Category: Writing

ANDREA BAKER: The Girl in the Red Bathing Suit

He was sitting in the orchestra pit, listening to the rants of the conductor. Would the guy just get on with it? It was time for the swim-suit competition – the run-through before tomorrow night’s Miss Oklahoma Pageant. And the conductor wasn’t happy with the intro to the music. At least he wasn’t happy with the way the orchestra had played it. But the assistant director had told the conductor the girls were getting restless backstage.

The girls, the girls. Wasn’t that the only reason he’d taken this job – the fine- tuned graduate of Tulsa University. What a nice view to have while you played cheesy show music. Of course the bread was nice, but there were other gigs – going on the road with Stan’s band for example which would happen in just a few short weeks. He’d been called by the band manager and asked to join the famous orchestra as lead alto saxophonist and jazz soloist. His career upon graduation was getting off to a brilliant start.

“Stop daydreaming back there!” His head snapped to attention when he realized the conductor was shouting at him. “All, right – let’s try it again…with the girls.”

The conductor kicked off the band and the bossa nova began.

He played his part perfectly the way he’d played it all evening during the damned rehearsal. He wasn’t the one who kept messing up. And then a bevy of long legs swept into his peripheral. One was more lovely than the next – there was a blonde in a green suit, a red-head in a blue one, a petite little thing all in white…then… he stopped playing. The tall brunette floated by in flaming red. Her dark brown locks cascaded down her back and nearly rested on her perfectly shaped derriere. Mile-long legs stretched to the floor, pouring into crimson spiked heels. She twisted down the runway, made a sweeping turn then headed back toward the stage. She smiled broadly, lips glistening scarlet. She looked straight ahead, her posture as perfect as her walk. He realized he still hadn’t played a note but what did it matter?

As she reached the area next to him in the pit he shot up out of his seat. “Hey, babe …where you from?”

“What?” she nearly tumbled over as she came to a stop.

“Where are you from?” He grinned from ear to ear.

“Uh, Muskogee.”

“Yeah? I’m from Bartlesville.”

“Oh.” She looked embarrassed.

“Wilkerson! This is not the dating game!” The conductor’s baton rapped frantically on his music stand bringing the orchestra to a halt.

Confusion crossed the girl’s face as she turned to the conductor. But Wilkerson paid him no mind. “Where do you go to school?”

“I… start Tulsa University in the fall…” she stammered.

“I just graduated from there…I’m going on the road with Stan Kenton in a couple weeks. We should get together after…”

“Wilkerson…sit down!”

He sat back down and took the sax back to his lips. The music started once more. The girl began walking again but with her head turned back. Their eyes remained glued to one another. And then she dipped backstage out of sight.

Wilkerson was fired from the orchestra that night. But he went on to tour with
the Stan Kenton Orchestra. Then he moved to Los Angeles, married a girl from San Diego, did television and film work and led the typical life of a musician in LA. But he could never forget that image walking down that runway.

Three years later, he was divorced. When he returned home he looked up the girl. He proposed on their third date. They have been happily married for twenty-seven years. And he still likes to tell the story of the girl in the red bathing suit.

Andrea Baker

NELLE DE LA CRUZ: The Promise

He was at a wedding, with family all around. The church spire reached into a blue sky, with clouds, it seemed to Liam, placed just right to frame the architecture. He inhaled the rich smell of earth, newly green trees and fresh-mowed turf that formed the perfect background for the white stone steps and the brilliant flowers carried by the bride and her attendants. The men stood in gray morning suits, a solid backdrop for the cluster of pink- and blue-dusted bridesmaids, all young and effervescent as champagne. Everything shone clean, crisp and elegant.

The young man realized the others in his family would remember it exactly like that. They were town people mostly, this day at the English country church only a trip to a picturesque spot suitable for the perfect wedding.

For young Liam it was different. Sure, he admired his cousin Rafe. But it wasn’t worth enduring all this folderol. How could Rafe stand it? The gauzy-eyed bride, the chittering attendants, and Rafe’s glazed look. Totally boring.

Still, Liam couldn’t miss this chance to see Arbot’s Abbey. The trip to his cousin Rafe’s wedding near the village was a pilgrimage. Someday, somehow he’d own a piece of this land. If he couldn’t earn enough as an artist to keep it, he’d farm it himself. Maybe he’d be a farmer. But it was in this place he would put down roots.

Then a single instant taught Liam why his otherwise clear-headed cousin Rafe would consent to the nonsense. It was a private moment only Liam might have seen when a young member of the Archer clan performed some antic and everyone’s attention focused on the little boy. But Liam caught the bride look up at her new husband, her look a pledge, full of affirmation and hope. Rafe had taken her hand and now, set a light kiss on his bride’s ring, promising with his own eyes.

Swallowing and red-faced Liam had to look away, anywhere, and saw the youngest flower girl, Daphne, who couldn’t be more than eight. The little girl turned her face towards his, her gray child-eyes solemn. And knowing, as if she understood what they had both witnessed. Then she looked clear inside him and uncovered the unexpected effect of that exchange between bride and groom on his own heart.

Maybe it was the juxtaposition of so many female Archer profiles: old, middle-aged, teens and babies, all with the same fine cheek bones. Or more likely his artist’s eye that nagged him to see, compare and capture. But for whatever reason, he could see Daphne Wells-Archer and picture her at 10, or 14 – his own age- or as she grew to young womanhood and flowered.

Looking at her fine brown hair above clear eyes, it didn’t take much imagination to project a Daphne grown up and beautiful. No, handsome. She’d never be beautiful. Her nose was just a little too long, her teeth not quite straight. But he could see her in years to come, middle-aged, old, even, with those same clear eyes, fine cheekbones and elegant posture.

As Daphne scratched the side of her nose, Liam noticed the grace of her hand and slender, feminine fingers. The next moment, he watched her dart away from the others to chase one of the church cats. Fat, black and gray, the cat kept to the shadows and delicately treaded the worn stone path around the side of the church to the graveyard. Dropping her basket of petals, Daphne caught him. Then she gathered the large cat in her arms and sat on a stone bench on the shady side of the church.

Liam sauntered over. The cat purred against Daphne’s satin bodice as she stroked him. Liam realized he was only just old enough to have outgrown doing just what the girl had. He smiled a little at himself and when she looked up, he winked at her like a co-conspirator.

He leaned over. “Don’t worry. I won’t scold you about spoiling your dress.” Daphne grinned at him and hunched her shoulders as she hugged the cat.

They spent ten minutes listening to the cat purr and then walked in the dappled sunlight between the gravestones. In lively contrast to the somber yard, the extravagant lace hem of her pink dress fluttered over her ballet slippers. She remembered her basket and fetched it, dropping a couple of petals on one of the graves.

“Come on. It’s time for pictures.” Liam sent her a rueful look and she sighed.

“Well, if I must.” Her small voice floated against the whisper of the leaves. He laughed.

“Want a ride back?” Without waiting for an answer he lifted her up, basket and all, to place her on his shoulders, her white-stockinged legs dangling on each side of his face. She giggled and wriggled to get her seat ensconced.

“Get your ruffles out of my eyes and don’t fidget.” This made Daphne giggle even more. He held her legs securely above the knees as she showered him with petals, laughing harder, her voice cascading, bell-like and innocent.

The cat trailed them back to the front of the church.
“Here you are, Daphne and Liam! Good, you found her.” The feathers on Aunt Sophia’s ridiculous hat bobbed as she nodded to him.

“We’ve been keeping each other out of mischief.” He lifted Daphne from his shoulders to set her down.

Daphne smiled again and curtsied. “We kept ourselves from being bored.” Aunt Sophia laughed.

Liam bent over Daphne’s hand and said, “Get over there and look dignified for a moment, you imp. You’re part of the picture.”

“Of course, silly. I’m in the center.” She marched off to stand patiently as they all posed and posed again.

Liam wondered what Daphne would be like in 15 years. Wondered if she’d still be wise beyond her years, would still see inside. And would her laughter still wrap itself around his heart? He vowed to find out.

Nellie de la Cruz

KITTY BUCHOLTZ: The Perfect Day (For Things to Go Wrong)

I couldn’t move.

Halfway down the aisle, I stood in my mother’s wedding dress, the beautiful bouquet my mother-in-law made me clutched in my left hand, my right hand firmly gripping my brother’s arm. And I couldn’t move.

“You okay, sis?” Michael drawled quietly.

My smile firmed as I tried not to move my lips. “I can’t move.”

“What do you mean?” He kept his gaze forward.

I hoped he didn’t think I suddenly had cold feet. I smiled confidently at John, waiting for me at the end of the aisle. Cold feet wasn’t the problem. Stuck feet was the problem! I’d practiced bouncing down the aisle last night in a cute little sundress, not a floor-length dress. When I stepped up onto the riser where our church served communion, I stepped onto the edge of my gown!

“I’m stuck,” I told Michael, still pretending to be a whispering ventriloquist.

He took his cue from me and smiled, speaking without moving his lips. “You’re what?”

“I stepped on my dress,” I hissed, smiling sweetly at the dozens of eyes all fixed on me.

“Step back and try again.”

Easier said than done. I tried to move my feet without looking like I was backing out of the church. Finally, my smile brightened and I took a step forward, unencumbered by lace and tulle.

Michael and I breathed a sigh of relief. From the look of the congregation, they apparently thought I’d stopped so they could see the grand beauty of a bride on her wedding day. Well, if that was the worst thing to happen today, I thought.

Michael turned me over to John – cold, clammy-handed John. I looked up at him in surprise. He wouldn’t look at me. I turned back to our pastor. I’d shed my tears and fears last night. Perhaps John hadn’t been so lucky. I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, reassured myself when he squeezed back.

Now that I understood how easy it would be to get caught in my dress, I moved very carefully when turning or kneeling. And since my sister was at my side as the maid of honor (she’d begged me not to call her the matron of honor), I had no more near misses with the dress.

But a wedding gown isn’t the only hazard at a wedding.

As our pastor talked about the joining of two lives and two families, John and I leaned in to blow out the two candles representing our previous lives.

And my veil went flying toward the flame!

For a heartbeat, I saw it all – the flames licking up the headdress, the hysterics of the congregation, the water sprinklers coming on, the $10,000 prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos! In the next heartbeat, John yanked me back as I grabbed the veil, feeling the heat of the flame on my hand.

Whew! Another disaster averted!

But our day wasn’t over yet. And if the wedding is a portent of things to come, it certainly explains the last sixteen years! Our pastor mispronounced our last name, though we wrote it out for him phonetically. My brother-in-law dutifully took every picture people asked of him, but no one asked him to take pictures of just the bride and groom. The picture sent to the newspapers was a candid snapshot of us leaving the church, with John’s waving hand cropped off – as well as the hightop tennis shoes hanging by their laces from his fingers.

One of our favorite teachers (we were married in college – couldn’t wait any longer!) came in as we were exiting. She’d misread the invitation. “Well, I’ll be the first to congratulate you then!” she said, giving us big hugs.

When John shoved cake in my face – “Bigger, stronger, faster!” he’s always saying – I nearly fell over, my veil went flying, and I had to borrow a tissue and turn my back on our guests to get the cake from up my nose.

Friends came over to our table to talk to us as we ate, stepping back every time people dinged their glasses for us to kiss. By the third kiss, we couldn’t figure out why everyone was laughing so hard. Then we turned around to see our friends had been holding signs with “10” and “9.5” and “4” on them. John and I were the stars of the Kissing Olympics!

My favorite part was driving around town in Michael’s semi, honking his air horn. Our friends had decorated his truck in the traditional manner, and also decorated the stepladder I had to use to get in! The shocked looks from people in their cars and on the sidewalks made me laugh!

John’s favorite part was discovering on arrival at our hotel that our bridesmaids had packed his suitcase and not mine! Good thing we were planning on staying in. And it might explain why John still likes to see me in his shirts.

After we returned from our weekend honeymoon, all our friends around campus had their own favorite story. “We all pitched in to rent you a new car for the weekend, arranged for Rachel to drive you to the hotel with the mirror cocked up, and we find out you fell asleep in the back seat! You were supposed to necking and groping!”

My friends, I assure you, we’ve been making up for it ever since.

And isn’t that the best part about wedding stories? They’re usually full of smiles and laughter and fun, for the tellers and the listeners. Who can have a better start to their new life than that?

Kitty Bucholtz is an OCC/RWA member currently living in Sydney, Australia. For more on our adventures, go to http://johninaustralia.blogspot.com.

MARY CASTILLO: Mother of the Bride

“Someone murdered mis palomas,” Susan cried to John. “They were found dead this morning. What am I going to do?”

“Tamara will be okay,” John assured her. “She doesn’t need doves to get married.”

“We have to find new doves,” Susan insisted with the determination of a general planning an invasion. A crash and then smoke erupted from the kitchen and she marched across the courtyard; ready to wrangle pigeons out of the sky and put out flames with her bare hands if that’s what it would take to give her one and only daughter a perfect wedding.

There would be no drugstore bouquet, no sleepy-eyed Vegas officiate, or a 24/7 all-you-can-eat buffet reception while slot machines clanged in the background for her daughter. Instead, rose petals would cascade on Will and Tamara as they danced to an eight-piece mariachi group at sunset.

Speaking of which, where the hell were those mariachis?

“Mom,” Tamara hissed out the window of the hacienda they were renting for the day.

Susan flapped her arms at her. “Get back inside or he’ll see you!”

“Come up then!”

“One moment.”

“But-“

Didn’t Tamara realize what she was trying to do? Doves! Fire! Mariachis! Suddenly doves were spinning in her head, their wings flapping out all sound, round and round until two arms caught her as her legs gave way.

“Mom!” Susan heard Tamara yell and she mumbled, “Stay inside. Will can’t … bad luck.”

She knew without opening her eyes that it was John, his chest a warm, familiar haven. “Slow down, Susan,” he said.

“What happened?” she heard Will ask. He’ll make such a good father, she thought.

“She’s okay,” John answered. “She’s muttering something about doves, do you know what she’s talking about?”

“I was told to rent my tuxedo, wash the paint off my hands and show up on time.”

“Lucky you,” John grumbled.

“I heard that,” Susan said, the wooziness fading away. She had to get up. So much to-

“Mi vida that’s enough,” John said, catching her again when she failed to sit up. “Do you want Tamara to get married while you’re unconscious?”

“No but John-“ She began to cry. “I want it to be perfect.”

He sighed. “I love you, mi vida.” He then jerked his head at Will. “Stay with her a moment. I’ll be right back.”

She cried harder and Will told her it would be okay. But he didn’t understand! Her husband had abandoned her in most desperate hour of need. He didn’t want their daughter to have the wedding of her dreams. He didn’t care that all those hours, all that planning and dieting would all come to nothing.

“If you don’t get two white doves down here in twenty minutes I’ll-” John’s threats made Will tense.

But Susan peeked through her fingers. John stood, feet planted wide with a cell phone to his ear and his left wrist held out. Did his shoulders seem broader, his voice deeper? Her John, the young man she had pledged her life to at 2:37 a.m. on a wintry Vegas night, grew taller right before her very eyes.

She turned to Will. He was so much like her husband, her amor, her corazon. Even if the cake caught on fire or the food was cold, her daughter would marry a man who would comfort his mother-in-law; a man who would take command when her daughter couldn’t go on, who would threaten bodily harm to a stranger over two white doves.

“Mijo,” she said tenderly. “Go inside. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” His intense eyes bored into hers.

“Go tell Tamara that her father and I have everything under control. Vamos.”

A grin slowly stretched his lips. The two of them had been dying to see one another since Susan made Tamara spend the night at home.

“And tell her you love her,” Susan said before he let her go. “Always tell her that you love her.”

Mary Castillo
Author of IN BETWEEN MEN, Avon Trade
and HOT TAMARA, Cosmo’s Red Hot Read April 05
Please visit http://www.marycastillo.com/
or http://www.marycastillo.blogspot.com/