Dolly's Novels

Chapter One - Part Two

2005-09-30T15:41:00.000-05:00

Slowly, the other country club members and their guest returned to their meals. The scrape and tinkle of silverware on china resumed. An ever growing hum of conversation filled the previous silence.

“There is no excuse for your behavior today. You need to do more than apologize to me. You should apologize to this whole room, the waiter and the busboy who had to collect the remains of your clumsiness.”

Something brushed against her ankle, drawing her attention away from the scolding she was receiving. The broom swiped past her leg again, this time catching the delicate panty hose and poking a small hole. That was just what she needed, a run in brand-new hose.

“Ma’am?”

Liz resisted the urge to look up at the sound of that deep voice. Smooth, but with a rough, Vin Diesel edge to it, just enough gravel to make it interesting. But she knew whomever interrupted her mother’s tirade wasn’t there to save her. It would probably make it worse. Out of the corner of her eye, she took in the black suit he wore. Looked like Armani with pink French cuffs and cute martini glass cuff links. He planted a large hand on the edge of the table and leaned over. Liz caught a whiff of musky cologne, soap and coffee and attempted not to melt in her stiff chair. With her luck, she’d swoon into him and break his leg or something. Or worse, cause another waiter to drop his tray and scatter food on the hallowed floors of Rolling Hills Country Club.

“Yes,” Annette purred.

Apparently the man was handsome; her mother only adopted that come-hither voice with her husband and drop-dead gorgeous men.

“Honey.” He tapped the back of Liz’s hand with one tan finger. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh my goodness, my poor baby,” Annette broke in, all false concern. “Where?”

Her mother’s only concern was the Dolce suit Liz wore. It was a pale pastel blue and practically brand-new. Never mind that Liz looked horrible in pale colors, it was THE suit of the season and a perfect foil for Annette’s own dramatic flair.

“It looks like her calf took a little shrapnel,” he laughed, a husky sound that shook Liz’s already tense nerve endings. “I’ll get her all patched up and back in a flash,” he promised.

Annette giggled. “Just take good care of my daughter, Michael; she’s my only little girl.”

Michael held his hand out, directly in Liz’s line of vision. Without looking up, she grasped his hand. Oooh, he was nice and warm. His hand engulfed hers. Again, she tried not to liquefy at his feet. Swallowing hard, she took a risk and glanced at him.

Oh my goodness. An angel in Armani. Thick brown hair, just long enough to show a bit of a curl at the back of his neck. Tan skin. High, almost Native American cheekbones and a thin blade of a nose. Medium lips with enough wrinkles on either side to indicate that he smiled a lot. In fact, he smiled gently at her, deepening those grooves. Tiny dimple in his left cheek. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Lean hips. Long legs. Sinfully good taste in clothing. Dark, single-breasted suit with an Egyptian cotton pale pink shirt. Black leather belt and shoes. No jewelry other than the cuff links. She almost swooned just to get him to hold her.

“Darling, let Mr. North get you all fixed up and come right back,” Annette trilled.

Pink fired across her cheeks at her mother’s patronizing tone. For goodness’ sake, she was twenty-seven years old, not seven. She dropped her gaze back to the table. A betraying tremble started in her fingers. Horrified, she tugged her fingers loose. Pulling on the last reserve of dignity, she drew in a deep breath. Maintaining the semblance of calm, she stood, gathered her balance on high heels and smiled.

“Mr. North, I appreciate your help, thank you,” she said in a chirpy voice.

Her mother’s glare told her how much trouble she’d be in for the fake tone, but the time being, she was scold-free.

Mr. North offered his elbow. Feeling slightly silly, Liz tucked her arm though his.

“I’m Elizabeth Holmes.”

“Michael North, but please call me Mike. I feel so old when people call me Michael.” He grinned, flashing rows of white teeth.

Somehow, despite the nervous energy pulsing through her veins, he still made her feel comfortable. Or at least he didn’t stress her out more than her mother did. Most men made her as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room-full of rocking chairs. Maybe it was his good looks that did it; he was so far out of her league, she didn’t have to worry. Maybe worry wasn’t the right word. More than she didn’t have to project this super-cool image of herself to him because he was too handsome to be interested.

“Its nice to meet you, Mike,” she said.

Conversation. Her mind was a total blank. Nothing popped into her mind. Well, other than the completely random tidbits that popped out of her mouth at inopportune times, at least according to her mother.

Weather! She almost jumped for joy when she thought of it. “Can you believe how hot its been? Of course, this is Texas and its July, so I don’t know what else I’d expect. Although, we’ve had more rain this summer than last summer, so far. I haven’t had to water nearly as often.” As soon as she heard the nervous edge to her chatter, she abruptly closed her mouth.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at him. She didn’t notice the appalled look her mother always got when the rambles got the better of her. In fact, it almost looked like he was smiling. She thought she saw the dimple in his cheek.

His warm hand covered hers. Goodness, he had huge hands. Immediately, she remembered the old wives tale about large-handed, large-footed men. Before she could stop herself, she peeked at his feet. Big. Her gaze flitted upwards and her eyes widened.

A deep chuckle rumbled over her.

Chapter One - Part One

2005-09-29T13:30:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. She ruled her subjects with a gentle hand and there was prosperity in her lands. The princess lived well, but not ostentatiously. She had enough to purchase fashionable clothes to fit her willowy form. Hairdressers appeared at the wave of her slender hand to coif her past-the-shoulder-length blonde hair into perfect waves. Handsome, well-behaved, romantic men presented her with luxurious gifts as well as love sonnets, bouquets of roses and candies of every sort. The sweets never caused her pert nose to blemish and she never gained a pound no matter what passed between her lips. The flowers had no pollen to upset her delicate allergies, if she had any. Her castle had so many rooms she’d never seen them all. Numerous servants kept the palace spotless and she knew them all by name. Perfect etiquette kept her from embarrassing herself or her family.

Red-faced, Liz Holmes shifted from foot to foot. “It wasn’t my fault,” she repeated for the third time. “I didn’t see him.”

The remains of the waiter’s tray lay at her feet. Dishes and glasses broken. Food splattered not just across the gleaming marble floor and perfectly white tablecloths, but also her mother’s black Chanel pantsuit.

“What possessed you to get up from the table that precipitously?” Annette Holmes-Johnson did not raise her cultured voice, but the frosty tone got the disapproval across pointedly enough.

Feeling like she fell through the rabbit hole and ended up in junior high again, Liz moved to help the busboy gather the destroyed crockery.

“Do not help him, Elizabeth. Sit down,” her mother said, more ice in her voice.

Her eyes on the burgundy chair cover, Liz didn’t look up. Seeing the pity and stifled laughter in their haughty gazes would be more than she could bear at the moment. Of course, the country club dining room was packed to capacity for Sunday morning brunch.

“There are children here that behave better than you do,” Annette accused.

Taking a deep breath, Liz risked a glance at her mother. Typically, Annette was focused on the other diners nearby, giving apologetic shrugs. Nothing she did pleased her mother. Of course, Annette Holmes-Johnson was perfect.

Her slightly tinted blonde hair curled under in a perfect bob. Her bi-weekly visits to the hair salon kept the strands at a precise one-inch below her chin. A discrete surgery a few years ago and she looked ten years younger than she actually was. People mistook them for sisters on occasion. Annette worked out at least three times a week with a personal trainer to keep in shape. Her clothes could have graced the covers of magazines, all classic lines cut enough to show she was a woman, not too much to flaunt.

In contrast, Liz felt lucky to remember to get a hair cut once in a blue moon. Regardless of the money spent, she could never match the effortless grace her mother exuded so easily.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she apologized again. “I needed to go to the restroom and I didn’t look behind me. I’m sorry.” She tendered her apology to the egg-crusted tablecloth.

Novels...

2005-09-29T13:13:00.000-05:00

Am I a novelist? I've never written anything anyone other than family or close friends have read, but I have these ideas bouncing around that won't go away. I've completed two novels - they are not so good, but I'm learning!! My newest idea is called Once Upon A Time.

Enjoy...