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

Mildred released him and made a fuss of smoothing out hisshirt. “I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you.”

“That's all right,” said Allen, massaging his arm. “Thefeeling will come back eventually.”

Mildred kissed him on the cheek saying, “It was very nicemeeting you,”

“Yeah,” Cam said, “maybe our paths will cross again someday,”

“I hope so,” Allen said, knowing he would probably never seethe old couple again.

The three spoke for a few minutes, and even exchanged cellphone numbers and email addresses.

Finally, Cam said, “Well, Mother, let's head into town andgrab some lunch.”

“Have you had lunch yet, Allen?” Mildred asked.

“I just ate breakfast twenty minutes ago,” Allen replied,“but thanks anyway.”

Mildred reached down and patted Frankie's head. “You takecare of Allen,” she said.

Frankie barked. They all said goodbye again, and Cam andMildred headed up the street.

“I hate meeting new people, Frankie,” Allen said. “I hatesaying goodbye and knowing I'll never see them again … except in my books.”

Allen tugged on Frankie's leash. “Come on, pal, time towrite. If I really get going, I might even finish this book tonight.”

Chapter Twenty

At five thirty that same evening, Allen typed the words TheEnd, and pushed himself away from the table. “The … end,” he said, as hewrote it. He stared at the words for a second and took out his cell phone. Hesnapped a picture of the words on the laptop screen. He brought up his contactslist; at the top was his deceased wife. In the past, when finishing his otherbooks, he had always texted the photo to his wife. He knew she wouldn't receivethe text this time, and there would be no reply, but he sent it anyway.

“There, Frankie,” Allen said. “All done. Now I just need tosend the file to Mike.”

Mike Maxwell was Allen's publisher; he was also his cousin.Allen opened his email program and created a new message to Mike with thesubject, Writer's block be damned. In the body he wrote, “Look upon mybrilliance and weep.” He attached a Word file of the manuscript and hit send.

He glanced over at the clock on the nightstand.

“We better get going. Wouldn't want to be late for whateverweird wife-swapping orgy that might be awaiting us.”

Allen chuckled as he attached Frankie's lease.

“Crazy kids and their rumors.”

Frankie rode in the back seat, as usual. Allen cracked thewindow so the pooch could take in all the sights and scents. When Allen easedinto the turn lane at the corner of US1 and Cider Hill Road, he pulled his cellphone from his front pocket. He waited for the light to turn green, and thendrove around the corner. Steering with his left hand, and holding his cellphone in his right, he watched for a road sign that said Pudding Lane. Hereferred to his cell phone's GPS several times while navigating the windingcountry road.

“There it is, Pudding Lane,” he said, baring right.

In his text message, Paul Rose had said his place was thefifth house on the left. Allen counted homes as he drove slowly along thenarrow street. When he came to number five, he pulled into the driveway.

Rose's house was an ivory, vinyl-sided, single-story withwhite trim and wine colored shutters, and an attached two-stall garage. On theright side of the concrete driveway was an old basketball hoop nailed to a twelve-foottreated four by four. The net had all but rotted away. Two maple trees sat inthe front yard, as well as several varieties of shrubs.

Allen put the old Jeep in park and shut off the engine. Helooked over at the house on the right, and then the house on the left. Hewondered which neighbor kid started the wife-swapping rumor.

“Well, here we are, Frankie,” he said.

They got out of the car and walked up to the front door.Rose's wife must have seen them coming, because she pulled the door open justas he reached for the knob. She was grinning big, and held a glass of white winein her hand.

“Allen Crane!” she said, a little louder than Allen wascomfortable with.

Harriet wasn't what Allen had expected. For him, certainnames always came with certain expectations. He attributed that to being awriter. He had imagined her as short and plump, but she was the exact opposite.Mrs. Rose was around five-nine, thin, with olive skin. She had long brown hairand dark eyes. She was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of faded cut-offjeans with a few factory-made holes.

Allen thought Rose was attractive, but he had a hard timepicturing her and Paul as swingers; they seemed like an average middle-classcouple. Likewise, a cursory glance at the tasteful furnishings revealed nothingto suggest any kinky goings-on. They probably keep the Japanese sex swingand their other bondage stuff in the sex dungeon in the basement, Allenthought, the gears of his writerly brain turning, where they have theswinger orgies every Saturday night.

“You must be Mrs. Rose,” said Allen.

“Please, call me Harriet,” she said. “And who do we havehere?”

“This is Frankie.”

“How are you this evening, Frankie?” Harriet stepped backand motioned Allen inside. “Paul!” she screamed, loud enough for Allen toflinch, “Allen's here!”

Allen walked into the foyer. To his right was the livingroom. Straight ahead was a hallway that led to the kitchen. The whole housesmelled like whatever it was Harriet was cooking. Allen guessed it was a porkroast.

Harriet pointed toward the kitchen. “You can go rightthrough there,” she said. “Paul and Starsky are out on the patio.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I'll bring you a drink. What's your poison? Beer? Whiskey?Tequila? Rum? We got it all.”

“I'll take a tequila and Coke if ya have it.”

“Comin' right up.”

Harriet turned and walked into the living room, and Allenwent toward the kitchen. He walked down the hall, through the kitchen, and to asliding glass door at the rear of the house. He slid it open.

“Hey, Rose,” Allen said, stepping onto the concrete patio.

Frankie bolted through the door and ran up to Starsky. Theysniffed each other's butts and then began chasing each other around the yard.Both dogs barked playfully as they acted out their own special brand of dogtag.

Rose was