He couldn’t figure it out. He’d been careful. Beyond careful. He’d left his apartment at different times each day. He’d taken varying routes. His meetings with his contacts had been quick and discreet, the notes and thumb drives tucked in a slim, black bag identical to the one he exchanged with his contacts. He’d even found a nondescript shop at which to meet each one. The shop was nothing, really. It sold scented candles with names like Cozy Evening and Misty Rain. Along the wall were two shelves of used books for sale. Garden art items were tagged to sell quickly. And it sold teas made of herbs, flowers, and mushrooms, with curious names like Meetme, Gotcha, and Moribund. There were other names, too. He’d read them often during meetings at which no word was spoken and a hand-off was imperceptible. Rosalie and Mill Stream were two other names he recalled. The rest scattered from his memory just now; not that it mattered.

The shopkeeper sat the back of the shop with a cup of tea and a book. Always the same teapot, sometimes a different book. Whenever he entered, she’d barely raise her eyes other than to acknowledge him. One time she startled him by asking if she could help him, but he pretended to browse, and shook his head. Foolish woman, he thought – with nothing to do but sit all day hoping to sell a dollar’s worth of goods. He wondered how she made enough to live. She fit the shop perfectly.

But the game was up now. He’d been discovered, along with notes he’d copied and quietly shared. It wasn’t actually embezzlement, he’d reasoned, because business ideas were fair game. How could they be trade secrets when they were no longer secret? He’d quietly laughed over that joke. It was worth it. They were paying him enough to buy a country house and take an island vacation.

Someone higher up had somehow gotten wind of the scheme, though, and just when he and his associates were patting themselves on the back, they’d been yanked up short. He sat in his office, wondering if his future held anything worth salvaging and waiting for his lawyer to get him out of this mess.

“Mr. Stears sent me to ask if you would like anything,” his secretary looked both sorry and scared.

He looked up briefly.

“Here. He left this for me this morning. It’s pretty good. Why don’t you try it?”

She offered a cup of tea, the bag still steeping.

He took it and she left. He set it down, pulled the tea bag from the cup, and glanced at the saucer. Then he froze.

A familiar voice floated down the hall. “Thank you again, Rosalie. I don’t know what we’d do without you. Here’s your check. You take that long vacation you’ve been promising yourself.”

His eyes drifted down to the tiny tea tag labeled simply: Gotcha.

pexels-cottonbro-5585249

A tiny voice at her bedside whispered, “I had a bad dream”. Opening her eyes, she held out her arms and helped her little one into bed with her. As he snuggled and fell fast asleep, she ran through a list of things the coming day held.

After waiting for her little fashionista to choose the day’s clothes, then change her mind – twice – she helped the parts of getting dressed that little hands could not quite manage. A glance at her watch told her there would be just enough time for a dawdling breakfast and another change of clothes before preschool.

She pulled her jacket closer as she watched tee-ball practice on a cold May morning. The excitable players threw balls that managed to land halfway to their destination, swing bats at a batting tee, and run as fast a short legs could carry them. She opened her large bag to doublecheck the after-game snacks she had brought. Yes, there would be just enough.

An irritated voice shouted from the bedroom. Her heart wanted to give way, but she stood her ground. Make-up at this age would pave the path for the next life step to be premature. The morning promised a sullen breakfast and silent car ride to school.

Tears and despair. She’d heard stories about this particular class. Leaning over, she asked, “Could you do it this way?” NO! came the hopeless answer. Why was math even a thing?

Car lights shown down the street as she watched them light the late night dark. They passed by the house. It wasn’t her. She sat down again. She was glad the Good Lord never slept and that He was up at this time of night as she prayed over her fears. Car lights flashed on the wall and the sound of a car in the driveway diminished her worry. She picked up a book and pretended to be engrossed in it as her child crossed the threshold on the dot of curfew.

“Remember, stop if you get too tired. It’s a long trip.” Her son gave her a goodbye hug. She could feel his college road trip excitement and held back her tears until his car disappeared down the street.

“Mom? I just thought I’d call and wish you a Happy Mother’s Day. Sorry I’m late! Did you do anything special?”

Anything special? She pondered the question. No. Nothing special at all.

Images: pexels-anna-shvets-3845456-2.jpg; pexels-kelvin-octa-1096141-1-scaled.jpg; pexels-pixabay-207756-scaled.jpg; pexels-masha-raymers-3721098-scaled.jpg; pexels-tatiana-twinslol-5444918-scaled.jpg; pexels-adrianna-calvo-4615136-scaled.jpg

Dim sunlight filtered through the haze of a day that held the scent of rain. Quiet waves whispered their barely perceptible sound to the sandy shore while a chipmunk foraged in last fall’s matted leaves. It was there – in a large mass, hardened by rain, wind, and cold – that she found it.

The chipmunk dug into the leaves, pulling them apart, and tugged at it – still shiny in its plastic packet – then, finding it too heavy, yet too delightful to abandon, dragged it to a bush under which she disappeared. She traveled slowly, pushing and pulling her treasure through her burrow’s path until she reached an impressive stash of nuts and seeds, berries and mushrooms. She placed her new acquisition alongside of the rest. Chipping with satisfaction, she nudged her jellybean-sized pups, still too blind to see what the excitement was about.

It was here. I know it was, he mumbled to himself. He’d stolen it from an employer last fall and hidden it just to be sure he wouldn’t be blamed. Now that winter was past and his job was, too, he’d cash it in. No one could outsmart him.

And two little eyes peered out at him from underneath a bush.

Images: pexels-sam-forson-987967.jpg; pexels-michael-steinberg-321464.jpg; “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, attributed to Margaret Hungerford in her novel Molly Bawn, 1878; “Justice, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.” Zora Neale Hurston

Here’s a peek at the first page of a project I’m working on: the sequel to Mrs. Covington’s Sunday School Dropouts. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 1

We’d all like to see into the future, Colin. But we rarely consider whether we’d actually like what we see, which is why the hope and a future scripture in Jeremiah that everyone is so fond of might not turn out quite like we imagine.

“Yes?”

“Oh, hello. I don’t believe we’ve spoken since Andi’s Christmas party! Ha. Just a second . . .”

Cathy grabbed a BB gun from the broom closet, kicked the screen door open with her foot, and took the shot.

“Get him?”

Harry made whining noises and Cathy let him out.

“Heh heh. I do have some luck once in awhile. What can I do for you Police Chief Jasper?”

“Why don’t you put the gun away and sit down.”

“Wha . . . why?” Cathy peered out the window, then set the BB gun back in its rack just inside the broom closet. “Is it Andi? Oh my dear. She said she was having lunch with you sometime this week. Is she okay?!”

“Are you sitting down?”

A chair scraped across the floor as Cathy pulled it out and sat down.

The chief cleared his throat.

“We’ve discovered something in the matter of your husband, Perry’s, disappearance. When would you be available to come down to the station to go over some things?”

Cathy patted her chest. Her heart’s thumping could surely be heard through the phone lines.

“Now! I can come now!”

“Or tomorrow morning?”

“Oh. Okay?’

“Okay. Check in at the front doors, and they’ll direct you to the proper office.”

“I’ll be there first thing. Thank you . . .”

“Thank you,” Jasper replied as he hung up.

Cathy looked at the phone still in her hand, and brushed a tear away.

Image: pexels-anna-khomutova-5706336.jpg; Mrs’ Covington’s . . . (c.) 2021, Connie Pease, All Rights Reserved

My story is about a natural love lost, then found; of hesitancy and regret; and of the kindness of time. In that sense, it is a story about us all.

Claire had known Knox since kindergarten. They were best friends then, playing together, choosing each other for coloring partners, and hanging their coats side by side. But as often happens during growing up years, they grew apart. They exchanged shy smiles in school hallways, attended sports events and concerts where they sat close enough to glance but not to speak, even attended the same parties where they might begin a conversation which interruption prevented them from finishing. Never a goodbye. Only a studied, unnoticed look or furtive glance. Graduation sealed their separation, a way-parting that left each feeling a little empty, though introspection skirted around the possibility of the childhood affection being the cause of it.

Five years is a long time, but then again, not that long.

“Claire?”

Her heart beat quickened slightly as she turned. “Knox! Is that you? What are you doing back in town? Last I heard . . . not that I . . . I mean . . .”

“I’m back for an interview in Cartersville tomorrow morning.”

“Cartersville!’

He nodded and they stood, each trying to think of something to fill up the space between them. In between stutters and false starts, they agreed to meet for supper that evening. But it didn’t happen. Claire’s father had a heart attack and she was called away.

Twenty-five years is a long time, but then again, not that long. Knox grabbed the nurse’s notes as he walked into the hospital room of a new patient, then stopped in his tracks.

Claire shrugged.

Knox cleared his throat and studied the notes in his hand.

“How is your foot feeling?”

Claire grimaced, then began laughing – a good alternative to crying. And he laughed with her until they both had to wipe tears away. Small talk distracted from pressure on bruised skin, and they caught up on unimportant matters.

And every so often they would see each other – through life’s stages, marriage, children, gain and loss. And they might speak, but something always interfered and finally ended the conversation.

Forty years is a long time, but then again, not that long. It was at a large party of old friends, they once more found each other: uncoupled by death, living lives as fully as they could muster. Those forty years and their accompanying experiences and lessons did what Claire and Knox could not manage on their own. In a finger snap the familiar hesitancies fell away. The stutters. The shyness. The putting up with interference. They were friends again; the kind whose ideas piqued the other’s curiosity, who found the same things amusing, and whose intuition told them what words do not.

And they were right.

Dear friends, lose not the simplicity of first friendships though time’s waves push them far. Put away self-consciousness long enough to speak truly and listen thoughtfully. For love, once lost, does not need to be lost forever. It can be found, though space and time shout otherwise. It can be found.

Images: pexels-kaboompics-com-6334-scaled.jpg; pexels-olya-kobruseva-6128915-scaled.jpg; pexels-george-desipris-1816529.jpg

https://animoto.com/play/m0tQNvQuabaGzyWa1xJ1Ug

It was one of those unclear days. Not the kind of unclear that the whole world seems to be living in lately. Not that. But – you know – the kind when fog descends so thickly that you might as well put on a helmet along with your jacket before you walk out the door because you’re bound to run into something sooner or later; unless, of course, you’re an animal with eyeshine. But I had to go to the grocery store. My cat, Videbimus, Wedee for short, hadn’t stopped yowling since early morning and wouldn’t just eat the can of tuna I’d offered earlier. I should’ve bought a dog. I hear they eat anything including crayons and socks. But Wedee was the leftover kitten from a friend’s cat and needed a home, so in a moment of I can’t believe what I just did, I said I’d take her. She was a cuddly thing and, as cats go, was pretty ordinary other than her propensity to bite me. Oh I know. Cats do that when they’re feeling affectionate. But when Wedee did it, it was more like she was completing a homework assignment. She’d saunter over to me after supper, jump up onto my lap, and start her evening ritual of tiny little bites; sometimes my arms, sometimes my legs or feet, and sometimes even my neck and head. Weird, I know, but by that time of day I’m usually a lump of tiredness, so she got away with it. Sometimes I wondered if she really did think it was her duty and if she would ever think she’d accomplished the homework she had assigned herself each evening. After she was done, she’d snuggle in as though she’d not just sent little cat saliva coursing through my veins. That was six years ago and since then Wedee had pretty much determined my schedule, including, apparently, grocery store runs in dense fog.

I was on my way back when a faint light shone in the distance. I couldn’t tell how near or far. It was just there. I slowed my car, thinking to avoid spending money I didn’t have at the auto shop. It suddenly burst so brightly on my windshield I cringed and slammed on the brakes, waiting for the crunching sound to come. It didn’t.

It was foolish, I know, but I pulled over and walked back to the approximate location of the light, now gone. Nothing. I walked in a zigzagging circle, but neither stumbled upon, heard, nor (of course) saw anything. I slid back into the car, pulled back onto the road as well as I could, and started for home. The fog had lifted slightly, though I passed a car that still crept along as though no one could see an inch in front of them. We could, but the driver must have been one of those extra careful types; the type of person who checks their locks twice and wears Vicks to bed rain or shine. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I hauled Wedee’s dinner into my crackerbox house, scooped out a serving which Wedee sniffed, then devoured like she’d been starved for a week, and I tugged off my jacket. Ugh. Something fell onto my arm. I seemed to have acquired a hitchhiker in the dewy fog. A little lightning bug spread its wings, then began to crawl. I shook it off, and it flew to a corner of the room.

After I’d made myself a huge tuna sandwich, I grabbed the TV remote, switched on the nightly news, and awaited Wedee to saunter over for her evening ritual. The news seemed more ridiculous than usual, and I shut it off and grabbed a book instead. And Wedee jumped up and snuggled. Not one bite. And the lightning bug settled down in the corner with a friendly glow.

Images: stephan-henning-_SMNO4cN9vs-unsplash.jpg; pexels-monique-laats-736532.jpg

https://animoto.com/play/pULpUWe2UDc9CF1b3tEDgg