A Slice of Orange

It started out fine. In fact, it should gave been a wonderful Valentine’s Day. My boyfriend, Kurt, and I planned to celebrate our third anniversary with a romantic, candle-lit dinner at his favorite restaurant. Barnaby’s overlooked the harbor, and while their menu didn’t exactly boast a huge variety of diet-friendly foods, and in general the servers were snooty and impatient, the music often loud and intrusive and the clientele of questionable virtue, the slabs of beef they offered were quite generous and that’s what mattered to Kurt.

I’d ordered my sweetheart his favorite cologne, an expensive, exotic blend, that I was planning to pick up at his favorite men’s shop on my way home from work. It had taken a big bite out of my budget for the month, but heck it was Valentine’s Day and Kurt was worth every penny. Though our relationship had been somewhat stormy over the past couple of years, in recent weeks we had settled into what I thought of as an idyllic state of bliss. With the worst behind us, I just knew Kurt would be popping the question soon—maybe even tonight.

I wanted everything to be perfect just in case. I had arranged to leave work early so I would have two full hours to dress and do my hair and makeup. Knowing how much stock Kurt put in being punctual, it wouldn’t do on this special occasion for me to be running late. He would arrive at my apartment precisely at 6:45, and I planned to do my best to look ravishing.

The afternoon flew by, and before I knew it it was 4:30, time for me to put my special plans in motion. Time to get ready for the best Valentine’s Day ever.

The first hint that the night wasn’t going to be as perfect as I’d hoped came when I arrived at Montgomery’s Men’s Store, starry-eyed with checkbook in hand, only to be told, “I’m sorry, but the cologne you ordered hasn’t come in yet.”

My stomach took a nosedive. “But…but you promised me it would be here today.”

“I know, but there was a dock strike on the east coast,” the fresh-faced young salesman explained. “It’s out of our hands. Check back on Monday.”

That took the wind out of my sails, but what could I do? Surely Kurt would understand and be content knowing that such an extravagant gift was on its way. All was not lost, I realized as I arrived home. My special gift would be to wear my hair and makeup just the way Kurt liked them, and to wear his favorite outfit—the red silk dress with the slit up the side and the strappy black stiletto heels. In truth, I would much rather slip into my black polyester sheath with the matching bolero jacket. Still carrying a few extra pounds left over from the holidays, I’d have been far more comfortable in the black. But picturing the gleam in my lover’s eyes when he saw me in his favorite dress shoved all my self-doubts aside. It would be well worth a little discomfort. Well, maybe more than a little discomfort, since the stilettos always managed to rub my feet raw by the end of the evening. I brushed my hair until it glistened and applied the curling iron with dramatic flair. The end result was a riot of fine, blond curls around my artfully painted face, heavy on the mascara. Kurt had remarked often enough how he loved long, thick lashes on a woman. He’d find no fault with mine tonight. The reflection in the mirror showed a blue eyed, exotic-looking female staring back. A little red lipstick to match the dress, and I’d be ready to go.

The phone rang just as I was reaching for the lipstick in my bathroom drawer. “Hey, babe. I had a little setback at work this afternoon. Would you mind terribly if I didn’t pick you up? I called the restaurant and told them we’d be a few minutes late. Think you could meet me there at 7:15?”

Disappointment crowded my chest. I did mind. I’d taken great pains to make this night special, and now I was going to have to drive to the restaurant alone. Of course in the general scheme of things, it was only a minor setback. I could overcome. “Sure,” I said with false cheerfulness.

“Meet you there. And Kurt…happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You too, babe.” And he hung up.

I used the extra time to stuff my wallet and keys, along with a few other necessities, into my small black beaded handbag. Grabbing my coat and the Valentine’s Day card I’d lovingly chosen for Kurt, I left the apartment and got into my car for the short ride to the restaurant. Stars shimmered brightly in the deep velvet sky, playing peek-a-boo with a glorious full moon. A night made for romance, if ever I’d seen one. Or so I thought until about a mile and a half down the road when my engine stuttered a few times and died. How could this be happening? I checked the slim silver watch at my wrist. In less than ten minutes I would be late for a very, very important date. Possibly the most important date of my life.

Luckily I was stranded in a safe place, on a residential street in front of a cheery home with lights in several of its windows. Grabbing my cell phone, I scrambled out of the car. Steam hissed from under the hood, and even before I threw it open I knew the radiator had sprung a leak. A serious leak judging from the puddle of rusty water beneath my tall black stilettos. I dialed Kurt, but got no answer. As I went around to the passenger side to retrieve my wallet, I heard another kind of hissing…just before the yard sprinklers came on full-force. With a screech and a howl, I high-stepped it back out into the street and attempted to use the car for a shield. Too late. To my shock and dismay, the back of my dress was soaking wet, my hair was damp enough to have lost most of its curl, and my ankle hurt like the devil from where I twisted it jumping off the curb.

And I was now officially late meeting Kurt.

There was nothing for it but to call a tow truck, seeing as how my boyfriend wasn’t answering his cell. The chill night air forced me back into the car to wait. Sitting there alone in my clinging wet dress, with my hair straggling down around my shoulders and my ankle throbbing, I couldn’t imagine a more ignominious ending to what should have been a beautiful evening. I was busy wallowing in self-pity when the tow truck arrived. I hardly noticed the man when he got out and walked up to my window, just grabbed my membership card and opened the door. His voice caught my attention first, deep, with a rough, sexy quality to it and a slight accent–southern maybe.

“Evenin’, ma’am. Looks like you’ve been sidetracked on your way to an important engagement.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” I replied, as if that explained everything. The guy didn’t look much like a tow truck driver now that I was paying more attention. No grease-stained uniform or baseball cap featuring the company logo. Instead he wore a snug black T-shirt and jeans, boasted what appeared to be several days worth of golden stubble on his cheeks, and light brown hair that swung free to the tops of his wide shoulders. A country song came to mind, along with the image of a certain newly-married country singer.

“Yes, ma’am, it is, so let’s see what we can do to get you on your way.” He soon confirmed what I’d known all along, that my car wasn’t going anywhere under its own power. I watched in silent misery as he hooked it up to the back of his truck, wondering what Kurt would think when I didn’t show for dinner. I wasn’t distracted enough to miss the competent way my rescuer moved, the bunching of his muscles, the smooth roll of his hips as he worked. The man might not look like a tow truck driver, but he knew the drill.

I gathered my things together, limped over to the truck, and tried to hoist myself up into the passenger seat. He appeared beside me, offering strong, gentle assistance. I’d have appreciated it more if the slit in my stupid dress had left me a smidgen more modesty. I caught a quick glimpse of my reflection in the rearview mirror, confirming my worst fears. With my soggy hair hanging down around my shoulders, I resembled a stray cat left too long out in the rain. Huddling in my wretchedness, I gave the man directions to an auto repair shop near where I lived, figuring I’d walk home from there. Repeated calls to Kurt’s cell had gone unanswered, and at this point there wasn’t a whole lot more I could do.

“Where to now?” the Keith Urban lookalike inquired, after unloading my car in the parking lot of the repair shop.

“Home,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “But I can walk from here.”

He caught my arm as I reached for the door handle. “You can’t go home. You look much too pretty for that. Now, I know you had some special plans. Tell me where you were heading and I’ll see that you get there.”

Warmed by the man’s words, I felt a spark of hope in my chest. “I was meeting my boyfriend at Barnaby’s down by the harbor.”

“The harbor it is. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

I did my best to tidy up on the way, but it was mostly a lost cause. At least I could refresh my lipstick, but not only would I be late for our reservation—something Kurt abhorred—my special gift of wanting to look perfect for him was ruined. My anxiety grew as we drew up to the restaurant, along with my sense of failure. And then I saw something that snatched my breath and had me grabbing my chest in pain. No! It wasn’t possible! That couldn’t be Kurt in the shadow of the building, pressed up against a strange woman, devouring her with his kiss.
My companion, sensing my distress, hung a quick left and headed in the opposite direction. “You okay?” he asked, glancing sideways at me.

I couldn’t answer him. Didn’t trust myself to speak. Finally, I realized that the truck was no longer moving. My misery too much to contain, I threw open the door and climbed out. “Thanks for the ride,” I murmured, then trudged to the corner and stood there in a state of suspended disbelief. This won First Prize for the worst Valentine’s Day ever.

And then I felt a warm presence beside me, a gentle hand caressing my shoulder. “That guy back there? He’s a loser. Don’t waste another minute pining for him. You deserve a whole lot better.”

I huddled deeper into my jacket.

“Listen, my family owns a restaurant on the east side of town. Do you like Italian?”

I turned to face him. His sexy grin sent my stomach twirling. “But what about your job?”
“This isn’t my regular job, I’m just covering for a buddy of mine so he could take his wife out for Valentine’s Day. The shift ends at nine. What do you say? I can pretty much guarantee us a good table, and the food’s good.”

Gazing up into his golden brown eyes, it hit me that I was seeing something there I had never seen in Kurt’s—not in the three long years I had known him. Compassion, respect, gallantry. Kurt. The man I’d caught kissing another woman less than an hour after he was supposed to be meeting me for a romantic dinner.

You deserve a whole lot better. The stranger’s words echoed through my mind, and I suddenly realized that he was right. Holding out my hand, I gave him a tentative smile. “Thanks. I’d love to.”

Maybe this wasn’t going to be the worst Valentine’s Day ever after all.

Vicki Crum is a Connections Award Finalist, Paranormal for her manuscript A GLIMPSE OF ETERNITY. She is also a long time member, and volunteer, of OCC/RWA.

It rained that Valentine’s.

But I didn’t care. We were finally going to have a weekend to ourselves – just the two of us.

Mom had taken the kids and Steve and I headed up the 405 from San Diego on that wet Friday.

Destination: Malibu.

Steve had a friend who had a friend who had a place there and said we were welcome to it for the weekend. It was described as one of those fab places that sits on the hill and overlooks the oceanic vista. Of course we grabbed it. And even though the forecast looked bleak for a frolic on the beach, I could picture us cozied up by a nice fire and making love while torrents of rain beat down on the roof.

The trip started off alright. We stopped along the way for breakfast and flirted with each other under the table – starting our foreplay early. We were like kids again. For a couple days anyway, totally carefree – no work, no fussing teenagers, no dog to feed. (He was at Mom’s too.)

But the food was cold, putting my husband in an early foul mood. One of his pet peeves is cold food served at a restaurant. “Nobody cooks an omelet like you, Sweetheart. This really sucks.”

“Well, send it back, Love.”

“No. We gotta hit the road. Better fish to fry.” He winked at me and I knew his temporary upset was past. He forced the cold egg down and paid the bill.

On the road again his playful demeanor returned. Ah, my husband is such a great guy. That’s why I married him.

Blat! Squish! Screech!

Steve veered the jolting car to the right as it vehemently pulled left. His right arm slammed across my chest even though the seatbelt was already doing its job.

“Damned blowout!” The car wobbled to a stop. “You okay, Honey?”

“I’m fine. That was close.” We both watched as cars continued to speed past us, going much too fast for the wet conditions.

“I’ll change it.”

“No, Steve. It’s too dangerous and too cold. I’ll call Triple A.” I pulled out my cell and dialed them. It took ten minutes to get them on the phone. Apparently there were a lot of break downs due to the weather and it would be some time before they could get to us.

“F…it!” My husband cursed and got out of the car. “You stay put.”

“I can help.”

“Forget it.”

I knew it was no use arguing with him when he was like this. The rain had suddenly slackened so my gallant husband used the break in the weather to change the tire in record time. I disobeyed him, getting out of the car to offer a kiss and a thank you.

“We’ll get there sooner or later,” he said.

“You’re my hero.” I went back to my side of the car and slipped in but just as my husband came to his door a Mac truck appeared out of no where, sloshing mud all over him.

“Steve! Are you alright?” I jumped back out. He was leaning against the car now, covered with the sludge.

“I can’t win for losing.”

“Oh, Sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” I grabbed an old blanket out of the trunk and put it on the front seat so he could drive without getting the nasty stuff all over the upholstery. “We’ll pull over up the way so you can get into some dry clothes.”

“At least the tire got changed.”

A couple miles up we pulled into a McDonalds. The rain was starting up again so I held the umbrella over Steve while he dug through the suitcase in the trunk for a set of dry clothes. “Be right back,” he said.

“I’m gonna use the rest room while you change.”

My bladder was rather full so it was good that we had stopped. Finishing my business, I washed my hands in the not-too-clean sink. As I turned to push the hand dryer I saw the kid. She was a teen – about the same age as my daughter. She wore a dark blue over coat and the way her hand was poised in her pocket looked suspect. She pointed it toward me. “Give me your purse!”

“What?”

“This is a mugging.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, Bitch. Give it to me.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I got a gun.”

The wild look in her eye wasn’t too calming. She had at least five hooks in her ear and a ring through her nose. A nasty tattoo peaked out from her collar. I doubted she had a gun but then again you never know.

I guess the shock of it all hadn’t soaked into me yet because for some strange reason I wasn’t scared. “Look, you seem like a nice kid. I have a girl about your age.”

“Give me the purse or I’ll shoot!”

“What about a loan? I give you a twenty and…” Thankfully another woman came through the door just then. The girl grabbed the purse from me and dashed out the door.

“Hey!” I ran after her but she was fast. My husband was already sitting in our car as I came out the door after the girl-demon. “Stop her. She has my purse!” He was out of the car in an instant but not fast enough. The girl leapt into a waiting car and they were gone. “She stole my purse!”

“I got the tag – California plates.”

”How did you manage to do that?” I looked at him in disbelief.

“Just lucky I guess. Give me your cell or did she get that too?”

“I…it’s in the car.”

We got back in the car and called the authorities. They were there within minutes. My husband had already told them the make of the old car and the license plate.

“We stopped them up the road about five miles,” the officer said. “They recovered your belongings. I’ll need you to come down to the precinct to make a positive I.D.”

Well, that took most of the afternoon. But since Malibu wasn’t that far we figured we’d at least have the evening and then the next day. We pulled up to the beach house about five o’clock.

“Well, Phil wasn’t kidding. How about this, Babe?”

“Fabulous. And the owner lives here and is out of the country or what?”

“No, it’s just one of his many properties. We have it all to ourselves.”

“Finally, our holiday is back on track.”

Steve kissed me and we went inside the beautiful beach home. After depositing our suitcases in the master bedroom my husband began to build a fire. We had stopped at a local grocery store for food. I had decided to cook for my husband since he’d been such a terrific super hero today. I unpacked the sacks and set about my culinary tasks; preparing baked salmon and pouring some very nice wine.

The fire was roaring. The rain was pouring. How romantic I thought as I went to the bedroom to slip into my new silk gown. I came back to the living area to find that my sweetheart had spread a cozy blanket in front of the fire. He was already in his pajamas. He patted the space next to him and smiled. “Come and join me?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” I went to him, melting in his arms. “Sweetheart, I know the day didn’t start out too good but…”

“Are you kidding? Other than a bad breakfast, a blown-out tire and a mugging, it was fine. It was all worth it to have this time with you.”

He kissed me again when we heard voices from outside.

“What the hell…”

Steve got up, grabbing his robe off the sofa. I followed him. My cell phone rested on the counter top. I don’t know why I grabbed it.

Once at the back door he switched on the outside light. Through the window the rain looked like a million diamonds pounding from above. There were two people there, drenched as drowned alley cats. The man was reaching under a flower pot. Muddy water spilled over its top as he tipped it. Then we saw him pick up a key and point it right at the lock. At this move my husband opened the door. “What do you want?”

I was peaking around my husband’s shoulder. The man was about five feet eight inches tall, heavy set and unkempt; maybe forty years old. He looked up at my husband. “Damn, thought we’d never make it. Been on the road two whole days and nights.”

“That didn’t answer my question. Who are you?” My husband refused to stand aside, even though the stranger seemed more than willing to come through the door. We all huddled under the cover over the back steps.

“Name’s Axel Childers. This here’s Laverne.” He was flanked by the widest women I had ever seen. “She’s my missus. Now just who are you?”

Both of them looked like they’d been on some pig farm for the duration of their liaison. A beat-up pick up sat in the background – theirs no doubt.

“What are you doing here?” Steve persisted.

“Cousin Jim said we were welcome to the place whenever we came out this way. So that’s just what we done. Left Sulfur Springs two days ago.”

“Cousin Jim? As in Jim Palmer?”

“He’s the one.”

“Well, I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. My wife and I have the place for the weekend.”

“And just who the hell are you again?”

“I’m Steve Brodie if it’s any of your concern. Just call your cousin if you don’t believe me.” On instinct I stretched my arm around my husband, offering my cell phone. I wasn’t about to let these two bumpkins into the house.

The man took the phone. “Never used one of these new- fangled things before. Vernie, what’s that number again?” He turned to his wife as she dug in a rag-tag purse.
She pulled out a small spiral notebook and began flipping the pages. Apparently finding what she wanted she handed it to him. He looked at it. “Here’s the number. You dial it, Mister.” He handed the phone and the notebook back to Steve.

My husband is one of the most patient men I have ever known, dialing the number without so much as a sigh. “Is this Jim Palmer? Great. This is Steve Brodie. I work with Phil Ortiz. Right, we’re here at your place. There’s a man here. Says he’s a cousin of yours.”

I could hear the voice on the other end of the phone but not well enough to decipher the dialogue.

“Axel…Childers. Yes, that’s right. He says you offered the place to him.” More talk on the other end. “Here he is.” Steve handed the phone back to the vagabond who eyed it suspiciously before cautiously holding it to his ear.

“Jim-bo, is that you? How in tarnation are you? It’s been a long time…what’s that?” The man’s eyes bugged as he listened. “Well, I know it’s been a while but you always said if we ever got out this way there was a key under the geranium and…” The man’s face fell as he handed the phone back to my husband.

Steve put the phone to his ear. “Uh huh. Yeah. I got you. No problem. Goodbye.” He flipped the phone shut. “Honey, bring me my wallet.”

I of course obeyed immediately, hoping whatever was about to happen would get these people off the back steps and out of our life. My husband opened his wallet and took out three one hundred dollar bills. He handed them to Axel Childers.

“Jim says for you to find a motel – on him. He’ll reimburse me.”

The man took the money. “Well, if this don’t blast all. I drove all this way to stay on Malibu Beach and Jim-bo’s got house guests. I’m sorry, Mister.”

“Yeah, well Jim-bo’s sorry too. There are several motels back up the way.”

The man stuffed the money in his pocket and turned to his wife. “Come on, Vernie. Let’s git goin’.” They turned to leave without even a goodbye.

Backing into the house my husband slammed the door and slipped the deadbolt into place. We heard the pick-up engine start and fade into the distance. “Can you believe this?” Steve ran his hand through his hair.

“Come on, Honey. It’s all over now.”

“What a couple of hay seeds! Unbelievable. Right here in Million-Dollar-Malibu.”

“I do believe they’d have been content to share the house with us,” I laughed, shuddering at the very thought. I poured us another two glasses of wine and we settled back down on the blanket. My husband wrapped his arms around me again. “Now, Honey, where were we?” Our clothes were tossed to the sofa.

Ah, the fire dwindled down as the rain pelted away and finally after a hefty round of love- making we settled down for a peaceful sleep. My husband whispered into my ear. “This has all been worth it, just to have this time together.”

“I love you,” I whispered back. “Goodnight.”

Two hours later I found myself back in my husband’s arms. I had no objections to round two. Just after the critical, spectacular moment, we heard a bizarre noise and felt a jolt. Steve held me tightly. “What was that?” I whispered. “Earthquake?”

“I don’t know…I…” Before he could finish the sentence we felt the entire house move. It groaned as it began to shift its pitch. Items began to fall and furniture began to slide. “Oh, my God. Mudslide!”

We held tight to each other as the house began its journey. Everything went into slow motion for me as I saw my life flash before me. I’d heard about these Malibu mudslides but never dreamed we were in any danger. After what seemed an eternity the house came to a rest. My husband lifted me out of the pocket of furniture that now surrounded us. “Here, you’ll need these.” He grabbed my gown off the sofa then grabbed his pajamas. We slipped them on as we made our way for the door. It wouldn’t open but Steve was able to kick out a window. He crawled through then pulled me out. Rain was spitting frantically, stinging our faces and we were up to our ankles in sand. But we had escaped without injury. Steve grabbed my hand and we ran back towards the clearing where we could see cars on the highway. Lightening flashed and we made out the outline of the voyage the house had taken – about twenty feet of slippage right off its foundation. Finally reaching the top of the cliff, we made our way to a small coffee shop that was open twenty-four-seven. We must have been a sight in our wet bed clothes.

The waitress saw our dilemma and phoned the police. Then the dear girl brought us her coat and the coat of another employee to go over our cold wet bodies. “There were a couple other houses up the way that slid down the hill too. You guys are lucky you’re alive. Let me get you some hot coffee.”

We snuggled down into a booth; my husband protectively keeping his arm around my shoulder. I began to whimper.

“Don’t cry, Sweetheart. She’s right. We’re lucky to be here.”

“I know. I know.” I snuggled into his side. And then little by little my tears turned into laughter; slow at first then sliding into a cacophony of giggles.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I always knew you were a mover and a shaker in bed, but wow! You outdid yourself this time.”

Steve threw back his head and laughed out loud. “I guess I got carried away!”

The waitress brought the coffee and we couldn’t get enough of it. Finally the police came and took us back up the hill to a little motel. They brought us some dry clothes too.

The next morning we went for the continental breakfast, where we ran into – you got it – Axel and Laverne.

The next Valentine’s Day we just stayed home.

By Andrea Baker
OCC/RWA Vice President

Who here loves Valentine’s Day?

No?

Okay, so maybe you don’t. But you’re gonna love this one.

Why?

Because I got a present for you!

Here’s the deal.

Tell us about your Worst Valentine’s Day Ever.

If New York Times Bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson thinks yours is the worst*, you win.

That simple.

The winner gets a special prize from Vicki Lewis Thompson, a box of Godiva and complimentary publicity on OCC’s blog A Slice Of Orange.

Yep. That’s what I said.

Special Gift from Vicki Lewis Thompson!

Complimentary Publicity!

Box of Godiva!

Am I missing anything?

Well, there is that chance you could win a million dollars worth of diamonds in the box of Godiva. (Like Cracker Jacks only better!)

Nah…you wouldn’t want that.

Come one. Come all. (Meaning published and unpublished.)

Send your stories to:

Jenapodaca@aol.com

Warmest regards,

Dana Diamond

* When I say worst, I mean best. Entries may be true or fictional and will be posted on A Slice Of Orange through February. They will be judged on how entertaining they are, not if they are truly the worst. Also, size doesn’t matter, but a general guide is to try to stick to one page, single spaced, Times New Roman 12. Oh, and yes, permision to forward.

A Slice of Orange Blog Contest

THE WORST VALENTINE’S DAY EVER

Contest entries will be posted on weekdays from February 5, 2007 to February 23, 2007. No contests entries will be posted on the weekends.

Stories can be anecdotal or fiction.

Entries should be approximately one to five pages in length (250 to 1250 words)

HOPEFULLY will be judged by an editor. Prize to be announced.

Please send entries to Jenapodaca@aol.com We are just getting started, so don’t wait! Get your story written and send it in!

Preferred formatting is single spaced with double space between paragraphs, but please don’t stress about formatting! Just write!

Please include how you’d like your signature line to read. For example:
Jennifer Apodaca
OCC/RWA PAW Liaison
http://jenniferapodaca.com/
THE SEX ON THE BEACH BOOK CLUB Available NOW!

Good Luck! And don’t forget to send in your entries!