Part 1 (1/2)
CALAMITY JAYNE.
AND THE.
TROUBLE WITH TANDEMS.
by KATHLEEN BACUS.
CHAPTER ONE.
Two blondes are riding along on a tandem when suddenly the blonde in front slams on the brakes, gets off, and starts letting air out of the tires.
”Hey! What are you doing that for?” the blonde on the back yells.
”My seat's too high, and it's hurting my b.u.t.t,” the first blonde replies. ”I want to lower it a bit.”
The blonde on the back has had enough. She jumps off, loosens her own seat, and spins it around to face the other direction.
Now it's the first blonde's turn to wonder what's going on.
”What are you doing?” she asks her friend.
”Look,” says the blonde rider in the back, ”if you're going to do stupid stuff like that, I'm going home!”
Buyer's remorse.
That's what it was. A case of buyer's remorse. Okay, so I wasn't exactly a buyer and the remorse part had nothing to do with the quality of the...er...transaction. In fact, the delivery of the, um, goods left no room for complaint. No room at all. On the contrary. The entire experience was one of pure...satisfaction.
Which, of course, was the very reason panic set in. With a vengeance.
And me? I did what I do best.
I booked. No. Not as in visiting the local library. I amscrayed. Vamoosed. Took a powder. Boogied. Got the h.e.l.l outta Dodge.
Okay. So I ran like a little girl. Sue me.
In case you haven't caught on yet, I'm not talking about a consumer retail exchange that falls under the auspices of a consumer fraud agency even though the words ”let the buyer beware” and ”too good to be true” have a certain prophetic ring to them.
No. I'm talking about it: the S word.
You know. The one that rhymes with ”vex”. Or...hex.
Yeah. That word.
And it was incredible. Moonlight and roses. Shooting stars and fireworks. Bombs bursting in air. In fact, it threatened to become as addictive as Cadbury Creme eggs at Easter (Okay, and beyond the wabbit holiday, if you buy extra and freeze them.) And it scared the h.e.l.l-o out of me. Hence, my own slightly modified version of a Julia Roberts flick.
Tressa Jayne Turner. Runaway cowgirl bride.
Except-despite hearing wedding bells in my head that almost turned into death knells, (so another story) I didn't actually make it anywhere near the altar.
And, of course, I'm no Julia Roberts. Sigh.
I know. I know. I've lost you, right?
What else is new?
”How much longer do you think Stan's gonna pay you to sit there and mope, Miz Rodeo Queen Runner-up?” A hand on the back of my ergonomically-approved office chair spun me around. ”You've been OD-ing on angst ever since you got back from the honeymoon cruise. What gives?”
I had to look up, up, up, to meet the way too perceptive scrutiny of Shelby Lynn Sawyer, recent high school graduate and last year's underdog homecoming queen and part-time intern/reporter for my employer, the Grandville Gazette. I feel a certain sisterhood with Shelby Lynn. Much like yours truly, Shelby's had a history of nickname nightmares. A carrot-topped Paula Bunyan-type who can stand eye-to-eye with the high school varsity squad's center, Shelby got tagged ”Sasquatch,” compliments of the mean girl factions at Grandville High. I figure Calamity Jayne is tame in comparison.
Last fall Shelby Lynn and I became involved in a very high-profile investigative journalistic coup relating to a reclusive mystery author. Okay, so Shelby actually blackmailed me into including her in the scoop of the century. (I'd use the term ”strong-armed” here, but my, er, statuesque a.s.sociate can get a wee testy when it comes to those kinds of characterizations.) Our professional collaboration had led to more than a few Abbott and Costello contretemps, a bit of female bonding, and, as my own moniker implies, the odd moments of abject terror and mortal danger. Shelby Lynn recently filled in for me at the Gazette while I took a long overdue vacation to see my grandmother tie the knot. If anyone can fill my shoes, it's Shelby Lynn and her size twelve wides. (Oops! Sorry. Couldn't resist!) Following the Arizona nuptials, the wedding party set sail aboard the cruise s.h.i.+p Epiphany, which promised fun in the sun, splendid and bountiful cuisine, and to-die-for sunsets.
What this novice sailor got was a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of V-8 served with restricted portions of low-fat fare, a s.h.i.+pboard mystery, a near burial at sea, and my very own s.h.i.+ver-me-timbers epiphany concerning a certain swashbuckling ranger-type. That ranger-and our eventual Love Boat, this-has-been-coming-for-a-long-time, consummation on the final night of the cruise was what had me channeling Debbie Downer at present.
”You haven't said much about the happy honeymoon cruise,” Shelby observed.
”More like haunted honeymoon cruise,” I muttered. ”Minus one s.e.xy Captain Jack Sparrow ghostie. Unfortunately.”
”So...exactly what happened?” Shelby Lynn pressed. ”Or are you still experiencing selective amnesia?” This, a reference to my s.h.i.+pboard, soap-opera-inspired stint as a fake amnesiac hatched in the haze of post-concussive desperation-a Bermuda-triangle brainchild designed to save me bootie from unknown danger on the high seas.
”Funny,” I mumbled, and recited a condensed version of my very own odyssey at sea.
”Let me get this straight,” Shelby said, holding up a hand to tick off each item on fingers Shaquille O'Neal would die for. ”You were on the cruise. Rick Townsend, the guy you've had this loath/l.u.s.t/love relations.h.i.+p with since grade school was on this cruise. And Manny DeMarco, your buff, brawny, bad-boy bogus beau ends up on the same cruise.”
”You're forgetting Manny's marriage-obsessed Aunt Mo with a history of cardiac episodes and the single-minded determination of a Navy SEAL when it comes to her mission in life.”
”Mission?” Shelby raised an eyebrow.
”Mo's Matrimony Mission,” I elaborated. ”She's determined to get her beloved nephew wedded and with a Manny Jr. on the way.”
”Holy S.S. Minnow!” Shelby exclaimed. ”The t.i.tanic's got nothing on you.”
I winced. ”'Twas indeed an ill wind that clipped me sails and left me foundered on the jagged rocks of destiny aboard ye S.S. Epiphany. Arrgh!”
It was Shelby's turn to wince.
”Ugh. I heard all about your penchant for 'pirate prattle,' as Joe Townsend put it. He said that made him more bilious than the combined effects of the lo-cal cruise cuisine and the rocking of the s.h.i.+p.”
”Alas, one of the few perks the cruise afforded,” I lamented, adding a woe-is-me sigh.
”So where do you stand? With the men in your life, that is?”
I grimaced. Limboland. Where all commitment phobes love to hang out and procrastinate. That's where.
I'd taken a Bigfoot-sized (oops!) leap of faith when, on the final night of the cruise, I'd signed on as Ranger Rick Townsend's cabin mate. And that enlistment was...unforgettable. Wine and roses. Soft candlelight and breath-stealing caresses. Wooing words and seductive kisses.