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 Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind. First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer. And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.
Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected. Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973? Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well? How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?
What starts out as an almost innocent prank turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.
Chapter 44
Sometimes disappointing news transforms into a blessing. Last Monday evening when I called Connie and invited her to Gulf Shores she was elated. Not so much that she had suggested we share a room at the nice but affordable Best Western. That cooled my imagination considerably from three times per day making love with the gorgeous Connie to simply a thriving lust while looking at her from the rear as we walked to and from the beach. With Connie sick, I realized the two rooms had been a gift to me after all.
Until Sunday morning, Connie stayed holed up in her room on the third floor. I still don’t know why the Western had put me on the first floor since I had emphatically demanded our rooms be side by side when I had made the reservations.
The imagined love fest quickly evolved into virtually an extended work session sitting under a hot umbrella, sipping lemonade, and intermittently staring across a blue ocean. If it hadn’t been for Angela’s 1972/Junior journal I would have gotten bored beyond belief.
Friday morning after the Continental Breakfast my three-day routine began. By 9:00, I had walked three flights of stairs to Connie’s room and talked with her through her door. Even though she profusely apologized for her sudden disability I couldn’t help but believe she was repelled by the thought of me. Maybe I was seeing proof why the lovely Connie had never been married. For a while things went well between her and a new suitor but after arriving at the ball, she couldn’t make herself dance. Oh, the simple pleasures of silly analogies.
By the fall of 1972, Angela’s parents had made the bold move of extending her some additional freedom. She had turned seventeen in late July and from the beginning of the school year was authorized to attend the twice per month meetings of the Brights, Ricky Miller’s humanist club. Nothing much happened at Boaz High School or in Angela’s life during the first month of her junior year. That is, nothing much but classes, cheerleader practice, homework, football games, and church on Wednesday nights and Sunday’s. It wasn’t until mid-September that she mentioned anybody but her best friend Rebecca Aldridge.
It was Friday, September 15th. There was no football game since Boaz had trounced Douglas the night before (Angela did mention that “JS was in perfect form ravaging the Eagles defense like I wish he would me.” I got a chuckle. I must give Ricky Miller credit for being so bold and confident. Angela shared how he had invited Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber to speak at the Safe House Friday night to the Bright’s full membership, along with prospective members and anyone else who wanted to attend.
Angela wrote that Elton and Doug did their best to make credible arguments for their faith. I still got a sick feeling every time I imagined these two hanging around young people. They were in their late twenties having been out of high school for over ten years, yet here they were working to influence. I tried to imagine Randy Miller giving an atheist or an agnostic the same opportunity to meet with his flock at the Lighthouse across the street. I was quickly reminded of how refreshing and thoroughly satisfying it was to be free from the enslavement of faith and to be able to know that I didn’t have to constantly try to contort facts into the odd sized holes the Bible offered as the truth.
After a Q & A session following Elton and Doug’s presentation, Angela noted that Doug had approached her when she was coming out of the girl’s bathroom. She had found it odd that he had commented on the coins and jewelry that her grandfather had donated to First Baptist Church of Christ back in 1969. Angela wrote, “Doug Barber’s question about the history and value of granddad’s gift was creepy enough, but when he asked me if I wanted to go riding around I thought I would throw up.” I agreed with Angela that Doug had been inappropriate but then I almost laughed out loud when I thought about her nearly half a century later marrying the pervert.
By late Saturday afternoon I had read the full two-hundred plus pages of her junior year journal. If I had to write a book report I would have included two things: Angela’s growing animosity toward Deidre and her infatuation with the multi-sport star Johnny Stewart, and the trouble Ricky Miller’s teachings and Safe House were presenting to his brother Randy and his youth group.
Sunday morning I had read three chapters in John Grisham’s Camino Island when I heard an unfamiliar voice behind me say, “hey good-looking, what you got cooking.” I turned and saw an angel. It was Connie, more beautiful than any angel. She was wearing a two-piece pink bathing suit. Not really a bikini because the lower part was not skimpy enough. That didn’t matter, her long and tanned legs were more than enough to trigger thoughts of legs, sand, sex, and sun.
“Nothing much, just reading a self-help book on the quickest and cheapest way to join a monastery.” I sometimes surprised myself at how funny I could be.
Connie joined me under the blue umbrella and sat in the empty chair beside me. “You wouldn’t make it three days.” I couldn’t tell if she had a specific purpose with her words, but I didn’t pass up the opportunity.
“I might not but, so far, I’ve made it well over two.” I looked over at her and tipped up the brim of the floppy white hat she was wearing. She looked like she was feeling better, maybe close to back to normal. And, she was smiling.
“Fred, I want to say I am so sorry about how things have turned out. Please don’t take my absence personally. I truly had looked forward to a long romantic weekend with the ever-handsome Fred Martin.” She remained focused on my eyes during her full confession.
“The most important thing is that you are feeling better. I can see it in your face. I too am sorry. That you’ve felt so bad.”
“No, the important thing is that I’m feeling better and you’re still here. The only problem is you haven’t yet showed me your room. I hear the rooms on the first floor are much bigger, much more comfortable.” I caught the redness flood her face just before she turned her head and pulled her hat a little lower.
Whatever game dear Connie was playing I was eager to not disappoint. “I could give you the tour right now. If you want.”
It hadn’t been at all like I had imagined. The sex, not the tour of my hotel room. Not that it was bad at all. It was just too fast. The kissing as we stood by my unmade bed felt lamely choreographed. During most of the drive down last Thursday I had imagined Connie inviting me to her room (I likely was delusional) and us sharing a bottle of wine sitting on the brown leather couch facing the ocean, then dancing our way to her bedroom. Today, the real thing, was wholly different. I would not have guessed that she would have pushed me so fast. I guess she had been lonely too long to enjoy the full show, desiring no doubt to skip to the final act instead.
As quickly as it had begun, it ended, and Connie said, “I need some beach time.” We had returned to the underside of my blue little umbrella and enjoyed three hours of ocean gazing along with a few infrequent strolls in ankle deep water as the waves inched their way higher on the sand. My favorite part was, while seated in the shade, Connie seemed to want and need to hold my left hand. Maybe that was her attempt to provide me with the post-play I had imagined during our drive down.
We departed Gulf Shores at 1:30 and didn’t make it back to Connie’s until nearly 9:30 p.m. We took our time, stopping in Montgomery to visit Dr. Martin Luther King’s church, Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, and at Peach Park in Clanton for Connie to purchase three baskets of locally grown peaches. This was the first time I was aware of her hobby of canning fresh fruits and vegetables.
By the time we pulled in her driveway we had already talked over an hour, beginning in Birmingham, about her text and email conversations with Rebecca and Angela while she recovered for two days on the third floor of the Best Western hotel. Connie was clearly disappointed the two widows were seriously contemplating moving away, possibly to Boulder, Colorado. “They keep saying, ‘we should have left after high school. It’s time we have a fresh start.’”
After leaving Connie’s and during my drive home I couldn’t help but think there were a host of unspoken reasons why Rebecca and Angela might be wanting to put miles between themselves and the City of Possibilities. But what gave me an unsatisfying tingle up my spine was pondering the news Connie had shared as I was toting her three suitcases inside the foyer. Pastor Caleb had discovered that an old Mosler safe in the basement had been cracked. This certainly hadn’t come as a surprise, but it did add to my growing fear that this public news, along with the theft of a certain Smith and Wesson pistol from the gun case at Noah’s parents, didn’t bode well for me and my best friend.
The Pencil Driven Life 