MUCH ADO IN 2022

MUCH ADO IN 2022

Author Foreword

This is the fifth story in the Whirlwind series. They are unrelated stories with a common theme; each one is based on a short, slightly unusual courtship, with a primary female character who believes that she cannot find love for some reason - and a primary male character determined to prove her wrong. There is no 'cliff-hanger' to end a Part 1 on, only a twist at the end, and no sex. Don't worry, STATION BREAK and LARP will have that. Be warned, the story continues my ongoing love affair with small town America.

This is based on a line I heard delivered more than 40 years ago. I was on a two week bus trip around England, Scotland and Wales (if you ever see Loch Ness on a cold and dreary afternoon, you will believe that ANYTHING could be lurking under those waters!). One of the stops was at Stratford-on-Avon and the Royal Shakespeare Company was performing MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING that night. After fighting for the last unclaimed ticket, I triumphantly watched Derek Jacobi in his prime mesmerize the audience. There was a line spoken in that play which settled into my imagination like a thorn into a lion's paw, and has festered there for decades as I experimented with short stories to try and turn that one line into an entire story unto itself. Eventually I settled on this. Hopefully it was worth the effort. The line is revealed at the end, but no skipping ahead, mind!

Request

Does anyone know which story on the LE site is about a wife leaving her husband for her high school crush, has a kid with him, and gets divorced a second time? She lives hard life as a single mom for five years, finally sees her first husband at their oldest kid's high school graduation, she and first husband talk. She apologizes, says she gave up her dream life to chase a fantasy that turned out to be a nightmare. He asks her out for coffee. She is all choked up and asks where, and he says, "Home," which is the last word in the story. I have been trying to find it again, but cannot. Thank you.

MUCH ADO IN 2022

Traci drove down the smooth, winding road, trying to relax, trying to convince herself that a change of scenery was what she needed to get her life out of the pot hole-riddled expressway that was the last three wasted years. Not that the views of the forested hills and neat farms weren't Americana at its best, but that she wasn't really seeing them. As a graphic artist for a large advertising firm in a large city she had found herself quickly lost in the churning sea of humanity and shoved out of the rat race to get a claw-length ahead of every competitor; excuse her, co-worker. After the latest attempt at a serious relationship, which had crashed and burned in spectacular fashion, she had had enough. That was why her car was now headed toward Clarksville, a medium-sized town not too far away from civilization, but far enough away to still be civilized.

Her old Honda ACCORD rumbled down the road. She drove a shade under the speed limit because if she got to the speed limit her reliable transportation would skip beats like a dying heart and threaten to become her un-reliable transportation. She sighed. Her parents, now that their youngest daughter was on her own, had become world travelers and were even now probably somewhere between Perth and Singapore.

She had ignored the few billboards for the last 20 miles, but took notice of this one. It read: "Entering Clarksville. Hometown of the Future. Population 14,251." The sign was in the middle of a neatly kept flower garden with trellises behind it covered with flowering vines. The graphic designer part of her thought it overdone, the rest of her felt hopeful that someone cared enough to put up such a nice greeting.

She found the traffic to be neither too busy nor too sparse, so she drove down Main Street and turned onto Hamilton Avenue and drove past Eileen's Ad Agency, where she would report for work tomorrow, bright and early. The building was old brick with 1920s stylish marble accents, and broad glass windows so clear they looked like there was nothing but air. There were window planters, hanging pots and street-side urns spilling over with colorful flowers everywhere. She cracked open the driver's window and sniffed the air appreciatively. Not a hint of the hot, sour aroma of the city air she left behind.

A few blocks and a few turns further on and a huge, old Victorian house loomed at the base of a hill. It was neat and clean, with a wide, inviting porch, blue siding and bright white scroll work set in an expansive, immaculate lawn. She pulled into the driveway and as she turned off her car it seemed to sigh and settle tiredly into the pavement after the long trip, its duty done.

She climbed out and made her way up the winding slate steps to the porch stairs. A handsome, elderly woman with iron grey hair in a long pony-tail down her back stood up from a porch swing and nodded.

"Mrs. Hawkins?" Traci ventured.

"Certainly, dear. And you must be Traci Smith. Welcome to the Hawkins House. I'll check you right in."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins."

They walked through the ornate front door - and traveled back at least a century. The remnants of an entire forest of dark, polished oak surrounded her. The entrance hall was huge, two stories high, with a sweeping grand staircase and a massive grandfather clock that patiently sliced off the seconds. Mrs. Hawkins strode to a roll-top desk which would have sent a dozen antique collectors into spasms of rapture. She took Traci's check, had her sign the registry, and gave her a key which was - substantial. She was informed that she had the 'Tower Room.'

Once the formalities were over, she was led upstairs - three different sets of stairs - to the dark oak door with the shiny brass fittings and a plaque which read, 'Tower Room'. She stopped in wonder and gazed out of the huge arc of windows that displayed an achingly beautiful panorama of the town and surrounding countryside.

Mrs. Hawkins shuffled around. "Now, dear, this is the sitting room, there is your bedroom, and there is the bathroom. Breakfast is from 6:30 to 9:00. Dinner is 6:30 to 8:00. Promptness would be appreciated, though there are usually leftovers in the kitchen refrigerator in extremis. You may avail yourself of the laundry in the back room, though there is a laundromat in the town, if you prefer. Please be careful of the antiques. I only have one other long-term boarder at the moment, and that is Jason Abernathy. He is on the second floor in the back, in the 'Blue Room'. He is the custodian at Saint Giana's School and works all hours, though he makes an honest effort not to disturb. Usually there is at least one person or couple who are passing through, though I do have ten rooms and they are occasionally all full. If you need anything, you may call me or leave a note on the desk in the hall. Are you well?" she finished, startled.

Traci shook herself. She had only half heard, well, less than half, what had been said. She had been entranced by the view, and had dazedly wondered what it would look like around Christmas time.

"Yes, Mrs. Hawkins. I'm sorry. I was just admiring the view."

"It is nice. Eileen requested it, and it was available."

The way down was considerably easier, as she was shown an open latticework elevator which would be snug for four normal people which went from the attic to the basement through a series of discreet nooks in the halls. It rattled in a subdued, satisfied manner as it descended at a sedate pace.

Traci pulled her car into the slot numbered as '10' outside the long, low Carriage House beside the mansion, and looked dejectedly at the near solid mass of bags and bundles stuffed into her car. Maybe it would drive better once it lost all the weight.

"Let me help you with that, miss," rumbled a voice behind and ABOVE her.

She turned around slowly and found herself looking at the center of a man's chest. The chest was clothed in a working man's light blue shirt, neatly tucked into a pair of serious jeans which were obviously used to hard work, but were as clean and neat as if they were on a store rack. She looked up, and towering above her, was a neatly trimmed, full-face beard out of which perched an eagle's beak nose and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

She stared as two hands the size of catcher's mitts swung into the back of her car and appeared to pick up about half of the load. Her car rose perceptively as its burden eased. She grabbed two bags and started to lock it.

"No need for that, miss. No one would touch your things. It would upset the sheriff." He paused mid-way turning around. "Name is Jason. Jason Abernathy. Mrs. Hawkins asked me to lend you a hand. Up we go." The voice was deep as a cave, but mild as clarified butter.

Somewhat subdued, Traci followed docilely as they made two trips up to her room, emptying the car, which she locked as they returned to the house. Jason made no comment. As he put down the bags in her sitting room, she said, "Thank you, Mr. Abernathy. I appreciate it. And I'm Traci. Traci Smith." She hesitated. "If you have been here a while, you should probably have this room, it's wonderful."

"Thank you kindly, but I do lots of odd jobs around town and sometimes sleep during the day, and this room would be far too bright. I am more often out than in, if you know what I mean, but if you need something, just shout." He smiled, revealing a mass of blinding white teeth, and leaned down a little bit. "Chicken pot pie for dinner tonight, Traci. Not to be missed." With that he departed. Traci noted how silently he moved. Either the house was built extremely solidly, or he had escaped from ninja training somewhere.

Dinner was interesting. Mrs. Hawkins said Grace, and Traci was introduced around to the three couples who were staying; overflows from a family reunion in town for a 50^th anniversary celebration. Jason had changed into slacks and dress shirt for dinner. He had three slices of pie and sipped coffee as he politely responded to all the questions the visitors threw him. It dawned on Traci that they had been students at the school years ago and remembered their custodian fondly. Putting pieces together, Traci puzzled out that he must be at least 60 years old.

Traci restricted herself to a single slice, listening to her appetite more than her taste buds. She did not want to have to buy a new wardrobe of larger sizes.

Jason helped Mrs. Hawkins with the cleanup, but didn't object as Traci, a little self-consciously, tidied up the table and put the clean dishes away.

Finally, as she was starting up the stair to her room, Mrs. Hawkins pointed out a portrait over the fireplace in the entrance hall. The man was solidly built; dignified, but with an expression of good humor; dark hair and dark eyes with a dimpled chin. "My late husband," Mrs. Hawkins said, lightly. "Passed twenty years ago from a sudden heart attack. I miss him terribly, but keep myself busy. Don't worry, he doesn't haunt the house. He is ensconced in the Hawkins plot in the town cemetery, just up the road. I visit on Saturday afternoons, and appropriate holidays. Someone has to keep our markers tidy, what with the children being in Hawaii and Washington, D.C., of all places. Good night, dear."

"Good night, Mrs. Hawkins."

With the door shut and locked behind her, she resolutely finished unpacking and stowing away her possessions, though her body wanted to take a warm bath and go directly to sleep. As she turned the lights out and climbed into the four-poster bed, which was probably new when her great-grandparents were born, she said a quick prayer of thanks. And then slumped into an emotionally exhausted slumber.

Traci was up in plenty of time for breakfast - Mrs. Hawkins had seen to that. After all it would be auspicious to be late for one's first day of work. Traci had taken a bite of the omelet and then stared at her plate. She thought of the amount of money she was paying for 'board' and decided she was getting a bargain by about a factor of four.

She had just pulled up and parked outside Eileen's Ad Agency when a second car pulled up behind her and Eileen herself got out to unlock the door and usher her in. Eileen Grant was a woman with a kindly, perpetually knowing look, an easy manner and with green eyes as keen as an eagle's. Tracy judged she was about sixty, but she wore her dark hair with its scattered strands of gray piled up high, which made her look at least ten years younger and quite sophisticated. She was shown around the office and then taken to her work space. The room was large and stretched across the windowed front of the building. Eileen had a desk and workspace at one end of the room, facing the room. There were four desks and workspaces in the room. It was quickly explained to her that one worker was on maternity leave and the other on her honeymoon - and the final woman charged in somewhat breathlessly a couple of minutes later with a breathless apology. She was introduced to Judy Miller, her new co-worker.

"Very pleased to meet you, Traci. And so relieved. We are so short-handed. And there is plenty of work and it's fun to be here," Judy bubbled over. She was about Traci's age, very slender, and with extremely long blond hair.

Traci smiled and nodded a lot as Judy provided an endless stream of commentary as they worked at their side-by-side tables, Traci laying out print jobs and Judy arranging circulars.

As four o'clock closing time approached, Judy said, "I'm meeting my boyfriend, Chris, at the YMCA, after work. He's going to show me the exercise room. Would you like to come? I can introduce you around."

Traci hesitated, and then Judy added, "Don't worry, you'll be back in plenty of time for dinner at Mrs. Hawkins' place."

It was hard to say no to Judy, so shortly after the sign in the window was turned from OPEN to CLOSED, they made their way across town and met Chris right under the YMCA sign. Chris was a lanky boy with a mop of orange hair, fair skin, and a wilderness of freckles. He politely greeted Traci, but only had eyes for Judy, who soaked up the attention. They went in, Chris got them visitor's passes, and they went into the exercise room. Chris moved about with quick, bird-like movements. Traci suppressed a chuckle, as an image came vividly to mind comparing Chris to the last nature special she had seen with bird mating dances. He was trying to strut for his intended.

Chris sat down on a piece of equipment and made a show of putting the pin in the 100 pound weight slot. Then he took several deep breaths and slowly pushed up and lowered down the weights several times. Judy made impressed noises and Chris beamed that his efforts were appreciated. After ten repetitions he got up and went to the next machine.

As they moved on to the next piece of equipment, Traci glanced back to see someone sit down on the last set. The man was tall and broad-shouldered. He had on gray shorts over legs knotted with muscle, and wore a lightweight white sweat shirt. A dark gray sweat band held his neatly cut dark hair which was liberally sown with iron gray strands, in check. He had handsome features just starting to show the lines of experience. Traci hadn't really had a good understanding of the phrase 'distinguished gentleman' until she had one literally sit down next to her.

He turned slightly, pulled the pin from the 100 pound setting and slid it into the 200 pound setting, he proceeded to, slowly and smoothly, lift and lower the tall stack of metal plates. Traci stared at the pile. She glanced at him and was embarrassed to see him return the glance with a good-natured smile. He flicked a glance at Ted on the next machine and winked. She hurriedly looked away, suppressing a chuckle.

Chris worked his way around the side and end of the room, going from one machine to the next. He described each machine and noted which muscle group it worked and how he had been working for weeks balancing bulking and strengthening exercises.

And the gentleman followed them around, unobtrusively, putting on two or three times Chris' weight and doing about twice his repetitions. Each time he finished, he would exchange a glance with Traci, they would both smile, and then Traci would return her attention to the oblivious love birds. At the end of the weight machines, Chris flexed his muscles and allowed Judy to feel them. Chris didn't offer Traci the honor, and she would have turned him down as politely as possible if he had. Chris led them over to the other side of the large room where a dozen elliptical machines, a few in use, crouched patiently in front of a series of televisions. Next to them were a dozen unoccupied rowing machines. Chris explained the settings and the panels and then proudly mounted the machine, fitting his sneakers in the treadles. He started off. His volume of talk dropped considerably as he saved his breath for making a vigorous impression.

Traci was bored quickly, and watched one of the television screens which was tuned to a healthy cooking show. Then she noticed the older man from the weights come over and settle on a rowing machine. He started out slowly, but built up speed quickly. In a couple of minutes, the flywheel was sizzling through the air like a jet engine revving for takeoff. The man pumped on the machine as if he were a machine himself. For most of the next twenty minutes, as Chris pumped, hard, against the treadles and handles of the elliptical, the rowing machine whirred madly as the man pushed, hard, on the line between 'cardio' and 'punishment.'

Chris got down off the elliptical a little shakily, and might only have given Judy a sweaty hug to impress her rather than show an unmanly stagger. Traci glanced over to the rowing machine, where the man was wiping it off as the flywheel spun down out of the near supersonic range. He caught Traci's eye, flicked his eyes to the unsteady Chris, winked again, and headed for the locker rooms.

The three of them got a lemonade at the drug store, and then Traci headed back for dinner as Judy and Chris went to meet some friends at the pizza place.

Traci was up early the next morning. She actually helped Mrs. Hawkins fix breakfast today, learning a couple of culinary tricks in the process, and then ran out to her car. It protested the demand by starting up with more grinding than usual and only wheezed a few blocks before giving up in a huff and coasting to the side of the street two blocks from work.

Cursing to herself, since her mother had drilled into her that women don't curse in public - unless it was REALLY necessary, she briskly walked the last two blocks to work and got there just as Eileen was unlocking the door. She blushed as her boss gave her a look and then peered down the street.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Grant. My car picked this morning to kind of die on me."

She got a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry. I'll call Charlie Watkins. He runs the best service station in the county. If he cannot fix it, then it cannot be fixed." Seeing Traci's stricken look, she added, kindly, "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Go leave your keys in it."

As Traci sat at her desk making arrangements, she looked out of the window and saw a tow truck go by with her car firmly secured to the end. The tow truck was sharp and shiny enough to have any Fire Chief point it out to the next person who would be polishing the fire truck.

Judy talked all day, but was quite productive, and managed to talk her boyfriend into dropping Traci at the service station, though they couldn't stay.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked into the office area next to the long line of bay doors, jumping slightly as the bell on the door rang her entrance merrily.

A middle-aged man in well used but quite clean coveralls looked up from the desk and smiled slightly. He had iron grey hair and large, black plastic safety glasses framing milky blue eyes. He had a build which suggested that, if the hydraulic lift didn't work, he would just pick a car up and work on it that way.