The Art Of Love

THE ART OF LOVE

by

Lorna Collins, Sherry Derr-Wille, Luanna Rugh, Cheryl Gardarian

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by Lorna Collins, Sherry Derr-Wille, Luanna Rugh, Cheryl Gardarian

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-638-6

Cover Artist: Melissa Summers

Editor: Sylvia Anglin

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To all of those creative enough to recognize true love and cherish it.

Acknowledgments

Once again, I have the privilege of writing with some of the most talented authors I know. Thanks to Sherry, Luanna, and Cheryl for going on yet another journey with me, and for making it such a pleasure.

Thanks, as always, to others who made this book possible:

v Lagunita Writers Group whose critiques improved our storytelling, especially Martha Anderson for hosting the group, and for her delicious cookies

v Sylvia Anglin and Marsha Briscoe, our editors

v Melissa Summers, our cover artist

v Steve and Debi Womack and everyone at Whiskey Creek Press for their support

v Tom Hill for his contributions to the details of photography for A Shot at Love

v The real Jeff Stone, good friend, great sound technician, and radio host, who is greatly missed

As always, we are grateful to our husbands, Larry, Bob, Len, and Leo, who have supported us, been patient with us, encouraged us, and listened when the writing became challenging. We know about love through them, and we are able to write about it from personal experience. My own thanks to Larry, who has been the greatest blessing in my life for forty-seven years.

And thanks to all our readers who keep asking for more stories from Aspen Grove. We love and appreciate you!

Lorna Collins

Prologue

Allegra McDonald

Be careful, I called up to my husband, Drew, as he perched on the top of the tall ladder. He reached out to anchor the bunting above the door of our store, The Aspen Grove Gallery. Honey, remember you’re not as young as you used to be, I reminded him, not that I expected him to listen.

To be honest, he’s still far too handsome for a guy in his late sixties. He’s active and stays in great shape. Actually, he’s even better looking than he was when we attended Aspen Grove High School so many years ago. As he grinned down at me, I once again marveled at the amazing way in which our lives took separate paths, merging again in later life.

Drew is my soul mate and best friend, and I consider myself blessed to have been given a second chance with him.

We’re both artists, and I knew he wouldn’t stop his adjustments until everything met his high standards.

Almost done, honey, he called down as he tugged once more to make sure the draping of the red, white, and blue fabric looked perfect. When he was satisfied, he came back down the ladder. Only a few more stores left.

Please be careful.

We both hoped this first annual community arts and crafts celebration could put Aspen Grove on the map. During the past few years, the travel blogs began spreading the word about our little town, touting its history and charm. Since we’re not far off the main route to the ski areas, visitors had discovered they could stay at the Aspen Grove Hotel, one of the smaller boutique hotels and inns, or nearby bed and breakfasts and still spend the day on the slopes. We were trying to attract more guests during the summer as well.

As head of the local Chamber of Commerce, Drew proposed we feature local artists and crafts people in conjunction with our traditional Fourth of July celebration. He thought our old-fashioned parade would draw folks from the city looking for a return to a simpler time. It featured the local high school band, VFW post, kids’ groups carrying flags, a pet parade, and one lucky child got to ride on the fire truck. The procession terminated at Aspen Grove Park with a community picnic by the lake and the evening’s fireworks.

When the idea was approved, he volunteered me to organize it, of course. You were the obvious choice, Allie, he’d said. You know everyone in town, and I bet you could talk a fireman into committing arson.

I stuck my tongue out at him. Then we both laughed. There’s no option for me to say no?

He shook his head.

I sighed. Okay. But you have to help. That’s when he’d volunteered to do the decorating around town. He’d already distributed posters, collected sponsors, and encouraged me to write press releases and articles. We’d placed ads in all the local and regional papers, and several bloggers had been posting regularly about the big event.

Drew closed the ladder, then walked over to kiss me. Don’t worry, Allie. Everything will be fine, and nothing’s going to keep me from collecting more of these later tonight. Then he winked, picked up another roll of fabric, and headed off, whistling Yankee Doodle.

I shook my head and smiled, then looked up and down Main Street. Nearly every business was festooned in patriotic colors.

Next week we’d mark the spaces for vendors to set up booths. All the available spots had been spoken for and prepaid.

Various restaurants, home cooks, and civic groups would sell food items during the day prior to the big picnic and fireworks display at night.

I smiled with satisfaction as I realized the whole town had embraced the event. Now if only visitors would come. Lots of visitors.

I returned to my office in the gallery. I still had a bunch of work left. The July Fourth weekend events hurtled toward me.

I looked at my checklist and crossed off some items that were completed, like the advertising. We’d spread the word throughout Denver and Golden as well as on the Internet. My stepdaughter, Jennifer, insisted we post on Twitter and Facebook in addition to the town’s website.

Then I went through the list of local businesses, checking off more of those who were doing something special related to the event.

Heckler’s Pharmacy had just posted fliers offering twenty percent off all red, white, and blue items. The front window of the Book Nook featured biographies of famous Americans, and inside, books about art and glossy coffee table ones were also prominently displayed. The Mountain Wildlife Gallery increased their stock of images of Rocky Mountain animals in anticipation of the influx of tourists.

As if she’d read my mind, my high school friend, Jillian, popped her head through the doorway.

Ready for the big festival? she asked.

I hope so, I said, my own doubts obvious in my tone, even to me.

Well I think I am—finally. She sat down on the stool behind the counter. I’ve stocked some additional traditional craft items like quilts and embroidery. And I found a great source for crocheted pieces. I’ve been looking for someone since Mrs. Seapy moved away.

I smiled at Jilly’s enthusiasm. Glad you located a replacement vendor in time.

Where’s Stella?

Out running yet another errand for Drew. Sometimes I wish he’d never come up with this idea.

She grinned. It’ll soon be over, and then you’ll be planning next year’s.

Oh, no. No chance.

She laughed. You always say that, but when it’s over you’ll have all kinds of ideas for the next one.

I shook my head. But I knew she was right. She’d known me for too many years.

She turned toward the door and then looked back. Have you noticed all the romance in the air? Looks like a bunch of folks in town have discovered love.

Yeah, I said absently. Then I looked at her and smiled. Guess we were both lucky to have found the great loves of our lives. It’s nice to see others following our example.

She grinned and nodded. Sure is. Well, I need to get back to the shop. Hope Drew’s finished fiddling with the decorations by now. See you later.

I waved as she left and returned to my list.

Our gallery, like many other local businesses, spotlighted upcoming artists, as well as those we had previously featured. We’d expanded since the attic area was turned into storage space, leaving the back gallery open. We’d begun to show pottery, jewelry, and stained glass in addition to paintings and photographs.

I glanced at the sun catchers in the window and made a note to see if I could get some more. They were beautiful and at a price point I thought would grab impulse buyers.

I hope we can pull this off, I muttered to myself. One week to Independence Day, and time was flying.

Just then, new customers entered the gallery, and I went to greet them.

The Chapel of Love

By Cheryl Gardarian

Chapter 1

Hello. Let me introduce myself. I’m Darcy Green—named after my mom’s favorite aunt Darcy. Pretty good name, huh? So, why couldn’t my parents have left it like that? But, oh no, my dad had to get into the picture, and honor my Grandma Oma. Oma means grandmother in German and is fine by itself. However, when you add it as my middle initial… Why don’t parents ever think of what the initials spell when they name their children? Can you see the problem? Got it yet? Let me help you—Darcy Oma Green.

Yep, the middle school kids had great fun with Darcy the DOG! Even that wouldn’t have been so bad except I was a homely child. You know, the kind that well-meaning relatives describe as gangly or She’s in that awkward stage. Even worse was the ugly-duckling-to-beautiful-swan analogy. I couldn’t ever imagine myself as a majestic swan. Wouldn’t have minded being able to fly away like one, but I was grounded as if my feet were poured in cement. I mean really, what does an ugly girl with a moniker like Darcy the DOG do?

I remember hearing one of my parents’ old Country Western songs—something about a boy named Sue. He spent his childhood beating up kids who teased him about his name. That’s okay for a guy, but what about a girl?

I tried sports, but did I mention the gangly part? It wasn’t pretty. So then I tried to become invisible. I grew my brown hair long, and let it hang over my face. I wore baggy, gray sweats a lot. I hung out with the girls who had acne or some other issue that made them the butt of the mean kids’ jokes. There’s safety in numbers, you know.

I spent many hours in my room doing homework, and looking out the window. I loved my window. It let me watch the world without being seen. I sat for hours staring through the glass—watching people.

Now, don’t think I’m getting all maudlin on you. I’m not looking for sympathy, just stating the facts, ma’am. In fact quite a bit of my childhood was enjoyable. Especially my summer vacations when we’d go on trips. It was really nice visiting places where nobody knew me. I could make new friends who only called me Darcy. But vacations were too short, and then I was back in name hell.

My pets were the other part of my life that was good. You’d think with a moniker like Darcy the Dog (sometimes it was shortened to Doggie), I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with puppies. However, dogs don’t call you names, and they love you unconditionally. So my best friend growing up was a dog named Cat—just kidding. I wouldn’t do that to a dog.

Her name was Ellie and she was a pound pup. She was a cute little black thing with two perky ears and a curled-up tail, just the right size: about ten pounds. Bless my folks ’cause she got to stay in the house and even sleep with me. Many a night she licked the tears from my face.

Ellie liked to people watch, too. She’d sit next to me by the window and growl low in her throat whenever she saw someone walk by. If they had a dog, she’d whine and bark. It was funny ’cause if she’d been outside, she’d have been running all around the lawn wanting to play.

By this time I was in high school. You may be thinking with a new school I’d be able to shed my name issues. Wrong! I lived in a very small Midwestern town. The high school kids were the same group of turds I grew up with. Yeah, I know even my vocabulary has dog inferences. The good news was I discovered humor. It became my best defense in high school. I could zing with the best of them.

It didn’t help my body image, though. I still thought of myself as an ugly duckling. However, once I did overhear my mom telling a friend, Darcy turned out to be surprisingly pretty. If she’d get that hair out of her face, you could see those big brown eyes. Great, my own mom thinks it’s a surprise I’m decent looking.

That night I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for longer than my usual two-minutes-with-the-toothbrush-and-a-washcloth-over-my-face routine. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and checked myself out. It wasn’t too bad. My mom was right about my eyes, and some girls would kill for my long dark lashes. Oh well, no use trying to change. I undid the rubber band and let my hair fall back.

Then finally—graduation. One good thing about not being the most popular girl in school was I studied a lot. The benefit of that was I graduated with honors, applied to several universities, and was accepted at almost all of them. I was on my way out of there, or so I thought.

Things changed one night at the dinner table. I knew something was up as soon as Dad said, Sweetheart, we need to talk.

What’s up, Dad?

You know, your mom and I are very proud of you.

Uh huh.

And we’ve always wanted the best for you.

Uh huh.

But, um… He looked at Mom.

Here it comes, whatever it is. I’m racking my brain trying to figure out what I could’ve done.

Mom cleared her throat. What your dad is trying to say is it doesn’t look like we can afford to send you away to college.

She paused when she heard me gasp.

Dad broke in. Honey, you know the real estate market collapsed and my income has shrunk. We just don’t have the money.

Mom held out her hand. I know you’re disappointed, but you can go to the community college and live at home.

Just great, stuck here for four more years. Oh my God. I put my head in my hands.

Chapter 2

So began my college years. Truthfully, it wasn’t so bad. It broadened my horizons and the gene pool. I went days without being called anything but Darcy or Ms. Green. Occasionally I’d run into an old classmate and they’d yell, Hey, Dog, but it was pronounced Dawg, you know, kinda rapper-like and almost cool. In fact I was beginning to feel better about myself. I did great in class, and I even changed my appearance. Well that part was accidental. Have you ever heard of a Bunsen burner? I don’t think my science professor will ever forget me. Yep, remember the long hair? Suffice it to say, I almost did a laboratory version of Michael Jackson’s Pepsi commercial. I now had a rather cute pixie-cut.

Other than that episode, the start of my advanced education went smoothly. However, midway through sophomore year, my parents announced I needed to get a job to help with expenses. I began to work at Roberta’s Preschool during the day, attended evening college, and even took some online university classes toward a B.A. in teaching. I was very busy and exhausted. The bright spot in my schedule was my class on how to make stained glass. I was in heaven every Tuesday night until the semester ended.

But my schedule was daunting, and I felt burnt-out. One more Itsy, Bitsy Spider or Ring Around the Rosie and I’d go cuckoo. It was time to move out on my own. I wanted to make new friends and have some adventure in my life. With all those hours I spent on the computer, my typing and secretarial skills were very good, and Roberta had me doing minor accounting for her. I figured I could get a job anywhere. I just needed to find the right place.

It didn’t take me long—Aspen Grove, Colorado. The highlight of my senior year and the best vacation I ever had. Dad taught me to ski. Mom didn’t like the cold, so she stayed in the lodge. We rented a cottage at Baker’s Secret Hideaway, a homey little bed and breakfast. I figured I’d found the perfect location to start my new life.

I brought up the subject a few days later as Mom and I stood in the kitchen.

You’re moving where? Mom looked at me in surprise. What made you pick someplace so far away?

Don’t you remember? We vacationed there.

Oh yeah, that horrible trip, I was frozen the whole time.

It was fun, Mom.

Maybe for you and your dad, but I don’t do well in the cold.

I loved it.

Well, that’s nice, but it’s no reason to move there.

I applied for a job online, and they’re interested in hiring me.

You did what?

I wanted to see if there were any job openings, so I emailed my resume and they responded.

Now listen here, honey, you’re too young to go gallivanting off halfway across the country.

Mom, I’m twenty-one.

That doesn’t make you a grownup. You’re almost finished with your teaching credential. You could apply for a substitute position and get some experience. Get your feet under you and save up some money. Then we’ll talk.

I have a little money saved, and Grandma Oma said I could have her old car.

Mom crossed her arms on her chest. Wait until your dad hears about this. He won’t be any happier than I am.

I told Dad already. He was the one who talked to Grandma Oma about her car.

Mom’s eyes screwed up in a look. Well, we’ll see about that.

Mom, I know you love me and you’re worried about my safety. But I’ve never been happy here. I’ve always felt like an outsider.

Why would you say that? We always did everything for you.

It wasn’t you guys. It was the kids at school. I felt out of place.

Her gaze softened and she patted my arm. School was really tough for you. I never knew how to help.

It would’ve been helpful not to saddle me with the DOG initials.

It’s okay, Mom. I did all right.

Yes, and we’re very proud of you.

Thanks. I smiled at her as I edged past and escaped up the stairs.

* * * *

One sunny morning a few months later, I was on the road to Aspen Grove—cruising down the highway, a big grin on my face. I was surprised at how hard leaving had been. I cried, my parents cried, and Grandma Oma kept wringing her hands.

Thanks to Mom and Dad, I had a debit card and two weeks’ lodging at Baker’s Secret Hideaway. I was excited to have my very own automobile. However, a 1998 Crown Victoria wasn’t a very sexy car for a young woman to drive. Safe, oh yeah, the big boat’s safe, but it looks way too much like a police car for my liking. And it’s definitely not a guy magnet. That part probably made my folks very happy. But the best thing of all was I had a job at Crowell’s Hardware in Aspen Grove.

Chapter 3

Baker’s B&B was just as I remembered it, except without the snow. The autumn leaves were falling in a wind-driven golden rain, and the towering purple mountains in the distance, looked divine. I shivered at the cold nip in the air, and pulled my jacket tightly around me as I got out of the car. As soon as I knocked at the door, Cory Trenton threw it open and ushered me in.

It’s chilly out there. Winter’s almost here. Come, warm yourself by the fireplace, she said.

I hurried in, rubbing my mitten-less hands together. I’m Darcy Green. I have a reservation.

I remember you. Your family visited a few years ago. You had just learned to ski.

Yep. I’m looking forward to going again.

Well, if this weather keeps up, you may be skiing pretty soon.

Just then, Dex Trenton walked in. Hi, you must be Darcy. You’ll be staying in Number Eight. When your dad called, he mentioned you might be looking for a place on a more permanent basis. Business has been a little slow since the economy tanked, and we’ve been renting out the back cottages on month-to-month leases. If you’d like, you’re welcome to stay here.

That might work. Thanks.

I have your info already. Here’s the key and a map to the cabins. Do you need help with your bags?

No. I’m fine. I took the items and returned to my car. I shivered. I sure hope there’s a fireplace and Dex has it lit.

I wasn’t disappointed. It was cozy and warm, with a roaring fire in the wood-burning stove.

The little cabin was set up like miniature log home—almost dollhouse-size: just one bedroom and a loft. The kitchen was a tiny galley off the hallway, and the bathroom also housed the laundry area. It was absolutely perfect.

I quickly retrieved my suitcases and settled into a chair in front of the stove. The little firepot had a glass front so you could see the flames. Heat radiated from it. Boy it sure feels good, but I might have to open a window when it really gets cookin’.

After I warmed up a bit, I turned to the process of unpacking. Two suitcases held my meager belongings. I was beginning to lose my bravado. Hey, buck up girl. You have a job, and no one will ever know your middle name. What else do you need?

I called to let my folks know I’d arrived safely, then turned in early ’cause I had a nine a.m. appointment with the human resources lady at Crowell’s Hardware.

* * * *

My first day at work was pretty uneventful. With so much to learn, the hours sped by, and soon it was closing time. I think my new job will be fun. I like the owners and the other employees.

A lady named Carla offered to show me around the town of Aspen Grove. She looked not much older than me, with curly blonde hair and green eyes. Cute. Probably never had a bad day in high school, but I won’t hold that against her.

After work, Carla and I drove down Main Street. She pointed out some of the important shops: the grocery store, Heckler’s Pharmacy, Daisy’s Diner, the post office, and of course, Colorado State Bank and Trust where I could open a checking account on payday.

Hey, I’m starved. Want to get a pizza? Carla asked.

Sure. Do we have to drive to Golden?

Nope, the Great Aspen Grove Pizza Parlor has really good food, and it’s just over there off of Pine Tree Road. Carla pointed.

Sounds good to me. I don’t have any dinner plans.

The restaurant was busy, and we chatted over a couple of beers while we waited.

So where are you from? Carla asked.

Don’t make me tell you. I grinned and shook my head.

That bad?

Yep. Festus, Missouri.

Festus?

"Yeah. Town