Sunday Scenes: ANGEL OF THE L TRAIN!

 

ANGEL OF THE L TRAIN is available on most digital platforms. 

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Enjoy an excerpt from the first chapter: 

Thea Ahern twisted her hands in her lap as she sat in front of the huge polished desk of LetSlip’s CEO. The receptionist in the notorious gossip magazine’s human resources office took one look at Thea and sent her directly to this office, which seemed odd. Still, this interview was the first one she’d managed to get, and while LetSlip’s reputation might be unsavory, it was a job—and she needed money. 

As the petite CEO studied Thea’s portfolio, Thea glanced at the huge, abstract painting covering the wall on her left. She clamped her jaw together in an effort to prevent displaying any trace of emotion. Her mother created that work of art ten years ago or so. Sorrow pierced Thea as she remembered her mother’s joy in splashing the canvas with the vivid colors. It spanned the entire wall, brightening up the otherwise drab office. 

“I’m impressed with your work.” The woman stated from across the other side of the massive desk. 

“Thank you, Ms. Capello.” Thea gave a tentative smile as a sense of relief flowed through her. 

“Please, call me Salbatora. We use first names only at LetSlip. We’re all family here.” The woman shoved aside Thea’s portfolio. “You haven’t lived in Brooklyn for long. I can tell by your accent. Where did you grow up?”

“In south Jersey,” Thea answered. 

“Down the shore?” The woman tapped her well- manicured fingers on the shiny desk. 

“Sort of, actually in the Pine Barrens.” 

“I’ve never been there.” The woman turned her head to stare at the painting on the wall. 

A strange chill slid up Thea’s spine. 

The woman returned her attention to Thea. “How do you like New York?”

Thea faltered. It’s too noisy—especially at night. “It’s lively.” 

A flash of humor crossed Salbatora’s face. “Yes, that it is.” The CEO folded her hands on the desk, her eyes seemed suddenly remote. “Can you tell me about a time when you were faced with a stressful situation that demonstrated your coping skills?” 

Thea’s heart pounded. When it came to dealing with stress and managing to cope, Thea considered herself the reigning champion. She believed she deserved a trophy. But she must not tell her problems to Salbatora. Not now. Not ever. 

A minute ticked by. Thea stared at her hands as perspiration beaded on her brow. She needed to say something. She closed her eyes and remembered...a scary incident. Thank you, Lord. 

“When I went to college, pets weren’t allowed in the dorm, but one of the guys kept a lizard in his room, using a heat lamp for warmth. Word went out about a room inspection, and the lizard owner threw a blanket over the terrarium before he went to eat dinner.”

“I see...” The words were a bare whisper. 

Thea drew in a breath and continued the story. “The blanket caught on fire and smoke filled the hallway. The sprinklers went on, but the situation was chaotic for several minutes. Some of the students became hysterical about leaving their stuff, but I stayed calm and led them out of the building.” 

“The lizard?” 

“He passed away, but none of the students were injured.” Thea did not consider herself a heroine, but the event remained a traumatic memory. No doubt, it wasn’t the sort of stress workers withstood putting together a gossip magazine. “At any rate, the campus police arrived quickly. Still, most things in the dorm were ruined by water damage.” 

“What did you lose?”

“My laptop, books, clothes, and bedding—like everyone else in the building.” Thea shrugged. “But folks in my hometown helped me out afterward.” 

“How fortunate for you.”

“Yes. The people in the town where I grew up are the best.” Thea sighed. She missed her home. 

“What town is that?”

“Woods End. It’s very small. Out in the Pine Barrens, as I said.” 

“I guess that’s why I never heard of it.” Salbatora stood. 

Thea swallowed hard and rose. Was she being dismissed? Did she fail the interview? Maybe the example she gave didn’t measure up to the CEO’s standards. 

Salbatora pressed a button on her phone. “Liz, please come in and show Thea where she’ll be working.”

“Right away.” Came a reply. 

Thea swayed and held onto the edge of the desk. I got the job? 

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy working at LetSlip. You’ll be assigned a mentor for a few weeks.” 

Thea nodded. “Thank you.” 

“My pleasure. And don’t ever hesitate to come to me with any questions.” 

A knock came at the door and Liz entered with a clipboard. “Follow me, Thea. I’ll get you situated right away.”

Thea reached for her portfolio. “Bye.” She waved to Salbatora, but the CEO of LetSlip stood next to the painting on the wall and stared at it in utter fascination with a bemused smile lighting up her face. 

An icy shiver slid down Thea’s spine, but she ignored it attributing the sensation to the Arctic temperature of the room. 

~*~

Thea sat in the small cubicle Liz assigned to her and ran a shaky hand over the cover of the brand-new laptop on the desk. Taking a deep breath, she opened the laptop, turned it on, and began the process of signing in. 

Seeing her mother’s painting in the office of the CEO continued to disturb her. The gallery who sold her mother’s work catered to corporate offices because those buyers paid well, so it made perfect sense for the artwork to be on that wall. Yet, it seemed a rather odd twist of fate that this is where Thea landed a job.

She checked inside the drawers of the desk as the computer took its time devouring her information. Working at a publication famous for gossip wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when she graduated. Publishing articles about celebrity gossip didn’t sit right with her conscience either, but LetSlip’s salary turned out to be more generous than she expected. At the moment, money was what mattered the most. Besides, no other company seemed interested in her. Other businesses wanted someone with more experience. 

Unease wound through her. Once, her mother had been a famous screen actress, but she gave up her career to raise Thea in the anonymity of the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. No one ever suspected Althea Ahern was the famous, Oscar-winning Paris Hulette. 

Over the years, her mother’s royalties dwindled to a sad pittance, but Mom’s paintings sold on a regular basis and all was well until the awful time when Mom stopped painting. A lump welled up in Thea’s throat. She pressed her lips together to keep the emotion at bay. This job at LetSlip was a blessing. Since she prayed fervently for help, LetSlip must be the answer to her prayers. 

 

 

 

Sunday Scenes: CLEAR AS ICE

Settle down on Sunday with an excerpt from my Christmas novella. It is currently on sale for $1.99 on Amazon until the end of August. However, if you are subscribed to Kindle Unlimited it is always free. If you have a library card, you can get the Hoopla app and read the book for free. At any rate, it is very inexpensive entertainment.  One Amazon customer said, "...uplifting, but suspenseful... Mrs. Marzec once again delivers a story demonstrating God's power of restoration and love."  

😁

To everything there is a season---a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

~ Ecclesiastes 3:4

1

     Haylie’s pulse raced with a combination of fear and excitement as she parked her car by the gully. She got out and swung her skates over her shoulder. The ice on Destiny Lake appeared as smooth as the screen of her laptop. In this corner of central New Jersey, a cold front swept in only one week before Christmas. The lake froze solid.
     Not another soul appeared to have ventured out yet on this early morning and that was perfect. Haylie didn’t want anyone else to witness her halting, miserable performance on the ice—not that anyone she knew lived here anymore. When Superstorm Sandy destroyed billions of dollars’ worth of property, many—like her parents—left their destroyed homes. New people with money, bought the property at rock bottom prices and built new homes raised on tall pilings.
     She walked down the hill through the gully along the well-worn, easy sloping path formed by generations of Fortune Beach youngsters. It warmed her to discover the old trail survived the storm’s devastation.
     At the edge of the lake, the blackened evidence of a small fire touched a sad place inside her. Memories of the times she sat by a fire in the same place rushed into her mind. Those days, which were filled with promise, would never return.
     She pressed her lips together. She was here to conquer the old memories and build new, hopeful ones that couldn’t be crushed or broken—or washed away.
     A large, convenient log lay nearby. Haylie sat, put on her skates, and pulled the laces tight. Though aware her ankles would ache after a few turns, she didn’t care. Seven years ago her world fell apart, but she intended to put it back together as much as possible— and that included skating on this lake. She wasn’t going to skate in an arena and win awards anymore, but she came to realize she needed to skate as much as she needed to breathe.
     It all started at Destiny Lake. She glanced toward the new red house sitting at the top of the hill, and her eyes misted. That house stood in the same spot where her family home used to be until the storm came and the water undermined it. The house was condemned and torn down. Her parents now lived in subsidized senior housing because they had lost everything.
     She turned her gaze back to the frozen lake. She now lived in an apartment two miles away, and if she was thrifty, she could save for a down payment on a house. She hoped to buy one overlooking the lake where her own skating arena would always be available as long as the weather cooperated. She dreamed of placing floodlights on the house so she could direct the beams toward the lake and skate after dark.
     When Christmas came, she intended to host a skating party. She’d put lights in every window of her house as well. She would plant a fir tree in the yard and string lights on it. She’d invite friends to join her in singing Christmas carols and she’d serve hot chocolate and cookies.
     Her glorious fantasy crumbled. The problem with her grand scheme was her lack of friends. There were none from her skating days. After her accident, they all disappeared. The rest of her school friends vanished after years of neglect when she became a virtual prisoner living in a state of perpetual panic from the stress of being stalked by Bret Rounder.
     She inched onto the ice muttering. "I’m over it now." She studied the surface to make sure there were no obstacles—nothing that would catch the blade of her skate and trip her. One broken femur in her life was enough, but she refused to stop doing what she loved. She would skate again. Not professionally, but for fun. For the joy it evoked once upon a time before her life became one long disaster.
     She pushed off and warmed up by gliding along, not going very fast, but seeking a smooth even stroke. The stinging air bit into her cheeks, but she didn’t care. She focused on her balance and the path ahead of her. The lake wasn’t large, but several smaller coves made it much more interesting than going around in circles at an arena.
     A small amount of confidence restored her earlier trepidation. All the skill remained despite her years away. She didn’t intend to try anything daring or dangerous. No jumps. She wanted to slide along as she did when she was young. To be as free as one of the gulls that whirled in the sky.
     She swung around and dug in the toe pick of her skate to stop. She almost laughed as she recalled how her coach continually reprimanded her over and over about the proper and professional way to stop. But even her coach had abandoned Haylie after the accident.
     "I’m here to have fun," Haylie spoke out loud to the wind. Her words echoed in the still air. A shiver ran along her shoulders. She turned around. Was someone watching her?
     She shook herself mentally. What nonsense. If someone stared at her from a window it didn’t matter. She was nobody now.
     Her ankles protested after several more minutes, so she headed back to the gully, but she promised herself she’d do a backward crossover for a short distance before quitting. Taking in a calming breath, she held out her arms and pushed off. She smiled as her soul filled to the brim with the glory of the morning. The ice was all hers and hers alone.
     That’s when the loud bark of a dog startled her.
     "Rufus! Come!" The deep voice of a man echoed over the lake.
     She stopped and turned. A large black dog ran towards her. Her pulse jumped. She didn’t trust dogs. Bitten on the lip when she was young, she shied away from dogs ever since. Could she skate faster than the dog could run?
    "Rufus! Come!"
     She glanced at the hill where a man climbed down, grabbing handholds on bushes and trees.
The dog, Rufus, didn’t stop or pay any attention to the shouted command but dashed toward her at a mad pace. She willed herself to be calm. She thought of possible ways to avoid an attack. She wore a thick down jacket and a pair of heavy leggings beneath her jeans. If the dog bit her, he’d get a mouth full of fabric first.
     Ten feet away from her, the dog lost his footing on the slick ice. He let out a cry as he fell on his side and slid—and kept sliding. His couldn’t pull himself up. She moved in time to avoid a collision as the dog went sailing past her.
     The dog cried pitifully as he drifted toward the opposite shore of the lake. She hoped he wasn’t injured but helping a wounded animal could be dangerous.
     Meanwhile, the man descending the hill reached the bottom and started running and sliding across the ice.
     "Hey! Miss! Could you grab Rufus’s collar for me?" he called out.
     "Does he bite?" she shouted out the question. It echoed in the air. She guessed what the answer would be. The owner of the dog who bit her when she was young claimed her dog never bit anyone. But he bit her.
     "Of course not!" The minute the words were out of his mouth, both of his feet went out from under him and he landed flat on his back.
     Shocked into action, Hailey pulled the phone from her pocket and skated toward him. When she reached him, he was staring up at the sky with eyes as blue as the heaven above. She’d never seen a man with eyes of such an intense color. She gazed in surprise for a moment until he turned his head toward her.
     "Sir, should I call 911?" she asked.
     "No." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Please don’t. I’ll never hear the end of it."
     "Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?"
     He opened his eyes and held up a leash. "Would you please fetch Rufus? He won’t hurt you. I promise."
     "What if he’s injured? Wounded animals bite."
     The man’s mouth turned down in a frown. "You’re afraid of dogs."
     "Yes," she admitted.
     He sighed, rolled over, and gingerly managed to get to his feet.
     "Don’t run," she advised. "Walk slowly."
     "Did you see which way he went?"
     "He slid that way." She pointed in the general direction. "There’s another little cove there with lots of marsh reeds."
     "Would you mind accompanying me in case I fall again." His penetrating blue eyes gazed into hers.
     She swallowed hard. Tall and handsome, the man’s chiseled features spoke of strength, but a touch of gentleness lingered around his mouth. Usually, meeting any stranger would put her on edge, but this man did not cause that reaction in her. Had he hypnotized her with his eyes?
     She switched her gaze to the distant marsh reeds. "Actually, I was afraid I would fall when I came out here. It’s been a while since I’ve been skating."
     "You seemed to be doing fine." He took firm but cautious steps on the ice.
     "Were you watching me?" Her pulse began to race with anxiety. She’d skated in front of thousands of people in countless arenas, but this was different. This man could be some sort of stalker—like the one who drove her half crazy. She sensed someone was watching her and she was right. It was him!
     "Rufus was watching you." He shrugged his shoulders. "He barked and insisted I come to the window. I watched for a minute until I remembered I forgot to put out the garbage can for pickup. When I opened the door, Rufus ran out. I guess he really wanted to meet you."
     "Oh." She whispered. Her suspicions were groundless. Once, countless adoring fans cheered for her. Now the only one intrigued with her was a dog. "I hope he’s okay."
     "Me, too." With a somber note in his voice, he continued. "I need that dog far more than he needs me."
     Haylie couldn’t understand why anyone would need a pet. Pets involved a great deal of time and expense. She never owned a pet—of any kind. Not even a goldfish. Her parents’ biggest expense was her and all that expense came to nothing. Guilt remained heavy on her shoulders.
     "I got bit once—right on my lip. The scar is here." She stopped skating and pointed to it.
     His very cold finger touched her lip. Despite his icy skin, a little spark ignited inside her. "Plastic surgery?"
     "Yes," she admitted, a little shaken with the odd sensation coursing through her. Her coach had recommended the surgery. Everything needed to be perfect. Her face, her hair, her outfits, her routine. The pressure was constant. She didn’t miss that at all. But she missed skating. Without it, even on sunny days, clouds hovered in her thoughts.
     As they rounded the corner, they spotted Rufus. He cried and struggled weakly to right himself.
Guilt pricked her conscience. Still, dogs couldn’t be trusted due to their large teeth. Some men couldn’t be trusted either, but the majority of them were as ordinary as her dad. At least, that’s what the counselor tried to drum into her head.
     "Probably hypothermia." The man knelt beside his dog, whipped off his coat, wrapped the dog in it, and hoisted the animal in his arms.
     "Hey," Haylie warned. "You’ll be an icicle in minutes."
     "He’s disoriented. I’ll get him to the vet right away."
     "I’m really sorry." There wasn’t much more she could say.
     "Please stay with me until I get to solid ground."
     "Of course." It was the least she could do. "By the way, there’s an easier path through the gully to get up the hill."
     "Thanks. I’ll try that. Rufus weighs sixty pounds."
     "Should a dog weigh that much?" The memory of all the treats she’d been denied in order to compete never left her.
     "It depends on the breed."
     "I never owned a pet. They’re expensive and time consuming." With her rigorous schedule, she never had time for anything except skating. Yet, she was the one who wanted it. She enjoyed the competition—then.
     "What do you do?"
     "I’m a physical therapist."
     "Even a physical therapist has the time and moneyfor a pet."
     She clenched her teeth to prevent herself from blurting out her life story. This was her new beginning. While circumstances forced it upon her, despite the obstacles she managed to succeed.
She struggled for calm. He didn’t realize all she endured.
     When they reached the gully, she stopped. "I need to change back into my shoes, but I’ll pray for Rufus’s recovery."
     "That won’t do any good," he muttered as he hurried up the path with his burden.

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Sunday Scenes: PATRIOT’S COURAGE

 PATRIOT’S COURAGE was a winner for First Place in the inspirational category of the National Excellence in Storytelling contest! 

On August 19th, 2024, Patriot’s Courage will be on sale as a Kindle Daily Deal.  Below is an excerpt from the book. Patriot’s Courage is the third book in the Patriots series, but it can be read as a stand-alone book.

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

     When she stepped out of the hut with Bright Moon, the guard at the door followed both of them. The heavy scent of burning wood quickly enveloped her. She noticed a huge plume of gray smoke in the distance.
     “Is there a fire in the forest?” she asked in alarm.
     “The general ordered his men to burn the Indian
villages and crops in a ten-mile swath.” Bright Moon shrugged. “It is the way of the conqueror.”
     “But what of my family?" She thought of the corn and the squash her family had planted.
     “They have learned it is not wise to rely on the British. Their king does not want another war with the Americans.”
     “Where will my family go?” she asked.

     “Farther west,” he answered.
     Assailed by bitterness, she could only hope those who cared for her so well over the years would be safe, but the stinging ash in the air choked her and made her eyes water. The yellow hides were cruel, as the warriors of her tribe always claimed. Somehow, she must rejoin her family and make sure they were safe. Following in the scout’s footsteps, she studied the walls of the fort. Soldiers were everywhere carrying their metal sticks of death. She bit her lip to hold back a sob. One of those weapons killed her husband. The
yellow hides were not to be trusted, but she told herself it was impossible for them to be watchful all the time. She vowed to remain prepared for any opportunity, no matter how dangerous, to run away.
     She drew the shawl tighter about her as her mind swirled with doubts. Her family would have moved to another location, much farther west. Alone, she might not be able to find them.
     The scout led her to a canvas tent. Inside, the soldier who had given her the jacket sat at on a bench. He wore a loose-fitting shirt over his breeches. Without the bright jacket and the brass buttons, he did not look like a soldier. He resembled an ordinary man. He gave her a brief nod. There was an additional bench and a table. Bright Moon instructed her to sit on the other
bench.
     A round wooden container sat on the table. This type of vessel was familiar to Màxkchulëns. The warriors came home from battles carrying them. They held water. The warriors took them from the American soldiers they killed. Also on the table lay a very smooth, dark gray slate edged with a wooden border, a small black bottle, a feather, and something that appeared to be birch bark—but very smooth. Intrigued, she reached out to touch its precise, straight edges. She marveled at it.
     The man spoke to the scout briefly. The scout handed the jacket to him, nodded to her, and left.
     She sat stiffly and watched the man. On the battlefield, he made the bad soldier leave her alone with only a few harsh words. He held her hand in the wagon. She thought he might be kind, but would he beat her if she refused to learn English?
     He sat opposite her and placed his jacket beside him on the bench. No breeze blew through the tent, and the acrid smoke in the air made her cough. The man who was to teach her English coughed, too. When he did, pain etched itself into every line on his face and his skin took on a gray pallor.
     His brown, abundant hair fascinated her. Fastened at the back with a bit of leather, his long hair was not straight like that of the Indians. Undulating waves ran along each strand, reminding her of the movement of a snake.
     Was this man to be trusted? He was still a yellow hide, and none of them kept their word. 

     He lifted the wooden vessel to his lips, drank from it, and offered it to her. Should she take it? She slid farther away. He shrugged and immediately winced in pain. Didn’t the soldiers have a sweat lodge? Or a nentpike to heal them?
     She thought of removing her shawl, but with the memory of the horrible soldier who grabbed her tender skin, she pulled the shawl even closer. The cruel man’s rough hands hurt her. She must never allow that to happen again.
     The man who was to teach her English reached across the table and lifted one of her braids in his hands. She tensed, fearing what he would do next, but he only shook his head, frowned, and dropped the braid as if it were on fire. He twisted up the corner of his mouth.
     She took the end of the braid in her hand and caressed it. While it was nearly the same shade as the color of dancing flames, it was not hot.
     The man lifted the smooth piece of slate in one hand. Picking up a narrow stick, he scratched lines onto the slate, but he did not draw a recognizable picture. There were no deer, men, hills, fish, or rivers in the picture.
     “Nellie,” he said and pointed to her. “Your name.” With a groan, he stood and came around behind her. When he put the stick in her hand, she flinched and tried to pull away. She thought of biting him, but he gently folded her fingers around the stick. Though he held her fingers fast, he was not unkind, which she expected him to be—especially since he was a soldier. 

     He guided her hand to form lines on the slate like his. “Nellie,” he said again. “Your name.” His hand was warm but clean and dry with hard calluses from work.

     Running Beaver never held her hand in such a manner. It was most unusual. She frowned at the lines on the slate. She stared at the stick in her hand. How did it make marks on the slate?
     The man released her hand, took the slate from her, and rubbed away the lines. The lines vanished! What magic was this? Curious, she wanted to discover if it was possible for her to rub away the lines.
     He returned to his bench and swiped at a trickle of sweat dripping from his brow. After clenching his teeth for a minute or so, he picked up the stick and made more lines on the slate, but this time it was a picture. She watched with interest for he drew many details on the picture. He sketched a woman with long braids, a skirt, and moccasins. Next, he added those
same strange lines beside the picture. He held it up to show her.
     “Nellie,” he said. He touched her shoulder. “Nellie.” He pointed to the picture on the slate.
“Nellie.” He drew his finger under his odd lines. “Nellie.” 

     He set aside the slate. She wanted to rub at the lines, but what would happen if she did not have the power to do it? What if it took a special kind of magic?

     The man took out a small piece of what appeared to be the birch bark, though it was perfectly smooth. Using a feather, which he dipped into the small black bottle, he scratched upon the bark the same lines he drew upon the slate. He held it up. “Nellie.” 

     He pressed the small piece of birch bark upon her covered bosom. Momentarily shocked, she snatched at the small piece of bark and stared at it.

    “Nellie," he repeated. 

     He placed another piece of white bark on the table and dipped in the feather in the black liquid once more. He frowned, quirked up one corner of his mouth, shook his head, mumbled something under his breath, and made more lines.
     “Ryan,” he said. He placed the bark on his own chest. “My name is Ryan. Your name is Nellie.”
     Realization dawned upon her at what the lines represented before her pride rallied and she blurted out, “Nellie Red Bird.”
     He nodded, took the white bark from her hand, and proceeded to scratch more lines on it.    “Nellie Red Bird.” He handed it back to her.

     Her eyes misted over as she stared at the small piece of white bark with the black lines scratched upon. it. This is who she was in the white man’s world—black lines on white bark. Would her people consider her dead if she was unable to return to them? The name of her husband would no longer be uttered for when anyone passed away in the tribe, their name died
with them.
     Was Màxkchulëns as good as dead? 

💗 💗 💗 💗 💗

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Sunday Scenes: DADDY WANTED

CHAPTER ONE

     Grace held her breath until Ulysses moved. He blinked at her and scrambled into his small pool. She sprinkled a few grains of his food into the water, and he went after them with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. The turtle belonged to her roommate, Elyse, but Elyse neglected him. Grace feared one day she would wake up and find he had passed away.
     Assured of the red-eared slider’s vitality, she stumbled into the bathroom, groggy from lack of sleep. She should never have turned off the snooze alarm. Her boss had scheduled a morning meeting, and she might have to run all the way to work to arrive in time.
     Despite her blurry vision, a vivid pink color in the wastebasket caught her attention. Her heart sank when she read the words on the box: pregnancy test kit.       She supposed she should not be surprised. Every man in New York City adored Elyse. Her slightly exotic, almond-shaped eyes, curly, coal-black hair, and perfect, hourglass figure drew men.
     Grace’s throat tightened. Her roommate might be in major trouble. A lot of young women went through pregnancy scares, but Elyse never had any trouble until now.
     A cold chill went down Grace’s spine. How could Elyse take care of a baby if she could not take care of Ulysses? 
      Grace fought to tame her short, mousy-brown, bedhead hair and lost the battle. She put down the resembled a designer knockoff she’d purchased from a street vendor—the genuine article would have reduced her to poverty. She tilted the chapeau to one side and imagined herself a movie star from one of the ancient black-and-white films Gram favored. She pursed her
lips and batted her eyelashes. The vision in the mirror did not resemble Lillian Gish. Disappointed, she told herself the bitter cold of February would give her frostbitten ears if she did not wear the hat.
     Her gaze rested on the pink box again and a cold knot settled in her chest. Should she ask Elyse about the test? Would Elyse volunteer the information? 

     She had been sharing the Brooklyn apartment with Elyse for the past year and a half. Men regularly appeared on the doorstep hungering after Elyse. She had more boyfriends than B&J had ice cream flavors, but most of the swains did not last long—until Aidan came along. Elyse’s infatuation with Aidan proved the most intense, up until one week ago when they’d had a
fight.
     Elyse called him a slacker because he did not have a job, nor did he appear to have any hope of landing one soon. "Do you think you can sponge off me for the rest of your life?"
     Aidan had not responded. Instead, he’d walked out.
     After the altercation, Aidan went from being an unemployed actor to imitating a rather good magician. He vanished, which might not be too hard to accomplish in a city with eight million people, but the speed of his departure was impressive, at least to Grace. He had been crashing at an apartment with two other young men, and they vowed he had left no forwarding address after he’d packed up and moved out in less than an hour.
     Grace needed more time than that to pack up her books.
     After Aidan’s departure, Elyse dissolved into long bouts of crying. Her grief would undoubtedly worsen if the pregnancy test came out positive.
     Grace glanced at the mirror again. Dark smudges under her eyes attested to all her sympathetic listening. What else could she do? Elyse had helped her through the worst tragedy in her life. She had to be there for her friend.
     Over and over, Elyse had blurted out between sobs, "He was such a poser!"
     Grace bit her lip to prevent herself from saying, "Well, yeah. He’s an actor."
     The dull throb of a headache pulsed in her temples. She had the chore of taking out the garbage this week, which made her solely responsible for stuffing the pregnancy test kit box into the building’s trashcan. She did not want anyone else in the apartment building to view the evidence. Especially the new guy in 2L who always seemed to be hanging around the garbage cans whenever she stepped outside. The mailbox in the vestibule listed him as Russell Thorpe. She frowned as she recalled how often he was hanging around the stairway when she went
downstairs. When she picked up her mail, he stood in the vestibule glancing over her shoulder as she flipped through her bills.
     Was he a stalker?
     If so, he didn’t instill any fear or panic in her. She did not break out in a cold sweat. On the contrary, instant warmth slid through her and her heart flip-flopped at his nearness Her brief musing ended when Elyse banged on the bathroom door.
     "Let me in!"
     Grace hurried out. Elyse stood before her with
wide eyes and a hand over her mouth. Then she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.
     Grace sank onto one of the kitchen chairs and
covered her eyes. Elyse has morning sickness!
     Grace squelched a groan as she glanced at her watch. The meeting was at nine thirty—in Manhattan. She hated rush hour in the subway, with strangers pressed together as closely as oranges in the display case at the fruit stand on Nassau Avenue.
     She heard the sound of the toilet flushing as she grabbed her backpack and coat.
     "Are you going to be OK?" she called out.
     "Get moving. You’re late."
     "IM me!" She ran down the stairs.
     The guy in 2L came out of his apartment, but she kept her eyes focused on the steps. She didn’t want to look at him. If she cast a glance his way, she would be left with the sensation of losing her balance. She had never met a man as tall and handsome, or so...intense.
     "Are you practicing for the marathon?" A hint of humor touched his voice.
     She caught a whiff of his aftershave. The woodsy undertones had her remembering the scent of the tall pines which grew in Gram’s backyard in Long Branch, New Jersey.
     "I’m late." She clipped her words as she gripped the railing.
     "That’s unusual for you."
     Her heart thundered as she hurried into the vestibule and escaped onto the street. What was she to do? The guy watched her every move.

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