Authors: Taylor Storm
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense, #Mystery & Suspense, #Suspense
Who Loves Her?
Who Loves Her?
The Vanilla Wedding
By
Taylor Storm
Who--? Series
Book 3
Taylor Storm
Copyright: © 2013 by Reality Today Forum. All rights reserved
No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of author.
Table of Contents
“Susan, you
must
write,” said the doctor. “It will be important to write and express the experiences inside of you. Through your writing you will find organization, understanding, acceptance, and hopefully peace.”
I had been seeing Dr
. Freudette for so long that I had lost count of our meetings. I could sense her growing frustration at my obstinate and cynical view on therapy as well as my growing resistance to nearly all of her suggestions. Indeed, she had begun asking why I was wasting my time and money in therapy. Although I rarely attempted the tasks she set for me, I was dutiful and strict in my weekly visit and fifty-minute hour. Instinctively I must have known that she could provide answers that I myself could not. She was, after all, the psychiatrist, the expert, the omniscient. It was she who provided the pills that moved me from the supine bump in the bed into a standing, walking human being, stable enough to work at Uncle Lars’ motel despite all the pain. Perhaps one day she would run across a way to make sense of the train wreck that had become my life.
As I began collecting my things to leave
her office, Dr. Freudette placed her hand on my shoulder. “Susan, let’s try something different. Rather than writing in your journal about things you are feeling, write a story for me. I want you to write a story about anything at all and then bring it with you to our next meeting. You may write about unicorns and butterflies or cotton candy, or rocks lying in your yard, but write you must. Do we have a deal? Just one page of fantasy escape and you can keep your appointment with me for next week.” I looked up in shock, had she just suggested that I could not have my appointment? Can a doctor fire a patient?
Susan glanced at the sky as she made her way to her car
. She recalled all the times she had been reported to the office at school. How often had she had detention? Hell, she could even remember being fired from various jobs at least five times during her early adult years, but a shrink? She laughed under her breath as she realized, “I think I just got fired by my shrink!”
For only a second, Susan considered a call to her mother
. As if somehow old Mom was going to get angry with the shrink and take Susan’s side in the matter. Just as quickly she pushed the thought from her mind. In truth, her mother would have taken the side of Dr. Freudette, lady shrink, and then Susan would feel even more isolated and ashamed.
“Ok,” she conceded, “that lady wants me to write?
I’ll write.” With that, Susan became an observer. She noticed as she began to watch people, looking for something interesting to say, that people were far more interesting than she had ever noticed before in her life.
“Skylark M
otel. Best skyline in America’s best little town. Can I help you?”
“Susan,”
came the soft voice of her Mom, “Are you okay, honey? I heard you had trouble at Dr. Freudette’s today.”
Susan stood numb.
“Well, so much for privacy and protected information,” said Susan.
“Susan
! Don’t you dare suggest that the doctor is running around Alexandria talking about her patients!” Mom’s voice was irritated and chastising as she continued. “Mrs. Plomb from the grocery store said she saw you driving through town with tears streaming down your face. She called me because she loves us and wanted to make sure someone was there to help you. I knew you had your appointment today, so I just assumed!”
“Wel
l, Mom, you know what they say happens when you assume something, don’t you?” Susan quipped.
“No
, dear. That when a mother assumes her daughter needs help it means she loves her daughter!”
“Yes
Mom, that is what they say.” Susan rolled her eyes in exasperation, but her voice was full of love.
“Well that is all fine, Mom
. The problem is I did not drive through town with tears rolling down my face. In fact, I did not cry at all today. I’ve been thinking about stories and exactly what people do to write good ones.” Susan shook her hair from her face in a defiant manner, “You will just have to tell Mrs. Plomb from the grocery store that she is wrong, and that I had no trouble whatsoever today!”
Susan mumb
led something into the phone then turned to face the window. With her chin resting squarely in the palm of her hand, she began to relax. Suddenly the action outside took on a brighter glow. As her interest grew, her attention grew more pointed. Suddenly, Susan realized there was a whole world going on right outside her office window. As she watched with detached interest of a watcher, a story began to unfold.
“God, she wondered to herself
. Where did all those motorcycle riders come from?” Susan spoke softly to herself. Susan had been working on this highway for so long she figured she knew every car within a thousand miles. There was a time that young, hot guys rolled around on “bikes” looking good. Leather vests with their tan arms and long legs were commonplace on the motorcycles of that day. “Hogs” they called them. For some reason, the guys on hogs could get away with long hair trailing down their back as they road like demons out of the small towns of America. Today, it was more common to see wisps of grey, white hair peeking out. Occasionally she would even see an old guy with a long pony tail sticking out from his helmet, but a bald head was hidden somewhere beneath that helmet and ponytail. Susan wondered again, “What kind of person would put a halmet with a pony tail on a bald head? She smiled and spoke to no one in particular, “vanilla people would.” And she laughed.
Old farts on motorcycles come in three flavors
. Depending on Mel’s chili special of the day. Let me rephrase that and be more specific. When old farts ride as a
couple
of old married farts they come in three flavors: lemon, strawberry and vanilla. The lemon flavors are those people that are one ride shy of arguing over the blue plate special. If she wasn’t whining about how he took that last turn around Highway 27, she was in our office chapping his hide about the ketchup on his eggs and what she had to deal with. Lemon types always gave the illusion of a bright, shiny morning rolling up, but in reality, sour faces would soon follow.
Big Ole rolled his eyes at me every time they rolled in
.
The strawberry flavors are those people where he’s having his crisis, and she’s glad to be along for the ride
. He’s living out some fantasy that his pot belly is invisible and all that leather is covering up his silly escape route. “You can’t escape yourself,” Anna said. She was one to talk.
Strawberry types were big, fat and red in the face
. Their cheery, happy countenance was most often matched by a happy, sweet conversation; but occasionally a strawberry can give you a nasty, painful rash that can bug you for days.
The vanilla flavor?
They’re just happy as bluebirds in a Disney flick. We don’t get them here very often at the Skylark motel. Uncle Lars claims it is because most of the vanilla types carry their motorcycles behind big, shiny motor homes. They are people who believe home is where the heart is, and since your heart is in your hand, it goes wherever you go. Vanilla types are free from illusion. What you see is what you get, and they will generally let you know real quickly that life has been good to them.
Regardless of the flavor,
I would rather not book motorcycles and motorcycle mamas and papas because they make so much noise in the morning. One morning we had nine motorcycles rolling in at seven a.m., all looking for a separate room. Unfortunately, in all the confusion, Uncle Lars started feeling lightheaded and sick. By the end of that hectic day, we learned he had a bad heart attack. From that moment on, we never heard the end of it. “NO MOTORCYCLES” he would yell, but then the books would be down and he would say get anyone you can.
O
ne side of our sign says “VACANCY” and the “NO” is burned out. The other side is burned out altogether, so I can’t always get rid of the undesirables. If we fill up, Uncle Lars tells me to just shut all the lights off in the office and ignore the banging on the window. That happens about once a year if the festival gets good press or a couple of high school reunions start to double book. The only other time he turned the lights out was for one week after the accident. Not even Lars could tolerate work after what happened to Anna and Bob. But that’s for a later story. For now, I have taken over the office at the Skylark, and it now feels like home.
The Skylark is one of those little
twenty-room joints they had in the 1950’s before Ike blew I-94 through here and the truckers took over. The white granite gravel out front makes plenty of noise, but it does sparkle and shine when the sun is overhead. There’s a six-by-six office with a wooden counter and a keybox that sits back behind my head. Those little boxes with their keys hanging neatly provide order and decoration all at the same time. An old leather sofa and chrome ashtray stand make my little office feel more like a flashback into the 50’s than a modern office for a modern girl. My little apartment sits behind my office and separate from the rest of the hotel. I guess you could say Uncle Lars and I have a symbiotic relationship at this old hotel. Uncle Lars lets me stay here for free if I keep the three or four rooms a night raking in a couple of dollars. In exchange, I get a purpose in life that keeps me waking up in the morning and a reason to go to bed at night. Will I ever get rich on Uncle Lars’ salary? Absolutely not. Has the offer of this job kept me alive, and stopped me from crawling into the grave behind Bob? Absolutely yes. This little hotel has saved my life.
I think the most amusing thing about the Skylark is the occasional request for a room with a view
. Every time a customer asks, “Can I have a room with a view?” I smile and consider giving up my own apartment for the night. The truth is that my room is very likely the only room at the Skylark that provides the customer a view. In fact, looking up through my bedroom window, you have a view. A view of Big Ole’s “unmentionables.” That is one sight that will make you wonder what all those Viking women did way back then when Big Ole was packing for a raid. Tighty Whities on Big Ole’s Big Ole butt is something more than just a view. It is actually an event. It’s a memory. It is in fact a production! It seems that the battle between old men and their underwear is a regular occurrence. Just the other day I overheard a Mrs. Lemon fussing at her man, “You know how the doctor says you need to transition over to briefs for the prostrate.” I try not to imagine what is going to happen if he does not transfer to briefs as the doctor has suggested.
So
, Mr. Vanilla pops into my office. Well, the problem was I couldn’t tell he was a Mr. Vanilla. Two bikes with loud bikers bounced in and this short little Jewish/Iranian, whatever looking guy walks in. He had three days’ beard going, or maybe that was his five o’clock shadow like Omar down at the Shell station. He said his wife called about a room. My face went stone cold dumb. It always worked when I was a kid when I pretended to not understand. Vanillas don’t always get it. So he repeated himself.
“My wife called a few minutes
ago about a room.” Cars whipped by. We weren’t that far off the road. He took another approach. At least he didn’t yell at me, like I was deaf. I hate it when strawberries or lemons start yelling at me like I’m deaf.
“My wife called you up
, and asked you if you had a room with a view. It sounded like on the other end of the phone you said, ‘a view of what?’” That’s when my smile cracked.
“Oh
! Of course she did.” I grabbed the room keys from the box behind the counter. I chattered happily about daydreaming and losing thoughts by not paying attention. I apologized for my scatterbrain moment, and I gave them room fourteen. It needed airing out, since nothing has AC in the Skylark. When I said this is a throwback to the 1950’s. I wasn’t kidding. If they really were Mr. and Mrs. Lemon or Strawberry, they’d be pushing down I-94 in a heartbeat looking for one of those chain places that serves bagels and bananas in the morning. They didn’t. Fifteen minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Vanilla emerged from their room. I noticed they had a lazy quality, but gave one another a continual supply of smiles and touches. As I felt the wistful pang of loss, they were already walking hand in hand to nowhere. Since it was obvious they didn’t know Alexandria, it was clear they were just exploring while the most important thing was being together. You know the damnedest thing? Mrs. Vanilla had Viking red hair down to her waist, and rosy cheeks like my cousin Alice. Maybe they weren’t walking to nowhere.