Six Deadly Dramas

By Robert Trainor

Technically, the six novels in this anthology are not dramas in the classical sense of the word with actors following a written script; rather, the word drama is being used here as it is when one talks of a courtroom drama. In order of appearance, this anthology contains a tragic drama, a sarcastic drama, a gothic drama, a sexual drama, a courtroom drama, and a metaphysical drama. In the space allowed, I will give brief descriptions of these novels, but if you would like more complete descriptions, you can obtain them in the Kindle store under the separate listings for each book.

Midnight on Death Row: A shooting in 2006 by two eighteen-year-old students at a high school in Georgia leaves nineteen dead. One of the perpetrators is killed at the scene, while the other, Karyn Hill, is arrested. After she is sentenced to death, her mother and sister struggle with vastly different feelings about her possible execution. In the end, the tragedy inherent in the senseless murder of nineteen people overwhelms everyone in a tidal wave of grief.

In Destroyed by Malice, the world's most famous novelist, Barker Drule, is gunned down by an unknown assailant. It isn't long before detective Jeff Willard is convinced that the murderer is a member of the Drule family. Perhaps it's Lenore who was raped by her father; perhaps it's the beautiful Raylene who wrote a novel that her father managed to suppress; or perhaps it's Ricky, his cocaine-addicted son, who is desperate to get his hands on his father's fortune.

The Blackwater Journal: Sixteen-year-old Alanda Streets is trapped in a room from which there is no escape. There are padlocks on the door, the windows have been boarded up, and Alanda's only contact with humanity is her father, the man who has imprisoned her and told her that she must die because of the terrible secret she discovered in his past. Is there any way out of her terrifying predicament? Or is her life about to come to an end?

The Dark Side of the Moon: Carolyn Black, a high school teacher, is attracted to Kevin Snyder, a student in one of her classes. Kevin doesn't realize that Carolyn is attracted to him, but everything changes after they make love in the back seat of Carolyn's car. Two weeks later, Carolyn discovers that Kevin is involved in drugs, but when she tells him that she is ending their relationship, he threatens to commit suicide. That night, Carolyn changes her mind about Kevin and desperately searches for him before he has a chance to harm himself. When she finally finds him in his car behind an abandoned house, he is holding a gun to his head. And then…

In The Trial of Eugene Bishop, a black undercover cop is accused of shooting a white man to death. After initialing denying any involvement in Derek's death, Eugene changes his story and claims that he shot Derek when he was threatened with lethal force. But the evidence at the scene doesn't seem to support his claim of self-defense, and he is charged with first degree murder. In the end, the results are not quite as clear as some might like, but this only means that the reader is the real juror in this very challenging case where the scales of justice are so evenly balanced between the competing forces of the law and the safety of innocent people.

In The Book of the Dead, a woman interested in psychic phenomena begins to hear a man's voice. The voice is from a man named Daren Slade, and he begins his narrative with the futile attempt he made to save a drowning woman. Later, at his 25th high school reunion, he reconnects with his high school sweetheart, Savannah Cross…that night, they begin a tumultuous drive during which they become involved in a number of bizarre incidents before they return to the river where Daren attempted to save the drowning woman. Here, he encounters…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Trainor
• Release date: Mar 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393460794

Robert Trainor

Over the past twelve years (since I retired at the age of 59), I've written nineteen novels, four novellas, four non-fiction books, and seven anthologies, all of which you can find in the Kindle Store. Instead of writing a biography of myself, which seems rather irrelevant, I would prefer to write a biography of my books. Here, in the order in which they were written, is a brief sketch of the plots, themes, and subject matter of these books.1/ The Voice of the Victim describes a series of murders in a small city. I've always felt a great deal of empathy for the victims of violent crimes, especially those who are murdered by guns. What, I wondered, would these people say to us if they could speak? When reading this book, it is important to remember that my intention, from first page to last page, was to present the voice of the victim. And, to me, this voice is not a straight-line accusation of weapons and murderers but tends to veer to a pervasive mockery and total indictment of modern culture. This novel is much different than anything else I have written, and there will be many who will object to what the "voice" is saying.2/ Some Things Are Sweeter than God is somewhat along the lines of a classic murder mystery but is certainly not one of those books where the conclusion is some wild revelation that no sensible reader could ever discern beforehand. The protagonist is a forty-year-old woman lawyer who, in her role as a public defender, is required to represent a man who is accused of brutally murdering his ex-girlfriend.3/ The Road Map to the Universe is a well-constructed novel--at one time, I was a tournament chess player, and this book required a great deal of planning and analysis. Essentially, it's a highly unusual murder mystery, but the perceptive reader may be able to identify a standard plot theme lurking in the background. The Road Map also examines an interesting philosophical question: In a universe of four billion galaxies, what relevance, if any, does the human being have?4/ The Great Barrington Train Wreck, a truly offbeat social commentary, includes a unique type of murder mystery and is one of my favorite novels. Although I almost never include anything from my own life experience in my books, I was, just like the protagonist in the Train Wreck, homeless for many years. So I'm familiar with the lingo and attitude that some of the homeless have. This is a catchy, captivating book where the plot seems to materialize out of thin air until it becomes the elephant in the room. Also, to my mind, this tale could describe what happens to Holden Caulfield, the anti-hero of the Catcher in the Rye, as he approaches forty. It's not all peaches and cream! Especially when he falls in love with the daughter of a millionaire, and even more especially when he ends up on death row.5/ Your Kiss Is Like the Sweetest Fire describes a teenage romance between Jaime and Renee, who were adopted at a young age into the same family. It seems illogical to me, but in almost all states, the law views a sexual relationship between adopted siblings who live in the same family as a crime of incest--exactly as if they were related by blood. So Jaime and Renee have this difficulty to contend with, and also, their mother and father are both rather repulsive characters who are totally incapable of helping them. Wait until you meet Renee--I love her.6/ Requiem for the West is partially based on an apocalyptic poem that I wrote during the 1990's. Ten thousand hours is a lot of time to spend on a seven-hundred-word poem! Requiem is also an examination of some apparently abstract themes that seem highly relevant to me: 1/ The pervasive role of explicit sexuality in our culture and the very different ways that people react to it; 2/ The often farcical, Dilbert-like nature of the modern workplace, in this case a college; and 3/ Is doomsday just around the corner? The 1960-2000 version of myself considered a nuclear apocalypse to be inevitable, but nowadays, I'm ambivalent.7/ Frontier Justice was easy to write because once Adriana Jones arrived on page 10, she took over the book, and all I had to do was keep up with her as she overpowered every obstacle that crossed her path. I hadn't intended for that to happen, but that's the way life goes sometimes. Do I agree with, support, condone, or advocate Adriana's way of doing things? Difficult questions. Adriana is my creation, so I have to take some responsibility for her, I suppose, but I look at it this way: To be true to a character, one has to let the person speak and act in a way that is appropriate to his or her personality. I just can't legislate them into political correctness! Adriana didn't just overpower the other characters in Frontier Justice--she also overpowered me. I really like this book--I wish, as a writer, I could think of more characters who are as dynamic as Adriana.8/ A Tale from the Blackwater River is a novella that is meant to be a satire on a certain kind of story that is showing up far too frequently nowadays, but on another level, it's just kind of a humorous tale that was a lot of fun to write. This book is written in the first person by a forty-two-year-old woman named Alanda Streets. I almost published it under the pen name Alanda Streets because I thought some people might say that no woman would ever write a story like A Tale from the Blackwater River, but for those who feel that way, I hope you will ask yourself this question: If the name Alanda Streets had been on the cover of the book, instead of mine, would you have felt that a woman couldn't have written it?9/ The Blackwater Journal is another Alanda Streets novel--this time, she is only sixteen. I couldn't seem to get away from Alanda--she does have a spunky survivor's attitude towards life that appeals to me. In this book, she has to call on all her resources when her evil father imprisons her in a room and tells her that she has only a week left to live. As the days pass by, the terror mounts on her own personal death row. Does Alanda escape? Maybe so, maybe no.10/ Love Letters (Soaked in Blood) is another murder mystery that has a humorous undertone, which many will probably miss. The problem with writing a murder mystery is that anything that can be thought of has already been done about a thousand times. The only original idea left would be to have the most obvious suspect turn out to be the murderer. Think of it--that's probably never been done! And so...maybe you can guess the rest.11/ The Book of the Dead is about a man who goes to his 25th reunion and meets his high school sweetheart. The two of them embark on an impulsive twenty-four hour car ride that will take them through three southern states and bring them face-to-face with death. This is a tale where the boundaries of ordinary reality are stretched out a little bit! I'll leave it to you to decide whether The Book of the Dead is a fantasy or a reality.12/ Destroyed by Malice sees the return of a character who played a minor role in The Voice of the Victim. He's the world famous novelist Barker Drule, but unfortunately, he (and his wife) exit the book on page 1 when they are gunned down in their driveway. It isn't long before detective Jeff Willard is convinced that the murderer is a member of the Drule family. Perhaps it's Lenore, the older daughter, who was, years ago, secretly raped by her father; perhaps it's the beautiful Raylene, who wrote a novel about a rape victim that her father managed to have the publishing industry blackball; perhaps it's Ricky, the cocaine-addicted son who is desperate to get his hands on his father's money; and perhaps it's Dalton Drule, Barker's irascible eighty-two-year-old father who just happens to own the gun that was used to murder his son. In the end, when the truth finally comes out, there will be very few left to tell the tale.13/ How to Write an Imaginative Novel takes you through the whole process of writing a novel and then uploading it to Kindle. Among the many things covered are: Where will you find a plot? What is the best way to find names for your characters? How important is it to punctuate your book correctly? Is there a quick way to learn punctuation and sentence structure? What is the best way to write dialogue? What kind of things should one avoid in a novel? What is the significance of the first draft and why is it so important? How does one begin a book so that it immediately commands the reader's attention? How does one revise and edit a novel? Is it possible to create the cover for your book without spending any money? How does one convert a book to the correct format so that it can be uploaded to Kindle? And finally, how does one upload a book to Kindle?14/ I Ching 2015 contains a complete translation (minus the Confucian commentaries) of this ancient Chinese classic. Also included are detailed instructions on how to consult the I Ching using either yarrow stalks, coins, or dice. (For those who have been using coins, one should be aware that a significant error has crept into the method that many people use to cast an omen. This error, which involves using either three or four similar coins will seriously affect the accuracy of the omens you receive.) Additionally, there is extensive advice on how to interpret an omen. By using the correct method of interpretation, you will be surprised at how much clearer omens become. As part of this advice, I have posed a number of questions to the I Ching and have then interpreted the omen I received. Finally, for each hexagram, as well as many of the lines in each hexagram, I have included my own observations as to the essential meaning of these hexagrams and lines.15/ Blood and Blackmail is an elegant murder mystery with an unusual plot twist that took me some time to piece together. For those readers who enjoy the challenge of solving a crime before the final chapter arrives, this novel should provide you with a truly interesting puzzle. I doubt many people, if any, are going to see the underlying deception that runs throughout this tale because...if I say anything else, I might help the reader unravel this mystery, and I certainly wouldn't want to do that!16/ Fairy Tales by Martians takes a humorous look at the theory of evolution. Science, of course, claims that the human being originated from an amoeba that eventually became a tadpole that eventually became a frog and so on and so forth. However, I just can't conceive of the fact that ten million years ago, two frogs mated in a swamp and because of that event, I eventually arrived on the scene. What kind of a genealogy chart is that? Neither does the seven-day religious version of events appeal to me, so what I'm left with is a very cynical view of both the religious and scientific theories concerning the origins of our existence.17/ The Book of Dreams repeats a very old idea that has been used in many a novel. But here, in this murder mystery, the idea is taken to another level entirely and contains a twist that not many will see coming. The clues are there, starting with the poem in the Preface.18/ The Dark Side of the Moon is a tale about an attractive high school teacher who falls in love with one of her students. However, Carolyn Black is nervous that her sexual liaison with the student will ruin her career. Eventually, she tries to break off their relationship, but when he threatens to commit suicide, Carolyn is faced with an excruciating dilemma.19/ The Murder of Nora Winters was inspired by John Dickson Carr who wrote a number of locked-room mysteries. In this type of mystery, the murder victim is found in a room that does not allow the killer any means of exit. The doors and windows are all bolted from the inside, and it's considered very poor form for the author to create a room where there are sliding walls or secret panels. The solution to the murder of Nora Winters is, I think, relatively simple, but I've woven in enough deceit and misdirection to confuse all but the most astute readers.20/ The Vanishing Victim is a tale of a psychiatrist and a troubled woman who comes to him for counseling. What she reveals to him proves to be a confession to a brutal crime, but he is unable, because of the doctor/patient privilege, from revealing this crime to anyone, including the police. But even more troubling is that the woman's confession, although it contains a number of factual inaccuracies, turns out to have a terrifying reality of its own.21/ The Fatality Game follows a series of innocuous crimes in a rich neighborhood that seem to be more pranks than anything else. But when a woman is murdered in her bed, Detective Cody Barnes realizes that there is something evil lurking under the placid veneer of swanky mansions that are inhabited by millionaires. And when Cody becomes romantically involved with one of the earlier victims, the beautiful Lucinda Kane, the case begins to take on a life of its own that will eventually lead to the deaths of three more people.22/ How to Write an Intelligent Murder Mystery describes some of the adventures I encountered while I was writing murder mysteries (of my twenty-one novels, thirteen are murder mysteries.) This is a somewhat unusual instructional book that attempts to relate the problems encountered in the writing of a murder mystery to the more general problem of writing fiction in today's market where any new novel is almost instantaneously buried under an avalanche of new novels.23/ The Real Meaning of Life is definitely one of my favorite books. It's written in the first person by Patrick Devlan, a twenty-seven-year-old guy who writes murder mysteries. But his father, who is dying of pancreatic cancer, wants Patrick to write something that will take his readers to a "better place." Patrick decides to follow his father's advice, but a few days later, his roommate's pregnant girlfriend is murdered, and Patrick becomes entangled in a real-life murder mystery. Eventually, after his roommate is convicted of the crime and sent to death row, Patrick is faced with a dilemma that will lead him to the discovery of the real meaning of life.24/ Flight 9525 is a non-fiction book that attempts to answer the question as to why there is so much suffering in the world. For the most part, this book bypasses the usual political, psychological, and social reasons for suffering and examines the following: If God is real, then why do human beings suffer? Why would an all-merciful, all-loving, and all-powerful Being permit its creations to suffer? The usual explanations, such as the hypothesis that God granted man free will, don't answer the question at all. In fact, this is a question that's never been answered satisfactorily.25/ The Scriptwriter is the tale of a man who becomes entangled with three different women. There's the incredibly beautiful woman, the incredibly rich woman, and the incredibly homeless woman. Which one will he choose? Events, mishaps, and character flaws lead him to an interesting decision.26/ The Murder of Marabeth Waters contains a considerable amount of subtle black humor and describes the investigation that ensues after a prostitute is found strangled to death. Detective Devin Driver is quickly able to focus on a suspect; not only did this man send a threatening note to Marabeth, but also, her blood is found in his car. As it turns out, the real murderer lurks elsewhere, and unfortunately, Devin isn't a particularly perceptive detective, so it isn't surprising when the wrong person is convicted of the crime. However, even if Devin had been Sherlock Holmes on steroids, he undoubtedly wouldn't have solved this murder.27/ The Trial of Shada King--a district attorney in Hartford, Connecticut, is charged with manslaughter in the shooting death of the man who had raped her ten days before the shooting. Shada claims that she acted in self-defense, and since she was wearing a recording device at the time of the shooting, her claim of self-defense seems to be valid. But why was she wearing the recording device? The prosecuting attorney is convinced the crime scene was an elaborate stage production that was intended to deceive those who would be listening to the tape and that the victim was murdered in retaliation for the rape.28-34/ Finally, I have seven anthologies on Kindle that combine complete versions of many of the books listed above: Four Novels, 5 Novels, Four Murder Mysteries, The Blackwater Novels, Dark Tales, Six Novels, and Five Murder Mysteries. The purpose of the anthologies is that it gives the reader a chance to buy, for instance, five novels of mine at the rock-bottom price of $2.99.I spend a great deal of time revising my books. After finishing the first draft, I go through the book at least eight more times--first page to last page. Each journey through the book is slow and painstaking--no less than three hours and no more than thirty-five pages a day. From my experience, the kind of errors that pop up on some of the later readings can be rather surprising, if not downright alarming! I particularly look for inaccurate punctuation, lackluster sentence structure, and inaccurate or repetitive vocabulary. I also do not permit confusing sentences to stand--I can't imagine that any reader will want to read a sentence twice because I couldn't find a way to explain myself clearly.Finally, I would ask you all to keep an open mind about novels by an author who has no brand name. I am quite unusual because I do not advertise myself in any way, shape, or form (outside, I guess, of this little biography). My books are well-written, entertaining, and thought provoking, but they are often truly original, and I worry about the page-six syndrome. That's the point where some readers abandon a book by an unknown author because of a single sentence, idea, or attitude that seems amateurish to them. Have faith that there are some genuine diamonds in the Kindle arena and have faith that your instinct to buy one of my books was a good instinct. If you read any of my books to the finish, I think you'll feel that your time was not wasted because these novels are not cheap imitations--they are real creations.

Book preview

MIDNIGHT ON DEATH ROW

COPYRIGHT 2018

BY ROBERT TRAINOR

PROLOGUE

One of their favorite haunts was the abandoned gravel pit that was about three miles from where Bancy lived. Bancy wasn’t her real name, of course—officially, she had been born as Karyn Hill, but after she saw the punk rock group Bancy Rules back in 2003, she didn’t permit anyone, including her mother and sister, to call her anything but Bancy. That had been such a cool night! She’d been only fifteen then, and the words to Bancy’s songs had really opened her eyes to what the world was all about. Actually, she’d known for a long time that she was living in a prison and that her mother was the jailer, but that was the night it came into focus, when it all became real.

In September of the next year, when Bancy was a junior in high school, she met Sperry Quinn. That wasn’t his real name either—what could be more boring than a real name? No, Sperry had been born as Philip Stenson, but he had been swept away when he saw videos of Bancy Rules and their lead singer Sperry Quinn on YouTube, so he had just ripped the name off and began to imitate Sperry as fast as he could. The blue spiked hair, the black leather gloves and pants, the orange leather jacket. The orange jacket had been a bit of a problem—he’d had his parents buy him a black leather jacket for his birthday, but they had thrown a major fit when he dyed it orange. Throwing major fits, as everyone knew, was the way that parents were—as long as you did exactly what they told you to do, they would pat you on the head and call you a good little boy, but once you stepped out of line and did something original, they’d start kicking you around like you were a dog who had done something disgusting.

His parents liked to blame Philip’s descent from straight A student to flunky on Bancy, his new-found girlfriend. But she had come into his life a few months after he’d discovered Sperry Quinn. In fact, he’d been drawing Sperry’s face on his locker at school when Bancy walked by and happened to notice his orange jacket.

I can’t believe it, dude, she said. Don’t tell me you like Sperry Quinn!

He’s the coolest—in fact, nowadays, all my friends call me Sperry.

She tilted her head to the side and squinted at him. You do look a little bit like him. She held out her hand to him and said, My friends call me Bancy, so I guess we’re in the same boat.

Since Bancy Rules had a woman drummer, Sperry said, I guess you’ll have to play the drums.

I could do that, said Bancy, but the thing is that I’d need special drums because I’d only use hammers for drumsticks. I just love pounding things with hammers.

They had lied to each other when they said that they had friends—the two of them were outcasts at the high school, which was in an upper class neighborhood where everyone was fighting to get into an elite college. So it was exciting to find a comrade, and the proof of their bond was their mutual devotion to the punk rock anthem of Bancy Rules.

Hey! Ho! We don’t have to take it no more

Go to school and get taught by your whores 

The abandoned quarry about a mile from Bancy’s house was their hideout because hardly anyone ever went there anymore. It wasn’t a big quarry—just three twenty-foot-round holes with piles of gravel next to them. Bancy liked to kick some old cans around and throw rocks at the trees while Sperry would aim at a metal barrel with his homemade slingshot. Bancy liked it best when it was drizzling out because then the whole place became muddy with a thick greyish-brown ooze that clung to everything. Her mother always went crazy when she came home caked in mud.

Later, after they’d known each other for six months, Sperry brought two pistols out to the gravel pit, and they set up targets that they could shoot at. But someone must have heard the gunshots because they’d only been shooting for ten minutes when they saw a cop car coming down the dirt road that led to the quarry. The car was a long ways off, so they had been able to disappear into the woods.

Mostly, they felt depressed because they knew they had been born into a nowhere life in a nowhere world, but it wasn’t their fault that they felt that way. What were they supposed to do when they got older? Get some kind of nowhere job in a factory or peddle some burgers at a fast food dump? And for both of them, college was out of the question because all they ever got nowadays were D’s and F’s, and neither did it help that they had both been suspended three times during the first six months of their senior year.

And then, one spring afternoon, a couple of days after Sperry had been permanently expelled from the high school for striking a teacher, they began to come up with a plan. The drizzle was coming down hard, and they were getting sopped through, but that only seemed to inspire them. 

Hey! Ho! When you’ve got nothing left to live

Then death is the only thing I got left to give

CHAPTER ONE

Cora Hill, who was thirty-nine years old in 2005, worked as a paralegal in the prosecutor’s office in the town of Clifton Heights, Georgia, which is a city of seventy-five thousand people located about fifty miles north of Atlanta. As a paralegal, she was responsible for various duties in the prosecutor’s office including legal research, the drafting of documents, and conducting interviews with prospective witnesses. She often worked closely with the prosecutors, especially as a trial approached, and since she had worked there for eleven years, she was considered a valuable resource. Cora had an excellent memory and could recall the details of cases that had happened years ago as well as all the salient points of current cases.

Cora was an attractive woman with dark brown hair and a good figure, but she hadn’t had much luck in her romantic life. She had married Evan Hill when she was nineteen, and a year later, their first child, Doreen arrived. Karyn followed two years later, but even by then, Cora’s marriage to Evan was beginning to break up. He was a heavy drinker who frequented the local bars almost as much as he frequented the small house that he and Cora rented. Although Evan worked a steady job at a local factory, he was unreliable with money, and Cora soon realized that in the long run, a substantial second income was probably the only hope for her struggling family. Before meeting Evan, Cora had completed two years of college, so she decided to finish college where she eventually passed the requirements that would allow her to become a paralegal. It was definitely a secure job for a competent and reliable person, and by the time Cora had worked in the prosecutor’s office for five years, she was making almost fifty thousand dollars a year.

Within a year of her finding the job at the prosecutor’s office, Evan left her for a woman that he had met at a bar, and he put up no objections when Cora went to court and obtained full custody of her two children. However, the child support that Evan was expected to pay was another matter. At first, he made a few payments, but before long, the monthly payments became bi-monthly, and it wasn’t long before they stopped altogether. Eventually, Cora took him to court, but he responded by disappearing—really disappearing. It wasn’t until years later when Cora happened to meet someone who had known Evan around the time of his disappearance that she found out he had moved to Australia.

By the time Cora discovered this, she had given up pursuing Evan through the court system—she was making enough money by then to sustain herself and her two children, and although no one would have called her life style gaudy, neither did she want for necessities. Cora’s parents, who had moved to Pennsylvania to be close to Cora’s maternal grandparents, were fairly well off financially, and they were quite helpful with things like clothes for the kids, along with lavish presents at Christmastime. They also furnished the down payment for a house that Cora bought in the suburbs of Clifton Heights. So all in all, life wasn’t that bad, except for...

The man thing. Cora didn’t enjoy being single, and so she dated quite a few men during her late twenties and early thirties. It was almost like a parade of men. The first one, after Evan left, was Mike, and then, if she remembered right, were Paul, Dave, Duncan, Bill, and Scott. None of these relationships lasted very long, but the next relationship she had, with Ron Peterson, lasted almost two years. Although they never married, Ron turned out to be a wife beater, and Cora had to obtain a restraining order before he left her alone.

Why? Why had all her relationships with men failed? It was a question that Cora asked herself frequently, and about all she could come up with was that she always seemed to fall for slick, handsome guys who weren’t really looking for a long-term relationship but were more interested in a sexual conquest. Depressed by it all, Cora began to withdraw from the dating game—it would have been nice to have found a compatible man, but if she was somehow jinxed, she wasn’t going to bother with it anymore.

As far as her two kids went, most everyone who knew Cora said that she spoiled them, but the truth was she didn’t have the time or inclination to battle with them. As the years passed, Karyn became more and more unruly and troublesome. By the fall of 2005, Doreen was a sophomore at the University of Georgia and doing quite well, but Karyn, who was seventeen and entering her senior year in high school, was just plain obnoxious. Cora, in fact, went out of her way to avoid her so that she wouldn’t have to look at the blue hair, the gaudy orange shirts, the army camouflage pants, and the huge black soldier’s boots. Karyn had also shaved so much of her hair off that there was only a half inch of blue stubble on top of her head. Very becoming! On top of that, Karyn insisted that everyone call her Bancy, and it certainly didn’t help Cora’s mood when Bancy’s lead singer, Sperry Quinn, was arrested for assaulting a cashier at Walmarts.

Bancy also annoyed Cora with her flamboyant airs, absurd cockiness, and childish nihilism. Everything, according to Bancy, sucked. The word had become a verbal tic in her daughter’s life and seemed to cover almost every person and situation she encountered except the dark, thumping, moronic music she listened to constantly. Cora, tired from a long day at the office, had to bite her tongue and refrain from telling Bancy that it sucked to have a daughter like her.

Cora worried that Bancy would be arrested on a drug charge, which could affect her own standing at the prosecutor’s office. If she were thought of as someone who tolerated drugs within her household, then it was possible that some people she worked with might turn against her, and she was concerned that her job might be threatened because of Bancy’s behavior. That fear was probably somewhat neurotic, but it was hardly unreasonable for someone who worked in the prosecutor’s office to feel that her daughter should respect the law. But fortunately, up to this point in her erratic career, Bancy hadn’t shown any interest in drugs. You don’t have to worry about that, Mom—marijuana and cocaine suck.

How long would that noble sentiment last? Bancy wasn’t going to college because it sucked, and so it looked like she was intending to stay at home after she graduated from high school. However, as fall turned into winter, Cora began to realize that even the very modest aspiration of seeing Karyn’s name on a high school diploma was becoming an extremely remote possibility. She’d already been suspended at the beginning of October because she had been tardy for all her classes over a five-day period. Apparently, Bancy thought it was funny to barge into a classroom ten minutes late and make a lot of noise as she slammed her books onto a desk. 

Anyways, one way or another, it appeared that Bancy would be living at the house for some time to come, and Cora was not anticipating the approaching year with pleasure but had developed a kind of looming dread about her youngest daughter that increased with each passing day. 

Because her feelings about men were usually tinged by a sense of bitterness, Cora had begun to accept her life as a single woman. She knew that there must be some guy out there who could make her happy, but it was all such a gamble. Again and again, especially since she worked in the prosecutor’s office, she saw one relationship after another go down in flames, and the endings were almost always acrimonious. Sometimes, acrimonious was far too mild a word—in one fifteen month span, three women in the Atlanta area had been murdered by their husbands. And undoubtedly, thought Cora, all those relationships that had ended in murder had started out with high hopes and great expectations. So what was the point of becoming involved in a relationship that might very well lead to heartbreak?

However, in December of 2005, a man who was to have a significant impact on Cora’s life had appeared in an unexpected way. Gregg Bryant was the owner of The Last Resort, the largest and most profitable bar in Clifton Heights, and he had pressed charges against one of his patrons who had defaced the men’s room with graffiti and dumped a beer on one of his waitresses. It was a fairly simple case, and Cora had been asked by the prosecutor to take his pre-trial statement.

When Cora took Gregg into a conference room, she was hardly thinking of him at all. Bancy was acting up again and causing trouble, both at home and at school, and it was impossible for Cora to get her daughter out of her mind. Bancy had just been suspended for a week for calling Becky Forbes, her history teacher, an incredibly vulgar name, and Cora was incensed by the whole thing. Cora had more or less become accustomed to these outbursts from Bancy, but the vulgarity of the language—the word she had called Becky—was really abominable and almost frightening. As far as Cora was concerned, when a person started using language like that, they were beginning to spiral out of control. Because, at some point, there could be no turning back. People didn’t forget a word like the one Bancy had used—not for a long, long time. If ever.

So on the day before she met Gregg, which was the day Bancy had been suspended, Cora had really lost it with Bancy. It was a spectacular ten-minute argument that was so bad they had almost come to blows—in fact, they would have come to blows if Doreen, who was home from college for a couple of days, hadn’t physically intervened. In all her life, Cora had never been so angry. For a moment there, she had been ready to kill. Because, as they were fighting, Bancy had said the same thing to her, the same word, that she had said to Becky Forbes. In fact, all afternoon, even hours after the fight had ended, Cora kept muttering to herself, Someone has to beat some sense into Karyn’s head—it’s the only way.

Cora escaped by going to the mall for a couple of hours, and finally, when she had calmed down somewhat, she returned to her house where Bancy issued a very half-hearted apology that didn’t amount to much of anything. That night, after Cora went to bed, she tossed and turned until three in the morning as she relived the fight thirty or forty times and tried to figure out what to do with her daughter. How could she have given birth to two such different daughters? Doreen was always so sweet and agreeable and did very well in school, while Bancy was just...what?...a monster? Always complaining, always making sarcastic and hostile remarks...at first, like back in the ninth grade, Bancy’s attitude had seemed like a legitimate voice of protest against many of the horrors that exist in the world. Back then, she was always complaining about war and how everyone was addicted to the pursuit of money and fame. But before long, Bancy’s protest against this kind of behavior took on a very nasty and confrontational edge. And things became much worse when she began to equate the high school with big business and the war machine.

Bancy’s attitude and her increasingly foul mouth were becoming an obsession to Cora. What in the world was she going to do about her daughter? She’d already tried, during Bancy’s junior year, sending her to two psychotherapists, but in both cases, they had been unable to help her at all. So Cora didn’t have the faintest clue what to do, and as a result, her mind couldn’t move away from the increasingly dark cloud that Bancy was draping over her life. Cora imagined that this must be what it’s like to be told that you have terminal cancer—how can you figure out a way to escape from that black cloud?

In the conference room, she forced herself to look at Gregg—he was saying something, so, Cora said to herself sarcastically, it only made sense to listen to him. Cora guessed that he was her age (he was actually forty-two), and she was immediately struck by his calm nature and easygoing manner. Standing just over six feet tall, with pleasant light-blond hair and blue eyes, he was a handsome man. But there was something else that drew Cora to him besides his looks—something like a flash of steel or fire that swept through his eyes as his jaw tightened for just an instant. She felt instinctively, immediately, that he was a successful man. His clothes were expensive but tasteful and subdued, and he spoke in a soft, unassuming, well-modulated voice that appealed to her.

It was only after he left the office and Cora was alone at her desk that she really began to think about him. His attitude towards her had seemed...maybe she was just imagining it, but he had been rather warm, almost inviting towards her. Of course, thought Cora, he is the owner of a nightclub, so he’s probably rather warm and inviting to everyone he meets. And besides, it was a little silly to think of having any kind of relationship with him—here she had, over the last few years, begun to draw a line in the sand: After all her failed relationships that had ended in various forms of disillusionment and heartbreak, she was now determined to only consider having a sexual relationship with a man if it appeared to have some chance of enduring for more than a few months, and hopefully, for a good many years. And how likely was it that a handsome, well-dressed guy who owned a bar in downtown Clifton Heights was looking for anything more than a casual fling?

A couple of days later, Gregg had reappeared, and after she had talked to him briefly about his case, which was about to be settled out of court, he said, How long have you worked here, Cora?

It’s almost twelve years now.

I would think it’s an interesting job—you must see a lot of life down here.

I do, said Cora, but it’s rarely anything that would inspire me to think better of humanity.

Gregg laughed. I guess our occupations aren’t all that much different then. When I first bought The Last Resort, I envisioned it as a kind of upscale establishment that people like you and me could go to—nothing too rowdy or anything like that. But unfortunately, popularity does have its drawbacks, and now that The Resort is the most popular bar in town, I attract a lot of people that I would never want to socialize with. Have you ever been to The Resort?

A couple of times, but it was years ago. Cora smiled wistfully. It was where I met Ron Peterson, and before two years had gone by, I had to take out a restraining order on him.

My apologies, said Gregg, in a gracious, humorous way. Perhaps I can make it up to you

How so? said Cora.

What are you doing Friday night?

Cora was momentarily stunned by the question—it was the last thing she had been expecting. I...uh...I don’t know. She meant, of course, that she didn’t know whether to accept his invitation. In a way she wanted to, but as her heart began telling her yes, her head began telling her no.

I wasn’t thinking of anything special, he said. I know it sounds kind of odd, but I get a kick out of showing people my office. It’s on the second floor directly over the bar, and it’s really kind of swanky, if I do say so myself. It’s actually more like a smaller version of the bar that I was hoping to open—the one that catered to people like you and me. It’ll be fun—we can have a couple of drinks and trade some stories.

Cora was still baffled by his proposition. Finally, she said, Gregg, I don’t really know you at all, and I’m not in the habit of going to a secluded place with a guy that I’ve just met.

Sure, I can understand that. What about this? We can meet downstairs at the main bar around five and have a drink—it’s not very crowded then. Like I said, this is nothing special—just a chance to have a little conversation and get to know each other better.

Cora knew that men never talked this way unless it was, in their minds, the prelude to something sexual, but still, his offer seemed safe enough. OK, she said. At least he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring!

That night, as Cora thought about his offer, she began to feel a good deal of anxiety. The reason for her apprehension was obvious: It was almost impossible for her to move beyond the fact that when two successful people who are in their late thirties meet and are beginning to contemplate taking it one step further, it could be the prelude to a risky and unwise adventure. Cora couldn’t help but laugh at how cynical and bitter she had become about her relationships with men. In fact, she thought with gallows humor, a fair question to ask herself before she took the almighty plunge over the sexual falls was: What kind of a lawsuit or restraining order is this going to lead to?

However, by the time she woke up the next morning, Cora decided that she would go through with it and meet Gregg at the bar on Friday night. Even so, just to be on the safe side, she took a few minutes out of her day to prowl through the Criminal Records section in the prosecutor’s office to see if Gregg had a record. Nope, nothing. So that much was good, but try as she might, it was difficult for her to feel enthusiastic about her mini-date with Gregg.

CHAPTER TWO

The Last Resort was a large nightclub that featured high ceilings, ornate chandeliers, and a huge dance floor. At this time of night, five o’clock, there were only a few people around, and while Cora waited at a small table, Gregg went up to the bar and soon came back with two glasses of wine.

Cora was still quite nervous. Why was a guy like Gregg showing so much interest in her? Sex, obviously, but why was he interested in her sexually? She knew she was attractive, but not that attractive. Maybe picking up fairly attractive women and seducing them was Gregg’s big thrill in life.

After some small talk about life in Clifton Heights, Cora said, So Gregg—I’m puzzled. How come you asked me to have a drink with you? Her tone wasn’t all that friendly, and for a moment, he eyed her warily.

The truth? he said.

Sure, why not. It’s a rather rare commodity nowadays.

OK, he said with his charming smile, when we were talking together at your office the other day, I felt...I don’t know—I just felt like I kind of liked you, or maybe a better way of saying it is that I thought we had something in common.

She eyed him for a couple of seconds before averting her gaze. Finally, she said, Do you do this often?

Do...?

Ask women to have a drink with you because you feel attracted to them?

Gregg laughed. Are you sure you’re not a lawyer, Cora? I’m beginning to feel like I’m on the stand.

Cora smiled faintly but didn’t say anything.

But to answer your question, said Gregg, it’s actually not something that I do very often. But when I was in the conference room with you, I just felt...I’m sorry I don’t want to embarrass you.

Deep down, Cora was impressed. He seemed so sincere in a way. Which way were they headed? Cora wasn’t sure. She certainly didn’t want to make a fool of herself, but it was time to take a step forward or retreat into oblivion. She had to admit to herself that her questions had been a little harsh and that he had put up with them in a good-natured way. How about showing me your office, Gregg? But before he could reply, she had one more harsh question for him: That’s if you don’t have anything else to do—like go home to the wife and kids. She gazed at him in a deceptively pleasant and enquiring way as if she had just asked him what time it was.

He stared at her wide-eyed and burst out laughing. Sure—I’d be happy to show you my office—you’ll love it. As for the wife, her name was Marcia, and we divorced about four years ago, but she’s a real sweetheart and lets me see the kids every other weekend.

Walking behind the bar, Gregg and Cora went down a long corridor until they came to a narrow, winding flight of wooden stairs. This is the escalator, she heard him say cheerfully. But Cora was beginning to feel spooked. The sudden change of scenery reminded her of a dream that seemed pleasant enough until, all of a sudden, you turned a corner and everything became scary. She kept going forward, but there was a part of her that wanted to turn around.

At the top of the stairs was a thick oak door that Gregg opened with a key, and Cora stepped into a large and magnificently furnished room, which also contained something that seemed laughably out of place. Amidst the expensive stuffed chairs, the antique bookcase, and the mahogany desk was a pinball machine—just like the ones from fifty years ago. Again, Cora was reminded of a dream, but now it had become funny in an absurd sort of way—like seeing an elephant eating an ice cream cone in the library.

Gregg saw her looking at the pinball machine and said, What do you think I do up here, Cora? Go over the books with an accountant? I’ll show you how to play, but first, we’ll need some wine—it’s much better with alcohol.

Cora watched him go behind his desk, open a cabinet along the wall, uncork a bottle of red wine, and pour it into two fairly small wine glasses. Returning to her, he said, with his micro-second wink, Small glasses are better.

Why’s that? she said with amusement. For the first time all evening, she felt somewhat relaxed.

Generally, said Gregg, a person drinks a glass of wine, no matter what size it is, in twenty to thirty minutes, so by decreasing the portion, we can drink for a longer period of time.

Rationing alcohol must have become an essential part of his business—the same way that motions and countermotions were a part of hers.

Cheers! he said, raising his glass to hers.

Cora looked at him curiously. There was a sense of real refinement about Gregg that appealed to her. He wasn’t like most of the men she met—this guy was actually elegant and attractive. However, she was no longer so sure she liked the hard competitive look that would sweep through his eyes and seemed to surreptitiously animate his whole face. Just for a second and then it would vanish. He was obviously sensitive, charming, and tactful, but she wondered if he could be cruel.

Gregg brought her over to the pinball machine, which he called the Wizard, and after showing her a few tricks that he had learned over the years, he said, Why don’t you play a few games? You’ll be surprised how much fun it is.

Cora put her wine glass down on a small table just to the right of the machine and shot the first metal ball into the arena of play. By the time she was halfway through her third game, nearly ten minutes later, she had begun to rack up some fairly big numbers on the scoreboard. It was nowhere near what Gregg could do, but he had been playing for years and was a master of the game. As he watched her play, Gregg worried that the legal side of Cora would consider the Wizard to be absurdly juvenile—she seemed to be such a hardheaded nuts-and-bolts type of woman. But it wasn’t long before he could see that she was totally absorbed in the game. That was why he liked the Wizard so much—everything else vanished while you were playing, and there were no more problems, fears, or frustrated desires.

He’d bought the Wizard for seven thousand dollars from an antique dealer when he was going through the outrageously unfair divorce with Marcia. Absolutely the worst year of his life. Eventually, he’d given up fighting with her bloodthirsty lawyers, written out a check for five hundred grand (plus four thousand a month for child support), and told her that he never wanted to see her again. If the kids were just being held hostage for the ransom money, Marcia could have the money—and guess what?—she could keep the hostages. That’s all they were to her.

Then, about a year later, he briefly dated a woman named Rebecca Morris who had a child by a previous marriage. She broke up with Gregg fairly quickly, but being around Rebecca’s ten-year-old daughter had brought back yearnings for his two kids, and he had contacted his lawyer to see if anything could be done. Finally, after agreeing to increase the child support by another thousand a month, Marcia had allowed him two weekends a month. Things were still so bad between the two of them that she dropped the kids off at the house of her sister; in fact, he hadn’t said so much as a word to Marcia since that stereotypically cold, rainy day in November of 2001 when the divorce papers were signed.

And now, here he was with someone who was practically a lawyer. She certainly acted like one anyways. And such a beautiful lawyer, such a beautiful woman. He still didn’t really know anything about her—was she married? Boyfriend? She was wearing a ring but it didn’t look like an engagement or wedding ring, and also, she wasn’t acting like a single woman because not many married or attached women would have come this far and not dropped some hint about their significant other. Even so, it seemed unlikely to him that a woman as attractive as Cora didn’t have something going on with a man somewhere.

She was so beautiful to him. Enchanting! He couldn’t help but stare at her body—such a fabulous figure, and she moved in such a controlled but sensuous way. Alluring—that was the word for her. And the big-city way she had her dark, wavy hair cut...and those magnificent penetrating green eyes! So expressive!

Suddenly, those green eyes looked up at him, and with a laugh, she said, I’m sorry, Gregg; I completely forgot about you—for a while, I was in a different world.

That’s what the Wizard does to you, he said, smiling at her.

Beneath his cool and almost nonchalant pose, Gregg felt a sense of keen anxiety arising because he wanted to ask Cora out to dinner but felt almost certain that she would say no. Dinner, of course, was just a pleasant euphemism for the beginning of something more intimate. Objectively, he knew that he should back off a little bit, but he couldn’t just let Cora walk out of his life. And if he didn’t do something, she would. He had a sudden comical urge to throw himself on his knees before her and plead his case for having dinner together as if his life depended on it. He’d felt this way before with a couple of women, but this was the first time it had happened in a long time.

Attempting to be casual, he looked at his watch and said, Are you hungry? How about if I take you out to dinner somewhere? He was very nervous now—he had a strong feeling she was going to say something like Thanks very much, but it’s getting late, and I should be going home. 

Cora was surprised. She knew what he meant—unexpectedly, from out of the wild blue yonder, he was asking her out on a real date. In a few short days, a legal conversation at a law office had evolved into something that was potentially romantic. Everything was moving too fast—she needed more time to think it over because although Gregg was appealing, Cora still felt very reluctant to become entangled in some kind of sexual arrangement with a man.

She had hesitated long enough that Gregg said, If it makes you feel more comfortable, we can split the bill, but it’s been a while since I took a woman out to dinner, and I’d consider it an honor if you’d accompany me.

That was a little much! It was hard for Cora not to sympathize with him. His breezy devil-may-care attitude had vanished, and he had just blurted out something that sounded like an attempt at chivalry. How rare! She had to respect him for that because it was so much better than the lines most guys used. OK, she said looking into his eyes and smiling ever so slightly, let’s go!

Now, at least for Cora, the real game was really on.

The Southside Inn was located nearly ten miles south of Clifton Heights in the resort town of Merrivale. On the drive there, the two of them had chatted pleasantly but aimlessly—Gregg seemed interested in finding out Cora’s taste in music, but she didn’t really have a preference. Just the pop songs on the radio that she listened to while she was driving to and from work or the soft rock station she played at home in the very distant background. She wasn’t really interested all that much in music—didn’t have time for it—and so Cora switched the conversation around to the various things she did, sometimes at home, when she was preparing for a trial—the legal briefs, preparing the prosecutors for trials, the motions and countermotions. Strange, she thought to herself, this was the second time tonight that the expression motions and countermotions had come into her mind. Gregg was making the motions (she hoped he wasn‘t just going through the motions), and she was making the countermotions. Or maybe it was emotion and counter-emotion.

The Inn was located on a steep bluff that overlooked a large lake. Rather ritzy! They were shown to a table away from the lake side of the restaurant that looked out on Route 4. Gregg browsed through the wine menu and pointed out his selection to the waiter, who had been acting rather standoffish and superior. However, Gregg’s choice seemed to energize him considerably, and he left the table with remarkable alacrity. When he returned a couple of minutes later, Gregg said, Would it be possible for us to move to a table that overlooks the lake? The lady, he said, looking at Cora with a friendly smile, has a preference for the view.

Certainly, sir, certainly.

After they were seated at their new table and were sipping on the wine, Gregg said, Expensive wine is just another form of extortion, but I couldn’t resist trying this one out—I’ve read that it’s the best one-hundred-dollar bottle of Merlot in the world.

One hundred dollars! Cora was shocked—if not for her strong sense of self-control, she would have gasped. It was, she thought, totally ludicrous to spend so much money on such a trifle, so she was instinctively suspicious of Gregg’s motives. Clearly, this guy lived in a different league and played by different rules.

He could see the sudden wariness in her eyes. She was so quick to raise her guard! He had to be careful with her, and thinking quickly, he said, Don‘t worry about it, Cora. Wine isn’t just something I drink—it’s a side business of mine, an investment.

How so? said Cora suspiciously.

A good bottle of wine appreciates in value as time goes by.

Because it ages?

Not really. The wine market is similar to the stock market. Imagine if you had bought computer stocks when they were first issued. If this wine becomes popular and I buy twenty cases of it now, I could triple my money in five years. But before I make an investment like that, I have to taste it first.

Gregg had never speculated in wine, but he had to think of something to say that would disarm her. He’d read somewhere of people who traded wine, and it seemed like a reasonably good cover story. Usually, he went out of his way to hide his wealth around women—the divorce with Marcia had taught him that much. But not this time, not with Cora.

Now, instead of the subtle hostility, she seemed curious. Does your nightclub really turn that much of a profit, Gregg?

Sometimes, with her, he felt as if he were being questioned by a hostile lawyer. It was time to tell her who he was—he wondered what her reaction would be to this news. No, not at all, he said with a self-deprecating laugh. Although The Resort manages to stay in the black, it’s more like public-service work than anything else. What keeps me rolling in dough is that my father was once the owner of Bryant Lumber.

Cora had never made the connection and was stunned. Bryant Lumber was a statewide conglomerate that was now widely diversified with lumber mills, a chain of hardware stores, and a construction company so big that it had built the largest mall in Atlanta. She didn’t know what to say.

Zeke, my father, died in 1991, and with my mother already having passed away in 1985, my brother and I inherited the company. I sold my half of it back to him and received enough money that I can live off the interest, so except for the check I wrote my ex-wife at the divorce settlement, I’ve never touched the principal. 

Until now, Cora had felt fairly sure of her footing, as if she and Gregg were more or less equals. But it was hard for her to maintain that stance now—not when she had barely three thousand dollars in her savings account. Cora thought that it would have been much better if Gregg had been a normal guy financially. Now, there was no way they could have any kind of relationship—not that anybody was talking about that—because Cora didn’t think anyone with so much money could possibly be normal, at least not her kind of normal. And what was he doing sitting here with her? What, for instance, did all his money mean in relation to her? Did he think, or hope, that she could be bought? She’d die first before she consented to anything like that.

How about you? she heard him say. Have you ever been married? Gregg tensed up. She seemed so antagonistic sometimes. What he really wanted to ask her was whether she was involved with anyone, but he knew that was far too intrusive.  Here it comes, he thought to himself. Even if she isn’t seeing anyone, she’s going to tell me that she is.

Yes, but it was very unpleasant, and I’d rather not talk about it.

Did you have any children? said Gregg, in a curious tone.

For a moment, this question seemed to soften the look on her face. I have two children—Doreen is nineteen and Karyn is seventeen.

Gregg had never suspected that she might have children, but before he could say anything, she said, So tell me about your ex-wife—I believe you said her name was Marcia. Supposedly, it was a casual question, but from the tone of her voice, Gregg felt that she was trying to discover if he was still secretly in love with her and yearning for a return to the past. The concept was so ridiculous to Gregg that it was hard not to laugh, but he could see that Cora was very serious. It was a tricky subject for Gregg to discuss with her; he wanted to pound his fist on the table and say he’d like to slap Marcia in the face, but that certainly wasn’t the way to go.

Instead of trying to explain what went wrong in his relationship with Marcia, which he could see was fraught with hidden perils, he decided to put Cora on the defensive because it seemed like the best route to safety. It wasn’t an amicable divorce, he said gently but firmly. Don’t take it personally, Cora, but everything was fine until the lawyers became involved.

Suddenly, Cora laughed—a hearty laugh that took him by surprise. Her lawyers found out you had all that money, didn’t they? She was still laughing.

Exactly, he said, relieved. The whole thing started out in a fairly friendly way. I was giving her the seven-hundred-thousand-dollar house, which was paid off, one hundred grand in cash, and three thousand a month in child support. Then, all of a sudden, they wanted five million dollars.

There was a tinge of solace in Cora’s eyes. What did you end up settling for?

A half million dollars, the house, and four thousand a month in child support, which has since gone up to five.

You’re lucky—you must have had a good lawyer. After a reflective pause, she said, I guess we both got burned, didn’t we? 

Cora and Gregg had finished eating and decided, in place of dessert, to order more alcohol. There had been a moment of camaraderie when they discovered that they both liked Sambuca—an Italian liqueur made from elderberries that has a strong licorice flavor. As they sipped on their drinks, Gregg wondered what she would say if he asked her to go out with him again. She seemed so distrustful of him, as if he were a man that every sensible woman would take pains to avoid. So constantly suspicious...

Cora was feeling the effects of the alcohol. She was even beginning to think of Gregg in a positive way. One thing she definitely liked about him was that he seemed to be a person you could confide in, a person that would never violate your trust and use it against you. She decided that if he asked her out again, she would say yes. Or, then again, maybe no because she just couldn’t make up her mind about whether she wanted to take a chance on commitment.

Where do you live, Gregg? she said, to be friendly, since he seemed to be withdrawing a bit.

It’s not far from here—about three miles up the road towards Clifton Heights.

How many pinball machines do you have at your house?

She said it humorously, but he thought she might be mocking him.

That’s just something I clown around with at work, Cora. Fits in with the scenery, so to speak.

It’s not the house you lived in with your wife—right?

She always came back to Marcia. No, like I said, she got the house we were living in at the time of the divorce, but she’s never set foot in the place where I live now. And, he said with some emphasis, I hope she never does.

The trouble with marriage, said Cora, in a matter-of-fact way, is that at least fifty percent of them end in divorce. However, husbands and wives do produce good cash flow for lawyers.

Gregg acknowledged to himself that a divorce with Cora would probably be a nightmare of unimaginable proportions. Don’t worry, she said to him with an enigmatic smile; I don’t believe in revenge—unless, of course, someone stabs me in the back.

That was certainly reassuring! Maybe, Gregg thought, he could take her to a Mafia movie.

He ordered another round of Sambucas and watched Cora, who was gazing at the twinkling lights that ran along the shore of the lake. Beautiful night, isn’t it? she said. Earlier, Gregg had thought that Cora was way too beautiful not to have a boyfriend, but by now, he was wondering if she had any friends at all.

After their drinks arrived, Gregg decided that the game had to be played on her hard-hitting terms. Cora, what did you mean by being stabbed in the back?

Her eyes, which were still roaming reflectively over the bay, drifted back to his for an instant before they shifted away. If I were married and a man ever fooled around on me, had an affair, I think I would probably go after him for every penny that I could get. Cora wondered why she was talking like Rambo—most likely, if she ended up in another relationship that collapsed, she’d just disappear into the shadows like she had almost always done. Laughing softly to cover up the bitterness she had about sexual relationships, Cora said. Am I scaring you, Gregg?

No—maybe just a little bit, he said, but I understand what you’re saying.

I know that it’s none of my business, Gregg, so you don’t have to answer this question. That isn’t what happened with Marcia, is it?

A flash of anger swept through Gregg’s eyes. I didn’t do anything like that, Cora. What was it with her? Nothing. No affair, nothing! That’s not the kind of man I am. I guess, he thought to himself, this is what women who are at least make-believe lawyers do to men when the guy has the nerve to take them out to dinner. An old-fashioned, in-your-face grilling.

He had expected an apology, but instead she looked back into his eyes and said, rather coolly, I believe you, Gregg. Don’t be upset with me—it’s something that a woman has to ask.

Alright, but I thought it was an unfair question.

In what way? she said.

You said, ‘Is that what happened with Marcia?’ The implication seems to be that I was the one to blame for the divorce, but in fact, we were just totally incompatible.

You’re right—that kind of question would always be thrown out by a judge as long as somebody objects to it.

And I object, said Gregg with a laugh. She’s completely out of my life, Cora—I wouldn‘t lie to you about something like that.

Strange, thought Cora. Why was she so interested in his ex-wife? And why was she so disinclined to trust Gregg, who seemed both reasonable and honest? Maybe because this guy was serious about her, and she was beginning to sense that she could easily become serious about him. Even so, Cora wanted to pull back from him because she definitely wasn’t in the mood for a fling, and she also didn’t think a long-term relationship with a man was worth pursuing because...she didn’t know why—it was just her instinct. Probably something to do with her past history. But now, suddenly, she wasn’t so sure. If she hadn’t liked Gregg, she would never be asking him all these personal questions. Something was pulling her towards him, and she could imagine falling, falling hard, into his arms. But still...it was such a huge step, such a gigantic leap of faith.

They walked out of the Southside Inn side by side but hardly arm in arm. Gregg was disappointed, downcast. For one reason or another, this woman didn’t want to have a relationship with a man. She hadn’t been very enjoyable company, and he didn’t think it was worth the effort to ask her out again. She’d just say no. Cora was striding briskly across the pavement with her head down and her hands in her coat pockets. No chitchat from this gal. More like hammer and nails—and he was the nail.

They reached his car, and he opened the door for her, but instead of getting in, she turned to face him. Her face was different, softer maybe. Gregg, she said, I’m so sorry about what I said in there. I had no right to ask you that question about Marcia. She placed both of her hands on his forearms and raised them so that their arms formed a long bridge between them. Her grip was fierce, almost painful, and it seemed to Gregg that she was determined to keep a certain, precise distance between them. Close, but not too close. I... looking into his eyes now, I like you, Gregg. Abruptly, she let go of his arms and sat down in the car. Gregg closed the door behind her and had about ten seconds to consider this sudden turn of events before he reappeared behind the driver’s wheel. One thing was very clear to him—when a woman like Cora Hill said that she liked you, it meant something a whole lot more than the whim of a passing fancy. At the last second, the right card, the queen of hearts, had come up.

As he sat down inside the car, he knew what he felt, what he wanted, but he wasn’t sure what to say. However, it was Cora who spoke first. Do you have any coffee at your house, Gregg? I could use a cup before you drive me back to Clifton Heights—my head is spinning from those Sambucas. Did he have any coffee in his house? Who didn’t? Afterwards, when he thought about that question, he would laugh. She had said it so casually, so genuinely. But as they drove towards his house, he was oblivious to intimations, and when they turned into his driveway, he’d forgotten about everything except the obvious.

Walking up to the front door, he thought it odd that Cora was coming into his house at...it must be almost ten. Of course, she could handle herself—no doubt about that! But it was so much different than what he had expected when they left the Southside Inn. Back then, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had said that she was calling a cab, thank you very much, and good night. And no—she didn’t think it would be a very good idea for them to see each other again.

And now this. Once again, she seemed subdued, quiet, pensive. Coming up the walk, she had murmured something about the house, but he hadn’t been able to understand it. He opened the door, let her in, and flipped the light switch in the hallway. Just then, her hand grazed his in passing as she reached for the switch and said, That’s a little too bright for my purposes. In the darkness, she came up close to him. He could smell her hair and then the licorice scent of the Sambuca as she placed her lips on his. This was what he wanted. This was all that he had ever wanted from the moment he had first seen her.

But it was not a long kiss because after a few seconds, she pulled back from him and said, Let’s have the coffee, and then we can talk some more. Talk some more?  So far, they had done more kissing than talking. Gregg’s heart was pounding, pounding with excitement.

As the coffee dripped from the brewer and Cora strolled absentmindedly, or seemingly so, around the large kitchen, Gregg was assailed by wave after wave of lust. He wanted to tackle her and make love to her right where they were, right on the kitchen floor. It seemed like such an enormous gamble to wait even another five minutes. The mood might change, or she might find something that belonged to Marcia and start in with the accusations again. He thought he’d thrown everything of hers away, but if there was anything that he had forgotten to toss, Cora would undoubtedly find it.

When the coffee was ready, they went out to an adjoining room that had a large sofa, a small table, and all sorts of other irrelevant things that neither of them noticed because they were both thinking about something else. They sat together on the sofa, close but not touching, with Cora swirling the coffee around in her cup and occasionally taking a sip. She had become quiet again—not necessarily a bad sign with her, Gregg thought. How’s the coffee? he asked her, since she didn’t seem to be drinking much of it.

Not bad, but the lights are bothering me. It must be the alcohol—do you think you could turn them down some?

He walked over to a nearby table, switched off a lamp, and then went over to the far wall where there was a knob that controlled the overhead lights, which were adjustable so that he could either turn them completely off or lower their intensity. How’s that? he asked Cora as he diminished the light by about half. Cora put her hand over her eyes as if she were squinting into the sun. Too bright, way too bright. Gregg continued turning the knob until the room was almost completely dark. That’s good, she said.

He returned to the couch, and she brought her face close to his. Running her finger along his lower lip, she said, You have to understand something about me, Gregg—I’m not the kind of woman who likes to kiss under bright lights. Maybe a holiday kiss but not serious, for-real kissing.

You are so beautiful to me, said Gregg.  And then, unlike the kiss in the hallway, they began kissing for real.

Before long, they were walking up the stairs to Gregg’s bedroom. When they were about halfway up the stairs, Cora asked him if he had made the bed in the morning or was he just another messy guy.

No, he admitted, that was something he rarely did.

Don‘t worry about it, she said. Now we won’t have to turn down the covers.

CHAPTER THREE

Gregg wanted Cora to move into his house, but she was hesitant to commit herself, and for the time being, the two of them kept their separate living situations. Meanwhile, Bancy wasn’t happy with her Mom’s new boyfriend, but Cora wasn’t surprised because her daughter wasn’t happy about much of anything. Although Bancy didn’t quite dare to tell her mother that Gregg sucked, she came perilously close on one occasion when the two of them were alone. Take my word for it, Mom—I know men, and Gregg isn’t the right type of guy for you. You’re looking for a serious relationship, and he’s just a playboy who’s going to dump you when he finds someone about ten years younger who’s still really sexy.

Sometimes, thought Cora, Bancy was just so obnoxiously righteous—almost priggish. Sitting there with her blue hair and camouflage pants while she acted like God. Apparently, she was on a higher plane, a plane where she could pass judgment on everybody else. Cora had lost count of the number of insults she had received from the obnoxious little whippersnapper.

Bancy—

Actually, said Bancy, he reminds me of this weird guy at school who spends all his free time chasing the miniskirts down the corridor. I call him the Dirty Drooler, and Gregg—

That’s enough, Karyn, Cora said as sharply as she knew how. Whenever she lost her temper with her daughter, she’d call her Karyn. Cora had always hated the name Bancy and everything it stood for.

Oh—so now you’re going to make fun of my name because I tried to give you some practical advice. You’re just infatuated with him, Mom. Don’t you think you’re being a bit juvenile? The other night the two of you woke me up with all the noise you were making in your bedroom. Maybe you don’t realize it, but noises carry around here, and it’s a little embarrassing to hear your mother doing that kind of stuff.

Blushing, Cora left the room. But she was also infuriated—Karyn should learn to keep her mouth shut and mind her own business. 

Towards the end of February, Cora had a long talk with Gregg about Bancy. They had eaten dinner at his house and then moved out to the TV room where they were sipping on wine.

Gregg, I don’t like to drag you into this, but I’m at my wit’s end with Bancy. You’ve been around her for the last couple of months—tell me the truth: What do you really think about her?" She’d never talked seriously with him about Bancy because her daughter was such an embarrassing subject.

Gregg laughed good-naturedly. She has a huge chip on her shoulder that’s dragging her down. I see a lot of kids like that at The Last Resort.

But why? What‘s the matter with her?

For the most part, people like her are more intelligent than average and just don’t like the world and what it has to offer. You have to sympathize with them there. So what happens is they compensate by taking it out on the things they encounter in their daily life. School seems stupid to them, work even stupider, and their parents are classified as the stupidest people in the universe. In Bancy’s eyes, you’ve become the scapegoat for this strange and scary world. Eventually, most of them pull out of it as long as they don’t get swallowed up by drugs, depression, or a bad relationship.

I’m losing my patience with her, Gregg. Sometimes, she said slowly, I think that I must have failed her as a mother.

What about Doreen? he said. You wouldn’t say that about her, would you?

Gregg had met Doreen during the Christmas holidays and had been impressed by her. Cora’s oldest daughter had grown into an attractive young woman—rather tall and thin with brown hair that had a designed casual look as it fell in rivulets to her shoulders; dark, luminous, sympathetic eyes that accentuated her friendly smile; but most of all, an attitude or a sense that her face conveyed—naïve, honest, sweet.

How could I possibly have two children that are so different? said Cora. "I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but when Doreen is around, I