July 23, 2010 @ 11:17 am | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life

       

 

MELROSE MIRACLE

 

by Staci Wilder

 Chapter Six

 Dreamcaster Productions

Los Angeles, CA 

               Ella stood outside the impressive Beverly Hills Radisson. She caught sight of her reflection in the moment just before the doorman pulled open the heavy glass door. Thanks to Reggie, she was dressed in classy olive Dior separates. Ella didn’t dare think what the original price tag must have read. Reggie had stifled Ella’s objections by claiming the outfit had been a virtual steal at a charity auction. Either way, Ella felt a little like a fish out of water.

            Looking at her reflection though, she had to admit the outfit worked. At the last minute she’d opted to leave her hair loose and now the mass of curls spiraled over her shoulders.

            Not bad. Maybe, for this moment in time anyway, she could almost pass for an L.A. girl.

            “That’s the idea.” Ella muttered under her breath.

            “Ma’am?” The elderly doorman lifted thick, bushy gray eyebrows in polite question.

            Ella shook her head, embarrassed to have been caught talking to herself. “Nothing.” She shrugged, sucked in a deep breath, and summoned up her most courageous smile. “I’m ready.”

            She could see the hint of amusement in the man’s kind eyes. He tipped his hat and smiled as he held the door for her. “Very good, ma’am. Enjoy your evening.”

            Ella stepped inside, staring in awe at the expanse of marble floors that seemed to run for miles in all directions. Deep reds and muted greens dotted the massive lobby, appearing in everything from the luxurious overstuffed sofas and chairs, to the thick rugs on the floor, to the floor-to-ceiling draperies that hung suspended from huge wrought-iron rods.

            She moved forward with hesitation, half expecting someone official-looking to pop out of the shadows, grab her by the arm, and tell her she didn’t belong here. The nicest hotel she’d stayed in was on wedding night with Stephen, when they’d spent the one night at the Doubletree, before moving to a more affordable economy motel for the remainder of the honeymoon.

            This—she looked around, her palms growing sweaty—this was the type hotel she’d only seen in movies, never believing she’d actually be a guest in one!

            “Ma’am?” A deep voice behind her startled Ella.

            I knew it! She scrambled for the words to convince the man she was a part of The Cooking Channel party that was meeting here tonight. Ella’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding like mad, as she turned. Not even ten steps inside, and already her worst nightmare was coming true.

            A short, portly man, dressed in traditional hotel concierge attire, stood with his hands tucked behind his back, a friendly smile on his round face. “Can I direct you somewhere, ma’am?” His features creased as his smile widened. “I know this place can be somewhat confusing. May I help?”

            “Y-yes.” Ella swallowed, relief all but choking her. “That would be great. I’m looking for”—she glanced down at the scrap of paper clutched in her hand—“the ExCaliber?”

            “Yes, of course, ma’am.” The man nodded again, and then gave detailed directions in quick, choppy sentences.

            Ella hung on every word, all the while thinking how humiliating it would be to miss some crucial detail, wind up in some forsaken part of the hotel, and end up right here all over again, asking once more for the simple directions.

            Concentrate. Ella inhaled deeply, willing her body to obey. Concentrate.

            “Thank you,” she nodded at the concierge even as she turned down the hallway he’d indicated. Anxious to reach the restaurant before her addled mind refused to recall the directions, she listened to the steady click-clack, click-clack of the black Manola Mary Janes that Reggie had insisted she borrow. For what seemed like the thousandth time since climbing aboard the airplane in Baton Rouge earlier today, Ella wondered if she’d completely lost her mind by daring to go through with this. She felt like a fish out of water, not quite sure whether to dive headfirst into the dark, scary waters ahead, or do a back-flip and swim as hard and fast as she could for the familiar.

            The bright neon sign just ahead announced she’d found the restaurant. And without any casualties, at that. Ella glanced down once more at her skirt, sucked in a raspy breath, and reached for the doorknob. This was it, ready or not.

            “Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore,” Ella muttered.

*****

            Ella’s fist tightened around the strap of her purse and she hiked it a little higher on her shoulder. She was thankful for something to hang onto, even if it was just a handbag. The room was filling up—twice as many people milled about now than fifteen minutes ago when she’d first arrived. Ella wondered who they were. There were only eight contestants, right?

            She glanced around her. Mustard-color walls framed the room, and the sage green carpet felt thick and spongy beneath Ella’s borrowed wedges—again, courtesy of Reggie. Just a couple of paintings graced the wall—abstracts, maybe?—but other than that, the room boasted an air of simple elegance. Chic.

            At least Ella’s idea of chic.

            “Ella, have you had a cup of coffee yet, dear?” Marnie Barrows, who’d introduced herself as a sound stage employee of the network when Ella arrived, placed her arm around Ella’s shoulders. Robust and jolly and—if Ella judged right—somewhere in her mid-fifties, Marnie’s ready laugh was deep and throaty, hinting at too many years of indulging in a pack or more of Marlboro’s a day. “What about a pastry? The strawberry ones are to die for.”

            “Not yet.” Ella could have hugged the woman. Just when she wished she could catch a cab back to LAX and board a return flight to Louisiana, Marnie’s infectious enthusiasm grounded her. “Thanks though.”

            She glanced at the serving table, laden with every conceivable fruit and pastry imaginable. “Everything looks wonderful.”

            “Well, that’s a perk of being a part of The Cooking Channel, doll. If nothing else, we can always feed you!” Marnie’s husky laugh was somehow reassuring and Ella felt a pang of disappointment as the older woman strolled away.

            “He-ey,” a twenty-something with waist-length platinum hair and a zillion-watt smile had somehow materialized next to Ella, “Are you a contestant, too?”

            The distinctive lilting drawl was a dead give-away to the girl’s Southern roots. “Yes, I’m Ella.” Ella ran her hand down the hip of her skirt, then stuck it out. Hopefully this southern beauty wouldn’t notice how badly her hands were perspiring.

            “I’m Torrie. With an ‘ie’. Torrie Tyler.” She shook Ella’s hand and her smile grew even bigger. “Isn’t this excitin’?”

            “Very exciting,” Ella found the long drawn-out syllables of Torrie’s speech comfortable. Not quite the same as a Louisiana drawl, but close enough to do. “Are you from Alabama, Torrie?”

            The girl flipped a long lock of hair over one shoulder as she nodded. “Mmhm, Mobile. Have you ever been there, Ella? To Mobile?”

            “Uh, no. No, I haven’t.” Ella tried not to stare at Torrie. But this girl was a knock-out. A real Southern bombshell. Now that she’d had a moment to take inventory, Ella felt a little in awe of this tall, leggy beauty queen with the Zoom-white smile and the honeyed voice. Ella could just picture it now—America voting between her and Torrie the amazing Alabamanite. Ella couldn’t swallow the giggle in time. Even I would vote for Torrie. What kind of competition would that be?

            Torrie’s topaz eyes flickered in uncertainty and Ella regretted the giggle. The last thing she wanted was to alienate a contestant. If she was going to spend ten days away from home and from Chloe, then she’d need all the friends she could gather around her. “I’m sorry,” she shook her head and smiled at the girl. “I’m nervous, I guess…”

            “Oh, I understand.” Torrie’s tone was forgiving as she reached out and squeezed Ella’s hand. “Believe me. I’m nervous, too!”

            The talking around them hushed, accentuating a rustle of activity at the far end of the room. Ella and Torrie turned as a rather tallish man in black slacks and a gray ribbed short sleeve sweater stepped up to the microphone.

            “May I have your attention, please?” The man’s salt-and-pepper hair sparkled beneath the bright, round lights of the above the makeshift stage. He waited till the room quieted.

            “On behalf of The Cooking Channel, I want to welcome you all to the Los Angeles area and to our contest. My name is Nathan Charleton and I will be the host of Restaurant 101. I hope you enjoy your rooms here at the LA Radisson Beverly Hills.”

The man stopped, glanced around the room, and stuck one hand in his pocket. “The next two weeks will be busy ones. Your days will be long. They will be difficult.”

Ella ignored the shudder of apprehension that kept trying to wiggle up her backbone. Nathan Charleton’s bright smile did little to cover the reality of his words. This competition was for real, and it was going to be tough.

“Tomorrow,” he continued, “You’ll be introduced to the sets at Dreamcaster Productions, especially Sound Stage C.” He paused again, and Ella couldn’t help but wonder if it was done for dramatic effect only. The whole room seemed to suck in a deep breath, holding it until—finally—Nathan Charleton turned loose of a grin and spread his arms wide. “But it will be a magnificent journey. One you will be glad you took.”

            Ella blew out her breath, and gave Torrie a hesitant smile. The girl shrugged her slim shoulders and lifted perfectly arched eyebrows in a way that seemed to say, okay, here we go. That’s how Ella felt too. Ready or not, they were off…

*****

            Luke leaned against the wall, near the back of the room, as Nathan Charleton began his introductory speech. That’s when he glimpsed her. Standing next to a tall girl with white-blonde hair—why did women all want hair that color anyway?—she wore a slim brown skirt, a blue blouse, and she clutched a handbag like she was scared it’d run off if she didn’t.

            Luke felt the grin crawl across his face. He’d been looking for her, and had just about decided she wasn’t here. He inched forward a couple of feet to a better vantage point. He felt the grin grow wider. No wonder he’d almost missed her. Her hair was different—it was straight and long, replacing the wild mass of dark curls he remembered. He wished she’d left the curls alone. He liked them.

            “Why are you grinning?” Kurt nudged him, and handed him a cup of coffee. “Did I miss something?”

            “Thanks, man.” He took the cup from Kurt and shook his head. “No, Nathan’s just getting started.” Raising the cup to his mouth, he blew on the hot liquid while his eyes searched for Ella again.

            “Not the girl again, Abney!” Kurt’s elbow in his rib nearly dislodged the cup.

            “Careful, man,” he whispered as he reached up to finger the burned spot on his upper lip, “And be quiet, okay?” He feigned an air of irritation. “Show some respect while our man Charleton is talking, how about it?”

            Kurt grinned, but at least he quit talking.

             Luke didn’t want to small-talk anything that had to do with Ella Paglia. They’d had one more phone conversation since their original all-night phone marathon. They’d talked about everything and yet he’d never felt so liberated while talking to a woman before. He wanted to tell Ella things. She asked questions and seemed to really wait with expectancy to hear what he had to say.

              He’d filled Kurt in on just the necessary, just the fact that the conversations had taken place. As expected, his friend was cautiously encouraging.

            “Just be careful, dude. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Though he didn’t add it, Luke knew his buddy had been thinking, ‘don’t let this gal twist you in knots like the last one did.’  

             One thing Luke knew for certain. Ella Paglia bore no resemblance to Tessa Shepherd. He had no idea at this point whether a real relationship would develop between him and Ella. He’d like to see it happen. But he also knew that he’d not go back on the lessons he’d learned the hard way at the hands of Tessa. His priorities were finally in alignment with his principles again, and he couldn’t afford to let anything—or anyone—come between him and God again.

             Not even Ella Paglia.

            He’d dated enough women in the industry to know he didn’t want to do it again. He wasn’t saying there weren’t good women in show business. He just knew they’d have to share his passion for God if they were to share his heart.  And that combination was proving harder to come by.

            Luke Abney had been burned for the last time. He knew better now, and wouldn’t make the same mistakes he’d made in the past. Taking a long sip of coffee, he eyed Ella Paglia over the rim of his cup, trying to ignore the warning bell sounding in his head. The one telling him to quit staring at the pretty waitress with the head full of missing curls. The one he’d thought about for the past two months—since he’d last seen her at the tiny diner in Milltown, Louisiana.

            He’d better not lose sight of why she was here, on his turf. To compete on a reality TV series for a chance to have the network sponsor her own restaurant. And if she won—how could she not win?—that would make her—

            Luke drowned the remaining coffee and focused his attention on Nathan Charleton’s final words. But not before the fatal thought eked its way into his head.

            Ella Paglia would be just like all the other Hollywood women.

 *****

            A half hour later Ella stood in line at the food table, finally acknowledging the fact that—besides the itsy bag of pretzels on the airplane—she’d had nothing to eat since early morning. Sandwiched between two other contestants—Deidra Holloway, a thirty-something African-American and Henry Williamson , a youngish-looking guy from Nashville—Ella tried to force her body to relax.

            She’d made it through the tough part.

            Meeting each of the seven other finalists had proven to be much less painful than she’d imagined. A couple of them—especially the homemaker with the pixie haircut from Iowa—seemed almost as nervous as Ella felt. Once the eight of them were brought on stage and introduced, it almost felt as though—in that one, brief instant—they became a team of one instead of a group of individuals competing for a solitary reward.

           That was especially true as they stood together, facing the sea of faces in front of them, faces that—it turned out—belonged to producers, set designers, and hair and makeup people. It looked to Ella like everyone who had a connection with the upcoming show was in attendance here tonight.

            She reached for a croissant, and tried to push the thought of Luke Abney from her mind. Disappointed when she didn’t see him during the earlier introductions, now she felt only relief. She wasn’t sure what that brief spark of connection had been about in Milltown, but she was certain a distraction as cute and attentive as Luke, the camera man, was the last thing she needed during this competition.

            “Do you feel like we’re being served our Last Supper?” Deidra forked a slice of cantaloupe and slid it onto her plate. “You know, like tomorrow we’ll be fed to the wolves or something.”

            Ella grinned and chose a couple of orange pieces. “Or something.”

The panel of judges had made it clear that the days ahead of them would be strenuous, at best. Intolerable, at worst. Listening to Henry’s corny jokes in front of her and Deidra’s worried comments behind her, it was hard to imagine that these were the very people she’d be in fierce competition with beginning first thing in the morning.

            Henry turned and reached for a napkin. “Hey, ladies. Did you know Spock had three ears?”

            Ella glanced at Deidra, who shrugged and popped a grape into her mouth. “No, Henry. Tell us about Spock’s three ears.” She smiled at Henry. He, at least, wasn’t letting the pressure of their circumstances get to him.

            “The left ear, the right ear, and the Final Front-ear!”

            Deidra groaned behind her and Ella laughed out loud. “Boy, get yourself on out of here!” Deidra waggled a finger in Henry’s direction, but Ella could tell Henry’s stupid joke had eased some of the tension.

            “Please don’t tell me that’s the entertainment we have to look forward to for the next ten days,” Deidra whispered as Henry walked away with his full plate of food. “That was some more corny joke, don’t you think?”

            Ella agreed, but she made a mental note to hang around Henry when the competition got rough. She could think of worse things than keeping company with a person with a penchant for bad jokes.

            Taking her plate, Ella joined another group of contestants at a nearby round table. One of the men in a chocolate brown Stetson cowboy hat—Ben, was it?—stood as she walked up and pulled out the chair next to him.

            “Thanks.” Ella scooted in and hoped they’d continue their conversation. She took a tiny bite of her tuna croissant, trying to remember the names of the two other finalists at the table. One was the pixie-cut lady from Iowa. She sat across from Ella, her eyes downcast, seemingly intent on studying the pattern in the ivory tablecloth. Ella’s heart went out the woman, who could quite possibly be even shyer than Ella felt.

            “Hi, I’m Dirk.” The dark-headed man on Ella’s left nodded. “You remember Patty and Ben?”

            Patty and Ben. Ella smiled and nodded, reciting the names of her tablemates in her mind. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

            Ben, a quiet-mannered blond with a shy smile, had been the one to hold her chair. Now he leaned over and whispered in Ella’s ear. “Don’t let Patty scare you. She’s been staring at all of us that way.”

            Ella picked up her cup of tea, taking a sip as she sneaked a peak in Patty’s direction. Nearly spewing the liquid right out again, Ella choked back a cough as her eyes met Patty’s smaller, beady ones. Eyes that seemed to stare right through Ella, giving her the chills in a very Munsters kind of way. The lady looked too meek and demure to be of any harm, but Ella was convinced those eyes of hers could bore a hole right through a solid piece of wood.

            Ben only chuckled, but Dirk leaned in close to Ella’s ear. “You know it’s not all about talent, right?” He nodded in Patty’s direction. “Some of us just make for great TV, you know?”

            Ella swallowed hard. She hoped her smile made it to her face, because right now she suddenly felt too tired to know anything for certain. The long flight, the seemingly endless introductions, and now Dirk hinting that this competition wasn’t all about skill—Ella’s mind balked at taking in any more new stimuli.

            “Well, if it isn’t Ella Paglia.”

            Ella froze, a muffin clutched in one hand and a napkin in her other. Mr. Blond. Luke. She would now recognize that husky voice anywhere, and instantly her senses felt as though she’d sent them on vacation. She felt her eyes widen as she accidentally wiped her mouth with the tip of the muffin, then dropped both—the pastry and the napkin—in embarrassment.

            Satisfied that it was official—she couldn’t be more humiliated—she twisted around in her chair. “Luke,” she tried to sound surprised to see him, but figured the squeak in her voice was enough to let him know the truth.

            Tall and lanky, Luke Abney towered above her, his blonde hair just slightly tousled, a grin spreading across his tanned face. Dressed in black jeans and shirt, he looked like he belonged in front of the camera, rather than behind it.

            Ella struggled to locate her voice. “How…how are you?”

            “Fine.” He nodded and knelt down so that he was eye-level with her. “And you?”

            “Good. Great.” She looked around the room. “It’s been amazing so far. Unbelievable, really…” Her voice trailed off, not certain what to do or say next. She could feel the curious stares of her tablemates. All of them, not just Patty.

            “Mr. Bl—Luke,” she smiled at him, then spun around, “meet Dirk…Patty…and Ben. This is…Luke.”

            “Hey, I remember you.” Dirk stood and shook Luke’s hand with enthusiasm. “You were with Kurt Finley, right? The day I found out I was a finalist?”

            “That was me.” Luke stood right behind her now, and Ella was conscience of his hand being mere inches from her shoulder as he spoke. “It’s good to see all of you again. I wish you well in the contest.”

            Luke’s fingertip barely grazed the fabric of her shirt as he said his good-byes and moved on. Ella chided herself for being silly, for thinking that the likes of Luke Abney had somehow taken an interest in her. Dirk’s comment reminded her that Luke had met each of them already. Who’s to say he wasn’t friendly and attentive with everyone?

            Ella waited as long as she felt was appropriate, pretending to pay attention to Dirk and Ben’s animated conversation on the upcoming NFL play-offs. Then she turned her head, her eyes scanning the crowd, trying to pick out the dark jeans and shirt—

            There he was, not six feet away, leaning against the wall, and laughing with…Torrie!

            “That’s right,” she heard the blonde’s lilting voice, “Torrie—with an ‘ie’.”

            Ella spun around before he could catch her staring and dropped her napkin in her plate. Just as she figured. Luke Abney was no more interested in her than he was in…Patty!

            Ella smiled at the small woman across from her, suddenly feeling just as out of place as this woman looked.

Tags: Free Fiction Fridays, Staci Wilder books, summer reads, writing

July 23, 2010 @ 10:57 am | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life

 

MELROSE MIRACLE

by Staci Wilder

 

Chapter Five

             The flight home from Louisiana was delayed a couple of hours and, by the time they finally landed at LAX, it was nearly seven o’clock. Luke’s stomach grumbled that it needed some dinner but Kurt, once on the ground, was intent on only one thing: Getting home to Janie and Daniel.

            Luke unlocked the door of his apartment and stepped inside. He flipped on a light switch, tossed his keys onto the breakfast bar, and walked to the refrigerator. The steady hum of the fish tank was the only sound marring the still quietness. Pulling out a bottle of water, Luke glanced toward the tank. He’d asked elder Mrs. Norman, from the apartment below him, to feed the fish while he was out of town. Right now he was trying to remember when he’d asked her to feed the trio last. Yesterday? Today?

                He bent over the tank and peered closer. “Hmm.”

              Luke took a long sip of water and then set the bottle down and reached for the fish food. “Sorry ‘bout that, guys.” He sprinkled the brown caplets across the top of the water and watched Mannie, Moe, and Jack swim with feverish speed to the surface.

               Getting the tank, and the fish, had been a virtual afterthought during one grocery run to Wal-Mart. Sort of like a consolation prize because he couldn’t have a dog in the apartment. Besides the outrageous pet deposit his landlord required, the long hours at the studio would leave the poor animal cooped up inside more often than out. So one Saturday last month as he was pushing the cart down the shampoo aisle, he’d glimpsed the large overhead sign that read PETS. Of course, this meant pet food, for the most part, with the exception of iguanas and fish.

            Hence…Mannie, Moe, and Jack.

            Kurt had laughed when he’d learned of the newly acquired tank and fish, but Luke had shrugged it off. It was easy enough for a guy like Kurt to poke fun. He had a beautiful wife and adorable son at home. Not to mention the golden-haired retriever that ran laps around the Finley’s large suburban back yard. The consummate family man for five years now, Kurt had lost the sense of what it meant to be a single guy in LA.

            And what it meant to come home to an empty apartment night after night.

            Luke gathered his bottle of water, poured some peanuts into a small Tupperware bowl, flipped off the kitchen light, and retired to his leather chair in the corner of the room. This was his spot to relax, the place he unwound frazzled nerves at the end of each long day. He wondered what Kurt and his other married buddies did, fairly certain their rituals didn’t include sitting in semi-darkness, enjoying a cool drink and a salty snack.

            Luke leaned back and closed his eyes.

            There was a time—and not all that long ago—when he’d have been out with his single buddies, having a nice dinner or hanging out at a local pub. But that had been before Tessa, and certainly before he’d reexamined his life and found it most wanting in the spirituality department. Back then, it had been all about the fun, and how much fun could be had in a single night on the town.

            It shamed Luke now to think how far he’d allowed himself to stray from his conservative Mid-western upbringing. Fortunately, he’d made it through those tumultuous years without either of his parents finding out about some of his more embarrassing shenanigans.

            When he’d met Tessa, he thought his life had changed, and for the better. It changed, all right, but not in the ways he’d originally thought. Sure, he’d put other women out of his mind, reserving all his attention for Tessa. But her social life had made his own resemble a Boy Scout camp. Tame, in comparison with the wild parties and dimly lit clubs she loved so much.

            It hadn’t been his scene, but he’d loved Tessa and thought she’d loved him, so he’d tagged along wherever she wished to go. It had felt right at the time, like they were forming their own traditions, their own experiences together, as a couple. It wasn’t until after the pain of the breakup, he’d realized that letting go of who you were in favor of becoming more like the person you were with was no tradition at all. And their experiences? Well, most of the time the two of them had a few too many drinks to even enjoy their nights out.

            It had started out with petty jealousies and Tessa’s incessant penchant for shameless flirting. Knowing that her provocative dress and teasing mannerisms angered him, she’d promised to stop. For real, this time, she’d say. And she would, until the next time they went clubbing and the lure of attention was just too much for her to ignore. Still, when she’d packed her things and announced she was leaving, he’d been shocked. He thought they were building something solid, something permanent.

            Luke scrubbed a hand across his face now. What a fool he’d been, to believe that his future actually lay with a woman who put herself before anything and everything else. He’d never been drawn to shallow people before his move to LA; what had happened?

            It hadn’t been until a few weeks after Tessa had moved out that Luke realized the answer to that plaguing question. By then the scent of her perfume was but a memory, completely gone from his clothes and his sheets. Once she’d been purged from his surroundings, from the things he touched and smelled and viewed each day, the truth came into focus.

            He’d let go of God somewhere along the way. At what point he exchanged his daily Bible reading time for a couple of beers out with the guys or what point he’d begun to crave the noise of some club over time alone in devotion, Luke didn’t know. All he knew was that all of a sudden he was very much alone in his apartment. No Tessa. No more noise. No more distractions.

            No real relationship with God.

            It hadn’t been a pain-free walk back to where he should have been all along, but it had been an easy one. After a few weeks, he’d come to realize that he was the one who’d abandoned the relationship, and not God. Finding comfort in knowing He’d been there all along gave Luke the reassurance he needed to stand up to his buddies and say no to the meaningless evenings out on the town. Instead, he’d taken to nights like these in his apartment, times of soul-searching and truth-seeking. He’d had his fill of shallow treats and temporary pleasures. He craved substance now, and wanted this kind of quality in all parts of his life.

            Including relationships with women.

            If that meant he’d not find that in this town, then Luke knew that was something he’d have to face one day. At that time, some difficult decisions would have to be made. He’d carved out a very nice career path for himself at The Cooking Channel and he enjoyed his work. But he wouldn’t settle in love again. Love wasn’t about settling, it was about sharing heart and soul with someone who valued you for yourself.

            Luke popped a few peanuts in his mouth and chewed. But what if God were to send him the right woman? Send her right here—to Los Angeles? Luke tugged his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, opened it, and pulled out the business card he’d carefully tucked inside. He stared down at it, his eyes going over and over the small, printed words. ELLA PAGLIA.

            Luke reached for his cell phone and flipped it open. He stared at the key pad, trying to decide whether to go for it, or not. It was seven-thirty here on the West Coast, which meant it was…what, nine-thirty in Milltown? Luke battled with himself. She might be tucking her daughter into bed. She might be asleep herself. Or—

            “Come on, Abney,” he chided himself out loud. “You can come up with a list of ‘reasons why not’ as long as your arm. Or—” Luke sucked in a deep breath and punched in the printed number on the card—“you can call her and see what happens.”

            Luke grimaced. He remembered all too well that a misplaced phone call can mean the kiss of death to a potential relationship. In all his years of dating, he’d never managed to get a good handle on when to call/not call a woman. His relationship with Tessa had only intensified his fear of the phone.

            “There are phone rules, Lukie.” She’d pouted, one hand on her slim hip. “You should know them by now.”

            The rules, he’d come to realize, were subject to change without prior notice and very often were at the whim and mercy of Tessa’s ever-changing moods. Nothing seemed to emphasize the difference between the sexes like the telephone. And not the stereotype that women like to chat and men like to have quick, informative conversations. Luke knew men who could talk your ear off and women who insisted on getting straight to the point.

                The real difference lay in call counting. Women knew who called whom last. Women knew exactly how many times each of you has called the other over the last month. Women knew that you ended the last phone conversation with ‘I’ll talk to you this weekend’ and then didn’t call until Tuesday. Women knew that it’s been 4.5 days since you last talked on the phone. A woman knows these things and she believes they matter.

               Luke had found himself in these murky waters with Tessa more times than he’d like to admit. It wasn’t like he tried to see how many times he could get it wrong. Men, it seemed genuinely don’t know who called whom last. For real. Looking back, Luke knew it was just another sign of trouble in the relationship that he’d been to starry-eyed to notice.

                 The small business card felt heavy in his hand. His heart thumped with uncertainty, and his mother’s words echoed in his head. Don’t allow this bad experience with Tessa to rob you of what God has for you, Son. Do you hear me? Funny how his mom seemed to have a better grasp on what God’s ultimate plan was for his life than Luke did.

                 He stared down at his phone. What was the worst that could happen? She wouldn’t be home? She’d be too busy to talk? What? He’d better make a decision soon, before it got to be too late.

*****

              Ella paused while brushing her teeth, listening. Sure enough, her cell phone jangled again. Still clutching her toothbrush, she made a made dash across the hall to her bedroom where the phone was plugged into the charger. Glancing at the caller ID, she shrugged. Not a number she recognized, although the area code was the same as Reggie’s.

            “Hew-o?” She’d forgotten about the toothpaste.

            “Ella? This is Luke. Luke Abney.”

            Ella’s mind went into a tailspin. Luke Abney—Mr. Blond? Between her pounding heart and a mouthful of toothpaste, her throat felt clogged and tight. She ran for the bathroom on legs that were all of a sudden about as much support as a column of Jell-O. Covering the phone with her other hand, she leaned over the sink and spit.

            “Luke.” Ella tried to clear her throat without sounding like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of pool water. “Hi. How…how are you?”

            “Good, thanks. Listen…is this an okay time to talk?”

            “Sure…” Okay time? Ella scrambled to remember the parting words of The Cooking Channel team before they’d left Milltown earlier today. Had she agreed to a phone meeting? Had they asked for something and, heaven forbid, she’d forgotten?

            “I wasn’t sure I should call this late. I know you have a small daughter and all.”

            Luke Abney’s voice was quiet and mellow in her ear. He sounded neither rushed or business-like and, as the implication of what this meant began to dawn on Ella, she swallowed against the rush of adrenaline that seemed to push through her veins like a freight train.

            “Chloe.” She nodded in the darkness of the bedroom. “Yeah, she’s fast asleep.”

            “I was just thinking about you and I remembered I’d picked up one of your cards from the diner, so…”

            “Oh!” Ella perched on the edge of her bed, her mind in a desperate race to connect the dots. He was calling because he was thinking about her? He wasn’t calling on official contest business? “Did…did you make it home okay?” She laughed nervously. “I guess you did. You are calling me from LA, right?”

            Luke’s chuckle sounded close. “Yes, I’m sitting in the living room of my apartment. And, to answer your question, we made it home just fine. Easy flight. No major bumps. And I had an aisle seat. That’s important to us tall guys, you know.”

            “Do you live in Los Angeles? Close to the studio?” Ella crawled across the bed and leaned against the headboard, pulling her knees beneath her chin. Somehow the image of Luke Abney sitting somewhere in his apartment while talking to her felt very intimate. Not sure what to do or say next, she closed her eyes tight, hoping she wasn’t coming across as some star-struck high school kid.

            “Brentwood, actually. In a little apartment. Want me to describe it for you?”

            “Sure.” Ella opened her mouth in a silent scream. Just wait till Reggie heard about this! She’d never believe it in a million years. Ella heard a faint rustling on the other end of the line and assumed Luke was moving around.

            “Okay, let’s start in the kitchen. Small, galley-style kitchen. Pine cabinets. At least, I think they’re pine.”

            “And dishes?” Ella reached down and pulled the quilt up around her legs. “What kind of dishes do you have?”

            “Oh, man, you don’t even want to know the answer to that question, do you?”

            He laughed again and the sound of it caused something deep in her stomach to flip. She gripped the quilt, leaned her chin on her knees, and listened as he opened what she assumed were the cabinets.

            “I have…let’s see…three, four…I have five plates. Plain white. Four cereal bowls, eight glasses and…hang on, this could take a while…” He counted out loud. “Sixteen coffee mugs.”

            “Sixteen!” Ella laughed. “Why so many cups?”

            “Because everyone knows I like coffee and evidently everyone thinks I need a new cup for each and every birthday that rolls around.”

            “Ah, I see.” Ella nodded. “I get candles. Lots and lots of candles.”

            “Oh, yeah?” His laugh was soft in her ear. “I’ll remember not to buy you a candle for your next birthday then. Maybe you’d like a mug?”

            “Yeah, maybe.” Ella’s heart hammered inside her chest. How was it possible that things felt so easy with this man? She couldn’t remember ever feeling this kind of intimacy on this level.

            She’d shared a passionate love story with Stephen for sure. But they had been high school sweethearts. Ella couldn’t remember ever not loving Stephen. He was as much a part of her as her arm or her leg; an extension of her.

            But this…This was different. Luke was a virtual stranger and yet he felt so familiar. The feelings he stirred in her were completely new and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of them, and certainly didn’t know what to do with them.

            “The rest of my place is about as non-descript as the kitchen, I’m afraid. Brown leather chair and sofa, a few bookshelves, lots of books. Oh…I can’t forget the fish.”

            “Fish? You have fish?” Ella smiled in the darkness.

            “I do. Three fish. Mannie, Moe, and Jack.”

            She laughed out loud. “Chloe loves fish. I think the aquarium is her favorite place. Next to McDonald’s, that is.”

            “Me too. Chloe and I must have a lot in common. Which does she like better, the burger or the nuggets?”

            “Nuggets, hands down.”

            “Me too! Ketchup or barbeque sauce?”

            “Neither. She dips them in mayonnaise.”

            “What?”

            Luke’s deep laugh made Ella’s skin grow warm. She pressed a hand over her flushed face, still not quite believing this was happening. A whimper from across the hall snapped her back to reality.

            “Oh, Luke? I hear Chloe waking up. I’d better check on her.” She paused, not sure how to handle this. She wanted nothing more than to keep talking to this man, but at the same time she didn’t want to be too presumptuous. “Do you want me to let you go or—”

            “I’ll wait.”

            Ella pumped her fist in the air and resisted the urge to jump up and down on the bed. “You sure? It could be a few minutes?”

            “Take your time. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

Tags: Free Fiction Fridays, Staci Wilder books, summer reads, writing

July 23, 2010 @ 8:53 am | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three             

 MELROSE MIRACLE

by Staci Wilder

Chapter Four

             Ella stood outside the diner. It wasn’t often she entered as a customer, and the feeling was a strange one. She glanced down once more at her skirt, smoothed an imaginary wrinkle, picked a piece of white fuzz from her sweater, and willed herself to be brave.

            “Here goes.” She raised her head with resolution, pulled open the door, and found herself staring straight into familiar blue eyes.

            “Hello, there.” Taller than she remembered, Luke Abney wore khaki Dockers and a white button-down shirt that looked like it had been starched within an inch of its life. The purple Lakers cap was missing tonight and his blond hair was even more gorgeous than Ella had imagined it. She reached a self-conscious hand to her own hair, glad the heavy-duty conditioner she’d used this afternoon had managed to tame the often unruly curls.

            And thank goodness she’d left that goofy beret on the bedroom floor.

            “Hi,” Ella hesitated as he reached out for her hand. This might be how they did things in Hollywood, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to walk into the diner hand-in-hand with a virtual stranger. Especially not in this town! She tried to jerk her hand back, but he’d already grasped it in his own, and was now giving it a hearty shake.

            “Oh.” It’s only a hand-shake, you silly ninny…

            His deep blue eyes crinkled around the edges as he smiled down at her. “I’m glad you could make it. Kurt’s inside, waiting for us.” He gestured with his other arm. “Shall we?”

            Ella nodded, hoping the smile she’d ordered her face to produce was duly in place. Then she walked toward the back corner table unsure where these steps might ultimately take her. But…it was time to find out.

            “Ella,” Kurt Finley stood stretched out his hand as she approached, “It’s good to see you again. Thanks for taking the time to meet with us tonight.” He motioned for her to sit. “I understand you have a small daughter, right?”

            “Um, yes. Yes, I do.” Ella paused when she realized Luke was holding her chair for her. “Thank you.” She smiled and felt her lips tremble with the movement. When Luke’s eyes held hers just a moment longer than necessary, Ella was pretty certain her insides did a complete flip-flop. Trying to save her composure, she looked away quickly and tried to focus on Kurt’s question. “Chloe.” She nodded. “She just turned two.”

            “Ah, the two’s.” Kurt took the seat across from her. “Are they terrible yet? Any coloring on the walls? Temper tantrums? Sudden attachment to the word ‘no’?”

            Ella laughed and raised her eyebrows.

            “Yep, that’s right. You guessed it.” Kurt settled back in his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “I have a rug rat of my own.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown leather wallet. He slid a glossy two-by-three snapshot across the table. “This is Daniel. He’ll be three in a few weeks.”

            Ella leaned forward and studied the picture. A miniature version of Kurt, minus the gray temples, the small boy wore a mischievous grin and had just a hint of the smattering of freckles that would one day trail across his nose.

            “He’s very cute.” She smiled. Did he expect her to pull out photos of Chloe now? That wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? This was business, right? They were here to basically interview her. Ella shifted in her chair, unsure.

            Luke, in the seat next to her, took care of it for her. He pushed the photo back to Kurt. “Yeah, yeah, buddy, you got a cute kid. We believe you, right, Ella?” He winked at her and placed his hand on the back of her chair in a conspiratorial manner.

            “Okay, I can take a hint.” Kurt chuckled and pulled a laptop from his case. “Let’s get down to business. But for what it’s worth,” he paused and glanced at Ella, “Luke here is my Daniel’s favorite babysitter. Aren’t ya, bud?” Kurt snorted as though he’d just unveiled a national secret.

            Ella managed a grin, all too aware of Luke’s hand a mere inch or two from her back. She risked a peek his way and was surprised to see a slow pinkish flush begin to creep up Luke’s neck. Embarrassment only made him more attractive. She made a mental note to not clue Reggie in on this detail. Her best friend would have a field day if she knew the way Ella’s pulse seemed to stage a run-away in this man’s presence. No, it was better to keep that arsenal of information to herself.

            “Okay, Ella, why don’t we start with me telling you the basics of the contest.” Kurt moved on.

            “Sure, that’d be great.”

            “Restaurant 101 will be taped at Dreamcaster Productions in Studio City. It will be The Cooking Channel’s first venture into a reality series.” He paused to make sure she was following. “We’re bringing together seven other chefs, besides yourself, and we’re going to see what happens when we put you in front of a camera.”

            Ella felt herself cringe and hoped it didn’t show on her face. Her insides felt like jelly on a merry-go-round. She forced a smile and nodded.

            “Each week we’ll introduce a new challenge. Each chef will be asked to complete that challenge and then the judges will deliberate. One chef a week will be eliminated until the final week. Then we’ll step things up a notch and there will be two elimination ceremonies and the final award.”

            Ella released a sudden puff of breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. She sank against the back of her chair and felt Luke’s fingers graze the smoothness of her sweater. She’d almost forgotten his hand was there…

            “I know. Intense, huh?” Kurt shrugged and grinned. “It’s not for the faint of heart.”

            “About that final award…” Luke pointed to Kurt. “Let’s give her some incentive, man.”

            Kurt planted his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, obviously pausing for dramatic effect. Ella got the distinct feeling that these two had this routine down to a science. What she couldn’t afford to forget was that there were seven other finalists with dreams as large as hers. The contest was sure to be fierce, a guaranteed fight to the end.

            “Yes, please,” Ella tried to talk around her rising trepidation, “throw me a bone!”

            Kurt chuckled again. “How’s this for a bone? The last chef standing in Restaurant 101 will earn the pleasure of running their very own restaurant. Complete with their chosen theme, menu specialties, and a wait staff just itching to make your dream a reality.”

            “Oh, wow.” Ella clasped her hands together, speechless.

On the one hand she wanted to celebrate, maybe scream or jump up and down, that she’d even been selected as one of the finalists. But the practical Ella, ever the consummate realist, hated to waste the emotion when this was the mere beginning of a very long, very tedious journey.

            “Pretty fantastic, isn’t it?” Luke’s voice was warm and low next to her.

            “No kidding.” She grinned and looked at him, a jittery flutter in her stomach startling her when his deep blue eyes locked on hers. Between the intensity of his gaze and the intimacy in his voice, her insides were standing at attention. If Kurt hadn’t been sitting directly across from her, Ella didn’t know if she’d have the power to tear her eyes away from Luke.

            He leaned in close now and spoke in a mock used car salesman voice. “And just think. This could all be yours for the low, low price of…your privacy, your pride, and the ability to let television cameras capture your every slip-up!”

            Ella laughed out loud, grateful that someone at this table had the courage to talk about the elephant in the room—that undeniable truth that made this whole adventure a risk that almost wasn’t worth taking.

            Winning would require sharing herself in the most personal, public way possible. If she did well, The Cooking Channel viewers would celebrate with her. If she failed miserably, all America would be talking about it at the company water cooler.

            Would she be able to stand the heat? Or should she get out of the kitchen now?

*****

mox▪ie  n  1. ENERGY, PEP  2. KNOW-HOW, EXPERTISE

3. COURAGE, DETERMINATION

            The words peered up at her from the worn pages of Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary, a graduation present she’d received—how long had it been—eleven years ago?

            Ella traced her finger over the page. Eleven years since high school graduation, when most days it seemed like no more than a handful. Where had the time gone? And why—if so much time had passed—did she still feel so much like that insecure seventeen-year-old girl she’d been back then?

            Moxie. Reggie had used that word earlier, the one Stephen had loved to tease her with. That five-letter, two-syllable word continued to run through her mind like a child through a playground, long after she’d tucked Chloe in for the night, and then gone to bed herself.

            She’d finally thrown back the covers, shuffled to the bookshelf, snatching up the dictionary on the way to the kitchen. Here she still sat—swaddled in a pink terry cloth bathrobe, sipping a cup of hazelnut coffee that would insure she remained wide-awake for hours to come, and pondering the black-and-white printed words in front of her.

            Energy and pep. Ella snorted in the stillness of the small kitchen. Yeah, right. Those were two things she rode like a roller coaster at Coney Island. Up one day, down the next. Then the cycle started up all over again.

            It hadn’t always been this way. Before Stephen’s diagnosis, every day resembled a vacation in some small way. Whether it was an unexpected cup of coffee in bed, a midnight phone call when he traveled, or simply lying next to him in their bed, quietly talking until they drifted off to sleep, it hadn’t mattered.

            Each day had seemed bright, full of promise and new opportunities. Opportunities they’d longed for, embraced, dreamed about.

            Opportunities like the contest.

            No! Ella batted at the thought, trying to shoo it from her mind. No fair. She hated it when that happened, when Stephen’s voice seemed to whisper to her conscience, entwining distant cherished memories with circumstantial details of her life today, until she could no longer distinguish reality from a figment of her longing.

            Memory was a wonderful thing. With the exception of their beautiful baby girl, these memories were all Ella had left of Stephen. But they were bittersweet.

            Holding her close one minute, piercing her heart the next.

            She stood now and walked to the sink, dumping the last cool remains of a cup of coffee she should have never fixed in the first place. Anchoring her palms on the counter, Ella shut her eyes against the wave of images trying to sneak across the screen of her mind.

            Stephen holding Chloe for the first time. Stephen smiling at her from the door as he left for an early morning jog. Stephen giving her a thumbs-up sign when she’d finally nailed the Panini recipe—

            “Woooo…” Ella blew out a long breath and walked back to the table, sinking with weak legs into her chair. The recipe. Suddenly it all made sense—her hesitancy during the taping, the uncertainty that had continued to plague her about this contest.

            Sending in her contest entry meant sharing a part of Stephen with the rest of the world. A part she’d held locked safe inside for the past year. The part that was hers alone.

            Her eyes drifted back to the open dictionary. Know-how and expertise. Funny how those two words seemed to have nothing to do with energy and pep. Yet they both defined the one attribute she desperately wanted to possess. You have such moxie, Ella-girl! Stephen’s proud voice  echoed in her mind. How often had he whispered those words? I’m so very proud of you.

            Would he still be proud of her today? What if—Ella shifted in her chair, tugging the sash of her robe tighter—what if he’s looking down on me now? She cringed. Was he proud of the way she barely dragged herself out of bed each morning? Proud of the way she carried Chloe to Saturday morning Mommy & Me time, dressed in faded sweats and a slicked-back ponytail? Proud of the way she still avoided church each Sunday, mentally crossing yet another week from the calendar she carried in her mind?

            “Stephen, I’m a mess.” Whispered anguish ripped from Ella’s gut, clawing its way to her lips, and then spewing into the hushed silence of the kitchen. She’d run the gamut over the past twelve months. Grief. Loneliness. Anger. Ample tears for each emotion had been duly shed, and yet there always seemed to be more tears.

            But the sensations erupting from Ella now were different, and she knew it.

            This had nothing to do with Stephen. She’d lost her first love, sure, and she’d grieved for him. But now she’d lost something else and, without it, she was nothing.

            She’d lost herself.

            Somewhere between the slew of casseroles that’d been brought in during the weeks following the funeral until this very moment—sitting at the table in her bathrobe long after the clock in the living room had struck midnight—Ella Paglia had lost herself.

            Courage and determination. Her eyes sought out the third, and final, definition. Blurred by tears that refused to fall, the black-and-white printed page danced before her eyes. Slowly but methodically, it emblazoned a new truth into the furthest  recesses of her soul.

            She could do this. She would go to Los Angeles and participate in Restaurant 101. She’d give it her all. Not only could she do it, but she’d do it well. It wasn’t about the winning. Not winning the contest anyway. Ella shut the dictionary and pushed it away. The winning wasn’t in the contest. It was in her. If she could find a way to press through, to somehow tap into that moxie Stephen had believed she possessed…

            If she could uncover long buried courage and determination, then maybe…just maybe, she’d find herself in the process. 

Tags: Free Fiction Fridays, Staci Wilder books, summer reading

July 22, 2010 @ 6:08 am | Filed under: The Solid Rock,The Writing Life,Uniquely Me

There is nothing that sucks the joy out of creativity – that inate ability to build and mold and design amazing things from the God given instinct that dwells deep in one’s bones – than overthinking.  Over-analyzing.

Writing by instinct and getting it right can only happen when my heart and head align with His will. When my own will is supple and pliable, the molding process is relatively painless and the creations seem to flow.

It’s like riding a bike. You don’t read directions on it. You don’t read a book about it. And when you hop on that bike, you don’t recite left, right, pedal, balance, steer. You just do it. And the more you don’t think about it, the better it all seems to go.

And soon, you’re soaring fast, and with flair. Like pastel handlebar streamers whipping in the wind and colored beads in the spokes humming their rhythmic beat with each seamless rotation of the bike wheels.

I try to trust my instincts because they’re good and hearty instincts. I don’t want to worry about ruining the talent or stifling the creativity because I know that would be the worst possible use of my abilities, as limited as they feel some days. But that’s not the woman I want to be. Nor the writer.

So I’m writing like a woman who just simply doesn’t know any better right now. Putting it all out there. Little bits in this synopsis. Chunks of my heart in that manuscript. Layers of who I am in all of it.

Will these words ever see the light of day?

I don’t know the answer to that.

There was a time when that doubt alone was enough to stifle the creativity. To cause me to second-guess, summoning about six kinds of self-doubt that all but clogged the veins of inspiration.

But now I simply write.

I have gained this real, amazing confidence in just putting it out there and doing my very best to create without too much thinking. Without too much censoring, too much second-guessing.

I am a woman who is governed by passion.  By love. By the simplistic things in life.

But more importantly than all of these I must be governed by His will and that beautiful principle of….becoming what I’m meant to be.

It’s all about those God given instincts. Not necessarily about getting every word right every time.

***********

In other news, I’m off today for an exciting few days with the cousins!

It’s our annual girls-only summer trip, and I can hardly wait! Last year, we left my place, drove for two hours, finally stopping for lunch in an amazing little cafe that turned out to be only forty-five minutes from my house! Don’t ask…WE DON’T KNOW !

But it’s those moments with these women (and their precious daughters) that make these trips something that I look forward to for months in advance!

So I’m off to appreciate a few more of those {apron}  ties that bind in the best possible kind of way!

Chapter 4 of MELROSE MIRACLE will be up tomorrow though – tune in!

Tags: Staci Wilder books, writing

July 16, 2010 @ 6:40 am | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life

Chapter One

Chapter Two

MELROSE MIRACLE

 

by Staci Wilder

Chapter Three

 

             Luke couldn’t remember a day when he’d had this much fun.

            Even now, several hours later as he relaxed in the tiny parlor area of Milltown’s local boarding house, his mind continued to run the reel from this afternoon at Max’s Diner. The look of intense surprise on Ella Paglia’s pretty face when he’d introduced himself and Kurt, announcing she’d made the short list of contest finalists. The way her mouth dropped open, how her dark, smoky eyes had widened in disbelief.

            Talk about shock and awe.

            It was clear The Cooking Channel had been the absolute last thing on her mind at that moment. Luke found that kind of innocence refreshing. And to think, he’d come within a hair’s breadth of not making this trip with Kurt. Luke leaned his head back on the worn sofa and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander at will.

            He’d been in the studio, finishing up another long twelve hour day of shooting three back-to-back episodes of It’s My Kitchen, I’ll Fry If I Want To. Twelve tortuous hours of listening to the constant demands and petty requests the show’s star, Sheila Morgan, made on the crew. The perfectly coifed blonde hair and willowy figure belied the whiny voice screeching orders in front of his camera all day long. Sure, on camera, she managed to convey sincerity and warmth, capturing an avid audience and devoted viewers. It was the cast and crew who suffered her wrath, both before and after taping.

            This day was no different.

            “Okay, people, that’s a wrap!”

            Luke had breathed a deep sigh of relief at the producer’s words and shut the camera off. It had been another long day and his grumbling stomach reminded him that he’d skipped lunch. Again. For the third time that week.

            Luke had rubbed his neck and rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen muscles that had long since grown stiff. It was a vain attempt to jar free the irritation that had been gnawing at his gut for the better part of the past few hours.

            He should have been used to it, the constant demands and petty requests Sheila Morgan made on the cast and crew. Two years on the job, though, and he still cringed every time she held up a finger—flashing that annoying bright red nail polish that had become her signature trait—halted filming, and yelped, “Ex-cuse, me! This lighting is absolutely not right! Fix it, pu-lease.”

            Luke remembered shaking his head in amazement at her insensitivity to those around her. He’d hooked the shutter cover of his camera in place. Women were beyond him, that’s for sure. His mother liked to say Sheila had ruined him for all women. He knew she chomped at the bit, wondering when her one and only son would finally settle down. Maybe even give her a couple of little Abneys.

Luke wondered about that too. He’d grown up with two parents who were still madly in love with one another. In fact, the day he’d left for college, he’d not missed the special looks that passed between his mother and father. While they’d missed him, they also looked forward to a life full of couple things. Luke wanted the intimacy he saw in his parents, the friendship and passion that flowed freely between them.

“Son,” his mom had held him just a moment longer than usual when he’d visited last Thanksgiving, “don’t give up on what God has planned for your life. The right woman is already on the scene. She just hasn’t introduced herself yet.”

“Sure, Mom.” What else could he have said?

“I mean it, Luke.” Marion Abney had propped one fist on an ample hip and stared up at him until he squirmed. “That Sheila woman has ruined you, hasn’t she? Not all women are like, son. There are still plenty of women out there who have their hearts and heads in the right place. Be patient.”

The truth was actually deeper than his mother knew, and went way beyond the annoying antics of Sheila Morgan. As frustrating as she could be, it was another woman entirely that was responsible for Luke’s reticent heart. He shuddered now as images of Tessa Shepherd paraded uninvited across the front porch of his mind.

His one serious relationship since making the cross-country move to Los Angeles had left him wounded…and wiser. Needless to say, it hadn’t ended nicely. Luke preferred to block the unpleasant memories from his mind and tried not to dwell in places he couldn’t afford to return.

 Instead, he chose to concentrate on work. Between his duties on the set and Wednesday evening Bible study, his weeks filled up surprisingly well. The noise and friction on set seemed to follow him home at night, causing him crave nothing more than sanctity inside his nice, quiet Brentwood apartment. Forget about dating. With the hours he worked, the only women he came across were on the job. And spending ten hours a day with the likes of Sheila Morgan, or anyone like her for that matter, left a sour taste in his mouth when it came to industry dames.

            Thanks, Luke thought, but no thanks.

            So when Kurt had approached him that particular day, Luke’s interest was cautiously piqued.

            “Hey, buddy,” Kurt had clapped him on the shoulder, “Long day, huh?”

            Luke emitted a low whistle and grinned. “Aren’t they all? Man, how’re you doing?”

            If Luke’s day had been long and trying—which it had—he couldn’t even begin to imagine Kurt’s day. He didn’t envy the man one iota; pitied him would be closer to the truth. Luke shuddered just to think of dealing with Sheila on a one-to-one basis. Maybe he was the lucky one, after all. Unlike Kurt, at least he got to stay behind his camera, relatively safe from the spoiled star’s barbed comments and petulant complaints.

            Kurt had hooked a thumb in his front belt loop and leaned against the wall, watching as he’d wound the camera cord and stowed it in its case. “So have you made a decision yet?”

            “Decision about what?”

            “Like you don’t know.” Kurt had chuckled. “The new show. This is your chance, guy!”

            The thought had crossed his mind, Luke had to admit. His buddy had landed a long overdue plumb role as lead producer on a new reality-based show for the network, and he wanted Luke to join the camera crew for that series.

            Luke wasn’t convinced leaving It’s My Kitchen was the answer for him. When he did leave he wanted to make good and sure he wasn’t leaping out of the proverbial frying pan straight into a roaring flame. Things might get a little hot under the collar with the likes of Sheila Morgan, but Luke had heard enough industry horror stories to know she resembled a lamb in comparison to some of the other starlets his pals worked with.

            Still, Kurt had been persuasive. “This opportunity has your name written all over it. You’d be my lead camera guy.” He’d high-fived Luke, a wide grin splitting his tanned face. “No more obscurity, man. You could call the shots yourself.”

            Luke had rolled the camera into the supply closet and locked the door. “Really? It says ‘Luke Abney’, huh?”

            “Might as well.” Kurt shrugged. “But that’s not all.”

            “What?”

            “The eight finalists will be decided the first of next month. And yours truly,” Kurt had thumped himself on the chest, “is in the very enviable position of personally advising each one of them that they are a viable contestant.”

            Luke plucked his jacket from the closet, and stuck his trusty L.A. Lakers cap on top of his head. “No kidding? So you’re going to…what? Travel all over, making these announcements?”

            “Yup.” Kurt had nodded as they headed for the elevator. “And I want you to go with me.”

            “Me?” Luke had laughed at the preposterous suggestion. “Why?”

            “Number one, you haven’t taken a vacation in the four years I’ve known you, Abney. In the two years we’ve worked together, I think I can count on one hand the number of days you’ve taken off.” Kurt began to tick the reasons off on his fingers. “Two, I have absolute knowledge that this show drives you as nuts as it does me. And three—why not? Take a week’s vacation, come with me, get a feel for what the show’s going to be like. Then you can make the decision on whether or not you’re ready to leave this one.”

            “Is Janie really going to let you leave town for that long?” Luke had lifted his cap and repositioned it, glad when the elevator doors finally slid open.

            Kurt laughed. “Only because she knows it’s the prelude to a job that will leave us more family time.” He shrugged. “A little sacrifice now, a whole lotta reward later.” A wry grin creased his face. “I’m sure she’ll be ready to share Daniel-duty again the minute I roll back into town though!”

            Luke had no doubt. Little Daniel Finley was the apple of his parents’ eyes, but—in Luke’s opinion anyway—the little tyke could use a few lessons from Super Nanny. Maybe an introduction to the Naughty Mat from time to time…

“It’s going to be an incredible opportunity for someone. Might as well be you…” Kurt had held the elevator door open, even after Luke stepped inside. “It’s going to be a real kick to be a part of something new, Luke. With the TV reality craze going gangbusters, it’s no wonder our network has jumped on board.” Kurt had chuckled. “I’m just surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”

Luke had to admit Kurt knew how to make a tempting offer. Not to mention the guy was relentless and continued to press for an answer.

“I’ll think about it.” Luke had punched the button for the ground floor.

Kurt grinned and saluted as the doors slid closed. “That’s all I’m asking, man. Just think about it, okay?” His voice had faded as the elevator doors slid closed between them.

            In the end—after more cajoling on Kurt’s part and more whining on Sheila’s end—Luke had opted for the cross-country vacation. The two weeks were winding down, but they’d served their purpose. He was returning to work refreshed. He’d even made a decision.

            He was going to join Kurt’s team on the set of Restaurant 101. It would be a welcome challenge to be a part of something fresh. The decision to leave It’s My Kitchen wasn’t an easy one. He felt as though he was taking a real gamble. At least with Sheila he knew what he dealt with each day. It was kind of like that old saying he’d heard somewhere. “Do I go with the devil I know or the devil I don’t?”

            Luke roused himself now, straightening on the sofa and glancing at his watch. He’d agreed to meet Kurt at Max’s Diner at seven sharp for a quick bite to eat. Ella would join them at eight to discuss the contest’s legalities and guidelines.

Luke couldn’t deny that the thought of seeing the pretty waitress again so soon was a pretty good one. He ran a hand over the pocket of his shirt, and then reached inside and pulled out the business card he’d stealthily tucked away as they’d left the diner earlier today. EDIBLE EATS BY ELLA was printed in neat block letters across the top, followed by a list of various catering services available, a website URL, and a telephone number below that.

Wishing he had enough time to look up the catering site on his laptop, but knowing he didn’t, Luke tucked the card inside his wallet and headed upstairs to his room. He had time enough to dash upstairs and freshen up a bit. A little cologne, a little Colgate, maybe pop an Altoid or two…

Luke grinned at the irony of the whole situation. Just a month ago he would have scoffed at the very notion of working on a reality series. It seemed like a guy could hardly turn on the tube these days without yet another reality show making its debut. He didn’t understand it. Weren’t the terms ‘TV’ and ‘reality’ an oxymoron? When he wanted a dose of reality, he certainly didn’t have to plop down in front of his entertainment center for it.

Now Luke had a feeling that Ella Paglia might very well change the way he looked at reality television. Forever.

*****

            Ella stood stock still in the midst of the sea of clothes and scarves that now littered the floor of her bedroom. She hadn’t pulled a stunt like this since college, but—come to think of it—this whole thing kind of made her feel like a giddy school girl. She’d all but emptied out the closet, and still had no clue what to wear for the meeting with the Cooking Channel guys.

            Ella smoothed nervous hands down the sides of her skirt, and examined herself again in the mirror. She’d found this skirt on the clearance rack of Dress Barn right after Chloe had been born. Proud of her fifteen dollar purchase at the time, now she worried that her closet contained nothing that would hold up to Hollywood standards.

            “What am I going to do?” she wailed, unzipping the dark, pin-striped skirt, slipping out of it, and adding it to the heap at her feet.

            “First of all, b-r-e-a-t-h-e!” Reggie, sitting cross-legged on Ella’s bed with Chloe nestled in her lap, spelled out the word with exaggerated animation.

            “I don’t have time to breathe!” Ella snapped, and then stopped as both Reggie and Chloe stared up at her with wide eyes.

            “Mommy’s a nervous wreck, Chloe,” Reggie continued to tease. “Can Chloe say ‘nervous wreck’?” She giggled and ducked as Ella aimed a discarded beret in her direction. “Hey, that look was actually really cute, El. Try it on again.”

            Ella sighed and reached for the cap. “Yeah? You sure?” She sat it on her head and turned back to the full-length mirror behind the closet door. “But what about clothes? I certainly can’t parade into Max’s like this”—she pointed to her slip-clad body—“can I?”

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Reggie rolled Chloe over on the bed, tickling her. “I can think of a couple of guys who might like it!”

            “Reg!” Mortified, Ella sank to the floor. “That’s it. I can’t go. I just can’t.”

            “Mariella Paglia, must I talk you through everything? Of course, you’re going. And not only that—you’re going to wow the socks off these guys.” Reggie jumped from the bed and began pawing through the clothes.

            Chloe sat up on the bed, her dark curls still damp from her bath, and clapped her hands with enthusiasm. “Wow, Mama. Wow, Mama.”

            Ella reached for her and cuddled her close. “That’s right, Chloe-bug. Your Mama needs to wow these guys.”

            “And Ella—” Reggie’s voice was muffled among the heap of material—“this whole adventure might be just the ticket you need to get out of here. Now don’t get me wrong—”she cast a furtive glance around the cramped space, just a hint of apology in her voice—“I love what you’ve done with the place, but…”

            Ella followed Reggie’s gaze, taking in the dated floral wallpaper she couldn’t afford to replace. She tried to swallow the instant irritation trying to snake its way up her throat. Reggie meant well, Ella knew that. This old—and somewhat dilapidated—walk-up garage apartment, well past its prime, was the best her salary at Max’s would allow, while still enabling her to slowly chip away at the hospital and doctor bills.

            As much as it had pained her to do so, she’d had no choice but to sell the two-story brick Colonial she’d shared with Stephen back in New Jersey. It was either sell it pay off a couple of the creditors or sit still and lose it anyway.

            “Ella P, I know where that pretty little head of yours just went! And that’s not it at all. You know how proud I’ve been of you since Stephen—” Reggie let her words fade away and dropped her head in dismay, sending her sleek auburn ponytail cascading over one slumped shoulder.

Ella’s heart constricted. The roller coaster her emotions had been enjoying since Stephen’s death took yet another sudden upward turn. Honestly, some days she felt more like a mad woman, never knowing from minute to minute what her mood would be.

            “I know.” Ella crouched on the floor beside her friend and wrapped her arms around her. “I’d be lost without you, you know that, don’t you?”

            Reggie leaned her head against Ella’s. “So are you ready to get dressed and go show these guys that you’re just what they’re looking for? And you’ll be wearing clothes, all right. Very proper, very appropriate, very…Ella-like clothes.” She made a face and stuck out her tongue, eliciting delighted deep-throated chuckles from Chloe. “So relax, okay?”

            “Okay.” She still wasn’t convinced she could do this. But she had to at least try, didn’t she? Otherwise, all her efforts—the tape, the memories, the time it had taken—would be in vain. Not to mention the time and effort Reggie had contributed to this project.

            Right now Ella knew that Reggie was the only one in the world trying to help her make sense of this new life into which she’d suddenly been tossed without warning. She couldn’t bear the look of defeat she saw etched around her friend’s eyes this minute.

            Poor Reg. Ella had lost track of how many times Reggie had fed her and Chloe over the past year. Too many to count, that’s for sure. The months after Stephen’s death had been tortuous and, just when Ella thought she might go stark-raving mad from grief, Reggie had stepped in. When Ella had found it virtually impossible to leave the house, let alone run errands and prepare even the simplest semi-healthy meals, Reggie made sure the dry cleaning got picked up, kept Chloe’s closet stocked with Huggies, and made frequent runs to the neighborhood taco shop for the spicy salsa they both loved.

            She hadn’t been in a state of mind to make sense of it all then, but Ella now realized that Reggie had sacrificed weeks of her time—probably to the chagrin of Kristi Carmichael—to fly cross-country and care for her. She owed Reggie. No doubt about it.

            Ella scooped up her daughter now and snuggled her close, breathing in the sweet scent of baby lotion and strawberry shampoo. In her arms she held a living, breathing reminder of why this venture was so important.

             She’d been given a chance, a real opportunity to carve out a decent life for the two of them. If she’d never placed, she wouldn’t have been surprised and really not even disappointed. How many people entered these contests truly expecting to win, after all?

            But she had placed, and now they wanted her to fly to Los Angeles and make her a part of the new series. If she won, it would mean a rebirth to her dream—she would operate her own restaurant. This could be it—the big break she and Chloe needed. A way out of the mountain of doctor bills and late credit card statements.

            It was really happening. To her, Ella Paglia, the girl from the Jersey shore. This was opportunity knocking. She couldn’t let this door slam shut without giving it her best shot.

            “Here!” Reggie popped out of the closet, clutching a pink skirt and a simple short-sleeved black sweater. “This is it, it’ll go perfectly with the beret. Don’t you think? Oh, El, this is…so exciting!” She hopped up and down, prompting loud squeals and more exuberant hand-clapping from Chloe.

            Ella grinned. She couldn’t help it. It had been a long time since she’d seen and felt such displays of ‘happy’ in her house. It felt good.

            Even if it also scared her silly.

*****

Luke fidgeted in the booth, resisting the urge to check his watch again. She’d be here when she promised, no use acting like a middle school kid and getting all restless over a girl. Anticipation pumped through his veins, and all he wanted to do was grin.

            Even though he’d ordered the house specialty—tonight it was Max’s fried catfish and dirty rice—Luke didn’t feel one bit hungry. Just restless in a way he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

            Ella Paglia was clearly different from the other seven finalists. The last to be notified, Luke’s expectations of her hadn’t been that high. Each of the others—three women and four men—had been nice enough.

            He could easily see any of them in front of his camera. They had “the look”, that elusive star quality that earmarked the difference between ultimate success and dismal failure. In short, they all seemed similar. Maybe too similar.

            But Ella Paglia was…different. Unaffected. A real woman. Not like the plastic ones he’d become accustomed to in La-La Land. The gals who looked as though they had their makeup applied at Earl Shively and sported implanted body parts that looked anything but natural.

             Ella had reminded him of home, of his high school days in Cleveland, long before he’d made the move to the West Coast. She embodied the wacky grace of Lucy Ricardo, the gentle spirit of Renee Zelwegger, and the exotic beauty of Salma Hayek—all rolled up in one petite, yet curvy, package.

            “So,” Kurt folded his menu and settled back in the worn and squeaky booth, “Why the huge grin, Abney?”

            “What do you mean?” Luke picked up his iced tea and took a long, slow drag through the straw. He knew the grin, but also knew he’d better wipe it off his face, and quick, before Kurt caught on. No way would his buddy let him live this one down.

            Kurt nodded, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Uh-huh. Just what I thought.” He pointed a finger in Luke’s direction. “Just remember something, Abney. She’s a finalist. There’s several more just like her. I wouldn’t get attached just yet, if I were you.”

            Heat inched its way up Luke’s neck and settled in his cheeks. Wishing he were beneath anything besides the bright overhead lights in the diner, he pulled at his shirt collar, suddenly feeling hot and stifled.

            But mostly just irritated.

            Kurt didn’t know what he was talking about. In the four years they’d worked for the same network, Luke could count on one hand the number of women he’d found appealing enough to ask out. Attractive on the inside as well as the outside, that is. And the number he’d actually taken out, even fewer. It certainly wasn’t like he was some scrawny-kneed junior high kid with a larger-than-life crush. He didn’t fall for women like…well, like some of the other guys at the network did. It was easy enough for Kurt to talk—he was happily married to a woman who adored him and the father of a cute, if rather precocious, three-year-old son.

            “Hey, man, I’m just messing with you,” Kurt’s hearty laugh attracted the attention of a nearby table of women. “Don’t go all serious on me!”

            Luke made a pretense of unfolding the white paper napkin that encased the silverware. He methodically set the knife and fork on the table and dropped the napkin into his lap. He shrugged, and then whispered, wishing the women at the next table would return to their own business and quit staring at them. “All I’m saying is she was—”

            What? What was Ella Paglia, exactly? Beautiful—but in a natural, totally unaffected way? Charming—but without conveying any physical interest at all?

            No description seemed to do. At least nothing he cared to share with Kurt. “Look, all I’m saying is she’s got what the network bigwigs are looking for.”

            Huh? Where had that come from? Like he knew what the bigwigs wanted. Luke shifted in his chair again. Now would be a good time for the waitress to deliver their food. Before he went and said something equally foolish and meaningless.

            And before he revealed that Ella Paglia had somehow crawled under his skin.

Tags: Free Fiction Fridays, Staci Wilder books, summer reads

July 9, 2010 @ 6:59 am | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life

Chapter One

 

MELROSE MIRACLE

 

by Staci Wilder

Chapter Two

             Ella pushed into the kitchen, and then leaned against the counter. Her heart felt like it had taken up permanent lodging somewhere in the back of her throat and her legs felt as wobbly as Chloe’s looked when she toddled about the house.

            “What’s wrong?” Max turned from his fry stove, concern etched into the worn lines on his face. “You sick?”

            “No.” Ella shook her head, then handed him the crumpled order for Table 10. “Two specials, Max.”

            The older man nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “Maybe you need to rest.” He nodded to a lone chair in the corner of the kitchen. “Have a seat.”

            Walking to the ice dispenser, she filled a pitcher with ice, and then poured it full of sweet tea. Table 3 needed refills. “I’m fine, Max. Really.” Ella hoped the smile made it to her mouth. She’d certainly ordered it there.

            Of course she was fine. Wasn’t she? Ella shivered in spite of the heat in the kitchen. The tingle that had rippled through her when the stranger at the table—the one wearing a purple LA Lakers cap—smiled at her had shocked her. She hadn’t felt anything like that since—

            It seemed that no matter what she did, or where she went, Stephen still eased inside her thoughts and emotions just as though he were still with her. Ella shook off her silliness and set the pitcher of iced tea on a small, round tray. It wasn’t Mr. Blond—she’d caught just a glimpse of closely-cropped blond hair beneath the cap—man who’d caused her heart to flip-flop. It was the memory of what she’d lost.

            It had to be.

            Anything more than that just wasn’t an option.

            “Max, can you brew a fresh pot of coffee? I have a couple of guys who’ve never tried it before.”

            “You don’t say!” Max’s hearty chuckle was half-evil, half-glee as he wiped flour from his beefy hands and reached for the canister that housed his special blend. Even Ella didn’t quite know just what the coffee mixture contained. But she did know that folks around here considered it essential, ranked right up there with fresh air and plenty of breathing room.

            Soon Ella had loaded two steaming cups of coffee alongside the pitcher of iced tea. With practiced ease, she hoisted the tray and pushed against the swinging door just in time to see Reggie toss several bills on the table and head for the door. Ella knew from experience that her friend was leaving far more than the measly lunch tab and tip. Ella felt a mix of awe and appreciation flood her senses as she watched Reggie slide Dior sunshades over her eyes, toss her a last wave, and step out into the bright Louisiana sunshine.

            Ella set the mugs of coffee down on Table 10, grateful that her jittery nerves allowed her to do so without incident. She purposefully avoided the eyes of Mr. Blond and turned her attention, instead, to the chicory-skittish man sitting across from him. Taller, darker, older—forty, if she were to guess—his dark hair had already begun to gray at the temples.

            “Your order will be up in just a couple of minutes. Can I get you anything else while you wait?”

            He glanced at Mr. Blond, and then smiled. “No, I think we have everything we need.”

            “Thanks, Ella.”

            Ella’s heart thumped a crazy beat as her name rolled out of Mr. Blond’s mouth. She didn’t remember telling them what it was. Around here—with regular customers and almost zero visitors—it was never necessary so she’d never formed the habit. She knew everyone and they all knew her.

            As though they had a mind of their own and were totally oblivious to her wishes, Ella’s eyes traveled back to Mr. Blond. Mischief mingled with the flecks of gray in his deeply blue eyes as he tapped his left shoulder. “It is Ella, isn’t it?”

            “Oh!” She reached up and touched the rectangular name tag pinned to her t-shirt. Of course they’d seen her name printed there. “Yes. Ella.” She nodded. “My name’s Ella.”

            Why did her heart feel as though it were running a race at the Churchill Downs? She forced herself to meet Mr. Blond’s gaze and willed her words to sound more intelligent than the garbled bunch she’d just released. “Are you just passing through Milltown?”

            The dark-headed one nodded. “We’ll be here overnight.” He eyed the cup she’d set down in front of him and lifted it. “Can you recommend a good hotel?” He lowered his mouth and took a hesitant sip.

            Ella stifled a smirk. It wasn’t often she got to witness a brawny guy like this squirm over a cup of Max’s coffee. Now he wanted to know about a hotel? Was the guy joking? Not only did Milltown not boast a hotel, the closest motel was a good half-hour’s drive down the highway. “Baton Rouge has several.”

            “Baton Rouge?” He grimaced but swallowed an impressive amount of the strong liquid. Straightening in his chair, he frowned. “We just flew into the Baton Rouge airport this morning. That’s—” he wrinkled his brow in thought—“I don’t know, maybe a hundred miles from here?”

            Ella nodded. “That’s right. Of course, there’s a small place down the road a piece.” She shrugged. “More of a boarding house than a motel. It may not have all the amenities you’re used to, but it’s clean and…well, closer.”

            Mr. Blond laughed out loud and slapped his palm on his denim-clad thigh as though what she’d said was the funniest thing ever. His eyes matched the merriment in his voice and Ella instinctively knew he laughed with her and not at her.

            Still, she looked away—couldn’t help it—when Mr. Blond winked, his eyes growing even bluer with the action. Even after a year at Max’s, Ella wasn’t accustomed to the attention she often garnered from some of the male customers who flowed through the small diner.

            Most of them proved harmless—men from around town who were just naturally curious—whether for themselves or their buddies, she was never sure—about her newly single status. They were respectful enough of her loss to keep their distance and it wasn’t that they leered at her; just the fact that they gazed with open curiosity was enough to make her want to bolt at times.

            “I’ll go check on your order.”

            Ella was thankful for something to do. She was even relieved to see another group of local kids straggle noisily through the diner’s door. Normally this group would make her groan, knowing they would hang around, joking and playing, until the appointed time their mothers had ordered them to be home.

            But today she welcomed them. Somehow the sight of something so familiar helped counteract the less familiar fluttering in the pit of her belly.

            “Feeling better?” Max’s gruff exterior masked a true softie. She could tell him she was fine until she turned blue in the face, but the man had a sixth sense that seemed to pinpoint her emotions every time. His aim might be a little off. After all, she wasn’t ill, but his feeling that something wasn’t right was dead-on.

            “Much.” Ella grinned. “Thanks.”

            Table Ten’s orders were up and she accepted the loaded tray of food from Max with gratitude. Another round of questions from him and she might be forced to admit that Mr. Blond had rattled her nerves. The weathered cook added two fresh-baked rolls to the tray with a final hmphh.  Ella grabbed the moment and backed out of the kitchen.           Mr. Blond stared at the heaping pile of chicken and homemade steak fries like it was a long-lost treasure. Letting out a long, low whistle, he pulled his plate close.

            “Enjoy.” Ella tugged a couple of straws from the pocket of her apron and laid them on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

            “No, nothing.” The dark-headed one pointed to the empty chair at the table. “Unless you have time to join us.”

            “Sorry.” Ella swallowed the momentary panic clutching the base of her throat and took a halted step backward. Tapping the face of her watch, she cast a quick, nervous glance around the diner. “Still have lots of customers, and only a little while left on my shift.” Turning on her heel, she moved away.

            “Ma’am, it’s not what you think—”

            Ella heard Mr. Blond’s words, but pretended she didn’t. Moving toward the noisy group of teens gathered in the back corner booth, she tried to sweep Mr. Blond’s wink from her mind. That was difficult though when, seconds later, she looked back in time to see him bow his head in a silent prayer. Ella felt a nibble of something close to conviction. It wasn’t uncommon here deep in the Bible belt to see folks bow their heads in prayer over a meal, but Ella certainly hadn’t expected it from these two.

            The teens in the back booth were obviously more interested in slurping down vanilla shakes and catching up on the latest hot topics than hitting the school books they’d pulled from their backpacks. They seemed oblivious to her presence. Funny how comforting she found that…

            Ella caught a glimpse of Max out of the corner of her eye. The sight of the stout, pot-bellied owner of the diner caused Ella to breathe a little easier. No way would anyone get away with hassling her—not that these guys had been doing that—with Maxwell Durham around.

            She cleared her throat and leaned her arms on the kids’ table. A petite girl with slender shoulders and long auburn braids glanced up. “I’m so sorry!” Large blue eyes rounded with dismay, and she tapped the arm of the beefy jock-type guy next to her, trying to quiet him.

            “We’ve been too loud, haven’t we?” Her expression begged forgiveness and Ella felt her heart give way. To be this young again… Minimal problems, controllable conflicts, and time to chug vanilla shakes. What a life.

            “We’ll tone it down, we promise. Right, guys?” The girl glanced around the table for confirmation. A polite chorus of  yeah, no problem and for sure! ringed its way around the small table and the girl smiled with satisfaction. “See? We’ll be quieter now.”

            Ella smiled, this time an honest-to-goodness real one. Her heart gave an unexpected lurch, and she fought the urge to reach out and touch the girl’s neat braid, wanting to somehow embrace this visible evidence of youthful exuberance. This unadulterated view of the world and all its vast possibilities. Why not indulge them their rowdy chatter? Soon enough these kids would learn firsthand, as she had, the struggles life would throw their way.

            “Don’t worry about it.” Ella reached into her apron pocket and pulled out another stack of fresh, white napkins, passing them to a boy who’d just managed to spill half a glass of soda down the front of his shirt.

            Let them be loud, have their fun. They were kids, passing through the last of their innocence. She touched the girl’s shoulder. “Let me know if you guys need anything, okay?”

            “Thanks!” The braids bobbed with the movement as the girl turned her attention back to her friends.

            Ella would have loved nothing more than to continue standing next to them. Listening to the nonsensical chatter, and grinning at the cheesy jokes cracked by the boys, obviously meant to entertain the girls of the group.

            But she was a grown-up, dealing with adult issues and heavy-handed dilemmas. Hanging out with the kids wasn’t going to pay the bills, or care for Chloe, or even begin to fill the vacancy left in her heart by Stephen.

            When would she learn? Hiding out—whether in her run-down apartment or here in the diner with a bunch of kids—did nothing but prolong the pain. She could run, sure, but she knew now she’d never be able to hide.

            Ella roused herself, pushing against the heaviness that always tried to take over whenever she allowed her thoughts to stray toward Stephen. No time for that right now. In thirty short minutes she’d be free to pick up Chloe from the sitter’s. Then the best part of the day would begin. 

            Now anxious to finish her duties and clock off her eight-hour shift, Ella spun around, bumping forehead-first into the polo-clad chest of Mr. Blond. Before she had time to recover, the tray that had, just seconds ago, been carefully tucked against her hip, went flying, sending a mixture of  coffee cups, soiled napkins, and chewed-up straws in various directions.

            “Oh!” Ella gasped. Humiliation and anger tangled madly in her belly as she dropped to the floor in a desperate effort to halt a rolling cup. Heat flamed in her cheeks, and Ella knew her face now matched the red stripe on Mr. Blond’s expensive-looking shirt. The same shirt, Ella noticed, as she finally risked a glance upward, that now boasted a spattering of cold coffee dregs and bits of paper napkin.

            “Oh, no,” she groaned and snatched another handful of clean napkins from her pocket. “Here,” she thrust them toward Mr. Blond, “I think I ruined your shirt.”

            “Don’t worry about it. It was my fault anyway. I should’ve warned you that I was right behind you.” Mr. Blond waved away her concern.

            Trying to regain some modicum of dignity, Ella struggled to stand. Just when she thought she was steady, her right foot slipped on the spilled coffee, and she felt herself going down again. Only this time it was involuntary, and the impact of her backside against the tiled floor was anything but pleasant. Please, God, get me out of this.

            Ella knew she had no right to ask God for anything—serious or frivolous—and the idea that she’d done so after this embarrassing fiasco would have struck her as borderline sacrilegious. That is, if she actually had the luxury of time to dwell on it. Ella knew she didn’t pray enough these days. Okay, she didn’t pray at all. Hadn’t, in fact, since Stephen’s death. But here, on the floor, in the middle of broken glass, cold coffee, and a roomful of prying eyes, Ella sent up a silent plea. Get me outta here…

            Where were those proverbial trap doors when you needed them, anyway?

            “Ma’am? You okay?”

            Ella hadn’t noticed Mr. Blond kneeling beside her on the floor, but now his voice, husky and low, practically tickled her ear. Against her will, and only because it was the polite thing to do, she lifted her head to look at him. The intensity of his gaze, and the concern etched in his eyes—and wow, what blue eyes—was enough to knock her off balance again. He reached out and grasped her elbow, steadying her just in time.

            “Thanks,” Ella managed to mumble something she hoped resembled appreciation. Was there to be no end to this round of humiliation? 

            “Ella, girl?”

            She jumped as Max lumbered up, his booming voice conveying loud concern. “You hurt? Can you stand?”

            Oh, boy. Ella felt her skin deepen another shade of red. If anyone in the diner had missed the original escapade—however remote that possibility might be—they had, without doubt, been alerted to the situation by Max’s boisterous pronouncement.

            “I’m fine. Really. Just fine.” She stood up, held in an awkward stance, with Max pulling on one arm, and Mr. Blond still grasping the elbow of her other one. “See?” She nodded at Max. “I’m great. No broken bones, just broken…dishes—”

            Ella eyed the mess on the floor, regret all but sucking the breath from her lungs. From the looks of things, it would take the biggest chunk of her next paycheck to pay for the damage. Money she needed for the utility payment and groceries. Not to mention she still owed Chloe’s sitter for last week’s work. Why did she have to be so clumsy, this week of all weeks?

            “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Ella girl.” Max’s voice came as close to tenderness as Ella figured it could. “I’ll go grab a broom and some towels and have this cleaned up in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

            Ella nodded, not trusting her voice. She would rather incur the wrath of Max than endure this kindness. If he ranted about the broken mugs or the complained with his usual gruffness over the mess she’d made, then she’d feel some anger. That she could deal with.

            She’d learned over the past couple of years that anger could propel her through a lot of things, including a humiliating incident like this one. She’d used the emotion more times than she cared to recall in the months after Stephen’s death. It had effectively distanced her from everything that even vaguely resembled the life she’d shared with her husband. Just as she’d wanted it to.

            Finally there had been nothing to hold her there any longer, except the pain and the memories, and she’d loaded up her and Chloe’s belongings and made the move to the small town Reggie called her second home. It had taken her a bit longer to learn about the flip side of the anger. It might have given her the needed unction to get moving, but the pain and memories had made the move with them. She’d changed her locale, but not her life. Oh, yeah, Ella knew about anger all right. She squeezed her eyes shut now and summoned it with all her strength, to no avail.

            Instead she had to contend with kindness. The kindness that now fluttered around her with helpful concern. Kindness like Max’s rarely seen soft side. Kindness in the graciousness of a tourist she’d been all but rude to minutes before. And now the kindness of the sweet, auburn braid girl, who’d jumped from her chair to retrieve flying napkins and silverware.

            Ella couldn’t fight against the kindness. In spite of how hard she tried, she couldn’t conjure up one thread of anger. And without the anger, there was just one thing left to do.

            I will not cry. I will not cry. The mantra chanted its way through Ella’s conscience and she willed her body to obey. I will not cry. She’d never been one to cry in public, not even during Stephen’s memorial and burial. This unexpected humiliating tumble was no excuse for her to start now.

            “Here’s a tissue.” Mr. Blond pressed a napkin into her hand as the disobedient hot tears made their wild escape. He turned and called out to his buddy. “Hey, Kurt, scoot that chair over here, will you?”

            His voice was soft, and close to her ear.  “Let me help you into the chair. Let’s make sure you haven’t injured anything.”

            Max cleared his throat with more gusto than necessary. “Uh, yeah. You have a seat, Ella, and I’ll go grab those towels. Nothing to worry about.” He hurried toward the kitchen as fast as his heavy frame would allow. Ella felt sure he was relieved to have a temporary break from the female saga of tears. Even Max had his limits.

            I have limits too,  Ella thought, fairly certain she’d reached hers.

            “I’m sorry,” she whispered as Mr. Blond helped her into the chair Kurt had kindly pulled up for her. “You know, for earlier. I was—” she shrugged, and then raised her chin in resignation. “Well, I was rude. And I apologize.”

            Mr. Blond waited until she’d settled into the chair, and then he knelt in front of her. “This may not be the best time to do this,” he glanced over at his buddy again, arching his eyebrows in question. Ella noticed—for the second time in mere minutes—the intensity of his blue eyes.

            What was going on? Ella’s confusion grew as—was his name Kurt?—nodded his approval and grinned at her.

            “Ella Paglia,” Mr. Blond picked up her hand and gave it a gentle shake. “My name is Luke Abney.” He nodded in Kurt’s direction. “And that guy over there is Kurt Finley, a producer from the The Cooking Channel.”

            Oh, no… This couldn’t be for real. Ella glanced around, half-expecting Ashton Kutcher to jump from the shadows and yell, “Punked!”  Even that shock seemed more probable than the one Mr. Blond was suggesting. But all around her the diners began to clap and soon a steady chant of “El-la! El-la! El-la!” began to circle the cafe.

            This wasn’t how she’d imagined it. Just wait till Reggie heard about this. She’d bust a gut laughing—

            “Ella, you’ve been chosen as one of the eight finalists for Restaurant 101!”

 

Tags: Free Fiction Fridays, Staci Wilder books, summer reads

July 2, 2010 @ 6:51 am | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life

MELROSE MIRACLE

by Staci Wilder

 …remove far from me vanity and lies: give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me…Proverbs 30:8

 Chapter One

 Milltown, Louisiana

            There was no reason to believe today would be different than any other day.

            Ella Paglia glanced—for the fifth time just inside of an hour—at the large round clock boasting jumbo oversized numbers that hung on the far wall of the kitchen. Exactly noon. She blew out a huff of breath and flashed the big, burly cook a wry grin. At least it felt wry. For all Ella knew, as weary as she already felt, her lips could very well be doing most anything they liked and she wouldn’t know the difference. Max returned the grin though, and shrugged his broad shoulders in a way that said, I know…I know…

            In Milltown, Louisiana, time crawled on its hands and knees.

            “Is it really still Tuesday, Max?”

            The older man didn’t answer, and Ella didn’t expect him to. They had opened the diner together this morning at five a.m.—in time to feed the first shift of mill workers before they went on duty and get ready for the onslaught of the third shift when they came off at seven. While Ella felt the rigors of the demanding seven hours—aching back, screaming feet, a mouth stretched sore from hours of being “on”—Max, on the other hand, continued to work tirelessly, his pace never slowing. Now he whistled loudly as he heaped another plate with fried chicken and homemade biscuits. Ella took the plates, arranged them on a tray, and then carefully balanced the load as she used her hip to push through the heavy swinging doors.

            It didn’t matter that Ella had now lived in the small piney woods community of Milltown for—had it really been this long?—two full years. She had never quite adjusted to the laid-back lifestyle and the complete absence of all things hurried and planned. Much different than the fast-paced way of life she was used to on the Jersey coast—where everything seemed to pop with activity and people walked with purpose and determination.

            Ella swatted at the memories trying to push their way to the front burner of her mind. Memories best left alone. It had been two years since Stephen’s death and her move to Milltown, and still the memories insisted on tormenting her, often at the most inconvenient times and places.

            Like right now.

            Max’s Diner—located at 4^th and Main—held its usual Tuesday summer lunch crowd. A hand full of neighborhood teens huddled in one noisy corner booth. A spattering of local business owners conducted impromptu meetings over huge platters of Max’s fried chicken. The Rotary Club was having its monthly meeting in the back room. And the old fashioned lunch counter was peppered with individuals—mostly overall-clad retired grandpas and housewives busily scribbling their afternoon grocery lists—all stopping by for the Tuesday special.

            “Smells delish, Ella.” Reggie, Ella’s best girlfriend, sniffed appreciatively as Ella set the order down in front of her. “Nobody makes fried chicken like Max.”  Reggie lifted a fork in anticipation, glanced up at Ella, and pointed to the chair next to her. “Can you take a break? Sit down for a minute?”

            Ella surveyed the tables and their occupants. All seemed to be taken care of, for the moment anyway. In a few minutes Ernie Johnson would need a refill of the sweet iced tea he loved so much. His wife, Mamie, would ask for another napkin. And Charlie Mason would request a second slice of the pie of the day—cherry—along with a cup of coffee—black. Ella knew these things because…well, because it had been this way every single Tuesday since she started at the diner nearly a year ago.

            “Maybe a small break.” She sank into the chair, trying not to think how wrong it was that a hard, wooden chair could feel so utterly dreamlike beneath her weary body.

            “So have you heard anything yet?” Reggie opened a small cellophane packet of honey and drizzled it over her biscuit.

            “About what?” Ella watched in amazement as her friend took a large bite of the gooey bread, and then handed her a napkin as the sticky honey oozed from the corner of Reggie’s mouth. She eyed the smart Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that managed to make her friend’s waist appear even tinier than it actually was. “How do you stay so thin, eating like this?”

            Reggie’s eyes widened, practically dancing with delight, but she continued to chew the mouthful, finally swallowing with a huge satisfied smile. “This is sooo good.” She took a sip of her diet cola and shrugged. “You know I only eat like this when I’m in town. Calories don’t count in Milltown, right?”

            Ella laughed, resisting the urge to glance down at her own hips, which—if they could talk—would beg to differ. Her once slender five-foot-two-inch frame now nicely filled out a perfect size 12, producing curves Ella hadn’t even known her body was capable of back in New Jersey. She credited motherhood with the added pounds and tried not to resent them too much. The joy of Chloe was worth any cost, even if it meant a rounder behind and a slight stomach pooch.

            Regina “Reggie” Bradshaw was another story entirely. Tall and lithe, with waist-length auburn locks and a milky white complexion, Reggie looked as though she’d freshly stepped from the latest issue of InStyle. Ella didn’t know how her friend managed to marry the chic sophistication of her Los Angeles lifestyle with the down-home, what-you-see-is-what-you-get mentality of Milltown. But somehow Reggie not only managed it, but enjoyed it. Her friend had a zest for life that generally proved contagious to all those around her.

            No doubt why Kristi fought so hard to get her, Ella thought.

            Reggie had scored large when she’d accepted the position of personal assistant to Kristi Carmichael, a twenty-something pop music diva, born and bred right here in Milltown, Louisiana. Bopping between her cozy home in town and her trendy LA apartment, Reggie’s frequent flyer miles earned more perks than Ella’s entire savings passbook. But in spite of the traveling, the concerts, the hob-nobbing with the rich and famous, Reggie managed to remain as crisp and cool as a cucumber in a summer salad. No wilting visible on this girl.

            “You didn’t answer my question.” Reggie poked at the chicken breast with her fork, and then peeled back the batter and removed part of the skin.

            So calories do count after all, don’t they, Reg? Ella leaned forward, propping her elbow on the table, and her chin in her hand. Watching Reggie forego the batter made her suddenly feel a lot better. “What question?”

            “The contest, silly. Have you heard anything yet?”

            Ella frowned. The contest—Restaurant 101—the one Ella had no hope of winning. She shook her head. “Not yet.”

            She didn’t bother to add that she didn’t expect to hear anything. The idea was laughable at best, if not downright ludicrous. Like McAllister Pruitt—only the most well-known celebrity chef turned Cooking Channel star—would hand-pick her to be a part of his new reality-based series…

            Reggie leaned forward and whispered—for no apparent reason—in a highly conspiratorial voice, “Just think. You could be the next Wolfgang Puck. Or Rocco DiSpirito. Or…wait! I’ve got it!” Reggie snapped her fingers, her eyes sparkling. “You’ll be the next Kendall Brooks!”

            “That’s enough!” Ella laughed in spite of how far-fetched her friend’s thoughts ran. If McAllister Pruitt was the most well-known celebrity chef, then Kendall Brooks was America’s Sweetheart of the kitchen. Bright, bubbly, and full of energy, Kendall Brooks had single-handedly ushered a whole new generation into the wonders of culinary treasures. Her daily show, Everyday Meals, was the talk of Milltown.

            “Don’t you see it, Ella?” Reggie was on a roll. “You’re both Italian, cute, a little on the short side…”

            “Stop it, you!” Ella stifled a grin. “This is all easy enough for you. It’d be different, you know, if the shoe were on the other foot!”

            But even as she uttered the retort, she knew it wasn’t true. Reggie Bradshaw—her best friend since seventh grade—operated just fine under pressure. Thrived, in fact, flourishing like a flower beneath the springtime sun. But Reggie seemed unaware how rare her laidback confidence was and, although their personalities stood in stark contrast to one another, they’d been soul sisters since junior high. Everyone should have a friend that believed in them as much as Reggie believed in her. If only that belief were enough.

            Reggie had been the one to convince her to enter the contest in the first place. Three weeks ago, sitting right here, at this very table. In town for a long weekend, Reggie had unfolded a copy of The Bay Gazette, and pointed to the article mid-way down Page Two of the LA Living section.

McAllister Pruitt and The Cooking Channel

Present Restaurant 101

 

            The prominent headline led into a full-page summary of the upcoming reality series that would follow eight contestants—all vying for a restaurant of their own—and the various challenges they would undertake in the process. All under the intense scrutiny of McAllister Pruitt himself.

            Ella had read the article with interest, knowing instinctively that she would be a fan of the show. The Cooking Channel was practically the designated channel in their small apartment. They’d snuggle on the sofa at night, watching Kendall Brooks prepare scrumptious easy-to-prepare meals in thirty minutes or less. Even Chloe—now just two—loved to carry her plastic dishes to the coffee table, letting out a robust Bam! Every now and then. 

            “You should enter.” Reggie’s suggestion had seemed ridiculous at the time, but her friend had proved relentless. Reggie had waved her arms in the air like one of those guys you see on airport tarmacs. All that was missing was the bright yellow bib and orange light stick.

            “Picture it, okay, El?”—her enthusiasm gradually drawing Ella—“There you are, making your famous, scrumptious—” she’d rolled her eyes heavenward—“Vegetable Panini! Something you can practically do in your sleep, by the way.”

            In the span of fifteen short, thought-provoking minutes, Ella had been convinced. Tape a three-minute cooking segment—sure, why not? Cooking was her thing, after all, and the kitchen—her domain, no doubt about it.

She and Chloe ate mostly tuna salad sandwiches and cold cereal these days, but there’d been a time when whipping up a last minute dinner party for eight of their closest friends had been nothing at all. After moving here to Milltown, Reggie had insisted she have some business cards printed and advertise her catering services.

 In spite of the fact it meant more time away from Chloe, Ella rather enjoyed the creativity catering allowed. Of course, around here she mainly did children’s birthday parties, an occasional anniversary celebration, and the annual Christmas dinner sponsored by the mill each December. Certainly not enough to pay the ever-growing mound of bills, and certainly not enough to leave her position at Max’s.

Ella tried not to look at “what could have been”. The restaurant she and Stephen planned to open. The siblings they’d planned for Chloe. The anniversary vacation to Hawaii they’d never taken. Ella knew if she did began to glance in the rear view mirror too often she’d somehow lose what quality still did exist in her life. Chloe. Her friends. Max, and his incredible generosity.

No, it was better if she didn’t dwell on the fact that she and Stephen had been just one signature short of signing a six-month lease on the building that would have housed Ella’s Little Italy.

What a difference twenty-four hours could make…

            The very next day the doctor had delivered their life sentence. Six to nine months—if they were lucky. The restaurant—and the dream it represented—passed away just as quietly as Stephen had on that chilly late October afternoon. Crushed and alone for the first time in her life, Ella had packed up Stephen’s belongings, along with both, her dreams and her faith in God.

            “You okay?” Reggie arched two perfectly plucked eyebrows in concern. “Don’t worry about the contest. They’ll contact you, don’t you doubt that.”

            There was so much conviction in her voice that Ella almost believed her.

            The three-minute taped segment had been sent to the Los Angeles studios of McAllister Pruitt. Ella cringed every time she pictured a group of yuppie Hollywood types pulling her entry from a tightly taped padded manila mailer. They’d no doubt watch with amusement as a single Louisiana mom of one very energetic two-year-old tried to impress them with her simple—all be it delicious—Vegetable Panini.

            Ella tried to stifle the cringe now sneaking up her spine. Had she really thought she might win the chance to run her own restaurant because of this old family recipe? The whole thing seemed like a colossal waste of time and effort.

            Hers and theirs.

            “Think about it, El.” Reggie reached over and squeezed Ella’s hand. “You’re amazing in the kitchen, you have all these fabulous Italian recipes you grew up with, and you’re beautiful. What more could The Cooking Channel want?”

            Ella bit her tongue and resisted the urge to clue Reggie in on exactly ‘what more’ an up-and-coming hip network might want. Um…how about a flawless cover girl face, model-thin thighs, and hair that didn’t have a mind all its own. Just to name a few, of course.

            Now she couldn’t help wondering if entering the contest had been an impulsive long-shot she’d later regret. Every fiber of her five-foot-three frame doubted she’d ever hear anything. She could never decide which was the worse of two evils: taking a chance and falling on your face or never taking a risk and feeling like you’ve missed out on something. Something that could potentially change your life.

            So she’d taken the risk this time. What was the worst that could happen anyway? They’d view her taped segment and decide she wasn’t quite the character or the cook they were looking for in this series. And then her life would continue on as it had for the past year. She’d continue to work her shifts in the diner. Continue to treasure her evenings and weekends with Chloe. Continue to scramble to climb out of the monstrous debt. Life would go on. Just as it had after Stephen’s death. Just as it always would.

            She straightened in her chair now, widened her eyes, and flashed Reggie her profile. “But the thing is…I don’t have any dimples.” Sticking a finger in her cheek, she attempted a lop-sided grin. “You know, like Kendall Brooks’—”

            Reggie giggled and dragged a fry through the last bit of gravy on the plate. “Maybe not, but you’ve got something else, Ella. Something far better. You’ve got…moxie.”

            Ella struggled to swallow. She couldn’t believe Reggie had found the guts to utter that word to her. It had been Stephen’s special word for her.

            Reggie continued, apparently oblivious that she’d stunned Ella. “And that, my sweet friend, is going to take you to amazing places, Ella. I just know it.”

            Charlie Mason twisted in his chair across the dining area, craning his neck as he no doubt looked for her.

            “I’d better get back to work.” Ella stood, then bent and hugged Reggie. “What would I do without you, Reg?”

            Reggie grinned, shrugged, and slipped the remaining bite of biscuit between her lips. “Don’t worry about it—you’ll always have me.”

            Ella brought Charlie’s pie, grabbed a handful of napkins for Mamie, and refilled Ernie’s tea glass. But her mind stayed glued on Reggie’s words. You’ll always have me. Reggie might be the more worldly of the two of them—with her world travels, multi-city concert dates, and glitzy Hollywood lifestyle. But losing Stephen had taught Ella a lesson her friend had yet to learn.

            You just never knew when you might be saying good-bye to someone…for the last time.

***

            It was close to one o’clock in the afternoon when Luke Abney pulled open the front door of Max’s Diner. He followed his buddy Kurt to a table near the large picture window that overlooked the sporadic traffic on Main Street.
            “Cool place, huh?” He dropped into a chair and glanced around the small cafe with a grin. It had been a while—in fact, his last visit home—since he’d eaten in a place like this. The red vinyl booths, black-and-white checked floor, and old-fashioned lunch counter reminded him of Percy’s Drugstore back home. Just like Percy’s, it was a little like stepping back in time.

            And taking a step or two back in time—or at the very least, slowing the pace a bit—sounded like a good plan to Luke.

            Kurt eyeballed the room, shrugged, and quirked an eyebrow. “Cool? Yeah, I guess so. If you like this kind of place.”

            “Aw, man.” Luke teased his buddy and reached for the plastic-coated menus that stood propped between the bottle of ketchup and a salt shaker. “Don’t tell me you’ve allowed Tinsel Town to jade your thinking.” He motioned with his arm. “This is awesome, small-town America at its best. The real world. Real people.”

            Kurt grinned. “As long as they have real food I’ll be a happy customer.”

            “It’ll be good, trust me.” Luke jabbed a menu under Kurt’s nose and then bent to study his. In seconds his mouth started to water as he read about the homemade chicken pot pie and English pea casserole—dishes you just couldn’t find in trendy LA restaurants.

            “Hi, welcome to Max’s. Would you like to hear today’s special?”

            Luke glanced up into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he ever remembered seeing. In person, that is; the video segment had been his first clue. The petite waitress looked to be thirty-ish, with olive skin and a mass of sun-tinted brown curls that she’d tried to capture—rather unsuccessfully—in a ball on the top of her head.

            Luke tried not to stare, and tried even harder to find his voice. He’d known from the contest entry that she was attractive, but in person her freshly-scrubbed good looks rendered him speechless.

            “Sure, we’d love to hear the specials.” Kurt answered her, and then kicked him beneath the table, just the nudge Luke needed to remind him it was rather rude to stare.          “Okay. Today’s special features Max’s—” she gestured in the direction of the kitchen—“famous fried chicken and homemade biscuits.”

            Kurt’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at an elderly couple seated at the next table. The man—dressed in worn coveralls and white t-shirt—winked and nodded.

            “The best fried chicken this side of the Mississippi.”

            Luke closed his menu and grinned at the waitress. “That’s good enough for me then.”

            Kurt looked skeptical, but he nodded. “Make that two. Oh, and a couple of espressos, please.”

            Luke coughed into his hand, trying to send a signal his buddy’s direction. No way was Kurt going to find one of his beloved coffee specialties in this diner. He risked a peek at the waitress and glimpsed a hint of amusement playing in the corners of her lips.

            “Espressos?” She tapped her order pad with the eraser end of her pencil and leveled a smile at Kirk. “And is our house ground okay? Or would you like for me to grind the beans myself?”

            “Fresh ground would be great—” His voice trailed off as she giggled and held up a hand to stop him. “What? Did I miss something?”

            “Hey, the only thing you’re going to miss today, my friend, is a strong shot of liquid energy.” Luke couldn’t hold back the laugh another second. He wasn’t sure which was funnier—the way this pretty waitress had pulled one over on Kirk or the fact that his buddy just couldn’t seem to separate himself from the alternate universe that was Los Angeles.

            “I’m sorry.” The waitress’ expression turned contrite, though the smile proved that she, too, had enjoyed the moment. “I couldn’t resist. No, we don’t have a way to do espressos here, but Max does make the best cup of coffee around. If it’s a caffeine jolt you’re looking for, I can fix you up.”

            “It’s not that chicory stuff, is it?” Kirk’s nose turned up.

            “Have you ever tried it?” Her eyes nailed his.

            “Okay.” Kirk rested his palms on the table in a signal of surrender. “Chicory coffee, it is.”

             “You won’t be sorry, honest. It’ll take just a couple of minutes, then I’ll have your order right out.” The waitress’ smile was pure delight. It seemed to light up her entire face. Genuine warmth—something you didn’t see much of in Los Angeles.

            A mixture of something strange yet wonderful flopped around in the pit of Luke’s belly as her eyes locked on his. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in quite a long time. But one he certainly recognized. He tried to kick at the disappointment when she’d finished scribbling their order and walked away.

            “That’s her.” Kurt pulled a folder from the briefcase he’d dropped into the chair next to him. He opened it, and then skimmed the contents. “Ella Paglia, waitress, formerly of New Jersey, specializes in Italian dishes.” He glanced up. “What do you think, Abney? Ready to let our eighth—and last—finalist know she’s been chosen for Restaurant 101?”

Tags: Christian fiction, Staci Wilder books, summer reading