of Mason’s law journals. He was so proud of the two-page spread featuring the Pink Palace he’d given the magazine top billing over his precious law journals. He’d even underlined “A sanctuary of art with a feeling of early Rome, the master bathroom commands the second floor.”
“I prefer a smaller space, less like a Roman temple,” Roxanne had told him, but he ignored her.
The landline rang and she knew, without picking up the phone, it was Mason. Why not ignore him? He’d ignored her.
Roxanne searched through her CDs and selected Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. She bowed deeply to her imaginary audience and transformed herself into a dying swan queen. Her bathroom archway became the backstage entrance.
The harp and celesta cued her to dance forward. She stepped through the master bedroom, precise as a laser, her jumps quick and soft, legs perfect with every turn as she envisioned herself wearing a flowing, pink skirt. She pirouetted, once twice, three times, until a jarring noise made her stop.
Was someone clapping? She looked around the room, in search of the noise. It seemed to come from the walk-in closet.
Roxanne turned down the volume on Tchaikovsky and listened. She no longer heard the clapping sound, only the rain and hail pounding the tin roof. She walked to the closet, bracing herself for the unknown as she opened the louvered door and flicked on the light. To her left, she saw Mason’s Hawaiian shirts, summer suits and scuba gear. On the right, she’d hung her frilly blouses, Capri pants, jeans, jogging suit, and that mink coat she needed to store. Her red sequined dress—notorious for slipping off its hanger—had fallen in a heap on the floor.
As Roxanne reached for the dress the lights flickered and died. No way she planned to hang around the pink palace with no electricity.
She felt her way out of the dark closet and fumbled through her chest of drawers for something to wear. By the time she’d located shorts and a t-shirt, the lights came back on.
Roxanne sighed in relief and changed her mind about leaving. She turned up the volume on Tchaikovsky; then returned to the closet to re-hang the sequined dress. Roxanne’s sense of order wouldn’t let her leave the dress on the floor.
Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake muted the storm outside and gave her enough confidence to enter the closet on her toes. She bowed, as if receiving a standing ovation, and picked up the fallen garment. She heard no clapping this time, but beneath the dress, she saw a pair of men’s loafers, tapping out Tchaikovsky’s melody.
Chapter Nine
Gerry, Alabama, Maeva’s Home
After researching and printing the information on the missing women, I ran out into the rain for my receipts and travel logs. The Silverado was parked in an unsheltered driveway. My tee-shirt and denim overalls were soaked by the time I reached it.
If I’d built a garage, I would have driven the truck in there. Dad had planned to build one before the ALS crippled him. Of course, nothing was stopping me from building the garage.
I quickly opened the truck’s storage bin behind the cab and located the cardboard box. Being careful not to drop it, I lifted the large box and stepped down from the truck’s running board. I would have been okay if I hadn’t looked up. I heard the crack of a tree limb breaking off from the tall pine too close to the house and the noise startled me.
That’s when I lost my grip on the box. The entire contents, receipts and tax records, went sailing in the wind and rain.
I raced around, grabbing at wet slips of paper, spiraling in the wind, but my efforts proved to be futile, and I’m sad to say, I recovered very few receipts by the time I heard the landline inside the house ring and ring and ring again. I thought the call must be important because whoever it was wouldn’t stop calling.
I ran inside to answer it. Might as well continue my recovery efforts once the storm had quieted. “Yes?” I
“I prefer a smaller space, less like a Roman temple,” Roxanne had told him, but he ignored her.
The landline rang and she knew, without picking up the phone, it was Mason. Why not ignore him? He’d ignored her.
Roxanne searched through her CDs and selected Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. She bowed deeply to her imaginary audience and transformed herself into a dying swan queen. Her bathroom archway became the backstage entrance.
The harp and celesta cued her to dance forward. She stepped through the master bedroom, precise as a laser, her jumps quick and soft, legs perfect with every turn as she envisioned herself wearing a flowing, pink skirt. She pirouetted, once twice, three times, until a jarring noise made her stop.
Was someone clapping? She looked around the room, in search of the noise. It seemed to come from the walk-in closet.
Roxanne turned down the volume on Tchaikovsky and listened. She no longer heard the clapping sound, only the rain and hail pounding the tin roof. She walked to the closet, bracing herself for the unknown as she opened the louvered door and flicked on the light. To her left, she saw Mason’s Hawaiian shirts, summer suits and scuba gear. On the right, she’d hung her frilly blouses, Capri pants, jeans, jogging suit, and that mink coat she needed to store. Her red sequined dress—notorious for slipping off its hanger—had fallen in a heap on the floor.
As Roxanne reached for the dress the lights flickered and died. No way she planned to hang around the pink palace with no electricity.
She felt her way out of the dark closet and fumbled through her chest of drawers for something to wear. By the time she’d located shorts and a t-shirt, the lights came back on.
Roxanne sighed in relief and changed her mind about leaving. She turned up the volume on Tchaikovsky; then returned to the closet to re-hang the sequined dress. Roxanne’s sense of order wouldn’t let her leave the dress on the floor.
Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake muted the storm outside and gave her enough confidence to enter the closet on her toes. She bowed, as if receiving a standing ovation, and picked up the fallen garment. She heard no clapping this time, but beneath the dress, she saw a pair of men’s loafers, tapping out Tchaikovsky’s melody.
Chapter Nine
Gerry, Alabama, Maeva’s Home
After researching and printing the information on the missing women, I ran out into the rain for my receipts and travel logs. The Silverado was parked in an unsheltered driveway. My tee-shirt and denim overalls were soaked by the time I reached it.
If I’d built a garage, I would have driven the truck in there. Dad had planned to build one before the ALS crippled him. Of course, nothing was stopping me from building the garage.
I quickly opened the truck’s storage bin behind the cab and located the cardboard box. Being careful not to drop it, I lifted the large box and stepped down from the truck’s running board. I would have been okay if I hadn’t looked up. I heard the crack of a tree limb breaking off from the tall pine too close to the house and the noise startled me.
That’s when I lost my grip on the box. The entire contents, receipts and tax records, went sailing in the wind and rain.
I raced around, grabbing at wet slips of paper, spiraling in the wind, but my efforts proved to be futile, and I’m sad to say, I recovered very few receipts by the time I heard the landline inside the house ring and ring and ring again. I thought the call must be important because whoever it was wouldn’t stop calling.
I ran inside to answer it. Might as well continue my recovery efforts once the storm had quieted. “Yes?” I
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