This ‘True Account’ project—mentioned in the screen-captured client comment above—has aspects of a ‘business crime’ story that also became personal. The author, a high-profile former senior executive (educated at two of the nation’s most prestigious universities), served in two presidential administrations.
Brought to me under a confidentiality agreement, as a rewriting, redevelopment, and writing improvement project for delivery to their publisher, I can share only a few details. In this true account, the author tells a ‘how it happened’ story and cautionary tale of the ruin of a highly decorated combat veteran and a General Officer’s post-military career. He served our country for 30+ years. It’s a tragedy and could have been prevented.
Good writers draw from their experiences to create stories that reach people and make an impact. This project is one in which my 17-year business career—including years of M&A consulting with attorneys, investment bankers, and private equity funds—(along with my 13 years of full-time writing and publishing) helped not only improve the author’s writing but reshaped this true account with authenticity (which readers want in creative and standard nonfiction). Together the author and I reworked their manuscript to compellingly tell the story in a way that readers would ‘feel’ what the characters were going through. And stories that engage readers at that level often leave a lasting impression.
Need help writing, rewriting, or improving your story? Contact us.
An excerpted draft scene from one of the branching stories in our Quondam Series (in development)
The homicide detective studied the woman. A fall of dark lavender-tinted hair covered the right forearm from elbow to hand. From elbow to shoulder, a bouquet of tattooed skulls grew from stems. Nice work, she thought. From what she could see, the rest of the body was untenanted… only the arm with its inert ink. Unlike the skin-rider she carried that twitched and spread tendrils. She tugged down the long sleeves that had crept past her wrists. Emotions stirred it, so she took three deep, steady breaths, and it withdrew further under the fabric.
“She was beautiful.” The medical examiner commented and half-turned toward her.
“Yeah, Bishop, too bad she’s dead.”
“You okay?”
She saw his eyes on the Java Joe’s cup in her hand. It trembled, and she willed herself to make it stop. And her tone had been too cold, even for someone with her reputation. That too she needed to rein in, but at risk. She tugged her sleeves down again and knelt beside the body. “Pictures taken?” The first crime-scene rule she’d learned was to touch nothing until the photographer had done their work and documented everything and its position relative to the body.
Squatting next to her, Bishop nodded. “Done.”
The dead woman’s head rested on sheet music and a keyboard. Someone had arranged her long hair and swept it back from her face. The flower over her left ear… maybe was already there. The open eyes were sea green. When she was alive, they had depth and probably changed shade with shifting sunlight. Now, they were shallows, as still as shoal water over coastal muck. Her face… smooth, unlined. Not a hint of a life lived badly… but one that seemed hardly lived at all. “She wanted to sin, but she was too shy.”
“What?” The medical examiner asked, puzzled.
The detective nodded at the woman on the floor. “It’s a line from a song…” She brushed a lock of her hair away from her face and rose from the body. “‘Changing Lights’ by Broken Bells. Well, you want to walk in white, you wanna sin, but you’re too shy… so the candle just keeps burning down on you….” she sang softly and rose from the body. You look innocent, the detective thought, staring down at the woman, lying there… blameless… but many dead bodies do.
“I don’t know if this is about sin, Poe… not yet anyway.” The M.E. stood, but not as smoothly as the detective. Two decades older, with stiff knees. Bishop knew not to call her Penelope, and God save my ass if I slip and call her ‘Bad Penny,’ he thought. Everyone, both in the department and on the street, had learned not to use that old epithet around her. To them—to her face—Penelope Olivia Edgar was ‘Poe.’ He had worked with her for two years since she made detective and still didn’t have a clue what went on inside her head. He’d known many cops over the years, but none like her. But she got results in her heavy-handed, ‘don’t suffer fools gladly’ way.
Poe nudged, with the pointed toe of her boot, the bulky pistol next to the body’s left hand. “Revolver.” She squatted again, rocked forward on her knees, palms flat, lowered her head, and sniffed like a bloodhound on the scent. “Fired recently.” Cocking her head and lowering it, she looked down the barrel. Fat, near the size of her thumb, dull gray lead-tipped bullets filled all but one opening in the cylinder. “One round gone….”
“Not in her, though.”
“No blood, no wound….” Poe glanced at Bishop.
“Nope.” The M.E. nodded.
She studied the scene, a mostly monochrome tableau. White and black keys. Black notes on white paper. Black ink on aged-ivory skin. For color, a flower in the woman’s lavender hair, nail polish, red marks on the sheet music, and a blotch of spilled wine spread like blood at her side. “Any identification?” Poe asked, her eyes going back to the body.
“Not a stitch of clothing around and nothing on her.” The medical examiner’s eyes panned the room. “Nothing in the rest of the apartment… the uniforms checked and Newman double-checked.”
“So only the tatts, a couple of piercings,” Poe pointed at the body’s left ear and nose, “a bracelet and ring.”
“Not much,” the M.E. stretched and stifled a yawn with his hand. “Well, I’m done here. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Bishop, what are you doing here anyway… this is Assistant M.E. hours? Where’s Lohfless?”
“Vacation; she’s back next week.” He gave the body a last glance as he left.
Poe waved over an officer, two new chevrons on his uniform sleeve, standing off to the side. “Newman, you the first on the scene?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Don’t give me that department protocol single-sex-uni-gender crap. Call me detective, Poe or ma’am… there’s nothing dangling tween my legs.” She walked to the balcony, pulled the drapes, and stepped out to a striking nightscape of the city’s arc, the areas that never slept freckled with lights. The moon’s reflection, a shimmering ghost on the bay water below. “Whose apartment is this?” She called back to the corporal, who joined her.
Newman didn’t check the notebook in his hand. “Had to do some digging….” The corporal’s eyes shifted back inside toward the apartment’s entry. “Shit,” he mumbled.
Poe’s eyes turned from watching the moon on the water at his muttered curse. “What?”
“The Chief just came in….”
Poe stepped from the balcony and back into the sitting room. “What’s he doing here… outside his ‘impressive’ office?”
Newman rubbed his bristly chin. “Turns out this is the governor’s sister’s apartment.”
“Shit….” The skin-crawl shivered up her back, crept over her shoulders, and then down her arms. Poe slowed her breathing, pulled at her sleeves, and followed the corporal inside. Sing-whispering to herself: “Sometimes you wonder if it’s all another mistake. Why not just walk away. Measure the cost, what’d you gain… what have you lost. The candle’s burning down on me….”
“It deserved more than just to remain as a passing–pleasing–memory of one night in Barcelona. It needed to be shown as a feeling… an experience.” —Dennis Lowery
I had met her with a group of other ladies near the Font Màgica de Montjuïc, celebrating a night off on a beautiful fall evening. They took turns posing for photos in front of the lighted waters jetting into the twilight sky as the globes of lampposts flickered like fireflies. The camera owner seemed younger than the others—early 20s, my age—more petite, not as full-fleshed. I offered to take a picture of them in front of the fountain. And that led to a conversation—my bad Spanish, their better English—and then an invitation to join them as they returned to their apartments for a party.
Marisol—the girl with the camera—was silent alongside me most of the thirty-minute walk and remained quiet as we entered the apartment complex and their party began. As we drank in the sitting area of their common room, her eyes were on me as much, or more, as mine were on her. Evening aged into night, and we found ourselves closer to each other. Two objects governed by a subtle sexual gravity and pulled into orbit. A certainty just as sure as the autumn moon—seen through the windows—circled our world.
She had a bottle of champagne in one hand as she rose from the black leather settee and beckoned with the other. I took it. Marisol’s grip was silk-soft yet firm. As I stood, she rubbed her thumb across the corded tendons prominent on the back of my hand and forearm. “Strong… yes?” she asked, releasing my hand to run hers across my shoulder and right arm. She stroked my hand again and lightly held it. A little tug toward the hallway. Gravity. I let it… and her… lead the way.
Though it also brought a chill into her room, the breeze through the window carried delicate night music. The whispering of fountains and a susurration of the evening street noises of Barcelona, with a full moon rising over the northern end of Las Ramblas… announcing the beginning of the weekend.
My senses heightened; the sound of the unsnapping was distinct. I turned from the window to sit next to her and watched long-nailed fingers work down the front of her shirt to reveal the inside arc of high-set, unexpectedly full breasts in black lace. A chiaroscuro effect from the lamp beside us, the room’s only light. As I watched, her flesh prickled… a stiffening tented the fabric as the curtains billowed next to the chaise lounge where we sat. The October winds.
I made a dry-throat swallow, the kind you make when anticipation has lined it with dust. I reached for the champagne. With gestures, Marisol asked me to remove the foil from the neck of the bottle before I opened it. “It’s rough on my tongue,” Marisol explained in broken English and Spanish I didn’t quite follow. I got the meaning, though I didn’t understand her comment.
She sat there—blouse open down to her smooth stomach—for a moment studying me, then took it off, letting the shirt slip from her hand to the floor as she lay back. Her fingers caressed the satin flesh above her jeans—for a heartbeat or two that seemed minutes long—then unbuttoned them to tug down the zipper. Aroused, my eyes explored the shadow within her undone—flared-open—pants. The center of the pull I’d felt growing all evening.
Marisol picked up her camera, toying with the settings as I fumbled with the bottle and, after a second’s difficulty, peeled the foil from it. I offered it to her, and she made a pulling gesture that became a stroking motion as her smile broadened, flashing bright, framed by scarlet lipstick.
As I worked the cork, she set her camera aside. With the gush of foamy white liquid, she hurriedly leaned forward to take it in. The quick burst swallowed; she slowly licked the neck of the bottle, lingering at the tip. And I understood her remark from a moment before. Her eyes never left mine, and laughing, she offered the bottle. She unhooked her bra, and I watched the silk slow-slide from her breasts to reveal dark tips responding to the chill. It went the way of her blouse. Marisol made a pouring gesture over her stomach, then tugged pants and panties off and reclined. I did as she asked. As I drank from her, the soft laughter turned to louder sighs that mixed with the sough of the night wind.
Later, sated, we moved to the balcony where wrapped in a blanket, I held her. We watched the moon fall from the sky while the statues danced near the fountains below. Soon she slept, and I listened to her and the breathing of one of the loveliest cities in the world.
I didn’t sleep during that perfect moment… on a perfect night, I didn’t want to end.
*Beta moves slower than *Alpha. She’s always at the edge of being on time… or just past. And I have certain rules for chores and when to be at the breakfast table on school days. When you aren’t on time without good reason—not an excuse—there are consequences.
We had one of those mornings Beta couldn’t get it in gear. She was late to the table. I addressed it and meted out the penalty. Minutes later, angry at getting in trouble for being late, Beta lashed out at Alpha over some trivial thing. [Understand that they are twins—Alpha’s five minutes older—and friction arises.] Alpha did not take that quietly, so the breakfast table became a volleying ground for harsh words.
Now, I understand getting pissed off… when I’m pushed too far and go off, it’s epic… and not always productive. I know this and work hard to not let that happen. I try to teach my girls how to deal with anger. So, I did this:
“You girls want to hear a story?” They know to look at me when I’m talking to them. It broke up the punch-counterpunch of comments flying back and forth. I asked again, “Do you want to hear a story?” Both heads nodded. I told them:
Once there were two monks on a pilgrimage [I explained to them what that meant], an older one who had been on several and a young monk on his first. One day they came to the edge of a river. It was turbulent and roiling, with several days of rain in the mountains feeding it. It would prove difficult, but not impossible, to cross; they were both powerful men. They heard crying. Nearby, under a willow tree, a woman sat weeping. In her hands was a small bag she clutched to her chest. She heard them and looked up.
“Please help me… I’m afraid to cross.” She gestured at the river and gripped her bag tighter. “But I must get home soon.”
The young monk turned his back on her. Their order was forbidden to speak to or touch women. But the older monk picked up the woman and, without a word, forged the river. He put her down on the other side. With thanks he didn’t respond to, she turned to the right-hand path and hurriedly went on her way. The older monk continued straight ahead, and the younger came after him. They walked in silence for another mile. After crossing the river, the young monk fumed (I defined that word for them) in anger. He berated the older monk: “How could you do that — the woman… you’ve broken your vows.” He continued talking to him that way for another mile. Finally, the older monk stopped and turned to him.
“I only carried her across the river. Are you still carrying her?”
I waited for a beat so they’d realize that was the end. Then asked, “Do you understand what he—the older monk—meant?” I saw the wheels turning behind their eyes as a minute passed. Alpha raised her hand [yes, they usually do that when they’re in a straightforward question-and-answer situation with me]. I nodded at her.
“The young monk needs to stop being angry.” She looked at Beta.
Beta still had an edgy look as I replied to Alpha, “That’s right. Sometimes we carry things too long… far past when we should put them down and move on without them.” I looked at Beta and said, “That’s something to think about,” and left it at that.
With things settled down, we finished breakfast, and soon they were off to school. I thought it another little teaching moment they hopefully took to heart.
Epilogue
The next day, Saturday morning, we had many chores to do. Beta and Alpha, angry at each other over something, had another incident. A minor one that could’ve grown larger. I gave Beta a stare, and she dropped the fight but was cold toward Alpha as they did their chores. About an hour later, when I was making some soon-to-be world-famous D’achos (Dad’s nachos) for them for lunch, Beta came up to me at the stove.
“Dad?”
“Yes, honey.”
She gestured for me to lean down so she could whisper something. “I put the woman down….” Beta had a smile on her face. A moment later, I heard her apologize to Alpha.
*About Alpha & Beta
I have four daughters. My oldest was born in October 1988 when I worked for others. My second-oldest was born 15 days after my resignation from my corporate job became effective on January 2, 1996. So, she’s seen my life as an entrepreneur and business owner from day one. Those early years in business were hard, as they often are, and I became like the father in ‘Cats in the Cradle’ (the Harry Chapin song). Always busy, too much to do and not enough time, eaten up with stress and worry about many things. Then, in 2008, I made some changes and pursued what I do today, writing and publishing. And that made a world of difference in having time for my family. The two youngest—unexpected twins I refer to as Alpha & Beta—have had more daily time with me as they grew up than their two older sisters. And much of it I’ve experienced through the ‘lens’ of a writer. So, our conversations and kitchen table discussions—several times—have turned into ‘stories.’
What if you could give someone you love one more hour of life? The passion of love bursting into flame is more powerful than death, stronger than the grave.
Some reader comments:
“Poetic justice. Love it.” –Vicki Tyley
“It was wonderful. Chilling and hauntingly beautiful… very Stephen King-esque. Right up my alley, being a huge Stephen King fan. I have goosebumps. Absolutely loved it.” –Bobbie Today
“Captivating.” –Mohammad Azam Khan
“Stephen King would be happy to put his name on this story! (I mean this as a compliment).” –Jyoti Dahiya
“You wrote a great story and I felt every word. Your ending, the SPOILER REMOVED was significant. Thanks so much for sharing your beautiful heart!” –Evy Hannes
“Wow, I enjoyed reading very much.” –Irene Kimmel
“Wonderful, Dennis. Very well written!!” –Sylvia Sotuyo
“Wow… what a great story. I loved it, Mr. Lowery. Loved it!” –Jo Ann Boomer
“Wow, I adore your writing! You pulled me in very quickly, and had me wanting more and more! Excellent story, I thank you for that amazing read. You are a very talented writer.” –Cristie Brewer
“Love it!” –Fay Handstock
“Brilliant, Your writing always leaves me wanting more! I too saved it to re-read later. Thank you.” –Rebecca Harden-Heick
“Oh, wow… Very powerful… I felt so much compassion for the couple. And the intrigue of the supernatural, really gets you thinking. An excellent story.” –Margie Casados
“Great story!” –Susan Gabriel
“Like your writing, it is so original and imaginative. It comes from somewhere deep inside. And you deliver your words of art so well.” –Renee M.
The Story
The Old Market
I had seen the old woman alone at the entrance when we went through earlier. We’d worked our way to the back of the outdoor market, then through all the side rows and offshoots. Peter was one step behind me, his arms draped with loops of full bags. He didn’t like to shop but had made it through a whole day—so far—without complaint. I guess thanks to it being our honeymoon. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. The packing I’d have to do this evening would suck, but today was our last day. Back to Chicago tomorrow and then on Monday, returning to the ordinary world and daily grind. This time as newlyweds in our own apartment.
Peter had been checking his watch—a subtle ‘can we leave soon’ message—for thirty minutes, so I headed back toward the only entrance and exit.
That morning, the woman had only one item, and I thought she waited for someone else or hadn’t unpacked more to set out. There was still only one thing before her: an old chalice-shaped candlestick with the stub of a candle in the middle of her table. The woman’s eyes did not wander. She sat so still, not trying to catch people’s eye or engage them in conversation to draw them to her table, as did the other vendors. It didn’t seem to matter if she sold the candlestick or not. I slowed as we approached her.
“Amanda, come on.….” Peter’s low mutter was the first sign of impatience as he caught up to where I stopped.
The woman studied me without expression. In her eyes, the deep wrinkles framing them were such a depth of sorrow that it caught my breath. The bustling noise of the surrounding people faded into quiet just for the woman and me.
“Hello,” I smiled. The old woman nodded without speaking. “Is this all you have for sale?”
“All I offer.”
I picked up the candlestick. Surprised at its heaviness; a rough, dull metal that might be a tarnished pewter. I rubbed my thumb over the dry surface of the candle stub and pieces flaked off. But its wick seemed new, never lit, and not brittle like the wax. I turned the candlestick upside-down and checked the base. Solid, but in the center was a rectangular compartment, a cover hinged on one side, with a tiny latch. I tried to free the fastener.
“That will only open for the owner,” the woman’s smile showed the glint of bright dentures far younger than she.
“What’s inside?”
“That’s for the possessor to discover.”
“Aren’t you the owner?”
“Why do you want to know what’s inside?” Those eyes fixed on me as she continued, “Do you like this candlestick?”
“Needs a good polishing,” the woman’s grin grew at my awkward haggling. “Too bad you don’t have another to make a pair.”
“That candle was used.” The smile was gone, and some emotion shadowed her eyes, darkening them more. Something flickered in them when she looked at the candlestick in my hand, then to my face, and on to Peter’s.
“You can buy another candle. What happened to the other candlestick?”
“It did what it was created for, and all I… all we asked,” she stood, “this is all I have left.”
I didn’t follow what she meant and thought, time to leave. With frequent glances at me, Peter had been looking at the contents of the next table over an assortment of hand-carved salt and pepper shakers. I’d put him through enough for today and started to set the candlestick down. Something in its heft rooted me, and without meaning to, my grip tightened. Peter still fidgeted, moving the shopping bags from hand to hand. He loved me, and I loved him more than anything. The certainty surged through me more than during our marriage ceremony. “How old is it?”
The woman shrugged. “My husband,” the softer melancholy came back and caught at her words, “bought the set many years ago from a woman who told him a story. Stories,” she shook her head, “were always his weakness. But it was also practical. When we were young, we often dined by candlelight as much to save money as because he was such a romantic man.”
The old woman stroked the wedding band on her gnarled hand as she spoke. Once upon a time, it must have been a better fit with the fullness and firmness of youth. With the finger shrunken with age, only a swollen arthritic knuckle kept the ring on her hand.
“How long have you been married?”
“He died suddenly,” she reached out and touched the candlestick I still held, “today is a week past. We were married for sixty-five years.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I glanced at Peter, who stood beside me with a tired smile and thought of our wedding just seven days before. For a moment, six heartbeats—I felt each one—I wondered about living with and loving him for sixty-five more years. Nothing would make me happier.
“We had a full life together… and even after.”
I didn’t follow the last part, but the woman smiled again. “Why do you want to sell such a sweet reminder of your husband?”
“He is still here,” she touched her head and her heart, leaving the hand over a now withered but once full bosom, “that’s all I need.”
“What about leaving it to your children?”
Grief dimmed her smile again. “We were not so fortunate… my daughter died at birth, and we could not have more.”
“I’m so sorry.” I set the candlestick down to open my purse, deciding a last honeymoon souvenir, this one, would be fitting.
The woman picked it up, “And this… I want to go to someone young.” Her eyes shifted from me to Peter, who stood there paying attention with bags now at his feet, “Young and in love.”
Peter had his wallet in his hand, “How much?”
“Nothing.” Cradling the candlestick in her hands, the old woman passed it to me, but her smile was for Peter.
“I have to pay you something,” I insisted.
“No,” and a sternness came into her eyes that didn’t harden the smile on her lips, “you don’t. A gift to you.”
“Thank you,” was all I could say. The old woman’s expression brushed my heart. I knew it was a grandmother-not-to-be’s tenderness for a granddaughter she never had. I handed the candlestick to Peter as the woman folded the cloth on her table.
Seeing Peter inspect the cover and latch at the base of the candle, she said, “It will open for you when love and the need are the strongest,” her eyes glistened, “as its mate did for me.” As she turned to put the folded tablecloth in a large bag on the ground beside her chair, she whispered, “And so I had him, my love, for one more hour… to say our goodbyes.”
Peter had gathered our things, putting the candlestick in one of the canvas bags. Before the woman turned away, I leaned across the empty table and touched her arm at the elbow. She glanced at me, and I asked, “You say you bought this when you were married?”
“Yes,” and with a last look into my eyes, she turned away, “on our honeymoon.” She walked into the crowd and was soon out of sight.
Chicago…
Bags were everywhere. Amanda had unpacked their clothes and luggage over the weekend, but the things they had bought were still in boxes and store bags. The one thing that had come out of the bags was the candlestick. She hadn’t even thought about the old woman in the hustle of flying back home and seeing family. But her candlestick was on the mantle over one of those artificial meant-to-look-like-the-real-thing fireplaces.
Amanda turned to Peter, who had, unlike her, had the day off, “That’s all you unpacked?”
“The only thing I was sure of where you’d want it to go.” He walked over to the window and studied the street three floors below. “I still don’t like this area.”
“I’ll be fine.” Before they took the lease, she had seen the high crime rate trending down. Still, Peter had concerns. But this location was the closest compromise of affordability and nearness to the metro and their work.
Peter turned from the window. “As soon as I can finagle a change, I’ll get off the night shift.”
But they both knew they needed the higher pay. At least until they paid off bills, which would take longer, she contemplated the bags of things they had bought on their honeymoon.
Months later…
The woman with the long legs caught the young man’s eye. She rode the subway with style, graceful like an old Hollywood movie star among everyday people. He scratched at the coarse growth of hair that covered his cheeks and throat in patches and elbowed his friend, who lifted his eyes from his phone. He cocked his head toward the woman just down from them. “Check her out… legs in the blue dress.”
Amanda was wearing the pearls Peter had given her even though she had promised never to wear them without him with her. But it was a short week and a half-day Thursday for Tom, the senior partner’s office birthday party. She was so happy and wanted to finally show them to Sue, her best friend at the office. Besides, she was headed home in the mid-afternoon. No one would bother her in broad daylight.
The two men followed her when she got off.
With the coming three-day weekend—the first long weekend since their honeymoon four months ago—on her mind, Amanda neglected to scan the area as Peter had told her to do when going to and from the station. She entered their building, bypassed the elevator, and headed for the stairs. It’s great for the legs, Amanda thought. Feeling that good burn in her calves as she went up the steps, she did not hear the rustling sound of the two men moving almost as fast to catch up. They did. Right as she opened the door to the apartment.
* * *
Peter was excited, not just because he was off—no work tonight—a pleasant surprise when he’d shown up for his shift. The promotion he hadn’t told Amanda about had come through. Starting Monday, no more night shifts and a 20% raise. Hallelujah… they’d have breathing room and could save money toward buying a proper house with a yard. Everything they’d hoped for and dreamed. He loped up the stairs to the third floor. Their apartment was just across from the landing. Keys in hand, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
* * *
“We got time,” the scraggly bearded man said, “They ain’t going to complain,” he glanced down at the dead woman and dying man. “Bitch,” rubbing his shoulder, he kicked the candlestick gripped in the woman’s hand, but it didn’t loosen. The two men split and pocketed the man and woman’s cash. The pearls were smeared with blood. He walked to the kitchen sink to wash them and didn’t see the dying man stir. Hearing a clatter, he stepped into the hallway to call out to his partner, rummaging through the apartment, “Hey, you wanna be quieter… you find anything else?”
* * *
Peter heard them, one in the kitchen and the other in the bedroom, and tasted bitter blood. He hadn’t been there to save Amanda, a worse bitterness. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t breathing. The pool of blood had expanded from under her body from where he lay. His own grew to touch hers.
God, how I love you was all Peter could think as his vision flickered. His head lay next to the fireplace. Amanda’s right hand held the candlestick she had grabbed from the mantle. Staring at the bottom of the base, he remembered the old woman’s words: ‘It will open for you when love and the need are the strongest.’
Not sure what he was doing or why… it took what strength he had left to pull himself toward Amanda. He couldn’t free the candlestick from her hand but could lift it to see the latch. It opened. Inside was a rolled-up piece of paper. Not paper… parchment. He slid it out to read the writing.
Time within the candle wax you hold now in your hand. Sixty minutes in the molten drops like hourglass grains of sand. The wick, when kindled for one you love gives life for that single span. Not enough to live your dreams but enough for a moment planned. Light it with your heart’s last flame to bring back at your command, a loved one from what was death. Now filled with life’s fire fanned.
The matches from the mantle were on the floor, too. Everything was slipping away as he fumbled with the box. Getting one out, the first wouldn’t strike and snapped. A black veil came down as he got another and struck the match. He held the flame to the wick. Dropping the burnt match, he held Amanda’s hand in his left as his right wrote on the tile.
* * *
“What’s the blob wrapped around her hand?”
“Metal melted around the fist, but it didn’t burn her.” The medical examiner stood, “She matches the identification upstairs for Amanda Mickson.”
“What’s her body doing on the street with this mook?” The homicide detective nudged with his foot the body of what had been a scruffy-faced man. “While her husband’s body is upstairs, his throat half slashed open, and another man dead in the bedroom with his head bashed like this guy?” He toe’d the body again.
“Now, here’s the thing,” the examiner removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Where’s the blood?”
“What you mean, where’s the blood? There’s blood all over that guy?” He kneeled and pointed at the mook.
“That’s his blood… I’m saying Amanda Mickson’s. Her jugular was cut. I checked, and she’s bone dry.”
“What?” He checked his wristwatch, “Been a long fuckin’ day; what are you saying?”
“I’m saying Amanda Mickson is down here and did this guy in, busted his head open. But all her blood is upstairs. No way she comes down all this way, chasing this guy, catches and kills him.”
The detective shrugged, “Don’t know, but I think the two fuckers deserved what they got.” He had seen upstairs on the floor. Someone had written, had to be Peter Mickson, in blood: ‘Read the note from the candle. I love you, Amanda…’ and surrounded with a heart.
“I think she was dead before her husband. But I won’t know for sure until I get them on the table,” the ME said. He shook his head, unsure what to think or how he would write this up; he beckoned for the waiting men to bag her. “Why would he leave a message for his dead wife?”
“Don’t know… but seems she didn’t wait for no judge and jury,” the detective grunted as he stood. “Let’s go upstairs; I want to see the note again.”
The medical examiner turned to him, “I read that and it made me think of something. You recall your Bible?” At the detective’s puzzled expression, the ME shook his head and continued, “A line from the Old Testament in the Song of Solomon:
When you develop a story, you create additional assets that can be leveraged differently. Scenes can become illustrations or artwork that support the story. Locations can become settings and maps that help engage the reader. It’s not always possible to get them into the original publication. Still, you can use them to supplement the story(ies), which aids in discoverability and in attracting new readers.
We break down stories to identify those sometimes unseen—yet valuable—opportunities to leverage and enhance story value.
“Character-driven and atmospheric adult fiction that blends history and legend with the tension and intricacies of contemporary society. Strong, compelling, and complex characters. Thoughtful, evocative, and page-turning; a story well-told.”
“Why is it believed broken things are tamed possessions?” –Rebecca K. O’Connor, One More Winter
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; anarchy is loosed upon the world. The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” — William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming
Sometimes you must descend before you can climb. You must fall… before you can rise.
Valencia Margolis—an art historian—lives with a quiet form of Borderline Personality Disorder. Life’s not been easy for her.
It gets worse…
Val’s ‘best’ friend—her only friend—is killed.
It gets worse…
Her ‘mother’ dies, and Val finds she’s been lied to since birth.
It gets worse…
Val fears she’s become a suspect in her friend’s murder.
Then it gets… strange.
Val receives a package at work containing three items: A smartphone she’s never heard of (a Sirin Labs Finney U1), an American Express [Black] Centurion Card, and a passport with a two-year-old photo of her but a different name.
The next day—early pre-dawn—the phone buzzes. Fumbling for it, not hers… without glasses, Val tries to read the blurry text message; it says:
‘They will take you today.’
The phone rings, and Val answers. A distinct contralto voice tells her: “They’ll arrest you… today.”
Head fogged by having just fallen asleep—late in coming because of apprehension at being questioned twice by the police—Val asks, “Who is this?”
The only reply… the other person’s breathing.
“How do you know?” Val asks but hears only the murmur of breath. “Why should I believe you?”
The susurration stops: “You must.” A sibilant sigh…. “I can tell you about your mother… your real mother… and the inheritance.”
“What?”
“Use the passport I sent you… come to Amsterdam. Bring with you anything Sharon Margolis gave or left you.”
“What? How do you know my mothe– … how do you know her? Amsterdam!” Val’s mind races. “Why?
“You must run… or you will die. I’ll tell you ‘how’ and more ‘why’ when you are here.” The voice rose, sharpened. “Come to Amsterdam. I will know when you arrive and send you instructions….”
Silence; no breathing.
Disbelieving and trying to shake off the enigmatic call, Val calls in sick to work three hours later. To learn the police are there, looking for her.
Val runs….
* * *
In Amsterdam, Val begins to discover the truth about her family. How her real father and twin sister died, and about her mother. Val learns she unwittingly holds the key to finding a cache of art lost for centuries and worth millions.
That key also reveals clues that lead to the location of secret documents from World War Two. Evidence that could destroy a corrupt global business empire and a burgeoning political dynasty that covertly spans and influences nations. That’s who murdered her father and sister and almost killed her mother. It’s who has ruined her life—such as it was—and now will kill her to keep their secrets.
To save herself, she must decipher the clues to find the secret documents and the treasure hidden by her ancestor.
HARKEN introduces Valencia Margolis, who learns she’s the daughter of a slain Centro Superior de Información de la Defensa (now Centro Nacional de Inteligencia) officer for the Spanish intelligence service. It begins her transformative journey of retribution and discovery of her identity, her true family, a hidden treasure, and the deadly secrets that could ruin a powerful global organization if revealed.
Contact us if you’d like to receive notice of HARKEN episodes as they are released.
The story arc is in further development for plotting and outlining to continue the series.
“I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.” —Charlotte Brontë
It had been a golden city for two centuries. A town of prominence longer still that had welcomed newcomers, fleeing monarchs and despots, those seeking liberty… the tired, the poor… all looking for a second chance or a new beginning.
But as with anything or anyone over time, age, erosion, and weathering have an effect. There is a cycle of rise and fall in all things. In this city, the affluent rose to find and secure the figurative—and often literal—high ground. Paying scant attention to the fallen or those below outside their still-glittering domain of the well-favored and fortunate. Parts of the city became more tarnish than gilt, and there dwelled those either left behind or passed over as the town grew outward and upward. This, then—within that great city—is where colors and life are muted, subdued. The setting where two people meet and find a future not bound by their past or present.
DECEMBER 14TH
Olivia swallowed the last of her coffee with a grimace. Not because of the taste, which was rich, savory, and perfect for the caffeine-addicted. Her conscience—and maybe it was why she kept failing—spoiled the brew. She looked around. The thin old man with the threadbare, red turtleneck sweater was in his usual place, the corner table closest to the alley door. Brutishly freezing outside, yet he was still coatless. Despite the bloom of color on his cheeks and the red of his nose, he never seemed cold. At least not in the fourteen mornings she had seen him in that same spot.
Passing from the old man, scanning the dated but gleaming diner with its walls lined with dust-free framed photos of people and eras gone by, her eyes stopped at the front. Behind the cash register stood a man about her age, the owner, Henry. Fourteen straight mornings led to first names and learning a bit about each other. And he, more than any of the others on the block, was vital for her to talk to. Yet with this man, she could not tell him the real reason. Something behind his eyes shadowed his smile and made her hesitate. With only 17 days left, she would likely be fired if she didn’t get him signed and delivered. Change that; she would be fired.
So Henry, now coming around the counter and toward her, was why she frowned. He had her check in one large hand; though they were unseen, she knew what he held in the other. She glanced at the old man. One long, gnarled finger now stroked the side of his nose. Though facing her direction, his eyes were focused somewhere else. She shook her head. All types lived in the city, and the oldest areas were often home to the oddest.
Henry set the check and the two thick foil-wrapped squares on the table. The third morning, she had asked him, “Why two?” He had smiled at her and replied, “It’s not right to eat just one—I mean,” and his grin widened, showing slightly crooked but strong-looking teeth, “Chocolate, right?”
Placing cash for her bill and a good tip on the table, she stood and didn’t notice her phone had slipped from the pocket of the jacket on the seat beside her. “Next time, only one chocolate, okay?” Olivia put both hands on hips widened once she turned 40. “Do I look like I need two?”
Henry’s grin grew. “You look fine.”
Her cheeks warmed. Since her messy divorce, compliments had been far and few between and often proved an insincere prelude to asking for a favor. A half-smile and an awkward nod of thanks were all she could summon for Henry. Why was it so hard for her to talk with him? She cursed, pulled her jacket on, and walked to the door.
About to open and step out, behind her came the distinct opening of the song of her ringtone, “White bird in a golden cage…” sang from her phone. She turned, and as Henry was about to hand it to her, the phone warbled again. His eyes went to the caller ID.
“Trumaga Properties,” he said, “you work for them?” His smile disappeared.
The wind rattled the closed door behind her. In the corner of an eye, she witnessed a splatter of sleet now slanting down from the leaden sky as it struck the window.
“Olivia?” The edge to it—not the soft voice she had become used to from Henry—made her blink and meet his eyes. “I know what they’ve done—they’re doing—in the city’s older neighborhoods.” His eyes had narrowed, pulling the lines on his face taut. “Are you working for them?”
“They’re putting cash in people’s pockets, money most of them need.”
He shook his head, two sharp back-and-forth movements that showed the tendons she’d not noticed before in his neck. “They make lowball offers the owners accept only because of pressure and Daniel Trumaga’s scare tactics.”
“I’m not their employee,” it sounded lame even as the words passed her lips. The corners of his mouth turned down—she’d only seen that when it seemed he thought no one was watching him—with a sour expression. “I’m not…” she said again.
“But you work for them,” he wasn’t questioning.
“Henry, let me talk–”
“No,” he turned and walked away, not looking back.
Her phone sang again. Pressing the red DECLINE icon and pulling her jacket tighter around her, she slipped it into her pocket. She stepped out into the wind-driven icy slush.
Even in good weather, getting a taxi in the older parts of the city was hard. Ten blocks later, sleet firming into ice on her shoulders, her hand shook as she took three tries to unlock the door to her office. The faded lettering on the glass on the door still read Olivia Buonanotta | Divorce and Family Law.
After her divorce—its ugliness—and the disintegration of her practice and finances, she had tried on her own. And failed. The clients, often bitter and angry husbands and wives with children torn and tossed about, were too much… too personal, and she had no stomach for it. She had gone back to something abandoned two decades before. Real estate. Only to be trapped… again.
The phone buzzed in her pocket as she walked and shivered. Olivia hung her dripping jacket on a coat hook and took it out. Tapping the log for recent calls, she touched to dial the last number, the only one to call her in a month. He picked up on the first ring.
“Has he signed?” Daniel Trumaga demanded.
“No, but–”
“Listen, I hired you because we go way back.”
He wouldn’t say it to her face, but he had strewn about the words—glittery sharp broken mirror shards—cutting her down in conversations with others. She owed him, he told them all. Yet he had still helped an old friend. Old, yes… friends, not so much. She was just someone he could manipulate who needed the job. It was incredible how openings and offers had dried up with her added pounds and extra years.
“You got the people over on Lenix to sign. You can do this… the old Olivia would have by now.”
It was clear he tacitly meant the younger Olivia. She shook her head with the phone still held to her ear, thinking, this Olivia is tired and doesn’t want to exploit people to serve someone’s selfish agenda. “I’m working on it.”
“Time’s running out. Get it done.”
She was old enough to remember phone calls gone wrong, ending when someone slammed it down. It wasn’t as harsh with cell phones, but the silence was just as final. There was no more time. Henry’s location was the last prime corner spot. Get him locked in, and she could—would—walk away after this deal.
Yet something about the diner and Henry stopped her before even trying. Maybe because she’d fail with him. Olivia hadn’t with the others, but some of their expressions, when they realized they had settled for less or had been scared into a wrong decision, had been hard to take. She didn’t think Henry would be like those people or ever put himself in the position. But she had to convince him somehow.
The phone pinged, a calendar reminder she had twelve hours until the Trumaga Christmas Ball. Since Daniel had invited her, she would have to make an appearance.
By 6:30 PM, Olivia was showered, powdered, made-up, and Spanx’d into a long-sleeved evening gown she hoped made her appear slimmer but probably didn’t. I’m at the point I don’t care, she thought with a shallow sigh. The Spanx really held her in. Thirty minutes later, her taxi arrived. Ten minutes more, they were coming up on Essex, and she leaned forward. “Turn right here and take me to the corner at Washburn.” She saw the driver’s eyes on her in the rearview mirror as he nodded.
A minute later, “Right here, lady?” he pulled over to the sidewalk opposite the diner and turned to her. The sun had set, and the gray twilight clouds poured a light rain, likely to turn to snow.
“Yes, give me a minute.” The lights were on in the diner, and movement behind the fogged glass: a slender smear of red at a table on the right side. Deciding, she asked the driver, “How much?”
“To drop you here?”
She opened her purse. “Yes.” He told her. She paid and stepped onto the slippery sidewalk with a thin layer of ice forming. Not a car in sight, she jaywalked across Essex. The small bell above the door jangled as she went inside. Surprised to see the red she’d seen behind the glass front of the diner had been the old man she’d seen every morning for the past two weeks. He had scrutinized her all the way in from the cab.
Henry was behind the counter, arranging a pyramid of white porcelain handless coffee mugs. He looked up, and the smile that always played on his lips when he faced people straightened into a tight line. “This is different… and a surprise.” But as he would for any customer, he came around the counter with a menu and order pad to meet her at the table she sat at each morning. “Kind of dressed up to eat at a diner like mine.” He set the menu on the table in front of her. “Coffee, tea… lemonade or a soft drink?”
“Coffee, please.”
On his way to the urn, he snagged the top mug from the stack. Filling a carafe, he brought it and the cup to her. Knowing she took it black, he poured, left the carafe, and turned to go.
“Henry.”
He paused but didn’t turn back to her.
She continued, “Will you sit for a minute and let me explain?”
He walked to the counter without speaking, hesitated a moment, grabbed another mug, and returned to Olivia. He slid into the seat opposite her, reached for the carafe, and filled his cup. Silently, he studied her face.
She nodded at the old man across the diner. “Does he sleep here, too?”
Some of the smile—a rueful one—returned. “Mr. Kerstman’s interesting.” Henry set his mug down and scratched his right eyebrow. “Last year, early in the first week of December, he came in one morning. Said nothing and waited for a couple to get up from that table,” he cocked his thumb in its direction, “and sat down. My grandfather and father had died not long before, and I kept this place open until I decided what to do.” He swept his left hand, covering from the front door to the kitchen. “I didn’t know anyone who might be regular customers, but he seemed like one. When I went to take his order, he asked me, ‘Where is Hank… or Thomas?’ My grandfather and father. I told him they had passed away, and he bowed his head for a moment, then glanced up at me. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. But folks like them, their spirit goes on… alive in the places they loved and in the hearts of those who loved them in return.’”
“So, he knew your father and grandfather?”
“Yes. And every day that December, for three weeks, he would come in and sit at the table. He only ordered hot tea and chicken and dumplings, my grandfather’s recipe. From morning until evening, he would sit and watch people. My grandpa and dad always opened on Christmas day for those who didn’t have a family to share it with. I kept that going and realized Mr. Kerstman hadn’t come in and had left early the evening before. I didn’t see him again until two weeks ago. He gave me a dozen bags of chocolates, the ones I’ve been handing out.”
“He sits here all day?”
“I don’t think he has anywhere to go or any place to be,” Henry said. “He’s watching us now.”
Turning her head, Olivia peeked and saw the old man studying them, dark eyes twinkling with the different colored Christmas lights decorating the inside of the diner. “Where does he go at night?”
“I don’t know. But not long after sundown, he’ll,” Henry paused, “there he goes….” The old man walked to the door, stopped, turned to them with a nod and wink, and stepped out into the night. After draining his cup, Henry set it on the table with a clink. “What are you doing here, Olivia?” He shook his head. “I mean, not right now, but coming in every morning. Why?”
She tried to take a deep breath—damn the Spanx—and managed most of one. “Trumaga Properties is my client.”
“You’re a broker… a lawyer… or what?”
“Attorney. I’m working with them on their plan to buy and redevelop older properties in the city, their gentrification project. It means–”
He cut her off, “I understand the meaning,” and glared at her. “They manipulate conditions, twist perceptions, and don’t pay fair market value. You’re,” he stopped, then continued, “they’re screwing people.” He paused at her expression. “Don’t be so surprised. I’m smarter than I look,” his smile came back near full, “which is why I’m not interested in what you—they—offer.” He looked around him. “Since that day last December, when Mr. Kerstman told me about loved ones, places, and people they loved, I’ve had a lot to consider. This diner dates back to my great-grandfather, so been in my family for a long time. My grandpa and dad loved this place, and I believe it loved them back. At first, I didn’t sense it… but now… I can almost feel it every day. And,” he leaned across the table toward Olivia. “I think it cares for me, too. If I give it a chance.” He sat back, and even only the half-genuine smile lit his face like when they flicked the switch on the tree at Rockefeller Center. “I could never sell it.” The smile wavered and faded.
She saw his change; a cloud scudded across his face and darkened his bright eyes. An inward turning away as a veil came down to hide what no one wanted to reveal. Raw pain. Every lousy sensation Olivia had experienced since starting with Daniel Trumaga—spasms of distaste at an ego-driven client’s insecure shallowness and narcissistic selfishness—flooded her. She realized her professional life was nothing but moving money—during people’s most difficult circumstances—from someone’s pocket to another’s while taking a piece for herself. The moment of self-realization left her feeling soiled and sold out. Stained. Emptied.
Henry had watched the play of emotions on her face and nodded. “I’ve learned you must accept when your heart tells you where you shouldn’t be. But must act to find where you should be. It takes time to figure out,” he paused, “and it’s hard to do… to move forward.”
This time, the breath came and went in full—no restraint—and she knew he had shared something personal and understood what he meant.
“So, are you headed somewhere,” Henry hesitated, “or can I take your coat?”
Startled from her thoughts, she looked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I mean… you look nice,” he bobbed his head as if embarrassed but met her gaze, “pretty. You have somewhere to be tonight?”
“Oh,” backtracking to consider his compliment made her hesitate, “yes.” Then she contemplated spending an evening with stuffed shirts yet empty suits, listening to their self-important gossip and talk without substance or meaning. She couldn’t face them and pretend. “No,” she decided, “now I realize… I have nowhere to go. Except home.” She didn’t relish that either.
Henry was quiet for a moment, walked to the door, and flipped the sign to CLOSED. “Can you wait here? Give me about ten or fifteen minutes?”
She nodded, wondering what he meant. “Okay, but–”
“Please wait.” He turned and hurried to the back of the diner and into the kitchen.
Ten minutes by yourself—even when you’re used to being alone—shouldn’t seem so long. But Olivia knew time and events played out in her head were magnified; the highs higher and lows lower. Heightened by the surrounding stillness, the muffled steps above coming downstairs were more distinct as they crossed the tiled kitchen.
The diner’s lights dimmed, and a song she recognized—the instrumental part—played. She studied the old jukebox in the corner, thinking it had somehow come to life, but the glass and colored plastic remained dark. She recalled Henry mentioning he hoped to have it repaired one day.
With the lights dimmed, she could see through the diner’s large window. The falling snow came down in clusters accompanied by single flakes glistening as they floated through the arc of light from the lampposts. Patches of color danced on the glass as she shifted her view. The angle caught the inside reflection of the reds, blues, and greens of the lights on the Christmas tree to her right.
“Beautiful,” she murmured.
“Not as lovely as you.”
Olivia turned and almost didn’t recognize him. The black suit complemented his middle-aged Sean Connery-like appearance. White shirt with French cuffs just the right length from the ends of the sleeves with a twinkle of silver cufflinks. The knotted black tie’s sheen—must have been silk—caught darts of color from the lights.
Henry said nothing as he moved four middle tables to create an open area in the diner’s center. His eyes never left hers as he approached, bowed, and held out a hand. With just a tremble, she accepted, and he led her to the space. He took his cell phone out and pressed a button. The song started over, and the phone slid back into his pocket.
“What Child Is This is my favorite Christmas song.” She smiled and, though surprised, didn’t flinch as his arm went around her waist.
Henry grinned as he moved them into the first steps. “This is Greensleeves, and it has its origins in the late 16th century. What Child Is This uses it as the melody but wasn’t written until 1865.”
It was as if seeing him for the first time. “How…”
“Does a simple diner owner know?” Henry turned her and brought her effortlessly back to him. “You told me once you had planned to major in art in college but hadn’t.” He held her for a second, smiling. “Do you ever wish you had?” She felt her expression shift and saw him react. Regret was something he understood. “I wanted to major in history in college… or music.” Henry sighed, “But I ended up in accounting… and now run a diner.”
The song seemed to last much longer than any version she knew. Olivia had not danced—not like this—in ages. His touch was light but in control, guiding her without seeming to. “I checked the song,” he whispered as he again pulled her close and held her for a breath.
“What song?” she asked him in the next turn.
“The one on your phone…” he paused for a moment as if chagrined, “I had never heard it before.”
“White Bird?” she asked as he rolled her along the uncurling of his arm to extended fingertips and back in.
He nodded.
“It was my mother’s favorite.”
He shook his head, “I’m sorry about that.”
The words jarred her. She missed a beat and a step. “Why do you say that?”
“I searched YouTube, listened to it again, and read the lyrics. She must’ve been sad, your mother, I mean.”
She stopped. “You know nothing about her.”
“The song tells a story about longing to be free and wanting a better life.”
She dropped his hand. Feeling the long-buried hurt of watching her mother grow old before her time. A life wasted. Stung by the memory, she replied, “You mean something better… like owning a diner?”
His expression now matched hers. “You say that as if it’s a lesser thing to avoid.”
“That’s not what—” she stopped, even though it was what she meant but regretted saying.
“I guess it’s better to be a lawyer?”
Heavens… she didn’t mean that. “No, let me—”
The lines deepened on his face. “Or the owner of a company preying on people who’ve not had much in life. Nothing but the ground under them. And now, when they find out the value,” he stepped back from her, “the predators send people like you to mislead people into selling their property for less than it’s worth or worse, losing it through some contrived legal action.”
“Henry…” They faced each other in the diner’s center, his arms now at his side. She already missed the touch of them: one cradling her waist, the other… his hand in hers with fingers twined. His face was resolute, and though she met his look, Olivia couldn’t tell him what she had started to, so she told him the truth. “The first morning, I came to talk about what my clients wanted to offer you. But I saw how you talk to people, carry yourself without pretension, and enjoy seeing your customers and them interacting with you. Every morning, I watched and listened. You’re…” she gestured around the diner, “this place is… different.”
“What are we doing, Olivia? Why did you come here tonight? I will not sell to your client.”
“Henry, he’s just a businessman.”
“With a rich daddy who built their fortune on payoffs, legal trickery, forced evictions, and foreclosures and now wants to turn an overlooked real estate area to his profit. I’ve nothing against making money, but not if it means screwing people to add to your margins. I’ve heard your client talk and seen his ambition for power beyond business. He’s a sociopathic spider spinning his web from the outside in.” Henry shook his head, “Trapping people who have no way out.”
“I didn’t come here tonight for him… I…,” Olivia hesitated, and the silence grew heavy.
“You what?”
She felt the weight of wrong choices, of wrong people, wrong decisions made… in her life. Was this another one? Olivia didn’t think so. “I came for myself. Why did you ask me to wait? Why the dance?”
Henry stepped toward her as she turned away, unable to stay, afraid of any reply he might offer. She opened the door, not looking back at him. A gust caught and pulled it from her hand. Leaving it open, and without a glance in the window as she passed, she walked north on Essex and into the wind.
Inside, watching her until she was out of sight, Henry spoke as if she hadn’t left. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings and asked you to stay… for me.” The last two words hung in the air as he closed the door, locked it, and switched off all the lights.
DECEMBER 21ST
It was the lull when the last of the late-breakfast dawdlers had gone, and the early lunchers had not arrived.
“You worry about her.”
The truth of the matter-of-fact statement didn’t startle him; who said it did. “Mr. Kerstman,” Henry turned toward him, “did you say something?”
“I’m not a Sphinx,” he chuckled.
“Almost.” Henry thought him as enigmatic as that ancient object in the Egyptian desert. The diner was empty except for them. He pulled the red kitchen towel off his shoulder, wiped his hands, slid a chair out, and sat down. “Who is it you think I’m worried about?” The knowing smile rankled Henry.
“The moments when that bell rings,” Mr. Kerstman cocked his left-hand thumb at the front door. “I love that sound. And you look up; your eyes go over there.” His hand rotated, the thumb now pointed across the diner. “When it’s not her, your eyes fall.”
“I scarcely know her,” which was true, “and don’t think about her,” which was not.
“People are an important part of my business. What they long for or desire… their wishes and wants.” Kerstman rubbed his face where gray-white bristles, though still short, shaped the form of what could become a full beard. “Your father told me a few years ago about the accident and about your loss. He wondered if you’d ever recover and worried you’d never be happy again.”
Henry gave the old man a stern look, not sidetracking to wonder what business Kerstman might be in. “I’m surprised my dad told that to a—”
“Stranger?” Mr. Kerstman interrupted him and chuckled again; its deep resonance was odd, coming from such a skinny man. “I’ve known your father for a long time and your grandfather even longer. And this place,” he tapped the table’s top with the knuckles of his right hand, “well, seems I’ve always known it.” He now had a distant look in his eyes.
“You mean, you knew them.” Henry thought not for the first time that Kerstman was not always quite in the present. “They’re gone.”
“Oh, I still know them… especially this time of year.” His sigh was of a content man, confident in the truth of what he’d said. “And they’re still here.” The lights now shone with dusk coming to darken the diner’s interior. They glimmered in Kerstman’s eyes as his gaze shifted back to Henry. “They’re also with your wife, son, and daughter. Love binds them; your family is still together.”
Henry sensed Kerstman was talking about something more—somewhere other—than just the diner. “I can still hear them, and sometimes a song or sound triggers a memory, and they’re so close I feel them. That fades, and it’s like I lost them all over again.”
“But you fight to hold on to their memory, even though it hurts. Anything that might fill the void is like you’re cheating on them. You fight that, too.”
“Yes,” Henry’s head snapped up, “I can never replace them.”
A knotted hand reached out, and Mr. Kerstman’s firm grip clasped his arm. “No, you won’t do that… and shouldn’t. No one expects you to.” With a last stronger squeeze, the hand withdrew. “You seem almost happy—those who don’t know better believe you are—but you’re still hurting, missing your family. And it worries you that you’re attracted to someone for the first time since your wife died.”
“I hardly know Olivia.”
“But there’s something about her, isn’t there?”
“I tried to show her the other night… I thought she felt it, too, but I was mistaken. It’s wrong of me; she works for a man I can’t stomach.”
“Henry, I can tell good from bad, and she’s not like him, her employer. She’s just not found the right circumstances… or person.” Kerstman paused, “And you lost yours… but five years is enough to mourn.” He put his long-fingered hands flat on the table. “You both need to shake free from what’s making your life less than it could be.”
“I have to get back to work.” Henry rose but didn’t move from the table and shook his head. “She’s not coming back; it’s been a week.”
Mr. Kerstman’s index finger of his right hand stroked the side of his nose as he studied him. “Then you should find her. Don’t come up with excuses not to. All you should focus on is how you feel when you see her. It’ll guide you.”
Outside, the lamppost lights came on. Dark had fallen fast, as it always did with the winter solstice. He turned toward the kitchen and neared it when Mr. Kerstman’s deep—pitched, sharp, penetrating voice stopped him.
“Happiness isn’t a one-shot, onetime deal, Henry. We all have multiple opportunities to determine—to find—what or who makes us happy. This is the season to give and receive. You should give yourself—and her—a chance; maybe she’s the right one for you and you for her.”
Henry heard the jangle of the front doorbell, and then all was quiet. Everywhere but inside his head.
CHRISTMAS EVE (DAY)
The weather had worsened, and the temperature had dropped to levels not touched in a century. With the storms rise, power faltered, and outages spread.
“Try not to step on these,” Henry warned Mr. Kerstman. The thick orange electrical lines ran through the alley door left cracked to the generator outside. They led to a rectangular box with a dozen outlets inside the door near the table where he customarily sat. Several filled with plugs, their smaller cords snaking off to a large electric heater and into the kitchen, where a table-top electric grill, griddle, and microwave were powered.
“Some rig you got set up,” Kerstman said. “How long will it run?”
“The generator’s got enough fuel for two days. Hope they have power back on by then,” Henry replied. “The news people are calling this The Dark Christmas.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
For the first time, Henry heard anger in Mr. Kerstman’s voice. “Me neither,” Henry looked around. Several people in the diner huddled around the heater. As soon as the shelter opened with its more powerful generator and better facilities, they would move there until the power returned.
“Your grandfather ever tell you much about this place?”
Henry shifted in his chair to face him. This talkative, Mr. Kerstman, was a novel experience. “Not really, just his father opened it in 1917.”
“That’s true, but he took over in 1917 from his cousins, who had owned and operated it as a coffeehouse for nearly a century. Henry Livingston—your cousin on your great-grandmother’s side and his financial backer, Clement Moore, opened it in 1822. Henry, your cousin—which, down the years, is where your name came from—and Clement had a falling out about a year later. Over something Henry had written based on Dutch folklore and his chance meeting with a ‘mysterious’ old man.” Kerstman chuckled, then continued, “He had published it anonymously as a Christmas story for children, but somehow Clement took credit.” Kerstman tapped his red nose. “Anyway, that’s another story.” He thumped the table with his right hand. “Henry Livingston wrote the little story right here on this spot.”
“Okay,” Henry wondered what it had to do with anything, “that’s interesting, but….”
“You want to know why I’m telling you?” Kerstman’s bushy white eyebrows arched. “Well, just to say, this location is well-favored during the holidays and at Christmas.”
Henry rose, “Thanks, Mr. Kerstman, but I need to–”
“What, Henry… to do what?”
Henry stared down at him, then turned toward the door as a van from the shelter pulled up outside. With a wave and a chorus of “Merry Christmases,” those waiting stepped outside to board it.
“Henry, did you try to find the woman… Olivia?”
“I found an office number, called and left her a message,” he picked up the apron he’d draped across a nearby chair, “but I’ll never see her again.”
The old man, his eyes alight, scrutinized Henry as he walked away.
CHRISTMAS EVE
It was a bleak cold—the worst kind—and he was alone. Henry had expected to see Mr. Kerstman to wish him a Merry Christmas, but the old man had left before sundown and not returned. Henry had turned out all the lights except for one. The heater struggled to provide warmth that only reached a few feet. He sat at the closest table, not hearing the music from the speakers. Until it came to a song on his playlist that shook him. “This is my winter song… December never felt so wrong…,” he sang the words. The ache that had grown stronger all day consumed him.
He stood and moved around the diner, among the shadows from the single light on the counter. Stopping at the window, he looked out on the street at the night filled with swirls of ink lightened by dark gray as a weak moon broke through the low clouds.
About to turn away, he spotted a sweep of rose-colored light that caught white bands of wind-driven snow streaming at an angle from the sky. The beam danced, buffeted, or carried by the wind, pushing it down Essex toward him. In minutes, the light—now a brighter ruby, more penetrating than a white glare—stopped at what was the corner he couldn’t see.
Cast in the backlight was a shadow. It took a step and faltered as the wind shifted and strengthened. Shards of ice glinted as a gust shoved the shape, sending it skittering on ice-coated concrete. It went down hard, and the light stuttered and blinked out.
Henry shoved the door—putting his weight behind it—open against the wind. On the sidewalk, he slid backward and felt the palm of a great hand—the wind—on his chest, pressing him against glass and stone. A flash and the glistening scarlet reflection on the street guided him; he leaned into the wind and reached the middle of the road. The puddle of red light showed a huddled form—a person—in a heavy hooded coat with knees pulled up to their chest.
God, so cold; his hands, arms, and legs were already numbed. Henry kneeled and gripped the form, the crunch of a thin scrim of ice breaking as he got his arms under to pull them to their feet. The wind’s shriek overrode any words as he half-carried, half-walked them back to the diner. After prying the door open with a gasp, he got them inside.
The figure staggered toward the heater in the room’s center. Despite the dimness, he could see it carried in one hand a large—the biggest he’d ever seen—flashlight with a thick lens the size of a butter dish. Setting it on the table, a gloved hand swept back the hood, revealing a face half-covered by a red scarf with white tassels. The hand unwound it.
“Olivia!”
She, with some difficulty, stripped the gloves from her hands and rubbed her face. “I… I…” she stuttered, “have never been so cold.” Shivers racked her.
Henry went to the counter, lifted the pot of coffee from the warmer, poured two cups, and brought them to the table. “What the hell…” he sat them next to her. “Why in the world would you go out in that?” his hand gestured at the blizzard blasting outside the window, rattling it in its frame. “Are you crazy?” He rose, walked to the counter, and returned with a Coleman lantern. In its bright arc, her chin trembled.
“I had a visitor late this afternoon,” she gulped a swallow of coffee. “I don’t know how he found me. I asked him, and he said he knows things like that. No idea what he meant, but it seemed more than what he said.” She shook her head, and the raw ivory look of her cheeks faded as warmth crept in. Her eyes still had not met his.
“Who… Olivia, who was it?” Henry drank from his mug.
“There was the doorbell… then a loud knocking. I opened the door, and there he stood, only 5° outside, not counting the wind chill, wearing only his red turtleneck and a scarf flapping in the wind.”
“Mr. Kerstman?”
She nodded, “Yes,” and blinked. “He asked me, ‘May I come in?’ I stepped back, and he followed me inside. Then I noticed he carried a red bag trimmed in gold in one hand. He told me, ‘I can’t stay… it is Christmas Eve.’ and reached into his sack and took this out.” She touched the flashlight on the table, which rolled in a half-arc toward Henry. “I asked him why that mattered… but he cut me off. ‘A gift,’ he said. For what? I asked. He laughed; how such a sound came from that scrawny old man,” she shook her head, “and said, ‘It will help you find your way.’” Olivia reached to roll the flashlight back to her. “He handed it to me, unwrapped his scarf, and laid it over my arm, then with a ‘Merry Christmas,’ he left.”
Olivia emptied her cup, and Henry rose to fill it. “Thanks,” she nodded, and her smile warmed him more than the heater and coffee. “I set both on the entryway table, chalking the whole thing up to some old man’s eccentricity. Two hours later, it was dark—I just had a Coleman lantern in the back room, my private office—and came out to put them away. I…” She stopped, stretched her hand out to rest on his just a moment, then pulled away. “I’ve thought about you a lot, and when I picked up the flashlight, it came on and spotlighted the door. I was flooded with feeling your hand in mine—from when we danced—and when I touched the scarf, something told me to bundle up and go out. I grabbed my coat, wrapped his scarf around me, and picked up the flashlight. Without thinking, I was on the street in almost pitch black. The flashlight came on but shut off if I faced any direction but south. I followed the light here.”
This time, his hand reached for hers. A line from The Winter Song came to him as he explored the depth of color in her eyes. He sang to himself but for her, “My voice a beacon in the night. My words will be your light to carry you to me. Is love alive?” As he looked at Olivia, he answered the song’s question: “Yes… it’s alive.”
The wind had dropped, and lighter snow drifted down. They—the man and woman—had not heard him come in; few ever did… to sit at the table. He watched them as they grew closer. Now touching… then a kiss. “Always—always—the best gift to give and receive,” he smiled as he stood and slipped outside through the barely open alley door, stepping around the dark mass of the shadowed generator. A fresh flurry of snow blown from the roof above showered him and carried the ring of bells with it. Nine sets. Each a different pitch, but one most distinctive pierced the night. Mr. Kerstman chortled, “After all, he’s the lead.”
He raised his hand to the fire escape that started about twelve feet above him and rose to the top of the building. At his gesture, the ladder dropped. Both beard and girth filled out as he climbed, but the added weight did not slow him down. He reached a roof now lighted with a red glow to the sound of stamping hooves. A minute later, he was gone, but the sound of bells and his voice and laughter rang through the night. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!”
Below him, the city lights came on.
NOVEMBER 30TH (A YEAR LATER)
It was still a diner but had expanded into the vacant shop next to it to add a gallery. The sign over the door depicted a golden cage, its door open and above… a bird in flight in a blue sky.
The woman behind the counter wasn’t any lighter or younger but seemed much happier. The man who hugged her from behind smiled and kissed her cheek. The next day, December 1st, was their wedding day, and they hoped to see a good friend in the coming holiday season. Off to the side, with a rainbow glow of colors, an old jukebox played Greensleeves.
# # #
NOTE FROM DENNIS
I’ve used some things fictitiously for this story, but the following are facts. The Dutch West India Company established the colony of New Netherland in America in 1624. It grew to encompass present-day New York City and parts of Long Island, Connecticut, and New Jersey. They christened the thriving Dutch settlement on the southern tip of Manhattan Island, New Amsterdam (which became New York City). The Dutch brought with them the presence of Saint Nicholas, who has been in the Hudson River country of America since its beginning.
Clement Clarke Moore is commonly believed to be the author of ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas,’ written in 1822. Once it grew in popularity, it became known as ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.’ But the authorship is disputed. Some academics and literary historians believe Henry Livingston Jr., a peer of Moore’s, wrote it. Because of the story, St. Nicholas became the model for Santa Claus. Whose name comes from the New Amsterdam Dutch, who shortened it to Sinterklaas (itself from a series of elisions and corruptions of the transliteration of Saint Nikolaos). In Dutch, Santa Claus is also known as de Kerstman (the Christmas man).
I like dark chocolate and sometimes have a piece in the morning with my coffee. There’s a brand of individually wrapped pieces called Dove™ that includes brief thoughts and statements inside the wrapper. With our preparation for the holiday season each year, my wife buys bags of them. One year, I thought–leading up to Christmas–I would take that day’s chocolate wrapper and write a little about my first thoughts on reading it. Here they are:
The 1st DOVE of Christmas
Engage, Embrace, and Enjoy the special moments… a sunrise, a sunset, a full moon in a bright, crisp autumn sky, a smile, a hug… all that is simple and beautiful in our world.
The 2nd DOVE of Christmas
Sometimes, we think this takes money. That we have to be able to travel to distant places. Not true, though… for me, that’s one of my favorite ways to gain new–and to build upon past–experiences. But discovery often comes from merely doing something different or something familiar differently. Discovery means having a mindset open to its potential… knowing that there are opportunities for it, to a greater or lesser degree, each day. And when the chance is there to take it. Even in small amounts, we can learn and benefit from it. When you live with a purpose, I believe there’s something to discover every day.
The 3rd DOVE of Christmas
We all do it. No, not that… I’m talking about daydreaming. That moment when we slip into a mindscape of wishes, wants, and maybe a what-if or two. There’s been a lot written about visualization and how athletes use it for peak performance. Doing it—what you want to do or to get better at—in your mind helps. No, not that… well, maybe that, too. But I digress. Daydreaming can be constructive, but only if anchored—mostly—in reality. I mean, it doesn’t become or isn’t from the start an absurd fantasy with little chance of existence. Guide your daydreams, and base them in your real world in a way that fits what you do, who you are, and what you want from life. Make them possible… the kind of daydream that requires you to—real-world—stretch and reach. Making it tangible often starts with imagining it can be so and then believing in yourself enough to take action and get it done.
The 4th DOVE of Christmas
I disagree with this one.
What this Dove says (I think) and means is not to restrict love… let it flourish unbound. Don’t tell Love what to do.
Love can be unruly. It can happen when we least expect it. And it can run from us if we chase it. That can be problematic when most seek love and companionship, though I know some who are content without it.
But new love, at any age, that runs wild and free with the wrong person or a seasoned, mature love that becomes abused or untended can wither and end in anger, sadness, hurt, and pain.
For love to work, I believe one fundamental, paramount rule is necessary: to love only someone who loves you in equal measure. Love someone who respects you as much as you respect them. This must hold true at the beginning and throughout any relationship.
Love has to include respect, or it’s not love. That’s the rule.
The 5th DOVE of Christmas
Smiles always get me. The most beautiful sight to me is a smile on my wife and daughters’ faces. I’ve seen spectacular vistas from coast to coast, continent to continent, cities of light, bright shining skyscrapers that pierce the clouds, the views from some of the tallest buildings in the world, the subtle shades of sea greens and blues in oceans and waters around the globe, the austere grandness of canyons and ancient ruins that stun you with wonder at their age and how they were erected ages ago. So many beautiful places, man-made and natural… and nothing matches the impact of their—Daphne and my girls’—smile. Nothing makes me happier to see.
So, give and get some smiles this Christmas… yours for them (your loved ones and friends) and theirs for you.
The 6th DOVE of Christmas
Love. That’s what I got, along with the 6th Dove, for my birthday (which is in December). Love. My wife and three of my daughters to celebrate with me, and a warm birthday wish from my oldest daughter, who is married now and lives in another state. Love from friends and family… all important to me.
The personal messages within meant the most to me. The ones from my daughters tell me my wife and I haven’t missed the mark in raising them to be young adults with their heads on straight about what’s important. The others tell me I have—in ways—touched people in ways I don’t consciously think of… just by being me. And that feels good, too.
One year, I also got a surprise. From one of my daughter’s friends—a young man—who wrote a touching letter about how, over the years, he has come to view me as the type of father figure and man he aspires to be. Now, I’m not a perfect man—far from it—but I do try to impart, in subtle ways, some of what I’ve learned in life to not just my children but their friends, too. His letter was an unexpected and heart-warming gift.
I don’t need material things. I have all that I need and lack for nothing. [And yes, I’m fortunate and blessed to say that, but my wife and I have worked hard for what we have.] I count my riches in the love I receive and that I can, in turn, give to others (who deserve it), especially my family and those friends closest to me.
So, for my birthday, I got the greatest gift of all. Love.
I hope this holiday season, you all receive and give love in equal measure, as deserved.
And I hope you get chocolate. The kind you like, and if that’s not what you want… then the sweetest treat you enjoy most. Like maybe a chocolate-dipped vanilla ice cream cone from Dairy Queen.
The 7th DOVE of Christmas
This one says: “Take advantage of every free moment you have.”
Some would say this advice is about being productive; don’t waste time. Squeeze every bit into producing something. That in and of itself is not bad advice. I believe the road to getting ahead in life—and creating a sustainable good one—is paved by effort.
My writing work is mostly done in my head (before it gets to screen or paper, even if it beats it by a nanosecond), so wherever I happen to be, I can also work on something. In this picture, you see the area next to my chair, by the fireplace, in our family room. It’s prepared for those moments when I need to write down something I’ve just thought about or to make a note. So, I believe we should always be conscious of moments—lulls in the day—that can be useful. But you don’t have to feel compelled to fill them with work. Many serve you better as a time for quick reflection… for thought.
For me, it could be a moment to pay attention to the course of events around me and step away from work inside my head. To catch the flash of my wife or daughters’ smile… or hear a low laugh that spills from some other part of the house when my girls are chatting, seemingly amused or just enjoying themselves in their rooms… to overhear my wife talking with one of her friends and laughing together over something. To listen to daughters singing—loudly—in their shower… the streams of it sometimes heard in the evening. Those moments make me appreciate that my wife and I have created a family environment where we all easily laugh and sing.
Or just now [as I wrote this]. A glance and I see movement around the Christmas tree… Murphy’s suddenly discovered his in-the-house ball had rolled under it, and he’s belly-crawling trying to get it. He looks over at me and pauses as if to say, “Give me a chance… I’ll get it.” I do, and he does. He takes it, climbs up on his chair with the Batman blanket in it, and he’s lying over there alternating, gnawing on the ball and looking at me. It’s just a moment, but I’m mindful of it and him. It—and he—makes me smile.
I guess what I’m advocating is that in our so demanding world of digital devices, alerts, and reminders of a plugged-in, multitasking, and connected world… and in this holiday time of year, that can be so hectic and hurried… that when we have a moment, take it for ourselves. Hear the sounds, see what’s around you—that makes you smile—and plug them firmly into memory. They come and go quickly, but they all add up… if we pay attention.
As I sit here typing this, pausing to drink coffee, I hear my two youngest daughters getting ready for the last day of school before their Christmas and New Year’s break. I think of this weekend when we make and bake our first batch of Christmas cookies. And how when they come out of the oven and that pleasant aroma fills the house, I’ll savor the sensation and appreciate the time with them to make those cookies. It will trigger thoughts (year after year it always does) to back when they were younger, shorter, and had to stretch—or need help—to get at them. Little hands reaching up to the kitchen counter where the cookies cooled on sheets of aluminum foil. And I think of how they’ve all grown up and what good and strong individuals they’ve become. Moments like that and more make my day a better one.
I have to go now and want to leave you with this.
I hope that something in each and every day brings a smile to your face and a good feeling in your heart. Just remember they’re often there… hold them close and know there are more to come if you pay attention to the moments.
The 8th DOVE of Christmas
Hmmm…
I know that some of you do.
Others that I don’t know probably do, too.
And I’m sure most—if not all—assholes don’t. They do the opposite, and no one likes them. 😉 No chocolate for them. Not from me, anyway.
The 9th DOVE of Christmas
It was early spring 1978 on a Sunday at a teen (16 to 18 years old) dance club called ‘Tiffany’s.’ The song, ‘Brickhouse’ by The Commodores, came on, and Teresa G. got up on a table. It was like something teenage boy’s dream about… mesmerizing. Tall, coltish, slender with long honey-blonde hair, and though only 18, the budding curves of the woman she was becoming were there. She turned as she danced, and slowly, her hands ran down, without touching, the length of the outside line of her shape from ribs to thighs. They raised following the same line and further to clear the sweep of hair that covered her face, piling it up and letting it fall. Through mussed hair, I saw her gray-green eyes close and a slight smile, just showing the edges of teeth, form on her lips. It was a charged moment, watching her. Lightning in the air coursing through as the pulse of the music washed over me, on my skin, and in my bones. “She was mighty… mighty…” And I’m sure every guy felt it. I know I did. The song ended; she swept the hair from her face and stepped down. She returned to a nearby table where she had been sitting with a friend. Not one boy approached her.
I was usually a quiet guy (unless someone pissed me off), not that I was shy, but just because I was, and still am, not a loudmouth, or everyone’s buddy, life-of-the-party type of person. But I liked what Teresa had done. We lived in a relatively small town of about 36,000. I knew her only slightly—she went to a different high school—but she’d impressed me as the quiet type, too. She was pretty but not Barbie-doll perfect or carefully crafted to seem so. Not the girl every-boy-was-after… not the rah-rah-school-spirit, in the school’s most popular clique, kind of girl. I wondered what made her do something so extraordinarily intended to draw attention. So, I went up and asked her. “What was that?” and gestured at the table she’d danced on.
“I love the song, and no one asked me to dance. So I decided to dance anyway,” she said.
At the time, the deeper meaning behind that feeling and how important that underlying philosophy would become to me flew right by. But I knew she’d done something brave. At that moment, I sensed she had felt at odds… different from her peers… wanting to do… instead of wait… and decided on something entirely unexpected to celebrate how she felt about herself. That I understood completely. When the next song came on, I asked her to dance. Afterward, she left for work, and I returned to my friends. A few days later, I asked her out, and she went to prom with me.
Soon, it was graduation for us, and a couple of months later, I was off to bootcamp and significant changes in my life, new worlds, and new experiences. Teresa and I did not stay in close touch. A few months later, after more training and reporting to my ship, I came home on leave, and she was still working at the Burger Shef on Central Ave. I went to see her and saw she had taped a recent picture of me to her cash register. [The photo Teresa had was taken after a workout on my ship; my mother gave it to her.] So, I guess we connected, each giving the other something extraordinary, even briefly.
I’ve found in my life—more times than not—that what ‘feels right’ for me is the best way to go. I’ve done so many ‘spur of the moment’ things that I know most people would never do. Either because of some norms of convention they felt bound by or just their innate reservation or reluctance, maybe even fear of being that ‘free.’ Being spontaneous and making it work out, especially on important matters, takes contextual judgment based on experience. So young people need to tread carefully. But at the right moment… little things like dancing when you want to dance, singing when you want to sing… the ‘rightness’ of it fills you, and you just have to do it. Not for others, but for yourself. No harm, no foul… and not caring what others think.
We were oh so young… but today, more than four decades later, I still remember Teresa and why she danced that day. She did what felt right. “She was mighty… mighty…”
The 10th DOVE of Christmas
I love this one. There have been times in my life—two of them explicitly at critical points—when I didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask for a reservation. Didn’t wait for an opening… didn’t wait to be considered… did not hope for approval before I did what I needed (or wanted) to do. I showed up, expecting to be accepted. I created—or forced the creation of—what I desired. And it worked extraordinarily to my benefit.
When we–my family and I–drive somewhere, and we’re parking… we check the closest spot to where we’re going. When there’s an open spot right where we want, I always say, “They knew we were coming.” I tell my girls that only half-jokingly.
I believe in life, you have to expect room in the front row and expect to be welcomed and appreciated. Now, that’s not always the case. It does not always happen the way you want. But I know from experience that doing so (intelligently, with good taste, and hard work, you cannot be a crass, dumbass slacker and pull it off) works out in your favor more often than not. And that can help create a good life for you. Or maybe even—likely can—help turn one around.
The 11th DOVE of Christmas
This one likely means—to many—not letting the clock rule you. To take the time to smell the roses, and there is value in that. You should take time for yourself.
But another thought about time comes to mind.
I have a thing about it: focus on timeliness and being on time that preexisted the emphasis that military training instills in you, especially operations. Time matters: Time on Target, Time to Impact, Course and Time to Intercept, Last Contact Time… Run Time, Elapsed Time Speed, and Distance Target Motion Analysis. Relieve the Watch On Time. Time and Tide Wait for No Man. And on and on… So, I believe being disciplined with time is an integral part of success in life. But you have to make sure that it is spent on the things worth your time and on what’s important.
We all have work schedules. Even as a business owner/self-employed professional for 24+ years, I have deadlines, a clock, and a calendar determined by what is negotiated in my contracts with clients and the demands and requirements of publishing and publication deadlines (including production and book manufacturing lead times and schedules).
But I believe there are times when people let someone else’s clock (not their job or work) rule their life. Others expect this or that from you… Maybe you always say ‘yes’ to them when you should, but more often than not, say no. For some reason, you feel obligated to do as they ask or are compelled to do it to curry favor. Sometimes, you remain the gerbil on that wheel because you don’t know how to stop. And so you end up tense, frustrated, and feeling life is out of your control.
If that’s how you’ve let things become, then it’s true. You don’t have control over your life. You’ve ceded that to someone else or to the whim of circumstance. Your life is governed by the ticking hands of someone else’s clock or that of fate. And that is the clock you should ignore.
We often use the words ‘spend’ or ‘give’ when it comes to time and how we use it. Both—to me—connote its intrinsic value. And as the years go by, we consider how it has been invested and have to be ever wiser with the care and management of what we (presumably) have left. Remember that the time you spend must be on what’s worthwhile, and the time you give to anything or anyone… is never coming back. Treat time just as valuable as it truly is.
“How did it get so late so soon?” ―Dr. Seuss
The 12th DOVE of Christmas
Some will read this, agree with it, and be thankful.
I did, do, and am.
Others might view it differently.
How you feel when you read this depends entirely on where choices—and, to a degree, chance—have led you in life. I believe the former, more than the latter, are the drivers and determinants of our past, present, and future.
Just remember:
The past is not a chain; it does not bind us.
The present is a moment in time.
The future is not fixed or predetermined.
In a now-famous post-game rant, Dennis Green, the former coach of the National Football League’s Minnesota Vikings, said about an opponent they had just lost to: “They are who we thought they were.” It was part of a bizarre tirade, but here’s where it’s apt in the context of my thoughts on this DOVE. “We are who we think we are.” And I’d join that with, “We are where our decisions have led us… so we are where we are.”
This DOVE’s use of the word ‘supposed’ is critical. Here’s the definition of that word: ‘generally assumed or believed to be the case, but not necessarily so.’
Perhaps some read this and feel they are not where they’re supposed to be. Where they are is not a happy place, or maybe it’s marginal… not bad, but not great. Maybe it’s limbo. But there it is. It is where they are.
The question I have is whether they can read this DOVE’s statement this time next year and feel the same way or if things will be different. It primarily comes down to choices made between now and then.
Next year, I hope you hear your inner voice say what the ancient knight—the guardian of the Grail—told Indiana Jones when he selected the right cup: “You chose wisely.”
# # #
So, my 12 DOVES of Christmas end here. I hope that something in what I’ve written sparks some thought or appreciation for what the messages mean.
Everything in life starts with what you think and how you feel. Make them (thoughts and feelings) good. Make them serve your turn. I hope they make you happy, year in and year out.
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