time.

She hummed along to the Mozart piece as she prepared the salad. Now, to whip up her home-made Caesar dressing! By five, everything had been prepared. She took a leisurely shower, dressed in a black velour T-shirt and pants and lay down on the sofa. Willie jumped up, snuggling next to her.

“This isn’t a date, Willie. I’m a happily married woman. I have invited a friend to dinner. That’s all. Just a friend.”

The pug raised his eyebrows.

That's it for today. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - WOOD

 

 Howdy! 

Welcome to Tuesday Tales where a group of authors write stories to word prompts. The prompt this week is "wood". We have another episode of "Two of Hearts" again this week. When you've finished reading my story, visit the other authors and read their stories. Find them HERE. 

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His brow furrowed. If she wanted to talk to him, then who could the voicemail be from? His touched the button.

“Hi, Terry? This is Jen. I’m having a shitty day at the hospital and thought I’d drown myself in a big Italian dinner. Cooking is sort of a hobby for me. I need something. I know you’re missing home cooking. So I thought maybe, if you didn’t have plans, you’d like to come over for dinner? I mean, I can’t eat all that food myself. Dinner’s at six. Just come over, if you can.”

He quirked an eyebrow. A dinner invitation from Jen? Of course, he didn’t have plans. The thought of a home-cooked Italian meal made his mouth water. He saved her number, then sent this text.

 

                 Thanks for the invite. Sounds great. See you at six.

 

As he walked home, he pondered her invitation. It made complete sense, she was alone, he was alone –why shouldn’t they eat together? No reason, none. He wondered why she hadn’t invited a girlfriend. Maybe she didn’t have any? From what she said, she had a busy life with Stan. Whatever her motives, he was grateful to be invited. On the way home, he stopped at the wine store. Bypassing the cheap Chiantis, he opted for a bottle of the good stuff. Fifty bucks. You can’t bring crap to a dinner at the private townhouse of a Nobel winner, can you?

When he entered the apartment earlier than usual, he took Queenie by surprise. She had been sound asleep on the sofa and barked at the intrusion.

“It’s me, girl.”

He had an hour to kill, so he showered, put on his best jeans and a T-shirt and shrugged a plaid flannel shirt over it to protect against the early May chill. He harnessed the pug and they hit the elevator.   

When he returned, he stopped to comb his hair. No aftershave. That was for Clare. This wasn’t a date, just two friends getting together for dinner. Two lonely friends, sharing a meal –that’s all it was and that didn’t rate aftershave. He picked up the small shopping bag with the wrapped bottle of wine, fed the dog and headed for the front door.

A little tension gathered in him as he approached the big wooden door of the elegant townhouse. He hoped Jen didn’t have anything more in mind than a nice dinner and chitchat. This was his first dinner alone with a woman that wasn’t a business dinner since he married Clare. He figured a little nervousness would be appropriate. He rang the bell.

That's all. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - WORD PROMPT "HAND"

Hello, welcome to Tuesday Tales where authors write stories to word prompts. The word prompt this week is "hand". My excerpt is from "Two of Hearts". When you've finished reading my story, please hop on over to the other authors works. You'll find them HERE  

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Terry walked in a different direction so he wouldn’t run into Jen. The last thing he needed was to be explaining why he couldn’t reach his wife last night or the night before. A simple text telling him she was still alive kept him from worrying. But his plans to fly to L.A. that weekend turned to dust. 

His bad mood hovered over him like a rain cloud. He scowled at people on the train and hurried into his office with barely audible greetings for his staff. He opened his Starbucks coffee and leaned back in his chair. As confused as angry, he had no clue, what was happening. One minute he was having awesome Skype sex with his wife, and the next she wasn’t answering his calls.

Since she texted him, he decided that would have to be his mode of communication.

 

                 Can get cheap fare to you this weekend. Will take two days off to make it

                 four days. Does this work for you?

 

   She’d still be sleeping, so he’d have to wait for an answer.  Terry turned his attention to his work. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop checking his phone every few minutes. After two hours of starting several projects and not finishing any, he threw his papers on the desk and exhaled. Today would be a nonwork day. Disgusted with himself and his wife, he pushed to his feet and went to the window. The walls closed in on him, stealing his breath. No way could he wait out the day.

   Back at his desk, he looked up Mask of Gregorio, the movie he’d wanted to see with Clare. It was playing in his neighborhood theater. The next showing was in forty-five minutes. Perfect! He’d buy a sandwich, go to the movie, then go home afterward. He sent an email to his partner, raised his hand asd goodbye to his staff and left. 

   In the movies, he couldn’t check his phone every two seconds. Settled comfortably in the reclining seats, he unwrapped his sandwich and directed his attention to the screen. His shoulder muscles relaxed against the cushiony faux-leather. After the coming attractions, the suspenseful movie filled the screen, totally occupying his mind.  

   Two and a half hours away from work and worry relieved his mind. He smiled and rose from his seat. Turning on his phone, he was surprised to find both a text and a voicemail. His grin widened. Clare must be feeling guilty. He checked the text first.

 

                 Call me tonight. Eight my time.

 

His brow furrowed. If she wanted to talk to him, then who could the voicemail be from?

That's all for this week. Thanks for stopping by. Don't forget to tune in next week to find out who called!

Tuesday Tales - Word Promp "Run"

 

Welcome! This week, we're writing to the word prompt "run". I have another excerpt from "Two of Hearts." Today, Terry is out walking Queenie and feeling bummed his wife, Clare, didn't answer his call when he runs into Jen and Willie.  When you finish, bop on over to the other authors and read their terrific stories. Find them HERE. 

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“What’s wrong?”

“He’s not Stan. Not the man I married.”

“What do you mean?”

She sniffled, dipping into her pocket for a tissue. “He’s, he’s feeble. Feeble is the only word to describe him.”

“Feeble? Hell, lady, the guy just woke up from a coma. Do you expect him to run a three minute mile?”

“ I expected him to talk, be forceful, criticize everything, declare he was going home and no one could stop him. To be masterful, strong, determined. But he wasn’t any of those things. He was meek. Stan Hogan, meek? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Give him a chance! A chance to bounce back.”

“Do you really think he will?”

“Hell, Jen, it’s the first day. You need to be patient.” He unsnapped Queenie so she could sniff Willie’s butt.  

“Patience has never been my strong suit.”

“Things change.”

“I know. And for better or for worse. I guess after five years of great, I could learn to deal with a bit of worse.”

“Nice talk! What would Stan do if the situation were reversed?”

She laughed. “Either he’d be crushed and fawning all over me, or he’d just walk out and hire someone to take care of me.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Maybe you could hire someone to help you when he comes home. He is coming home, isn’t he?”

“The doctor is optimistic.”

“Have you eaten anything today?” Terry asked. 

She scrunched her face up. “I think I had a breakfast sandwich on the way to the hospital.”

“Hell. You can’t deal with this on an empty stomach.”

“I couldn’t possibly eat anything.”

“Wait here,” he said, handing her Queenie’s leash. He ran back to the apartment and grabbed the white bag on the credenza. Huffing, he slowed as he neared the woman and the dogs. Queenie barked and wagged her tail.

“One for me, and one for you,” he said, plucking two cream puffs out of the bag.

She shot him a quizzical look.

“Cream puffs. Yeah, not exactly healthy food, but guaranteed to make you feel better.”

She smiled. “If you say so.”

He took a small bite of his, to make it last. Yes, it would help with the fact that Clare hadn’t been home and hadn’t called back. He took another bite and let the superb cream roll around his tongue.

That's it for this week. Thanks for stopping by.