The Rainbow Season

By WES SNOWDEN

Timothy Ryan finds his life entering a deadly downward spiral after he loses his wife and his business because of a lifetime love of gambling and alcohol. After a series of benders that leave Tim lying in a puddle on the street, Father Joe the parish priest, helps Tim dry out and find a job.

Much to the dismay of a man who was once a highly trained professional landscape architect and part-owner of his own firm, the only job available is the menial task as a ticket taker at a local theater. The boring jib leads to a chance encounter with the famous director, Rolland Herzog, after Tim's bizarre costume catches his eye.

The director takes a liking to Tim and offers him a bit part in a new movie. Neither of them had any inkling that Tim's childhood hobby would unexpectedly surface during the filming causing an avalanche of unforeseen events.

As Tim's new career starts to skyrocket, he falls for Laura Morgan, the lovely British born assistant to Rolland Herzog. Despite Tim's attempts to get closer to Laura, her mysterious past keeps her at arm's length.

Both their lives take a dramatic turn when they meet Kevin O'Connor, an eleven-year-old singing prodigy. Kevin is an orphan and street-wise beyond his years.

The twists and turns of THE RAINBOW SEASON will keep you guessing all the way to a very surprising ending.

Best for mature readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WES SNOWDEN
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393166528

WES SNOWDEN

After a successful career as an international business owner, Wes Snowden now spends his time between Toronto, Vancouver, and Scottsdale, Arizona. As a relatively new author, Wes has written a broad range of  books, all unique in their storyline. Although his writings are enjoyable for all ages, the author enjoys writing kid's stories for grown-ups the best. Wes has just finished four full-length adult novels- White Swan Wishes, Zachary's Gold, One Last Move and The Leprechaun Wars All four will be published by spring of 2020. Reviews and comments always appreciated at: [e-mail]

Book preview

THE RAINBOW SEASON 

Istared out my office window, taking one last look at the unappetizing mixture of wet snow and sleet as it fell from a dull gray New York winter sky. Although it was still early, the street lamps were lighting up prematurely in a vain attempt to bring some cheer to the otherwise dismal scene. I shivered slightly. Cold winter weather always made me feel depressed.

I could hardly wait for the warm rains of April to arrive, the start of the ‘Rainbow Season’ as I called it. I’ve been fascinated with rainbows since childhood. Whenever one appeared shimmering on the horizon, my mother would hold me spellbound with her enchanting stories of the Leprechaun and his pot of gold.

My artistic side loved the delicate blending of the seven colors of a rainbow into one shimmering band. But my philosophical side, especially when fueled by an evening of drinking, truly believed my mother’s story that a rainbow was simply a magical bridge between bad times and good. She told me everyone has a personal rainbow bridge somewhere, just waiting to be discovered.

I loved my old Irish mother, Mrs. Mary Ryan. She passed away several years back, but I still think of her every day. In particular, I remembered her vivid description when she found me crying by the kitchen window one rainy day, a long time ago.

And what in the world would you be crying over, Timothy, my fine little lad?

My rainbow has disappeared, Mom. It was my special rainbow. I watched it fly across the sky in a trail of beautiful colors. Then, the sun went away, and it started to rain again.

She smiled the smile that I remembered so well. Your rainbow is only resting for a wee bit. You’ll see. It will come back bigger and brighter than ever. And don’t you forget, Tim, that’s not ordinary rain you’re seeing when the rainbow leaves us.

It's not ordinary rain?

No, lad. When the rainbow has to go away, it feels sad and lonely, too. After a rainbow disappears, the first gentle mist you see drifting down from the dark sky is called something quite magical.

What’s it called, Mom?

She hugged me in a warm embrace and said, Not too many folks know this, Timothy, but the Leprechauns have a magical name for that first special rain. They call it ‘Tears from a Rainbow.’

Why is it magical?

She grinned. The Leprechauns say if you collect a glass of tears from a rainbow and rub it all over your face, all your troubles will disappear, and only good things will happen to you.

I’m going to try and catch some tears from a rainbow for myself.

Away with you, laddie, she said with a laugh. You’re far too young to have troubles. Stop your sniveling and come and have an apple tart. They’re just out of the oven.

I STOPPED REFLECTING on the warm memories of my youth, stretched, and slowly moved my weary body back to my cluttered desk. I picked up my favorite Winsor & Newton #5 watercolor brush and resumed working on some delicate renderings for a project that had been plaguing me for quite some time.

John Gorton, my close friend, and partner in the fledgling firm of Gorton & Ryan Landscape Architects, had been urging me for months that it was time for the firm to switch to the newer and much faster, computer-generated final design drawings. I wasn’t too sure.

I had told him, Computer renditions may be faster, John, but they don’t add that touch of authenticity that true watercolors provide. The way this bloody project is going, we’re going to need every edge we can get.

The landscape plans I currently labored over were for the Estate of William Gillingham, the Third, the penny-pinching perfectionist owner of two-hundred-forty-seven prime acres out on the far reaches of Long Island. So far, no matter how many modifications we made to the plans, Gillingham was never quite satisfied. My partner intensely disliked the estate’s owner and always referred to him as William Gillingham, the Turd. I agreed. The man was a conniving bastard.

As far as I’m concerned, Tim, we should have never taken this job. This thing has taken on a life of its own. We hardly have any time for our regular customers anymore, and the payment terms we agreed to, in hindsight, were suicidal.

My partner was still fuming over the terms of the contract with Gillingham. John suspected that the owner of the estate knew full well from his contacts in the city that Gorton & Ryan were having financial difficulties.

We had borrowed heavily to refurbish the large brownstone that now functioned as the head office for the firm. Our precarious financial situation put Gillingham in the driver’s seat during the contract negotiations.

When we first sat down for the contract discussions, because of a general slowdown in business, our firm was almost four months behind in loan repayments to the bank. Calls from Cyrus Black, the bank manager, had been getting more aggressive by the day. Finally, in desperation, John and I agreed to do the entire landscape plan on a spec basis. Something we would normally never even consider.

A spec contract simply meant the owner, William Gillingham, could walk away without payment if he wasn’t 100% satisfied with the plans. We knew we could take the case to arbitration if Gillingham walked away, but, if that happened, we both knew we would be out on the street. In hindsight agreeing to do the job on speculation was a stupid decision on our part.

JOHN GORTON STOOD IN the doorway to my office. Hey buddy, come and join me for a well-deserved drink at Dooley’s. You’ve been working your ass off, and we still have two more weeks to finish up before our final meeting with William the Turd.

I shook my head. Can’t do it, John. It’s okay for swinging bachelors like you to hang out in bars, but this is Valentine’s Day. Grace will be expecting me to be home in time to take her out for dinner, even though I’m exhausted.

Are you kidding me, Tim? The last I heard, Grace was so pissed off with you that you’ll be lucky if you even get through the front door.

Unfortunately, I knew John was right. These days my relationship with Grace was really bad. We were at the edge of a marital precipice. Always teetering back and forth, seesawing between possible divorce and possible reconciliation in an endless dance of frustration. I knew I was going to have to face the truth sooner or later, but I kept stalling for time.

The early years of our marriage had been reasonably happy. But lately, married life just seemed to be one long, endless chain of arguments, unfortunately, fueled mostly by my bad behavior. First of all, I have to admit, I’ve always loved the taste of alcohol and the sense of freedom it gives me from the myriad pressures of life. My wife, Grace, called it the curse of the Irish.

I also loved to play the stock market just for the thrill of the chance of winning big, which, unfortunately, didn’t happen too often. The lethal combination of drinking and gambling created an unhealed wound in my relationship with Grace. The wound was still festering under the surface.

It all came to a head when, under the influence of an extra-long Martini-fueled lunch, I lost a considerable portion of our joint savings. I wasn’t thinking too clearly that afternoon when I bet a bundle on shares of a new internet block-chain venture that my broker had insisted was a sure thing.

My asshole broker turned out to be terribly wrong. The only sure thing was his commissions. Grace went ballistic when she finally discovered the brokerage statements that I had tried to hide. Our losses were huge.

THE ONE POSITIVE BOND in our lives was our mutual love of all forms of dancing. In fact, I had first met Grace while still in college when I was working as a part-time dance instructor for the Arthur Murray chain of dance studios.

Grace didn’t dance much these days, but I still practiced whenever I could. I’m proud to say that over the years, I came close to achieving professional status by entering and winning several regional dance competitions. Maybe my dancing was my attempt to offset the negative effects of a disintegrating marriage.

I wasn’t quite ready to go home and face another possible argument with Grace. I weighed the consequences of being a little late and finally relented. Okay, John, I’ll join you for a celebration drink at Dooley’s, but I only have time for a quick one. And don’t forget, you cheapskate, it's your turn to finally pick up a tab.

We closed the shop, donned our winter gear, and headed outside. The weatherman had been warning about the pending arrival of the first bad storm of the season. Ice from the freezing rain was already starting to accumulate in thick silver blankets on the branches of the trees lining the street. The effect was pretty, but dangerous, too.

As we were leaving, John stumbled and swore. Take it easy, buddy. I almost fell on my ass. The stairs are covered with black ice. I think we should probably leave our cars in the underground garage and grab a cab to Dooley’s.

I agreed as driving would be miserable in this weather for sure.

After several futile hailing attempts, a beat-up Yellow Cab finally pulled over. We hopped in the backseat and gave our destination as Dooley’s bar. The foreign-looking cab driver swore under his breath, obviously upset at picking up passengers for such a short run. The cab itself was rundown, dirty, and smelled bad. Unfortunately for us, the disgruntled driver didn’t smell much better.

I looked at the grubby surroundings and then at the driver hunched muttering over the wheel. I couldn’t help but think how fortunate I was to have ended up in life as a highly trained professional architect, instead of being trapped in some unrewarding menial job like driving a cab. I made sure the surly driver got a decent tip when we arrived at Dooley’s.

John laughed at my extravagant tip and said I must have a guilt complex.

I always loved Dooley’s. It was a warm, friendly, old-fashioned kind of place. The kind of a joint that made a man feel right at home. No pretentious fake greenery or artsy wall hangings or fancy menus, just honest pours and good conversation. Dick Dooley, the owner, was personally helping to tend bar because of the heavy Valentine’s Day crowds.

Dooley broke into a big grin when he saw his two favorite customers coming through the front door. The bar was crowded as usual with a motley assortment of Dooley regulars, both sexes, in various stages of inebriation. Some of the female patrons were definitely on the hunt.

We took the last two empty seats at the bar and started trading insults with the burly owner. I shouted, Hey, Dooley, how about some service before the Department of Health shut you down again?

No problem, Tim, the head guy at Health is my ex-brother-in-law. As long as we do the dishes at least once a year, we’re good as gold.

I know you love to fleece your customers on holidays, Dooley, I said with a grin. So what horrible, overcharged drink special are you foisting on the unsuspecting public tonight?

I could tell you about my Valentine Day special drink, but I’m warning you right now, this one is far too dangerous for a couple of pussies like you two.

When we pushed him, Dooley described his holiday special. "I call it the Crimson Valentini. I make it with four ounces of Bombay Select Gin, a touch of dry Vermouth, and two drops of pure virgin blood for coloring."

John and I almost choked with laughter. Dooley, you have a better chance of winning the Boston Marathon than finding a virgin in this dump.

Dooley joined in our laughter and started to mix up two Crimson Valentinis. We pretended not to notice that the two drops of virgin blood came from a small bottle of red food coloring.

Well, boys being boys, one thing led to another, and after two of Dooley’s special drinks each, no one gave a shit about the time anymore. We ordered mugs of draft beer and a couple of the house special, Dooleyburgers (Bacon, cheese, two patties, fried onions, and mushrooms), and then we started good-naturedly arguing about the future of the firm. John wanted to open a branch office in Naples, Florida, so we could escape the winter, but I thought we should concentrate our efforts on enlarging the New York practice.

Finally, I noticed the time. Christ, John, now I’m really in trouble. Get Dooley to call us a cab so we can go back and get our cars. I need to get home fast. Grace will kill me for being so late, and I’m already in the doghouse.

John shook his head. He was just sober enough to realize that he wasn’t. No way, buddy. Give me your phone. I’ll call Grace. I’ll tell her we’ve been working late. I’ll say you took sick, so you’re staying over at the office tonight.

The ensuing telephone argument with Grace was loud, fleeting, and unsuccessful. Grace could tell from the background noises that I was still at Dooley’s bar. Grace was adamant that she was heading for Dooley’s to drag me home, whether I liked it or not. John conveyed Grace’s angry message to me while grinning.

I shook my head in disgust, I was pissed off at her overreaction. I said, My beloved wife couldn’t give a damn about me. She wants to hold this over my head. Grace will be yapping about this for the next six months. Can’t a guy even go out for a simple drink anymore without being hounded to death?

GRACE RYAN WAS FUMING as she backed her BMW from the garage. She thought to herself, I should probably stay at home tonight, but I want the satisfaction of giving Tim the bad news face to face. Enough is enough. That’s it for me. Divorce lawyer, here we come.

Although she wasn’t a good driver, Grace did have a penchant for speed. As she accelerated into the stormy night, she was unaware of the treacherous road conditions lying in wait ahead. The freezing rain caused a build-up of dangerous invisible black ice on the asphalt surfaces. The haunting