She stared up at the strange contraption. Whoever had designed this monstrosity had to have been a masochist. It looked like one of those old water pump things you’d see in the front of people’s yards about a hundred years or so ago. They were used to pump water up from a deep well. Only this one was taller so you could stand under it. She had been standing nude in this tiled cubicle for about 20 minutes pulling and pulling on the lever until her arms were positively sore, but nothing happened. Perhaps it was rusted. Maybe she should consider a bath in the lake after all. It was early morning still, so the chance of anyone being about was minimal. Just about the time she’d decided to quit and head towards the lake, the water finally began to flow. Though she had been prepared for cold water given the age of the plumbing structure in this house, when the chilly liquid actually struck her body, it completely knocked the breath out of her. Yep, definitely a masochist. She had to take a few sharp breaths to keep her lungs from freezing on her. She quickly stood to the side of the flow while she lathered up. She yanked on the lever every so often to keep it going and found that if she worked on one body part at a time, the shock wasn’t quite so “exhilarating”. Still, it was probably the fastest shower she’d taken in all her life. Her clothes were waiting for her, laid out in front of the fireplace. She lay down and spread out her hair to dry on her makeshift bed. She had decided the night before that the fire had much more comfortable than facing a cold, sagging bed upstairs. ‘Well, first thing’s first,’ she thought to herself, ‘I’ll have to walk down to the country store to grab some cleaning materials because this place could use a thorough scrubbing before my furniture and things arrive.’ She had trained her brain to keep busy in the past few weeks. It was a defense mechanism against the pain an loneliness that would often creep into her thoughts any time she wasn’t purposefully focused on a project of her own choosing. After a while, she rose and dressed in the fire-warmed clothing. Then she twisted her still damp hair up into a braid on her head and held it with a clip. Finally, she grabbed a knapsack and walked out onto the porch, turning to lock the door and place the key in her pocket, before facing the new morning. The air up here was almost sweet and very cleansing to the lungs. The sunlight filtered gaily through the treetop canopy and a myriad of birds sang their greetings. The breeze was a little cool due to the wet hair piled on her head, but still soft against her cheek. It didn’t take long to set a steady, if brisk pace down the road back towards the village. The walk only took about forty minutes and was quite refreshing. Mentally, she made a list of the items she would need as she walked along. She also took notice of certain landmarks along the way so she could be sure to find her way back. One turn had a huge blackened tree that looked like lightening had struck it and split in two from tip to root. Another bend had a rickety wooden sign hanging from a chain pointing out the drive to the lake’s landing where boats could be put into the water. As she walked through the streets of town, she noted it was just beginning to wake up. ‘Cozy, sleepy little town,’ she smiled to herself. Eventually in her explorations, she found the country store she sought and went in. She was greeted by an aging gentleman with indian features and a kindly face. “Um, is Luke here?” she questioned timidly. “No, sorry. Luke won’t be due in until later this afternoon. You must be the young lady that’s moved into the parish up the mountain a ways.” She nodded, smiling at the recognition. “Heard you just buried your husband up there yesterday. I’m sorry to hear that, lass. My condolences.” She bit her lip and murmured, “Thank you.” She couldn’t help the ache that gripped her heart at that moment. Why was it always necessary for people to remind you of what you’ve lost? Still, he was making an effort to be neighborly and all she could do was accept the offering in the way it was meant. “Folks around her call me Tucker. I’m glad to meet ya.” He held out his hand to shake hers. His grip was strong, but gentle holding her slender fingers. “Well now, what can I get cha for?” he moved into professional mode and she was secretly grateful. She listed off the items she needed and watched as he walked around the door collecting them for her. When he rung everything up, she pulled her money card from her knapsack. “Begging your pardon, miss, but we don’t accept those things up here. Not quite that civilized yet.” His features looked apologetic even as hers fell. “Is there anywhere in town I can get cash with one?” she inquired. “Sure, Bert down the street there at the bank can process one for you, but he won’t be open for another hour or so.” Wanting to ease the young lady’s distress because she’d obviously been through enough lately, he said, “Tell ya what. Why don’t you just take these things for the time being and you can pick up the tab next time you’re in town. Consider it a kind of ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ favor.” He smiled at her, watching the relief cross her features. The young lady looked like a pretty little thing, but always kept the one side of her face covered with her hair. He felt silly for having such a hankering as to reach over and push the offending mass behind her ear, old geezer that he was. “You’re very kind, Tucker. I appreciate this.” She responded. As she gathered her things into her little knapsack and swung it over her shoulder to make the walk back to the parish, he got a vision of this town becoming a better place because she was in it. ‘Yeah right, silly old coot.’ He grumbled to himself returning to the accounting books. ********************************************************************** Anyone planning to schedule travel on a plane should acknowledge one fact in advance of ever entering the airport terminal. That is simply the next few hours of your life are going to produce the most hellacious experience you will ever have the misfortune of enduring. Do not attempt in any way, shape, or form to “hope for the best.” You’ll only be setting yourself up for bitter disappointment. Once you have committed yourself to this inevitability, you will then be prepared to at least handle anything and everything the airlines can throw at you with a modicum of civility. Well, that’s my theory anyway. Nice use of college words, huh? I paid a lot for my college vocabulary. It’s good to be able to use it from time to time. So anyway, there I stood, after a two-hour wait in line, in front of the counter as a very flustered ticket agent struggled to find my reservation. I even had my reservation number and itinerary in my hand from the travel office, but that didn’t seem to solve any problems for her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in the system for you.” I pursed my lips at her like I’d just sucked on a lemon. “So what you’re telling me is that even with the reservation number IN MY HAND, there’s nothing you can do for me. I’ve just spent two hours in this line, had that man over there rummage through underwear like it was a garage sale, so you could tell me I’m not booked on the flight after all and you can’t get me on it now because it’s sold out.” She winced noticeably. “No ma’am, I’m sorry.” I nodded, took a deep breath preparing myself for battle, and leaned over counter. “Sweetie, I realize this isn’t your fault. Why don’t you hunt down your supervisor and we’ll see what he’s able to do to resolve the situation so we don’t keep these other people behind me waiting.” Immediately the girl looked terrified, but turned to a phone on the wall behind her to call her boss. What? Were they in the habit of flogging their ticket agents because modern technology was basically crap these days? Behind me, a familiar voice grated its way into my ears, “Hey Callie-girl, Fancy seeing you here.” Oh God. Twice in one day? I was obviously being punished for a wicked childhood or something. John strode up behind me and put his hand around the small of my back just as the girl turned back around, and about dropped the phone. I guess she recognized him or something. It was so hard not to giggle. Shortly thereafter, the counter manager strolled up and I stared in awe as John proceeded to charm my way onto a booked flight with that million-watt smile of his. As we walked through the security gate and got rummaged through for a second time, I glared up at him not quite sure if he was the same person I knew from the office or not. “I can’t believe you just got away with that.” He raised a well-groomed eyebrow and grinned at me, “Get away with what?” Oh, don’t play innocent. “You just basically got me onto a booked flight and picked up a date inside of five minutes flat. I don’t know whether to be impressed or seriously disgusted. Is there no woman on this planet not willing to prostrate herself on the off chance she might end up in your bed?” His easy laughter rumbled from his chest. He picked up his bag, my knapsack and laptop, and strolled down the hall to the holding area we would wait in before boarding. “Ah, I’ll probably never see her again. That,” he nodded back towards where we had come from, “was just an example of one of the few perks of being a celebrity. It can actually be quite taxing most of the time.” Then he leaned down and nudged his nose into my hair just behind my ear, “besides, I haven’t charmed you into my bed yet.” I shut up after that. I know when I’ve been licked. Yet? He’s kidding, right? I followed behind his confident gait to a couple of chairs he confiscated for us. I had to find something to do quick or the smell of his cologne was going to make me forget myself. I pulled a magazine out of my knapsack and proceeded to flip through it. “Are you thirsty, Callie?” John asked me. I shook my head refusing to look up from the article in front of me. He leaned over and rested his chin on my shoulder, “What cha reading?” I furrowed my brows. Ever heard of personal space, dude? “It’s an article on cosmetic surgery.” I answered in monotone. “Oh Callie. I told you all you needed were a couple weeks in the gym. Don’t be considering cutting your beautiful self up. I’d hate that.” I slowly looked at him with a bit of mischief sparkling in my eye, “Actually, it’s on penis enlargement. Maybe you should read it.” He made such a face, I had to bust out laughing. I admit it. There was cackling involved. “I wouldn’t let any damn doctor anywhere near my jewels with a scalpel.” He sounded positively repulsed. That evoked another bout of giggles and possibly a snort, though I’m pleading the fifth on that one. “I’m surprised that any man would, but here it says that vasectomies are also on the rise as a form of birth control. Fascinating, huh? Snip…snip.” I teased and earned myself a punch in the arm before he abandoned me to scout himself out a drink, leaving me in relative peace. Shortly after that, we parted ways as he grabbed a flight for LA and I hopped on mine to Ashville, NC. The flight itself was uneventful, which is good. I’d hate to be a part of one that WAS eventful, like say crashing or being taken over by terrorists. I’d like to say I’d be brave enough to handle that situation, but honestly I’d prefer not to have to test myself in that fashion. Upon arriving in Ashville however, I discovered that my luggage hadn’t made it onto the flight due to the delay at the counter. Figures. They assured me that it would be on the next flight and they would have it delivered to the address where I was staying. Should I hold my breath? I think not. So, my knapsack, laptop, and I managed to rent a car with only a minor inconvenience, a frantic search for my driver’s license. Then I headed for the company’s cabin up the Blue Ridge parkway. The weather was overcast, but not really raining except for short mists here and there. The greenery of the rolling hills was positively breathtaking and the fresh scent filled your lungs and scrubbed them clean of toxic city pollution in a jiffy. On the way, I passed through a Cherokee trading post, which looked like a few run down old shops huddled together and a small kiddie carnival. Still, I noticed a moccasin store and decided to stop. Being a romance novelist, I often did little things for myself that were whimsical or romantic just to keep myself in the right frame of mind. Owning a pair of moccasin boots for at least wearing around the house or if I really wanted to annoy the publishing company’s “dress code” sounded interesting. And who knows, my story still needed a quote, unquote “hero”. Perhaps a courageous modern indian brave was just the ticket. As I wandered the different little shops and their various arrays of indian design turquoise and hematite jewelry, tunics, dreamcatchers, artwork, and such, I studied the various people. Those who looked of indian heritage were dressed in a clashing menagerie of “indian attire” and Wal-mart chic. They looked worn-out and beaten down. No one smiled and they rarely spoke. If they were trying to encourage tourist patronage, their people skills were found desperately wanting. At times, I almost felt like I was intruding or even trespassing. Maybe it was just the gloomy weather. There were two totem poles and an indian figurine carved out of wood which guarded the entrance to the moccasin shop. You could still smell where the wood had been burned in places to produce a black outline against the paint. The wooden slats of the porch clacked a dull percussion under my shoes. A tingling of the bell attached to the door announced my entrance. Immediately I was about bowled over by a young man with long, black hair and tanned skin. His eyes flashed something between a sneer and raw anger at me, “Here pops, another city girl come to gawk at the Indian folk come to visit you.” He brushed past me and out the door in an apparent ‘huff’. I blinked tentatively a couple of times trying to regain my bearings. Scratch one courageous modern day indian brave idea. “Come on in, young lady. Don’t mind my ornery nephew. He’s just bemoaning the fact that there is a Black history month at school and not a Native American history month…that they celebrate anyway.” I plastered an amused look on my face as I approached the counter. Hey, if he could make the effort to be hospitable and conversational, then I could at least accommodate him. “Oh no, he’s charming,” I mocked playfully. Then I lowered my voice to a loud whisper, “You actually claim him as a relative?” He played right along with a cheesy grin as he leaned over the counter, “Only on the off-season.” I chuckled. “So, is there such a thing as Native American History Month?” He nodded, “Yeah, in November. Course depending on what part of the country you’re in, there’s probably a history month for just about every ethnic group out there.” I mused, “That’s probably true. Although I wonder how he plans to get his point across with such a winning personality?” He shrugged, shifting his weight onto his other foot, “Well, there’s a reason why you only see the older Indian guys wearing the really big headdresses. The young ones are usually a few feathers short.” Wow. Another laugh erupted out of my person. This must be a personal record for most laughs in one day. I was becoming positively jovial. Darn it. “So, what brings a pretty city lady up here?” I sighed, “Research. I’m writing a book.” That seemed to interest him and he encouraged me to continue, “Really? What kind of book?” I bit my lip, knowing what most people do when you tell them you write romance novels. I leaned towards him conspiratorially, “Can you keep a secret?” He spied out the store, looking both ways before he returned my gaze with a enthusiastic nod. “Well, I write romance novels and the current one I’m working on is set up here in the Blue Ridge, so my editor sent me up her to scope it out.” Enlightenment spread across his face, but he continued the conspiracy act. “Can you keep a secret?” I mimicked his looking both ways before nodding. “I read romance novels,” He admitted. I can’t be entirely sure, but I think astonishment lightened my fact. Course it could have just been unexpected pleasure. Who am I to tell for sure? “I thought I recognized you. You’re Callie McPherson, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture on the back of your books, but they don’t do you justice, young lady.” I have never taken compliments very well, so I blushed with a sideways smile feeling kind of silly, “Well, thank ya kindly sir.” His face glowed with pleasure. I was willing to bet mine was too. I’ve never had somebody actually recognize me before. And to think, it was out here in the middle of nowhere too. Groovy. “You’re very welcome,” He replied sincerely. With that, I began to look over the collection of moccasin boots on the wall beside the counter. “The sign outside said these were handmade?” I asked. “Yes ma’am.” He seemed to puff up a bit with pride. “I spend every other day in the back of the shop putting them together while my wife watches the store.” He spent the next twenty minutes or so going over the details of his craft and I listened fascinated. Did you know that not only did they use animal skin for the leather, but they used the sinews from the animal for the thread? The bead work was intricate and pattered to represent different spiritual or natural entities of Indian culture. Finally I chose a pair made of soft black leather that reached up to my knees. I paid for them and thanked him for his time. “God bless you, Miss McPherson.” He smiled congenially at me. “And you,” I answered. I was actually smiling when I left the store. Maybe the mountains were going to be good for me after all.