Frame by Frame

  frame by frame

  By CJ Murphy

  ©2017 CJ Murphy

  ISBN (book): 9781942976622

  ISBN (epub): 9781942976639

  ISBN (pdf): 9781942976646

  This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Desert Palm Press

  1961 Main St, Suite 220

  Watsonville, CA 95076

  Editor: Kellie Doherty

  Cover Design: TreeHouse Studio, Winston-Salem, NC

  Blurb

  Valkyrie Magnusson, a former Marine photographer injured while covering a goodwill interaction with Iraqi children in 2010, is haunted by flashbacks. She travels the U.S. as a photographer for Rider magazine. A self-proclaimed nomad, Val has little inclination to settle down. But something keeps calling her back to a little tourist trap called Cool Springs in rural West Virginia. The sign at the quirky little store boasts, “Good food, groceries, ice cream, hardware, feed store, taxidermy, gifts, and gas.”

  Cool Springs is owned by Laurel Stemple and her grandmother Ree. Laurel is charged with the daily operations of the catch-all little store/diner and the care of her octogenarian grandmother. A frequent visitor, Val has become like family at Cool Springs. Interesting characters like Mule, aptly nicknamed for his braying laughter and Wunder, whose child-like questions keep everyone in stitches, create a unique tapestry of community in the little store.

  Over the years, Val and Laurel have gradually fallen in love without acknowledging it. Personal secrets and scars have left the pair unable to move toward a relationship. While covering an annual Memorial Day Ride to the Wall, a near tragic accident forces Val and Laurel to confront their feelings and fears.

  Acknowledgements

  Where to even begin? There’s only one place and that’s with the woman who married me twice. The second time after knowing exactly what she was in for, having married me the first time thirteen years earlier. Thank you beyond measure to my wife Darla who has anchored my soul through the turbulent storms of life, showing me a love and family that I never knew could exist. I also have to thank her because she uttered four little words that I am fairly sure at times, she regrets now…"write me a story."

  With our incredibly busy lives, it’s difficult to take the time to sit in one place for hours, crafting characters and scenes, when the lettuce needs harvested, the carrots need dug, or the grass needs to be mowed. Thank you, my love, for allowing me to carve out time to feed my creative spirit.

  To my numerous friends who beta read for me and said, “you have to publish”. To Marion, Myra, Dava, and Jeannie I am deeply in your debt for your belief in me and your unending support. To M. E. Logan for the encouragement to write for my mental health and your friendship in general, I am forever grateful. A huge thank you to my beta reader and friend AE, who had the foresight to introduce me to AJ Adaire, who in turn performed a ‘splenectomy’ with a wicked sense of humor, a velvet glove, and a twenty-pound sledgehammer. This book would not be worth a dime without your initial guidance, encouragement, and mentorship.

  Thank you, Kellie Doherty for your editing skills to make this a better story.

  Finally, to Lee and Desert Palm Press for taking a chance on an unknown, raw novice by saying, “I would like to publish your manuscript.” I will never forget reading those words after I submitted my ‘first born child’ to you. Thank you for making the leap of faith with me and guiding me through this process.

  To the reader, I hope you enjoy the tale I’ve woven. The little tourist trap in this book truly does exist and inspired the story ‘frame by frame’. The characters are based on people I know and the area I call home. It deals with two things I care deeply about breast cancer awareness and PTSD. I’ve lost important people in my life from breast cancer and it will always be one of my deep passions. I’m not a veteran like Val, but I respect our military a great deal. I’ve spent close to thirty years on the line as a firefighter. I know unseen trauma in those that witness such incredible sorrow and tragedy, is real. Lastly, I can’t end this acknowledgement without reminding you to check those smoke detectors and have an escape plan in case of an emergency. Yes, it’s that important and it’s part of my mission in life.

  Dedication

  To Darla

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  About CJ Murphy

  Chapter One

  VAL MAGNUSSON ROLLED HER wrist back and opened the throttle on the big Indian Chief. Mile after mile of asphalt ribbon glided beneath the gleaming wheels of the black iron horse. The pavement shimmered with the heat of summer. Rivulets of sweat trickled down her back under her leather jacket. The farther the bikes climbed into the mountains, the less oppressive the temperatures were. This was her fourth year making the ‘Ride to the Wall,’ each year riding with a different group from a different starting place. This group of veterans started in Columbus, riding to pay tribute to the fallen at the Vietnam Wall in Washington D.C.

  As a former marine photographer for The Marine News, her camera now captured scenic vistas, instead of soldiers armed with the weapons. As a freelance photographer, her main body of work was for The Great Roads section of Rider Magazine. One focus was on organized rides like this one. Other pursuits took her to various riding opportunities in the United States. Her stories were told through the lens of her camera followed by a few descriptive lines preceding her photo credits. There was no office space where her awards hung, having long since abandoned the conventional work environment for a custom leather seat with the roadway inches below her dusty black boots. Honorably discharged from the service, her current work was far away from the battlefield horrors. Far too many of those images still crowded her mind.

  The powerful vibration of the bikes in unison served as a common voice for those who never made it home. Lulled by the rumble so reminiscent of a Humvee traveling the unpaved roads of Iraq, her subconscious drifted back to those battlefields and the one image she couldn’t forget. A soldier holding a small, dark-haired child, orange and yellow flames surrounding them. Thick black smoke arose out of the carnage. The soot stained face of the child, tear tracks revealing tanned skin, permeated her nightmares. An arm hung from the body, a pack of crayons clasped tightly in its hand. The small figure showed no signs of life. Her vision tunneled down to the taillight in front of her, and she shook her head. Focus dammit. She dragged herself from the v
ivid memory and forced herself to focus on the road that continued to climb into the mountains of West Virginia.

  The communication device inside her helmet crackled to life. A voice filled her ears. She wasn’t sure if it was Dave, who had led the last leg of the trip, or Mike. The two Vietnam veterans often changed lead bike positions. “We’re coming up on those hairpin curves where your taillight and headlight might meet up. Stay awake, everyone.”

  Val raised her hand, as did the others. These miles were her favorite part of the famed transcontinental highway. In another twenty minutes, they would stop at the quirky roadside diner and gas station at the top of Cheat Mountain. Cool Springs was one of the most unique places she’d ever been. The sign boasted ‘good food, groceries, ice cream, hardware, feed store, taxidermy, gifts, and gas. If we don’t have it, you probably don’t need it.’

  Val followed the rumbling bikes around the last few hairpin turns. Loud pipes echoed off the rocks and reverberated around her. Riding mid-way back allowed her to watch the centipede-like continuum straighten out as they came to a whitewashed building. The wide front porch was full of well-used wooden rockers. This must be where Cracker Barrel got the idea, she mused. She flipped down her kickstand and turned off the ignition. Almost in unison, dozens of riders took off their helmets. After pulling off her gloves, she scratched her scalp and ran her fingers through her short, thick, blonde hair. Pushing her bangs back, she pulled the US Marine patrol hat out of her leather jacket and fixed it low on her brow. This was the only ride she wore this hat on.

  Val looked around her surroundings. Ancient equipment, from steam engines to old iron tractors, peppered the land. Tall oak and maple trees shaded the area as sunlight dappled through the leaves. A small stream that gave the establishment its name, ran through the tourist trap. On hot days, you could find any number of children walking barefoot through the water while others climbed over the equipment. Parents lounged on swings, eating ice cream, taking a break in their travels. It had a wide parking lot filled with motorcycles and rusty pickup trucks with Farm Use spray painted on their side. The other vehicles in the lot were a license plate game bonanza. Plates from all the surrounding states, as well as more distant ones from Canada, often took up space on the cracked pavement. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fried food, allowing the familiar surroundings to calm her jangled nerves.

  “Hey, Viking, you going to sit on that bike all day?”

  Val looked up from the bike to see the face she’d been longing for. Leaning against the support column stood a woman with long chestnut hair loosely braided and hanging across one shoulder. The smile crossing Laurel Stemple’s face was warm and inviting. The mere sight of her fired Val’s blood.

  “The older I get the slower I move.” Val straightened, placing her hands on the small of her back. The bikes hadn’t made a stop in three hours. The last twenty minutes were spent navigating a mountain famous for ‘cheating’ men out of their lives. She twisted side to side loosening the stiff muscles.

  “If you plan to get any of Gram’s rhubarb crisp, you better find your way to the kitchen. She’s been waiting on you.”

  Swinging her leg over the bike, she pulled off the black leather motorcycle jacket and hung it on the handle bar over her helmet. Taking long strides to the porch, she smiled at Laurel, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Laurel wore a checkered blue and yellow sleeveless blouse over a pale blue t-shirt. Her shapely legs were clad in a pair of faded cut-off shorts and a well-worn pair of hiking boots. A rip in the front of her shorts showed the white pocket beneath. She looked so comfortable and damn sexy.

  “It’s good to see you, Laurel.” Val wrapped the smaller woman in a hug, lifting her feet off the ground. “How is Ree?”

  “Full of spitfire and sass, like always. It’s good to see you too. It’s been at least eight months since we’ve seen you ride through here,” Laurel chided. “Don’t you have snow tires for that bike yet?”

  “Snow I’m not afraid of. It’s that ice you guys get up here. Never was good on skates.”

  “I guess the thought of four wheels never crossed your mind.” Laurel tilted her head sideways. “Come on. I know you won’t be here long. Oh, by the way, thanks for the subscription. She loves seeing where you’ve been, since it’s the only way she’s going to know.”

  “You could take her on a vacation.” Val winked, a small smile escaping her lips.

  “Gram leave? You’re dreaming, Viking.” Laurel shook her head.

  Val grinned. She’d always liked the nickname ever since Laurel had tagged her with it on one of her first trips through, right after she had found out Val’s full name, Valkyrie Magnusson. Her father was a university professor specializing in Scandinavian studies at the University of Washington. Much like him, she had pale skin and Nordic blue eyes. On one of her trips, she’d stopped in only to be presented with a plastic Viking helmet fully equipped with horns and long braids of yellow yarn. They’d all had a good laugh over it, and Gram proudly wore it the rest of the visit. Before she left, it was enshrined on top of the mounted deer head above the women’s restroom.

  As they walked side by side through Cool Springs, she raised a hand to Tilly, Beth, and Wunder, all the people she’d come to know who kept this place running. Mule, a string bean of a man, wearing faded overalls and a stained John Deere ball cap, lounged in the corner. Bobeye joined him. Bobeye, aptly named for his one wandering eye, read something out of the local paper to a scowling Mule. They sat in the wooden rockers around a currently unused potbelly stove and a checkerboard.

  “Hey, boys.” She tipped her hat, slowed, and waited for the two men to finish some argument.

  “Well looky here, Bobeye. See what the cat drug in that the dog won’t drag back out?” Mule rose and shook her hand with a great laugh. The sound resonated throughout the store, causing curious looks from newcomers. Mule’s laugh sounded much like a donkey braying. Val was used to it, the uniqueness of it never failing to bring a grin.

  Val held his hand a second longer. “How are you, Mule?”

  “Fair ta middlin’. You?”

  “Shiny side up.”

  “You’re doing better than some,” Bobeye interjected. “I’ve already hauled two crotch rockets and one Harley off the mountain in the last two days.”

  Bobeye owned the local towing service and kept busy between the tractor trailer wrecks and the flatlanders that had a hard time handling the curves of the mountain roads.

  “Damn, hate to hear that. Anyone serious?” Val asked.

  “Nope, nothing too busted up exceptin’ their pride and their fancy motorcycles. They’s lucky.” Bobeye sighed.

  “Same old story then?” Val arched an eyebrow.

  “Same shit, different day. Be careful out there. I’d hate to put that old Indian on the hook, you know?”

  Val nodded. “Not if I can help it.”

  Mule looked over the diner. “How many in your group this year?”

  “Close to fifty. Half went on over to Dot’s Diner so as not to over-run the help. We’re meeting back up at 1:30 to finish out. Should be at the wall around four or so. Covering some events this evening.” Val looked at her watch.

  Mule’s brow furrowed. “You’ll say hi to Dale for me?”

  “As always, Mule.” Mule’s brother Dale had died when he was shot in Quang Nam.

  “Safe travels, Viking.” Bobeye raised a finger in a wave.

  “Always.”

  Val and Laurel continued through the swinging doors into the kitchen where two identical women with salt and pepper hair worked at the grills. Faye and Kaye were as fast and efficient as any line cooks Val had ever seen, and their food second to none. The twins had worked at the diner for thirty plus years, preparing the simple menu made with top ingredients. The women bickered like old hens but could talk in tandem and finish each other’s thoughts. Freaky, Val thought. They waved their spatulas at her.

  At the back corner, a slight statured, white-
haired Ree Stemple snapped green beans from her apron into a big metal pan. “Land sakes, I thought you wasn’t coming. Figured ya might have found somewhere the food was better and the girls prettier. Let me look atcha.”

  “Not a chance.” Val hugged Ree and placed a gentle kiss on her lined temple. “Somebody said I could score some rhubarb crisp if I made my way back here.”

  Ree pushed a strand of hair behind Val’s ear. “Think you’re something special?”

  “I don’t know about that. I just know what I can smell.” Val’s cheeks heated.

  “With or without ice cream?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” Val’s laughter brought a smile to the elderly woman’s face.

  “If you mean was that a joke, of course it was. Sit down and I’ll fetch it.”

  “Thank you, Ree.”

  “Pretty sure you’ve earned the right to call me Gram.” The frail woman stood to make her way over to the stove where a fresh pan of rhubarb crisp sat cooling. She scooped some into a bowl and walked out to the diner area to add vanilla ice cream on top.

  Val faced Laurel. “She looks good.”

  “Better than she was four months ago. That pneumonia about wiped her out. And me.” Laurel shivered.

  Ree Stemple was a spry eighty-five-year-old who took no guff from anyone. She’d run this local tourist trap since the mid-fifties, expanding the business to what sat here today. With everyone else gone, it was Ree and Laurel that kept it a thriving business along with a host of characters that beat any variety show ever contrived.

  “Can’t imagine her not being here,” Val whispered reverently.

  Laurel wrapped an arm around Val’s waist and pulled her close. “She’s pretty fond of you, too, Viking.”

  “I consider myself lucky to have met her.”

  Ree came back through the swinging door and sat the dessert and a ceramic white mug of black coffee down on the wooden table sitting in one corner of the kitchen.