Good afternoon!
From the looks of things, many of you are finding my most recent novel,
Fresh Ice. It's heartening to see more reviews of the book on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Remember, if you read it and you liked it, no matter who the author is, let other readers know!
Meanwhile, here's a chapter for you. I feel in love with the city of Nashville, Tennessee, a few years ago and wanted to write something set there. Somehow, in building the character that eventually became Quinn Murray, it seemed so right that he lived in Music City.
Enjoy!
Izzy
stood leaned over the railing and soaked in the sounds of the city. There was
something peaceful about the sleepy silence that settled like a blanket over a
district that had, as recently as four hours earlier, throbbed with music and
barbeque and neon. She sipped the coffee she’d made herself in the tiny hotel
coffee pot and wondered if she could truly pull herself away and go back to
Wisconsin.
“Mornin’ Iz.” Adele
stepped out of her room, still clad in her t shirt and lounge pants. “It’s
really quiet this morning, isn’t it?”
“I know Like the
whole city is sleeping.”
“Are you feeling any
better?”
Izzy rubbed her
eyes, trying to wipe away the faint ache that lingered within her. Surprised by
Adele’s rare show of concern, Izzy was honest. “A bit. I took some Tylenol PM
and pretty much just zonked out. How late was it before you guys got in?”
Adele stretched her
arms over her head. “Late enough. But we should get the girls up. We’ve got a
lot of moving in to do today.”
Izzy glanced to the
parking lot where the U-haul trailer attached to Sean’s van waited for them.
She suddenly felt exhausted, drained of any energy. “Adele, I don’t think I can
help today.”
“What are you saying?
Of course you can.” The civil tone, and the concern that went with it, were
gone.
“I don’t think I
can. I’m sorry. I’m exhausted and I need some rest.”
“Fine, fine. Don’t
help move your own daughter in to the dormitory. Sean and I will just do that,
just like we’ll have to move you into the house when we get home.”
Izzy bit the inside
of her cheek, keeping her temper in check. “I’m sorry, Adele. I’m just not
feeling well.”
Adele gave her a
doubtful look, but said nothing more. Instead, she pounded on the girls’ door
and shouted, “Girls! It’s moving in day! Get up!” before slamming her door.
“Holy carp, Mom,
what’s up her butt?” Jenna emerged from her room.
“Don’t say butt,
Jenna. She’s actually a little put out with me. I can’t help you guys move in
today.”
“Still not feeling
well?”
“Just not feeling up
to moving.”
Jenna put an arm
around her mother. “It’s cool, Mom. You know I don’t have much of anything to
move it. It’s Mikayla that’s got all that furniture. Probably why Aunt Adele’s
so bent, she knows it’s going to be a complete bitch to move up the stairs.”
“Jenna!”
“Sorry, I know
that’s vulgar.” Jenna grinned, reminding Izzy a little of Jason in the days
when they shared little jokes. “You feel better, Mom. I’ll check in with you
tonight when we get home.”
“Thanks honey.
You’re a good kid.”
“I have a good mom.”
Jenna hugged Izzy, and returned to her room to get dressed.
Izzy returned to her
room as well, turned the AC on high, curled up under some blankets and fell
asleep.
**
Quinn checked the
clock. Two more hours.
As he expected,
Serena was not easily coaxed from her foul mood. Thanks to his short
conversation with the two young women the night before, he’d had to do penance.
Serena informed him moments after a fairly tawdry session in her bedroom, he was
to fill in the Sunday afternoon spot.
She’s still
blaming me for those girls calling her my mother.
The good news is,
no one cares what I do, on a Sunday afternoon because everyone is at the
Volunteers opening game of the season, and we aren’t airing it. So I can rerun
a Titans game from five years ago and no one is going to care.
Checking the dials
to make sure the rerun game was still playing properly, Quinn leaned back in
his chair and allowed himself a rare moment of reflection on his history with the
woman who held his darkest secret in her dangerous hands.
Serena Shipley
Chapman, former world class figure skater, was also a world-class hellfire. Too
well, he knew the story of Serena’s humiliation at the hands of Jason Masters,
her long time skating partner. The fact that Serena experienced her biggest
humiliation months after Jason left skating forever didn’t seem to figure into
her equation of hate. She blamed him for forcing her to skate as a single.
More precisely,
she blames Isabella Landry for stealing Jason and forcing her to skate as a
single.
Getting on the
Olympic team as a single’s skater was nothing more than a foot in the door for
Serena; just enough of a push to get her on the plane. When the US champion
shattered her ankle in practice, Serena got her golden moment.
Her story of how she
was even at the event spread like wildfire. The relentless media dug up as much
as they could on the strange chain of events that put Serena Shipley on Olympic
Ice, alone.
The short program
lasted two minutes.
In all the years
Quinn had known her, Serena Shipley Chapman talked endlessly about everything
else surrounding her skating career. But those two minutes of her life were a
silent void. It didn’t take long before curiosity got the best of Quinn and he
found the clip on the internet.
Even now, Quinn
couldn’t stop a perverse little smile from crossing his face. To say the short
program was a disaster was a complete understatement. Unaccustomed to skating
alone, and skating a program she’d put together on the plane ride to the
Olympics, Serena’s luck ran out. In two minutes, Quinn counted three outright
crashes, two skipped tricks, and a triple axel that turned into an awkward
single. Applause for her was lukewarm, unlike her scores, which were ice cold.
In the following
days the press was merciless. Writers pointed to her age and her ego as the
reasons for her failure. Stories about her backstage tantrums surfaced. Two
days later, mere hours before she was to skate her long program, Serena
contracted a sudden case of the flu. More rumors and commentaries flurried
around her. By the time Serena flew home, every sports program and tabloid
magazine mocked and reviled her.
But in true
Serena fashion, she landed on her feet. Or, at least she landed on her back in
the bed of someone who had enough money to put her on her feet.
For reasons no one
understood completely, Serena moved to Nashville, hometown to the woman she
blamed for everything; Isabella Landry. Isabella, of course, was already gone,
vanished with Jason under a cloud of scandal after pregnancy rumors arose.
If Serena wanted
immediate revenge, she was sorely disappointed.
Serena got a job as
station manager at WNSH. That, of course, was a cover for her real intentions.
She caught the eye of the aging station owner, Burkes Chapman. As the rest of
the world prepared for another Winter Olympics, Serena Shipley married a very
silent part owner of the Nashville Predators, and the richest man in Nashville.
She hated sitting
with Burkes at the games.
Quinn smiled at the thought of the lovely Serena standing in Burkes’ cloud of
cigar smoke and bourbon. Old Man Chapman adored her…almost as much as his
cigars and those Civil War pistols he has displayed in his owners’ box at
Bridgestone Center. He gave her everything she wanted.
Except that gold
medal.
The first time Quinn
saw her, he was finishing his final game with the Predators. It wasn’t common
knowledge to the fans, but the writing was on the wall. The Preds tired quickly
of his bad boy image, and wanted to trade him. Quinn didn’t want a trade. He
was done getting passed around the league like a bad joke. By then he’d fallen
in love with Nashville.
It’s not that
hard, even after everything, to remember how regal she was, looking down from
the owners’ box. She was the queen. We were just part of her kingdom.
He must have made an
impression on Serena as well, because a week after he retired, Quinn received
and invitation to an owners’ event. Burkes was there, jovial country boy that
he was, and Serena was on his arm. A brief conversation with the two of them,
and the next thing Quinn knew he was the WNSH color commentator for Predators
games.
Then Burkes died,
and Serena took over.
And then Sally.
“Quinn Murray,
what…the…hell are you doing here on a Sunday?”
Quinn shook himself
to attention. Benny glared at him from the studio door. “I guess this should
put to rest any ideas you have that I get special treatment from the boss,
right?”
“Not really. I bet
she’s tweaked because of your moment in the spotlight last night.”
Quinn smiled. “You
are living proof that even a blind horse finds the gate once in a while.”
“You’re the horse
that should have put on blinders last night, dude. I saw Serena. When are you
going to get that she is never amused when other women drool on you?”
“She gave me an
earful after I took her home.”
“I’ll bet. But dude,
seriously, you could have mentioned the station once when you were on stage.
She probably wouldn’t have minded quite so much.”
“I wasn’t there to
promote the station. I was doing a friend a favor.”
“Your good deeds
will kill you one day, my friend.” Benny adjusted his chair. “Yeah, well, you
are owned by WNSH and you aren’t supposed to be going out into the public
without express written permission from the headmistress. You know that.”
Quinn stood and
stretched his arms over his head. “I just forgot.”
“At least tell me
you noticed some of the prime women that were there. At least tell me you’re
not completely dead inside.”
The image of
Isabella Landry, standing in the balcony, came to his mind. The idea of someone
like Benny staring at her like a piece of meat made Quinn’s stomach roll. “And
you wonder why you can’t get a date, when you talk about women like that.”
“That’s a yes!”
Benny raised his hand for a high five. Quinn responded with little enthusiasm.
“You spotted someone and you’re trying to be cool because she’s classy, right?
Although what a classy chick would be doing in a place like Chance’s is beyond
me.”
“You’re a pig,
Benny. And it’s time for you to go to work. The game I was airing is almost
over.” Quinn pointed to the control board as he walked out of the studio.
Interesting to me that of all the lists I looked at for films set in Russia, this unlikely 1985 tap dance/ballet buddy flick set in the heart of Soviet Moscow wasn't on any of them. Still, I own it, and I love it. Mikhail Baryshnikov, Gregory Hines, Isabella Rossilinni, and a great song by Lionel Richie makes this one sort of a haunting keeper.
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