Snippet from Serendipity Blues

Hello there! Yes, it has been over a month since I was last here. Just a busy few weeks that I'm glad to have behind me.

I'm going back to work on Serendipity Blues. You remember that one, right? The one I started back in January and had to drop to get contracted work done? I'm going to try and finish it in the next two weeks before I leap into the new novel. Here's a snippet from toward the end of what I'd written before. The novel is only at about 18k, so I have quite a ways to go. And I need to find the outline again, such as it was! I think that was one of the big problems. I should have outlined better.

We'll see how it goes!

They found a suitable church located in Burbank -- a ways from where they were in the upper San Fernando Valley, but that suited Patricia who didn't want to be seen too close to the safe house anyway. She had found a map in the car, and a call to the church had given them basic directions. Even as she headed for the freeway, Patricia had the growing feeling this was not a good idea.

"Oh! This is the Golden State Freeway!" Carmina suddenly leaned forward, peering out the front window. To Patricia it just looked like any other freeway, except with too much traffic and a strange haze in the air that reminded her that LA was the smog capital of the country. She had the window down and considered rolling it back up, already tasting the diesel and hot tar. But Carmina looked out as though they had found the road to El Dorado, and everything she ever wished for lay ahead.

"My cousin and I used to sit with maps and trace out the trips we'd take. Hollywood. Beverly Hills." She looked out the window and sighed. "I miss her sometimes."

"She the one who ran away?"

"Yes. She's the only cousin my age -- well, at least of the family that's still speaking to each other. Feuds, you know. And they get serious sometimes. Someone shot Johnny B. a couple years ago. That really scared me." She looked at Patricia. "I promised God and the Saints that I would go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life if they just let him live. He's my best friend."

"I'll get you there," Patricia said, glancing at the girl. "Don't you have friends in school?"

She shrugged. "The rich ones play stupid games, proving who's better. The poor ones are afraid of me and my family. And none of them seem to take the nuns very seriously. I hope I don't miss too much of school. I don't want to get held back."

New panic showed in her eyes. Poor child -- worried about her uncle being shot dead and missing school. It had to be a hell of a life.

"I doubt we'll be here for more than a couple days," Patricia said.

"Do you think we can see the ocean? I've never seen the Pacific Ocean. My father travels all over, usually with Sammy."

"Sammy?" she said, trying to recall if she knew that name.

"His private secretary," Carmina said, and then fell silent.

Without a doubt the sixteen year old knew what her father was up to on those trips. And there she hit that wall again -- the devout little Catholic girl, and her philandering father. And her mother who used her as a pawn. Oh, and not to forget the enigmatic Johnny B. who, despite being shot a couple years back, had stayed out of any kind of Family related trouble.

Though she did seem to remember that he once decked a drunk who tried -- ah hell. Who tried to get too friendly with his fifteen year old niece. Well, she sure as hell hoped she didn't meet up with Johnny B.

Carmina had fallen silent, still staring out at the road, and Patricia wondered what she saw there, past the convertibles and the semis. Excitement? Freedom? An Adventure? Or did she see the way back home if she could just fine the right exit?

They drove through one long stretch of humanity -- miles and miles of city, without a break. It didn't feel the same as places like DC or New York -- large though they were. This was unrelenting buildings from the moment they got on the freeway until Patricia took the off ramp and drove them straight to the St. Francis Xavier Church.

There were several structures on the church ground, the oldest looking a stucco and red roofed building that reminded Patricia again that they were not on the East Coast. Here the Spaniards had been the first immigrants, and their influence fell on the buildings, names, and even the looks of the people.

"I don't have a scarf!" Carmina said, suddenly dismayed.

"I have one," Patricia said and found a spot to park the car about a block away.

She rummaged through her purse as she glanced at the people heading into the church, especial a group of women who could have been living in the Old World a hundred years ago, except for the shortness of their dresses. They walked up the steps, black shawls draped up over their heads and shoulders, gathering in groups and moving on. But others moved up with them -- black, white, oriental. She saw two nuns and a priest at the door, greeting people.

"Will this do?" Patricia asked, finally pulling a white scarf from her purse. Though wrinkled and with a lipstick smudge on the edge, Carmina took it with a nod of thanks and deftly tied her hair up under it.

"Yes, thank you." Carmina looked at her and then gave a little shrug. "Thank you for bringing me here. Are you Catholic?"

"No, but my grandfather was a missionary in China, and my brother is one in South America. We better get going."

"That's neat about the missionaries. That must be -- so fulfilling." Carmina opened the car door and started to slip back. "I'm sorry for all the trouble,"

"It's alright," Patricia answered, surprised and pleased by the change.

Except she didn't realize then that Carmina meant for the trouble she was going to cause, not for what had already happened....