Heritage Day – Working Notes.

IOld Manual Typewritert’s Heritage Day here in Alberta, one of two provincial public holidays in the year. So while the rest of the world works, we play.

For me, it’s a bonus day, as I got Friday as an earned day off, so that turned the weekend into a four-day break. Very welcome right now, too – I spent all Friday with my butt in the chair and my fingers to the keyboard.

As Mark is home today, I’m not entirely sure what the day will bring, but I’m hoping to get more progress in on the book, somewhere.

Here’s a flash excerpt for you:


Copyright © TRACY COOPER-POSEY, 2014
All Rights Reserved

Standing in front of the impressive black oak and brass door, waiting for his buzz to be answered, Darwin brushed down his jacket nervously and looked around at Fifth Avenue. Even though he worked in the general area, the lifestyles of the residents here existed upon a different plane that ol’ Darwin Baxter would never be able to reach.

The girl that answered the door looked like she was barely eighteen, but she was stunning in a dewy rosebud way. Darwin cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Ylva…um…Peterson.” At the last second, he recalled the surname.

“Is she expecting you?” the girl asked.

“I…uh, no. Can you see if she would speak to me for a few minutes? It’s very important. Tell her we’ve met before, several years ago.”

The girl gave him the politeness smile. “And your name?”

He told her.

She shut the door on him and Darwin was back to being nervous again. Why hadn’t he worn a tie?

When the door opened again, Darwin fully expected the girl would either tell him to go away, or he might be escorted into the interior of the mansion to speak to Ylva for the few short minutes he had requested.

Ylva herself stood there, in classically stylish pants and a crewneck sweater in some material that seemed to glow softly, like her hair, which was longer than he remembered.

She smiled at him. “Darwin, this is a surprise.”

Completely floored, Darwin just stared at her. He had forgotten the power of her voice. The low contralto. How it curled around you….

Ylva’s smile faded. “Is something wrong with Charlee?” she asked.

“Yes. I mean, no, there’s nothing wrong with her. Charlee is fine.” He grimaced. “I think she’s fine. That’s why I’m here. Asher gave me your address.” He pulled in a calming breath. “I need a woman’s perspective,” he said frankly.

“Oh.” She pressed her lips together briefly, like she was trying to prevent a smile. “There are not dozens of women in your life that you could have consulted, instead of schlepping all the way down here to see me?”

He wouldn’t have called visiting a house on Fifth Avenue schlepping, not in his wildest dreams. He shrugged self-consciously. “Every woman I know has that blue-rinse hair thing going on or wears support hose. One of ‘em told me to make Charlee drink boiled prune juice every night because that would fix her right up.” He shook his head. “I need a sophisticated woman. You’re the only one I know.”


Have a great day!


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