Chapter 30

New Beginnings

It was close to bedtime, time for Alan to take his medicine. After homework, he had worked on reorganizing his shelves, trying to decide if he could make room for the chess set there, or if it would be best to keep it in a safer place and only take it out whenever he played. Maybe he would just display the white queen. Yes, that would likely be best. He decided to leave the shelves as is and head to the kitchen.

As he descended the stairs, he wondered what the board would look like when he got it back from George. Good as new, or would he still be able to see the damage if he looked hard enough? Being broken underneath a deceptive visage was something he knew a bit about. Perhaps it was apropos that he possessed a chess board that was a reflection of himself. Poetic, if a little depressing. But the damage was done. All that was left was to move forward as best he could, to decide what to do with the time that was given.

He missed being productive. He missed soccer and academic team practice meets. He longed for springtime and the science fair. He wanted his learner's permit and his car, the sweet project that awaited him. How much was too much? Was it safe to dive in deep? Should he consult with Dr. Paula? Probably. It seemed the responsible thing to do, even if he did want everything right now.

The kitchen was quiet and empty when he entered. His parents were likely cuddled up in the den, watching whichever popular drama program was on tonight. He crossed over to draw a glass of water from the tap, then to the counter where his medication sat, waiting for him to take his first dose.

ZENOLTA, the name of his prescription, was written across the small box in bold, aqua-green font. Alan had seen commercials for this drug many times before, often depicting a poor sufferer, a young woman, in black and white, slinking away into a corner during a party. After taking Zenolta, however, the screen becomes a full technicolor wonderland à la post-twister Dorothy Gale opening her door to the Land of Oz. Poor sufferer no more, the woman has become the life of the party and is living it up on the dance floor in a sparkly minidress, a handsome young man twirling her around in dizzy circles. Never once during his viewings of this commercial had Alan imagined that he would be prescribed this medication one day. He tried to imagine himself in the poor sufferer's place after the Zenolta had taken effect, kicking open the gymnasium door at MCM, smoothing out the lapels of his suit and announcing to the entire Autumn Ball party that he, Alan Powers, was there to start the dance revolution, as if he were the protagonist of some 80's movie. He sincerely hoped nothing like that happened, though it might be better than the alternative.

"One thirty-milligram tablet by mouth daily with water," he mumbled to himself.

Alan was allowed to take Zenolta with food if he experienced nausea. He had read the instructions as well as the information pack that had come with his prescription twice. The list of possible side effects, everything from the common drowsiness to less-common impotence, had been a bit intimidating, but he decided he would take the medicine in good faith that it would do its job, promising himself that he would be vigilant of side effects and report back to Dr. Paula as soon as possible.

Alan pressed one capsule out of the blister pack into his palm and contemplated it, aqua-green on one end, cream-white on the other. Would he notice a difference? How soon would he notice a difference? Would the drug provide him with a sense of confidence, peace of mind that everything was going to be all right? Nothing was ever truly all right, was it? Life was just a series of lulls between the bad times, inevitable, unavoidable pain.

In an instant, Alan could feel the shift. This was exactly why he needed to try medication. It was almost impossible to keep his vicious inner monologue at bay; he was always lurking out of sight, around the corners and in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to sneak up beside him and highjack his mind, replacing his hope with dark thoughts, encouraging him to fear the pain.

You've got it all wrong, Alan, his monologue said. Pain is not what you really fear, is it? It's the happiness that comes before.

"Oh, shut up," Alan whispered to himself, and he tossed the capsule into his mouth.

He toasted the silence with his water glass, "To your health," and then he drank and drank as if his life depended on it. In truth, it very well might. When the water was gone, he reached for his phone.

"Hi. Prunella?" he said when she picked up. "It's Alan. I hope it's not too late. Listen, about yoga…"


Chip paced back and forth in the front office of Tarver Ranch and Rescue. Due to an unexpected issue down at the boarding stables, he was stuck waiting on her. At least it was his day off and he was not on a tight schedule. An odd sort of mishap had led him here today, and he was grateful for it.

It all started last Wednesday, when Chip had decided to sneak into the rescue with a couple of burritos from Catherine's favorite lard-free restaurant and surprise her, hoping they could have lunch together before he had to head back to Belmont and prepare for work. It had been more than a bit brave of him to go there during business hours, but Catherine's had been the only car there at the moment, and he had known it was safe.

"'Sup, Cat? You there?" he had called into the stables and got nothing in response. He tried her doorbell twice, thinking that maybe she had already gone upstairs for lunch. Still, nothing. He went back to the stables entrance again and chanced a few steps inside. Chip could see him all the way at the back. Axel, Catherine's project rescue horse, the horse she referred to as her horse, stood craning his head over the gate of his stall, as he often did when he anticipated Catherine's approach. Chip would not have believed horses could have expressions, but Axel's disappointment was evident when he realized that Chip was the only person here, and Catherine was still nowhere to be found.

Despite the change in mood, Axel never looked better, not since Chip had first seen him, anyway. While Catherine and the other hands worked hard to make sure all the rescues at Tarver were well taken care of, Chip knew that Axel was Catherine's pride and joy. He was a special personal project she had taken on even before she had gotten the live-in gig here, and Chip knew she loved Axel like some parents loved their children, maybe even better. She had not left Axel to fend for himself, so she was already miles ahead of the big guy. Axel's chestnut coat was becoming shinier with each passing week, he was still gaining weight, and his wounds were all but healed. He even got around more spryly these days. Chip distinctly remembered when Axel looked as if he were at death's doorstep. Catherine really was a miracle worker. She could be proud of herself when Axel was finally adopted out.

"I don't blame you, boy," Chip said as Axel stuck his head back in his stall and resumed eating hay. "I'd be disappointed, too. Where is she, huh? Where's your mom? Your mom?" he repeated to himself with an incredulous mumble. "Listen to me, talking to a damned horse…"

Maybe she was out in the pasture, or whatever. He had reached for his phone and was about to dial Catherine when there was a voice behind him.

"Sorry, hon, Catherine's not here right now."

Chip whirled around to see Janice standing at the entrance in full ranch garb, her trademark indigo Stetson included. She had been in a powdered wig the last time he had seen her, wearing a judge costume. Somehow, she looked more intimidating now. Maybe it was not the idea of Janice catching him here that scared him, but the thought of Catherine knowing that Janice had caught him here. Either way, he swallowed hard, thinking of what to say as she stared back, one hand holding the handle of a bucket filled with grooming supplies, the other placed firmly on her hip.

"Janice, hi," he said lamely. "Where is she?"

"Took my truck to pick up a few supplies. What's in the bag, Charlie?"

To his surprise, her tone was conversational. She did not sound upset at all. He reminded himself that Janice had always been friendly toward him. It was Catherine who was so stringent when it came to rules.

"Oh, you know," he said, "just some burritos. I'm sorry, Janice. I know it's business hours, but I wanted to swing by and bring Catherine lunch. I hope that's okay."

Janice smiled kindly back at him. It occurred to Chip that what he had mistaken for a stern look was probably just her squinting from the bright sunlight.

"You're sweet," she said, "just like your dad. Such a nice thing to do for your girlfriend."

Chip was so focused on not becoming irritated over Janice's comparison to the big guy that he nearly missed her second compliment.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Did she tell you she was my girlfriend?"

"Oh, honey… She didn't tell me anything. All I had to do was pay attention. No one thinks I check the nighttime security footage unless there's a problem, but I definitely do. We had a break-in a couple of years ago, and I've been a little paranoid ever since. Can't help it. Imagine my surprise when I started seeing best friend Charlie's car pulling through the front gate well after midnight and parking outside Catherine's apartment entrance. I assume you're not coming over here in the small hours of the morning to play Yahtzee. Am I wrong?"

So they had been caught after all?

"See, what that is…" Chip stammered. "I work late nights, and the only time we can really hang out… You're not wrong," he said, defeated. "It's supposed to be a secret, though. For now, anyway."

Janice walked into the stables, the bucket swinging lazily from her hand as she did. She chuckled at him.

"Relax. Why are you so scared?"

Did he look scared?

"Beats me," he said. "This is Cat's idea. I don't care who knows about us. Are you going to tell her you know?"

"Absolutely not," she said. "I don't care if you two want to knock boots on the sly. Catherine does an excellent job around here. Beyond excellent. As far as I'm concerned, she can do whatever—or whoever—she wants off the clock so long as it's safe and legal. No business of mine."

Chip let out a heavy breath.

"You've just saved me a boatload of anxiety," he said. "She's determined we not go public to everyone until she's ready… You wouldn't happen to have any idea why that is?"

"Sorry, kid. But if it helps, I couldn't pry much info out of her about that fella she was seeing before you either. Ben…something."

"Grossman," said Chip, who had been unable to forget the name.

"Yeah. She's very proper and businesslike during work hours, not like that Shannon, who volunteered every dirty detail about her life whether I asked for it or not. It's actually been a nice change. Why she wants to keep it a secret is anyone's guess. Maybe she's super private. Hell, maybe she even gets off on it a little. But you two are having fun, and that's what counts. Wouldn't stress over it too much. You're special to her."

"Why do you think that?"

"Anytime she has a guest over, she always, and I mean always, asks for permission. When she brought her grandmother for a visit, when her friends came over for dinner… All on her days off, on her time. She didn't need to ask my permission for anything. But you? You're here a lot. She never asks for permission, never even speaks your name, but she always has a huge smile on her face the next day."

"I'm special to her…"

"A piece of advice, and then I'll butt out. My BS meter is pretty sensitive, and I can tell Catherine's the real deal. If I were you, I'd do whatever it takes to keep her."

"Believe me," Chip said, "I'm trying, but it's all up to her, whether she finds me worthy. I wish there was something I could do to show her how much I…love her, that I'm committed to us. Maybe she'd relax a little, too."

"Think hard, boy. I don't think another one of those enormous bouquets is going to cut it."

"You knew that was me?"

"I suspected something was up, what with your visit and the timing of delivery. Like I said, my BS meter is sensitive. Why do you think I welcomed you back here anytime? Because you were charming?"

Janice let it hang, but Chip had no response.

"Now," Janice said, checking her watch, "Catherine is due back pretty soon, and she's always been punctual. If I were you, I'd skedaddle. Don't want to break Catherine's delusion of being a master secret keeper…"

What could have meant disaster for Catherine turned into one of the best things that could happen for her. Perhaps for the both of them. Chip had thought a lot about his conversation with Janice that night while at work. As he was leaving the Waterfront after his shift, he knew exactly what he wanted to do to show Catherine how much he cared for her, but he was clueless on where to start. That was why he was here today, pacing the floor.

As he waited, Chip took in the décor of the office, the soft lighting, the stone floors, the cowhide rug draped over the back of a rich brown leather sofa. The office had received quite an extensive and stylish makeover, judging from some of the pictures that hung on the wall that featured a room very much like this one, though nowhere near as cowboy-chic as it was now. Chip wondered if the big guy had paid for all these extravagant furnishings, too, when he had renovated the rescue for Janice and Rudy, ultimately deciding it was likely he had.

Just stop thinking about it. Why do you even care?

Because this benevolent act the big guy had adopted sometime after he had cut off his son reeked of phoniness, and the fact that no one else seemed to notice or care was like having salt rubbed into his wounds, wounds Chip had tried to convince himself did not exist anymore. Despite his better judgement, he had revisited the search engine page from nights before and read a few of the sickening articles about the big guy's charitable contributions. How the times had changed. Ed Crosswire was now praised as a hometown hero. No one knew the cold, calculated, and heartless acts the man was capable of. To them, he was just a family man, a self-made multimillionaire, with dollars and concern to spare for the entire community. Unless you made him angry, that is. Then you were as good as dead to him. That's what they did not know.

Chip stopped pacing and found himself in front of a large framed photo from the grand re-opening of Tarver in 2005. There had to be fifty people in the photo, grouped in front of the brand-new rescue stables, some in jeans and work boots, some in jeans and cowboy boots, most donning hardhats and white Tarver Ranch and Rescue t-shirts. At the front of the group was a large red banner:

NEW BEGINNINGS

2005

Holding up the banner were a less-gray Janice and a thinner Rudy, the big guy, his mother, and a blonde rabbit woman. The woman was an exception to most everyone else, fashionably dressed in an off-the-shoulder, rusty-red cashmere sweater and Brunello Cucinelli jeans. She looked young and attractive, but the sunglasses she wore were huge, and it was hard to make out all her features. Truth be told, the woman reminded him a lot of Lexie. The big guy was another exception, having pulled one of the white Tarver tees over his button-up and tie and tossing on a hardhat, likely only donning the garments for the photo op, likely whipping them off as soon as he could so he could get back to the lot. Chip decided the mystery blonde woman was Mrs. M. She fit Catherine's description, and, like the big guy, she had probably shown up for the photo and then went back to being a trophy wife or something. Mrs. M's arm was draped over his mother's shoulder, pulling her into a side hug, their heads touching. She was definitely the mutual acquaintance between the Tarvers and his parents.

Chip's study of the photo was interrupted by the sound of someone entering the office from the back entrance.

"So sorry about that, Charlie," said Janice as she removed her Stetson and hung it on a hook by the doorframe. "Sometimes you've gotta put out fires yourself. Looks like we're in a time crunch if we want to conclude this meeting before Catherine gets back."

To get Catherine out of the way so they could talk freely, Janice had sent Catherine on another supply run today, this time in search of obscure items that would be a lot more difficult to find.

"No problem," said Chip, secretly grateful she had finally shown up. "Thanks for meeting with me personally, Janice."

"Anything for Ed's son," Janice said with a bright smile that made her look ten years younger. "And Catherine, of course."

Chip ignored that and fought the urge to shudder.

"I'm sure you're busy," he said, "but I really need to keep this on the D-L until Christmas Day."

"You do know Catherine's Jewish, right?" she said.

"And I know she'll be here that evening, which is exactly where I need her to be."

"Don't you worry about a thing," she said. "I won't say a word. About our talk or your big surprise. Now, have a seat and let's get started…"


"You're coming over for Thanksgiving?" Bitzi said to Bo as they exited their counsellor's office. The sun was low, and Buster should be taking the enchiladas out of the oven right about now.

"Only if I can bring at least one side dish," said Bo. "That was a joke. That is, unless you want me to bring one?"

"I've got it under control," she said with a wave of her hand. "A bottle of wine, and we'll call it even?"

"Can do," he said looking relieved. "So, next week? Same time, same channel?"

"Be here or be square…" she said, then, seriously, "I'm sorry, Bo."

"What for?"

She fought the urge not to get emotional again.

"I can't help but feel like I dominated the conversation today."

Bitzi had talked at length about removing Byron's things from the storage unit, how she had expected to feel regret or guilt over it in the days that followed, but instead she had felt peace, which subsequently made her wonder whether she should feel guilty about that. She had been in tears for most of the time, taking several breaks so she could compose herself and continue, all while Bo had sat next to her on Dr. Chen's sofa with his arm around her, listening but saying nothing.

She had talked about the photo Bo had taken of her after Elliot's attack, how she and Bo had decided to get rid of it after they dropped off Byron's things, burning it along with its negative in Bo's fireplace. She talked about how she was happy no one would ever be able to look at the photo again, but the fact had not erased the foolishness she felt over the incident that had left her battered and injured.

What she had not spoken of was Joel Noonan, the advertising exec who worked with the Times, whom she had met at last year's holiday party, who had asked her out for coffee Friday after work.

"Just to chat," Joel had said when she looked at him in surprise.

"Just to chat" could mean a couple of things. Joel could have meant it in its purest, simplest form. He was divorced and had a daughter in college. Maybe he was looking for friends outside of work. Or maybe he was looking for something more. She had the feeling it was the latter and not the former. Taken off guard and perhaps a bit frightened, she had quickly asked him if she could think about it.

"It's just that life is pretty crazy right now," she had explained, "and I wasn't exactly looking for a—not that I'm assuming! I'm not… Today just isn't a good day for me, Joel. I'm sorry."

"Not a problem," he had said in a tone that was warm and smooth before leaving her office. "I understand. I do hope you'll think about it, though."

It was true that Friday was not a good day to have coffee with Joel, but that was also true of Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Counselling was more than an hour on Mondays. It was a life-altering exercise that required her and her ex-husband to reconcile the past ten painfilled years. She and Bo were co-parents, closer than they had been in a long, long time. Perhaps their family was fractured, but every member had a duty to make it as healthy and functional as possible. And it was finally happening. It required a lot of work and a ton of energy, but they were making strides every day. Bitzi did not think she could risk that for anything or anyone, no matter how interesting or handsome he was. Still, she had been unable to prevent herself from wondering where "just to chat" might lead.

"Don't feel bad about it," Bo said to her. "You said what you needed to say, right? That's the goal, to lay everything out on the table?"

"I feel like most sessions have been that way."

"Bitz, after eleven years of not talking about it, I'm glad someone is saying something."

"But you admit it, that we haven't shared equal time."

"Maybe you do talk a bit more than me, but…"

"I knew it," she said.

"But only lately. I don't want to argue over it."

"Neither do I. I really don't. Do you want to get coffee?"

"At six o'clock on a Monday?" he said, bemused.

She reached underneath her glasses to rub her eyes, which still burned, though dully.

"I don't care what we drink," she said. "I just want to give you a chance to talk. If you want."

"Me?" he said, looking touched. "You know there's no way I'd turn that down. Your car or mine?"

Bitzi sent Buster a text as Bo held his passenger door open for her. She told their son where she and his father would be, to go ahead and have dinner if he did not feel like waiting, but to make sure he kept the rest of the enchiladas covered with foil and warming in the oven.

She could not help but wonder if there might be a sliver of hope for her and Joel after all. Could there be a way to make it work? A man like him likely would not be available forever. How long would he wait? Would he even ask again? Should she tell Bo? Maybe, eventually, but not this evening. This evening she was determined to let Bo do the talking.


"Whaddup?" Francine said around a mouthful of cookie as she plopped down next to Arthur.

It was breaktime during Music Man rehearsal, and the two had taken respite in a couple of auditorium seats after grabbing some snacks. To Arthur's surprise, Francine had traded her script for her camera, which was strung around her neck.

"Not much," Arthur said. "So, I've, uh, noticed that you've been kind of…not angry lately."

"Not to make me sound like an emo kid or anything," she said sarcastically after downing a sip of water. "Jeez, Arthur."

"I just mean that you're taking things pretty well now. You know, after not getting the lead? I just thought you might still be—"

"Pissed off?" she said.

"Yeah, and—"

"Voicing my frustrations?"

He nodded. "And—"

"Plotting my revenge?"

He got really close and said in a low voice, "Kinda. Look, I just want to make sure everything's okay."

"You want to know if I have a grand plan up my sleeve so you can step in and prevent it," she said with a knowing smirk.

"Kinda," he said again.

"What am I—eight?" she said, obviously wrangling her exasperation. "I've decided to be mature and approach this situation with a different outlook, closed door but opened window. Crap like that."

"Oh, yeah?" said Arthur. "What's the window?"

"I'm going to write one hella-awesome piece for The Frensky Star," she said with a gleam in her eye. "I'm thinking of calling it 'The Music Man: A Mill Creek Middle Production'. It's going to be an extensive behind-the-scenes look at what it takes to put on a musical, crammed full of so many details it might even become a serial. I'm including everything, from interviews with the cast and crew to candid photos, starting now."

Without warning she lifted her camera and took a picture, just as Arthur was stuffing his face with a cookie.

"Ah! Francine, the flash," he groaned.

"Sorry, but it's dark in here. So you see, with my blog, rehearsals, and shadowing Fern as her understudy," she said with a bitter emphasis on the word, "I won't even have time to be mad. You're safe to un-bunch your panties."

"That's a relief," Arthur said, then took a chance. "Do you have time for Pie-Bowl Saturday afternoon?" He was all too aware of how hopeful he sounded. "It seems like it's been forever."

Francine nodded. "Freakin' A. It has been forever. Let's do it. Want to go see Deadlight and throw popcorn at the screen?"

"I was thinking more of a classic Pie-Bowl," he said, "where we actually eat pizza and go bowling?"

"That works for me too. Hey, while we're at Pizza Paula's, maybe you could help me brainstorm for—what the hell are you looking at?"

Arthur was distracted by Buster and Ladonna, standing close to each other at the edge of the stage, sporting goofy smiles while they talked. Francine followed his gaze.

"Oh, right," she said. "Are you still wigged out about that?"

"I wasn't wigged out about it," Arthur said defensively, "just surprised. I can't believe that's going to be a thing now."

"Nobody can," she said, patting him on the shoulder before hopping up. "Back to work! I'm going to ask Binky if he'd like to be my first interview. You're second, by the way."

And with that, Francine left Arthur alone.


Okay, George. Less than two weeks until the Autumn Ball. Not a lot of time left. You can do this. I just hope she doesn't have a date already...

As soon as Maria called for break, Sue Ellen had been at George's side, holding a handful of swatches in varying shades of red. He knew she had debated over which shade to paint the newly-completed Wells Fargo Wagon.

"Okay, George," she had said, plucking two swatches from the bundle, "it was difficult, but I think I've narrowed it down to a choice between 'Crimson Tide' and 'A Study in Scarlet'. I think it's only fair you give your opinion. Got a minute?"

"Can I get back to you in a sec?" he had said. "There's something I've got to do."

When he located her, Fern was sitting on a crate behind the curtain, speedily scribbling in the notebook that was propped open on her knees. Her face was intense, so close to the page George wondered if she could actually focus on the words she was writing.

You've got this, man.

"Um, Fern. I've got a question for you."

"What is it?" she said in a hollow, dispassionate voice, looking up at him.

George gulped. He felt his knees begin to shake.

"Um… Will you check out some paint swatches with me and give Sue Ellen your honest opinion?"

Fern shrugged as she snapped her notebook shut. "Sure."

"I have a feeling you'll be partial to 'A Study in Scarlet', he said as she followed him to find Sue Ellen.

Yet another missed opportunity.

Well, look on the bright side. You still have almost two weeks until the Autumn Ball. That's plenty of time left to ask her. Maybe…


As Fern stood off stage left, watching Buster and George as they performed "The Sadder-But-Wiser Girl," she wondered if it was too late to drop out of the musical. They were three weeks away from showtime. She could certainly go through the motions and see it through. She just did not want to. She did not want to do anything anymore, definitely not something that required her to watch Buster and Ladonna fawn over each other when they were not acting on stage.

Perhaps she was being overly dramatic. There was one thing she wanted to do, but only one. She wanted to bury herself in Around the Dark Corner, only it was not called that anymore. She had changed her book's title to Danger Girl. Not only did this new title suit her protagonist better, it had a dark yet playful ring to it. Very Hiaasen-esque. She wanted to bury herself so deeply in her book and its creation that she did not have to face the real world. The real world, as well as its people, could be so disappointing. However, her stories never were. Her characters always did exactly what they were supposed to do. She was definitely being overly dramatic, but those were her sentiments all the same. Her stories would always be there for her, and it was time to give them the attention they deserved.

She needed to do far more practical research than she had initially anticipated; there were more places she needed to see, to experience, and not all of them were abandoned. Right now, she was training, working her way up to the top of Raccoon Hill, her Everest summit. She would get there soon, but first she needed to pay a visit to the hospital morgue. This excursion required careful planning, and she had thrown herself into the task over the past few days, figuring out what she needed to do, the exact role she needed to play to get away with this one. She was confident she would.

Tomorrow after school, Fern thought as she watched her crush continue to flail about on stage, it's showtime.

To be continued in another story…

End of The Haunted Love story.

If you think you might be struggling with grief or mental illness, please, reach out to someone. Even if you feel there is no one you can trust, there are many local resources available for those in need, run by people who are more than willing to listen. Find a helpline or support group near you. You are not alone.

A/N: Story #5 in A Different Point of View is coming soon. That's the plan, anyway. As always, updates and announcements can be found in my profile section. Take care of yourselves out there.