So uh yeah section two was a bit steamy. Here's the next section.
Brian Yardley’s ranch wasn’t really a ranch. It was just a ranch style house on half an acre of land that seemed to be maybe 2400 sq feet. The house was off set from the street with a 10 minute walk up a gravel drive. I was unprepared for the terrain in my 2 inch chunky “interview heels” that I only wore for “work dress-up days.”
That morning as I smoothed my shea butter, coconut oil and olive oil mix over my freshly showered skin I deliberated outfit choice with my husband Mark. “I want to be professional, but not read like a 40-something librarian.”
“You never read like a ’40-something’ Librarian” Mark said with a smirk rubbing body butter over my back and buttocks. He gave my booty a light smack that had us both laughing. “But seriously, you’re going out to some author’s ranch out in the middle of nowhere with only a handful of other people. I think you should be in your running shoes and work out leggings.”
“That’s not very professional.” I frowned as I started the attempt to wrangle my thick curly hair into a style that I could leave the house in.
“Come-on everyone wears athleisure now-a-days.” He said sitting back on the bed smiling. “Also it’s practical. You were the one who said you never wanted to wear clothes that you couldn’t nap or run in.”
I had given up trying to get my hair in to the largest puff cuff and settled on flat twisting the front of my hair and using a scarf to keep the rest in a modicum of a style. “That was when I was in college. Now I’m supposed to be a professional.” Though with my curls currently obscuring my entire vision the thought that I was a professional was pretty laughable.
“Seriously,” Mark said all smiles out of his voice “This man is a recluse. You are going miles away from town via transportation he scheduled. I know he wrote an amazing book 30 years ago. But we know practically nothing about this man. At least consider some sensible shoes.” He looked genuinely concerned.
I slipped into a comfortable blue and white faux-wrap dress in which I indeed had taken several naps. “You know I’m not going by myself right.”
“The fact that Nathaniel was also invited and going is the only reason I’m allowing you to go at all.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “And by allowing you to go I mean, not complaining more and trying to insist that I go with you, while you do what ever you want to do, because you are grown.”
I smiled. Mark had learned a lot hanging out with my family. “How about this, I’ll wear my chunky Interview heels.”
Now trudging up this gravel driveway I had wished I was wearing my comfortable sneakers instead. “At least I won’t sprain an ankle.” I said to Nathaniel who was keeping pace with me.
He gave me a weak smile. He heard about the shoe-wear debate in the luxury bus ride over. He seemed his old easy going self at the start of the journey every mile out of town he seemed to get more tense. Every step he took now seemed to become more leaden. “You know you should have listened to Mark,” he said looking ahead at the house with a foreboding that I couldn’t understand.
“It’s just a book reading. I don’t know why you both are trying to turn this into some kind of Stephan King novel.” I said adjusting my backpack and hoping I wasn’t beginning to show sweat through my dress.
“Not just a book reading. It is THE book reading of the year,” an excited journalist from the Eatonville Gazette broke in, obviously not hearing the whole conversation. “John Michaels from the Eatonville Gazette,” he said excitedly nodding to myself and Nathaniel. “I had a New York Times journalist begging me to give him my golden ticket,” he bragged while adjusting his pink spectacles and his white fedora with an peacock plume bouncing along with his steps. “But I said ‘not on Betty White’s life,’ May she rest in peace.” He crossed himself and mumbled “In the name of the Mother, the Daughter, the Slut and the Friend.”
Nathaniel and I looked at each other and grinned. We had all heard bout the “guy with two first names” who moved to Eatonville after living the “high-life” in several major cities. He was working hard to make himself a regular at all the local stops and nowhere more so than our local drag club. Even though Eatonville was on the edge of rural America we were always known to be quite a bit more accepting than most would assume a small town would be.
“I’ve never heard them referred to that way before,” I responded with a smile. “The question is who is the slut and who is the friend.”
“Oooooh a believer,” he responded. “Thank you for being a friend,” he looked at me expectantly.
“Travel down the road and back again,” I responded questioningly, having no idea what the catechism was or what this might make me a part of.”
He slipped his arm into mine and patted it. “Sadly no, the correct answer is ‘your my family and you make me happy to be alive,’ from the pilot, but you are definitely at least a good soul if not a kindred spirit.” He steadied me as I walked along. “Actually it was Liars of Duloc that helped me be my whole self when I was just a little boy. I figured if Reggie could come clean in the book when there were such high stakes so could I,” he ran on barely taking a breath between sentences. “And that is why I could never give up the opportunity to see Brian Yardley in his own home.”
His charming babble had gotten us up to the large marble paving stones that formed the last few hundred feet to the door way. It really was an extensive walk. I was paying so much attention to where my feet went I hadn’t even noticed the broad wide entry way into the house. It was quite eclectic. Dark wood and marble created a wide veranda with a partially overhanging balcony. The column were an unusual mix of clean tuscan lines with the scroll tops usually seen in grecian ionic style. The architecture seemed to be extremely particular down to the Georgia Marble. I didn’t even want to know how much money it took to get Georgian marble here, but I wondered why he wouldn’t choose a more local marble that wouldn’t turn from bright white to dull dark grey with the rain. The ranch style house sprawled to either side and our group of twelve clustered around the front door. The front door also had plain clean lines save the stained glass window with the initials BY in different shades of grey, white and black.
“I’m so sorry, uhm,” John Michaels had just realized he never asked Nathaniel’s or my name., “Dear, but I must attended to my recording equipment and get up to the front.” He unlinked my arm and kissed my hand “But we will talk again.” He gave a slight bow and waded to the front of the line while adjusting something in his front pocket.
“What a character,” I said turning back to Nathaniel on my left side. However Nathaniel was now staring intently at the door with an intensity I had never seen.
He glanced in my direction but didn’t meet my eyes. “Oh yeah, he’s something.”
“Nathaniel.”
“Hey, I’m fine.” He said completely unconvincingly. He pulled me to him, gave me a hug and kissed my forehead. We lingered in the hug while Mary, an older woman, rang the doorbell which was a red satin cord hanging next to the brass handle. I indulged in the scent, comfort, and solidness of him before the moment was broken by the sound of the door opening.
A buttler in a black vest and tie with an English accent greeted us. “Ah, yes the reading party. Master Yardley will see you in the library.” I had to smile. Why is it that all “fancy” houses have an English buttler: Batman, Clue, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. It was so much of a trope I almost laughed out loud. I stifled my amusement to a smile and a cough and crossed the threshold with the rest of the invitees.
