Blue Elevator

By Rachel Cook

This jaunty, fictional story connects mystical imagination with mysterious fantasy as the author merges sensual realism with mature emotions. With a sweep of her hand, Rachel Cook wakes up poignant dreams and questions the unexpected realities of the characters she meets on the blue elevator of her condominium.
Set in the residence of the writer, the Ortega Yacht Club Condominiums in Jacksonville, Florida, fanatical actions revolve around fictional characters, as a chance meeting on the blue elevator maneuvers the fates of the two main characters.
Adele Dell Marie Bell (Septuagenarian) is a writer who discovers that everyone has a tale to tell. She has retired and plays with the minds of her friends and acquaintances as she writes romantic fast reads (and would rather eat and enjoy life, than diet and suffer).
Robert Andrew Andy McIntosh (Thirty), a wandering, unemployed chef, is the grandson of her deceased neighbor Pansy, who owned an ostrich farm in Ocala, Florida.
This odd couple unconsciously ignores convention as fate; food, fun, and fantasy pull their unparallel lives together for a short time, introducing mystery to shine up rusting pieces of them.
Now dont go jumping to conclusions, the first inkling of this unbalanced relationship is not what you are thinking when the heart of an obnoxious neighbor is stolen (with a steak knife)!
Dells aging imagination is rekindled as the mystery of the unbridled heart thief unravels, drawing the two main characters into an intriguing story.
Adele Marie Bell, the quirky writer of romance novels (pseudonym, Rochelle) accepts the challenge of writing the story as she unwinds a twisted journal given to her by her neighbor (Andys eccentric grandmother), Pansy Oag McIntosh. The journals untethered words wets her journalistic appetitive, and she is served an appetizer (a human heart); an entre (Thanksgiving dinner, broiled ostrich on an ostrich farm in Ocala, Florida); a main course (a three-star dinner in Paris, France, that reveals Andys curved heritage). And for a delightful dessert, Andy himself dishes up pen and ink answers to delectable questions!
Adele Marie Bell writes notes in a journal as she tunnels into the buried past of Andys dysfunctional family, digging up, and recording the reclusive secrets of his tightly wound grandmother (Pansy).
Her talent for romantic expression and intrigue is left challenged, as Pansys rambling journal reveals a webbing of jangled words that leaves difficult questions unanswered, telling young Andy he is not who he thinks he is!
The writer wets the readers appetite, salivating taste buds, as Andys gourmet talents cook up surprisingly lip-smacking results, and the two become unlikely cell mates.
These two dimensional characters invite word-hungry readers to dine with them in the neighborhoods most popular restaurants as they uncover secrets lurking behind the doors of the condominium and glamorize the art of dining for pleasure, versus eating to fill the gut.
Tasty words unravel a yummy mystery that keeps the readers tummy grumbling for more, and loves definition breaks all rules as it unfolds with astonishing realism, making the reader think endings are not such a bad thing . . .
Rachel Cook scraps below the surface of her characters, using her mature power of words to enamor her readers with surprises, knowing that every life is a tale to be told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466943513

Rachel Cook

Rachel Cook has sailed the Caribbean and the Bahamas with her husband, Capt. Greg Cook. Sailing aboard an expedition ship in the Antarctic was the inspiration for her first book when their ship stuck an iceberg. Rachel has written five. A chance meeting in the Bahamas with Peter Benchly led to Greg and Rachel appearing on the cover of National Geographic in 1985.

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BLUE ELEVATOR

RACHEL COOK

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Edited February 14, 2009

Edited July 30, 2010; January 2011; January 2112

© Copyright 2012 Rachel Cook.

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Cover by ‘Trinity’

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4352-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4351-3 (e)

Trafford rev. 06/25/2012

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Contents

PROLOGUE

(2051)

JOURNAL NOTES

OF ADELE MARIE BELL

PANSY OAG MCINTOSH

THE CHIMNEY CLEANER???

FEBRUARY 14,

VALENTINES DAY

PANSY’S CONDO (1101)

PANSY’S JOURNAL;

MARCH (WINDY)

APRIL

(RAINY, SHOWERS, COOL)

MAY

(FLOWERS BLOOMING EVERYWHERE, NO HURRICANES)

PANSY OAG MCINTOSH;

JUNE

(HOT, HOT, HOT, THUNDERSTORMS!)

JULY

(HOT, HOT, HOT

HURRICANE SEASON)

AUGUST (COOLER)

SEPTEMBER (COOLER)

OCTOBER (COOLER)

NOVEMBER (COLD!)

OCALA FLORIDA (THANKSGIVING DAY, 2008)

DECEMBER (REALLY COLD)

PARIS FRANCE

(CHRISTMAS EVE 2008)

JANUARY 2009

FEBRUARY 2008

ADDENDUM

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

(2051)

‘His imagination resembled the wings of an ostrich. It enabled him to run, though not to soar’.

Lord Macaulay

February in the year 2051 had brought with it unseasonable drenching rains. Ocala Florida had returned the welcomed gift by greening the entire countryside around a rambling farmhouse. The whole life of the grand house, centered in the middle of the greening, spilled out onto spacious grounds, homing the rambling space occupied by majestic Ostrich birds strutting on two-toed feet, as they blazed a path of vibrant colors around the surrounding foliage.

The eyes of one oddly shaped bird, a single color blue, with just a hint of golden glints, jutted from the monochromatic head of the bird that stood over nine feet tall. The majestic old bird weighing over 400 pounds made one think the mind was doing funny things as it reared it’s long neck straight back flapping useless, comical, short wings; wings incapable of lifting the bird off the ground as it managed exquisitely, balancing the human on it’s back.

At the right moment, a young girl dropped to one knee photographing the grinning silver haired bird bronco silhouetted against a pale blue sky. The aviator held on to the long bare neck of the flightless egg-laying vertebrate, with one hand, his other fist raised to the sky (one looking as ridiculous as the other).

Excitement exploded in the riders face revealing that only a man familiar with the actions of the full grown African bird would ever have attempted such a radical feat. The photograph would show a lined face that registered pure pleasure as the silvered head lifted higher, becoming one with the energetic ostrich bird that danced with it’s passenger as if to match the lumping rhythm of it’s raucous, sensual movements.

The rider was feeling euphoric explosions in his chest as his body responded to the erotic, moving waves of activity. He worked with the bird, allowing him to synchronize an ambitious body-bird ballet, counterfeiting the complex emotions of his first youthful encounter with raw sensibility.

Turning to the sound of a vibrant, youthful, masculine voice, he swung himself off the exasperated bird, insisting that he deserved no praise from his young audience of one. Finding the day a bit chilly he trudged across the green grass, admiring the pastel colors of the seasonal butterfly gardens as he enveloped two calloused hands over the young boys extended hand.

The rider, Andrew (Andy) McIntosh, took in a heavy breath saying breathlessly, "I’ve waited Forty-Five years to ride that bird, and today I’ve kept a promise I made many years ago to a very dear friend."

His face flushed and wavered with pride, and he did not reveal to the young man at his side why he had made this promise.

With his left hand rubbing his back, he walked with a slower gate, very much aware of aching back pain, as he followed the young man up three stairs that led them through a partially shaded court-yard, taking them through a narrow corridor that ran the full length of the house.

Shifting in front of the boy, Andy paused before stepping into the familiar room, backgounded by wide sliding doors. The spacious, high ceiling room, opened onto a square tiled terrace. The late morning sun prickled acres of green farmland shaded by tall Oak trees, exposing a panorama of strutting ostrich birds.

Andy McIntosh, feeling the enveloping tranquility of quiet symmetry, breathed in air thick with the past; his eyes circumnavigating the area, meeting a dramatic change of color in the newly renovated room. It was an elegant room, dominated by a custom built mahogany cabinet that displayed a juxtaposition of four artistically hand-painted, carved ostrich eggs. One egg un-finished, its bland shell blubbering up to God that its life’s work was clabbering about. The large, exquisitely painted carved ostrich eggs presented a startling introduction to the unique talent of the artist, his Grandmother, Pansy Oag McIntosh. Pansy’s collection (open to the public) stood alone in the case. Each one holding the secrets of the Artists reason for being, as they surveyed a faded photograph of a young girl riding a flayling ostrich bird with the year 1939 scrawled across the bottom. Pansy Oag McIntosh is smiling; right arm raised to the sky, her tiny right hand making a triumphant firm fist, as if a battle within her had been won.

Andy emphasized with that look of pure pleasure on her face as she rode the ostrich. Only he would understand her selection of the colors of the uniquely painted ostrich eggs undulating around the well made case. He knew that each one individually echoed migrating myths of secret emotion; unexpected, mysterious, fascinating combinations of intricate art that, if they could speak, would tell shattering, shuddering stories of a badly bruised heart, and the unrequieted labor of love.

Loosing himself in each individual labor of flawless beauty, Andy breathed in new strength as he perceived the meaning of this curious display of Pansy’s resounding journey into the meaning of her empty existance.

On this day, his seventy-fifth birthday, the ostrich eggs provoked the arabesques of the past into visuals of what might have been (at this moment, making more sense then ever).

Standing taller, chest higher, face wreathed in contented smiles, Andy turned his head from the photograph to the wholesome young girl moving to his side. The freshness of her youth commanded him to use his five senses to get the proper fix on her sunwhipped skin; hair (naturally highlighted by mother nature), deep blue-green eyes . . . voice, soft authoritive, and the scent(his gift to her) L’Heure Blue . . .

‘So like the girl who has dominated my dreams for forty-five years . . . ‘

Stepping in front of Andy, she handed him a menu, assuming the accent of the native born Floridian; "For your birthday Mr. McIntosh, we’ll be serving your Grandfather’s original ‘Ostrich fajitas with tomato avocado pico de gallo’." she announced, giving him her special smile of respect.

Showing sincere interest, she channeled her eyes on the chiseled face of the tall, distinguished older man with the well combed, short, handlebar mustache; a face that registered confidence and strength, and a voice that matched the disposition of a farm bred gentle lamb. It was hard to believe that this was the same man, who minutes before had roared like a lion as he rode Prunella, the meanest, oldest ostrich on the farm, like there was a hunger in him to take risks . . . a man who was probably ready for a little time to sit on his shoulders.

Robert pushed the girl forward, "Cousin Andy this is Jaynie, Jaynie Gibson, a farm girl from down the road. She’s our new assistant in the kitchen. You should see what she can do with ostrich meat! When I metter she could’nt cook grits, now we’er workin’ side by side."

"Pleased to meetcha Mr. McIntosh . . . ."

"You will soon be family my dear, please . . . call me Andy . . ."

Robert smiled approvingly. I’ll see you at lunch Cousin Andy; I have to slice ostrich meat for the fajitas.

Andy smiles, and then forces his eyes back to the only known photograph of the young girl in the case thinking; ‘You once said old age is like preparing a good sauce, the longer it cooks the spicier it gets.

Pansy . . . Pansy . . . thanks to you I have lived to be a useful man . . . "From the fallen tree, make firewood’ you once said. I made the firewood, and burned a trail around the world.

"Stay away from medicines, and never be exposed to the failure of the medical system . . . surgery, where the Doctors take you away piece by piece" you said . . . . and I heeded your advise . . . "processed food is poison . . . Stay off airplanes, and always be the master of my own fate.

Pansy, the genes of my Grandfather, and your Father has given me the same heart problem that took the two of you to your end, and that cannot be altered . . . You would not live in a body that had been altered by man, and so you left it . . . I understand why you chose to alter your body to breath a while longer, and why you left it when the dream ended . . . You once said "there are no closed doors in our dreams . . . ."

I know you would understand why I will not alter my body. My dream has come to its end. My only regret is that I did not really know you. You also said "The most important thing about a person is what you do not know . . ."

Looking again at the ageless ostrich eggs, he said aloud, "Only I know your secrets . . . they are safe."

Being something of an anomaly in Ocala Florida, a place lost in time, ‘the McIntosh Bed and Breakfast and Restaurant’ had held onto an eclectic collection of unique furniture that embodied the mood of the farm (hand-crafted by the first Robert Andrew McIntosh in the Thirties—now valuable antiques).

The Florida Ostrich farm homed butterflies, quail, hawks, hummingbirds, and other wildlife. It nestled behind a marble archway framed by a hodgepodge of trees, flowers, and shrubs marking an impressive entrance where foamy, pink, flowering currants circled the paved circular driveway that led to a wide open patio swathed in gray-leafed, hummingbird fuchsia.

Today Andy’s canvass was complete—with the help of his sibling, Robert McIntosh, their work of art, the McIntosh Bed and Breakfast, had morphed from dream to reality (6,000 square feet of rambling farmhouse).

Four bed-rooms, color-splattered with Pansy’s Mother’s hand made ageless quilts; embroidered cushions and pillows presented a rainbow of colors, that had remained the same as they were when the farm had been occupied by the original owners, Prunella Oag, Robert Andrew McIntosh the First, and their Daughter Pansy.

Forty-five years had improved the original structure. Andy and Robert had enlarged the stone fireplace that dominated the large living room (mantle retaining original memorabilia), adding the outrageous crystal chandelier that had once hung in the Mes Amis Restaurant in Paris France, and installing a heating and air conditioning system that controlled the rooms individually.

Andy McIntosh was smiling broadly, as only a man, who has seized his day could smile—His dream, his family’s farm, would be here long after he was gone; the McIntosh farm built by his ancestors.

Andy shared an after dinner coctail in the bar-lounge with Robert. Robert (who exercised a talent for cooking, and painting the images of old barns on canvass), lifted his glass—right arm flashing the Patek Philippe watch that Andy has given him for Christmas;

"Happy birthday Andy, Bon chance (good luck)."

Merci, Robert. The grounds look vibrant.

Rain gardens are very popular in Ocala, we have the right climate, good rainfall, and they are low maintenance . . .

And naturally beautiful . . . .

Looking up at the majestic Live Oaks, breathing in perfumes of the Magnolia trees Andy turned to Robert, You have added a Pagoda Dogwood, and Pansy’s rain gardens continue to attract birds, and butterflies.

"And you want to leave all of this to live in a high-rise, where you will become a retiree Andy?"

The tone of Roberts voice pulls Andy’s eyes away from the gardens, "How will a man like you—a man who has lived to see the integration of baseball, settle down in a Condominium full of old furniture. Are you sure you are ready to handle the sedentary life?"

Andy paused, pulling on his moustache, Pansy Oag McIntosh once said . . .

Yes Andy, Robert pushed ahead, "Pansy said . . . Retirement is the biggest killer of old people!

"This farm is our immortality. However, I can still find excitement in Jacksonville on the St. Johns River. I will do a little river sailing. The Blue Lady has been completely rebuilt, and I have adding all the new modern electronics. She’s still seaworthy in case you are interested in a trek around the world. He smiled, I am ready to enjoy sitting on my balcony, watching the sun rise, and set . . .

You’ve earned it Cousin Andy . . . . Better take it easy old man, I didn’t like that last report from your heart ‘Doc’. You should have the surgery . . . a Pacemaker ain’t so bad . . . His voice trailed Andy, I’ve given the future some serious thought; I would like to donate the farm to the Government.

You mean make it a national park? Mm-hm . . . YES! It would always be well maintained and could never be sold!

"And I would stay on and run the Restaurant, and I would like to paint the Blue Lady before we take her down to the Caribbean on our honeymoon."

"I am very glad to hear that. That painting could find a place on the wall behind the bar . . . . The world is changing Robert—Pansy’s ostrich egg art should remain in that case."

"No problem, Pansy’s egg art is museum quality—

as well known as Faberge’s."

Andy threw back a thimble of Georgian Brandy stood up and after saying his goodby’s he turned slowly and walked under the marble arches.

Pausing, he allowed the rhythmic sounds of moving water to flow through his head, competing with astonishing memories of how these arches had made it’s way from Paris France to this farm in Ocala Florida.

Umbrellad by his past, he entered the four seater ‘copter coup’. Handing the driver his cash card (money was obsolete), he told the pilot to deliver him to the Ortega Yacht Club Condominiums in Jacksonville Florida.

As the ‘copter circles the farm he looks down and for the first time sees new plantings complementing the boldness of the architectural improvements. Hands wave wildly, pointing to the arches where the Zotsia grass layered a distinct heart shaped pattern of budding red roses.

Andy suddenly realizes that he is a lonely man who would never hold the hand that would wear the family ring. However, he was a contented man who had achieved all of his goals; on this day everyting had been accomplished, he had ridden the ostrich! Riding the ostrich had been exciting . . . . exciting as the feelings he had when he held the golden haired girl in dreams in his arms.

He closed his eyes letting his mind review the recurring dream that always refreshed his lonely nights;

The blonde, athletic girl with blue-green eyes . . . skips up the companionway of the ‘Blue Lady’ and rushes forward pulling the lines to raise the sail—His hands; skin tight—muscular arms, smooth hands—no calluses.

She comes to his side—he wraps strong, young muscular arms around her trim waist as the sleek boat swings into the current, moving down the St. Johns River facing a fresh morning sunrise.

Water splashes the hull of the Blue Lady with silvers and greys, the winds perfect! The boat begins to perform like the classy dame she is, meeting the water with style and form. The mainsail is full, and Blue Lady moves to the touch of the wheel like a polished dancer.

The young girl calls back, "We’er really smoking Captain!

Crikey!

Blue-green eyes are shinning as the great boat bows to a slight heel and Andy raises the Genoa, sensing the importance of the muscular strength of a Mate and Captain who perform together like wind and water!

Whooo Blue Lady! she shrieks, as the boat splashes the tanned muscular body, lined by a brief white bikini, with sheets of cold spray.

Andy jumps in front of her acting as a shield, as the river is sliced by Blue Ladies sturdy hull . . . rail under, showing her skipper her full power, raising her bow as if she were a living thing!

"She’s ridden proudly Captain . . . she answers to my every touch!"

Andy is in position to see her face clearly; her expression in perfect harmony with Blue Lady’s movement, and he knows, at this exact moment the girl in his dream is exactly where she wants to be. Catching her eye, they grin at each other in mutual admiration, feeling the exhilarating emotion that two people experience when they are in perfect harmony.

Into the wind! Into the wind! His strong voice calls to her, hammering like a musical instrument against the force of the wind as they fly full by mizzen, staysail, and jib, leaning at an angle that satisfies her grace. Together they slide over the waters of the St. Johns River in a grand display of speed and spray, with the wind working with her rigging making their blood race with a joy close to pain.

His dream girl performs well, anticipating his every move. Andy is smiling . . . strong muscles flexed as they sail back into the anchorage and secure a mooring.

He gives her sensual body a sweep with his eyes, winking teasingly as he stretches tanned muscular legs over the combings, pulling her mouth down to meet his hungry lips murmuring, You are one first class Mate!

Andy crushes her into his arms kissing her with exploding passion! They come together as two bodies melt into one, and he knows that he would go with this girl wherever the winds would take them.

The scent of L’Heure Bleu perfumes the light air . . . he breathes her name . . . and she whispers . . .

"Crikey . . . !"

Taking in a deep breath he reaches into his case and pull’s out an aging journal.

He begins to read . . .

JOURNAL NOTES

OF ADELE MARIE BELL

(January 2008, to February 2009)

January, 2008 (New Years Eve).

When I am alone, empty words fill the people void. If readers were molecules, they could walk around in the labyrinths of my mind, and mingle with my secret thoughts as I mangle mystical words. (If is a mystical word).

My unread words mean nothing. Like performers on stage need an audience to become actors, absolutely nothing happens until words are read, or heard . . . only then can the story begin.

When I am not bothered by outside chaos words flow like falling rain as solitude, like a parting cloud, opens my imagination, breaks into the fortress of my mind, and unarms the boredom of passing time.

Silence wraps an invisible force around me causing an immediate reaction, and I go to my journal and use a lot of ink. Ink and paper are my allies as I round up my loyal pals, nouns, verbs, and adjectives. We jump-start my rusting brain machine, and I take a wild ride on little black commas, question marks, exclamation points! Slowly my idling brain is stimulated; I chug up real life banter that I heard on the "blue elevator" as fictional characters tumble into a volcano of long simmering, passionate love, and my pen marries romance with inky harmony!

CRIKEY!

Like a blue moon, or a fallen star I, Adele Marie Bell, A.K.A. Rochelle (pseudo-nom de plume) have written a romance novel! (God gives money to Writers, because without it we would starve to death)!

I am, what you would call, an individualistic writer, a story grinder (my Editor tells me I can really ‘grind out a sticky phrase’). I’ve pulsated on paper for fifty years (some people take walks to solve problems, I write them down).

Being a septuagenarian (some would call this ‘the youth of old age’); I ask this question . . . why does anyone give a ‘shirtsky’ what I write?

Answer; "I am capable of expressing words that will bounce your inner feelings about as you read words that can be essential to perpetuating regimented daily harmony . . . AND a story grinder’s reward is the power of polishing up dusty hearts, and serving emotional nourishment when words of lust are splattered out on the paper platter of love and loss. Life has taught me that ‘if you don’t howl, you will never find the pack’, and when I have something essential to say I howl, and find the pack by scrawling words on paper.

I’m also a serious ‘foodie’—a ‘carnivore’ (meat-eater), and a foodie who thinks about food like some horny teen ager would think about crawling into the backseat of an old Chevy. I can honestly say that I do not fear chocolate! (maybe this is why I find my squishy self, size fourteen, alone on New Years Eve; childless, friendless, searching for romance in words pouring from my love starved imagination into a journal, as I bravely put on verbal gloves and spar with fictional life).

I can get really poetic about Alaskan Salmon (my gourmet obsession), served at my high-end hang-out, the Pastiche Restaurant on Hershel Street where I dined earlier this evening (alone).

PANSY OAG MCINTOSH

Over the years Pansy’s story unfolded as she stood by my side on the blue elevator giving me a silent