Tag: love-story

The Circle

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excerpt

“We can do a lot better if we change our direction and if we stick together,
Robert,” Peter says.
Robert Major, who has somehow got the picture and who cares only for
himself, asks, “Alright, you guys want to take it and drive it, where do you think
you can take it? How far do you think you can go without Lorne? What tells me
you can do better than he?”
Peter sips his beer, “We have a group of financiers on hand to bring in a good
chunk of fresh money. We have a public relations company ready to work with
us and we can get much more attention for our stock price. We can achieve a lot
more than what Lorne can; it’s as simple as that.”
“Alright boys, then tell me who is going to eat up all the stock that Lorne and
his pals have on hand? Are you going to let it float out in the market? If you do
that, you sign a death warrant for the price of the shares for a long time, you
know that,” Robert insists.
Hakim listens to their comments, and knowing this moment would have
come sooner or later, turns to Robert and lets him know that Lorne is not a
stupid man and has no ego problem. He tells Robert that Lorne will simply try to
get the best under the circumstances because he knows he and Ibrahim have a lot
more shares than all the others combined, and because he also knows he cannot
get into a proxy fight with a billionaire. He’ll simply stick around for the longest
time and try to grab the most shares possible from the market. That’s how Lorne
is going to play and they all agree on that. On the other hand, Hakim suggests
they can always offer him a golden carrot.
“Yes, but Lorne is not one who will take a carrot, Hakim. He knows the game
as well as you. Would you do what you expect him to do?”
“Yes, I would. There’s always another car coming down the tracks, as the
saying goes. But Robert, you have to understand this is a course we’d like to take,
no matter what it’s going to cost. The money is available and time is on our side.
The financiers Peter referred to are our people and money from them comes
only if and when we run the show. The public relations company is our reference
and they sign with us only when we run the show. We have the ability to take this
company to the shareholders’ meeting in a month and a half. However, if you
come along we don’t even need to call one; we can speed up the process and save
a tonne of the company’s money, in the process.”
Robert realizes that the blood is ready to be spread and wants to have his
share of the spoils. He can always play hard to get for a while and try to squeeze
them for something extra.
“In other words, you have to have me along. Okay then, what are you offering?”

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In Turbulent Times

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had been told what to do if Nora Carrick took one of these seizures. Yet they all stood back along the grey walls, and the children ran to a safe distance and watched with eyes and mouths wide open while the young girl’s legs jerked up and down, and her head struck the ground, and her mouth opened and closed expelling a kind of froth like a rabid animal. Joe saw what was happening as he reached the square on his way home from the harbour. He rushed forward, wrapped Nora in his jacket and placed his pen-knife between her teeth. He remembered Dr Alexander’s saying she could bite her tongue during this stage of her fit unless something like a fountain pen was thrust between her teeth on one side of her mouth. With one knee on the ground, Joe held Nora against the other while her convulsive movements began to subside. He wiped her face clean with a handkerchief. He had seen that face so many times before but never till that moment did he notice how pretty it was. Her eyes below the straight-cut fringe of hair were closed. She had rather prominent cheek-bones and a dimple at each side of her mouth when she smiled. She was not smiling then. Her cheek rested against his dark-blue jersey as if she were listening to his heartbeat. Her black hair smelled sweetly with a soft fragrance as if freshly washed with a scented soap. That smell lingered in his nostrils for days, and each time it came back to him it brought exciting new feelings, like those he used to feel in his stomach at the approach of Christmas or a birthday or at the prospect of an outing. And yet different too. More subtle, more gentle, and somehow infinitely sweeter. And he would recall the pale, round face framed in its black, shiny, scented hair pressed against his heart, and the eyes flickering open, so dark and deep and troubled those young, serious eyes. Joe could not remember if he had felt then the same exquisite feelings he had had later when, unbidden, the picture of Nora’s face returned to fill his mind for days on end. Nor could he remember if he had noticed then the rounded outline of her young breasts which he later recalled as having been in contact with his heaving chest.
How momentous those few minutes had been for him, and yet how many of the minor details he had been oblivious to at the time. Perhaps the significance of the scene had been a later invention. He remembered how the crowd had closed in around him, and everyone looked at the peaceful body in his arms as Nora awoke from her frightening ordeal. Had she taken his hand and held it till Dr Alexander came and led her to his car? Joe thought she had but now he wasn’t sure. He remembered standing in the square with his jacket hanging over his arm, watching Dr Alexander’s car drive away …

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Small Change

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The Best of Friends
ALL I KNEW ABOUT ETERNITY in those days came to me through the agency of its little cousin, boredom. It was Friday and it was spring. The big windows on the left side of our second floor classroom had been lifted as far as the old paint in their grooves would allow. All afternoon, an intermittent breeze came through the protective metal grill carrying coal gas and bus fumes and the oddly fishy odour of soap from the Colgate factory down by the river. It wasn’t much, but it was news from the world and I sniffed it with a perverse pleasure.
We weren’t allowed to look outside, but as often as I could I snuck a peek at the vacant lot with its bottle chips, rusty concrete, patches of crabgrass, and minute particles of coal that lay in thin drifts where the wind had blown them from the smoke of locomotives that passed all day on the elevated tracks across the street, beyond the wooden fence of the Delaware-Lackawanna coal yard.
Sister Violeta, with her lugubrious monotone and her black visions of life before death, seemed connected somehow to the nearly purple hills (piles, really) of pea coal, which I had a privileged view of at this height. They looked like black sand blown up into dunes in the desert landscape of an alien planet. I used to imagine she had been hatched there.
Father Brackendorf, who came every Friday to teach us religion, was fond of looking out toward the coal yard and explaining that our souls were like the snow before a train went by. Once we were born, the soot came down. Scrubbing did no good. You had to let confession melt the snow, and let the sin fall to the bottom. (The bottom of what, I wondered). Then a blast of grace would freeze it white again. This is what he was saying now. It made me feel empty and restless. The clock above his head, round and white and edged with black, was soft-clicking back and hard-clicking forward, minute by minute. And then the minute hand hit twelve and it was three o’clock, and we were free.
But there was this debt I owed to Danny Amoroso.
He was three or four years older than we were, but he was slow. And he seemed to enjoy it. Being slow, I mean. He was a titan among …

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Wellspring of Love

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how many more times he would be called upon to rescue his headstrong
sister from danger. Mentally, he checked off the incidents that
had landed Rachael in trouble throughout their childhood. The day
he had stopped Bill Harrison, the man he then thought to be his
dad, from giving her a serious beating. That day, Ronnie had taken
the beating in her place. The time Rachael took four-year-old Bobby
and ran away from their temporary home at the Harrisons, into the
middle of the worst prairie blizzard the Alberta community had seen
in years. That time Ronald lost fingers, toes and part of an ear – and
almost lost his life – in an effort to save them.
It grieved him to know that Rachael still felt guilt over his loss. So
many times he had tried to tell her it was not her fault, nor was it her
fault that Bobby, too, had lost fingers and toes as a result of the storm.
She said she believed him, but he had seen her recoil sometimes when
she looked at his hands, or saw his feet when they were swimming in
Emblem Lake. He knew her reaction didn’t stem from squeamishness
– no girl he knew was less squeamish than his sister. No, it was
the knowledge that she had led both him and Bobby into a situation
that could have taken – and almost did take – all of their lives.
But right now there were more immediate concerns. How could
he make Rachael understand that Tim, no matter how innocent, no
matter how gentle he had always been, at eighteen years old had a
youth’s hormones raging through his system? No doubt Rachael was
right – Tim Buckley would not knowingly hurt her. He had been her
playmate since she and Bobby had been adopted by Morley and Tyne
Cresswell eight years earlier. The Buckleys lived not more than half a
mile across the fields from the Cresswell farm, a fact that accounted
for the well worn path between the two houses.
Ronald, while working in the fields, had often seen Rachael and
Bobby on their way to the Buckley farm. But he had rarely seen Tim
coming alone in the other direction. Only when he had company did
his parents allow the mentally challenged boy to leave their yard.
Now, however, Tim came and went at will.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763327

Jazz with Ella

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Suddenly Jennifer turned cold. “Paul, we met that group two days ago. You’ve been with her ever since!”
He nodded. “And you didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?” He pulled on a t-shirt.
Guilt swept over Jennifer. Why hadn’t she noticed? She was supposed to be looking out for the students. The buck stopped at Professor Chopyk, but she was closer to the students, more in touch with their needs—or so she had thought. The answer came back quickly. Because she was too preoccupied with her own love life, that’s why. “But you could have been followed…the authorities….” she spluttered. “Dammit, even Soviet people can’t just go where they wish. Saratov and Toglyatti are closed areas to most Russians—much less to westerners.”
Paul continued to nod.
“How did you get back here?”
“I swam, remember?” It was his turn to laugh at her. “No, I hitched a ride on a farm truck. Vera arranged it. It wasn’t so far. The Volga twists and turns a lot here and the boat did a big loop. Really, we aren’t that far from Toglyatti or her father’s farm as the crow flies.” He pulled a sweater over his T-shirt. “I had a bad moment early this morning when I thought I wouldn’t be here early enough. I knew the ship usually steamed off at first light. But it’s not leaving early today.”
“A good thing!”
“There was another bad moment,” he went on, “when I discovered that I had arrived on the wrong side of the river.” He stopped attending to his wardrobe and studied her. “I appreciate your concern, Jennifer, but I’m a big boy now.” He moved toward the door.
“Wait a minute.” Jennifer stopped him and looked into his cool blue-grey eyes, so much like Volodya, she thought, same high cheekbones, same mane of dark hair. “So you’re not seeing her again?”
He didn’t reply.
“We’ll be in Kazan soon. Then you’ll be too far away to swim back to see her.”
He was silent.
Jennifer sensed that her words would make no difference but she continued. “You’re still thinking about her. She won’t be allowed to leave the Soviet Union, even for visits, unless she’s a model Communist. You know that?” A part of her brain registered the fact that he was packing.

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Arrows

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voices when the breeze allowed it. Looking for so long into the
distance, we were completely unprepared to turn and see five men
behind us.
Even before we could rise from our crouching positions, five big
warriors, scowling fiercely, materialized from the bushes, pointing
arrows at us.
“I looks like you may never get to know Guacaipuro, my friend,”
said Tamanoa.
I could not imagine ever responding with such aplomb. This was
his way of retaining control of himself, not showing fear. He was
showing me what to do, how to face death. Or to avoid it. I
mimicked Tamanoa’s stalwart behaviour, literally at ever step, as
the Indians led us into the village; two ahead of us and three behind.
In the days and months that followed, our captors would assume
Tamanoa was my servant because he was a half-breed, and yet it
would be Tamanoa’s ability to interpret their speech and their
behaviour that would keep me alive. Without Tamanoa, I would
never have been able to develop the language skills that enabled me
to talk to Apacuana, and I would never have survived to tell this
tale. But it was God’s will, or the way of Mareoka, to make everyone
assume I was the leader.

I was as lost as I have ever been as we marched to the village at
arrow point. People gathered on the trail and around an open space
dominated by the imposing figure of a man who could only be
Guacaipuro. The sun shone directly above our heads, gleaming
silver on the silky raven-black hair of Guacaipuro, whose face was a
mask chiselled in stone. His eyes were ominous black slits. The
hollows of his cheeks were elongated shadows.
He stood immobile, his chest heaved, and deep lines creased his
brow. The corners of his mouth were pulled down in outright
loathing. He held a spear, the butt resting on the ground.
As we approached, he held the spear almost to my chest, glaring

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The Unquiet Land

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“Damn!” Finn said and rose slowly to retrieve the bottle that had come to rest against the granite hearth. “Damn, damn, damn,” he repeated, lifting the bottle to the light to see what was left. “Did you ever witness such a clumsy old fool?”
After a moment’s awkward silence, Padraig said, “You were talking about Caitlin.”
“I was, wasn’t I?”
“Is there really something between her and Michael?”
“I think so. It’s usually called love.”
Padraig failed to stop the thought before its shadow fell across his face. “She’s in love with Michael?”
“She appears to be. And I think she could do worse. Michael’s a good, steady, dependable lad. A farmer to the depth of his marrow. He’s one of the Carricks from Kildarragh. Thomas Carrick’s son, but as different from Thomas as a ripple from a tidal wave.”
“I’m glad.”
Finn smiled. “You’ve heard the stories about Thomas Carrick then.”
“As much as I want to hear.”
“You’ll hear worse, Padraig,” Finn said. “You’ll have to learn to accept life and people as somewhat lower creations than the idealized figments of your Christian imagination. But have no fears about Michael being Thomas Carrick’s son. I took Michael in on the recommendation of Seamus Slattery, Michael’s uncle. And it has worked out well for everyone: for Michael himself, for me, for Caitlin. Even for Jinnie who loves him like a son. As he appears about to become. He sneaks in here on his midnight adventures and thinks we don’t know.”
“On his what?” Padraig asked with surprise.
Finn smiled. His eyes had the faraway look of one who had dived deeply into the river of memory and was swimming joyfully. “His midnight adventures,” he repeated slowly, his attention not fully on what he was saying. “When he thinks I’m sound asleep he creeps like a thief to Caitlin’s room. Lusty young stallion.”
Padraig’s disbelief was genuine that a father could allow such conduct. But none of his prepared texts on the subject seemed appropriate to this man who had no idea of morality. How could he begin to reach through to the soul of one who denied God, despised chastity, and did not know the meaning of sin and salvation. “We change the soul, if we change it at all,” Clifford Hamilton had said that evening, “with words, thoughts, ideas…

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The Circle

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BEVAN LONGHORN is in his office Monday morning, his desk covered in
paperwork that he has to get through before the day is over. His personnel have
just adjusted to Matthew Roberts’s absence and Bevan has been left with only two
middle managers to handle the work of three. He considers promoting one officer
to Matthew’s post, but there are twenty-odd people to choose from, all qualified for
the position. Bevan must give it more serious consideration.
He wants to make major changes to the structure of the office, but he has to
fight with the rest of the brass, particularly the ones well-connected with the
administration and the state department. He cannot put up any longer with the
way things are done and the way things they produce are used by the hawks in
higher places.
He has his own circle of people who would agree with him on certain
things; it would just be a matter of rallying the troops. His friend Jerry
Wolverton is the best example. He retired as a three- star general and left the
army seven years ago with pride and a sense of accomplishment after working
in Iraq for five and a half years, in charge of the reconstruction of public
projects that accommodated all Iraqi government personnel of various
departments. Jeremiah Wolverton got his extra star and a very good severance
package, and although retired, can still pull a lot of strings both in the state
department and within the ranks of the army.
Bevan decides to call him.
“Hello, Bevan, my old friend. Are you still in service?” Jerry jokes when he
hears who’s calling him.
“Of course I’m still in service. We cannot all retire at the same time; the army
wouldn’t know what to do without us”
“You’re right about that, my good, old friend; what makes you remember
me? Trouble?”
It’s Bevan’s turn to laugh at the general’s comment.
“No, no trouble at all; just the need to say hi to my good friend and see what
he’s up to these days.”
“Well, I’m doing okay. I play the odd golf game here and there, I walk a lot,
still take holidays with the old woman; other than that, nothing much.

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Water in the Wilderness

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“They’re missing, Tyne. They’ve run away. Ruby and Bill thought they might be here.”
She fell into the chair by the desk. “Dear Mother of God, no,” she blurted. “Where … how long?”
“They were gone this morning when the family got up. I don’t know what time that was, but the kids must have left in the dark. At least there’s one piece of good news … the eldest boy, Ronald, is probably with them.”
Tyne’s relief was short-lived when she realized the boy was probably not yet twelve years old. And the weather … oh, dear God in heaven, no. Even strong, adult men had been known to lose their way from barn to house in a blizzard.
“Morley, the weather … how bad is it?” She choked on a sob. “It looks like a blizzard from here.”
“Tyne… honey, try not to upset yourself. I know it looks bad, but they’re probably with a neighbor, or someone who saw them and took them in. Ronald’s old enough to know to go for help when the weather turned bad.”
“I know, Morley.” She drew in a calming breath. “Please, take care of yourself. I wish I could be there to help you at the barn, and make your dinner.”
“I’ll be fine. And listen, Tyne, I don’t want you to leave the hospital. Please tell me you’ll stay there. There must be somewhere you can sleep.”
Tyne stifled a sob. She didn’t want Morley to know how scared she felt – scared for the children and scared for him alone on the farm with animals to look after. She gave herself a mental shake and set her mind to gain control of her emotions.
“Tyne, the first thing I’d like you to do is call your parents and Aunt Millie to tell them about the kids. Ask them to alert people in their area. Oh wait, is there any possibility they could have gone to your mom’s? You’ve taken them there a few times. Maybe Rachael remembered the way.”
“No, I don’t think so. If they had gone there, Mom would have called either you or me.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” He sounded deflated.

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Jazz with Ella

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of his report to Department Chairman Hoefert, so it was important to convey just the right tone. For example, he would make much of the fact that this particular tour of western students had been allowed in to the philological library at the State Institute in Leningrad—a great honour usually requiring a permit from the Ministry of Education. He, Professor Chopyk, was actually allowed right into the stacks, to be surrounded by a rich storehouse of scholarly literature. So much for Professor Hoefert and his boast that he had been allowed into the stacks at the Lenin Library. This was a feather in Chopyk’s cap. Of course, he would not include in the notes that he had bribed the lowly assistant librarian (American dollars), the attendant (bottle of brandy) and even the security guard (flattery and a Cadbury’s bar) to allow him the brief two hours in the library’s inner sanctum. And that those two hours were ones in which the chief librarian was on her extended lunch hour or he would have stood no chance at all.
He set his pen down for a moment to relish the memory once more. The porthole was open a crack and a fresh morning breeze played across his face. Other wonderful events had crowded in since his time in the library: touring the art treasures of the Hermitage, attending the Kirov ballet, seeing the monumental statue of Mother Russia at the former Stalingrad, and cruising a stretch of the Volga where no other westerners had been allowed. Russia—no, the Soviet Union—was full of such grand experiences, though none could compare with those two hours spent among the ancient tomes of his linguistic mentors. The journal was filling up.
He supposed he would have to write something about the progress of the students—they would receive a grade, after all—and something about the leadership qualities of his second in command, Jennifer White. Chopyk frowned. It was difficult to write about Jennifer. On the one hand, she had done a miraculous job in bringing some of the younger students up to scratch with their Russian. Their verbal abilities had improved greatly during the trip. Of course, total immersion always did that. But they seemed to have more facility with the language, more interest in it. Their written skills had improved, too, if he could believe the mini-essays that Jennifer was assigning them. Even Linda Appleton, whose grammar was superb but who couldn’t string together a simple sentence, had improved. Last night she had actually delivered a brief oral report in Russian on the subject of architecture.

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