Twyla's Last Trip

Karen Mueller Bryson

Description

The romantic comedy, Twyla's Last Trip, is first in the Short On Time Books series: fast-paced and fun novels for readers in the go.

Twenty eight-year old, Lucinda Starr is an uptight research psychologist, whose deadline to complete her doctoral dissertation is completely derailed by her estranged mother, Twyla Starr's sudden death. Lucinda must take her mother's ashes on a road trip on Route 66, in order to fulfill the requirements of her will and inherit her fortune. To make matters worse, Lucinda finds herself forced to travel across the country with her mother's easygoing country lawyer, who drives her crazy, and his drooling bloodhound, who Lucinda finds revolting.

Sujets

• Romance contemporaine
• Fiction
• Romance
• Contemporary

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456605773
• Langue: English

Extrait

TWYLA’S LAST TRIP
 
by
Karen Mueller Bryson
 
A SHORT ON TIME BOOK
 
 
TWYLA’S LAST TRIP
First Edition
 


Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0577-3
 
© Karen Mueller Bryson 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
No part of this book may be produced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the copyright owner, except for the minimum words needed for review.
 
This is a work of FICTION. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's offbeat imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 
Fog by Carl Sandburg from Chicago Poems © 1916 in Public Domain
Death Be Not Proud by John Donne © 1633 in Public Domain
 
A SHORT ON TIME BOOK:
Fast-paced and fun novels for readers on the go.
For more information, visit the website: www.shortontimebooks.com
 
 
 


 
 
 
This book is dedicated to my dear friend, Martha Simeone Conradi (1965-2009).
Her family’s Route 66 trip, in her memory, inspired this story.
CHAPTER ONE
A female hand removed a large rat from a cage filled with its squealing rat mates. She placed the creature next to a small guillotine. The animal quivered at the sight of the instrument of its ultimate demise. The rat’s head was placed on a chopping block but right before the female hand could make a final chop, an older woman’s nasal voice blared from an intercom. “Lucinda. You have an urgent call.”
As twenty-eight year old Lucinda Starr removed her hand from the tiny guillotine, the rat seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Lucinda peeled off her lab goggles and tossed them onto the counter. She tapped her student assistant, Reno Reynolds, on the shoulder, completely startling him. As he tumbled off of his lab bench, Lucinda grabbed the scrawny undergraduate’s elbow mid-air and saved him from the embarrassment of a full fall.
“Are you okay,” Lucinda asked matter-of-factly.
Reno tried to compose himself, but it proved difficult for the perpetually awkward young man.
“I need you to finish prepping that rat for me,” Lucinda continued.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Reno stuttered as he glanced over at the rat, which seemed to give him a pleading look.
Lucinda glared at Reno.
“I mean, yes, Miss Lucinda,” Reno corrected.
Lucinda's gaze turned icy.
“ Ms . Lucinda,” the assistant squeaked.
“Have it done before I get back,” Lucinda barked as she hurried out of the lab.
 
In the Neuropsychology Department’s reception area, Bunny Walters, a plump receptionist, typed on an out-dated desktop computer. Behind her, a radio played the country hit “Hurricane in My Heart.” Bunny turned up the volume—slightly.
After a moment, Lucinda stormed up to the reception desk. “What is that?” she shrieked.
Bunny glanced around.
Lucinda scowled at her. “That noise,” she said.
“Hurricane in My Heart,” Bunny replied meekly. “Today is the song's twenty-fifth anniversary. It's the biggest selling country song in history. Outsold Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, even Dolly Parton.”
“I hate it,” Lucinda said sourly.
Bunny shut the radio off then held up a message. Lucinda stared at the small sheet of paper as if it was diseased.
“Mr. Yates,” said Bunny. “He phoned four times in the last hour. He said he's your mother's attorney.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Lucinda said as she snatched the message from Bunny's hand and stormed away.
 
Back in the laboratory, Lucinda peered intently into her microscope until Bunny's voice blared from the intercom—again. “I'm sorry to bother you, Lucinda, but Mr. Yates is on the phone. He says he won't hang up until he speaks with you personally.”
Lucinda took a deep breath, stood and exited the lab. She marched over to the reception desk and ripped the phone from Bunny's grasp.
“Lucinda Starr,” she growled into the phone. “How may I help you?”
Thirty-year old T.J. Yates, the epitome of all things country, spoke to Lucinda from his cell phone. “Miss Starr,” he said. “I know we've never met but I've been your mom's attorney now for nearly a decade.”
“Will you please get to the point?” Lucinda interrupted. “I'm in the middle of an extremely important experiment.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but your mom has passed away.”
Lucinda flinched slightly but then it was back to business. “And what does this have to do with me?” she asked.
“Well, Miss Starr, you are the sole beneficiary of your mom's estate.”
“Estate?” Lucinda snorted. “My mother was a cat lady, who lived in a trailer.”
“Miss Starr,” T.J. continued. “I don't think you understand.”
Before T.J. could finish, Lucinda slammed the phone into the receiver and hurried away.
 
T.J. looked at his cell phone dumbfounded. People never hung up on him, especially women.
Dakota, his two-year old bloodhound, glanced up from her doggie pillow and gave her head a tilt.
“I think this requires a little trip up to Chicago,” T.J. said.
Dakota just yawned and plopped her head back down on her bed.
 
T.J.’s beater pick-up truck passed a sign that read: Leaving Galesburg—Birthplace of Carl Sandburg. Three hours later, he knew he was in the Windy City, when he passed a sign that read: Welcome to Chicago.
“Boy, do I hate the city,” T.J. remarked as he trekked down the ever-active Michigan Ave. Decked out in a cowboy hat and matching boots, he looked out of place amongst all the Armani suits.
A few moments later, T.J. approached a newsstand where an Asian Indian woman was straightening her stock of gum and singing along with the radio. She didn’t notice T.J. as she belted out the words of the country hit, “Lovin' you is like a hurricane in my heart. You're nothin' but a hurricane. A hurricane in my heart.”
When she finally glanced up, the woman was startled at the sight of T.J.
“I love this song,” the woman said a bit embarrassed.
T.J. handed her several coins.
“I wonder whatever happened to Twyla Starr,” the woman continued. “She vanished right after the song became a hit.”
“I understand she's no longer with us,” T.J. said.
“That’s very sad. She must not have been that old.”
“Forty-nine,” said T.J. “So, I've heard.”
The woman shook her head. “So young.”
T.J. nodded and grabbed a pack of mints.
A few minutes later, T.J. found himself standing in front of the ultra-modern Institute for Brain and Bioscience building. “This must be the place,” he said to himself as he removed his hat and entered the building.
Bunny was typing furiously on her computer when T.J. approached. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I'm T.J. Yates. I'm here to see Miss Starr.”
T.J.'s down-home charm temporarily memorized Bunny. When she was able to compose herself, Bunny said, “ Ms . Starr. Not Miss.”
An awkward moment of silence went by as the two studied each other. Finally T.J. said, “Would you let Ms. Starr know I'm here?”
“She's very busy,” said Bunny.
T.J. held up a manila envelope. “I have some documents I need to speak with her about.”
Bunny reached her hand out to take the envelope but T.J. pulled back. “I'd really like to speak with Ms. Starr,” he said. “I made a trip all the way from Galesburg.”
“The birthplace of Carl Sandburg,” Bunny said. “ The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on .”
Bunny reddened with sudden embarrassment. “I'm studying English,” she said. “I’m a night student.”
T.J. grinned.
“I'll see what I can do for you.” Bunny gave him a quick smile then whispered into the intercom.
 
After what seemed like an eternity, T.J glanced at his watch for the thousandth time and sighed.
Finally, Lucinda graced him with her presence. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.
“Are you really?” T.J. asked.
“No,” Lucinda snapped.
“I didn't think so.”
“What do you want, Mr. Yates?”
“Can we speak somewhere a bit more private?”
Lucinda was about to protest until she looked into T.J.'s determined eyes. “I only have a minute,” she said.
As Lucinda led T.J. into the rat breeding area, he was horrified by the sight of hundreds of caged rats. Then the little guillotine caught his attention. “I don't even what to know what that's for,” he remarked.
“And I was just getting ready to give you a demonstration,” Lucinda said.
“I came here to talk about your mom.”
Lucinda sighed.
T.J. continued, “There are certain issues with regards to her estate that I need to discuss with you.”
“I'll make sure her cats are all placed in good homes.”
“It's more complicated than that.”
“If you just leave the paperwork with me, I'll sign it and make whatever arrangements are necessary for the disposal of my mother's personal effects.” Lucinda straightened her lab coat and made a not-so-subtle motion for T.J. to leave.
T.J. smiled to himself. He shoved the manila envelope into Lucinda's hand then made a show of placing his cowboy hat on his head. “After you've read the will, if you have any questions, be sure to give me a holler,” he said then chuckled to himself as he exited.
 
Everything in Lucinda’s entire studio apartment was white. Clinical. Sterile. There was no evidence of life except for Lucinda herself, in a white sweat suit, lounging on her couch. She sipped a glass of Pinot noir, closed her eyes for a moment then took a deep breath. She grabbed the manila envelope from the coffee table, opened it then glanced at the contents. She took another sip of wine as she read the documents more closely—then spit the red liquid all over everything.
“A hundred million dollars,” she shouted.
A moment later, Lucinda was on her cell phone.
 
T.J. was sitting on a rocking chair, gazing at the night sky with Dakota curled up at his feet, when his cell phone rang.
“Took her longer than I thought,” he said to Dakota, who merely sighed.