The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 36

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

“How long have you been working on this?”

“A week. Lying in bed is boring, so I decided to look at everything I’ve got again, and then again. There were some old maps of the coastline stored with the treasure maps, so I think my father was trying to find the actual location his treasure maps were based on and came up against the same problem. Physical landmarks on the treasure maps are no longer there, and if you didn’t know any better, I would think you were looking in the wrong place.”

“So, in actual fact, what you’re saying now is that your father had no idea where the treasure was buried, that he was just producing maps for the Cossatino’s’ to sell.”

That, of course, could be looked at from a different angle, one that I wasn’t going to suggest right then because Boggs was not ready to hear it. I think the real maps Boggs had found with eh treasure maps were the basis for the treasure maps, that is, his father had to give them real-life elements to keep the punters interested.

“No, not necessarily. I think he knew it was somewhere along this coastline give or take a hundred miles, because of its proximity to the Spanish Maine, but essentially you’re right. He probably had no idea.”

So, he hadn’t come to the same conclusion I had. Yet.

And if I could come to that conclusion, surely Cossatino also would, after all, he was the one who got Boggs senior to make the maps. Why all of a sudden did he think that there was a real treasure map. It couldn’t be simply because Boggs had said there was one. He’d have to know that anything Boggs junior found was an invention commissioned by him,

Or hadn’t Vince told his father what he was doing? Surely the father would have told the son about the treasure map scam.

As for Benderby, senior could base his assumption of the fact that he’d found some old coins off the coast nearby that could be part of the trove. Alex then may have decided to usurp his father’s search with one of his own, conveniently forgetting the treasure maps were an invention of the Cossatino’s. IT was a tangled web of lies deceit and one-upmanship, one that was going to leave a trail of human wreckage in its wake.

Boggs and I were two of the first three. We had lived to tell about it, Frobisher was the first casualty.

But what I suppose was more despairing was how taken Boggs was with the notion that the treasure was real, hidden out there somewhere, and that his father had ‘the’ map. I was loath to label him delusional, but his pathological desire to prove his father’s so-called legacy was going to not end well, especially when we found nothing.

And, yet, I had to admire the lengths he had gone to, to prove his case. Even now, looking at the overlaid maps, there was no guarantee we’d find anything, but at first look, the evidence was compelling.

Except I had a feeling Boggs had something up his sleeve. I had to ask the question. “Where did you get the idea of matching the treasure map to the real map?”

“My father’s journal. It was tossed in the bottom of a box of his other stuff. There are about ten boxes stacked in the shed, stuff my mother just couldn’t be bothered sorting through after he disappeared. Again, boredom pushed me into going through everything over and over just in case I missed something.”

He reached in under the mattress of his bed and pulled out an old leather-bound notebook. It had a strap that bound it together, and by the look of it had extra papers inserted or glued to pages, as well as papers at the start and back of the volume, making it look about twice the original size.

He handed it to me. The leather was old, cracked, and had that distinctive aroma of the hide. I loosened the strap and the top cover opened. The first page was a newspaper cutting, a small piece about some old coins being found about a hundred yards offshore by some surfers. Were these the same coins that Benderby had claimed were part to the trove?

“Benderby was getting that antiquarian that was murdered to identify some coins,” I said after a quick glance through the article.

“I spoke to one of the surfers the other day,” Boggs said. “He told me he came off his board on a big wave and as he was going down saw something glinting on the seabed. He managed to pull up three coins. There were more but he had to come up for air. When he went down again, he realized he’d been dragged away by the current.”

Tides and currents along this part of the coast were particularly bad, and the undertow, at times could get surfers and swimmers alike into a lot of trouble. I’d been caught out once in a dinghy myself, finishing up ten miles further down the coast that I expected to be.

“Then, I take it he can’t remember the exact spot so he could go back.”

“He tried, but alas no. Said he sold the coins to old man Benderby for a hundred apiece and told him approximately where he thought the others were, but nothing’s been found since.”

Not that Benderby would tell anyone if he did. But it explained where the coins came from that he gave to Frobisher.

“Except we can assume that it’s off our coastline somewhere, right?”

“Five miles of coastline to be precise. He and his mate always had a few reefers before they went out, made the ride more interesting he said. He could have been off the coast of Peru for all he knew.”

Surfers, drugs and a colorful story.

“It explains why Benderby and a team of divers have been out in his new boat,” Boggs added, “probably trying to either find the location or line up landmarks on his map from the seaward side at the same time. But he doesn’t know what we know.”

What did we know? I leafed through a few more pages of the diary, but the scrawled notes were almost illegible. I picked up various words, like a marina, underground river, dry lakebed, but none of it made any sense.

“Which map did we give to Alex?”

Boggs went over to a drawer in the wardrobe and leafed through the papers in it and pulled out one and gave it to me. Like the rest it showed the shore, the hills, the lake, and two what looked to be rivers flowing into the sea. Each of the maps had those same features but in different places.

I didn’t want to say it, but it seemed to me we were playing a very dangerous game. The maps might look different in some respects, but the chances were, if Alex was smart enough to hire an expert, that we might run across him out there, and, to be honest, he would be the last person I’d want to see.

“You do realize our paths are going to cross at some point.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

A shiver went down my spine, an omen I thought. Boggs has something up his sleeve, and I really didn’t want to know.

Not right then.

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 – C is for “Confused”

…

Here’s the thing.

I spent years listening to my brother, the perfect child in my parents’ eyes, tell me just how good life was.

For him.

He landed on his feet. One of those students who had no learning difficulties graduated top of his class, was in the right place at the right time to get a dream job, and, yes, you guessed it, the dream wife.

His favourite line every time we met, usually at a very exclusive restaurant, or after celebrating the purchase of a new car or apartment, was “You could have all of this too…”

And, wait for it, “if only…”

His mantra relied on one factor, we both had the same genes and in his mind, we had the same possibilities in life. To him it was simple. And after years of the same, over and over, I began to wonder why it wasn’t so.

The simple fact was that we were as different as the proverbial chalk and cheese.

It was one of those quirks that appeared in families. The progeny although produced by the same father and mother quite often were totally different, even when they looked so similar.

George and I were not alike in appearance although my mother always said I had my father’s hair and nose, whereas George was the spitting image of him.

My two younger sisters Elsa and Adelaide, though two years apart were almost identical twins and looked like our mother.

Our mother, long-suffering at the hands of her husband had died five years ago, and my father, in what was the longest deathbed scene ever, had finally died, the previous evening with all his children in attendance.

I was surprised my father wanted me there, and equally so when he usually spoke to me as though I was dirt under his feet. That he treated me better this time I put down to the fact in dying he had become deranged. The others, George, Elsa, and Adelaide simply ignored me.

His death was the end. I had no reason to stay, less reason to talk to my siblings, and muttering that my duty was done, left.

I never wanted to see any of them again.

…

Of course, we never really get what we wish for.

She had never deigned to come and see me before, and our meetings could be counted on the fingers if one hand, her wedding, my 21st birthday, fleeting as it was, and the death of our father, three times in fifteen years. Nor had I met the two mysterious children they had and wondered briefly what George had told them about me.

I could guess.

Two days later. I was getting ready to go back to my obscure job, the one George said was beneath a man of my talents, without qualifying what those talents were, when the doorbell rang.

Unlike my brother’s apartment building with a concierge and security staff, visitors simply made their way to the front door. I was on the third floor, and the lift was out of service, so it was someone who wanted to see me.

I looked through the door viewer, I didn’t have the CCTV option, and saw it was Wendy, George’s perfect wife.

I could tell she didn’t want to be knocking on my door, much less come into the salubrious apartment, in a building that should have been condemned a long time ago.

I could just ignore her, but she looked increasingly agitated. People sometimes lurked in the corridors, people who looked like jail escapees.

She just pushed the doorbell again when I opened the door. She didn’t wait for me to ask her in, stopping dead in the middle of the one other room I had other than a bedroom.

I could see it written all over her face, this, to her, was how the other half lived. I closed the door but didn’t move.

“How can you live here?” The tone matched the shock on her face.

“When you ignore the faded and peeling wallpaper, the mould on the roof, and the aroma of damp carpets, it isn’t so bad. There are far more of us living like this than you can imagine, almost affordable. My neighbour has the same apartment but has three kids and a wife.”

She shook her head.

“Why are you here Wendy? I can’t believe George would send you down here to do his dirty work.”

“George didn’t send me. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then how did you know where to find me?”

“Don’t ask. The funeral is in three days’ time. You should be there?”

“Why? Everyone hates me. Even your kids hate me, and I haven’t even been formally introduced.”

“Just come, Roger. You don’t deserve to live like this, no one should.”

“It’s the real world, Wendy. Not everyone can afford weekends at Disneyland, and apartments overlooking Central Park.”

She crossed the room back to the door and I opened it for her. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do think too hard. After all is said and done, he was your father.”

Sadly, that was true.

…

I was having dinner in the diner not far from my apartment block, when Alison, a waitress I’d known for a year or so, and like me, could not catch a break, came over to offer a second cup of coffee.

I was a favourite, not everyone got seconds.

“I heard your father died,”: she said.

It was the end of the shift and just before closing. The last of the customers had been shooed out.

“My life hasn’t changed with him in it, or not.”

“He was your father.”

I shrugged. “You free tomorrow?”

“Why, you finally asking me out on a date?”

“If going to a funeral is a date, yes. The service will be boring, the people way above our station in life, and my brother and sisters will be insufferable, but there’ll be good food and top-shelf booze at the wake. Date or not, want to come with me?”

“Why not? I’ve never had real champagne.”

She lived in the same apartment block, and I’d walked her home a few times. “Pick you up at 10?”

She nodded. “I’ll even behave if you want me to.”

…

Alison looked stunning in her simple black dress. She was wearing more black than I was, and looked like she was going to a funeral. She had turned the drab waitress into something I didn’t realize lurked beneath the surface.

She did a pirouette. “You like?”

I smiled, which was something given the way I felt about everything to do with my family. “I do, very much.”

We took the train to Yonkers, upstate, where the family home was, and where my father had gone to die, as he put it. I’d lived there, in the mausoleum until I was old enough to escape. The catholic church would no doubt be gearing up for the service. It was due to start at 11:30, and we made it with a few minutes to spare.

I planned it that way, I did not want to sit with the rest of the family up front.

“You should be sitting with the others,” Alison said, not understanding why I wouldn’t.

“You haven’t met them yet. When you do, you’ll know. Besides, I find it better to sit in the last row. You can escape quickly.”

She shook her head, and we sat. Not in the last row, she was adamant she would not. It was about halfway up, on the same side as the family were situated. From there, I could watch George and Wendy, and my two sisters looking very sombre, receive the guests.

There were quite a few, I counted nearly a hundred. My father may have been awful to me, but a lot of people respected and liked him.

Soon after we sat two young girls came and sat in the seats in front of us.

Then they turned around and looked at me, then Alison, then back at me.

“Daddy said you wouldn’t come,” the elder of the two said.

“Are you his daughters? If you are, you could ask him why I’ve never seen you.”

“He thinks your eccentricity would rub off on us.”

Alison couldn’t contain herself at that remark. “Your father actually said that to you?”

“Not directly. They’ve been talking about him since my mother went and asked you to come. He doesn’t really think much of you, does he?”

An astute child.

“I left home and became a motor mechanic. We are supposed to be bankers, lawyers or doctors. If you got a car you want to be fixed, then I’m your man. You want advice on money, don’t come to see me.”

“Are you coming to sit with us?”

“I don’t think your mother and father could handle the shame. No, we’ll stay here and leave them in peace.”

I watched Wendy glance in the direction of her girls, they came almost running to rescue them from the monster.

The elder girl looked at her mother when she arrived, breathless. “He’s quite normal you know.”

I had to laugh. Wendy looked aghast. She glared at the girl, then her sister. “Come, the pair of you. Enough of this nonsense.” She grabbed their hands and almost dragged them away.

I could see George up the front of the church, glancing down in our direction. The fact he didn’t come said a lot. It was clear neither of them wanted me sitting with them, and that was fine by me.

“They’re lovely girls, Roger.”

“The first time I’ve seen them, but they don’t seem to belong to my brother. They don’t have his arrogance or her disdain.”

“I’m sure, now they’ve met you, it won’t be the last time. It seems odd that Wendy, that was Wendy, wasn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Then it seems odd that she would ask you to come and then treat you like that.”

“No, not at all. I’ve only met her three or four times, and that’s her. I won’t tell you what she thought of my apartment.”

The service took an hour and various people got up to say nice things about a man who was not very nice, but that was the nature of funerals. He was dead now, so there was no need to live in the past.

I didn’t intend to.

I had intended to leave and go back home after the service, but now I’d decided to go to the wake at the old house. It would be nice to show Alison where I grew up and give her some context as to why I hated my family so. I was willing to bet my room would be the same as it was the day I left.

And it would be good to see Alex and Beatrice, the manservant and housekeeper again. There were more parents to me than my mother and father. There were sitting up the front of the church and hadn’t yet seen me.

What I hadn’t noticed during the service, was that a woman had come in and quietly made her way to our pew and sat down. She had given me a curious look, one that said I know you, but can’t place who you are.

But that wasn’t the only odd thing about her. I had the feeling she was related in some way, that sort of feeling you had when you met someone who was family but you didn’t really know them. It was hard to explain. Perhaps she was one of my mother’s friends, there were a few in the church, and they, like me, had a strained relationship with my father.

He had not treated her very well, in the latter stages of her life before she died.

Just before the service ended Alison leaned over and said quietly, “The woman next to you. You and she are related in some way. She has the same profile, perhaps an aunt.”

As far as I knew my mother was an only child, she certainly never spoke of having a sister, in fact, she rarely spoke about her family at all. Now I thought about it, it was all very strange.

The service over we could all finally stand and stretch. The woman slowly stood, then turned to me.

“You are Roger, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Shouldn’t you be up the front with the rest of the family?”

“No. I’m the black sheep. I didn’t like my father all that much, and he certainly hated me, so it’s a miracle I came. Perhaps you should introduce yourself to my brother, George.”

“I’m not here to see him, Roger, I’m here to see you.”

“Were you a friend of my mother’s? I know there are a few here, keeping their distance like I am.” This woman was trouble, I could sense it.

“Yes, and no. I knew your mother briefly. I knew your father better, I used to work for him a long time ago.

“Like I said, you’re probably better off talking to George. I rarely saw him when I was a child, and when I did, he ignored me, and as soon as I could I left, and only saw him on a few occasions since.”

“Do you know why he was like that? Did he treat George the same way?”

“No. George was always the favourite son who could do no wrong, the heir apparent.”

“Then I’m sorry to hear that. That was not how it was supposed to be.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because Roger, I am your real mother.”

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2023 — Day 3

“The Things We Do For Love”

…

Michelle, to Henry, was the proverbial black widow, having arrived with every stitch of clothing black or near enough.

They settle into an uneasy co-existence, by the fire, waiting out the rain and weather, not avoiding meals because it would require explanation, but stumbling over the conversation, mainly because of Henry’s shyness and reserve.

The arrangements come to a head when she goes out and comes back soaked. She stands by the fire to get warm; Mrs Mac brings a towel for her to dry her face and hair, and here Henry discovers her injuries make it difficult.

He helps but makes a mess of it through inexperience and fear of, yes, making a mess of a moment, which, word-wise, he does.

At this point, we discover a lot more about who she is and why she is there, and why she can never have a relationship, friendship or anything with that enigmatic, shy, boy.

Then the weather breaks.

Alone, Henry goes out to explore the coast, finds a way down to the beach, goes for a walk to be alone with his thoughts, and remembers where he had seen her before.

In magazines, ads. Not only a model but a lot more. A woman he realizes he is way out of his depth when with her.

She ventures to the beach, and they talk, he discovers small talk is not something that comes easy and is left in despair at his ineptitude.

I know this feeling from experience, and it makes this story easy.

…

Words written 3,909, for a total of 9,694

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — B is for “Beguiling”

…

Time and I never quite achieved that level of understanding required for me to be where I was supposed to be at the appointed time.

It was why my mother always told me my appointments were an hour earlier than the right time, and while she was alive that worked well.

At Uni I simply tagged along with the others and was rarely late for lectures tutorials and exams.

But once that ended and I was cast out into the big unhelpful world it became a problem again. Time became my enemy.

It was that thought, along with a dozen other unrelated but equally worrisome thoughts that were uppermost in my mind.

I had an important meeting at 10am that morning, one that might just decide the course of the rest of my life.

I was lying awake staring alternately at the ceiling and that alarm clock, on one hand fearing I would go to sleep and miss waking up and on the other how unrelentingly slow time took to pass.

Only three minutes had passed since the last time I looked, and it felt like at least an hour.

Annabel had said she would stay with me and make sure I was ready, then take me, just to make sure I got there, but it seemed overkill, and surely, she had better things to do.

It wasn’t until about two hours ago that I finally realised what she really meant, and I’d been kicking myself for being so blind.

Several others had told me she liked me, but I thought she was being nice to a somewhat eccentric friend. Now I realised it was more than that, and I would have to make amends somehow.

I just didn’t understand the nuances of romance or women for that matter.

As daylight seeped in he the cracks in the curtains I knew it was time to get up, and I’d never felt so tired before.

I looked at the clock and saw that it was after six, so nearly four hours to stew over the questions they were going to ask and the answers I’d give them.

That mock session in my head lasted precisely ten minutes when there was a knock on the door.

No one came to visit me at this hour. No one came to visit me, period. I crossed to the door and looked through the viewer.

Annabel.

Then panic of a different sort set in. She’d never called by my place never expressed a desire to go there and now she was here.

I had never invited anyone home, it was always a borderline mess, but in an organised way, because I never thought that day would come, or that it be a girl who would want to.

The place was more disorganised than usual, I wasn’t dressed, and it had been impressed on me a long time ago that it would never do to be seen other than immaculately dressed, and I couldn’t leave her standing outside the door.

Whatever hope I may have had in fostering a relationship of any sort was about to go out the window. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Annabel.”

“Richard.”

And then I stood there like a statue, the extent of my social small talk exhausted.

She waited about thirty seconds and then asked, “May I come in?”

“It’s a bit messy, well, a lot messy. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

She smiled. “You should see my room.”

I shrugged, stood to one side, and let her pass. I closed the door and leaned against it.

She did a 360-degree turn in the middle of the living room, ending up looking at me.

“This is what I would call a representation of you, Richard.”

I was not sure how to take that. There were piles of papers and textbooks on the dining table and chairs. Unlike some places I’d been, discarded clothes did not stay where they landed or languished on the backs of chairs. The kitchen bench was crowded with appliances and food boxes. The floors were clean, whereas stacks of books were not.

At least you could sit in the chairs.

“A place for everything, and everything in its place. You have a lot of books.”

She’d notice the four sets of shelves filled to overflowing.

“I don’t get out much.”

“Perhaps you should.”

A hint. Was she hinting she was available? I had not realised then that I was still in my pyjamas, and could feel the pinkish tinge of embarrassment.

“Sorry. Just got out of bed. Didn’t sleep much. Didn’t want to sleep through the alarm.”

“I thought I’d drop in. Just to make sure you were OK.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I wasn’t thinking. I appreciated the gesture, and perhaps didn’t quite…”

“You get dressed, Richard. I’ll make some tea and ferret out something to eat. Then we can talk.”

About what, I wondered as I went up the passage.

I wanted to believe that it might be about her and I, but I was realistic enough to know that there were expectations of her from her parents that didn’t include people like me.

And I was fine with that. Just to be her friend was enough.

I spent more time that I should, showering and dressing, and thinking of all the topics she might have up for discussion, and I finally came to the conclusion that this was probably the last time.

She had been mentioning the fact her parents were moving to the other side of the country, and she was to go with them. Her studies were done, and she was now ready to take up a management role in her father’s company.

I knew she was having reservations, starting at the middle, over the top of others who had to fight their way up the ladder, and the resentment it would bring. All I had said was it was a golden opportunity. It hadn’t been received very well and I had wondered later if I should have not agreed with her father.

That’s the trouble with words, once they’re out there, there’s no taking them back.

When I came back, she had cleared the table and sat, a cup of tea in front of her, and one on the other side, waiting for me.

She had a pensive look on her face. Or was it troubled?

I sat. It felt like a seat at the inquisition.

“I’m not going.” She used a tone that dared me to disagree.

“Going where?”

“San Francisco. Why would I want to go there? It’s the other side of the country, away from everyone I know, everyone I care about.”

Should I agree with her, or play devil’s advocate? I sipped the tea instead.

Perhaps if looked closer before I might have seen the hastily repaired eye makeup, a sign that she had been crying, or maybe shed a few tears? Had she been arguing with her father? I’d met him once and he was a force of nature, not a man I would cross.

And I just remembered last night she had been summoned to dinner with her parents and brother, an equally forceful type that I didn’t like. He’s once warned me that his sister would never be allowed to have a boyfriend like me, and I’d assured him that had never been nor ever would be my intention.

I was just surprised he could think that.

“So dinner didn’t go well.”

“Not after I threw my pudding at Leonard.” The seriousness left her face for a moment to allow a whimsical smile at the memory of it, then back to thunder.

“Well, that is an interesting way to decline an invitation, one I might add, most people your age would kill for.”

“I’m not a manager.”

That was another bone of contention. She completed her MBA, as well as a few other degrees, as a means of staying here. That was no longer a reason.

“Not what your qualifications paint you as.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Whose side do you want me to be on?”

A ferocious glare told me I was treading on very, very thin ice.

“Alright. I’m on your side. Stay.”

“Where? If I stay, no allowance, no apartment, no car, nothing. I was virtually told that I would have to be either a checkout clerk or a waitress in a sleazy bar.”

“Why a sleazy bar?”

“Leonard obviously frequents them, enough to suggest it.”

A thought came into my head, and I cast it aside instantly. “Would you?”

“No. A diner maybe, I can and have been a waitress, and it’s not all bad.”

“With an MBA at your disposal?”

She made a face.

“What do you really want to do. I mean, you have spent your life being someone else, someone who deserves more than just being a waitress.”

“There’s more.”

“How can there be more?”

“My choice of boyfriend.”

“I thought what’s his name, yes, William, was just the sort of boy who would be eminently suitable. You took him home one weekend, and what was it you said, they loved him, more than they loved you.”

“That was the problem, he was too perfect. I didn’t love him; I couldn’t love him.”

“Why?”

“Because… I care about someone else. Of course, he’s too blind to see what’s right in front of him.”

A new boyfriend. She’s been playing that one close to her chest.

“Then perhaps I should go and see him and drop some very unsubtle hints.”

Of course, it took a few more seconds for the cogs to turn, and the pieces fall into place. It was not another boy.

“I have no real prospects, Annabel. If it’s me you are alluding to?”

“Yet I know how you feel about me, how I feel when I’m with you, even if you are frustrating me into the middle of next week. You’re going to get that job, Richard, and then you will have prospects, certainly enough for me. You do love me?”

“More than you can imagine, I just never thought…”

“No. It’s what I love about you, you never assume, and you never take me for granted.”

“Where are you going to stay?”

“Here, of course, though it could do with a woman’s touch.” She smiled.

“Are you going to survive without the Davison billions?”

“I have an MBA, you said so yourself. I’m sure I’ll come up with something. Besides, when I told my father anything he could do I could do better, my mother muttered under her breath, ‘good for you Annabel.’. At least she had faith in me.”

Well, that seemed settled.

“When are you moving out of the penthouse?”

“Now. We have just enough time for me to move in before your appointment.”

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2023 — Day 2

“The Things We Do For Love”

…

Some people are not who they appear to be.

Henry, for instance, had suffered the tragic loss of what he believed to be his one true love. That, in essence, had led him to that life at sea, away from everything and everyone, because all it did was remind him of what he had lost.

And, yes, he was not going to fall in love again, it was far too painful.

Trying to get over the overwhelming grief, still raw a year later, he hears the arrival of another guest, and curious discovers it is a woman about his age, one who is quite at odds with what he would expect as a guest, at this hotel, at this time of year.

It raises that inevitable question, why would someone like her be there?

This leads to an awkward dinner where, with only two guests in the hotel, would it not be better if they sat together? Neither thought so, but it seems impolite not to.

From there, of course, the conversation could only get worse, with each emphasising, in their thoughts, just how much they didn’t want to be there.

It is here we discover how these two are going to get along, or not, as the days proceed, not having realised that meeting others was a possibility, but meeting someone else who might be a match, never. Both know they’re at that hotel to stay away from everyone else, but, in the coming days, that wasn’t going to be possible.

Plans must be made.

…

Words written 2,453, for a total of 5.785

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — B is for “Beguiling”