Reflections - Spence and his Mavericks: A Five Act Drama

Red Maverick After the Accident

Act One – Maverick Demise

On Sunday, May 17, I called Spence from Cranberry, Pennsylvania. “Carla and I will meet you at the Greenville/Sandy Lake interchange at six.”

Heading north along I-79 in her red Honda, she and I rolled over hills and passed farmlands with grazing horses. We were running a few minutes late. No worries. Spence would be patient.

Carla had driven me all the way from Lancaster, Pennsylvania where I’d successfully pitched my nature story collection to Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press.

“Will you have enough time to rest before work tomorrow?” I asked. If I’d driven the three hundred miles, I would need three recovery days.

“I’ll relax tonight and go to bed early.” She eased around a curve. “I’ll plan a day off after the next writer’s conference.”

At 6:00 my cell phone chirped. Spence’s Snidely Whiplash icon flashed on the screen. I swiped to answer.

Spence’s voice quavered through the speaker. "A motorcycle hit me." In the background a horn blasted repeatedly.

“Good grief. Are you okay? We’re still ten minutes away.” I stomped my foot against the floor in a vain attempt to accelerate the car.

“We're both okay.” His voice steadied a bit. “I’m in the middle of the road by three fifty-eight.”

“What happened?” Carla gripped the steering wheel tighter.

I told her.

“You need to see Spence,” she said.

Cold shivers ran through my limbs. Anticipation and dread battled in my brain.

Carla pulled off at the exit. Empty road. She headed west toward Greenville—over the bridge, in and out of the dip—to Carpenter Road.

Spence stood beside his dented red Maverick. Its front bumper hung over the edge line of Route 358. The rest of the truck, interior obscured by puffy white airbags, occupied the middle of Carpenter Road. A thin young man paced in wide circles.

As soon as Carla parked, I ran and bear hugged Spence.

He flung his arm toward the pacing young man. “This is Michael. I’m glad to say he’s okay.” Spence pointed at the truck. “The drive train’s locked up. I called AAA for a tow.”

At least the horn alarm stopped blasting.

Michael’s 250cc Honda motorcycle lay on its side in the grassy berm.

“You’ve had a long drive.” Spence rubbed my shoulder. “Let Carla take you home. Get something to eat. Rest. The tow truck driver can drop—”

“No. I’ll go home, but I’m driving back.” That meant an extra twenty miles for Carla on windy back roads, but I didn’t hesitate to ask my flexible friend.

Carla helped me carry my luggage up the ramp and inside the house. “You’ll be okay? Text me when you get home.”

I gulped a quick bite, packed food for Spence, and raced back by 7:20. He shook his head at the food.

“I’ll eat at home.” He perched on the Maverick’s back bumper.

“Where’s Michael?” I asked.

“He drove his motorcycle home.” Spence threw his hands in the air. “He gave me his name and phone number. He didn’t want me to call the police.”

Snuggling beside Spence, I asked, “What happened?”

“I stopped at the intersection. The motorcycle must’ve been in the dip. I pulled out and spotted him. I stopped at the edge of the road. He assumed I’d keep driving. He veered to cut behind me. He hit his brakes. He couldn’t stop and t-boned the truck. The bike went into a grassy area and threw him. Thank goodness he wore a helmet.”

A pickup with a portable bar in back stopped. “Do you need any help?”

“Thanks. We’re just waiting for the tow truck.”

The man waved and drove away.

A sedan stopped. “Do you need any help?”

“Thanks. We’re just waiting for the tow truck.”

The woman waved and drove away.

An SUV stopped. “Do you need any help?”

“Thanks. We’re just waiting for the tow truck.”

The couple waved and drove away.

Every vehicle that passed stopped and asked if we needed help. In rural Northwestern Pennsylvania, you don’t have to be acquainted with folks to connect.

Who didn’t connect was Brown’s tow truck. Spence called AAA again at 8:00. “The tow still isn’t here. Would you call Leonard’s on three-twenty-two? They’re reliable.”

The sun set in glorious oranges behind bare-branched trees.

Five minutes later, Leonard’s dispatcher called Spence for information. She said, “You need to call the police before we tow your truck.”

Spence called a confused person struggling with GPS imperfections. “I can see the interchange from where I'm standing,” Spence said for the tenth time. Finally, the woman connected him to the state police dispatcher, who after a similar “I can see the interchange from where I'm standing” discussion, said she wouldn’t send out anyone.

Spence called Leonard’s back.

“It’s okay. You tried,” the tow truck dispatcher said.

Leonard’s tow truck arrived at dusk. Taller and broader than Spence, who’d ducked under the airbag, the driver sliced the airbag to slide into the driver’s seat. He checked a YouTube video for directions to unlocked the Maverick’s ignition. Then he put the truck in neutral, let the truck drift back, and loaded it onto his tow truck. “Air bag replacement is expensive. The insurance company will probably cash out the truck,” he said.

Cash out the truck? My throat contracted making it hard to breath. The tow truck driver must be wrong. Spence loved his Maverick. Of course the truck could be fixed.

Blue Maverick After Its 28.5 Mile Drive Home

Act Two – Maverick Insurance

Early Monday, I drove Spence to the Erie Insurance office in Cochranton. The short-haired woman behind the counter asked questions in a gravely voice.

Spence answered. He received an eyebrow raise for the state police refusing to come answer and “They’ll probably write the truck off” for his description of four air bags inflating.

I let him have his say and gawked at the decades-old Christmas cactus by the glass wall. When he answered in the negative to a question about injuries, however, I said, “He has a bruise on his upper left arm.”

“Oh, the air bag hit me.” He rubbed the spot with his right hand.

“I’ll write that in,” the woman said typing on her keyboard. “It’s important because issues can come up later.” She dropped her hands from the keyboard and her business demeanor. “My husband was in an accident. He didn’t want to go to the hospital . . . back injury . . . wheelchair . . . surgery . . . no hope . . .”

After fifteen minutes, Spence interrupted. “We have to go. We have other errands. Thank you for your help.”

Spence’s errand? His need to check on his Maverick around the corner at Runyan’s Auto Body.

Young Matt with hands in his jeans pockets and Mr. Runyan with elbows on the counter wore matching bad-news expressions. “Air bags inflated. Insurance won’t pay to repair it,” Matt said.

“But it’s in good shape. Spence loves his truck,” I said.

Mr. Runyan lifted the visor of his Runyan’s baseball cap higher on his forehead. “They get more money from parts.”

Tuesday Jason, the insurance adjuster called Spence. Spence reported the bad news. “We have to take the license plate off. If they total the truck, they will tow it right away.”

I drove Spence back to get the license plate.

He patted the side wall of the truck bed in a silent farewell.

As everyone expected, except romantic me, the appraiser declared the Maverick a total loss.

On Thursday Keyshawn called from Erie Insurance headquarters. “I’m sending you a packet with instructions. Complete the final paperwork. Fill out the forms and return them via Fed Ex.”

Blue Maverick After Its 28.5 Mile Drive Home

Act Three – Maverick Search

Since Spence valued the mechanics’ work at Titusville Ford, he called the dealership early Friday.

Eating breakfast across our open space room, I eavesdropped on his conversation.

“Hi, Bill. I want a new Maverick hybrid. What’s available?” Spence shook his head even though he wasn’t on a video call. “No. Do you have red, blue, or green?” Spence peered through the sliding glass door as if through the window at the dealership. “Okay.”

“Does he have a pickup?” I asked.

“Only a gray one. Everyone drives white, black, or gray.” Spence scribbled a note on his clipboard. “Bill’s going to check other dealerships. We’ll meet him at nine-thirty tomorrow.”

I checked Maverick colors online. Ruby Red, Eruption Green, and Velocity Blue. Spence couldn’t buy Chili Pepper Red again. Ruby Red came close.

Saturday morning rain splatted the Subaru’s windshield. I steered around curves and clutched to shift gears up and down endless hills. We passed farmland, golf courses, and woods. Scenic, but would I drive this fifty-seven mile round trip for maintenance appointments? Nope.

In the showroom, I stroked a sleek Mustang, but Spence walked straight toward Bill at a desk off to the side. He was talking with a young couple seated across from him. He straightened. “You must be the Wellses. I’ll be with you in a minute.” And he handed me a stack of papers. “Study these while you wait.”

Spence said, “Thanks. We’ll be in the waiting room.”

He led me to a wide hallway—his mini office while his old Maverick underwent service. On one side, doors led to a utility room and bathroom. Chairs lined the other side. A counter, with Ford pamphlets and a coffee pot, spanned the wall at the end.

Spence plopped onto a chair.

Sitting beside him, I inspected Bill’s papers. “These are window stickers.”

He took the top set. “I want the least amount of accessories.” He read and chuckled. “This is Bill’s gray Maverick. It’s loaded with accessories.”

“There aren’t any red trucks, but one’s green.” I handed the paper to Spence.

He squinted. “No. It has a drop in bed liner. They cause rust in our climate.”

“These two are blue,” I said scanning the last two sets. “One is a twenty twenty-five with two minor accessories—a first aid kit and tow hitch. The other is a twenty twenty-six and no extra accessories.

“Velocity Blue is pretty.” Spence inspected the last papers. “Let’s see what deals Bill offers.”

Bill lifted his chin to peer through the bottom of his eyeglasses and read the fine print for the blue Mavericks. He rubbed his eyes, typed the VIN numbers into his computer, and read more. He tapped on his calculator and scribbled numbers on paper. “With the dealership’s extra thousand dollars off the twenty-twenty-fives, that model is less expensive.”

He clinched the deal.

The Brookville, Pennsylvania dealer had the twenty-five Maverick in stock. Bill called. “We want your truck.” Hanging up, he patted the papers on his desk and asked us, “Will Friday work for pick up day?”

Spence winced. “I’m driving to Cleveland Friday. How about Thursday?”

Bill held both hands in the air. “Pick up the Maverick Thursday.”

Spence in His Blue Maverick

Act Four – Maverick Pick Up

When I pulled into the dealership parking lot Thursday, a mechanic was dusting a Velocity Blue Maverick in front of the building. “It’s here,” I said.

Spence stared. Speechless.

Inside the building, we settled at Bill’s desk. He shook our hands. “Jason will do the title transfer and take your money. He’ll be free in a few minutes.” Bill rolled his chair back, pulled off his glasses, and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “The eye doctor said I needed these but . . .” and the fellas talked about useless eye glass prescriptions. They switched to stories about their first Maverick pickups. Since Bill bought his a year later than Spence, he only waited nine months, not three hundred ninety days. Bill pantomimed dialing and holding the phone against his ear. “I apologize that you’re the one answering the phone. Why can’t Ford figure out how to transport my truck from the freight yard to the dealership?”

After forty minutes, Jason, a slender man, jogged inside and over to us. He panted. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Please come with me.” Perhaps this job, which kept him running, caused his thin frame.

We followed Jason to the other side of the showroom. His office had a door.

He shoved documents across the desk and said, “Sign here.” We signed.

I wrote a check.

And we were back with Bill, outside beside the new Maverick.

Bill handed Spence a fab. “There’s no key.”

“No key?” Spence fingered the fab.

Bill chuckled. “Get in. I’ll show you.”

Spence slid behind the steering wheel.

From the passenger seat, Bill said, “Keep the fab with you. Step on the brake and push the start button.”

Spence followed Bill’s directions and, voila, the dashboard lit.

As I leaned in the open driver’s door, the sun warmed my back.

Bill demonstrated more features.

Spence peered at the new gadgets.

With more handshakes, Spence could drive his Maverick home.

“I’ll follow you,” I called over my shoulder walking toward the Subaru.

The Velocity Blue Maverick sparkled in the sunshine—easy to follow through Titusville. Out of town, however, Spence pulled away from me as if he were a races car on a speedway. He’d traveled this route more often than me. I sunk my teeth into my lower lip, clutched the steering wheel, and floored the gas pedal. Wasn’t he concerned about deer or state troopers?

I couldn’t maintain that pace driving around unfamiliar curves. I slowed and let him enjoy his new Maverick. I could meet him at home. Once I cleared the twisty road through the wooded hills and passed into farmland, I spotted the Maverick proceeding at a pokey pace. He must have checked his new rear view mirror.

We managed the rest of the trip in tandem.

Spence in His Blue Maverick

Act Five – Maverick Upgrade

Spence has bonded with his blue Maverick.

When I asked what he likes about this pickup, he launched into a list.

“The push button starter. It’s easier to see out the back. And it has a better back up camera.”

Now, if Spence doesn’t encounter an interfering tree or motorcycle . . .

 Reflections - A Writer’s Path

Kittatinny Mountain Tunnel on the Turnpike

Dear Bob and Norma,

I hope you are well and enjoying spring flowers on your patio. Thank you for connecting me with Cathy. We emailed before and during my trip to Lancaster for the Pennwriters’ Conference.

I figured I could manage I-79 and the turnpike. Cathy assured me the drive from Harrisburg to Lancaster “is 2 lanes in each direction with a grass median between.” Perfect. Except an arthritis flare-up made me wary of traveling 300 miles alone. I conned my writer-friend Carla into driving me so I could pitch my nature story collection to Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press.

At 10 a.m. May 14, Spence dropped me at the I-79 Greenville/Sandy Lake interchange. We dodged puddles and transferred my gear in the rain to Carla’s Honda. I hugged Spence and we girls drove off. As windshield wipers swiped, Carla followed I-79 to the turnpike. Stiff from the drive and cold weather, we stopped at South Somerset service plaza for walking around the food court and eating our packed lunches. We planned to get gas ($4.99 a gallon). Rain changed our minds. Carla played a podcast of her story “The Ghost’s Debt.” I read postcard journals, warning her she’d be in mine for this trip. We gawked at tunnel lights. At Harrisburg, Cathy’s description proved true. We stopped at Rutters for $4.19 gas. Farms faded. Cities grew. Lancaster houses nestled wall to wall with corner mini groceries. Old stone buildings dominated historic sections.

Cathy emailed Saturday asking if we needed anything and inviting us to see baby foxes in her backyard. Alas, the conference was a whirlwind. We couldn’t stop on our way home because Carla needed to get back to prepare for work Monday. But I appreciated Cathy’s kindness.

Love,

Janet

 

Stone House on the Grounds of the Conference Hotel

  

Palm Court, the Site of the Saturday Keynote Luncheon.

Dear Pat,

You’ve asked if I’d heard from Sunbury Press about my collection of nature stories. I hadn’t. Determined, I attended the Pennwriters’ Conference in Lancaster, PA so I could pitch to Lawrence Knorr in person. Alas, pitch day I freaked—reminiscent of Ivy reacting to neighbors.

But, when the monitor called, “Eleven-thirty group,” I forced my way to Lawrence’s table.

He gave me a friendly smile. “You must be for me. You’re ‘Saturday Keynote Luncheon.’”

My name tag had flipped. The meal tickets showed. I laughed releasing tension. I offered two icebreakers. “You’re the reason I conned my friend into driving me three hundred miles . . .” and “I wanted to ask when you about attended Wilson College because it was all girls when I did, but I need to tell you about my book before time runs out.” I launched into my talk. Almost calm.

He took notes, looked up face glowing, and stopped me with a question before I got a third of the way through. “Do you know Ben Moyer? He writes for us and Northern Appalachia Review. Your stories fit our Catamount Press imprint.”

“I submitted to Catamount Press last October and have been waiting to hear.”

He jotted more notes. “We’ve been busy. I’ll look up your submission when I get home. Submit one of your stories to the review.” And he explained he went to Wilson when men attended at night. Since his wife taught there, he was the only male in women’s day classes.

The night the conference ended, Lawrence sent an acceptance email offering me a contract if I was still interested. I emailed back, “Yes. Definitely.” I’m waiting for the contract to arrive.

Love,

Janet

 

View of the Conference Hotel.

If you want to view all nine postcards in the Writer’s Path Journal, visit "A Writer's Path, An Adventure in May" page on my WellswoodPA vacation website at this link: https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/the-writers-path

 

   

Reflections - Being Myself       

JW's Author Page for the Literary Coffeehouse

Had I misunderstood my friend? I reread her February email a third time.

Alas. I hadn’t misunderstood.

Ellen Byham, founder of Beautiful Balance Inspirations, asked if I . . . would be interested in presenting a short 15 minute class at the Literary Coffeehouse on Saturday, April 18^th on "Tips for Blogging." Would you also present one of your short stories?

I wanted to support Ellen. I could read one of my stories. But pose as a blogging expert? Though I’d blogged since September 2014, I only loaded content. Would the folks attending know more than me? Would I sound foolish? Would I disappoint Ellen? 

Hedging, I typed, I could probably do that. Let's talk details on Saturday if we have time.

After the Saturday Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters (MVP) meeting in the Saegertown Library, I said, “I’m not sure what I have to offer.”

Ellen waved her hand and her voice bubbled with excitement. “Oh, just give the basics. You’ll be great.”

Half convinced by Ellen’s optimism, I shelved her idea in the back of my mind. I had time.

 

But near the end of March, I dithered over which project to submit for the April 4^th MVP meeting. My subconscious dished up the blogging tips topic. Gulp. I only had the title. Settling at my desk, I typed facts and links into the computer. Since including photos was one tip, in the top left corner of the handout I pasted the photo from my first blog—our cat Emma lounging by a pot of mums.

The list overflowed the page, my limit for basic tips. Maybe I did learn something in twelve years. I cut and condensed.

Fact sheet assembled, I switched to paper and pen for brainstorming a talk. Fat tabby Ande snored on the bed. He had a point. Facts aren’t riveting. I didn’t want to read the handout for the talk. So I sprinkled facts into personal blogging stories.

 

I tuned into the MVP Zoom meeting April 4^th. Though the participants could only see my turtleneck and stringy hair around my face, I squirmed inside as if the video tile exposed me in my birthday suit. Would the personal approach, the way I blogged, come across flat instead of funny.

 

 Last year, I was preparing a blog about my adventures auditing our township’s finances. I asked one of the auditors if she would let me borrow her hat to take a picture for the blog. She said, “Sure. But . . . what is a blog?”

Her answer surprised me. It shouldn’t have.

When I moved to French Creek township, I joined MVP to receive help with my writing. One Saturday in 2014, Babs Mountjoy, who has published so many novels she’s lost count, said to the group, “What Janet needs is a blog.”

I had no idea what she meant. I went home and asked my husband.

Blogs are . . .

Across the Zoom screen heads straightened and faces brightened.

The six writers agreed. “The handout’s informative. Personal stories are great.”

And they offered pages of suggestions to improve both the handout and the talk.

*Expand why people blog—test ideas, market products, share hobbies, poems, stories, and photos.

*Add post on a regular schedule.

*Clarify the warning that a blog is published material and traditional publishers may not accept content posted on blogs.

I uploaded my 418^th blog post, “Reflections - Celebrating Harold,” the next day and took a screenshot for the back of the handout. Studying the Pennwriters’ comments, I tweaked my handout and workshop talk. Ready.

Literary Coffeehouse Flyer

Or so I hoped.

April 9^th, while standing in a calm yoga pose, a fiery stab pierced my lower back. I gasped and eased onto the mat to lessen the pain. Sharp throbs attacked. I rolled on my side, gritted my teeth, and grabbed a table to pull myself upright.

Spence was in Cleveland and our son Charlie was at work. Our biggest tabby, my yoga buddy Ande, stared at me with worried eyes. Had I shrieked? Maybe he didn’t expect this behavior for the yoga routine. “We’ll go downstairs now.”

Clinging to furniture, railings, and walls, I inched downstairs to the linen cabinet. I grabbed the heating pad, shuffled to the desk chair in the bedroom, and plugged in the medical device. Relief.

Ande paced by my feet and demanded pets.

After three days, I no longer held onto furniture and my gait improved to shuffling like a rusty robot. But I still switched on the heating pad whenever possible. I wrote my rheumatologist over the patient portal for advice. Am I suffering a pinched nerve? Am I experiencing a flare-up? Am I just deteriorating?

Her physician assistant answered. It should continue to improve. If it doesn’t in the next few days, try a steroid pack. Heat and gentle stretching would be good. Avoid bending over for a prolonged period.

Okay. Another arthritis flare-up. The assistant could have added don’t pick up anything heavy, like my yoga buddy Ande.

Every day the week before the Literary Coffeehouse, I settled at the desk with the heating pad toasting my back and read my story. Even though the writers had tweaked individual words, I jotted ten main points on a note card and rehearsed a casual talk for the workshop. Ande lounged on the desk and purred.

Around noon Saturday, April 18^th, Spence drove me to the Literary Coffeehouse, Ellen’s event to raise money for her youth writing contest at, where else, the Active Aging Meadville Center. Carrying my car seat cushion in one hand, he held my hand with his other to steady me for the walk inside. I shuffled like a stiff robot rather than with my previous rusty robot gait and glanced over my shoulder. I feared some staff person would approach me to sign up for services because I looked like a likely candidate.

Instead my friend Christa greeted me with a hug. Her face wrinkled in concern when Spence explained the arthritis flare-up. “I can be her runner.” Her rosy cheeks glowed.

Next, Spence explained my back issue to Ellen. Ever flexible she said, “We can pull out one of those easy chairs from the corner for you. Whatever is comfortable.”

Comfortable for me would be not to stick out. “I’d like the Pennwriters display pushed into the circle of writer’s tables. I’ll sit behind it and talk with people who have questions.”

Spence and Ellen pushed the smaller Pennwriters’ display table into the circle of writer’s. I set the car seat cushion on a straight back chair and observed the group.

Spence put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be back by two.”

“I won’t be done then.” I straightened in the chair to ease my lower back pain. “I read at two twenty-five and will present the workshop at three.”

“I know. I’ll be here if you need me.” Pulling keys out of his pocket, he headed off to recycle his motor oil.

Guests trickled into the event. Several gathered at tables in the middle of the room and sipped coffee or nibbled yummy desserts. Most people flowed around the room and talked with writers.

JW at Pennwriters' Table - Photo by Spence

A few stopped to talk about Pennwriters, including a grandmother and her eight-year-old granddaughter. “Oh, the group is for adults.” The grandma frowned. “Not for you.”

“What kind of stories do you write,” I asked the little girl.

She blushed and twisted away.

“She draws more than writes.” The grandma opened a cloth bound journal revealing sketches and captions.

“Ooh, you write graphic novels. Do you read Dav Pilkey?”

The girl beamed at me. “I read Dog Man.”

“She thought she might see Dav here today. She thought he was from around here.” The grandma closed the journal.

“No, he’s from Cleveland. I met him there once and he’s really nice.” I don’t like to disappoint children, but the girl raised her head and looked me straight in the eyes. Maybe hearing about her favorite author consoled her. “Keep writing. Graphic novels are popular.”

The young writer exchanged smiles with her grandma.

By the time I needed to hobble down the hall for my reading, Spence had returned and was tapping computer keys at one of the guest tables. I shuffled off to the blue room. He could catch up.

Spreading a copy of my story, “Red-Tail Mystery,” across the lectern, I peered at the audience of between ten and twenty. Too nervous to count, I read. “The red-tailed hawk provided clues, but I didn’t connect them.”

Spence grinned at me from the back row. People remained quiet.

“Red’s hooked beak and curved talons—all ending in sharp points—reminded me that Red was a bird of prey. I halted. He may not have minded if I got closer, but my churning stomach did.”

The audience didn’t laugh at jokes the way Pennwriters do.

The loud voice of the reader in the green room—a thin sliding-wall away—distracted me. Figuring it might distract my audience too, I raised my voice to an I-mean-it teacher level.

In front of me, a woman sagged with head bent and eyes closed. Had my story put her to sleep? When I read the climax, "Red's dead," however, her eyes opened wide and she jerked upright. I stifled a laugh and continued reading to the last sentence.

“In nature, death renews life.”

The group clapped politely. Spence gave a thumbs up. As I left the room, a man leaning against the wall reached out and touched my arm. “I thought your story was great.”

Fifteen minutes later, wobbling and aching, I carried my car seat cushion and folder with workshop materials down the hall to the kitchen classroom. Setting the cushion onto a metal chair, I plopped and gritted my teeth. Aching back or not, I would do this.

Three ambled in and chose seats across the table from me—a ten-year-old girl with long blond hair, the twenty-something illustrator of books named Abigail, and her fiance. He only attended to keep Abigail company. The other two wanted to create their own blogs. The girls observed me as if they were lip reading. After two stories—and this trio chuckled at my jokes—I spied the clock. Five minutes left. Yikes. I set the note card on the table. They could read the handout. “What do you want to blog about?”

The ten-year-old hunched forward and hid her face behind her long hair. “I’ll post bible verses and write about them.”

“Do you have an adult to help you? A teacher or someone?” I didn’t want this sweet youngster on the world wide web without supervision.

After a long pause, the girl pulled her hair away from her face. “My mother can help. She’s on the internet all the time.”

“Terrific.” Her mom would keep her safe. “Have fun with your project.”

Abigail said, “I’ll probably post the recipes I’ve adapted and my wedding plans. I’m getting married in September.” She gazed into her fiance’s eyes.

My romantic heart melted with the warmth radiating from the young couple.

“But I want to keep my blog private.” The skin on her forehead scrunched. “Just for a few friends and relatives.”

Dread of a technical question disappeared. “Post on Facebook or chose a free Google website. People need a link to view free Google sites.”

I didn’t need to pose as a blogging expert. I didn’t sound foolish. I didn’t disappoint Ellen.

I was enough. I could be myself.

JW Reading "Red-Tail Mystery" - Photo by Ellen