More about my story –

…

Teresa

She was always going to be in the story, but I think when I first brought her on board, it was not quite in the manner she ended up.

Teresa, of course, is a typical McConnell hire.  McConnell never employs anyone he doesn’t have full control over, and Teres, being swept up from the dregs of a maximum-security women’s prison, is to him the best of choices

Highly dangerous, highly motivated to get out and stay out, and willing to do as she is told for the privilege.

Given her history as an undercover cop and the fact that she was a so-called remorseless killer, makes her an ideal subject, one to keep an eye on his investment, Willoughby.

McConnell is not so happy about his number one protege, Willoughby, and needs to keep an eye on him after the last calamitous mission when sideways and nearly had Willoughby killed.

But she’s not clear what her mission is, other than lobbing on his doorstep with oblique instructions to join him in the field.

McConnell knows Willoughby operates best as a lone wolf, so Willoughby is at first at a loss as to why she has been brought on board.

Then there’s the fact that Willoughby doesn’t know about his real mother, nor her sister Natasha, or the fact that they were Russian sleeper agents. McConnell, who knows the truth, has used it to his advantage for years, and doesn’t realise that Willoughby is about to learn the truth, which will create a very interesting situation.

But that’s all part of the end of the story.

In the meantime, Willoughby suddenly realises that this Teresa is about to force him to consider everything that was missing in his life, even while he argues the toss with his boss over her deployment, and then to be told she stays, or he quits.

Not fair, but now unexpected.

From the day she joins him, he moves rapidly from dissent to disappointment to begrudging acquiescence to getting on with the job.  How much easier is it with two?

Very, but that’s not the point.  He knew the only reason she was tagging along was to keep an eye on his movements and then to report anything he did out of the ordinary back to McConnell. The question is, why, after all those years, was his boss distrusting him?

He could do worse than retire to a little seaside cottage with a picket fence and live out the remainder of his days with someone who might actually like him just the way he is.

More about my story –

…

Teresa

She was always going to be in the story, but I think when I first brought her on board, it was not quite in the manner she ended up.

Teresa, of course, is a typical McConnell hire.  McConnell never employs anyone he doesn’t have full control over, and Teres, being swept up from the dregs of a maximum-security women’s prison, is to him the best of choices

Highly dangerous, highly motivated to get out and stay out, and willing to do as she is told for the privilege.

Given her history as an undercover cop and the fact that she was a so-called remorseless killer, makes her an ideal subject, one to keep an eye on his investment, Willoughby.

McConnell is not so happy about his number one protege, Willoughby, and needs to keep an eye on him after the last calamitous mission when sideways and nearly had Willoughby killed.

But she’s not clear what her mission is, other than lobbing on his doorstep with oblique instructions to join him in the field.

McConnell knows Willoughby operates best as a lone wolf, so Willoughby is at first at a loss as to why she has been brought on board.

Then there’s the fact that Willoughby doesn’t know about his real mother, nor her sister Natasha, or the fact that they were Russian sleeper agents. McConnell, who knows the truth, has used it to his advantage for years, and doesn’t realise that Willoughby is about to learn the truth, which will create a very interesting situation.

But that’s all part of the end of the story.

In the meantime, Willoughby suddenly realises that this Teresa is about to force him to consider everything that was missing in his life, even while he argues the toss with his boss over her deployment, and then to be told she stays, or he quits.

Not fair, but now unexpected.

From the day she joins him, he moves rapidly from dissent to disappointment to begrudging acquiescence to getting on with the job.  How much easier is it with two?

Very, but that’s not the point.  He knew the only reason she was tagging along was to keep an eye on his movements and then to report anything he did out of the ordinary back to McConnell. The question is, why, after all those years, was his boss distrusting him?

He could do worse than retire to a little seaside cottage with a picket fence and live out the remainder of his days with someone who might actually like him just the way he is.

Day 213

Grammar with commas, adjectives and parentheses

…

Never let it be said that I would try to have four commas in a sentence.  Not that I would deliberately expect to see how it would sound.

After all, the comma is the point where the reader takes a breath.  One official definition of the comma is to separate clauses or lists of three or more items.

Someone might want to tell the people who create grammar checkers that, because sometimes their suggested edits are a little perplexing.

Of course, the humble comma is also very useful for making the author’s meaning clearer to the reader, who, it seems, is always trying to misinterpret what he or she is trying to say.

Sadly, just about everything I write can be misinterpreted, especially by those strange grammar checkers.  You see, the programmers who are behind such beasts injected their own interpretation, so no matter what you want to say, they change it into something incomprehensible.

Unless, of course, you take charge and override the changes or simply ignore the suggestions.  The problem is, it won’t let it go, underscoring or highlighting what it thinks is wrong and takes you back, like an errant child, expecting you to conform.

Even selecting ignore only lets you think you have won!

But all the same, there are eight rules for using commas, and it doesn’t hurt to at least read what they are so you can make up your own mind.

The next battle, and believe me, I have drawn the line on the battlefield, a line these mechanical behemoths simply roll right over.

I know what words I was to use.  It doesn’t or shouldn’t after what I use because those ate my words.  The checker can not possibly know what I want to convey.

And yet there it is, saying that I have no idea what I’m talking about.

OK.  I get it.  We don’t want to have too much flowery language.  But just what is flowery language?  Acting dumb, I’d say I don’t use flowers to describe stuff.

Then, there’s a lavender aroma, a rose coloured cheek, as yellow as a daffodil.

Who doesn’t know of a yellow daffodil, a red rose, though these days there are red, yellow, white, and pink roses.

Oops, I just used more than four commas in a sentence. 

But there is a good argument for using words that most people would recognise because the last thing you need is reader frustration.  But, again, you still have to take into consideration the narrator or the character and their characteristics.

Lastly, who hasn’t used an afterthought or an explanation in the middle of a sentence just to make sure the reader knows what is going on

I mean, we shouldn’t have to; it should be readily apparent if we had spelled out beforehand, but that little reminder is so that the reader isn’t left scratching their head, which can sometimes happen.

It’s not ideal, but sometimes necessary.

I use it myself, which, of course, isn’t a validation of its use. It’s just the way I write.

It is just another thing on that ever-growing list of pointers that we accumulated as we advance further into the writing mire.

Nothing is ever simple. 

Day 213

Grammar with commas, adjectives and parentheses

…

Never let it be said that I would try to have four commas in a sentence.  Not that I would deliberately expect to see how it would sound.

After all, the comma is the point where the reader takes a breath.  One official definition of the comma is to separate clauses or lists of three or more items.

Someone might want to tell the people who create grammar checkers that, because sometimes their suggested edits are a little perplexing.

Of course, the humble comma is also very useful for making the author’s meaning clearer to the reader, who, it seems, is always trying to misinterpret what he or she is trying to say.

Sadly, just about everything I write can be misinterpreted, especially by those strange grammar checkers.  You see, the programmers who are behind such beasts injected their own interpretation, so no matter what you want to say, they change it into something incomprehensible.

Unless, of course, you take charge and override the changes or simply ignore the suggestions.  The problem is, it won’t let it go, underscoring or highlighting what it thinks is wrong and takes you back, like an errant child, expecting you to conform.

Even selecting ignore only lets you think you have won!

But all the same, there are eight rules for using commas, and it doesn’t hurt to at least read what they are so you can make up your own mind.

The next battle, and believe me, I have drawn the line on the battlefield, a line these mechanical behemoths simply roll right over.

I know what words I was to use.  It doesn’t or shouldn’t after what I use because those ate my words.  The checker can not possibly know what I want to convey.

And yet there it is, saying that I have no idea what I’m talking about.

OK.  I get it.  We don’t want to have too much flowery language.  But just what is flowery language?  Acting dumb, I’d say I don’t use flowers to describe stuff.

Then, there’s a lavender aroma, a rose coloured cheek, as yellow as a daffodil.

Who doesn’t know of a yellow daffodil, a red rose, though these days there are red, yellow, white, and pink roses.

Oops, I just used more than four commas in a sentence. 

But there is a good argument for using words that most people would recognise because the last thing you need is reader frustration.  But, again, you still have to take into consideration the narrator or the character and their characteristics.

Lastly, who hasn’t used an afterthought or an explanation in the middle of a sentence just to make sure the reader knows what is going on

I mean, we shouldn’t have to; it should be readily apparent if we had spelled out beforehand, but that little reminder is so that the reader isn’t left scratching their head, which can sometimes happen.

It’s not ideal, but sometimes necessary.

I use it myself, which, of course, isn’t a validation of its use. It’s just the way I write.

It is just another thing on that ever-growing list of pointers that we accumulated as we advance further into the writing mire.

Nothing is ever simple. 

Day 212

Contributing to happiness – Writing exercise

…

It was the small town that we had visited once, some years ago, that had enticed me back.

Those had been happier times, times when the stench of money hadn’t overtaken sensibility, and who we really were.

Not that I had changed all that much, except for the Upper West Side apartment, and a posh car to go with it, but what had disappointed me was the change in Liz, the woman I thought once was the love of my life.

Without the trappings of wealth, she was the kindest, most thoughtful, and generous person I knew, but that changed when I became the recipient of an inheritance that beggared belief.  We both made a promise from the outset that it would not change us, but unfortunately, it did.

And that was probably the main reason I was standing outside an old fixer-upper house on several acres overlooking the ocean.

I’d asked Liz to come, but she was having a weekend away in Las Vegas with her new friends, or as one of the ladies rather salaciously said, ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ kind of weekend.

Charmaine had told me about the house, one that she had admired for a long time, but didn’t have the means to buy it.

Charmaine was a painter, a rather good one, and both Liz and I had met her on a weekend away upstate, and I’d bought one of her landscapes to hang in our new apartment.  Liz hated it, but I think that had more to do with the painter than the painting, and that was because Charmaine had flirted with me, and that, I had observed over time, was how she was with everyone.

She called it her sales technique.  After all, it had worked on me.

I listened to the auctioneer go through the rules of the auction and then move on to a physical description of the property.  I’d attended several viewings and gained an idea of what was needed if I were to buy it.  It had good foundations and had only suffered from a lack of TLC.  It was how the auctioneer summed it up.

When he called for the first bid, I felt a hand slip into mine, and a glance sideways showed it to be Charmaine.  I had asked her along for support, but she had something else to do; it appeared now that she hadn’t.

“So,” she whispered next to my ear, “you were serious about this place?”

I had been dithering, not being able to make up my mind, but Liz, in the end, made the decision for me.  I’d overheard a snippet of conversation with one of her new friends, and to be honest, I’d been surprised.

“Perhaps it was time to find a hideaway.”

“Things that bad?”

I shrugged.  “Maybe I’m writing too much into it.  At any rate, I needed an excuse to get out of town, and being here was as good as any.”

The first bid came in at 450,000.   I knew the reserve was about 700,000, and I was prepared for 850,000.  I was hoping to spend less than that, as the renovations would be another 250,000.

“We could go and have a picnic.  It’ll certainly cost less than buying this place.”

“I’m here now.”

Holding hands was just one of Charmaine’s ‘things’, and I had never written anything into what might have been called a relationship of sorts.  We were not lovers, and the conversation had never been steered in that direction, but I did find myself gravitating towards her when Liz was off doing her thing with her friends.  To be honest, I simply liked the idea of a picnic and watching Charmaine paint her landscapes.

I raised the bid to 500,000.  Another from the previous bidder, 550,000.  Another at 600,000.  It seems there were three bidders for the property.  The other sixteen people attending were observers, undoubtedly locals interested in how this would help their property value.

I went 625,000 when the auctioneer changed the increment after a lack of bidding.  It was countered, and the next bid was 650,000.  Another at 657,500, and then the first bidder went to 700,000, the reserve.

“You do realise the other bidders are friends of the owner and are there to push the price up?” Charmaine whispered in my ear.

I’d heard of it happening, but I’d not suspected it until she mentioned it.

“Going once, going twice at 700,000.”  The auctioneer looked at me.  “I’ll accept 10,000 increments.”

I nodded.  710,000.  It quickly moved to 800,000, after I bid 790,000.

The auctioneer looked at me expectantly.  “810,000, sir?”

That was more than I wanted to spend, though an elbow in the ribs was the clincher, and when I declined, there was an air of disappointment.

“Going once, going twice, all done at 800,000?”  A look around the crowd confirmed we were all done, and the gavel came down.

“Looks like we’re going on a picnic,” she said.  “I’d expect a call in an hour or so.”

Two things happened that weekend, both of which surprised me.  The first, Charmaine was right, I did get a call, and finished up with a hideaway in the country, overlooking the ocean.  The second, Liz didn’t come back from Las Vegas.  She had apparently found someone new, someone more exciting, or so she said.

I was disappointed but not overly concerned.  She had changed, and I had not, and if the truth be told, we were drifting apart.  We parted amicably, sold the apartment, and moved on in different directions.

I had a new residence and renovations to take my mind off the break-up, and when I told Charmaine, she said she thought we were not a perfect match, in her opinion.  And in light of my new status, I could now ask her to come and stay in the spare bedroom, a lot better, I said, than the one-person tent she had been using, an offer she readily accepted.

Until, a year later, it became something more than that.

…

© Charles Heath 2025

Day 212

Contributing to happiness – Writing exercise

…

It was the small town that we had visited once, some years ago, that had enticed me back.

Those had been happier times, times when the stench of money hadn’t overtaken sensibility, and who we really were.

Not that I had changed all that much, except for the Upper West Side apartment, and a posh car to go with it, but what had disappointed me was the change in Liz, the woman I thought once was the love of my life.

Without the trappings of wealth, she was the kindest, most thoughtful, and generous person I knew, but that changed when I became the recipient of an inheritance that beggared belief.  We both made a promise from the outset that it would not change us, but unfortunately, it did.

And that was probably the main reason I was standing outside an old fixer-upper house on several acres overlooking the ocean.

I’d asked Liz to come, but she was having a weekend away in Las Vegas with her new friends, or as one of the ladies rather salaciously said, ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ kind of weekend.

Charmaine had told me about the house, one that she had admired for a long time, but didn’t have the means to buy it.

Charmaine was a painter, a rather good one, and both Liz and I had met her on a weekend away upstate, and I’d bought one of her landscapes to hang in our new apartment.  Liz hated it, but I think that had more to do with the painter than the painting, and that was because Charmaine had flirted with me, and that, I had observed over time, was how she was with everyone.

She called it her sales technique.  After all, it had worked on me.

I listened to the auctioneer go through the rules of the auction and then move on to a physical description of the property.  I’d attended several viewings and gained an idea of what was needed if I were to buy it.  It had good foundations and had only suffered from a lack of TLC.  It was how the auctioneer summed it up.

When he called for the first bid, I felt a hand slip into mine, and a glance sideways showed it to be Charmaine.  I had asked her along for support, but she had something else to do; it appeared now that she hadn’t.

“So,” she whispered next to my ear, “you were serious about this place?”

I had been dithering, not being able to make up my mind, but Liz, in the end, made the decision for me.  I’d overheard a snippet of conversation with one of her new friends, and to be honest, I’d been surprised.

“Perhaps it was time to find a hideaway.”

“Things that bad?”

I shrugged.  “Maybe I’m writing too much into it.  At any rate, I needed an excuse to get out of town, and being here was as good as any.”

The first bid came in at 450,000.   I knew the reserve was about 700,000, and I was prepared for 850,000.  I was hoping to spend less than that, as the renovations would be another 250,000.

“We could go and have a picnic.  It’ll certainly cost less than buying this place.”

“I’m here now.”

Holding hands was just one of Charmaine’s ‘things’, and I had never written anything into what might have been called a relationship of sorts.  We were not lovers, and the conversation had never been steered in that direction, but I did find myself gravitating towards her when Liz was off doing her thing with her friends.  To be honest, I simply liked the idea of a picnic and watching Charmaine paint her landscapes.

I raised the bid to 500,000.  Another from the previous bidder, 550,000.  Another at 600,000.  It seems there were three bidders for the property.  The other sixteen people attending were observers, undoubtedly locals interested in how this would help their property value.

I went 625,000 when the auctioneer changed the increment after a lack of bidding.  It was countered, and the next bid was 650,000.  Another at 657,500, and then the first bidder went to 700,000, the reserve.

“You do realise the other bidders are friends of the owner and are there to push the price up?” Charmaine whispered in my ear.

I’d heard of it happening, but I’d not suspected it until she mentioned it.

“Going once, going twice at 700,000.”  The auctioneer looked at me.  “I’ll accept 10,000 increments.”

I nodded.  710,000.  It quickly moved to 800,000, after I bid 790,000.

The auctioneer looked at me expectantly.  “810,000, sir?”

That was more than I wanted to spend, though an elbow in the ribs was the clincher, and when I declined, there was an air of disappointment.

“Going once, going twice, all done at 800,000?”  A look around the crowd confirmed we were all done, and the gavel came down.

“Looks like we’re going on a picnic,” she said.  “I’d expect a call in an hour or so.”

Two things happened that weekend, both of which surprised me.  The first, Charmaine was right, I did get a call, and finished up with a hideaway in the country, overlooking the ocean.  The second, Liz didn’t come back from Las Vegas.  She had apparently found someone new, someone more exciting, or so she said.

I was disappointed but not overly concerned.  She had changed, and I had not, and if the truth be told, we were drifting apart.  We parted amicably, sold the apartment, and moved on in different directions.

I had a new residence and renovations to take my mind off the break-up, and when I told Charmaine, she said she thought we were not a perfect match, in her opinion.  And in light of my new status, I could now ask her to come and stay in the spare bedroom, a lot better, I said, than the one-person tent she had been using, an offer she readily accepted.

Until, a year later, it became something more than that.

…

© Charles Heath 2025