Bell Shaped Flowers
by
By L. C. Hayden
Published by L. C. Hayden at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 L. C. Hayden
Cover design by R. L. Hayden
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Dedication
Lucky is he who finds a true friend for he’s the rare jewel that’s hard to find and even harder to keep. Yet in you, Mary Albert, I’ve found such a treasure.
To Bill and Mary Albert
But also to the other Moores and Alberts
Matthew, Christie, Allie, Hampton and Baby Moore
Marc Moore
Megan Moore
Robert, Lisa and Melanie Elizabeth Lacktis
Rusty, Claudine, Haley, and Hunter Albert
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Pat Reid for honoring me by allowing me to use her name as one of my characters. Any similarities to the real person and the character portrayed are strictly coincidental.
I’d also like to thank Don Moss, Dick Schwein, and Rosemary R. Schemmel for proofreading and for their advice and suggestions. Bell Shaped Flowers is a stronger book because of them.
Another special thanks goes to my publishers, editors, and good friends, Steve and Joan Neubauer. You guys are great!
I’d also like to thank and send hugs to all of my readers. Without you, I couldn’t exist. I’d love to hear from you: lchauthor@yahoo.com. Feel free to visit my website (www.lchayden.com,) sign my guestbook, and participate on my blog.
A special, extra-warm kudos goes to my husband, Rich. My world without him wouldn’t be a world at all. Thanks, Hon, for your support, love, guidance but especially for putting up with me during the deadline times—and while I’m at it, thanks for designing my website. I love it!
Invitation to Book Clubs
If your group would like to discuss this book or any of my previous works, I would like to help you any way I can. You can contact me directly at lchauthor@yahoo.com and I can send the group one complimentary copy of Bell-Shaped Flowers (or whichever book the group is discussing) along with a set of possible discussion questions, and an author bio sheet.
My webmaster—okay, he’s my husband—will also post on my website a set of discussion questions that can be downloaded. You’ll find my website at lchayden.com.
Given plenty of notice, I might also be able to arrange a visit to your reading and/or discussion group.
Bell Shaped Flowers
By
L. C. Hayden
Chapter 1
News descended on Rosa like a smothering cloud. She stood among the cluster of daycare center employees, their eyes glued to the TV set, the children forgotten.
A news reporter, her face etched with sorrow, stood in front of Banner Thunderbird Medical Center. In spite of the hot Phoenix sun, a crowd gathered outside the hospital and a handful of policemen unsuccessfully attempted to keep them from entering.
The news commentator, who looked more like a teenager than an adult, stared at the camera as she spoke. “We have just received word from the doctors. Pat Reid’s condition has further deteriorated. Informed sources tell us that Ms. Reid—our very own U. S. princess—is not expected to make it through the night.” She looked away, blinking rapidly and biting her lower lip.
The camera panned away from the hospital’s black glass windows and toward an approaching limousine. The chauffeur opened the door and Crystal Hill stepped out. Crystal, like her mom, always wore outfits that accentuated her petite figure. Today, she wore a red pant suit with a white, frilly blouse. Crystal was still getting out of the car when policemen materialized from everywhere. They cleared the crowd away and opened a passage.
Photographers snapped cameras wildly, some holding them over their heads. Reporters shoved microphones her way while shouting their questions. “Any comments, Mrs. Hill?”
“When did you last talk to your mother?”
“Any word on your mother’s status?”
“Where were you when you heard the news?”
Crystal waved them off, bowed her head, and quickened her pace as she hurried toward the Emergency Room entrance.
“How do you feel, Mrs. Hill?”
That question stopped her. “How do you think I feel? My mother’s in there, fighting for her life. I know that the world loves her, and they want to share their grief with me. But I’m not strong like my mom. She’s a very, very special lady. I only want to be with her, to hold her just one more time. I want to tell her . . . how much I love her. Please, let me go to her.” Sobs erupted and she walked away.
The cameras stopped clicking, the reporters stopped their bombardment of questions, and for once, Phoenix, the city of eternal noise pollution, fell quiet. The TV cameras captured the sound of Crystal’s heels clicking against the hard pavement and trained on her back as she hurried toward the entrance.
* * *
“Oh, I can’t stand it.” Betty stepped away from the daycare’s TV. “Poor, poor Pat. Our own little princess. She can’t die.” She turned to look at Rosa who stood very still, her complexion the color of a vanilla milk-shake, her wide open hands resting on her chest. She looked as though she had trouble breathing.
Betty wrapped an arm around her. “I know how you feel. We all love her. I don’t think there’s a single living soul who dislikes her. She’s so wonderful.”
Rosa nodded and remained quiet. She looked at the pile of drawings the children had colored for Mother’s Day. She quickly looked away.
Betty squeezed her. “Let it out. It’s okay if you cry. Why look at me, I’ve got tears in my eyes. Let it out. Don’t hold it back.”
“I feel bad, but I can’t cry.” She looked at her hands and noticed them shaking. “I want, I need, to go home.” She looked around her, and her gaze focused on the children who, oblivious to the news, continued to play. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
“It’s okay.” Betty led her out. “Michelle is here. Between the two of us, we can manage.”
Rosa nodded and attempted a weak smile.
“Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to call your husband?”
Rosa shook her head. “I guess like everybody else, I’m in shock. But I’ll be okay. I mean, why wouldn’t I be?” She grabbed her purse and headed out the door.
She tried several times to insert the key in the car door, but her unsteady nerves blocked her success. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and opened the car door.
“Pat Reid,” she whispered as she settled on the driver’s seat. “Poor, poor Crystal.” When Rosa started the engine, the radio blurted out the news. “Our source has just revealed that Pat Reid, at age fifty-four, may be dead. The doctors are frantically working to resuscitate her. We have—”
Rosa snapped the radio off. She stared ahead, her eyes not focusing on anything.
Chapter 2
The wind caressed Pat. She smiled a deep-felt gesture that stemmed from the pit of her stomach and rose to her eyes. She felt so wonderfully delicious. Yes, that and more.
To be alive and in the midst of all of this beauty astounded her. Flowers of all colors and shapes blossomed everywhere. She’d never seen many of them before even though she had traveled the entire world doing her charity work. These gentle, multi-colored flowers seemed to exist in a world of their own.
Pat paused and looked around. Where was she? In a field of flowers, yes, but where? How had she gotten there? The last thing she remembered was that black car, speeding, closing in on her. The impact of flesh against metal sent a screaming pain through each of her nerves.
She looked at her arms, her legs. No bruises. Why not? The lapse of memory nipped at Pat’s nerves as apprehension wrapped its tentacles around her.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Pat did a one-hundred eighty degree turn and faced a stranger. Tall and lean, he looked both common and distinct. His outstanding feature centered in his eyes. Something about their warmth caused Pat’s anxiety to evaporate like thousands of tiny dew drops fading into the sunlight. “Do I know you?”
“Some people do. Others don’t. Only you can answer that.” He turned to his left and began heading down a trail Pat hadn’t noticed before. “Walk with me?”
It made no sense, but Pat felt compelled to follow him. “Where are we?”
“We’re in the Garden of Perpetual Flowers.”
Pat inhaled the sweet perfume. Funny, why wasn’t her hay fever kicking in? “I’ve never heard of it. Why isn’t this place in travel brochures? How have you kept it a secret?”
“But I haven’t.”
Pat glanced around. Patches of red, bright and pale pinks, various shades of yellows, purples, whites, and blues filled the area. Orchids, petunias, mums, roses, along with large and small flowers lined the path. Flowers under her feet, to her right, to her left. Flowers all over, but no people. How could he claim people knew about this garden? “Who are you?”
The stranger stopped. “I have a more important question. ‘Who are you?’”
Pat came to an abrupt stop. “Don’t you know? I’m Pat Reid.”
“That’s your name, yes, but who are you?”
Didn’t he know her? Why, everyone knew her—or at least knew of her. Last month, she had been voted one of The Top Three Most Recognizable Faces in the World. “Why, I’m . . . ” Famous? Loved? Respected? Worshiped? Somehow none of those adjectives seemed appropriate. She cleared her throat. “I’m . . .”
She bent down to stroke a flower that looked like a bird of paradise, but this one seemed prettier, bigger, and softer. It felt like silk and Pat gasped at the touch of the silky petal. “It’s so smooth.”
“Yes, like our lives should be.”
Pat’s glance riveted on the stranger. “My life has been very smooth. I devote a lot of my time to charity.”
The stranger smiled and resumed his walk. Pat ran to catch up with him. “But this charity—has it not made you rich and famous?”
So he did know her. A note of pride swelled in Pat’s bosom. “It’s hard work.”
“Being in the public’s eye always is.”
How would he know that? She had never seen this man before. He wasn’t famous, like her. “I do it anyway, for all those people I can help.”
He stopped and stared at Pat. Love radiated from his eyes, but his stern voice reprimanded. “You have touched many lives, but not once have you touched one from which you didn’t profit.”
His words stung like a nail driven through her heart. “Profit?” she asked.
His eyes pierced her soul. “Have you ever done anything without first asking, ‘What’s in it for me?’”
Pat shrugged. Of course not, but what’s wrong with that? A person has to make money. If you help others and at the same time help yourself, then more power to you. Pat opened her mouth to protest, but the stranger’s voice interrupted her train of thought.
“We’re here.”
Pat looked around. They had reached a patch filled with silver, bell-shaped flowers hanging from tall, thin stems. They looked exquisite and smelled like fresh-baked bread. It reminded her of home. “We’re here? Where?”
“I wanted you to see these flowers.”
Pat’s glance strayed toward them and back at the stranger.
“Look inside the flower.”
Pat turned the flower so that the opening faced her. The pistil resembled a pearl. Pat felt as though a thousand needles had stabbed her. She dropped the flower. It broke from its fragile stem and floated to the ground. She looked up at the stranger, searching his eyes for anger. Instead, she found compassion.
“Pick up the flower and look inside again.”
Pat bent down. The flower lay by her feet like a sleeping child. She gently wrapped her hands around the discarded blossom and held it to her bosom. She forced herself to peer inside the flower. “The pearl! It’s gone.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. The pearl, like Pearl, gone. Vanished.
Images flashed through her mind in quick succession. A child with big brown eyes and brown skin, unlike her own pearly-white complexion, smiled at her. Later those same eyes reprimanded her. Anger brewed behind each accusing glare. “You hate my friends. You hate me.”
The stranger squatted, wrapped his hands around Pat’s, and her thoughts returned to the present.
The man moved her hands so that the sun’s rays filled the bell. “You’re wrong. The pearl is still there.”
She saw it glistening, basking in the light. Its smooth surface, like a polished work of art, captured the light and made it twinkle.
“The pearl’s been there the whole time. You locked your heart and your mind, and that closed your eyes.” He touched her cheek. “Allow your heart and eyes to see what’s really there.” He stood up.
Pat remained on her knees, trying to understand what had happened. “I want to keep the flower.”
“As you wish.” He offered her his hand to help her stand. “You need to go.”
“Go where?”
Pain reached out and covered every inch of her body.
Pat screamed.
* * *
“She’s alive!” The nurse’s voice rang with joy. “I saw her eyes flicker.”
Dr. Stone’s eyes widened and stared at the monitor that moments ago showed Pat Reid had flat-lined. He inhaled and bit the side of his lip.
Beep.
Dr. Stone formed fists, raised them up, and shook them. “Yes! Go tell the world Pat Reid’s back with us.”
The nurse smiled and ran out of the room.
Dr. Stone focused his attention on Pat.
Chapter 3
Rosa didn’t remember driving home, but somehow she reached her driveway. She sat with the engine idling, her thoughts straying back to Pat. Rosa should have turned the radio back on, but she didn’t want to hear the details.
The American Princess no longer reigned. So what? That wouldn’t change Rosa’s life, not by one iota. Her tears, her sadness, she could bottle those up like she had done to so many emotions before. Bottle them up and discard them.
The clock on the dashboard read 1:15. Pedro would still be at school and Eddie at work. She planned to take a nap and afterward, she’d file all of her emotions away. Pat Reid would fade into a distant memory for millions of people.
Rosa shut off the engine and stepped out of the car, her thoughts lingering on Pat. Everything she stood for, Rosa was the opposite. Pat walked with confidence while Rosa’s movements seemed awkward. Pat radiated with natural beauty. Rosa’s, at best, could be called average. She had been a shy little girl, preferring to hide behind her sister’s and mother’s legs instead of confronting strangers.
She had grown up to meet and marry a good man, one of her kind. They were poor but happy. Then Pedro grew from an adorable child to a rebellious teenager. Rosa sighed and opened the front door. She heard the TV blaring. Had everyone walked out this morning and left the TV on? That meant wasted energy and pocket change that could be spent to put food on the table. Who had been so careless?
She stormed into the house, ready to shut the TV off, but to her surprise, she found Pedro slouching on the couch, a can of beer in his hand and an opened bag of chips next to him. Two empty beer cans littered the floor. His eyes narrowed and his lips formed a fine line. He belched and turned his attention to the TV.
She stared at the beer can in his hand and at the two on the floor. When had he started drinking? He was only seventeen. She felt the fury building within her. “What are you doing home?”
He shrugged. “I felt sick, so I came home.” He continued to stare at the TV.
Rosa moved in front of Pedro, blocking his view. “If you’re so sick, why are you drinking beer? Is that your medicine?”
“Damn it, Ma, why must you always harp on me? Don’t you even want to find out how I feel? Do you even care?” He sank deeper into the couch.
“I can see you’re perfectly fine. You’re just making excuses to ditch. As it is, you’re failing half of your classes. You need to be in school.”
He stood up and glared at his mother. “I hate school, and if I want to ditch, I’ll ditch. It’s my life so stay out of it.” He pointed his index finger at her, emphasizing his point.
“As long as you’re under this roof, you’ll live by my rules.”
“So what does that mean? You want me out of here? I’ll get out of here. I hate being home as much as I hate school.” He strode from the room.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you ditching and drinking,” she yelled after him. She threw her arms up in the air and shook them. She followed him.
He slammed the bedroom door.
Rosa turned the doorknob and found it locked. She pounded on the door. “Open this door right now.”
“No!”
“Open it!”
Silence.
Rosa leaned against the wall and rubbed her forehead. The beginnings of a headache threatened to erupt into a full-fledged volcano-size migraine at any minute. Why this now? Out of all the days, why had Pedro chosen today? Then again, why not today? Every day turned out like this.
Rosa massaged her forehead as she considered her alternatives. She could get the screwdriver out of the kitchen drawer and open the door. She had done it before, but would only drive the wedge deeper. She threw herself at the door and banged it.
“Open this door now!” She banged some more. “I’m not leaving until you open this door!” She pounded on the door. Over and over. She felt tired, drained. Maybe if she let it go, they could still have a nice, quiet dinner.
Tears ran down her cheeks as she headed toward the sanctuary of her bedroom.
* * *
Rosa hadn’t been asleep more than ten minutes before Pedro quietly opened the door to his room. He looked down the hall.
Empty.
He grabbed his backpack and flopped on a Raider’s baseball cap on his unruly, light-brown hair. In the living room, he saw his mother’s purse. He opened it, took out the money, and stuffed it in his pocket.
He saw the car keys and started to grab them but pulled his hand back. The police could easily trace a car.
He stuffed his father’s VHS, CD, and DVD collection in his backpack and stepped outside, never to set foot in this damn house again.
Chapter 4
Pat opened her eyes and tried to focus. Her body screeched with raw pain. Her mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton.
What was wrong with her? Just seconds ago, she’d been peaceful, content, talking to the stranger in the most beautiful garden she’d ever seen. Now she was—where was she? And why did she hurt so much?
She saw shadowy figures fussing over her. They talked to her. She tried to listen. They called her name. She recognized other words, all right, happy, news, daughter.
Daughter?
Daughter! She had been talking to the stranger about Pearl, hadn’t she? He had told her . . . She thought for a moment. He had said that she had always been there.
No, he hadn’t said that. She had wrapped her hand around a flower.
A beautiful, fragile flower.
She saw the pearl.
Pearl.
Oh, Pearl.
A vast emptiness consumed her.
The people moved away from her.
No, wait. I need to ask you about Pearl.
A single shadowy figure approached.
“P-Pearl?” Pat stretched out her hand, reaching, wanting to hold Pearl.
recoiled. “No, Mother. It’s me. Crystal.”
Pat looked away and closed her eyes. She wanted to go back to the garden, the place that promised to reunite her with Pearl.
She slowly opened her eyes and this time they focused. She saw a TV hooked to the wall. An IV going down to her arm. She was in the hospital, and Crystal stood by her side. She felt her daughter’s hands wrapped around hers.
Pat smiled. “C-Crystal, honey. W-what ha-hap . . . pened?”
“The hit-and-run, Mother. Don’t you remember?”
Pat remembered. She had been halfway across the street. She hadn’t seen nor heard any cars. Then the black car zoomed out of nowhere.
Pat shook the image away. Focus on something. Anything. She saw the blue plastic pitcher and a paper cup. “Water,” she whispered and wet her lips.
Crystal poured some water, inserted the bendable straw, and held the glass while her mother drank.
“Did Pearl come?”
Crystal frowned. “No, of course not. It’s been almost twenty years. Pearl chose to go with that jerk of a boyfriend instead of with her own flesh-and-blood. Why would she come back now? You better not mention her again. If the press gets a whiff of that, well, you know what that’ll be like.”
But the garden. The stranger. Pearl. “I need Pearl.”
“Mother, stop it!”
Tears flooded Pat’s eyes. She had never cried for Pearl.
“Oh, for Pete’s sakes, Mother. You’ve got to stop this foolishness. You’ll ruin everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”
Pat wiped her tears and thought about what Crystal had said. Of course, it had all been a dream. The garden. The flower. Now that she thought about it, a pistil made of a pearl. How stupid was that?
The flower, the stranger had all been part of a dream.
Just a dream.
A sob wracked her body and sent needles of pain coursing through her body. “I’m fine now, Crystal. You’re right. Thank you for pointing it out. There’s no . . . Pearl.”
Crystal smiled.
Chapter 5
How was Pedro to know motels were so damn expensive? During the past three days, Pedro had spent over three hundred and fifty dollars in motel and food bills. He had not only depleted the money he had taken from his mother’s purse, but he had also gone through the money he got for selling his father’s VHS, CD and DVD selections.
Worse yet, he had no job. While living at home, he had enjoyed flipping burgers at Lenny’s Burger Shop. He liked the people there, and the job itself, even if boring, seemed okay. He had quit, thinking that if he stayed, his parents would find him. He had broken all ties, and he had survived, proving that he was strong enough, mature enough, to make it on his own. If he’d been alone, he would have pounded his chest like Tarzan.
But even Tarzan occasionally needed help. So Pedro had called his best friend. While waiting, Pedro hung out in the shadows, watching.
Sixteen minutes later, Pedro saw the blue beat-up Chevy S-10 truck come to a halt across the street. The door swung open and Kenny Johnson stepped out. Kenny, like Pedro, stood five-ten but while Kenny was muscular, Pedro bordered on being skinny. Kenny leaned against the truck.
Pedro withdrew deeper into the shadows and watched both sides of the street. He waited over five minutes, before venturing out.
When Kenny saw him approach, he straightened up. “Dude, where you been? Like I’ve been waiting hours.”
“You’ve been waiting five minutes. I saw you coming.”
“Yeah? Then why didn’t you show your ugly face before?”
“I was making sure you weren’t followed.”
“Oh, that’s heavy, dude. You’re like . . .” He scratched his head. “You’re like pa-roid.”
Pedro frowned. “What?” Then it dawned on him. “Paranoid. The word is paranoid.”
“Yeah. Whatevers.”
Pedro opened the door and climbed in. “Let’s go.”
Kenny walked around and got in. “Like where, dude?”
“To Scottsdale.”
Kenny couldn’t keep the surprise out of his face. “Scottsdale. Why that’s Richsville, man. Why you wanna go there?”
“I’ve been out on the streets for three days. I’m almost out of money. I hawked my old man’s VHS, CD, and DVD collection and spent most of the money my old lady had in her purse. So I need money.”
Kenny almost hit the bumper of the car in front of him. He slammed on his brakes. “You’re going to break into one of them richie homes?”
“Noooo. Don’t be stupid. I’m going to find a job. Thought maybe I could mow some lawns, trim some trees. Stuff like that. They’ll pay me a lot more in Scottsdale than anywhere else.”
“But like they’ll have gardeners, no?”
Pedro felt like a balloon that had lost all of its air. He hadn’t thought of that, but someone would hire him. “I’ll still give it a try. I’ve got to get some money.”
“Oh, yeah, dude. That reminds me. Like you owe me big time.” Kenny pulled his gaze away from the road long enough to glance at him. He flashed him a crooked smile.
“Okay, I give up. Why do I owe you?”
“Check out the glove compartment, man.”
Pedro did as told. On top of a bunch of papers and junk, he found his paycheck. He grabbed it and looked at it. Woo-wee! Seventy-three dollars and thirty-three cents. He could survive one more day. He didn’t need to go to Scottsdale after all, but they were already heading that way. He couldn’t ask Kenny to take him there again.
Pedro leaned back and relaxed.
At least he wouldn’t have to find a job right away. Oh yeah, everything would work out okay.
As he focused on the passing scenery, an unexpected feeling of apprehension gnawed at his nerves. His muscles tightened as though in defense of events to come. Pedro’s confidence slid away, leaving him drained and hopeless.
Chapter 6
Pat sat looking at her image in the mirror. Aside from a couple of bruises and cuts, her body had healed. Life would return to normal. Glancing one more time at her reflection, she saw lines etched in her face. What a depressing bit of news. She’d contact Dr. Ganahand and schedule a face-lift. She reached for the phone but stopped when the door to the bedroom swung open.
Crystal stepped in. “I have the most wonderful news.” She sat at the edge of the bed and Pat joined her.
“I could use some good news.”
Crystal turned so she could face her mother. “Ever hear of Raul Gomez?”
Pat did a quick search through her mind’s files. The only Mexican she knew by name kept her yards looking like Disneyland. Oh, yeah. Her mechanic—wasn’t he Mexican? Let’s see, who else? Oh, it didn’t matter. She hated mind games. “So who’s Raul Gomez?”
“A name you will soon not forget.”
Pat remained quiet, waiting for the rest of the story.
“Oh, I swear.” Crystal frowned. “You’re such a bore. The police have just arrested Raul Gomez. Seems he drove the truck that hit you.”
A cold, damp prickle settled at the back of Pat’s back and worked its way down. “Tell me what you know.”
“The guy’s a loser from day one. Tattoos cover both arms. He’s got long hair. Drives a truck for a living, and he’s a Mexican. Need I say more?”
“No, of course not. What excuse did he give for running over me?”
“Oh, seriously, Mother. Does that really matter? He was probably drunk or on drugs or both. He doesn’t remember hitting you.” She threw back her head and smiled. “Isn’t that just absolutely wonderful?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Oh, Mother, what would you do without me? Don’t you see? Here’s another chance to come out smelling like a rose. We tell Dillmore to prosecute to the maximum and you’ve got a new project. Get rid of all these worthless drunk drivers. Clean the city. Make the streets safe once again, and at the same time raise money to help all the drunks. Build them a rehabilitation center. Think of all the free, wonderful publicity you’ll generate.”