Lex slept like a baby in the backseat of the Cutlass, cuddling his pillow and blankie. Llayne glanced back and was glad he’d conked out before seeing how bad Highway 23 had become. When they left Mt. Pleasant three hours earlier, there had just been a light snowfall. Now they were in the middle of a full-blown blizzard. 

“Damn” she whispered to herself. “I can’t see a thing.” She tried wiping the inside of the windshield with her gloved hand, to no avail. It was a frozen, white waterfall coming at her and visibility was almost zero. At a snail’s pace, she let state highway signs show her where the road was, even though she couldn’t see the green things until she was right on top of them. And none of them could be deciphered, they were so covered with ice and snow. Only little bits of the corners peeked out to guide her way. 

But there was no way was she going to let this damnable storm stop her from reaching the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor. They had new drugs there. Drugs that Lex needed. And by God, she would make certain he got there. 

The car skidded on ice, and she carefully moved the steering wheel in the direction of the spin. The vehicle corrected its course and once again crawled straight down the road. Thank goodness there hadn’t been any oncoming cars. Most drivers had wisely decided to stay indoors, so traffic was light. There were a few cars stuck in the snow on the sides of the road. Wreckers and police cruisers were often nearby, but pretty soon they wouldn’t be able to get through either.

She squinted to try to see past the windshield wipers, flapping away like shaggy ice wings. But without them the pane would instantly be covered with a sheet of ice. It was one of those “white knuckle” trips; she clung so hard to the wheel her knuckles were undoubtedly white under her thick gloves.

Thank goodness they had left at seven that morning, even though it was usually a two-and-a-half-hour drive and their appointment wasn’t until one in the afternoon. At the rate they were going, they’d just make it.

Finally, the exit sign for Ann Arbor loomed ahead. Enough snow had blown away that she could read -nn Arb–. Then, suddenly, about a quarter of a mile from the exit, the Cutlass died. It just died, dead, kaput. Slowly, she coasted to the side of the road, seething under her breath. “No. Don’t you dare do this to us.” 

“Honey, did you say something?” Lex asked innocently, having been roused in the backseat. 

“Oh, well, sweetie,” she said, mustering up every bit of calmness she could, “the car has stopped. It isn’t out of gas.” She pointed at the fuel gauge. “The engine seems to be dead. See?” She tried to start it. Nothing. Lex pulled himself up and watched as she tried again. Nothing. 

“This sucker’s deader than a doornail.” He shook his head in despair. 

She tried intermittently for ten minutes, but it wasn’t going anywhere. “Listen, sweetheart,” she said soothingly, “I’m going to have to walk to the gas station that’s at the end of this exit.” 

“Damn. It’s snowed a lot. How can you tell there’s a station down there? I can’t see a thing.” 

“There was a sign for it back aways,” she lied. She had to take a chance there would be a station. She had to try to get help because help wasn’t coming to them, of that she felt certain. Every wrecker or police car was by now either occupied or stuck themselves. “It isn’t far,” she reassured him.

“I don’t know. I don’t want you out there. It looks treacherous. Let’s wait until a police car comes by.” 

“We can’t wait that long. We’ll freeze to death first. Look, I’ve got warm clothes on. Boots, coat, scarf, hat, gloves. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in no time.”

He glared outside and was appalled at what he saw. “Oh honey, I’m  so sorry. You’re going through all this hell for me. Listen, let me go. I’m feeling much better. I’ll do it.” 

“No. You’ve had that wretched flu ever since New Year’s Day, and you were in pain this morning and took one of those strong pain pills. There’s no way I’m going to let you go out there and pass out in a snow bank. Absolutely not.” 

“I’m so sorry. I hate this. Listen, sweetie, I know I can make it. I’m not letting you go.” 

“I’ll do as I please. There is no ‘letting’,” she said, stretching around to kiss him. “Don’t you dare get out of this car. I love you.” 

“I love you, too.”

She got out in a hurry, closing the door quickly so not too much of a Canadian blast would attack him. She wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck and mouth and turned to wave. He waved back, his broad face barely visible in the frozen glass.

The moment her back was to him her demeanor changed. “That useless piece of crap car,” she seethed, her voice muffled though her thick scarf. “I hate its frigging guts. Nothing but a pile of trash. Leave my husband out there to freeze to death. No way.

“And you God. Where in hell are you? How could you let a good man like this go through all this? Why don’t you pick on some damned axe murderer or something? We’ve got plenty of them around. They seem to be healthy enough to kill and kill over and over again. Where are you? You bastard. I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate you!”

Her tears froze the moment they fell from her eyes, forming tiny globules of ice that clung to her lashes. The inside of her nose froze, too, making each breath feel like a freight train moving through her nostrils. The deep snow fell into the sides of her boots causing each step felt like she was lugging lead. Trouncing through snow banks, sometimes three feet tall, she cussed and cried all the way across the field that appeared to be a shortcut between the Cutlass and what should be the end of the exit ramp.

Twenty minutes later an old gent glanced up in surprise when she entered his Shell station. He hadn’t seen a car drive up.

“Why, hello, miss,” he said politely. “My gosh. Here, let me help you.” He took the crying snowwoman by the elbow and led her around the counter to the back of the small station where an even older man sat by the fire of a Franklin stove. He immediately gave up his chair and Llayne plopped down. 

The first man said, “Miss, we have coffee and cocoa. Would you like a cup?”

“Co… cocoa,” she said, her sobs finally subsiding. “But I can’t stay here. I have to get help to my husband. Our car is dead out on the highway and he has to get to the hospital right away.” 

A pause ensued as the gentlemen absorbed what she’d said. 

“Okay,” the older one said, taking over. “You stay right here by the fire. Get out of your wet coat and boots while I call the police. Won’t do any good to call a wrecker, but the police will answer. Now, you get dry and warm or you’ll catch your death of pneumonia.” He went to a greasy yellow wall phone and dialed while the other guy went to the back of the room to get her hot chocolate. 

“But, but…” She popped up out of the chair, not knowing what to do. “We have to get back out there.” 

“Now, now,” the younger of the old codgers came back with her steaming cup of cocoa. “You need to get warm. The police will take care of this. There’s nothing you can do at the moment. If you try, you’ll only get lost in the storm and then the police will have to try to find you.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.” She took off her gloves and hat and scarf and coat and laid them out on a stack of tires near the stove. Then she took off her boots and turned toward an oily patch of cement to empty them of snow. She left on her thick, wet socks as she stuck her toes up to the toasty, warm fire. The heat felt like heaven.”

While she drank her cocoa, the older man still talked on the phone. The other one rummaged around in a bucket and came up with a pair of hand-knitted wool socks. “Here. Jacob’s wife…” he nodded toward the man on the phone “…always keeps us in good supply. I’m Caleb.” 

“I”m Llayne. Thank you so much, Caleb.” 

She set down her cup and had to struggle to get her wet socks off her feet. When her feet were finally bare, Caleb handed her a towel, which looked like it was meant to be used when working on a car. She didn’t care. It felt wonderful to dry her frozen tootsies. When she pulled on the wool socks, she wanted to cry from the sheer bliss of it. She rubbed each socked foot to get the circulation going then put her feet up to the fire.

“Caleb, this is the best gift I’ve ever received. Will you be sure to thank Jacob’s wife for me?”

“I sure will. She’ll be so glad she was of help in this horrible situation. Now, Llayne, you walked here. I’m wondering if I could walk out there while we wait for help, so your husband won’t be alone. I know the lay of the land and won’t have any trouble. You can stay right here.”

She didn’t get a chance to answer.

“The police want to talk to you,” Jacob said. The wall phone had a long, spirally cord, so he was able to hand her the receiver without her needing to get up.  

They wanted to know if her husband’s illness was contagious. “I hope not,” she said. “It’s cancer.”

Within five minutes a police cruiser with heavy, metal snow chains on its tires pulled into the station to pick her up. It was miserable putting on her damp outer garments and leaving that fire to go back out into the cold, but at least her feet were warm and dry. Relief swept over her that they’d be getting back to Lex.

They drove the wrong up the ramp, which didn’t matter as no traffic was moving in either direction, and turned the cruiser around beside the Cutlass. Lex was so exhausted that one of the two officers had to help him into the back of the police car, beside Llayne. A wrecker showed up to take the car to the station to be fixed. The police car inched its away down icy roads to get to the front entrance of the University of Michigan Hospital, and again one of the policemen helped Lex as he shuffled inside the building. 

It wasn’t until later that Llayne realized she hadn’t thanked Jacob or Caleb or the police. It was inexcusable, but she didn’t have the energy to worry about it. 

After a half-hour examination of Lex, a Dr. Germaine came out to the waiting room to talk to Llayne. No one else was there, so he didn’t hesitate to say, “Mrs. Lexington, I’m so sorry, but your husband’s condition has deteriorated rapidly. I found a lump today on his neck, which means the cancer has developed into lymphosarcoma, a much more aggressive cancer than what they’ve seen in him to this point. That’s why he’s had these flu-like symptoms. He was in pain again, so I gave him another strong pain pill. He’ll be out for five or six hours. The experimental drugs that Dr. Klickensteiner wanted me to try on him won’t do any good now. The cancer is too far gone. The drugs wouldn’t do anything but make him sick. I’m so sorry. The prognosis has changed.”

When she didn’t say anything and merely stared at a bland abstract painting on the wall, he added, “Mrs. Lexington, do you understand what I’m saying?” 

She didn’t look at him. “I understand.” With that she dismissed the useless physician by putting on her soggy coat and going to get her groggy husband.

Back in the hospital lobby, Jacob and Caleb waited for them. An attendant had brought Lex down in a wheelchair.

“We’ve fixed it, Llayne,” Caleb said. “Your car had a dead battery, but there’s a bran’ spankin’ new one in there now. It’ll be fine.” 

 Jacob asked, “Do you need help finding a place to stay tonight? I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind if you came to our place.” 

At that moment, they all looked out through the big glass doors, their attention caught by intense late afternoon sunlight, blinding as it reflected off of snow and ice.

“Wow. Look how pretty it is outside,” Lex slurred. “It stopped snowing. I’m so sleepy. I sure would like to go home to sleep in my own bed tonight.” 

“Oh, no,” both men protested at the same time.

Jacob said, “The snow clouds have passed over and the sun’s out, but the roads will be impassable for days.” 

Llayne didn’t give it a moment’s consideration. Her husband wanted to sleep in his own bed, and so he would. “Thank you so much,” she said, “but we already have a place to stay.” 

The men nodded, no doubt assuming she meant a nearby hotel. It was then she remembered she needed to pay them. However, they absolutely refused to let her give them money. At least she remembered to thank them this time. 

 They settled Lex into the back of the car, and she got in and took off toward home. This time it was a fairytale journey in a wonderland of crystal and white. She wondered if it was possible that the same vengeful God who had made the first trip such hell had given her this one as a gift. Although a few cars were splayed about on the highway like tinker toys buried in sparkling sugar, the Cutlass was the only vehicle in motion, blazing a trail through thick snow that parted to reveal a mirror of ice underneath. Surely it was the hand of God which nudged the machine in the right direction. Heavy icicles hung from snow-laden trees and power lines, glistening in the setting sun. Even those lines that were down and criss-crossing one another on the sides of the road added an element of tangled glory. It was like journeying through a web of wonder. Millions of diamonds, droplets of melting ice, twinkled everywhere. 

About forty miles from Mt. Pleasant, after it had grown dark, a snowplow joined her, so she fell in fifty feet behind it to make the drive easier. As the stars took their tour of the night sky, she pulled up at the apartment.

Lex got out on his own, gazed up at the sky, and said, “Look at the Milky Way. It’s a miracle, this life we have here on Earth, with all that’s going on out there.”

He went inside and slept in his own bed. 

Utterly exhausted, Llayne built a fire and drank more cocoa in front of it, cozy and warm in her comfy robe. She’d left on her wool socks, the small gift that meant so much. It seemed as if her skin felt the kindness of the woman who’d made them. And the kindness with which they’d been given offered hope for all humankind. There truly were selfless, wonderful people out there, random strangers brought into her life for the most horrific reason. 

She had been blessed in so many ways with so many good people in her life. But the best one of all would soon be gone.

When she finally finished her cocoa and tamped out the fire, she went to bed and wrapped her arm around her sleeping husband.

But tried as she might, her eyes refused to close for sleep.

1899, Mackinac Island, Michigan

With anticipation already built up within her, the moment Amelia stepped out of the cold and into the warmth of the Grand Hotel, her heart pitter-pattered with the thrill of what she was about to do. Mister Rutherford “Buck” Buchanan stood just inside the door greeting his guests.

She homed in on him, lifting her chin, relaxing her shoulders, and breathing deeply to accentuate her beguiling decolletage. It worked. His eyes veered away from the young woman in front of him and landed on her. She smiled brilliantly. He nodded with a sly grin.

This might be easier than she’d ever imagined.

After a long and festive dinner, with lively conversation and rowdy revelers, he approached Amelia. “Perhaps we could find a quieter spot.” He said it with such aplomb it seemed clear he assumed Amelia wanted a private conversation as much as he did. He was right.

“Yes. Please.”

Neither of them bothered to glance back to notice that half the people in the room stared at them out of curiosity. Buck took Amelia’s elbow and guided her into a small parlor and closed the door.

The fire had not been lit in that room, but warmth from the dining room next door filtered in to make it tolerable. Still, Buck took off his jacket and settled it on Amelia’s shoulders. Without speaking, they went to the windows to take in the view once again.

“Do you mind?” he asked, pulling a cigar out of the pocket of the jacket she now wore. “I admit, I’ve been waiting to partake.”

“No, I don’t mind at all.” She truly didn’t mind, pleased that he felt comfortable enough with her to engage in something he enjoyed. “I like the smell of cigars. My father and grandfather smoke them on occasion.”

He lit it with a match, took a long puff, and blew the smoke away from her. “So what do you make of all this?” He gestured around the room with cigar in hand, causing smoke to swirl around them.

Amelia inhaled the scent she associated with manliness and it struck her that she liked this Rutherford “Buck” Buchanan much more than she’d anticipated. “Make of this?” she asked.

“I’ve arranged this entire affair so that we could properly meet. I thought your birthday would be the perfect time for me to ask if I may court you, Miss McIntyre.”

Ah, there it was. He wanted to “court” her. She wanted more.

“Please, call me Amelia. If we’re going to ‘court,’ we need to go by our first names.”

She liked the way he studied her, smoke twirling up toward the ceiling as he puffed away on his cigar.

“I assume that means I have your permission,” he said.

“You assume correctly, perhaps. There are a few things we need to discuss first.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t intend to waste my time on a man who doesn’t want to marry.”

He chuckled in a way that indicated he felt entirely sure of himself. He sauntered over to the fireplace, stumped out his cigar on the inside brick, and set it on the mantle. When he came back to her, he stared her in the eyes, took her hands in his, and said, “You needn’t worry about that. I want to marry you.”

Amelia’s heart soared. She had to calm herself to finish what she wanted to say to be sure this bargain would give her everything she desired.

“You don’t know me,” she noted.

“We can get to know each other later. Besides, I know what you want. I ascertained that from all the gossip I’ve heard about the renowned attorney’s daughter who’s rejected every offer of courtship she’s ever been presented with. You want money, and I have it. When I saw you last summer – yes, I saw you in the park and you didn’t so much as glance my way – when I saw you there, I knew you were the one for me. I’ve been finagling a plausible way to meet you ever since.”

“I see.” She let go with one hand, still holding the other, and ran her fingers along his cravat, a simple gesture that excited her. “So you’re saying that you know I want to marry you for your money, and I know you want to marry me for my … what would you call it?”

He chuckled. “Well, certainly for your feminine wiles. But it’s more than that. You’re independent. Your refusal to snatch up a handy marriage proposal proves that. And you’re smart. I think you have a loving heart, as well. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be so close to your family. And, I must admit, if you’re anything like the women in your family, I can’t imagine ever being bored. I want a companion, Amelia, not just a showpiece.”

“That’s quite a great compliment. Thank you. I’ll do my best to live up to it. If we marry, there must be no other women.”

His eyes twinkled in merriment. “Pfft. I assure you, there will be no others. You will be more than enough to keep me, shall we say, a contented husband. Now, as long as we’re setting up rules for our marriage, I have one, too.”

“What might that be?”

“I will provide you with whatever you desire within the limits of my financial status, which I admit is considerable, but it is not a bottomless pit. I work hard for every dime I make. I trust you will respect that. I will build a home in Detroit as you like it. I will build or buy you a cottage here on the island if you wish. We will travel as often as my work allows if that is your desire. I’ll buy you a giant diamond engagement ring. We can go on an outrageous honeymoon. In return, I expect appreciation in the form of respect and honor.”

She ran a forefinger down his cheek and felt him shutter with delight at her touch. “You need not worry. I will be a faithful and respectful wife. Although, I hope you don’t expect total obedience.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“One more thing.”

“There’s more?” he teased, feigning shock. It delighted her that he wasn’t afraid to poke fun at her. In fact, he wasn’t afraid of her at all like her other suiters had been.

“I hope to have children.”

“I will be more than happy to accommodate that.”

Finally, he took her in his arms and they kissed, a coming together so sweet Amelia’s knees almost gave way. They kissed again, more intently, and she thrilled upon realizing that this stranger pleased her immensely.

But there was yet another thing she needed from him. She took a deep breath to clear her head lest she let her body’s heightened state of exhilaration divert her from her most important demand.

They parted and she gazed into his tantalizing eyes.

“There’s one more one-more-thing,” she said.

PREORDER ON AMAZON TODAY TO START READING JUNE 9TH

It occurs to me that if I were to run into a young person today who was disappointed in their homecoming like I was, be it because they were a football player who lost the game or a girl without a date, and if I tried to tell them it would be okay because that one event wouldn’t hold sway over their future, I know they wouldn’t believe me. More likely, they wouldn’t care what I had to say. Living is quite immediate when we’re young.

In my case, inexperience and innocence kept me from fully appreciating the positive side of that event, which initially left me feeling deflated and isolated. Interestingly, I now see that I was anything but isolated and, consequently, there was no reason to feel deflated.

It started when I decided, after four years of college (I was on a 5-year-plan) and three years of working in a restaurant (I had to work a lot; I was financially independent), that I wanted to spend a summer working in a resort town where I’d make more money. Luckily, I found a job at a “supper club.”

As required, I reported to work a day before my first shift to be fitted for a “uniform.” To my surprise, that turned out to be a teeny-tiny costume. I swear, even after that, I had no clue. I was working my first shift before I realized it was a house of burlesque. A classy one, true, with a fabulous blusey band, good food, lots of booze, opulent decor, and – yes – strippers. But these were dancers of the old-fashioned order who truly put on a performance.

Fast forward to a college dance club that fall. After work one night, I went out with my roommates. A man approached me and said he loved the way I danced. (Thank you, Lottie.) In that era, the band played a lot of Louie Louie, Proud Mary, and Rolling on a River. I loved the music. The man asked if their Veteran’s Club – they were Vietnam War veterans – could sponsor me for homecoming queen. Shocked and delighted, I said sure. I didn’t mention that I was sure I couldn’t possibly win. Beautiful sorority girls were always homecoming queen.

There was one other problem I had to tell them about. The spring before, I’d joined a college group that traveled to Washington, D.C., to protest the war. These guys had fought in that war. My group was entirely peaceful and totally respected returning soldiers. We didn’t want them to die in battle. They listened to me explain all that and were fine with it. They didn’t much like that war, either.

A young man I did not know showed up at my crumby apartment the day prior to the election. He annnouced that he was chairman of the homecoming committee and wanted to inform me that I needed to drop out. It seemed I wasn’t the “kind of girl” they wanted to represent their college. Not my college, mind you. His. I’d been a war protester. I’d worked at a strip club. (How he knew that, I had no idea.) I wasn’t in a sorority.

I refused. He got mad. We verbally sparred. He stormed out red-faced and fuming.

The next day I won the election by a landslide.

The committee insisted the Vets must have cheated. They invalidated the election and held another one. I won by even more. The committee asked the college president to rescind my eligibility. He refused.

Of course, I realized students weren’t voting for me – they didn’t even know me – as much as they were voting against the establishment. But that was okay. I was supremely honored. I conjured up a fantasy that now my life would magically change for the better. Doors would open. Men would line up to ask me out. A fabulous job offer would fall my way.

We couldn’t help overhearing two guys arguing at the table next to ours. “That’s our homecoming queen,” one said. The other took a gander. “No it isn’t. Our homecoming queen would be a lot cuter than that.” My roommate reached out to console me, but I was beyond being insulted or consoled. We finished our pizza and went home. Big whoop.

The next day, that rude chairmen of the homecoming committee showed up at my apartment again, this time demanding that I give back the crown. Again, he insisted I didn’t deserve it. I told him to get lost. But wouldn’t you know, the moment I was trying to shove him out the door, he spied the crown sitting on my roommate’s skull candle on a shelf. He grabbed the little sparkly tiara and was out of there before I could say boo.

Clearly, my big event was over. No fabulous job offers. No gorgeous men. I went back to work the next day, the reality hitting that I was not Cinderella. The prince was not coming with my shoe. I didn’t even have my cheap rhinestone crown.

But when I look back on that now, I see a marvelous life-changing event:

1. The Vietnam Veterans, and the Booster Club that joined in, were incredibly kind to nominate me in the first place. I was and to this day am still profoundly honored.
2. All those students, thousands of them, voted for me. I never had a chance to properly thank them. But I did get to experience that kind of bountiful support.
3. I also now know, after many years of living, that one event seldom changes everything. That day was all too typical of highly anticipated events. (How many weddings have you seen go wrong? Lots. Or worse, how many fabulous weddings have you seen where the couple gets divorced shortly thereafter? You get my point.) One day doesn’t change a life. It’s all the days put together that matter.
4. I had to stand up to a bully. I may not have done that very well, but it showed me I’d be running into arrogant brutes like that all my life. Now I handle them with aplumb.
5. I still stand up for what I believe, like I did in protesting war. In fact, after all these years, I find that I’m still protesting war.
6. I’m now adept at considering options to solve a problem. When I had no transportation to the Vet’s party, which I desperately wanted to attend to show my appreciation, I saw only one option: don’t go. Yet, that pizza parlor was full of students, some who I knew and many who had driven there. And there was a phone there I could have used to call women I worked with, many who were married and had cars. I even could have walked back to the ball and asked around. Somebody would have given me a ride. I let embarassment and self-pity keep me from being pro-active.
7. Asking for help has taken conscious effort throughtout my adult life, but I now do it very well. That old belief that I had to do everything myself is long gone. I suspect it stemmed from feeling inadequate if I couldn’t figure something out myself. Nah uh. No more.
8. I learned there is no quick, easy ticket to success. As disappointing as that was at the time, that awareness has served me well throughout my life.
9. Dancing may not solve all our problems, but I’m convinced that if people would relax and listen to the music and dance more often, our world would be a better place.

There are more perks to that disastrous event. Now I laugh at the pizza parlor scene. I spent years adoring Lottie’s friendship and would never have given that up because some entitled brat thought I shouldn’t have known her. The irony of the crown on the skull candle slays me. I couldn’t make this stuff up. As a writer, this kind of stuff feeds my stories.

Harkening back to the beginning of this article, would young adults believe what I’ve said here? That things going wrong aren’t always wrong? That making things right is an option that’s always there for us? No, they most likely would not listen. I wouldn’t have.

But I’m not worried. I know they’ll be okay as long as they don’t give up. So my best advice that they might heed? Take a breath, absorb the music, and dance. Always enjoy the dance.

For more, here’s my novel, fiction based on real events: