Novel Excerpts–The Boaz Stenographer, Chapter 41

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Stenographer, written in 2018, is my fourth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Walt Shepherd, a 35 year veteran of the White House’s stenographic team, is fired by President Andrew Kane for refusing to lie.

Walt returns to his hometown of Boaz, Alabama and renews his relationship with Regina Gillan, his high school sweetheart, who he had ditched right before graduation to marry the daughter of a prominent local businessman.  Regina has recently moved back to Boaz after forty years in Chicago working at the Tribune.  She is now editor of the Sand Mountain Reporter, a local newspaper.

Walt and Regina’s relationship transforms into a once in life love at the same time they are being immersed in a growing local and national divide between Democrats and traditional Republicans, and extremist Republicans (known as Kanites) who are becoming more dogmatic about the revolution that began during President Kanes campaign.

Walt accepts two part-time jobs.  One as a stenography instructor at Snead State Community College in Boaz, and one as an itinerant stenographer with Rains & Associates out of Birmingham.

Walt later learns the owner of Rains & Associates  is also one of five men who created the Constitution Foundation and is involved in a sinister plot to destroy President Kane, but is using an unorthodox method to achieve its objective.  The Foundation is doing everything it can to prevent President Kane from being reelected in 2020, and is scheming to initiate a civil war that will hopefully restore allegiance to the U.S. Constitution.

While Walt is writing a book, The Coming Civil War, he is, unwittingly, gathering key information for the Constitution Foundation.

Will Walt discover a connection between the Foundation  and the deaths of three U.S. Congressmen in time to save his relationship with Regina, prevent President Kane from being reelected as the defacto head of a Christian theocracy, and the eruption of a civil war that could destroy the Nation ?

Chapter 41

We had packed for our Tifton trip the night before.  Sunday morning, July 1st, was the first day of the second half of 2018.  Last night, before going to bed, Regina and I had toasted our sixth month anniversary.  We both were surprised how much each of our lives had changed since we saw each other last December at the Boaz Walmart.  In a way, it seemed like we had been together all our lives, and that the nearly fifty years since high school, and us being apart, had never occurred.  

At 9:50 a.m., we pulled away from Shepherd’s Cove in my trusty 2007 Ford F150 with our luggage in the truck’s bed under a nearly new camper shell.  I hadn’t removed the standard stuff I kept back there, including my tool-box and a chain saw.  But, we had added a few extra things, such as lawn chairs and a cooler filled with a traditional Southern picnic.  Regina, not wanting to appear as a cocky and sophisticated Chicagoan, spent over three hours last night frying chicken and making potato salad that I hoped I someway could avoid. Surprisingly, her baked beans turned out well.  I won’t say anything about her homemade rolls fearing she might read my mind.  I will say, to my regret, Regina wholly failed to acquire the cooking skills her mother had had all through Regina’s growing up years.

During the first leg of our drive. we didn’t talk much.  I drove us to Anniston just enjoying the sweet smell of Regina’s Flowerbomb perfume I had bought her at Nordstrom’s at Riverchase Galleria in Birmingham.  We almost stopped at Books a Million on South Quintard in Oxford but we both agreed if we yielded to the temptation it would consume us for hours.  We resisted.  As soon as we headed east on I-20, Regina turned on the radio and found a local NPR station.  We learned how one family in Brady, Virginia had experienced three generations of coal mining.  It was depressing to hear how a grandfather, his son, and his grandson, three generations of Dickson’s, had died from coal dust.  It wasn’t until we passed through Villa Rica, Georgia that Regina asked about my picnic plans.

Twenty miles later we exited at Lithia Springs, Georgia and drove south to the Sweetwater Creek State Park.  Last night I had researched a place for our picnic.  Online, this appeared to be a private, well-kept park centered around the George H. Sparks Reservoir.  The Park’s bait shop also served as an information center, so we found it first and were directed to a sandy area just north of the parking lot that contained four picnic tables surrounded by a grove of loblolly pines. We were not disappointed with the Park.  We were the only ones using the picnic area.  We enjoyed a quiet lunch and I was doubly surprised that Regina’s potato salad had someway transformed during the night and the drive to the Park.  After eating, we strolled around the marina for a half hour dreaming of owing a thirty-foot schooner and sailing from Gulf Shores to the coast of Maine and back.  We ditched that idea when Regina reminded me of the time we took my father’s canoe out on our own pond, lake as he called it, and I tipped us over at the deep end.  The hot sun drove away our memories and dreams and lured us back to my truck and air-conditioning.  We drove away agreeing that we would come back some day and rent one of the cabins the nice lady in the bait shop had told us about.

From Lithia Springs to just north of College Park, south of Atlanta on I-85, we talked about Felicia and Emma.  Regina had brought up the subject saying Felicia had mentioned mine and her talk the other night after our stenography class.  I now felt a little ashamed that I had not conducted any research that I had promised Felicia.  I shared this with Regina and she said, “what little Conner has experienced has to be inherited, the way he was born.  Sorry, I meant Emma.  It’s still hard for me to call him, her, Emma.”  

“I’m sure it is, but you need to be consistent in what you call Emma, don’t call him Conner.”  I said.

“I agree.  You know, it truly pisses me off that society gets so bent out of shape over these biological issues, including homosexuality.”  Regina said, turning off the radio.

“For most Americans, and probably ninety percent of Southerners, it’s not about biology at all.  You know that.  They think it’s simply a matter of sin.”  

“You’re right, but that makes me want to support Felicia that much more.  Maybe we could tease out a column on this.”

“Sounds good.  Look.  The plane, the plane.”  I said pointing to a huge 747 crossing in front of us heading to Hartsfeld International Airport.  I was trying to imitate Tatoo from the 1970’s TV program, Fantasy Island.

“I see.  I see.  Gosh, I haven’t thought of that since, forever.  I never really liked it.  The program made me think of you.  I knew that my fantasy, being with you, could never happen.  I knew even if Mr. Roarke could make it happen that I couldn’t afford it.”  Regina said, our eyes meeting at a glance.  I could tell she was genuinely sad.

“Baby, I think you know that if I could unbreak your heart that I would.  But, I can’t.  What I can do is love you today, in every way, even tell you how much I enjoyed your potato salad.”

“I knew it.  I could tell last night you didn’t understand or appreciate my knowledge of cider vinegar, lemon juice, pickle juice, horseradish, paprika, hot pepper sauce, and Dijon mustard.”

“I think you used too much horseradish.  I hate that stuff.”  I said trying to gently but honestly mend a beautiful heart.

“The hotel.  The hotel.”  Regina said sliding over next to me.

“I see.  I see.  It is ahead.  Two hours at least.  I see my favorite fantasy.”

“It is me or your dinner will be my potato salad.”

“Don’t worry, you are my dream come true.”

“That’s right Fido.”

For the next two hours we returned to a discussion of Regina’s article, “Russian Suspect Kills Kip Brewer?”  After it had been published we had talked briefly about it, but the discussion hadn’t ended well.  Regina thought I was attacking her journalistic integrity when I relayed my opinion that a lot of reporters seem to hide behind an anonymous tip or source.  Today, she brought it up and was more pleasant, but I stayed away from my opinion.  Regina didn’t.  She shared how she believed that Pastor Warren, Justin Adams, and all of Club Eden was up to something.  She said she feared they were directly tied to President Kane’s yet undiscovered connections to the Russians.  

“I don’t think the special prosecutor will ever complete his task. 

He has been investigating since early 2017 and hasn’t found anything yet.  Or, at least he hasn’t disclosed any discoveries.”  I said turning down the temperature on the air-conditioning feeling a little hot from Regina’s bare leg pressed against mine.

“What else can it be?  You saw my photograph of the Russian guy.  He was at Club Eden.  He was shooting targets with the very rifle that killed Kip Brewer.  I don’t see how anyone could conclude that Club Eden had nothing to do with that.”  Regina said, removing her left hand from my leg and turning down the air-conditioning three more degrees.

“Might not be so simple.  Most things are usually not what they seem on the surface.”

We bantered back and forth during the remainder of our drive.  The only thing we both totally agreed on was the next four months until the mid-term elections, was going to be interesting and intriguing, possibly even more deadly than the past few months.  At 4:35 p.m., we pulled into the parking lot of the Hilton Garden Inn.  

“Let’s go check out our room.  We can come back later for our luggage.”  I said pulling into the nearest parking spot next to the front doors.

“Sounds good.  I’m feeling like a massage.”  Regina said elbowing me and pushing me out my door.

“Always glad to be of service.”

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 Help a starving artist.