![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shalannaEarlier on "Shalanna's Scribbles": We were talking about the books I'm marketing, and several correspondents suggested to me that the problem is actually still there in the prose (insofar as its being too larded with adjectives, or too slowly paced, or just stupider than other submissions that might be on the same desk.)
I agree that it might be somewhat _amusant_ if I posted, for your comments, the opening of a romantic suspense/psychological thriller that I haven't worked on in about five years. It's something I'm not currently marketing, so I don't have to worry about any editor/agent getting upset about a partial being posted and so forth. It's not good enough to steal, obviously, or it might've won the contest it was entered in, or attracted more attention from the few agents I queried. So this should be an interesting test. It's supposed to have a somewhat menacing tone.
If you click below, you'll get a lot of text to read, so beware. I also have some remarks at the end that might inspire commentary.
UNBROKEN by Shalanna Collins
1
The blade was sharp.
I slid my finger down the knife. On the obverse side near the edge, but without enough pressure to draw blood. Fine steel it was, not stainless but tempered carbon, the kind sharpened on a stone. A hair laid across its edge would instantly be laid open.
An exaggeration, perhaps, but a small one. A spot of blood appeared; I popped my fingertip into my mouth before it started to sting. I'd misjudged again. I hadn’t been the best judge of anything lately.
The life so short, the art so long to learn. Wasn't that a famous quotation? Goethe. Aristotle. One of the ancients.
In the blade, its light alive as in a mirror, I could see the image again; I could almost make it out this time--there--
"Hey, June. What the hell are you doing?" My sister Kevaline banged the kitchen door open against the stop as she strode in, the scarred heels of her cowboy boots pounding the floor. Chunks of mud flaked off onto the hardwood planks I had so lovingly restored last year as Kevvie Frisbee-tossed her authentic tourist-grade Stetson. It bullseyed on our uncle's antique oak hat rack.
The light was gone from the blade. The image I couldn’t quite catch was lost again, thanks to Kevvie. If only she hadn't startled me out of my reverie. Or had it been a vision?
I recovered nicely. "Just polishing up some of the serving pieces. That cheap dishwashing powder leaves spots, like the ads say." Lies came more and more easily lately. I tossed the knife in the back of a drawer. By the time Kevvie turned around, I could even smile. "Ferlin let you off early again?"
"Naw." Kevvie shed her flannel shirt on the back of her brown Lazy-Girl lounger and reached for a tube top. Her clothes lived in the middle drawer of the rosemaled-pine highboy in the den, which served as guest room, TV area, dining room, and second bedroom in the cabin. "Frickin' scary problem. Lentil's gone lame--pulled up lame right after the farrier got through nailing on her new shoes. I can't get nobody to tell me whether that's temporary, normal, how long it lasts, or nothing.”
“Lame?” My voice cracked.
Her shrug betrayed no alarm, merely irritation. “Pete on the UTI’s got a palomino been dead lame for weeks, ever since he cast a shoe and had to get re-shod.” She sniffled, rubbing her fist across her reddened nose. “Anyhow, she can't work this afternoon, so I can't, neither."
Lame. The very word applied to a quarter horse--one of the mares, the livelihood of Persimmon Ridge Ranch--made my jaw clench. I sucked in a breath, slowly. Our ranch, like our larger neighbor the Rancho El Gato, earned most of its dwindling income from the horses, although we also had a guest ranch sideline up at the main house, with “Texas ridin' weekends” to attract the tourists from nearby Fredericksburg. But Kevvie didn't always give me the exact truth, or all of it. I shaded my eyes from the suddenly bright sun streaming through the skylight in the large rustic kitchen and tried to read Kevvie's expression.
"Clouds've blown away, pretty much." Kevvie grabbed the bottle opener out of the junk drawer. "You think it's bright in here, you oughta spend a few hours out there working in the dirt. We're working toward the next show, plus we've got that weekend coming up. Let's you and me swap jobs."
I handed her a cold longneck beer out of the fridge. "You figure it's easier being the manager, accountant, camp counselor, psychiatrist, and chief-cook-and-bottle-washer?"
"Not only is it cooler work"--Kevvie flopped down on the worn denim love seat--"but you get all the credit, while your little baby sister’s working her compound fanny off out there leading the ponies around with the tourists' runny-nosed offspring on their backs."
“Feel free to head back to the big city anytime.” It was an empty threat. I was stuck with keeping Kevvie on at the ranch by any means necessary, as a favor to Daddy--who, after all, owned the spread--to try to keep her out of trouble. Not that I have any influence on her.
What I did have going for me was simple: Kevaline loved the horses. She was snarky and cranky to people, but not with them. Kevvie'd worked on the ranch three months to my eight, yet she had an intuitive connection to the animals.
This was the longest Kevvie’d ever stayed on one job or even in one place since she got grown-up enough to move out of Daddy’s big house on Beverly Drive in Dallas. I must be doing something right.
“You wish.” Kevvie lifted her short thick braid and fanned the back of her neck with the frayed television guide. Her cottony-blonde hair (not bleached, but naturally pale, like her invisible brows and lashes and, for all I knew, the rest of her body hair) was limp with sweat. She didn’t burn in the sun, but baked to what Grammy would’ve called “a turn”; her complexion was piecrust-brown, as dark as I'd ever seen her. Grudgingly I admitted that my worthless sister, even in jeans and glistening with perspiration (Grammy called it "glow," not "sweat"), was beautiful in a way, although all I could think of was how the upholstered furniture would absorb Kevvie's sweat-sock odor.
Kevaline took a long swig. Her lips made a popping sound as she pulled the bottle off of them. “Damn if we weren't heatstroke fodder out there. Can’t hardly get your breath this time of day.”
“Be thankful I got the air conditioner, then.” I rotated the window unit’s dial one notch lower to compensate for having a second person in the room.
The oppressive heat was the unfair price of living in Texas’ gorgeous Hill Country in the summer. The temperature and humidity rose in tandem, each making the other seem worse, and prompting meteorologists to invent additional measurements like “heat index” to describe how warm it actually felt.
Sometimes Kevvie said things just to bait people. I could never resist the bait. "You said Lentil came up lame. Does that mean--"
"I don't really know what the hell it means." Kevvie swigged beer and flicked the television into life with the deluxe remote control. Obediently, its LivingSound speakers blasted the "Supermarket Sweep" theme. One thing we did not suffer for lack of was high-end electronics, thanks to our younger brother Benny, who was in the business. Another business controlled by Daddy--or, rather, now controlled by Uncle Thomas since Daddy had his stroke. My city friends, visiting, always laughed to see the twig furniture and cracked windowpanes flanking a fifteen-hundred-dollar Home Theater.
“You don’t think it's something to worry about, do you?”
Kevvie arched her back, rubbing the small of it with the tip of her thumb, and let out a sigh. "Ferlin might know. He's the one who called the farrier. The horse-shoer. I think that's what you call them. I won’t repeat what Ferlin called him. Cussed until the air was blue with sparks."
"Turn down the TV. What do _you_ think?" I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. "Really, Kevvie. This could be important."
Kevvie studied her from under half-closed eyelids. "I've done told you all I know about it. Don't get your panties in a knot.”
"Sorry." I took a deep breath. "I know it's not your fault."
Kevvie ran her hands over her hair, plastering back the damp flyaways at her hairline. “Why not ask Ferlin when he comes in? He knows all that stuff. I'm just a ranch hand. Ain’t I, buddy?"
Her last remark she addressed to Ginger, her stupid-as-she-was-huge hound dog. Ginger was the accidental product of the neighbor’s golden retriever and a fence-jumping Irish setter. She bounded into the den accompanied by a crescendo of toenail clicks and jumped into Kevvie's lap. The big happy dunce had heard Kevvie's voice, which finally lured her off June's antique brass bed, where she lolled during the heat of the day under the slow-paddling ceiling fan. She preferred the tall bed to Kevvie's loft, which was airless by ten in the morning. Ginger suffered during the Texas summer, but Kevvie wouldn’t let the ranch hands shave her down the way they did their own mutts, for fear of sunburn. She said dogs should look natural, that the crew-cut ones always seemed embarrassed, as though they sensed that they looked ridiculous.
My ears hummed; the news about Lentil had probably boosted my blood pressure. But it was several hours until time for my next pill. I almost reached for the wall phone to beep Ferlin on his pocket pager, but thought better of it. Before he took off for the day, he always came by the main house to punch the clock. Sometimes there were advantages to Uncle Thomas’ time-card system, even though everyone knew it meant he didn’t trust anyone, especially not me.
I made a conscious effort to relax my hands, which had flown up to the sides of my head to grasp hanks of my hair, loose and wild with its grown-out perm. Digging a hair elastic out of my pocket, I pulled all my hair into a high ponytail, as though that's what I'd intended to do in the first place.
I did not need to overreact to bad news this time. Five months ago, on hearing news like this--actually, something not half this threatening--I had rushed out to the horse barn, called the vet out, and started raising Cain. That had been a serious mistake; the ranch workers had lost respect for my authority over the false alarm. They'd scoffed that I was nothing but an ignorant, crazed city woman who’d traded her power suit for overalls. It had been a struggle gaining back their esteem.
This might be nothing, after all. And Kevaline had been known to make up stories just to see me panic. If that were the case, it wouldn't work this time.
In the cabin's tiny bathroom, I splashed my face at the sink and whipped off the apron. I changed into fresh jeans and a white short-sleeved blouse and twisted my lank summer hair into a dark knot. I decided against tying a bandana over it; after all, I wanted to look like a manager, not like somebody’s slave girl.
"Where are you off to?" Kevvie kicked at me as I headed for the door, but instead scuffed the edge of the coffee table with the toe of her boot.
"I'm--" I bit back a sharp retort. What did Kevvie care, as long as I left her alone to lounge with the dog and the afternoon quiz shows? "Headed up to the main house for a bit to do some paperwork. If Sherman calls, tell him I'll be back later, to leave a number."
"K." Kevvie'd no more stir her skinny butt to answer the phone than the man in the moon. But the answering machine held no grudges.
I slipped on the plastic "shades" the eye doctor's office had instructed me to wear in the sun and slammed out the door. The inane television music and then the voice of the Quizmaster testing his vapid contestants followed me all the way down the front walk.
If there's anything I hate worse than sin, it's television.
The Roving Ranger sat gleaming in the semicircular drive, but this was an easy walk, less than a quarter-mile. Besides, I felt fat. As the pine needles crunched under my feet, I wished for the zillionth time that my sister had turned out to be a different kind of person. Someone who’d want to help me, take at least some interest in the business of the ranch, take some of the pressure off. Of course that was nothing but a dream.
For now, it was enough that Kevvie stayed clean, sober, and away from the bad crowd. She did seem to be less angry, and even Sherman had commented on the change in the girl since she'd arrived. If she had anything up her sleeve, she was keeping it well hidden.
I had to be satisfied with that. At least for the moment.
2
The Texas Hill Country is to me some of the most gorgeous country in the world, the equal of the California coast or the south of France. I love these gently rolling Texas hills, carpeted with bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush in the early spring, and waving with winter wheat through the autumn months. Although in this area, Sherman always joked, autumn only lasted a few days, long enough for those trees planning to drop their leaves to do it, and then Texas skipped directly to the cold-and-rainy season.
Still, I never want to go back to Dallas. Just a few breaths of the country air, carrying the sweet scent of new-mown grass, lifts my spirits. I felt my burdens lighten a bit as I crunched along the wildflower-lined stone path. But by the time I arrived at the main house, I was covered with a thin film of sweat. Kevaline hadn’t been kidding about the heat.
The central air conditioning was a sweet relief. I headed for the library, just off the gathering room in the main lodge. Over the years, Daddy had built up an extensive reference bookshelf, including veterinary texts.
One wall of the library was all French doors looking out on the “back forty,” where inn guests could gaze out on the real ranch hands doing their chores or at other guests out on a recreational trail ride. The east exit led to the gathering room, a rustic sitting area where guests could have snacks and chat; the western wall held curtained French doors leading to the manager's private office. My office, I thought with pride. The back wall was solid books, the polished shelves going all the way up the two-story height of the room. A mahogany library ladder made possible access to the upper reaches, mostly their father's old law books. A track complete with handholds ran along the ceiling, allowing a browser on the ladder to slide along the rows of books without climbing down.
There were lots of books about horse care, several of them covering various diseases. I pulled out a couple and flipped back and forth, trying to find a general discussion of lameness. They were full of write-ups on awful diseases like strangles and colic, and reading them tied my stomach in knots. Besides, I couldn't understand much in the articles because they were too technical. I tossed them on the library table and climbed the mahogany ladder to the taller shelves, hoping to find a layman's guide.
I stood still for a moment. I should have known better than to get halfway up in this two-story room; heights have always made me dizzy. When I recovered, I pulled myself cautiously along, riding the shelves and skimming the titles. One section of old ledgers and tomes looked less dusty than the rest--which seemed odd, since guests usually confined their browsing to the popular novels kept on the bottom third of the tiers. Without thinking, I ran my fingers over the uneven spines, enjoying the feeling of slick dust covers next to nubbly worn leather bindings.
Suddenly, a book that somehow didn’t seem right fell under my hand. Père Goriot? What was Daddy's favorite Balzac doing way up here next to his ancient legal casebooks?
I slid the classic partway out. The leather binding was tight, too tight to be as old as it appeared. That was peculiar. It was also too lightweight, and sounded hollow as my nails scraped across it.
My hands went cold, the way they used to in the city when I had to navigate a dark parking lot and felt a presence behind me, imagined a pair of eyes from the back seat reflected in the rear view mirror, or became panicked because the shadows in the back seat might hide a stowaway. It was a vibration, a special feeling I sometimes got. I call it my sixth sense. Kevvie calls it paranoia.
But often as not, there's something to watch out for when that feeling prickles the fine hairs on the backs of my arms.
I glanced over my shoulder. Even though I got a little dizzy looking down, I had to be sure I was alone. There were no guests or staff in sight in this bright, sunny room.
I pulled the book all the way out and flipped it open. The pages were hollowed out, forming one of those book safes made out of an aged classic. No lock on the inner compartment, only a thumb latch keeping it shut. But the latch was tricky, hidden as in a Chinese puzzle box. I've always been good with metal-ring puzzles and magic tricks. It wasn't tough to work the false door open.
Inside, a memory stick lay on top of two CDs.
What kind of data would someone here want to hide . . . "in plain sight"? Furthermore, who would want to put the book safe in here, rather than on a more private shelf?
The lack of dust as compared with the condition of nearby volumes told me this safe had been accessed within the last couple of weeks. Guests stayed around a week on average, at most two, but it didn't make sense for a guest to use this as a storage area, as there was a safe behind the registration desk for guests' use. Not Kevvie, for once; she hated computers, had eye problems and dyslexia that interfered with her mastery of the screen.
Who else? Lily Chen, my second-in-command, was computer-savvy to a fault. She might've thought this area would be a good place to keep backups of our Secret Recipes and so forth, but she was smart enough to realize that in a fire or other natural disaster the library would be one of the most dangerous places to store things. Unless it was something she didn't want to be caught with, which was out of the question. I trusted her implicitly.
Whoever put this here must've had good reasons.
But that didn't make any sense. There would be no reason to put a cache here in a public area, unless . . . unless it needed to be put somewhere that pretty much anyone could access without arousing suspicions. Like students who would cache the money for pot in a certain non-working phone booth on campus, and then the amateur student-dealer could pick up the funds and leave behind the baggie. It was less risky, if the dealer could be trusted. And spies . . . spies had drops where they left stuff for their contacts.
My knuckles went white as I gripped the ladder. I was borrowing trouble, getting ahead of myself. After all, I didn't even know what this was, let alone whose it was. It was probably something of Daddy's. He always liked to do clever and secret things like this, even when the contents weren't valuable.
Slowly and carefully I backed down the ladder, the book safe cradled in the crook of my elbow. A sudden intuition told me to go back up, to replace the book and close the ranks. I couldn't let a casual inspection reveal a gap as obvious as a missing tooth. That was my paranoia talking, but if it wasn't Daddy's and the owner discovered it missing. . . . I'd have to copy the stuff and put the originals back immediately so I wouldn't tip my hand. I was being ridiculous, but it was kind of exciting to play Nancy Drew.
I slipped the CDs under my arm and the memory stick into my jeans pocket. Careful not to miss a rung, I eased myself down the steps and pushed the ladder back into the corner. I was just paranoid enough to slide the CDs between the front cover and first page of the book on the top of the stack.
A cheery voice boomed out behind me, its tone holding a slight edge of sarcasm. “Well, look what turned up. She who must be obeyed.”
I whirled. Ferlin stood in the doorway, a humid breeze blowing in through the open French doors behind him. The air carried his scent of sweat, chewing tobacco, and horses. He couldn’t have seen for sure what I was doing, I didn't think, not from where he stood. Could he?
I lifted my chin, acknowledging his upper hand in the situation, but determined not to let him keep it. “I was hoping I'd run into you. Kevvie told me about Lentil.”
“She did, did she.” Ferlin let the armful of ropes he’d been carrying slide onto the table, then shed his dusty denim jacket on one of the chairs, raising a small cloud of dust. He was doing that to irritate me, I figured; there was no reason to bring ranch supplies up here into the inn. He glanced at the stack of books.
“Yes, she did. After all, she thought I had a reason to know something that might be important." I thought I'd kept my voice fairly well controlled.
He smirked. The man loved to yank my chain. But I kept him on because he knew his stuff. He'd worked out very well so far in that respect. As far as I knew.
Ferlin’s references had been impeccable. Then again, that was according to Uncle Thomas, and our mistrust was mutual. Ferlin thought of me as a temporary nuisance, here only until the lure of high heels and city traffic called me back to my Proper Station.
I forced my features into the classic expression of the Student Admiring the Knowledgeable Teacher. "Can you tell me about it in plain language, layman's terms?” I'd found I got the best results by playing the part of a frustrated Yuppie who didn’t want to learn the language of another profession. I've always been a fairly decent actress.
Ferlin puffed up a bit, as though enjoying this appeal to his superior knowledge. Men were so susceptible to flattery. “Couple of possibilities.” He ticked them off on his thick fingers. “Could be the start of a White Line infection, if the farrier accidentally got a nail into a still-growing part of her hoof. Treat that with antibiotics, no problem. Might be just the new shoes, a reaction to suddenly having her weight evened out again after being out of kilter for a couple of days. Happens a lot.” He pulled a large red bandanna out of the front pocket of his overalls and dabbed at his sweaty face. He and the other ranch hands didn’t like to wear shorts or short sleeves in the sun; they said a real farm boy always preferred to cover up, that it was cooler. “The man said if she’s still lame Friday, call him. She could be fine by morning. In fact, probably will be. That little gal oughtn’t to have bothered you with it.”
I smiled with relief. “No, she did the right thing. I need to know about anything that might become be a problem.”
“But it worried you, when it weren’t nothing to be concerned about.” He picked his gimme cap off his balding red head and crushed the visor between his huge rough hands. “I wouldn’t fret over that little filly. Let’s just wait and see if it don’t pass.”
“I’ll defer to your judgment.”
My flattery continued to work. He grinned, showing some whiter skin that must have stayed clean by hiding deep inside his facial creases while he was out getting trail dust all over the rest of his skin. The pattern of smile lines looked like a pink spiderweb a child might scratch into a layer of dirt on a windshield. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm still on the clock, and the five o’clock whistle’s done blown. I’m ready to punch out on that clock back there”--he indicated the general direction of the back entrance, behind the utility room--”and head for home. Anything else you need to know?”
Underneath that redneck patois, Ferlin wasn’t a stupid man. I often suspected he exaggerated the talk in front of me. Or perhaps, like many before him, he had adopted it to hide a clever mind behind the façade. Many a cunning politician had gained power by playing the part of the simple country lawyer.
I continued to smile. “No, I feel confident that you have it under control. See you tomorrow.”
He didn’t even wait for me to finish the sentence before he was gone, taking his jacket and rope in one swift grab.
* * *
That's the first couple of chapters.
Well? Phyllis A. Whitney isn't writing any more, is she? Did she leave an opening for a replacement? I suspect there's not an opening. I haven't read any romantic suspense for some time myself. And this one is about to have a murder, too--or so it will seem. The plot here is kind of clever, I think. I was on painkillers when I finished the outline. (grin) I had thrown my back out somehow or another. Tough to figure out how, as all I ever do in the way of heavy lifting is picking up the Pomeranian when he starts sniffing around to do a no-no in the house. ANyhow, they probably made the plot a bit more psychotic than it has to be.
Any questions? I don't think there's a lot of fat to be excised from this one, any more than there is from the other stuff we've been talking about. However, you may have suggestions to the contrary. The disk is always spinning.
What I predict will probably happen is that if anyone responds, they'll say, "I don't see where you are going with this."
If you read on, you'd discover that the pill June is taking isn't what it seems. That's why she has these bizarre thoughts as the book opens. It's not blood pressure medicine. It's an antipsychotic medication (the pills look very similar and are coming via mail order). It is being put there by her adversary who wants her to give up so he can sell to the developers. He is in cahoots with the menacing foreman. The foreman is having a "relationship" with Kevvie, but when she discovers the plan, she (perverse little thing that she is) decides to join him. They fake her death so that June will be even more alone and off balance, with clouded judgment. But then Kevvie really IS killed, because now she knows too much and has dirt on the perps. (I told you this was convoluted.) The faked death is used to "show" how crazy June is, but then when Kevvie shows up dead after all. . . .
The romance comes in with Sherman, whom I've mentioned early on so that he doesn't seem like an add-in later and it's no surprise when he shows up at the door. Also so that June doesn't seem quite so alone after all. (Uncle and the foreman really don't think much of him, because he's a "hippie" "drifter" as far as they're concerned who rides a Harley. But, naturally, he beats them.) The old writing books recommended that you introduce a mention of such a character early, so people don't feel you have run in a completely new character on them in chapter five or wherever, wondering why you ain't mentioned no boyfriend so far and were leading the reader to think on a different track. This is something that wouldn't get questioned in a published novel, but that critique groups always feel they need to flag for some reason. I guess you don't notice it if you trust the author is going somewhere with this. *grin*
I imagine this book would be tough to pigeonhole and pitch unless romantic suspense is in style again. I don't see Phyllis Whitney-style books out on the shelves, so maybe it's good that I'm not wasting postage on this one. Where you DO see romantic suspense is on Lifetime for Women, the movie channel I keep threatening to block on Mama's cable box because all night, you can hear the muffled screams and shrieks coming from her teevee tuned to that channel. I sneak in there sometimes after she's snoring away and click it over to Turner Movie Classics. (You are NOT allowed to turn it off, EVER. That's her companionable background noise. It wakes her up if it isn't on.) It's disconcerting to hear all those kidnappings and abusive episodes and rapes and shouts all night. On TCM, you hear Fred Astaire and Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn. Most of their movies have more soothing soundtracks. At least I don't end up running in there to make sure those noises aren't coming from anyone in OUR household.
I agree that it might be somewhat _amusant_ if I posted, for your comments, the opening of a romantic suspense/psychological thriller that I haven't worked on in about five years. It's something I'm not currently marketing, so I don't have to worry about any editor/agent getting upset about a partial being posted and so forth. It's not good enough to steal, obviously, or it might've won the contest it was entered in, or attracted more attention from the few agents I queried. So this should be an interesting test. It's supposed to have a somewhat menacing tone.
If you click below, you'll get a lot of text to read, so beware. I also have some remarks at the end that might inspire commentary.
UNBROKEN by Shalanna Collins
1
The blade was sharp.
I slid my finger down the knife. On the obverse side near the edge, but without enough pressure to draw blood. Fine steel it was, not stainless but tempered carbon, the kind sharpened on a stone. A hair laid across its edge would instantly be laid open.
An exaggeration, perhaps, but a small one. A spot of blood appeared; I popped my fingertip into my mouth before it started to sting. I'd misjudged again. I hadn’t been the best judge of anything lately.
The life so short, the art so long to learn. Wasn't that a famous quotation? Goethe. Aristotle. One of the ancients.
In the blade, its light alive as in a mirror, I could see the image again; I could almost make it out this time--there--
"Hey, June. What the hell are you doing?" My sister Kevaline banged the kitchen door open against the stop as she strode in, the scarred heels of her cowboy boots pounding the floor. Chunks of mud flaked off onto the hardwood planks I had so lovingly restored last year as Kevvie Frisbee-tossed her authentic tourist-grade Stetson. It bullseyed on our uncle's antique oak hat rack.
The light was gone from the blade. The image I couldn’t quite catch was lost again, thanks to Kevvie. If only she hadn't startled me out of my reverie. Or had it been a vision?
I recovered nicely. "Just polishing up some of the serving pieces. That cheap dishwashing powder leaves spots, like the ads say." Lies came more and more easily lately. I tossed the knife in the back of a drawer. By the time Kevvie turned around, I could even smile. "Ferlin let you off early again?"
"Naw." Kevvie shed her flannel shirt on the back of her brown Lazy-Girl lounger and reached for a tube top. Her clothes lived in the middle drawer of the rosemaled-pine highboy in the den, which served as guest room, TV area, dining room, and second bedroom in the cabin. "Frickin' scary problem. Lentil's gone lame--pulled up lame right after the farrier got through nailing on her new shoes. I can't get nobody to tell me whether that's temporary, normal, how long it lasts, or nothing.”
“Lame?” My voice cracked.
Her shrug betrayed no alarm, merely irritation. “Pete on the UTI’s got a palomino been dead lame for weeks, ever since he cast a shoe and had to get re-shod.” She sniffled, rubbing her fist across her reddened nose. “Anyhow, she can't work this afternoon, so I can't, neither."
Lame. The very word applied to a quarter horse--one of the mares, the livelihood of Persimmon Ridge Ranch--made my jaw clench. I sucked in a breath, slowly. Our ranch, like our larger neighbor the Rancho El Gato, earned most of its dwindling income from the horses, although we also had a guest ranch sideline up at the main house, with “Texas ridin' weekends” to attract the tourists from nearby Fredericksburg. But Kevvie didn't always give me the exact truth, or all of it. I shaded my eyes from the suddenly bright sun streaming through the skylight in the large rustic kitchen and tried to read Kevvie's expression.
"Clouds've blown away, pretty much." Kevvie grabbed the bottle opener out of the junk drawer. "You think it's bright in here, you oughta spend a few hours out there working in the dirt. We're working toward the next show, plus we've got that weekend coming up. Let's you and me swap jobs."
I handed her a cold longneck beer out of the fridge. "You figure it's easier being the manager, accountant, camp counselor, psychiatrist, and chief-cook-and-bottle-washer?"
"Not only is it cooler work"--Kevvie flopped down on the worn denim love seat--"but you get all the credit, while your little baby sister’s working her compound fanny off out there leading the ponies around with the tourists' runny-nosed offspring on their backs."
“Feel free to head back to the big city anytime.” It was an empty threat. I was stuck with keeping Kevvie on at the ranch by any means necessary, as a favor to Daddy--who, after all, owned the spread--to try to keep her out of trouble. Not that I have any influence on her.
What I did have going for me was simple: Kevaline loved the horses. She was snarky and cranky to people, but not with them. Kevvie'd worked on the ranch three months to my eight, yet she had an intuitive connection to the animals.
This was the longest Kevvie’d ever stayed on one job or even in one place since she got grown-up enough to move out of Daddy’s big house on Beverly Drive in Dallas. I must be doing something right.
“You wish.” Kevvie lifted her short thick braid and fanned the back of her neck with the frayed television guide. Her cottony-blonde hair (not bleached, but naturally pale, like her invisible brows and lashes and, for all I knew, the rest of her body hair) was limp with sweat. She didn’t burn in the sun, but baked to what Grammy would’ve called “a turn”; her complexion was piecrust-brown, as dark as I'd ever seen her. Grudgingly I admitted that my worthless sister, even in jeans and glistening with perspiration (Grammy called it "glow," not "sweat"), was beautiful in a way, although all I could think of was how the upholstered furniture would absorb Kevvie's sweat-sock odor.
Kevaline took a long swig. Her lips made a popping sound as she pulled the bottle off of them. “Damn if we weren't heatstroke fodder out there. Can’t hardly get your breath this time of day.”
“Be thankful I got the air conditioner, then.” I rotated the window unit’s dial one notch lower to compensate for having a second person in the room.
The oppressive heat was the unfair price of living in Texas’ gorgeous Hill Country in the summer. The temperature and humidity rose in tandem, each making the other seem worse, and prompting meteorologists to invent additional measurements like “heat index” to describe how warm it actually felt.
Sometimes Kevvie said things just to bait people. I could never resist the bait. "You said Lentil came up lame. Does that mean--"
"I don't really know what the hell it means." Kevvie swigged beer and flicked the television into life with the deluxe remote control. Obediently, its LivingSound speakers blasted the "Supermarket Sweep" theme. One thing we did not suffer for lack of was high-end electronics, thanks to our younger brother Benny, who was in the business. Another business controlled by Daddy--or, rather, now controlled by Uncle Thomas since Daddy had his stroke. My city friends, visiting, always laughed to see the twig furniture and cracked windowpanes flanking a fifteen-hundred-dollar Home Theater.
“You don’t think it's something to worry about, do you?”
Kevvie arched her back, rubbing the small of it with the tip of her thumb, and let out a sigh. "Ferlin might know. He's the one who called the farrier. The horse-shoer. I think that's what you call them. I won’t repeat what Ferlin called him. Cussed until the air was blue with sparks."
"Turn down the TV. What do _you_ think?" I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. "Really, Kevvie. This could be important."
Kevvie studied her from under half-closed eyelids. "I've done told you all I know about it. Don't get your panties in a knot.”
"Sorry." I took a deep breath. "I know it's not your fault."
Kevvie ran her hands over her hair, plastering back the damp flyaways at her hairline. “Why not ask Ferlin when he comes in? He knows all that stuff. I'm just a ranch hand. Ain’t I, buddy?"
Her last remark she addressed to Ginger, her stupid-as-she-was-huge hound dog. Ginger was the accidental product of the neighbor’s golden retriever and a fence-jumping Irish setter. She bounded into the den accompanied by a crescendo of toenail clicks and jumped into Kevvie's lap. The big happy dunce had heard Kevvie's voice, which finally lured her off June's antique brass bed, where she lolled during the heat of the day under the slow-paddling ceiling fan. She preferred the tall bed to Kevvie's loft, which was airless by ten in the morning. Ginger suffered during the Texas summer, but Kevvie wouldn’t let the ranch hands shave her down the way they did their own mutts, for fear of sunburn. She said dogs should look natural, that the crew-cut ones always seemed embarrassed, as though they sensed that they looked ridiculous.
My ears hummed; the news about Lentil had probably boosted my blood pressure. But it was several hours until time for my next pill. I almost reached for the wall phone to beep Ferlin on his pocket pager, but thought better of it. Before he took off for the day, he always came by the main house to punch the clock. Sometimes there were advantages to Uncle Thomas’ time-card system, even though everyone knew it meant he didn’t trust anyone, especially not me.
I made a conscious effort to relax my hands, which had flown up to the sides of my head to grasp hanks of my hair, loose and wild with its grown-out perm. Digging a hair elastic out of my pocket, I pulled all my hair into a high ponytail, as though that's what I'd intended to do in the first place.
I did not need to overreact to bad news this time. Five months ago, on hearing news like this--actually, something not half this threatening--I had rushed out to the horse barn, called the vet out, and started raising Cain. That had been a serious mistake; the ranch workers had lost respect for my authority over the false alarm. They'd scoffed that I was nothing but an ignorant, crazed city woman who’d traded her power suit for overalls. It had been a struggle gaining back their esteem.
This might be nothing, after all. And Kevaline had been known to make up stories just to see me panic. If that were the case, it wouldn't work this time.
In the cabin's tiny bathroom, I splashed my face at the sink and whipped off the apron. I changed into fresh jeans and a white short-sleeved blouse and twisted my lank summer hair into a dark knot. I decided against tying a bandana over it; after all, I wanted to look like a manager, not like somebody’s slave girl.
"Where are you off to?" Kevvie kicked at me as I headed for the door, but instead scuffed the edge of the coffee table with the toe of her boot.
"I'm--" I bit back a sharp retort. What did Kevvie care, as long as I left her alone to lounge with the dog and the afternoon quiz shows? "Headed up to the main house for a bit to do some paperwork. If Sherman calls, tell him I'll be back later, to leave a number."
"K." Kevvie'd no more stir her skinny butt to answer the phone than the man in the moon. But the answering machine held no grudges.
I slipped on the plastic "shades" the eye doctor's office had instructed me to wear in the sun and slammed out the door. The inane television music and then the voice of the Quizmaster testing his vapid contestants followed me all the way down the front walk.
If there's anything I hate worse than sin, it's television.
The Roving Ranger sat gleaming in the semicircular drive, but this was an easy walk, less than a quarter-mile. Besides, I felt fat. As the pine needles crunched under my feet, I wished for the zillionth time that my sister had turned out to be a different kind of person. Someone who’d want to help me, take at least some interest in the business of the ranch, take some of the pressure off. Of course that was nothing but a dream.
For now, it was enough that Kevvie stayed clean, sober, and away from the bad crowd. She did seem to be less angry, and even Sherman had commented on the change in the girl since she'd arrived. If she had anything up her sleeve, she was keeping it well hidden.
I had to be satisfied with that. At least for the moment.
2
The Texas Hill Country is to me some of the most gorgeous country in the world, the equal of the California coast or the south of France. I love these gently rolling Texas hills, carpeted with bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush in the early spring, and waving with winter wheat through the autumn months. Although in this area, Sherman always joked, autumn only lasted a few days, long enough for those trees planning to drop their leaves to do it, and then Texas skipped directly to the cold-and-rainy season.
Still, I never want to go back to Dallas. Just a few breaths of the country air, carrying the sweet scent of new-mown grass, lifts my spirits. I felt my burdens lighten a bit as I crunched along the wildflower-lined stone path. But by the time I arrived at the main house, I was covered with a thin film of sweat. Kevaline hadn’t been kidding about the heat.
The central air conditioning was a sweet relief. I headed for the library, just off the gathering room in the main lodge. Over the years, Daddy had built up an extensive reference bookshelf, including veterinary texts.
One wall of the library was all French doors looking out on the “back forty,” where inn guests could gaze out on the real ranch hands doing their chores or at other guests out on a recreational trail ride. The east exit led to the gathering room, a rustic sitting area where guests could have snacks and chat; the western wall held curtained French doors leading to the manager's private office. My office, I thought with pride. The back wall was solid books, the polished shelves going all the way up the two-story height of the room. A mahogany library ladder made possible access to the upper reaches, mostly their father's old law books. A track complete with handholds ran along the ceiling, allowing a browser on the ladder to slide along the rows of books without climbing down.
There were lots of books about horse care, several of them covering various diseases. I pulled out a couple and flipped back and forth, trying to find a general discussion of lameness. They were full of write-ups on awful diseases like strangles and colic, and reading them tied my stomach in knots. Besides, I couldn't understand much in the articles because they were too technical. I tossed them on the library table and climbed the mahogany ladder to the taller shelves, hoping to find a layman's guide.
I stood still for a moment. I should have known better than to get halfway up in this two-story room; heights have always made me dizzy. When I recovered, I pulled myself cautiously along, riding the shelves and skimming the titles. One section of old ledgers and tomes looked less dusty than the rest--which seemed odd, since guests usually confined their browsing to the popular novels kept on the bottom third of the tiers. Without thinking, I ran my fingers over the uneven spines, enjoying the feeling of slick dust covers next to nubbly worn leather bindings.
Suddenly, a book that somehow didn’t seem right fell under my hand. Père Goriot? What was Daddy's favorite Balzac doing way up here next to his ancient legal casebooks?
I slid the classic partway out. The leather binding was tight, too tight to be as old as it appeared. That was peculiar. It was also too lightweight, and sounded hollow as my nails scraped across it.
My hands went cold, the way they used to in the city when I had to navigate a dark parking lot and felt a presence behind me, imagined a pair of eyes from the back seat reflected in the rear view mirror, or became panicked because the shadows in the back seat might hide a stowaway. It was a vibration, a special feeling I sometimes got. I call it my sixth sense. Kevvie calls it paranoia.
But often as not, there's something to watch out for when that feeling prickles the fine hairs on the backs of my arms.
I glanced over my shoulder. Even though I got a little dizzy looking down, I had to be sure I was alone. There were no guests or staff in sight in this bright, sunny room.
I pulled the book all the way out and flipped it open. The pages were hollowed out, forming one of those book safes made out of an aged classic. No lock on the inner compartment, only a thumb latch keeping it shut. But the latch was tricky, hidden as in a Chinese puzzle box. I've always been good with metal-ring puzzles and magic tricks. It wasn't tough to work the false door open.
Inside, a memory stick lay on top of two CDs.
What kind of data would someone here want to hide . . . "in plain sight"? Furthermore, who would want to put the book safe in here, rather than on a more private shelf?
The lack of dust as compared with the condition of nearby volumes told me this safe had been accessed within the last couple of weeks. Guests stayed around a week on average, at most two, but it didn't make sense for a guest to use this as a storage area, as there was a safe behind the registration desk for guests' use. Not Kevvie, for once; she hated computers, had eye problems and dyslexia that interfered with her mastery of the screen.
Who else? Lily Chen, my second-in-command, was computer-savvy to a fault. She might've thought this area would be a good place to keep backups of our Secret Recipes and so forth, but she was smart enough to realize that in a fire or other natural disaster the library would be one of the most dangerous places to store things. Unless it was something she didn't want to be caught with, which was out of the question. I trusted her implicitly.
Whoever put this here must've had good reasons.
But that didn't make any sense. There would be no reason to put a cache here in a public area, unless . . . unless it needed to be put somewhere that pretty much anyone could access without arousing suspicions. Like students who would cache the money for pot in a certain non-working phone booth on campus, and then the amateur student-dealer could pick up the funds and leave behind the baggie. It was less risky, if the dealer could be trusted. And spies . . . spies had drops where they left stuff for their contacts.
My knuckles went white as I gripped the ladder. I was borrowing trouble, getting ahead of myself. After all, I didn't even know what this was, let alone whose it was. It was probably something of Daddy's. He always liked to do clever and secret things like this, even when the contents weren't valuable.
Slowly and carefully I backed down the ladder, the book safe cradled in the crook of my elbow. A sudden intuition told me to go back up, to replace the book and close the ranks. I couldn't let a casual inspection reveal a gap as obvious as a missing tooth. That was my paranoia talking, but if it wasn't Daddy's and the owner discovered it missing. . . . I'd have to copy the stuff and put the originals back immediately so I wouldn't tip my hand. I was being ridiculous, but it was kind of exciting to play Nancy Drew.
I slipped the CDs under my arm and the memory stick into my jeans pocket. Careful not to miss a rung, I eased myself down the steps and pushed the ladder back into the corner. I was just paranoid enough to slide the CDs between the front cover and first page of the book on the top of the stack.
A cheery voice boomed out behind me, its tone holding a slight edge of sarcasm. “Well, look what turned up. She who must be obeyed.”
I whirled. Ferlin stood in the doorway, a humid breeze blowing in through the open French doors behind him. The air carried his scent of sweat, chewing tobacco, and horses. He couldn’t have seen for sure what I was doing, I didn't think, not from where he stood. Could he?
I lifted my chin, acknowledging his upper hand in the situation, but determined not to let him keep it. “I was hoping I'd run into you. Kevvie told me about Lentil.”
“She did, did she.” Ferlin let the armful of ropes he’d been carrying slide onto the table, then shed his dusty denim jacket on one of the chairs, raising a small cloud of dust. He was doing that to irritate me, I figured; there was no reason to bring ranch supplies up here into the inn. He glanced at the stack of books.
“Yes, she did. After all, she thought I had a reason to know something that might be important." I thought I'd kept my voice fairly well controlled.
He smirked. The man loved to yank my chain. But I kept him on because he knew his stuff. He'd worked out very well so far in that respect. As far as I knew.
Ferlin’s references had been impeccable. Then again, that was according to Uncle Thomas, and our mistrust was mutual. Ferlin thought of me as a temporary nuisance, here only until the lure of high heels and city traffic called me back to my Proper Station.
I forced my features into the classic expression of the Student Admiring the Knowledgeable Teacher. "Can you tell me about it in plain language, layman's terms?” I'd found I got the best results by playing the part of a frustrated Yuppie who didn’t want to learn the language of another profession. I've always been a fairly decent actress.
Ferlin puffed up a bit, as though enjoying this appeal to his superior knowledge. Men were so susceptible to flattery. “Couple of possibilities.” He ticked them off on his thick fingers. “Could be the start of a White Line infection, if the farrier accidentally got a nail into a still-growing part of her hoof. Treat that with antibiotics, no problem. Might be just the new shoes, a reaction to suddenly having her weight evened out again after being out of kilter for a couple of days. Happens a lot.” He pulled a large red bandanna out of the front pocket of his overalls and dabbed at his sweaty face. He and the other ranch hands didn’t like to wear shorts or short sleeves in the sun; they said a real farm boy always preferred to cover up, that it was cooler. “The man said if she’s still lame Friday, call him. She could be fine by morning. In fact, probably will be. That little gal oughtn’t to have bothered you with it.”
I smiled with relief. “No, she did the right thing. I need to know about anything that might become be a problem.”
“But it worried you, when it weren’t nothing to be concerned about.” He picked his gimme cap off his balding red head and crushed the visor between his huge rough hands. “I wouldn’t fret over that little filly. Let’s just wait and see if it don’t pass.”
“I’ll defer to your judgment.”
My flattery continued to work. He grinned, showing some whiter skin that must have stayed clean by hiding deep inside his facial creases while he was out getting trail dust all over the rest of his skin. The pattern of smile lines looked like a pink spiderweb a child might scratch into a layer of dirt on a windshield. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm still on the clock, and the five o’clock whistle’s done blown. I’m ready to punch out on that clock back there”--he indicated the general direction of the back entrance, behind the utility room--”and head for home. Anything else you need to know?”
Underneath that redneck patois, Ferlin wasn’t a stupid man. I often suspected he exaggerated the talk in front of me. Or perhaps, like many before him, he had adopted it to hide a clever mind behind the façade. Many a cunning politician had gained power by playing the part of the simple country lawyer.
I continued to smile. “No, I feel confident that you have it under control. See you tomorrow.”
He didn’t even wait for me to finish the sentence before he was gone, taking his jacket and rope in one swift grab.
* * *
That's the first couple of chapters.
Well? Phyllis A. Whitney isn't writing any more, is she? Did she leave an opening for a replacement? I suspect there's not an opening. I haven't read any romantic suspense for some time myself. And this one is about to have a murder, too--or so it will seem. The plot here is kind of clever, I think. I was on painkillers when I finished the outline. (grin) I had thrown my back out somehow or another. Tough to figure out how, as all I ever do in the way of heavy lifting is picking up the Pomeranian when he starts sniffing around to do a no-no in the house. ANyhow, they probably made the plot a bit more psychotic than it has to be.
Any questions? I don't think there's a lot of fat to be excised from this one, any more than there is from the other stuff we've been talking about. However, you may have suggestions to the contrary. The disk is always spinning.
What I predict will probably happen is that if anyone responds, they'll say, "I don't see where you are going with this."
If you read on, you'd discover that the pill June is taking isn't what it seems. That's why she has these bizarre thoughts as the book opens. It's not blood pressure medicine. It's an antipsychotic medication (the pills look very similar and are coming via mail order). It is being put there by her adversary who wants her to give up so he can sell to the developers. He is in cahoots with the menacing foreman. The foreman is having a "relationship" with Kevvie, but when she discovers the plan, she (perverse little thing that she is) decides to join him. They fake her death so that June will be even more alone and off balance, with clouded judgment. But then Kevvie really IS killed, because now she knows too much and has dirt on the perps. (I told you this was convoluted.) The faked death is used to "show" how crazy June is, but then when Kevvie shows up dead after all. . . .
The romance comes in with Sherman, whom I've mentioned early on so that he doesn't seem like an add-in later and it's no surprise when he shows up at the door. Also so that June doesn't seem quite so alone after all. (Uncle and the foreman really don't think much of him, because he's a "hippie" "drifter" as far as they're concerned who rides a Harley. But, naturally, he beats them.) The old writing books recommended that you introduce a mention of such a character early, so people don't feel you have run in a completely new character on them in chapter five or wherever, wondering why you ain't mentioned no boyfriend so far and were leading the reader to think on a different track. This is something that wouldn't get questioned in a published novel, but that critique groups always feel they need to flag for some reason. I guess you don't notice it if you trust the author is going somewhere with this. *grin*
I imagine this book would be tough to pigeonhole and pitch unless romantic suspense is in style again. I don't see Phyllis Whitney-style books out on the shelves, so maybe it's good that I'm not wasting postage on this one. Where you DO see romantic suspense is on Lifetime for Women, the movie channel I keep threatening to block on Mama's cable box because all night, you can hear the muffled screams and shrieks coming from her teevee tuned to that channel. I sneak in there sometimes after she's snoring away and click it over to Turner Movie Classics. (You are NOT allowed to turn it off, EVER. That's her companionable background noise. It wakes her up if it isn't on.) It's disconcerting to hear all those kidnappings and abusive episodes and rapes and shouts all night. On TCM, you hear Fred Astaire and Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn. Most of their movies have more soothing soundtracks. At least I don't end up running in there to make sure those noises aren't coming from anyone in OUR household.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-09-22 04:20 pm (UTC)First up: I didn't get hooked until the psychic thing to reach for the sekrit book. That's probably just me--I am a total sucker for paranormal and magical additions to everyday stories. But I did read along, only skimming a couple times (and on the second reading I read carefully to see why I'd skimmed first time through.)
I love the setting--Texas is exotic, and a horse farm or ranch is equally so. I like the fact that there's a struggle going to make it a successful concern--I begin rooting for them right away, whereas if they were super successful, that's fine, but it doesn't get me rooting for the characters.
I adored the line about the crescendo of toe-nail clicks. That was so lovely I had to go back and read it twice on the first through, just to picture how very right it was.
Where I think it might have gone astray: the main character seems to be the villain, and the sister the hero. I don't want to read the first person view of a villain, so I found myself antsy. And the snide asides about the sister, who otherwise I'd be rooting for (messed-up girl is home, earning a good living--caring about animals--yay!) made me wish we were in her POV, or at least third.
Next up, specific reactions that led me to this conclusion.
THANK YOU!!!
Date: 2005-09-23 10:33 am (UTC)June isn't really supposed to be snide, though the pill she took made her cranky (since it's not for her). I must cogitate upon this and how the narrative puts her across. Kevvie is misbehaving in ways that June isn't yet aware of, and that's one reason June is wary of her--she's always up to something. As I say, though, I'll have to cogitate upon this.
Your reaction also tells me that the problem (as far as selling) is not at the word/sentence level (on the whole), which is what I had suspected. It's never the easy fix of taking out deadwood or eliminating some adjectives and so forth. (grin) That's the usual assumption--people assume that "the reason you're not selling" must just be a problem of backstory, deadwood, adverbs in dialogue tags, starting with waking up and thinking about the past, etc. Those are the typical beginner things. This is much tougher, since it has to do with the way I think (because I see a certain way of musing as "normal," and others may see it as "cranky" *grin*).
What a pain that LJ only allows a certain length in comments. It's meant to prevent spamming and advertising and so forth, in part, I'm sure. But it's still awkward.
I did rewrite this in third person once for a contest, but I didn't like it as well and changed it back. *grin* Later on, June has some interesting observations. I'll need to look at it again in perspective.
Texas, exotic? (**grin**) I was worried that it was too mundane and overdone. Several beta readers mentioned that they wanted a more exciting setting than just another ranch, but then they're West Texas residents who see too many cow patties. That's a good comment.
I've got to go now and get some candles, distilled water, batteries for flashlights/radios, foodstuffs that don't require cooking such as crackers, etc., in case we do lose power when the hurricane comes across (looks less likely than it did last night, but the family is still concerned), so will post more later. Just wanted to thank you! More later.
Re: THANK YOU!!!
Date: 2005-09-23 10:38 am (UTC)Remember in the opening we don't know =anything=. So when our protag takes the high moral ground, stating she's the busiest person around as her main defense yet all we've seen her do is stand around in the a/c and play with a knife while others work, it's a signal--the wrong signal, it turns out from your comments, but a signal.
So...maybe if we see her take a pill, and see the effect it has, making it harder for her to think--but she thinks it a necessary side effect to the good the pill is supposed to be doing?
Well, anyway, more creative discussion after you and yours get Rita off your doorstep. Good luck this weekend.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-22 04:34 pm (UTC)The blade was sharp.
[eh. This might net another reader, but I think: yeah, blades are usually sharp. Big deal.]
I slid my finger down the knife. On the obverse side near the edge, but without enough pressure to draw blood. Fine steel it was, not stainless but tempered carbon, the kind sharpened on a stone. A hair laid across its edge would instantly be laid open.
[Last line is ugly with two 'laids' in it, and also confusing. Laying a hair across something sharp would cut it easily--if you mean laid along it, that might be worth noting, but otherwise, I'm still kinda 'so what? Why go on about the obvious?']
An exaggeration, perhaps, but a small one. A spot of blood appeared; I popped my fingertip into my mouth before it started to sting. I'd misjudged again. I hadn’t been the best judge of anything lately.
[clue of troubles--my interest perks.]
The life so short, the art so long to learn. Wasn't that a famous quotation? Goethe. Aristotle. One of the ancients.
[she reads--perking again]
In the blade, its light alive as in a mirror, I could see the image again; I could almost make it out this time--there--
"Hey, June. What the hell are you doing?" My sister Kevaline banged the kitchen door open against the stop as she strode in, the scarred heels of her cowboy boots pounding the floor. Chunks of mud flaked off onto the hardwood planks I had so lovingly restored last year as Kevvie Frisbee-tossed her authentic tourist-grade Stetson. It bullseyed on our uncle's antique oak hat rack.
[I love her entrance! big perk! And I do like sister stories, too]
The light was gone from the blade. The image I couldn’t quite catch was lost again, thanks to Kevvie. If only she hadn't startled me out of my reverie. Or had it been a vision?
['thanks to Kevvie' seems kind of bitchy, but hey. She's frustrated.]
I recovered nicely.
[Now she's beginning to annoy me with her 'it's all about me' asides. First the extra blame for someone coming inside, a natural thing, and the second the self-watching 'nicely'.]
"Just polishing up some of the serving pieces. That cheap dishwashing powder leaves spots, like the ads say." Lies came more and more easily lately. I tossed the knife in the back of a drawer. By the time Kevvie turned around, I could even smile. "Ferlin let you off early again?"
[lies? Oooh, perk of interest!]
"Naw." Kevvie shed her flannel shirt on the back of her brown Lazy-Girl lounger and reached for a tube top. Her clothes lived in the middle drawer of the rosemaled-pine highboy in the den, which served as guest room, TV area, dining room, and second bedroom in the cabin. "Frickin' scary problem. Lentil's gone lame--pulled up lame right after the farrier got through nailing on her new shoes. I can't get nobody to tell me whether that's temporary, normal, how long it lasts, or nothing.”
“Lame?” My voice cracked.
Her shrug betrayed no alarm, merely irritation. “Pete on the UTI’s got a palomino been dead lame for weeks, ever since he cast a shoe and had to get re-shod.” She sniffled, rubbing her fist across her reddened nose. “Anyhow, she can't work this afternoon, so I can't, neither."
Lame. The very word applied to a quarter horse--one of the mares, the livelihood of Persimmon Ridge Ranch--made my jaw clench. I sucked in a breath, slowly. Our ranch, like our larger neighbor the Rancho El Gato, earned most of its dwindling income from the horses, although we also had a guest ranch sideline up at the main house, with “Texas ridin' weekends” to attract the tourists from nearby Fredericksburg. But Kevvie didn't always give me the exact truth, or all of it. I shaded my eyes from the suddenly bright sun streaming through the skylight in the large rustic kitchen and tried to read Kevvie's expression.
[why is it a 'very' word, why not just a word? So Kevvie lies as well as June? Hmmm.]
no subject
Date: 2005-09-22 04:35 pm (UTC)I handed her a cold longneck beer out of the fridge. "You figure it's easier being the manager, accountant, camp counselor, psychiatrist, and chief-cook-and-bottle-washer?"
"Not only is it cooler work"--Kevvie flopped down on the worn denim love seat--"but you get all the credit, while your little baby sister’s working her compound fanny off out there leading the ponies around with the tourists' runny-nosed offspring on their backs."
“Feel free to head back to the big city anytime.” It was an empty threat. I was stuck with keeping Kevvie on at the ranch by any means necessary, as a favor to Daddy--who, after all, owned the spread--to try to keep her out of trouble. Not that I have any influence on her.
What I did have going for me was simple: Kevaline loved the horses. She was snarky and cranky to people, but not with them. Kevvie'd worked on the ranch three months to my eight, yet she had an intuitive connection to the animals.
[Trouble between sisters--trouble in Kevvie's past--loves animals. Interest, and appeal tipping toward Kevvie.]
This was the longest Kevvie’d ever stayed on one job or even in one place since she got grown-up enough to move out of Daddy’s big house on Beverly Drive in Dallas. I must be doing something right.
[And another poke of dislike for June, her self-serving smugness. Seems like Kevvie is doing something right, working an honest job around animals she likes, so why does June get off patting herself on the back?]
“You wish.” Kevvie lifted her short thick braid and fanned the back of her neck with the frayed television guide. Her cottony-blonde hair (not bleached, but naturally pale, like her invisible brows and lashes and, for all I knew, the rest of her body hair) was limp with sweat. She didn’t burn in the sun, but baked to what Grammy would’ve called “a turn”; her complexion was piecrust-brown, as dark as I'd ever seen her. Grudgingly I admitted that my worthless sister, even in jeans and glistening with perspiration (Grammy called it "glow," not "sweat"), was beautiful in a way, although all I could think of was how the upholstered furniture would absorb Kevvie's sweat-sock odor.
[Good character moment, again tipping me against June, who seems a bit of a bitch--if she doesn't like sweat, why have furniture that absorbs it?]
Kevaline took a long swig. Her lips made a popping sound as she pulled the bottle off of them. “Damn if we weren't heatstroke fodder out there. Can’t hardly get your breath this time of day.”
“Be thankful I got the air conditioner, then.” I rotated the window unit’s dial one notch lower to compensate for having a second person in the room.
[Again, a general comment becomes 'all about June.' I'm sure now she's the villain and Kevvie the protag.]
The oppressive heat was the unfair price of living in Texas’ gorgeous Hill Country in the summer. The temperature and humidity rose in tandem, each making the other seem worse, and prompting meteorologists to invent additional measurements like “heat index” to describe how warm it actually felt.
Sometimes Kevvie said things just to bait people. I could never resist the bait. "You said Lentil came up lame. Does that mean--"
[How is talking about the horse--one of their modes of making a living 'baiting'?]
no subject
Date: 2005-09-22 04:35 pm (UTC)“You don’t think it's something to worry about, do you?”
Kevvie arched her back, rubbing the small of it with the tip of her thumb, and let out a sigh. "Ferlin might know. He's the one who called the farrier. The horse-shoer. I think that's what you call them. I won’t repeat what Ferlin called him. Cussed until the air was blue with sparks."
"Turn down the TV. What do _you_ think?" I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. "Really, Kevvie. This could be important."
[I'm hating June again--she just got a clear answer, and she's spouting cliches as if she didn't listen to a word.]
Kevvie studied her from under half-closed eyelids. "I've done told you all I know about it. Don't get your panties in a knot.”
"Sorry." I took a deep breath. "I know it's not your fault."
Kevvie ran her hands over her hair, plastering back the damp flyaways at her hairline. “Why not ask Ferlin when he comes in? He knows all that stuff. I'm just a ranch hand. Ain’t I, buddy?"
no subject
Date: 2005-09-22 04:42 pm (UTC)[Below is where I began skimming...the continual use of 'this' as an object without defining what it means, rather than as adjective, 'something' 'half this threatening', leave me trying to figure out what's meant. Trite expressions like 'raising Cain' and 'serious mistake' don't help and my eyes want to run down in search of clear story. I force myself to read, just to be told there was an unnamed false alarm, so I don't know if the workers were justified or not.]
I did not need to overreact to bad news this time. Five months ago, on hearing news like this--actually, something not half this threatening--I had rushed out to the horse barn, called the vet out, and started raising Cain. That had been a serious mistake; the ranch workers had lost respect for my authority over the false alarm. They'd scoffed that I was nothing but an ignorant, crazed city woman who’d traded her power suit for overalls. It had been a struggle gaining back their esteem.
This might be nothing, after all. And Kevaline had been known to make up stories just to see me panic. If that were the case, it wouldn't work this time.
['this' what? 'might be nothing' again seems to lead me in circles. She's just been told the horse is lame. And if F. has called out the farrier, where does this 'Kevvie has been known' {by whom?] to make up stories, just to see me panic' somehow makes it again seem like June sees herself, not her sister or the horse or the farm, but herself, as the center of the universe. Following that with two cliches makes me again want to skim.]
Now, the mention of pills piques me, but I am wishing we were seeing the action through someone else's eyes, someone less self-centered.]
Okay, I have no idea if any of this is helpful or just a waste of your time...I gotta go cook dinner for the kids, and get to grading tests.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-23 05:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-23 10:35 am (UTC)We've got to prepare to hunker down, just in case the hurricane does send us gale-force winds and flooding as the teevee claims it will. Need candles, crackers, batteries, distilled water, etc., so we can make it through a day or so w/out power if we have to. I really think it won't happen, but being prepared sometimes staves these things off. . ..
no subject
Date: 2005-09-25 06:55 am (UTC)I'm going to attach my comments to the other post relating to this story, so this thread doesn't overwhelm. I grabbed your text and dropped it into a locked, private entry on my own LJ so I could make sure all my edit codes were working properly. Now I'll cut and paste sections into comments. As I mention in my notes and have said before, I am self-indulgent about pretty words when I write, and I've had to ask people to point out saggy bits in my own stuff. (Sounds like I'm giving the story a boob job, doesn't it?) And when I leave something alone I can usually see where to trim, but it's a gradual process for me to learn where something really adds to the character's voice and where it's just me admiring my own writing.
One thing I noticed as I whittled: June is annoying mostly because she always adds those little extra comments, and I think some come out wrong. I think if you lose some of that, and tighten it generally, the menacing undertone comes clearer without really affecting who June is. Maybe even making her clearer as a sympathetic character.
Enough qualifying comments (told you I was wordy!) The sample edits will now begin to arrive.
Cheers!
THANKS SO MUCH!!
Date: 2005-09-25 02:43 pm (UTC)Though you're right--these are the types of tightening edits that I usually end up doing on a piece some time after I've written it. Not always, though *grin* . . . this one looked pretty good to me, but these are good points.
But what you point out about the ranch and its workings is REALLY important. I had quite a bit more in there, but deleted it when some readers said they didn't want to know all of that. I do need SOME of it in there. I just am not sure what yet. (And your reaction to the lameness announcement is more like what I envision June's real reaction is--kind of panicky, but she doesn't want them to know just in case Kevvie's just making it up. She's done that before.)
I need to pick your brain about the horse ranch thing. My cousins aren't really very forthcoming about the details and don't really know how to tell me some things (or don't want to be bothered). Will pursue that later, after dinner. . . .
Real life is so inconvenient, taking time away from the Net!!
Re: THANKS SO MUCH!!
Date: 2005-09-26 06:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-24 07:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-25 02:20 pm (UTC)Another thing that interests me is that nearly every agent or editor I've ever corresponded with has loved my style and my voice. "Don't change your style," they say, even in their rejection letters. Their problems are usually with the plot or sometimes with the tone. Of course they MIGHT be saying that to be nice, but I don't THINK so, because why would they bother, and also they don't say things just to be nice. I think most agents and editors who make some point really do mean it. However, beta readers have varying reactions, including reactions like yours. Every book and every writer has an audience, and not everyone is going to like every writer. You can't please everyone, so you've got to strike a balance and still please yourself.
I see a sort of styleline going on so far with my commenters.
you--coneycat--sartorias
(Since you were anonymous, I couldn't make that line any more specific. (grin))
Sartorias will put up with more of my natural "voice." Coneycat is thinking of the suspense potential of the material and sees more that can be tightened (and I agree, in theory, though I'll probably take out somewhat less than she suggests, simply because I need to set things up and I think readers need to know some of these things.) You're more on the order of wanting a completely different book, a suspense novel that moves quickly--and that's all right, you can want whatever you like!--but this is a psychological thriller that moves slower than that. Phyllis A. Whitney is the diva of this kind of book. Also Joan Lowery Nixon (in YA fiction). Some of their books have some near-Gothic description and wordplay to establish the atmosphere. This one doesn't need that, but it does need to get the reader into June's head and have the reader realize that June's head is not quite a rational place to be. It's interesting to hear varying reactions, though, and I thank you for commenting.
These are just observations on the wide range of comments that you'll get if you ever put any of your work out there for readers. I hope that anyone lurking who's a writer is energized by seeing the varying responses you might get and how those responses might help you, even when you don't use them _per se_. (They still affect what you do next time, though.)
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2005-09-26 06:30 am (UTC)Even at that, every story has a certain narrative tension, and even the most liesurely-paced story has places where it stops being leisurely in style and stalls out or sags. That was what I meant by tension--I think the extra words detract from the "suspense" level of the story in terms of genre, but they also detract from the plain old narrative tension that even the gentlest cozy has, because the reader keeps being distracted by the extra words. I'd have suggested the very same cuts if you'd said it was supposed to be a cozy. You need to make sure every word really is needed for the job it has to do, is all. Sometimes we don't realize we've already given the reader what he or she needs and now we're belabouring the point a little bit.
So--I didn't offer my suggestions with a specific eye to thrillers because I don't know anything about them or how they read. Since I don't have the whole thing in front of me I'm sure I did remove a few things you'll need to keep, but in terms of effective writing I really think you should think hard about how much you let your character ramble. This type of thing creates a barrier in terms of your ability to get the story across effectively.
I don't think there's any question that you write well in terms of grammar and mechanics, but I'm seeing an issue with your message, and the extra words are one thing I see as getting in the way of your ability to get your message across. Being hard on yourself in terms of axing a line here or there an really make a difference to how much your reader gets out of the story.
I say this because I totally relate to it and have found it to be great advice for me, a writer whose tendencies seem similar toyours. However, to use the best expression I ever picked up on the Internet--your mileage may vary! ;)