Dear Prudence

By Shari Rood

Prudence Ravenswood is dissatisfied with writing the usual tripe for the local paper. She longs to solve crimes or at the very least tell a different story. She meets Wyatt Courtland and dives into his past to discover what she can about his brother, notorious serial killer Henry Peterson. She also catches the eye of the oh-so-sweet local gardener, Chris Barret. She finds herself torn between the cute and reliable Chris and the moody and mysterious Wyatt. She gets more than she bargained for when Henry comes to town. Armed with her wit and her orchid Sylvia, Prudence is determined to get the story and the guy of her dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613099353

Book preview

Dear Prudence

Shari Rood

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Crime/Romance Novel

Wings ePress, Inc.

Edited by: Jeanne Smith

Copy Edited by: Bev Haynes

Executive Editor: Jeanne Smith

Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald-Jung

Orchid image: Pexels, man image: Pixabay

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

www.wingsepress.com

Copyright © 2023 by: Shari Rood

ISBN 978-1-61309-935-3

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress, Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

To my husband Rog and to all the aspiring writers out there. The world needs your book.

One

It was a cold day in October. I was freezing. Not unusual for me as I seem to have some kind of reptilian blood coursing through my veins. I rubbed my chilled hands against the rough fabric of my sweater. I was trying to come up with an idea. This was nothing new. It was the usual start to my day, and end, for that matter.

I was working on a piece for the Daily Mail about the 80’s. I had just written an essay on the Trapper Keeper when my friend Dale called. As a writer, I was no stranger to seclusion. My friends didn’t understand it and insisted on dragging me out, telling me it wasn’t good for my health to stay cooped up inside all day every day. I suppose they had a point, but on rainy days like these, I felt perfectly content with a cup of rain forest blend coffee, my hair tied in a messy knot at the back of my head and my dog Rodney lying by my feet.

I let the call go to voice mail along with the others and looked over my essay. ‘Who among us doesn’t remember the noble Trapper Keeper? The array of retina-burning colors, the tough plastic shell that would protect your homework from Armageddon. Yes, this noble folder has gone the way of the dinosaur, but its spirit will live on.’

I wasn’t happy with it. Too trite—but then again, we are talking about a plastic binder. I looked out the window watching as the rain spattered against the window. The gray sky, while dull, didn’t hurt my eyes the way a bright blue cloudless sky sometimes did. Don’t get me wrong, I love sunshine. I live for it. But sometimes when I’ve been writing all day and maybe I’m feeling a bit of melancholy, I’ve got Radiohead playing on Pandora, I’ve not eaten a decent meal...well maybe then, it might hurt to look out at the bright sunshine.

I took a sip of coffee and moved my cursor in a circle. I checked Instagram for the fifteenth time in the last hour and I updated my Twitter account. I don’t know why I bother with that one. It was shaping up to be a regular day. I’d even had one of those amazing Godiva chocolate bars. You know the one with the caramel cookie dough filling? What can I say? My body was craving food and I gave it some.

I’m unusual in the fact that I’m skinny and I can’t put on weight, no matter what I eat. My friends don’t get it. I understand their frustration when they forgo the double chocolate cupcake at Barnes & Noble and instead have a skinny latte. Bleah. I prefer the double shot espresso with extra cream and sugar. I can’t help it. Like that old hair color ad used to say, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. I’m kidding, though. I’m not sure if beautiful is the word. My features are very sharp. Think Courteney Cox twenty years ago or Kristen Bell. I’m nice to look at, but I don’t have the lovely curves that in my mind take a woman to the level of beautiful or to the level of woman, for that matter. I have no boobs...double A’s. It’s embarrassing. That’s probably why I let my blond hair grow so long. I must take whatever femininity I can get, and pink...I do like to wear pink.

Being a size four has its advantages. I have a friend who worked in fashion...she got some killer outfits for me that were cast aside when the season ended. I still wear that plaid Burberry skirt.

As I said, my job is writing and it’s what I love, what I’ve always wanted to do. At twenty-five, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll have to give up and go to grad school, get a degree in something practical. My stepmom didn’t want me to be a writer, but then again, her job is that of trophy wife and while I don’t judge her, I have no desire to aspire, if you know what I mean.

So the time has come for me to turn in another essay. I don’t want to complain. I don’t care for whiners in general, but I can’t help it. One day when I’m famous, I’ll do one of those tell all books with everything in it I’ve held back in my bland position as the Daily Mail’s culture vulture. They want trends and I can give them that, but they want a weak tea, watered down, P.C, sterilized, bleached and slapped into submission version.

I can’t really tell it like it is or curse, or even suggest anything subversive. I’ll give you an example. I was asked to do a report on love among the millennials. I almost laughed when my straitlaced editor gave me the assignment. She’s a Talbot’s kind of lady. Nothing wrong with that, but my point is she likes everything to be nice and neat, tailored. So I wrote a very tidy, very clean story about love at the end of the second decade of the new millennium. I must say, once I got used to the bars on my prison cell, I found I still had a voice, even if it wasn’t as brazen as it might have been.

After I was done, I felt a bit hollow inside. It made me think about what I’d really wanted to say. I mean, when I think of the word ‘love,’ it means something different from when I was a child. We all yearned for the love that comes from a supportive parent. A pat on the back for completing our homework, a kiss on the cheek for eating our broccoli. This is all part of becoming a well-adjusted person, but then suddenly things start to change. The rules no longer apply. You might find yourself being nice to someone who isn’t nice back, or worse, who is hateful and mean.

Welcome to my world circa 2008. I was just starting junior high, and I was painfully thin, awkward, and shy. Along comes a boy...popular, confident and, to be honest, a brat. I took one look at him and turned ten shades of red. I stared at the floor as if it contained the secret meaning of life, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. I was socially awkward. That’s the word for it now, but then I was just a dork. He didn’t just walk right by me—he sneered, looked me up and down and said, Nice dress.

I still burn with shame when I think about my first meeting with Matt. I can admit now, looking back, that my coral dress with the high collar was indeed worth taunting. Where were my parents? Why didn’t they foresee this? At the time, I didn’t have the emotional maturity to blame them for what had happened to me, but it would come, oh yes, it would come. So I can now say thanks a lot, Dad, for exposing me to ridicule by making me wear that hideous outfit.

Okay, self-pity expressed. I shouldn’t be thinking about this stuff, but I can’t help myself. By the time I was a senior in high school, things had changed. The thing is, I was more confident but still confused why the boys always got away with more. It was okay for them to be moody and sullen, but we girls were expected to go through our day with a giant smile, as if we didn’t have a care in the world. It wasn’t fair. Long story short, Matt asked me to senior prom and not to play a Carrie-like prank on me either. Turns out that being thin and blonde are assets in the world of dating. It seemed that my quirky personality could be overlooked if I brushed my long locks into a stylish retro do and wore a little Sephora lipstick. I owned Kate Spade outfits, courtesy of the trophy wife who married Dad that spring and now had the money to spend on me, which, of course, led to my becoming popular.

It was then I realized the power of status. One withering glance could send a geeky kid running, crying down the hallway, but I’m happy to report that I always used my powers for good. I refused to treat those kids the way I’d been treated.

I did all the right things in school. Got good grades, took band and even (I hate to admit this) made the cheerleading squad. Only because I had the look they wanted. It’s not as if the girls ever really liked me, but a crucial thing I learned while hanging around with them was that they really didn’t like themselves. They didn’t have to; everyone else did it for them.

There was something about those girls. I mean, you have all kinds of girls in school, from the bookish quiet types with the Harry Potter glasses to the emo chicks that reek of fake sadness. But the cheerleaders, those girls, were a strange hybrid. They seemed to hate and love themselves at the same time. I know that makes little sense, but it was like this: they knew they were beautiful; they knew the guys wanted them and they could have their pick. What was absent, though, was caring about the outcome. They’d choose a boyfriend as randomly as you’d select a burger from the lunch line. I never understood it. They didn’t seem to care deeply about anything. Global warming? Meh. Politics? Oh please.

Hair, makeup, and clothes seemed to be their only interests and even with that, they were so jaded it took all the fun out of it. I mean, look at me. Sure, I was trying to emulate them, I admit that, but I had an appreciation for fine things. When the trophy wife bought me the Stevie bag from Kate Spade in buttery cream, I loved the feel of the leather and the quality of it. I knew I was lucky to have it. I didn’t take it for granted. I don’t know if that made me any better than them or not, but it’s just how it was.

I suppose my biggest weakness was a four-letter word named Matt. I’d dated other boys, sort of. I’d made out but never gone all the way. I may have been young, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew I wasn’t ready for that kind of intimacy, even then I knew. But Matt was the little razor blade incision that never healed. As we both made our way through school, he only got cuter and more popular. I was so scared after my first encounter with him I wouldn’t go anywhere near him, even though we had been traveling in the same circles for a couple of years.

I had friends who tried to convince me Matt wasn’t like that anymore, that he was a good guy, but I watched him and the things he did were not so good. He started dating Cindy Madison in tenth and told a friend they had done the deed. What kind of guy brags about that kind of thing? Okay, maybe all of them...Later, it turned out that this was a rumor—she’d started it, not him. When I asked her why, she said it was because she knew other cute guys would come running. I don’t understand it, even now, and plenty has happened to open my eyes since then.

I guess I don’t understand the female sexual predator type. Seriously, guys don’t need any help. They’re pretty good at it. If they want you, they’ll let you know. But it softened me a bit toward Matt. I never let on, though, and kept up my frosty exterior when he was around.

I think that was what made him want me, if you can call it that. Want is a strong word. To me, to want something means to really burn for it. Longing, desire...I get it. I think Matt just wanted to add another notch to his hit list. I’m really not a prude, though my name suggests otherwise. I have just enough belief in myself to know my self-worth is something which has nothing to do with who wants to have sex with me.

Senior year, Matt made some effort to get into my good graces. We were both in the same homeroom, and he started by smiling at me whenever I came into the room. I returned his gesture with my usual tight-lipped half smile and nod. He didn’t push it and eventually I smiled back. He could obviously spot the change in my demeanor, and he came over to me and sat at the desk behind mine. He asked how I was doing. At first, I thought I was going to turn the same beet red and stammer, but something had changed. My confidence had grown, and I looked him in the eyes as I turned around to face him and I told him I was just fine, just fine.

After that, we talked every morning in homeroom. He told me about his kid brother who had been really sick but was going to make it. He told me about his dad, who worked as an electrician but still managed to send Matt’s older sister to college. I started to feel things I hadn’t felt before, and it scared me a bit. I knew that of all the people at my school he was the one I shouldn’t make myself vulnerable to, but here I was, doing just that.

The more I got to know him, the more I started to trust him. I know it sounds stupid, but you know how you think someone will change for you because you are just so special. I guess that’s what I thought.

If it’s any consolation, I made him wait until our first year of college. We were both students at W.A. in Lakeland, and while the workload was unbelievable, he still took time to pursue me. We started dating in earnest and it was good. For a while...Yes, he treated me well and took me out and made me feel great, but what he couldn’t do was stay faithful. When I caught him with my best friend, I walked away and never looked back. Well, that’s not true. I’ve just been looking back right now. I guess maybe I’ve been looking back a lot because I haven’t had a serious relationship since and that must mean I can’t let go.

I’ve got to take a break. I need a coffee injection. Thinking about Matt isn’t going to change anything.

After spending the morning in my sweatpants and an Anthropologie t-shirt, (my uniform) I figured I’d better go do something. I got myself together and took a drive to Starbucks. Hey, don’t judge me. I know they are the Walmart of coffee purveyors, but I like the coffee. Probably for the reason most coffee aficionados hate it. It’s mild, sickeningly sweet and comforting. You know that joke, right? About how if it’s fall and you say the words cinnamon pumpkin latte three times, a cute blonde girl wearing purple Ugg boots will appear and say, Ooh, I love pumpkin latte.

I’ve just settled down with my iPad Pro and a Venti vanilla and a cupcake and I’m thinking about my deadline for tomorrow. I’m writing a satirical piece about hair salons. I conned my friend Chris into going with me. What a riot...I’m being sarcastic. I opened my laptop and wrote the following:

[Recently I dragged my friend who shall remain nameless, okay his name is Chris, to one of those discount hair places. The kind you don’t need an appointment to enter. It was called Crazy Cutz. My old hairstylist had the nerve to move to L.A. so I figured we’d give the place a try.

Chris got taken right away—men’s cuts are a breeze. After a few minutes, they took me back. A very young, very thin woman greeted me. She was more than thin; she was painfully angular with black spiky hair. She had a bit of that ‘Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ vibe going on.

She told me to sit and asked what I wanted. I said I needed a cut that popped. She looked at me blankly. I panicked. You know what, maybe just give it a trim around the edges.

We went back for the obligatory shampooing and conditioning. While I was undergoing the waterboarding, in an uncharacteristically positive moment I figured the reason I had been blessed with such beautiful, thick, and glorious hair was so that people like this nice girl could cut it for me. Okay, that sounds amazingly egotistical. Really, I was feeling terrified that she was going to lop it off and then I’d look like a bug-eyed Chihuahua.

After I sat back in the chair, I watched as she diligently snipped away. I could tell she knew what she was doing, but there was something not quite right. I gazed at her reflection and noticed the deep circles under her eyes. Much too deep for such a young woman. The way her shoulder blades jutted out and the paleness of her skin. She said, You know how to do this, right? You need to put just a dab of conditioner every time you wash your hair.

I said, I don’t always do that, it seems to weigh it down.

She became very agitated and said, You have to! You’ll lose hair otherwise, and please don’t tell me you brush it when it’s wet.

Sometimes, I said, feeling sheepish.

"NO! You must always put in conditioner!"

I looked around for Chris. Damn if he wasn’t already done with his haircut. He was paying for mine and his and he went to the car. I watched helplessly as he left.

Are you hearing what I’m saying?

I nodded and sighed. She started to blow dry it and said, Now listen, you need to LIFT it up, put the brush UNDER it and blow it OUT!

I chuckled and said, Got it.

She seemed to get more agitated. Are you sure? Do you really understand?

I looked around. Was this happening? Was I really being spoken to like a child by this young woman who was probably my age?

My hair was starting to take shape. She did a good job and was styling it nicely, so I took it all in stride. Then she stopped for a moment and said, You know? You’re a pretty girl, but you look tired.

I am tired, I said tiredly.

Yeah, but Lonnie’s going to change all that.

Who?

Lonnie, that’s me.

Got it, I said.

She turned off the dryer again and said, Do you take vitamins, because I can smell the vitamins you take, it comes out in your hair.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I looked at her reflection again and saw that her agitation was worsening. Vitamins? You can smell vitamins?

She nodded and then nervously turned on the dryer again. Then everything clicked into place. Ah yes, she was of the tin foil hat variety. I finally understood the meaning of the dark circles that bespoke of troubles hidden just below the surface.

She went through the complete list of instructions again on how to care for my hair. I believe it was the third or fourth time she said, You need to LIFT it up, put the brush UNDER it and blow it OUT!

She turned off the dryer again and said, You see how much better you look? It’s all about balance. I’ve shortened the length just a tiny bit and it’s more flattering.

Before I could say anything, she said, You see this shirt I’m wearing? It doesn’t fit right because my shoulders are too wide.

I uh, I don’t agree with that, there is nothing wrong with your...

YES, my shoulders are so wide that the shirt doesn’t fit right, even though it’s the right size and it drives me crazy!

I watched as she tugged the shirt back and forth over her skinny little frame and I said, C’mon now. You look fine. You don’t have to worry about that.

She didn’t seem to find my words comforting and instead said, You remember what I told you? About how to take care of your hair?

I know I’m a bad person. I couldn’t help myself. I said, No.

I looked at her increasingly dilating pupils and she said, You need to LIFT it up, put the brush UNDER it, and blow it OUT!

She had finished with the blow-dryer and was fiddling with my hair, making sure it was just right. I envied Chris, who was in the safety of the car, probably listening to music and daydreaming about plants.

You know something else? I noticed the guy you came in here with got Stacy to cut his hair. I do the best job with men’s cuts. Tell him for next time, okay? I nodded again and she said, TELL HIM!

I will, I will.

Why is it always me, I wondered? Chris doesn’t have these problems. He’s never subjected to the kind of crazy that always seems to find me whenever I leave the house.

At last, she was done. We went over the instructions one last time. I promised her with all my heart that I understood completely what she was telling me to do, and I swore an oath that I would uphold and carry out her instructions.

Finally, I was released. A full half hour after Chris had left the building. I walked to the car, shaken, and stirred. He had the seat back, his eyes closed, the radio on. I got in.

Hey, it looks great, he said.

Thanks, I appreciate that. The hairdresser was crazy.

Really?

Pretty sure.

Then I said, Smell my hair. What does it smell like to you?

I was feeling anxious about this. You see, the crazy from the Crazy Cutz, it is catching.

He hesitated but sniffed and said, I smell shampoo. It smells like flowers.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and we went out for coffee. My treat.]

Cupcake demolished, coffee sipped, essay done. They’re never going to print this, I muttered under my breath. It’s okay, I’ll take another stab at it later. Leave the meanness out. Even though I agree with everything I said. If I could land a job at one of the more open-minded magazines. Hell, writing Buzzfeed lists would do. No, I take that back. Just no. If only I could write about what I really think. But that won’t happen at the Mail.

Two

Iwent out for a jog early this morning with Rodney. If I get going at a nice fast clip, he won’t bark at the other dogs like he does when we are walking. I think running brings back something primal in his brain. Cesar Milan says, a tired dog is a good dog. Whatever...

So we ran to the downtown mall. The morning was bright and clear, and the air had that crisp fallishness Virginia does so well. The trees were a brilliant gold and red, and as I ran, I enjoyed the feeling of the pavement under my feet. Running feels good. It’s like I don’t think about anything. I just feel my feet hit the ground and my legs and body all work together. It’s really kind of marvelous, when you think of it. If I could run and write, I think I might do my best work. Maybe I would channel everything I wanted to say in the moment of sheer emptiness that comes from not thinking.

It was a farmers’ market morning, and the vendors were getting set up, shaking off the chill and putting out all kinds of scrumptious things. I turned and ran back home, dropped off Rodney, changed, grabbed my cash, and walked back downtown.

My first order of business was to get a homemade taco from the Mexican food stand. Those guys are awesome. Fresh everything—they even make the taco shell. It’s soft, not hard like those awful ones you get in the grocery store. I got the chicken filling with beans and rice. It’s about as close to heaven as you can get. My friend Chris (from the Crazy Cutz essay) is set up on the corner. He sells orchids. I waved, and he beckoned me over.

Hey Chris, what’s up?

You look great today, Prudence.

I felt a twinge of the social awkwardness I was telling you about and blushed. "Thanks, not as pretty as your