Plain and simple. He says I suffer and growl too much over my writing so I'm to spend a week being happy and carefree. I don't know what those words mean...so instead I think I'll post more of "The Lyons' Den" just to see how it's coming across.
Still in chapter one, here, as Daniel makes his way to destiny.
We finally hit this flat stretch of land and traffic got light and speed got slowed down once we were off the 17, with the road doing slow curves and straightaways and next to no cars coming in either direction as the snow kept snowing. Then we passed over a hilltop and into a woody valley, and there was sweet, charming, delightfully nestled Bradleyville...and lemme tell you, we got there hours after they rolled up the sidewalks. Seriously, this is the kind of place the chamber of commerce calls quaint while kids that live there refer to it as “the hell I wanna get the hell away from.” And while it looked like a picture postcard place in the winter white stuff, for some reason all I could think of that town in “It’s A Wonderful Life” -- all dark, snow-drifty and smothering in its Saccharine sweetness. I actually started looking around for a guy in a wheelchair named Potter...the guy being of that name, not the chair.
Somehow Dan-O...naw, better call him Daniel, from now on, and you’ll understand why as we go along...anyway, Daniel found the late-night diner he’d been referred to just off the main drag and walked in to enjoy the blast of warm air and think seriously about a slice of pie and some hot tea or coffee as he waited for the caretaker to come over for him, but before he could even get his gloves off this screech of a voice hollered, “You the fool friend of Mr. Bentley’s, come up here?”
He jumped around to see this five-foot tall gnome dressed in a massive green parka, thick gloves and a muffler atop two of the spindliest legs ever shoved into black ski-pants that ever was, that then vanished into a pair of the biggest snow boots ever seen (perportional...un, proportiony...uh, generally speaking). Seriously, it looked like an olive about to go into a martini, because all you could see of the person inside were two beady eyes that were easily a hundred years old.
My guy nodded and asked, “Are you Mr. Serff?”
“Do I look like Mr. Serff?” the voice snapped. Well, yes, in that get-up, but...”He’s in Boston. I’m the Missus.”
“Uh, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Daniel Bettancourt.”
I couldn’t resist adding, “Lord and master of the great and glorious Ace Shostakovich!” To which Daniel rolled his eyes, not in the snotty way Tad does but like he just plain can’t believe I said that.
The old bat glared at him, obviously noticing the rolling of said eyes and thinking he meant her. “And who else might ya be?” she snapped. “Up here, this time of year at this time of night? Summer place in the dead of winter? All the best skiin’s to the North. C’mon, let’s get this done with.” And she headed out the door, muttering, “Little fool.”
Daniel blinked and followed her. “So...I take it Tad got hold of you and explained -- ?”
“Tad?” she snapped. “That what he goes by, now? I knew him when he was just ‘Master’ Theodore James Bentley, the third, an’ made me use every fool bit of that fool name.” Wow...looked like he’d always been a dick. “An’ yes, he did call. Right ‘round an hour ago. Asked...no, ‘told’ me to get the place ready for ya. Got pretty high-handed with it, too, like I’s his employee. Like I can’t remember when his poppa was treatin’ me all right and proper. Like I’m a fool. I’d of told him where he could go, but ya were already comin’ an’ t’ain’t my way to let people die from exposure. Not ‘round my parcel of the woods, anyhow. T’ain’t polite.”
And I swear, she really DID say “t’ain’t” -- twice!
We headed straight back out to the snow and she eyed Daniel’s rental and snorted. “Best park that here. Won’t make it where we’re goin’.”
“It’s got four-wheel -- ,” Daniel said.
“I got mine. Toss your things in the back.” Then she climbed into this four-by-four with a snowplow as its front bumper, and the damn thing would’ve looked perfect as the car-crusher at a monster truck rally. Seriously, it even had fold-out steps going up to the sideboards of it so she could reach the cab.
“Will the car be okay here?” Daniel asked, eyeing the truck with what did NOT amount to certainty.
““Prob’ly,” said the old bat as she settled in behind the wheel. “No charge at a meter over the weekend. Now let’s get goin’!” Daniel got his satchel, laptop and a bag of groceries he’d bought at a deli by the car rental office and climbed aboard. And away we went, spitting snow the whole way down the drag. And I have to say, if I’d thought my guy was getting into something bad before, I was damn sure of it, now.