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Justin Stone and the Iris of the Madonna
The Stone Foundation's pre-holiday celebration was in full swing. Interestingly, none of the guests included the upper crust of the Eastern Seaboard. The people that were invited were the employees of the Foundation and their families, as well as a few very select individuals.
The celebration was held in the lunch room of the Foundation. The lunch room was a large room, fifty feet by fifty feet square. It was large enough that over three hundred people could easily fit in it without having to speak to each other. The ceilings were patterned tin and ornate brass chandeliers, dripping with crystal, hung from cables high above the black tiled floor. The lamps in the chandeliers were not gas lamps. They were a relatively new invention call the light bulb.
Along one wall were long tables set up to contain foods from around the world. It may have been the first time some of the guests had sampled Indian or Chinese or Mexican cuisine. Justin had made up his mind to set his best foot forward and provide as unique an experience as possible. These were his employees and co-workers. They worked hard for him, and he felt he should reward that hard work in spades, and give them an event to remember.
Men were dressed in their best suits and women in their best dresses to attend. It was the first celebration of its kind since the Foundation had opened. The guests danced to orchestra music or milled around talking or ate from silver dishes.
Justin was the most formally dressed person there, resplendent in his black tuxedo and tails. He explained this to Jonathan by saying, "Everyone needs a figure head, little brother. Someone to look up to and lead them. As head of the Foundation, that task falls to me; therefore, I shall need to look the part."
Jonathan had also dressed in a tuxedo, originally. It fit well enough, except in the arms. When he asked Justin how he looked, Justin's answer was "You look like a baboon doing an impression of a penguin and damned uncomfortable. Why don't you wear what you feel comfortable in?"
Jonathan settled for a custom-made Tombstone shirt with its high collar and studs worn with a charcoal Edgewood suit. He had to agree with Justin. His longish arms and barrel chest made the wearing of a tuxedo a comical affair. His Edgewood suit at least allowed him some freedom of movement. He would have rather worn what he wore at work. Somehow he felt that Justin would have not approved of his tan coveralls with the twenty pockets and the grease stains.
Justin had hired the Boston Symphony Orchestra, newly established in 1881, and they were playing brightly behind him as he stepped up to a small podium and microphone. Jonathan stood nearby, to Justin's right. The Orchestra was playing a piece by Alexander Glazunov, the String Quartet No. 2 Opus 10 in F major. Raising his right hand, Justin waved the orchestra to silence. Those guests who were milling about stopped as he tapped on his wine glass to draw their attention.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced into the microphone, "I am very pleased that you have come to attend our little get together. It is my hope that it is the first in many, many celebrations here at the Stone Foundation. As you have worked hard for the Foundation these past two years, we feel this is how best to reward you. A day of celebration and dining, and it is all for you!"
A cheer went up from the assembled crowd. They had worked hard, creating new inventions and making strides in the areas of science and medicine. Most of their work had not seen the light of day yet, as Justin felt that timing was everything.
"As you know," he continued once the cheer had died down, "the Foundation's primary interest is in the betterment of mankind. This very room is lit with one of the many improvements that you have created. The Monorail that runs through this city is a direct result of what you have done. Children are able to play without fear of smallpox or rubella as a direct result of what you have done. And right now, the Foundation is in negotiation with Britain and Germany for the rights to build the first intercontinental passenger steam powered airships, enabling passengers and good to make the trip across the ocean in not weeks, but days. This, too, is a direct result of the research and hard work that you have done."
Another bout of applause rose from the crowd.
"But you know all of this. You know from the gossip that runs around this place like the plague."
There was some good natured chuckles from the crowd. Justin held up his hand for quiet.
"There are many more changes coming. Many more inventions that could only be done by you, my colleges and co-workers. We are at the forefront of a new world, ladies and gentlemen. And that world belongs to you."
He raised his glass forward. "To you, my friends. The princes and princesses of the new world!" He drained his glass in a single draught. "Now please, dance, talk, and eat! This is all for you!"
He stepped down from the podium and walked to the back of the hall. Jonathan followed him, and once they were out of hearing, he said, "That was some pretty words, Justin. You do realize that you didn't mention anything about retiring."
Justin nodded as he let his gaze pass over the assemblage. "Yes, Jon. I realize that. I know we had discussed turning the business over to Simpson to manage, but I don't think I'm quite ready yet." He turned his smile on, and looked down at Jon. "I'm having too much fun."
"Well," Jonathan said, "that's all fine and good, but what happens when you drop dead from exhaustion? You're already showing signs of collapse, or have you forgotten your little memory lapses?"
"No," Justin replied, his smile disappearing briefly. "I haven't forgotten. I'm just not ready, all right?"
Jonathan shrugged; his suit doing it's best to keep up with the overburden of the muscles underneath. "All right, no skin off my nose. But if you die, don't come running to me." He looked around, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Say, you don't mind if I get out of this monkey suit and get back to work, do you? There's some tweaking I need to do to the steam distiller before we test fly this 'air ship' of yours." He sighed. "I don't know why you decided to sell this thing before it was ever done."
"Go work, Jon." Justin gave a dismissal wave of his left hand. "I know you'd rather be among your gears and grease anyway." He lifted a hand to his brow and his ever present smile was replaced by a tight frown.
Jonathan placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You sure you're okay?" He looked to see if anyone noticed his brother's brief infirmity. "I mean, it's not a bad doings... I can find something to do, if you need me to stick around."
"No," Justin said, forcing the smile to his face. "I'll be fine, Jon." He gave Jonathan a meaningful look. "Perhaps I'll speak to Simpson, after all."
"Good." Jonathan nodded and his mop of curly red hair bobbed. "I think we need to take a vacation, anyway. You've been working constantly for two years, you know. I don't even know if you sleep." A crooked smile passed his face. "Maybe we can fly this goofy balloon of yours to France and cause a scandal."
"As long as it wasn't as big as the one in '78." Justin said. "Speaking of Simpson," he said, nodding towards the crowd, "here he comes."
Erik Simpson, general manager of the Stone Foundation, strode up to the two brothers. He looked like Icabod Crane, with his black suit and his skinny, elongated limbs moving in all directions. Erik had been hired by Justin and Jonathan from a watch making company in Sweden. He was meticulous in just about ever aspect of his life to the point of it being an obsession. His black Birmingham suit, and it was always black, was immaculately pressed and the office joke was that his suit creases were the prototype for Occam's Razor.
"Sir," he said as he reached Justin's earshot, "I don't desire to interrupt you and your..." there was a brief pause while he threw a brief look of disdain towards Jon, "brother, but there are policemen in the lobby, asking for you."
Erik Simpson and Jonathan had disliked each other the moment their eyes locked. Where Erik was tall and slender, Jonathan was built like a steamroller. Where Erik was immaculate in cleanliness and he never had a single thin black hair out of place, Jonathan almost always had dirt, grease, or oil under his fingernails, his hair was almost always had the look that a red tornado had settled on his head. The two men were protons and electrons, spinning around the neutron that was Justin.
"Policemen?" One thin eyebrow raised and Justin looked over at Jonathan. "Did you do something?" he calmly asked.
Jonathan scratched absently at his head. "Not recently." He gave the shrug of the innocent and gave a negative shake of his head. "Nope. Not me, this time."
Directed at Simpson, Justin asked, "Did they say what they were here for?"
Simpson looked conflicted, his sharp face folding and looking miserable. "No sir. I didn't think to ask."
"Well then," Justin said, "I suppose there's nothing for it but to ask them myself. Come on, brother. I may need you." He popped his top hat on his head, stretched his gloves over his hands and gripped his cane. "You do still speak 'cop', don't you?"
-*-
Two floors down, in the lobby, Justin and Jonathan, followed closely by Simpson walked across the black marble floor to where the two policemen stood.
"Did you have to bring him?" Jonathan asked Justin, nodding backward to where Simpson strode behind them.
"Ah, he's not such a bad sort, Jon." Justin smiled, knowing full well how much the two men disliked each other. "You just have to get to know him."
"I do know him, Justin. He's a stuck up bourgeoisie jerk."
Simpson's lemony voice came from behind them. "And you, Master Jonathan are an ill-mannered Orangutan."
"Kids, kids," Justin chastised them. "Play later, all right? No ightingfay in front of the opscay." He stopped abruptly, causing Simpson and Jonathan to bump into each other. "Otherwise there will be no ice cream tonight." He straightened the lapels on his jacket switched on his brightest and most charming smile. Stretching to his full six foot six height, he looked at Jonathan and asked. "Eyes gleaming and innocent?"
Jonathan nodded, reassuringly. "Very blue and innocent looking, brother." His voice dropped a bit when he said, "But I can see the strain at the corners. You're hurting, brother. I can tell."
Justin ignored him and turned to where the policemen stood impatiently. "Gentlemen!" he said cheerfully, "What can I do for the City's finest?" He spread his arms out welcomingly, his cane held in his gloved left hand. "Detective Chanders! How pleasant to see you again. How is the family?"
Police Detective Ezra Chanders was a man of stature and pride. His brown hair was barbered and the part in the middle of his hair was razor sharp and pomade slick. He stood near the tall double revolving doors, with his derby held in his hands before him. His brown sack coat was buttoned against the bit of chill in the air. The late afternoon sun fell on the floor behind him and his shoes, shined to a high gloss, bounced little starlets of sunlight to the high ceiling.
He nodded to Justin, the crags in his hangdog face shifted to toss a polite but grim smile. "Mister Stone." Another brief nod to Jonathan. "Rat."
Ezra's parents ran one of the stores that Jonathan used to frequent as a child, and he was well acquainted with the 'hagglin' rat. The two of them had built a healthy respect, if not a tentative friendship. They would probably never be drinking buddies, but they would never be as far apart as Simpson and Jonathan were, even with Jonathan's occasional digressions of the law.
"The family is fine, Mister Stone," Ezra's face was grim and serious. His eyes flicked briefly from Justin to Simpson and then back to Justin. "They are wondering, though, why their father was called to the station this evening."
"And, pray tell Detective." Justin's smile faded as he caught a look in Ezra's eyes that made him wonder how serious it was. He glanced back at Jonathan, who again, shook his head negatively. Satisfied that his brother was innocent, He turned back to Ezra. "What is it that took you from your lovely wife and children and brought them to me?"
Ezra stepped closer to Justin and leaned in, so that his voice wouldn't be overheard. Justin, taking his cue, leaned in as well. The two men looked as if they were storks talking over dinner. "Can we talk openly, here?" he whispered to Justin.
Justin straightened and looked around. "It is just us here, I assure you. You are well acquainted with my adopted brother, Jonathan, I know. And this is Erik Simpson... the general manager of the Stone Foundation. I trust him explicitly. Anything you say to me, you can say in front of them.
"All right then." He pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket, licked his thumb and flipped to a page. "Do you know a...," he scanned for the name, and finding it, pulled his brown eyes up to look in Justin's blue eyes. "Hauptman. Ernest Hauptman."
"Ernest Hauptman?" Justin turned to look at Jonathan and Simpson. Both men shook their heads negatively. "Ernest Hauptman?" he repeated. "No... I don't think we know an Ernest Hauptman."
"Hm." Ezra turned to the policeman behind him and nodded. Dressed in his eight button coat, each button polished to mirror bright and his tall helmet, the policeman looked as if he should have been patrolling the streets of London rather than standing in the lobby.
His truncheon was clipped to the left side of his belt, and he balanced that on the right side with a leather pouch. From the pouch he retrieved some scraps of paper. He handed them to Ezra.
Ezra looked at the bits of paper in his hand, scanning them as if a mistake had been made. Satisfied, he raised his head to look at Justin. "These were found on the body." He handed the papers over.
Justin started, a bit surprised. "Body?" He took the papers from Ezra, but didn't look at them.
Jonathan said, "Yeah. That's cop talk for a dead person."
Justin turned and gave Jonathan a go to hell look. "I know what he meant, Jon." Justin's perfect composure crumbled a bit, going from nonplussed to plussed in the blink of a blue eye. "I mean, I assumed that's what he meant."
Turning back to Ezra, "So, this Ernest is dead?" Justin turned his attention to the papers he had been handed. It was the envelope and the acceptance letter from the Stone Foundation, address to Ernest J. Hauptman.
"And apparently," Justin said wonderingly, "He was going to come to work for us." He turned to Simpson and handed him the envelope and letter. "Is this authentic," Justin asked. "I don't remember us ever sending out acceptance letters before." Back to Ezra, he said, "We usually deliver an acceptance in person."
Simpson examined the letter, turning it over in his hand. He hummed to himself as he did so, a sound of a man in focus. "It's on our stationary, Mister Stone. The watermark is authentic."
He peered closely at the envelope. "But the envelope is not ours." He stepped forward, holding the envelope out for all to see. "Look here." He pointed to a smudge underneath Ernest's address. "This is an erasure mark."
"That means the envelope is not yours?" Ezra asked, perplexed.
Simpson sniffed, just a bit haughtily. His black eyes flashed. "This letter is an invitation to become a part of the grant dispersal unit. A unit which I, myself, oversee. Any hiring is done with my complete supervision. If, and I use the word 'if' to indicate, detective Chanders, that it would never happen...," he paused to make sure his razor sharp point was made. "If we were to send such an impossible letter, it would be written by myself, and the envelope would also be addressed by myself."
"Which means?" Ezra was showing a bit of impatience.
"Now you see what I put up with," Jonathan muttered.
Simpson shot him a deadly eye. "It means, Detective Chanders, that I did not address this envelope. There is an obvious mistake on it. One that was clumsily erased using a cheap eraser." He sniffed again. "I do not make mistakes."
"You don't...," Ezra let the rest trail off. He turned to Justin.
"There you have it, Detective." He smiled and spread his arms, innocent. "Not only do we not know about this Ernest Hauptman, but we never sent the letter. Perhaps the stationary was found in the rubbish bin. It's tragic that the man died, but..."
"Excuse me." A woman's voice, soft and musical, came from near the elevators and interrupted him.
The men turned and saw a pretty young woman with a healthy Midwestern face and sparkling blue eyes walk towards them. She was dressed in a light blue dressing gown, complimenting her eyes. On her hands were long white opera gloves. Her blond hair was up on top of her head with little ringlets that fell to either side of her face. Her lips, like a tiny pink bow, were pressed together in concentration.
Jonathan stepped forward before any of the other men. "Yes, miss?" His voice, normally a grumbly mixture of last weeks gear grease mixed with the deep throated hum of a steam powered electrical generator, was soft and gentle. "What can I... uh... we do for you?"
"I..." she began, then faltered. "I don't mean to interrupt, but did I hear you say Ernest Hauptman?"
Ezra stepped forward, passed Jonathan. "Do you know him, miss?"
"Yes," said the woman. She was a little thing, only about five feet, and she looked like a child looking up at him. "He's my... friend. He was supposed to be here hours ago." Her voice was full of concern and hesitancy. "Has something happened to him?"
Ezra turned to Justin, to Jonathan, to Simpson, imploringly.
Jonathan stepped forward and took one of her gloved hands. "Who are you, miss?"
"Mary Adams," she said. "I work in the secretarial pool." She raised her blue eyes, now starting to fill with tears and fears and looked into the sky blue of Jonathan's eyes. "I think Ernest was going to propose to me toni..." she choked with sudden awareness of what the appearance of policemen must mean, and looked away, blinking back wetness.
"Oh my," the normally lemon sour voice of Simpson was hushed and solemn.
Once she had gathered her reserves, she turned back and looked directly at Ezra. "Please tell me he's all right." A pause. Then, a whispered plea, "Please."
"Perhaps you should sit down, Miss Adams," Ezra said.
Jonathan took her by the hand and led her to one of the small settees that sat against the wall, under a picture of the Chicago skyline. The lamp light flickered, casting sad shadows, as the sun had decided to fade behind a early evening cloud. The night was starting to gather its forces to take the world back from the day.
Justin watched the episode with an intense curiosity, not saying anything. He held the ivory cap of his cane against his lips, and his eyes glowed like the deepest depths of the ocean.
Jonathan helped Mary set down and then offered her some water.
"No thank you," she said, tightly clasping and unclasping her hands before her. "He called at lunch and told me that he had an errand to run before coming here. He told me it was in the Hallows." She looked miserably at the thick embroidered upholstery of the settee and brushed it with her fingers. "I asked him not to go, but he said that it was just a small errand and it wouldn't take much time."
She raised her eyes imploringly at Ezra. "Tell me," softly voice, a sound without hope, but with a dream of maybe.
Ezra folded his six foot frame until his face was equal with Mary's. "I'm very sorry Miss Adams, but your...," he never finished.
Mary broke. Great sobs pulled from her throat. Tears rolled down her cheeks to splash on the fabric and the floor. She didn't cry loudly, she didn't scream or gnash or thrash. Just a low and soft keening, torn apart with the hiccup of her sobs.
Simpson stood like a statue, unsure of how to react. Ezra stood up, folded the notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. Jonathan folded the woman in his arms and held her, saying no words but making comfort sounds, much as a mother would with a wounded child.
And Justin just watched it all, making a hum deep in his throat.
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:) I love the way you write. Just for the record... :)
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Thanks, Chum. Really and truly, words such as yours is why I continue. Oddly, knowing your predilection for proper grammar and syntax, I'm surprised you never jumped in and joined the Capi Brigade for structure and usage.
Yeah, I loves yah.
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Uh... i object, your honor. How BEST to reward them? Well, no, not really. But another way to show his appreciation of their hard work and dedication, certainly! He *pays* them, yes? That rewards them. He employs them in a really excellent work environment, whereas lots of other folks out there are not so lucky. That, too, is a reward. This party is a bonus, and cannot be considered Justin's best reward to his employees.... Yeah yeah, nit-picky, i know, but Justin is a pretty exact sorta guy, isn't he?
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"As you know," he continued once the cheer had died down, "the Foundation's primary interest is in the betterment of mankind. This very room is lit with one of the many improvements that you have created. The Monorail that runs through this city is a direct result of what you have done. Children are able to play without fear of smallpox or rubella (( i'm not certain of my facts here, and you usually are, but i was under the impression that smallpox AND rubella were both conquered sometime later than this... )) as a direct result of what you have done. And right now, the Foundation is in negotiation with Britain and Germany for the rights to build the first intercontinental passenger steam powered airships, enabling passengers and good to make the trip.... (( passengers and good?? ))
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erik Simpson, general manager of the Stone Foundation, strode up to the two brothers. He looked like Icabod Crane, with his black suit and his skinny, elongated limbs moving in all directions. Erik had been hired by Justin and Jonathan from a watch making company in Sweden. He was meticulous in just about ever aspect... (( every?? ))
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"And, pray tell Detective." Justin's smile faded as he caught a look in Ezra's eyes that made him wonder how serious it was. He glanced back at Jonathan, who again, shook his head negatively. Satisfied that his brother was innocent, He turned back to Ezra. "What is it that took you from your lovely wife and children and brought them (( them?? uh... you?? )) to me?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The men turned and saw a pretty young woman with a healthy Midwestern face and sparkling blue eyes walk towards them. She was dressed in a light blue dressing gown,...
Uh... i'm not sure if you intended this or not, or if you KNOW this or not, but a dressing gown is like... um... kind of like a bathrobe. It's what they wore while they got ready, before they actually put on their fancy duds. Y'know, while they did hair and make-up and stuff? So as not to rumple their finery. She would NOT be at the party wearing it, unless she's... um... whacked. *chuckle* Like i said, unless that was your intention.
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Mary Adams," she said. "I work in the secretarial pool." She raised her blue eyes, now starting to fill with tears and fears and looked into the sky blue of Jonathan's eyes. "I think Ernest was going to propose to me toni..." she choked with sudden awareness of what the appearance of policemen must mean, and looked away, blinking back wetness.
*silence* Hrm. Uh. Darlin'... under NO circumstances would a lady speak this out loud. MAYBE to her mother, MAYBE to her dearest most trusted girlfriend. MAYBE. But here? NO kinda way. No. I can see you needed to engage their sympathy.... *wince* That was vastly too blatant.
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Once she had gathered her reserves, she turned back and looked directly at Ezra. "Please tell me he's all right." A pause. Then, a whispered plea, "Please."
THIS, otoh, was perfect.
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*raised eyebrows* Ah, Jon steps in with comfort! Well done, Jon!! *applause* And Justin.... watches..... hrmmmmm...
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Although, why is it that she wouldn't admit to them that she thought that Ernest was going to propose to her? She's distraught, and distraught folks say all sorts of things. The truth just sort of babbles out of them.
I wondered as I typed it about the dressing gown, and you're absolutely right. I should have made it a light blue BALL gown.
Rubella and smallpox, in our world WAS pretty much defeated later then 1884. In fact, smallpox has made a resurgence in Africa. Justin's world is an ALTERNATE world, hon. Many things may occur before they occurred here. Something may not happen at all. For instance, Jonathan invents the radio a full 20 years before it becomes a reality in our world. Transcontinental dirigibles didn't exist for another 30 years or so after this story takes place.
Now... about the party. Pay might be considered a reward, but it is not the BEST reward. Really, pay is just the end result of employment. An excellent work environment is not a reward. It either is or it is not. The work environment is a result of the morality and conscience of the employer, not a reward. It might be a benefit, tho. The environment is something that Justin set up without a thought. To him it is the most logical and reasonable thing to do.
Therefore, the party, the celebration with a full day off and everything paid for, is the way that the Stone Foundation shows it's appreciation to it's employees. The party is not a benefit. It might be a bonus, but more importantly, it's a very visible effort on the part of the Foundation to show it's appreciation.
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I did not realize you were working an alternate reality; your story is so very close to ours. That shifts things, complicates things. Either they need to be made clear that you are doing so, cuz it's not clear, or they need to be brought into line that with our reality, cuz for now, it's WAY not clear. You saying that shorted out some of my circuits. *grin/snort* If that is your choice, it must be obvious, or you confuse us.
When you said the party was taking place in the break room, and then the room you described was this incredibly huge, incredibly expensive room.... well! I've never experienced a break room as anything but a cramped little after-thought of a place, usually something less than clean, these days with a fridge and a microwave and a coffee-maker in it... A table and some beat-up chairs that aren't *quite* ready to be sent to Goodwill. *LOL* Justin, of course, thinks differently, but the room he provides is.... LAVISH. Wasteful, in fact, by the standards of the times, unless all his people take their breaks at the same time and/or he needs them to be able to come together at the same time in this room frequently. This sort of thing could help justify your alternate reality statement. If people HERE in our reality know when we defeated smallpox and rubella, and you have it going out some other time in your story, it makes them frown in confusion unless and until it becomes VERY clear that yours is not the same reality. You see what i'm saying?
The "best reward" thing... A party is a passing thing. Over and done in a single day (out of 365). Treating your people well, paying them well, giving them the sort of bennies they need and treating them fairly as their employer is what they want and need most. NOT being an ass, but rather being a genuine person with them... THOSE are far better rewards to the people. You might wave that away as not rewards, but the employers of the day were often not very humane, and the pay was not good, and certainly not reliable. An annual party is... *shrug* ..just to fleeting to be a solid reward in the face of the rest of the year in terms of practicality, and those people were VERY practical. They had to be. Life was still very hard. Answers were coming forth, tis true, but... well, you know what i mean. *grin* You follow your heart. I stand by what i said, but i'm not gonna argue with ya.
I absolutely agree with your sentiment that the party is a very visible effort on the part of the Foundation to show its appreciation.
As for Mary's gown.... She is not a rich lass. She may very well not *own* a ball gown. Not everyone had the means for such a luxury. But she would have had one dress among her few that was her best, her special occasion dress, her Sunday-goin'-to-meetin' dress. Her blue gown. You would merely call it a gown, in that case, and let it go at that. She might even have to borrow the gloves, maybe yes, maybe no, but there is no way the guys would have known that... They'd just see "white gloves". Mary would know to wear them, even if she didn't own a pair of her own.
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I absolutely hated writing the party scene. I had no idea what I was doing when it was written and was just throwing things out there to fill the space. I realize that the working conditions of that time (and yes, alternate or not, the worlds are VERY similar) were horrible and I also realize that Justin's lunch room was extremely lavish. Perhaps rather than a 'showing appreciation' sort of affair, it should be a "Thank you all for your hard work and have a wonderful holiday!" sort of affair. It does occur in the early part of November, just before Thanksgiving.
I'll rethink Mary's statements. Perhaps, rather than saying that she thought he was going to propose to her, a hopeful "He said he had something very special to ask me." sort of thing.
And darlin, dear dear sister. These characters are fiction. Of course it's an alternative reality. They didn't live in ours, certainly. I'm sorry if I short circuited your brain. I didn't mean to.
I think, out of all the stuff I've written, this will be one I have to go back and re-write, after all is said and done. There's a lot of stuff I write here that simply fills space until I know where the story is going.
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Aren't we two lucky folks?? We LOVE each other!!! That is an awesome thing!!
(and my short circuit seems to be mending nicely, thank you! *grin*)