Transport to Destiny

By PAULETTE M. WITHINGTON

Thirty-one-year-old Carol Stivers is tiring of the rat race of modeling and wants to settle down. A rush hour fender-bender forces Carol Stivers and Jack Reynolds, the president of Future Span World Developers to cross paths. When she helps him reach his important meeting on time, he shows how grateful he really is.

One of Jacks enemies plots revenge and a near death experience shows Jack a guardian angel. Could Carol be the angel he needs to get through the life threatening challenges ahead? A tropical escape could answer their questions. And a seven-day cruise is their ticket to drama and romance, as they uncover answers that will unlock their future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2002
• ISBN: 9781403362865

PAULETTE M. WITHINGTON

Paulette M. Withington, a dynamic new writer of historical romance, has created an intriguing novel that magically blends action, and romance with the chilling discoveries of legendary apparitions, newly found treasure and murder. This dazzling tale transports us from Cape Island, New Jersey in her pre-Civil War days; to the lower Chesapeake Bay several decades later, and revolves around the courageous passions of Josiah Abbott and his family as they undertake the life-changing commission of becoming lightkeepers at the Brindle Point, Virginia, lighthouse. This compelling story is laced with wit, old-fashioned values, faith and biblical wisdom. It is also Withington at her best.            Paulette was born, and raised in northern Kentucky where her love for writing began. In 1996, she graduated with honors from NRI School of Writing in Washington, DC. She relocated to South Carolina in 1997, and now resides with her husband Jay in historic Charleston; where the romantic grace of the South inspires and enriches her work.

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© 1996, 2003 by Paulette M. Withington. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4033-6286-6 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4033-6287-4 (Paperback)

ISBN: 1-4033-6288-2 (Dustjacket)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2002093803

Photo courtesy of Marshall L. Smith ROCK SOLID PHOTO, 110

Center St. Moncks Corner, SC 29461 (843)-761-4242

IstBooks-rev. 12/18/02

Dedicated to:

My husband

Jay,

For transporting me to my own destiny of dreams

And

To my family

With love and devotion

Note from the author

This book is a work of fiction and all the persons, places and things contained herein are fictitious. Inclusive among those are modes of public transportation, air lines, cruise lines, businesses and corporations. Any similarity to persons living or deceased is of literary coincidence.

Some of the characters in Transport to Destiny were named in honor of family members, former coworkers and close friends of mine. It is my hope that this gesture be simply viewed as ‘an honorary mention,’ for the use of each name was such to me. However by no means are the traits and actions of these fictitious characters, to be used in comparison to those of the real life individuals for which they are named. To use such a duplicitous comparison would destroy the place of honor that each name was given.

Paulette M. Withington

My Thanks

To my husband Jay:

It would take another book to properly describe my appreciation and thanks for your unflagging devotion, your belief in my talents and your unconditional support and love. For continually standing behind my efforts, and transforming my dreams to realities, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I can write fulltime at home now. Thanks for making that possible. And finally, thank you for being my romantic and remarkable southern gentleman. There’s no doubt about it, you were a gift from above.

To my Dad:

Without hope I cease to write and you revive that hope each time we talk. Thanks for every smile and anecdote but most of all for your contagious enthusiasm. You’re such an inspiration, Daddy.

To Thelma:

Thanks for your encouragement, prayers and motherly love all these years; and for taking good care of my Dad.

To Momma & Poppa Withington:

I brought Kentucky roots into your South Carolina lives and you were as proud of that as I. My love for you started the day we met, and grows with each passing day. That love is crowned by the joy derived from your loyal support and love for your Kentucky daughter. Thanks Momma Claudia & Poppa Barney.

To my sister Glenda K. Tate, Owner and Manager of Bertie Mac Creations; Lexington, South Carolina.

Your efforts in printing the Special Family Edition of this book, in 1996, created a family keepsake that we will always cherish. That ‘labor of love’ was a continual inspiration to me, and helped ‘sustain the dream’ till Transport to Destiny could be professionally published. I’ll never forget your efforts. Thanks for your boundless love, Sis.

To Mary;

You always seemed to call when I needed a break and a boost. Thanks also for your precious humor, your continual encouragement, your strength and your optimistic outlook on life.

To Lisa;

Every first born child should likewise possess the unflagging parental love and pride that radiates through your veins. Thanks for believing in me, and thanks for Trevor and Dylan; the precious best.

To Michelle;

My golden ray of sunshine; my special angel. Thanks for recognizing my need to write and re-enforcing that desire with your unconditional love, (from the start) so long ago. My thanks to you, is superseded only by my thanks for you.

To Brenda;

My newest sister. Your friendship and loyalties elevate you to greatness in my little world. Thanks for opening your heart to me. Your colorful personality could fill my character file for sure… It’s already filled my heart.

And finally, to the multitude of friends and former coworkers I left behind in Maysville, Ky., that are truly too numerous to mention. However the following ladies must be thanked for their closeness to me:

Kim Bevins, Donna Breeze, Martha Corde, Lois Cummins, Bonita Cunningham, Elaine Doyle, Anne Dryden, Crystal Frances, Tammy Fryman, Amanda Glasscock, Illana Griggs, Gloria Harrison, Sherry Hinson, Wanda Humphries, Sue Latham, Mae Kilgore, Charlotte Poe, Thelma Reed, Virginia Sanders, Sheri Shively, Pam Thurman, Rosetta Tumbleson, Lola Turner, Shirley Williams & Juanita Wulfekamp.

You will long be remembered in the treasure-trove of characters that can be compiled from bits and pieces of each of you. Thanks for your friendship that never wavered and for believing in my talents enough to encourage me when this was just a dream. Each of you owns a little piece of my heart. Thanks girls.

Special acknowledgement goes to the following individuals who helped with specific information necessary for plausible manuscript content. Their names (*) and company affiliations are listed as they existed when this book was written in 1995-96.

(*) Mitchell Coleman, owner and manager of Coleman Aviation; Fleming-Mason Airport; Flemingsburg, Ky. (Your interest in the project, coupled with expert knowledge, lifted my characters off the ground.)

(*) Nick A. Colvin, Community President; Trans Financial Bank, Augusta, Ky.

(*) Jerry Cullin, Cruise Counselor; Cruises Only, Orlando Florida.

(*) Jan Davis, R.N. Flight Nurse; U.K. Air Care, Lexington, Ky.

(*) Alycia Eck, Writing Coordinator; N.R.I., Washington D.C.

Collin Fleming, Cust. Serv. Office Depot; Charleston, SC.

(*) Rod Heim, Base manager; U.C. Air Care, Cincinnati, Ohio.

(*) Lisa Hughes Kinney; L.P.N.; Maysville, Ky.

Cpl. Clyde Johnson; Charleston Police Dept., Charleston, SC.

(*) Roger King, Manager; Tire World, Maysville, Ky.

(*) Bill Peterson; County Extension Agent, Mason County, Ky.

(*) Darrell Polley; Sales Dept. Hilltop Ford-Lincoln Mercury,

Maysville, Ky.

(*) Denise Simons; Travel Consultant, Parker Travel Agency, Maysville, Ky.

(*) Karen Skaggs R.N.; St. Mary’s Clinic, Morehead, Ky.

Contents

Note from the author

My Thanks

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Bibliography Sources of Research

About the Author

Chapter One

The hot July sun glinted in the windshield of Carol’s Stivers Ford Escort, and shot a blinding white hood reflection, in her eyes. She lowered both her sun visor, and the bill of her red mesh baseball cap, and squinted through scratched Ray Bans.

Ordinarily, the busy streets of Satin Sands were of no concern to Carol. As a model she was used to zipping from one place to another in short order, but the press of traffic was unusually heavy today because of the all-star game ten miles away. Now, rushed for an appointment, she must hurry to make up lost time and still make Fifteenth Street by two o’clock.

Brunette tendrils at the base of her neck escaped their mesh cover and buffeted her snug tee shirt as she sped along. She glanced at her side mirrors, and then executed a lane change onto Coast Freeway, before she found herself deeper in the concourse. The black hands of her Seiko read one-fifteen as she slipped into a space in the adjacent lane and edged up one spot nearer the ramp. Why did Adella always schedule her so tightly? She glanced at the shoe box and zippered garment bag, lying on the red bucket seat beside her. She’d have to hurry.

She thought back over the ten years she’d been a model for Glamour Girls and remembered that she’d maintained this pace for most of that time. Her heart was never in it anyway and now at thirty-one it wasn’t any wonder that she was burning out. She’d had her fill of continuous diets, pompous photographers, and ill tempered clients, not to mention hectic schedules and the self sacrifice. More than once lately, she’d imagined herself in a suburban life, with a parcel of kids and a husband that helped share her families business at the diner. There would be love, and a regular life. Not this frazzled dual-career mess that kept her hopping, and her Escort in the shop. But these dreams; previously discarded under the sacrificial heading of her career now emerged from a recent realization that her self-sacrifice had been in vain. Abdicating the modeling forefront to others, through the natural evolution of age, was just an unconscious eventuality; a fact she suppressed in the recesses of her mind. Now witth younger blood emerging in the company, stealing the covers and the glitzy jobs, Carol’s back seat was becoming less appealing.

Downtown, a client awaited her arrival. Markum Grant would be all smiles at his newly renovated shopping plaza. The opening would be officiated by the city council, the mayor, local dignitaries and company stock holders. Her official duty was to look pretty and hand a giant pair of scissors to Mr. Grant for the ribbon cutting ceremony. Carol shook her head in disgust. This job was such an embarrassing cut below her usual work, but she had accepted the assignment as a favor to Adella Delaney, the head of her agency.

Now if luck was on her side, she’d arrive just in time to duck into a rest room, fluff out her hair, and change from her white belted cutoffs and tee shirt into the red gown Adella had furnished.

Downtown, the iridescent smile of a lanky blonde waitress prompted the conclusion of a late business lunch.

Would any of you gentlemen like a refill?

None for me.

No thanks.

How about you Mr. Reynolds? she asked, casting the senior member a coquettish smile.

No thanks. I have a meeting at two o’clock and its getting late.

The waitress vamped a hungry look. See you tomorrow, Jack.

Yeah, his associates echoed. Catch you later, Reynolds.

Briefcase in hand, Jack straightened his tie, and left the Flamingo Room of the Robinson Building. He smiled as he remembered the skeletal layout of this beauty. He had labored over the plans for two years, before they were accepted by the Satin Sands Building Commission. How he loved this building. Coming here for lunch everyday was like therapy, for this baby had epitomized his architectural dreams since college. And to have it so close-in the hub of his home town-was very gratifying.

Now, on the second floor, he passed specialty shops and a restaurant, before descending the escalator to his favorite spot; the atrium entrance. Everything sparkled with color. Sunlight cascaded in beams to the shiny leaves of Weeping Fig trees, and the long pendulous arms of twelve-foot Norfolk Island Pines. Below them, tropical crotons brightened planters, in mottled shades of red, yellow and orange. And as he descended, he took this time to think of Nadra-just like he did every day. He couldn’t forget her. And someday she’d want to remember him too.

As Jack stepped onto the black marble floor that based the three-story, glassed atrium, he shrugged it off. Then he left the climate controlled building and stepped into the, noisy heat.

A Latin driver pulled up in a city cab seconds later, and flashed a wide grin from under a cap of black curls.

Where to?

Creiton Towers.

Got it.

Jack snapped open his leather briefcase as they zoomed out into the traffic. He read his secretary’s emphatic reminders and focused on the client. Hoshikama Corporation…2:00...Client flying from Japan…He will not reschedule again, Jack.

The driver knew by experience, that ‘three piece suits’ were good tippers, and in such cases; a little conversation never hurt.

Sure is hot out there.

Jack was absorbed in his notes. It usually is in June.

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror. How about those All-Stars?

Silence was his passenger’s response as they slowed for a light.

It’s gonna be a hot game, huh?

So I’ve read.

Say, you look familiar. Aren’t you uh…

Jack Reynolds; Future Span World Developers.

I thought you looked familiar.

Jack glanced at his watch impatiently. I need to be at Creiton Towers as soon as possible.

The cabby smiled, accelerated and knew his tip was assured.

* * *

Carol’s Escort funneled into the merging lanes of the Tenth Street ramp as she exhaled loudly. I’ll never make it. Move people!

She slowed to a crawl then a full stop as a distant line of construction barrels came into view. Exasperated, she reached for her zippered clutch organizer and read the time for her next job. Six lanes of traffic surrounded her as she scanned the packed ramp. Slowly she crept past the delay and gained enough speed to maneuver past a semi and a pick-up truck, loaded with furniture.

Ten minutes later, she merged into the curb lane of the exit and executed a tight turn onto Fifteenth Street. Then she stole an opening ahead and advanced into the congestion of an intersection.

Mulberry and Fifteenth, she said aloud. Twelve more blocks, but I’ll never make it!

She stole the right curb lane from an approaching B.M.W., and then braked as she realized she was pinned behind a parked utility truck. The overhead light was still green as she caught an opening and swerved back into the middle lane. Now the B.M.W. was ahead of her, and in no hurry. She glanced up at the yellow overhead light and nearly rammed the other car’s bumper. She tromped the brakes and rocked forward, as the other cars advanced. Determination pressed her. She had to make the light. She could do it…She’d done it before…Just twelve more feet. She tromped the pedal, and lurched ahead trying to beat the oncoming traffic. But it was moving faster than the cars ahead of her. Faster than she had anticipated. Horns blared, brakes locked, tires screeched and metal crunched metal as she rammed the right front fender of a city cab. The force of the impact stopped both vehicles dead on the spot, and bounced Carol’s chest off the steering wheel.

Beyond the spewing vapors of her radiator, the crunched taxi sat like an ugly appendage of her car. This was bad. Her first thoughts were for the occupants of the other car. God; don’t let anyone be hurt from this.

She straightened, momentarily stunned, feeling as if someone had drop-kicked her. Then she quickly checked for visible signs of injury. She was more shaken than hurt.

She immediately jumped out to access the damage. The grill was smashed into the radiator, the hood wobbled above the crunched grill and halogen fragments, beneath the overflow littered the pavement.

She looked around in blushing realization to find all but the curb lanes of the intersection blocked. And the guilt of her bad judgment chastised her immediately. What have I done?

Shocked, impatient witnesses leered at her from every side of the blocked intersection. And the crowded street was no barrier for the cabby’s self control. Nothing halted his acerbity. He jumped out for immediate assessment, and there was no calming him.

He was approaching and she knew she should make the first attempt to apologize. I’m sorry…I feel really awful about this.

"Sorry! Look at that! My front fender’s caved in! You just screwed my perfect driving record lady. Jesus! Didn’t you think that light would change, or is it your first day out in Daddy’s car?"

What! She watched him in disbelief as he continued to scream insults.

…Or do you even have a driver’s license?

She shook off the shock. What a ridiculous question. Of course I have a license.

Oh yeah? Where’d you get it? Not from driver’s Ed!

"You’ve got to be the rudest man I’ve ever met. What audacity. I know I should have waited, but you jumped ahead on the green. Besides, that feeble B.M.W. was the real cause of this mess. It stopped in front of me…I wish I had his license plate number but it’s probably half way home by now."

Well I’m glad somebody’s half way home. We’ll be lucky to get outta here by three o’clock, and my man has to be somewhere…Like right now!

Listen, she glared. I resent your impertinence and your chauvinistic attitude. You aren’t the only one that is upset, nor are you the only one who has a schedule to keep. But you certainly are the only one here who is acting like a complete idiot. So kindly use the half a brain you possess and call for medical assistance.

Will you listen to the dame? Miss high and mighty here.

Of really? Have you taken one thought about your passenger?

He spun around and opened the rear passenger door. You alright man?

Jack nodded as the driver used his two-way radio for a back-up. …Yeah some dame broad-sided me man, I got a hot fare…Yeah…Creiton Towers. Can you be here in ten?…You’re sending number forty-five?… Great man. Roger that. Over and out.

You seem to have a lot of damage; I hope the frame isn’t bent.

Ha! Let the city worry about repairs, this goes on my record! He pointed a finger at her nose. It’s dames like you that cause these messes.

I beg your pardon. And who are you to judge me? You cabbies are notorious for crowding everybody off the streets, as if you own them.

These streets are my job lady. I see broads like you who don’t drive worth a…

A passing female motorist yelled through her open window, I have a cellular, need any help?

Yes thanks! Carol exclaimed. Please notify the police…It seems Mr. Chauvinist here is on a roll. And if you’d call 555-4748 I’d appreciate it. Tell them to send a replacement to the Plaza, because I’ll be detained.

555-4748, sure, no problem, she smiled.

Thanks!

The cabby shook his head as he assessed the damage, while Carol scanned the mess in dismay. Why hadn’t she waited? The crumbled taxi was undisputed evidence of her erring.

The Mulberry Street flow was cut from both curb lanes because of construction barrels, and the wreck blocked the Fifteenth Street flow, where it was funneled to a single lane. A chorus of horns was blaring in the condensed traffic and grated above the voices of agitated drivers.

Two men stuck their heads out of windows to exchange insults. Hey stupid. How about moving that piece of junk so I can get to the game. The all-stars ain’t gonna wait for me, you know.

Ah, what a shame. They could use a real brain like yours.

Why you…! Shove it over!

A man in the lane next to Carol, drove a station wagon full of Cub Scouts, and was becoming nervous. "I can’t go anywhere Billy, our lane is blocked."

The man behind him shouted an obscenity and puffed a fat cigar. Thelma, can’t you see I’ve got a lard can full of brats ahead of me and I can’t move an inch.

Inside the cab, Jack Reynolds watched the proceedings with impatience. He checked his watch as the attractive, long-legged driver of the other vehicle cringed and mumbled aloud, What a mess. They’ll charge an arm and a leg to tow me across town to my brother’s garage.

The cabby scowled, as he leaned back against the fender and crossed his arms over his chest. Oh, so that’s why you’re so calm. Does your brother fix all your messes?… Which makes me ask; you got insurance?

She had had enough of his badgering. Of course, but the city doesn’t pay for mine.

WHAT!…You’re some piece of work lady!

Jack emerged from the back seat, unbuttoning the jacket of his three-piece suit. His black wingtips glistened with polish and his gray peppered hair winged back in perfection. He looked at the damage, and introduced himself out of habit, rather than obtrusiveness. Jack Reynolds of Future Span World Developers. Everyone alright?

The cabby snapped, Yeah, sure.

I think so, Carol said contritely.

Great, he said checking his watch. Listen I have to be at a meeting in fifteen minutes. He turned to the cabby, If you can get me to Creiton Towers on time, there’s fifty bucks in it.

The driver’s face lit up with greed. Alright! You can kiss that fifty good-bye, ‘cause number forty-five’s rollin’ and ten minutes away.

I can beat that, Carol interrupted.

What! the cabby shrieked. Hey lady my man’s with me, and number forty-five is on the way. If you think I’m gonna let you leave the scene before the cops show…No way!

Carol rolled her eyes sarcastically and pointed to her disabled car. You think I could beat them? I’ll bet I could make it in record time, what do you think?

The cabby turned to his passenger with animated sincerity, Just hang tight man, we’ll get you there on time. He leaned closer and lowered his voice, I’ll still get the dough even if the other cab gets you there, right?

"You can split it with the next cabby. If; you get me there."

Carol glared at the cabby. You’ll never make it, that’s twelve blocks. Even if you left this minute, you’d never make the lights, besides city crews are working down town. You have to detour around the Tenth Street construction and that takes ten minutes alone.

The cabby became irate. Man, will you listen to this broad! I think I know about the construction and the detour downtown.

Well how do you plan to get him there? Look around. We’re practically grid locked.

And your plan? You gonna fly him there, Wonder Woman?

"I’m not going anywhere, but there’s a twelve speed clamped to the back of my Escort."

WHAT! ARE YOU NUTS! My man’s sportin’ a business suit. I’m sure he’s gonna straddle your sissy wheels and ride all the way downtown drippin’ in this heat.

Carol turned to Jack Reynolds and ignored the cabby. Listen. You can ride through the traffic from here to Tenth Street and cross under the viaduct to bypass the work crew. If you catch a light, switch to the opposite side of the street with the pedestrians. That saves at least a minute at every light plus the ten for the lingering cab and detour. Hey…It’s all I can do.

He glanced around at the traffic, and checked his watch a final time. It might just work. He pulled out a business card. Here. Call and leave your name and address with my secretary and I’ll have your bike delivered later. He removed his jacket and vest and, confided, I haven’t ridden one of these in years, but Miss you have a deal.

He unlatched her bike from the rear carrier on her Escort, and relinquished his vest and suit coat to her care. Here, we’ll trade later, but what about my briefcase? I can’t carry it and control both the gear levers and the handlebars.

Here, she said, whipping off her belt. We can tie it to the handlebars with this. A relieved look spread across his face and they jointly worked with haste to double-wrap the flexible vinyl belt through the thick handle of his briefcase.

He hesitated momentarily, then shook off his pride and rolled up his pants. I do remember one thing. These chains devour pant legs.

She smiled, as he rolled up his cuffs. Who knows you could start a fashion trend.

They laughed as he straddled the seat and fumbled with the pedal.

In a final effort to triumph, the disgruntled cabby objected to the procedure. Come on man. Have a little faith. We’ll get you there.

Sorry, Jack said, slapping ten bucks in his hand. I can’t wait.

You’ll be fine, she called. Just keep pedaling when you change gears. She tossed the cabby a defiant sneer. …And watch out for the cabbies!

As he pedaled away he yelled over his shoulder, Thanks and don’t forget to call.

No problem. Glad I could help.

The police arrived twenty minutes later and much to Carol’s dismay, no excuses were accepted. She was fined two-hundred and sixty five dollars for disregarding a traffic signal. The cabby got off Scot-free and mumbled an obscenity at her, as the wrecker lifted the front wheels of her crunched Escort off the pavement.

Within an hour she was sitting on a stack of motor oil cases, conferring with her brother Phil at his garage. The Escort sat staring at them like a pug-nosed Pekingese.

Phil scrutinized the car and calculated at least two weeks for the body work, plus engine repair. In the meantime he offered her the use of his Mazda, which fortuitously gave him the perfect excuse to uncover his Harley.

As Phil checked under the crunched hood for damages, Carol made her telephone apology to Adella, at Glamour Girls, and then noted her new schedule. She had a new photo assignment for Saturday. It was a location shoot on San Pablo Island, for a swimwear catalog with the renowned Simon Fiero. This would be her third shoot with this photographer and hopefully it would again prove profitable. The extra cash would surely help.

If this damage had extended past the front tires, we’d have to total it, Phil said slapping the clipboard down on the cluttered counter. You were lucky. Another half an inch and you’d have creamed the engine. It looks like thirty-four hundred dollars, best I can tell.

Thirty-four hundred dollars! God, Phil!

Parts aren’t cheap Carol, I’ve told you that. You’d done some major damage this time. I’ve gotta replace the grill and hood, the bumper and headlights, electrical wiring, the radiator and fan…antifreeze and belts…shall I go on?

She waved him off with a scowl.

And Fred told me the last time this happened; I’d about exhausted his salvaged Escort stock. We may have to order through Ford.

Oh swell! The traffic fine alone was two hundred and sixty five bucks! That smug cabby got off without as much as a warning.

"Well let this be a warning to you. Slow down for Pete’s sake. This makes three in five years, doesn’t it?"

Oh come on, kick me while I’m down. You promised no lectures.

I’m not lecturing you, but I’d like for this to be the last accident Carol. You’ve been darned lucky. He widened his eyes emphatically waiting for a reply.

All right. I’ll slow down, I promise.

You’d better. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed it. What am I gonna do with you, little sister? If you were one of my own…

…What.

He smiled and shook his head. I’d ground you for your driving.

They exchanged a smirk as they examined the invoice.

Well, Carol said nonchalantly. At least one nice thing happened because of this mess.

Oh?

I helped the guy in the taxi I rammed.

Did he get hurt or something?

No, I lent him my twelve-speed for a downtown meeting.

You lent your bike to a total stranger? Carol Elaine…

"Oh come on, Phil…I think it’s alright. He was ‘a suit’ from Creiton Towers. Besides he gave me his business card so I know how to get the bike back. And if his rep is as good as his clothes, there’s no problem. He was wearing an Alexander France and after ten years in modeling, I know clothing labels. That’s top of the line."

So? This gives the guy a perfect foot in the door.

I felt guilty because the guy was running late and I offered some help, that’s all.

I don’t care. Someday one of these characters you keep getting involved with, will do you harm. You’re too naive.

"Oh here we go. I’ve worked my buns off modeling part time and keeping Dad’s diner open. We’re doing alright. I’m keeping up with the rest of the local restaurants, making a small profit and if I’d been that naive, Hotdogs and Beach Buns would have gone under long ago."

Alright, there’s no use getting into it. You’re gonna do what you want, no matter what I say.

I just wish you’d trust me for once. I’m not a child anymore. It was only a bike. I hardly have time to use it anyway, and I if I never see it again, it won’t be a big loss.

The connecting office door opened and Phil’s wife appeared. Carmen was the sedate member of the Stivers family, the jewel in the family crown. She possessed an eloquent diplomacy where Phil and Carol were concerned, and on occasion had extracted both of them from heated debate. She wore a white eyelet peasant blouse tucked in a tri-layered gathered skirt. Her long amber waves dropped below her tanned, bare shoulders and her white sandals clip-clopped as she walked to Phil and kissed his cheek.

Let her alone, Phil. She’s not a child anymore. Besides my roast will soon be done and getting upset will only spoil your appetite.

Carol had watched Carmen become the ideal companion to her brother, yet their marriage of fifteen years had afforded her little luxury. In Carol’s eyes she was the American housewife exemplified, and the sister she biologically had been deprived.

Is he trying to push his weight around again, Carol?

As usual, and taking his big brother role too serious.

Phil grimaced. Somebody has to look out for you.

Carmen poked him in the ribs with a scowl. Don’t be so rigid. Are you about done for the day?

One last lube job; that’s it.

How about knocking off early so we can enjoy a nice evening with your sister?

Alright, but I’ll have to start early tomorrow morning.

How about it Carol?

She looked at the car. I can’t eat.

Sure you can. Once you settle down and relax, you’ll be fine. Come on. We haven’t visited for a couple of weeks.

Alright. Let me call the diner first. If things are slow, I’ll have Burt close for me.

* * *

Four hours later Carol was close to exhaustion as she climbed the exterior stairs to her apartment, which was located over a three-car garage. It had been a horrible day and the steamy bathroom was inviting. After she showered and towel-wrapped her long, straight hair, she slipped into a white terry robe. Her collar bone was sore from the wreck, but otherwise she was unharmed.

She picked up the mail and dropped into her white wicker rocker, but her thoughts strayed. Flashes of the wreck and the passenger riding off through the traffic on her bike, kept returning. Her eyes fell upon his vest and suit coat that were lying on the table where she had laid them. She fished his business card from her purse and read his name: Jack Reynolds Future Span World Developers. Yes, the name had reached local acclaim. Her imagination drifted to the kind of life a business executive of his magnitude might live. He probably owned homes across the country and no doubt abroad. She smirked as she visualized him in a posh penthouse apartment buzzing with merriment and scantily clad debutantes.

She glanced at the wall clock and knew it was long past his office hours. The call about her bike would have to wait until the next day. She had paper work to do.

As she curled up with the weekly invoices, her thoughts drifted to her Dad. These were his business invoices that she had inherited. It was his faithful customers that she served, his quarterly taxes that she filed, and his dreams that she had continually struggled to maintain for five years. She thought about the improvements she’d made in his beach-front dream, and knew he would have loved its face lift, if he had lived to see it.

She mused about the progressive changes that had occurred in town since he had died and knew he would