Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

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A struggling author gets an unexpected visit.
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Chapter one

"It was a dark and stormy evening, and we all sat around the campfire." How easily those words paraded across the blank page, as if they propelled themselves with no help from the keyboard. I stared at them, as I had so many times when real words wouldn't come. "Damn it!" I shouted at the monitor. "It wasn't my fault! Not one damned thing I could have done. She said she was going and she went!" Tears were starting to well up and I turned my head as if to keep the monitor from seeing me break down. "Don't," I pleaded softly with myself, "Don't lose it. This will pass." I groped for the tissue box at my right, on top of the printer. Gradually I pulled myself together and finally sat, actually slumped, hands in my lap, chin on my chest. With a deep breath I pulled myself upright and forced my hands to go up to the keys.

I watched my fingers move across the keys, as if they were attached to somebody else's hands. Slowly a paragraph emerged across the fierce whiteness. This was a scene I had planned two days ago, and the action unfolded the way it was supposed to, but there was something missing. It had no spirit, no fire, no excitement. It was dull, not like my stuff. I looked at the half page and with a flourish I deleted it all, stood up, and turned toward the kitchen just as the doorbell sounded. Startled, I stood motionless, wondering if I had really heard it or if my head was playing tricks on me.

There it was again. No doubt about it now. With a sigh of relief, I pivoted on my right heel and went to the door. "Who's there?"

"Mr. Andrews, I need to talk with you," replied a youngish woman's voice, not one that I recognized.

I slipped the chain lock into place and opened the door as far as the chain would stretch. A young face was looking up at me, probably twenty-something, with an anxious expression. But what caught my eye was that she was soaking wet, and was leaving a puddle on the doorstep. "Please let me in," she pleaded, "I'm freezing." The notion of helping another human in trouble appealed to something in my conscience and I flipped the chain off and opened the door wide, wondering if I was letting down my defenses too easily. "Oh, thank you," said the girl, as she squished into my living room and looked around.

"Over there," I said, indicating the way to the guest bathroom. "Go in there and I'll get you some clean towels. Noticing that the girl had no purse, I added, "There's a big pink comb in the medicine cabinet, and a hair dryer under the sink. While you get yourself warmed up and dried off I'll find something for you to put on."

Twenty minutes later we were sitting across the kitchen table with cups of hot tea, as I waited for an explanation. The girl looked a lot different with her hair dried and arranged neatly, and a smile of appreciation playing across her features. Her hair was dark and glossy, flowing over her shoulders and down to about the bottom of her shoulder blades; her eyes were brown; her skin had a uniform light tan; her teeth were even and white; and in general she looked pretty cute. She stood and took off the bathrobe, leaving her clad in a tee shirt that came down to her knees. As she sat down again I noticed that her body had all the right things in the right amounts in the right places, and I gave her a smile to encourage her to say something. She opened her mouth to speak and I noticed that she didn't need makeup to look very pretty.

"Thank you for everything, Mr. Andrews. This certainly wasn't the way I intended to visit you, and you've been very gallant about it all. You've acted as if dripping females drop in on you all the time."

"Look, Miss, I can't decide whether I'm most anxious to know who you are, or what you want with me, or what happened to you. Don't keep me guessing any longer; go ahead and tell me your story."

"All right, let me start at the beginning. My name is Christine Smith. I go by Chrissy. I read a book you wrote, I think it was one of your first, and you told about the Union vessel Monitor, the first warship with an iron hull. In it you mentioned one of the supervising shipwrights, Clarence Hempstead. If the genealogical information I've seen is correct, he was my great, great, great, great, grandfather. For various reasons, I'm anxious to learn all that you can tell me two about him. That's two questions down, one to go. How I got soaking wet, lost my purse and laptop and all, and got to your doorstep is a lot more complicated. I've been in the water alongside the wharf out there, and the only single scrap of paper I still had after the police fished me out was one I had written your name and address on and put in my coat pocket, to look at as I tried to find you."

"How did you get into the water? Did you slip and fall, or just get too close to the edge, or what?"

"Believe it or not, I was deliberately pushed. I was walking to a bench that sits near the edge, but not precariously close, and as I turned to sit down on it, somebody put both hands on my waist and pushed me about six steps to the edge, and splash!"

"Did you see who did it?"

"No. He was behind me, and after I went down in the water and then bobbed back up to the surface, I couldn't see anybody up there. In fact, I had a lot of trouble getting out of the water. I yelled for help but there was nobody around. The face of the wharf is all stone, and I could get a grip here and there and I kind of pulled myself hand over hand toward the shore. The water was shallow there and I was able to stand on the bottom while a police officer grabbed my hand and helped me out. Somebody must have called the police because a car showed up while I was splashing around. They gave me a ride over here to your apartment house. The officer tried to get you on the phone but he said he couldn't. Are you unlisted? I thought the police could get through to you even if you are."

"I don't have a house phone, just my smart phone."

"Now that I'm finally warmed up and the initial shock of almost being killed is past, I guess I ought to worry about my purse and laptop. But there's nothing I can do about them now, and I hope maybe I can figure out something in the morning. Can you put me up for the night? I can't very well get a hotel room without money or plastic. But if you don't want to I might . . ."

"Don't worry about it. I have a guest room and you're welcome to it. It's pretty basic but I think you'll be comfortable there. Let's get to some of the details. In the closet there are more tee shirts the same size as that one you've got on. The washer and dryer are right outside the guest room door. I've put your clothes into the washer and left them to soak before washing them. I think I got all the pockets checked, but maybe you'd better make sure. There's detergent in there with them, so they ought to be all set to turn on, once you've chosen the settings you want for them. Your coat is in a ten gallon bucket

by the washer. All those things ought to be washed before you go to bed, to get the smell of the sea water out of them. I rinsed your shoes and they're sitting on some newspaper to dry out. They'll probably be all right in a day or so. We'll have to get you some clothes and shoes and all tomorrow, but that'll wait till morning. When did you eat last?"

"Really eat? I guess at breakfast. There were peanuts on the plane. Then we hit some rough air and got bounced around, and when we landed I didn't feel like eating."

"Well, maybe we can get something basic into you now. How about a grilled cheese sandwich?"

"Oh, that'd be great. Could I have another cup of tea?"

"Sure. You get the tea while I fix the grilled cheese. Slice of tomato on it?"

"Sounds good. Are you going to have anything?"

"Yeah, same as you. I was trying to write when you rang my bell, and hadn't even thought about eating. Good thing you showed up."

"Oh, may I read what you were writing?"

"Sure, there are a few old sheets in the waste basket. For two days I haven't written a single page that even made it to the printer."

"Something wrong? Writer's block?"

"Sort of. It's not a problem about writing, more like problems about life. Nothing we need to discuss. I'll be okay."

"I poured another cup of tea for you, too. Sandwiches ready?"

"Just about. Behind you in the upper cupboard are some plates. The small ones ought to be just right."

Conversation stopped while the Great American Entree was served and consumed. I'd fixed three sandwiches for the two of us and put three halves on each plate without asking. As I expected, hers disappeared and there were no protests about too much food. "Oh, Mr. Andrews, that was just wonderful. I didn't even realize I was hungry. You do a good job of rescuing girls in trouble."

"It's just one of my many talents. And call me Jack. Now while I clean up here, why don't you go and tend to your clothes, and then you probably ought to get to bed. I'll dig out a couple of blankets so you can take your choice. I don't want you to be chilled after your unexpected swim. Are you warm enough now?"

"Oh, sure. That nice hot shower did me a world of good and I'm just fine now. You've made me feel like a guest."

"That's just what you are. I don't have many visitors, and when I do I like to make them feel welcome."

I cleaned up the kitchen and tidied the place up a little, and then sat on the sofa and turned on the TV. There wasn't much on, so I put on an episode of Matlock that I'd recorded, and was just watching a real estate agent get murdered when Chrissie came into the room. She sat down on the sofa and we watched in silence as the plot developed. Well, it was silent until some soft snuffling sounds came from Chrissie, and I looked over to see her choking back tears. Without thinking about it much, I leaned toward her and took her in my arms. With her head on my shoulder she burst into loud, wracking sobs that didn't let up for a couple of minutes. Then she pulled back and looked up at me, still weeping softly. "Oh, I never should have done that. I'm so sorry."

"Don't feel bad about honest emotions. Maybe later you can talk about it, but for now just rest your head there and let it all come out." So she did, and it did.

After the tears stopped flowing, she blew her nose and said, "I guess I needed that. I 'll tell you about it in the morning. Thank you for being so kind."

I clicked the TV off and took her by the hand, walked her to her bedroom, and held the covers back while she lay down. Then I tucked her in like a little kid and turned toward the door. My hand was on the knob when a small voice said, "Please don't leave me alone. I'm still scared."

"All right. I hope you aren't setting me up to get murdered. Come with me." I pulled back the covers and scooped her up in my arms and carried her into my bedroom where my king size bed was waiting. She looked tiny on that big bed. When I killed the lights and slid into its vastness, there was a scuffling sound and then she was plastered tight against me, with her arms as far around me as she could reach. I put my arms around her and held her tight, and she went from as rigid as a bowstring to complete relaxation in stages, finally resting her nose next to my ear.

"If you want to have sex with me, it's all right. I'm clean, and I'm on the pill. I don't have them now, of course, but I took one this morning so I'll be all right. But you don't have to do anything. It's just that I won't mind if you do."

"You're something else, aren't you? Considering that we don't even know each other, maybe we should just go to sleep. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes. Maybe tomorrow night."

"Are all the girls where you come from this easy, or just you?" I gave her just the tiniest kiss on her forehead and whispered, "Good night, Chrissie, or whoever you are."

Chapter two

I woke up looking into a pair of brown eyes. My house guest was studying my face with a timid expression, looking like someone who was trying to make up her mind about some weighty issue. That was too much for me before getting fully awake, so I excused myself and stepped into the master bathroom to do all the usual morning things. Then I pulled on a pair of exercise shorts and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

I set two steaming cups on the table just in time for my houseguest to sit down and wrap her hands around hers, as if trying to get warm. She stared into the cup, looking for something that wasn't there, and finally looked up to face me. "I feel awful about last night. I feel like such a fool. I was scared and I didn't know if I could trust you. But you were wonderful and you did everything you could for me, and you didn't even take advantage of me. That was sort of a test, and you passed it, and I'm glad you did because I need a friend. A real friend. But we've got to start over.

"What I told you about being pushed into the water and the police coming to help me was all true. But the rest was a story that I'd carefully concocted and I think I'd better tell you the truth. My real name is Eve Brewster. Brewster is simply a contraction of Bright Star. I'm an American Indian, mostly. My ancestors were of the Chickahominy tribe, which is still active but just a shadow of what it once was. You look at the Navajos out west and they have a reservation bigger than some states, but the Chickahominy tribal lands in Virginia would barely make a decent sized farm.

"I'd been told about the Monitor when I was just a little girl, and I'd practically forgotten about it when I came across your book about the Civil War naval battles around Hampton Roads. I went to the Mariners' Museum in Newport News to look at the pieces that are displayed there, and the model of the ship. The whole ship was built in just four months, which was unusually fast. Parts of it were made by every iron works that could handle things that big, and the shipbuilding was mostly assembly, not building on the spot from scratch like regular wooden sailing ships. What I told you about my ancestor named Hempstead was true. He was from Virginia, and he went to Brooklyn to help supervise the assembly. His wife was a full-blooded Chickahominy, and after his death she married another Chickahominy and lived out her life in Virginia.

"Your book is the only place I've ever found Hempstead mentioned in print. I'm hoping that you have some more information on him in your notes because I need to find where he lived and some other information about him. But there may be somebody else trying to investigate him too, and there have been several incidents that make me think that whoever it is, wants me out of the way. So I'm going around from day to day in a sort of panic, not knowing what's going to happen to me next. And no, I'm not trying to involve you in this mystery. But I do appreciate the help you've given me."

This story smelled a little better than the last one, but I still had the feeling that Chrissie-turned-Eve was stringing me along. "Look, Eve or Chrissie or whatever. As you know, I've written a little bit of non-fiction and a lot of fiction. That makes me a dangerous critic because I know both sides of the coin and I can tell the difference. I make a pretty good living by manipulating my readers, but I'm honest about it: when they pick up one of my novels they know right from the get-go that I've made the whole thing up. What I don't like is to be played for a sucker by somebody who spins a good yarn and tries to sell it as truth. And I can tell when somebody is fishing for me, offering the bait and then taking it away, hoping I'll lunge for it and get caught. So stop where you are and compose yourself, and then tell me exactly what it is that you want from me. But don't say it's nothing if it's really something. I'm going to go and listen to the morning news while I shave. When I come out all smooth faced, I want to hear something that holds together. Otherwise, you're welcome to the tee shirt, and we can tie up your clothes in a bundle and say goodbye on the doorstep."

The look that I got at the end of that speech was a killer. I turned and headed for the master bathroom and I could feel her eyes glaring at my back, practically boring through me, all the way.

Things weren't much better when I came out, all shaved, combed, and dressed. "Look, Eve-Chrissie, you're pissed because you put together a colossal job of misdirection and I didn't buy into it. I told you, it's futile to lie to a professional liar. I've got nothing against you, and if you once tell me a straight story I may be inclined to help you. Maybe your work of fiction could win a Nobel prize, but it doesn't get anywhere with me. Have you been lying for so long that you've forgotten how to tell the truth? Is the truth going to convict you of a crime? Are you trying to come up with a yarn that's appealingly complex, and you think that's better than the truth, because the truth is blah and boring? Would just plain asking for help injure your ego by putting you in an inferior position? What the hell is it? Why won't you level with me?"

There was still fire in her eyes as she stared at me, obviously trying out a few retorts in her mind and rejecting them as ordinary and uninteresting. I was getting ready to open the door and throw her out when she finally spoke. "It's a little bit of everything you just said. Oh, God, I've been manipulating people for so long that being candid makes me feel vulnerable. Inventing appealing scenarios to get people to do what I want has become a habit. It makes me feel comfortable and secure, and sometimes it works, but sometimes it just gets me in deeper and deeper. Right now I've got nothing to lose. I don't even have my purse and my wallet, I don't have any money or plastic, I don't have any clothes, I don't even have a toothbrush. It doesn't get any worse than this, and I can admit anything and everything and there's not a whole lot you can do to me because I'm about as low as a person can get. But I don't know how to tell you the truth. How can I convince you that I'm not lying after all the lies that I've already told you?"

"Why don't we do an exercise, sort of like role playing only different? Sit down on the floor and fold your legs, sort of like a lotus position. Go ahead, just do it. Now as I stand in front of you, look up into my face and tell me something, anything, just one thing but it has to be honest."

"Tell you anything? What sort of thing? Look, I'll start out with something you know is true. Here goes: today is Wednesday. How's that?"

"I'd say that was pretty good. I understand that you think today is Wednesday and that matches what I already know to be true, so I believe you. Now try one other thing.

"We're in Rhode Island."

"Okay, I know that's the truth so I believe you. Try again."

"Here's one you can't check up on easily: my last name is Brewster. Now what will you do with that?"

"This one is different. I don't know offhand what you would gain by lying about your name, but right now it doesn't matter a lot to me what your name is. So I make a conscious decision to believe you. Does that surprise you?"

"No, it's what I expected. But it made me feel different. I told you something and you bought it. I can understand your reasoning, but even so, it was an act of trust on your part. Thank you."

"Look, Ms. Brewster, I've never had a relationship that was built on anything but truth and trust. Not that I'd say that we're having any sort of a relationship, other than the fact that you're still here and I haven't thrown you out. Yet. I agree that we're on an upswing, but it's not as if we've established any kind of a bond, either. Let's take a break from all this and you tell me what you're hoping to accomplish by all this, this, whatever it is that you say has been going on."