Sorry for the lack of updates. I've been chipping away, but as I'm currently in Mexico City for a project and I've had near zero time to myself, I just haven't made much headway. I'm taking the weekend off to do some sightseeing and hopefully get some writing done, so I should have something up on Saturday or Sunday.
See you then!
Gen
To meet the 500 word minimum, here's chunk from a long-ago chapter:
I found it interesting that she always referred to the house owned by Jackson’s parents as ‘Wendy’s house’, not ‘the Coolidge residence’ or even ‘Bob and Wendy’s house’. I guess I could understand it, giving it some thought. Bob got the home office, the outside garage and the basement game room, but Wendy ruled the rest of the house- the kitchen most of all. There was no way I was ever going to make the mistake of offering to help do the dishes ever again, let me tell you. For a tiny woman in her sixties she swings a mean wooden spoon, no doubt about that.
Pulling up in front of the rambling ranch house, their three big dogs came running up to say hello. I wasn’t used to dogs, much less dogs the size of small ponies, but Emmy had been living there for two months and got along great with them.
Laughing, Emmy told the boisterous dogs to stay down and not jump up. The three were big enough to put their paws on her shoulders and give her a big old slobbery kiss, but she’d perfected a technique of pivoting out of the way just in time, which really only seemed to encourage them even more.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Thankfully they left me alone even as they mobbed Emmy. Once they’d finally calmed down, Emmy gave them all scratches along the full length of the ridges along their spines. This seemed to be a ticklish spot, because every time Em scratched them there a hind foot would come up part way as if to scratch, but then the dog would stand on the other three feet, uselessly waving the one that was off the ground. It was a comical sight, seeing Emmy coo and make baby talk noises to these monstrous dogs who seemed to absolutely adore her.
Bob, Jackson’s dad, had admitted that the three were useless as guard dogs. “About the worst they’d ever do is lick somebody to death,” he’d said. “But they do have a helluva bark, and that’s really all that’s needed. For people, anyway. They’re excellent at keeping coyotes off the property, though.”
Wendy came out of the kitchen to say hello when we walked in, and asked if we were going to be home for supper. I’d noticed the first time I came out to Austin to see Em that Wendy and Bob referred to their house in such a way that made it clear they felt it was Emmy’s home, too, and mine by extension.
“No, thank you, Wendy,” Emmy replied. “We had a very big dinner just a little while ago. Leah’s friend Rawson made an excellent barbecue.”
That got Bob’s attention. “Did you say ‘Rawson’?” he asked. “Dark hair, sideburns, about so tall?” he asked, holding his hand up a couple of inches below his own height.
“You know him?” Emmy asked, surprised.
“Sure! I’ve known him for years. He’s the mechanic I always ask for whenever we have any trouble with our Caterpillar machinery out in the field. I had no idea he ‘cued,” Bob said thoughtfully, a distant expression in his eyes. Thinking about barbecue, I figured. Texans.
