ISBN: 9781626755550

INTRODUCTION

I wrote, The Lark: A True Story Based On Pure Fantasy, in 2005. Unable to get it printed and not knowing about epublishing, I put it aside and just kept writing. By now some of the humor may not be new, but my editors and readers encouraged me to leave it as is and epublish. Be forewarned, The Lark, because of the explicit sex scenes is classified in the erotica genre and was written to excite the imagination. It is a damn good love story with a sensual sexy romp woven throughout. It is fun to read. It is exhilarating. It is not for children, although there is a child’s story within. The Lark is a light and fun adult love story for men and women.

In the beginning the story appears to be about Mr. Joseph E. Jones and his undying hope to once again find love. I wrote the book that way to lure the average male reader, who from my experience does not read love stories. But The Lark is chameleonic and the reader soon realizes the story is not just about Mr. Jones, but is really about Emily Thompson and her quest to regain her self-esteem and to right some overdo wrongs. Emily is a hoot.

Her paternal grandfather owned and operated one of the last major agriculture operations in Orange County Florida where Orlando is the major city and home to theme parks. Emily’s grandfather was the most influential person in her life and he died the summer after she graduated from high school and before she left Orlando to attend Florida State University. She blamed herself for the travesty that happened after her grandfather’s death and carried this guilt with her to the university. She was promiscuous, flunked out of school, returned home, broke the law, and got arrested. Her father and maternal grandfather, tired of her shenanigans, pulled some strings and finally, after a period of time, got her reinstated in FSU with conditions. She landed a job in an off campus Cuban restaurant and became celibate. Her friends and co-workers encouraged her to get back into the swing of things and Emily thought that a slightly older man might be better than a peer. She knew that Mr. Jones, a frequent customer at Castro’s Revenge, was infatuated with her so she decided that he, like any man, would welcome her into a tryst, but Mr. Jones was more than she imagined. He became not only her catalyst and lover but also her friend and every one needs a friend: and so the story begins.

While reading this entertaining story, the reader is exposed to some early Spanish Florida history, current immigration situations, a splash of science, and a little animal husbandry, but all contribute to the story and there is not enough of any to make it boring.

The Lark is written in an unconventional style. Sometimes the writer talks to the reader and sometimes to a character and sometimes a character will talk to the writer. The sex, although descriptive, is analogous and is connected to other physical activities and that is why I say, “The Lark is sexually hilarious.”

I hope you enjoy reading it. If you do, tell your friends to buy it.

Thank you,

John Wesley Brown

Cover Design by David L. Lunsford

(850) 591-7870

http://lunsforddesign.com

david@lunsforddesign.com

Biography

My name is John Wesley Brown. I grew up on a small farm in rural Leon County outside of Tallahassee, Florida. I attended Florida State University. I dropped out of school and worked in heavy construction in Indiana to save enough money to take my very pregnant Jewish wife at the time to Israel to live on a kibbutz. Israel paid my wife’s way, but since I was a gentile, a goy to some, I had to pay my own way. I was the first and only redneck living in Israel. I taught the Kibbutzniks a thing or two about farming as well as other things. I lived a year on the kibbutz and had limited training on the Uzi. The safety factor in Israel was becoming questionable so I sent my wife and child back to the United States, but I stayed through the Six Day War. During that year in Israel I wrote novels and short stories in longhand, but upon returning to the U.S. I was unable to read my own handwriting. We divorced and I reentered Florida State University and took course work in photography, film, art history, and the humanities. I wrote some papers and even had some published. I graduated in 1971.

But I kept getting nice ladies pregnant and had to give up writing and go into business to support me and all of them. After working in construction for a few years, I started the first tent and party business in Tallahassee in 1975. I sold it for a hunk of money in 2000 and prepared myself to go back to writing. But my love at that time shocked me with the news that while I was putting in all those long hours and paying off all the debts, she had developed another life and for sure didn’t want to be married to someone struggling to be a writer. Who can blame her? I got my third and final divorce in 2001 and said good-by to most of the money, but kept writing.

I have been married three times and have three daughters and several grandchildren.

I have two more novels completed and they are close to being epublished. No Purchase On Tomorrow is the story of two sisters in love with the same man. Both beautiful sisters have doctorates, but one is confined to a wheelchair. A Taste of Freedom is an historical fictional novel that takes place on a plantation in Mississippi in the mid 1850s, prior to and up to the Civil War. It is written in the Southern white and slave vernacular of that time period. It took five years of research and writing to bring this novel to fruition. I have also written many short stories that I intend to publish.

Read them all!

Thank you for your interest.

John W. Brown

CHAPTER 1

When one’s esteem has been downgraded from mediocre to mundane, happiness seems elusive unless one is afflicted with that incurable addiction called hope. Returning home to Tallahassee after serving his country, Mr. Joseph E. Jones’ marriage dwindled into divorce, but he was able to keep full custody of hope.

Tallahassee is not only the capital of Florida, but is also the home to a variety of learning institutions. With this influx of students come art, theatre, music, dance, and a great variety of foods. Students come from all over the world and bring with them not only their culture but also their desire for home cooked meals. When they cannot find a taste of home, they cook for themselves. Soon, with encouragement, they take the chance; buy a license, hire friends, get discovered, join the chamber, and so on. The choices of dinning in Tallahassee are astonishing, and every nationality is represented, including Cuba.

Joseph Jones enjoyed good Cuban food and found it in niches tucked away in renovated locations. When it was his week with his daughter, Shelly, he enjoyed taking her out to eat. He often took her to Castro’s Revenge, a popular Cuban restaurant near campus. Cuban food is cheap, tasty, and fun to eat. Shelly loved the Boatlift Burger; a cheeseburger made with Cuban spices and Swiss cheese. Joe concluded that Castro did not want anything American, even if it were just cheese.

“Shelly, are you hungry?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let’s get something to eat at that Cuban restaurant you like and catch a movie.”

“Cool! I love their Boatlift Burger.”

Great food is the reason, Joe told himself, that he enjoyed going there even when he didn’t have Shelly, but if Joseph E. Jones was forced to tell the truth he would have to admit another reason besides the cheap good food. The employees at Castro’s Revenge were mostly pretty young college girls wearing whatever they desired with their hair done in some carefree but functional style. He loved talking with them and listening to all of their youthful input on life. He assured himself that he was not flirting and he had no ulterior motives. He went there often. (Good food, huh?)

One particular Friday night, during his week to be alone, Joe had a craving for a Cuban sandwich and a cold beer. So he headed to Castro’s Revenge hoping that one special waitress might be working. The one always wearing headphones and moving quickly like a frightened gazelle.

When he entered the restaurant the waitresses smiled and gave small waves. They always made him feel welcome, but he didn’t fool himself. He knew it wasn’t due to his looks. He was known as a big tipper, but that didn’t bother him, he enjoyed the attention.

He was glad to see that special waitress bouncing around between the tables serving customers. Watching her was always a joy. Tonight seemed slow, which made him even happier. The beer would be colder, the service faster, and he wouldn’t feel guilty lingering on the barstool. And maybe, just maybe, she would be the one to wait on him. He was in luck.

“Cold Heineken?” she asked.

He smiled and nodded and tried not to show how much he enjoyed watching her.

“Do you need a menu or are you going to order your usual?”

He hated being predictable. “A Cuban sandwich,” he said smiling, and then asked, “How can you hear with your headphones on?”

“I try and read lips. Can’t you read lips?” she asked, while smiling and looking at Joe. Before he could muster a reply she went on to explain that the volume was low but just loud enough to drown out the owner’s choice of terrible Cuban music. Her next move took him totally by surprise. She reached over the bar with one hand and placed it behind his head and pulled him closer. With her other hand she removed the earplugs and placed one of them in one of his ears. He hadn’t been this close to any one, especially one so attractive, in a very long time. His heart began to beat rapidly.

“See, you can hardly hear it.”

Joe, being so close was distracted. He kept looking at her eyes, her skin, her hair, just looking hard. Swept away by her attractiveness his fumbling brain enabled his mouth to mutter a question. “Hear what?” he mumbled innocently.

“The music, don’t you hear the music?” she asked as her free hand reached down and turned up the volume.

“Yow!” he screamed as he jerked his head back pulling out the ear piece and regretfully losing her hand from the back of his neck. “I guess I had better learn to read lips now since I am deaf in one ear,” he said with a big smile.

She apologized with, “I’m sorry,” and a smile. “You could probably use that beer now let me find you a cold one.”

To hell with the beer just put your hand back and pull me close, but “Thank you,” is what came out.

She brought his beer after putting his food order in and said something that made his heart leap.

“I need to go check on my other tables, I’ll be right back.”

He was glad he didn’t have a full mouth or he would have choked. Instead he said something like, “I’ll be right here.” Dumb, he thought.

She smiled and bounced away. When she returned she brought his sandwich.

They were making small talk when he asked her name.

“Emily,” she said.

He felt like he already knew her name, or was it just because they were at such ease with each other. During their talk he slipped in the fact that he was divorced and had a 13-year-old daughter. Joe Jones believed in always being up front and didn’t want to appear deceitful. He also knew not to succumb to his own wishful thinking.

Her response surprised him. “I know. I’ve seen you together. You are very attentive, and you make her laugh.” She noticed? “Your daughter likes the BoatLift Burger, a good example of Americanized Cuban food. Too salty, but the college crowd loves it, too.”

Digesting this information, he asked her about her studies. She told him she was a design major. She went on to say design courses are not easy and the School of Design has a screening process. “It has 100% job placement, especially after graduate school. May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Give me one word that affects your life every minute, day or night, 24/7?”

Joe Jones thought for a short while, then said, “I can think of two, light and energy.”

“Are you a scientist?” she asked.

“No, I don’t know diddly.”

“Those are metaphysical words.”

“Metaphysical? I’m not even sure I know what that means.”

She looked at him, rolled her eyes at the ceiling and said, “I was dealing in the realm of everyday reality. Tell me the one word that influences everyone every second of their life.”

Joe was worried that he might say the wrong thing so he took the easy way out. “I don’t know. Help me?”

“The word is design. Everything you see, touch, smell, or taste is there by design.” She went on to explain some of the innovative discoveries made by students here and at other universities: new materials that enhance the Greening of America, new concepts in sustainability. “It is up to us young people to find a cure for the ills that the older generations have left us.”

Joe, suffering from the middle age fear of aging, felt a tinge of guilt, but was nevertheless impressed. Having a daughter he worried about the future and it was obvious that Emily was not just another pretty face. Enjoying their time together almost prevented him from understanding when she said something wonderful.

Complaining about all the reading she had to do before Monday, she said, “You know what I need, an isolated beach where I can study and I won’t be distracted by all the goings on around campus.”

Joseph E. Jones very carefully said, “I’m headed to St. Joe Beach tomorrow, coming back Sunday. You are more than welcome to come; its white sand, clear water, and there is hardly anyone there this time of year. People don’t arrive until the schools are out. And even then, it’s very seldom crowded.”

“St Joe Beach, where in the world is that?”

He explained it was an old Florida beach community down below Wewahitchka.

“Below where?” Before Joe could answer she said, “Don’t you love the names of places in Florida? If you don’t live there you don’t know how to pronounce it and no one but the mayor can spell it correctly.”

Smiling, he shook his head in agreement. “Anyway it’s off of U.S. 98 and borders the Gulf of Mexico with about 2 miles of beach, shared by all. It’s not one of your spring break havens,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Sounds nice to me,” she responded.

He had stopped eating and carefully set his beer down. “You are welcome to come,” he continued with a little courage.

She stared at him.

“I’m sorry, it was just a thought. No evil intentions.”

She kept staring.

He couldn’t make himself stop smiling. At least he could look her in the eye, because he knew he was telling the truth. But the very thought of her coming to St. Joe Beach with him was such a pleasant idea that it was hard for him to stop smiling.

She continued staring.

“If you decide to come you can have your own bedroom . . . and bath. It sleeps eight. And I have lots to do down there. I won’t be a bother to you. You can get a lot of reading done.”

Her eyes showed concentration.

“It has air conditioning, it has...” He couldn’t stop babbling, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Are you a gentleman?”

He smiled honestly.

Plans were made and details were worked out; she was to meet him at his house the next morning at 10:30 AM.

All morning Joe was as nervous as a whore in church. He kept telling himself she was going to be a no show and he had worried himself into a tizzy for nothing. The lawn equipment was loaded by 8:00 AM so that left him with plenty of time to fret and by 10:40, still no Emily. He shrugged with disappointment, but turned when he heard a rattle. A beat up Toyota whipped into his drive and came to an abrupt stop. He tried not to show how happy he was to see her; it was difficult to hide.

She was wearing sandals, shorts, a halter like T-shirt top, and headphones. A large unbuttoned white shirt with rolled sleeves covered all. She slid the headphones around her neck and began to gather her stuff.

When Joe saw the white shirt some of his excitement waned. He told himself, Stop being a fool. She probably has 20 boyfriends and by the size of that shirt one of them is a linebacker on the football team. He had to ask, “Is your boyfriend a football player?”

She looked at him with a questioning look. “Huh? My boyfriend?” Her mind was quick. “Oh, you mean this shirt? This was one of my granddaddy’s old shirts

A deep relief swept though Joe, but he said to himself, it doesn’t matter you old fool.

“Besides, I don’t date jocks; their egos are bigger than mine. Are we going in the truck?”

“I have to mow the yard and take care of some other odd jobs to get the place ready for summer.” He was a little confused. He didn’t know what she could be thinking.

“I thought we might be going in your car.”

How did she know that I even own a car?

She saw his confusion and added, “I thought you had a little red convertible.”

“I do. It’s in the shed. I had so many tools to take so I need to take the truck.”

And with that she grabbed her overnight bag and handed it to Joe and smiled.

He put her bag in the back of the truck and they were soon headed towards the highway.

“How did you know I had a red convertible?”

“I’ve seen you leave from the restaurant,” she casually explained.

This had a profound affect on Joe, he let it soak.

She shifted her seat to the recline position, pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged. She started pulling crackers and cheese out of another small bag that she had tucked in her satchel. She offered him some and he politely refused. Next, she pulled out a giant golden delicious apple and took a loud crunching bite. She held it up to him and asked through a mouthful of apple if he would like a bite, but he declined. She kept pushing the apple towards him until he felt obligated.

Through bits of apple and juice he felt compelled to keep talking. Knowing it was none of his business he just had to ask, “Is your boyfriend in a fraternity?”

She looked at him a little longer than necessary, swallowed her mouthful of apple, looked away for a moment before turning back and simply said, “No.”

“I’m sorry; it’s really none of my business.”

Still looking at him she said, “There are some OK frat boys, but most are like lava lamps, nice to look at but not too bright.”

He almost choked on the apple with a laugh. He smiled at her and her at him. They drove some distance in silence. He watched as she read one of her textbooks with her head bobbing away to the music from her headphones. When he couldn’t stand it any longer he tried to make small talk. “What does your father do?” he inquired.

“He’s an appliance repair man.”

“And didn’t you tell me you came from the big city of Orlando?”

“No, I said I was from Orlando, but I didn’t say I was from the city. I meant Orlando in a geographical sense. Orlando is more than a city; it is what is called a metropolis. It encompasses several small towns and many communities, and lots and lots of malls and condos. Something like 70 million visit each year. I was born in Orlando, but my parents’ home was in the suburbs. I spent the majority of my waking hours, while not in school, on my grandparents’ farm. The ones on my father’s side,” she explained.

Joe interrupted to say that he, too, was raised on a farm. “100 acres of crops, cows, pigs, chicken, you know the whole nine yards. How big is your grandparent’s farm?” he asked.

“Was,” she said. “They are both dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

She put her snacks away very carefully and turned and looked at him for longer than a moment. “My granddaddy owned about 3,000 acres where we called home. It was a farm and ranch combined. It’s where he kept his prized herd of registered polled Herefords, but there was a lot of farming going on also. He let Carlos and Miguel run the farm, but he had his hand in everything. The three of them worked together as a team. He owned thousands of acres in several counties plus warehouses and other pieces of property not related to farming or ranching all over central Florida.”

Joe’s mouth was open with awe. “Was he the largest land owner in central Florida?”

“No, that’s St. Joe Company, but until his death he was very influential in Florida’s agriculture and had a say in Florida’s political scene.”

Joe drove for a while trying to digest all of this. Then he ventured a guess by saying, “Your father must be the big farmer now.”

“I told you, he’s an appliance repairman. But I don’t want to talk about it anymore; it’s too personal,” she said before he could ask another question.

Joe’s head was reeling. It was like watching the previews but never getting to watch the movie. He kept driving, but he began to fidget and shift his body around.

She smiled. “Three more questions and then we change the subject.”

“OK, what crops did your grandfather grow on these farms? How did he manage them? And how did you fit into the picture?”

“That’s it? He grew all of his own feed and hay along with vegetable row crops on several different farms. Each farm had its own manager. As for me, I spent my time on the home place.”

“So your grandparents raised you? What about your parents, where were they?”

“Excuse me, that’s more questions.”

“I’m sorry, it’s an interesting story. I’m fascinated.” Joe couldn’t explain why he was so enthralled listening to her. Was it because of the way she moved her hands or how she kept leaning her head to one side? The sound of her voice had such a clear quality to it like so many from central Florida unlike the twang he had become used to here in North Florida.

“I never would have thought farm life would be that interesting to anyone, especially someone raised on a farm of only 100 acres.” Ooh! That hurt. She looked at him and smiled a different smile, a new smile. “Sensitive, are we?”

“I guess there is still a little bit of farmer in me.”

She looked at him and said, “Did you know that every year thousands of farms disappear in the U.S.?”

He was stunned. “I guess they quit growing crops and start growing real estate.”

“Right,” she said, “but it’s the developers sowing those housing seeds that make all the money.”

He nodded in agreement picturing in his mind the developments he had worked on helping old Florida disappear. “You can’t stop the influx of people wanting to move to the Sunshine State.”

“Yep, I guess that justifies it,” she fired back.

Joe turned back to his driving.

“Why these questions about my family?” she asked. “Do you live your life vicariously through others?”

Man is she hard core. “No, I just would like to know you a little better, that’s all.”

“I thought we were just going to your beach house so I could read and you could ‘get some things done’.” She emphasized with her fingers as quotation marks.

“I didn’t mean to pry.” He was afraid he had over stepped his boundaries. They rode on in silence.

She stared at her book, but he noticed she wasn’t turning any pages. He was afraid to say anything, thinking he had already caused awkwardness when she started talking. He knew to keep quiet.

“My father hated the farm life, he hated the hours, he hated the smells, and he hated the obligation and responsibility of 24/7. So as soon as he could, he left and went to trade school to learn appliance repair. He built up a small clientele. My Mother’s father came to Orlando before TP&B.” She looked at him and realized he didn’t get it. “Theme Parks and Boom, it’s a phrase used in Orlando mostly by the people who were there before Disney arrived.

“Anyway my maternal grandfather was in the furniture business and started with a small store downtown. As the economy began to grow, he grew also. When Disney came, the hotels came, the condos came, the service people came, and every one had to have furniture.

“Soon, major corporations relocated to the Orlando area and he had a whole new middle class to sell to. He had several different stores under different names. When the condos changed hands they wanted new furniture and the poor needed used furniture so he added a new store. Under the heading of furniture usually includes appliances.

“Enter my father, struggling young repairman. My grandfather had a daughter that kept his books and was in charge of certain duties until he got so big he had to hire a professional company to help keep track of it all. I guess somewhere along the line my father and mother met, fell in love, got married, and had me. In the early years, when it was inconvenient to take care of me, my Granddaddy and Grandma offered. I went there every day, Monday through Friday, until I started school and then most of the time after school. During my last years of high school I was there every day. So there you have it.”

He still didn’t understand why she sounded so bitter, so caustic. “That’s quite a success story. I feel like we are old friends,” he said in a joking manner.

She replied, “That is only part of the story and one of us may be old and maybe we can become friends.”

He felt the sting.

She looked at him for a long time then said in a very sincere tone, “That was uncalled for and I apologize. I think I get a little upset about some things in my past.”

“Emily, you have every right to be upset. I really have no business asking such personal questions. I just felt we should get to know each other a little better since we will be under the same roof for at least the next 24 hours.”

“You’re right, and briefly just to balance the story, my grandfather on my mother’s side was a mover and shaker in the Orlando metropolitan area. My granddaddy on my father’s side was a mover and shaker in the entire state of Florida.”

Gaining an insight he noticed the different tone and the choice of words to describe the different relatives. He knew not to pursue this, but he sure was dying to know the whole story. He drove and wondered.

She smiled, looked at him, tilted her head, and said, “You are a good looking man,” she quickly rectified by saying, “for your age and all.” She laughed out loud.

He realized he had never heard her laugh; it was a good laugh, which tickled him. He laughed and said, “I don’t know if that was a compliment or not.”

He noticed that when she laughed, she had her fist in front of her mouth with her thumb and index finger under her nose and laughed around them. It was like laughing at something that was out of line or at least wasn’t supposed to be spoken.

“I never thought of myself as good looking,” he said as he bounced his eyebrows up and down, which made her laugh a little harder, “I always thought I looked like the north end of a south bound mule.”

At this, she really cracked up and shouted, “My Granddaddy used that expression all the time.” Her laughing increased, causing Joe to laugh even more. Then she abruptly stopped and her whole face went sad. Her lower lip went into her mouth and she bit down on it with her upper teeth. She turned to look out the window.

It was like being hit in the stomach. Joe didn’t know what to say or do. He could see her wiping tears from her eyes. After a few moments she turned back and looked at him with a brand new look and a brand new smile. He always had a problem trying to understand women and she was no exception. But in his mind he knew, she sure is exceptional.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m scared to tell you, it’s boring and I’m afraid you won’t like it.” Joe had grown less than comfortable doing land clearing and excavating. The more he read about the approach of global warming the more he tried to convince the developers to save a few trees. He used the idea of marketability in selling a home with trees, but most builders could care less that trees consume carbon dioxide and produce oxygen.

“So what do you do? Rob old ladies of their social security checks?

“I do site work.”

“Site work, I’ve heard that phrase. What is site work?” she asked, tilting her head.

“I clear lots for contractors and get the site ready for building.” His hands started to sweat.

Her eyes had a judgmental look. “So you are an Earth abuser. Shame on you,” she said, shaking her head and not smiling.

An uncomfortable feeling caused his hands to sweat even more. He regretted telling her, afraid of her reaction, but he couldn’t lie.

Then she popped out with, “Developers don’t like me.”

He ventured a glance at her.

With a small admonishing smile she looked at him face on, chin down with her condemning eyes at the top of her head. Joe felt as if he had been caught doing something bad. She reached over and put her patting hand on his arm. He felt a sensation run through his body. There was a long pause as if she were trying to digest this new information about him when she said, “It’s a necessary evil here in Florida, and probably every where else in the world.”

Joe was feeling better when he innocently asked what year of school and how long before she graduated?

Up came the fist to her mouth again and a sly laugh gave Joe the impression that she was to embarrass to answer. She giggled and said with a very straight face, “I have been at FSU, off and on, for almost six years.”

“Six years? You’re kidding.”

“I am a perpetual ongoing student.”

“That’s redundant,” he replied before he could stop himself.

“Excuse me, Mr. Grammar Cop,” she snapped back.

“I’m sorry, just force of habit, I have a teenage daughter, remember?” he said with an asking forgiveness smile.

“My bad, I forgot. Actually my Granddaddy did the same to me in my early years. But one time, when I was young, I corrected his grammar. He laughed, gave me a hug, and said, ‘Hallelujah! It’s taking root.’ Anyway, I had to drop out for a while and when I returned I changed my major. My grandfather, (Joe was beginning to know when Emily was talking about which grandparent), graduated from FSU with a degree in business and supports FSU as a tax write off. He probably got a furniture contract out of the deal,” she said half jokingly.

“My Granddaddy gave money to every state university, especially to the University of Florida in Gainesville, his alma mater, and Florida A&M, here in Tallahassee, because they both deal in agriculture. He believed with the population increasing as fast as it is world wide, with out new ways to produce crops with higher yields, death and destruction will increase. Anyway, I found myself attracted to the School of Design.” She gave him a perfunctory smile reset her headphones and turned back to her book.

He stared at her for a moment before looking back at the highway. When he thought she was engrossed in her book he would steal glances at her.

What made her so magnetic? He could see her eyelashes flittering as her eyes followed the words. He watched her tongue come out and in as she tried to concentrate. Her hand would come up instinctively and brush her fallen hair back.

Joe, Joe, get a hold of yourself. What are you thinking? This will never happen, can’t happen. Erase these thoughts. Sure, she is the most intriguing thing you have encountered in a long time, but it doesn’t matter, you are a lot older and you have to have good sense. She is only a young college girl trusting you to do the right thing.

Joe often had conversations like this with himself. He sometimes wondered if he were just a little crazy. He knew one thing he couldn’t help; he was plain crazy about her. But he knew in his heart that he would do no wrong. Your life is pretty messed up so lets not mess hers up. Think about Shelly? You realize they are closer in age than you are to Emily, you old fool. I’ll keep reminding myself, he said to himself.

She had stopped reading and was fumbling in her bag. He kept looking over at her wondering what she was going to pull out of there next. When of all things, she took a bag of cut celery sticks and a jar of peanut butter. He couldn’t help himself and started chuckling.

“What?” she gave him a new smile, a smile that could be misinterpreted when she said, “You want some?”

His heart gave an extra beat. She didn’t mean anything by that Joe, he told himself.

“No thank you, you know peanut butter is fattening.”

“Like I care,” she said. “Have you looked at me?” she asked.

God, have I, he was thinking. “Well, yes, but I thought all girls had to watch their figures.”

“I don’t have much body fat, but I do have a heck of a metabolism that needs a lot of attention.”

He was looking at her while thinking, you sure have my attention. (Joe...) Sorry, I’ll do better. He smiled and said, “Maybe I will have one.”

They were driving along eating peanut butter celery sticks when she pointed at his C.D. player in his dash. “Is that a C.D. player?” she asked, although it was very obvious. “You listen to music?”

He gave her a look and a small laugh. “What do you think? I’m some backwoods unexposed ignorant redneck?”

She looked at him, paused, and said, “That’s redundant. Yes, as a matter of fact that’s pretty close, very good.”

He shook his head, smiled, and gave a small laugh. “I think I know why you don’t have any boyfriends”.

She tightened her lips and poked him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he said laughing. “I’m driving.”

“Hey yourself, is that any way to talk to a lady, especially one of my character?” They both laughed.

He nodded with his head to a zippered bag on the seat behind him. “There are some CDs in there that might meet your approval.” He was hoping that Shelly had left some of hers.

“Let’s see what you got,” she said as she began to unzip the bag. The first ones out were of course the last ones his daughter had put in.

“What? Icy Veins, Dead Men Have No Boogers, Twisted Childhood? I never would have thought this.” She was excited.

Joe was shocked. He had heard the music, but never the names of the groups.

Emily looked at Joe. “These aren’t yours are they?”

“Remember I have a teenage daughter. I am sure I have heard their music, but I never knew their names.”

“Hold on. You have the Doors, Elton John, The Beatles, old but okay. Wait a minute. You have some old country classics. Merle Haggard, George Jones, and oh my god, Hank Williams, can I put this in?”

He had thought this was going to be good for a laugh. He never would have thought she would have wanted to listen to Hank Williams.

He was amazed how much she enjoyed listening to it, bouncing and smiling and then singing along. She got really excited when, “Hey Good Lookin’! What you got Cookin’?” came on. They both sang along. When the song ended she turned down the music, got quiet and melancholy. He was afraid to say anything so he just took chances of looking at her in quick glances.

She was staring out the window, not talking, when the C.D. finished. She took it out. She looked at him with a sweet smile on her face.

“One summer when I was about 10 I had been outside doing something when I heard this music. It was strange to hear music in the middle of the day. I knew that Granddaddy and Grandma had parties because I would see Carlos and Miguel setting up, but I usually had to go home when my mother came. I always wondered what went on. I thought I was too young to participate. I went in to check out the music. Granddaddy was whirling Grandma Ellie around in the living room to that tune. They were having such a good time. At first, I felt that I was intruding, but Granddaddy saw me, grabbed me up, and began to dance with me; spinning me all around the room. To everyone’s surprise, especially me, I just locked into it. I didn’t know until then that I could dance and I mean dance. Granddaddy was so excited and Grandma was clapping her hands to the beat. We were all over that floor. We danced through a couple of tunes until a slow one came on and we stopped. Even in the air conditioning, we were sweating.

“He said, ‘Emily you are a natural born dancer, you can cut-a- rug!’ He then asked Grandma, ‘Ellie, why can’t Emily stay when we have another hoe-down?’ that’s what Granddaddy called his parties, ‘she would have a ball’.

“Grandma Ellie was smiling and said, ‘I’ll have to talk with Bobby and Glory’. That’s my parents’ names. Well from then on out, I was at almost all of them. It was a whole new side of my grandparents. They knew how to throw a party. Some parties were for local friends and business associates, but ever so often there would be special parties and people came from all over the state. There would be special meetings in Granddaddy’s office. His office had a refrigerator and a complete bar. But anyone who went in there must have known the rules because no one ever came out drunk or mad for that matter. Once in a while I would hear loud voices then I would hear my Granddaddy’s low but commanding voice and the sounds would drop back to a low hum. This happened more frequently during the legislative session here in Tallahassee.

“Later, Granddaddy would talk to Grandma Ellie about what went on in there. She was so important to him. I suspect he ran just about everything past her. I used to think, if all those powerful men knew that Grandma was privy to all their secrets they would surely panic. You know what she would say? ‘Robert, if you can sleep peacefully tonight and get up in the morning, look at yourself in the mirror, and be happy with what you see, then you have done the right thing’.”

Traffic was light and they were making good time. He was immersed in her story and enjoying her mannerisms. She was so animated. He enjoyed watching her fist shoot up to her mouth when she told something personal, laughing around it. He was learning not to interrupt. He let her just keep talking. He felt that this was important to her.

All of a sudden she stopped in mid-story. He turned to look at her. She had a strange look on her face. “Why am I telling you this?” she asked him.

“It’s a great story to tell and I am totally fascinated,” he answered with hopefully a comforting smile.

“How old are you?” she asked, wanting to know. A cold feeling swept through him. Before he could answer his mind told him.... You will never get to hug her, you will never get to even hold her, and you will never, ever, get to kiss those pretty lips. Not now! Not ever! Sadness began to consume him. It’s funny how one can go from feeling so up to feeling so down so quickly. But being who he is, he had no choice. Joe, this is for the best. Bite the bullet and get on with your life, boy. Quit setting yourself up for a fall, fool.

“I’m 45,” he said without a lot of enthusiasm.

“Is that Jurassic or Cambrian?” she inquired with that fist in front of her face.

Yep, that really made him feel good. He didn’t know how it was possible, but now he felt even worse. She had the most mischievous look in her eyes. He thought, she is enjoying this and enjoying it too much.

“Can you remember as far back to when you were about 19 or 20?” she asked him. He gave her a dirty look; she was piling it on. “You were partying, chasing girls, had your own car, spending money, on top of the world. I was only a twinkle in my Daddy’s eye.”

“I kind of thought so.” He sounded so remorseful, one would have thought his best friend had stolen his boat and motor and his huntin’ dog had died. Doing the math, he said, “Actually I thought you were younger.” One of us might as well feel good.

She acknowledged with a smile and said, “You know you are in better shape than most 20 year olds, I mean look at your arms and shoulders, and you have other physical qualities that stand out.”

He didn’t have a clue what she meant, but it was funny to her, real funny. Now he was hurt and confused. He gave the road his full attention, for a while at least, but he couldn’t help glancing at her. She faced him smiling as if studying him. She slowly turned back to her reading and he tried to concentrate on his driving. She had left him with unanswered questions, who were those important people at the parties? Were her parents there? And who were Carlos and Miguel? He figured he would never know so why worry about it. He had been living in a fantasy, dreaming all along and of all people he should know: That dreams only come true in a Disney cartoon.

CHAPTER 2

He looked at her, smiled, and said, “We’re getting close. Just around this next curve is a straightaway that dead-ends on the open Gulf. Look, you can see the water in the distance.”

Like an eager child she closed her book and sat straight up.

Although Joe came down this stretch many times it always excited him, and there is something special sharing it with someone, especially someone seeing it for the first time.

She leaned forward and lightly clapped her hands. When they stopped she squealed and with a big smile said, “Mr. Jones, it’s beautiful.”

Her reaction made him feel better as he explained that Mexico Beach was to the right as he turned to his left towards St. Joe Beach.

The view of the Gulf captivated her senses. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the Gulf of Mexico,” she said. With her eyes fixed on the view, she couldn’t see Joe’s elated face. Although he always enjoyed the scene, she was helping him see it new again. She turned and looked at him. “Thank you for bringing me. Is St. Joe Beach named after you? Cause you are a saint for bringing me,” she said smiling with an innocent but flirtatious look, making him squirm.

He began to melt. (Wake up good buddy. She’s pulling on your chain.) “No, it’s named after Port St. Joe, the county seat.” He turned to his left again, drove a short distance, pulled through a gate, and parked in front of a substantially built wood framed beach house with a huge screened in porch.

After exiting the truck, she walked back and forth admiring. “Did you build this?”

“No, I just fixed it up and added the screen porch. It belonged to an older couple who got to old too enjoy it and no one in their family wanted it. I thought I needed something to do after the divorce. All of the repairs were superficial and in one summer, after new carpet and lots of cleaning, my daughter Shelly and I were using it,” Joe explained as he removed his hindering shirt and began to unload. He turned to look at her.

There she stood with arms folded across her body, wearing a serene expression, looking at him up and down as he went about his work.

“Are you going to just stand there or are you going to help?” he asked, surprised at himself, but trying not to show it.

“Yes sir,” she said as she saluted and began to help.

They carried their hands full to the front door. Joe took a key hanging from a nail and opened the door.

“If the key is right there, why bother locking?”

“It tells honest folks that there is no one home, and I don’t want a thief breaking in when he could just use the key.”

“I see,” she said, not completely understanding.

“So what’s to stop someone from using your place?”

“Nothing and I suspect they have, but they always cleaned up their mess, so it’s not a big deal to me.”

“How weird. They won’t come while we are here will they?”

“No,” he said laughing. “Let’s hope not.” Her fear and worry entertained him. “St. Joe Beach is probably the safest place on earth unless you go to Regen’s Oyster Bar on a late Saturday night.”

Quickly changing the subject he said, “Emily, I’ve got to open up the house, put some things away, and take care of the yard. Why don’t you put on your suit, grab your books, and I’ll get the umbrella. Hopefully, the beach chairs and spool are still on the beach. I can set you up to read while I get some things done.”

“I’m ready.”

“What about your suit?”

“I’m wearing it.”

His mind jumped, Can’t be much to it. “I’ll grab the umbrella, sunscreen, and some towels, and drive you down.” He soon returned with everything. He found her in the truck, reading and ready to go.

They parked and walked over the dunes and down to the beach. The white sand and beautiful water overwhelmed her. The adjustable chairs and the spool for the umbrella were still there.

“You leave your stuff here year round?”

“Not if a hurricane is coming, I come down and move them to the house, like every one else.”

That’s when she noticed up and down the beach, every 50 yards or so, were more beach chairs and picnic tables.

“This is a very trusting neighborhood.”

“I guess so; I never give it much thought.”

Being early in the season, the few people on the beach were so distant one could hardly tell their sex.

After Joe popped up the umbrella he said he would return soon and bring something to drink.

She thanked him and began to shed her clothes. He couldn’t help but watch. Her back was to him as she undid her shorts. She had to give her body a little wiggle to help them slide down. She bent over from the waist keeping her legs straight while picking up her shorts and throwing them onto one of the beach chairs. She took off her Granddaddy’s shirt and threw it on her shorts. She crossed her arms and grabbed her T-shirt and began to pull it over her head as she turned around.

Joe was transfixed, unable to move, speak, or blink. When the shirt cleared her head her eyes were closed and she began to stretch her arms sensually over her head.

Probably from the long ride, he thought, still not able to move. “What should I bring you to drink?” he managed to ask.

“Oh, you’re still here,” she said, sounding as if surprised. “Water would be great.”

He made himself look straight at her eyes; one of the hardest things he had ever done. “It’ll be a little while,” he explained, trying to make his voice sound normal. “I need to get the house ready and get the yard mowed.”

“I’ll be right here,” she said, catching her lower lip with her upper teeth, and smiling.

He didn’t want to leave, but knew he must. His legs began to behave. He reached the dunes turned and gave a little wave. She returned the wave as he started over the dunes. He turned once more, taking a chance. She sat on the edge of the beach chair applying sunscreen to her legs. He thought he heard a moan then realized he had. It was he.

Joe quickly had the water, water heater, icemaker, and air conditioning all on, and the lines flushed in about 11/2 seconds, or so it seemed. He approached the lawnmower, primed the carburetor, gave a prayer, and yanked. It cranked.

It was a good thing it was early in the season because anyone passing by would have been tempted to call the men who wear white coats and have no sense-of-humor.

Here was a grown man running behind a push mower at breakneck speed. Never in the history of man has a yard been mowed this fast, but responsible Joseph E. Jones was worried. What if something went wrong? What if someone kidnapped her, although there was hardly anyone on the beach? What if she went in the water and had a cramp? She does eat a lot. What if she went in the water and a shark grabbed her? Although shark attacks were unheard of in these waters. A sting ray! Anything could go wrong. Joe had to hurry and get back to the beach; he was responsible for her safety.

He quickly put the lawnmower in the shed and was in the truck when he remembered her water. He hurried into the house, filled a thermos, ran to the truck, jumped in, and looked down. He was in his work clothes, covered with grass stains and clippings. He hopped out of the truck and stripped as he ran to the house.

Luckily, there were no men in white coats. He threw his work clothes on the deck rail. He stood naked realizing, I need a quick shower. He jumped in the outdoor shower, which normally feels good after a hot day at the beach since it only has cold water. He didn’t notice. He was half way out when he remembered, Teeth! Smart Joe kept paste and toothbrush in a zip lock on one of the cross members.

His trunks still hung on the hook from last time. He was in a rush to the truck, pulling up his trunks when he glanced up and saw his neighbor, Ms. Nelson, the retired elementary school teacher, staring at him through glasses that she slowly pushed back on her nose with the back of her dirty gardening hand.

He paused for a moment, waved, and shouted, “Hello Ms. Nelson, how are you this beautiful spring day? I love the beach; got to get to that beach.” With a tiny smile, she nodded.

Although white sand is never hot, Joe ran down the sand trail of the dunes as if his feet were on fire. He topped the last dune and stood, reeling in shock. She was not there. He ran towards the water. Panic started to set in. Can she swim? I don’t know. He was asking and answering his own questions. Where could she have gone? Not far, not enough time. He looked first to his left, way down the beach a sheller. Half way between he and the sheller were two fishermen. They may have seen something. Quickly, he turned the other way, 100 yards max a mother and two children playing on the beach; didn’t recognize them. Renters, water too cold for the kids. No help ther... Wait! That was no sheller, no little bag. His head spun back to his left. It was someone running, and they were a lot closer. It’s a female, tell by the movement. It’s her! Oh thank God. He paused. Boy, she is really moving. That girl can eat and run.