March 21, 1896
Anne stopped the horse just short of the station. It was odd to drive up here without the intent to travel, but rather to see someone off. She hadn't done that since...
She wouldn't dwell on that now. "See, you've got ideal weather for traveling!" she announced with somewhat forced cheeriness.
"Not that it matters," Dora rolled her eyes. "It's not as though I'm taking a ferry, or anything."
"Still, you'll be able to enjoy a nice view from the window," pointed out Anne, unwilling to part with the morose cloud of gloom hovering over them.
"Fields, fields, and more fields," muttered the girl darkly. "Thrilling."
Anne frowned. Hadn't Dora been the slightest bit happy to be back? "I must have underestimated how much of a City girl you've become," she strove for a neutral tone. "Days in Avonlea must feel slow-paced in comparison to the thrum of excitement in Charlottetown."
Dora shook her head: as belatedly adolescent as her behavior might have been, she still didn't like to offend her elders. "I like it here well enough," she conceded. "I just liked it better when Marilla was with us."
As ever, Anne felt a small tug at her heart. "I know." She caressed the girl's rosy cheek affectionately. "She would have understood your need to leave, as do I. Just know that you can return whenever you wish."
After a brief embrace, they straightened up. "We'd better hurry and sort out your ticket situation!" Anne rushed Dora to the booth on the platform, though there was no real urgency: Mr. Hunter greeted them both by name, and was only too happy to issue Dora's fare for the next train, at a reasonably low charge. When they'd thanked him effusively and dropped off her suitcase, there was nothing left to do but wait.
"It's been nice having you around," said Anne wistfully. "Would you consider coming home for Christmas?"
"I'd like to," admitted Dora carefully, "but I don't know if I should..."
"It's been a long time since Green Gables has seen real Christmas feast. Mrs. Blythe and the Harrisons will attend - we'd love it if you could join us." Anne lowered her voice then: "Ralph will likely be busy with his own family: you won't have to worry about him."
"Oh, it's not him," Dora dismissed without a fuss. "It's Aunt Josephine - she's usually alone during the holidays. I'd hate to leave her."
There it was: the core of compassion and thoughtfulness she always hoped had remained intact under the young woman's frivolous and snobbish airs. Anne's chest swelled with pride.
"I'm sure the two of you could make a pleasant time of the holidays. Please send her my love to Miss Barry," she said, her eyes misting with fond memories.
Dora smirked. "You know very well what she would say to that."
"I give you full authority to rephrase that sentiment," Anne grinned. "There's the train now - you will write once you've arrived safely?"
"I'm hardly leaving the Island!" Dora protested, though a teasing smile curled the corner of her lips where a frown had been not long ago.
The arrival of the train rivaled any efforts to converse, as did its shrill accompanying whistle. Goodbyes were said in a frenzy of kisses, hugs and additional instructions remembered at the last minute - and in a cloud of charcoal flavored vapor, Dora exited Avonlea.
x-o-x-o-x-o-x
Later that morning, Anne found herself at the pharmacy. A small brown bag sat on the counter, containing some herbal infusions Doug hoped might help Mrs. Blythe sleep better. Predictably, Cormac Russell had been most excited to receive young doctor in his drugstore. Not that Dr. Porter didn't keep him busy, mind you, but the old man was terribly set in his ways, and utterly failed to appreciate the importance of meticulous dosages.
As it often did when great minds had been kept isolated too long, an avid discussion regarding the benefits of syringe-induced anaesthetics over inhaler masks ensued. Anne tried in vain to hang onto the limited medical lexicon she did know - however, she found herself unable to follow (much less to contribute), and had to listen on dumbly, nodding here and there as if she understood half of what the eager pharmacist was saying.
Cormac had retrieved his finest pointed hypodermic needle from its display case, and was showing it off, when Little Sally Hopkins barged into the establishment with the finesse of a freshly branded bull.
"Mr. Russell - oh! Miss Shirley, the doctor's with you! Thank the saints, if this isn't a sign!"
"Sally, what is it? Has something happened?" asked Anne.
Little Sally Hopkins paused to catch her breath. Truthfully, she hadn't been little for some years (just a year shy of Davy and Dora), but Anne found it difficult to think of her formal pupil in any other way.
"It's Jeannie," panted the young lady. "She's unwell. We can't wake her up. Mother thinks she has the Fever - we don't know what to do!"
Doug lost no time in volunteering his services. After grabbing some necessities and additional supplies, compliments of Mr. Russell (Anne made a mental note to settle the bill later), they hopped into the buggy and raced the short distance to the Hopkins' farm.
Mrs. Hopkins sobbed with relief to see that help had come for her youngest girl. She hovered close by while Doug bent over the patient to assess the situation, and recounted the horror of finding her daughter inert in bed that morning, burning with a high temperature: how she knew straight away from the sweat soaking her pillowcase to the clamminess of her hands that she had contracted the dreaded disease.
"Alright: I know what this is," declared Doug after a quick inspection.
"Is it the Fever? I knew it! Oh, Doctor, what shall we do?" cried Mrs Hopkins, wringing her hands.
"I need everybody to clear the room. Except for you, Anne, if you don't mind."
Sally ushered her mother out with some difficulty, but managed to shut the door on her distraught wails.
"Shall I boil some water?" asked Anne worriedly, trying to anticipate what might be expected of her.
"Perhaps in a bit," said Doug, unconcerned, taking the newly vacated seat by the bed. "First, I'd like to ask young Miss Hopkins a few questions. Jeannie, was it?"
To Anne's astonishment, the till then unresponsive patient cracked an eye open. Doug nodded his approval.
"First off, I'd like to congratulate you on a wonderful performance. You've spared no detail on this one: obviously, there was some extensive research done in order to pull it off so convincingly. Keeping hot bottles under the sheets was a nice touch. Spraying down the pillow case with 'cold sweat' - well, that's plain clever. Down to the clammy palms! Licking them when you though we weren't looking? Why, that was inspired!"
The girl said nothing, but heaved a deflated sigh. Doug went on unperturbed. "Your plan is unfortunately flawed. Dr. Porter might have been more sympathetic to your plight, but he knows just as well as I that there is no single disease called The Fever. Did you know that?"
"There is, too!" Jeannie pouted, her light brown ringlets bouncing as she turned her head on the pillow. "Louise Clark's cousin caught The Fever, and he had to stay in bed for three days without doing chores!"
"He might have had some kind of fever," the doctor conceded patiently. "A mild one, by the sounds of it. A fever is really a symptom - something that comes along with an illness. It could accompany something as benign as a common cold, or it can be brought on with something much graver, such as typhoid. Then there's influenza, smallpox, scarlet fever... all these varieties, with different degrees of gravity."
He studied the back of his hand, allowing the child to absorb the information. "So... what kind of chores were you hoping to avoid today? Or was it something else?"
The little face disappeared under the quilts, thus muffling her reply.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
"History exam," repeated Jeannie, annoyed as she emerged from the sheets. "It's on the French Revolution. I mean, really, what's the point? I'm not French. I don't plan on being French. So who cares if they revolved? The whole kingdom could spin around on their heads for all I care, it still doesn't change the fact that I don't have a new spring dress to wear to the Sunday school picnic!"
Anne's eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply to disguise a gasp: having been both a student and teacher herself, such a tirade ought not surprise her, but Jeannie's nerve nearly had her in stitches.
As for Doug, he sat back triumphantly. "Well, the way I see things, you have two choices. You can stay here in your room, and let me prescribe you all my finest cures for The Fever: fish oil, ice baths... I might even suggest amputation, if you don't get well by this evening. Nothing drastic - a toe or two should suffice."
Poor Jeannie's skin took on a legitimate tinge of green. "Or, maybe it wasn't The Fever after all. It might have just been a slight headache or an upset stomach - how was anyone to know? You might even feel well enough to catch up on your chores, and study extra hard for the history exam."
"Oh, but Mr. Stevens is ever so strict!" moaned Jeannie dramatically. "He'll keep me back until I do all the reading for history, and finish a thousand essays!"
"I'm sure that your teacher will be understanding," said Doug patiently. "Especially if you had a doctor's note."
Large, brown eyes gazed upon even larger, browner eyes. "Would you? Could you?"
Doug chuckled. "I could, and I would, on one condition." He waited for the girl to sit up, all eager eyes and flouncing curls. "You will be as helpful as you possibly can around the house for the following days, and especially kind to your mother, who is very worried about you. And not a word about new dresses, for a while at least. Miss Shirley and I will be checking on you."
Jeannie started, only then remembering the presence of the other redhead in the room. "Miss Shirley! You won't tell Mr. Stevens, will you?"
"Not if you promise to behave," said Anne, swallowing back a chuckle. "I'll even help you study, should you finish your chores in time."
x-o-x-o-x-o-x
After Jeannie's solemn promise to be good, and the heartfelt thanks of a mother bewildered by her child's miraculous recovery from what might not have been The Fever after all, the Good Doctor and Miss Shirley were on the road again.
Feeling out of sorts herself, Anne hardly noticed that Orlando's gait had slowed down considerably. An energetic colt from the start, she knew it was not fatigue but thirst which slowed him down.
"Would you mind stopping for a bit?" she asked, her voice slightly pinched. "There's a nice walk around Barry's Pond. We'll let the horse drink from the creek."
In a courteous manner which she assumed was entirely natural to him, Doug complied easily. Anne breathed in deeply: it would do her good to stretch her legs. Perhaps a stroll, breathing the scent of sweet, green grass would help her get her thoughts back on track.
They parked the buggy under the shade of a tree. Once Orlando was tethered loosely enough that he could dip his long snout in the cool stream that fed into what had once been known as the lake of shining waters, they took off at a leisurely pace down the dirt path.
"Amazing, how quiet the day gets out here," commented Doug. "In the city, it's unusual to experience any silence while the sun is up."
"Even on Sundays?" asked Anne.
Doug shrugged. "I wouldn't really know - I'm always working. There's no time for sabbath at the hospital."
Unorthodox as it sounded, she supposed it was forgivable for doctors and hospital staff to work on Sundays if they had too. Patients couldn't be faulted for seeking help on a Sunday, and it would be unchristian to deny anyone medical attention on any given day. Oh, Anne couldn't even fool herself - she hated the so-called day of rest: all the quiet and doing nothing made her feel restless. And she suspected that Marilla had felt the same way, though the old woman had been far too disciplined and devout ever to betray such sentiments.
Her breathing sped up. She had beside her a veritable wealth of knowledge, someone who held the answers to her thousands of questions. Yet, a part of her knew that she might not like what he'd say, dared she ask.
Anne Shirley, afraid of the truth? Well, that's a first.
The sarcastic barb was predictable, but its aim was on point. Piqued, she inhaled sharply, and pushed the words out before cowardice could dissuade her to speak.
"Did you ever go to church with Gilbert?" She stared ahead, studiously avoiding his gaze.
"Not really," he said after a moment. "Except for one time, at Easter."
"One time?" echoed Anne meekly.
He sighed. "Gil rarely went to church, if ever, as far as I am aware. We have a chapel at the hospital, I never saw him there... though he did sometimes pray in his room, and on occasion before meals. He was rather private about his faith. Why do you ask?"
She shook her head mutely, the bitter bile of dismay invading her mouth.
"Anne?"
Forcing herself to breathe normally, she affected as easy a tone as she could. "Just curious."
How could she admit her disappointment in the deceased? To Doug, nonetheless, who had been his best friend the last few years of his life! "He wasn't a reprobate, you know. Just - busy."
Yes, busy saving lives. But he'd lied to his parents about his lifestyle - what would they have thought of him? Did Mrs. Blythe even know the boy she was mourning? Did Anne?
"Seriously, how are you still hung up on this?" said Doug with an incredulous bark of laughter. "So, he wasn't perfect: who is? Gil dying young was a tragedy, but it didn't make him a saint. Honestly, it's not worth getting your knickers in a twist over it."
"Getting my... oh!" she choked, outraged. "You have no idea what this could mean! To his family, to all of Avonlea! He was the golden boy, the one who-"
"Would you listen to yourself?" he interrupted. "Who could possibly live up to those high standards of perfection? Of all the hypocritical-"
Though Anne shoved with all her might, she never expected to be able to move him. Caught by surprise, Doug's large frame tumbled into the water with a great, big splash. Serves him right, she thought, not entirely able to convince herself. He bobbed up to the surface and took a frantic gulp of air, his arms flailing wildly, managing only a garbled "Help! Can't-" before his head was submerged once again.
Anne froze: he was drowning. She'd drowned him.
Swallowing back a cry of terror, she turned to their surroundings. There was no one around for miles - the farmers would be at work in their fields, and the children in school. Her eyes landed on the coil of rope on the nearest dock, and she raced to fetch it.
"Catch!" she yelled over Doug's panicked thrashing, and casted one end in his direction. He struggled, and for a while she thought he might not be able to grasp it - until one final, desperate lunge brought him near enough to close his hand on the lifeline she'd cast him. "Hold on!" she instructed.
Anne fought against his mass, her hands burning from the strain on the rope. Reeling with all her might, she fervently hoped that she would be able to hoist his heavy body onto dry land. He was getting closer, but what if she couldn't get him out in time? Or at all? Bracing herself, she pulled with all her might: perhaps too hard, because the rope tugged back sharply, and she felt herself toppling over.
Unprepared to be immersed, Anne let go of the rope and inhaled a mouthful of iced water. Scrambling to expel it from her airway, she was surprised when something clasped her forearm and dragged her up to the surface. The grip transferred to her waist, and she could do nothing but choke helplessly, relieved that help had come for them. As the air came back into her lungs through wheezing breaths, Anne became aware that she was pressed flush against a jiggling mound of wet fabric. Now that her hacking had dissipated, she could hear...laughter?
"You!" she croaked indignantly at her rescuer. "You- you...scoundrel!"
Doug merely threw his head back and laughed harder. One of his arms trod the water easily to keep them afloat, while the other secured her against his protruding stomach.
"Unhand me this instant!" she ordered, glaring through the curtain of wet hair obscuring her face. When he didn't comply, she let go of his shoulder and slapped at his chest. "I mean it!"
"You have a real gratitude problem, you know," Doug smirked at her, stoking her indignation. She seemed to waffle between thanks or another insult - in the end, she went with neither.
"You're touching me inappropriately," she muttered, affecting embarrassment. Doug loosened his arm so that she could change positions - and reached quickly when she slipped out of his grip, but not quickly enough: she sank quietly, like a stone. He barely took the time to fill his lungs before ducking under the surface, swimming downwards - how deep could this pond possibly be, anyway? - but didn't find her. The water at the bottom was too murky to be able to see much past his hands.
Doug kicked back up to the surface, took a deep breath, and wasted no time in diving back down. She couldn't possibly be far: he'd seen her drop straight down. He ignored his increasing despair and searched on, until a voice called out his name. He spun towards the sound, and was rewarded with the sight of Anne with both feet on dry land, casually wringing water from her skirts.
"Looking for something?" she asked as nonchalantly as one could while shouting across a pond, shivering from the cold.
"Don't think you've won this round!" called Doug, starting a lazy crawl to shore. Anne gathered her hair to the side to squeeze the excess water out, while he heaved himself up with the grace of a walrus, dragging half the pond onto dry land with his massive frame.
"I thought you couldn't swim," he panted, wiping water from his eyes.
"What? Of course I can," she replied, almost scandalized at the insinuation, giving her skirts another vigorous twist.
"Suppose you learned after your misadventure in the sinking flat?" he asked, reaching for both their hats and following her back towards the stationed buggy.
"Oh, I'd learned much earlier than that," she shrugged easily. "It was - well, I don't remember when, but I definitely knew how to swim then."
"Then how come Gil had to rescue you from drowning?"
"He liked to live under that impression," Anne rolled her eyes. "I was never in danger of drowning, not really."
"Oh?" Doug's humor registered not on his face, but transpired through his voice. "I suppose you were just - how had he put it - fishing for lake trout?"
Her corset squished disgustingly when she crossed her arms. "Exactly what did he tell you?"
"That some of your friends had dared you to ride a flat by yourself down the river." Bending over to remove his shoes provided him with an excellent excuse not to meet her blazing gaze. "Somehow, the flat sank, and you found yourself clinging desperately to a bridge pile until he rowed over and rescued you. And that his valiant heroics were most under-appreciated," he concluded, emptying a gallon of pond water from his shoe.
Trust Gil to annoy her beyond the grave!
"He forgot to mention the most ungallant teasing before he supposedly rescued me from the pile. If he truly thought me in danger, he would have helped me out first, don't you think?" She shivered as a gentle breeze highlighted the cool state of her garments.
Doug glanced around them, then back at her with an odd blank look on his face. "Alright," he said, undoing a button at his collar. "Fair warning: these clothes are coming off."
A strangled "What?" escaped her throat.
"I'm freezing cold and soaking wet. These," he gestured at himself with one hand, "aren't going to dry on me, and I won't be able to borrow anything that remotely fits. If I'm to wear these later on, they've got to dry now."
Already half his shirt undone - Anne quickly spun to face the other way. "If this is what you consider a fair warning, I wonder at the alternative."
"Eh, I might not have given you one at all. You can do the same, you know - I wouldn't mind."
He'd rendered her temporarily speechless. "I'll bet you wouldn't!" she sputtered inelegantly when at last she found her tongue. The flep of his sodden shirt hitting the ground at her feet fueled her indignation.
"I might not even look, if given proper incentive. I'm assuming no one will find us here at this time of day?"
"And if they did?" she challenged through gritted teeth and an overheating face.
"Then, they could feast their eyes upon my naked voluptuous glory."
Well, she certainly wouldn't give him the satisfaction of looking. The wet shlop of his trousers as they joined his shirt caught her unawares, and he chuckled mercilessly at her yelp.
Between the creek, the puddle of clothing at her feet, the presumably nude man behind her and Orlando's judgmental frown, Anne struggled to find a safe place to rest her eyes. She stood rooted to the ground, unsure she could even move without stepping into scandal. One thing was certain, though: if Gil ever failed to be a hero, Doug wouldn't even try.
x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x
Anne sighed luxuriously as the sun crept over her toes. The late morning breeze didn't feel so cold now that she had gotten used to it: she closed her eyes and let it caress her face.
If her legs felt strangely bare under her skirt, it was because her petticoats and stockings were stretched out in front of her in a sunny patch of grass, thoroughly wrung out and laid out to dry next to Doug's comically wide trousers and bedsheet-sized shirt. Their hats hung from a low branch, dripping side by side, and higher up in the tree dangled their shoes and his socks.
As for the clothing's owners, neither's complexion allowed for too much exposure to direct sunlight, and so they sat with their backs pressed against the rugged trunk of the same tree. The leaves created a large enough shade that they each sat on separate sides. It was a tad cool without the benefit of the bright warming rays, but even so, they were still drying out.
"I've come up with two explanations," said Doug from his side of the trunk. "Neither of which makes much sense."
"Explanations?" echoed Anne dreamily, her eyes following a plain, lone, white butterfly fluttering about.
"For your ending up stuck under that bridge. Either you were indeed fishing for lake trout - unsuccessfully so - and felt understandably embarrassed at being caught. Or, you were running away, hoping to find the sea by rowboat, only to have your escape cut short."
Anne snorted. "You couldn't be further from the truth." She offered no further explanation.
"What, then?" he pressed on, unwilling to drop the subject.
"We were...playing. My friends and I." She sighed. "We'd just read the Idylls of the King, and became infatuated with the story of Elaine and Lancelot. You know the one? Of course, you don't. It wasn't even supposed to be me, either way, but Ruby Gillis was too afraid, even though she was best suited to be Elaine, as a blonde-"
She halted abruptly at a wracking gutteral sound. Concerned that Doug was legitimately choking, Anne whirled around and inspected (not for the first time) the side of his white mountainous form which protruded from behind the tree. She was on the verge of jumping to her feet when he cleared his throat.
"Sorry- please continue," he apologized with an odd squeak.
Shrugging, she turned back. "Well, I would have been fine. It was not that I couldn't swim - merely that I was hampered by the coverlet. It wasn't really a coverlet, but the Andrews' crepe piano cover. I was also wearing Mrs. Barry's black shawl, and between them both, you see, I found myself quite encumbered. You try swimming against current with so much fabric around your arms!"
The choking sounds began again, only to evolve into booming peels of laughter.
"Would you kindly cease?" she reached behind her blindly and smacked what she hoped was his arm. "That's quite enough!"
"I...did..." he croaked helplessly through his unabashed amusement. "Didn't think...it- could get...any funnier!" he finally managed, earning himself another unseeing whack. "Alright, I'm done. Sorry." He regained his composure with some difficulty. "Did he know?"
"I must have told him," sniffed Anne haughtily, though she found that could not remember for sure. It had all happened such a long time ago... a chill passed through her at the thought that two of the friends involved in that distant day's adventure no longer roamed this Earth.
"Shall we head back?" he asked, as though he'd perceived her chill: impossible, since she had strictly forbidden him of peeking in her direction once her toes had been bared. Quickly, she reached for her petticoats and slipped on her stockings as deftly as she could.
Doug himself showed no such shyness: ever at ease in his own thick, white skin, he paid no mind to Anne's curious stare as he picked up his damp shirt and shook it free of grass.
"As good as it's going to get," he muttered, buttoning it up before throwing on his vest. "Alright - ready, if you are."
Their hats had dried misshaped, and they had to drive back with bare heads. Thankfully, there was no one around to see them, except for Mrs. Blythe who had come towards the front at the sound of the buggy.
"Goodness, what happened?" she asked immediately, her eyes darting from Doug's disheveled attire to Anne's limp, damp hair framing her face (the ribbon previously holding up her plait now resided in the murky depths of the pond).
"We might have had a little accident, involving some accidental shoving and a body of water," quipped Doug in that reassuring tone he'd so cleverly perfected.
"Oh, Anne," reprimanded Mrs. Blythe with a chagrined smirk. "Again?"
"Me?!" exclaimed Anne, surprised to be so quickly blamed. "Why, you-! I never..."
But Doug was already being ushered towards the house. "There now, we'll have you warm and dry in no time," cooed Mrs. Blythe, as though consoling a child. "Anne, dear, will you stay for a warm drink? Some tea'll warm your insides while your dress dries by the stove."
"I've got to get back home," she declined, eager to exchange her mucky outfit for a clean set of clothes. "This is for you, though - from the pharmacy. Doug picked it out."
"It's nothing," Doug waved off the woman's effusive thanks. "Just a mild sleeping aid."
"So thoughtful of you," sighed Mrs. Blythe fondly. "Do come in, before you catch a chill! Anne, we will see you shortly after breakfast tomorrow, I presume?"
She nodded. "I'll be over at nine o'clock."
x-o-x-o-x-o-x-o-x
That night, as she stretched her long form under the covers, Anne's mind wandered toward Doug Sheehan, of all places.
She wondered why seeing him in his state of half-undress hadn't shocked her so terribly. Perhaps it was the fat enveloping his body which lent a false sense of modesty, and that was enough for her: the soft pectorals almost feminine, though too triangular to fully resemble a woman's bosom, the flabby skin of his pudgy stomach smooth and unmarred as a newborn's, bulging over the waistband of his trousers.
Alone in her room, Anne allowed her thoughts to run uncensored. Was this what all obese people looked like underneath their clothes? She frowned, thinking of Mr. Barry, who wasn't quite as large, but carried a bit of surplus 'round his belt - and Mr. Hammond, whose excess was covered in repulsive hairiness.
Doug had hardly any hair upon his body, save for the twin tufts of flamboyant orange under his armpits. Why it surprised her, Anne had no idea - hers were, after all, just as vivid.
Gilbert's underarms, she recalled, had sprouted dark curls. He had been somewhat hairy: his arms dusted with dark brown, as well as a patch on his tanned chest, and a tantalizing trail disappearing into his trousers. His build reminded her of a roman sculpture, in size as much as in definition: slender, yet incredibly toned.
Anne knew this from the two summers she'd spent noticing him - definitely not spying - as he exerted himself in his father's field. Was it her fault that the fairer path from school to Green Gables lead directly by the Blythes' acres? Or that the beating sun forced Gilbert to work shirtless?
The trapezoidal concentration of pure muscle that was his torso she had glimpsed (well, perhaps ogled) was in no way similar to Doug. The large mound of a man resembled no one she knew - with the exception of herself, where coloring was concerned. He was just as pale and freckled, and that eyesore of orange...
It was almost too similar for coincidence, except that when wet, his hair had gone pin straight and shock red, in contrast to hers which had darkened to auburn. While hers had clumped into unattractive rat tails, his had dried into straight rows of curls, the natural neatness of which nearly making up for its unfortunate hue. Anne struggled to recall a pair of siblings with such differently textured hair.
You know, if you'd just asked, you would have the answer by now.
Tomorrow, then. The pillow swallowed her oath as she plunged face first in the down-stuffed rectangle: she would ask tomorrow.
A/N: Dear readers,
For those of you who are playing the (19)80's mania game with MrsVonTrapp and myself, I do apologize for not posting the answers sooner!
For chapter 14, the reference was the movie Cocktail (all of Coughlin's Laws but one are cited). And for chapter 15, it was Full House (only one quote by Anne Cordelia).
This chapter contains no direct quotes (just one heavily doctored quote) from the movie referenced, but there are some pretty specific allusions. If you're playing, happy hunting!