My Novel: Chapter 4

Running:

I'm going to confess right now and be upfront with you: I have run since my surgery (more than across the house in a sliding non-jolting fashion). I've RUN run. The real thing. It happened this way: One day I escorted my two little Grands down my long steep driveway to fetch the mail. As we headed back up to the house they did what ordinary 2 and 4 year olds do--they took off skipping and jumping and running. Me, being me, ran exactly 5 paces UP the driveway after them as if it was natural, which it was not many months before. Back in the good old days I almost always started my runs down that driveway (except when I drove myself to a particular trail or was in Yellowstone or some other wonderful place). And I almost always finished every run running up that steep driveway (the only exceptions being when I'd driven to some trail). It was just how I did it. A challenge I placed on myself and accepted. With my Grands giggling ahead of me that afternoon I realized what I was doing on my third step and slowed down to a walk (fast walk, mind you) after my fifth. I wanted to cry. Cry in sorrow because I couldn't run, and cry with joy because I still wanted to. 

Writing:

Secrets at Midnight: it began when I was told something to this effect: what you're writing won't sell and can't sell. You have to appeal to the masses. I was informed what appealed. This was my 1st attempt to meet that demand. I think this novel came 1 inch from being published. By the way, I did hire a ghost writer eventually... Leona Palmer Haag. Thanks to all the memebers of the many classes I took who picked this manuscript apart like I had no abilities or feelings and helped me stitch it together again until I received praise from the instructor...

If this is your 1st visit to My Novel in my blog, feel free to head on down to the bottom of this post and go to earlier posts until you get to chapter 1. I hope you enjoy my book and stick with me to the finish!

You might not like my photo slots in the middle of my blog, but I do. It's just a little metaphoric quirk I'm plagued with, so here goes: After being assured by multiple contractors and builders that my great room arches and columns were NOT structural, I decided it was time to demolish them and go for a new look. It's scary ripping into the big unknown and wondering if the house will collapse or if I've got enough perseverance and everything else required to put it back together and have it look incredible when finished. The dust has settled, but at this moment, the job isn't complete.

I'm happy to inform you that the manuscript you're reading is complete and you won't be left wondering if I'll ever finish it. I don't plan on posting daily, but don't worry, I'll return in a day or two and post again and again until this novel is completely here... unless some interested publisher pops out of nowhere and begs me to stop blogging it and offers me huge sums of money to buy it/publish it?!? Don't count on that happening! But in case it does (I can dream and imagine, right?) I will let you know and offer you (a trusty follower--so please comment to prove it) a very nice discount or maybe the end for free. Until that magical day, keep on coming back! (P.S. this is copyrighted. Please respect that.)

Secrets at Midnight

Leona Palmer Haag

Chapter 4

Words tumbled out of Matt’s phone in a mad rush, and within three seconds he had tossed out thoughts of needing a toolbox to repair something at the Washington household. “Something happened,” Jenn repeated at least ten times. “Get over here. Now. Hurry.”  Her tone wasn’t right—right for flooding, electrical sparks, or an appliance on the fritz.

She never demanded anything—or freaked. During her worst emergency she’d called and calmly asked, “Have you ever watched a house burn down?” When he arrived she met him with her baby on one hip and a fire extinguisher on the other. She could have lost it all, but her clear thinking had saved everything. She could survive leaky-pipes, smashed spiders and snakes without blinking.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Just. Hurry. Faster,” she repeated a dozen times. The staccato reminded him of a childhood toy stuck on a soundtrack. He yanked his keys from his pocket and punched the garage door opener. He was in his car before she moved to a new sound byte.

“What's wrong?” he asked, exiting the garage as the door lifted, his car clearing it by a thin layer of polish.

She sucked in a breath and her voice regained a measure of control. “Just come.”

Matt powered his Toyota across town as his mind ranged over possible problems: A broken appliance? No, he’d fixed everything in the Washington home twice already. She’d fought with Monica? That didn't seem logical. Monica was excellent at defusing trouble and wouldn’t nuke Jenn. If there’d been a battle, Monica would have called him, even though she wasn’t inclined to tattle. Katie? If the baby were sick, Monica could be on her cell phone asking a doctor how to revive her. Rounding a corner, Matt practically pushed the curb out of the way. “Put Monica on the phone,” he demanded.

Jenn ignored his request and sniffled.

Crying? A new picture flashed—Jenn posing as a storm cloud because Monica had irritated her. But had he ever heard her cry before? His mental search landed on zero—except when they were kids and one of his fast pitches slammed into her stomach. And once when she was maybe eight or nine and swore someone with a knife the size of a sickle was hiding under her trailer house—but that was after she sat up half the night eating ice cream and watching scary movies.

Jenn whimpered, “Where are you?”

“Passing Wal-Mart.” He glanced at the clock pushing two. “Is Katie okay?” Sobs and words tumbled out in reply. He deciphered her baby was sleeping, and relaxed a few degrees.

“How soon will you get here?”

“Three or four minutes.” If Katie was okay, there couldn’t be much wrong, and if it concerned Monica, he’d eventually talk the women into patching things up. “What's going on?”

Silence. As it grew, Matt pressed the gas pedal toward the floor. The rear view mirror revealed no flashing red and blue. Jenn finally whispered, “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

Usually she communicated—could talk circles around him—so silence made no sense. “Put Monica on. I want to talk to her,” he demanded. His wife would answer questions and reveal secrets, perhaps encrypted, but he’d have a substantial idea of what to expect when he arrived.

“I’ll talk when you get here,” she replied. The line grew silent except for Jenn’s short breaths.

Clearly Matt was caught between his wife and his best friend. They’d force him to choose a side. He’d always known it would happen someday—but couldn’t it wait a few centuries? To work through the problem, Matt shifted into a calming mode and mentally timed Jenn’s breaths. Choppy. Uneven. “You okay?” he asked.

She squeaked a hybrid answer, “Ye-nop,” sounding like a scared puppy.

In another setting he would have laughed. “Which is it?”

“Are you here yet?”

She’d avoided him again, making him wonder how unpleasant the women’s fight had been. Jenn must want him on her side before Monica shared her version. He took a deep breath and prepared for the inevitable—playing middleman. “What's going on? Hand Monica the phone. Let me talk to her.”

Jenn remained silent, her breathing never altering.

Slamming his fist on the steering wheel, Matt’s thoughts shouted, Come on kid, give me a crumb, will you?

Jenn’s voice quivered. “Can you please hurry?”

If Jenn, the pro of talk and tell was silent, things weren’t good. And with Monica equally mum, things were worse. Matt dumped the blame on Nick. If his work associate were home Monica never would have visited Jenn, and something horrendous never would have happened. Monica would be home instead of....

He had no clue where Monica was—with Jenn, or racing for the border—Oklahoma or Mexico. Had the women flung back and forth: My husband’s better than yours, my life’s better than yours, my lifestyle’s better than yours. He couldn’t picture them stooping that low. So far they’d kept their battles civil—rivalry and competition—rather than rage. Things must have changed.

“I'm almost there, kid,” Matt said, slamming on the brakes. “Just stopping at the light. Tell me what’s happening while I wait. It’ll turn green faster.”

“Run the red.”

Couldn’t she give any clues? Even half a clue? And while he was driving like a maniac, had he passed Monica traveling the opposite direction? The light turned green and he floored the gas, wondering if he was heading the right direction. Should he turn around and go home?

He didn’t slow down. He’d finish this job with Jenn before moving on to handle the next one with his wife. Like a miracle worker he’d appease two women in one night. He took the last turn wide, missed a tree, and swore under his breath when he saw what lay ahead. Two police cruisers sat in front of the Washington house. A sheriff’s truck stood in the driveway and a blue uniformed giant manned the porch. The Washington house looked like Christmas on a summer night—everything lit up.

Bracing himself for the worst, Matt pushed open his car door, glad there was no ambulance present. “Matthew Jensen. Family friend. Jenn called me,” he said, approaching the front porch. He was nodded inside.

Looking small and defenseless, Jenn occupied a corner of the front room sofa with her legs tucked beneath her. Cuddled in her lap, Katie slept in a pile of blankets. Matt sprang forward and knelt before her. “What’s going on? Where's Monica?”

“All you can ask is where’s Monica?” Jenn sniffled. Her eyes darted around the room.

He jumped to his feet, looking for something he’d obviously missed. His eyes took in a policeman raising from a chair in the corner and closing the gap between him and Jenn, a sheriff shutting the door behind him as he left, Katie's dark eyelashes resting on her pink cheeks, Jenn's fingers clutching her baby. Nothing else. No Monica. His focus returned to the woman who’d summoned him. “Where’s, Monica?”

The policeman spoke. “Monica?”

“Did you bring her with you?” Jenn asked.

All assumptions vanished as he said, “My wife. No.” No one spoke as he stepped back several times until his legs hit a chair and he sank down. “I—I thought she might already be here. She said she’d stop by today to check on you.” His eyes scanned Jenn, then the officer. “What's going on?”

The police officer handed off the interrogation, nodding toward Jenn.

“Something terrible happened,” she whispered, then halted. Time ticked away. Matt leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and waited. Silence. Although the grandfather clock thundered twenty-eight ticks—he counted.

Finally the officer spoke up. “Mr. Jensen, she's afraid to be alone. We've looked around, but nothing's out of place. We’re no longer needed here.” He turned to Jenn. “Mrs. Washington, we'll send an officer around several times tonight to keep an eye on things. Call if you need us.” Seconds later the door closed behind him, leaving them alone.

“Lock it,” Jenn gasped. Matt rose, but didn’t move fast enough. “Hurry!” she demanded.

He bolted the door and turned back. “Mind telling me what happened, kid?”

She slowly nodded, but said nothing.

“Is that a yes you mind, or a yes, you will? At this hour, it might be best to tell me everything.” He glanced at his watch.

More silence, reminding him of hundreds of times he’d tried to pull information from her as kids, only to be flooded when the dam broke. He prepared for it now as eternity passed. His eyes drifted around the room seeking hints. None. Nothing out of place, and Jenn’s demeanor reveled zilch. The open-book kid sometimes proved a difficult puzzle. 

Matt ran several possible events through his mind, but all proved pointless without further information. Only Jenn’s hands stirred, tying and untying a fringed knot on the edge of Katie’s blanket. Finally her tongue loosed, and in a barely audible whisper she said, “Promise to believe me.”

Eager, but unwilling to reveal it, he leaned forward. “I'll believe every word.”

She paused and he bit back piles of questions he’d mentally accumulated to shoot her way. He’d eventually fire them, and she’d answer each to his satisfaction.

END Chapter 4

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Se ya'll later!