Unusual Stories

By JoEllen Conger

Writing as JoEllen Conger, I write in tribute to my co-author and twin, who passed into the next world in 2015. I miss her dearly. Here is a collection of our work, as multi-faceted as any reader could hope for. It has been written in the hopes there will be something for everyone, molded as it has been with a great deal of diversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093887

Book preview

Unusual Stories

JoEllen Conger

A WINGS EPRESS, INC.

Short Story Collection

WINGS EPRESS, INC.

EDITED BY: JEANNE SMITH

Copy Edited by: Christie Kraemer

Executive Editor: Jeanne Smith

Cover Artist: Trisha FitzGerald-Jung

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 © 2019 by: JoEllen Conger

ISBN  978-1-61309-604-8

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS   67114

Dedication

As JoEllen Conger, I write without my co-writer...my twin, since my sister and co-author passed through transition in 2015. I miss her dearly. I honor her with this collection of shorts that we worked on together over the years. But I also keep writing for our children and their children...until I too become one of our ancestors.

One

HIS LAST BOOK

Cindy eyed the angry woman before her; her face flushed, her mouth ugly. Mark had told her his wife Margareta’s eyes flashed like emeralds when she was angry. But Cindy hadn’t believed him until now. She hadn’t believed that anyone’s eyes could be this color naturally. This was the first time she’d met Mark’s wife, face-to-face, although she felt she knew her more intimately than anyone on earth.

I thought I told you to leave me alone! Margareta shouted. Just go away! Get out of my house and never come back!

Cindy was afraid her amused smile only inflamed her indignant hostess. Mark told me your eyes flashed when you were angry. I thought it was just a figure of speech.

What do you want from me? Margareta stood, hands on hips, her chin thrust out.

What I want is to deliver Mark’s last words.

Get out!

Look, Mrs. Demitrius, I was there at the end, and he wanted me to tell you—

I should have been the one there at the end. Not you! Margareta choked on the words.

Cindy spoke carefully. You could have been. Only you refused to accept my phone call from the hospital.

Why didn’t he even let me know he was ill?

Mr. Demitrius was a very proud man. He didn’t want you to see him like that.

"But it was all right for you to be there! I knew he’d left me for another woman, but I never suspected you were so young." The widow plucked unconsciously at her watchband; brimming tears strained to be shed.

If he left you for another woman, it must have been before he hired me. I never saw him with another woman, Cindy corrected.

But you lived with him at the apartment, Margareta accused.

Yes, I did, but so did his nurse, his manservant, his cook and driver.

They told me you spent your nights in his room. Do you think I don’t know what was going on? Margareta voiced her bitter accusation.

Cindy observed Margareta’s downcast mouth, the tears that pearled just under her lashes, and the exhausted expression which dragged at the woman’s face. Mark had never mentioned Margareta’s jealousy. Perhaps he hadn’t been aware of it.

God, how she must have loved him!

Yes, at the last, the nights were the roughest for him. Sometimes, we worked nearly ‘til dawn before he was exhausted enough to sleep through the pain.

He was in pain?

He wanted you to know he never stopped loving you. Cindy hitched up her briefcase, indicating she carried his message.

Well, he had a funny way of showing it. The woman whirled to stare out the huge picture window overlooking the immaculate grounds. She hugged herself in misery.

He asked me to bring you his wedding ring, Cindy stated quietly. Then added, May we sit down a moment?

Mark’s widow sighed heavily, then motioned toward two formal chairs in a small room just off the main entrance. Cindy entered and, without invitation, sat at a small table. She snapped open her mahogany briefcase and drew out a velvet draw-topped sack.

He lost so much weight he couldn’t wear his rings. I made the bag so he could carry them in his pocket. She handed the bag to Margareta although the woman had yet to join her at the table.

Mrs. Demitrius opened the bag and poured the rings out onto the stark white enameled surface of the tabletop. She smiled fleetingly when she saw the wedding band. Her hands shook as she picked it up and held it to her heart.

Did you love him? the widow whispered.

I admired your husband a great deal, Cindy replied honestly.

Margareta sank into the chair opposite her rival, still clutching the ring. But did you love him? Her emotion was so intense, Cindy read volumes from the woman’s beseeching eyes.

Mrs. Demitrius...I was not his lover, if that is what you’re asking. Yes, I think I loved him. He was that kind of man.

Mark’s widow bowed her head, her lips still trembling.

I’m a writer, Cindy confided. I met Mark at a book signing. I admired your husband’s literary accomplishments, his career, his flair for adventure-suspense. Cindy drew in a sharp breath and bit her lip at the quaver in her own voice before she could go on.

I offered him one of my own autographed copies in return for his. It was a silly thing to do, but he accepted it graciously. I’m a romance writer.

Margareta glanced up, her eyes going stormy again, her lips pulled thin.

Cindy held up a hand to ward off the flood of bitter words before Margareta could voice her opinion. After reading my book, he called me. He wanted to write a love story, he said, but he didn’t know how.

We worked together for several months, often throughout the night. Then, toward the end, he became too weak to operate the computer. I typed as he dictated. Then finally, I took over his story, Mrs. Demitrius, and I’ve tried my best to finish it in his own writing style. I hope you approve.

To hide the tightening in her throat, Cindy reached into the still-open briefcase and carefully lifted out a stack of manuscript pages. Holding them tightly, as she searched Margareta’s face for understanding...for forgiveness...for acceptance.

I can’t imagine Mark writing a trashy love novel. Margareta’s attitude was defensive, her angular body stiff.

I’m only asking you to read it, Mrs. Demitrius, before you pass judgment. He would have waited until after it was published to present it to you. Only...as one woman to another, I thought the manuscript might mean more to you than a published copy of his book, even though he didn’t actually finish writing it.

"Read it. I am the one who became obsessed with the idea to let you have his manuscript. It shows his last editing, before it went to be published. The story is based on your courtship...yours and Mark’s. As he remembered loving you."

All those terrible nights when he was slowly dying, it was his memories of you that made it bearable for him. I’m asking you to read it...and accept it...as Mark’s last words to you. He didn’t know how to tell you he loved you. He had to write it. Cindy lovingly laid the ream on the table. "His published book won’t be released for another six months. It’ll list his name as the author."

As Margareta’s hands blindly reached to gather in the manuscript, Cindy suddenly snapped her briefcase closed and rose in one fluid motion. Its rude sound intruded upon the thick emotional tension between them.

I’ll be leaving you now. That’s all right, don’t get up! The maid can see me out. With a hot lump in her throat, Cindy bit her lip and bolted for the door before she cried.

She had kept her promise to Mark by delivering his last book...to the only woman in his life who had meant anything to him. It was a sensitive, touching love story. His love story. His and Margareta’s.

It was by far the best book she’d ever written.

Two

WITHOUT A SOLITARY CLUE

My husband, Tim, had already left for the yacht club. I was alone in the house. The quiet enfolded me like a mother’s hug. He’d gone earlier, so I could have uninterrupted time to write. There were just me and my computer feverishly working on a scene for my new book. Everything was coming together nicely; the words flowed onto the page at a steady pace. I’d just had a bright idea about a subtle sub-plot when the phone rang. Its penetrating ring froze my brain with its electronic shrilling. My fingers froze above the keyboard.

Damn! I thought. Although I never answer the telephone when I’m working, I couldn’t stop from listening to the answering machine...waiting an eternity for it to fulfill its appointed task. Who in the world had the audacity to telephone just when things were going so well?

Why couldn’t I ignore it? Continue to write? No! My brain just had to know who I was snubbing. Exasperated, I turned my good ear toward the far end of the living room where the phone ‘lived’ on my husband’s desk. I waited impatiently for my own voice to finish the announcement, my lips mocking the message. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. So, leave a message at the sound of the tone, or keep talking and a human may answer.’

As soon as the insidious beep had finished, my husband’s voice bellowed, Pick up the phone, woman! I need to talk to a human.

He’d promised not to call! Why couldn’t he understand how hard it was for me to pick up where I’d left off once I’d been interrupted? With a sigh, I punched ‘save,’ trying desperately to commit to memory that inspired new plot-twist before it was lost forever. I searched for and found a pen hidden beneath the papers on my littered desk and jotted down a couple of key phrases.

Come on, human. Talk to me. I’m in real trouble! he shouted.

If you only knew how much, I grumbled under my breath as though he could hear me. With resignation, I heaved myself out of my office chair and strode the length of the long room. The very reason I hadn’t wanted an extension phone anywhere near my little corner was because telephone calls interrupted my flow of thought. I hated that.

He was still imploring when I snatched up the receiver.

What do you consider ‘real’ trouble, mister? I questioned the love of my life. I wondered whether he could detect the irritation in my voice.

They’re having the flea market today. Remember? It was postponed from last Saturday because of the rain?

Right. I knew that, I growled.

You’re coming down for it, aren’t you?

We talked about this last night, I snapped. Of course, I’m coming down. I have a bylaw meeting with the vice-commodore at one o’clock. But I don’t have to be there for three hours yet.

Can you come earlier?

Earlier? I was suspicious. I knew the man couldn’t already be desperate for my stimulating companionship. He’d only been gone for forty-five minutes. My mind failed to dream up an appropriate retort. My clutch slipping—even my aspish tongue failed to come to my rescue.

Well, remember the French bread I brought home last week? I had to put it in our freezer because the club’s freezer was full, he hurried to explain.

"What’s this got to do with me? I asked.

I forgot to bring it. It was a statement of utter mortification.

What could I say? The silence built like static. The man knew I had a deadline to meet.

Can you bring them early? he pleaded.

I heaved a sigh, and then growled, How early is early? My attention wandered back to my monitor as I desperately tried to hold my scene together, but the screen-saver had already taken over. Its spotlight searched across the monitor, scanning the empty space where the words hadn’t yet been written.

Eleven thirty? he wheedled.

Damn him! I resented his infringing on my writing time. I slowly counted to ten before I could trust myself to answer. Noon, I bartered, not ready to give in just yet, although I suspected it was way too late to save my wonderful plot twist. The flow of words had vanished from my mind. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference now what time I left the house. The muse herself had packed it in and left for more fertile climes.

Noon? he repeated. Well, okay, but they need the bread for lunch.

Surprisingly, I had that figured out, or you wouldn’t have called. Nothing says that someone couldn’t go out and buy some more, I argued.

They’re too busy setting up their booths.

I sibilated like a teakettle. That figures. Okay. Noon.

That’s my girl. I knew I could count on you.

Why is it, I lamented, I get the picture of the monkey and the cat?

What do you mean?

Something about pulling chestnuts out of the fire. I laughed finally, sensing the irony of the moment. It wasn’t as though in all the years we’d been married I’d never telephoned him to save me from some impending embarrassment. I’d called him plenty of times...even in the middle of the night.

I’ll bring the bread, don’t worry. I’ll go take the loaves out of the freezer right now and put them in my car. I hung up.

It took two trips to relay all the frozen, paper-wrapped logs and toss them onto the back seat of my maroon Mercedes. I returned to the house and stood above my computer, hoping against all hope that Lady Inspiration still lurked. No such luck.

It was just too late to save my wonderful idea. I threw myself down into my chair. Try as I might, the words eluded me. I reread and critiqued what I’d already written before I closed the document.

The only thing on my mind now was throwing a load into the washing machine, starting the cantankerous dishwasher, retrieving my briefcase from the top of the file cabinet to take to the bylaw meeting, and picking up a stack of pages I needed to have photocopied. As long as I had the time, I might as well hand-deliver the proof-sheets to my proofreader on my way through town, instead of mailing them.

WHEN I PULLED INTO the yacht club parking lot, it was six minutes after twelve. The place was jammed with people. I knew the main driveway would be blocked, reserved for the concession booths, so I grabbed the first open parking space I came to. It’d be quite a walk to the clubhouse, I realized, but I parked there anyway. What choice did I have? Had my husband given it any thought, he could have been waiting to help me. He wasn’t. I saw him already manning his booth.

I jumped out of the car and surveyed the pile of things I needed to transport. I couldn’t carry everything, I decided. I’d have to leave my briefcase in the car. Jerking the bread off the back seat, I stacked it on the roof before slamming the door with a hip.

How in the world could I carry all this bread in one trip? It was unreasonable, but I felt I had to try. Throwing my purse strap over my shoulder, I piled the bread on my arms like cordwood. I turned, intending to bolt toward the clubhouse, but I hadn’t taken three steps before my load shifted. I struggled to hang onto the paper sacks. Belatedly, I realized how dumb I’d been. I should have made two trips. It wouldn’t have mattered, even though I had promised to have the bread here by noon. It didn’t take a tactician to realize I needed a miracle, or I was going to drop the whole thing.

Just then, the sexiest voice I’d ever heard in my life called, Whoa, lady. I see you could use a hand.

I turned to find the owner of the voice and saw a man’s arms already extended to help.

Thanks. I smiled up into his gorgeous blue eyes, shaded by his dark-brown Stetson. His black hair curled over his forehead in ringlets. His smile made me melt on the spot.

No problem, lady. I was headed your direction, anyway.

His arms brushed mine as he scooped up a load of French bread. At his touch, the electricity stood the hairs up on my arms, and I felt my heart go pit-a-pat. I’m not usually gaga over western wear, but he really did something for those faded Levi’s. His fringed leather jacket was a good color match with his snakeskin cowboy boots. He was definitely something fine to look at. I felt my lips curling into a smile, my surly attitude forgotten.

Lead the way, he announced. I’ll follow you.

He could follow me anywhere, I thought. What a hunk.

As we rounded the corner of the driveway, I could see the light of my life bartering with a prospective buyer. He didn’t even see me. Oh well, I could tell him later I’d made it.

I indicated we’d take a short-cut through the patio area to determine whether the French bread was needed at the outdoor barbecue pit or the galley inside. My cowboy was hot on my heels, so close I could smell his after-shave. Briefly, I considered slowing down so