Midnightmuse – I never get tired of "I love it reviews"! I have this horrible insecurity about everything I write. So Thank you! I almost hate to admit this, but Sands' emotional blindness is inspired by my husband, from when we started dating (this last time around.) The comment that Sands must have pissed off a gypsy in a former life is something a friend once said of my husband and his horrible luck with relationships… and why it took him so long to admit that we were much more than just friends...
Lyra – thank you! Yes, Beth is going away but definitely coming back.
Captn-Jack's-Bonnie-Lass – thank you! It's always good to hear that the emotions are getting through… (this chapter isn't quite as bad… but I've got Chapter 12 in the rough… and…may I humbly suggest tissues near by.)
Quick, Glamis, Inuz – thank you, thank you, thank you! I truly appreciate your many, many kind words. It makes my day, it really does.
Chapter Eleven:
Personal Questions
I wake – and my little talking clock tells me that it's diez y cincuenta y siete. Ten Fifty Seven.
After Beth left me last night… left me thinking about… kisses and… all sorts of other things I probably shouldn't have been thinking about… I think it was almost five a.m. the last time I checked the time… but all things considered, six hours isn't bad – I've gotten by on a heck of a lot less in my life. My life… Christ, I don't want to think about that right now. Because – Milo's right – even if I somehow get through this, life as I know it is over… and what the Hell is a guy like me going to do as a civilian? I have no marketable skills – and no tolerance for my fellow human beings…
And I still can't get that kiss out of my head. I mean – it was just a kiss on the cheek… but… damn. All I can think of is what it might feel like to have those lips smothering mine…
Yeah, I know, who the Hell am I trying to kid, right? It was just a kiss on the cheek. It didn't mean anything. For Christ's sake, just look at me. What would a woman like Beth want with a guy like me anyway? I can't even make up for my disfigurement with a charming personality… we all know what kind of man I am.
More then the sum of my parts… right. I am just exactly what you see – no more, no less. I am a killer, ruthless in every way. No one cares about me and care about no one – one great big rock, just like that Simon and Garfunkle song...
Still stewing, I go about the usual business of the morning, then run a quick bath and dig out some cloths that I think smell clean. I have no idea what's what – but more than a few people of my acquaintance have commented that my wardrobe is so offensive, I doubt that anyone would even notice the difference, anyhow. At least now, I'll have an excuse for wearing a brown sport coat with a purple t-shirt…
The last thing I do is slide the new glasses into place – they're a perfect fit and with the way the arms loop, they should stay in place through just about anything. She really is an angel… which is why I know she'd never go for a guy like me. Even before – I never would have had a shot with a woman like Beth. "Sheldon Jeffrey Sands – you might just be the world's biggest fuckmook, I hope you know that," I say to the reflection I can't see.
Stepping forth from the bedroom, I smell the coffee. It smells fresh… but there are no sounds to suggest human habitation… ok, I'm jumpy. I go to my trunk – one of the Brownings comes to hand. That'll do, not too big, not too small – now, where did I put – ah – right there, shoulder holster. I slip into it and camouflage the whole affair with a button down shirt (it feels like one of my western style shirts. Cool. Just the thing to go with the shorts… wonder if they're the brown ones, the khaki, or the olive drab...?)
I make my way into the kitchen. Silence.
Now – I know Cicily is at school. "Beth?" Come on, Darlin', no fair playing hide and seek with the blind guy... especially not when he's a paranoid little fuck like me… I walk to the back door – "Beth?"
"Morning, Cowboy," I hear her voice from off in the 'garden' (Cicily has informed me that her mother's garden is quite large and very beautiful… not that I would have appreciated such a thing, even if I could see it. I can't tell the difference between a daisy and a marigold.)
I let out the breath I didn't quite realize I'd been holding. "Morning," I call back to her. And – I honestly can't tell you if I'm relieved she's still using her nickname for me – or disappointed that she hasn't called my by my given name since repeating it back at me.
"Why don't you grab a cup of coffee and come join me?"
It sounds like she's a good ten or fifteen yards from the veranda – off to the right… but more importantly, it doesn't sound as if there's some guy in a ski mask with a gun pointed at her head… yeah, I know, I'm paranoid. I only wish I'd been more paranoid a couple of months ago… even a couple of weeks ago…
"Can I bring you a cup?" I holler back to her, mostly because I just don't want to think about… anything.
"I don't know – can you carry two cups of coffee and a cane?"
I know she's smiling – but I don't like to be reminded that I actually need that thing – and maybe I should have grabbed it as well as the gun… but… I just don't like it. Of course, I am also not one to shy away from a challenge. "Be right there, Sugar Butt," I chime back.
Oh well – I forgot my cigarettes anyway… so back to the bedroom my happy little ass goes…
…I pour the coffee (without burning my fingers – have you ever tried to pour coffee blind? It's a lot harder than you might think) – and realize something... I go back to the door, "Hey - Beth?"
"Yeah?"
"What do you put in your coffee?"
"You are feeling generous this morning," I can hear her grinning at me. "About a teaspoon of honey. It's on the counter next to the coffee maker – probably to the left of it."
Honey? In coffee? Ok, she's weird. "Gotcha," I reply.
A little fumbling and I've found the honey (it was on the right) and a teaspoon… now, my sister waited tables all through college. She can probably still carry three cups in one hand with a stack of plates up the other arm, all without spilling a thing. I don't profess to possess quite that much dexterity… however, I do manage not to break either a mug or my neck getting the coffee outside.
"Ok – now what?" I call, as I try to determine exactly where I'm supposed to go.
"Over here – keep going straight – off the edge of the veranda there's a path – that'll lead you back to me."
The ledge of the veranda is only about an inch higher than the ground – cobblestone – ok… I can do this. Gentle swishing motions with the cane – not too far to either side (this is also a lot more difficult than you might think) – nice and slow… the cobblestones aren't too uneven… good thing, I'm barefooted. I never go barefooted, it's just not natural.
I follow the path of sun-warmed cobblestone as it curves around…
"Good Lord," Beth calls out, presumably when she sees me.
"Well I suppose I've been called worse. What am I wearing?"
"You might be better off if I don't tell you. Although I must say – you have some knobby knees there, Cowboy."
"I beg your pardon – I have very nice legs."
"If you say so," she sounds dubious. "Hang on," she says, as I step off the path.
I wait – I hear her moving towards me– and then – "Which one is me?" She asks of the coffee cups.
"Left – your left."
Beth takes her cup and offers me her elbow.
I let her take the cane and guide me the rest of the way – she helps me settle onto the ground – there's a thick blanket lain out. Through it, I feel the roots of a tree – cautiously I lean back… My back comes into contact with a good sturdy feeling tree trunk; I let it take the rest of my weight. "What are you doing out here, anyway?" I ask.
"Digging up some jicama for one of my neighbours – she loves it but she can't seem to get it to grow. I'm the neighbourhood green thumb."
"You grow hiccups?"
"Jicama. It's a root – tastes a little like water chestnut -" her tone is one of mild exasperation.
I just smile. I've never been good at keeping anything alive. One of these days I really am going to have to ask Holly just what she saw in me… you guessed it – not only was she the back to Nature type, but she had to bring the Nature home with her, too. Her apartment was a regular jungle – only thing she was missing was Marlin Perkins.
Beth settles herself down next to me – I can feel the fabric of another one of those long skirts… and her legs brush up against mine (at which point I'm glad I opted for the shorts, even if she does think my knees are knobby. I kinda like the way she feels next to me… fuckmook… says my brain. It's referring to me. But I'll bet you guessed that already.)
"How're you feeling?" she asks me.
"I'll live."
"Well that's good – I'd hate to think I was going to loose a patient." Then – her tone changes – it's not just serious it's – that almost sad tone again. "Seriously, though, Sheldon – you're going to need at least another couple weeks under a doctor's care, although I'd feel better if you told me you were going to take it easy for another month or two."
Sheldon. I pull out my cigarettes and offer her one.
"Yes, please," she says…
I light both before I hand one over to her.
"You are in a mood."
"And that surprises you?"
"Let's just say it's not quite what I've come to expect from my favourite patient."
Favourite patient… I guess I can live with that. I take a long drag off my smoke, "I don't think taking it easy is something I'm going to be doing much of, there, Darlin'. Depending on what Milo finds out – I mean – you have to have guessed there's a reason I'm here and not in a hospital, right?"
"I had a feeling."
I just nod.
She doesn't press the issue.
I smoke my cigarette. I drink my coffee. I very much enjoy sitting next to her, especially when she shifts a little bit closer to me. "Can I ask you a personal question?" I ask after a bit.
"I already said you could ask me anything."
I hear the smile in her voice… but… "I'm serious."
"Of course you can," she says as she lays a hand on my knee; her fingers curl over it. I hear Beth put out her cigarette (I'm taking a wild guess, but I bet she pockets the butt. In the endeavour to be courteous, I do the same. Like I said, I do know how to be polite, I just usually choose not to.)
I contemplate lighting another cigarette before going on – but decide to hold off. She seemed to get a little testy about my chain-smoking yesterday… "You – said – Neal wasn't the first man who ever – hit you." No, I'm not trying to be a prick here, folks. I minored in psychology and I want to know who taught this amazing woman that she could never be good enough. I want to know who gave her the notion that it was perfectly acceptable for some fucker to use her as his personal punching bag. I don't know that I plan to do anything with the knowledge... I just want my curiosity satisfied.
I listen to her breathing for a few, long, moments… I rest my hand on top of hers – maybe I am being a prick. I'm about to tell her to forget I asked, when I feel her fingers stretch under my hand – and then she laces her fingers into mine. I swallow, just a little…
"My father."
Well that I hadn't expected – there was nothing in her tone when she spoke of him before to suggest he'd hurt her. Of course if I had the use of my eyes… there are times when being blind is just damned inconvenient. I give her hand a little squeeze – it just seems like the right thing to do – she responds by squeezing back.
"It wasn't what you think," Beth tells me in a soft – no, a little voice. "He was just – trying to be a good father, trying to do what he thought was right – trying to make me a better person."
"With what – the back of his hand?" I'm kinda glad this creep is already dead.
"Belt. Usually. Sometimes it was just whatever came to hand."
My jaw clenches… I'm not a nice guy. I will do whatever I have to do to get the job done – and if you've been with me from the beginning, you know how much provocation it really takes for me to kill a man. No regret. No apologies. No going back. I don't have a particularly soft spot for kids – Hell, I don't even like children – but… I still can't imagine just grabbing whatever came to hand and smacking my daughter around because I'd had a bad fucking day. I don't even know my kid and I know I wouldn't hit her like that. Beth's old man knew her from day one – before day one, really – how could he possibly have hurt her – how could he let her grow into the kind of woman who would let other men hurt her? What kind of father does something so – irresponsible?
"Spare the rod and spoil the child, right?" She says. "That's what the priest always told him, every time I got dragged into the confessional. It was a small town – kinda – backwater – in just about every way. Life was hard – we didn't have much – I'm one of – of – three. After Mom she died – Dad just didn't know what to do – not with any of us. But especially not with me. I never fit in."
"That's no excuse," I tell her; it hasn't escaped my notice that she hesitated on the number of children in the family.
"You don't understand."
"You're right – I don't." I light up another cigarette. "I'm not sure I want to."
"He was only doing what he thought was best – doing the best he could."
Why do I just not believe it. "How old were you when your mother died?"
"Nine. My little sister was only four – she kept asking when Mamma was coming back home – I finally had to explain to her that Mamma wasn't coming back – Dad didn't have the words. Which – didn't make him any happier about the words I chose. I've always been – the oddball," she lets out a little laugh. "And – Daddy was so lost. Mom was more than his wife and our mother – she handled the whole house – he earned the money, but she made sure the bills got paid on time, she bought the groceries and cooked the meals – she did everything for him. For all of us."
"You were the oldest girl?" I hazard a guess.
"Yeah – but – it's a little more complicated than that. It was just a really bad year. Can I steal another cigarette?"
"Any time," I force a half a smile and fish out my pack. I took on the role of man of the house voluntarily. I figured someone had to do it – someone had to look out for Alison when Mom was at work – especially with guys like Chet around. But Mom never forced it on me – not the way I think Beth's old man must have forced it on her. At nine years old – and just because she was the girl. Christ. I hate the fucker and I don't even know him.
Beth takes the cigarette from my fingers – I hold my lighter carefully so she can get it lit.
"You really do know how to be a gentleman," she says, as she's getting it lit.
"I try."
"Well I imagine you are very trying anyway," her grin is audible. "So – what about you, you have family or are you really the lone Cowboy?"
"My old man took off when I was six – he left me, my two year old sister and our Mother – a woman whose only aspiration in life had been to be a house wife and Mommy. She worked two, sometimes three jobs because the only things she could get didn't pay much. We still ended up moving around a lot. We didn't really settle in one place until I was – sixteen or seventeen, I think. Roanoke, Virginia."
"Did she ever remarry?"
I shake my head, "No. She – dated a little. Always the wrong men."
"My Dad didn't even date – Mom was the one true love of his life."
"I doubt my father knows what the words 'one true love' mean. He's probably on wife number four my now. I've never actually met him – but I like to keep tabs on people."
I hear her snicker, "I can imagine you doing that. Is your mother still alive?"
"She died – four / five years ago – heart attack. Her health hadn't been very good the last little while – at least that's what my sister told me."
"I take it you didn't see much of them?"
"I – never had the time. When Mom died, I was sort of up to my short and curlies in something and missed the funeral. I don't think Alison – that's my sister – has forgiven me. But I honestly only would have been in the way."
"That's not the point, Sheldon. There are some things you just do."
Which is almost exactly what Alison told me – although Beth says it considerably less venom. "Even – if I'd wanted to go – I couldn't have gotten away," I tell her.
"I guess – I don't have much room to talk. I'm an aunt seven times over, and I've never seen even seen pictures of my sister's youngest two. I doubt the older three really remember me either."
"What about your older brother?" Because of course if she's the oldest girl, that seems to imply that not only is there a brother, but he's obviously older… (and why didn't he protect her from this husband of hers? I know what I'd do to some creep who used Alison as a punching bag… not that I'd even know; I really haven't spoken to her in… a long time… I wonder if they've gotten around to telling my sister that I'm dead… maybe I should just let her believe it, if they have... our last conversation was pretty heated.) Beth is speaking:
"Corey's divorced. He has two boys he never gets to see. But – I was never real close to he or my sister – Glenna. She – you don't want to know what she said when I showed up on her doorstep, after leaving Neal. He's a real good catch, you see."
"No – no I'm afraid I don't see," I tell her – and it has nothing to do with my inability to see.
Beth chuckles, just a little – she understands me. God, what a scary thought… "Glenna's husband Jeremy is laid off more often than he's working. Neal's from a good family – he has a good steady income. We lived in a big house – I even had a housekeeper."
"So you were a regular lady of luxury," I tease her gently.
"Yeah – I hated it. I can't stand someone else going through and re-arranging my house. I'm a Virgo. We like to keep our things just the way we like to keep them."
I chuckle –astrology really isn't my bag (bunch of bull hockey, if you really want my opinion), but wouldn't you know, Holly again… and just in case you're wondering, I'm a Scorpio… yep, it's almost my birthday...
"As far as Glenna was concerned, a few bruises were a fair trade forthe financial security I got from Neal. Neither she or Corey knows where I am – he just has my email – there's a library in town – I use their computers," she explains. "I hear from him – maybe once a month. We're not close – like I said – I was the oddball, even in my own family."
"What about the other brother or sister?" I ask. Just to have my curosity satisifed. I hear Beth's sharp little intake of air – at last, I'm the one catching her off guard… However, that little feeling of glee evaporates the instant she opens her mouth and I hear the pain in her voice…
"Daniel. My twin. He died six months and three days after Mom. It – was a really bad year."
Me and my big fat fucking mouth…
"Remember I said I've seen scarier things?" she asks – I think I feel her squeeze my fingers a little harder.
I nod, "Yeah."
"He – drowned. It was an accident – Doc Peterson said he probably hit his head on a rock or something in the water – Daniel was like that. He'd dive in, even where he knew he wasn't supposed to. He was missing for – almost a week before the river gave him back. It was the middle of July."
Oh Christ – if she tells me she found the body – I know what happens to a body when you drown – and I can all too well imagine a week-old floater, in July – in Alabama…. I am such an ass. Maybe when this is all over, I should just go off some place quiet and live by myself...
"He – washed ashore – not even a mile from our house," I feel her shudder… "There were flies – but it was the smell that got to me – I still can't handle the smell of – anything – rotting. I – barely even recognized him."
"Beth – I'm sorry – I shouldn't have asked." I am the world's biggest fuckmook.
"It's – it's not just – that I found him – it's that – that was the first time my father – hit me. With the belt – I mean."
"What?"
"He said it was my fault Daniel drowned – and he – I needed sixteen stitches. The – little metal claspy thing – it caught my leg." She takes my hand and runs it over the scar (under any other circumstances, I'd be only too pleased to have my hand on her thigh… but… Christ. It isn't just one long scar – it's like he hit her over and over and each blow left a deep gash… and he just didn't stop. Now I really hate the man.)
"Jesus fucking Christ. Why would your father think you had anything to do with your brother drowning?" Which I suppose I really shouldn't have asked… I should learn to leave well enough alone… but we have already established that I am a fucking asshole, right?Even when I don't quite mean to be, it just – happens.
"I get – these gut feelings, remember? Sometimes I – see stuff – dreams. For almost the week – I kept – seeing Daniel. I knew where he'd wash up. I went there every day – and I – waited. And finally – there he was – only – only it was so much worse in real life. In the dream, there wasn't any – smell. And – my father – he – told me that I knew because – because it was somehow my fault," the tears have started… "But – the day it happened, the day he didn't come home– I was at home all day. I was washing my father's shirts – because I didn't get them right the first time. I knew something was wrong - but I didn't know what. And – maybe it was my fault because if I had gotten the laundry right the first time, I wouldn't have had to re-do it all. I'd've been out with Daniel. But – I wasn't --"
Just when I think I've heard every possible sick and twisted thing there is to hear… I pull Beth to me and wrap my arms around her – it's just one of those unconscious actions – I don't realize I've done it until it's happened – but I keep holding her anyway. "It wasn't your fault." I tell her – which isn't to say I believe her story about dreams (more likely she had nightmares after the fact – and great big fat fuckmook that I am, I just brought them back to the surface again because I just had to have my God damned curiosity satisfied.)
"Everything was my fault after Mom died," she tells me through a few muffled little sobs -it's like she's trying very hard not to cry - but she just can't stop herself.
And all I can do is sit here feeling as useless as tits on a bull. All I can do is hold her while she cries because I don't know what to say to fix it. I've never known what to do with grief… or any strong emotion, really – but grief, loss – I've never been quite able to wrap myself around those. It's not that I don't hurt (although I have been called emotionally underdeveloped – which is fancy psycho-babble for "cold hearted bastard.") But – just between you and me, I wouldn't have gone to my mother's funeral even if I hadn't been up to my Johnson in it. I wouldn't have known what to do there. I don't know what to do hear, either. And suddenly it's very important to me that I do something. I would go kill them all if she asked me to – but – somehow I don't think that would really help. It's just that killing isonly thing I know how to do… I hold her as tight as I can. "It wasn't your fault," I say I can think to say... even though I know it isn't helping.
"I'm sorry," Beth's voice is barely audible. "You must really think I'm some kind of basket case – I can't seem to get through twenty four hours without breaking down on you."
"I don't think you're a basket case," I tell her gently, trying to brush the hair out of her face.
"I swear, I'm not usually like this,"she assures me, through her tears, "I don't make a habit of dumping my whole life story onto complete strangers."
"But I'm not a compete stranger – I'm your favourite patient, remember?"
That gets me a little bit of a chuckle, anyway. "Yes - yesyou are," she says - and I almost think I can hear a little bit of smile, too.
I capture her chin with my fingers, tilting her head up a little so she's looking at my face – which is a silly gesture, because usually the intent is to have the other person lookyou in the eyes… Oh well, time enough to consider the futility of day to day actions later. "Beth – I don't care what reasons your father thought he had for hitting you – he was wrong. You didn't deserve it – and – you are so much more than just good enough."
I can actually feel the muscles of her face forming a smile, "Thanks." Her tone is still so - tiny. Fragile.
I hadn't realized just how fragile she really was. "For what – dredging up bad memories or just asking nosey questions?"
"For – caring enough to – want to make it better. I went through almost four years of therapy – back when I thought I might be fixable – before I realized I wasn't ever going to be more than just functionally dysfunctional. My mother would say that I'm like a bit of broken crockery. Perfectly usable, if you don't mind the chips and the little sharp edges – and as long as you don't drop it, because if you do, you're going to need to glue the pieces back together again."
"Only when you do that, they don't always fit together quite like they used to."
"No they don't," she agrees – she leans back against me… and why she doesn't hate me, I just don't know.
This time, however, I have the wisdom to keep my big fat fucking mouth shut. I just lay there and listen to her breathing; I feel the rise and fall of her body with each breath… I can hear her heart beat. And I truly cannot imagine anyone telling her that she is anything less than wonderful, even if she is a little bit broken inside.
"You hungry?" Beth's voice rouses me from my musings.
"Why don't you let me cook for you for a change?"
Silence.
"What?"
"You – cook?" She sounds dubious – but I'm also pretty sure she's smiling.
"I happen to be a very good cook, thank you."
"You are huh?"
"Cooking is like fucking," I tell her. "It is something a man will do his entire adult life so he'd better learn to do it well. And it just so happens that I do it very well."
"Would that be in reference to the cooking or the fucking?"
Damn. I feel my cheeks turning pink – although I will deny it if anyone says so out loud. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see, Darlin'."
"Oh I will, huh?" she's still grinning…
And I really wish I knew what it was about this woman that makes me feel so strange inside. Good strange, mind you, but strange nonetheless...
I carry the coffee cups – she gets the blanket, and some while later, I have proven that I do know my way around a kitchen – even if I end up needing a little help, because cooking for me has always been as much about sight as it has about smell and taste… still, I guess I'm going to have to get used to this.
"You are a much better cook than I would have expected," she tells me – since I cooked, she's washing up – although I've volunteered to dry and put away.
I shrug, "It always amazes me when men say they can't cook. I never could stand tv dinners – I ate too many of them as a kid."
"I never knew what a tv dinner was."
"Beth – I'm sorry – earlier. I shouldn't have gone prying. You've been so good about respecting my privacy."
"It's ok – I'm just sorry I keep breaking down on you."
"Don't be – I really don't mind." And – other than wishing I knew what to do – I really don't…
Then we read See Dick Run until Cicily comes in, just an hour or so later - and asks me to help her with her math... which is at least slightly less challenging than cooking in the dark.
The rest of the evening proceeds much like the evening before – although this time Cicily warns me before giving me a hug (and I'm sure I can hear Beth snickering in the background, but I bite my tongue on any number of scathing comments.)
I tell Cicily tonight and Beth walks me to the bedroom door… we stop justat the threshold – and I'm really not ready to tell her good night, but I can't think of any excuses this time...
"Sheldon, can I ask you a personal question?"
"After this afternoon? Darlin' you can ask me anything you want to – short of international secrets," I add with a grin. "I'd hate to have to kill you."
Silence.
Christ, she didn't take me seriously…? "Beth – I was kidding –"
"I know."
"So – what did you want to ask?"
"If you were going to kiss me."
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(Most the songs so far have been Sands' point of view… this one is Beth's…)
I've been watching you from a distance
The distance sees through your disguise
All I want from you is your hurting
I want to heal you
I want to save you from the dark
Give unto me your troubles
I'll endure your suffering
Place onto me your burden
I'll drink your deadly poison
Why should I care if they hurt you?
Somehow it matters more to me
Than if I were hurting myself
Save you (save you)
I'll save you
Give unto me your troubles
I'll endure your suffering
Place onto me your burden
I'll drink your deadly poison
Fear not the flame of my love's candle
Let it be the sun in your world of darkness
Give unto me all that frightens you
I'll have your nightmares for you
If you sleep soundly
Give unto me your troubles
I'll endure your suffering
Place onto me your burden
I'll drink your deadly poison
Fear not the flame of my love's candle
Let it be the sun in your world of darkness
Evanescence
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and – strictly for your amusement…
I'm not terribly big on astrology myself – but I use it in working up characters for some basic generalizations (such as Virgos being neat freaks and Scorpios being master manipulators.)
And this is what one of the best little reads on "romantic" astrology has to say of Virgos and Scorpios….
From the Virgo's point of view (to Mr. Scorpio):
"Shy caring, and seriously understated sex toy who can balance the books and ring your chimes seeks surly-but-sensitive power broker to seduce, surprise and send into carnal Heaven."
And, from Mr. Scorpio (who is described as a "Sadistic Head Case," by the way) to Ms. Virgo:
"Critical, irritable killjoy bent on controlling the world, seeks critical, irritable nitpicker for mutual verbal flagellation and surprisingly compatible sex."
Not that Beth is much of a nag or a nitpicker – but it was that whole "seeks to control the world" that got me smiling.
Above snippets from Love on a Rainy Day by Hazel Dixon-Cooper…
It was a bridal shower gift from an old college roomie and I think the only astrology book I own – but it is a fun read.