| (c) 2007 Stefanie Worth |
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Can You Believe - Excerpt
from The Holiday Inn anthology
from The Holiday Inn anthology
| Back to Can You Believe main page |
| Fallon Terry would've bet her whole week's overtime pay that she'd never get her husband Naymond to Crystal Mountain. But, if she'd done that, she'd be broke— considering that he surprised her with a getaway to the Northern Michigan ski resort for their first anniversary. She teetered between anticipation and anxiety, wondering what other surprises awaited two flights and a few hours into her future. With her weekend wish list pared down to the simple things—an uneventful trip, unforgettable first anniversary, and a tad of leftover holiday "magic" to re-connect her heart with her husband and erase the stress of their last three months apart—Fallon speed dialed Naymond from her cell phone for reassurance. "Ready for me, lover boy?" She whispered her greeting to avoid the ears of the woman in front of her on the moving walkway. "You know I can't wait to see you, babe." Naymond's voice melted through the mouthpiece and drizzled into her ear. "That's not what I asked." Or rather, not what she meant. Beneath the sugarcoated seduction, her heart begged to hear that her husband wanted this weekend because he missed her — not just the loving. "This'll be just what we needed. Watch and see." He spoke faster now. Fallon could hear his footsteps on tile. They kept pace with his breathing as he raced through the faraway terminal that led to tonight. Naymond's haste forced him to speak in short, cryptic phrases that made his answer sound a bit patronizing, as if he was patting her head from afar saying, Quit tripping, Fallen. "You're right, hon." Time off from their nine-to-fives, which were more like twenty-four-sevens, was the least their first anniversary deserved. "Thanks for all this. See you there." "Not soon enough." He sent a kiss through the receiver that calmed her nerves and piqued her libido. "Later." They ended the call with Fallon feeling less anxious and more eager to see her husband. Can't wait to tangle my fingers in that untamed 'fro of his. She smiled at the thought of how he'd bite the corner of his pouty lower lip when she did that, or how he'd glare at her when she threatened to shave off the fashionable hint of five o'clock shadow he wore across his cleft chin and block jaw. She imagined that any future babies she bore would inherit a blend of Naymond's maple syrup complexion and her French vanilla tone and wind up with creamy peanut butter-colored skin. She hoped they lucked up on his hooded brown eyes, too. You'll be staring into that sultry face before sunset, Fallon reminded herself. No, she really couldn't wait. She'd never traveled on Christmas Day, but the trip was cheaper this way. Lugging her carry-on luggage behind her, she focused on the hum of its wheels to quiet her racing mind and transition her thoughts from a long day of massaging wounded joints and muscles at the Physical Therapy Rehab Center to the notion of getting a rub-down of her own from Naymond. Most travelers had already reached their destinations and loved ones, leaving Fallon with a few Friday night stragglers who, like her, anxiously awaited the remnants of Yuletide hugs that awaited them across the miles. Must be close to five o'clock, she surmised by the setting sun outside the concourse windows. That left her a few minutes to spare, maybe tick off a couple of to-do's before boarding. She swerved into the nearest sundry shop. Since Christmas would be pretty much over—and the getaway used up most of the money they had saved— they'd decided to celebrate Kwanzaa, replacing materialism with quality time and focusing on each other. She strolled the angled aisles, searching for something significant. The cultural celebration called for meaningful gifts—books, things of that sort—but Naymond was a singer, not a reader. He was too spontaneous and imaginative (and she, too practical and thrifty) for any of the ordinary souvenirs shelved in this overpriced shop. "Not quite what you had in mind?" Fallon turned toward the voice, coming from the somewhat familiar face of a stout woman with gray wisps around her hairline and faint parentheses in her cheeks that betrayed her youthful tone and sparkling eyes. Early fifties with one face lift, Fallon guessed. She shook her head at the friendly stranger and responded, "All the good stuff must be gone." The quip hung in her throat. She couldn't help but compare the comment to the state of her marriage. They were so broke, she was so tired, and Naymond had been so far away for so long, that deep inside she wondered if all the good stuff was gone there, too. "You'll be all right, Miss Terry." "Mrs." Fallon instinctively corrected her title. "Do I know you?" "No, but everybody knows your husband." She paused long enough to unnerve Fallen further. "I recognize you from that video they did of him on the show. The one with him back home selling houses and you tending your flowers." "Oh, so you're a Chart Toppers fan." Too old to be a groupie, Fallen hoped the woman was crazy. Reality shows brought out the best and worst in folks, so she imagined that even a jazzy old woman could get caught up. "Don't believe everything you see. Nobody's selling houses in Michigan these days and my sister planted that garden," she joked. "Doesn't matter. We watch that show every week and I've got plenty of reasons to put my vote on your husband." The woman shrugged as her eyes took on a distant cast. "Don't you wonder why? Or want to know what's waiting for you on the other side of this trip?" That would be L.A. and the final taping of the show when we find out who wins. Then we either go home or start a brand new life—which will probably, unfortunately, include weird people like you. But Fallon decided to humor the woman. "If I could see into the future, what would I do with today?" |