Shoes for an Imaginary Life

Page 63… in a fiction series

“Traverse City Police have arrested a 22-year-old man on drunk driving and manslaughter charges in a crash that killed publishing magnate Harry Stowe and his wife Mandy Boyer Stowe, who was pregnant with the couple’s first child.

Police said the driver, Ricky Dodge of East Jordan, was driving south on Mallard Point Drive and crossed into the opposite lane of traffic to pass another vehicle, striking Stowe’s Porsche 911 Carrera head on.   Evidence obtained by the Michigan State Highway Patrol at the scene showed that Dodge was under the influence of alcohol.

According to police, Mandy and Harry Stowe were pronounced dead at the scene.”

Miranda drank what was left in the bottle, vomited, and passed out cold.

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 62…  in a fiction series

Miranda felt the knife graze her skin, her warm blood seaping through a T-shirt already stained with red paint.  There was a loud crack as the blade crashed through her rib cage and into her heart.

She asked again in a louder tone, “What are you talking about? We both know that’s not possible!  How in the world did you make a baby?  And how could you do it without me?”

“Medical science has come a long way since you and I went to the doctor to find out if we could have a child.  You remember that, right?  I know you were pretty upset.”

“Do I remember?  Harry, it was my thirtieth birthday!  I found out we would never have a family!  I was so depressed I started drinking every night!  Do I remember?  Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do.” 

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Did you get married the day after you were on my boat?  The day you asked me to come home?” 

“We had been seeing each other… ”

“And she got pregnant.”

“Something like that.”

Miranda felt another prick against her skin, a trickle, a surge, more blood.  The blade found its way in, deeper this time, the sensation painless compared to her suffering. Coughing, choking, it was getting hard to speak.

“Harry, how could you do this to me!?  That’s my baby!  A girl named ‘Mandy’ is having my baby!” 

Miranda thought about Mandy, eight months along, a scary apparition with a big belly, fangs, and big dirty feet.  She sounded gross.

It was just like that Barry Manilow song, “Mandy.”  Everyone in her class at school hated that song.  “Oh, Mandy…. well you came and you gave without taking… but I sent you away, awe Mandy.”  Some people even said that song was about a horse!  Can you believe it– a friggin’ HORSE!?   Harry should send her away, just like in the song.  Miranda knew him all too well… he would never be happy with a pregnant girl named Mandy.

Miranda had completely snapped.

“Miranda… hun… I shouldn’t have said anything.  I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Miranda felt faint.  She was seeing stars.  Like an old person who takes blood pressure pills and stands up too fast.  She imagined Harry’s new wife sitting in her old office, scribbling on her Vera Bradley desk blotter, a big ugly trench coat on the polished hook behind the door.  That girl has, no doubt, screwed up every account Miranda worked so hard for.  And as far as her walk-in closet back at the house… the thought of it made her sick.  She heard somebody calling her name.

“Miranda!  Miranda!  Listen.  We can talk about this another time.  Sometime when you’re feeling better.”  He worried about what she was going to do next.  He’d seen her this way before, didn’t know how she could handle a full-blown manic epidose all alone. 

“Are you taking your medication?  You said you were going to cut back on your drinking.   You doing okay with that?”  If she went out to a bar and something bad happened, he would never forgive himself.  Miranda didn’t mention that she had nine months of sobriety.  What did it matter now anyway…

Miranda said, “I have to go.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

A pause…

“Don’t ever call me.  And don’t call me hun.”

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.    

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 61… in a fiction series

Miranda picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hi Harry, it’s me.”

“Miranda… it’s good to hear your voice.  How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Are you still living aboard your boat?” 

“I sold it.  I finished the restoration over the summer and sold it on the day that everything worked.” 

Harry laughed.  “I knew you could do it, Miranda… I’ve always believed in you.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“So if you’re not on your boat, where are you?”

“I’m in my dining room.  In my house.”

“Your house?”

“My house.”

Silence on the line.

“Harry…?”

“I’m here, hun.”  He sounded confused.  “It’s just that I can’t believe… you bought a house?”

More silence…

“So Miranda… you’re working?”

“Yes.  I have a good job.”

“That’s wonderful news!”

Harry was humoring her, just like he did when they were together, Miranda up to her ears in bubbles, Harry still gorgeous after a long day at work.  He listened to her silly stories, leaned over and splashed her with water till she screamed, then kissed her on the top of her head, still laughing.  Miranda was still trying to put those memories behind her. 

“And what kind of work do you do?”

“It’s classified, Harry,  I can’t tell you.  Let’s just say I’m in sales.”

“And do you get to wear pretty clothes every day?  I know how you like to dress up and look nice for work…” 

“I’m all business now, Harry.  And my work is demanding… not much time for fashion these days.”

He missed those times when he took her shopping, and she came home and tried on everything in her shopping bags.  She would twirl and spin until she became dizzy and fell into his lap, giggling and kissing him.  Miranda missed him terribly, laughing with him, sleeping with him.  She still loved Harry…

“Harry…”  She was going to ask him where he was.  Maybe they could go have dinner someplace.

He interrupted.  “I was just thinking about how much you’ve changed.” He was proud of her.  “So.  What exactly are you doing in your dining room?”

“I just painted it red.”  She sounded like a girl again.

“That sounds great!  Are you actually going to eat in there?” Have you taken up cooking?  Or have you found a restaurant that caters, or maybe a chef?” He was thinking about the home they once shared.  She desperately wanted a Jenn-Air, then used the oven to store her dictionary, thesaurus, reference materials, and a couple of phone books.  She never cooked a meal, Harry loved her anyway.  He cleared his throat, a crack in his smile.  

“Is it like our dining room at home?”

“Brighter, shinier, but yes… sort of like that.”

“I bet it’s beautiful, Miranda, just like…”

“It is.  Where are you?”

“I just left home and I’m heading to Mallard Point for the weekend.”

Mallard Point is the Traverse City yacht club where Harry and Miranda spent their summers.  They had a wonderful time on their boat until she ruined it all by having an affair with Charlie Fine (AKA Judas).   She walked away from an adoring husband and a happy life.   Miranda could sense the conversation going downhill.

“Oh… so you’re still a member?”

“I had no reason to leave, hun…  I wasn’t the one who caused all the commotion.  And in case you’re wondering, Charlie Fine is still a member, too… shows no remorse.”  She recognised his icy tone.

“Are you by yourself?”  She was still hoping to see him.

“Mandy is coming  up to join me later.  She had a doctor’s appointment, just a routine ultrasound.”

“Who?  A girl with a baby? What are you talking about?”

“I got married, Miranda.  Mandy is having our baby.”

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 60… in a fiction series

Miranda decided it was time to buy a house.  Life at the Petoskey City Marina was disastrous… loud music, crazy drunks, and people running around on the docks all night.  She found herself missing the stillness and strange beauty of the boat basin in Charlevoix.  And she missed the people there, too– except Niel Lipman.

By August she couldn’t wait to get out.  One morning, as a tribe of undisciplined children set off bottle rockets near her aft deck,  Miranda sat reading the local paper.  According to the business section, interest rates were at an all time low.  Miranda sipped her coffee, studied the fine print, and thought about the money she had in the bank.  Maybe it was enough to buy a home of her own…

She scanned the real estate pages, called the agent, and set up a time to look at some houses.  She fell in love with the first one, made an offer, and moved in two weeks later.  Like her marriages, Miranda didn’t waste time making important decisions.  But unlike Brian Parker Hall and Harry Stowe, this choice turned out to be perfect.

With the same joy she found in restoring her old boat, making the necessary improvements to her little house was a welcomed endeavour.  Woodwork was stripped of its thick layers of paint, stain and varnish were lovingly applied.  Wood floors were brought back to their original lustre, and the kitchen countertops were covered with ceramic tile.  It helped that Drew Becker, with his power tools and strong hands, was  experienced with this sort of thing.

Even though Miranda faithfully took her lithium every day, and shunned even the smell of alcohol, she was becoming restless, staying up late at night, excited about her next project.  Thoughts about paint colors, draperies, and leather furniture began swirling around in her head while she was trying to get to sleep.  These were warning signs of an approaching manic episode, but she was so busy at work, there was really no time to address it.

She would try her best to go to bed a little earlier, drink warm milk, and spend more time at the gym burning up all that energy.  More than anything, Miranda didn’t want Tiller to know.  He had done so much for her, she would never want to let him down. 

But Miranda secretly knew what was happening.  There were doctors and medications that could quiet the oncoming storm, save her from whatever consequences lie ahead.  But the spinning in her head felt familiar and good– like the highest roller coaster at her favorite amusement park.  Miranda wanted to ride in the front seat.

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 59… in a fiction series

Miranda was proud of herself for staying sober all this time.  She counted up the months and days:  January to May, four months, 16 days, all without Alcoholics Anonymous, a shrink, or any other support group.  While she missed going to the bars and hanging out with her friends, Tiller worked her so hard she wouldn’t have the time anyway.

May was the month her dockage fee at the boat basin ran out.  It was time to run the old Marinette north on Lake Michigan and east into perfect, pristine, Little Traverse Bay.  Harbor Springs was off to port, then Wequetonsing, Labre Croache, and off to starboard, Petoskey.  The city docks would be affordable and closer to work.  Miranda wouldn’t miss walking down the long pier through wind, ice, and snow to get to her job each day.  What on earth was she thinking…

All of the dockmates volunteered to make the trip with her.  To his surprise, she asked Luke to go along that day.  And to Miranda’s surprise, he accepted.  Ron had reconciled with his wife and couldn’t wait to leave his beloved sailboat to go home and resume being a dad to his kids.  

Handsome Greg on his stately Beneteau was making the long trip through the Straits of Mackinac,  south through Lake Huron and the Detroit River, and out the Welland Canal to the Atlantic.  From there he would travel north to Rhode Island where he would meet up with his estranged boyfriend.  Miranda always had a theory that any man who didn’t hit on her had to be gay.  Right again.

Miranda enjoyed the ride to Petoskey and she could tell that Luke did, too.  Turns out he wasn’t a jerk after all.  As the youngest of five brothers, he learned that having a big mouth was a matter of survival, and after that, it just stuck.  Toward the end of their time as dockmates, Miranda caught on and pegged him as one of the good guys.  She was glad he was there with her on Lake Michigan that morning.  As they motored north, the seas grew rough and Miranda spotted a dead head just off to port.  No problem for Luke, confident at the helm.  She would miss him.

Before leaving Charlevoix, Miranda made one last trip to Traverse City, specifically to the popular bar, ”Tommy’s Gotcha.”  The nostalgic gathering place was lined with the same characters who toasted her when she left town last fall.  Joe Ramano was one of the good guys, looking out for the ones who had too much to drink, and charging a life’s savings to get them off the hook.  It was just plain stupid to drink. 

Vince, the make-believe cowboy, shouted, “Howdy there, little lady,” tipping his ten gallon hat like a true make-believe gentleman.  His side-kick, Lester, pounded his fists, yelling at the waitress for one more.  Charming.

Drew Becker, wearing a worn leather jacket, grinned and winked, probably still thinking about those Oreo cookies.  Two seats over, the man in the navy blue blazer followed her with his eyes from the moment she walked in.  He nodded and said, ”Hello, Miranda,” and invited her to sit down, a date no where in sight. 

Ever since she bumped into him that day at the Detroit airport, she wondered about the allusive, well dressed stranger.  He was mid-sixties, probably a rich, successful guy, looking for a girl who would compliment his lavish lifestyle– a shiny new ornament on his Christmas tree.  Miranda was glad her days as “arm candy” were over.

At the end of the bar sat none other than Charlie Fine (AKA Judas), a man Miranda hoped never to see again.  There was a young blond on his lap, sipping a pink girlie cocktail.  She was drunk, playing with a lock of his wirey red hair.  Charlie’s eyes were at half mast, kissing his way down her throat.  Miranda wanted to throw up at the sight of him.

After an aggressive interrogation, she learned absolutely nothing about Neil Lipman.  The crowd at the bar looked at each other, scratched their heads and played dumb.  The girl with the pink cocktail giggled.  Why was Miranda not surprised.  As if history was about to repeat itself, in the morning she would leave Traverse City for good.

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 58… in a fiction series

Tiller slowly drove the perimeter drive of the old football stadium.  There was a security entrance and a guard gate where credentials were checked by a sleepy teenager with acne.  Tiller rolled his eyes, Miranda made a note.  After parking and securing the car, they crossed a fenced in lot, and passed through a long concrete tunnel.  The air on the other side smelled like damp cellar and old food.  

A deep echo and the click-clicking of her heels led them into a shadowy space, the sprawling famous field not yet in view.  They were met by a man in a suit named McDevitt.  He flashed a badge, a gun, then extended his hand to Tiller, acknowledging that they had met before.  Miranda, curious, made a note.

They followed him up, up, up a steep spiral pathway.  Tiller said the guests on graduation day would be packed together like cattle, given the popularity of the First Lady who was slated to speak.  A terrorist, foreign or otherwise, could easily infiltrate the crowd with IEDs, Anthrax, or other deadly weapons, causing panic and mass destruction at an otherwise pleasant event.

Miranda lagged behind for a moment hoping to catch a glimpse of the field. While this wasn’t exactly a vacation, she was happy to be out of Charlevoix for a few days, glad to be away from the ubiquitous Neil Lipman, lingering like a bad winter virus with no cure in sight.   

While Tiller made a call to the office,  Miranda dashed into a nearby ladies room.  The absence of Neil’s prying eyes was refreshing.  They continued the preliminary walk around the upper deck, past a row of seasonal hot dog and T-shirt vendors, and up to the press box.  It was secured only by lock and key.  A biometric signature ID system would be a far better choice.  Miranda was glad her boss made her study so hard.

As Tiller walked and talked, she followed his eyes from one section to the next… from the bleacher seats, to a crew of masons repairing an ancient pillar, and onto the monstrous scoreboard.  Its size was impressive and intimidating, and so was the guy in baggy jeans supervising a work crew.   

Tiller said, “Make a note and stay focussed.”  She wrote it down and also noted that she was becoming boy crazy.

Moving down to ground level, the sun came out, the field looking as bright as game day.  Before Tiller turned to see the press box, Miranda spotted a fat man leaning back in his seat, feet up, smoking and enjoying the view.  She froze.  His name growled like a beast in her throat, a cigarette waiting to be snuffed out forever. 

Lipman.

Miranda had been a fool to think his presence in her life was a mere coincidence.  Tiller had driven most of the day to reach the stadium, up I-75 and through the U.P.  Neil Lipman could not have been far behind.  She decided a stop at Tommy’s Gotcha in Traverse City was in order.  One of the regulars would know something.  And it was time to ask Emerson James Tiller for his help.

McDevitt led them toward the end zone.  Tiller gestured for her to stay close, sensing her unease.  She took one last look over her shoulder at the press box.  Lipman was gone.

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 57… in a fiction series

As they drove together to a classified college football stadium, Tiller told Miranda this story.

“We were moving a well-to-do family out of Birmingham, up north to Wequetonsing… you know, right across the Bay from the office. After we worked in the heat all day, we finally carried out the last piece– a baby grand piano down a long flight of stairs. And the truck was parked halfway down the block.”

Tiller looked like he had travelled back 40 years and was reliving that day in his head. He explained how he wiped the sweat off his face with his dirty undershirt, then walked into town to buy a Coke and some chips. The sign at the bank said 101-degrees. Miranda was enjoying his candor. Tiller was a real person after all.

“When we got it all loaded, I folded up a stack of moving blankets and crawled into the back of the truck to sleep. Me and Raymond would deliver the furniture to the biggest cottage you’ve ever seen on Little Traverse Bay the next morning.”

Tiller passed an SUV with a team logo on the bumper, a bunch of collegiate types squeezed inside.  Miranda wondered it they were getting close. 

“I tried to get comfortable so I could sleep, but the blankets were musty and damp with my own sweat.  While I was lying there, Miranda, there was one thing I knew:  I didn’t want to work that hard again in my whole life.  I saw all that good furniture, and paintings, and that damned heavy piano, and I saw my future:  If I worked harder than anyone else, I would be successful, too.”

At age 16, Emerson James Tiller had no idea how right he was.

“We finished the job the next day, made it back to Detroit. I headed straight for the bowling alley where I used to set pins every night. The money was steady. I was the man of the house, you know…  helpin’ my mom take care of me and my sisters. Between that and stocking shelves at the grocery store, we managed to make ends meet.”

He took another sip of water, checked the rear view mirror to make a lane change. “You’re not asleep over there, are you Miranda?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

“On weekends, the lanes were crowded and I could always count on something a little extra above the 30 cents a lane they paid me.” All these years later, Tiller loved to tell the story about the gamblers who came in late one night and wanted to stay past closing, bowling, laughing, and betting on who would win the next game.

“When the stakes got high, the owner left me with the keys and those crazy men stayed and bowled all night long! Not only did I earn my regular pay, but an extra $20-bucks from those men. Maybe even a couple’a beers, I really couldn’t say. The point is Miranda, my priorities were already in place. Set goals, work hard, and make money.”

“That must have been very hard,” she sighed.  Miranda looked at his hands, swollen and gnarled against the steering wheel, thought about those bowling balls crashing against them.  She always assumed it was arthritis.

“Hard? Are you kidding me? You know what– you’ve got it made out there on that boat of yours, livin’ the “Life of Riley!” She had no idea what he was talking about, but knowing Tiller, he was probably right.

 To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 56… in a fiction series

Miranda crawled out from under a sea of flannel sheets, a chenille throw, and a down comforter stuffed inside a soft duvet.  She toasted toast, curled her curls, and put on Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, Concerto No. 4 in F minor, Op. 8– the Largo movement called “Winter”.  She delighted in the fact that her electrical worries were over.  Her craving for another Oreo cookie, however, was not.

In an hour Tiller was picking her up at the Boat Basin.  He had a new car and was eager to take it for a ride.  Miranda was excited about going with him.   Their destination:  a college football stadium in a nearby state.   A controversial former first lady was scheduled to give the commencement address– graduation was just ten weeks away.   Heightened security and emergency preparedness measures were paramount. 

Tiller’s preliminary plan included no less than four snipers around the outer perimeter of the stadium. An advance team would complete one bomb sweep with dogs prior to the admission of any guests, graduates, or the speaker.  Bomb sniffers would be stationed at various points throughout the facility, including an assist by law enforcement officials. The plan would include ATF, FBI, Homeland Security, Highway Patrol and Campus Police.  City Police and Fire would be on site for the duration of the event. 

The stadium and its surrounding areas would be zoned ”no fly” on graduation day. University officials required zero areas of vulnerability–  upgrading infrastructure was a must. The school already utilized the standard security staffers that man every gate and point of entry, as well as the continued presence of university ushers.  Good, but not good enough.  That’s why Emerson James Tiller was known as the best in the business.

“Worst potential disaster, Miranda?” It was a rhetorical question.  “It would have to be a fire.  Try to imagine the catastrophic reaction among more than 100,000 unsuspecting fans.  And let’s be honest… there would be rampant trampling and people falling to their deaths. It would be a horrifying scene.  We’ll know more once we get there.”

Tiller’s worst case musings continued.  “How about an explosion or a bomb? If there was an explosion at ANY sports stadium, it would cut attendance at every single game in the nation. People just wouldn’t go, for fear of losing their lives. It’s a disturbing thought.”   He took a sip of water, his wheels still turning. 

Heading up the ramp and merging onto I-75, a long Mayflower moving van roared past the BMW 7-Series, cutting us off without warning.  After Tiller spoke a few choice words under his breath, he asked Miranda if she had ever loaded and moved a house full of furniture.  She discreetly rolled her eyes, and said she had not. 

“Wanna hear about the time me and my buddy Raymond loaded the biggest moving van you’ve ever seen?”  Was he about to trust her with more presumably classified information?

It was a side of her boss she hadn’t expected to see– ever.   The ride to the mysterious university would be more interesting than she thought.

 ¹⁴ On a good day, enjoy yourself;
On a bad day, examine your conscience.
God arranges for both kinds of days
So that we won’t take anything for granted. 

Ecclesiastes 7:14   (The Message)

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 55… in a fiction series

By the end of April, Miranda had settled into a nice routine at work.  In the past months, Tiller wrote a proposal for a metropolitan shopping village still under construction, installed surveillance equipment at a federal nuclear research facility, and sent a team to do a sweeping security upgrade for a popular state fair.  The Judds were scheduled to play that summer and the fair board wanted everything to be perfect.   While it was impossible to predict every theoretical security breach,  Tiller was the best in the business, and Miranda was honored to carry his clipboard.

Back on Miranda’s boat however, there were complications.  Most of the repairs she made prior to the winter season were holding up well.  Her fuse box upgrade, however, was not.  It seemed that some electrical gremlins had made their way into the new wiring, making it impossible for her to do two things at once:  hairdryer + microwave, stereo + curling iron, space heaters + television… or any combination of the above.  She was living like a pioneer and started to hate it.

Miranda told the girl at the marina office that she had a technician coming in to make a repair. She was sure Drew Becker could fix it.  He had a great reputation along Michigan’s west coast, working on everything from old woodies to upgrading electronics on the nicest yachts.   When Miranda met him last fall at Tommy’s Gotcha, he told her to call if she needed anything, adding that he would work for beer and pizza.

“And who is the technician?”  asked the manager who overheard and stepped out of her office.  Her name was Kelly, Miranda didn’t like her.

“Drew Becker.”

“Miranda, you know the rules about using outside contractors.  If he’s not on our list, I can’t approve him to come in.  Besides, Drew’s working down in the Keys.”

“I know.  I’ve missed him.”  Miranda was enjoying this little exchange.

“But you said he was fixing your boat.”

“He just got back.  I can’t wait to see him!”

The manager looked over the top of her thick round glasses. “He doesn’t seem like your type, Miranda.”

“Trust me, he’s all that… and more.”

“Well, the policy says that only approved contractors, family, and significant others are allowed to work on boats, so if he’s really your boyfriend, I guess I’ll have to allow it.”  She looked defeated, poor Kelly.   

Miranda smiled and grabbed her cell phone, dodging Neil Lipman on her way down the ramp. 

“Drew… hi.  Listen, when you come over tonight, put your tools in a picnic basket and meet me at the gate. Yeh, they’re giving me a hard time.  When I open the gate, grab me, pull me close, and kiss me like you mean it.  They need to think you’re my boyfriend.” 

Drew climbed aboard and unpacked his tools–  a fuse puller, wire cutters, fish tape, and a bag of Oreo cookies.  He offered her one, she took a stack and reached in the fridge for some milk.   They made small talk while he unscrambled her wirey mess.  A spark, a puff of smoke and he was finished.  When she stood up to take a  look, he stepped behind her and leaned in close.  While he explained the exact nature of the problem, Miranda couldn’t ignore the 6’3″ 230-pound man pressing against her.  The grease under his fingernails and the distinct smell of diesel fuel were strangely appealing. 

With the fuse box finally fixed by a pro, Miranda was thoroughly unravelled.  She blushed, Drew stuttered a quick goodnight.  Miranda hadn’t had a boyfriend in a long time.  She wondered if she might see him again. 

 ¹⁴ but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. ¹⁵ Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.   James 14-15 (NIV)

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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Page 54… in a fiction story

The mornings were cold and the pier was long.  Miranda carried her good shoes down the dock in a tote bag, trudging through ice and snow.  Spring was no where in sight.  She thought about the Bible, grateful to have a good job.  But sometimes she wondered:  If God is good, why did he allow her boat to get robbed?  Was she being punished for the money she got from ex-boyfriend Charlie Fine?  And if accepting money from Charlie was really that bad, why did God drop the perfect job right in her lap?”  She had alot of questions…    

Miranda liked going to work.  While her official title was, “Special Projects Manager,” she was basically Tiller’s assistant. Wherever he went, Miranda followed, with a clipboard, tape recorder, and a new red lipstick in her pocket.

Oh, how she had missed the world of paychecks and pretty things!  After months of living  like a drunken sailor, she was happy to see a girl’s face when she looked in the mirror.  Never again would the lady at the Wendy’s drive-thru hand her a cheeseburger and say, “Thank you, sir.”  And unlike the old Miranda, she opened a bank account and started to save. 

Miranda stayed late at the office, curled up with a technical manual and a big bag of M&M’s in her lap.  She was studying biometric technology for access control, verses biodynamic signature technology with its genetic and physiological components.  It was hard to imagine access recognition based on breathing and brain activity, but Tiller had a client who was interested.  Miranda figured if she could learn how to rewire an old fuse box from 30 to 50 amp (without killing herself), maybe she could understand this, too.

She agonized over the nights she wasted with Charlie Fine, the reckless pirate they called Judas.  She hoped and prayed the lessons she learned would be lasting, that nothing would draw her back to that life. Their time together was a revolting reminder of what not to do to become a Proverbs 31 woman. 

Even looking back on her years with Harry, Miranda couldn’t deny that his wealth gave her a false sence of security. Moving from a suburban palace to a lake of snow taught her that even a girl could ride out the storm. She learned about courage, friendship, and how to use power tools. Though no one would ever take the place of Harry Stowe, Miranda wondered if she might get married again someday. But since she worked late every night and didn’t have a boyfriend, that was not an immediate concern.

Maybe reading her Bible was changing the way she looked at things. Who could say?

²⁵ She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.
²⁶ She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
²⁷ She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.

Proverbs 31:25-27  (NIV)

To be continued…

*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.

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