Remembering Diane

To spite running the air condition at the highest setting, the heat of the south Florida sun was penetrating the tinted windows of her new SUV; a gift to herself.  The SUV travel south on I-95 – bearing the signs of a very long trip – paper cups, wrappers and half-eaten Twizzlers strewn haphazardly across the passenger’s seat.    She raked through her long, red hair with one hand and lifted it into a ponytail, allowing the breeze to bathe her neck in momentary coolness.  Finally, road signs were announcing her approach to Miami Beach, home of the Kensington Hotel, her surprising legacy from her father.     That long-familiar twinge of anger still burned as she remembered her father walking out on her and her month so many years ago.  She thought his recent death would be an end to those suppressed emotions, but here they were, resurfacing, as she drew closer to the Kensington.   How could his actions from twenty years ago still be ...

The next morning, Gillian lay still, temporarily disoriented by the unfamiliar patterning of doors and window of her apartment.   A small slither of light had gathered at the base of the lacy curtains. She rolled over to shut off her unsounded alarm, forestalling its shrill, and plopped back, the soft spongy pillows cushioning her fall.   With the transom windows open, the ceiling fan stiffed in the cool, spicy morning air. The occasional clicking of the fan blades, backed by the rolling ocean waves, emphasized the pervading silence.   Gillian hushed her breathing to hear the waves more clearly. A snatch of a dream played before her.   She tried to grab and hold it but could only recall that she had felt frightened somehow.   Clearer flashed returned to her memory as she concentrated to recall a green, summer lawn and, of all things, a croquet game.   She hadn’t played croquet for at least twenty years!   But she still couldn’t explain why sh...

This Blog is dedicated to Carolyn Diane.  Known as Charlie by many family and friends, she was a psychologist who dabbled in romance writing.  After her death at a very early age (39) from a brain aneurysm, I found a novel she'd written and submitted to Harlequin Romance.  Unfortunately for Charlie, the novel was rejected.  As I've read through her pinning, I thought - this is what romance novels were all about in the 70s.  Today's books are filled with nonsense. For those of you who laid in the backyard, listening to the Top 40 with Casey Kasem, slathered in Baby Oil and read the five & dime store romance books - perhaps this novel will take you back to a simpler time.  One filled with hopes and dreams and possibilities. Here's to you Charlie.