If you are one of NaNo buddies, and having a hard time getting stuff down, let me tell you a little secret that is working for me (and a couple of my fans have suggested). Just start writing. put yourself in your character's shoes and think about the next move. It will come, and it will flow. I know you've heard it before. And, honestly, it really is as easy as it sounds.
You've gotten a taste for my story by reading the prelude, and again yesterday when you got a sample of the story at Scene 2. Today I am adding part 4, which is really Scene 1 to the story. Enjoy!
Blair Weathers is an impatient woman. She drums her fingers on the desk in impatience as she waits for the loan officer to return. It’s a catchy cadence her manicured ruby red fingernails tap out. She almost manages to distract herself with it. The tune catches time with the sounds of the clacking heels resonating through the bank, the clicks of vaults closing, and the soft whisper of money being counted behind the teller booths. Music has always been her savior, despite the broken heart she gained dating the drummer of the metal band “Chains of Destruction” when she was in college. She liked to think of herself as much a song writer as an artist, but knew in her heart where her loyalty lied. She wouldn’t be sitting here investing so much of her money, and time, into opening the city’s largest art gallery if she didn’t.
The bad side of the musical cadence coming from her fingertips is that it usually lulls her mind into memories, and usually the memories she wanted to forget. She tried to pretend it never happened, but denial only went so far. Today, her mind takes her back to a few weeks ago when she had a very special lunch at her childhood home with her aging father.
“Daddy, I have something spectacular in mind. I assure you it won’t disappoint you.”
“You disappointed me the day you turned down law school for art. You couldn’t possibly disappoint me any further.” Her father answered. His voice, once smooth and silky, had taken a harsh, gravelly, breathy turn as he aged. When he spoke now, he sounded like Darth Vader speaking through his mask. His hands, once large and commanding, were now twisted with arthritis. His hair, once full of thick and luxurious blonde curls, had successfully receded, leaving a shiny bald palate in its place. He walked with the same determination he always had, refusing the aid of the cane his doctor had prescribed for him. His demeanor was still as mean as it was when he was younger, and he could still hold his own whenever he decided to venture in the courtroom, which was rare these days.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Daddy. I was never destined to be a lawyer, surely you can see that.”
“You are right. You would never be a good lawyer, but a fine judge you’d have made. I reared you with all the makings of being a just judge and you threw it all away. For what? Scribbles on a piece of laundry!” He had started to rise out of his seat in his vehemence, but a coughing fit sent him back into it.
“Is that what you consider the Rembrandts and Van Goghs hanging in your office and all over the house, just colorful dirty laundry?”
“Your mother put those there. If I’d had my way, there would be deer and boar heads hanging there instead. After she passed, I didn’t have the heart to take them down, but now I wish I had. You got your fancy ideas from a couple of dead men that were good with crayons.”
“If Mother were alive, she wouldn’t tolerate your attitude towards the arts.”
“If your mother were alive, you wouldn’t be here.”
His matter of fact way of stating it did nothing to lessen the force of the arrow that sliced into Blair’s heart. She knew that he had not intended it to hurt her, at least that’s what she chose to believe. It was that same matter of fact attitude that had won him so many cases, and created the riches that allowed her to pursue a life that many others just dreamed about. Nonetheless, it still hurt. It caused her to pause in her conversation. She took a small bite out of the hummus sandwich she had ordered, and ran a shaky hand through her blonde hair.
She spent many hours at the salon to keep her hair blonde, her pretty face line free, along with a grueling routine at the gym to keep a svelte figure. She had a personal shopper that kept her closet filled with the latest fashion trends, so she always looked sharp when she stepped out, whether she was walking her dog down the block or going to a business meeting. Her purses were designer bags from Hermes and Louis Vuitton; her shoes varieties of Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik. She took great pride in her appearance because it made her feel successful. Never mind that it was with her father’s money. She was almost forty five, and she had never worked a day, never had to experience hardship, never had a moment without food, not even in college when she went against her father’s wishes. As long as she passed, he provided. Despite all this, the one thing Blair lacked growing up was something money could not buy. Her nannies tried to share it. Her teachers tried to teach it. The only one who could give it to her, didn’t. In the aspect of love, her father had failed her miserably.
“I don’t have all day, my dear. What is it you want to tell me, and how much is it going to cost me this time?” His chuckle was the one thing time hadn’t taken away from him. The sound of it now soothed Blair, and she grew excited once more.
“I’m going to open an art gallery, Daddy! The biggest one New York has ever seen! I’ve found the perfect spot. It’s an old, abandoned warehouse, but with a little bit of a makeover, it will be the best this city has ever seen!”
“An art gallery? An ART Gallery? ART?” His face turned red as he choked down the words. “ART! ART! ART!” His hand came crashing down on the table, causing the wine bottle to fall and shatter on the white porcelain floor of the sunroom. “I refuse to invest one more penny in art. I refuse!”
“But, Daddy…”
“No, ‘but daddy’ me. I humored your request for art college. I humored your request for a SoHo apartment so you could be surrounded by artistes and musicians on a daily basis. I will NOT invest in an art gallery. No. NO! NO!” His face was so red, Blair worried that he would explode. Tears filled her eyes as his caretaker came running into the room.
“I told you to take it easy, Blair. You always come and start trouble with him. His heart cannot take it. Take your fancy ideas elsewhere. Grow up and learn how to take care of yourself and let your old man live his last years in peace.” Hanna’s voice was quiet yet stern. She had been Theodore’s nurse for the past twenty years, and despite their age difference, Blair was convinced they had something going on.
“I’ve given her everything she ever asked for…” her father coughed. Hanna escorted him out of the room and out of Blair’s sight, narrowing her eyes as she passed Blair.
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