It begins with a memory … the slap of waves, a melody of despair, the future we might fear, the past we’ll ne’er forget.

The imagined world is rich and filled with promise.

But then there’s the real world with its unspoken truths, the life lessons learned when speech fails and all that’s left is trust.

Some themes are mature, even challenging. Others shed light in dark spaces.

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A box of chocolates....who wouldn't like a box of truffles?

Sorry to use an over used phrase - but Diane Nelson's book is truly like a box of chocolates. Each piece different. One dark and intriquing, one sweet and soothing, one spicey, one swirled with various flavors. Reading this book was like using your thumb nail to open a new treat - then tasting it with delight, or caution, or curiousity. I enjoyed the varied of tastes. Nelson writes from her heart - with humor or passion or wild imagination. I recommend this banquet for the senses.—NatureRabbi


 

Summer in the Bermuda Triangle—steaming, sultry hot, an ocean of blue plate glass, flat and tideless.

What brain trust decided this was a good idea?

“You coming, Maggie?”

“Yeah, Barry, wait up a minute. I’ve got sand in my damn shoes.”

“Did you bring the forecast specs? I thought I had them, but they aren’t in this folder.”

I ruffled through my plastic carryall, already slick with sweat from me gripping it with fervent determination. I risked a glance at my colleague, our team leader, first among the firsts, as our intrepid section head so coyly labeled his current Golden Boy.

My glasses slipped imperceptibly so I got a good look at ‘GB’ without the interference of bifocals. Easily ten years my junior and already on the fast track to corporate nirvana, armed with degrees and spreadsheets and a killer PowerPoint style that had the upstairs lads with a full collective hard-on for their newest and brightest recruit.

“Yeah, right here. You want them or should I keep them until you’re ready for your talk?”

“Keep ’em, Hon.” He sauntered away, tight ass, narrow-hipped fit in tan Dockers and flip-flops.

I staggered after him in medium-heeled black pumps, Just-My-Size taupe pantyhose gritty with beach goodness and resignation. My boys, as I was rather fond of calling them, took to calling me Hon after hearing Peter-the-Prick dub me during one of our town hall meetings.

Come on up here, Hon, and give us a rundown on the McArthur contract. This here’s our new mother, back in the saddle to take over for Tom as Operations Research Analyst, otherwise known as ORA.

The asshole had managed to stretch O*R*A out in some bizarre, sexual fantasy fashion. Titters all around.

Back then I hadn’t minded so much. Being the only “girl” in the department, and the first to hold the ORA title, made me a center of attention I’d been happy to encourage. That was a dress size or two ago, along with a marriage and my shot at Law School.

“What’s the chair’s name again?” Barry held the door open for me while I slipped past him, my too-tight-for-the-tropics linen skirt doing an incidental brush along his hip bone. He didn’t yield.

“Uh, just call him Dr. Ravi. And remember, he doesn’t shake hands.” I continued with the verbal dossier, filling GB in with all the pertinent details he’d obviously forgotten since last night’s pre-conference group pow-wow.

In my best mothering tone, “…you’ll need to talk slowly. Most of the audience will not have English as their native language. Just give them the highlights. We’ll leave hashing out details for later when we meet with the financials people.”

“Uh-huh. Okay. Here, let me take that folder.”

Grateful to be rid of the unwieldy pile of print-outs, I handed the plastic binder over.

“Get me a cup of coffee, would you, sweetie?”

GB turned away, my life’s work tucked carelessly under one arm as he trotted down the hallway toward The Magnolia Room and our first of many sessions for the day.

****

“What’s wrong, Maggie?”

Sam gave me a quick hug, nearly knocking over the coffee cup balanced precariously in my left hand. The other held a paper plate piled high with croissants, bagels and fresh fruit. My mothering instinct ran hot when it came to my boys.

“Oh hey, Sam. Uh, nothing.”

“Nothing looks like somethin’, Hon. Why don’t you bring that pile of goodies over to my table and we’ll talk about it.”

“Thanks, Sam. But Barry sent me for coffee. His talk starts in twenty minutes.”

Sam’s one of those “touchers", a very hands-on, in your personal space type. My mothering capacity stopped just this side of rude when I was around him. He was creepy in that techno-nerd way. Harmless on the outside, total lascivious asshole on the inside. I moved away as fast as sand-filled heels and tight skirt would allow.

Damn, I should have tried this suit on before I packed for the trip.

I felt my ass straining the pencil-skirt, tight enough that even the slip had no ‘slip’, nailed in place between my pantyhose-covered cotton briefs and the thick-weave fabric. For a Houston native, accustomed to hot and steamy as a lifestyle, I’d made a few spectacularly poor garment choices for my professional attire.

“Let me get that for you.” Another door abracadabra’ed open, the Golden Boy bowing with a flourish.

“Didn’t the session start?”

I was worried about what all I’d missed and why Barry wasn’t sitting, flushed and flustered, anxiously going over the facts and figures I’d spent weeks compiling.

Barry took my elbow and guided me through the door. It was a tight fit. I had to turn sideways, hands and arms splayed fore and aft holding my breakfast cargo. Barry took up more than his half of the middle. My breasts brushed across his abdomen, forced to take a slow journey along a knit silk road of sapphire blue. Even through my stiff jacket fabric and sturdy cotton blouse, my nipples took note of the highway of six-pack abs and set themselves on high beams.

Geez, it’s been awhile.

Sam, coming up behind me, made a grab for the tottering plate of buns as I stalled, impaled, frantically sucking in my gut and inadvertently thrusting my boobs into Barry’s unyielding midsection.

Barry growled, “I’ve got it…” and pressed me into the door jamb while relieving poor Sam of his good deed for the day.

I could feel the sweat trickle down my back and bead on my forehead. The tepid coffee sloshed fitfully onto the saucer and then my hand. My knee crept between his legs as I angled for some way to extricate myself. The wriggling seemed to be having a deleterious effect on our professional relationship.

“…’scuse me, s-s-sorry.”

I quickly morphed from annoyed to mortified to full out lust in zero-to-hot-flash. I got to wondering if the restaurant had one of those walk-in freezers. If not, I’d need a quick trip to the ladies’ room to dry off, cool down and readjust my knickers which were squirming uncomfortably left-to-right, leaving a tell-tale bulge on the starboard side of the damn skirt. I could feel it but not see it, and I wasn’t too keen on looking down past the high beams and straining jacket. Idle curiosity only goes so far. I ain’t a systems analyst for nothing.

I managed to pop like a cork out of a cheap wine bottle, sending the rest of the coffee onto the mauve knobby-weave carpet, the stain hardly noticeable amongst the garish floral patterns.

Barry and Sam exchanged mutual eye-fucks, satisfying a herd dynamic peculiar to the male species. Tiptoeing around the testosterone left me with Barry-in-a-smirk on my side of the great divide. Sam, on the other hand, looked like he was wearing confusion for a nametag.

In another life I might have worried about the bagels getting stale…