Life in a Box

By JoDee Neathery

Andee Camp inherits a box of family history after tragedy strikes along with a challenge to write a novel based on her ancestors. To fulfill this dream, she would exchange her book reviewer hat for one of a writer, forcing the seeds of self-doubt aside. With obstacles littering her path, she discovers the mystery surrounding her relationship with her parents and theirs with each other alongside new pieces in a complicated puzzle.
Catherine and Fulton Smith added twins, Victoria Jeanne and Benjamin Thomas, to their family in Portland, Oregon on August 13, 1922, the same day twins, William Theodore and Joanna Abigail, blessed Eve and Leon Brown with an addition to theirs in Amarillo, Texas. Many years later behind the backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains in Southern California, whether by fate or destiny, the Smiths and Browns form a bond lasting three-quarters of a century.

Life in a Box is like leaping off the diving board and seeing the sky from the bottom of the pool. When the author breaks through the ripples, a layered story rich with humor and heartache, discovery, and growth emerges and in the end, readers understand the depth of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JoDee Neathery
• Release date: Jul 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370068685

JoDee Neathery

JoDee Neathery, drawing from her Southern California and Texas roots, plucked a few personalities off the family tree, encasing their world inside fictional events to create her debut literary novel, Life in a Box published July 2017 asking the question how much would you sacrifice to hide a secret? Her second novel, A Kind of Hush, launched July 2021 but examines how life is seldom a tidy affair exploring whether there is a gray area between right and wrong. The Mackie family is enjoying a summer outing near their Buffalo, New York home when tragedy strikes. One parent, their teenage daughter and seven-year-old son survive but was this a horrific accident or something more heinous and if so, whodunnit and whydunnit.JoDee spent her professional life in the banking industry, prior to branching out into the executive recruiting business with TracyLocke Public Relations and Bustin & Company in Dallas, and Creamer Dickson Basford in New York. Upon relocating to East Texas, JoDee spent six years handling public relations for a non-profit, and writing freelance articles for the newspaper, trade publications, newsletters, installation ceremony scripts, and sadly a few obituaries. Her dream “job” has been chairing, writing minutes, and reviews for her ninety-three member book club, Bookers, for the past eighteen years. She also enjoys a byline, Back Porch Musings, a lighthearted view of life in general, in an area newspaper.She and her husband live in close proximity to their only daughter, son-in-law, two teenage grandsons, a bird dog, four cats, a donkey, and a few head of cattle.

Book preview

FAMILY TREE

THE SMITHS

Catherine Parsons (1900) Fulton Smith (1885)

Muriel Nell (1917)

Marries Jonathan Louis Sonny (1941)

Jackson Barton adopted (1945),

Marries Daria Madrid (1975)

Flynn Brown (1978)

Catherine marries Fulton Smith (1919)

Fulton adopts Muriel (1920)

Benjamin Thomas (1922)

Victoria Jeanne (1922)

Marries William Theodore (1943)

Andee Lia (1948)

Marries Scott Camp (1980)

THE BROWNS

Eve Tilly (1900) Leon Brown (1888)

Eve marries Leon (1916)

Jonathan Louis Sonny (1918)

Marries Muriel Nell (1941)

Jackson Barton adopted (1945)

Marries Daria Madrid (1975)

Flynn Brown (1978)

William Theodore (1922)

Marries Victoria Jeanne (1943)

Andee Lia (1948)

Marries Scott Camp (1980)

Joanna Abigail (1922)

The Illuminator’s

Endowment

Athena, Texas

August 2001

Andee Camp cradled a leather-bound book as if the spine anchoring her novel together cracked, the narrative would be lost. She likened her joy to the rapture of discovering a Tiffany glass skylight concealed by layers of paint intended to hide its presence and beauty.

From her bedroom window, she spotted a white-tailed doe enjoying a meal of tropical plumeria with her speckled fawn. The pair looked up when she tapped on the glass, darting off searching for a yellow rosebud lunch. She and husband Scott reveled in the tranquility of their home near a sleepy lake and golf course community in East Texas, moons away from their hectic travel schedules. The neighborhood treasures, blue herons and white egrets dipping in among the native hickory, oak, and pine canopies, mockingbirds chasing squirrels, twittering cardinals and robins, created a home like Thoreau’s Walden. Summer months dripped with heat and humidity, and in the fall, flocks of white pelicans migrating from Canada stopped by before journeying farther south.

Andee had turned her passion of the written word into a career reviewing literature, adopting a character’s persona and offering a unique point of view and innovative presentations. Scott, an Alabama product with a family golf pedigree, enjoyed a partnership with Andee’s father in an international golf course design business. Both calendars demanded the organizational skills of a presidential assistant.

However, another reoccurrence of melanoma threatened to derail her future. Andee now qualified for an immunotherapy clinical trial combining radiation and drugs. The doctors hoped, by taking advantage of the great strides in metastasis research, this treatment protocol would eliminate the tumors tied to the deadliest form of skin cancers.

Scott wrapped his arms around her shoulders, What are you doing up so early?

The wet nose on my eyelid from our big ball of orange fur woke me up. Olive’s version of pillow-talk I guess.

Let’s get you back under the covers. The usual breakfast of coffee and a protein shake?

Mint chocolate chip ice cream sounds better.

Double scoops it is.

She propped a bolster and two cushions against the headboard. Climbing into bed under the watchful blue eye of the cat squinting in her direction, she pulled the bedspread over her legs, placing the book on her lap. Olive moistened one paw, washed her face, coiling into slumber after a good human scratching between her ears. Andee opened to the dedication page marked with a tattered envelope, running her fingers over the quotation from the poet Horace. "Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents, which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant." Inside the envelope, a letter from her mother, Victoria Jeanne, discovered in a box of memories altered the direction of Andee’s life. Rereading her words summoned the same profound sadness as before, only today they were restorative much like a parent blowing the sting away after dousing a skinned knee with mercurochrome.

Dear Andee,

The mysterious Hawaiian petrel spends nearly all her life hovering over the world’s oceans. Imagine caging this special bird. What happens? This free spirit then becomes dependent on you for its basic needs, and is accepting and content because it knows no other lifestyle. In this pattern, what the caretaker deems elemental triumphs over instinct.

You are the rare bird in the protective shell your father and I created for you. Though our intentions were sincere, we guided you along a cautious path minimizing your chances of failure by exchanging your starry-eyed dreams with realistic alternatives…robbing the songbird of lyrics and shackling your independence to our expectations.

Daddy and I adore you, his love is as consistent and open as mine is guarded and conditional, but now I’m able to give you something not possible before…my story. I have lived it and now I want you to write it. Do it for you and me so we can see who we are and why we are. You own the tools, you know the characters well, and now the puzzle will fit together. Use your three-dimensional prose to flavor your creativeness, add our Smith-Brown sense of humor, and voila, the result will be a character driven novel based on your colorful relatives. People seek out your opinions and respect your book reviews, but you are unraveling plots and characters scripted by others. Write your own words and let someone else analyze your art. I’ll only be disappointed if you don’t try.

Reality television rules today’s airwaves by giving ordinary people a chance to do something extraordinary. Dreams are extensions of the potential we see in ourselves. Be the big dreamer who accepts challenges and learns from failure not a little dreamer terrified of falling flat.

Inside your memory box, a clear piece of sea glass known as Ocean Eclipse, affixed to a key ring by a spiraling silver bale, represents ageless symbols of eternity, dating back to our roots, Victorian era England. The key unlocks our Balboa beach house. Remember how many happy summers we spent there. If only the walls could talk, we might have more story than we want to tell. It’s a place filled with inspiration and history and a perfect place to fulfill your dream…all that remains are your words.

Like the Mama petrel flying over six thousand miles to find food for her lone young offspring, never doubt my purpose. I hope you realize how hard I tried when you discover the whole story. I love you.

Soar with vision,

Mom

P.S. When you look up the petrel, and I know you will, note the long thin legs and think of me.

The saga of two sets of twins, the Smiths and the Browns, born on the same day thousands of miles apart exposed more than a story. Andee closed her eyes muttering...Everyone was wrong. No one really knew her.

Ferreting Out

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

August 1997

For twenty-two years, Jackson Barton-Brown planted red herrings into the heart of his mystery novels. He reminisced about the fierceness of the publishing business watching four cat sharks feed on shrimp and squid inside his aquarium from his writing cove above the Pacific Ocean. Built-in bookcases adjacent to the tank housed famous visionaries alongside Twain, London, and Salinger rubbing leather bindings with Conrad, Melville, and Buck. Even rave reviews of his latest novel, Silhouette of the Pink Dolphin, led by the stunning prose in the opening line, "The scarlet eyes of the pink dolphin held my gaze as if to say, you are my witness," paled in comparison to the discovery of a passage in his late mother’s journal dated on his birthday, May 21, 1945.

Muriel and Jonathan Louis Sonny Brown adopted him as an infant, but as Jackson’s intuitive nature developed, he suspected his happy little family was less than ideal. With Muriel’s passing and his father’s body still missing after a boating accident in 1988, the time was ripe to concentrate on the nonfiction portion of his life by paying a visit to the only persons able to shed light on his lineage, Muriel’s younger siblings, the twins, Aunt Victoria Jeanne and Uncle Benjamin Thomas Smith.

While waiting with his long-serving valet for the car to circle the driveway, a briny mist dripped from Jackson’s sou’wester. Nearby beneath the ledge of sea and sky, the ocean’s swelling backwash granted a hairsbreadth of stillness before white-crested waves smashed against the rocky coastline. Jackson, armed with what he viewed as corroboration of his suspicions regarding his birth parents, vowed to return with the first segment of his memoir.

I’m sorry you’ll miss dinner this evening. Your Cajun houseguest is smoking pork ribs. She’s found a meat market using the ‘rooter to tooter’ method of butchering a pig. I didn’t ask, but I’ve got the pizza kitchen on speed dial.

Even I’d shy away from researching pig butchering, Jackson remarked dryly.

The valet offered a half salute, opened the car door, and said, Good hunting Sir. Jackson settled into the backseat for the eight-hour trip to La Jolla submerged in childhood reflections until he retrieved a message from his alpha female attorney regarding his adoption. As they suspected, the papers were sealed. Ms. Ryan had filed a petition in Marin County under the Health and Safety Code to obtain a copy of the original certificate, submitting a request under the Family Code for additional documentation relevant to the private adoption. She advised the next step was to wait for the courts to act, unless a situation developed requiring immediate access to his biological parents’ medical history. This he would investigate…life threatening hereditary diseases.

One of the hazards of Jackson’s profession was type tagging and viewing everybody he met as a possible book character. Julia Ryan, a junior partner in a prestigious boutique law firm, arrived at their first meeting poured into a miniskirt, her long legs settling into stiletto heels. She was confident, decisive, and capable of dominating the weak, using her femininity to increase the stakes. Jackson jotted in his notebook that Ms. Ryan would make a compelling anti-hero. Something to contemplate another time.

* * *

From its perch atop a bluff, the La Valencia, dubbed The Pink Lady, bathed in cherry patina and capped by a golden-domed tower used as a civil defense lookout during World War II, gushed with old world opulence. The hotel stood as a hallowed monument presiding over a thicket of gnarled Torrey pines and lofty palms bidding adieu to the sun’s rays darting across the sea.

The concierge, Jackson, and his driver climbed the outside staircase, awash with the perfume of angel-wing jasmine, to the premier ocean-villa suite. The doors to the residence opened to a living area decorated in warm tropical hues, Italian marble flooring, and white-fir beamed ceilings. Loveseats upholstered in striped peach and sand Dupioni silk and overstuffed garnet wingback chairs faced grand ocean views. A tang of citrus drifted from the outdoor fireplace fusing with the incense of blooming red and purple fuchsia. A gull perched on the railing cawed and preened as if posing for a Coastal Living magazine shoot.

I trust you will find the accommodations comfortable. If you’re in the mood for a good steak or fresh seafood, our seaside pub is guaranteed to cure what ails you.

Jackson, speaking through a slightly close-lipped smile said, Before you go, at some point, I’ll need your assistance in arranging an intimate birthday party for tomorrow night.

It would be my pleasure. Call me in the morning. Gentlemen, enjoy the rest of the evening, Emmanuelle said as she closed the door.

That one could make butter dance, Jackson remarked.

Inklings from

Eddie Rabbitt

La Jolla, California

August 13, 1997

VJ and Ben’s two-bedroom condominium on a sea cliff overlooked a protected cove where families of barking seals lolled about on the beach. The Manor once operated as a luxury hotel and social hub for Southern California’s moneyed partygoers now served as a retirement and continuous care living facility offering residents an array of amenities while gazing into a postcard view of the Pacific. Manorites might opt for foreign language courses, musical programs, tai chi, or participate in Saturday evening beach dances or water aerobics. Just beyond their doorsteps, galleries, museums, and cultural centers joined boutiques guaranteed to deliver retail therapy to discriminating tastes. VJ and Ben enjoyed a connection beyond sharing the same womb. They had been off-and-on companions for years as VJ and her husband Will shuffled between marriage and estrangement.

Ben, I’ve discovered why your Bermuda shorts won’t button anymore.

"Was it on the evening news or Days of our Lives?"

This is serious. I know what’s causing your muffin top.

I’m a little old to worry what I look like in my speedo.

Our bodies co-exist with trillions of germs. For every human cell, there are ten bacterial cells. And here’s the kicker, a two hundred pound person carries six pounds of bacteria!

So my muffin top is nothing more than an amphitheater of microbes. So now what?

Nothing. It just explains another mystery in life’s natural design. A high-top girdle would disguise it. VJ smiled at her brother, Just sayin’.

I can tell you right now I’m not happy about this natural process hooey. I’ve got enough hair in my ears and nose to braid, and with this neck, I ought to be on the most wanted list for Thanksgiving…and my arms, here’s a visual for you. Do you remember that wrinkly stuff called crepe paper we used to decorate the high school gym with?

You couldn’t paint a gloomier picture if the Devil gave you some watercolors, VJ pouted.

You’re right. I’m sorry. Here’s a happy thought. If we live long enough our brown spots will complete their game of connect-the-dots, and we’ll be tan again.

Benjamin, you’re enjoying this aren’t you? Would it kill you to salute my efforts to enrich our lives, challenge our minds, and preserve our sanities?

Would you like your buttock mounted on a trophy, crown, or plaque? Interrupting their banter was a call from the lobby announcing the arrival of Mr. Brown. VJ, hoping the visitor might be the love of her life, scurried off to the bedroom before emerging a few minutes later, twisting her hair into a French plait and applying a touch of frosted mauve lipstick before flinging open the door. Through a weak smile, VJ embraced her nephew, saying with false cheer, Jackson, this is a surprise. Ben, look who’s here.

Jackson kissed VJ on both cheeks before spotting Ben, arms crossed over his chest, standing in the kitchen doorway.

Happy Birthday. For my favorite aunt, white stargazer lilies, delicate, bold, and fragrant, just like you. Uncle Ben, for you… an eighteen year old… bottle of Elijah Craig Single Barrel that is…and an advanced copy of my latest novel.

"At my age, booze is a better choice than a teenager. Elijah Craig…vanilla, smoky caramel, and oak. Sipping heaven. Thanks Jackson. And Silhouette of the Pink Dolphin, what’s it about?"

In every habitat the distinction between scavenger and predator is often vague.

Thanks for the beautiful flowers. And you do know I’m your only aunt, yes? You boys get comfy on the balcony while I put these in a vase.

What brings you to La Jolla? You surely didn’t make a special trip just to offer birthday wishes. Telecommunication is available from the top of California to the bottom. Ben inhaled deeply waiting for the explanation.

Can’t I surprise my relatives on their birthday?

Jerry Jones firing himself from the Cowboys or finding Babe Ruth’s rookie card inside a Cracker Jack box would be shockers. So, what’s up?

Jackson stretched his legs, crossed his ankles, latching his hands behind his head. I overheard my parents talking when I was fourteen. Mother went to bat for me, defending my artistic side. I edited the school paper and the local news published some of my articles. My father called me an embarrassment for not wanting to get beat to a pulp playing contact sports.

Old news. Why bring it up now? Jackson moved within inches of Ben’s face as though revealing the secret launch missile code. My father’s next words were he’s not your son, but he is mine. Her slap bloodied his nose. She pushed by me and refused to discuss it again.

Discuss what? VJ said as she stretched out on a recliner.

Ben took off his glasses and began chewing on the earpiece. It appears Jackson has some ancestral questions.

I discovered this note in Mother’s diary dated on my birthday, he said handing the paper to VJ. What do you suppose it means?

Our mother’s necklace, dear sister, is more than an adornment. Surrounded by pearls of resiliency is a jade heart, an ancient stone of self-healing and hope, personifying the underpinning of our family’s tenaciousness. I bequeath it to you Victoria Jeanne with love.

VJ cleared her throat, removed one of her earrings, clipped it back on, and shot a glimpse Ben’s way before locking into Jackson. Our sister’s dramatic flair was legendary. You inherited her love of language so you know how tedious it must have been for her to create this illusion.

Hogwash, Aunt VJ, please….

Dear, Muriel’s poor health required massive doses of steroids, causing anxiety and phobias altering her personality. God rest her soul.

So your theory is her poetic language materialized because of drugs?

Here’s what I recall. Our mother, Catherine, gave this necklace to Muriel as the eldest daughter intending it to pass down to each generation of women in our family. You didn’t qualify so she gave it to me.

That explanation has all the makings of a contrived accounting. I’m writing my memoir and trust me…I’ll use every avenue available to uncover the facts.

Grope away, said Ben.

Why don’t you stick to what you do best, writing fiction.

VJ, now I’m even more curious why you’re steering me away from this.

Just expressing my preferences. Memoirs are a bit puffed up for my taste.

Jackson, although unsatisfied with the direction of the conversation, moved on to the next item on his agenda, a celebration of their special occasion. VJ, over Ben’s objections, accepted the invitation for cocktails at the La Sala lounge at 6:30. She escorted Jackson to the door, thanking him for the flowers and promising to see him later. Ben peppered her with excuses to cancel including feeling ill and missing the luau and limbo contest later on the beach. Before she left the room to dress for the evening she suggested he take a swig of Maalox and ask the Manor chef to put his name on a to-go box with a few skewers of mystery-meat and broiled pineapple.

* * *

Ben, distinguished in a gray pinstriped Italian blazer, charcoal shirt, and black pants, ushered his sibling through the La Valencia’s photo gallery of revered icons and into the La Sala lounge. VJ, Twiggy-like, angular, and leggy with wisps of blonde hair shocked with streaks of chestnut framing her aging sun-kissed complexion, dazzled in an alabaster couture silk-voile jumpsuit. They chose an intimate divan with views of La Jolla Cove to wait for their host.

Ben’s voice escalating an octave said, You just had to wear the necklace.

It’s perfect with my outfit. The pendant highlights my eyes and the pearls just melt into the fabric.

You’re just asking to revisit this morning’s confab.

I’m making a statement Ben. He can prod all he wants and I’ll have an answer.

Look who’s heading our way. A Polo mannequin all spiffed up in his white linen double-breasted suit. Wonder how much that calm-the-beast beautiful escort set him back?

I’m sorry if I’m a little late. Some details needed my attention. May I introduce Emmanuelle. Her job is to fulfill my every wish, from a concierge standpoint of course, said Jackson.

It’s my pleasure to meet you both. Mr. Barton-Brown didn’t mention how striking his mother is.

Thank you but Jackson’s mother was my sister, said VJ.

Now I’m embarrassed. Please forgive me. Your dinner reservation is in an hour. Enjoy.

Aunt VJ, you have indisputable style. I see you’re wearing the necklace.

It is a wonderful piece of jewelry with an abundance of history.

And it matches her outfit…VJ’s index for life, added Ben.

I’ve taken the liberty of ordering duck leg tacos with lime crème fraiche to nibble on before dinner. VJ, have you decided on a beverage?

I’ll try the Hemingway Daiquiri – rum, fresh lime, grapefruit juice, and genius.

I’ll join you. Ben, name your poison.

Roasted Pineapple Margarita in tribute to the luau I’m missing.

The cocktail discourse remained genial, and as they made their way to the Mediterranean room, VJ hoped the only grilling left would be by the chef de cuisine. Jackson put his arm around her as the maître d’ escorted them through the formal dining room to their table in the corner of the ocean-view terrace. A lighted vase of Asiatic lilies and saffron-tipped vanilla roses, their perfume dawdling in the summer’s breeze, towered over place settings of Wedgwood bone china rimmed with moonstone blue ribbon. Cut crystal stemware, etched with clusters of filigreed bracelets, flickered like Sirius in the night sky. In the background, an acoustic guitarist strummed chords of Moon River from the movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and The Days of Wine and Roses. On the horizon, a tie-dyed sun bled into dusk under a bank of low clouds.

Jackson, I’ve never seen anything so exquisite. And the music, if I close my eyes I expect Audrey and George and Lee and Jack to join us.

Their waiter appeared at the side of the table. Good evening, I’m Densel and I’ll be your server this evening.

VJ ordered a Caesar salad, grilled artichoke, and nine-ounce Filet Mignon, rare while Ben opted for shrimp a la Plancha, mixed field greens, Paella Valencia and roasted baby carrots. Jackson chose lamb meatballs, red lentil soup, and brick Jidori chicken.

Sirs, we have a luscious Sonoma Coast Chardonnay, a bouquet of mango and pineapple with notes of honeysuckle and white peach that would pair nicely with your dinners. Addressing VJ, he added, For you, a full-bodied Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon that just squeals for beef.

I’d love the Chardonnay too, over ice please. I know…I know, Emily Post would faint dead away over my faux pas if she weren’t already dead, but I like what I like.

The arrival of dinner marked a break in the conversation. VJ sent her steak back twice. I’m sorry to be a pest, but I like my beef with a slight pulse. The executive chef delivered round three, failing to hide his astonishment at the size of the guest versus the size of the steak.

While Densel refilled their coffee, Jackson directed his attention to a few breadcrumbs to the right of his plate using brush strokes to mound them next to his knife. Looking skyward as if conjuring up the precise words, he said, So Ben, you and Mother were on our boat the night my father disappeared, right?

You know we were. And we’re off to dissect another tidbit of family trivia.

How can a person vanish and no one notices until the next day, asked Jackson.

We all were sloshed, but Sonny was one over the eight as my fellow military blokes would say, and had an agenda. He started in on Muriel, said Ben.

About?

The usual. Our sweet sister, known in the gambling circles as the Queen of Razz, was playing in a high stakes poker game hosted by the grandson of P.K. Wrigley. We anchored our boat off the coast of Catalina over the fourth of July weekend, said Ben.

Razz poker?

It’s like seven-card stud except the lowest hand wins the game. There are five betting rounds and the best five-card combination wins the showdown.

No limits?

Not with that group.

Ben described how Muriel’s chips towered over the others but Sonny wanted to leave. She refused and he responded with a profanity-laced tirade to all within earshot. Wrigley’s bodyguards escorted Sonny back to the Dreamcatcher. When they returned Sonny was seething, snatching Muriel off her feet, flailing her about like a dishrag. I’d seen enough, said Ben.

So you two fought?

Not exactly. He dropped Muriel and charged toward me like a mall shopper on Black Friday. I can still see his face…righteous anger, his eyes bulging, sweat dripping from his brow. And then, he just laughed, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and buckled on to the deck.

And Mom was where during all this?

Hiding behind a deck chair.

Sonny’s final sermon to Muriel, Take your beat up brother and your Smith money and get the hell out of my sight.

We followed orders and went directly to our cabins. The next morning both the dinghy and Daddy dearest had vanished, said Ben.

It’s unimaginable to me he just took off never to be seen again. He was fit for his age and an excellent swimmer. It sounds like something you’d see in a B movie.

Not to be unkind, but dead’s dead. Does it matter how?

Ben, I gather you didn’t mourn the loss of my father.

Sonny’s venom matched that of a scorpion. Too many have felt the pinch of his sadism, so no, I didn’t cry me a river when he died.

Why weren’t you there Aunt VJ?

I turn green on a rocking boat.

Captain Woody wrote what he described as the real story, claiming he discovered a plot to kill my dad.

Bunk. Dollars from the tabloids, said Ben.

Jackson, what exactly are you fishing for?

VJ, I told you. I’m information gathering for my memoir.

And trying to implicate your family in a crime at the same time? I thought facts directed memoirs. Ben, you ready to go?

Best to leave before my stomach curdles.

VJ, Ben, you’ve taken this all wrong.

Goodbye Jackson, the witch hunt is over. The Greeks had it right; from a bad crow, a bad egg.

The Greeks also identified the three evils in the world…the sea, fire, and women. We’re only missing the flames.

* * *

Jackson’s visit hurled VJ and Ben into a state of brown study, each digesting its magnitude differently. Even the onset of the holidays failed to lift their spirits. Ben busied himself with his retired pharmaceutical friend, Ollie, and reading wartime biographies instead of designing his master menus for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

VJ ordinarily luxuriated in designing table decorations to match Ben’s culinary skills, preparing lists of invitees, and ornamenting for the changing seasons. Instead, she immersed herself in her artwork, becoming obsessed with cleaning drawers, nooks and crannies, closets, and digging into a suitcase packed with photographs of a past life.

When did you become a neat-freak, asked Ben.

I’m decluttering.

My piles of crap are off-limits.

As long as they’re out of my sight you can build yourself a shrine for all I care.

Jeanne-beanie, you’re as crotchety as a brown bear without a stream to fish. Still not sleeping well?

I’m fine, just tired. Dr. Kent gave me some sleeping pills, but they knock me out.

What’s up with the pink box?

I’m packing it up for Andee after I’m gone.

Gone where?

You know…beyond the deep blue sea.

Got it. Swimming with the fishes.

You know I don’t swim. But yes…there.

Ben added his military album to the memory box not wanting his stories omitted from the family history saying, Andee needs to learn all about the better half of the twins.

We wouldn’t be a complete story without you Benjamin. I’ve got an idea. All this reminiscing makes me want to take a trip. I hear the boutiques summoning me to update to my travel wardrobe.

Old number eighty-eight at the Kahala?

Grab the suitcases. It’s Andee’s year with Scott’s family and who knows what Will’s doing. I’ll be back with armloads for Hawai’i.

Turning Turtle Tutorial

Permian Basin, Texas

July 1979

Scotland Cuthbert Camp and Andee Lia Brown’s whirlwind union in Las Vegas’ Chapel of the Little Bells still galvanized some of his family. An uproar ignited pairing a Catholic boy with a girl whose denominational preferences rested on whether she spent Saturday night with her First Baptist or Church of Christ girlfriend. Additional distress came from his sister’s best pal, who sported an engagement ring and a wedding date reserved at Saint Edmund by the Sea Catholic Church when Andee entered the picture.

Scott, a University of Houston freshman on golf scholarship, helped the Cougars win the 1970 NCAA championship, turning professional after graduation. He worked part-time at the Hermann Park golf course, testing his skills in Monday qualifiers for a spot in PGA sanctioned tournaments. In Scott’s adopted state of Texas, charity and pro-am events drew professionals, celebrities, high rollers, titanic-sized Calcutta payoffs, and parties, none bigger than the beer and barbecue circuit.

Tim Cotton, a local Houston professional, recruited Scott as his caddy for the Permian Basin Stampede hosted by the exclusive male only, Gas Light Club, located between Midland and Odessa. Membership, guesstimated at one-hundred and forty, remained constant until a member passed, although privileges did not automatically transfer to a family member. A vacancy in the Club required unanimous approval guided by no specific criteria other than a gut feeling. The GLC boasted two Pete Dye championship golf courses, stocked fishing ponds, hunting leases, and a landing strip equipped for a Learjet 85. Guests, housed in private cabins, enjoyed butlers and abundant fare prepared by a full-time gourmet chef.

The annual tournament, the only time nonmembers entered the Gas Light Club, required a $1,000 donation to the Summer Mummers, Midland’s legendary community theatre melodrama, where hero cheering, villain booing, and popcorn throwing were not only encouraged, but also mandatory. A contribution reserved a spot for this year’s production, Pettifoggery in Pines; She was born in old Kentucky but she’s only a crumb out here.

The festivities on tournament eve began with margaritas and trays of jalapeno sausage, tomatillo salsa, and ceviche served with white corn tortilla chips. The salad course, a