Something Missing

By Dianne Spencer

The older I get the older I think middle age begins. At least I did until I met Preston. Preston’s only twenty five. At forty two, being around him makes me feel pretty old. Then again, flirting with him is kind of fun. Until I look in the mirror. I've heard about cougars-women who date much younger men. I just don't know that I want to be one.

I’ve been divorced for several years and was fine with it until my daughter went away to college. I keep busy with my writing and thought my days were still fulfilling until Preston came into my life. Now I’m not okay with anything. I’m not happy being alone and I’m not happy being middle-aged. I’m not happy considering dating someone young enough to be my son either.

So, I’m doing what I’ve always done. I’m running away. Not as in disappear forever, as in escaping to my best friend and her sanctuary, hidden in the mountains. I just need a little time to myself to think. It’s always worked before. I’ve always been able to calm down and center myself. No reason to think this time would be different.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dianne Spencer
• Release date: Jan 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310597411

Dianne Spencer

I always wanted to be a writer. I yakked about it until my family started putting their fingers in their ears and humming. They got so sick of it someone (I don't remember who) finally asked me why I wasn't writing.I didn't know how to respond except to sit down at my laptop, open Microsoft word, and start writing. That's when I realized I didn't know how to be a writer. So I went to the local bookstore and bought a few books on writing. The first one suggested keeping a journal so I got a notebook and wrote personal stuff all day long, but nothing I wanted to share with strangers. The second book said writers read a lot. I already did that but I read some more anyway. I loved it, but got so absorbed in reading I didn't have time to write anything. The third one said I should get quiet and let my mind think. So I started taking walks everyday. I got lost twice and bitten by a snake once but didn't come up with any writing material.Eventually I started wondering what these how-to-write authors weren't telling me. I went back to their books and read them all again and again until I found their secret. It was right there in black and white. Actually, it was in full color, in the pictures. All the writers had little dogs sitting in their laps! So I went right out and got myself a little poodle and now she sits in my lap and I write!

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Something Missing

By Dianne Spencer

Published by Dianne Spencer at Smashwords

Cover by Stephanie Stevens

Copyright 2015 Dianne Spencer

Discover other titles by Dianne Spencer

Instincts

Something Missing is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this work may be copied, re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book please purchase an additional copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this and all authors.

This books is dedicated to my Aunt, Millie Gaddis, who works

tirelessly to help me become a better writer.

Table of Contents

Friday, March 5

Saturday, March 6

Sunday, March 7

Monday, March 8

Tuesday, March 9

Wednesday, March 10

Thursday, March 11

Friday, March 12

Saturday, March 13

Sunday, March 14

Monday, March 15

Tuesday, March 16

Wednesday, March 17

Thursday, March 18

Friday, March 19

Saturday, March 20

Sunday, March 21

Monday, March 22

Tuesday, March 23

About Dianne Spencer

Friday, March 5

I have my little white poodle, Sassy, sleeping in my lap, and I’m working in longhand on my latest novel. I hear a clicking noise that doesn’t fit in with the sounds of birds singing, children playing, traffic in the distance, an occasional plane overhead. I look up and see a young man, kneeling, his face hidden behind a camera, taking pictures of me.

Do you mind? he lowers the camera and looks at me.

I smile. He’s cute. I wish I was younger. On one condition. I’m not too old to flirt a little.

What’s that? he furrows his brow.

You show me your photos.

I can send you copies if you give me your address, he offers.

I don’t mean the pictures you’re taking of me. I smile again. He snaps the shutter a few more times and stands up.

What photos, then?

Your album. Your portfolio. I motion with my hands as if I’m holding it.

My photos. A statement.

You’re a pro, aren’t you? I shade my eyes with my notebook to get a better look at him.

Trying to be. How’d you know? He smiles. Cute dimple in his cheek. Hard to see with his short, scraggly, almost-black beard.

Nice camera. Expensive. And you’re not taking pictures of an old lady in the park because I’m gorgeous.

You’re not so old. He comes closer and sits down on the grass, resting his camera in his lap. And you are gorgeous. He can flirt, too.

All those Florida beaches. Al those beautiful young women… I don’t know how to finish my thought.

Boring, he says, simply. We look at each other. He reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair self-consciously. It sticks up in odd patches. He lowers his eyes and his hand and starts picking at the grass.

What’re you doing? He looks up and tips his chin toward my notebook. Are you a writer?

Yes. Fifteen novels and some short stories so far.

A trade then. He holds up his camera. My photos for your books.

Fair enough. I’m Lisa. I reach out to shake his hand.

Preston. We decide to meet under the magnolia tree in the park the next morning. He looks at his watch. I’ve got a class. He jumps to his feet in a way that reminds me of my age. I’m only 42, but arthritis has stiffened me. He starts to walk away. After he’s gone a few yards he turns back and waves. A little further up the hill leading to the parking lot and he turns again, lifts the camera, and takes some more pictures. I imagine, from that distance, I am obscured under the huge tree. A breeze blows the branches and flower petals drift down around me. He sinks to one knee and the sound of the shutter clicking floats faintly to me.

He stands up, waves a last time, and walks away. I know I won’t write anymore today. I sit and watch the petals fall and let my mind drift on the breeze. I wish I was younger. Or he was older.

Saturday, March 6

I dress carefully. I even give Sassy a bath and blow–dry her hair until it’s fluffy. I put a bow in it, decide it looks stupid and take it out. I put my bag with my folding chair over my shoulder, change my mind and grab a blanket. Not the old ratty one I usually use for outside. A nice comforter I steal from the guest bed.

I put a bag with one of my books and my notebook over my shoulder, pick up another bag with water bottles, a little baggie of dog food and Sassy’s water bowl, add some cheese and crackers to the bag, and head toward the door. I stop at the mirror to smooth my hair and check my makeup. I turn to go, then pause to look back at myself, more closely this time. Wrinkles. Too many years of smiling at play and frowning at work. Too many years of too much sun, working on the perfect tan that was so popular in my day.

Stop being so silly, I tell myself. He’s a kid. He’s a nice kid. That’s all.

I lock the house and head for the park. It’s a short walk. I‘m renting this particular house because it’s so near the park. Location, location, location. I don’t care that the carpets are worn and I have to hold the toilet handle down to get it to flush and the yard has more weeds than grass. What I care about is that I can see the park from one window in the guess bedroom. I keep my writing desk at that window just because of the view. Best way to get me to go there, where I’m most likely to write, unless I’m in the park.

Sassy prances around me, anxious to get to the kids. She loves them and has to say hi to every single one. Michael and Sara, two kids we see every weekend and most weekday afternoons, often take Sassy for walks while I sit and write in longhand because I can’t see the screen on my old laptop very well outdoors even if I’m working in the shade. Wasted my money on that thing-I type the day’s work on my desktop each evening.

I walk slowly. I always do since the arthritis got hold of me. It gives me time to think about what I’ll work on, anyway. Today I can only think about Preston. Will he come? Has he thought about me? How old is he, anyway? Good grief, I’m acting like a smitten teenager. It makes me feel a little like a young woman. If I ignore my aching joints and forget what I saw in the mirror I can almost believe the last 20 years haven’t happened.

I get to the park 45 minutes before we‘re supposed to meet and he’s already there, under the magnolia tree, taking pictures of me with my dog and my blanket and my bags and my hair blowing around, getting in my eyes. I’m suddenly very self-conscious as he puts down his camera and runs to help me. He already has a blanket spread out beneath the tree, with a cooler beside it. He puts my blanket over his, touches my arm to help me sit down. Sassy yaps and strains at her leash and Michael and Sara run over to take her from me. Her little tail flips back and forth like a ribbon snapping in the wind.

How was your evening? He lays down and leans on one elbow. I spent mine straightening up my portfolio. I hope you like my work. I’m not completely happy with it but I have won two contests.

He’s babbling. He’s nervous. Because he worries about what people think of his photos? Because he worries about what I will think of his photos? Because he feels an attraction toward me like mine toward him? I like to think the later and smile to myself even though I know better.

He shuts up and smiles back at me. Sorry. How was your evening?

Good.

What did you do?

I typed up my notes and then I read for a while. I don’t tell him I typed my notes mindlessly and then read the same page three times and gave up. I don’t tell him how much I thought about him.

You walked. You must live around here. He sticks a blade of grass between his teeth. I point out my little house, sandwiched between two bigger ones, the one window visible from where we sit.

Would you like something to drink? he offers.

I have water. I dig a bottle out of my bag. He gets a Mountain Dew out of his cooler and pops the can open. A young person’s soda, I think. Can I see? I point to his portfolio. He hands it to me and I give him my book.

We sit quietly, then. I open his portfolio and am instantly impressed. Amazed. I study each picture for a long time. Some are black and white. Some color. All are as good as I’ve seen at art shows and in galleries. There are pictures of children playing and pictures of old people and old buildings. Pictures of birds and animals and trees and the ocean. I have to keep shifting because my joints don’t like sitting on the hard ground. He doesn’t move except to turn pages.

I don’t know how much time has gone by when I finally get to the last photo. The sun is high and it’s hot. My water bottle is empty. Sassy is stretched out on her side on the grass, panting. I don’t remember the kids bringing her back.

I close the portfolio and look over at Preston. I watch him read until he senses me and lifts his eyes without moving his head. He smiles and shrugs his shoulders. Wonderful. I’m not surprised you’ve won awards.

Contests, he corrects me. He studies my face, reaches for his camera and then stops.

Go ahead. I try to make my hair behave. It doesn’t. He picks up his camera and takes pictures. Gets up, moves away and walks around me taking more pictures. I wonder if I should look at him or not. Finally I pick up my notebook and try to work on my novel. I can’t, of course. I write on the pages anyway, knowing I’ll throw them out when I get home. I have a daily quota but I won’t reach it today.

He comes back and sits down beside me. He pushes a button and the camera makes a whirling noise. He opens a little door on the side of it, takes out the roll of film, and puts it in a little plastic case. He takes a Tupperware container out of his cooler and exchanges the spent film for a new roll. When the camera is loaded he puts it down and looks up at me.

You don’t use a digital camera?

I do but I like taking film pictures. He shrugs again. I like developing the film. It’s relaxing and I can play with the print settings. It’s becoming a lost art. It’s getting hard to find film and chemicals.

We are suddenly awkward with each other. I have to go. He frowns. I have work I need to get done. Can I take your book home and finish it?

Sure. I’m glad about that. Not because he wants to finish it; because we will have to meet again. And I’d like to see more of your work. Might as well make sure we have another date.

This weekend I’ll develop the pictures I took of you and I’ll bring you copies.

What do you do? For work, I mean. Do you make a living from your photography?

He tells me about working on other peoples’ pictures. He’s a photo editor, he tells me, and can make almost anyone’s pictures look good. Not good enough to sell, necessarily, but good enough to make them happy. He can also repair old or damaged photos, make people look skinnier or more buff, younger, prettier. I smile at that. Someday I’ll sell enough pictures of my own and I won’t have to work on other people’s pictures anymore, he adds.

I tell him how I used to work in a bookstore, taking care of and selling other people’s books, eager for the day when my novels would be on the shelf.

How did it feel when you sold your first one? He crosses his ankles and leans back on his hands.

I was scared, I admit. I believed it was a fluke and I would be accused of being a fraud.

Preston laughs. He looks at his watch and gets slowly to his feet. Reluctantly.

He offers to give me a ride home and I say I’ll stay in the park awhile. He gives me a Mountain Dew, pours ice-water from his cooler into Sassy’s dish and throws some half-melted ice cubes to her. She wakes up and lazily begins to chew one, holding it between her paws.

I get up and we slide his blanket out from under mine so I won’t have to drag it home with me. He has the book he started tucked under his arm. We decide to meet at noon on Monday after his morning class and I think I’ll ask him about school then. He touches my arm, runs his hand from my wrist to my elbow. Then he goes. My skin feels chilled where he touched me.

I lower myself back to the blanket and sit watching the kids on the swings, in the playscape. Sara falls and starts to cry. Michael runs to her and picks her up. He brushes her long, wispy blond hair out of her face, rubs the dirt off her chin with his thumb and kisses her check. She smiles at him and he wipes her tears and her nose with a wrinkled napkin he pulls out of his pocket. She runs to the sandbox and he goes and sits on a bench, watching her.

My stomach growls and I gather up my things and head for home. On the way I stop and give Michael and Sara my cheese and crackers.

Sunday, March 7

I put my chair bag over my shoulder, grab my notebook and Sassy and go to the park. It’s cloudy today so I don’t have to hide under the tree. Instead, I set my chair up by the creek that runs through the middle of the picnic area. I like to listen to the water splashing over the rocks and watch the ducks while I’m thinking about my novel and what I’ll write. Sara and Michael come over and take Sassy for a walk and I write for a while, forgetting everything around me, making progress, until half my quota is done. The kids bring Sassy back and I stop writing, get up and work the stiffness out of my legs and back, drink some water and put some in Sassy’s little dish, then sit back down and watch her lap it up. I think about the ice Preston gave her and then I start thinking about Preston and I get no more work done.

I think about Preston’s wide shoulders and narrow hips, his strong arms and the feel of his hand gentle on my skin. I think about how I had to look up to him when we were standing together, my head barely reaching his chin.

I think about what a good fit we would be if I were younger. I wipe the tears from my cheeks with my fingers as I watch the ducks rooting among the weeds at the edge of the stream. I look up at the magnolia tree and I see him. He’s on his back in the grass with his knees sticking up and his arms stretched out to the sides. His camera bag is beside him and I wonder if he takes it with him everywhere the way I always have a notepad with me.

I want to go to him but I don’t. Does he know I’m here, so far from him, yet so close? After a while he gets up and walks to the parking lot. He doesn’t look my way and I tell myself it’s best. Tomorrow I will end this foolishness. He will give me my book and we will say goodbye. The thought makes me feel lonely.

Monday, March 8

I hear the thunder as I make my morning coffee. I can smell the rain, coming down softly at first and then harder. I’m in my pajamas, hospital greens really, and my bright, stripped robe my daughter Vicky gave me one Christmas, laughing and telling me I needed more style when I lifted it out of the box and tried not to look horrified.

I sit by the window and will the rain to stop. I can barely see the park when it lets up a little, but then lightning flashes and the rain comes down harder again. It could rain all day like this or it could stop and the sun could come out and dry everything up. You never know in Florida.

I look at the clock. It’s only 7:00. Five hours. The rain will stop by then, I tell myself. I sit in my Lazyboy in my cramped little living room and suddenly notice how bleak it seems with its dark paneling and worn brown carpet.

I open my laptop and turn it on. At least I use it to get on the Internet. I’m afraid to use my desktop for that because my stories are on it and I’m afraid a virus will attack and destroy everything the way I’ve heard can happen, even though I have all the latest anti-virus software. I read my email and write notes to my mother and my sister.

I type a longer email to Vicky. I don’t mention Preston or his powerful pull on me to anyone. I attach files with updated copies of everything I’ve been working on to the email to Vicky. She is not allowed to read these unfinished stories. She puts them on a flash drive and saves it in her nightstand for me in case my computer is destroyed in a fire or hurricane and the entire internet crashes. She tells me I’m paranoid but I tell her all writers are and she indulges me.

I take a shower and dress and mess with my dyed-to-cover-the-gray hair for a while and give up. I need to get it cut and styled, I decide, as I brush it back and put a band around it. I put moisturizer on my face and apply my make-up carefully. I should start wearing foundation. I’ll ask for a facial and makeover when I get my hair done. I look at the clock. It’s almost 10:00. The rain’s let up again and I can see the park and the tree.

I sit down to write but get up again and putter around the house. I dust and vacuum. I strip my bed and start the wash. I look out the window and it’s raining harder and it’s 11:30 and I want to cry. I toast a bagel and smear butter and cream cheese all over it and take two bites, give Sassy a little bit and throw the rest away.

It’s noon now and it’s still raining. A tear slides down my cheek. I’m ready to have a good long cry over my lost youth. But the doorbell rings and I take a deep breath and wipe my face as I look through the little peephole I installed myself and am rather proud of.

It’s Preston. I open the door and he rushes in as lightning cracks behind him. I get a