refer to it, and recently Fiona and Jackie have been letting her teach them the basic initial exercises to help firm their thighs and legs, though I can’t really see where Fiona needs the help. Maybe she’s just trying to help Jackie not feel like the ugly duckling in our group. But Jackie’s not bad looking at all. The way the other guys’ eyes linger on her from time to time tells me they’d readily second that notion.
“I grew up with three brothers—all older than me,” she replied, pausing to pass the potato salad to Justin, who then handed off to Tony at the table’s end. “The oldest was all-city basketball in Hartford, and my other brothers lettered in high school. So, along the way, I guess they showed me a thing or two on how to shoot deceptively, since I’m the ‘shorty’ in my family.”
They must be frigging giants. Hell, Angie stands at least an inch taller than Fiona, who is considered pretty tall at five-nine. Since she grew up in Connecticut, Angie’s the second friend of Fiona from the east coast. Candi was the first, hailing from Trenton, New Jersey.
“You must be pretty good, then,” said Jackie, nodding approvingly. “And here I thought your favorite sport was Taekwondo.”
“It is, although Taekwondo is more a philosophy and way of life for me, and not really a sport. Tennis is a sport.”
She glanced at me, as if this was some private joke…some secret dig brought on by my recent taunt? Maybe it goes along with her favorite moniker for me, ‘Cracker Jack’. I have no idea at all as to why she chose it. I mean, a smiling cartoon sailor on a box of sweetened popcorn with a cheap, meaningless toy inside every box…. Okay, maybe it ain’t so vague, since who in the hell wants to be compared to that?
“This is excellent!” Fiona enthused, pointing to her burger. “Really good , Tom!
Everyone else chimed in, and I have to say the burger and hotdog I ate seemed unusually good. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, as my appetite at lunch was obliterated by the details surrounding Dickey Rollins’ exit from this world.
By the time eight o’clock rolled around, everyone had indulged in seconds and a generous slice from the dessert pizza. Fading sunlight peered through mature maples surrounding Tom’s property, creating an almost exotic feel, enhanced by the burning torches encircling the deck. Thirty minutes left before I needed to leave, rehearsal was set to start at nine o’clock sharp.
An emphatic tap on my watch got everyone moving, and we cleared the table in a matter of minutes. The dishwasher in Tom’s custom kitchen whirring in the background, he motioned for us all to follow him back outside.
Across the yard sat a revitalized small stone and log structure, built not long after the main house was erected. The ‘NVP studio’, as Tom called it. Fresh blue paint upon the door and window frames, the building seemed to glow under the backyard’s security lamps, nestled beneath tall pines and maples that were probably small saplings when it was built.
Like a little playhouse from some urban fantasy, the studio seemed to beckon us. Ready for its first ‘official’ test drive, perhaps?
I could hardly wait to put it in gear.
Chapter Seven
“You should all watch your step, since the sidewalk has a few ridges that have popped up due to the ground shifting over the years,” Tom advised, as we neared the end of the cement path to his studio. Additional security lights set up in a pair of tall maples turned on just before we reached the building.
A crude miniature version of the main house, the three-room structure contained smaller stained-glass windows on each side of the doorway. Definitely not designed with a broken-down riding mower and rusted handsaws in mind—which is what Tom said it sheltered when he first visited the property. The floor had rotted through in several places, too, and the roof hung low in one corner. But
“I grew up with three brothers—all older than me,” she replied, pausing to pass the potato salad to Justin, who then handed off to Tony at the table’s end. “The oldest was all-city basketball in Hartford, and my other brothers lettered in high school. So, along the way, I guess they showed me a thing or two on how to shoot deceptively, since I’m the ‘shorty’ in my family.”
They must be frigging giants. Hell, Angie stands at least an inch taller than Fiona, who is considered pretty tall at five-nine. Since she grew up in Connecticut, Angie’s the second friend of Fiona from the east coast. Candi was the first, hailing from Trenton, New Jersey.
“You must be pretty good, then,” said Jackie, nodding approvingly. “And here I thought your favorite sport was Taekwondo.”
“It is, although Taekwondo is more a philosophy and way of life for me, and not really a sport. Tennis is a sport.”
She glanced at me, as if this was some private joke…some secret dig brought on by my recent taunt? Maybe it goes along with her favorite moniker for me, ‘Cracker Jack’. I have no idea at all as to why she chose it. I mean, a smiling cartoon sailor on a box of sweetened popcorn with a cheap, meaningless toy inside every box…. Okay, maybe it ain’t so vague, since who in the hell wants to be compared to that?
“This is excellent!” Fiona enthused, pointing to her burger. “Really good , Tom!
Everyone else chimed in, and I have to say the burger and hotdog I ate seemed unusually good. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, as my appetite at lunch was obliterated by the details surrounding Dickey Rollins’ exit from this world.
By the time eight o’clock rolled around, everyone had indulged in seconds and a generous slice from the dessert pizza. Fading sunlight peered through mature maples surrounding Tom’s property, creating an almost exotic feel, enhanced by the burning torches encircling the deck. Thirty minutes left before I needed to leave, rehearsal was set to start at nine o’clock sharp.
An emphatic tap on my watch got everyone moving, and we cleared the table in a matter of minutes. The dishwasher in Tom’s custom kitchen whirring in the background, he motioned for us all to follow him back outside.
Across the yard sat a revitalized small stone and log structure, built not long after the main house was erected. The ‘NVP studio’, as Tom called it. Fresh blue paint upon the door and window frames, the building seemed to glow under the backyard’s security lamps, nestled beneath tall pines and maples that were probably small saplings when it was built.
Like a little playhouse from some urban fantasy, the studio seemed to beckon us. Ready for its first ‘official’ test drive, perhaps?
I could hardly wait to put it in gear.
Chapter Seven
“You should all watch your step, since the sidewalk has a few ridges that have popped up due to the ground shifting over the years,” Tom advised, as we neared the end of the cement path to his studio. Additional security lights set up in a pair of tall maples turned on just before we reached the building.
A crude miniature version of the main house, the three-room structure contained smaller stained-glass windows on each side of the doorway. Definitely not designed with a broken-down riding mower and rusted handsaws in mind—which is what Tom said it sheltered when he first visited the property. The floor had rotted through in several places, too, and the roof hung low in one corner. But
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