Red Writing Hood: That Thing Called Love

Today I am revisiting Blair Weathers. She is remembering her first and only love as she awaits her lawyer...

Weathered

(image source)

She first saw him at an art exhibition. Under the florescent lights of the center, his sandy hair shined like a halo above him. His blue eyes crinkled in a never-ending mysterious smile. His hands were small and warm, and extended readily for handshakes. His clothing was disheveled, as if he had slept in them, and there was a streak of paint on the lapel of his shirt that was matched by the small streak in his hair, just above his right ear. His voice was soft yet boisterous, soothing yet deep.  He was slight of stature but not too short, a thin string bean in a swarm of beefy bellies. He was just starting out then, and his humble nature charmed everyone who met him. When he spoke, his voice carried over the loud din, like a narrator telling a story. It caused her to pause in her browsing and look his way.

He didn’t notice her at first, as he was engrossed in a polite conversation with a very old woman, who was making her way around the art show with a cane. She used the cane as a pointer also, and when she inquired into the price of one of his pieces, Blair’s ears perked up.

“I’m sorry, but this piece isn’t for sale.” Blair looked at the picture he was pointing to. It was a charcoal drawing of a little girl, her face sad and withdrawn, and tears glistening from her eyes. The drawing seemed haunted in some way, somehow familiar, but what Blair found most interesting is that the man wouldn’t sell it. She firmly believed everything had a price tag, people included, and this went against her very nature. When the old lady moved away, grumbling, Blair stepped into her place.

“Why won’t you sell it?” She inquired to his back. He had turned away after the old lady had moved on. “It’s…exquisite;. haunting, actually. Really rather quite good.”

He turned at the sound of her voice. “Thank you, but I can’t sell something that is unfinished.”

“Unfinished? What more could you do to perfect this?” She knew there was more that could be done, but she wanted to know what his plans were. She also liked the sound of his voice.

“I didn’t intend for it to be black and white. She’s a very colorful little girl, and this doesn’t do her justice, at all.”

“I disagree. Perhaps a spot of color here,” she points to the girl’s eyes, “and here,” pointing at the teardrop running down her face, “and a teensy bit of rouge here” pointing at the girl’s lips, “is all it really needs. You could easily finish that within the hour and sell it for a pretty price.”

“It’s not for sale.” His eyes darkened. This also intrigued her because they were so cheerful moments ago. What is it about this little girl that he doesn’t want to let go of? She wonders to herself. “Any of these others, anyone can buy, but this one is not for sale.”

“It’s your best work. Frankly, I don’t see the others bringing in much. But this? This could easily net you a couple thousand, and that’s without adding anything. You really must consider it. In fact, I can cut you a check right now.” Blair may have been in denial about her own artistic abilities, but she did know talent when she came face to face with it. This man was destined for great things, before he died. In fact, she could even picture exactly where she would hang this in her apartment. It would fit perfectly in the space above her hall table.

“It’s NOT for sale, finished or not.” Now his lips had turned down, matching the storm collecting in his eyes.

“Why not? I am offering you $2,500 for it and you tell me ‘No’. Preposterous. No one ever tells a Weathers no. It’s simply not done.”

“It’s not mine to sell,” he says finally, the clouds clearing from his eyes, and the smile reappearing. She was visibly impressed with his ability to not only control his emotions, but stand up to her as well. She had lost very few battles in her life.

“Oh, well that changes things. I suppose you aren’t going to tell me to whom it belongs either, are you?” She laughed a little to ease the weight of the conversation.

He sighed long and deep before answering. “I could, but I don’t think she would appreciate it much.” He watched her face crumble as he said “she” and found it humorous. “My sister drew it, and she won’t sell it; not for any amount of money. There’s no use even trying because she is not here.”

She spent the next year trying to solve the mystery, allowing herself to be charmed by him, and ended up falling in love with him. Three weeks before their wedding, it was over, and his blue eyes closed for the last time, his halo of hair covered in darkness as he was laid to rest while he was still in the prime of his life. She had accepted him as he was, learned of his lies after his death, eventually managed to move on, and promised herself to never let it happen again.

I didn't really edit this. It's a work in progress. Critique welcome.

NaNoWriMo Day 6: Weathered, Scene 1

So here it is, Day 6 of NaNoWriMo. I have yet to write for today, but, as predicted by the geniuses behind NaNo, I am sleeping, eating, and drinking my characters, so when I do get time to sit and type (write) the words flow on the page, characters living and breathing and taking turns that I don't expect until it's already on the page. I've managed 10 pages, and completed the first chapter of the story. I am having a boatload of fun, and so glad I took on this project.

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.

Red Writing Hood: Weathered Pt. 3

“Ms. Weathers?” A young man was calling her name.

“Yes?” She glanced up at him. He wasn’t overly tall, and she figured him to be about 30.

“Are you all right? I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes and you haven’t responded.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just lost in thought. Please, continue.”

“I was just explaining to you that we are willing to approve your loan, but we need some information from you first. I need specifics on the building, I need paperwork showing that it is up to code, or if it’s not, how you are going to get it up to code. I’m afraid that we can’t give you a loan unless everything is legitimate. I’m sure you understand.”

“I have everything in order. The building itself is empty and abandoned, but I have a note from the city that you require. I just need the loan to purchase the building.”

“Why would you want an empty building? What do you intend to do with it? As it stands now, the value of the building isn’t worth the cost of the loan.”

“Ah, but I have plans. When I am finished with the building, it will have returned its value over sixty times. It is to become an art gallery. I have the blue prints and design plans for you to approve as well.”

“This is all fine. May I have these documents to pass on to the loan committee for their approval? They will meet this afternoon to discuss your loan.”

Blair opened her briefcase and handed him all the paperwork she needed. The blueprints were rolled up and the loan officer’s eyes widened when he saw the plans.

“These plans are not cheap. Marbled floors, gold faucets, living fountains? I don’t think we’ve given a loan of the size you are asking for. Your only collateral is an empty, abandoned building not worth the ground it sits on?”

“The living fountain is art. It will be created, not installed. Trust me, the costs are less then you are expecting. The name ‘Weathers’ should be enough collateral for your loan committee, as much money as my father has invested in this bank for the past fifty years.” Blair refused to let the young, haughty man deny her.

“I will need the contact information for your contractor then so we can verify the costs will not exceed the loan amount.”

“I have that information right here in my purse.”

She turned her purse over and dumped the contents all over the young man’s desk, pushing some of his stuff onto the floor. Despite all the paid for organization, Blair’s purse was a disaster area. She was afraid to put her car keys or cell phone in it for fear of never seeing them again. She likened it to Mary Poppins’ bottomless carpet bag because of the way it seemed to swallow things whole. Her impatience showing, she began sorting through the cacophony on the desk, trying to drown out the memories that crowded her mind as she discovered things she had thought lost in her search for the contractor’s business card. It’s a good thing I don’t carry this purse all the time, she thought to herself. I really need to start cleaning them out, too. She slowly started picking things up, one at a time, some of them being hastily shoved back into her purse (like the spare tampons and dental floss, her eyeglasses and case for when she loses a contact), others moving slowly from desk to purse as she mused over them. She took a particularly long pause over a tube of lipstick. She opened the cap and twisted it until the merlot color showed at the top of the tube. Her mind drifted and she started to think about him again, remembering a happier time when life wasn’t so hectic and the sky seemed bluer.

The sound of the young banker clearing his throat brought her back to earth. “I have a tight schedule, Ms. Weathers. I am already late. I really need that information, or we will have to wait another day.”

“No, no, another day won’t do. I’ve already waited longer then I should have to, and there’s another bidder trying to take the building from underneath me. I need this decided today. It’s here, I promise you, and I will find it within the next minute or so.” She sighed and dropped the lipstick back in her purse.

It was soon joined by a packet of tissues from the funeral of her father’s oldest and best friend, the roll of double sided tape her seamstress gave her on the way to the dinner with the business attorney she wanted to work with,  the travel size hairspray and comb she kept in every purse for windy days, a Tide pen for messy lunches in her Prada suits, a pair of gold hoop earrings she took off one evening when she wanted to listen to some music through headphones in a music store, the three tubes of lip gloss she hadn’t seen in forever, two forgotten paint brushes, and a mini sketch pad that was supposed to have given her ideas for her new canvas. She finally found the contractor’s business card stuck the bottom of a can of winterfresh Altoids. She offered the banker one, which he refused, and popped one in her mouth as she handed him the card. She scooped up the last of her belongings and dropped them in her purse. “I told you I would find it. Now, when can I expect an answer?”

“The meeting usually lasts for about three hours. I should know something by 7:00 pm. Would you prefer I contact you via your cell phone, or via your home phone?”

“I haven’t finalized my evening plans yet. I’ll call you.” She picked up the business card on the corner of the desk and studied it. The name on the card read Topher Stevens, JP Morgan Chase Bank Officer, and had his phone number listed on the bottom. “This is the number I can reach you personally with?”

“That’s the office number. You may not get an answer tonight if you call after 7 pm, since it will automatically switch over to the answering service. Let me give you my cell phone number as well.” He took the card from her, flipped it over, and quickly scribbled his number down on it. When he handed it back, she could smell his cologne on the card. He watched as she held it under her nose for a few seconds before sliding it into her bra.

“For safe keeping, lest it ends up on the bottom of a can of Altoids,” she told him. His hazel eyes lingered over her breasts a little longer then they should have before he looked away. The smile on her face told him she had caught him looking. She coyly raised one of her finely waxed eyebrows and started walking away. “Perhaps we will have something to celebrate later. Ta ta!”

This week's prompt was: ""Your protagonist empties the contents of his/her pockets, purse, and/or backpack onto a table. What all was dumped onto the table?""

I'm a little stumped as to where to go next. I have 3 million ideas for this story, plots and twists, it's just the getting there that's causing the biggest issues...and I am only 3,000 words in. Ay-yi-yi. I'm going to make like the Little Blue Engine and puff "I think I can" all the way over the mountain......

Starbucks and NaNoWriMo Day 1 (Fail)

I know everyone is DYING for some Starbucks, Especially the blogger who REALLY knows how to shoot the poop the best. At least now, I can't say I have never been stalked, hahaha. The winner winner chicken dinner of the $25 Starbucks gift card (kaching!) is..........................







Congratulations to allthingsnew! You hit the poop shootin' jackpot with over 24 (including 2 conjugations!) uses of the word "poop" in 9 comments. She was just full of poop, eh? She doubled down and summed it up well:

"the final moments of our opportunity to talk about poop are coming to an end. That's kind of sad because it has been fun to let all of the poop out of my mind these last few days. I'm pretty sure that anyone with children 3 and under have lots of poop to deal with in their lives. We just don't have many opportunities to deal with it. ;)"

Steph, email me with your address so I can send you that card!!!! Enjoy the roulette of Starbucks and the porcelain throne and think of me often!

Thanks to everyone for taking a gamble and playing along this week. It was great fun and lots of giggles. It was fun to feel young again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For those who have been following along with my Weathered story, here is the Prelude to the story. I have been tempted to go back and edit, but I will save that for later. I have 9. 273 words to write today if I am going to ever get in a 5,000 word mode.

Prelude

“Why am I looking at a blank canvas? The assignment isn’t that complicated.”  Blair’s college art professor clucks her tongue in disappointment. “I cannot give you the A you ask for until you put something on that paper, anything, even a stick figure is better than the white paper.”

                                                                          

“Just give me one more day. That’s all I need, and I will give you a masterpiece. I promise. I…” Blair blinked coyly, hoping to get her way. “I just can’t work here. There’s nothing to inspire me. I need to take my canvas home.”

“You know that is not possible. I cannot bend the rules for you just because you are the chairman’s daughter.” Miss Tatum looked down her long nose at Blair with disdain. She looked especially spinsterish today with her dark hair pulled back in a tight chignon. The crows feet around her eyes made her look extra fierce when she looked down her nose, and the glasses that hung on a chain around her neck did nothing to disrupt the image.

“Just this once, please? I promise you I will have it finished tomorrow. I just can’t do it here. It’s too…sterile, bland, dry. I need my music, my color, my warmth. I will wait til classes let out for the day and then pick up the canvas. No one will know about it. I promise you.”

“I will not. You need to work in any circumstances, and you especially need to learn that money does not buy everything and everyone. If you cannot do the work like everyone else, then just like anyone else, you will fail. And that’s the bottom line.”

“But I can’t fail. Blair Weathers never fails. I am an artist. You cannot fail me.”

“ I can and I will if you do not complete this assignment. You have until tomorrow morning to complete it, and I will be watching you. The canvas cannot leave the classroom. Period.”

The hour was over. There was no more Blair could do at this moment to convince Miss Tatum otherwise. She had to figure out something and fast. She absolutely could not fail this class or her father would take away the trust fund. He had insisted that she continue on in the family business and attend his alma mater,  Stanbridge University, but she had cried and won her way to attend the college of her choice and pursue her love of art. If she failed even one class, her father would pull his money out, and she would either have to pay on her own, or give in to his demands. She intended to do neither. With no other classes for the rest of the day, she headed towards her dorm with a plan formulating in her mind.

The dormitory stood tall and stoic against the sky. It was a modernized building designed to look like it was old. There were three floors with 15 rooms per floor. Blair shared her room with one other woman, though she had hoped to get a room to herself. Having a roommate had its benefits at times, like now. Her roommate, a slight brunette with an artsy initial at the front of her name, also took art classes. They rarely ever talked though since they ran in different social circles-Blair having money, and R. Angelina Potts having none.  R. Angel, as she preferred to be called, was talented enough to receive a full scholarship, otherwise, both she and Blair knew she wouldn’t be there. The dorm room itself was bright and colorful, the walls filled with paintings of various sizes and mediums.

R. Angel was sitting at the one desk in the room when Blair entered. She had her headphones on, with her sketchpad before her. Blair was able to get a brief glimpse of her work before she realized that she was standing there. Blair knew her roommate was talented, but the little bit of drawing she had seen literally took her breath away. Her plan came into formation and she decided to test the waters. It was going to take some smooth talking to get her roommate out of the room without her sketch pad, but Blair knew she could do it. Money is a powerful motivator.

And now, the real fun begins....

This post is a part of the


carnival.  Can you become a Made Man?