CHAPTER I
Twenty-nine days. Twenty-three hours. Forty-five minutes. Fifteen seconds. And Blythe Spirit was still counting.
Nearly a month had plodded by without a word from Blaze Novak, her lost-and-found heartthrob, after they ripped off each other's "Hello My Name Is" stickers and made ardent, voracious lust in the janitor's closet at their old high school the night of their 35th class reunion.
Blame it on the full moon, menopausal madness, or perhaps it was the three martinis Blythe had slurped down only moments earlier. When she spotted Blaze posed at the punch bowl that night -- those incredible dark, liquid eyes...that still-disarming boyish grin...his tan, rugged hands crossed in front of him...
Well, once their gazes locked, everything about that handsome brute begged, "Blythe! My Darling! Come Hither!" So, like a moth to flame, hither she went. That janitor's closet rocked with rekindled passion, the fiery, voluptuous stuff from which the steamy romance novels Blythe penned for a living exploded.
Blythe instantly felt 16 again, in love once more with Blaze.
And tortuously reattached.
But she hadn't heard a peep from the creep since. No texts. No Tweets. No phone calls returned.
Ravaged by rejection when he didn't accept her Facebook friend request, Blythe took to her bed, pining. Blaze loved her once upon a time, she'd console herelf between sobs. But all she had to show for her repeated attempts to text him were blistered thumbs and a tear-stained pillow.
CHAPTER 2
It was times like this Blythe wished her mom was still alive. Thank goodness she had Corlene Johnston to talk to. She was Blythe's stylist, an absolute hair and makeup miracle worker, who doubled as a God-fearing sink-side shrink on Blythe's more hormonally impaired days. This was one of those days.
"Jilted AGAIN!" Blythe lamented while Corlene dyed her hair.
She'd be plugging her latest romance novel, Her Summer of Irrational Longing, on The Daily Show -- the first romance novel Jon Stewart agreed to promote -- and she wanted to look stunning for the shoot. Considering, however, her broken heart and the weeks-long crying jag Blythe had been on, "stunning" might be tough. Even for Corlene.
Corlene wove her color magic throughout the strands of Blythe's slightly graying, dishwater-blond tresses while Blythe swept the ashes of her charred heart into Corlene's ever-listening ear.
"Oh, that Blaze! I love him so!" Blythe moaned. And then she waxed nostalgic, rehashing ad nauseum the desirous details of their midnight rendezvous in the janitor's closet. She cherished the memories, no matter how searing, for that was all she had left of Blaze Novak. Memories, and his withered senior pictured pressed between the pages of her time-worn diary.
"Blythe Spirit, you've got to stop reminiscin'," Corlene commanded as she carefully lowered Blythe's head to the sink for the final rinse. "Quit lookin' back or, just like Lot's wife, you'll turn into a pillar of salt."
Too late.
Blythe's toes had crystalized weeks ago.
Corlene slowly lifted Blythe's head, wrapped her hair in a towel and turned the chair around, forcing Blythe to face herself in the mirror. Blythe scrutinized her reflection.
Puffy bloodshot eyes. Runny red nose. Makeup-streaked cheeks. At 53, and recently divorced, the quintessential poster child for unrequited love. Still. And always.
"Girl, your hair looks FANTASTIC, if I do say so myself," Corlene exclaimed, handing Blythe a Kleenex. "Now, go knock 'em dead on The Daily Show!"
The Daily Show! Blythe still needed a dress, shoes and liposuction before catching her early evening non-stop flight to New York. But first she had to retrieve her car from Fred's Auto Body and Towing Service, located just across the street from Corlene's.
Blythe wiped the smeared mascara from under her eyes, planted a quick good-bye peck on Corlene's soft, plump cheek, and scooted out the door.
"Fresh oil, new brakes, and she's as good as new!" he cheerily advised.
The term "good as new" was a bit of a stretch considering Blythe's car, a sickly salmon-colored 1965 Ford Galaxy 500 rag top, was eons past its prime. Heck, the classic coupe was 10 years old when Blythe unexpectedly inherited it from her dad the afternoon of her high school graduation.
She discovered the car sitting just outside the gymnasium door, motor running, her dad nowhere in sight, as melancholy strains of Pomp and Circumstance filled the air.
Blythe never saw or heard from her dad again.
She had cleaved to his car, keeping it running, if only barely, for more than three decades. Her dad's sunglasses remained in the glove box, untouched, exactly as he had left them.
Blythe slid behind the steering wheel, revved up the revered jalopy, and glanced at her watch. It was later than she thought. But if she hurried, she'd have just enough time to visit The Healing Page bookstore and quickly peruse the shelves for sage advice on letting go of doomed relationships. Then she'd zip into the nearby Corner Boutique for a nifty coordinated ensemb to wear on The Daily Show and still make her flight despite the 45-minute drive to the airport.
It would be close, yes, but stopping at the bookstore was a must. For Blythe knew, and Corlene knew, and most likely the entire town of Pratt Falls, Iowa, population 30,000, knew she needed help. Perhaps the antidote for the toxic slave trust in emotionally unavailable men that continually hobbled her heart would reveal itself at The Healing Page.
She was determined to let go of Blaze Novak once and for all.
The bookstore was but a mile or two from the auto repair shop and as she drove, relentless recollections of Blaze began to jab holes in Blythe's newborn resolve. Blaze's penetrating sweet nothings he panted to her in that broiling janitor's closet hauntingly caressed her like so many tentacled apparitions.
"I've missed you so, Blythe!"
"That gypsy wind is beckoning us again, Blythe!"
"Can't get enough of your love, Blythe!"
If she could just talk to him for a minute...just hear his low, velvety voice one more time...
Blythe was like a junky writhing for a fix.
So rapt in yearning for Blaze was Blythe that she barely heard the Mayday trumpet of an approaching train as her car careened toward an unmarked railroad crossing. Fortunately, she snapped out of her Blaze Daze and slammed on her new brakes just as the speeding string of barren, banging railroad cars whizzed by.
Whew! She had to get a grip! Blythe took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and continued across the tracks. As she bumped along, however, her mind automatically tumbled back to her fevered romp with Blaze.
Why did she let him lure her into that lip lock? Why didn't she protest as he charmed her with his ravishing, rhythmic touch? Why did she allow him to cast into her rosewater soul and bait her susceptable psyche?
She knew damn well why.
CHAPTER 4
Blythe jerked her car into the only available space in The Healing Page parking lot, jammed the gearshift into park and turned off the ignition. The familiar, hot stinging tears of regret began to roll down her cheeks. Immersed in a pool of self recrimination and desperate for a Kleenex, she yanked open the glove box. There sat her dad's sacred sunglasses, cold and lifeless, perfectly preserved in their hallowed temple. Their empty stare pierced her to the bone. "Away vile icon!" she cried, snatching the sunglasses from their shrine and flinging them into the back seat. "And to hell with you, Blaze Novak! I WILL survive!"
Blythe stuffed her keys in the right front pocket of her jeans, jumped out of the car, slammed the door and marched toward the bookstore entrance.
Once inside The Healing Page, Blythe grabbed the nearest sales clerk.
"Closure! I need closure!" she bellowed.
The startled clerk hastily pointed toward the middle aisle marked "Recovery". There Blythe circled the shelves, round and round, madly scanning book titles until they blurred. Her head felt like it was spinning. Her knees buckled. She lost her balance. And as Blythe fell backward, her flailing arms knocked several books off the shelf.
She somehow managed to catch one of the books just as her head struck the corner of the shelf. As she collapsed to the floor, her eyes zeroed in on the colorful title. Don't Text That Jerk! Brilliant reds, greens and blues bounced up and down. Blythe read the title over and over until the colors slowed and stopped, blending into white. The white of a jacket. A paramedic's jacket. Blythe felt the book slipping from her hands.
"No!" she yelled, clasping Don't Text That Jerk! tight against her chest and holding on to it like a lifeline.
"I'm here to help you," the paramedic assured her. "The sales clerk called 911 when she saw you go down. Fortunately, we're right next door. Can you tell me your name?"
"Blythe," she murmurred. "Blythe Spirit."
"Can you tell me what happened, Blythe?"
"Yeah, I can tell ya. He dropped me like a hot potato."
The paramedic tenderly examined her skull and neck.
"Put a C collar on her," he instructed another paramedic. Then he examined Blythe's arms, back and ribs, and delicately rotated her hips. He beamed a bright pen light into her eyes and then quickly clicked it off.
"Blythe, can you see me?"
"Yeah," she muttered, struggling to prop herself up on her elbows in an attempt to get a clear look at him. Soft hazel eyes. Sandy brown hair. Perfect build. A chin dimple so deep you could stash a semi in it. About Blythe's age, maybe a few years younger. No wedding ring.
Blythe leaned toward him.
"Easy there, ma'am," the paramedic cautioned. "Take it slow. Do you feel any pain?"
"Do I feel any pain?" Blythe replied hazily, feasting her baby blues best she could on his taught biceps. "No, no...not anymore..."
Prince Charming gripped Blythe's wrist. Her heart raced!
"Her pulse is pounding like a bongo drum!" he barked. "I wanna blood pressure yesterday! Get her on O2, two liters! Nasal canula! Give me a pulse oxy!"
The next thing Blythe knew, she was strapped to a gurney, wheeled out of the bookstore and nestled into the cramped rear quarters of a waiting ambulance. Blythe's newfound knight in shining armor held her trembling hand.
And the sirens wailed.
CHAPTER 6
Blythe missed her flight to New York.
Instead of chatting with Jon Stewart the next day, she woke up in the intensive care unit at O'Blessit Hospital ensconced in various and sundry medical equipment, resting comfortably while under the watchful eye of the attentive paramedic. He shot Blythe a to-die-for smile.
"You're not Jon Stewart," Blythe pouted coyly.
"Would you settle for David Wesley?"
"And whom might that be?" she replied, grinning as flirtatiously as she could with plastic tubing dangling from her nose.
"That would be me," he said, extending his hand to shake hers. "I'm David Wesley, hospital chaplain."
Yikes! Blythe was ogling a minister! And from a hospital bed, no less! She yanked her hand back from his like she had been shocked by a live wire.
"But, but....you're a paramedic" she sputtered.
"Yes, and the hospital chaplain," David explained. "Just out of seminary. A second-career man. So waddya say? Can we talk?"
Hannibal Lector asking her to lunch could not have terrified Blythe more. What could a man of the cloth possibly want to discuss with her? Her alley cat scruples? Her sure-fire destiny in hell? But she couldn't run. She couldn't hide. She had no choice but to talk to him.
"Sure, we can talk. I'm all yours...I...I mean, I'm all ears," Blythe stammered.
"Great! For starters, here is your book. It dropped from your hands when you passed out on the gurney. I went back later and paid for it. Consider it my gift to you."
Book? What book? Blythe racked her muddled brain as he handed her the paperback. One glance at the title and it all came rushing back.
Don't Text That Jerk!
Blaze!
Blaze!
"It's a good read," David continued. "basically a step-by-step survival guide for letting go of toxic relationships. If I were a betting man, I'd say you're bound to find some answers to your dilemma in Chapter 6, Your Dance Away Dad."
"And you are so sure of this because?" Blythe asked, a teensy-weensy edge to her voice.
"Because my sister leads a Don't Text That Jerk! support group every Tuesday night at our church. She heard the author on one of those call-in radio shows, bought the book, and it really helped her move on from a disastrous relationship. She figured she couldn't be the only textaholic in town, so she started the group. It's part of our church's public outreach."
"So you are assuming I am in the grips of a disastrous relationship and it all stems from my dad's fatherly shortcomings?" Blythe felt her anger rising. She resented being reduced to a dysfunctional family stereotype even if it was on the money.
"No, I'm not assuming," David countered. "Your stylist friend Corlene Johnston heard about your accident. She stopped by here to see you but you were asleep, so I introduced myself. She told me all about your obsession with Blade."
"Blaze," Blythe snapped, correcting him while making a mental note to throttle Corlene the next time she saw her.
"Blade, Blaze. Bottom line, Blythe, he's not worth the tears. He has all the markings of an ambivalent man."
"He does?"
"Pretty much," David offered. "Declares his undying love for you one minute, then doesn't call you for a month?"
"Check," Blythe replied, blushing.
"Tells you he misses you, wants to be with you, then doesn't make time to see you?"
"Check."
"His mixed messages are driving you crazy, making you obsessed with calling and texting him?"
"Check! Yes! Stop! I get the point!" Blythe whined.
"And Corlene told me about your car, too. Your dad's car, how you came to own it. You are gonna have to resolve some of those hurts you still carry about your dad abandoning you. Otherwise, you'll never cease stalking that fantasy father in Blaze or any other man you meet."
"Stalking? You think I stalk men? Au contraire. I am merely determined to ensure that someone I love loves me back. Is that so wrong?" Blythe quibbled.
"Blythe, sometimes God works on our hearts by breaking them first. Maybe Blaze isn't God's choice for you. Did you ever stop to think that Blaze's unresponsiveness is simply God protecting you?"
"Pastor..."
"Please, call me David."
"Okay, David. Not to scoff, but...Do you really believe that God wants to protect someone like me? Someone who hangs out with old boyfriends in janitor closets at class reunions?"
"I believe God loves us, welcomes us, wherever we are at," David replied. "Janitor closets, bars, jail cells, divorce court, church pews...He wants to comfort us and heal our broken hearts. He's standing in the wings waiting, Blythe. We just have to ask him in."
CHAPTER 7
She told David all about her mom, the late Gleda Spirit, a car hop turned department store fashion model. A lovely, witty, but very lonely woman who sought solace by inviting door-to-door brush salesmen in for a rubber of bridge and a shot of Old Card Table whiskey while Blythe's dad was away on business.
"Ergo, my amazing antique bottle brush collection," Blythe joked, trying to put a positive spin on her otherwise dismal autobiography.
"And your dad?" David asked.
"Dunstan designed trivets for a living. You know, those little three-legged plates you put under hot dishes on the dinner table?"
David nodded.
Blythe went on to tell him how, after her mom died, her dad stayed up late every night, just sitting at the kitchen table, downing beers and composing silly advertising slogans.
"Guess what his last words to me were the night before he disappeared?"
"I can only imagine," David said, taking Blythe's hand in his.
"ExLax. Works While You Sleep. Stay Awake And Fool It."
At that, David let go of Blythe's hand, jumped up and announced, "Gotta go!" and out the door he ran.
CHAPTER 8
Blythe was discharged from O'Blessit Hospital the next morning. She called Corlene for a ride back to The Healing Page bookstore, praying her car had not been towed from the parking lot. Corlene was, of course, happy to help her out even though Blythe scolded her for spilling the beans to David Wesley about Blaze.
"Don't fret, Blythe. I'm sure he hears worse," Corlene said. "He's a pastor, for Pete's sake."
"Some pastor!" Blythe fumed. "I barely finished confiding in him about my horrendous childhood and out the door he flew. Splitsville! No explanation, no goodbye. He just disappeared like every other man I've ever trusted."
"Don't be so quick to judge, sweetie. For once, give faith a fighting chance."
"Faith Schmaith, Corlene. Just please come get me as soon as you can. Bye."
Blythe tossed her cell phone in her purse.
Blythe tossed her cell phone in her purse.
She thought about all the things she hadn't had a chance to tell David Wesley. How she started dating Blaze her sophomore year of high school after a Pratt Falls Penguins ice hockey game. How it was and continued to be his job to drive the Zamboni, that huge machine that smoothes the ice rink. How she and her dad had great seats at that game, and how they were having one of the few father-daughter moments he ever granted her when an errant slap shot knocked her upside her head. How Blaze, hopping down from his trusty Zamboni, rushed to Blythe's side and helped cart her out of the stands. How they we were together constantly after that.
Nor did Blythe have the chance to tell David how Blaze always said he loved The Moody Blues, M&Ms, muscle cars and her. How they went for long, smoochy rides in his shiny black Plymouth Baracuda. How he tried valiantly to convince her to have sex with him in his parents' basement the night before graduation. How she was down to nothing but her sparkle socks before she forced her "goody two shoes" self to gasp, "No, Blaze. I shouldn't. I can't." And how they subsequently drifted apart. A few letters, a few phone calls after she left for college on that journalism school scholarship. Then, silence...
Until their 35th high school class reunion, of course, and that damn janitor's closet. Blythe wasn't about to say no to Blaze Novak twice. Maybe this time he'd stay, she'd reasoned.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Blythe sauntered out of her hospital room, past the nurses' station, and stopped at the drinking fountain for a cool sip. The twangy melody of an old country western tune wafted softly from a radio in a nearby janitor's closet.
"Lookin" for love in all the wrong places," some cowboy crooned.
Oh, if her life were a song...
CHAPTER 9
Blythe was just about to the elevator when one of the nurses called out to her. "Blythe! Wait! I almost forgot! David Wesley left this for you!"
The nurse met Blythe half way between the nurses' station and the elevator and handed her a brochure. It gave the date, time and place for the next Don't Text That Jerk! support group meeting.
It was to be held that night.
"David just sort of threw it on my desk as he flew by on his way to answer an emergency call, and he told me to please make sure to give it to you," the nurse explained, smiling.
"Emergency call? What emergency call? He was sitting right next to me, and I never heard his pager go off."
"Oh, no one ever does. David keeps his pager on vibrate at all times. At the first buzz, he's out the door."
Maybe, Blythe thought, she had been too quick to judge the pastor's hasty exit.
Just then the elevator door opened, and there stood Corlene looking whiter than snow.
"Blythe, honey, I've got bad news for you. The bookstore called Fred Haley to tow your car, and on the way back to the shop it somehow slipped off the hook smackdab in the middle of those flippin' railroad tracks. Fred heard a train comin', and thank goodness he was able to clear the tracks in his truck. Fred is fine, but your car, your daddy's car, was creamed, darlin'. There's nothin' left but these."
From her purse Corlene pulled out Dunstan Spirit's sunglasses, still in one piece, like a horror flick demon that refuses to die after being stabbed repeatedly in the neck with knitting needles.
Blythe took one look at those glasses and she knew what she had to do.
"Enough is enough!" she announced, yanking the sunglasses away from Corlene.
She threw them on the floor, stomped on them, scooped up the crushed remains in her hands and poured them into a nearby trash can.
"Enough is enough!" she announced, yanking the sunglasses away from Corlene.
She threw them on the floor, stomped on them, scooped up the crushed remains in her hands and poured them into a nearby trash can.
"Now take me home, please, Corlene."
CHAPTER 10
Blythe began digging for her cell phone, which had settled to the bottom of her purse, the minute she walked in her front door.With all the excitement over the sunglasses at the hospital, she had missed three phone calls. Hence, three voicemails awaited her.
The first was from The Daily Show staff wanting to reschedule Blythe's interview. The second was from the Pratt Falls High School Class of 1975 reunion committee chair letting her know that her copy of the group picture -- sans her and Blaze, of course -- had been mailed.
And the third voicemail began with that low, velvety voice she had longed to hear for so long.
Blaze!
"Hey, girl, what's goin' on?"
She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the goosebumps, the waves of excitement pulsing through her every vein.
"Uh, sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you," the low, velvety voice continued. "What can I say? I'm in Reno. Just got married. I left for that Zamboni convention a few days after the reunion and met this gal, Loretta Griswald, at a car show. I fell in love with her, plain and simple. She drives a 427 SS Chevelle with ram air, Holley four-barrell, Hurst four-speed, leather guts, a 4:11 rear-end and Keystone mags. It don't get any better than that, Blythe. Forgive me?"
Blythe listened to the message twice. Was he serious? Mr. Ambivalence finally makes a commitment and it's to some car hotty named Loretta? In Reno? Really?
She waited for the burning, stinging tears of regret to burst forth. But they didn't. She waited for the nausea of abandonment and rejection to grip her stomach. But it didn't.
Instead, for the first time in her life, Blythe felt a sense of inner peace wash over her.
Could it be...closure?
Suddenly the door bell rang and Blythe peeked out the window.
David Wesley!
She threw open the door and invited him in.
"Thought you might need a ride to tonight's Don't Text That Jerk! support group meeting," he said, sporting that eternally effervescent smile. "Sorry to hear about your car."
"Who told you?" Blythe asked.
As if she didn't already know.
"Corlene!" they both said at the same time, laughing.
It felt so good to laugh.
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| THE END |
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