Vengance is a Woman - Chapter 3

The third installment of Vengance is a Woman, and the continuing story of Rosa, Myrna, and the mysterious girl on the park bench..posted before.

CHAPTER 3

 

The sun was setting and the skyline was a spectacular mixture of purple, orange, and blue. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat outside and really enjoyed a sunset and the beauty it could afford one as long as they were open to its wonder. Myrna began to bustle herself about as if she was getting up to leave. I couldn’t let her go now I had to know more. What became of this Rosa Mae? What happened between the two of them to enlist such loyalty from Myrna, her housekeeper? Then there was Myrna. Who was she really? Where had she just come from? Did she still work for the McCleouds? So many questions I was burning from the inside out to know. The need kept me warm. I didn’t even think about the cold or muggers, or any other dangers the city afforded in the deep twilight.

 

“Are you leaving?” I asked tremulously.

 

“Oh I have to dear. It’s cold out here and I have to report back.”

 

I shook my head in confusion. “Report back where? I-I wanted to hear the rest of the story.”

 

“You will. You will dear. Right now I have to go though.” She rose slowly gathering her bag to her. Turning to face me she cupped her hand around my face, “Remember the price we pay to get to the oasis is only as much as we can spare. It’s not the same for everyone, and it presumptuous to assume it should be.”

 

I knew exactly what she meant. I always went on and on about how things were never fair for me. How come everyone else had it so much better than I did? She knew. She knew this was my disposition and she knew that I was finally coming to terms with the reality of it. The only problem was I now knew but hadn’t quite accepted. The tears began to slip from my eyes and I ducked my head down to avoid the penetrating gaze of her all knowing eyes. When I looked up again she was gone.

 

I went back to that same bench every day for a week, even at the same time, hoping she would come back. I had gone online to see if I could find anything out about her, but I there was nothing. I did find an old obituary for Ian McCleoud.

 

Ian McCleoud, age 52, died unexpectedly in his home on September 17, 1932. Mr. McCleoud, responsible for producing quality Broadway shows such as, The Death of the Bible Pusher, Gloria’s Triumph, and an interesting twist on Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Family has asked for a closed casket and a private funeral. No calling will be available. Flowers can be sent to Goldstein’s Funeral Home on 21^st St.

 

It was unusual for a man of his standing to have such a hush, hush funeral. There was no mention of his wife nor could I find any trace of her online either. It was if she and Myrna never existed.

 

After the revelation of my boss and his terminal disease things were very subdued around the office. Being the assistant to the CFO of a major pharmaceutical company had its perks but I didn’t know if I was ready for the title myself. My boss and I had bumped heads from day one. He was openly contemptuous of women and flat out told me the only reason why he hired me despite my more than adequate credentials was if they wanted to hold their EEO standing they had to have more women and minorities in positions of management. He wanted a man for my job but the board had their say and now here I was. I was a goddamned CPA with an MBA and I was fetching his coffee and dry cleaning. The last straw was walking his freakin’ dog. An English bulldog named Prince Charles who loved to wait to s**t until I was to pick him up and then would unload half his body weight for me to pick up or be ticketed. Not to mention the snorting and the drooling. Even the dog treated me with indifference.

 

Since my boss was no longer going to be my boss he was supposedly grooming me for his job. Since I had been doing his job and mine for the last five years I didn’t see what he needed to show me. Of course he didn’t realize this and insisted on training me on information and procedures I already knew.

 

One day, three weeks since my initial visit to the bench, I had taken Prince Charles to the park hoping he would be a bit more pleasant and that the piles would be easier to pick up from the grass. I had thought about Myrna but things had been so busy I hadn’t had much time to go back and see if she would show up. I was sitting on the bench in now customary spot thinking on her story. Her mother shot to death by her father for sleeping with the Reverend. Then in turn her father raping and using her – robbing her of her youth. Through all of this she claimed her salvation was wrapped in a woman who I couldn’t find one electronic trace of.

 

The day was crisp and clear. Much of the snow that had fallen was gone. The grass was green and jubilant with life and you could just see the buds of new leaves on the trees. Everything was coming awake from its winter slumber. Brightening, and sparkling with the turn of the earth on its axis. As I gazed out towards the hills of the park where couples held hands while they walked over the grassy knolls and a young mother with her two children chased their Labrador retriever who had taken off with their blanket. The little girl a blonde bombshell had pigtails in her and was squealing and laughing hysterically. The little boy dark haired and bright eyed seemed a bit perturbed at the outlandish behavior of his trusted canine. As I took voyeuristic pleasure at their predicament I again felt her beside me before I actually saw her sit down.

 

“Now that is one hell of a dog,” she said mirthfully. “Is he yours?”

Prince Charles looked up disparagingly as if the very idea of him being something other than just a dog was preposterous. He was a pure bred, blue ribbon holder of the Manchester Kennel Club thank you very much.

 

“No, he’s belongs to my boss. I’m walking him for him.”

 

Her brow furrowed in confusion, “Just what is exactly that you do dear?”

 

“I’m an accountant.” I said shaking my head in agreement as if I had to convince myself as well. “I’m the assistant to the CFO and this is something he himself doesn’t have the time to do.”

 

Myrna shifted slightly to face crooking her elbow onto the back of the bench. “Honey I don’t mean to be too forward here but it seems to me you are being taken advantage of.”

 

“I’m sure you’re right Myrna,” I agreed whole heartedly. “The thing is my boss has come down with a terminal illness and when he finally resigns I will be given his position. So after that I can find some over qualified this - that – or the other to walk my dog.” I smiled sardonically and patted Prince Charles along the back. The dog actually moved away from my touching him as if any of my ministrations that didn’t include picking up his s**t would soil him in some manner.

 

Myrna glanced back between me and the dog in heavy disbelief. “What?” I asked.

 

“Well it just seems to me a person of your caliber should be doing more in life than this.”

 

“I agree. It’s hard when you’re a woman. You aren’t taken seriously. No one wants to listen to you. Especially in this city,” I said as my eyes roamed over the expanse of shops and sky scrapers dotting the horizon beyond the emerald hills of the park.

 

“This is true,” she said. “Sometimes it takes an extreme act to get the eyes of the person you want watching you to finally see you.”

 

“Well, in some ways people could view that as a terrorist point of view.” It had only been a little more than a year since the World Trade Center had been bombed killing six people. Terrorism was a hot topic for New Yorkers and for the survivors of the incident it wasn’t yet a distant memory.

 

“Terrorism huh,” she said her wheels and cogs visibly working beneath her aquamarine gaze. “I would suppose a man who beats his wife and holds her hostage in a bad marriage could be considered an act of terrorism, maybe?”

 

“Yes it could…” she cuts me off.

 

“And I suppose you could say the wife was the terrorist when she finally could take no longer and got his attention in a very unconventional way.”

 

I said nothing for a moment. I didn’t know why I was enthralled with this woman nor could I explain why she kept telling me these things. This was my second time laying eyes on her and while I was with her it was the only time I felt right. I felt good and I felt like life and finally shown its meaning. It was like she was my clean water like Rosa Mae had been hers.

 

“Did Rosa Mae kill her husband?” I asked no longer willing to sustain the wait.

 

Myrna got up slowly her legs visibly weak from her sitting. “Let’s take a walk and give that beast some exercise.” I got up with her, and slowly dragged Prince Charles from his state of apathy.

 

“I guess if you look at it on the record I killed Ian McCleoud.” She said this so succinctly and without emotion. It appalled me to think this little old lady who barely came up to my shoulder could ever be capable of killing someone. I guess I should have ended the conversation right there and got away from this lunatic as fast as I could. I couldn’t though. I was completely intrigued by her and her life. How did one come up from being abused as a young woman, thrown out of a convent, and then a housekeeper gone bad?

 

“Did you?”

 

“Did I kill him?” she reiterated. “No,” she said frowning slightly. “I had thought about it. Especially after what I had seen him do to her, but no I wasn’t the one responsible.”

 

“She did it, didn’t she?” I asked already knowing the answer.

 

“Yes, yes she did. She had her reasons though. She had her reasons.”

 

*

 

I had been there for a month, and bit by bit we had unexpectedly become more than just employer and employee. Again the schedule was simple, and it never took me long to finish the list she had given me. The house it seemed was not as big as it seemed. After I had completed the whole’s week’s list by that Wednesday I went to her to see if she needed anything else.

 

It was 2:00 PM and she still had not risen from bed. That morning I had been instructed she was skipping breakfast and to stay clear of the bedroom. She would call me if she needed me. I knocked tentatively.

 

“Yes,” she answered in her stately way.

 

“It’s Myrna Ma’am. I was inquiring to see if you needed me to do anything else.”

 

“What are you babbling about? Come in. Come in. I am too old to be shouting at someone through a door.”

 

I eased open the door slowly. The light from the hallway threatened to pierce the overwhelming gloom of the room. As I slipped slowly inside the room, she quickly switched off her bedside lamp making it even more somber.

 

“I finished the list Ma’am. I wanted to know if you required anything else of me.”

 

“The whole list?” she asked.

 

“Yes, the whole list.”

 

“You’ve already done the dusting, the floors, the errands, the baths, and the laundry?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am all that is available at this time.”

 

“Hmmm,” she purred smoothing out the blankets across her thighs. “You’re quite the industrious little bee aren’t you?” She sighed heavily and dropped back against the mountain of pillows propped behind her. A small book and pen were open to the side of her. The bed was king sized and the other side was perfectly made as if no one else had slept there. The curtains gracing the large picture window behind the bed were tightly closed allowing none of nature’s own between the creases.

 

She thought I couldn’t see it. She thought if there was no light in the room then the bruises marring her left eye and the gash across her cheek wouldn’t be visible. She was ashamed, even in front of me, the hired help. I’ve always been a sound sleeper when left undisturbed. I never heard a thing, but something had definitely occurred in the room. Glancing around I saw the shattered remains of her once beautiful antique mirror on her vanity. I went over immediately to clean them up and she shouted at me, “No, leave them there. He will want to see it. He will want to know what he’s done so he can replace it. That’s it though. He can’t replace that one. It was one of a kind. None of them ever existed except that one. He did it on purpose. Mario gave it to me. He hates it when I use it knowing I think of Mario when I gaze at my reflection. My once beautiful reflection,” her voice then cut off and she sobbed into her palms.

 

I stood there uncomfortably not knowing what would be appropriate for me to do. Finally throwing caution to the wind I sat down beside her slowly on the side of the bed closest to her. “Mrs. McCleoud is there anything I can do for.”

 

“Don’t call me that!” she exploded. “I never wanted to change my name to that! I hate that man! He’s despicable, uncaring, and a boor. I would rather die that to have that name on my tombstone!”

 

I flinched at her outburst. I didn’t know what to say. It was obvious her predicament but what does one prisoner say to another?

 

“I’m sorry she said,” patting my hand. “It’s not my place to burden you so. There’s nothing else that needs to be done. Take the afternoon off if you like.”

 

I didn’t want to leave her. It was plain she needed someone. “I think you are very brave to go on as you have Ma’am.”

 

“You do?” she said inquisitively. “What’s so brave about not standing up for yourself? What’s so brave about letting someone take advantage of you?”

 

“Because those that endure in the end will rise above their station and leave their tormentors behind.”

 

“Is that what you think you’ve done?” she asked shrewdly her eyes gleaming with intelligence. “By coming here and serving under us you have rose about your father’s station.”

 

“Well I know I am certainly above his station now since he’s six feet under. Yes, I think that is what I have done.” I looked down to the floor. So many nights I prayed God would come and take him away from me. Take him away from anyone he wished to hurt. Even before he killed my mother I knew he was no good. It was just a matter of time. But God never answered my prayers. Not even the night when I called out to Him fervently as my father used a coat hanger to drag the spawn of his mis-deeds from my womb. When you come from those types of twisted roots, it’s best just to be happy to be out of the tangle.

 

“Death isn’t a release,” she said shaking her head. “He’s paying for what he did. You mark my words!” She shook her index finger in my face for emphasis. “Not all men are bad though,” she sniffed. “Some can be very sweet, loving, and beautiful. That is what my Mario was. He was the most wonderful man I had ever met in my life. Tall, handsome, with striking eyes and olive skin – he was the love of my life!” Flinging herself back against the pillows she snatched a tissue from the box dotting at her eyes and nose.

 

“What happened to him?”

 

She said nothing for the longest time twisting and wringing her tissue. “That’s a long story. A story I am not sure you would really be interested in hearing. My life is not of the ordinary. It didn’t start that way and I foresee it shall not end that way either. Then again I never wanted the mundane. I wanted the bright lights, the chaos, and the passion.” Her eyes took an uncustomary gleam, and her face brightened. “I was an actress before being reduced to this house wife charade. I was a damn good actress too. So good that there are only three people who know how much I hate this marriage.” Her eyes came into contact with mine. I knew she wanted to tell me, tell it all to me, and finally unburden herself. She picked me for a reason. She knew I would be loyal. She knew I would adore her and in doing so would pledge not only my allegiance but also my fealty.

 

*

 

I was born Natalia Von Hongenslate. Left on the door step of a rich family in the countryside of Austria, the belief was if I was abandoned to a higher class of people then maybe they would allow me to be raised as on one of theirs. This was not the case. The lady of the house refused to be burdened with another child and instructed her maid to kill the child and be done with it. The maid having no children of her own, begged for the life of the child, and the opportunity to raise it the lady of the house agreed, and I grew up in servitude.

 

My new adopted mother, Martha, did the best she could. However, she never could get the dreams and ideals from my mind. I felt I was meant for so much more than cleaning up after the family and their rotten children. No formal education I learned to read from Martha. I loved Shakespeare, and dreamed of becoming an actress. One day going down to the village to fetch the weekly supplies I came across a poster plastered across the wall outside the grocer. It was a traveling group of performers. Folk singers, dancers, and story tellers and they were looking for people to join.

 

My heart rushed to my throat. It was the break I had been looking for. It was a chance, a moment, to really prove myself and my worth. I couldn’t wait to tell Martha.

 

My dreams, my dreams were coming true. I could finally be an actress. Martha was less than pleased and told me I needn’t be running off to chase pipe dreams. My place was where she was and if I was lucky with the next year I could be married.

 

“Don’t you see,” I whined. “I want to be so much more than that. I can do it I know I can. I just need you to believe in me. Tell me I can do it with your blessing and I promise one day when I am rich beyond my wildest dreams I will come back for you!”

 

Martha had simply shaken her head saying her place was with the family. It had always been that way. She loved me with all her heart, but knew deep down I would never be satisfied with the simple life that had sustained her thus far. I can almost see her face when she saw I was gone with all my belongings from my pallet under the stairs. She knew my intentions. I left no note.

 

That morning was the most exhilarating of my life. It was foggy cold day and the cobbles in the city square were slick and dangerous. The ambiance was perfect for my emergence to the troop. I found the clearing outside of town the notice said to go to. Beneath a scope of trees was the most motley, ramshackle group I had ever seen.

 

They were just starting their morning rituals when I crept upon them. Tending to the fire was a tall, terribly thin man, whose shock of orange hair stood out from all ends of his scalp. I later learned his name was Stretch due to his ability to stretch to heights no one else could get to. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he saw me approaching, suddenly appearing from the milky, soupy air.

 

“Whoa, there lassie, where did pop out from?” his Irish accent was heavy and I often had to ask him to repeat himself. He always did smiling at my inability to understand him. 

 

“I’m here to join the troop,” I said uneasy. What if they rejected me? What if they didn’t think I was good enough? I never even thought about that. Could I return to the old manor house my head hanging in shame?

 

“Wait here,” he said winking at me.

 

Then out stepped the man I knew who would be my husband. I knew not how I knew this but it was a feeling that came over me. A sense that the home I had been looking for was finally in front of me. I would come to know that home didn’t necessarily come in the shape of a house or building. It was more about the person in these dwellings. They were the ones that made everything as it should be. This sense of serenity and peace is what I felt standing there my ambition running down my legs as this astounding man stood in front of me.

 

He was dressed like a gypsy, or what I always considered a gypsy would wear. His hair was fashionably long and a colorful pink and blue scarf encased his scalp. His open white shirt exposed the crisp black hair on his chest, and cinched at his waist was another scarf of the same color as the one upon his head. The tight breeches slipped easily into his supple leather boots, and his large hands spanned easily across his narrow waist as he sat there looking me over with a mischievous grin plastered upon his face.

 

“Who is this child,” he asks of Stretch.

 

“She says she wants to join the troop,” Stretch replied grinning manically

 

“I am no child!” I exclaimed tossing my long hair over my shoulder while placing my most fierce look upon these mocking men. 

 

The gypsy threw his head back guffawing loudly. “Oh you’re not are you? You don’t look a day over thirteen. You’re still a baby. Go on, go back to your mother,” he said flipping his hand at me as if to shoo me away. Then he turned away as if to go back to whence he came.

 

“Please,” I said grabbing a hold of his arm. “You don’t understand. I have wanted this my whole life. I have no family to go back to. I was raised by the maid of the Manor House Dreher. I was left on the door step as an infant and the Lady of the house wished to have me drowned. The maid was childless and pleaded for my life and the chance to raise me. For the last sixteen years I have served others without provocation. Now I wish to serve myself. Please don’t turn me away,” I wrung his hand as the tears fell down my face. I couldn’t go back and face the shame of my failure. I would rather have died in the fields like elderly cattle.

 

He stood there stoic for the longest time. His companion stretch gazing back and forth between the two of us. “All right,” he conceded. “You can work.”

 

I realized his arm and bowed deeply. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

 

He nodded softly. “Put her to work,” he said to Stretch snapping his fingers.

 

 

My goal was to be on the stage. Before leaving home I would often traipse out to the garden imagining myself as Juliet, Lady Macbeth, and Katherine the shrew. I loved to sing, often humming through my chores livening up an otherwise bromidic afternoon. I could see myself upon the stage enlivening the crowd with my tried yet original renditions. The applause, the calls for more, I knew I was ready I would just have to convince everyone else.

 

Initially I was paired up with Bess. She was in charge of costumes. A wardrobe sized woman herself she was kind, with a needle quick eye for loose stitching and basting. She loved the rich fabrics and lush colors the theatre afforded the characters on the stage.

 

“Give me a needle, thread, and a gunny sack and I can turn it into something magnificent,” she declared at our first meeting. Her eyes widened at the “I” in her sentence further enhancing her heavily painted face. She also dressed flamboyantly in a long brightly colored skirt in oranges, pinks, and reds coming down to her sandaled feet. Her alabaster skin gave her the look of a Greek statue when not in motion. She was the most impressive figure I had ever seen.

 

 “Pay close attention my dear, even actresses need to understand the subtlety of dress and costumes of period,” she said. Sage advice I still live with to this day.

 

I had nodded quickly finding myself overwhelmed with the new arrangement. Everyone had their own spaces in small spindly carriages. Some had even painted the outside of their carts to depict their secret desires or rank amongst the others. For instance, Bess’s cart was painted a midnight blue with a large oval mirror depicting a striking woman from the neck down modeling a beautiful crystal gown.

 

Stretch’s carriage depicted a scene from Jack and the Beanstalk. The stalk was painted from the bottom of the carriage to the very top. His being the tallest of course so he could easily stand without cracking his noggin. From the top of the carriage you could see the giant’s monstrous torso and legs coming down the stalk while just below and off to the right was a small Jack running for his life and for the infamous ax.

 

The gypsy, I soon learned, was no gypsy at all. He was an Italian by the name of Mario Bianchi. He not only negotiated all the shows he often starred in most of them as well. His parents, famous in the opera and theatre scene in Rome, were killed in a tragic fire. Their close family friend, Telly, a stooped man with a severe curvature of the spine was left to raise the winsome, wild boy. Telly an avid supporter of dramatics was too disfigured to be on the stage. Shorter than his true height, his neck bent forward and shoved his head out while his spine braced outwards giving his body the shape of a large question mark. He passed all his dreams, wishes, and know-how to Mario.

 

The gypsy kept his carriage simple with black lacquer and gold lettering emblazing his name across the door. His name itself seemed exotic and wondrous. His very scent intoxicated me and I couldn’t be without him for very long.  One day I crept up the door after I knew he had left and loving ran my fingers across the gold lettering wondering what it would be like to have my name beside his in the same burnished way.

 

“He’s quite striking isn’t he?” she said leaning against the carriage catching me in my moment of weakness.

 

I didn’t say anything for fear the quiver in my voice would further give me away. In the time I had been with the group I had cleaned costumes, lugged around props, and helped cook meals. The cook a gnarly man by the name of Winston had been begrudging of my help initially, but we learned quickly to stay out of each other’s way. Being a servant in a large manor house where the young master and mistress took great pride in torturing me and making me cry had given me a distinct advantage.

 

“Hoping to woo the boss much like you have every one else,” she sneered her cigarette hang disjointedly from her lips as she lit it.

 

Her name was Claudette. She was a few years older than me and after paving her way, much as I was doing, she was finally able to act. The current star of all the productions I intended to give her a run for her money. Her hair was shiny blonde and hung down to her waist. Her eyes were cruel yet clever and her mouth when not on stage seemed in a constant of disgust; a beautiful woman with an ugly soul.

 

It was also no secret that she vied for the attention of Mario in all areas. The story was a year after she had been in the group she had snuck into his carriage when Telly was fast asleep at the fire. Upon

*

 

“It was the most brilliant day of my life. I loved him so much and everything was perfect.” She gushed wiping at her eyes.

 

I had gotten her to remove herself from the room, and to take a quick bath. Now we were in the Michelangelo sitting room sipping tea while Rosa reminisced, her silk robe fanning across the settee she favored.

 

The next town they came to they found a priest and exchanged their vows. The troop threw them a small reception at one of the Inns and Rosa found a small red flower to tuck behind her ear much like Mario had done the night he proposed. Every thing was perfect and then she got the letter.

 

“Martha died. That starchy b***h didn’t even give her a proper funeral! All she got was a pine box, and an unmarked stone. Thirty seven years she served that family, and that is all they could give her.” She flicked her cigarette disdainfully and stared morosely out the window.

 

The day was a typical slate winter day in New York. The tears were bare and skeletal, and the streets were surprising sparse of pedestrians. Mr. McCleoud wasn’t expected back until late that night- something about rehearsals for the new show. It had been explained to me most of my interaction would occur with Mrs. McCleoud. I cared not for his whereabouts. Over the years I had become very contemptuous of men and their masculine ways. They walked around as if our only purpose was to serve them. After what had happened with my mother and father I questioned the validity of many things. One thing I was certain of was I would never be held under the controlling thumb of a domineering male ever again.

 

“That’s why my whole name is Rosa Mae. I added the last part after Martha’s death. I knew she wasn’t my real mother; she never kept that from me. She was the only one I ever had though. I should never have left her,” she began to cry again and it was then we heard the front door swing open.

 

“Darling,” he cajoled. “I decided to come home early.”

 

He began to ascend the stairs when she said, “In here Dear. I decided to take my tea in the parlor. That will be all Myrna.” She shooed me quickly from the room. Grabbing up the service from the coffee table I easily understood it was not to be known to Mr. McCleoud that she and I were on such friendly terms. Ducking my head down I rushed to the kitchen.

 

In only took a second of indecision before I found myself with my ear pressed up against the now closed doors. Their voices were muffled but I could hear clearly their conversation.

 

“I told you not to vex me that way. I am dismally tired of hearing that man’s name.”

 

“You wouldn’t be where you are today if it wasn’t for that man. I would remember that if I was you,” she replied snidely.

 

A long pause then a resounding crack; I heard her cry out but was helpless to do anything.

 

“I told you, I got me where I am. It was my money that financed the theatre. My contacts that got the talent that was needed; he would never have gotten that theatre off the ground if it wasn’t for me. I will not have this in my own home.”

 

“You mean my home,” she seethed between her sobs. “It’s my house. He left it to me.”

 

“Everything he had belongs to me now, even you. Don’t forget that.”

 

Then I heard him stepping to the door. I hurried around the corner to the kitchen I hoping he hadn’t seen me eavesdropping.

Author's Note

Comments welcome

Reviews

[An Ordinary Woman]

"Remember the price we pay to get to the oasis is only as much as we can spare." ... love that line!

Another great story, Jennifer. I hadn't read you in a while, but was quickly reminded of your great skills and talent. I admire your ability to create such smooth dialog. I can't ever pull it off.

The characters personalities are very real and well written, I enjoyed it. I like how you added Prince Charles, a nice touch. :+)

A tiny typo, "I could find anything out about her, but I there was nothing. " Maybe should read "I knew there was nothing."

[Robert Luna]

This was a wonderful continuing for the story. I think you do have a winner here. The story is so alluring and really draws you in. I like the way it is flowing along and making such a "I want more" type of reading. I find myself wanting to know more her more and see more but know I have to wait until the next chapter. Keep up the great work.

[Celtic Cat]

I don't see any smudges that need polishing. This flows well and I'm liking this story. I guess we all do have fairy godmothers out there somewhere. : )

[.]

This was really awesome. Again, this story is coming along very nicely. Shocking stuff lol! Bring on the next!

Mikey