The Maine Events by Rodney Riesel (most important books of all time txt) 📕

you wouldn't know it. You'd think she wasin her seventies.”

“Does Betty Strong serve ice cream as well?”

“Yes, but she volunteers three days a week, I think.”

“How old is she?”

“You're kinda hung up on everyone's age, aren't ya?”

“It helps me get a better mental image. Do you know if Bettylives with her son?”

“She might. She lives in the big house out on Cow BeachPoint.”

“Cow Beach Point? Where's that?”

Mya pointed south. “You go down here about two miles andmake a left onto Roaring Rock Road. There's a bend in the road, and then Ithink it's the first driveway after the bend.”

Allen nodded.

“Why are you asking so many questions about these people?”Mya asked.

“Just curious.”

“Just curious, huh?”

“Yup. What night do you have off?”

“Are you just curious?”

“Yes.”

“This week I have Thursday off from Stones Throw, but I alsowait tables at the Stage Neck Inn.”

“Two jobs and you volunteer at a nursing home.Doesn't sound like you have a lot of free time.”

“I have about three days off a month.”

“What time do you get off work on Thursday?”

“Are you asking so you can stalk me some more?” Myadeadpanned.

“Yes. I'm a lazy stalker. I find that it's easier for astalker to stalk if the stalk-ee tells the stalk-er where she'sgoing to be.”

“That makes sense. I get off at four.”

“Would you like to have dinner with me Thursday night?”

“Gee, I don't know. That would kinda destroy the wholestalker, stalkee thing we've got going, wouldn't it?”

“Oh, don't worry. I'll still stalk you from afar. I'vealready got a buttload of pics of you on my cell phone.”

“Why are they still on your phone? Shouldn't they be tappedto your wall above the lit candles?”

Allen chuckled. “You haven't worked your way up to shrinestatus yet.”

Mya grinned. “Okay then, I guess I better go to dinner withyou. Probably the only way I'll work my way up.”

“Great. If you give me your address, I'll pick you up atsix.”

“Not so fast. I'm not so sure I want my stalker knowingwhere I live. How about if I pick you up at six?”

“Okay. I'm at the Sunrise Motel—room eleven.”

“Okay, see ya then. Bye, Frankie.”

Allen stuffed the remaining two slices of bacon into hismouth as he watched the back of Mya's perfectly shaped yoga pants jog down the beach.

“What do you think of that, Frankie? Smooth, or what? Thirdday here, and I already have a date. That's gotta be a record for me.”

When Mya was a tiny gray speck, Allen returned to his nowcold scrambled eggs and home fries. Buddy lay back down beside him.

“I wonder if Jacob can keep an eye on you Thursday night?”

Allen took one last look in Mya's direction. The gray speckhad vanished.

“Do you think she could tell it was my first time askingsomeone out in over fifteen years?” He reached over and rested his hand onFrankie's back. “I think I pulled it off.”

Chapter Nine

When Allen returned to his motel room there was a plasticgrocery bag hanging on the door.

“What do we have here, Frankie?” he asked.

Allen removed the bag and looked inside. It was twopaperback books. He pulled them out.

“The Enemy Around the Corner and No Death for theWicked,” he read aloud. “I wish I could still write like this, Frankie.”

He unlocked the door and went inside. He tossed the books onthe table next to his laptop. Frankie bounded in behind him and jumped up onthe bed.

Allen filled a glass with ice and added some Coke. Hecarried it to the table and sat down.

“Okay, Frankie,” he said, “I'm gonna write the shit outtathis book, so be quiet.”

He stared at the screen as he scrolled down through the sixpages he'd written over three years earlier. He read as he scrolled. Back thenhe knew what the book was going to be about. He knew the beginning, the middle,and even the ending. It was the first book he'd ever planned to write that way.The first four books were written as he went along, surprising himself as hehoped the reader would one day be surprised. Allen's first book, No Deathfor the Wicked, allowed him to quit his day job six months after it wasreleased. A year and a half later, The Enemy Around the Corner wasreleased. It sold twice as many copies in the same amount of time. Two yearslater book three was released. His fourth book was released three days beforehis wife received her diagnosis. “Maybe a year,” the doctor told her. “Eighteenmonths,” said the second doctor. They were both wrong. Allen buried his wifefour months later.

The pages Allen now stared at on the laptop were writtenfive days before her passing. He'd read them over and over again, never onceadding to them.

Allen sipped his Coke. “Maybe it's time to start fromscratch, Frankie,” he said. “Maybe someday come back to this one.”

He couldn't bring himself to delete the last few pages he'dwritten while his wife was alive. She had always been his muse, and now he feltas though these five pages provided a connection between the two of them.

He closed the pages and brought up a new blank page. ChapterOne, he wrote. Reed Templeton pulled into town on a Sunday afternoon. Thesun was shining, the waves were crashing, the seagulls were screeching, and thetourists were dying. Templeton looked over his shoulder into the back seat ofhis Jeep Grand Cherokee. His dog, Hondo, was sound asleep.

Allen took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. Hepicked up his glass and drank. He looked out through the picture window at thewater.

Might be a good idea to close the drapes, he thought.

He grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it closed.

“That's better.”

What do you think, Hondo? asked Templeton. Whatshould we do first—grab lunch, or catch a serial killer?

Allen picked up his pen and quickly jotted down some notes.

“Look at that, Frankie, sixty-six words. It's as easy asthat.”

Allen's hands hovered above the keyboard, and then there wasa knock at the door.

“Come in … wait, hold on.”

Allen leaned over as far as he could to try and reach thedoorknob; he couldn't quite reach it.