Into the Fire

Frank Sinatra in his crooner mode. Here's to going way back to some of the great ones. 

Thank you, Lord, for all those singers you've given us. May each one realize from whom their talent was given. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

From my novel . . . in a love song.

Two

Early June in this small eastern Washington town and the evening was still a bit warm. He inhaled the fresh night air, enjoying the hint of sage smell. Hands in his pressed Levis pockets, his self-shined boots took him back the way he came from his new home, a second floor furnished studio apartment in a glorified boarding house where he was grateful to pay the extra for the private bath in his room.

     “Evenin’, Mr. Rivers.” Round in stature with silky silver hair that hung nearly to her waist when it wasn’t pulled away from her face in a tight and tidy bun, Eva Johnson identified him without looking up from her entryway desk she seemed to man 24 hours a day, although he knew she didn’t.

     “Mrs. Johnson. You’re up late,” he replied, headed for the stairs.

     “Uh huh. Sweet dreams, Mr. Rivers.” She glanced up after him, and he smiled at her.

     He unlocked the door and knew it was going to be a long night of tossing and turning. The woman at the bar had taken up residence in his mind’s eye and other places he couldn’t deny. He cussed in frustration.

      Seated on the bed he tugged hard on his boots, removed his socks, and rested his elbows on his knees staring at the floor and his bare feet. Thirty-five years come and gone so quickly. And remained unchanged. That rambling man approach to life hadn’t netted him much other than a good bank account because if there was one constant in his life, it was work. He always worked. Somewhere. Everywhere. He kept working.

     He could’ve flirted with her, he supposed. Demonstrated his interest. Maybe even brought her home with him or went with her. But he thought not. Although he’d never quite understood them, he’d been with enough women to discern a few things about them. Most every one of them wanted some kind of respect but not near as much as they wanted some kind of love. This gal most likely had some guy like himself lay the big line about lovin’ her and then at some point walked out, leavin’ her in tears, feeling used and embarrassed but still in love enough to cry. He’d played that game enough times to know the results, although he’d never quite been able to write “I love you” into the script, and received no pleasure in the hurt he caused while knowing without a doubt it was time to move on.

     And every time he couldn’t help but wonder what this thing called love really felt like.

     He’d been fond of a few of the women in his life going back to his first real girlfriend in his high school years. Sandi Benton, the cheerleader without a big head on her shoulders, sweet and kind, and built like a woman. They’d been friends as kids, but she moved away in the fifth grade. By the time they were reunited as sophomores at the same high school, he wasn’t a kid anymore in so many ways.

     He lay back on the double bed, his head resting in his hands. He wanted a cigarette, and he hadn’t smoked for probably five years with any consistency, but he kept a pack in his Jeep for times like this, debating whether or not to go get it out of the glove box. The welcome flow of nicotine might slow and subdue his other cravings, relax him enough to get some sleep.

     Pulling himself up, he moved to the tiny open closet to retrieve his tennis shoes, jamming them on his feet without socks. Grabbing his keys, he slipped out of his room and tried to tread quietly down the stairs.

     “Not sleepy, Mr. Rivers?”

     He stammered, “Forgot somethin’ in the Jeep.”

     “Uh huh.”

     No one ever seemed able to jar his confidence. Not men of any age or women of any kind. But somehow Eva Johnson, proprietor and night owl, unsettled him with her few words and knowing looks from penetrating pretty hazel eyes. The first time he moseyed up the front steps of this huge old house with the massive wrap around porch sitting back off the cracked concrete road, he admired the lush green lawn and exorbitant foliage in the landscaped grounds surrounding it. Storybook material. When he turned the fancy glass doorknob and walked inside, Eva Johnson was standing in the lobby like she was expecting him.

     “Don’t know how long you’re gonna stay, but it might be awhile? I have one room left with a bath in it. Cost ya more, but I figure you don’t mind what it costs.” She’d walked over to her desk then and handed him a map of the available rooms with the daily and monthly rates, placing a red X on the one with the private bathroom.

     The lawn and flowers stopped at the back of the house where there was ample asphalt parking for guests who roomed there short or long term.

     He stepped down the front steps and around the inlaid river rock walkway at the side of the massive house to the back where his old Wrangler with its oxidized paint displaying an unidentifiable color and 350,000 plus miles waited topless and of course unlocked in the farthest spot from the back door which was secured every night at 9 o’clock. He went directly to the passenger side, reached over to the glove box and grabbed his probably stale pack of Winstons, removing one and lighting it with a faded blue Bic lighter. Leaning against his rig, he smoked and breathed in the night air. The frogs and insects sang a busy melody while his eyes scanned the sky and found more stars than he’d seen in a lot of months and a moon almost full. The chill began to creep into the early morning hour and through the cotton of his western-cut baby blue shirt.

     After taking his last drag, he made sure his tennis shoe ground the life of the cigarette to an absolute death. The scent of alfalfa reached his nose, and he took a deep whiff of one of his favorite smells. Without a hint he felt tears in his eyes and he swore in a whisper, using his sleeve to wipe his eyes. Closing the door of his Jeep, he walked swiftly back to the entrance of Eva’s Inn, figuring she’d still be there but hoping she wasn’t.

     Only the low glow from a wall sconce remained in the lobby as he trudged up the stairs.

Father, amazing God, the Great I Am, thank you for stories, for the words to tell them. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

     For in Christ all the fullness of the Deity lives in bodily form, and you have been given fullness in Christ, who is the head over every power and authority.

Colossians 2:9 (NIV)

How about some Friday Five of my Favorite Things:

Dawn

The smell of alfalfa – fresh cut

Many Johnny Depp movies

Novels of course/writing mine

Spice Chai Tea – extra sweet 

Just a few of my favorite things . . . 

Father, you provide all good and perfect gifts. You've blessed me with so many. I can never thank you enough and apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Book 2 for me. Written as a fictional biography from both the omniscient and third person POV. 

The Famous One 

"Nicole Petrino-Salter allows the reader to witness the shaping of Joey Parr's soul. We are eyewitnesses to his journey from innocence to worldliness. From quiet invisibility to an uncomfortable fame, we participate in the unfolding of his life."

"Beautiful development of a troubled life. Joey is such a reflection of today's society. The Author took us into the soul of this child to adult, the pain, the fear, the emptiness, the joy the love and finally the meaning of life."

"A great look at a life that is messed up on the inside but looks like he has everything on the outside. Makes a Hollywood superstar into a relatable person."

"Make no doubt about it: this book is the story of Joey Parr. It begins with his childhood and progresses throughout his life and career, oftentimes reading like the most intense, gripping, and intriguing biography I had ever read. Joey's sense of emptiness and aloneness is evident from his childhood, and we watch as he grows up and tries to fill his emptiness. Sex. Drugs. The blues. It's his ability to sing the blues that jump-starts his Hollywood career. And that takes us from a story about Joey Parr, the kid, to Joey Parr, Hollywood superstar."

Thank you to all of those readers who truly "saw" the character Joey Parr. This author can't express the intense gratitude I feel for readers who've detailed their enjoyment of the book where I wrote my heart out in it to convey the depths of a character whose story I had to tell. 

Father, I can never thank you enough for your gracious gifts to me, to allow me to write novels, to give me the inspiration, the characters, the words. All more than I could ever seek. Thank you is never enough. Please keep me writing, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

What is an anti-hero? 

About time for the crooning voice of Nat King Cole. Nothing like a good love song. Right? 

Father, thank you for all the beautiful voices you've created and gifted to singers. May each one through the ages have known from whom they received their wonderful talent. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

I've got nothin' for you today – other than do have a great one. 

Father, bring blessings that only you can bring to those who read this. Lift them up and encourage them beyond what they expect. Only you, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

     He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For by Him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by Him and for Him. He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. And He is the head of the body, the church, he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything He might have the supremacy. For God was pleased to have His fullness dwell in Him, and through Him to reconcile to Himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through His blood, shed on the cross. 

Colossians 1:15-20 (NIV)

                            From my e-book . . . in a love song

Part of Chapter 13 

She tugged her wet shoes off using her toes and stepped inside, holding the door for him. Once again the aroma of a meal drifted through the comfortable cooling air. “Smells great, Patricia.” His voice flagged his rare bout with self-consciousness. 

     “You like chicken?” She continued into the kitchen.

     “You bet.”

     “What’s wrong, Dale?” She stopped and faced him, and he nearly ran into her. Her ability to zero in on poignant emotions kept him off balance while she seemed immovable. He hadn’t dug into her private life because she’d practically confessed it to him. No games seemed to put him at a disadvantage. The realization he played them more easily than being straight up bothered him.

     When the silence lengthened, she reached for his hand and led him through a back door beyond the kitchen and out to the back yard where an elaborate wooden swing with a canvas awning and comfy cushions waited idly on a lush lawn. She sat down and let go of his hand, tucking her legs up beside her. He joined her, easing down onto the swing.

     “You don’t get me, do ya?” She asked him with concern, no tease or sarcasm.

     He labored over an answer and arrived at “I guess not.”

     “Why don’t you ask me why I feel the way I do?” Still only kindness in her voice.

     Exasperation rose up uninvited and he reacted. “You kiss like a woman who wants to make love. But you don’t—or rather you won’t. I don’t know if you plan on waitin’ a few days, a few months, or ‘til there’s a ring on your finger.” Her eyes were steady on him, intent, but his anxiety pushed him out of the swing, and he watched as it jerked crooked from his upheaval and she instinctively grabbed the side chain. He cussed and shoved his hands in his cargo shorts. “I imagine you think you have a good reason for—” He hesitated, stared past the swing, a brick fire pit, and out into the hay fields. “I should probably go.”

     “So it was all about formalities then.” It was a statement, and disappointment played like a sad song from each word.

     “Okay, Patricia! Okay.” Hands flailed out of pockets. “Yes. I would’ve taken you home from the tavern that first night I saw you if I thought you’d come with me. And the next night and the next night, and I’d a made love to you over and over again.”

     “Until when? And, yes, I believe you would’ve, Dale. Only it wouldn’t have been making love to me. It would’ve been having sex with me. And I’m sure you would’ve given it your all, too, trying to please me. But all we would’ve known of each other is our body parts. The most private and intimate parts of ourselves displayed without any knowledge of who we are as people. That’s backwards, Dale.”

     “It’s all I’ve ever known.”

     “And it’s still all you want?” She stood and stopped as she approached him, her clothes mostly dried from the hot summer evening but still clinging to her body.

     She had him there. “What do you want from me, Patricia?”

     “A chance at love, Dale. That’s what I want. Apparently neither one of us has ever experienced it, but those who have swear it’s the greatest. My parents were in love, Dale. Devoted to one another. Donald and Eva Johnson loved each other with a passion you could sense. Even in their aging years. How ‘bout your parents, Dale? I’ll bet they’re still in love. You got something against love?” She forced a brief smile.

     He stood quiet, hands back in his pockets, eyes inspecting the grass. “I feel like a stupid high school kid.”

     “You’re right about one thing.”

     He brought his eyes to hers and smirked. “That I’m stupid?”

     “No. That I kiss like a woman who wants to make love.” She walked past him. “I’ll clean up and dinner’s ready.”

     She had him right where she wanted him he decided as he turned to watch her walk into the house. It only took a moment for him to reverse his direction and follow her.     

     “Different” echoed in his thoughts.

Father, thank you for all the words. I love your stories and characters. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Please keep me writing them. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.