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5.5 x 8.5 paperback |
ISBN: 9781432718237 |
$11.95 |
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Genre: |
MUSIC / Ethnic |
Publication: |
Feb 13, 2008 |
Pages: |
292 |
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There is an old adage; "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." But what happens when your closest friend becomes your greatest enemy? Celeste Gray and Terri Hunter are best friends who seemingly have everything, lavish homes, luxury cars, designer labels, beautiful children and doting husbands. At the center of their friendship lies a private orange grove where the twosome secretly meet to share their innermost thoughts and partake of the delectable fruit. Though they are spoiled rotten by the sweet life, what they posses is not what they desire. For Celeste, it is an escape from the mundaneness of her life as a homemaker. For Terri, it is the attention she desperately seeks from an online romance. When a tragic hit-n-run accident kills Celeste's husband, Jayland, both their lives are left in ruins, and the only desire that remains is to turn back the clock. However, in the aftermath of the crash, guilt forces the duo on a downward spiral of events. Terri searches for a deeper connection on the Internet, while Celeste solicits sexual favors from Rowan, Terri's barely legal son. Grief has never turned so bitter as secrets are discovered and deception is unearthed in the lives of the women and the sacred orchard that connects them.
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Prologue
May 2006
The doctor wears her Sunday best this Tuesday - an off-white blazer with silver embroidery around the buttons, and a matching skirt with three severely ironed pleats that helps to conceal her monthly bloating. Under her blazer, she wears an ivory-colored silk tank, which is the only way she can bear the Florida stickiness. No stockings, and a pair of black pumps so severely pointed in the toe that she feels tiny aftershocks with every step she makes. Her almond-colored skin is lackluster. Her short auburn bob so fiercely moused and hair sprayed that every strand mocks the gentle breeze as she walks inside of The Times tower.
The burly security guard stares at the doctor’s muscular bare legs as she enters the fourteen-story building. His eyes search desperately for a glimpse of breast under her blazer. Finding nothing, he returns his gaze to the task at hand, watching his favorite morning talk show on the small tv propped at his workstation.
“Hello, Tony,” she says flatly, not really in the mood for pleasantries this particular morning. The guard barely nods his massive head in reply.
The doctor shrugs her shoulders and walks in the direction of the bathroom. Inside, she holds onto the lime-scaled sink for dear life, curses under her breath. Then she does it. Takes off her blazer, and hikes up her blouse. She rips the nicotine patch from her forearm, taking a few strands of hair along with it. Today, she needs a more direct route. She fumbles inside her worn attache for her emergency stash in the side pocket, and grabs one of the last two menthols from the original green package.
She digs down a second time, finds her old trusty lighter, the one in the shape of a silver bullet. Then, she lights up. The doctor coughs uncontrollably as she inhales, like an asthmatic on the verge of an attack. She inhales again. The nicotine makes her feel giddy, calms her.
“Shit.” She mutters under her breath. Ten days cold turkey down the drain. She finishes and washes her hands to rid them of any evidence. She grabs for her emergency stash of Romance perfume and sprays twice. She puts a mint in her mouth, sighs, then her rolls her shoulders. Wuusa-a. She exhales. Deeply.
The doctor punches the up arrow and watches the progression of numbers as the elevator descends from the eleventh floor to the lobby. The arrow key flashes and the soft buzzer sends her mind into overdrive. Inside the doors now, she begins her morning mental checklist of the day’s appointments, the first being a new patient that she has few details about.
She reads the plague above Suite 303. Dr. Sheila Waldron, M.D., Ph.D. She sighs and opens the French doors to her workday ritual.
“Good morning, Sheila,” Alicia, the receptionist chirps as she simultaneously hands the doctor her morning cup of coffee already loaded down with extra sugar and heavy cream. The doctor blows into her oversized pink paisley mug while she peruses the overnight messages given to her by Alicia.
The agoraphobic woman in Brandon needs an urgent meeting as she is scheduled for a mandatory meeting that will require her to drive on the freeway, something she feels she can’t manage. The sexaholic man in Largo wants information on voluntary castration. He’s just curious. The Riverview woman suffering from post-partum depression is having visions of drowning her newborn son in the bathtub again, and the depressed grandmother in New Tampa is considering a single seniors cruise. Nothing new.
She sits down at her massive mahogany desk and goes through her second mental checklist of the day - notebook, check, micro-tape recorder, check, extra cassette tapes, check, extra notepad, check, replacement batteries, check. Three pens. Check. She plans to be here for a while.
“Dr. Waldron.”
“Yes.”
“Your eight o’clock is here.”
“Thank you, Alicia. Send her in please.”
The doctor moves to sit in the brown leather chair adjacent to the matching chaise lounge. She crosses her legs and taps her left leg back and forth repeatedly. She notices a silver gum wrapper near the edge of her chair and bends to retrieve it. Just as the doctor lifts her head up, a pair of wide deep-set hazel eyes stare down at her so intently that they cause her to almost fall face forward as she straightens up in her chair. The woman before her has an eery quietness to her. Serene. As if she was a woman of few words, but the ones she did impart on someone were always meaningful. The doctor guessed the woman sitting across from her to be in her mid-thirties, which would make them about the same age.
Even in the drabness of the best-attempt-at-a-welcoming office atmosphere, the woman before her eluded a sense of birthright. Pristine. Crisp. Like one-hundred percent pre-shrunk white cotton sheets fresh from the original package. Yet to be soiled.
The woman’s skin color reminded Dr. Waldron of golden sunsets. Her shoulder length hair is pulled into a tight bun that accents her auburn highlights. Light makeup. She appears casual in a designer number that accentuates her curves.
“Hello. Mrs. Gray. I’m Dr. Waldron.” She extends her hand.
“I know. I called you. Remember.”
She drops her hand. “Um...shall we begin.”
“Yes. Please.”
“O.K. Do you mind if I tape record our conversation?”
“Fine.”
“Tell me. What brings you here to see me this morning, Celeste. Can I call you Celeste?”
“Fine.”
“So, why are you here?”
“I’m afraid that my best friend is going to kill me.”
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About Marchel Alverson
Marchel Alverson is the author of Painted on Souls. Currently, she
works as a communications specialist in Kansas City, Missouri. She
holds an undergraduate degree in journalism and a graduate degree in communications.
Marchel Alverson Online
Contact Marchel
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