03/17/01

I decided to go over to Stash Skimington’s house this morning, try again to have a man-to-man talk with him. This time he was home, but he wouldn’t open the door for me.

I’m under advisement not to speak with you, he says. I understand you’ve been spreading rumors around town that I was involved in your trailer fire. It’s just not true!

Why the hell are you calling my wife late at night? I ask without receiving a reply. Why the hell are you under advisement from someone if you haven’t done nothing?

When I got back home, Phebe said we needed to go to Newburgh with the baby to visit Betty. Turns out Betty had a stroke. They’re not sure whether she’ll ever be well enough to care for Mookie again. She’s paralyzed on her right side. Doesn’t look like the custody case now will be much of a fight at all.

Phebe broke out a bottle of wine tonight after the baby was put down for bed. Said St. Patrick’s Day shouldn’t pass without a little celebration. She was in an amorous mood for sure. She kept asking me to read from my novel I was writing. Apparently the story was a turn on for her.

For a moment a word picture formed in my head---Phebe Reynolds stood at the arched entry of her father’s iron forge while the morning fog lifted from the surrounding Ramapo Mountains---and then just as quickly vanished.

Maybe another night, I say, my voice trailing off, I’m in the middle of revision work.

And then I came out here to Phebe’s computer, leaving her alone in her room, and wrote this down.

Yeah, I’m one for romance story writing for sure.