Sterling Court Cul-de-sac by D.B. Pacini Contents Fifteen Minutes of Fame Mrs. Mitchell’s Golden Memories Cobwebs and Roses Postpartum Depression House Rules The Pool Shark The Donovan Family Crisis Turner Maxwell Books Free Publishing Free Books Free Literature Free Writers Turner Maxwell Books are an independent co-operative of new writers, committed to publishing inspirational literature. Turner Maxwell Books has over one hundred writers, producing original stories not seen in any other bookshop, Turner Maxwell Books has established itself as a successful and viable publisher. This achievement lies in its innovative and daring approach to establish a shorter supply chain that is simply focused on the requirements of the reader.

Sterling Court Cul-de-sac

by

D.B. Pacini

Sterling Court Cul-de-sac is a seven part connected fictional story about one cul-de-sac in Sacramento, California that happens to have seven homes. A "slice of American life" insight into each household is revealed.

Contents

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Mrs. Mitchell’s Golden Memories

Cobwebs and Roses

Postpartum Depression

House Rules

The Pool Shark

The Donovan Family Crisis

An extract from Fifteen Minutes of Fame

1750-A Sterling Court

    Merry Jayne stretches the handles of a plastic grocery bag to the bend of her elbow and balances a foil wrapped pie tin on her forearm as she stands before the wall hanging mailbox next to her front door. The duplex has attractive yards with masses of rhododendron, rose and azalea bushes, shade trees, and a lovely wisteria climbing over the backyard gazebo. The green lawns are neatly trimmed. Mr. Mitchell, her neighbor and landlord, hires a gardener to mow the grass each week. His children and grandchildren plant daffodils and other colorful flowers each spring, and do the gardening. They’ve made a backyard sanctuary for Mrs. Mitchell. Merry Jayne thinks it’s as beautiful as anything Martha Stewart could create, but she only sees it from her windows, or when she takes her trash and recycling to the refuse bins. Mr. Mitchell often urges her to sit out there. She wishes he’d stop.
    She retrieves her phone bill, a toothy reminder postcard from her dentist for her six month cleaning, and some junk mail addressed to Occupant. Her feet are dry inside her rain boots, but her shoulders shiver under her damp raincoat. She shoves a wad of weekly supermarket advertisements and a flyer announcing the grand opening of a pizza parlor into the gaping mouth of a small recycling receptacle on her porch. The bottom of the flyer is a coupon for a free picture of soda and $3.00 off on an extra large deluxe pizza. She smiles sympathetically. Hopefully they make pizza better than they spell.
    She inserts the one key she has on her little flashlight key ring into the door lock. The silent rooms are as she’s left them for nearly three years. Because she needs to hear something, she usually calls out, “Honey, I’m home!” The nicely but sparsely furnished living room, bedroom, and dining nook are cleaner than spotless. The carpets have deep vacuum marks, and the kitchen and bathroom linoleum floors are scrubbed to a gleam. Merry Jayne removes her boots, cleans the soles with baby wipes, and sets them on an entrance bookcase reserved for her four pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots. The shelves of the bookcase are covered with vinyl shelf liner. She hangs her purse and umbrella on a coat stand, discards the soiled baby wipes, and deposits the grocery bag and pie tin on her petite dinette table with two chairs tucked under it. No one has ever sat in the second chair. In socks she tiptoes to the bathroom, takes a shower, and hangs her raincoat to dry.
    In her bedroom she opens her closet, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “What shall we wear this evening? The satin Dries Van Noten gown, the haute couture Dior, the Givenchy, the Marchesa, the Chanel Haute Couture, or perhaps the Michael Kors halter style hand-embroidered Swarovski crystal and sterling silver flowers gown that Jennifer Garner once borrowed for the red carpet? Or maybe we’ll wear the elegant black silk Taffeta Oscar de la Renta fishtail she borrowed for the Academy Awards? That Jennifer, she’s always raiding this closet!”
    Merry Jayne selects her jersey knit nightgown with matching robe and her Dearfoams slippers. She loads the clothes she wore this rainy day into the washer: her corduroy shirt, turtleneck, flannel lined poplin pants, cotton panties, no-under-wire bra, and knee socks. She only buys clothing that can be washed together.
    Next she takes the groceries and pie into the kitchen. Her refrigerator contains a quart of orange juice, butter, condiments, sliced turkey, a bowl of washed grapes, and an open box of baking soda. She adds a bag of salad mix, a plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, and a loaf of wheat bread. The freezer has a stack of Amy’s organic dinners, two pints of Cherry Garcia, and a box of toaster waffles. She considers one of the dinners for a moment but instead fills a mug with water from a Brita pitcher, and sets the mug into the microwave.
    While she waits she speaks to her spoon, “No my love, I don’t want cognac tonight, not again. Please, let’s have nice cocoa instead.”
    Her day is almost done. Except for the laundry, she only needs to decide what to do with the pie. It is her favorite, pecan. She removes the crumpled foil. Jill makes pies from scratch. Merry Jayne knew she shouldn’t have accepted a second thin slice because Jill later insisted that she take the pecan home and Anita take the lemon meringue. Fortunately, Jill always washes her hands before she touches food. If Anita had made the pies, Merry Jayne would not have eaten any. She would have said she had a big breakfast. Anita rarely washes her hands.
    She cuts the half of pie into three pieces, places them on saucers, and covers each with plastic wrap. The microwave beeps; she put the saucers in the refrigerator, and then stirs chocolate mix into the hot water.
    “Yes darling, I‘d like a few, thank you.”
    She adds five miniature marshmallows to her cocoa and pops two in her mouth. She can relax soon; after she washes the knife and spoon, disinfects the kitchen counter, and throws the disposal pie pan, foil, grocery bag, and chocolate packet into the trash. There, the kitchen is perfect.
    In the living room she watches a movie on TV that she has seen before. She isn’t hungry this evening. When you live alone, there’s nobody asking what’s for dinner. She sometimes skips it, settling for cocoa or tea, a pint of ice cream, or a bag of popcorn. But, she admits to herself, “It would be nice to have someone expecting dinner, someone to eat with.”
    The washing machine buzzes, and after a while the dryer. She hangs up her freshly laundered clothes and puts her folded under things in the dresser. Before retiring, she arranges four throw pillows on the sofa in pairs and puts the TV remote on the coffee table beside two stacks of People and Martha Stewart Living magazines. She washes, dries, and puts away her mug, and picks up a leaf from the kitchen floor.
    In the bathroom she washes her hands, brushes and flosses her teeth, wipes the sink and counters with baby wipes, and then hangs up her robe in the closet. Tomorrow is Thursday, her day to bring a pastry for morning break, and since she doesn’t bake, she always stops at the bakery. She sets her alarm a half hour earlier than usual.
    When the alarm goes off the next morning, Merry Jayne dutifully does her routine. After washing her hands and face, brushing her teeth and hair, putting on moisturizer and lip gloss, she wipes out the bathroom sink. She then dresses, hangs up her nightgown, and makes her bed. She prepares and packs her lunch, has a cup of instant coffee and one waffle for breakfast, and then thoroughly cleans the kitchen. The carpets need a quick vacuuming, and she must throw away the trash. She takes the nearly empty bag to the refuse bins out back and hurries to the bus shelter.
    When she exits the bakery shop with a pink donut box, she has seventeen minutes to get to work one city block away, plenty of time. The morning is chilly, and although Dave Bender’s weather report the night before promised no rain, she has her umbrella just in case. Merry Jayne tucks her chin into her scarf and strolls down the sidewalk enjoying the crisp air. Across the street, a broad-shouldered Caucasian man with short-cropped black hair, in a tattered tweed jacket and putty-colored carpenter style pants, bear hugs a man wearing a trench coat. The victim is shoved to the ground as his assailant grabs his briefcase and runs across the street, bumping smack into Merry Jayne.
    Donuts fly. The hazel-eyed mugger, who is thirty to thirty-five-years-old, and about six inches taller than Merry Jayne, looks directly at her while she screams, “Fire!” and whacks him with her umbrella. He pauses only a second with a flabbergasted expression on his face. A second is long enough; she sees a spider tattoo on his neck. He chuckles, “Fire, you outta yer cotton pickin’ mind, lady?” Later, she tells police that he has a distinctive southern drawl, much like John Travolta’s accent in the movie A Love Song for Bobby Long.
    Merry Jayne rushes to the injured man and is horrified. He’s been stabbed. She’s wearing gloves, but cannot touch blood even with gloves on. She piles her scarf on his chest, and then presses her hands to the scarf. The man moans as she continues to shout, “Fire!” Several people emerge from shops and offices, two carry fire extinguishers. They find a frantic woman kneeling on the sidewalk leaning over a man. His light blue shirt and silver/dark blue striped tie are stained red.
    A bystander uses his cell phone to call 911 and then takes charge of the scene. “Get back, don’t crowd! Give them room. Get back!”
    A woman gasps, “Oh my God, is that Rock Everett?”
    A wiry delivery man nods yes and mumbles, “Rich as Trump, almost.”
    A third voice asks for operator’s assistance with his cell phone, “Connect me with Baines, Everett, and Mulligan.”
    Merry Jayne doesn’t know the investment firm is one of the oldest and most respected. She’s never heard of Rock’s father who is as well known in California as their movie star governor. She has no idea that the park where she feeds squirrels during her lunch hour was donated to the city by Rock’s grandfather. An ambulance, fire truck, and several police cars arrive, including the chief’s, sirens blaring.
    Media vans screech to a halt. A swarm of reporters buzz through the growing crowd with microphones. All day TV news channels will run a clip of Rock clinging to Merry Jayne’s gloved hands, “Who are you? Please come with me!” Pallas Hupé and Sam Shane interview Rock’s stunned business associates and personal friends on CBS Channel 13 for three days.