Cocoon

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

The Story Plant
The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC
P.O. Box 4331
Stamford, CT 06907

Copyright © 2012 by Emily Sue Harvey
Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck

Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-036-6
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61188-037-3

Visit our website at www.thestoryplant.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except as provided by US Copyright Law.

For information, address The Story Plant.

First Story Plant Printing: March 2012
Printed in The United States of America

T
his novel is dedicated to dear friends, Kay and Gerald Turner, who showed me the world of steroid psychosis through their eyes: Kay, by experiencing the Cocoon itself, with all its nuances of nothingness and desolation and, at times, terror; and Gerald, by exercising blind faith, commitment, unconditional love and fidelity throughout the ordeal. Your exemplar inspires and buoys others to reach out and believe for the seemingly inaccessible.

And to my longtime friend, Billie McGregor whose triumphant battle with bone cancer beckons to those whose prognoses strike dread in one's heart – and admonishes them to “fear not.” And though the characters and settings are completely fictional here, no other name seems to “fit” this story's character except “Billie Jean.” Like real life Kay and Gerald, Billie is an icon of valor and cheer.

You are each true heroes. Thanks to you for your willingness to be transparent and generous. By doing so, you give hope to others.

C
ocoon's
setting and characters are fictional. Paradise Springs is my “Brigadoon” and the colorful characters my dream circle. I loved the energetic creation process of this story, one that vacillates from darkness to light, from the fringe that separates them.

As always a deep, heartfelt thank you to my Story Plant publishers, Peter Miller and Lou Aronica. I am grateful to you for your faith in me and the fact that you turned me loose to pen six novels since 2009's release of
Song of Renewal
. Thanks again, Lou, for navigating me through sometimes rough waters, but most of all, for allowing me to be me.

A writer's greatest gift.

In the wider world, I am beholden to a larger network of friends than I can ever thank by name. But some rise to the top: John and Charlene O'Blenis, and Suzy Banzhof Nelson, always offering, with candor, valuable input, and Frieda Baird, who generously and spontaneously shares with me her wealth of holistic wisdom.

Eternal gratitude to Lee, my patient husband, who spends many a lonely evening as I sequester myself in my study and write the hours away – you remain steadfastly supportive and encouraging.

Thanks also to Daniel Isaac (“Laughter”) Cooper, one of Michael and Susan Cooper's “miracle” children, for your grace and good humor when I tragically misspelled your name as “Danielle” in my novel acknowledgments for
Space
. I should have been noodle-flogged for not catching that in the proofing! I appreciate your great attitude, dear one.

Be blessed now, reader, and enjoy the McGraths's perilous, heart-warming journey!

“Y
ee haaw
.” Zoe's dark head fell back as she let loose her cry of jubilation.

The dance team leader, countrified stunning in her full-skirted, crinoline-petticoated clogging regalia, triple-, rock-, and brush-stepped as the hoedown music wound down and her dance partner, teen son Peyton, twirled her.

Seana, her mother, dancing in formation nearby, caught her breath as she spun out of the final twirl. Her matching mauve print, knee-length gingham skirt billowed out like a gently falling parachute as Barth's arms and hands skillfully reined in and steadied her halt. Then, hand in hand as one, the group of twelve took an elaborate bow to the whistles, stomping, and
woo-hoos
of the Paradise Springs populace.

Their lively performance officially launched the annual Paradise Springs Summer Festival. The Paradise Cloggers were the star attraction along with Danny Day and his Foothills Ramblers Band.

Though a quick mid-afternoon July shower had popped in to cool things down a mite, the dance exertion produced sopping perspiration.

“Here.” Barth slipped a clean handkerchief into Seana's hand as the clogging team dispersed to enjoy festival attractions. Tantalizing food aromas filtered through the air as folks's noses led them to John Ivey's Tarheel Dog booth.

Retired USAF John's Concord, North Carolina BBQ was a favorite thereabouts, along with all-beef hot dogs and a range of sausages from spicy Italian to Cajun to German-style bratwurst.

Seana made a mental note to later feast on the North Carolina-style chopped BBQ with John's inimitable homemade sauce. She also noted they were grilling hamburgers to specification.

The aroma would have made her salivate had she had a drop left in her mouth to dredge up.

She carefully blotted moisture from her brow and returned the handkerchief to Barth, still catching her breath, smiling into his admiring eyes. Right now, behind the thick lens, they were Cocker Spaniel brown. Other times, glasses removed, they were more – well, not wild exactly, but she figured they probably had been in his younger days. Perhaps fervent was a better word for them.

When they were alone, minus the lens cloud between them, his eyes darkened and sparked a range of emotions that pushed exciting, long dormant buttons inside her.

Barth rubbed his neck and groaned. “Not as young as I used to be.” He rotated his shoulders and stretched his back and long legs, still catching his breath. “I feel at this moment imminent mortality.” He then removed his glasses, efficiently handkerchiefed the foggy lens, then slid them back on.

Seana felt a strong sweep of affection as he stuffed the deep mauve cloth – compliments of seamstress Sadie Tate – into his back pocket. A purely masculine gesture that tweaked something in her that made her feel even younger and more romantic. Something she'd not felt since long ago high school days of pep rallies and cheering at football and basketball games, with Ansel watching her like she was a candy bar and he was starved for a sugar fix.

She tamped down that direction of thought, reminding herself that this was now.

Barth's black Western outfit with silver buttons and tiny piped, mauve trim fit him well. White tap shoes clinked as he shifted his weight restlessly, reminding Seana, again, of the youth they had not spent together.

“I wish I'd known you when you were younger.” The words slid out, despite her efforts to stifle that impulse-penchant of hers. It had not been divinely destined, after all. It was a childish, obsessive curiosity that had seized her.

Then her eyes half-mooned.

“Imminent mortality?” She laughed aloud. “Not that bad, surely.”

Barth's head of salt-and-pepper, full, wavy hair moved slowly from side to side. “Not surely.” He took another gulp of air, blew it out, and slid his arm around her shoulder, guiding her to a nearby booth sporting fountain drinks and an array of packaged quick treats from Fred's Grocery.

She glanced at his profile, with its full gray mustache. On him, it looked good. Doggone good. Matched his hair and his dark complexion.

Handsome dude he was. If you let the thick glasses just blend. But then, love was blind, wasn't it? A nerdy, aged Clark Kent was what he was. She grinned. That nailed him.

Seana ordered a diet soda and downed half of it before coming up for air, this time ignoring Barth's troubled stare. She looked at him. “What? This one time of drinking artificial sweetener won't kill me.”

Barth shrugged and skeptically eyed the other sugary selections, whistling softly. “Got any water?”

“Sure,” Fred Johnson, the local grocer, replied rather grumpily, yanking a paper cup from the counter.

“Hey, here's five dollars for your trouble.” Barth winked at the short, red-haired, ruddy-faced man, then doled over the contribution.

“Thank you!” Fred beamed, filled the large cup with ice, and covered it with water.

Barth drank thirstily, emptying the cup in three pulls and discarding it in a handy garbage can.

“Zoe!” Seana called out to her daughter. She grabbed Barth's hand and tugged him along, shouldering through the festive crowd to where her statuesque daughter, Zoe, stood chatting with friends and her Happy Feet Dance Studio clients.

As they approached, Seana caught Zoe's eye and saw the warmth fade from the finely honed features topped by a burst of thick raven hair – her Cherokee Indian heritage through her late father's lineage. Her great-grandmother had been full Cherokee.

The crystal-blue eyes were vintage Seana. What a beauty she and Ansel had created. A bittersweet longing pierced her, then floated away on an invisible soft dulcet note.

Right now that blue turned to ice chips when they rested on Barth. As usual, Barth seemed oblivious and offered his huge, guileless smile. But Seana knew that it took courage for Barth to forge ahead in romantic pursuit of this rival's mother.

“Hi, Zoe. I sure hope we were up to snuff tonight,” he ventured.

Zoe's nod was condescending. Dismissive.

Seana grinned at Barth. “Hey, your adoption of Southern slang is quite good. Very good, in fact, for a doggone Yankee.” The two of them laughed, though no one else joined in.

“How'd we do?” Seana ignored Zoe's coolness, jumping into the chilly waters with both feet. What the heck? “Did we mess up too bad?”

In a blink, Zoe turned professional, looking the part with her slicked back ebony hair, nape-tethered with a rhinestone barrette. The clogging dress's fitted bodice and puffed short sleeves looked great on her. Zoe, with her long thinness, lent style to anything she wore.

“No. You did great. In fact, I'm very proud of the performance.”

“Didn't Barth do good?” Seana couldn't help it. The words spilled out. How dare Zoe ignore Barth, who'd worked so hard for this festival performance? “He's not been doing it as long as the rest of us.” Only for the past five months, actually. “A danged miracle is what he is!” Seana smiled up at him, pride radiating from her.

Zoe's gaze slid to Barth.
The interloper
, declared her slit-eyed appraisal. Barth, whose ingenuous patience would have put off a lesser opponent, failed to dent Zoe's steely scrutiny. Coldness crackled with the hauteur lift of chin. And the thought flitted through Seana's mind that one thing God hates most is a proud look.

Now, standing before her, was the reason.

“You gave a good performance, Barth.”

The words fought their way from Zoe's straight, tight lips. The arrogant cast of eyes reduced the words to mere crumbs.

“Hi, Zoe. Great performance with the team.” Tim, Seana's tall, sandy haired son appeared with his daughter tucked under his arm.

“Nana!” Ashley, their thirteen-year-old perfect child, rushed into Seana's arms, nearly knocking her over with fervor. “You were soooo good tonight, Nana. You can really, really clog! I want to learn now. Can I, Dad?”

“Sure, honey.”

Seana clutched her sweet, usually shy granddaughter against her bosom, breathing in her fragrance, a fruity blend undergirded by vanilla. She basked in the welcome splash of unrestricted love.

Good-natured Tim held out his hand awkwardly to Barth, who grasped it and pumped enthusiastically. “Hi, Tim. Great to see you. How's the real estate market?”

“Good to see you, too,” Tim muttered, glancing uneasily at sister Zoe, who stood stiffly, staring off into space. “Oh, can't complain about business, despite the economy shift.”

Polite. Distant. It all registered with Seana. Hurt perched on the periphery of her emotions. She held it back with everything in her.

Barth's smile remained intact. “Nice festival. I'm impressed. By the way, where's Sherry?”

“Oh, she's somewhere hereabouts.” Tim scratched his head and looked around aimlessly for his wife. Definitely ill at ease, Seana silently noted. Hurt now dangled precariously close.

Barth was remarkably resilient. His optimism was tough and thick as a cement slab. So was his inclination to being “chatty,” as her family privately pointed out, a thing they didn't exactly cotton to. Their stop-and-smell-the-roses, chill-out Southern mindset required ample silent lapses.

In other words, every moment didn't have to be filled with prattle, however intelligent.

But Seana had spent many a silent, lonely night with no one to talk to. Now, she fancied Barth's gregariousness. He was well-read, a walking fountain of knowledge. And he loved to share with those he perceived in need. The end result lately was that he sometimes aggravated his project of the moment.

Barth's good heart was, in this instance, his worst enemy.

Seana had told him that he was overstepping with the family so he gave her permission to simply tell him when he grew too verbose or intrusive, and he would tone down.

Seana shook her mind loose of the uncomfortable analyzing. “Yes. Where
is
Sherry?”

Ashley raised her head from Seana's shoulder and said, “She's probably at the book booth. She loves to read.” She slid around to Seana's side and linked arms with her.

Silence settled awkwardly over the family scene.

“Say,” Barth reared back and cast a baleful look at Ashley. “How about me? I danced my fanny off, too!” He did a little shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits step, spread his arms wide and bowed.

Ashley dissolved into giggles, blushed, hesitated, swaying from foot to foot, then rushed to throw her arms around Barth's middle. “You were good, too.”

Seana breathed a sigh of relief. Leave it to Barth to rescue sanity and civility.

Zoe lifted herself to full height, gaze averted. “Well, I'll leave you guys. I want to browse a bit. See you later.” Her mincing footsteps on concrete, enunciated comically by shoe taps, took her from view in seconds flat.

Seana turned her attention to Tim, who looked more uncomfortable by the moment. “How about coming by the house for a while later? I know you're going to fill up on John's famous barbecue, but I've baked a chocolate cake with fresh strawberries for dessert,” Seana ventured hopefully.

“Umm …” Tim scratched his head and frowned, still furtively watching the crowd for a glimpse of his wife. Tim rarely ever had refused Mom's chocolate cake, no matter how last minute thrown together.

“Please, please, Dad?” Ashley coaxed, batting her eyelashes sweetly.

“Uh, I don't think so, sweetheart,” he addressed Ashley. Then Seana, “Actually, we've already made plans, Mom...”

“What plans?” Ashley whined, disappointed.

Tim looked at her, agitation leaking through. “Your mom has a new restaurant she wants to try in Easley.”

Ashley's face brightened. “Then Nana and Barth can come –”

“No,” Seana injected, smiling at her precious granddaughter. “Barth and I are going to gorge on all these Tarheel food selections. Sample as many as we can. Then we want to just chill out tonight, sweetheart. We're tired, you know? Some other time.”

“Yeh,” Tim brightened. “We'll do it another time. Let's go find your mom, Ashley. Later, Mom, Barth?”

“Right. See you later.” Barth smiled and waved them off.

Tears pushed behind Seana's eyes as she turned and collided with Peyton, her tall, dark, and handsome grandson, dressed in his own black country clogging outfit. Zoe's oldest son, at sixteen, was the most agile and proficient of the clogging team.

“Nana, you did wonderful.” He looked down at her, steadying hands on her shoulders, his gaze loving her so much it buoyed Seana's beaten-down heart. She hadn't realized how shredded she felt until he pulled her into his arms, his beautiful dark head laid atop hers. She embraced him and felt his hand gently patting her shoulder. “Love you, Nana,” he murmured.

Seana swallowed back a lump the size of Oklahoma in her throat. “Love you, too,” she whispered. “Very, very much.”

Barth waited until they'd stepped back from each other before offering his hand.

“Hi, Peyton.”

“Hi, Mr. McGrath,” Peyton murmured politely. Then he waved to some friends nearby. “Gotta run. We're all going to chow down on some Tarheel burgers and dogs.”

“
Barth
,” Barth called after him. “Call me
Barth.
”

“Sure thing, Barth,” Peyton called over his shoulder as he dashed away.

For the first time, Seana saw just a glimmer of pain in the Cocker Spaniel eyes. Or did she? Those thick lenses could be deceptive.

She prayed he would not be hurt by the family freeze. She held out her hand and felt his large, warm fingers interlace with hers and squeeze gently.

Seana loved this man.

She grinned up at him. “Let's go have some good Southern chow – that is, if you can tune out all those additives and forget how unhealthy some of it is.”

He grinned back and inhaled the wonderful smells. “Woman, what's unhealthy? Let's get at it.”