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"Detour"


Prologue
Old Reliable, Rachelle's Version

By Rachelle Allen

This all started when my online friend, Gretchen, wanted to go to the International FanStory Conference in Atlantic City, NJ, but she felt weird going solo. FanStory is a writing site where we became friends. We'd never actually met or even spoken to each other any other way but digitally. But for some reason, we agreed that our first meet-and-greet should be in the form of a road trip together through many states along the Eastern seaboard. That, we agreed, would be an absolutely fabulous idea.

"I'll drive to your place in East Rochester, New York," Gretchen says, "and we'll carpool."

"Actually, that week prior to the conference, I'll be in Maryland at my cousin's," I tell her. "So, let's do this, instead: You come to my cousin's, leave your car there, and I'll drive us the rest of the way. Just last week, I picked up my 2024 Mercedes S-Class sedan, and I want to spend as much time in it as I can."

"Um, well, here's the thing," says Gretchen.

I always become wary whenever Gretchen hedges and then uses the words 'Here's the thing.'

"I'll upchuck the whole way there if I have to be in the passenger's seat."

"No!" I exclaim. "Not in a big Mercedes! It'll be like you're in your living room in a deluxe Barcalounger. It even has massaging fingers for your back, neck and shoulders! Gretchen, you will love it so much that when we arrive at the conference hotel, you'll start whining. You'll say, 'AWWWW! Not ALREADYYYYY'"

I smile broadly to emphasize how fantastic it will be.

"No, Rachelle," she insists. "It will NOT happen like that. A mile down the road from your cousin's house, I'll shout, 'PULL OVER!!! NOWWWWW!!!!' and then I'll jump out of the vehicle and hurl on someone's front lawn. Or - worse yet - I'll spend so much time fiddling with your fancy-ass Mercedes automatic door locks that I'll use up all my running-for-the-grass time and spew chunks all over your new leather interior."

I pause and twist my lips in contemplation. "Fine," I say. "You can drive."

Oh, how I wish I'd fought harder. All that followed could have been prevented if I'd just fought harder! Our fates - both individually as well as on into perpetuity - would have been so much different if only I'd insisted on driving.

First, she arrives forty minutes late. "Sorry!" she says, standing there all kinds of sweaty and winded. "Old Reliable here was chugging a bit, so I had to let her rest just outside of DC. I took a quick foot tour of this small town called Falls Church. Very ritzy-titsy. Your Mercedes woulda loved it!"

I look at the vehicle she and I will be sharing for the next one hundred and fifty-seven miles: a 2005 dark gray Suburban with lacy filigrees of rust skirting the entire length of the driver's side like a dust ruffle.

I've never been carsick for a moment in my life, but I'm suddenly very queasy.

"Whoa! Hubba, hubba!! Look at YOU, New York girl!" Gretchen gives me the up-and-down and whistles like a construction worker during lunch hour. "You know FS stands for FAN story, not FASHION story, right?"

She takes in my form-fitting leopard dress, 3-1/2" high heels and broad-brimmed black-and-leopard hat.

"I have a theory," I say in my No Nonsense Teacher's Voice. "If something should happen while you're traveling, if you're nicely dressed, you exponentially increase your chances of someone stopping to help you."

Whoever would have imagined that Gretchen's and my Good Samaritans would show up in their horse and buggies in the heart of Amish country.

Author Notes Gretchen (GW) Hargis and I are telling the same story but each of us from our own point of view. For the full effect of our tale - and a tale it is, fictitious as can be - please be sure to "fan" both of us so you don't miss a chapter!


Prologue
Old Reliable

By Rachelle Allen

"What did you call your Suburban at the beginning of this road trip?"  Rachelle asked.  She isn't looking at me, or the thin stream of smoke that trickles through the air vent.  No, my fiery little Yankee friend is staring out the passenger window at what is best described as God's country.
 
But, according to Google maps, it's where in God's country?
 
"Look, it may not be that bad.  We can just sit here, let the engine cool down for a while.  How does that sound?"
 
She turns around quickly.  "It sounds like someone is in denial.  That's how it sounds. "
 
I pull the keys and deposit them onto the console.  I really need to pee.  But there isn't a WaWa or a Buckeys in sight.  There is a nice big maple or oak, hell,  I don't know what kind of tree it is.  But, I think better when my bladder is empty.
 
"Don't go anywhere.  I'll be right back."
 
I can tell she didn't get the humor in statement.  But, here's why she's so mad.  She offered to drive.  She had this nice new foreign job that she offered to drive us in.  Truth be told, I'm a Virgo.  Control freak, perfectionist, have to be right, all the lovely components of my horoscope sign.  I like to, no, I hate to drive but I hate being a passenger worse.  (I'm guessing by the amount of anger radiating from Rachelle, she's a Leo or worse, a Scorpio.)
 
So, once I'm positioned behind the tree and I've taken care of the paperwork (thanks to some napkins in the glove box) I walk back to the Suburban. 
 
It's time for the moment of truth. I pop the hood.  After much struggling I get the metal stick thing situated so it doesn't fall and decapitate me, I peer around.  It is then that I realize, I have no idea what I'm looking at.  Zilch.  Chuck, my husband always takes care of car repairs.  Come to think of it, I've only put gas in the car a handful of times.  I touch a few hoses and tap some black square thing just to make Rachelle think I'm trying before removing the prop and letting the hood slam shut.
 
"I'm not sure what's going on, could be a couple of things.  Either the radiator overheated  or it's the flux capacitor."
 
"Did you just quote Back to the Future?" she stares at me wide eyed but finally she smiles. 
 
I breathe a little easier.  "I'll call AAA."
 
"I'm gonna stretch."  Rachelle unhooks her seat belt then checks her reflection in the tiny mirror on the passenger visor. "You want a water from the cooler?"
 
I nod absently as I scroll my phone contacts for the 800 number to AAA.  Once I find it, I hit call.  Nothing connects.  I try Chuck's number, I'll give him our location and he can call for me.  Nothing.  There is no service to be found.
 
Remember when I said I was a Virgo, a control freak?  Well, this Virgo was very, very out of control.  It is not a good place to be.  Not for me, not for anyone within the vicinity.
 
"Come on, damn you, just connect!" I snap at my phone.  Yes, I know it's an inanimate object.   But I'm one of those people.  I think static charged papers and plastic stick to me on purpose.  I have little to no patience and feel like I'm about two minutes from a full mental breakdown.
 
"It's really pretty here," Rachelle calls out.  "Guess it's better than breaking down on I95."
 
I nod, gulping down calming breaths, trying to stay calm.  I look around, hoping to see it like she does, but all I see is we are in the middle of nowhere.  Bad stuff happens in the middle of nowhere.  Bad stuff happens to women who travel alone in the middle of nowhere.
 
That's when I start to cry.  Not a soft whimper, dabbing my eyes.  No.  I am bawling like Lucy when Ricky Ricardo tells her she can't be in the show.
 
And, until I can regain my composure, I'm turning it over to Rachelle.

Author Notes This is a very fictitious trip. Take nothing serious in this story. It is just for fun. Check out Rachelle Allen's post for her take.


Chapter 3
Cavalry in Straw Hats(Gretchen)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis have hit the road in "old reliable", Hargis's 2005 Chevy Suburban. After a breakdown on a less traveled road, and a storm approaching, things look dire for the women. That is until help arrives.

*************************************************************************************************

Once I have collected myself, I walk over to where Rachelle stands, sipping her water and looking at the countryside. I need to approach this delicately, I mean, I really don't know her that well. On Fanstory, heck, we are great together, but this is real life. Stress can make people act differently. I just had a slight mental breakdown, and I'm usually calm, cool and collected.

"Hey, how's that water?"

Rachelle smiles pleasantly and turns to face me. "You look like you have something to say."

"You're perceptive," I say stalling.

"So, say it."

I sigh. "I think one or both of us should walk to find help. There has to be a gas station or garage somewhere close by." I dig into my pocket and pull out a quarter. "Flip a coin to see who goes and who stays or are we both going?"

Rachelle gets a slightly amused look on her face. "You have no idea where we are, do you?"

"No, but I'm guessing you do."

"Amish country. There are garages somewhere around, but I doubt they are in walking distance."

I feel that panic starting to build again. "What now? Do you have a signal, cause I still don't."

She quickly checks her phone, shaking her head as she turns in a small circle with it lifted up.

I start to walk to the back of the car to pull out a bottled water, when I hear Rachelle.

"Hot dog! The cavalry has arrived."

I run back to her side, looking for a tow truck or state trooper. I'll tell you what I did not expect to see, a horse drawn carriage, two of them, in fact, complete with men in straw hats. I hear a distant rumble of thunder and feel a chill come over me.

"We're saved," she says, grabbing my arm and giving it an excited squeeze. "Isn't this amazing?"

I shake my head. "Do you know how many horror movies start like this? Are you kidding me?"

She ignores me and starts walking towards the approaching carriages. "Excuse me," she calls, her voice melodic, and oh, so friendly.

All I can hope is that I can outrun her because she's in those fancy high heel shoes.

The carriages slow down, stopping, as friendly Rachelle rushes forward to tell them animatedly about our predicament. I hang back, ready to hop into the broken-down car if need be. She waves me over. "This is Gretchen Hargis. She's a writer just like me. We are on our way to a convention in New York."

Two boys climb down from the carriage. Rachelle walks them around to the back of the Suburban, then they return with two suitcases each. She looks at me. "What about your stuff?"

"I've got it." I pull the over sized backpack out of the back and close the doors firmly. I run my hand over the dusty back of the SUV. Part of it was to say goodbye, part to leave DNA on it.

"Coming," I call out trying to sound cheerful and definitely not terrified.

**********************************************************************************************

With Rachelle in one buggy (not carriage, as I was corrected) and me in another, we start the slow trek down the long desolate road. I look at Rachelle in the buggy ahead of mine. She is in a show stopping outfit, sitting among people who are in dull grays and black. She looks so out of place but is talking and laughing, like she's the belle of the ball. She is the proverbial social butterfly. She must feel my stare because she turns to wave at me. I wave stiffly back.

"Storm is close," the man holding the reins says. He leans his head towards the dark gray clouds that fill the sky to the left of the buggy. "We may not make it home in time."

"Do these guys go any other speed?" I ask, thinking I'm funny.

"We don't rush them. They are doing their part. We will be fine."

I can tell this guy wouldn't know a joke if it hit him over the head. I turn to the other passenger in this horse drawn hot rod. She's about thirteen or so. Long brown hair with natural sun kissed highlights surround an oval face. There is a sprinkle of small brown freckles across her nose.

"Hi," I say.

She smiles shyly, her eyes taking in my jeans and striped shirt. Her eyes linger on my earrings. They are dangling circles, with blues and greens and gold. "These are made of paper. A friend of mine made them. She hand painted them and coated them with resin." I reach up and take one out, handing it to her.

"Pretty," she says. She turns it over in her hand, her thumb sliding across the smooth surface of the earring. Quickly, she glances at the man and hands it back to me. "I'm Hannah."

"Nice to meet you."

I feel a raindrop land on my arm. I pull the other earring out of my ear and slip them and my phone into the front zippered pocket of my backpack. The buggy veers off the main road and starts down a long dirt road. And this is how it's going to end for me. They are going to take me to a remote location and kill me like in the movies.

"Almost there," the man says. "Not much longer."

I swallow my scream. To take my mind off of my pending fate, I go through the list of actresses I would like to play me in the horror movie based on Rachelle and my last moments.

Kathy Bates comes to mind. She kicks ass. I don't want to be remembered as a sniveling coward. Remember me as a woman who kicks ass.

Author Notes This is a fictitious trip by two very real women. Nothing is true, and any resemblance to those living or dead are purely accidental. Be sure to check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 4
Cavalry in Straw Hats (Rachelle)

By Rachelle Allen

We are no more than six miles past the sign that reads "Welcome to Lancaster County, PA" when suddenly "Old Reliable" - well, the 'old' part is certainly accurate - begins to churn roils of smoke out from beneath the dashboard like a hillbilly pig roast gone wrong.

"What the heck?" I shriek as my lungs try to fend off the assault with prolonged coughing spasms.

Gretchen slaps her palm against the top of the dashboard over and over as if this is her child and it's swallowed a Lego.

Old Reliable - just for the name alone right now I could slap my traveling companion senseless - lurches to a stop and issues forth a strangled, operatic wheeze. No amount of turns of the ignition resuscitate her.

I glower at Gretchen but swallow down my words of discontent...well, after just a teeny snipe about her being in denial when she tells me all we have to do is wait a few minutes for her junker to cool down.

She lays her keys on the console and high-tails it to the front of the suffering vehicle. I see the hood rise and am grateful for the obstruction. If I can't witness a disaster, it ceases to exist in my mind. I am that good at compartmentalizing.

I'm wondering if she's had so much experience repairing this behemoth that she now actually recognizes what's wrong and knows how to fix it. My answer comes soon after this question forms in my mind when she returns to the driver's side window and, after I ask what's wrong with it, replies, "Either the radiator overheated, or it's the flux capacitator."

Seriously? She chooses this dire situation to offer up a line from Back to the Future? Gawd. She honestly is every bit as irreverent and hilarious in person as she is on our writing site. I smile in spite of the fear rising up in my throat and watch as the little Dixie chick goes off to try to get a signal on her phone in a region I know to be void of any power that's not supplied by the Almighty, Himself. Within moments, I hear her sobbing like a child whose cat's just been run over by a dump truck.

I close my eyes and offer up a prayer.

I have just said my silent "Amen," when Gretchen approaches and starts discussing the possibility of walking to the nearest gas station. Suddenly, I hear the clippity-clop of horses' hooves and the rhythmic, rotating clatter of wooden wheels. I squint and see two buggies heading in our direction.

"Gretchen!" I gasp. "Look! It's the Cavalry."

"Well, they are using horses," she says.

We take in the straw hats and suspenders on the men coming into view and the aprons and round white caps, tied at the chins, of the two women and one young girl. Gretchen gives me a highly amused smirk.

"Oh yeah," she says, as they draw nearer still. "They're going to be totally impressed with how nicely you're dressed!"

"Don't make me impale you with my beautiful leopard stilettos before our rescuers pull up here," I say out of the side of my mouth.

The two buggies come to a stop directly in front of Old Reliable, and the older man and woman and young girl in the smaller buggy look aghast at the still-billowing blue-and-pewter-colored plumes.

"We were afraid Seth Hartman's chicken coop had caught fire," the man says.
They look toward us, taking in my brazen leopardness, and quickly look at the ground, as if I'm to be shunned.

Gretchen chivalrously steps in front of me, to ease their discomfort. Pointing to Old Reliable, she says, "She won't start. Could we hitch a ride back to your house, maybe, and call a tow truck?"

This makes the three twenty-somethings in the other buggy look away from each other and fold their lips over their teeth so as not to smile.

I shake my head. My poor Southern-fried friend is about to become Yankee-fied.

"This is Amish country, Young Lady," the man says. "The only two people in our community with a phone are the Doc - in case of medical emergencies - and the sheriff, and both are forty miles away right now helping out at the site of a farming accident. They prob'ly won't be back 'til at least Wednesday."

"Today's only SUNDAY!" Gretchen pretty much shrieks.

"Yep, it sure is," says the older man.

"But we're on our way to a writer's conference in Atlantic City, New Jersey!" Gretchen's voice now is not only shrill, but also has a quaver to it.

The man says nothing. He just waits for the reality of the situation to sink in for us all.

The woman in his buggy says, "I'm Helene, and this is my husband, Ezra, and our daughter Hannah. These are Solomon, Simeon and Rebekah. Let us take you back to our home just up the road. We'll be happy to put you up until you can make your phone calls."

I step forward in my full high-heeled splendor and watch the five sets of Amish eyes retreat, once again, toward the ground.

"That is very generous of you," I say, upping the wattage of my smile so they'll be distracted from looking at my quite ill-fated traveling ensemble. "Do you have room for our luggage in your buggies?"

"Of course," says Helene.

"I'm Rachelle," I tell them. After a beat of silence, I elbow my formerly oh-so-Chatty-Kathy of a traveling mate.

"I'm Gretchen," she manages to choke out in a voice just above a whisper. Not having everything go according to plan is hard for my favorite shell-shocked Southern belle.

"Gretchen," I repeat so I'm certain our new friends have heard.

"Solomon, Simeon," says Helene, "go get their suitcases and put them into the buggies, please."

The boys hop down at once, and Rachel scoots over to allow room for me to sit beside her. Helene and Hannah do likewise and Helene beckons Gretchen.

Without warning, a neon slash of lightning sizzles the air between us, followed immediately on its sparks by a deafening cadence of thunder.

"Hurry," says Helene.

As the horses begin to trot, Gretchen and I exchange looks from our parallel buggies. They're the looks of omniscience, laced with trepidation, between writers who understand the terrifying symbolism and the kind of foreshadowing present in only the most memorable of adventure tales.

Before I settle in for the ride, I send out a hope to the universe that Gretchen doesn't vomit on her buggy-mates, being that she's not sitting in the driver's seat.

Meanwhile, back in Baltimore, my 2024 S-class Mercedes sedan sits, like a grounded teenager, in my cousin's driveway. Not that I'm bitter or anything, of course. Clippity-clop, clippity-clop.

Author Notes At the scene of a crime or an accident, the attending policeman never says, "What happened?" Instead, he or she says, "Tell me what you saw." This is because the exact scene won't look the same to any two of the witnesses. Such is the case for Gretchen and me as we describe our saga, too.


Chapter 5
Missteps (Gretchen)

By Rachelle Allen

So, as we ended the last chapter, Rachelle and I are now in separate buggies, with strangers we don't know. She seems pretty cool with it. Me, not so much. This little detour is putting a crimp in our well laid plans to get to the FanStory Convention in Atlantic City.

I'll be the first to admit, I am not a farm girl. I'm not rural in any way, shape or form. And by the looks of it, I doubt Rachelle has ever milked a cow or goat, even in her dreams. The difference is, she is a people person. I am not. Add one extra person to the mix and I clam up quicker than a politician before a Senate commission.

The little girl sitting next to me, keeps stealing glances at me. She seems very interested in my ratty flip flops and giggles as I wave my toes freely for her entertainment. She looks to the west, (who am I kidding, I have no idea which way we are going, but I don't want to come off as an idiot), when thunder rumbles again.

"I like storms," I whisper. "Do you?"

She shakes her head. "But they are necessary. Without the rain, crops would die and wells would dry up."

I nod. This kid is a barrel of laughs, I gotta say. If she starts talking about global warming, I swear I'll leap to my death from this fast moving buggy. Two miles per hour at top speed ought to do it.

Helene looks back at me, a gentle smile plays upon her features. "I love storms, as well."

"I live by the ocean. Have you ever been?"

She nods, to my surprise. "When I was very young. My parents took my brother and me. I remember getting knocked over by the waves. They can be quite powerful, as I recall."

I didn't know Amish people took vacations. Who looks after their livestock? Maybe it's a community thing. I don't know a damn thing about these people, other than their wardrobe is about as thrilling as mine.

More drops are falling from the heavy gray clouds that are moving over top of us at an alarming speed. I still don't see a house in sight. "Not to be a buzz kill, but do these things ever get struck by lightning?"

Ezra and Helene exchange looks. Helene shakes her head. "Our house is just over this hill. We should reach it before the storm hits."

I nudge Hannah. "Did you know if your hair sticks up like static electricity, it means your about to be struck by lightning?"

Hannah's hand reaches up and touches her cap. I realize this wasn't the best information to give out.

"Well, if you see my hair standing on end, you might want to scootch over." I stop talking, because I'm rambling. And, there is nothing worse than rambling about things that no one wants to hear.

Helene points. "There. That is where we live."

In the middle of a beautiful patch of green is a plain, unadorned house. Another house stands off to the side. A few trees are scattered across the yard, but not much else. It's very peaceful looking. Very secluded. The closer we get, the darker the sky gets and the more active my anxiety is. Just down the hill is a huge barn. It's the kind that I've seen in calendars. A giant window with hay bales visible, on the second floor. A few cows meander around the grounds, then I see about five or six goats. The air is thick with animal scents. That is the nicest way I know how to describe the smell. I don't do well with unpleasant odors. Bad smells can trigger a migraine in me. I open my mouth to breathe, hoping I can't taste it in the air.

"Hannah, help her down," Helene says as she steps down from the buggy. She doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get inside before the rain starts really coming down.

Hannah jumps down and holds out her hand. It is calloused, which surprises me. She isn't afraid of hard work, apparently. I stifle my smile as I think about the younger people I'm used to and their soft hands and manicured nails. "Thank you," I say, trying to hide the fact that I'm stiff and my hips hurt. I grab my backpack and look around. Maybe this won't be so bad. I heave my backpack over one shoulder and jump as a loud clap of thunder sounds. Then the heavens just open right up and sheets of rain pour down.

Rachelle is still chatting away as she starts to exit her buggy. I see her wave off the offered helping hands, put one hand on the edge of the buggy, one hand on her leopard hat, lift her leg and then she does the biggest face plant I've ever seen. Face first right in the mud.

It's wrong to laugh and I know it, especially since i know i look like a drowned rat. But tell me you have not watched those video compilations of people falling and not laughed. I look down, I bite the inside of my lip, I do everything I can not to laugh, and I'm succeeding ... until I make eye contact with Rachelle. Then all bets are off. I'm trying to ask her if she's hurt but she's laughing like a maniac, and then I am, too.

The girl, Rebekah, starts to laugh as she reaches to help her up.

"Are you hurt?" I call out. I let go a sigh of relief as she shakes her head no.

"Nothing hurt except my dignity," she says. Her hat has rolled away and I wince as the horse leans down and starts munching on it.

I hate to say it, but I'm grateful for Rachelle's little misstep. Laughing has eased my edginess and I look at Ezra, who for the first time since I've seen him, has a smirk on his face. Helene has graciously covered her mouth with her hand while Hannah giggles.

"Rachelle, you sure know how to make an entrance."

"Glad you enjoyed it," she calls back, as she stands up, brushing dirt and mud away, in vain.

"You've got issues," I tease.

It is at that exact moment, when the comedy of the scene has lulled me into a false sense of security, that I see something or someone coming out of the barn.

A man with a scythe.
Me, a southern senior turning and running for the main road.
I make it fifty feet, maybe, before my lungs burn and my feet are slipping in the mud. It is then that I realize I will not be played by Kathy Bates.
I will be played by some unknown and killed off very early in the movie.

Author Notes This is a fictitious trip by Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis that makes a slight detour in Amish country. No FanStory writers were hurt in the making of this silly story. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 6
Missteps (Rachelle)

By Rachelle Allen

My leopard stilettos and I clamber into the buggy like billy goats on a craggy rise. Rebekah looks on with a combination of rapt fascination and high amusement.

We are shoulder to shoulder now, she and I, which affords me an up-close look at her pale blue-green eyes, flawless alabaster skin and coppery red hair. Solomon and Simeon can be described with all the same adjectives. In addition, the whiskers that outline their jaw bones are a gorgeous shade of medium auburn. I realize that I have misjudged their ages, though. My newest guess is that they're all still in their mid-to-late teens.

I smile and say loudly, so as not to exclude the boys from the conversation, "Well, so of course I love your gorgeous red hair, you three. In our culture, we redheads are called 'gingers.' Have you ever heard that term?"

The siblings smile shyly and all shake their heads.

"Like the spice!" I add, then am grateful for their polite Amish ways. None of them says what an Englisher - a non-Amish person - would in such a moment: Uh, DUHHHHHH, Captain Obvious!

"Mine comes from my father," I tell them. "Which of your parents is the redhead?"

I see the boys' backs stiffen at once and watch as tears flood instantaneously down Rebekah's pale white cheeks.

"Oh, heavens!" I gasp. "I am so sorry! What have I said?"


Rebekah chokes out, in the quietest of tones, "Our maam. She had red hair." Then she adds, "You look so much like her." A second wave of tears spills forth.


Over his shoulder, with eyebrows linking together at opposing angles, Simeon hisses in Pennsylvania Deutsch, "Rebekah! Nicht fanna rum!" I know that the Amish are very private people, so I'm guessing he is rebuking her for sharing any part of their personal life with a stranger.

Rebekah hangs her head, and her shoulders begin to pulse.

"Sorry," Simeon says in my direction.

"No, no, Simeon; I'M the one who's so sorry! I feel absolutely terrible!"

"No, please," says Solomon. "She's not wrong. You do look very much like our maam."

"She was killed by an Englisher in a car one month ago today," Rebekah blurts out to everyone's astonishment.

Her brothers both shout, "Rebekah!" Solomon adds, "Nicht fitt."

"Ohhh, Honey," I say and wrap my arms around her because, Amish or not, maternal instinct is a universal language. "I am just so, so sorry." I find myself rocking and patting her ever so slightly.

There is a moment of painful silence, and the Jewish Mommie in me knows at once that they all need to release their sorrow, so I ask, "How did it happen?"

Rebekah says, "We were coming to live in the new house we'd built on Uncle Ezra's farm. We hadn't even slept in it yet. Uncle Ezra only has Hannah, so he needed help with the farm." She takes a moment to wipe her cheeks with her apron. "Solomon and Simeon are strong and were going to help him, along with our Daed - our father - who was Uncle Ezra's younger brother."

I nod and release her from our embrace so we can share eye contact.

"Maam and Daed were in the first buggy, with our sister, Esther. Solomon and I were far behind because our buggy was dragging a trailer of our furniture, and Simeon was even further behind with another trailer of furniture, too."

I notice that Solomon has slowed the horses down even though thunder is rumbling like drums at the Battle of the Bands portion of a fireman's carnival. Unless Helene and Ezra's farm is less than a minute away, we are going to be caught in a deluge.

"There was a curve in the road, and a car came around it too fast and in the wrong lane." Rebekah is now sobbing into her hands. "We all saw them get hit. We saw them die - even the horses. We couldn't save anyone."

The rain arrives in blinding sheets that the wind turns into lances, striking solidly, en masse, against us all. In less than a minute, we are completely drenched. I turn around to look at Gretchen's buggy and blithely wave for good measure.

Solomon guides the horses up a long, straight driveway then brings them to a halt in front of the second plain, solid-looking white house on the property. "Go," he says to Rebekah and me. "Simeon and I will tend to the horses."

But as I begin to debark from the buggy, my stiletto jams between the rungs of the sidebar, causing me to pitch into the air like an acrobat in the center ring of the Barnum and Bailey tent. As I leave terra firma, I scream like a mountain yodeler, then land, face first, with a pronounced "SCHLOOOOOOP!" into the marshy quagmire of the front lawn, eye level with the lead horse's hooves.

Thinking he's just been blessed with room service, the horse lowers his head and begins eating the black flower arrangement on my hat. It is obviously so delicious that he ratchets his head - and my hat - up and down, up and down, snorting and whinnying the entire time. One does not need to speak equine to know that this is the meal of his dreams.

My buggymates are trying to help extricate me from the mud, but we are all laughing too hard to have any success.

Suddenly, we hear Ezra shout, "The goats! The goats!"

We look over to see that, in the fleeting moment between parking the buggy and now, they have helped themselves to my special eco-friendly hemp totes and are pulling my clothes out, one at a time, like tissues from a Kleenex box, and scurrying off with them, in the driving rain, toward the far pastures.

Simeon, Solomon, Rebekah and I are now beyond help. All we can do is laugh uncontrollably, like naughty children during the Silent Devotion portion of a prayer vigil.

We watch Ezra, Helene, Hannah and Gretchen shaking their collective heads at us as they scramble for cover beneath the front porch roof of their house. Gretchen throws both her hands into the air and shouts over the din of the downpour, "You have ISSUES, Allen! What kind of teacher ARE you? This is not exactly setting a fine example, I trust you realize!"

But she looks so ridiculous with her hair in soppy strands all over her face and forehead, like eels trying to slither down to the creek, that we chorus out a quartet of collective hoots in response.

Amish life is the best!

Author Notes This is a fictitious story being co-written by FanStorians GW Hargis and me. Each new chapter is written by each of us in our own pov. In order to get the full impact of this novel, it's best to read both, so "fan" us both, if you haven't already, so you don't miss any installments!! xoxox


Chapter 7
Nothing's What It Seems (Hargis)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on an ill fated trip to Atlantic City for the annual FanStory Writers Convention. When the vehicle they are traveling in breaks down, they find themselves at the mercy of their rescuers ... who just happen to be Amish.

************************************************************************************************

We wait out the storm, with Rachelle holding her fancy shoes under the spigot while trying to get the mud off of them. The house is quiet, almost eerily so, the only noise is the drumming rain on the roof. Rachelle it seems is oblivious to it as she hums a show tune while she sets about her task. Now, I'm not a real big Broadway show gal, but I recognize this one. If They could See Me Now. I try not to smile at the irony of her tune selection. Because if they could see her now, they would not believe their eyes.

Helene checks the window and nods. "It has passed. Now would be a good time to take them to the hot springs, Rebekah," she says softly to the red haired girl closest to her.

The girl nods and motions for us to follow her to the door. Rachelle shakes the excess water off of her ruined shoes and carries them to the door. The light that floods into the house when Rebekah opens the door, lets me see the beauty of the room for the first time. There are so many handmade things, and I feel my artist senses tingling as I want to stay now and explore them, but I can't abandon Rachelle. The whole horror movie thing is still gnawing away at my brain.

**********************************************************************************************

Rebekah is a soft spoken girl, with beautiful red hair and a contagious smile. She keeps stealing glances at Rachelle and I'm guessing she is just happy having another ginger around.

"So, Rebekah, what do y'all do for fun around here?" I ask.

"We have socials here sometimes. Families from neighboring farms come for meals. We go to the markets on Saturdays."

"That actually sounds nice," I say. I'm not being my usual sarcastic self, because I don't like doing much socializing myself. I'm a homebody. This trip was way out of my comfort zone.

Finally, Rebekah points to the spring. "Here we are."

Rachelle, in her mess of an outfit and bare feet, hustles towards it. "A hot bath. Who's joining me?"

"No thanks," I say after bending down and checking the water temp. "A tad too hot for my taste."

Rebekah turns away for Rachelle to start stripping down. I follow suite. "Don't be shy," I call out over my shoulder.

"I just did a face plant and ended up with my dress over my head in the mud, if there is anything these people haven't see, it's a miracle."

Rebekah grins and looks over at me as we turn just in time to see her jump right in fully clothed.

I walk around, looking at the picturesque countryside. The rolling hills, studded with the occasional tree, and the sky that seems somehow bigger and more dramatic than what I have over me back home on the Outer Banks.

Rachelle and Rebekah are talking, about what I have no idea, so I just soak up the atmosphere for a little while longer. After several minutes, Rebekah starts back for the house, leaving Rachelle and I alone.

"Hey, can you pass me those curlers," Rachelle says, after dunking under the water.

I stare down at the bundle Rachelle brought. All I see are exotic looking underwear and several broken corn cobs. "These?" I say, as I reach down and carefully pick one up. "Please tell me you don't mean these."

"Just give them to me. Necessity is the mother of invention." Rachelle starts wrapping her hair around them and somehow they stay put. Probably caught on those dried up holes where the kernels were. "You can head back. I'm almost done here."

"You don't need me to be a look out for the local perverts?"

"I hardly think there are any perverts within a hundred miles," she laughs.

"I'll bet you're wrong." I tease, but it seems likely she's right in this instance. "Okay, I'm going to see if Helene needs any help with dinner."

*********************************************************************************************

Helene is chopping what looks to be pork on the counter, while Rebekah is mixing some dry ingredients beside her. I'm pretty bad in the kitchen, I'll be the first to admit, but what sort of guest would I be if I didn't offer to help. "Can I help y'all in any way?"

While I'm silently praying the answer is no, Helene shakes her head. "But, thank you for the offer. You are our guest. If you need to rest before our meal, please feel free."

"I'm good. Hey, I have a question for you. Do y'all really recycle corncobs and use them as curlers?"

Helene presses her lips together. "Curlers? Um, no. They are used much like your, um, bath tissue."

"Come again."

"We use them as a means to clean ourselves after we ," Helene pauses mid-sentence, waiting for me to get up to speed.

What a time not to have use of my phone. YouTube would love this. Rachelle walking in with an Amish dress, and Amish toilet paper in her hair.

"Just making sure I heard right." I glance at Helene. She seems a little bit different than the others. Not as Amish, maybe. She's nice and all of that, but definitely more worldly. "So, Helene, did you grow up around here? Neighboring farm?"

She lifts her eyes to look at me. "I see I still have a bit of English in me. You are very perceptive. I was born in the English world. But when I met Ezra, well, I decide to give that world up."

I nod. "I was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia. When I met my husband, I gave the city life up and moved to the beach. Hard adjustment. I think I cried almost every day that first winter. Cold, broke and bored are not a good combination. But, I ended up starting to paint then. Found shells on the beach and painted them. They started to sell."

"Yes, change can sometimes bring out strength that we never knew we had," she says, then abruptly returns to the meal preparation.

I wonder if I struck a nerve, but before I can ask, the door opens and Ezra calls for Helene and Rebekah to come outside.

I follow them and take a handful of seed from the bucket one of the boys is holding. I watch how they toss it out and am amazed as chickens seem to come from every direction.

Everyone stops as Rachelle appears. I know better than to make eye contact with anyone. But, I wonder who will address the elephant in room.





Author Notes This is totally fiction. There is no Annual FanStory Writers Convention, my 2005 Old Reliable Suburban is still going strong and Rachelle does not curl her hair with Amish toilet paper. This is for fun. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 8
Nothing's As It Seems (Rachelle)

By Rachelle Allen

In true Mid-Atlantic States style, by the time we have made it inside the siblings' house, the skies have started to offer up some signs of clearing. There's still some rain, but all the electricity in the air has abated. The sun is even trying to beam down onto the far-reaching bucolic landscape and drench it in hues to rival a Norman Rockwell lithograph. The only interruptions to the variegated rows of green countryside are the intermittent silos, gleaming like snub-nosed rocket ships.

It is simultaneously peaceful and unnerving - and for the exact same reason: not another living soul for miles, save for these people who rescued us.

There was a guy with a scythe who'd sauntered out of one of the barns when we'd arrived and set Gretchen sprinting, like an Olympic qualifier, back toward the road. But other than that, there is just this patchworked family and two FanStorians until at least Wednesday. In a word, OY!

Rebekah presents me with some consolation prizes in lieu of my actual clothes, which are now making their way down the digestive tracks of her family's goats.

I see two white towels, two neatly folded blue cotton dresses, dark hose, flat, black, high-top work shoes, a shawl and an apron. She looks at me apologetically as she says, "They're not glamorous, like you're used to, but they're clean."

"Oh, Rebekah, I feel so guilty taking your clothes!" I tell her.

She looks down, and tears drop to the floor. Softly, she says, "They were my maam's."

I'm now the one blinking back tears. "Are you sure you're comfortable seeing them on me, Sweetie?"

"So very much," she says, barely audibly, as she squeezes her eyelids tight.

Quickly, I clap the bottoms of the flat shoes together and say, "Well, at least I won't be getting THESE caught in the sideboard of your buggy!"

As I'd hoped, this gets her smiling again and even laughing a little.

"I have these for you, too," she says, handing me four kernel-less corncobs and several strips of washed out fabric. "Do you know what they're for?"

"I DO!" I exclaim. "But I'm flabbergasted that YOU do, Rebekah! Have you been sneaking peeks at Glamour magazine when you go into town?"

She gives me a quizzical look just as Gretchen arrives, wearing her tidy, dry-again outfit and still looking like the plucky Englisher she is. Meanwhile, there I stand, the one-shoed, mud-caked leopardess that I have become.

"Rebekah's taking me to the hot springs so I can look presentable again," I tell Gretchen. "You want to come, too?"

"Sure!" says my travel buddy, and off we go.

A few feet to our right, Rebekah points to a small building. "The outhouse," she advises.

"Like, WHAT?" squawks Gretchen.

"Oh, this from the girl who, just an hour ago, was whizzing beside an oak tree?" I say with my eyebrows raised.

Rebekah covers her teeth with her lips for the second time since we entered her orbit. Oh! The stories this girl will be sharing at the next quilting circle!

We don't have to trek far into the woods before everything feels very different. There's an unbelievable serenity suddenly. No birdsong, no moving air, in fact, no motion at all. There is an all-but-palpable holy feeling that suddenly surrounds us that reminds me of the mikvah - the ritual Jewish bath - I took before my wedding day. G-d's country, indeed.

We reach a clearing, and a liquid oval of sapphire blue spreads out before us, looking like a Caribbean postcard. Gentle eddies percolate all across its surface as it gives off a satisfying sensation of heat.

"Our hot springs," Rebekah says, enjoying the looks of incredulity on Gretchen's and my faces.

"Can you find your way back alright if I leave you here?" she asks. "I should get home to help Aunt Helene with supper."

"Of course!" we assure her.

"Don't be too long, though, please," says Rebekah. "When the sun is just over that silo, you should head back."

"Will do," says Gretchen.

"Rebekah, is it alright if my hair's still wet and 'in progress' at the dinner table?"

"I don't see why not," she says, though I I worry she's just being polite. I make a mental note to do my reading-the-room thing when we return and proceed accordingly.

Rebekah turns in the direction of her home, and we can hear her singing, "Amazing Grace" so beautifully that it's as if an angel is on the periphery, completing the final perfect touch to this tableau. The music teacher in me will be exploring this discovery more after dinner.

"Are you going in?" I ask Gretchen, nodding toward the clear and beautiful water.

She gapes at me. "Like, get naked and dip down into the hot unknown in the middle of an Amish farmer's field?"

"Not naked," I say. "I'm going to just go right in in my dress. It's ruined anyway from the rain and then the mud. So now I'll just call it my "swim dress."

"Who ARE you, and what have you done with the fashion frou-frou leopard Barbie person I picked up at her cousin's house in Baltimore?" she asks, wide-eyed.

"I'm (a) acclimating to my circumstances - the old When In Rome thing - and (b) communing with my roots."

"Yeah, right!" Gretchen rolls her eyes. "You grew up on a farm? You, Miss Opera Singer Sophisticate grew up on a farm?"

"Actually, I did," I say proudly. "In Palmyra, New York. My family owned four horses and fifty-two acres of farmland with a creek that ran through it, a big barn and even a chicken coop.

"What'd you do - gather eggs and then carry them back to the house in your high heels every morning before heading off to school?" Gretchen laughs heartily at her own joke.

"I did everything barefooted back then," I tell her and wait for the astonishment to reach her eyes. "I caught frogs, I went for walks in the woods behind our house with my Great Dane. I was a bona fide country girl."

I continue. "My parents worked in The City, but they rented fifty of our fifty-two acres to the farmers whose properties abutted ours. They rented out the chicken coop and half the barn to them, too."

Gretchen is officially speechless. "Mind. Totally. Blown," she says, shaking her head.

"So, you might not want to take the plunge here, but you're also not the one covered in sludge. Myself, I cannot wait to indulge and get squeaky clean again...and try to tame my hair back from this frizz-fest it's become with the rain."

I make my way down the path toward the gentle bubbles.

"Oh!" I say, suddenly remembering. "And look what else Rebekah bestowed!" I point toward the corn cobs and strips of well-worn fabric.

"What are those?" Gretchen asks.

"Makeshift curlers!" I exclaim. "I can't imagine how an Amish girl with such silky red hair could possibly know about using curlers to eliminate frizz in hair like mine, but there it is!"

"Wow!" says Gretchen, matching my own enthusiasm. "Someone's giving her bootleg fashion mags!"

"I know! That's exactly what I said!"

Gretchen decides to go back to the house and maybe help Helene and Rebekah prepare dinner while I sink into the heavenly waters of the hot springs and explode with the joy of it all.

As the sun crowns the silo, I make my way back to the farmhouses, now ensconced in Rebekah's maam's blue button-down dress. It's so roomy that Gretchen and I could fit in it together. It flows to my ankles, where it is met by the flat-bottomed, high-topped work boots. I've used one of the fabric strips to tie my unruly mane into a high ponytail, which I've divided into four sections - one for each corn cob curler - and used the remaining fabric strips to hold them in place.

My couture might not be exactly haute anymore, but I'll be damned if my hair's going to be a mess! Surely, I'm allowed to maintain SOME semblance of fashionable dignity!

Everyone, even Gretchen, is out on the front lawn, spreading corn to the chickens as I approach. Upon seeing me, they all freeze and gape. A full minute passes before Helene finds her voice.

"Um, Rachelle," she says in a tone I recognize immediately as diplomatic, "those pieces of old fabric and corn cobs weren't intended for that purpose."

"They weren't?" I ask.

She shakes her head and shares a look with Gretchen.

"Then what are they for?" I ask, thoroughly perplexed.

Helene points toward the outhouse. Diligently keeping her tone even and pleasant, as if she's talking a jumper down from the ledge, she says, "We use them in there. Fabric strips for the, um, front part, corn cobs for, well, you understand."

I exchange perplexed looks with Gretchen, who, I'm suddenly noticing, is wearing the pained expression of someone who's watching a trainwreck in slow motion. I turn back to Helene. "No, honestly, I don't understand. What front part? What does that mean? And corn cobs for what?"

For the BACK part!" shouts Ezra in exasperation and, bending in half, pats his hind quarters several times.

As reality hits, I emit my best operatic high note of all time while Gretchen and the children have all they can do to remain upright. They are holding their stomachs and braying like donkeys at a group singalong.

Helene rushes over to disengage the outhouse toileting aids from my hair while also encouraging me, over and over, to please, please, please stop screaming. I can't seem to comply.

*******************

When we have all finally regained our composure, we sit down for dinner. Immediately after the "Amen" from Ezra's prayer of gratitude, Hannah takes in my halo of flame-colored frizz that I am just sure must resemble a sea anemone, then turns to Gretchen and says, "I think Rachelle's about to get struck by lightning!"

"Eat your scrapple," says Helene.

Scrapple, I think to my Jewish, Celiac-compromised self: a traditional mush of fried pork scraps and trimmings, combined with cornmeal, wheat flour and spices.

Amish life sucks. Is it Wednesday yet?
 

Author Notes Although the story itself is fictitious, lots of facets in this chapter are true. I was raised in Palmyra, NY, on fifty-two acres of farmland that we rented out to our neighbors who were farmers (my parents both worked in The City), and was barefoot constantly, explored the woods with my dog, and tended to our four horses. I did NOT, however - not even once - step foot into the outhouse or the chicken coop on our property, and for SURE I never used empty corn cobs for makeshift curlers!


Chapter 9
Common Bonds (Gretchen)

By Rachelle Allen

So, Gretchen Hargis and Rachelle Allen are en route to the Annual FanStory Convention when Hargis's 2005 Suburban beaks down. With no cell phone service, they are sitting on the side of the road when they are rescued by an Amish family in horse drawn buggies. To say they are in for a cultural shock is an understatement.

*************************************************************************************************

It's dark when Rachelle and the others leave after dinner. I'm the type of person who does better being the side kick and not the main character. So, with her exit, I grow uncomfortably aware that I am now responsible for the small talk. I shift on the bench and stretch my legs before they start to ache from the unpadded seat. I used to sit for hours on the benches in the gym, watching my kids play basketball. So, why is it so hard to do now? The answer is twofold: I'm old, and basketball is exciting, while sitting here in silence is like watching paint dry.

Dinner was good, though I have no idea what it was I ate. Rachelle murmured the word scrapple, then closed her eyes briefly, then said "oy", so I'm figuring either she was excited or devastated. By the end of the meal, I figured out it was the latter, as her plate still had over half of the meal left. My plate looked like it had already gone through the dishwasher.

I stand up and look over at Helene, who is reading a small leather bound book by the candle-lit lamp beside her. Ezra has taken Hannah into the other room and they are reading scriptures. "Is it okay if I look at some of your artwork?"

Helene nods and closes her book. "Please," she says, as she places the book on the table beside her and walks over to join me. "Rachelle says you are an artist."

"I don't like the title artist, but I enjoy my creative moments." It sounds insincere when it comes out of my mouth. "I just always picture people who are snobby, standing around a gallery and telling people their process. I just like to paint and collage. If it makes people smile, then I've reached my goal."

Helene nods. "This was the only remaining piece of the wedding quilt that Ezra's mother and sisters made for us." Her voice holds a reverence to it as she gently touches the brown wood frame.

"What happened? Did your goat's eat it?" I tease.

"Our house caught fire. We were lucky, though, we were able to escape it and save some of our possessions."

"Geez, I'm sorry. Any idea how it happened?"

"A candle toppled over, while we were tending the animals. My fault. I should have blown it out."

We move on to the next thing hanging on the wall. It looks like a checker board. "Checkers?"

"We do sell them as checkers or chess boards. Simeon and Solomon, they carve the pieces for them. But, this board was made by Ezra's late brother. If you look closely, in the wood grain, there are faces in it. At least, it looks like faces to me," Helene says softly. Her cheeks grow pink and I realize, she has probably never uttered this to anyone else.

I lean in closer and study the stained wooden squares. I nod. I see a face staring back at me. "You, my dear Helene, have the soul of an artist."

She blushes more deeply.

"So, how did you meet Ezra?"

She peeks into the room where her husband and daughter are reading, then whispers to me. "It is a pleasant evening, let's go to the front porch."

There are two chairs nestled under the tall narrow window and she takes a seat in one and I take the other.

"This is nice. The only thing missing is a bottle of wine and two glasses," I joke. "Sorry."

Helene shrugs and settles back. "I was with friends from school, and one weekend, we decided it would be fun to come to the local Amish market. We would come, buy fruit, make fun of them in their clothes and the silly beards. The boys used to rate the girls and women. It was not a nice thing to do, but like many young people, that was how we entertained ourselves."

"So, there is a young Helene, goofing off with her friends and, then what?"

In the darkness, Helene lets a small laugh escape. "My good friends left me. They left me fifty miles from home, no phone, no money. Just left."

"Were you scared?"

"I was standing alone, calling out my friends names and I went to where they had parked the car, but it was gone. So, I am crying quite loudly, and I feel a hand touch my arm. I spin around thinking it is one of them. That, perhaps they were playing a trick on me. But it was an Amish boy. Who, by the way, had the most beautiful eyes, I had ever looked into. He led me to his father and mother, and after I stopped crying, I told them what my friends had done. They took me to the midway point where I could call my parents to come get me."

"I still want to hear more about this boy with the gorgeous eyes, but what the hell did you say to your friends when you saw them again?"

"They said they had planned to double back in half an hour and pick me up. It was just a joke. But when they got back, I was gone."

"Okay, so then what?"

"I came back the following weekend and found him. I had bought a card and written a thank you note inside," she says, pausing before she continues. "That was my excuse. I just felt so different after meeting Ezra. He was like no one I had ever been around. It was as if he saw me and we knew each other already."

"Soulmates," I say, sighing at the simple, yet beautiful story.

"That is how the English describe it, yes."

Helene stirs beside me as we sit in the darkness. The only light coming from the scattered stars above. The hum of the crickets and occasional call of an owl, settling my mind better than my usual dose of melatonin. It feels like midnight, and for the first time since I stepped out of my poor broken down Suburban, I feel relaxed enough to fall asleep. "Would you mind if I headed up to bed?" I ask.

"Please. There is an extra quilt on the rack by the door, in case you need it. And, you may put your discarded clothing by the door and we can wash them tomorrow."

I head inside, say a quick goodnight to Ezra and Hannah, then go upstairs. There in the tranquil darkness, I change out of my jeans and t-shirt, pull on my pajamas and tuck myself into bed.

As the owls and crickets lull me to sleep, I come to the realization that I could indeed live the Amish life. Well, with two exceptions, I cuss and I like a glass of wine now and then.

Author Notes The Annual Convention does not exist. My Suburban still runs. Rachelle and I are not planning a road trip anytime soon. And we met through Fanstory. This story is just for fun. The names and identities of the Amish are all fictional. There are only three things that are facts in here. I don't call myself an artist. I do cuss and I do like a glass of wine every now an then. Enjoy this silly ride with Rachelle and me. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 10
Common Bonds (Rachelle)

By Rachelle Allen

After dinner, I return to the house where Rebekah lives with her brothers. The boys each take a knife and wood scraps from a stockpile near the hearth then settle into two spindle-back chairs and immerse themselves in the fine art of whittling.

Rebekah pulls the top of a quilt onto her lap and reaches for a nearby needle and thread.

"Seven stitches per inch," I say and watch her look up with astonishment.

"How do you know that?" she asks.

"Because I make quilts, too, and love going to the Mennonite store in the next county from me for fabrics. They taught me that." I smile. "Would you trust me to join you?"

She hands over a fat quarter of solid blues and blacks, a needle and a spool of thread.

I tell her, "I heard you singing Amazing Grace this afternoon as you headed back to your house from the hot spring."

Her eyes dart quickly toward her brothers, who each stop whittling for a breath in time, then resume.

"You were given a beautiful gift," I say.

She looks up quickly, blushes, then looks back down, quickening her stitches.

"Solomon and Simeon, do you have this gift, as well? In real life, I'm a voice, flute and piano teacher, and I know that such gifts can oftentimes run in families."

"We are all in the church choir," Solomon answers.

I know from reading I've done that Amish voices can be raised in songs of worship, but any other forms are not considered "humble" and are not allowed.

"Family voices also blend well together," I say. "It's not uncommon for them to share a similar timbre, or tone quality."

No one's eyes are on me, but I can easily sense that their ears are fully engaged.

"Is Amazing Grace one of the songs your church choir is learning?" I ask.

They all nod enthusiastically.

"The music teacher in me would absolutely love to hear you sing it together. Think of it as doing me a kindness. I haven't heard anything beautiful since Gretchen's wonderful car, Old Reliable, broke down and the radio with it."

They smile in unison and look amongst each other, then stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

Rebekah begins:
Amazing Grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch
Like me

Her brothers join in, harmonizing:

I once was lost,
But now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

As I imagined, the timbres are identical, so they blend like a pipe organ in a majestic European cathedral - full, round, even tones that melt me like apple butter on Amish hot cakes.

Their eyes are closed, but their souls are lying before me as open and vulnerable as newborn lambs. A swarm of goosebumps percolates up my spine then prickles across my head, igniting the part in my hair. Tears come flooding down my cheeks, just as they do when my own students play so well that I cannot contain the beauty of their talent.

The trio opens their eyes and startles at my reaction to their impromptu performance.

"Look at the joy you have evoked in me," I tell them, swiping my index finger beneath my lower lid. "I cannot thank you enough for this treasure you have bestowed."

"Our maam used to cry whenever we sang, too," says Rebekah.

"Did she also sing?" I ask.

"Yes, she was our choir leader," Simeon says softly.

"Our daed had a nice voice, too," Solomon adds. "Very deep."

"Yours is, too," I tell him. "Deep and rich and soothing." There is a pause before I ask, "Who's leading the choir now?"

"No one," says Simeon.

I ponder that a moment then ask, "Would you be willing to allow me to teach you some songs and some choral conducting techniques in these next days until the sheriff returns and Gretchen and I can use a phone and be on our way?"

The three exchange quick, uncomfortable glances.

"Look," I begin, "I know I'm an Englisher, but I'm also a singer and a teacher. Do you think it's a coincidence that G-d put us here together in this situation? Let's think about that." I look from one to another and give them Warm Teacher eyes. "What I can provide will enable you to have music for your choir again." They're standing there like participants in a game of Freeze Tag who haven't been touched yet to enable them to return to the action. I try another tack. "Of all the places between Baltimore and New Jersey that Old Reliable could have broken down, she did so here, where another red-haired woman, who sang and knew how to conduct a church choir, was taken to Heaven just a month before. There's no way that's a coincidence." I stop for a beat then add, "That's G-d's hand on all of our shoulders." The siblings' expressions become simultaneously overcome, yet unreadable.

I continue on, softly. "What I'm being given, in return, is the pleasure to meet all of you and repay you for your generous hospitality. If it weren't for you being in the right place exactly when we needed you most  - and that, by the way, was no coincidence, either - Gretchen and I could have been in serious trouble, and probably even danger."

I let a few moments of silence pass. Finally, I add, "I'm sure you know Psalm 100: Make a joyful noise unto the Lord?"

Their smiles warm me to the innermost chambers of my soul.

I reach out with both my hands, and the four of us link in a circle and bow our heads. "We thank you for making this gift of friendship possible, G-d," I say and am filled up at once with emotion as I hear these three gifted gingers chorus, "Amen."

Amish life is so beautiful and satisfying...even if I am standing here in flat shoes, an apron and a huge, long, blue button-down dress because the goats ate all my clothes! I would not have wanted to miss this moment for all the haute couture in Paris.

 

Author Notes Although our story is fiction, there are elements of truth that both Gretchen and I weave into all of our chapters. In this one: that I am a voice, flute and piano teacher, and I do, indeed, quilt.


Chapter 11
E-i-e-i-o (Rachelle's Version)

By Rachelle Allen

       Everyone has quirks, of course. My biggest one – well, you know, in addition to loving, as Gretchen refers to it, “Leopard Barbie frou-frou fashion” – is that I need only four hours’ sleep a night. It’s been this way since my Senior year of high school. Thankfully, my husband is the same. When I’m home, that’s not a problem. But anywhere else, it is an issue.

       Today, it is more an issue than ever because it’s 4 a.m., and even our Amish hosts, who, I swear, went to bed at 8 p.m., are still sleeping. There are no books to read in this bedroom, and no paper or pen, either. I can’t even do my morning stretches because this room is so small.

       So, I lie here quietly and think, trying to figure out how Gretchen and I will be able to get ourselves to the FanStory convention by Saturday, when the sheriff and doctor – the only ones in this community with phones – won’t be returning until sometime Wednesday, two days from now.

       I imagine calling my cousin in Baltimore, where I left my car, to see if she’d be willing to drive it here. There’s no way Old Reliable will be back in working condition in time – or, do let’s be honest here, EVER – and I’m pretty sure getting a buggy ride to New Jersey is a hard ‘no,’ as well. Gretchen will have to acclimate to not being in the driver’s seat. I’m counting on Helene to lend us a vomit pail just in case.

       When I cannot take lying down and ruminating any longer, I wrestle my hair into a bun and pad my way downstairs and then onto the front porch, where I’ll be able to watch the sun rise.

       The meadow scents weave themselves throughout my olfactory system and are redolent with mint and sage, wildflowers, roses and, of course, goat dung. The morning air is heavy with dew that, as I lift my chin skyward, bestows a moisturizing facial that I could not love or appreciate more.

       Finally, the tiniest strands of variegated plums and maroons begin to unravel themselves from the horizon, like a fraying ribbon.

 Within moments, the family rooster announces the day. Even though I’m fully awake, his trumpet blast pierces through me enough to roust me from my chair as if I’ve just been given a jolt of electricity.

He’s on his third round of screeches when I hear Gretchen’s voice from her open window next door. “WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE SHOOT THAT ROOSTER!” Hopefully, our hosts are as highly amused as I am.

The maroon and plum streaks have now begun to levitate, leaving rippled claw marks behind. Shimmering dollops of mango and maize stream through the gashes left in their wake.

 I now have a spectacular view of acres of wildflower gardens and wish my beloved Diane Kenel-Truelove were here to appreciate it with me and give me the lowdown on every last blossom raising its face to us.

Before long, Simeon and Solomon exit the front door, to my right, while, across the gravel path, I spot Ezra leaving his house, too. The trio stops short and gapes at me, so I smile and say, “Goot meriya free!” Pennsylvania Deutch for “Good early morning!” I learned this from reading the Linda Castillo books about a formerly Amish Chief of Police in a small, heavily Amish community in Pennsylvania.

When they continue to remain speechless and agape, I say, “I’m a four-hour-a-night sleeper.” Finally, after another round of silence, I do the teacher trick of evoking a verbal response by asking a question. “May I help with chores?”

The rooster gives one final officious shriek, and Gretchen’s voice rings out again. “SHUUUUUUUT  UUUUUUUUUUP, YOU STUPID, STUPID BIRRRRRRD!! YOU’RE GONNA BE SOUP BY LUNCHTIME IF I HAVE MY WAY!”

I watch as Ezra exchanges amused smirks with the boys.

Rebekah bustles out of the front door, armed with two baskets. Obviously, she heard my request to help with chores, because she hands one to me then sweeps the air with her arm in the universal sign for “Follow me” and heads us toward the chicken coop.

“Is there a special technique here I should know?” I ask, trying to keep pace with her. Rebekah can’t help smiling. It tells me that I have asked the equivalent of “How do I tie my shoes?” But she is kind.

“I’ll gather them and hand them to you, so you’ll just be in charge of putting them into these baskets without breaking them.”

“Oh, I’ll be very good at that, I promise,” I say and smile so she knows I’m in on the joke. Once we get into the rhythm of our task, I say, “So, I’m curious about how old you and your brothers are.” She mesmerizes me with how efficiently she slips her hand beneath the breast feathers of each plump hen, then quickly extracts a huge brown egg.

“I’m sixteen,” she answers, going on to the next chicken without any lost momentum whatsoever. I marvel at the way the hens make no attempt to peck her as she removes their precious cargo. And she’s so speedy, I am having all I can do to match her, egg for egg. “Simeon is eighteen, and Solomon is nineteen.” She looks down as she adds, “And our sister who died last month in the accident was seventeen.”

“Smaller than most Amish families,” I say.

“True,” she says. “But bigger than Uncle Ezra’s.” As an afterthought, she adds, “I’ve overheard people say that it was Gott’s punishment for him marrying an Englisher.”

I make a mental note to explore that later. For now, I ask, “Is that your feeling, too?”

“No!” Her response is both immediate and definitive. “Gott would have given them none if that were the case.”

“Will you be participating in Rumspringa?” I ask. “In our culture, we call that ‘sowing some wild oats,’ and parents fear it.” We share a smile as she continues to hand me eggs, and I carefully add them to the ever-burgeoning trove. “I think the way your culture handles it is so much wiser: go off, indulge in non-Amish ways, then decide for yourself if you want to return and commit to the church.”

“How do you know so much about our ways?” she asks, with only curiosity in her voice. There are no undercurrents of suspicion or defensiveness.

“Well, as you know, I like to write, and most times, writers are also readers. We’re a curious group. The Mennonites who live in the next county over from mine piqued my curiosity decades ago, so I continue to read about them and all the other sects, too.”

We have now filled one basket with substantial sized brown eggs, so I retreat to the door of the coop and return with the empty second basket.

“I’m surmising your family is Old Order Amish, so, not as strict as the Schwartzentrauber, but also not as permissive or modern—” I use finger quotes, then watch her give me a quizzical look, “as New Order Amish or Mennonite?”

“Yes, that is right,” she says with kind appreciation in her eyes.

“So…Rumspringa for you?” I ask again, and she laughs. “I can’t help myself, Rebekah. As a Jewish Mommie, it’s my birthright to be nosey and also to repeat myself as many times as I deem necessary.”

This time, her laugh is from deep down. “I’ve laughed more in these last twenty hours since meeting you and Gretchen than I have in months.”

I simply can’t resist; I give her a Mom-squeeze. And, best of all, she lets me.

“I’m considering it strongly,” she says, referring back to Rumspringa. “A friend of mine from choir and I have been talking about it, but we’re not very far along in our planning.”

We have now finished gathering eggs and, each of us, with a full basket in our hands, heads toward Helene’s.

“We put these into cartons to sell at our roadside stand,” she tells me. “Visitors and tourists buy many dozen at a time.”

As we enter Helene’s kitchen, I see Gretchen ambling in, bed-head hair on full display.

“Do Gretchen and I have time for a walk before breakfast?” I ask Helene. “I want her to see your beautiful flowers.”

“Yes,” she says. “Ezra and the boys will be milking for at least another twenty minutes.”

“Come on!” I say to my fellow road warrior. “We have a lot to see so we can describe it to Mrs. KT on Saturday!”

She blinks several times, giving me the impression that she is still trying to focus and acclimate to being vertical, as she shuffles toward me and the open door. “Is it even 6 a.m. yet?” she asks with a voice still full of morning-croak.

There is a clearing quite a ways past the flowers, where we can sit and be alone.

“How did you sleep?” I ask her.

“Fine until that frickin chicken starting belting out Reveille. W. T. F!!”

 I laugh louder than I’d expected, but, really, this girl is hilarious, even first thing in the morning and before she’s had her coffee.

       “How was it alone with your guys?” I ask.

       “Weird a little at first,” says Gretchen. “But then Helene and I found some common ground.”

       “Like?”

       “We both fell so head-over-heels for our husbands that we changed our lifestyles completely. I used to live in the city, and now I’m beyond the Outer Banks – as in, as isolated as I can possibly get! And Helene was an Englisher!”

       “Rebekah mentioned that this morning. How did that happen?” I find myself running my hand over the grass because it feels so silky and thick and smooth. I don’t even care that it’s still a little moist, and my Amish dress is wicking up all the dew.

       “Her friends deserted her, as a prank, at a carnival, and Ezra was there selling at a booth, heard her crying and came to her rescue. She fell in love with his beautiful eyes.”

       “Oh, wow!” I say, trying to imagine the practical Helene either crying or taking romantic stock of Ezra. Both commodities seem equally, completely foreign.

       “How about you and your fellow gingers?”

       “They SANG for me!” To my surprise, these words make me well up. “Their maam was their church choir director, so now they’re without one. I wheedled them into letting me teach them some choral pieces and conducting techniques in the next few days.”

       We hear some commotion by the barn so stand to see what’s happening. Ezra holds a rein in each hand, and two massive draught horses are following behind. Suddenly, one rears up onto his hind quarters, which startles Ezra to shout, “DOWN!” Simeon and Solomon dash from the barn and try to assist, but before they can, the horse has knocked Ezra to the ground. Both horses are now running as fast as they can straight toward Gretchen and me.

Author Notes As in previous chapters, some actual facts about us do get woven into this fictitious road trip story. In this one, it's that I honestly am a four-hour-a-night sleeper, and so it my husband. (In the words of my mother, "You saved two other marriages.")


Chapter 12
E i e i o (Gretchen's version)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, FanStorians, Gretchen and Rachelle, have taken off for the International Fanstory Writers Convention in Atlantic City, N. J. When Gretchen's "old reliable" Suburban breaks down, the two heroines find themselves being rescued by an unlikely source. Amish cavalry take them in to await help.

*************************************************************************************************

I've been known to aggressively tap the snooze on my clock radio a time or two. I will quickly swipe the end alarm bell on my phone sending it careening off the edge of my nightstand. So, when I wake to the Amish alarm, I am both confused and a tad aggravated. This alarm crows. (It is the equivalent to a person who can't sing a note on key, belting out your very favorite song.) The room is still cloaked in darkness, and there is a slight coolness to the air.

I roll over and feel my hips squeal out in protest. I am once again reminded how I am not in a room at the Hilton. I am in the upstairs of a house with no electricity and paper thin walls. I am not getting a courtesy call from the front desk. No, I am being assaulted with the nails on chalkboard anthem of an over zealous rooster.

After the third time, I kick back my covers and painfully make my way over to the window. "Hey, dumb bird, shut up," I hiss.

It sounds off again.

"Will someone shoot that stupid chicken?" I call out into the darkness. And, as I am scouring the darkened landscape below, I see a familiar sight. Even in the dim light, I recognize the red hair of my friend. She is sitting on a bench outside of the other house. I open my mouth to call out but that freaking rooster starts its racket again. "Rachelle, go grab that stupid noisy rooster and please dispose of it."

Rachelle walks closer to my window. There she stands in a tarp of a dress. She smiles brightly, like all is right with the world. The name Pollyanna comes to mind. "I'll be right down."

I pull a fresh shirt and a pair of clean jeans out of my bag and proceed to dress in the dark. As I'm finger brushing my hair, I see the first streaks of sunlight curling up from the horizon. It's been a while since I've watched the sunrise. I make my way back over to the window, just in time to see Rebekah and Rachelle heading to the chicken coop, each with a basket on their arm.

I pull the ladder back chair over and sit. For the next ten minutes I watch as the blank canvas of sky is painted and repainted by God Himself. Maybe, despite the ear shattering alarm, today would be a good day.

***********************************************************************************************

Before breakfast, Rachelle and I step away to regroup. Not sure why, because, my car is still dead and hope it hasn't been towed to some other location, and she still has no clothing to wear. We are still firmly planted in the nineteenth century, with people who don't know what coffee is, and can't tell a good old dirty joke to ease the tension. Once again, I am reminded that I am out of my element. My phone has sixty-four per cent left on its battery. I text my husband. I'm sure he's going out of his mind with worry. The little spinning thing just keeps spinning. Please, God, get my message through, even if, it takes all day.

"Helene, would you happen to have a comb I can use?" I say, as I get to the bottom of the stairs. "Sorry for the bed head," I mutter to Hannah. Hannah grins.

Rachelle and Rebekah come in with two baskets of brown eggs. Since Rachelle revealed her past farm experience, I can't giggle at the absurdity of her doing farm related chores. I can just dig up the memory of her in an over sized dress, with Amish toilet paper in her hair yesterday. That is a sight I will not ever forget.

"Helene, is there enough time for Gretchen and me to look at the flowers out back? I'd love for her to see them."

Since both Ezra and the boys were still busy with the animals, she nods. "Don't be too long. Breakfast is best when hot."

We escape out the door and step out into the cool purple and pink shadows of the early morning.

She tells me about her night. I can tell by just the look in her eyes what their singing meant to her. Music is her life. She sings without fear and hears music in every sound of nature. I envy her for that. The fact that she was able to be a witness to something so private and pure, has changed her.

I listen to her as she speaks and hear the writer in her, tiny details that are like flourishes on an unwritten page.

We both look to where Ezra leads two horses out of the barn. Without warning, one of them rears up, a frantic sound coming from it.

"What the hell?" I say, suddenly on high alert. "He's gonna get hurt if he isn't careful."

Rachelle rushes forward, leaving me in a wake of her dust. "Careful!" she calls, her ill fitting dress flapping in the breeze like a loose sail.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Rachelle? Remember, there isn't a doctor here. He won't be back until Wednesday. Don't think they have a spare racehorse for their Amish ambulance." I run along behind her, keeping my eyes on two things, the increasing fuss of the horse and Rachelle's backside as she hurries toward Ezra.

I watch in horror as Ezra stumbles, falling into the danger zone of horses' hooves. The boys are grabbing for the loose reins.

"Rachelle, be careful. I still have hopes of getting to the conference. Don't blow it by being a hero."

As all of this unfolds before my eyes, I wish for two things. That no one gets hurt and a pitch black cup of the strongest coffee known to man.

What do you think my chances of getting either of those things are? About the same as waking up in the Hilton tomorrow.

Author Notes No horses, flowers or roosters were hurt in the making of this chapter. We are still waiting for a cell signal and I am still waiting for a good cup of coffee. Happy Sunday from Amish country. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 13
Runaway Horse and Venomous Snake

By Rachelle Allen

In the previous chapter, Gretchen and Rachelle are in a clearing in the field, admiring their Amish host, Helene’s, beautiful wildflower gardens. Suddenly, they hear a commotion near the house, see one of Ezra’s two draught horses rear up on its hind legs, then, with the other horse, break free and head straight for where Gretchen and Rachelle are standing.

The horses are so enormous and traveling so fast that I can already feel the ground thrumming beneath my on-loan clodhopper-like work boots.

I scream over my shoulder toward Gretchen, “RUN TOWARD THE RIGHT AS FAST AS YOU CAN.” Remembering her topple the previous evening as she ran from the man with the scythe coming out of the barn, I add, “AND THIS TIME, DO NOT FALL!”

Something in the terror-filled pitch of my voice sends her streaking faster and more nimbly into the meadows to our right than I could ever have fathomed. She is many paces in front of me, and I had a head start.

We keep our arms in front of us like linebackers in the final moments of Super Bowl Sunday and navigate our way through what could very well be Joe Pie-Weed and patches of yarrow – flowers I remember Mrs. KT mentioning she’d seen during her visit to Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania. Right now, though, everything is simply a weedy, undecipherable jungle.

        Suddenly, we stop when the ground behind us is shaking so tremendously that it feels like an earthquake. We intuitively turn toward the ear-splitting waves and watch  Ezra’s behemoths steamroll by.

        Their ears are flattened, their nostrils are flaring, and their dinner-plate-sized hooves are pummeling the ground beneath them into an apocalyptic landscape of dirt geysers.

        Gretchen and I gape at each other.

        “How did you know to do that?” she asks.

        “Horses run in straight lines,” I say. “They’re not like bears or cougars. They wouldn’t chase us. But they’re so fast that getting out of their way in time was all that mattered.”

        Together, we try to slow our breathing.

        “Between those horses and that guy coming out of the barn yesterday afternoon with a scythe, you’ve become quite the impressive runner, Gretchen Hargis,” I say. “I was really proud of you for remaining vertical this time, though.”

        “Oh, yeah; you’re a freakin’ riot, Allen,” Gretchen says, still crouching with her hands on her knees and trying to stabilize both her breathing as well as her wits.

        “I bet those horses are already at the FanStory Convention,” I tell her, then silently cheer as, finally, my little Olympian laughs.

        “Yeah,” she adds, “And Steve Foreman’s wrestled both to the ground and is charging people to take rides on ‘em.” We both break into peals of laughter at the thought of our favorite No-Nonsense English military man and fearless African safari guide making short work of a pair of runaway equines. Amateur Hour!

        Just then, we hear a gut-wrenching scream.

        “Who’s that?” I ask.

        “It’s so high, it’s got to be Hannah,” says Gretchen.

        “Oy!” I gasp, and the two of us tear off in the direction of the wails.

        When we arrive, Ezra is writhing on the ground and moaning. Solomon is kneeling next to him, and Simeon is holding a bloody hoe and standing astride a decapitated black-and-brown variegated snake.

        Gretchen goes pale while I run into the nearby wildflower patch to toss my cookies.

        Between hurls, I can hear Helene hustling from the house and asking Solomon, “Was he bitten by the snake?”

        “No,” I hear Solomon answer. “The horse knocked him down after this timber rattler struck at it.”

        “TIMBER RATTLER?” I hear Gretchen scream. Then I hear her feet pound toward the house with the same kind of ferocity and abandon as Ezra’s draught horses.

        I manage to wobble my way back to the rest of the group as Rebekah gathers Hannah into her arms. “Your daede will be okay,” she tells her with an impressively perfect maternal coo.

        But Hannah can’t be consoled quite yet. “Daede, are you okay?” she asks between sobs.

        “Yes,” he says, though his voice is noticeably constricted. “Horses that size are powerful beasts. I just need a couple minutes, Hannah, but I’ll be fine.”

        Solomon and Simeon help him to his feet and lead him into the house. The rest of us file in behind them for breakfast, though I can’t imagine anyone having an appetite at this point.

        Amish life is so much more action-packed than anything I've ever experienced in humble little East Rochester, New York!

       

Author Notes Although Gretchen (GW) Hargis and I are real - and friends - this story we're co-writing is completely fictitious. Be sure and check out her version of this (and every) chapter, because that's the added fun, we think, of this novel.


Chapter 14
Runaway Horse and Venomous Snake

By Rachelle Allen

Day two or three of the detour into Amish country for Rachelle Allen ad Gretchen Hargis, has them running for cover when the normally docile horses charge. Will our normally cunning and together heroines panic or rise to the occasion? Who the heck knows.

*************************************************************************************************

The flowers in the field are beautiful. Rachelle points out the different varieties and tells me their names, but I don't know the difference between a daisy and a daffodil. They are just flowers, beautiful and fragrant and early this morning covered with all sorts of flying insects. I see butterflies, dragonflies, and happy little bumblebees lifting off from one bud to another. I might not know my flowers, but I can spot and name a bug from fifty yards away.

She glances back towards the house and her hand tentatively reaches out as if to pick one. "Do you think she'd mind if I picked a couple? I think Rebekah would enjoy seeing them in the house."

I shrug. "I can't imagine any of them getting upset. They're pretty laid back around here."

She plucks one bloom and is in the middle of reaching for another when we hear the frantic sound from the horses. I spin quick to see Ezra, trying to grip the reins and this behemoth of an animal rearing up, then the other horse starts up.

Rachelle lets the flower fall and almost pushes me. "Run! Run as quickly as you can. And, do not fall this time. If you do, it will be the last time you do."

There is one thing about me you should know, and that is, if someone tells me to run, I run. I'm not curious enough to question why. I have one goal and that is to outrun everyone else. I am a survivor. So, I go into auto pilot and start running. Next thing I know, I'm Usain Bolt and I'm going for the gold. I pass Rachelle and keep going. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins and it feels good.

I heard her words about horses running straight and something about other wild animals, but I didn't wait for that to process in my brain. When she finally catches up, she breathlessly smiles at me.

"Between those horses and that guy coming out of the barn yesterday with a scythe, you've become quite the impressive runner, Gretchen Hargis. And, I was proud of you for remaining vertical this time, though."

I struggle to catch my breath but cut my eyes at her. "You're a riot, Allen." If a Southern girl knows one thing, when running from something that can hurt you, it doesn't matter how fast you run, just matters that you are faster then the guy or girl beside you.

Rachelle brushes her mass of red curls back and finally straightens up. "I bet those horses made it to the convention already," she says.

I laugh as I think about my Amish ambulance horse remark earlier. We start to joke about several members of FanStory and the personalities we've come to know through writing. I can almost not feel my heartbeat throbbing in my temples when a piercing scream cuts through the air.

"Who's that?"

I feel my heart sink. I know a little girl's scream when I hear it. There is no doubt in my mind that it is Hannah. Both Rachelle and I head off in the direction of the barn.

It doesn't look good when we get there. Ezra is lying there, eyes rolling back, moaning and slightly rocking side to side. A blur whisks by me as Helene rushes from the house to the spot where her husband is.

I see one of the boys holding a hoe and the rusty tinge of blood is shining in the bright sunlight.

Timber Rattlesnake was all I heard and with my one remaining sprint, I run for the house. If I have enough battery power left on my phone, I can take a picture of it. I hate frogs, toads and lizards, but I do like to see a snake. I can't wait to send this to my husband. This is the kind of stuff we live for. Pictures of snakes and dogs. Odd combination but works for us.

I take the stairs two at a time and know that I will be pay for this tomorrow, if not sooner.

They are heading to the house as I'm going past them. Ezra supported on either side by Solomon and Simeon. Rebekah cradling Hannah in her arms, as Helene walks behind her husband. The look she has on her face is one I know well. Its a flash of reality. Time is fleeting and things can change. I'm sure she had a moment of uncertainty when she saw her beloved husband lying on the ground next to the venomous snake. "Back in a flash," I say, racing to where the outline of the dead snake is.

I stay back far enough away from it and start clicking the pictures. I've heard so much about snakes and how even after they're dead they can still bite. I don't know what the truth is and what is Internet garbage, but I'm also unwilling to test fate. I check the images and go to my contacts, click on my husband's name and my heart surges.

The message I sent earlier this morning says delivered. I have managed to reach the twenty-first century from Amish country.

I turn back to the house and suddenly, my appetite is in overdrive.

"Bring on the day," I shout happily.

Author Notes The Rattlesnake was a stand in for the actual snake actor. He was trained and through AI it only appeared he was decapitated. No Amish were hurt in this episode either. Just another fictional day in Amish country. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 15
Plan B - Rachelle's Version

By Rachelle Allen

        Thank goodness for Gretchen, who keeps everything so real in this rather Alice-in-Wonderland-like alternate universe in which we have become ensconced. She reminds me of a character from a 70’s TV show I used to love called “The Munsters.”

        The patriarch was named Herman Munster, and he was a Frankenstein doppelganger, but gregarious and charming. His wife, Lily, was equally warm and gracious, despite her bloodless pallor, long, diaphanous gown with spikey, bell-shaped sleeves and a shock of white that ran the length of her black, waist-length hair.

        Her father, “Grandpaw,” who lived in the haunted-looking dilapidated mansion with Herman and Lily, had fangs, blood-red lips, a pasty complexion and sported black nail polish and a full-length black cape. Although he was acerbic, he was not the least bit scary.

        Herman and Lily’s son, Eddie, had a deep widow’s peak, extra-furry sideburns, and a unibrow, despite the fact that he was only eight years old.

        The only one who could be deemed “normal” by most standards was Cousin Marilyn, who was blonde and blue-eyed, with gleaming, straight, white teeth, dimples, a warm disposition, melodious voice, and model-perfect figure. The Munsters, when she wasn’t in the room, often spoke in hushed tones about “poor Cousin Marilyn.” They felt bad for the unfortunate way she looked.

        That’s Gretchen. She looks absolutely adorable in her everyday shorts and regular top right now. Yet, at this breakfast table, full of “plain folk,” as they’re called – not to mention me in my Amish costume – she is the one who doesn’t fit in. Oh! The stories we’ll be writing when all this is over, and we’ve made it to The International FanStory Convention in Atlantic City!

        Despite the trauma with the horses and the snake just fifteen minutes earlier, Gretchen’s appetite is fully intact. She polishes off a stack of Helene’s fluffy, perfect-looking pancakes-with-apple-butter and regales us with stories about the many albums of pictures she and her husband, Chuck, have of snakes.

        Meanwhile, I can barely get my small bowl of berries-and-cream to slither down to my stomach, even though it seems to be firmly lodged right now in my throat.

        Suddenly, the sound of creaking wooden wheels, co-mingled with shod horses, fills the room. Hannah rushes to the door and yells, “It’s the Yoders!” Then she quickly adds, “And they’ve got Barney and Klem with them!”

        I am at a loss. Gretchen and I exchange quizzical looks.

        “Our runaway horses,” Rebekah says, catching our consternation.

        Hannah opens the door to two gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed girls I’m guessing to be in their older teens, a blonde boy in his mid-teens, and a peppy blue-eyed blonde the same height and stature as Hannah.

        The small girls hug each other enthusiastically the minute they are within arm’s reach.

        “Klem and Barney got scared by a timber rattler,” says Hannah, “and then they broke away from Daede and started running toward the field where Gretchen and Rachelle were. And then Gretchen and Rachelle ran really, REALLY fast to get out of their path. Gretchen was AMAZING!! But Rachelle said she would’ve been faster than Gretchen if she’d had her high heels on and not Aunt Ruth’s work boots. She’s wearing those instead because her high heels got caught in our buggy and she went flying through the air and landed in the mud. She’s wearing those clothes because our goats ate her straw suitcase and all her clothes inside it. She still has her leopard dress, though, but she wears that when she takes a bath in the hot springs. Oh! And she thought the corn cobs in the outhouse were to make her curly hair straighter!”

        “Hannah!” says Helene. “Please let the Yoders come inside!”

        The four stand inside the doorway and stare incredulously at Gretchen and me like we’re escapees from Barnum and Bailey’s freak show contingent.

        Finally, the boy speaks. “Our daede and I heard the horses running, so we took out some oat pails for them, and they came right over.”

        “It worked out well,” the taller girl adds, “since we were coming here this morning anyway to make pastries with you and help with canning.”

        Gretchen and I exchange Wise Eyes as we notice how Solomon’s cheeks have pinked up at the sound of this girl’s voice.

        “Klem knocked Daede to the ground!” Hannah tells them. “And Simeon cut off the timber snake’s head with a hoe!”

        The second sister turns to Simeon and casts him a sidelong smile. Gretchen and I exchange glances again and this time suppress Omniscient Mom smirks as we watch Simeon’s color rise from neck to forehead like a thermometer in a vat of bubbling caramel. Amish or not, teens and hormones are as robust and runaway a commodity as Klem and Barney were not thirty minutes earlier.

        While the menfolk head for the fields, and Helene and the teen girls busy themselves prepping to make jam and pastries for their roadside stands, Gretchen and I are given pails and follow the two younger girls to the berry-picking patches.

        I’ve never seen such a lush, impressive crop! The blueberries are so plentiful and close together that they resemble giant, indigo-colored bubbles of caviar. By now, enough time has elapsed since the horse-rampage trauma that I have finally regained my appetite. In fact, I am absolutely famished.

        It takes a good fifteen minutes before I quell my two-for-me-one-for-the-bucket spree. Finally, I slow down long enough to talk.

        “Gretchen, we need a Plan B,” I say. She is standing on the other side of the bush we are sharing. “Old Reliable is never going to be able to be resuscitated in time to get us to Atlantic City.”

        “I know,” she says like someone who’s just learned her grandma’s been moved into hospice care. “My text to Chuck finally got through, but he wrote back that he can’t get off work to come help us.”

        “Not to worry,” I say. “I’ll call my cousin in Baltimore to see if she’ll bring my car up. She’s newly retired, and I know she’d love the adventure of it all.”

        “Yeah, that reminds me,” says Gretchen. “Where’s your phone? Why haven’t you tried to send texts?”

        “My battery was low when we left my cousin’s house,” I explain. “I’d envisioned being able to charge it in Old Reliable. It never dawned on me that it wouldn’t have a USB port.”

        “Oh, yeah; those were a bit before her time,” says Gretchen with a wry little smile, “being a 2005 and all.”

        We’re quiet a beat, then I ask, “Do you have enough juice left in yours so I can call my cousin,Tova?”

        “I think so. Just don’t mention the timber rattlesnakes to her. I’m betting that would be a deal-breaker,” says Gretchen.

        “S-s-s-s-s-s-s-so true!” I say.

        “S-s-s-s-s-s-s-so unfunny,” retorts Gretchen as I hear a clump of berries clink down into her bucket.

        I know, without question, that the real Cousin Marilyn would’ve found that clever little comment of mine absolutely hilarious-s-s-s-s.

        Amish life has made my fellow FanStorian a little s-s-s-surly.

Author Notes The protagonists are real, but their story is pure fiction. And both women have their own version of the same story each week, so be sure that you're fans of both GW Hargis and me.


Chapter 16
Plan B (Gretchen Hargis)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis have broken down in the heart of Amish country. Relying on the kindness of strangers has had its perks, but there is a convention to get to and another century to return to.

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Okay, I'll be the first to admit it. I would rather run naked dipped in honey through a bee hive than wear the clothes of the Amish. Sounds a tad dramatic and snotty and I guess it is, but the feeling remains. I was never one of those girls who would dress up like the slutty nurse at Halloween or wear a ton of makeup and low cut clothing to go out to a bar. It just wasn't me. The only pretending I do is on paper. Having said that, I feel like I'm the odd ball here in jean shorts and a t-shirt with some obscure bike company logo, and my trusty worn out flip-flops.

Ezra won't so much as look at me. I get the feeling he thinks I'm a bad influence. He's probably right. I do have a potty mouth. My oldest daughter's first few words were, mama, da-da, brodder (brother) and shit. And, she said it with just the right inflection in her voice that everyone knew she had learned it from me. (I'm happy to report she has since cleaned up her act.)

I've been pretty good with the four letter bombs for the most part, but slipped up occasionally here and there. Helene has rolled with it, Hannah has giggled, but Ezra, he grimaces.

I don't usually like pancakes, but with home-churned butter and a dollop of apple butter, I eat up. Rachelle is picking at her berries and I slide my plate towards her. "Are you sure you don't want a bite?"

"No thank you. I still have the image of that snake in my head."

"Squeamish of a little blood? You wouldn't make it where I work. I've had people show me more injuries, broken bones, blisters, abscesses. I've been told about diarrhea, constipation, bloating gas. The dental things, okay, those get to me. But, I just nod. It's not like I can say, "Gross. Stop showing me that." No, I have to just say, "wow, that must have hurt. Hope you heal up soon." I stop as I see a new shade of green color her face.

Hannah, who up until now has been paying attention to every word I have been saying, suddenly jumps out of her seat and races for the door.

"It's the Yoders!" she says, full of childish excitement. "They've got Barney and Klem with them!"

While Hannah tells the tale of the morning, not to mention the numerous humiliating moments for Rachelle and me. I mean that little girl didn't miss a thing. She even blurted out about Rachelle's face plant and the corncob curlers. Who knows what else she might have divulged had Helene not interrupted.

It doesn't take long for the Yoders to notice us. To them, we are a circus act. They stare in disbelief. I nudge Rachelle. "Should we curtsy? I'm not used to this much attention. Help me out here."

Rachelle steps forward. "Hello, I'm Rachelle."

They introduce themselves and after a few minutes I don't feel so conspicuous. While the older Yoder girls head in to the kitchen with Helene and Rebekah, Hannah hands little metal pails to both Rachelle and I.

"Follow me," she says, then starts talking to the littlest Yoder in a low tone. With the occasional look over their shoulders, followed by some giggles, I get the feeling that they are talking about us.

"I think they're talking shit about us," I whisper.

"Stop it. They are sweet little girls. Besides the Amish don't do things like that." Rachelle assures me.

"Every kid does that. Trust me. I've been around hundreds of kids. They all laugh at adults."

"You, my friend, are acting paranoid," she says, swinging her empty pail.

"They're probably making fun of my outfit," I mutter.

Rachelle laughs and points. "I think we have stumbled on the mother-load."

I look around, checking for bears. "Just know this. Little kids are vipers. They look all sweet and innocent, but most are serial killers at heart." I'm joking, of course, I love kids, but I don't trust them as far as I can throw them.

Rachelle seems to be eating more than she's dropping in the pale, but I say nothing. She's going to pay for this indulgence in a little while because blueberries, when eaten in abundance, pillage the digestive tract. Hello corncobs.

"We need a plan B. I don't think Old Reliable is gonna get us there, even if they mange to fix it."

"I know, I know. My text went through to Chuck, finally, but he can't get anyone to cover his shift. So, he can't come help us."

"If I can use your phone, I might be able to call my cousin and get her to come pick us up. Do you have enough juice left in yours?"

I nod and pull my phone from my back pocket. "Hey, just don't talk long and use all the power. It's my only connection to the outside world. Oh, and don't tell her about the snakes. I'm betting that would be a deal breaker."

"S-s-s-s-s-s-so true," she says, a big grin plastered on her face.

Had I not been knee deep in chiggers, I might have thought it was funny. "S-s-s-s-so unfunny," I say, with the appropriate amount of vinegar in my voice. "Hurry up and make the call, Amish Allen." She might be assimilating but this southern girl is dying to get out of here.

Author Notes No children, Amish or otherwise, were ever in danger. I really do suffer from the phobia of not having a charged phone. And the blueberry part, is very true, so you're welcome. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 17
Simple Gifts (Rachelle's Side)

By Rachelle Allen

     Before I punch in my cousin’s number, I formulate what I’m going to say. With so little juice left in Gretchen’s phone and no electrical outlets within who-knows-how-wide a radius, this could be our last chance of getting rescued before Wednesday, when the sheriff and doctor return to town.

        It’s as if time is standing still here. So much has happened since Old Reliable failed us, yet, in actuality, only sixteen hours have elapsed. The thought of an additional forty-eight before we can return to civilization? Better to stand in Klem and Barney’s rampaging path and save myself the torture.

        It’s not that they’re not lovely people; they totally are. They’re just not my lovely people, and the idea of another eight hours of them sleeping while I’m wide awake with no books or writing instruments wreaks havoc with my psyche. I guess, if worse came to absolute worst, I could take the Bible on the nightstand next to my bed and concoct “different endings” for several dozen stories, and then hope Simian Savant sponsors another FS contest with that heading.

        “Ready?” asks Gretchen.

        “Ready,” I say, blowing a jet of air out between my lips as if I’m Rocky Balboa getting ready to step into the ring with Apollo Creed. So much is resting on this!

        Tova’s number rings four times then goes to voice mail. “Tova,” I say, “it’s Rachelle. Gretchen and I are in big trouble, and we need help. Her car broke down, and we’re stranded in Amish country. Please, please use my car and come pick us up at #16 County Line Road in Applewood, Pennsylvania. The family who took us in are the Zimmermans. If you get lost, just knock on doors and ask for directions to their farm.

        Do NOT call this number. We’re almost out of juice, and there’s no electricity here, so we can’t re-charge the phone. Please hurry! Oh, and also, could you please bring me nice clothes and high heels because, Tova, the goats ate my beautiful hemp suitcases and everything in them, and I’m in a long Amish dress and work boots! FLAT. WORKBOOTS, Tova! Please hurry!”

        I hear the desperation in my voice and quickly end the call because, strangely, I’m on the cusp of tears. Knowing family is coming to the rescue can evoke that. We all need our tribe when life becomes chaotic.

        I can just imagine Tova laughing hysterically as she plays that message over and over, picturing me in Amish clothes. I even know that, within an hour, it will have been shared with everyone on this side of the continent. Our tribe savors ridiculousness.

        “This was no time for my husband to be away on business,” I grouse to Gretchen. “He’d have come in record time.”

        "And I'd pay big bucks to see his expression as he pulls into the Zimmermans' driveway and you come running out in this fashion statement!" says Gretchen, offering her upward-turned palms in my direction. She then proceeds to snort with abandon. I make a mental note to ask Simeon if he'd be willing to gift Gretchen with that snake head under her pillow.

        Our day of picking blueberries is broken up with a lunch of pork sausage hash: cubed potatoes, and sausage, smothered in gravy, with a side of green beans. I opt out of the former, needless to say, and have some more blueberries-and-cream with the latter. I’m calling this the Amish Farm Diet for Jewesses. Oy! I will certainly be svelte for the conference!

        Five hours of berry-picking later, it's time for dinner: ham steaks and corn fritters (fried in – did you guess? – pork grease) and snap peas in an enormous serving bowl, so I didn’t feel guilty overloading my plate. I also take an extra helping of rice pudding.

        I’m losing brownie points with Helene, though, for not eating her meals. She’s actually resorted to the Mom thing of praising Gretchen – twice, in fact! – for her “hearty appetite” Still, I’m not about to counter with, “Hey, Helene, serve chicken instead of pork for a change, and I’ll tank up, too!” They’re being so incredibly generous as it is – welcoming us into their homes and letting us co-habitate with them when we are complete and total strangers. I’m not about to explain how our cultures’ dietary laws do not mesh.

        The Yoder kids return after dinner and congregate in Rebekah and her brothers’ living room. By now, I’ve learned that the Yoder brother is Judah, the older sister, who made Solomon blush earlier, is Miriam, and the sister who gave goo-goo eyes to Simeon for beheading the snake is Grace. The little cutie who’s over playing with Hannah at her house is Elizabeth.

        Mondays are always church choir practice night at the Zimmermans’, I am told, and tonight I’ve been asked to lend my conducting and choral teaching skills to the group. It is exactly the joy I need to bring to this day.

        The Yoders are good, solid singers, and, better yet, they know how to blend. There are definitely no peacocks in this group. It’s all for one, and one for all, a choral leader’s dream. The Zimmerman siblings’ voices are absolutely exceptional, and I have an instinct where Solomon is concerned.

        As I stand in front of the group, getting ready to conduct, I say to him, “Solomon, would you please give me an ‘A.’”

        He complies at once. The others look on, perplexed, and he gives them a quizzical look. “What?” he asks.

        “How do you know that’s an ‘A’?” asks Rebekah.

        “I don’t know how I know. I just do,” is Solomon’s adorably honest answer.

        “You have perfect pitch,” I tell him. “It’s the equivalent of a photographic memory, but for sound instead of sights.”

        “Not everyone has this?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

        “Nope,” I say. “Only about one person in ten thousand does.”

        “WOW!” says Miriam and beams up at him. Solomon’s cheeks now match his very red beard and hair.

        “It’s a wonderful advantage as a choral leader,” I tell him. “I know the Amish use no instruments – only their voices – to make music. So, your having perfect pitch allows you to give the proper starting note to each section of singers. This is phenomenal!”

        I turn back to the group. “Okay,” I say. “Let me hear Amazing Grace. But you’re all in really big trouble if you make me cry.” I see smiles en masse appear before my eyes and delight in the moment.

        They are not even ten notes in when I’m covered in little jolts of electricity all over my head. Another three measures, and I’m sopping tears from my cheeks with both hands. G-d is all but palpable in this room at this perfect moment in time.

        When they finish, all I’m able to say is, “I feel like the luckiest musician on the planet right now. I will treasure this moment for the rest of my life. Thank you.”

        I re-arrange them so they’re in groups of soprano, alto, tenor and bass then have Solomon come to the front so I can show him how to conduct in ¾ time. I also demonstrate the hand motions to use for extending a phrase and how to do a proper cut-off. Then I have the group sing the piece again, this time with me conducting, then one more time with Solomon leading with his newly acquired conducting skills.

        He is a natural at it. It’s not just music he’s making; it’s magic. If he had a baton, he’d look like a wizard casting a spell over everyone within his listening audience.

        In fact, I, myself, am feeling so enchanted at this moment that I don’t care if Tova ever arrives or not. I no longer want to be rescued…though a cute fashion-forward outfit with matching high heels would certainly not take away from this heavenly feeling!

Author Notes Although Gretchen and I are real, this road trip is complete and total fiction. Be sure to check out Gretchen's (GW HARGIS) version of this same chapter, or you'll being missing out on half the fun!


Chapter 18
Simple Gifts (Gretchen's side)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis have had Hargis's suburban breakdown on a lonely stretch of road in the heart of Amish country. While communication with the outside world is spotty, they have two choices. They can either wait for the sheriff and doctor to return or chance using all of their cell phone battery and trying to get in touch with Rachelle's cousin. They choose the latter.

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I watch as Rachelle punches the number for her cousin into my phone. When I last checked, I had about eighteen percent battery life left. The old me would have started panicking at forty percent, but not now. Life in Amish county changes a person. Like doing time or serving in a war, you learn what's important. Getting the hell out of here, that's the main objective.

She scrunches up her nose and lets out a frustrated breath. Apparently, Tova ain't taking calls at the moment. Rachelle takes a deep breath and when she opens her mouth, this steady stream of words comes pouring out. I hear an "oy", a couple of Yiddish sounding words that I can only assume are curse words, then she hangs up.

"How certain are you that your cousin is going to come up here?" I ask. She doesn't answer. She looks from one side to the other. Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm looks like she's going to cry. "Wait a second, are you gonna cry?"

"No. Maybe." she mumbles. "This sucks, Gretchen. No matter how nice these people are, we don't belong here."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Helene is nice and I love Hannah. But the Mister, I don't think he likes me much."

"Men in this culture are different."

"Understatement, Allen. Plus, it's boring as crap here. They go to bed at like eight. I can't read because they don't have electricity, I can't write, well, for the same reason I can't read. The food is good, though."

Rachelle rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Her eyes still threaten to start leaking.

"Don't start bawling, Rachelle. I don't have any corn cobs to dry your pretty eyes."

She swats at me before turning and walking away.

We carry our pails filled with blueberries back to the main house and Helene already has lunch ready. Rachelle smiles but I know she is disappointed with the offerings. She hasn't been eating much. She moves the food around her plate, takes one or two polite bites then covers her plate with her napkin. She isn't a hundred pounds soaking wet with rocks in her pockets to begin with. She could be dead by Wednesday.

I eat whatever they put on my plate. I'm enjoying the food, mainly because I haven't had to step foot in the kitchen. This southern belle hates to be in the kitchen.

After lunch, its back to the fields for Rachelle and me, led by the energetic little girls. I start picking slower and slower, not minding that I'm getting some disappointed looks from the other three. It's hot, I'm tired and itchy, I keep seeing bears in my peripheral vision, only to have them disappear when I look over. The bees have started to hang around me too long and I haven't totally forgotten the horror movie that first played in my head. "Are we done yet?" I ask.

Hannah looks in each of our buckets. She nods her approval until she gets to mine. "It's not full."

"I'm color blind, if you must know. It's really hard to see these da-dumb berries." I say, catching myself before using a bad word. "Look, I'm old and I'm tired. Can I, at least, sit down?"

Hannah takes my pail and starts picking berries. Her little fingers move fast, expertly plucking and depositing the indigo orbs as if she has been doing it all of her life. And, come to think of it, she probably has.

Rachelle, and her family, along with the older Yoder girls return to her house, leaving me at mine. I sit on the bench, having downed a couple of Tylenol from my purse with dinner. The little girls are on the floor, each playing with a corn husk doll. I lean forward, studying the handmade dolls.

"Those are so cool," I say.

Both girls look over at me, stopping mid-play as Hannah hands hers over to me.

"What happened to their faces?" I ask. The doll is faceless but still a beautiful work of art.

Helene comes over, sits on the bench beside me. "It keeps the child humble. You are supposed to see the doll for what it is on the inside, like a real person. Judging not for their outward appearance."

"I used to cut my Barbie's hair. I didn't want them to be judged for being too beautiful," I mumble as all three stare at me like I'm speaking gibberish. "Ignore that. So, if I was to tell you that you are pretty, it would be a bad thing?"

"It isn't something that I'm comfortable with, but I would not be angry," Helene says, glancing at the doll.

"Mamm made mine," Hannah says.

"Could you teach me how?"

"I can. Tomorrow, I will gather our supplies." Helene stands and nods at the girls.

The little Yoder girl, Elizabeth, whispers to Hannah, "I hope she will be better at this than she is at picking blueberries."

I wait until Helene turns away and stick my tongue out at her.

Helene walks to the front door and steps out onto the porch. "Come, girls, Gretchen, listen."

The sound of voices, sans music, come floating across the yard. The breeze carries it closer and I hear the words to Amazing Grace. I've never cared for that song, but I've never heard it sung like this before. This is beautiful. Voices, each distinct and clear, meld together. They are like wildflowers in a field, no flower prettier than the next.

I smile, knowing Rachelle who has been upset all day, is in her happy place. I look up and wink at the heavens. God knows what he's doing. I sometimes forget that.

Author Notes Yes, it's true, I am color blind. Rare for a woman but not impossible. Yes, it's true, I do stick my tongue out at kids, but only the ones who deserve it. Yes, it's true, I don't like the song Amazing Grace. I'm sorry if that upsets anyone. Yes, it's true, sometimes I need to be reminded that God knows what He's doing. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 18
Plan C - Rachelle's Version

By Rachelle Allen

        It’s getting toward 7:30 when the Yoders leave. Gretchen comes over to me and says, “I need a bath. Will you walk with me to the hot springs?”

        “Of course!” I say. “Will you be doing your hair? Should we stop at the outhouse for some corn cobs?”

        She laughs for, I’m pretty sure, the first time all day. “I’ll NEVER get that image out of my mind,” she says between raucous snorts.

        “Well, then you’ll never have a totally bad, in-the-tank kind of day ever again for the rest of your life,” I say, then add, “You’re welcome.”

        We’re halfway to our destination when her phone chirps. I watch as Gretchen gapes at the screen then shrieks, “It’s Tova! She wrote ‘Coming!’!!” Then she cries out, “Oh noooo! Now I’m totally out of juice.”

        “I TOLD her not to contact us,” I grouse. “That woman never does what she’s told. Her life’s mantra has always been: You’re not the boss of me. I’m so sorry, Gretchen.”

        “It’s okay,” Gretchen says. “At least we know she’s en route. That helps.”

        “That definitely helps,” I say as we reach the hot springs. I take off my clod hopper work boots and soak my feet in the bubbling waters below. “This is so heavenly,” I say with a sigh, closing my eyes.

        “Whadd’ya think?” asks Gretchen. “I know it’s not a ruined silk leopard ‘swim dress,’ but will it do?”

        I open my eyes to discover she’s shimmied out of her cute shorts-and-shirt combo and is modeling an even cuter simple black tankini.

        “I’m telling Ezra, you Englisher strumpet, you!” I say.

        Now she’s doubling over. I love this about Gretchen; she is definitely not a wallower, and she makes the best of any situation she’s in.

        “I heard the kids singing Amazing Grace,” she says as she wades down into the hot springs. She dips under and, as she breaks the surface again, her long dark hair, now shiny-wet and clinging all over her shoulders and back, like seaweed, evokes thoughts for me of a trained Sea World performer.

        “I knew I should’ve brought along a corn cob,” I shout out to her. “You could be balancing it on your nose now and entertaining me!”

        “Allen, don’t you make me pull you under in all that Amish splendor you’re wearing,” she says in a teasing No Nonsense Mom voice.

        “The kids made me cry, they sang it so beautifully,” I admit to her.

        Gretchen says, “I don’t even like Amazing Grace, and I found myself feeling spellbound.” She begins lathering up with a big white brick of Amish-made soap.

        “You don’t like Amazing Grace?” I ask, incredulous. “Oy! Don’t ever mention that to our fellow FanStorians. They’ll have your hide for heresy of that biblical magnitude!” I continue. “All three of those sibs inherited their mother’s musical gifts. They’re just naturals.” I pause a minute then say, “I’m going to suggest to Rebekah that she come with us, Gretchen. She’s been contemplating doing Rumspringa – you know, that ‘sow your wild oats before you choose to commit yourself to the church’ thing? I’d love for her to explore some musical options.”

        “OY!” says Gretchen.

        I give her a smirk and say, “You are so bad,” and flick water at her with my big toe. “In my heart of hearts, I don’t think she’d ever leave this lifestyle – or her brothers, certainly – but I’d love for her to have another facet of music to know about besides just hymns. It could be her special treasure to hold inside and nurture forever.”

        Gretchen stops mid-armpit-scrub and says, “And to think what I was feeling excited about for this evening was the prospect of learning how to make faceless cornhusk dolls.”

That sends us on a much-needed laughing jag. If we just had a bottle of wine here, this would be the perfect Girls’ Night Out.

        Afterward, at the house, Rebekah and I are hand-stitching quilting squares again while, instead of whittling, the boys are helping Ezra with something in the barn. Out of the blue, she says, “May I hear you sing something? It doesn’t have to be a hymn. Just something beautiful that you love.”

        “Of course,” I say. “I’m going to give you the full effect of it, though. I’m going to stand and perform it as if I’m on stage and doing it for a huge audience.”

        She smiles broadly and sits up straight to give me her full attention.

        I choose my all-time favorite aria: O Mio Babbino Caro by Giacomo Puccini from the opera Gianni Schicci.

         As soon as I begin, I watch Rebekah’s eyes grow wide and her mouth form an ‘O,’ and although I’m sensing incredulity, I also get the feeling it’s laced with anguish. I continue on, somewhat pleased that the music is touching her, but my Little Voice is growing more and more unnerved. Something is amiss here.

        By the end of the first verse, Rebekah’s hands are covering her face, and she is sobbing with abandon. I stop at once and rush to sit beside her. “Sweetie, what?” I ask, completely alarmed.

        “My mamm sang that song,” she chokes out. “She studied opera during her Rumspringa, and she sang that song whenever Daede and the boys were in the fields and she and my sister and I were together.” She looks me square in the eyes. “I know that it’s a song about a girl who is singing to her father because there is a man she loves and wants to go away with. That was my mamm during Rumspringa. She met an Englisher who was a musician, and he wanted to marry her. But she knew if she did that, her Daede – and EVERYONE – would have to shun her. Our Ordinung – our laws - say that if someone leaves the Order, they have to be shunned. So, she came back home and married my Daede. She loved him, but she never forgot the Englisher.” She is inconsolable, and between her sobs, I hear her whisper, “This is just too much! I feel her here soooo much!”

        “Rebekah,” I say, wrapping her in a Mom-hug, “I think you need to come with Gretchen and me. I still have contacts and friends in the music industry in NYC, and I think you need to take the gift your mamm imbued within you and let it grow.” I can feel the dampness from her cheeks soaking through the shoulder of her mamm’s dress that I am wearing. I’ve never met or even seen a picture of the woman, but I can feel her presence so strongly at this moment that she is all but palpable.

        It cements for me the notion I expressed earlier: our being stranded here is no coincidence. Thank you, G-d, for arranging this, and you, too, Old Reliable, for your part in making this gift possible for us all.

Author Notes I don't seem to be able to be able to share the link, but for THE most beautiful rendition of O Mio Babbino Caro, please go to YouTube, and watch ANNA NETREBKO (in a beautiful red evening gown) performing it. I guarantee you will be moved - even if you don't think you like opera!!


Chapter 19
Plan C (Gretchen's version)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are headed to the Annual FanStory Convention in Atlantic City, New Jersey, when Hargis's car breaks down and leaves them stranded in Amish Country. While they try to make the best of it, both learn a lot about their hosts and a lot more about themselves.

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Hannah and Elizabeth play together for the better part of two hours before the older Yoders come to get Elizabeth and start for home. It's so odd to watch children play when they aren't surrounded by electronics or something shiny and plastic. I think about how I used to take my own Barbie dolls and play outside with them. They were adventure-bound Barbies, but they were still store bought. I had different outfits that they could model and later I had a Ken doll who was the steady boyfriend. I'm not sure I could have had such a good time with a faceless doll. I had a good imagination, but I doubt I would have been satisfied.

Hannah hugs her friend, and I give her a no hard feelings wink so she knows I was just playing around with the whole tongue sticking out thing. She smiles almost bashfully at me.

While Helene takes Hannah upstairs to bathe and get ready for bed, I go out to find Rachelle waving goodbye to her new Amish Sorority sisters. "Do you make friends wherever you go, Rachelle?"

"I sure try. You never know when you'll meet up with them in the future. Did you have fun playing with the girls?"

"Let's put it this way. I didn't turn my back on them, the little vipers," I mutter, but smile to let her know I'm joking. "Do you feel up to escorting me to the hot springs. I'm in need of a bath. Using that bowl and pitcher only lets me hit the tourist attractions, if you know what I mean."

Rachelle laughs then hikes up her skirt as she waits for me to go grab my back pack from inside. When I come back outside, she points to the pile of corn cobs. "You want to do your hair?" As rough as today was, and as tired as I am from the manual labor of berry picking, I giggle at the memory of Rachelle waltzing in with the big Amish dress and the corn cobs wound tightly in her hair.

Rachelle knows I'm thinking about it and without missing a beat she nods and says, "You're welcome."

I hear the ding of my phone. "It's her, Tova, she's coming!" I get ready to show her the screen but the phone goes dark. "And, it's dead."

"She never did listen very well," Rachelle says. "I'm sorry."

We walk through the field to the hot springs and I look around. This girl ain't gonna shed so much as her shoes if there is anyone around. "Here goes," I say, tugging my shorts down and then pulling my t-shirt over my head. I turn coyly and let her see my bathing suit.

"Why do you have a bathing suit for this trip?"

"Some hotels have swimming pools. I didn't want to be the only one who didn't get in. You didn't pack one?"

"If I did, the goats had it for lunch."

I timidly step in and gasp as the hot water covers my feet and legs. It's not as bad as I thought so I immediately duck under to get my hair wet. It's the first time I've felt human in a while. The thick cake of soap is like a brick. It smells mildly of lavender and glides across my skin like silk.
"I've died and gone to heaven."

After twenty minutes of basting in the hot the water, I reluctantly get out of the water. "I guess its time to go back." The sun is setting. No idea what time it is since my phone is dead. Part of me is panicking inside but there is a little bit of me who is free of the clock. Free of everything that stresses me out. It actually is starting to feel good.

***********************************************************************************************

Helene is sitting on the porch when I finally part ways with Rachelle. "Did you enjoy the springs?"

"Very much. I take a bath almost every day. Sit and soak, think about the things that went on that day and just relax. Do you get to use it much?"

"Some days. We have a tub that we can fill with water in the winter. Small but nice."

"I've got to ask you. How do you not go insane living like this? I can understand Hannah and Ezra, since this is all they know, but you lived a different life."

Helene tilts her head and studies me for a while before answering. "You said you came from the city and moved to the beach. Did you love it at first?"

"No. Not at all. Despite the beauty of the beach, I was lonely and missed the conveniences of the city"

"Then why did you stay?"

I smile, thinking of my husband. It was his dream to live at the beach. His dream and not mine, but I stayed because I wanted him to be happy. "I stayed because I loved my husband. I guess it didn't matter where we ended up, as long as we ended up together."

"I would have followed Ezra to the ends of the earth. And, this really isn't a terrible place to be, is it?" Helene asks.

"No. I guess I was being narrow minded. Home is where the heart is."

Helene smiles and pats my hand. "It is getting late. Tomorrow I will teach you how to make a corn husk doll, but for now, it is time to go to bed. Sit here as long as you want, but I am going inside."

I sit on the porch for a few more minutes, finger combing my damp hair. The owls hoot softly from the woods near by and the landscape changes from a violet hue to indigo. A few lightning bugs appear and I think about home. I close my eyes and concentrate trying to imagine the sound of the waves as they crash on the beach. Miles away from me, my family is doing the things that they always do. Gosh, I miss them. I miss my husband and my dogs. I miss my children bickering over who needs to clean the bathroom they share. I open my eyes to see the lights dim next door and go inside.

Author Notes Sorry this took so long to post. Today has been a hectic one. First, I do ask people those kinds of questions. I like to see things from their perspective. I did hate living at the beach when I first left Richmond. It was boring and winters were harsh one day and the next you'd swear you were in the Bahamas. But after the second tourist season, the fall and winter became my favorite times of year. I still love it. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 20
The Decision and the Aftermath

By Rachelle Allen

     In the morning, after yet another pork-based breakfast, as Gretchen and I – and our pails - head to the blueberry bushes again, I share what transpired the previous evening with Rebekah.

        “Whoa,” is about all Gretchen can say, and then I watch as her brain spins like a ferris wheel in a tornado.

        “I bet anything she’s going to go for it,” she finally says.

        “I think she almost has to, don’t you?” I say. “But do you think I should talk to Helene or wait until after Rebekah lets me know her decision? I don’t want Helene to feel as if I’ve gone behind her back to unduly influence Rebekah. But I also don’t want to say something prematurely.”

        “Yeah, that’s a tough one,” Gretchen says. “It’s just the two of them in the kitchen right now, though, so it’s pretty likely that that’s the topic of their conversation. With Helene’s history as an Englisher herself, who knows how that will influence the outcome.”

        I see her looking over my shoulder toward the road every few seconds as she’s talking to me.

        “Hey, Gretchen,” I say with a little smirk. “Just like a watched pot never boils, a watched road never brings our cavalry in the form of Tova Morgenstern.”

        Gretchen gives me the side-eye. “You’re so not funny, Allen,” she says and starts popping berries into her pail with renewed speed and defiance. She’s suddenly become an Olympian berry-picker.

        “You got a quota to make before Helene agrees to teach you the fine art of cornhusk doll-making or something?” I ask.

        “I hope Tova’s bringing masking tape for across your mouth,” says Gretchen. It seems the lack of cell phone accessibility has made my little Southern belle all kinds of surly this morning.

        “RACHELLE!” I hear Helene call from the house. “May I please speak with you a moment?”

        Gretchen and I gape at each other between the bush we’re sharing.

        “Uh-ohhhhh!” says Gretchen, her eyebrows high. “Someone’s about to get a paddlin’ from the principal!”

        I drop my bucket and head toward the house.

        Rebekah is nowhere to be seen. I step lightly across the threshold, stupidly imagining that somehow that will soften the impact of what’s about to transpire.

        Helene is whisking eggs with such ferocity that they’re practically becoming meringue-like in their frothiness.

        With no preamble, she says, “So, Rebekah informs me that she’s going to New York City with you to receive musical training from contacts you still have there?”

        I take a moment to absorb the enormity of this. She’s actually accepted my offer? Oy.

        “We did talk about it last night,” I say softly to her back, feeling exactly as Gretchen described it – as if I am a bad child in the principal’s office.

        “You’ve made quite the impression on her in less than forty-eight hours,” she says, then punctuates it with a sardonic huff.

        I choose not to respond to the challenge she’s just laid at my feet.

        “What do you possibly get out of this, Rachelle? Are you some great savior in your eyes, whisking her away to a better, brighter world?

        I sense her sharp edge is underwritten with agony. There is no question but that she is teetering on the precipice of tears here.

        “No, honestly, Helene. It’s nothing like that whatsoever.” I walk to where she’s standing so that she has to face me. “I do not believe in coincidences.” I let that sink in a moment before I plead my case to her. “Here I am, a musician – an opera singer with flaming red hair, no less – rescued by you and your family who, just a month earlier, lose a beloved member with red hair and opera training she acquires during Rumspringa. Doesn’t that feel like G-d’s hand upon all of our shoulders?”

        Rather than responding, Helene whisks her bowl of eggs faster still. “And how about this, Helene: out of all the countless arias I have in my repertoire, the one I choose to sing for Rebekah, when she asks to hear me perform, is the only one she knows…because her own mamm – who I look like – sang it to her whenever the three females of the family were alone together. There’s no WAY that’s a coincidence, Helene. No. Way.”

        Helene’s cheeks are now glistening with tears.

        “She’s supposed to go with us. It cannot be more obvious that this is G-d’s plan here.”

        I tug the bowl and fork from Helene’s grip and place them onto the counter. Then I hold her hands in mine, look her square in the eyes, and say, “I will take the utmost care of her, Helene. You have my word on that. She will be safe, and she will be immersed in music programs that will enhance her joy and depth.”

        At this point, Helene is wracked with sobs. “I am so afraid we’ll lose her,” she says with a tone so sorrowful I feel a catch in my own throat.

        “I understand that,” I say. “But that’s not who she is. I’ve known her only two days, and even I know that.”

        Helene uses her apron to stanch the flow on her cheeks. “But she’s so vulnerable right now,” she insists. Coldness has returned to her tone, and it feels like both an accusation and a hard slap. Then she adds softly, as if she’s surrendering to her enemy, “And honestly, you can’t believe how much you look like my sister-in-law, her mamm.”

        “No such thing as coincidences,” I repeat with a softness that matches hers. We hold each others’ eyes a long moment before I say, “She needs this to connect to her mamm and to fuel the gift she inherited from her.”

        I’m feeling the need to hug her. But just as I take the step forward to do that, the kitchen door clatters open, and there stands my wonderful partner in road-trip mayhem with an overflowing bucket of blueberries in each hand.

        “Recess is over, Allen!” she says. “I did the pickin’, so now YOU get to do the washin’!”

        I adore this girl. She surmised that I needed the cavalry and quickly went into high gear on my behalf. She’s not just a gifted writer, but a true-blue champion of a friend, as well. She is worth a hundred million times her weight in corn cobs!

Author Notes Although Gretchen and I have become friends through the co-writing of this novel, we have never met in real life, let alone traveled together on a road trip! There are many other truths that are woven into this tale, though - like that I was an opera singer in NYC, have flame-red hair, and know how to pick blueberries. The other truth is that Gretchen is a bona fide smart-ass. Nurturing and a true-blue friend, mind you, but a smart-ass.


Chapter 21
The Decision and the Aftermath

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis, are still relying on the kindness of strangers after the Suburban breaks down. Rachelle has mentioned to Rebekah that she should think about coming with them and being dropped off at a voice coach for the remainder of the convention. The suggestion is met with mixed reviews.

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I ease up on breakfast this morning. I know I will be nibbling on those fat juicy blueberries shortly and I've noticed that having such heavy meat-laden meals are starting to mess with my sleep. They aren't keeping me up, but my dreams are becoming a tad worrisome. I won't divulge what they are about, until after I can get an appointment with a therapist. I always thought anxiety and stress were the same thing. I see them now as two very different components of my personality. I don't really have any stress right now. I have a roof over my head, meals prepared for me, and no contact with the outside world. Prison, if you will, except there is no one named Roxie trading me for a pack of cigarettes.

After Rachelle gets summoned to the house, I stand alone at the edge of the woods, plucking dew kissed berries like it's my job. Not really sure how Hannah got out of doing it, but in a way, I'm glad I'm alone. Gives me much needed time to think. I brought a small canvas bag with me today, inside is my notebook and a pen. I check to make sure the pails are almost full and finally sit down. I pull out the book, and caress the stately Bic crystal black ink pen in my hand. I haven't gone this long without writing in a while. It feels selfish to stop picking and just sit.

The Amish don't really ever rest. They wake, take care of animals, eat, work, work some more, eat again, do nightly chores, read the Bible, then go to bed. It's a very purposeful life. So, sitting here, letting myself indulge my passion for a few minutes, seems naughty.

I think about my character Miranda and how she would react. I tell her to go away, because if she shows up we will definitely get escorted out of the compound. But, Rachelle's excitement over her bond with Rebekah, just might do us in, as well. The tone of Helene's voice hinted at her mood. I scribble my first line down:

Contrary to popular belief, the Amish do get pissed off. It ain't all corn cobs and smiles.
Today, my little friend, Rachelle, is getting a taste of that first hand. I can only imagine her
turning on her Jewish mother setting and shaking her long suffering head and muttering "Oy
vay." I can all but guarantee that will not help the situation.

I tap the end of my pen on my chin and feel the creative juices starting to bubble uncontrollably. I put the tip of the pen to the paper again ready to continue.

Rachelle has been summoned to big house. She may or may not return. I wonder if her
New Yorkitude (New York attitude) will work out in her favor. In my humble opinion, it will
probably blow up in her face. I've seen her use it once on this trip. Poor lady at Dunkin
Donuts didn't know what hit her. It was fascinating. Being Southern, we don't accost people
verbally. We leave you scratching your head as to what we really mean when we say bless
your heart. It can mean many, many things.

I stop writing, pausing to look towards the direction of the house, hoping I don't see Rachelle with a hobo's bag at the end of a stick over her shoulder. I decide to hurry up and finish this little masterpiece and reluctantly go to her rescue.

So, in conclusion, I, knowing nothing about this world I was recently thrust in, now realize
one thing. We are all just people. People trying to get along, trying to make a difference.
We are trying to be a part of something without encroaching too much. People are
different.
As a writer, that knowledge puts a lot of possibilities out there. It's an endless source of
materials. Being smack dab in the middle is a very different problem. Should you
assimilate or remain your original self? That's something to think about.

I recap my pen and close the notebook and slip them back in my bag. I feel like a new person. My anxiety and stress are snoozing for the moment.

"Okay, Hargis, you've had your fix. Get your ass up and go try to pull Allen out of that hole she's dug for herself."

I brush the grass and leaves off of the back of my shorts, gather the buckets and my bag, then head for the house.

************************************************************************************************

The house is quiet and I raise my fist to knock, but think better of it. Surprise is always better. So, in true Gomer Pyle fashion, I throw open the door and look a teary eyed Rachelle in the eye. "I did the majority of picking, so roll up your sleeves and start washing. As for me, I'm going to walk my happy butt to the springs to soak my feet."

I can tell by the look of both women, they are thankful for my interruption. I wink at Rachelle, give her a mock salute and call out over my shoulder, "See ya', losers!"

Author Notes I do find if I can write for a few minutes every day my stress and anxiety level do go down. Writing takes me away better than Calgon. I do say bless your heart and it does mean a lot of different things. Check out Rachelle Allen's post.


Chapter 22
Regular People and Others

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are en route to Atlantic City to the FanStory Writers' Convention. Hargis's car breaks down in the heart of Amish country and with no way to call for help, they are guests there until the doctor and sheriff can return. Miraculously, they manage to get two messages out. One to Gretchen's husband and the other to Rachelle's cousin, Tova. No they wait for Tova to arrive.

************************************************************************************************

I probably shouldn't have left Rachelle there with Helene. They both seem to be very strong personalities, but I did what I thought needed to be done. I took their attention off of the problem and then retreated.

The hot springs simmer in the early afternoon sun. I sit down and kick off my flip flops, then stick my legs into the water. I look around at the sky and the tall grasses of the field. It's beautiful here, like a painting that someone would hang in their office. But it isn't home. I miss home. I miss having to shake the sheets free of sand before climbing into bed, and seeing the ocean waves crest as I hit the top of the hill leaving my neighborhood.

I rest for a few minutes then get up and head back to the house.

I'm about to come around when I hear voices, low and intimate, but not a good intimate. There is a tension that you could cut with a knife. I recognize Helene's voice, then after a second I realize she's talking to Ezra.

"I like them. That doesn't mean I want that life again."

"They teach our daughter their ways. Now they will take Rebekah with them."

"It is her choice, Ezra. You had this opportunity as well. We can not keep her if she wants to go. We must trust that she will make the right choice."

He sighs in exasperation. "These English, they are loud and ill mannered. She will be blinded by the lies the world offers."

Helene chuckles dryly. "I was English, or have you forgotten? Did I lie to you? Did I try to get you to leave your ways? No. I gave up everything for you. We must put this in God's hands. Rebekah is a good girl. She deserves the chance to see what she will be giving up, no matter what her decision is."

Ezra comes storming past me as he rounds the barn. He locks eyes with me and I give him a coward's smile.

"Morning," I say, then look past him for Helene. She must have gone back to the house, so I turn and watch his retreating back as he walks away.

I think about how dismissive he is of Rachelle and me. I can understand his fear but I don't like his judgement. I'm not a confrontational person by nature. Most of the time I let a lot slide. Either the person who has offended me is of little importance to me, or they're an idiot and I don't have time to waste on stupid people. But from what I can tell, Erza isn't an idiot.

"Hey, Ezra, got a second? Well, actually, this might take more than a second. Rachelle's cousin is on her way to bring us another car. That's the good news ... for you."

He nods and looks away.

"I'm not a bad person. Rachelle isn't a bad person. We are English. In your eyes, that is a bad thing apparently. But to me, it just means we're different. I'm no better than you, and you're no better than me."

He starts to walk off, but my little soliloquy has just begun. "I'm a mother. I have four kids. They don't go around singing Amazing Grace, heck, they haven't been to church in years, but they are good people. I am a good person. Rachelle teaches children music. She listens to children, hears what they are saying and loves every minute she spends with them. If Rebekah decides to go with us, you can rest assured that she will have two mothers who will look out for her and keep her safe."

He nods again, his lips pressed together in a tight line. "Very well," he says.

I start to go but think about what I overheard. "By the way. Helene would go to the moon to live with you, if you asked her to. She has no regrets about choosing this life. She loves you."

This time I don't wait for an answer. I walk away and head to the house. Dust is swirling down the driveway. I squint, thinking either a buggy is coming down the lane at break neck speed or it's a car.

Wait, it's a car plus one!

"Rachelle," I scream. "She's here!"

By the time I make it to the front of the barn, I see Rachelle, Helene, Hannah and the boys all out in the yard. The closer the cars get, chickens start squawking and running around like its feeding time.

I feel like I'm gonna start crying. I'm getting out of here. Thank God, soon I'll be able to take a hot shower, watch television, charge my phone. Soon, I'll be heading back to the twenty-first century and I can't wait.

The cars come to a stop and a middle aged woman steps out. She looks like she's dressed for a sophisticated event not an Amish farm in the middle of nowhere. She lowers her over sized shades and looks at Rachelle. "Oy vay, Rachelle you look mashugana."

Immediately, Rachelle runs over to hug her. "Tova, you're an angel."

I turn to find Ezra standing at the edge of the barn, a small smile on his normally stoic face. He looks happy, for this first time since we've been here. Ezra looks as happy as I feel. I can't resist smiling brightly at him and giving him a thumbs up.

Then as Tova and Rachelle are embracing and talking in Yiddish/English, I watch as the occupant of the other car gets out. She has tight curls that are the color of Old English furniture oil. She looks from them to me, smiling like she's watching an episode of "The Waltons".

Why is my gut sending me signals that all is not well?

Author Notes I stand by my statement about not engaging with idiots or people who don't matter to me. You can have your opinion, I won't make you defend it and you can bet if it's different than mine, I'll be okay with that. I have no idea if an Amish man would even listen to a woman who is English. This is what I'm calling artistic license. Hope you enjoyed this.


Chapter 23
Regular People and Others

By Rachelle Allen

        As soon as Gretchen deposits her pails of blueberries onto the floor and breaks the grip of Helene's and my discussion, she and her flip-flops leave again. I can hear them receding rhythmically in the direction of the hot springs. That oasis has definitely been the saving grace of our existence here.

        As if on cue, Ezra comes in, gives Helene a look, and she follows him out the door. I heave the pails of blueberries onto the massive wooden table between the windows and the well-water pump that stands, like a sentinel, in the middle of kitchen and set to work cleaning Gretchen’s impressive haul.

        It’s wonderful to be alone. I immediately begin to indulge in one of my favorite control-freak pastimes: making a To Do list. This one is subtitled “Once Tova Arrives.”

  1. Call Bobby, world’s sweetest husband, who must be crazed with worry about now. We never, in our twenty-five years together, have gone this long without checking in with each other.
  2. Call Maria Antinarelli, New York City voice coach extraordinaire, to secure Rebekah’s spot for the next several weeks.
  3. Give Rebekah the low-down on what to expect from her music-fueled Rumspringa experience.
  4. Get a phone for Rebekah and teach her how to use it.
  5. Take her shopping for “modern” clothes.
  6. Get to the FanStory International Convention in New Jersey by Friday at 6 p.m., when Mrs. KT delivers the “Welcome” address.

        Every time I stop using the hand pump, I can hear the muffled sounds being lobbed back and forth, like a tennis ball in a heated match, between Helene and Ezra. Although I can’t discern even one of the actual words they are saying, the staccato deliveries they’re using and the ever-rising volume and pitch make it obvious it is not love-talk going on out there. I am reminded of Poor Richard’s Almanac and the quote: Fish and visitors stink after three days. We arrived Sunday, and now it is Tuesday. Yep, ol’ Ben Franklin nailed it yet again.

        A few minutes later, Helene returns to the kitchen. We lock eyes only the briefest of moments before she quickly retreats to the root cellar. Oy. The mayhem my presence has evoked here!  G-d, please; am I doing the right thing?

        Another second later, I hear Gretchen scream my name, followed by the sweetest words imaginable: “SHE’S HEEEEEERE!!!!”

        I run as fast as my flat Amish work boots will carry me, straight into the welcoming arms of my g-ddess/cousin.

        “TOVA!!!!! You’re an ANGEL!” I shriek.

        We squeeze each other hard, and I suddenly realize I’m soaking her beautiful butterscotch-colored coif with my tears. She holds me at arm’s length, lowers her big designer sunglasses and gasps. “Oy vey! You look meshugana!”

        I glance from my long, shapeless blue dress, replete with wet muslin apron, to Tova’s Ralph Lauren zebra-striped silk sweater set and black Halston wrap-around mid-length skirt and ask, between pathetic snuffles, “Did you bring me nice clothes?”

        “Yes, yes, Bubbelah,” she says. “Not to worry. You’re safe now.”

        “And high heels?” I ask in a voice so high and pathetic I would never guess it to be mine.

        “Yes, Bubbelah.” Tova pats my hair. “Jimmy Choos, your favorite! And, best of all, they were on SALE!”

        “I love you,” I say and have never meant those three words more in my entire life.

        I come out of my reverie enough to notice the various reactions from those who’ve gathered ‘round. Ezra is actually smiling (who knew he even had teeth?), Rebekah and her brothers are agape, Helene is hollow-eyed and motionless as Hannah hugs her waist and gazes up at her, and Gretchen is giving a side-eye to a woman I don’t recognize who has a headful of dark ringlets and is leaning against the vehicle that’s parked behind my Mercedes.

        In the words of author Maurice Sendak: Let the wild rumpus start!


Chapter 25
Goodbyes and Jane (Gretchen)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Writers' Convention in Atlantic City, New Jersey when Hargis's suburban breaks down. Luckily, an Amish family comes to their rescue. With no cell service to speak of, the women are stuck until the local sheriff returns. But, as luck would have it, they manage to get two calls out. One to Hargis's husband and the other to Rachelle's cousin, Tova. At long last, Tova comes through and brings Rachelle's fancy new car. Well, that and a friend.

************************************************************************************************

Tova finally releases her embrace of Rachelle and calls over her shoulder, "Manny, pop the trunk!"

I glance to see a man, in the driver's seat, reading a paper like he's waiting for his wife to run into the store for bread, not someone who has driven a couple hundred miles to rescue two women. The soft click of the trunk release is almost soothing. This vehicle doesn't whinny or neigh. It runs on fuel not hay and oats.

Rachelle squeals with delight as Tova pulls a shiny white suitcase out of the opened trunk. "This should be everything you need. I took the liberty of adding a few extras, you know, things that will make my Rachelle smile."

The other lady, still engrossed in the scene starts walking towards me. "Hi, I'm Jane. Jane Babies."

"Gretchen," I say, looking around awkwardly.

"German. I guess that's okay. Any Nazis in your family?"

I stare at her. That was quite the ice breaker. I can't tell if she's teasing or really inquiring so I play it safe. "None that I know of, but there's always hope, isn't there?"

Jane's eyes widen for half a second then she throws her head back and laughs. Not just laughs, but snorts and slaps my arm playfully. "You're a hoot, missy, you are funny. This is going to be a fun trip."

That's when the bottom off my stomach dropped out. What trip? Not the trip Rachelle and I are taking? No, how could this be? Surely, Rachelle would have mentioned this to me earlier, had she known. I try to summon Rachelle's attention telepathically, but, apparently, you can't get a signal through when a Jewish woman is talking about clothes or shoes.

"What trip?" I ask.

"To the convention, silly. I just joined Fanstory and well, Tova told me about you guys and I thought, what the heck, this would be a hoot."

"A hoot, huh? Not quite the word I was thinking," I mumble. I excuse myself with the mention of having to pack my bag and head to the house. As I pass Rachelle I hiss in her ear, "Allen, we need to talk."

She gives me a forced smile. "I just heard. We can talk in a few. Just understand I had no idea."

*************************************************************************************************

I sit on the edge of the bed and draw in some steadying breaths. I am a self proclaimed creature of habit. They joke at work about who has to tell me there are going to be changes in the pharmacy. Whoever draws the short straw and has to break the news to me, usually comes armed with smelling salts and a paper bag for me to hyperventilate into. Having this Jane woman show up and proclaim she is hitting the road with us, has sent me into a tizzy. I had the day to get used to the thought that Rebekah was coming.

But this lady gives me the heebie jeebies. My gut is never wrong. If my red flag detector goes off, there is good reason. I go to the window and stand just to the side, watching as Rachelle and Tova and the man named Manny talk. The lady, Jane, just off to the side, dancing like she's hearing music in a disco. (And, let's be honest, this whackadoodle just might have her own DJ in her head.)

A noise from the doorway makes me turn. There stands Hannah. "Hey, you come to help me pack?"


Hannah smiles and steps timidly into the room. "I'm glad God sent you and Miss Rachelle to us."

Not one to get those mushy gushy feelings, her comment made me warm up inside. "Well, thank you, Hannah. I think God likes to put people in your life when you need them the most. Apparently, I needed y'all."

"My mamm gets lonely sometimes. She liked having you here."

"I liked talking with her. I'm sorry we didn't get to make those corn husk dolls. I was really looking forward to that."

Hannah smiles brightly. "Wait here." She runs out of the room and down the stairs. I go back to the window and see Rachelle talking to Jane. She's nodding her head yes, over indulging this woman with attention. And Jane is eating it up. She is throwing her hands around, and I can just tell she's talking, no make that bragging about herself.

"Here," Hannah says coming to stand beside me. When I look down, I see what she's holding. It's her very own corn husk doll. "You can have her."

"What? I don't want to take your doll, Hannah. What will you play with?"

"Mamm will make me a new one."

Her generosity is almost overwhelming. "Thank you, Hannah. I will treasure this. I have a hutch in my dining room where I keep things that mean a lot to me. This will go on it as soon as I get back home. Can I name her?"

Hannah nods.

"I think I'll call her Hannah. I think that's the perfect name for her. What do you think?"

Her blush says it all.

**********************************************************************************************

After Tova and Manny climb back in their car, it's just Rachelle, Rebekah. Jane and me. Rachelle tells Rebekah to say her final farewell to her family. She hands me her keys and opens the back door. "Just remember, this is my baby. Please be careful."

I smile devilishly. "How fast can this baby go?"

Jane hurries to the front passenger side. "Shotgun!" she yells.

I clench my jaw and send a side eye glance at Rachelle.

"I know," Rachelle whispers. "This is all just part of the detour."

Author Notes This fictitious Jane is based on no real person, living or dead. The hutch is real and it's where I keep my treasured things. And, no, there are no Nazis in my family tree. Besides, if there were, do you think I would ever admit it to Rachelle?


Chapter 26
Goodbyes and Jane (Rachelle)

By Rachelle Allen

     After I’ve stopped crying with relief and hugging my cousin/rescuer, Tova, she shouts to her husband of forty-five years, who’s sitting serenely in the driver’s seat, reading a newspaper. “Manny! Open the trunk!”

        I am reminded of one of my favorite jokes ever: Little Manny comes home from Hebrew school play auditions, and his mother asks, “Well? Did you get a part?”

        “Yes!” replies little Manny. “I am playing the part of a Jewish husband!”

        His mother frowns and says, “You march yourself back to that school right this minute and tell them you want a SPEAKING part!”

        Tova escorts me to the trunk of my brand new car, and there lies a gleaming white trunk-sized suitcase, replete with a handle and wheels.

        “This should be everything you need,” she tells me. “I took the liberty of adding a few extras to make my sweet Rachelle smile.”

        “I love you so much,” I say. “And you know I will NEVER forget this kindness.”

        “I know. Just pay it forward, Sweetheart. You’re always so good about that.”

        We’re about to start another round of hugs when Tova’s ringleted friend approaches.

        “OHHH! MYYYY! GAWWWWWWWD!” she gushes. “I cannot believe I am actually getting to meet youuuuuu! Tova talks about you ALLLLLL. THE. TIIIIIIIIIIIME!”

        I am already cringing at her syntax. People who draw out their words make me want to shake them.

        “Remember meeeee?” Her voice is extra loud and exuberant. “Jane Babies? We met last weeeeeeek when you were visiting Tovaaaaaa?” She splays her arms wide for emphasis and pushes her face up close to mine, with her eyebrows raised high and her mouth open clownishly wide.

        I know there is no way in the world I’d have been able to forget meeting her, yet nothing is registering. I smile as graciously as I can muster and say, “I’m so sorry, Jane; I must be having a Senior Moment!”

        “Noooooo! You remember! I was on Zoom with Tova, and you were heading into the kitchennnnnn?”

        It was a less-than-one-second viewing, and no introductions were exchanged.

        “Afterward, I said to Tova, ‘Tova! Your cousin looks like a movie starrrrrr!’ And that’s when she told me about FanStory and how you and Gretchen – who I just met, by the way, and is she HILARRRRRRRIOUS! – were on your way to the FanStory International Convention in Jersey. So, just like that, I joined FanStory, too, so I would get to meet you!”

        I am suddenly feeling so unbearably queasy.

        “Wait. You’re going to the convention, too?” I ask.

        “Yes! When Tova told me about you getting stranded here and how she and Manny were coming to rescue you, I said, ‘Well, Tova! This is PERRRRRRRFECT! I’ll go with you to rescue them, and then I’ll hitch a ride the rest of the way to Jersey!’”

        “Oh BOYYYYY!” I say with a clenched faux smile then turn to give Tova dead eyes. I watch her register at once that I am no longer indebted to her.

        “Well, Manny and I need to get back to Baltimore,” she says quickly. “I hope the rest of your trip goes smoothly.” She gives me another tight hug and whispers “She does not take ‘no’ for an answer. I’m so, so sorry.” She lets me go then and calls over her shoulder, “I love you, Rachelle.”

        “I love you back,” I say, because, really, she has always been my favorite cousin. “Bye, Manny!” I add loudly. He turns and waves as he escorts Tova to their car behind mine and opens the door for her.

        Back in my room, I open my vast new trunk and am mesmerized at all the sartorial treasures Tova has bestowed. I choose a cherry red one with a cinched waist, full skirt and scalloped hemline. There’s a wide black belt and black-and-red high heels to accessorize and THE cutest black beret with a red ostrich plume. My heart sings.

        Rebekah stands at my open doorway with a look that’s an amalgam of excitement and trepidation.

        “Having doubts?” I ask her.

        “Not doubts,” she says. “Just some guilt. Solomon and Simeon seem sad and worried, and Helene is trying to be gracious, but her eyes are so sad.”

        “I know,” I say.

        “I think she’s worried I’ll fall for an Englisher like my mamm did.”

        “It’s her job to worry, Rebekah. She loves you and never wants anything bad to befall you. But she also knows Gretchen and I will never let that happen. It’ll be fine, Sweetie. The pain you’re all feeling is because there’s so much love between you all.”

        Two huge tears roll down her cheeks.

        “But you’ll be growing the gift G-d gave you, and that’s important.”

        “Tell me again about this woman I’ll be staying with,” says Rebekah.

        “Her name is Maria Antinerelli. She lives in Babylon, New York, which is a suburb of Long Island. Her grandmother was a New York City opera diva, who was MY teacher. Then, in her teens and twenties, Maria studied opera from me, and now you’re going to study under her tutelage! She does this as a business – trains teenagers while they live there in her home. But since it’s summer right now, she has no students there. So, this will be perfect. You will be able to get her complete and total undivided attention.”

        “Does she know I’m Amish?”

        “I will be speaking with her once we’re on the road and I can plug my phone into the port in my car.”

        I head back to my suitcase. “That reminds me,” I say. “Tova brought me an extra phone, but I don’t need it. So, this will be yours. I’ll teach you how to use it once we’re on our way.”

        Rebekah gapes at the modern-looking device and blinks several times.

        “All becoming pretty real now, right?”

        She nods, and I’m sure it’s so I don’t hear the tears that would be the undertow in her speaking voice.

        “I just want to say that the woman who came with my cousin? She’s coming along, too. She actually invited herself, and I’m pretty sure she’s odd.” I give Rebekah a wry look then add, “I know what you’re thinking: this from the woman who, just two days ago, came from the outhouse with corn cobs in her hair?”

        This gets her giggling.

        I zip up my trunk, and we head downstairs. Helene, Hannah, Ezra and the boys are all waiting in the living room to hug Rebekah one last time. I watch them each surreptitiously press a thick fold of bills into her palm then head outside to give them their privacy and put my suitcase into the trunk of my car.

       Gretchen meets me en route and, like a ventriloquist in a library, whispers, “That nut job is going with us!”

      “I know,” I answer back with my own motionless ventriloquist lips. “I had no idea. I guess this means that the detour continues.”

        “IIIIIIIIIIIIII CALLLLLL SHOTGUNNNNNNNN!” we hear the nut job shout.

Author Notes In the "true in real life" column this week, my own opera teacher was Lois Antinerelli, and she was, indeed, a NYC diva. I, though, did not teach her granddaughter.


Chapter 27
Stranger Danger

By Rachelle Allen

        Gretchen is behind the wheel of my car, because I never forgot her confession of how she vomits if she’s in the passenger seat. Jane – you know, because she “called it” – is riding shotgun, and Rebekah and I are in the oh-so-roomy back seat of my brand new Mercedes luxury sedan. We leave Amish Country and make our way to Long Island and the boarding school for aspiring opera singers, run by my own former student, Maria Antinerelli.

        After I phone her to arrange it all, I call my husband, Bobby, to update him on all that’s happened since Sunday and what’s on the current day’s agenda.

        As I begin to teach Rebekah how to use her new phone, Jane takes the opportunity to say, “Now that I’m a new member of FanStory, I’ve begun to write poetry. Let me read you a few of my favorites so far. Rachelllllllllle? Are you and Rebekah listeningggggg?”

        We exchange bemused looks, Rebekah and I, and I say, “Oh, yes, Jane, by all means. Let’s hear these masterpieces!”

        Jane adds, “Because, you knowwwwww, I used to write poems alllllll the time in college. Did Tova tell you thaaaaaaat?”

        “No,” I say. And because she’s just annoyed me by extending her words in a way that sounds like a goat – an animal I now hate – I ask sweetly, “Did you graduate together? 1970, right?”

        Gretchen gives me Wise Eyes in her rearview mirror, and, in my periphery, I see Rebekah covering her teeth with her lips.

        “Stilllllllllllll. It was good enough to survive the test of tiiiiiiiiiime,” Jane replies.

        Oy. If Google Maps is correct, it will be another three hours and thirty-one minutes before we arrive in Long Island. There is not enough Calgon – or chocolate – on the planet to take me away from this whiny, annoying speech pattern.

        “Okayyyyyyy!” says Jane. “Here’s the first one. It’s called ‘Luscious.’

        Your plump lips

        Seek my awaiting mouth---”

        “Um, JANE!” I break in, a little more emphatically than I intended. “Anything G-rated you can share?”

        “What?” Jane asks. “Whyyyyyy?”

        “Well, because Rebekah is (a) sixteen and (b) Amish, so we need to be respectful here.”

        Gretchen’s face in the rearview mirror is now Pepto Bismal pink from suppressing laughter. I’m just grateful she hasn’t been consuming a beverage because I know for a fact that, if she had, it would be geysering from her nostrils right now.

        Jane sighs heavily and roots around in her spiral-bound notebook. “Fiiiiiiiiine,” she says in a tone that makes it oh-so intentionally clear that fine isn’t even marginally the case.

        “This one’s PG,” she says. “Readyyyyyyyy?”

        Gretchen mouths ‘no’ at me in the mirror.

        “It’s called ‘Consummation.’

        Approach me in all your naked splendor---”

        “YO!!! JANE!!” I squawk. “What does ‘PG’ stand for in your world? Pretty Graphic?”

        “Oy veyyyyyy!” she responds.

        “Yeah, well, right back atcha!” I say with my No Nonsense Teacher edge. How is Tova friends with this woman?

        Rebekah begins to rock a bit and rapidly whispers The Lord’s Prayer.

        “Hey, Gretchen!” I say. “Let’s listen to some music! It’s already set to the Classical station.”

        But even with that distraction, every twenty minutes or so, Jane announces a poem she’s found in her trove that she’s deemed okay for young audiences. But every single time, I have to shut her down by the end of the first line. This is starting to feel like a Tik Tok prank, the online jokes people play on unsuspecting others for the purpose of getting viewers.

        This new detour is so much worse than the original one! Thanks, Tova! I’ll be in touch; don’t you worry about THAT!

        Finally, after about ninety minutes, Gretchen suggests we stop at a mall so that we can find some contemporary clothes for Rebekah. That’s how dire this is: my friend Gretchen, who could not care less about clothes, has volunteered to find an entirely new wardrobe for a sixteen-year-old she’s known three days. Surely Armageddon awaits at the next rest stop!

        A mall appears relatively soon, and Gretchen pulls into a parking space. As we pile out and stretch, my phone dings, and I see that Gretchen has texted me.

        “Pleeeeeeease can’t we lose her somewhere in the mall and then just ditch her altogetherrrrrr? When the authorities question us, we’ll claim we simply forgot she’d been on the triiiiiiiiiip.”

        “Sooo tempting,” I text back. “But she knows our final destination and will be there with a poison dart gun. I’ll talk to her privately if you take Rebekah shopping.”

        “GLADLY!!!” She texts back.  

        “Bet you never in your life imagined that that would be your preference over any other choice offered, did you?”

        “Never.”

        “Okay,” I say. “Rebekah, in an effort to make you look like a normal, regular sixteen-year-old rather than a frou-frou Barbie princess, Gretchen wants to be your personal shopper. But you have final say over everything you choose.”

        Her eyes light up. I hand Gretchen my VISA and say, “No limit today.”

        “No!” says Rebecca at once. “My family gave me money, and I had money saved, too.”

        “This is on me,” I say. “Save your money for when you’re in Long Island.”

        She actually hugs me, and I want to give Gretchen my Amex Platinum card, too. “Meet back here in ninety minutes?” I ask.

        “Perfect,” says Gretchen.

        Jane and I watch them disappear into the west entrance to the mall, and I am convinced I see a spring in Rebekah’s step.

        “Shall we go shopping, toooooo?” Jane asks. “I love that hat you’re wearingggggg. I’d like to get one exactly like it!”

        I stop abruptly to just stare at her. “Seriously?” I ask. “Don’t you think that would look a bit peculiar? The two of us in matching black berets with red ostrich plumes?”

        “Well, those Guardian Angel people all used to wear red bereeeeeeets!” she says.

        “Yeah, and the Army guys wear green ones, but you and I don’t belong to an organized group.”

        “FANSTORY!” she reminds me at once.

        “Okay, but this is not a FanStory beret. You understand that, Jane, right?” I am incredulous that we are even having this absolutely stupid conversation. I feel like I’m Alice, this is Wonderland, and I have fallen down the rabbit hole.

        “Heyyyyy!” says Jane. “Now that we’re by ourselves with no, you know, impressionable minor in our midst, can I read you one of my poemmmmmms?”

        I know I won’t be able to hold her off for eighty-six minutes, so I relent, generously taking one for the team.

        She extracts a sheath of rumpled notebook pages from her oversized handbag then jockeys them into a single jumble.

        “This one is called ‘Screw Me Like You Meeeeeeean It,” she announces to anyone within earshot, and all I can think is I miss my Amish life more than I ever would have imagined.

        When she finishes, she gives me the haughty, triumphant stare of a prima donna who feels she’s just given a world-class performance. “Wellllllllll?” she asks.

        “When we get to the convention,” I tell her, “the first person I want you to meet is Lancellot.” Then I add, “Jane, please promise me that you won’t read any more of these while Rebekah’s in the car. Can you do that for me?”

        She gives me the angry pout of a six-year-old deprived of ice cream.

        “I will be so very appreciative if you could do that,” I add with a kind smile and warm, loving eyes that I so seriously do NOT mean.

        “Wellllllll, okayyyyyyyy,” she finally says.

        “Oh, you are such a sweetie,” I say and suddenly have an epiphany. Her name may be Jane Babies, but her strangeness reminds me of Baby Jane, the psychopathic character played by Bette Davis in the movie where she keeps her disabled sister captive in their house.

        I get a head-to-toe shiver.

        “Heyyyy!” I shout, then feel immediately chagrined that now I, too, am drawing out my words. “Let’s go into the mall and get some coffee! There’s bound to be a big crowd in the food court!”

        So as not to be too spectacularly obvious about my motive, I quickly add, “We can people-watch!”

        I’m so spooked by the Baby Jane aspect right now, I don’t even wait for a response. Instead, I hustle toward the mall entrance while fervently hoping she doesn’t follow me in. Gretchen’s idea to ditch her was spot-on. This woman is certifiable.

        I text Gretchen: “Nutjob Jane and I are in the Food Court. Meet us there.” Then, just for good measure, I add: “Jane Babies/Baby Jane. From this point on, no one does alone time with her. I bet Tova’s using this reprieve from her to move to Madagascar and leave no forwarding address!”

        Gretchen texts back: “Agreed” then attaches pictures of Rebekah in THE cutest grey-and-pink striped Nike t-shirt, matching skirt and leggings ensemble ever made. She looks like a real teenager – and a fashion-forward one, at that.

        My Jewish Mommie Red Alert vibe abates a moment as I take in the delightful transformation occurring just a few stores away. Trade-offs, I think to myself.

        Just then, Jane is standing beside me. “Welllllll, I also love your shoooooooes, too,” she says. “Can’t I look for a pair just like themmmmmmm?”

        Forget Baby Jane, now she’s feeling like the Bridgette Fonda character in the movie Single White Female. I mean it; if I hear even one note of the Dueling Banjoes song from Deliverance, Jane Babies will think I have turned into a spaceship with the way I will rocket away, leaving her to cough in the wake of my fuselage.


Chapter 28
Stranger Danger

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention in Atlantic City when their car breaks down in the middle of Amish Country. With no cell service and no way to call for help, they are at the mercy of their hosts. Thankfully, Rachelle's cousin, Tova, is able to come to their aid and bring Rachelle's car to them. But she brings along another surprise. Boo.
*************************************************************************************************

I've got good instincts about people. My gut tells me if I should embrace or run like hell. Guess which signal I'm getting from Jane? She is probably one of the most annoying, self absorbed people I've ever met. She is also at the emotional maturity level of my seven year old grandson.

She called shotgun and I'm the driver so I can smell her industrial strength cologne and know a scent induced migraine is on the horizon. She is chewing gum, not quietly, nor politely, mind you. No, Jane is doing those little snaps and pops and her red stained lips are open and flapping.

It takes every ounce of strength not to slam on the brakes just to watch her head hit the dash board. Maybe that would shut her up for a few minutes. At least, I'd be amused for a few. But it isn't my car and I don't want Rachelle to have a coronary because of my inappropriate impulses.

"Hey, you guys want to hear my poetry?" Jane asks. She doesn't wait for an answer. No sir, she just pulls this big notebook out of her over sized bag and starts flipping through the pages. She giggles, clears her throat and starts reading.

I don't like hearing about sex, reading about it, or even seeing it on the screen. To me sex is very private. I value the sanctity of a physical relationship, just like the next person, but hearing words like throbbing, and plump moist whatevers, make bile slide into my throat quicker than syrup of ipecac.

I search out Rachelle in the rear view mirror. I hear the words of the Lord's prayer floating softly around the interior of the car. So, I know I'm not in hell. Darn close to it, with Dr. Ruth of bad pornographic poetry spouting off terribly metered shat.

"Okay, wow, maybe we should hold off on that one. Anything rated G or PG rated in that notebook?" Rachelle says, a forced smile on her face and in her voice.

A slight pout comes to the face of Shotgun Jane. "Sure. I don't see what the big deal is, she's a teenager. She's probably heard it all before," Jane mutters.

Apparently, she knows something about the Amish that Rachelle and I don't. My mind wanders to an Amish market where the guys with the weird Abe Lincoln beards are selling Amish porn. Miss November, clad in her flat shoes, gray dress and bonnet, milking a cow with a seductive smile on her face. I wander back upon hearing the title Screw Me Like You Mean It.

"Oh, you're still here," I whisper sadly to myself. It's gonna be a long ride.

**********************************************************************************************

Malls used to bore me. I'm not a shopper unless its an art store or a book store, but I have never been so happy to turn into a mall parking lot in my life. The last twenty minutes were wonderfully quiet. Rachelle had to call her friend about Rebekah and demanded complete silence.

Rachelle pulled me aside to show me something in the trunk of the car and whispered that she would occupy Jane while I took Rebekah shopping. She handed me her credit card and said, "No limit. Get her what she needs first and then what she wants."

Rebekah and I walk into the mall and I watch as she takes it all in. The floors, the little trees and fountains. She looks up, I guess, to find where the piped in music is coming from. She looks at the people who pass by, the mothers with strollers, the couples holding hands. I realize she is doing the exact same thing I did that first day in Amish Country. This was a strange new world. There is a part of me that hopes she likes it, but a stronger part that prays she can resist the lure of it.

"Come on, let's find a Forever Twenty-one store. If they don't have it, it doesn't exist." I hook my arm through hers and guide her to the directory a few feet away.

The process of shopping for teenaged girl clothing is confusing for the most part. They want to fit in, to make a statement. But are they old enough to make some of those statements? I take her to the rack where the jeans are. "You want to be comfortable, sitting and not having the waistband dig into you. Also, gotta watch the butt crack. Some jeans will slide down and people can see your butt crack. Not a good look on some."

Rebekah nods, studying the various jeans. "May I try these?" she asks.

I nod, then look around for a top. There is a Snoopy and Woodstock t-shirt folded on the table beside me. "Here, take this. Snoopy is a classic."

I wander around, close enough to keep my eye on the dressing room, but I start looking for things for my girls. They aren't teenagers anymore, twenty-six and twenty-three to be exact, but I am filled with the memories of shopping here. Spending hours for them to find just the right ensemble. I miss it.

After about thirty minutes, Rebekah has two pair of jeans, three shirts, a pair of socks and a bunch of scrunchies for her hair. She even found an outfit that rivaled anything Rachelle would have picked out. I send a picture to Rachelle.

Now, we have to meet Rachelle and Jane in the food court. This Jane is a conundrum. She is extremely friendly and open. She has the manners of a spoiled brat, an obnoxious demeanor, and I don't trust her. But there has to be something good about her. Right?

That feeling in my gut starts again as I find them sitting at a table mid-court. Rachelle looks up and she has a distressed look.

I may have said this before, but it bears repeating, this is going to be a long trip.

Author Notes I do hate malls. I do miss the stress of shopping for two teenaged girls. I would pick a Snoopy and Woodstock t-shirt. You can't go wrong with that. And, yes, I do fantasize about hitting the brakes to shut people up when they get on my nerves when I drive.


Chapter 29
On Your Mark, Get Set...

By Rachelle Allen

        As we sit in the food court, Jane drones on with a poem she wrote entitled “Mi Panties Es Su Panties.” She’s reading it with a ridiculous “accent” that makes her sound like the Mexican bandito cartoon from the 70's  who was a spokesman for corn chips. My only solace is that she’s not dragging out her vowels and consonants with this new syntax, but the “Spanglish” is so incredibly embarrassing – not to mention politically incorrect – that I’m dying a thousand deaths here. The woman has no “inside voice,” and the looks she’s evoking from the other patrons here makes me wish I had a sign that reads: I Lost a Bet. That way, they’d be amused and compassionate instead of looking like they want to tar and feather me. Ay, carumba!      

        Finally, I catch sight of Gretchen and launch myself toward her as if I’ve been shot from a cannon.

        I stop short, though, when I also take in the “new” Rebekah. She’s in skinny jeans, a Snoopy-and-Woodstock tee and sporting THE biggest grin I’ve ever seen on her pretty face. I savor this moment.

        “You look SO good!” I say to her and motion for her to turn, which she does. She’s even wearing a baseball cap and sneakers! Wait’ll her horse and goats see THOSE!

        “I need to buy you a few more necessities,” I say. “But would you like to experience the food court first?”

        She gapes at all the choices that surround us and nods.

        “Gretchen, what do you think?” I ask.

        But before she can respond, Jane joins us. “I didn’t finish reading you my poemmmmmm!” she whines. “You just left me sitting therrrrrrrrrre!”

        “Sorry,” I say. Sorry-not-sorry, I think. Then I add, “Remember your promise from earlier, though, Jane, right?” I give her my No Nonsense Mom Look.

        She sighs loudly, rolls her eyes and stuffs her book of smut back into her handbag. “What are we talkinnnnnnnng about?” she asks, and I watch both Gretchen and Rebekah stiffen from head to toe.

        We agree to divide and conquer, each of us buying choices from different vendors that we’ll share, “family dining style,” when we meet back up at our designated table.

        Watching Rebekah sample things like curly fries and tacos, chicken nuggets and a Frosty is a rush like no other. She’s blossoming before our eyes, and I decide that this moment alone is worth every bit of the frustration and unhappiness that has sprung from our detours. I see the Proud Mama in Gretchen loving it, too.

        When we finish, I say, “Rebekah, I need to get you a few music books, and then I also want you to find a beautiful black recital dress – and shoes, of course. Then you’ll have everything you need for the next leg of your journey.”

        She looks like a child who’s just eaten all of her birthday cake and has now been told her parents bought her a pony.

        “I just can’t believe this is all happening,” she says.

        “What am IIIIIIIIIIIIII supposed to do?” asks Jane.

        “You can meet us back here in two hours!” says Gretchen, suddenly sounding like a perky game-show host.

        “Yes! Perfect!” I say immediately and with matching enthusiasm. “Go shopping! Enjoy yourself! We’ll all show each other our treasures when we reconvene!”

        "NOOOOOOOO!” Jane says. “Shopping alone’s no fuuuuuuuuun! I’m going with all of youuuuuuuu.”

        Oy. My cousin Tova once again jumps to the top of my “Will Be Seeking Retribution Upon These People” list. How could she saddle us with this totally obnoxious barnacle? Oh, who am I kidding? It was an act of self-preservation for Tova. Begrudgingly, I know I can’t even fault her. In her place, I probably would have done the same thing. I take her off The List.

        We hit the music store first for a copy of Schirmer’s Italian Art Songs, then The Prima Donna’s Album and Estelle Liebling’s Coloratura’s Handbook. I also throw in a pack of note-reading flashcards. Finally, because all work and no play is no fun, I also buy her the score for the Broadway musical, Wicked.

        Although I am focusing on Rebekah, I keep catching glimpses of Gretchen trying to keep a distance from Jane while Jane proceeds to handle instrument after instrument on display. At one point, I watch our social maladroit get “talked to” by a store employee! Gretchen scurries to an opposite corner at that point and texts me, “Pleeeeeease help me kill herrrrrrr!” She immediately adds, “It’s only fairrrrrr; she’s killing MEEEEEEE!!!”

        I quickly pay for our bounty and, as we head toward the door, I mouth over my shoulder to the clerk, “I’m so sorry!” He gives me a nod of understanding.

        At our final destination, or, as Gretchen refers to it, ‘the fancy-ass store’ – a term that immediately evokes a full-out guffaw from Rebekah – we explain to a highly coifed, dramatically lip-lined and oh-so obsequious salesclerk what we’re hoping to find: an age-appropriate, tasteful black dress for Rebekah to wear while performing at a vocal recital.

        “I have just the thing!” she says, all but drowning us in her gush. “Follow me, Dear,” she says to Rebekah, and Rebekah takes after her like a two-month-old puppy behind its mother.

        Gretchen settles into a tasteful, overstuffed beige armchair, and I head to the “Cocktail Dress” section, because I need to replace my original FanStory convention jaw-dropper, the one that was eaten whole by Helene and Ezra’s freaking goats – NOT that I’m still bitter or anything, of course.

        I extract a dazzling, emerald green number with sequins and an asymmetrical hemline that begins just below the knee and ends mid-thigh.

        “Gretchen!” I call and hold it up for her perusal.

        “I trust that comes with a tiara?” she calls back. Everyone’s a comedian on the FanStory roster.

        “Ohhhhh! I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE IT!” says Jane.

        Gretchen doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.

        I decide to get it anyway. Redheads are irresistible in green.

        The salesclerk sings, “Ta-daaaaaah!” and we watch Rebekah step out from behind the satin curtain in a dress so perfectly made for her and the occasion of her impending recital that I actually have to blink back tears.

        It sports a ballerina neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, a belted waist and a massively full skirt that ends right at her knees. She’s been accessorized with shiny MaryJanes with a kitten heel.

        None of us makes a sound, because we don’t want this absolutely perfect moment to end.

        Finally, I ask, “Do you like it, Sweetie?” and Rebekah answers, “I know I shouldn’t say this – it’s not humble – but I feel beautiful.”

        “Wrap it up,” I say to the clerk and head to the check-out counter with my own already- bagged acquisition.

        As I wait for the clerk to cash me out, I see a display labeled, “Estate Sale Treasures” and notice an exquisite, white-on-black cameo on a diamond-and-onyx choker.

        Gretchen stands beside me and looks where I’m pointing. “Doesn’t that profile look so much like Rebekah?” I ask.

        Gretchen assesses it with her artist’s eye and says, “That’s uncanny.”

        “There’s been a lot of that this trip, hasn’t there?”

        “That, there has,” she says.

        “Could you wrap this up, as well?” I say to the clerk as she begins writing up my receipt.

        “With pleasure, Ma’am,” she says.

        But I know beyond any doubt in the world that the pleasure is totally and exclusively mine.

Author Notes In observance of our "even though this is a fictitious story, some things are true" tradition, the books I mentioned ARE the ones that a newbie opera student would need.

...And redheads ARE irresistible in green.


Chapter 30
On Your Mark, Get Set...

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Writers' Convention in Atlantic City when Hargis's car breaks down. Unable to contact help, they stay with an Amish family for a few days. Both learn a lot about themselves and others, and when help finally arrives, they think they are home free. But, another "new" member of FanStory joins them on the last leg of their journey. After one detour they find themselves in the midst of another.

************************************************************************************************

It was fun shopping with Rebekah. Unlike my own girls, who had their own sense of style and would politely turn their noses up at my fashion advice, Rebekah was open to suggestions. I noticed she was drawn to the bright colors. I waited for her to correct me on my mention of colors. Being color blind, lighting has everything to do with what I perceive a color to be. But she didn't. She absorbed what ever I told her.

As we walk back to find Rachelle in the food court at the designated time, Rebekah is smiling ear to ear. "You look so cute," I tell her. "I'll bet all the boys around are crushing on you."

A deep pink sneaks onto her cheeks and she shakes her head. "It's not time for that yet."

I nod. I never knew there was a time for young love. I always thought it just happened. As we round the corner into the food court, I wince. I can hear that nasal drawn out voice of her. Jaaannnee. I shiver. I push the thought of being cut to shreds by the scythe wielding Amish man out of my head. Now, the horror that pushes into the forefront of my mind is being stuck in the car with this nincompoop.

I wave at Rachelle and she looks like a trauma victim. There is a stress induced smile on her face. It is only her mouth that smiles, Rachelle's eyes are intense. "Thank you," I mouth. "Doesn't she look adorable?" I call out and wave my hand over Rebekah.

Rachelle bites her knuckle and I swear it looks like she's going to cry. I glance at Jane. She isn't looking at Rebekah, no, she is looking at Rachelle. I watch as she mimics Rachelle and bites her knuckle. Something odd is happening and I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's enough for me to know, Jane is not like us. If Jane is playing cards, she definitely isn't playing with a full deck.

We go off in different directions for food. Rachelle is intent on loading Rebekah up on experiences in the short time we have before we drop her off to the vocal coach. Poor Rebekah, a mall food court is going to be her experience of eating in the English world. I head to Chic Fil A, while the others head to others establishments.

Jane has grabbed a table for us. When I reach for the chair next to her she shakes her head. "This is for Rachelle."

"Quick question, Jane. Are we in middle school? You're saving a seat for your new BFF?"

Jane scowls. "I'm being nice. Surely, you understand that. Here you are, driving her nice car, spending her money on that girl. I'm a nice person. Rachelle is a nice person. We connect. She's like a friend that I've known forever."

I press my lips together and think civil thoughts. It's either that or I picture myself curling my fingers into a ball and hitting Jane right in the nose. I wouldn't do it, but in my head, the food court would be cheering and throwing flowers at my feet. "You don't like me much, though , do you?" I ask, as I squeeze the special sauce for the fries onto the paper wrapper. I don't make eye contact. What's the point? There is a disconnect somewhere behind those eyes. I'm almost afraid I might get sucked into a vortex of crazy.

"I never said that. But you, you're different. We just don't have much in common. Rachelle and I we hit it off the first time we saw each other." She smiles wistfully and looks across the food court to where Rachelle and Rebekah are waiting for their orders.

"You mean when you saw her walk behind her cousin on the zoom call?"

"I told you, you wouldn't understand. It's like one of my poems," she says with a fevered excitement as she digs into her bag for her notebook. "Listen to this. Thrusting, lusting, busting with urgency. Two bodies melding into one. I clutch, tense flesh, drawn to your words that you whisper into my ear."

I choke on the sip of Coke I had just taken. "Whoa, I'm eating Chic Fil A, for goodness sake. That's almost like being in church. Maybe save the poetry for the convention."

She shuts the notebook and shoves it back in the bag. "You're uncomfortable with sexuality, aren't you?"

"If I am, does that mean you won't read your poetry anymore?"

She nods. "Not around you, anyway."

I nod my head vigorously. "Then yes, I am very uncomfortable with anything sexual."

I high five myself in my mind.

***********************************************************************************************

Rachelle takes us to a music store, where you guessed it, Jane decides to try out all of the instruments. She has no concept that she is bothering anyone. She is in a world of her own, and I bet none of the inhabitants there like her either.

I'm not much of a shopper and Rachelle now drags us to a high dollar dress store. Granted, if I didn't live at the beach, maybe I would be interested in these things, but even weddings at the beach are casual. So, after looking at one or two things, I find a nice cozy chair and call home.

"Can you come get me," I whisper as soon as Chuck answers.

"What's wrong?"

"We have a stow-away. I'm gonna kill her. She is so obnoxious."

"Wait, the girl? Is that who you are talking about?"

"No. Rachelle's cousin brought a woman with her when she brought Rachelle's car. This woman is certifiable. She writes dirty poetry. It isn't even good dirty poetry."

I smile when I hear him laugh. "Read some to me, let me be the judge of that."

"Absolutely not." I sigh as I see them finishing up at the register. "So, you aren't coming to get me?"

"No. Ignore that looney tunes and have fun. You've wanted to go to this convention for a long time. I love you. Call me if you need to."

Rachelle and Rebekah come towards me an I watch as Jane heads to the register empty handed. She hands the sales girl her credit card and after a few minutes she comes sauntering up. "Boy, oh boy, do I have a fun surprise for you," she squeezes Rachelle in an embrace.

"Bigger than that surprise?" Rachelle says and wriggles free of Jane's grasp.

Jane winks. "You're going to love it. I promise."

Karma is a weird thing. What on earth did either Rachelle or I do to have this woman join us? I'm gonna think about it and pray about, I can guarantee that.

Author Notes Janes are all around us. Someone who copies you, puts you on a pedestal, or decides to make your life a living hell. You'd like to blame karma, but the truth is karma has nothing to do with it. Most of the times, you really have nothing to do with it. These people, the Janes, latch on to you. Yes, I do high five myself sometimes. (Like when my colonoscopy was cancelled. High five!!)


Chapter 31
Leaving Rebekah

By Rachelle Allen

        We have less than an hour now before we arrive in Babylon, New York, a Long Island suburb. Maria’s house is on Eaton Lane, a short street that ends with a yacht club poised on the Great South Bay. It will either spoil Rebekah forever or make her homesick beyond words.

        Will she go for walks, taking in the vast expanse of water and sky, and see limitless potential? Or will it look more like stultifying emptiness? Will studying opera, as her mamm did, tether her to her roots in rural Pennsylvania or spur her to stay away and complete what her mamm could not – or would not – complete for herself? So much hangs in the abyss that is her future.

        All I know is that, from a musical standpoint, this girl is a natural. She may not have perfect pitch, like her brother Solomon does, but her relative pitch is impressively solid. She grasped how to read notes with the flashcards I bought at the mall faster than any student I’ve ever taught, and when I had her sight-sing – try a piece she’d never sung or heard before – her skills were far above average. Maria is going to be so thrilled.

        I steal a glance at Rebekah and watch as she remains glued to the Wicked book, absorbing each page – the story, the characters – while she listens to the score with earbuds Tova provided when she also bestowed the phone.

        How is she the same girl who, just this morning, was wearing a bonnet and long dress as she left a simple, clapboard house on an Amish farm? In any Englisher family, this girl would be ready to burst forth onto the music scene with great expectations and years of knowledge and training under her belt. She’d have the support – both emotional and financial – of her family, and she’d be ready to meet the challenge.

        Instead, she is here with strangers, no musical education, no experience and the forlorn and disapproving faces of her aunt and uncle, respectively, as her most recent memories of home.

        I cannot predict how this will play out. All I can do is hope it enriches, rather than defeats her, this girl I’ve grown to cherish so much already.

        As we enter the township of West Islip, Gretchen says, “Wow! This is some seriously upscale area!”

        I give Rebekah’s arm a squeeze, and she returns from her musical reverie and removes her earbuds.

        “We’re only about five minutes away now,” I tell her.

        Her beautiful blue eyes become unreadable. They seem to be offering up an amalgam of fear and excitement, anticipation and dread as reality settles in.

        Because I don’t want Jane to insinuate herself into these precious last moments, I text Rebekah: I am always just a phone call away. And the FanStory convention is only two-and-a-half hours from here. I will gladly come get you no matter when you call. Or we can just talk.

        She reads my text then puts her head on my shoulder. Oy! This child. G-d bless Old Reliable for stranding me in this girl’s beautiful orbit.

        You have arrived at your destination, the crisp voice of Google Girl informs us.

        “Whoa!” Gretchen gasps and takes in Maria’s house.

        “Ohhhh, puh-leeeeeeease!” says Jane. “You should see MYYYYYYYY house! It makes this look like a cottaaaaaaage!”

        The first feature to grab your attention is the ornamental six-foot-high wrought-iron fence that encircles what, compared to the neighboring homes, is very obviously, a triple lot. The structure is vast and Victorian – white with tall windows and black shutters, three stories, and a wraparound porch. Wind chimes of every size and design dangle, like exotic earrings, from the porch’s rafters and serenade us as we exit our vehicle.

 Maria bursts from the front door at a full run, arms outstretched, face beaming. She reminds me so much of her grandmother, my own beloved voice teacher, at this moment, the way she’s brimming over with life and enthusiasm.

        “You’re here at last!” she says with a voice so robust and melodious that it sounds as if she’s singing to us. Rebekah’s face lights up.

        Maria wraps us both inside her arms and says, “Welcome!” then smooches me on the cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever,” she says, holding me at arm’s length.

        “Ditto!” I say. Her hair is still lush and long and jet black, her eyes like dark chocolate bon-bons. It’s her smile, though, that always beguiles people – so warm and inviting and movie-star beautiful.

        I remember how, even as a teenager, when she took voice and piano lessons from me, she was decades beyond her contemporaries in the areas of charisma and social grace. When she was tapped for the New York City Opera, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. She had “star quality” written all over her from Day One.

        “This has to be the talented Rebekah!” she says, and I watch as Rebekah becomes so immediately enchanted, she’s not even blinking.

        “I can’t WAIT to work with you!” Maria says and squeezes her. “We are going to have so much fun here together!”

        “Ummmmm. Hellloooooooo!” says Jane, tapping Maria from behind.

        Maria’s back becomes rigid, and her eyebrows hook together at the bridge of her nose like mating caterpillars. She whirls around to face Jane and uses an imperious, Icy Diva tone to say, “I am speaking with my student right now, Madam. Do NOT interrupt me!”

        Gretchen, who is standing outside of Jane’s sight lines, pantomimes a prolonged scream of elation, which she punctuates with an enthusiastic fist above her head.

        And just like that, Maria’s charms have even won over the perpetually wary and stand-offish Gretchen.

        She turns back to face Rebekah and asks, “Are you hungry after such a long trip, Dear Student? I’ve made a huge pot of pasta and meatballs.”

        Rebekah nods, and Maria links elbows with her. As they head toward the house like life-long buddies, I say, “We’ll bring in her stuff.”

        “Perfect!” says Maria to me over her shoulder. “See you all inside.”

        Jane is still standing in the exact position she was in during the moment of her rebuke from Maria.

        “Well, I’m SOOOOO not going in THERRRRRRRE!” she says, curling her upper lip.

        “Suit yourself,” I say, causing her to gape and then instantly pout.

        Gretchen meets me at the trunk, and we divvy up Rebekah’s suitcase and the bags full of treasures from our morning’s shopping spree.

        As we head toward the house, I shout, “Hey, Jane! On the ride to Atlantic City?”  I pause so she’ll have to break her silence and answer me.

        “Yeahhhhhh?” she shouts back like an insolent teenager.

        “I call shotgun!”

        It takes a moment, but then Gretchen whispers, with breathless incredulity, “Oyyyyyyy!” Immediately, she adds, in a low voice, “You have no concept of how much I adore you in this perfect, priceless moment, Allen.” She gives me an admiring look followed by a love-nudge with her whole body.

        “Ditto,” I say. Then, I give her Wise Eyes and add, “Game on, yes?”

        “Oh, SOOOOO yes,” she answers back and sighs like she did at the hot springs when we immersed ourselves after hours of berry-picking.

        With a bounce in our step as we anticipate the final leg of our road trip, we ascend the
porch stairs together for a homemade meal and to say goodbye-for-now to our fabulous and
beloved Rebekah.


Chapter 32
Leaving Rebekah

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention when Hargis's car breaks down. Out of cell service and totally at the mercy of the road, they are rescued by some Amish folks. There they discover a new way of life, and a lot about themselves. Finally back on the road thanks to Rachelle's cousin, Tova, they have two extras in the car. Rebekah, an Amish girl with musical potential and Tova's odd friend Jane. Now, they are on their way to drop Rebekah off at vocal coach in New York.

************************************************************************************************

I've been to New York once. It was when I was in my early twenties, and it was New York City. I remember my friend, Mary, a native New Yorker telling me the rules of survival.

1. Don't make eye contact.
2. Never play a street game. (Cards or where is the marble under which cup. They let you win, until they decide otherwise. And you never walk away with any cash.
3. Don't stop when someone tries to talk to you.

She didn't have to tell me twice. I'm not the adventurous type. I remember it was drizzling that day. We rode the subway from her home in Yonkers to Manhattan. I was lost in the architecture and the history of the buildings. I gawked at the Empire State Building, twirled around staring up at the ceiling of the Rockefeller Center and peeked into the window of the NBC building. New Yorkers use their umbrellas like bayonets. Weaving through the crowded streets like it was a war zone. I was not prepared for the wet assault of the dripping umbrellas nor the surprised looks when I said excuse me. Several people stopped and jaws slack, they asked where I was from. "Virginia."

"Say it again."

"Virginia." I said and smiled my sweet southern girl smile.

That was the day I learned the power of the southern accent.

My southern accent isn't working on Jane. She just flat out doesn't like me. And that is fine with me. I used to be a people pleaser when I was younger, but those days are history. Now, I keep my circle small, and I can decide within a few minutes if a person is worthy of my time. Jane doesn't make the cut. She's an attention whore. She will whine to get attention. Talk loudly to get attention and I'm waiting for her to start juggling or spinning plates for attention.

The more Rachelle and Rebekah talk, Jane squirms. She looks over at me. "How much longer until we drop the girl off?"

"I have no idea. I'm following Google maps and as my father used to say, "when we get there, you'll be the second to know."

She turns sideways in the seat and looks at Rachelle. "It's rude to whisper in front of others."

Rebekah looks away nervously. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "We are just talking about music."

Rachelle and I make eye contact in the rear view mirror. I can tell, her patience is wearing thin. I feel a tinge of both pity and excitement as I anticipate the come to Jesus meeting she will level on Jane. It's coming, make no mistake, it is coming.

"Maybe if you hadn't called shotgun so quickly, you could be sitting back here and you could hear everything I'm telling her." Rachelle's voice is clipped and I see the strain on her face as she tries to remain civil.

"What exit am I looking for, Rachelle?" I say, trying to interrupt the "meeting between Rachelle, Jane and Jesus". Oh, I want it to happen, but I don't want it to be while I have to keep my eyes on the road and can't fully enjoy the entertainment.

"Babylon," she says. She turns to Rebekah and smiles warmly.

I focus on the road and keep driving. Jane decides we need some music. She starts pushing buttons on the stereo and to my horror but her delight, she finds "her jam". Her words, not mine.

"OOOH my Gawd!! EEEEE!! I looooovvveee this song. Hey, Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine, you blow my mind. Hey, Mickey," she sings, then claps her hands...right in my ear. "Don't you looovvveee this song?"

Come on Babylon. I wonder how much insurance Rachelle has on this car. In theory, I could say an animal ran out in front of me and I slammed on brakes. Maybe I could coax Jane to unhook her seat belt and reach into the back seat for something. But, I refrain from hitting the brakes and sending our unwanted guest through the glass.

Jane, in her naive idea that everyone likes her, continues to sing and clap in my ear.

"Can you not do that in my ear?" I ask.

"You're a negative Nancy, you know that?" she grins and starts dancing in her seat. "Hey, Mickey. Hey, Mickey," she sings slightly off key.

Through the haze of red I see the long awaited sign. Babylon, next exit. I take the exit on two wheels, hearing the lovely sound of the Mercedes tires squeal in excitement.

"Whoa, Mario Andretti," Jane says, her hand searching for the handle on the ceiling. "I'd like to arrive in one piece, thank you very much."

I glance at Rachelle in the mirror and our eyes lock. Jane has no idea this wasn't her first brush with death while I was behind the wheel.

"Here it is!" Rachelle says, excitedly. She is unbuckling her seat belt as I pull through the gate. Palatial is an understatement. The rolling green of the lawn looked as if it was cared for by a team of landscapers. The Victorian house was stunning but welcoming. The front door opens and a woman steps out on the porch. As Rachelle exits the car they run towards each other.

I turn off the car, pocket the keys and look at Rebekah. "This place is gorgeous. You're gonna get spoiled this week."

Jane looks at the house, trying not to look impressed. "You should see my house."

"I'm sure." I say, ignoring her petty comment and going to join Rachelle, her friend and Rebekah.

I sniff the air. I can smell something delicious. Despite having eaten just a few hours ago, my stomach growls.

Jane walks over, trying to insinuate herself into the conversation, but the woman isn't having it. I smile. I like her. She doesn't waste time trying to unruffle Jane's feathers. No ma'am, she cuts her off and continues to talk to Rebekah.

The woman, Maria, ushers us onto the porch, telling us how she's prepared pasta and meatballs for us. I elbow past Rachelle and start to follow Maria like puppy into the spacious house. As I'm stepping over the threshold I hear Jane bitching about not coming inside and how she's never been so insulted, yada, yada, yada.

Then, Rachelle does the one thing that was like the icing on the cake. She pauses and turns to Jane. "Hey, Jane! On the ride to Atlantic City?"

Jane looks at her, a scowl on her face. "Yeah?"

Rachelle smiles with the cunning of a fox. "I call shotgun."

Dinner is served.

Author Notes The part about me using my accent to my advantage while in New York is true. We went to a bar called Shout and I had guys lining up to talk to me. Apparently, Jersey boys really like a good "Y'all and bless your heart." I didn't buy a drink all night. I would, of course, never willfully hurt someone by sending them through the windshield, but its a great threat, so lets keep that between you and me. Thanks for reading.


Chapter 33
End of the Road for Jane

By Rachelle Allen

        The moment I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.

        I’ve helped Rebekah settle into her baronial-sized bedroom, replete with an attached, soundproof practice room that holds a piano, microphone and floor-to-ceiling mirror so she can check her posture, breathing position, openness of mouth and jaw alignment while singing.

        We stand toe-to-toe a moment, visually taking each other’s emotional temperature. Excitement, sadness and mutual adoration fills up the space between our bodies.

        “You’re going to do so great here,” I say. “I can already tell that Maria is crazy about you.”

        She smiles. “I am very thankful for everything you have done to make this possible,” she says. I hear a slight catch in her voice. We exchange rueful sighs.

        “You have my number,” I remind her, and I know I am talking faster because I can feel that I’m on the verge of losing my composure. “Use it whenever you want. I will always be happy to hear from you. You are never an interruption or imposition for me.”

        I take out the box with the cameo necklace I bought her at the fancy-ass mall dress shop. She opens it and gapes. “She has your same beautiful profile,” I say, pointing to the ivory silhouette, “so I felt like it was a sign. Won’t this look perfect with your recital dress?”

        She nods, not taking her eyes off it.

        “You know,” I continue, “sometimes you don’t need to know someone a long time to know they’re a perfect addition to your life, and that is exactly how I feel about you. You’re this wonderful, shining light that warms up my whole heart.”

        “The same for me,” she says, and we give each other one last really good hug.

        “We’ll be back to visit you after the convention, okay?”

        She nods.

        “Or sooner, if you need,” I add with a smile. “Now, wish me luck, Rebekah, because I still have three-and-a-half hours in the car with Jane!”

        This evokes a fill-up-the-room style giggle, which, I decide, is my perfect cue to wave and blow her a kiss on my way out the door.

        After some good-bye hugs with Maria, Gretchen and I head outside, where I see Jane leaning against the car, a sour look of entitlement emblazoned upon her face.

        Gretchen clicks the locks but I say, "I'll drive for this leg." She and I take our places in the front seats, and Jane’s sigh, even through our closed doors, mind you, is so pronounced and overexaggerated, it sounds as if a hippopotamus just deflated a pool raft by landing on it with all four feet.

        I do NOT have the alacrity for her nonsense anymore. Without Rebekah to take into consideration, my redhead’s temper is already officially in the danger zone. It will take only the tiniest provocation for it to be Open Season on this friend of my cousin, Tova’s, who wormed her way aboard this road trip.

        I’m thinking ahead, too, of what Jane will be like at the FanStory convention. If she’s as insufferable with the rest of the members as she’s been for Gretchen and me, once all the festivities are over, I’ll FOR SURE be on even more people’s “Muted” list than my current number of seven! I make a mental note to distance myself from Jane every single moment at the convention. That way, no one can associate her with me.

        We’re barely out of Maria’s rambling driveway when Jane scooches herself as close to us as she can. “It’s SOOOOO unfairrrrrrrr that I have to be back here all by myselllllllllllf!” she starts.

        Gretchen and I exchange “The Look.”

        “Okay; Jane?” I begin. “Until now, because of Rebekah, I have been very, very nice to you, despite the fact that you’ve been the equivalent of a spoiled eighth grade debutante.”

        Jane’s eyes open so wide, I’m thinking that with even the slightest of bumps in the road, they could just jostle themselves right out of her sockets and onto my headrest.

        “But that level of magnanimity from me is now over,” I tell her and let that settle in before continuing on. “If you whine or complain from here on in—”

        “—Or read your lousy poetry,” Gretchen adds.

        “Or read your lousy poetry,” I affirm, “then I am raising the soundproof glass barrier here between our section and yours.”

        “You can’t do thaaaaaat!” Jane squawks.

        “Can and WILL,” I say. “And, if you pound on the glass even one time in protest, then we will immediately drive to the nearest bus station and leave you there. Are you reading me loud and clear, Jane?”

        “I can’t belieeeeeeeve this!” Jane shouts. She points to Gretchen and screams, “You’ve let that low-class Dixie chick with the ridiculous accent drive a wedge between us!”

        Now the incredulity is mine. I gape at her quizzically a moment then say, “Okay; that does it. You are a bona fide KOOK, Jane Babies, and you have now officially lost any further road trip privileges in this vehicle.” I turn to Gretchen and say, “Please be on the lookout for the next mall or plaza you see so that we can let Jane out.”

        “Oh YES!!!!” she yells. “GLADLY!!” and with that, she scours the landscape until lasering in on the Woodbury Commons Premium Outlet.

        I take a moment at a red light to apprise Tova via text. All she sends in response is, “Oy.” But, a few moments later, she adds, “I pity the limo driver who takes her the rest of the way!”

        Limo driver?!


Chapter 34
End of the Road For Jane

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention when Hargis's vehicle breaks down. They are taken in by a nice Amish family and given shelter until they finally get through to Rachelle's cousin. But, Tova, Rachelle's cousin didn't just bring a car for them to continue to the convention in. She brought an obnoxious and pushy woman by the name of Jane Babies. Now, on the last leg of their journey, both Rachelle and Gretchen have to fight the urge to ditch her.

*********************************************************************************************

I can tell from the smudge of mascara under Rachelle's left eye, saying goodbye to Rebekah had not been easy. I glance up to see Rebekah watching us depart. I wave at her then point to where Jane is lounging against Rachelle's car with her arms folded across her like a spoilt child. I shake my head and draw my finger across my own throat dramatically. Rebekah smiles her sweet smile and lets the curtain fall back across the window.

"How much longer?" I whisper as Rachelle cuts her eyes at the blatant disrespect Jane is showing her brand new vehicle.

"About three or four hours, depending on traffic. I'll drive this leg of the journey."

I hand over the keys and suck in my breath as Jane lets out a loud unhappy sigh. I hate drama. I hate whiners. I hate people who think they are entitled to special treatment based on their gender, financial status or their looks. We are all in this together. Come on, didn't any of these people watch High School Musical, for crying out loud. "Jane sounds unhappy," I whisper to Rachelle, who looks like someone who just realized they stepped in dog poop and walked across a beautiful white rug.

"Surprise," Rachelle says flatly. She puts the key in the ignition and then turns around to face our disgruntled tag-along.

What happens next is priceless. Rachelle reads her the riot act, but in such a disappointed teacher way, that I have to look out the window so I don't start laughing. And, the icing on the cake was when Rachelle compared her to an eighth grade debutant. And, still despite being called to the Principal's office, Jane continues with weird comments and goes so far as to call me a "low class Dixie chick". I am left wondering if she is referring to the place or the band. Neither would offend me.

When the dust starts to settle, Jane slumps back and stares at the back of Rachelle's head, brow furrowed and lips pouting. "You people don't know who you're dealing with."

Now, though I've never solved an actual murder or a crime, I have been dubbed Nancy Drew when I have helped solve a few mysteries around town. I have the determined qualities of my horoscopic sign, Virgo. I love to be right and hate to depend on others for information. I reach for my phone and decide it's high time Rachelle and I do find out who exactly we are dealing with.

I type in Jane Babies. I wait while Google does its leg work and my jaw drops. Jane Babies, daughter of Adult Films and media mogul, Robert "Bobby" Babies (Babinowitz), was spotted in New York with Actor Benjamin Fire. Despite the age difference, the pair looked very comfortable together.

I scroll farther. "Is Jane Babies going to take the reins from her father, King of Porn, Bobby Babies?"

Oh. My. Gosh. We have Sodom and Gomorrah in the backseat.

"So, Jane, tell me a little bit about yourself," I say. I wait for her to start simple and maybe build up to the crescendo, but that's not her style. I shake my head when Rachelle gives me a quizzical look.

"Well, I'm rich. I'm not going to bother telling you my net worth, because well, it would just make you feel bad. I probably make in a day what you make in a six months."

"Go on, please," I say, making sure to add a little southern exposure to my voice. "And, don't leave a thing out." I wink at Rachelle who looks like she's about to faint.

"You may have heard of my daddy, Bobby Babies."

I shake my head. "No, I don't think so. What does he do?"

"Ever hear of Wet Hustle or Give It Up?"

"Movies?"

She scoffs. "No, Magazines. Online stuff. Adult websites."

"You don't mean pornography, do you, Jane?" I gasp and my southern little hand flies to my mouth.

She smirks. "Of course you'd be offended. Google it."

"Sorry, no WIFI." I shake my phone and shrug. "So, Daddy runs a porn industry, what did dear old mom do for fun?"

Jane lifts her chin. "She was an actress."

"Stag films?"

"No, Hollywood. My mother was a saint."

I hold up my hands to show her I meant no bad intent with my question. "How come you didn't follow in her footsteps?" I don't follow up with the comment about her wanting to be in the spotlight and being an attention whore.

She looks out the window beside her and sniffs. "I did a few films. Daddy said I was a natural," she says quietly.

I wonder what types of films she did and what she was a natural at. Then I think about my father. He sold insurance for a living. He was a good man. For the first time in a long time I realize how lucky I was to have him for thirteen short years instead of what Jane has.

Rachelle's phone buzzes and she reads the brief text, before handing me the phone for me to read.

Tova has answered Rachelle's previous text. "Oy." A couple of seconds later, "I pity the limo driver who takes her the rest of the way!"

I turn it to show Rachelle, who lets out a defeated sigh. We can't unleash Jane on someone who can't fight back. No, we will get her there, but no promises on a safe journey home.

Author Notes I stand by my statement about entitled people. No one is better than anyone else. But, that doesn't mean you can act like a fool. Being a decent human being isn't that hard. Jane's are everywhere. But so are decent folks. Surround yourself with decent and leave the Janes to impress each other.


Chapter 34
End of the Road

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention in Atlantic City, but their trip has been full of unexpected detours. Some have been good but this last leg has worn their patience out. This particular detour is named Jane.

************************************************************************************************

Rachelle's fingers are skimming the keyboard of her phone at light speed. No sooner do I start reading one of her texts before another pops up. She is livid, which is ironic, seeing how Jane was hurling insults at me. Frankly, I couldn't care less what she's saying. As long as she leaves my family out of the equation she can talk trash in four different languages and I'm not gonna care. In a way, and I mean in a very, very small way, I feel sorry for her. To go through life being avoided like a pile of dog poop on the lawn, and then not realize it, well, that just sucks.

I can hear Jane's gasping cries coming from the backseat. She might not have made it in the porn industry, but I was about ready to nominate her for an Oscar. Rachelle is still arguing the point about calling a limo and having her eat our dust as she peels out of the parking lot, but I just can't. Call me a softie or call me stupid, but I can't leave an old lady at some random mall in New York or New Jersey, or wherever the hell we are.

Rachelle graces me with her very manicured middle finger and then turns around to address the red-eyed Jane. "Apologize to her!" Rachelle says, making me flinch as now I have to turn around and face Jane.

Now, apologies are great, when they come from the heart. But an apology made at gun point, not so much. Jane looks down sullenly, spitting the word sorry out like it was a piece of gristle from her steak. Not good enough. Rachelle commands her to do it again...with feeling this time. I nod, not trusting myself to look Jane in the eye. I'm sure the message I will get from her face will not match the words coming out of her mouth.

Rachelle tells her to sit back and shut up and then glares at me.

"Was that really necessary?" I whisper, even though the glass barrier is up between us and the backseat.

She cuts her eyes at me. "I can put you back there as well," she snaps.

I don't press it, just look once more a tinted divider wondering how I'd be feeling back there.

After the pink has left Rachelle's face, I speak. "Should I have said thank you?" I ask, a teasing tone in my voice.

She rolls her eyes and I can see the start of a smile play across her face. "Don't start, Hargis."

"I wouldn't say that, just so you know. I know she isn't sorry. She did what she had to stay in the car. Just because I'm not confrontational doesn't mean I'm gullible. And, I never forgive and forget. All an apology does is move you up or down on my list of suspects."

"And, to think I was worried about you," she says.

"I did enjoy it. You are like a wild animal backed into the corner when you're angry. She looked so shocked when you told her to sit down and shut up. It was amazing." I giggle as I replay it in my mind.

"Next new car, I'm getting an ejection seat put in." Rachelle says, nodding towards the back.

I settle into the seat and soon highway hypnosis kicks in and I drift off to sleep. I wake sometime later to feel Rachelle nudging me. "We made it!"

Though I lived in Richmond for many years, the sight of the bright lights of Atlantic City were no less awe inspiring than my first glimpse of New York City. There were flashing billboards and signs for casinos and shows on the boardwalk. I take a deep breath and remember the words that Dorothy said when she first landed in Oz. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

I roll down my window and look at the people who were walking down the street. The wardrobes are varied, from women in mini skirts to fur coats, and men in custom suits and others in jeans and T-shirts. I draw in a breath of salted air. It's different here, the sea air is laced with diesel and expensive colognes. The sounds of the city drown out the sounds of the sea. I sit back and roll my window up. It's a paradise lost.

Rachelle turns towards me, her finger poised over the button for the divider. "We got her here. We owe her nothing. Got it?"

"I got it. I'm certainly not gonna let her share our room, if that's what you're thinking."

Rachelle nods her approval of my confession.

"Has Rebekah texted you yet?" I ask.

Rachelle looks at her phone and shakes her head. "No. That's a good thing though. I'd hate to have to turn right around and go get her."

"She's gonna be fine. Maria seemed like a nice lady. You trusted her enough to make the arrangements."

"I know. She'll be fine. I just miss her. There I said it. I miss the sweet girl." She stamps her foot and presses her lips together. I look away giving her time to collect herself.

Rachelle lets the window down and calls back to Jane. "We're here. You might want to start making arrangements to get home at the end of the week. Just some friendly advice."

I pull my backpack out of the trunk and sling it over my shoulder. Jane looks around and when she realizes no one is coming to taxi her luggage into the hotel for her, she pulls out her bags.

A young man, dreads pulled up into a messy pony-tail nods at us as he strolls by. "Looking good," he says and winks.

I glance at Jane who immediately sticks her antique rack out for show. I can't take it. Remember when I said I don't forgive and forget? Well, I forgot to add, I like to get even. I square up my shoulders and flash her a confident smile. "Sorry, Janie. He was talking to me."

And, with that, I saunter into the hotel like a boss.

Author Notes Though I have never been to Atlantic City in real life, I have seen my share of Mafia movies. This is what I base my description on. And, for those who didn't understand my reference to the Antique rack, it was her boobs.


Chapter 35
One Final Showdown

By Rachelle Allen

        I am so incredulous that I make myself read Gretchen’s text a second time:

        “We can’t unleash Jane on someone who can’t fight back. We will get her there, but no promises on a safe journey home.”


        Even though we are sitting beside each other in the front seat of my car, which is parked in a shopping center in a Long Island, New York, suburb, we are texting so that Jane is not privy to our conversation.

        “YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!” I cyber-squawk. “She just called you a low-class Dixie chick!”

        “So what?” Gretchen responds. “We’ll put up the glass barrier – something a limo driver she’s paying wouldn’t have the luxury of doing.” She adds, “Besides, she’s back there crying now. You’re telling me you could leave a crying 70-something woman in an outlet parking lot, surrounded by her luggage, while we drive off?”

        “Oh, THIIIIIIIIS one I COUUUUUUUULD!” I text back with a vengeance. I wait a second then write, “Besides, I’ve got a hundred bucks that says those are crocodiiiiiiiile teeeeeeeeears.”

             Gretchen answers with: “Just three more hours versus a lifetime of guilt.”

        ‘OMIGAWWWWWD!” I cyber-howl at her. “YOU’VE BECOME A JEWISH MOMMIE!!!!!”

           Smiley face emoji from Gretchen.

        Real-life middle finger from me.

        Finally, I speak. “Okay, Jane; stop your fake-crying this minute. Here’s the deal; take it or leave it.”

        Jane scooches up toward us immediately, dry-eyed.

        “You may continue to ride with us, but you will do so behind the soundproof glass barrier. Touch said barrier even one time, and I swear to you, I will stomp on the brakes so hard that you careen into it, full force, with that entitled little noggin of yours.”

        I’m not sure why Gretchen is suppressing laughter with both her hands cupped over her mouth right now, but she is.

        I continue. “And let me just say for the record that the ONLY reason I’ve changed my mind about dumping you off here is because this so-called ‘LOW-CLASS DIXIE CHICK’ of yours is THE kindest and most compassionate woman you will probably ever encounter in your entire life.” I lower my gaze at her. “Myself, I’d have no compunction whatsoever about seeing you in my rearview mirror, but I’m going to trust Gretchen’s instincts here.” At this point I slit my eyes at Jane. “So, do NOT make her look like a schmuck, Jane Babies. In fact, apologize to her right now.” This I say in my No Nonsense Teacher Voice.

        Almost inaudibly and with no eye contact whatsoever, Jane says, “Sorry.”

        “Ohhhh, no,” I say like the card-carrying Jewish Mommie I am. “You say it as loudly as you’ve voiced all your complaints to us for the past forty-eight hours. AND, you specifically mention your embarrassment about calling Gretchen a low-class Dixie chick.”

        I see Jane’s jaw muscle flex and pulse several times before she finally says, “Gretchen, you are not a low-class Dixie chick. I’m very sorry I called you that. I actually like your accent. It’s quite charming.”

        “Annnnnd?” I coax.

        “And thank you for making it possible for me to continue on this trip.”

        “Good girl,” I say with a condescending little bite to my tone. I activate the glass barrier before Gretchen can say she forgives her. Kiss. Of. Death.

        Gretchen gives me a sheepish look. “Was that really necessary?”

        “Don’t make me remand YOU to the back seat, too, Hargis,” I say and see her trying to measure the seriousness of my dead eyes.

        “Atlantic City, here we come!” she says with a voice so high and frivolous she sounds like Minnie Mouse. It’s coupled with an uncertain, obsequious smile in my direction.

        No one is safe when a redhead has used up all her patience and compassion.

 ****************************************************************************************************

        At last, the Atlantic City skyline comes into view. Towering columns of glass-fronted sky scrapers stand like see-through sentinels and reflect off the sun-drenched ocean waves. Finally,our detours are over. FanStory International Convention, here we come!

.

       


Chapter 36
Powder Keg

By Rachelle Allen

        We no more than pull into the circular drive at the entrance to the monolith that is our hotel, than we are flanked by a smiling bellman at each of our three doors. I hit the automatic unlock, and the men in red-and-gold jackets – a bit like marching band participants, but that’s okay – offer each of us the crook of their sturdy arms.

        I notice that Jane immediately gives her young boy goo-goo eyes and a blatant, greedy squeeze of his bicep, followed by a rub across his unlined cheek. He melts my heart by freezing an indulgent smile at the perverted old bat.

        No tip could possibly be big enough compensation for his having pulled the short straw as Jane’s attendant.

        The bearded, inky-eyed bellman whose arm I’m holding asks, “Are your bags in the trunk?”

        I smile and nod, and he gestures toward my key fob. “May I?” All I’m missing at this perfect moment in time is elbow-length silk gloves and a diamond tiara.

        A fourth bellman is already waiting in front of our trunk, beside a hefty golden baggage trolley. “Um, may we have one more trolley, please?” I ask him with a big, warm smile. Pointing like a prosecutor at Jane, I say, “Because she’s not actually with us.”

        “Certainly!” the trunk monitor says and disappears through the revolving door.

        Gretchen gapes at me. “How will I be able to go back to life on the Outer Banks after THIS kind of pampering?”

        “You two are such PEEEEEEEONNNNNS!” says Jane. “Every day of my LIIIIIIIIIIIIFE is like this!”

        “And doesn’t that just explain SOOO very MUUUUUUCH!” I hear myself retort before I have a chance to put a filter in place.

        Inky Eyes takes Gretchen and me to a special elevator and, as the doors swoosh together, he swipes a fob past a digital reader. Gretchen gives me a quizzical look, and I return a mischievous smile.

        It takes a bit, but finally the doors swoosh open, and we step directly into our penthouse suite. Twenty-two floors up, all we can see through the non-stop windows is blue skies and frothy white clouds. Not even one bird is up this high.

        “Nooooo!” Gretchen gasps. “What?”

        “I saved when I was young so that I could splurge when I was old,” I say. “That’s now.”

        Inky Eyes wheels our bags toward the bedrooms as Gretchen meanders the expansive hallway toward the living room. An enormous white stone fireplace is the focal point, offset by sleek white couches on three sides. A low slate coffee table, topped with champagne glasses, a bucket full of ice and a magnum of Dom Perignon beckon.

        “Shall I?” asks Inky Eyes as he extracts the bottle and wipes it off with a flourish.

        “Please!” I say.

        After an expert popping of the cork, he hands us each a flute and pours. We toast our arrival and savor the bubbles as they tap dance their way down the hatch.

        “Come choose your room,” I say to Gretchen, and she all but skips down an even more expansive hallway that leads to the two ballroom-sized sleeping quarters. She points right. “I call shotgun!” she says, and we both erupt like eighth graders at a slumber party as Inky Eyes gives us an indulgent smile.

        He rolls our suitcases into their respective rooms then gives me a slight nod to indicate his job here is done. “If there is anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Hargis, please do not hesitate to call me.”

        He hands me his card, and I give it a quick glance.

        “Hector, you are superb at this. Thank you,” I say and palm him a twenty as I shake his hand.

        As the elevator doors close with Hector inside, Gretchen says, “Let’s not go to the cocktail party and awards dinner.” She pours herself another glass of champagne. “You know I hate big groups…and strangers…and unfamiliar places. Let’s just stay here and watch movies – just the two of us – and order room service and schmooze and play cards!”

        “No deal,” I say. “You told me you wanted to stretch yourself by going to this convention. Stop being a little low-class Dixie chick!”

        We smirk at each other.

        I pour more champagne for myself and say, “Besides, I thought of a way to start you off with a small group get-together so that the convention won’t seem so full of strangers.”

        “I’m listening,” says Gretchen. She’s now parked herself on a bar stool in front of a platter of crackers-and-brie that’s perched atop the granite island in the kitchen.

        “Let’s invite a bunch of people we like over for a fashion show before we all head downstairs for the festivities.”

        “Oh, yeah!” says Gretchen. “Fashion! That is SO up my alley!”

        “No, but we can do it in a really fun way, and it’ll be like an ice breaker. We’ll call it a red carpet spoof! Writers love nonsense. I guarantee that they will go for this in the biggest way.”

        Gretchen sighs heavily and downs another helping of brie.

        “It’s a way to become acquainted with each other in a more informal setting than a ballroom,” I say, sounding even to my own ears like a used car salesman.

        Now my roommate looks at me over the top of her glasses. “What’re you – Jaaaaaaane?” she says. “The penthouse suite is your idea of an informal setting?”

        “Be quiet, you low-class Dixie chick!” I tell her.

        “That’s never going to get old, is it?” says Gretchen.

        “Nope,” I say, and we both double over.

        At my request, Hector has brought in five more magnums of champagne, a full bar set-up and four more trays of fruit, cheese and crackers. They stand like an army on a roll-out banquet table, accentuated by crystal champagne flutes, shot glasses and a low tower of Wedgewood dessert plates. All my childhood delusions of grandeur are materializing before my eyes.

        I provided a list of guests to Hector so that he could issue them each an elevator fob to our suite. Then, I sent each guest the following text: 

Roses are red

Violets are blue/

Our pre-convention-dinner red carpet spoof

Won’t be as fun without you!

See you at 5:00.

Xoxoxo

Rachelle and Gretchen.

PS – Wear a name tag.

        At 5:00 on the dot, the onslaught begins. Thankfully, the elevator’s size is in proportion to that of the penthouse, so everyone has managed to squeeze comfortably in together.

        Lyenochka exits first in a rich burgundy dress with a beaded purplish scarf that she has draped stylishly at a vertical/diagonal angle. Shyly, she follows Gretchen’s and my Vanna White pointing-pose toward the white couches and munitions.

        The crowd behind her cheers, “Go, Hel-EN! Go, Hel-EN!” and she gives them an embarrassed-but-amused smile over her shoulder.

        LJButterfly is next off the elevator. She announces, “This is a Michael Kors number that I bought in Manhattan.” She then thrusts herself into her assignment, flawlessly rocking the Model Strut, in her royal blue floor-length sheath with a center back slit and short sleeves that flow perfectly with each plucky step.

        The elevator patrons hoot and cheer.

        “YO! This is taking FOREVER!” shouts the vertical stretch-limo of a guy in the back. “I want snacks!” Humpwhistle. He’s as big a rabble-rouser in person as he is in his posts.

        “Do I have to recite the ‘Patience’ poem to you?” I use a playful warning tone.

        “No, Teacher,” he says, and the crowd laughs.

        Wayne Fowler, in a ball cap, a jacket with a turned-up collar, shades and a tv remote that he’s pretending is a ray gun, steps out next, then offers his arm to Dolly.

        Never since Oscar Madison and Felix Unger has there been an odder couple. Dolly is the quintessence of absolute class and breeding in a fitted, full-length gold-sequinned dress, gold stilettos, a cream-colored fur shrug and dangling gold diamonte earrings. Her hair is in an elegant up-do with a matching diamonte hair slide.

        I feel the need to bow.

        The couple extend their free hands to do The Queen’s Wave as they head toward the bar.

        I sneak a look at Gretchen, who is smiling with full dimples now. ‘Withdrawn’ is no longer a word that can be used to describe her. Rather ‘fully engaged’ is all that applies.

        “MAKE WAY!!! MAKE WAY!!” the next couple shouts. Out gallops Jim Wile, sporting his Masters Golf Tournament green jacket and taupe pants, as Lea Tonin, on his back, crooks an arm around his neck while pretending to horse-whip him with the other.

        She is clad in a clingy, ankle-length, shimmering black silk dress that slits to the knee. Her thick and gorgeous mahogany hair hangs loose and alluring.

        The crowd goes wild for this upped-ante presentation. The wild rumpus has definitely begun.

        “Oh, you are NOT stealing OUR thunder!” shouts Wendy G, in full Pull-Out-All-the-Stops mode.

        She has paired a close-fitting, scoop-necked black top with floaty black pants adorned with diagonally cut layers of sequined chiffon on them that are ruffling in the breeze caused by her exit from the elevator. She knocks hips again and again with Gypsy Blue Rose, as they bend and straighten their knees rhythmically toward the awaiting crowd.

        Gypsy has a Stevie Nicks kind of vibe going with her fingerless gloves, long-sleeved open-front tunic that’s layered over a cobalt blue midi dress and knee-high brown leather boots. She shimmies her cascading ripples of lovely blue-streaked locks, making me anticipate her belting out “Landslide” any moment now.

        Like a 5-7-5 contest with the topic “Puppies,” the competitive juices in our Red Carpet Spoof have now reached a fever pitch.

        Bill Schott, in a tangerine blazer over a pea green shirt, forest green trousers and brown loafers, shoots out of the now-depleted elevator doing The Hustle with Saturday Night Fever-style moves that would challenge even John Travolta. As he dips down – his hands doing a Wheels on the Bus motion – his cider-colored tie peeks out from beneath his flowing gray beard.

        The crowd shouts things like, “Groovy, Man!” and “Right on, Brutha!”

        Judiverse and Barbara Wilkey join forces. Barbara quickly covers her head, hijab-style, with her lacy navy blue shawl, then holds the full skirt of her matching V-necked lacy blue dress out to one side.

Judi, in a knee-length pale blue two-tiered pullover dress with long sleeves and a matching jacket, hunkers down, balls her hands into fists at her temples, then extends her index fingers and charges toward Barbara-as-matador.

        Barbara twirls out of her way, her dress flaring out like a golf umbrella. She takes a victory bow to us, her cheering, adoring fans, and Judi promptly gores her in the ass.

        We all roar, Barbara loudest of all, and I see Gretchen wiping away tears of unbridled hilarity.

        Writers make the BEST party guests!!!

        Pam Lonsdale quickly settles the crowd back down. With a look of mock disdain, she exits the elevator in a zebra striped beach dress, oversized black floppy hat and sandals. She puts a hand on her hip and declares, “You people have ISSUES!’

        Laugher fills the room once again, this time at a decibel that, in smaller quarters, would require ear plugs.

        “Hey!” Humpwhistle shouts from inside the cab. “Pay attention out there! It’s time for The Grand Finale’!”

        The ever-burgeoning audience regains its composure and affixes its collective gaze upon the five remaining models.

        In black tuxedos – Roy Owen’s accessorized with a broad-brimmed hat and flip-flops, Robert Zimmerman’s with a gold sequined cummerbund and mahogany walking stick – the two silver-haired FanStorians exit the elevator and promptly kneel down on all fours.

        “You know we’ll never be able to get vertical again without everyone’s help,” says Robert.

        “And the grace of G-d.” adds Roy.

        “Shut up, you two!” shouts Humpwhistle. “We’re making ART here. There is no sacrifice too great!”

        Out come the three remaining guests. NeoNewman and Humpwhistle are both in black dress shirts. Neo’s is worn with black dress pants and skid-safe SAS shoes, while Humpwhistle – and his waist-length gray ponytail – pairs his with Wrangler boot-cut low-rise jeans, medium brown pointed-toe, stacked-heel cowboy boots and a tweed vest, replete with lapels.

        Between them, arms raised high as she holds the hands of her men-in-black, is the radiant Mrs. KT with her beautiful, deep-dimple smile on display.

        Her gauzy black dress with the full skirt and filmy black overlay fluffs out, parachute-style, as she is lifted up by Neo and Hump onto the backs of the moaning Robert and Roy. “Strike a pose!” she calls out and lifts one leg at a coquette angle while placing both hands flat beneath her chin.

        “UNNNNNCLLLLLLE!!!” shouts Robert, and the tableau dissembles as the crowd – yet again – erupts with uncontrollable laughter and applause.

        After many minutes – including a group effort to hoist Roy and Robert back onto their feet – Jim Wile says, “Hey! Wait a minute! Our hostesses have not done their red carpet appearance yet!”

        Without a moment’s hesitation, my once-reserved, solitary-loving Southern belle, decked out in a perfect-yet-understated black jersey dress, gold hoop earrings and black sandals, her hair up in a clip, enthusiastically links arms with me, her favorite New York redhead, despite my flashy ways and short, sequined emerald green dress with matching stiletto heels. We truly have become quite the dynamic duo!

        Just then, a tiny elevator that I’d never even noticed by the kitchen, whooshes open, and out steps Jane Babies.

        She is wearing my identical dress and shouts, “I can’t believe you left me OUUUUUUUUT of thiiiiiiiiis! I had to take the stupid SERVANT’S elevatorrrrrrrr!!! Me! Jane Babies! In the SERVICE ELEVATORRRRRRRR?”

Author Notes Two items!
First, this was THE most enjoyable piece I have ever written in my entire life. And, for the record, I took not one liberty with any of the outfits described herein. Every single one was described to me by the people in the story. (Some of the men had to be coaxed and guided a little. A couple felt that "Oh, I don't know - just something casual" was a sufficient description of their outfit. The women, by contrast were SOO fabulously descriptive that several even included what fragrance they'd be sporting. One went even further and explained that her scent was 'a roll-on, NOT perfume." So, for anyone who thinks there is no difference between men and women, please PM me for a copy of the conversations I had with this contributing members!! Too hilarious!

SECOND!!!!! PLEASE CHECK THE MAIN FS PAGE FOR THE POST ENTITLED "YOU'RE INVITED." It will advise how YOU - YES, EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!!! - can now contribute a chapter about what you encountered at the FS International Convention!! ANNNNND!!! Gretchen and I will be reading them all and awarding $50 in FS dollars to our favorite three!!! So, please go to the main page, read "You're Invited" and make FS history with us by contributing a chapter to our novel!! We're very excited to read your creations!!

xoxoxo


Chapter 37
Powder Keg

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are headed to the FanStory convention in Atlantic City when the car they are traveling in breaks down in the heart of Amish country. When they finally get back on the road, they experience another detour when saddled with an abrasive guest, Jane Babies.

************************************************************************************************

The fun of the fashion show is abruptly halted upon the opening of the small elevator doors. How that buffoon of pornographic poetry found out we were having our little get together is a mystery. I glance at Rachelle, then my eyes dart back to Jane. Somewhere from the room I hear a voice whisper, "She's wearing the same dress." Instinctively, I grab onto Rachelle's arm. Every muscle is taut. It's like holding onto an animal ready to lunge.

"She's not worth it. Don't let her get to you," I whisper to my angry friend. Then I turn to Jane and smile. "I'm sorry Jane, but we could only accommodate a few people up here." I try not to glance at the spacious room that could easily house fifty people.

Rachelle's face is as close to the color of her hair as humanly possible. "My dress," she says, looking down at her own beautiful outfit.

What can I say? I want to march over to Jane and rip the dress off of her, but she might enjoy that. "Too bad they didn't have that dress in your size, Jane."

She waltzes in and rushes towards the men first. Big surprise there.

I glance at my watch. "Time to go." I announce, grab the closest glass of champagne and pound it down. This is going to be a long night. I can feel it in my bones.

***********************************************************************************************

Rachelle says little, but then she doesn't have to. It is written all over her face. I nudge her when Roy Owen addresses the gathering with an opening prayer.

"Thank you dear Lord, that we are able to meet in a country that is free to do so, and I pray that you will pour out your blessings on the folks here that have journeyed far and wide to be here, and not forgetting those that have traveled not so far. I pray that new friendships will develop, and old ones renewed and expanded. Please bless the speakers, the food and this wonderful convention. Amen." He puts his hat back on and nods at the man next to him.

"Welcome," the man says. "Everyone feel free to get up and grab a plate and then after dinner we will start the award ceremony. And, thank you all for coming."

I turn to Rachelle. "Who is that?"

She shrugs. I can tell she's still down in the dumps.

"Okay, she wore the same dress. But she wore it badly. You look fabulous and she looks like an idiot. She did it to get your goat."

"She's a bout to get the horns of the goat," Rachelle mutters. She lifts a plate and starts taking small portions of items from the buffet. "I'm not even hungry."

"I'm starving. I'm a stress eater." I glance at the offerings and realize I don't even know what half of it is. But, in times of stress, I'm a risk taker. As I'm reaching for the, what looks like banana pudding, I hear the voice that sets the rest of the evening into action.

In the Civil War of the Untied States, they say the first shot fired at Fort Sumter was the shot heard round the world. This one statement was the equivalent of that shot.

"Twinsies!!" Jane exclaims, wrapping her arm around Rachelle's shoulder at the buffet.

Shots fired.

Rachelle wrenches away, eyes blazing. I swear I see steam coming from just above her diamond earrings. I start piling food hastily on to the plate. You wouldn't know it to look at her, but Rachelle can move very quickly. Within seconds of Jane opening her mouth, she is face down in the potato salad.

I scurry to the other side of the table and watch as Jane grabs a handful of red sauced pasta and hurls it at Rachelle. Next, I see a handful of baby carrots go flying through the air. Dolly grins and next to her, Gypsy is reaching for the grated cheese. They both aim at Jane.

Chaos ensues. I'm hungry and this isn't my dress so while all attention is on the food fighters, I duck down and crawl under the table. The din is growing. There are screams and hollers. I can hear the clinks and the sound of dishes breaking.

I call my husband. "Chuck, hey, you aren't going to believe this."

"What's going on? Aren't you supposed to be at the convention?" he asks.

"That wackjob, Jane, bought the same dress as Rachelle,"

"Okay," he says. "What does that mean?"

Knowing my husband will only understand if I explain it in BMX terms, I start. "Suppose a guy steals the trick you've been working on and does it in a contest right before you get to ride. He knew you were working on this trick. He did it to piss you off. Understand?"

"What did Rachelle do?"

"She shoved Jane's face into the potato salad."

"Good for her."

"Good for her!?! There is a freaking food fight in full swing right now."

"Where are you?"

"Under the buffet table. I'm getting dinner whether they like it or not. Besides, I borrowed the dress from Nikki and I don't want to have to dry clean it."

The white table cloth lifts and someone ducks under. Its the man who followed Roy's prayer.

"Chuck, I gotta go." I disconnect and look at the surprised man. "Welcome."

"You're missing the show."

"Apparently."

"I'm Tom." He extends his hand.

"Do you want me to kiss your ring or something?" I say testily. I'm hungry and anxious right now, and this guy has found my hiding spot.

"No, just introducing myself."

"See if you can reach up there and grab that bottle of wine."

Tom reaches up and after a few failed attempts finally retrieves the bottle. Luckily, it was open. He hands it to me. I take a swig and offer it to him.

"Have you called the police," he asks, motioning to my phone. Tom jumps as a plate crashes to the floor beside us.

"No. Let them get it out."

"I'm ruined," he says pitifully. "There is no coming back from this."

"Here, have a dumpling, you'll feel better."

He sighs and exhales deeply. "I can't believe this is happening. I thought writers were supposed to be classy. This was supposed to be a nice thing."

"We're just people, Tom. Wait, are you The Tom?"

He nods.

"Oh my gosh, I have a huge favor to ask."

He levels me with a gaze. "What?"

"Can we get more than six six stars per week. Its only fair."

Tom grimaces and starts to crawl out from under the table. "Lady, there may not even be a FanStory on Monday," he grumbles.

As the table cloth flutters back down on his exit, I hear the bull horn. "Everyone stop where you are and drop whatever is in your hands."

I didn't call the cops but someone did. Now it's time to pay the piper.

Author Notes I hope you all understand how much fun this chapter was to write. I also hope each and everyone of you will add your own version of the convention to this story. Rachelle has offered up a very generous gift to three of you who we choose as our winners. Please read both of our chapters entitled "Powder Keg". Then go to the announcement on the welcome page and enter. Thank you for going along with the crazy detour of ours.


Chapter 38
Barbara Wilkey's version.

By Rachelle Allen

I stood in the elevator praying the doors wouldn't open when I arrived at the correct floor. Why am I here? I don't like these kind of functions. I'm not comfortable with them. I'm shy. I'll literally sit in the corner, and nobody will even know I'm here. It's the way it always happens. I could be home writing. That's where I'm most comfortable. My dog, Harley, always knows I'm around. I won't know anybody. I released a deep breath. That's sort of a lie. I've communicated almost daily with most of them through FanStory. But is that really knowing somebody? Maybe Wendy G will bring Sunny. I'd be comfortable with him.

The elevator door opened. I stood there refusing to budge. The elevator door closed, and I rode up and down three more times, before I finally convinced myself to step out. Finally, at Rachelle and Gretchen's hotel door, I stood poised to knock with invitation in hand when the door magically opened. "This can't be good." I took a few steps inside and noticed total chaos. A food fight. I knew this wasn't' for me. I'd better get out of here before I see anybody I might know.

I turned to leave but was gorged in the rearend. "What?"

Judiverse smiled. "Hi, Barbara. I thought your longhorn steer needed to make an appearance."

I hugged her. "Hello. I don't normally travel with him, but it seems he snuck in." I scanned the room. "What's going on?"

"It seems an uncouth female, named Jane something, wore the same dress as Rachelle."

"There's got to be more to it than that. We're adults."

"I'm sure there is, but that's all I know." Judiverse waved at somebody from across the room. "Sorry, I need to visit with Lyenochka. I promised to compare poetry notes. I'll catch up with you later."

I slowly walked around the room until I found an appropriate corner to sit in. Watching the shenanigans continue, even after the stripper police left, I laughed. I feel like Miss Nancy from Romper Room. Man, that's a random thought that takes me back a few years. Maybe I need to discuss that with BethShelby and her memoirs. I see her next to the window.

"Romper, bomper, stomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me, do. Magic Mirror, tell me today, did all my friends have fun at play?" I said as I looked around. "I wonder how many of my friends I can see? Oh look, there's Lyenochka, LJButterfly, Humpwhistle, exactly as I imagined. I do wish he's come back and write some more. Wayne Fowler. Dolly. I hope she had a good flight. Jim Wile, Paul McFarland, he's off in a corner like me, and Wendy G. I guess Sunny didn't make the trip, but it seems my longhorn did. Go figure."

Scanning the room a little more, I continued with my pretend mirror. "There's Gypsy Blue Rose. I wish she'd share her secrets of writing Haiku. Bill Schott and Judiverse. I never should have posted anything about a longhorn. I wonder if Judiverse is planning and crime for my Bertha and Millie to solve. Pam Lonsdale and Roy Owen. I'd love to sit down and talk with him. Robert Zimmerman and NeoNewman. There's two men I'd love to discuss their novels with. I have an idea on how to solve the situations their main characters are in. I see Mrs. KT, RickMyWorld and Jim Vecchio. Three of my favorite authors."

I took a break from my magic mirror and sipped my iced tea. "There's Sandra Stoner-Mitchell. I'd love to discuss her new story with her. I can't wait to see what those twins are going to get into. There's Pam (respa) and Cindy Decker 3. I always enjoy reading their post. Oh my, there's Lancelot. I wonder how many women he'll bed tonight. Begin Again, will I get to read about Garth in her next novel. Hmm, great question. I hope so. There's Jacob 1395. He's got a great story going. I hope Danielle and Callum get away from that house safely. I know it's a cult."

Maybe I should move. My rearends getting tired or maybe from the longhorn gouge. I stand and take a few steps. "Nope, I'll stay here. It's safe. On there's Nomi338. I'm sure he's one of the sweetest men, I know. I've got to be sure to meet Debi Pick Marquette, I could learn a lot about being a special angel from her. Holy Cow, there's Debbie D'Arcy. I always learn something new from her posts. I see Sally Law, Teri 7, and Patcelaw are deep in conversation. Those ladies always remind me of what a true Christianity looks like. Shelly Kaye, I need to get out of my comfort zone and talk with her. The same with Jessizero, Dawn Munro, and Lea Tonin 1. Those ladies are amazing. I can't believe I recognize so many people."

I watched the door. "Ulla and Iza Deleanu just walked in. I wonder if their flights just arrive. Their posts always keep my interest. Wait! There's Karen Cherry Threadgill. I'd love to see how her creative side works." I glance around the room. "There's three of my favorite authors talking together. Tfawcus, Brett Matthew West, and Douglas Goff. They each have me totally involved with their novel. I hope tfawcus starts another one soon. Brett Matthew West has a perfect character in Cody. Douglas Goff, well, I have a crush on Greg. Who wouldn't?" I glance around the room one more time. "I see Rachelle, but where's Gretchen?" Laughing, I watched her come from under a table. "I agree that would have been the perfect place to wait this out."

I stood. "Okay self. It's time to be brave and meet these authors you've admired from afar. You got this."

Author Notes I struggled to come up with anything to write. It seems my muse went AWOL. Maybe it's at the party. Thank you for taking time to read this. If I forgot anything my deepest apologies.


Chapter 38
Jacob1395 version

By Rachelle Allen

I yank my suitcase, stroll into the hotel foyer, and stop in my tracks, surveying the scene in front of me, nerves clutching my chest. Everyone’s here. Absolutely everyone; I didn’t think there would be this many. People are running to each other and hugging, like they’ve known each other all their lives. I’ve only been a member of Fanstory for just over a year, what if no one recognises me? I frown. Is that . . . yes I think that’s Barbara Wilkey being crowded by her fans, all wanting selfies, I’ll have to try and speak to her later. Keeping my head down I edge to a smaller queue for the front desk, heart ramming hard against my chest. I’ve come all this way, I can’t bottle this now, but part of me just wants to go straight to my room and flop on my bed. The dark haired receptionist becomes available and I stride to the front desk, putting on the biggest smile I can.

In my room I pull out the invitation and schedule, pacing as I try to calm my nerves. Right, ten a.m. everyone’s invited to do a reading of whatever they want poetry or prose in the main dining room. It’s in half an hour’s time. I suppose I could go along. This Fanstory convention must’ve taken over the whole hotel, the staff aren’t going to know what’s hit them.

Stuffing the schedule into my pocket I head for my door and pull it open, making sure my name tags on my shirt, and without even looking, I collide straight into a woman passing.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say, hands trembling.

The woman rights herself, smooths down her purple dress and smiles. ‘No, worries at all,’ she says. ‘Oh I know who you are; it’s Jacob, isn’t it? I’m Carol, you know me as Begin Again.’

‘Oh wow.’ At last, someone who knows me. I’m going to be like one of those people who clings onto to the one person they know for the whole weekend. ‘I didn’t think I’d see you until later. Again, so sorry, let me get you a coffee, are you going to the reading? I was a big fan of Spirited Justice.’

‘Don’t worry about getting me a coffee,’ she says, brushing her hair back and flapping her hand. ‘Although, I could do with a gin, I know it’s not midday yet, but when you’re on holiday, and its five o’clock somewhere in the world and all that. Yes I’m going, and thank you, I had such fun writing it.’

We head over to the lift, just as another woman wearing a dress with gold sequins that sparkle underneath the light, with blonde spiky hair joins us.

‘Carol, Jacob, hi, it’s Debbie, or Debbie, D’Arcy,’ the woman says, stretching out her hand. She frowns at me. ‘I think I spotted you at JFK international, Jacob.’

‘Really?’ I reply, shaking her hand. ‘Sorry, I was so focused on getting through security. Of course, you come from the UK as well, don’t you?'

‘Oh, JFK can be a nightmare for security,’ Carol says, rolling her eyes.

The lift whisks us back to reception and we find a throng of people waiting to pile in at the bottom. I spot Dolly arriving into the hotel foyer, smiling at everyone. This thing might not be so nerve wracking after all.

‘So, where are Gretchen and Rachelle?’ I ask, flicking my eyes around the room. ‘Has anyone seen our hosts yet?’

‘Oh, I suppose they’ve got something up their sleeves they’re planning for us,’ Debbie says with a mischievous grin. ‘I overheard a couple of people mention something earlier.’

‘Oh, tell, tell,’ Carol says, with a grin.

Debbie smiles. ‘I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise now, would I? In any case, it’s only rumour I’ve heard, there might not be anything in it.’

We stride into the dining area, a wide room with gold lights hanging from the walls and cream coloured wallpaper. Debbie hurries off to the front where a woman wearing a lanyard around her neck is standing. There are tables dotted around with white table cloths and jugs of water. People are already sitting down, clutching pieces of paper in their hands. I spy a few familiar faces, there’s Roy Owen towards the front sitting beside Barbara.

I sit at the back beside Carol.

‘So, are you going to read, Jacob?’ she asks.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say, running my tongue around my dry mouth. I used to love reading my work out loud to my class at school, but I’ve never done a public reading like this.

‘Have you brought anything?’ she says.

I rub the back of my neck. ‘Oh, just a short chapter, but depends how I feel.'

‘Well, just think of it this way, you publish your posts online for hundreds of people, perhaps even thousands around the world to read, reading to a group this size should be easy,’ Carol says.

‘Right, I’ve put both of your names down,’ Debbie says with a massive smile as she re-joins us.

‘Debbie,’ I say, my mouth dropping open.

‘Well, you need to push yourself,’ Debbie says, sitting beside me and crossing her knees. ‘Otherwise you’ll never do it; you’re up after Rachelle and Gretchen.’

‘Now that’ll be a hard act to follow,’ I say, smacking my face in my hands. ‘I’m going to be a nervous wreck standing up there.’

‘You’ll be brilliant,’ Carol says, giving me a nudge. ‘Once you’ve done it once you’ll want to do it again.’

‘More likely I’ll want to book myself on the next flight home,’ I reply, nausea swirling through me. I can’t do this, I need to go to the front and somehow remove my name.

A few more people trickle into the room, all with excited smiles on their faces. I focus my attention on the stage. There’s a door off to the right of the stage. Gretchen and Rachelle are going to come through that door any minute, and then after they’ve read their pieces I’m going to be expected to stand up and speak. I’ve just been flying for eight hours, there’s no way I’m going to be able to string a sentence together. I haven’t even had time to mentally prepare. I need to get up now and remove my name.

‘Ooh I wonder what Gretchen and Rachelle are going to read,’ Debbie says excitement in her voice.

A hush descends on the room and the lights dim. There’s a round of applause as Gretchen and Rachelle stride onto the stage, big beaming smiles on their faces. They’re both wearing stylish dark jackets. Rachelle holds up her microphone.

‘Wow, I can’t believe this moment is finally here,’ Rachelle says. ‘Let me tell you, Gretchen and I have both had a whirlwind of a ride getting this thing organised and we both had such fun getting here, Gretchen hasn’t stopped going on about this for days.’ There’s a few murmurs of laughter around the room. ‘It’s amazing how many of you have turned up and just look at you all, here in person, this is actually bringing tears to my eyes. But, I must confess, we have told a cheeky white lie on the schedule that you were all handed as part of your invitation, so, I’ll leave this to Gretchen to explain.’

I raise an eyebrow at Debbie, remembering what she said earlier about Gretchen and Rachelle having got something up their sleeve. What on earth are they about to say?

‘Well, thank you all for coming, like Rachelle says, it’s such a thrill to see you all here, in person. We thought about doing a zoom call, but you know there’s no way that would be nearly as fun! So, some of you, I see have already signed up to read this morning, but I’m afraid you’re all in for a bit of a nasty shock.’ Nerves flitter through my belly. A nasty shock. There’s a mischievous grin on Gretchen’s face. Oh, no, what is she going to say? Did Debbie know about this? ‘Now you can entirely blame me for this, Rachelle wanted everyone to do a reading, but I insisted and in the end she ended up backing down. So, I thought what better way to help break the ice, than to launch straight in with karaokeeeee.’

The lights flicker off and a disco ball illuminates the room. My jaw drops as the ABBA song, Dancing Queen booms from the speakers and both Rachelle and Gretchen whip off their jackets to reveal ABBA themed clothing underneath. They both lean their backs against each other and belt out the song, which draws even more people into the room clapping and cheering. Damn, I’m up next. They’re not expecting me to sing are they? Carol and Debbie both leap to their feet both whopping and cheering. I’m up next. No, I’m up next.

‘Thank youuuuuu,’ Gretchen says as the song reaches the end. ‘You have no idea what I had to promise to convince Rachelle to sing with me. Now, I believe next up on the list to sing we have, Jacob.’

Everyone spins around and looks at me with big beaming smiles. Carol nudges me.

‘Go on,’ she says.

I tentatively walk towards the stage. If I’d known I’d be doing karaoke, I would’ve mentally prepared myself. Mentally prepared myself to not get up on stage whatsoever. I swallow as I edge closer. The stage is there, right there in front of me. I can't turn back now. 

‘Choose your song on machine over there, Jacob,’ Rachelle says, pointing to the karaoke machine.

I edge over to it. Well, I wanted people to know who I was, didn’t I? Swallowing hard, I select the one song I know how to do well and, with shaky legs, climb the stairs to the stage. Carol and Debbie both give me a thumbs up from the back of the room. The song begins to play and, taking Rachelle's microphone, I launch straight into Mr Brightside allowing all the nerves that preceded to this moment to float away. Well, people will know who I am now.


Chapter 38
Pam's Version

By Rachelle Allen

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Sandra, Pam, and other Fanstorians are excited about being able to meet each other at the first ever FanStory convention in Atlantic City. Emotions run high since they don't know what to expect.

 
 
Finally the day has arrived when they are going to meet. Since Pam lives in NJ, she doesn't have too far to go. Her plan is to register at the convention site and see if she can recognize people she only knows from pictures and what they write.

Of course, being Atlantic City, it is a mob scene. The day is gorgeous and people are everywhere...on the beach, the boardwalk, and even in the ocean.

"This is incredible. I have never seen so many people. I have no idea how I am going to recognize anyone, but there is only one thing to do, jump right in, but not the ocean, "she said to no one in particular.

Pam walks in the convention center and sees even more people. While she is trying to take it all in, she hears a British accent. OMG, that can only be, or is it?

She has no sooner thought that when she hears a female voice, "Excuse me, I'm looking for..."

"Sandra, is that really you? I cannot believe it."

"Well, Pam, I can't really believe it, either. What a great idea this convention is. And look at all of the people here. "

"I know, isn't it exciting? But how are we going to know everyone?"

At that point someone is at the microphone.

"Hello, fellow writers," a smooth voice quiets the crowd with the exception of a few whispers here and there.

"Good evening, I'm Tom, and I think we are in for a great time. I am so glad to be here and see the turn out for our convention." People proceed to clap, cheer, and whisper... "So that's really Tom. Wow, after all these years."

"I don't want to take up too much of your time, so without further ado, here is your host for the evening. The band plays and the curtain slowly opens to reveal...

Hugh Jackman, "G'day. How is everyone?" Cheers erupt from the crowd. "I guess that answers my question! Now I don't have to work so hard. And speaking of that, I hear you all are writers. Now there's some people I could use. Enjoy the convention, mates!"

More cheers erupt from the crowd, followed by....

"Wow, this is amazing. Who knew Tom would do this."

"Who knew Tom could do this?!"

****

After a while, the attention turns to sounds like cackling behind the curtain... "Fair is foul, and foul is fair. When shall we three meet again?"

The witches appear, "Hello, Dearies. You know Halloween is near, and in costume you must appear." HA HA HA HA.

"What the heck is that all about?" Sandra asks Pam, "Have you brought another costume with you? Did you even know about this? It wasn't on my invite, and look at everyone in the room! They're all dressed up to the nines."

Pam and Sandra turned their attention to the Fanstorians standing around. They all look confused. Then, suddenly, everyone's clothes disappear, to be replaced with large towels to keep their modesty intact. The murmuring and, in some cases, the screams filled the room.

"Now don't you start your worryin,' ladies and gents," the ugliest witch cackled loudly. "Look to your right and to your left, and soon you won't feel so bereft. There's a crate beside you all, with clothes to fit the short and tall; if you are large, or maybe thin, there's clothes to fit, so dive on in!"

Everyone suspiciously checked inside the crates; the selection of Halloween clothes was incredible. And that's when the fighting began!

The men fought over the wizards' outfits, all the same but of various colours. "I'm not wearing PINK!" Lee (Humpwhistle) shouted. "It doesn't go with my caveman physique!" he said doing a Hercules pose. "And it would ruin the look of my long, wavy hair! What sort of vampire wears PINK?" He carried on mumbling, then made a grab for the only black outfit in the crate. And to complete the look, a nice shiny pair of black patent, buckled, heeled shoes. Then wandered away to get changed.

"Well, I'm not wearing it," Ric Mywold muttered. "What would my army of female fans think?" He dove in and pulled out another set of clothes in yellow ... Fluorescent Yellow!" Everyone stared. "What's up? It's my favourite colour!" He also wandered off. Gradually, all the men's costumes were taken except for the pink set!

The women were pleased with all their costumes; Pam chose an outfit with a cinch-waisted corset, a low, off-the-shoulder bodice, and a long black flared skirt; she completed the look with a high pointed black hat.

Sandra chose something similar. "I haven't had a nice small waist for years!" she told Pam as she pulled her corset cincher tight. "I might have to buy one of these!"

Ulla chose a vintage black silk lame evening gown with short, puffy sleeves, and an embroidered belt with a floral, scroll work design. Her black louboutin shoes completed the look, and she looked stunning.

All the women went off to change. Once they came back, it was a delightful spectacle. Pam decided they weren't exactly scary looking.

Rachelle was dressed in a mini-black 50s style dress with her long, slim legs, six-inch stilettos, her natural tiny waist and long, wavy red hair. She was hard to miss! There were gasps from envious women standing nearby.

Then Gretchen sidled up beside her. Another stunner! Never having seen her before, and she didn't put her photo on her profile page, she was a sight to behold! Black was perfect for her with her long black hair and black eyes. A witch in the making, but like Flossie Flitch, Gretchen is the witch of lovely.

Dolly, with her natural blond hair and slim figure, came waltzing into the room with enviable confidence.

Carol (Begin Again) chose to look like a ghost, picking out the only filmy white outfit. I wonder if she resembles Eleanor in her ghost story. With her white hair and long white dress that fell straight from her shoulders, she definitely looked like one!

Sound of rustling is heard. "What is that?" The women said in unison.

Just then, right out of the box, something was beginning to peek through the top of it. They were transfixed. Finally, they could see what it was.

"Oh my gosh, it's an outfit from the sixties," Gretchen said. Of course everyone was wondering who it was for. The costume was actually making its way to the stairs.

Then they saw who it was... "Debbie D'Arcy," they all shouted. The consensus was she looked fabulous in vintage 60s flowered bell bottom pants with a white blouse and puffy sleeves, a fringed brown vest completed the look.
 

Apparently, the box had one more surprise for the woman following Debbie. The room grew quiet when something started coming from the box. All they could see was white silk. That is until davisr (Rhonda) reached the bottom of the stairs.

At that moment, Rhonda was stunning in a full length, white silk gown with pleated layers. Rhonda’s lovely silver hair flowing down her back completed her look, along with a low heeled, dressy black sandal with jeweled ankle and toe straps. Like the magic in her stories, she became Diantha.

 
It was hard to describe everyone, but scary could never be the adjective used here. The party soon got into full swing; it was such a fun evening, getting to know everyone as they let their hair down, thanks to the many glasses of wine they were all drinking.

The food and drinks kept coming. The table never appeared to empty, as one platter emptied, it was immediately filled again. As for the bottles of wine, there had to be a constant supply because no one was left with an empty glass all night! There will be some nasty headaches in the morning.

It would be good if this could happen more often.


 

Author Notes -The image is from the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City, New Jersey courtesy of Google.

-The description of the black lame gown came from 1860-1960.com

-Thanks to Rachelle Allen and GW Hargis (Gretchen) for sharing their versions of the party and for posting the invitation to write our version. I enjoyed the challenge.

-Thanks to Sandra Mitchell for her help with some fanstorians whose work and characters I wasn't as familiar with.


Chapter 38
Pome Lover's Version

By Rachelle Allen

As two policemen barge into Rachelle and Gretchen's party, Jane's next missile of artichoke dip hits Tom Ens. He is a guest, and also the host of the Fan Story Convention. Furious, he walks over, ready to grab her and ask what in the devil is her problem. However, the policemen get to her first, and take her out into the hall and explain that they have been hired by her father and will arrest Rachelle for assault if she attacks Jane.

Rachelle, also furious at sauce all over her gorgeous green dress, is delighted to see the police take Jane away. But then, they come back in and have the gall to arrest her! The guests are appalled and rally around her, all protesting at once.

"WHO'S SO HOITY TOITY NOW, HUH?" Jane yells, laughing hysterically.

There is knocking at the door. The police stop, waiting to see who it is. Gretchen has extracted herself from under the food table and goes to answer it.

An attractive, important looking man in a green Masters Golf Tournament jacket, introduces himself as Fred Ridley, chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club and states that he understands there is a guest who is impersonating an Augusta Master's Tournament winner, wearing a green Master's jacket which is not permitted.

Jim Wile pales and sneaks under the food table where he finds Judiverse, writing furiously, taking down everything that's being said. He sheds his jacket and asks her what she's doing.

"Writing a play," she says, shushing him so she can hear. "This will be so great."

Jim sneaks out the other side of the table, not knowing that Mr. Ridley is standing there looking around. Judy sees his jacket and pokes her head out and says, "Jim, your jacket will get dirty down here on the floor," and holds it up to him.

Mr. Ridley says, "Sir, have you been wearing that jacket?"

"Well, uh..."

"Are you aware that it is against the rules unless you are a winner of the Masters' Golf Tournament to wear that jacket?"

"Mr. Ridley," Jim says, "we're just having a bit of fun. I meant no harm."

Meanwhile, Rachelle, is spittin' mad and is on the phone with her husband who is on his way up. She is relaying to the police what her husband is saying as he says it. Jane is still smirking.

There's a quick bang on the door and Rachelle's husband storms in. He glares at the police who want to handcuff his wife, and demands to know what's going on.

Humpwhistle speaks up and says, "Officers, we'd like to see your badges if you don't mind."

Jane turns white. She knows her father. These guys are probably hired actors.

They flash their badges. Rachelle and her husband look at each other and burst out laughing. Rachelle says, "Those are fake! We've used them before at parties."

Jane furiously takes the fake police with their fake badges back out in the hall a lays into them.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ridley is fascinated with all the hullabaloo going on around him. Everybody is talking at the same time. He sees lovely Gretchen silently watching it all and asks if she would mind if he helped himself to some food and drink.

"By all means," she says in her soothing Southern drawl. "Help yoahself." She walks around the table with him, apologizing for the mess, and adding that Jim is such a nice fella and she hopes Mr. Ridley won't find it necessary to "do him hahm."

Ridley said he would speak with him and see under what circumstances Jim was in possession of the jacket.

The fake police, caught out, never-the-less stop Jane's harangue, and tell her that her father ordered them to bring her home, after she apologized to the hostesses. As they walk back inside, she starts to protest, and one "policeman" adds, "Your father also said if you come nicely, he has a new Jaguar for you."

Rachelle rolled her eyes in disgust. Jane looks at her and Gretchen and condescendingly says, "I apologize for crashing your stupid old party, but who needs it. I'm off to try out my new Jaguar," and saunters off with the two fake policemen.

Rachelle swallows, composes her face into a radiant smile, and says to everyone, "I had a truly powerful zinger all ready to let fly, but ... I held my tongue. Are you proud of me?"

"You bet!" says Gretchen, as the guests lift their drinks and chorus, "YES!"

"Well, let the party begin again!" Rachelle says, then mumbles under her breath to Gretchen,"I hope her father was lying!"

Suddenly, from under the table, comes a happy shout, "Ta dah!" as Judy finishes the first draft of her play.
~ ~ ~
Epilogue -

Rachelle, who had forgotten, in all the excitement, about the photographer she'd hired for the party, received pictures of the food-spattered and astonished guests. Why not? she thought, and gleefully sent each guest copies as a remembrance.


Author Notes My apologies to Gretchen for assuming she has a southern drawl. :)


Chapter 38
Lea Tonin Version

By Rachelle Allen

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

I ripped open the envelope, impatient to see what it was. 

I read to myself, "Fanstory is having a convention...ok cool," I thought, "We won't interrupt the big wig show."  

Then I saw my name and a caption underneath that said,
"We are for the writers of all genres, as the writers are here for us."
Following that was an address, date and time.
A bit of a drive for me, I noticed. Not likely to stop me from going though.
 
The surprise still grips me when these kind of things happen. Like book signing, traveling, or people asking me about the book or want to know about my life.
My first thought is, 
"This is not my life...this not me. This is not how I've lived."
Then I realize. "Yes, yes it is."
A little slice of happiness starts to unroll inside me. It still strikes me with the foreignness of the feeling, as it sits awkwardly in my heart.
Two weeks later, there, I was standing in front of the mirror. I could see a glimpse of the girl I used to be.
"I wonder what my Jewish  Mommy would think about this. I wonder if she'd like this outfit. I wonder if anybody would?" But, if I know Rachelle at all, she is a bulldog in such a beautiful and productive way.
I stared at myself in the mirror.  Black dress, thin shawl, pumps, small clutch, diamond stud earings and a thin silver chain. All of it in the mirror stared back at me.  
"Well, time to go for the hour drive to the convention."
Even though at times I felt unworthy,
I would still shy away from such things. But, that feeling has been dimishing over time. So much so, I actually looked forward to this night.
Driving up the freeway in my little Mazda Miata, I pulled off the freeway onto a country road, I went just as fast but with almost no traffic.
Very soon though I was proven wrong, I looked my review and saw four red cars. Same color. Same model. Same year. One person behind the wheel of each car. I knew exactly who they were.
Anger rose far ahead of any fear that I could feel. "They weren't getting me this night or any other." I thought.
 
I was very lucky once. I was able to attend Skagit Speedway sprint car races.
I was scraping mud off cars at first, but then the mechanics race would come up and I'd be allowed to drive. I learned very well and quickly. Plus, I was not in the mood for these men either.
 
A few neat maneuvers later saw these men in their cars, all lined up like an accordion as they skitter, side smashed into one another like a beautiful ice dance. Done with just a slight turn of my wheel. 
I couldn't help but laugh at the scene in my rear view.  
Fifteen minutes later, at the end of this beautiful country road, the convention hall loomed ahead. A big Tudor style building.  In the parking lot, I could finally see my friends. there they all were gathered together, ready to walk in. I waved happily and excitedly as they looked over in my direction. I parked and walked toward the group.
 
Like an impossible dream there they were. Debbie, Barbara, Jim, Dolly, Roy, Beth, Gypsy Rose,Tom, Jacob and behind them walking in was Gretchen and the incomparable Rachelle. 
I looked over at Jim and said,
"Well? Are you going to give me your arm and walk me in or am I going to have to get you in a headlock?"
 
Jim couldn't help but chuckle. He excused himself for a moment to put his coat in his car. Then we slowly strolled to the entrance.  Jim was a stroller and not in a hurry get anywhere. Which was fine by me as part of me was still a little bit nervous.  When I'm nervous, I tend to be a little bit pesky.
This time was no different, so I turned and looked at Jim and asked him,
"Jim, do you know why old men take viagra?" He groaned in response. He knew he wasn't getting away unscathed.
"That's so you old guys don't roll out of bed. It's a natural kickstand." I smiled at him, as he groaned again in response and tried to pull his arm free.  As we entered the building, I gently did what I said I would, and that was attempt to get him in a head lock. 
I could see Rachelle and Gretchen just ahead. Rachelle, had thunder rolling across her face which is especially espressive with her gorgeous red hair.
"Uh oh," I thought, "Hope it's ok."
I was chatting with some people when I started to hear some wild noises coming from the convention hall. Screaming, expletives, being flung around, a couple of crashes. I was like, "Whoa! What is going on in there?
Sometimes I have more balls than brains. I just walked in without any thought. The next thing I knew, "Splat! A big wad of chocolate cake overflowing with icing landed smackdab in the middle of my face! Well, shit...FML! It figures.
 
So I sat down, using one finger and started to eat the contents on my face while the rest of the room continued to let fly....
 


Chapter 38
Michele Harber's Version

By Rachelle Allen

Background: I was so excited to attend the FanStory International Convention in Atlantic City, but things haven't been going quite as planned.


I hate mass transportation! I recently got off a 3½-hour Amtrak ride from New York City to Atlantic City, plus a short taxi ride to the hotel, to attend the FanStory Annual Convention, and put faces to the works I've been admiring these past few years I've been a member.

Attending the convention was all well and good--when my husband was driving me. I don't drive, but we were going to head down together and reserve the room for a couple of extra nights, so we could have a little mini-vacation (is there such a thing as a big mini-vacation?) once the conference was over. Then he came down with a stomach bug. Sure, he was well enough to stay home alone (I'd never have left otherwise), but we didn't want to make the trip searching frantically for every rest-stop men's room along the way, so we decided, at the last minute, that I should go on my own.

That's how I found myself on a crowded train, in a knee-length black dress, with a too low-cut ruched bodice, which I held together with a lovely swan-shaped Swarovski crystal pin, so I wouldn't be arrested for indecent exposure. To bring the eye up a bit, I wore a short Swarovski crystal necklace with heart-shaped drops, as well as matching heart-shaped crystal earrings. Again, all well and good if I were going with my husband by car. However, in an Amtrak train car, I was forced to roast in a fluffy faux-fur waist-length black jacket, zipped up fully to hide all the glitter. The suspicious New Yorker in me knows that, to the untrained eye, Swarovski crystal can look a lot like diamonds, and I didn't want to appear, to fellow passengers, as though I were draped in expensive jewels. Let's face it. If they could afford to rent a Town Car, they wouldn't be riding an Amtrak train, and I didn't want to tempt fate--or the occasional thief one might encounter.

I suppose I should take a moment to introduce myself. My name is Michele Harber. Many of you know me from the poems and short stories I've posted in my six years on FanStory. Then again, considering the scant number of reviews I get, maybe not.

Anyway, I finally got to the hotel, with a little time to spare before the evening's big event. Whispers I picked up on in the hall suggested that Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis (they get lots of reviews, so you know who they are) were hosting some kind of a fashion show in their room--the penthouse suite, no less! I didn't want to miss it, so I headed over to catch the tail end, without even taking the time to freshen up. I noticed that people were wearing name tags, so I hurriedly wrote my name on a scrap of hotel stationery, and used the Swarovski swan to pin it to my bodice. (As low-cut as the dress was, I knew they'd be looking there anyway.)

When I walked into the room, I was amazed by the incredible array of finery worn by the attendees, from a cobalt blue midi dress to a tangerine blazer, and a two-tiered blue dress with matching jacket to a black tux with a gold-sequined cummerbund. Suddenly, something caught my eye that put the other outfits to shame: a beautiful, sequined, emerald green mini dress that all but lit up the room. I saw that the woman wearing it was slightly older, and her hair was done in ringlets. I started to head over to comment on the dress, before realizing it would be rude to speak to someone else without first acknowledging the hosts, so I headed away from the woman in green, but not without first catching the name on her tag: Jane Babies.

I'd never seen a picture of Gretchen Hargis, but I knew it would be easy to pick Rachelle out of a crowd, as her picture showed a mass of curly hair shaded a bright orange. I'd have to ask her which brand of dye she used. No, I'm not being catty. It's simply that I've only seen that shade of orange during autumn, when the leaves change color. Besides, there didn't appear to be a speck of gray in her hair. I know, from things I've read on FanStory, that she and I are close in age, and my once perfectly dark, chestnut hair is now salt and pepper. Shouldn't hers at least be salt and paprika??

As I made my way past a gaggle of FanStorian geese squawking about how unfair it was to only allow six six-star ratings per week, I suddenly heard a piercing screech.

"Geeeeeeeeeez. I wish they'd put out more snaaaaaaaaacks!"

I was about to turn around to see if any glass had shattered, when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a bright orange flash that could only be either Rachelle's hair, or someone spontaneously combusting from that ear-splitting sound. Luckily, it turned out to be Rachelle, as I could tell from the mass of ginger curls visible above the crowd. I advanced to where I was fairly certain she would be able to hear me, as I wasn't sure I could make it all the way through the adoring minions that had gathered around her, and called out, "Rachelle!"

She looked up and, while her face didn't initially register recognition (I hadn't posted a photo on my FanStory home page), when she caught sight of my name tag, she broke into a huge grin.

"Michele," she called warmly, scanning me up and down. "You look so ... creased." Sensing that further conversation was going to ensue, the crowd parted, revealing, to my utter shock, that Rachelle was wearing exactly the same emerald green dress as Jane Babies. I wondered how she could have been so cruel as to steal Jane's thunder. Anyone who's read anything Rachelle ever wrote knows she's very partial to animal prints, particularly leopard. There's no way emerald green would have been her first choice--unless it had spots or stripes! For whatever reason, she had apparently copied poor Jane's dress choice.

Rachelle had always seemed so nice. I had no idea she could stoop that low, trying to embarrass someone who was likely already uncomfortable, being the new kid on the block in a room full of people who all knew each other, at least peripherally through their writing. I made up my mind, then and there, to befriend Jane Babies, so she wouldn't feel left out. Needless to say, that was a decision I came to regret.


Chapter 38
Jim Wile's Version

By Rachelle Allen

It isn’t the police who announce their presence with a bullhorn, but I’ll get to that shortly.
 
Pandemonium ensues as food is flying everywhere. Lea, who hasn’t yet gotten down from my back after our entrance together a half hour ago, moves up to my shoulders to raise herself above the fray, but now we are top-heavy, and I begin teetering. As I start to topple, I shout to her, “We’re going over, Lea!”
 
I end up face-planted in a bowl of cocktail sauce in the center of a round platter of shrimp. I expect that Lea may have been hurt in the fall, but I can’t find her anywhere. As I stand wiping the sauce from my eyes, I see a pair of feet dangling in front of me. They belong to Lea, who grabbed onto a chandelier and is hanging there. I help her down. She grabs a few shrimp from the platter and begins wiping the sauce from my face and popping them into her mouth. She offers me one too, and it is fabulous.
 
The food fight has escalated, as everyone seems to be getting into the act now. Though most appear to be enjoying it, Rachelle and this strange, whiny lady wearing the same dress seem determined to kill each other. I’m not about to try to break up this cat fight, but I know someone who would have no problem with that.
 
I get out my phone and call Lancellot. “Lance, this is Jim. I know you’re not up here because you’d arranged for a couple of hookers before the invite came, but we could really use your help about now.”
 
“No can do, my friend. I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”
 
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed you were into that sort of thing, but, uh, we need a strong, assertive type up here now to break up this melee. Do you think you could ask them to untie you, big fella, and could you get up here immediately? I know you may find fault with some of us from time to time, but we love you and respect the hell out of you, and I can’t think of anyone else who could do a better job of breaking this up.”
 
“Thank you very much.”
 
“So, you’ll come then?”
 
“Oh, yeah. I’m coming… right about now…! Oooo!”
 
 
 
 
I didn’t hold out much hope for his appearance, but he surprised me when, five minutes later, he stepped out of the elevator. He was wearing only a hotel bathrobe.
 
I make my way over to him and explain the situation.
 
“Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” says Lance. “On the one hand, we’ve got this orange-haired writer who everyone knows and who has done good work in the past. And on the other hand, we’ve got this person who we’ve never read before with a nasal, whiny voice who has nothing to show for herself but only criticizes the orange-haired one. There’s something about this that seems vaguely familiar. I think we should settle this the good old American way; we’ll put it to a vote.”
 
“I like it, Lance. Maybe they should have to campaign first, like, uh, they could each write a poem and read it. Then we could vote on the best one, and the loser would have to leave. That ought to settle things down.”
 
“Hmm, for once, I like your thinking here, Jim.”
 
“Thank you very much.”
 
“Alright, let’s get everyone’s attention and announce the plan. EXCUSE ME EVERYONE!”
 
“It’s too noisy in here, Lance. Nobody heard you. Let me try whistling for attention.” I raise my thumb and forefinger to my mouth and let out a piercingly loud whistle—a new skill I learned recently—but again, nobody seems to hear it.
 
“You’re an inventive guy, Jim. Why don’t you make us a bullhorn out of something?”
 
I scrounge around for some materials. Dolly lends me her earrings, Neonewman lends me a nostalgic pocket comb he can’t seem to part with, and Wayne Fowler lends me that gizmo he came to the party with. I gather a few more items and fashion them into a rather serviceable bullhorn and hand it to Lance.
 
“ALRIGHT FOLKS. LISTEN UP. LET’S SETTLE THIS LIKE THE MATURE PEOPLE WE ARE.”
 
The bullhorn is effective, and the wild rumpus comes to a screeching halt. No longer needing the bullhorn, Lance speaks to the crowd in a normal voice.
 
“We’re all writers here, so let’s settle this like writers. On the two sides, we’ve got our orange-haired hostess, Rachelle, and the nasally whiny one whose name I don’t know.”
 
“It’s JAAAAAAAAANE, for crying out loud. Who the hell are YOUUUUUUUU?”
 
“I rest my case,” continues Lance. “Jim and I think each of you should write a poem, and we’ll all vote on which one is best. The loser has to leave the party.”
 
I find a couple of pads and pens in a desk drawer and hand them out to Rachelle and Jane. Lance tells them they’ve got 10 minutes to come up with a poem.
 
Rachelle begins to scribble furiously. The ideas are flying out of her head and into her fingers. Jane sits and thinks for a while before slowly getting to work on her poem.
 
While they continue working, the rest of us pitch in to help each other remove food out of hair and off clothing. I happen to see Gretchen Hargis crawling out from under a table with not a bit of food on her. Smart woman. I nod to her as she heads over to whisper something in Rachelle’s ear, all the while pulling a lobster claw out of her hair. Rachelle begins furiously writing again.
 
When the 10 minutes are up, Lance calls out, “Stop! Alright ladies, it’s time to read your poems. I’m going to flip a coin. If it’s heads, Jane goes first, and if tails—Rachelle.” The flip comes up heads. “Go, Jane.”
 
Jane stands demurely in front of the crowd. She looks rather pathetic, with smears of potato salad still clinging to her face and in her hair. In a rather pleasant, though timid-sounding voice, she says, “My poem is entitled ‘Clouds.’”
 
    Rows and floes of fettucine,
    And ice cream castles not so teeny,
    And feathered canyons in the air,
    I've looked at clouds that way.
 
“Wait a minute,” I overhear Rachelle whisper furiously to Gretchen, but Gretchen clamps a hand over Rachelle’s mouth.
 
She whispers back, “Let her dig her own grave.”
 
    But now they merely block the sun.
    They hail and sleet on everyone.
    So many things I might have done,
    But clouds were in the way
 
    I've looked at clouds from each side now,
    From down and up, and still somehow,
    It's cloud illusions I remember
    I’m not sure I know clouds in September.
 
I am a big Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins fan, and I recognize immediately that this is a poorly plagiarized version of “Both Sides Now” they made famous together, but several in the crowd seem entranced by this rather heartfelt-sounding rendition from Jane.
 
Lance says, “Alright, Rachelle. Go.”
 
Rachelle stands in front of the crowd, looking daggers at Jane, who remains meekly in place. The always impeccably dressed and coiffed Rachelle is a complete mess. Her red hair hangs limply down the sides of her face, as it appears someone has upended a punch bowl over her head. Her pink dress is no longer pink but multi-colored, stained by a variety of food hurled her way. She snarls out, “My poem is entitled ‘The Narcissist.’”
 
    Jane, you ignorant slut. *
    Your mouth, I wish you would shut.
    Loud and crass,
    A pain in the ass!
    Your head is way up your butt.
 
    Oblivious, that’s what you are.
    You take everything too far.
    You think you’re hot stuff,
    It’s all merely fluff.
    You grate like an untuned guitar.
 
    A “low-class Dixie chick?”
    That’s what you called Gretchen? You’re sick!
    You’re loud, and you’re rude,
    Exceedingly crude.
    You are the ultimate dick!
 
I was enjoying this, but I scan the crowd as Rachelle is really getting into it now, and they are looking at Jane, who is standing there with her head down, appearing forlorn and pitiable. None of us know her, and Rachelle is being exceedingly cruel. This seems over-the-top for Rachelle. Perhaps she had been sorely provoked by this Jane person, but we aren’t aware of it, and it seems as though Jane is gaining sympathy for this diatribe aimed at her.
 
    You think you’re just full of pluck.
    You make me want to upchuck.
 
Uh-oh. I can see where this is going. So can Lance, who gives Gretchen a signal of a slice across the throat. Gretchen whispers furiously in Rachelle’s ear, and she stops to listen.
 
“Alrighty, then,” says Lance in a loud voice. “It’s time to vote. Jim will pass out ballots, and you simply need to write the name of the poet with the, uh, best poem. The loser will leave the party.”
 
I tear off pages from one of the hotel pads and pass them out. The group is now faced with a difficult decision. Neither poem was very good. Jane’s was apparently plagiarized, while Rachelle’s was just nasty, though the rhyme and meter were decent. Tough choice. It’s anyone’s guess how this will pan out.
 
During the voting and afterwards, while the ballots are being collected by me and several volunteers, I can see Gretchen consoling Rachelle. Jane is nowhere to be found.
 
As the ballots come in, Lance and I begin tallying them, but before we complete the job, Rachelle comes up and says to us, “I noticed that Jane had handed a pile of ballots to one of the collectors. I think she’s stuffed the ballot box.”
 
We have no other proof that this is true, so we have to discount this story. When all the votes are tallied, Lance announces, “The winner of the, uh, least terrible poem is Jane by a vote of 26 to 24. Rachelle, you must leave the party.”
 
“Wait a minute,” sputters Rachelle. That’s 50 total votes. I invited only 40 people to this party. She cheated!”
 
“We have a serious accusation here, folks. Shall we hold another vote?” asks Lance.
 
No one cares to go through this again, and they just want to get on with the party, so Lance and I approach Rachelle, and each of us take an arm as we escort her to the elevator. She begins crying. “It’s not fair. She cheated. I should have won. They love me here. You can’t kick me out of my own party.”
 
As we usher her onto the elevator, I say to her, “It’ll be okay, Rachelle. Please don’t cry.”
 
As the doors shut, we can hear her begin to sing,
 
    It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.
    I’ll cry if I want to.
    I’ll cry if I want to…
 

Author Notes * "Jane, you ignorant slut." Many of you may remember this line from a Saturday Night Live skit from the 70s in which Jane Curtin and Dan Aykroyd are co-anchors on a news program. They do not get along. Jane always begins the telecast, and Dan follows with his remarks, beginning with this line.


Chapter 38
Mrs. KT's Version

By Rachelle Allen

What a thrill to have made it safely to New Jersey to attend the 2024 FanStory Convention! 

And even more thrilling? To find this invitation slipped under the door of my hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton when I arrived:
 
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Our pre-convention-dinner red carpet spoof
Won't be as fun without you!
See you at 5:00.
Xoxoxo
Rachelle and Gretchen.
PS Wear a name tag.
 
With no time to waste, I promptly phoned my husband to assure him that all was well thus far, and that I hadn’t set off alarms with my two bionic knees as I sashayed through security lines - always an adventure when I travel. 

With only an hour before the pre-convention festivities were to begin, I promptly began to get ready, fluffing out my newly purchased evening gown that I was hoping was suitable attire to impress my fellow FanStorians and New York High Society.

The moment I left my incredibly posh room, who should be walking to the elevator at the same time? Humpwhistle! I recognized him immediately from his height, his hairstyle, and the fact that he carried a box filled with books. 

“Hump?”

“Big Dog?”

“You’re taller in person than I imagined!”

“You’re zippier looking in person that I imagined!”

“You surely know how to charm a lady. No guitar, Mr. Hump?”

“No, guitar, Big Dog, but I brought some of our newly published books – you know, the 12 New Christmas Stories where my name appears first on the cover and title page… as in above yours…to hawk at the pre-dinner and convention.”

“Geesh! Absolutely shameless, don't you think? But I love your moxie!”

“Always prepared, Big Dog. Always prepared. A writer’s gotta do what a writer’s gotta do!”
 
We entered the spacious elevator and were eagerly met by Wendy G, Dolly, Roy, Debbie D'Arcy, Ulla, Sandra Stoner-Mitchell, and Valda. How I loved not only meeting them but listening to their distinct accents. My northern Michigan accent sounded so unrefined! And in true “KT” fashion, I began to laugh nervously; in fact, I laughed so hard I could feel my hair begin to droop, which is always a sign that I am already having too much fun, and I hadn’t even imbibed my "one and done" amaretto sour yet!

At each floor, more and more FanStorians entered the elevator until I was certain the entire membership was present, apart from Tom Ens, whom I was dying to meet… You know, just to extend niceties and perhaps initiate a lively conversation, filled with “vivid imagery” about “blind contests” and his numerous ranking algorithms that have piqued my interest since I joined FanStory in 2007. 

Robert Zimmerman, Roy Owen, Neonewman, Humpwhistle, and I were the last to exit the elevator, and what an exit it was:
 
Humpwhistle instructed Robert and Roy to lower themselves onto the floor on all fours, and then I was instructed to straddle the backsides of both while Neonewman and Humpwhistle held my arms! In said fashion we made our entrance as I held one of my bionic legs at a Houdini-like angle while placing both hands flat beneath one of my chins calling out, “Strike a pose!”

I felt one of my legs begin to cramp up, but I persevered with two thoughts running simultaneously through my mind:
1. Gretchen and Rachelle, you owe me big time.
2. “For you, a thousand times over.”
 
No sooner had we made our entrance, but disaster struck!
 
Roy and Robert, unaccustomed to bearing such a lightweight upon their backs “gave up the ghost,” and summarily dumped me on the floor!

There I was in a heap of beautiful floral embroidery and illusion tulle over my fuzzy, drooping coiffed hair. Even my diamond drop earrings were askew! Heaven forbid! And as I attempted to reclaim my dignity, a poem emerged from my equally fuzzy brain:
 
Well, if that doesn’t beat all!
Here I am, plopped against a wall!
Having been unceremoniously dumped
By Roy, Robert, Neo
And the infamous Hump!
Nobody, and I mean Nobody
Puts the Big Dog against a wall
So… What to do?
What to say?
What to plot
To have my day
And ensure my embarrassment
Goes far, far away?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That’s as far as I got, but I committed the above to memory to save for a “Write a Rant” FanStory Contest prompt.
 
Terry Broxson, Jim Wile and Bill Schott, three gentlemen extraordinaire, took pity upon me, and helped me to my feet. 

After thanking them profusely, but declining Terry's suggestion of a medicinal swig of his favorite bourbon that he just so happened to have with him, I gingerly made my way to a gorgeous white damask sofa where I was immediately surrounded by Dolly, Helen, WendyG, Carol (Begin Again), Judith (Carlos' girl), Gloria, Debbie Pope, Janet Foor, and judiverse offering me ministrations, chocolate, and soothing words of comfort. Gloria graciously offered to procure me a glass of champagne to heal my wounded ego. (She also offered to strum a few healing chords on her ukelele). In fact, each of the ladies present offered me glasses of champagne to calm my nerves and embarrassment. I eagerly accepted even though I rarely, and I mean rarely, ever imbibe champagne = too rich and tingly for my northern Michigan sensibilities, I suppose…
 
And that’s all I remember.

Yup.
 
I was “soused to the eyeballs” by the kindness and caring gestures of FanStory friends.

When I awoke, the room was empty!
Well, that's not entirely true.
There was broken glass, knocked over chairs, scraps of food, and what appeared to be a myriad of green sequins strewn about here and there.
I even spotted one lone silver stiletto!
And what in the world was all over my once coiffed hair?  
Food!
Bits of icky, sticky food scraps!
In short, the room and I looked like a powder keg had exploded!

But no sign of my fellow FanStorians anywhere.
 
I never even witnessed Rachelle's and Gretchen's entrance.
I never had an opportunity to show off my black patent kitten heels to Rachelle.
I never had a chance to compliment Gretchen on her patience with Rachelle.
 
But I did have a chance to muster the beginning of another poem:
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A convention, true,
Filled with "friends" ... more than a few
Now…what should I do?
I felt like a twit
As I gathered my wits
Hair’s on the fritz
A real champagne blitz
This must be what it means
To be “Putting on the Ritz”
 
And that’s where my tale of the infamous FanStory 2024 Pre- Convention festivities ends… or begins. At least for now.  Because we all know the “True Story” contest is due December 15th, and this should make a doozy! At least good enough for Third Place or Honorable Mention... or not!

In the infamous words of writer Emma Nichols, author of Sin at Sea, "Always ... and I mean always leave them wanting more." 
 
Onward!
 


Chapter 38
WendyG's version

By Rachelle Allen

Dear Diary,

I'm heading for the FanStory Convention! I'm in New Jersey!

I had to think long and hard about coming all this way, because of Sunny. I hope I don't get teary thinking of him waiting for me and worrying. He never eats if I am not there!

I'm quite nervous about tomorrow - meeting a number of FanStorians, all with prolific writing output. Some poets probably think and speak in rhyming verse! I hope they don't all talk in limericks or haikus.

I'll be fairly quiet perhaps. Don't they say that it is better to be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and prove one is?

I've just thought of another issue, a big one.

My accent is Australian! I use Aussie idioms and occasional slang. I'll probably call those seafood things "prawns" instead of "shrimp". For us a "shrimp" is a derogatory term for a person of small stature, as in the context of a big boy speaking to his brother. "Come here, shrimp!" You see what I mean?

Furthermore, what if I can't understand anyone else? I'm sure Dolly will be there, and she'll probably have a delightful lilt to her voice; she'll speak like Kate Middleton or even better!

Here I'll need to make smoothly flowing witty conversation without any editing. I can think, plan and edit what I write, taking my time, but ... I don't suppose AI can help with conversation?! Just kidding, and being very sarcastic as well.

But I MUST remember not to comment favourably on anyone's imagery being "viv ..." Oops! I cannot finish that thought. I'll be thrown out, out of the convention, and off the FS site as well. Probably even out of the US!! I wonder what other expressions I must not use, in case they are generated by AI? I did ask for a list, but it was not forthcoming. Yes, I am doing that eye roll thing.

Now, clothes. It's Autumn here. I've brought my coat because their Autumn is probably colder than our winter. I'll wear my floaty long black chiffon pants with that slim-fitting tunic top with the sequinned bodice to the dinner. Hmm. Unfortunately that will expose my neck with its wrinkles. Something creative with that black chiffon scarf? Nah! I don't have that panache! I'll look like I'm being strangled.

I'll wear the earrings my students gave me, forgetting I didn't have pierced ears, so I had them done when I was sixty-five. Perhaps some sort of record. Another problem. My fingers are too clumsy to get my earrings in ... my husband does them for me.

For this special event, I DO want to look glamorous - a bit rare these days, ever since I had to start wearing old-lady shoes with orthotics. I'm a jeans and tee-shirt girl; joggers or boots are my staple footwear. But of course, I can't wear them HERE. Not in New York, at a FanStory convention!

I know it's not all about me, but I sure hope they don't seat me next to Jane Babies! I guess if they do, I won't have to worry about making conversation, witty or otherwise. She'll do enough talking for both of us.

There are others I would prefer not to be near: those two guys who gave me poor reviews. One gave two stars because my subject matter didn't interest him at all. I "respectfully" reminded him that he could have chosen to stop reading at any time. Perhaps I was overly generous with my financial incentive, and he couldn't resist the lure of wealth.

Another gave three stars because he said he prefers reviewing poetry. Perplexing, because my writing was, of course, prose. Money, again! Please keep them away from me, in case I lose my reputation for being respectful.

I have learned the hard way throughout life, that one simply can't please everybody; these days I don't even bother trying. FanStorians will just have to take me as they find me. As my grandchildren would say, quoting their father, "You get what you get, so don't get upset."

Anyway, despite all these last-minute nerves, I am sure it will be a FABULOUS time. I am looking forward to seeing if everyone really does resemble their profile pictures (which might be twenty years old) or whether they look like what I imagine.

What a lot of poems and stories will be birthed after this convention! NOT nine months of literary gestation however, probably only nine days. Time to get back home, catch up on washing and chores, and then write furiously ....

Anyway, fellow FanStorians ... see you tomorrow! I'll be the quiet one sitting in the corner watching you all, probably with painful feet, because I am regrettably unused to wearing elegant high heels now. I might be sneakily wearing comfortable footwear under my fancy flowing evening pants.

Hooroo! That's Aussie slang for "Goodbye".
*****
Dear Diary,
An evening to remember! We've just had a pre-dinner get together, and it was ... quite unbelievable. I'd never imagined anything quite like it!

First though, I had a video call with Sunny. Pa held the phone where Sunny could see me, and then led him to his bowl. I told him to eat while I was watching. He did. Smart dog! After that I could relax a bit.

Dolly popped into my room shortly before the appointed time and helped me with my special earrings and with make-up, camouflaging the bags under my eyes from travelling more than twenty-seven hours!

I felt quite glamorous, ready now to mix with all these celebrity writers.
On arrival (I nearly needed sunglasses because of all the bling) I found a comfortable chair and sipped my champagne, surreptitiously slipping my elegant shoes off, and neatly tucking my aching feet out of sight. I noticed a few others doing the same! Occasionally, knowing smiles passed between us.

I was pleased that I understood everyone with all the different American and British accents, and nobody spoke in Haikus or limericks ....

I admit to wondering why Roy would pair flip-flops with a tuxedo. Probably his wife said he should wear the tux, and perhaps he just wanted to be comfortable, also showing some Aussie humour.

Rachelle looked beautiful, bubbly, and confident. Of course she's used to stage and theatre. She has that gracious and natural way of setting everybody at ease. I do confess, however, to extreme jealousy of that flaming thick red hair!
***
I was having a quiet conversation with Gretchen; we had clicked immediately with our similar personalities. I remember saying that most people were exactly as I had pictured them, even Bill Schott in his startling outfit, despite that crazy profile picture which always made me squirm.

But then something quite amazing happened ....

Miss Megaphone, Jane Babies, sort of flung herself into the elegant room, announcing to all that she'd had to come via the service lift!

This was The Voice, and I am not referring to excellent singers! I was glad I was at the far end of the room. Even there, I started to cringe, and shrink back in horror.

Gretchen said something unrepeatable, jumped up, and rushed to Rachelle, who needed to be tethered to prevent violence. Too late.

Adding insult to injury, Jane Babies had not only worn the SAME dress as Rachelle, but was proclaiming loudly and clearly, "TWINSIES!" with a stupid look on her equally asinine face.

Rachelle completely lost her cool; she was on fire! Nothing could cover the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks. Careful make-up highlighting previously twinkling eyes was powerless to hide the sparks now blazing forth!

Then it began. Days of carefully controlled rage released themselves into a volcanic explosion of emotion! Food went everywhere, mostly onto Jane Babies! We all knew what a pain in the ... she'd been. But she wasn't giving up easily!

Drama, sufficient for a dozen novellas! Enough for poems or flash-fiction requiring revenge (best served either cold or hot), or for any genre needing a twist at the end. Even good for a few limericks, I'm sure. Literary output could be humorous, emotional, or tense and dramatic following this amazing, horrendous, crazy, "Laurel and Hardy"-type spectacle.

Roy looked perplexed. This seemed a strange response to his prayer of thanks for the food. I saw Gretchen slide under a table - she'd given up on trying to calm proceedings. Was she crying or just trying to save herself from the same fate as Rachelle, being splattered with food?

Several were laughing hysterically. Humpwhistle stood back, a bit bemused. I sort of wished he would pick up Jane Babies by the scruff of her green dress and throw her out!

Suddenly, surprising even myself, I jumped to my feet, drew myself up to my full height, and in my best teacher's voice, I said, "STOP!"

Shocked, everyone turned in my direction. It was a moment frozen in time.

I turned to Jane Babies, gave her "the look" (all teachers know exactly what I mean!) and said in my coldest, quietest and scariest, most authoritative tone, "You were NOT invited. LEAVE! IMMEDIATELY!" Her mouth dropped open, yet there was a defiant glint in her eyes.

"GO!" I warned.

Mrs KT came to my support. "The lift has arrived!" She pointed commandingly towards the service lift, its open doors ready to welcome Jane Babies. She slunk inside. The lift descended.

The ice was broken, along with a lot of other things! We all relaxed and there was much merriment, until Helen quietly reminded us that it was time to clean ourselves up for the "proper" Awards Ceremony.

I noticed that Inky Eyes had slipped back in. He turned to Rachelle, and his eyes twinkled knowingly. "Leave the clean-up to me!" he reassured her. Perhaps he had predicted such an outcome ....

Let's just say that Jane Babies did not attend the Awards Ceremony.

Tom was so thankful we all still chose to attend (or perhaps he feared further mayhem!) that he freely offered ten sets of six stars per week. He also said that he would get a different AI detector, and that he would reconsider the ratings system. He received loud cheers.

Rachelle and Gretchen received awards for perseverance and commitment to organising this event, despite the unwelcome addition of Jane Babies, acknowledging their literary efforts and emotional duress along a very difficult journey.

Other awards were given, including many fun ones. We could no longer take ourselves too seriously!

The circus of the pre-dinner event seemed to have united us. The chaos had transformed the experience into a bonding one, for we'd seen each other at our best and our worst. Who cared about glamor? We were one family of FanStorians.

Furthermore, the unthinkable had become ... the inspirational!

We were all energised and ready to transform the whole experience into a book which would entertain many, each in our own unique style. Of course, it would talk about insecurity, priorities, life and relationships, friendships, and conflict resolution. All the usual things. The important things about living.

Fine literature, of course!!



Author Notes I have thoroughtly enjoyed the creative and unforgettable writing of both Rachelle and Gretchen - so different in personality, but equally gifted and both have the same way out sense of humour, not too dissimilar to my own.
Congratulations to both!


Chapter 38
Judiverse's Version

By Rachelle Allen

I just returned from the FanStory convention, and It was the thrill of a lifetime!  We writers are most frequently seen in pajamas or less, slaving over what we think will be an award-winning story or poem.  But the convention showed how stunning we can be when we get all glammed up. 

I want to thank Rachelle and Gretchen for the magnificent party they threw.  You’d think they were hosting a star-studded Hollywood gala.  Everyone was dressed to the nines, except Lea Tonin, who received a unanimous ten from all the men in attendance.  Rachelle would have rated a ten, but she tore her gown while ripping off the identical one Jane was wearing.  The men were no slouch in the dress-up department.  They dressed to suit their personalities.  I appreciated Roy and Robert's efforts to go formal in tuxedoes 

I apologized to Barbara Wilkey for goring her in the ass, but I think she understood the reasoning behind it.  Barbara had used a picture of a longhorn steer in two of her recent posts.  Naturally, the picture made me think of el toro, the bull.  The bull made me think of bullfights, and the way Barbara flashed her skirt around like a matador’s cape gave me an irresistible urge to attack.  If her dress had been red, the unthinkable could have happened. 

Mrs. K.T. had beautiful flowers flown in from her garden to adorn the banquet tables, and Helen contributed some flowers of unknown origin.  I couldn’t identify them, but they caused me to sneeze uncontrollably.  Helen spent all Saturday morning at the library, researching what they were. 

Humpwhistle and Diane (Mrs. K.T.) took advantage of the occasion to set up a booth and hawk their latest book, Twelve New Christmas Stories.  Book sales were brisk, but I noticed they charged two dollars more than I paid for the one I ordered from Amazon. 

Roy Owen conducted a workshop on writing faith poetry, and Dolly gave a presentation on illustrating your own poems.  Barbara Wilkey offered tips on writing the romance novel to FanStorians eager to learn from her experience,.

The highlight of the Awards banquet was Rachelle’s moving performance of O Mio Babbino Caro by Puccini.  I knew she was thinking of her protégé Rebekah as she sang it.

Tom presented the Tommy awards.  Dolly and Roy Owen tied for poetry, Gretchen, Rachelle, and Barbara tied for novel, Pam Lonsdale won the honors for short story, and Helen received the award for script.  Actually, hers was the only script that qualified.  Yours truly humbly accepted an honorable mention.  Tom didn’t mention what for. 

It was wonderful to meet so many FanStory members, and I hope Rachelle and Gretchen will invite us to their gala next year. 

Author Notes Picture from Bing Images. I want to thank Rachelle and Gretchen for making this trip possible.


Chapter 38
Begin Again's Version

By Rachelle Allen

"Everyone, stop where you are and drop whatever is in your hands." A tall, muscular officer in full uniform stepped through the door with a bullhorn in hand. "Who's responsible for this mess?" His tone was deadly serious as he glanced around the room.

Everyone froze, their wide-eyed gazes doing major somersaults from one person to the next, searching for someone to take the blame. Suddenly, everyone was staring at Rachelle. Having put some distance between herself and Rachelle, Jane screeched, "She is, officer. She started the whole thing."

Rachelle moved in Janes's direction, fire blazing from her eyes. But the officer stepped in front of her, blocking her way. He stopped almost nose to nose with Rachelle. "Is that so? Did you start all this?"

Rachelle's chin jutted forward, refusing to appear weak, even if he was the police. "I guess you might say I did, but—"

The officer slapped his large hand on his butt and grinned as his hips moved to a silent beat. "I'm in charge of the butts, ma'am."

The officer raised the bullhorn again. "Alright, folks, we're shutting this down," he said with a straight face. The other officer rolled up his sleeves, ready to make some arrests.

Just then, a bottle of champagne accidentally popped nearby, spraying bubbles across the room. The officers look at each other, one of them smirking as he shrugged off his police jacket. The other officer nodded, turning up the bullhorn to announce, "Looks like we're going to have to take you down!"

Someone behind him cranked up the music — something disco — and he tossed the bullhorn aside. As he began swaying and loosening his shirt collar, he circled Rachelle, running his hands up and down her sides but not touching her. Everyone gasped.

"That's right, folks!" shouted another officer who'd just entered the room. "We heard this was a crime scene. Some of you aren't having enough fun. It's our duty to make sure justice is served."

They pulled off their police jackets, revealing glittery suspenders and bow ties. People in the room burst into laughter, some clapping along as the strippers took to the floor, shaking their booties at the now-blushing Rachelle, who couldn't stop laughing as she was pulled into the spotlight.

Gretchen crawled out from under the table with the champagne bottle still in her hand. She hiccuped. "Rach, what's going on? Are we going to get arrested?"

One of the officers lifted Gretchen into the air and flipped her through his legs. Gretchen squealed, and the low-life Dixie chick screamed, "Ride 'em, cowboy!"

The original shock gave way to roars of laughter, and the officers-turned-strippers worked the room, stopping to kiss Helen and LJButterfly on the cheek and moving on to dance a quick cha—cha—cha with Barbara. Soon, everyone was taking impromptu selfies with all the dancers.

Music continued to blast, and suddenly, they were dancing across the room, popping champagne bottles and tossing cans of whipped cream into the crowd. Rachelle and Gretchen, both still laughing hysterically, got whipped cream sprayed on their heads like tiaras, and people started cheering.

The officers began a full-on routine, turning the buffet into their stage. They even pulled Ric MyWorld up on their stage and stripped off his shirt. He felt right at home and joined in.

After finishing with another hot disco song, they formed a line and exited the door. The first officer picked up the bullhorn and said, "Remember, ladies and gentlemen, the only crime tonight is if you don't have a good time." The crowd erupted, cheering as they waved goodbye.

Gretchen laughed hysterically and asked Rachelle, "What happened to Jane?"

Rachelle glanced around the room and shrugged. "Darned if I know."

Overhearing the conversation, Roy provided the answer. "I saw an officer showing her his handcuffs, and I think she went with him."

Gretchen's mouth dropped open. "You mean —"

Before Gretchen could finish her sentence, Carol strolled into the room, dressed to impress in her bold red dress. She tossed her blonde hair, giving everyone a mischievous smile as the DJ cranked up Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff."

"Come on, everybody!" she shouted, raising a glass. "It's time to Begin Again."

Her hips swayed to the beat, and within moments, the room burst back to life. Even Rachelle, still wiping whipped cream from her hair, joined in, laughing as Gretchen pulled her onto the dance floor. People clinked champagne glasses and posed for photos with whipped cream mustaches and champagne toasts.

Just then, a stripper returned, holding up a second bullhorn. "Remember, folks —what happens at FanStory stays at FanStory!" he yelled, winking as he waved goodbye.

The night continued with wild dancing, laughter, and enough photos to fill the following year's "Best of FanStory" scrapbook. And somewhere in the chaos, Jane was last seen "getting a private tour" of the police van, handcuffs and all.


Chapter 38
Dolly's Version

By Rachelle Allen


After checking into the Hotel for the Fanstory Convention I was delighted to see an envelope pushed under my hotel room door which read:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Our pre-convention-dinner red carpet spoof
Won't be as fun without you!
See you at 5:00.
Xoxoxo
Rachelle and Gretchen.
PS Wear a name tag.

How could I resist such an invitation. I had never met Rachelle or Gretchen before or indeed any of the Fanstorians in the US. I was very careful to wear my name tag to identify myself.

On my way out of the room dolled up to the nines in my golden gown, I bumped into Wayne Fowler sporting a ball cap, shades and a denim jacket with a turned up collar! I clung to my motto: never judge a book by its cover and Wayne was happy to accompany me to the party. He turns out to be such a sweetheart with a bubbly personality.

On the way we bumped into Valda (Pearl Edward's), from Australia, she looked exhausted after a long flight, but she put on a brave face and wore a wonderful authentic tweed suit and a string of pearls.

The three of us made our way to the lift when we bumped into Patricia (Patcelaw) frantically pushing the buttons impatiently as the lift was slow, and she does not like waiting. She is always on the go. Patricia looked so youthful in a pair of slim fitting cream trousers and a sequin jacket.

"Wow Patricia, you look absolutely gorgeous" I said.

She replied saying: "I ran this up on my sewing machine last night!"

I was envious of such talent.

The four of us entered the lift just as someone's arm shot across the doors causing them to reopen. An elderly rather dapper looking gent entered with a smile. It was Paul McFarland. He looked like a Chief Executive in his bespoke Savile Row suit, pink and blue striped tie and shoes that were so well shined that I could see my reflection in them.

"Hi Paul, please to meet you," I said with a smile.

"Likewise." He replied.

I could see him carefully reading everyone's name tag and keeping his opinions to himself.

The lift stopped on the next floor and who should step in but, Debbie D'Arcy looking absolutely beautiful like she had just stepped out of the beauty salon. She wore a Julienne McDonald pink dress with chiffon inserts and what looked like real diamond earrings, she is such a classy lady. She gazed at the faces in the lift desperately trying to read all the name tags and squeezed in next to Paul who felt very uncomfortable at this close proximity. The lift filled with the aroma of her expensive perfume.

The lift opened and we all piled out and mingled with the crowd. I spotted Beth Shelby in the distance and instantly recognised her from her profile photograph and headed over to her.

She said: "If I knew everyone was going to dress up like this I would have made more of an effort."

I don't know why she thought that because she looked amazing in her green floral skirt and matching jacket.

"Hi Beth, how lovely to meet you at last, did you drive all the way here?" I enquired.

"No, my daughter drove me here and she is about somewhere, I will introduce you to her."

I was excited at this prospect as Beth has posted lots of stories about her family and I felt I knew them all already.

I excused myself as I spotted Tom Horonzy with his gorgeous wife and I was eager to meet them both. Large as life Tom gave me a big bear hug and almost lifted me off my feet as he was so anxious to make my acquaintance and to hear my English accent! All he heard was a scream! Ha ha ha. He looked and smelt amazing as I expect his wife chooses all his clothes and buys his aftershave.

I kept spotting one Fanstorian after another, I felt like I knew them through their amazing writings and my tongue did not stop wagging all night.

But wait a minute, I still have to find Gretchen and Rachelle.

Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder and there they both stood, smiling with enthusiasm as they were instrumental in organising this amazing party that I will never ever forget!

We hugged, kissed and we did not stop talking as we filled in the gaps about our lives. What a pleasure this night has been to meet all these diverse characters who make Fanstory such a fine community of people. This was definitely a night to remember.

Thank you Rachelle and Gretchen,

Love Dolly x x x x
 


Chapter 38
Wayne Fowler's Version

By Rachelle Allen

Chapter 38

Wayne casually entered the ballroom from an obscure on-ramp, carefully easing his way into the stream of traffic. FanStory International Convention revelers were chaotically mingling. Wayne had his work cut out for him, trying to decide which of the many walking and sauntering about infractions warranted corrective action, sidelining the worst of the offenders with his ray gun.

Clearly Wendy G. with her troublesome Sunny was going to be put to the curb. People could not continue to impede the flow of traffic by their incessant pandering to the cute little dog. Wendy wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong, and neither was Sunny. But for goodness' sakes, FanStorians had to be the absolute worst when it comes to pets. Wayne toyed with his ray gun, waiting to isolate her.  He couldn’t have Wendy accidentally taking out innocent attendees.

Uh-oh. Jim Wile has got to be waylaid. And soon. He’s going to clobber someone with that golf club. Too late. He smacked a glass right out of RicMyWorld’s hand, splashing wine all over Helen’s (Lyenochka) rich burgundy dress with a beaded purplish scarf that she has draped stylishly at a vertical/diagonal angle. What a mess. Oh look how calmly she takes the assault. What a generously kind human being! Get ready Ric, you’re going to the wall.

Lea, Lea, Lea. Sorry, I know you are fairly new to FanStory, but you have to signal lane changes just like everyone else. To the wall, Ms Tonin. Zip-zap, flippity flap. Enjoy your time out. Wayne was enjoying himself a bit too much.

No! Pam Lonsdale! You think you own the place? You can’t just steam roll your way straight across the ballroom. Just because you see what you want doesn’t mean... Well, heck fire. I guess Wayne simply must follow in your wake until he gets a chance to zap your brain. I wonder if anyone in this group has an extra? Jim Wile can probably make you one right quick.

Would you just look at that! Seventeen FanStorians parading around the room in five-seven-five formation. Ain’t that something. Now Wayne finally understands. Well, let’s just see if they can avoid ending up in a heap when they lose their brain. (zap) Huh. Well that didn’t work. Karenina transformed them into a three-nine… no, now a seven-five, no, wait, a one-one-five-… Hold on, people! They’ve made themselves into an acrostic by their names: WendyG, Annmuma, Yardier, Neonewman, Easyeverett, SallyLaw, TomHoronzy… Oh, Wayne gets it. They’re on to him. Well, he’ll just turn his cap around backwards, don a mustache, and turn himself inside-out. No one will ever guess.

Ah, there they are heading for the head table: Rachelle and Gretchen. Aren’t they something? Who is that that Gretchen has in a headlock, dragging him along? Humpwhistle. Word to the wise folks, Gretchen is not to be toyed with!

Now anyone wearing a tangerine blazer over a pea green shirt, forest green trousers and brown loafers needs sidelined no matter how well they manage their rig. Enjoy the wall, Bill Schott.

Well, there’s Judiverse. I thought she was stuck in an elevator.

“Hello, Roy. You related to Buck? Get him to put you in the movies. Gonna make a big star outta you. Yeah, I know – a dad joke. Guess that’s the Ohmie in me,” Wayne said.

“Hey, folks. You wanted to see me?” Wayne crowed. “Let’s see… Jim Vecchio, Carol Hillebrenner, Beth Shelby, and Ric My World. Yeah, I’d know you anywhere. What, you want to see me about killing Clyde? You want to try me for murder? Oh… for Ben Persons. What, are you all crazy? He was just a … Ow! That hurt! Where’s Rachelle Allen? She’ll take care of all of you. Oh, she and Gretchen Hargis are going to be the judges? Well, heck. I’m a dead man for sure.”
 

Author Notes Of course you are free to edit as necessary. I was mixed about 1st or 3rd person POV.
The photo is courtesy FanArtReview Don’t drink and drive by Cleo85
(I have to hurry and ear $% more bucks in order to promote this.) frowny face here


Chapter 38
Robert Zimmerman Version

By Rachelle Allen

After being gone for 2 1/2 years, I came back to FS following the publication of a book and other writing projects. After enduring a week of darkness during Helene's visit, I was invited by Rachelle and Gretchen to join them at a Fan Story convention in New Jersey. Following the hurricane and 7 days without electricity, TV, or cell service, I thought, "I can handle a day in New Jersey."

I went to Jersey and casually made my entrance at the convention in a stylish black tie, tuxedo, gold sequined cummerbund, and a hand-carved mahogany walking stick. I reminded myself of a ZZ Top song called, "Sharp Dressed Man." My tux was quite a departure from my typical shorts and tee shirt monogrammed with the words, "I Laugh at My Own Jokes."

Someone crashed into me, causing me to do a face plant on the shiny ballroom floor. I hurriedly grabbed my walking stick and stood up. I wondered if I was knocked over accidentally or on purpose.

While wandering around, I spotted many familiar faces and encountered several unfamiliar ones. As I don't consume alcohol, I was savoring a huge, ice-cold glass of black cherry flavored seltzer. I love that stuff. While I was on the brink of finishing my drink, I was jostled from behind, causing me to tumble to the floor for a second time. Following my second recovery, I made the decision to act. I walked into the reception area connected to the ballroom. I took out my Bob Dylan rubber face mask from my tuxedo vest pocket and put it on.

I walked back into the ballroom calmly but caused quite a commotion. A person yelled, "Hey! Robert Zimmerman is back."
Another person spoke up. "No way! That's Bob Dylan! He just thinks he's Robert Zimmerman."

While returning to North Carolina, I fantasized about auctioning off my tuxedo, tie, cummerbund, and mahogany cane on eBay. I think I'll hold on to the mask. Once again, I found myself laughing at my own joke.

Author Notes For those not aware, Bob Dylan's birth name is Robert Zimmerman. I have received messages over the years asking if I am the "Real" Robert Zimmerman. I am the real one, just not that one.
Graphic created using MS Copilot.


Chapter 38
Debbie Pope's Version

By Rachelle Allen

"Look, Gretchen. There's Debbie Pope. I can just spot that white topknot of hers. I wonder why she didn't come to the fashion show. I assumed she wasn't here."

"You know how busy she is with her grandkids. I'm surprised she had time to come."

"She loves her friends at FanStory though. Lets go say hi and see what she is wearing. There's a lot of space around her."

Rachelle heads for Debbie's head, and Gretchen follows. Suddenly though, Rachelle stops, and Gretchen runs into her spiked heels.

"Why did you stop? What's wrong with you, Rachelle? Do you want to see Debbie or not?"

Pointing, Rachelle shakes her head in disbelief. "Look what she is wearing!"

Curious, Gretchen peers over her shoulder and gapes. "I don't believe it. She's wearing a baby carrier on the front and a baby carrier on her back. SHE BROUGHT HER GRANDCHILDREN!"

"That's her idea of fun. And look, she's pushing two more children in a double stroller. That's why there is space around her."

"Well that's not my idea of a good time. Lets find the champagne fountain. I don't think that she saw us. She was pretty preoccupied."

"Yeah. Let's go."


Chapter 38
Jessica Wheeler Version

By Rachelle Allen

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
When the invitation to FanStory's 2024 convention arrived, I knew there was only one way I'd be making my entrance...

Late.

Oh, "Why," you ask? Well, keep on asking, and do let me know if you ever figure it out. Sure, I could blame my kids, who are now eight and ten and, quite frankly, more responsible than most adults I know. I could blame the drive; a whopping three-and-a-half-hour trek from my home in Branford, CT, to Atlantic City, NJ. But the truth is, my tardiness usually has less to do with logistics and more to do with my knack for stumbling into the bizarre– a parade of unlikely events, if you will, that somehow only ever seem to happen to me.

Whether it's getting blocked in my driveway by the neighbor's chickens (yes, that actually happened), or waking up to find that someone has broken in and stolen all my shoes (ok, that hasn't happened... YET!), something is just bound to slow me down. On the day of the convention, that something was a fruit truck spill that caused a two-hour backup on the Jersey Turnpike.
 
~

Streaks of gold and orange reflected in the tall building's windows when I finally pulled into the hotel. I took a deep breath, adjusted my wrinkled dress, and tried to channel my "I totally meant to arrive now" vibe.

I walked inside, quickly grabbed my name tag from the desk, and headed toward the sound of muffled music around the corner. I opened the door to an unexpected scene.

Chaos. Complete chaos.

People were shouting, dishes were breaking, and food was flying. I stood there, blinking rapidly in disbelief. Was this some kind of weird performance art?

In the middle of it all, I spotted Rachelle Allen, looking wild, angry, and positively radiant, even with her fiery red hair streaked with what appeared to be... mashed potatoes? She was squaring off with a woman I didn't recognize, who was wearing a dress that mimicked Rachelle's, only a bit less flattering.

At that moment, Gretchen Hargis popped up from under a table, holding a bottle of wine, and flashed me the brightest, most sincere smile. She instantly calmed my nerves. Well, her and the considerable swig I took from the bottle.

"What... the hell happened?" I stammered, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.

"Jane Babies happened," Gretchen replied with a shrug, a touch of amusement in her voice.

I dodged a meatball and looked around the room. I caught sight of Mrs. KT, Gloria, and Debi attempting to clean with stacks of napkins, while Pam, Karenina, and Sally made an effort to shield them with serving trays. One by one, I started to identify the faces of numerous writers I had come to admire over the past year and a half.

I decided this had to stop. I have often played the role of a peacemaker, someone who attempts to maintain a pleasant atmosphere or, at the very least, divert attention from chaos with some outrageous, nonsensical declaration...

"This food fight is but a metaphor for our struggle as artists!" I shouted into a breadstick like a microphone.

When that didn't work, I figured I'd try my luck reasoning with little Miss Babies herself.

"Ohhh, hey, Jane," I called, forcing a smile. "Think we could, um, tone it down a bit? Maybe even use our words?"

Oops. Apparently, I had no control over the tone of mine.

Jane's face contorted as if I had just suggested she give up sequins forever, and for a second, I thought she might actually slap me with a sirloin. Instead, she scoffed, her overly frosted lipstick catching the harsh light. "Whaaaaat!? Whoooo are yyyyeeeeww?"

I couldn't help it... I laughed. It was a loud, unapologetic, overtired, obnoxious laugh that only slips out when I'm amused beyond belief. Janey Babes didn't seem to find it as funny.

She sneered, eyes narrowing as she tried to size me up. Then her gaze shifted to my name tag.

"I never even heard of yoooou. You loooost?" Jane Babies whined.

Quite satisfied with her "zinger", she swung around, ladle in hand, just as my pal Jim Wile stepped behind her. The ladle caught him square in the nose, and he stumbled backward, arms flailing dramatically before he crashed to the floor with his lasagna.

Oh. No. She. DIDN'T.

"HEY! That's my BEST FRIEND!!!" I shouted.

The room fell silent, but that didn't stop me from removing my hoops, flipping a table (not metaphorically), and going at her Jersey style. The claws came out, and we fought like a couple of cats until Lancelot and SimianSavant finally managed to break it up.

Then, with a shriek that would've made a toddler roll their eyes, Jane Babies stormed out of the room.

~

A room full of writers eventually stopped laughing to start cleaning up. While apologizing profusely to the hotel staff, I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Jim still sitting on the floor.

"Uhhh... best friend, huh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That's what I said, Jim," I snapped, offering him a hand.

"Don't fight it."


Chapter 38
Lyenochka's Version

By Rachelle Allen

Although Rachelle announced my entrance, I quickly hid as I dread large parties. Thankfully, I had a magic invisibility cloak that WJDebi’s Piper loaned me from the land of the fae. I really needn’t have worried because few know what I look like so I could be naturally invisible. But this way, I could float from group to group unnoticed. Surprisingly, the groups merged and morphed into new groups. 
 
When the calamitous  food fight ensued, a large group gathered into a circle. I could guess among them were Roy, Verna, Carol Clark, Teri, Sally, Debi Marquette, Karenina, Daylily, WendyG, Nomi, Patcelaw, RJHeritage, Dr. Nad, Esther Brown, Mrs. Major, DeboraDyess, Robert Zimmerman, l.raven, MissMerri and LJButterfly all huddled in prayer for peace and joy to take over the party. Then the prayers switched to interceding for Rhonda’s husband Wayne, until Father Flaps joined in. That’s when  they added their prayers for his wife, Judy who is in poor health. But while praying, Father Flaps kept bursting into a Don Francisco song so that he and Roy and LJButterfly splintered off to discuss the best way to lead worship with today’s music. Sally, RJ, DeboraDyess, and Patricia separated into a group discussing the best technology tools for blind writers.
 
Then my gaze focused on the mess of the buffet table which drew the talented writers who were also artists. Dolly took a leafy celery stick and dipped it into the salsa and began painting Picasso-style. Gypsy used a carrot stick to make broad strokes with wine on the tablecloth to create a portrait of a gypsy. In no time at all, Aussie, Shelley, and Ginda Simpson transformed the food fight remnants into a magical mural. Curiosity pulled Gretchen out from under the table, and she also added her art to the table. That's when Heather Knight came to the table and snapped some photos to create her own computer version.
 
At the other end of the table where the seafood and meats were, Tom Botts and Poetwatch exchanged fishing tales. Bob Cullen added his stories while Jmdg1954 began rearranging the food and even without a stove, began to concoct a new culinary masterpiece.
 
In a corner dining table, absent of food but supplied with various drinks, Bill Schott, Terry Broxson, Humpwhistle, and RicMyWorld were playing cards. Their “poker faces” are inscrutable, and I could not guess who was winning. I’d bet that Ric might win.
 
Just as serious as the poker players were the people at a larger table. Sandra Stoner-Mitchell,  Barbara Wilkey, Beth Shelby, Begin Again, Tfawcus, Wayne Fowler (yes, he checked his raygun at the door), Judiverse, Pam Lonsdale, Ulla, Estory, Karen Cherry Threadgill, Liz O’Neill, Jessizero, Y.M.Roger, F. William Lester, Marilyn Hamilton, Julie Helms, Lancellot, and Jasmine Girl were having a rousing discussion on the best methods to develop a plotline. Every now and then, Ms. Threadgill cried out, “But when do we kill him off?!”
 
LateBloomer, Evilynne, Sugarray, Pome Lover, and Debbie Pope were in one corner of the banquet area so they could share stories about their grandchildren. Debbie needed to be close to the bathroom in case she needed to do a diaper change. But when Sugarray overheard some plant names from the neighboring table, she moved there to share her Master Gardener tips. WendyG took her place as she was drawn to grandkid stories.
 
At the next table Mrs. KT, Pearl Edwards/Valda, June Sargeant, Debbie D’Arcy, CrystieCookie, Pam(respa), and JumboJ shared about the fauna and flora of their hometowns. Sanku in her beautiful sari joined the group and added her knowledge about the plants from her hometown in Kerala, India. 
 
Gloria floated from table to table until she came upon a most intriguing one with a glowing globe which exuded some fragrant smoke like a candle. It was plugged into a laptop. Iza Deleanu kept looking for a warm water ocean in the globe.
Jim Wiles claimed to have researched how to tap into the energy waves of the spiritual dimension after working on his golf novel. I think it’s more likely that he had developed a gas that caused people to hallucinate. 
 
“All you have to do is to call someone in the Great Beyond, and *poof!* they will appear on the screen,” he explained.
 
“Michael Cahill!” cried Gloria. And sure enough, Mike’s kind, smiling face appeared on the screen. 
 
Gypsy suddenly appeared and called out, “Dean Kuch!” And poof! There was Dean in his top hat with the giant spider on top. 
 
I had to try it and called out, “Phyllis Stewart!” All heads turned towards my voice. They were bewildered by the phantom voice. Before I could talk with the image of Phyllis, someone dressed in pink stepped on my invisibility cloak. I was seen by all. She cried out a whiny voice, “I’m Jane Babies. Who the heck are you?” 
 
I was about to reply, “lyenochka”, but spied out of the corner of my eye, the gorgeously re-groomed Rachelle in a long, black gored skirt and a silk leopard-patterned blouse. Just then I saw the mysterious Mr. Ens approach. He was in jeans and a herringbone blazer. He reached out his hand intending to make introductions. 
 
I hurriedly shook his hand and said, “Oh, Mr. Ens, good to meet you. I’m with the band.” I winked. 
 
Surprise, confusion, and delight covered his face in rapid succession. “Oh, yes, the band…” 
 
I motioned to Rachelle to come quickly. She sauntered in, barely touching the floor. 
 
Jane Babies cried out, “She’s not allowed to be here!” 
 
I quickly replied, “She’s not in the party, although she and Gretchen created the party. She’s in the band.” I turned to Rachelle and said, “The keyboard awaits you. It’s just D, G chords, with an occasional E minor.” 
 
On the way to the stage, I dragged RicMyWorld, Humpwhistle and Terry Broxson to come with me. Roy, Robert Z. and Father Flaps came willingly. Soon we found there weren’t enough guitars. Goodnaturedly, Roy picked up the banjo. Drat! Only the mandolin was left.  I offered it to Humpwhistle. 
 
“L, you know my fingers are too fat for mandolin frets!” 
 
I sighed and plucked out the melody on the mandolin and prayed I’d remember the chords. I motioned for Teri and LJButterfly to join in. With their great vocals, I can just lipsync. 
 
I tapped the microphone, causing some in the  audience to spill their drinks.. “Fanstory friends, we have a song for you - a blessing on you and your family. It’s from Numbers 6:24-26.” I began singing, “Lord bless you and keep you. Make his face shine upon you . The Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace.” Without any prompting Teri and LJButterfly harmonized and took it from there. 
 
Rachelle’s fingers flew over the keyboard with gentle arpeggios that blended perfectly with the voices and the strumming of the guitars, banjo, and mandolin. This opened the door for other Fanstorians to join in sharing their musical talents or request additional songs. 
 
This could have gone on all night, but Mr. Ens approached the stage and spoke into the mike. “I have one announcement to make. As you know it’s 11:30 pm New Jersey time so those of you who haven’t posted your limit of two posts for the day, you have another half hour.” 
 
Silence reigned over the hall as everyone took out their cell phones and madly finished their post for the day.

Author Notes Notes:
This follows what happened in what Jim Wile wrote in his version.

To hear the song mentioned:




Chapter 38
Bill's Version

By Rachelle Allen

 
Arriving late, he pulled up to the hotel where he was greeted by a younger man who asked for the keys to his pick-up truck.

Bill tossed him the keys and the man sped off. Then, another young man stepped up and asked for twenty dollars for the cover charge.

"I did not realize that there was a cover charge here," Bill said.

"Twenty bucks, sir."

Digging into his pin-money pouch, Bill extracted a saw buck, a fin, a two-dollar bill, a single, and a roll of nickels.

Looking at Bill, the man asked for a check instead.

"Sure," he said, patting his brightly colored jacket for the location of his check book. "To whom should I make it out?"

"Cash. It'll be for a hundred."

"What?!"

"Yeah. There's ten for the cover charge, twenty for the valet parking, chip in of twenty for the door prize, and fifty fa da fluffle fa fa frem..."

"I did not understand that last part."

"Who does -- right?"

After that man left with the check, Bill approached the entrance of the hotel.

Out from the front came a young woman wearing an orange set of work clothes.

"Got a car, dude?" she asked. "I'm your val-ET."

"I gave the keys to a fellow who drove it away to park it."

Chuckling a bit, she asked, "Was it a nice car or a heap?"

"A pickup truck."

"Well, it will likely be loaded with black market blueberries and driven to Canada."

"I will need to call the police."

Chuckling again, she said, "The cops will never respond to a dumb thing like a hot truck full of blueberries. You might be better off hiring a truck tracker to track your truck and get it back before this shindig is over."

"Will they take a check?"
 
"Let's hope -- right?"
 
"So, why are you wearing that orange getup? Halloween?"
 
"Nah, this is my community service."

Finally, Bill enters the hotel and steps into the spacious elevator in the center of the lobby.

"Hello," greeted Teri. "I see you wore a car salesman suit. Do you sell cars?"

"No. I only lose cars."

"Is that a business?"

"No, dear. It's a joke."

"Well, it has been a hard year for all businesses."

"This is a big elevator for only the two of us," Bill noted.

"There was a crowd in here earlier. They were loud and a bit crass."

"No kidding. Fanstorians?"
 
"Methodists," she grumbled.
 
The elevator doors opened and the party was in full tilt.
 
Roy was boxing with a kangaroo. Wendy kept pushing him back into the animal, just to be booted back. 
 
Sandra and Dolly were doing Near Beer shots and trying to play O Canada with their arm pits. Gloria provided the bass by jugging soda water and belching. 
 
"Brits couldn't carry a tune in a tea bag," she said, before burping up a show-stopping BRAHH.
 
Rachelle saw Bill and walked over, leaving some woman with her head firmly planted in a bowl of potato salad. 
 
"You must be Bill," she greeted, "or Santa Claus. I hardly recognized you without your sea worm attire."
 
"I left it by the sea."
 
"Oh -- wait; was that humor? You are so funny. Like a clown. Like a court jester. A fool!"
 
"Ah, thanks?"
 
"Let me introduce you to my good friend and fellow traveler -- Gretchen."
 
Bill smiles and extends his arm. "Hi, Gretchen."
 
"Lose your razor, Bill boy?"
 
"Yes, it ran away with a spoon."
 
"He's a fool!" said Rachelle.
 
"Hey, Bill!" came a shout from a small group. It was Nomi, standing with Karen, and Jim.
 
"I was hoping you'd get here so I could make fun of you," said Nomi.
 
"Sorry I left my sea worm suit by the seaside."
 
"That's okay. You still pull off the wormy look."
 
"Do you recognize my beautiful red hair, Bill?" asked Karen.
 
"Is that from the Ann Margaret collection," asked Jim. 
 
"Your hair is lovely," said Bill, then turning to Rachelle and pointing at Jim.   "He's funny."
 
Rachelle smiled, then pointed at him saying, "A fool!"
 
Bill saw Lyenochka by the elevator talking to Sally and Tom Ens. But, they saw him, and scattered like  ribbons from a joy popper. 
 
After making a few more gladhands, Bill took the elevator down to the lobby.
 
At the front door he was greeted by the younger man who had "borowed" his truck. By the looks of it he had kept it out of the ditches. There would be some serious scrubbing needed to remove the purple stains from the truck bed. 
 
The guy thanked Bill for the use of the vehicle and gave him a share of the profits -- in Canadian currency.
 
 
The End
 
 

 









 

Author Notes Image from Google


Chapter 39
The End of the Road(trip)

By Rachelle Allen

            No sooner have I pushed the face of my “twinsie” – Jane Babies – into the potato salad then I feel my cell phone vibrate with a text. Caller ID alerts me that it’s Rebekah.

        “I hope you are doing well and that your convention is fun. I miss you. I love Maria. She took me to see Wicked today in NYC. It was AMAZING! I love music, but performing it will never be my career. Rachelle, I miss my family and my simple life. Can you please come get me and take me home?”

        I hurl a handful of glazed carrots at Jane and watch with deep satisfaction as they splay across her forehead on impact. They leave gooey brown tracks down each side of her nose like a pair of Olympic dirt bike riders.

        Where’s my low-class Dixie chick? She would be so totally impressed by this. I know for a fact that she would immediately award me six stars.

Bullhorns resonate throughout the ballroom as police swarm in and tell us to put down whatever we have in our hands.

        I catch sight of Gretchen’s black strappy sandals peeking out from beneath the table. I kneel, lift the tablecloth and gape at my roommate. Like a squirrel in November with acorns, she is cramming Swedish meatballs into her mouth two at a time. Unlike the squirrels, however, my little Steel Magnolia has tossed aside every Southern grace she ever acquired and is swilling wine right from the mouth of the bottle.

        “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I say, not even caring that I sound like a losing coach in the locker room at half-time. “There are POLICE here!”

        Gretchen holds up her index finger to indicate I need to hold that thought a second. She polishes off her last two meatballs, gives me an apologetic smile, then drains the remaining wine.

        Suddenly, stripper music fills the convention hall.

        “Whoa! I’m thinking they weren’t the real police,” says Gretchen.

        “Nonetheless, we’ve got to go,” I tell her. “Rebekah’s done with Rumspringa.”

        We extricate ourselves from beneath the table and nearly careen into Mrs. KT and Dolly. I have an epiphany.

        “Diane, did you drive here?” I ask Mrs. KT.

        “Yes,” she answers.

        “Do you need a better experience than this one?” I ask her, opening my arms to the debauchery-laden scene before us.

        At this point, septuagenarian Begin Again is getting a lap dance from two “policemen,” and Lancellot is doing hula moves in his hotel-issued white bathrobe, splattered now, like a Jackson Pollack painting, with colorful offerings from the buffet table.

        “Yes!” she exclaims without hesitation.

        “Do you care that it would be over two hours away?” I ask.

        “Absolutely NOT!” says Diane. Her Northern Michigan accent has ratcheted to a near-yelp. “The further away from here, the better!”

        “And Dolly?” I say, turning to the sleek British beauty in gold sequins. “Would you like to see a much classier view of America?”

        “Would I EVER!” she says as our four sets of eyes get drawn toward Lancellot who’s now yodeling and swinging his robe tie above his head like a lasso.

        “Then follow us,” I say.

        We sneak out and catch the private elevator that leads to Gretchen’s and my suite.

        Once there, we share the story of Old Reliable and Rebekah, as well as that of Maria and her private music school. Then, for good measure, we throw in several vignettes starring Jane.

        The women listen with rapt fascination.

        “If you ever write about this,” Diane says, “you’ll have to list it as ‘fiction.’ Who would ever believe this could happen in real life!”

        “Agreed!” says Dolly.

        “So how about if you follow us to Long Island so we can attend Rebekah’s recital together, then follow us to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to drop her off and say our goodbyes?”

        “This is better than anything I could have imagined!” says Dolly.

        “Thank you,” says Diane and gives me a good hug.

        Less than an hour later, we have all cleaned up and are en route to Maria’s. I have texted her to let her know, and in her ever-gracious way, her response is, “Can’t wait!”

        We head out with Gretchen at the wheel of my car, me riding shotgun, and Diane and Dolly following close behind in Diane’s vehicle.

        When we pull into Maria’s driveway, we receive a Deja-vu-But-Better greeting because this time both Maria and Rebekah are running from the front door with their arms reaching out for hugs.

        We introduce Dolly and Diane, and Maria ushers us all inside. There, we share every detail of the outrageous FanStory International Convention, as well as the pre-convention red-carpet fashion show spoof in our suite.

        Maria is laughing so hard that she has to get a towel from the kitchen to sop up her tears. More than once, she says, “Wait – tell us that part again!” And when we do, we all get hysterical with laughter all over again.

        At midnight, we break up the festivities and head to our respective rooms, with the understanding that, at ten the next day, we will get to hear Rebekah perform.

        I’m on my bed, reading a text from Jim Wile that asks where Gretchen and I are, then relays that Diane and Dolly are both MIA. I explain the situation and request that he pass the word.

        Just then, there is a quiet knock on my door.

        It’s Rebekah. We pull up chairs next to each other in the cozy seating area of the room.

        “You’re not disappointed in me, are you?” she asks. “You’ve done so much – and I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”

        “Oh, Sweetie,” I say, “the whole point of Rumspringa is to help you sort out what path you do or do not want for your life.” She gives me the sweetest smile. “So, isn’t it wonderful that you have that figured out now?”

        She nods. “Do you think I should have given it more time, though?”

        “Have you talked it through with G-d?” I ask.

        “Yes!” The answer rushes out of her so quickly and emphatically that it actually carries a little squeak at the end. “I’ve done nothing BUT talk about it to Him since I arrived.”

        “Then what further time do you need?” I ask. “You can trust your instincts, and you can certainly trust G-d’s answer.”

        She looks me squarely in the eyes. “I love you,” she says simply. “You are a wonderful gift that Gott brought me.”

        “Ditto,” I tell her. “Ditto in THE biggest way imaginable, Sweetheart.”

        In the morning, the FanStory Four meet in the gorgeous Recital Hall of Maria’s impressive facility and sit in the front row, excited for the impending performance.

        Maria takes the stage and says, as if to a packed house, “Good morning! And welcome to this landmark event. My student, Rebekah, might be new to this school, but she is an old soul of a musician. For this recital, she will be performing O Mio Babbino Caro by Giacomo Puccini. After that, we have a wonderful surprise for you.”

        Rebekah enters, and the four of us draw a collective breath. She is indescribably beautiful in her perfect black recital dress, with her glossy, waist-length auburn hair held back with a sparkly black headband. The cameo necklace could not be a more fitting accessory.

        She looks nervous, and yet there is a steely resolve in those radiant blue eyes. The term that applies is “Recital Ready.”

        She’s not even four notes in, and we in the audience are all dabbing at our eyes with tissues. We savor what we recognize immediately as one of those rare, perfect moments of life.

        Our applause and calls of “Bravo!” are tumultuous as Rebekah takes her bow, and we continue them well after she stands back up and smiles.

        Maria returns to the mic and says, “And now, we’ll have my former voice and piano teacher, Rachelle Allen, come to the stage and join Rebekah for a duet from the musical Wicked. It’s called “For Good.”

        We had worked on it the previous night, after our chat, in Rebekah’s sound-proof bedroom/practice suite. I was touched beyond words when she suggested we also perform it together at her recital. Originally, I’d said, “No,” because I didn’t want to horn in on her debut. But then, I had no choice after she said, “But the lyrics perfectly describe our relationship, Rachelle. Please?”

        I’ve been a performer since third grade when I was cast as The Patridge in the Pear Tree in our school’s rendition of The Twelve Days of Christmas, but never have I loved performing more than at that moment with my beloved Rebekah. All the Jane memories in the world can never take away from that joy.

        After an enormous homemade meal, we all extend our thanks and appreciation to Maria, who gives each of us a bag full of goodies for the ride to Lancaster. I watch her give extra hugs and a loving smooch on the cheek to Rebekah, and then she does likewise with me.

        “You are second to none,” I tell her. “Thank you for your unequaled generosity.”

        “That’s like thanking me for eating ice cream,” she says with a mischievous smirk.

        “Hey! That’s MY line!” I mock-protest.

        “Well, I’m just showing off one more facet of what I learned from you,” she says with her charisma-laden smile.

        The drive to Lancaster is pensive, like the feeling in a hospital room before someone is wheeled away for open-heart surgery.

        When we finally drive up the long, gravel path from the road to the two houses, Hannah’s voice can be heard like a fire whistle.
 

        “SHE’S HERE!!! REBEKAH IS HOME!! REBAKAH IS HOME!”

        Helene is doing a bona fide run from the house, and rushing in from the fields are Simeon and Solomon. Even Ezra is hurrying.

        Rebekah disembarks from our car and, like Cinderella after midnight, is once again wearing her long blue dress, apron and cap.

        Her family encircles her and holds her tight for a very long time. Gretchen, Dolly, Diane and I are actually quite grateful for their extended embrace because it gives us time to regain our own composure, as well.

        When they finally break apart, Rebekah introduces them to Diane and Dolly, who are both quick to marvel to Helene about the beauty of her gardens.

        While the men return to the fields, Helene herds us, her weary travelers, into the house, where she fortifies us with heaping ladles of – G-d help me – pork butt soup that is still warm from lunch. I opt out and wait for the blueberries in cream.

        Afterward, I see Gretchen sensing that the hard part is near. “Hey,” she says to Dolly and Diane, “come with me. I want to show you the hot springs before we head out.”

        “We’ll go with you, too,” says Helene. “Come on, Hannah.”

        They follow her out, leaving Rebekah and me to stand and stare at each other. In the next instant, we watch each other’s eyes fill up with tears. Then we hug and cry into each other’s shoulders because there are no words right now that will suffice.

        A video begins to play in my mind of how this unusual relationship came into being. How G-d’s most beautiful of plans was bestowed upon a simple Amish girl and a frou-frou leopard-loving music teacher who thought corn cobs were hair curlers, all because of a car named Old Reliable that broke down en route to a writer’s convention.

        What a story it will be for us to tell for the remainder of our lives.

Author Notes


Chapter 40
End of the Road(trip)

By Rachelle Allen

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are on their way to the FanStory Convention in Atlantic City when they break down in the heart of Amish country. After a few days, they arrange for a ride and pick up a woman named Jane. Upon arriving at the convention, more things go awry. This trip will prove full of memories and a few detours.

***********************************************************************************************

I can hear the laughter and the clink of glasses through the bathroom door. Even though I was probably the only one at the convention that didn't get pelted with food, I felt dirty. Dirty that poor Tom had to answer for this. Tom had always been something like the Wizard in Oz, at least to me. I wasn't even sure there was a Tom, but there he was, under the table with me. I cringe at the ill timed request for more stars and hope he thought I was merely in my cups.

I come out, hair wrapped in the lush hotel towel and my pajamas. Diane and Dolly are cozy on the couch, each holding a glass of wine, I search for Rachelle and look towards her closed bedroom door. "Is she alright?"

"She's calling her husband. If anyone can calm her down, it's Bobby." Diane says, pausing to sip her wine.

"Well, that was a hell of a party, wasn't it?" I sigh. I shake my head when they offer a glass to me. I'm still a little tipsy.

Rachelle comes back into the room and smiles broadly. "Well, ladies, are either of you up for a road trip?"

And, just like that, we are on our way to pick up Rebekah. According to Rachelle, she had made her decision to return to her life in Pennsylvania. I can't help but smile.

**********************************************************************************************

With Diane and Dolly following us, we head back down the interstate to Maria's. Rachelle ended up talking Rebekah into performing in her recital.

"Do you think Rebekah was really that gifted or did you just want her to see what she might be able to achieve outside of the confines of her religion?"

Rachelle shrugs. "I think everyone needs to leave their comfort zone once in a while. Without discomfort, there is no growth."

"Wonder how I grew after this past week?"

"Did you really ask Tom for more stars, in the midst of hell breaking loose last night?" she asks, a playful smile on her face.

"I did. Then I asked him to get me a bottle of wine. He was quite charming. You would have liked him."

She cocks her eyebrow. "Maybe," she says.

*********************************************************************************************

I'm not a musical person. I stay away from plays, concerts and karaoke bars. But here I was sandwiched between Dolly and Diane, with Rachelle on the aisle seat. I am not prepared for the sound that comes from Rebekah. I feel a chill run down my spine. I am unprepared for the tears that threaten to break free through my lashes. It is the sweetest sound I have ever heard. I can't take my eyes off of her and feel a helplessness as I can't look away.

When I finally feel the spell broken, I glance around me. I wasn't the only victim of her angelic voice. We were a room full of disciples. The church of Rebekah was now in session.

In a way, I feel sorry that the rest of the world won't have the privilege of hearing her sing. But when we take her home, I realize she has made the right choice. She is where God wants her to be.

**********************************************************************************************

As the bridge over the Albemarle Sound comes into view, I think about how different I was when I left here. My home is just fifteen minutes from here. I wonder if anyone will notice the difference in me. I can't wait to see the faces of my family, sleep in my own bed and drink coffee on my porch. This was the trip of a lifetime and I met so many amazing people. Taking a trip with a Jewish Yankee fashionista, who I had nothing in common with other than a snarky sense of humor, was my first step out of my comfort zone. The whole Amish experience was another. Then the fashion show, the convention, Jane Babies, the recital, and driving my newly repaired Suburban, by myself, from a service station just outside of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to my home here on the Outer Banks, these were all things I'd never done, and never thought I would. I owed that fiery little red head a debt of gratitude. Not just for saving the day and the deluxe accommodations at the hotel, but for becoming a real friend. Someone who put up with my silly antics and reminded me to see the good in everyone.

Every good story needs a drama, some comedy, misunderstanding or misdirection. But one of the most important things is people you care about, come to know and root for.

I met a lot of characters this past week, and almost all of them I wish the best (with one exception). Putting faces to names I have gotten to know on FanStory has been a blessing. We are all real people. We have families and lives that sometimes spill over into our on line connections.

Maybe there won't be a FanStory convention next year. Tom seemed pretty pissed when we were checking out of the hotel. I do know one thing, sometimes detours happen. Instead of looking at it as an inconvenience, try to enjoy the trip. Detours can lead to all sorts of wonderful destinations.

Author Notes thank you to Rachelle Allen for jumping in with both feet as neither of us knew where it was taking us. Then for the all the wonderful reviews and the adding your own takes to the party. I don't think I've ever had so much fun writing a story. Who knows, maybe Rachelle and I will meet up again. Stranger things have happened.


Chapter 69
Conventionally Yours

By Rachelle Allen

 
 

Stranded out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, with no hope to be had, I was crying like I had lost my dog, when Marilyn and I heard a rumbling. We saw cattle, and horses with riders! We are saved, at least I hope so. 

 

Zelda Strindmeyer saved our trip. She had seen a young calf skedaddle in our direction.  She had a face that should be sculpted in clay. She was at least 70 if she was a day ample but firm. As she slid down her horse " Attila". She said, "Cell phones don't work out here, but that she would use her satellite phone to get us picked up, and her guys would see what the problem was and we could go up to the house."

 

There should be another name for her house. She had no idea how many rooms it had, but looked like the senior class at my high school could move in with room to spare. 

 

She said, "The bigger the spread got, the more people they needed, and since everyone needed housing, they just kept adding on." They fed us, watered us, and told us all kinds of stories, some true, and, I expect some not. Our mood was vastly improved. I imagine we will write some of these up.

 

It was the water pump, after all. She wouldn't accept money; she said,"She didn't need it, but since we were writers, we could earn our supper by telling them some new stories."

 

Marilyn and I pulled out our computers and kept them entertained all night. We were a big hit. Rusty gave me some long looks. I wonder if he is near-sighted.

 

They asked us to stay a while, but we had places to be. But we said, "We might stop back on our way home." They promised us all the ribs and BBQ corn we could eat if we did.

 

We left in the morning happy, well fed, and with good directions and pointed in the right direction. I even let Marilyn drive.

 

When we got to the convention. We tidied up and went down to the banquet hall. We both felt a sizzling go up and down our bodies. We both looked and felt 45! Our boobs were back to sitting up,  we looked and felt our very best. I was back to 115 lbs and I was in my contacts, my face was all made up, and my dress was plastered on me. Marilyn said, "She doesn't know what this is, but it is not going to last, and it is not really real, so she is going to have fun."

 

I said, "Me too!"  I saw Ric my World on the stage. He looks just like his picture. We knew everyone, it was amazing.  Lancelot and Jim Wilie were chunking fruit salad at each other and  Gretchen was hiding under the big table eating deviled eggs.

 

Barbara Wilkey and Beth Shelby were  at a card table writing furiously and laughing.

 

Helen and Carol(BeginAgain) were trying to mop up Debi Maquette , it looks like she got the worst of the "Pistachio Surprise". Carol's hair is glorious. I thought with her screen name Helen would look more Russian. 

 

Ric saw me, jumped down off the stage, and came and planted a good one on me. He said, "You cleaned up real nice.

I said, "You are no slouch either." 

He said, "Everyone looks no more than 45.

 

 Everyone was rushing at us. Marilyn said, "I am going to have a talk with Douglas about tree frogs."

 

I asked Ric how long he thought this would last? He said, "I don't know but I have ideas about you, will we remember when this ends?" 

"I don't know. If we leave the room will we turn back into old farts," I asked?

 

I said, "Look, GoWisit and Neonewman are getting off the elevator, they look the same. Look at the other elevator , Boy those guys look great. F. William Lester, Jesse, and Esostine look so young. Everyone is healthy."

 

Ric said, " I am going to dance with you before you are overrun with new guys."

We danced three songs before we were pounced on.  Karenia grabbed him and Jim Vecchio grabbed me. I danced with Wayne Fowler, Roy Owen, and Simian. He has flaming red hair by the way.

 

After Ric finished dancing with Carol Hillbrenner, BrendaStrauser, and Pam Lonsdale, we went to see if there were any ribs left.

 

Everyone is so youthful and gorgeous. Tempest is nearly as little as me. And Sanku said,"If she knew this would happen she would have arrived sooner."

 

Pam Lonsdale was laughing so hard she was crying, she pointed at the dance floor. Pateclaw and "TOM" were trying to outdo Dolly and Bill Shott on swing dancing.  I looked at Ric, he looked at me, and off we went.  I don't remember ever having so much fun.

 

Tom Horonzy paired up with Pam Respa, And Tom Botts paired up with Debbi Darcy. For a bunch of old farts we weren't half bad.   We went back to the table and Rachel was still picking bits of egg salad out of her hair. Jane had been whisked off to the hoosegow, it seems she had quite the record for being a public nuisance, Gretchen was talking to Mz. Stoner-Mitchell about plot twists in children's stories.

 

We all met up around noon the next day and went to the Boardwalk to play games and  ride the ferris wheel.  Rachel wanted to buy salt water taffy, but Gretchen reminded her that tomorrow she would not be able to eat it. We all figured out that  tomorrow morning we would be back to normal. Ric and I excused ourselves. He said, "I sure would like to be with you."

 

I asked, " Do you still think we will even remember it?"

"It will be tattooed on our hearts," he said. What a good talker he is.  In fact, he was rather good at everything.

 

I am writing this now in case it disappears with the dawn.  I am in my room now. We did not want our memories marred by us watching each other's transformation.

 

Sign me up for next year! 


 

 

Author Notes Picture from Pinterest, I humbly apologize for those of you at the party I did not meet. Maybe we will see each other next year.

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