I was intending to kick back for the day—maybe write a chapter of my novel, Stone Cold Dead—it’s part of the James Randall Murder Mystery Series.
But it’s a gorgeous, crisp fall day and Melody has other plans.
Melody Bride is my Book Shepherd/Literary agent and sometimes when I’m mellow and she’s all dolled up, I think there may be something more, and maybe there is. Who knows?
But lately she’s taken up photography and guess who’s elected to be her designated driver while she gets drunk on autumn colour and F-stops and whatever else photogs dream up in their spare time?
So, here I am cooling my heels in the driveway waiting for her to finish getting ready.
I mean, we’re going for a drive in the country, not heading out for the night.
Eventually she appears with her camera equipment, wearing a skimpy tank top, jeans and flimsy flip-flops.
Yeah, she looks hot, but it isn’t exactly hiking gear and definitely not suited to the Bruce Trail where I figure we’re headed.
“Check my makeup, Jay—I got a new blush—is there too much glitter?"
I roll my eyes. Why do girls always want to glow?
Of course, I have to stare at her up close and get lost for a moment in her endless eyes. Don’t think for a moment girls don’t intend that—they do.
“Yeah, you look normal,” I grumble, “no glitter, but just a slight glow.”
“Really?” She looks pleased with herself, and I guess she is—she’s managed to distract me for a moment. A small victory for her, I guess.
We head out in my SUV stopping en route for coffee, of course, and doughnuts and hash browns and bacon egg and cheese on an English muffin.
Yeah, I know it sounds over the top, but hell, If I’m going to drive for hours in the countryside, I might as well be well fortified.
As we drive she tells me we’re heading for Tews Falls, wherever that is, and I think she likes that, because it puts her in control of giving directions.
She's fooling with the settings on her camera and we come to a point where the road diverges.
Suddenly, she blurts out. “Go left—Go left!”
Why she has to wait for the last minute, I have no idea.
I dutifully obey and after driving for several minutes she admits we’re lost and have to retrace our route to the where the road diverged and go right instead.
Such is my life with a beautiful diva.
We finally locate the falls and pull into the parking lot which is literally jammed with people out sightseeing in the middle of the day. I mean, hell, don’t these people work?
“Maybe they’re like you, Jay,” Melody sweetly lisps, “you know, independently wealthy because they’re such successful writers?”
If looks could kill she’d be dead right now. I mean the James Randall Mystery Series is doing very well—thank you very much—and I could probably do much better if I didn’t have to pay her salary.
Yep, that’s what I want to say, but don’t because…well, she’s my literary agent and I don’t want to end up in a domestic.
So, we head back the way we came and she suddenly yelps, “turn left here!”
We end up going down a narrow country road—I mean it doesn’t even have a dotted line down the middle and I tell her that.
"I don’t want to run head on into a tractor."
Well, that starts a lecture from her on roads.
"It’s not a ‘country’ road per se, Jay", she corrects," it’s a tertiary road. A secondary road would have a single line down the middle and a main road a double line."
See what I mean? I can’t even have an opinion on a road. Sheesh!
“Pull over here,” she says suddenly. I hit the brakes and we fish tail onto the soft shoulder sending up a cloud of white dust.
“What the hell!” I exclaim. “Why did you want to stop here?”
I’m staring at a sign that says Breezy Hills and there’s a farm wagon filled with apples near the entrance to a farm.
“See?”she says smugly and points to a crudely printed sign - Spy apples for sale—Try a free sample.
How she spotted that from the road I have no idea. She gets out and grabs two huge ones and gets back in the SUV handing me one.
“No thanks,” I mutter “I’m full—I just ate. Remember?”
“How could I forget?” she says testily. “You filled up on junk food. You need to eat something healthy.”
“I’ll pass,” I smirk, “besides those aren’t eating apples—they’re cooking apples. Way too sour.”
“Well,” she huffs, “I like them. I prefer them actually.”
We drive further down the road and she finishes one apple and starts on the second one.
We approach a beautiful century mansion called The Greystones and again, Melody barks her commands.
“Pull over here, Jay—I want to get some photos.”
“Knock yourself out,” I yawn. All the junk food I consumed has made me sleepy.
“You get your pictures and I’ll take a nap here.”
Obviously, that was the wrong thing to say because she’s out of the car and stomping up the lane toward the house — if one can actually be said to be stomping in flimsy flip-flops.
But on the plus side, her form looks great.
In a matter of minutes I’m fast asleep what with the warm sunlight through the windows and a slight breeze through Melody’s passenger window.
After a few minutes, something causes me to wake up—the sound of someone rustling and kicking through the ankle-deep leaves at the side of the road.
I open my eyes and see a girl shimmering in the shadows of the huge maple.
Now, when I say she’s shimmering, I mean it—it’s not the sunlight filtering through the leaves, but her body is actually glowing with a blue phosphorescent glow.
At first, I’m alarmed and think she’s somehow caught fire—it was that kind of eerie blue glow you see in fancy restaurants when they light the liqueur for a flambé — you know, that bluish glow from alcohol burning?
I begin to think I might be dreaming and to test it, I open the driver's door and get out into the road and immediately feel the heat of the sun on my arms and know there’s no way I’m asleep.
I walk around the vehicle and approach the maple tree only to find the girl has disappeared.
The hair on my arms stands on end and I feel a tingling start at the nape of my neck and spread up to my head. I rub my eyes, but there’s no one there.
At that moment, Melody reappears, limping down the lane.
I rush to her just in time to prevent her from falling.
“What happened? Did you hurt your ankle walking in those flip flops?”
She winces and shakes her head.
“Help me into the SUV, Jay.” I dutifully obey.
I get in the other side and watch her lean back in the seat, eyes closed and in obvious discomfort.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t know, I just started getting stomach cramps and I could barely make it back to the vehicle.”
“Yeah,” I smirk, “I told you those weren’t eating apples.”
She has her eyes closed.
“Give me a few minutes to rest, Jay, and then take me home. I’ve had enough for the day.”
I nod and adjust her seat so she can recline, and within minutes she’s fast asleep.
I shake my head ruefully. She never listens—thinks she knows everything, I muse.
I look at her lying curled up in the seat and my heart melts.
She’s really beautiful.
Her blonde hair spills across her shoulders and her skin glows from within—and not with that sickly bluish glow of the ghost girl I witnessed near the maple, but a vibrant glimmer that all her makeup and glitter could never produce.
As I stare at her sleeping peacefully like an angel beside me, the words of a Yeat's poem I studied in university come to my mind.
I realize this girl is not just my book shepherd, but is for better or worse entangled with me and her fate entwined with mine.
Of course, that’s something I won’t tell her when we get back, but I’ll file it away for future reference.
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
—W.B. Yeats