Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold (39 page)

Amanda grinned. “You know that party supply store down past the chicken place?”

He nodded.

“Last week I saw they had their Halloween stuff out way early. I called Christine last night and asked her to swing by today and pick this up.”

“Today? I didn’t see her.”

“You were snoozing during one of the games.” She poked his ribs. “Your team was losing.”

Jason lifted his head slightly. “Oooh. Do you suppose they have any witch costumes?”

She pulled her hand away from his chest and gently whapped his lower belly. “I thought you were scared of witches.”

“Only scared of evil witches, not good ones.” His hand roamed tenderly. “And I’ve got a feeling you’d be a very good witch.”

Delicious sensations resulted from his touch. “I’m not saying I’m ever going to wear any more silly costumes for you.” She paused as she searched his eyes. “But if I ever did do the witch thing, I’m sure I’d be… wicked.”

Then Amanda smiled and kissed the new Jason again.

-30-

Author’s Note

It’s long been an accepted part of American female lore that men allegedly handle illness quite unlike women — so differently, in fact, that (at some point) scientists isolated the cold virus itself… and men now contract their own species of that ailment.

My first
exposure
(pardon the pun) to this anomaly was seeing a male actor’s portrayal of a minor cold in a scene near the end of a 1970 movie*. I asked myself, “Do some women really view men’s illnesses that way?” When the affirmative answer came back, I asked, “Do some men really act that way when they’re sick?” Over the years since, I’ve seen or read several little scenes in which similar views were expressed.

I’ve always loved screwball comedies — whether on film or in novels — but that was not what I set out to write in this case. Originally, I’d intended to have the alpha male character in my Somerset Series suffer from a
man-cold
for part of a novel… and the heroine would have to put up with his whining and exaggerating.

But as I began writing the dialog in one of those scenes, I realized the topic was much too important to be merely an additional plot thread. The infamous man-cold needed its own novel!

And the next logical step soon became clear — the tragic epidemic of man-colds surely needed a cure.

———

*
Diary of a Mad Housewife
, with Richard Benjamin and Carrie Snodgress.

Acknowledgements

This manuscript, written mostly in September of 2009, got shoved aside by a flurry of publishing, promoting, editing, and other writing. All during these four years since, I’ve worried that the contest judges, agents, or editors who’d seen part (or all) of my story would somehow beat me to the punch and publish something on this topic
—
man-colds
—
before I had the opportunity. Doesn’t seem so, however.

I’m extremely grateful to my friend, Gunnar Grey – owner of
Dingbat Publishing
– for letting me in on the ground floor of her developing company. And I’m especially pleased that
she
has allowed me to work again with two very talented and personable professionals whom I know from another publisher and who also do freelance work elsewhere. They are Traci Pollitt, the perceptive content editor, and Elaina Lee, the creative cover artist.
I am also indebted to John Grey for his thorough proofing of this manuscript.

I would be remiss if I neglected to mention that Theresa Thevenote’s Facebook discussion of the cushaw
—
the awesome monster cousin in the crookneck winter squash family
—
inspired me to write a particular scene in this novel. Everything I know about tofu, I learned from my wife’s second cousin, Blake J. Williams; my knowledge of hummus comes from my wife’s niece, Sharon Lenox. Also thanks to Renita Godby for her anecdote of the cat lifting her eyelids… and to Carla Lynn Shurr Hostetter for her story of the missing necklace pendant.

Special thanks
to
my brother, Charles A. Salter, who provided helpful, detailed feedback on the early draft he read, and to my wife, Denise Williams Salter, who read an early draft
and assisted in several other ways.

My list of early readers is a long one. Those who not only read my novel, but offered helpful feedback, were: Nanette D. Scott, Sona Dombourian, Kathleen T. Smith, Theresa Thevenote, Trudy Patterson, Sharon Pullen, and Renita Godby. Other readers were Rita Roudebush Williams, Dottie Robinson Salter, Jackie Choate, Madeline Carbon, Katherine Cavendish Gibson, Linda Rushing Gill, and Sharon Warner.

I also appreciate the interest of Richard Jasper, Bella Fitzgerald, Caroline D. LeBlanc Wolf, Pamela Picard, Rebecca Salter Rod, Julia Salter Moers, Carol Ann Goin, Susan Wise, and Christine Witthohn.

About the Author

My newest novel is
Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold
, a screwball comedy released by Dingbat Publishing in December 2013. My published novels (with Astraea Press) are:
Called to Arms Again
(May 2013),
Rescued By That New Guy in Town
(Oct. 2012), and
The Overnighter’s Secrets
(May 2012). Also released through AP is a short novella,
Echo Taps
(June, 2013). Romantic comedy and romantic suspense are among eight completed novel manuscripts.

I’m co-author of two non-fiction monographs (about librarianship) with a royalty publisher, plus a signed chapter in another book and a signed article in a specialty encyclopedia. I’ve also published articles, book reviews, and over 120 poems; my writing has won nearly 40 awards, including several in national contests. As a newspaper photo-journalist, I published about 150 bylined newspaper articles, and some 100 bylined photos.

I worked nearly 30 years in the field of librarianship. I’m a decorated veteran of U.S. Air Force (including a remote tour of duty in the Arctic, at Thule AB in N.W. Greenland).

I’m the married parent of two and grandparent of six.

More Books by J.L. Salter

From Astraea Press

The Overnighter’s Secrets

Rescued by That New Guy in Town

Called to Arms Again

Echo Taps

Coming Soon from Dingbat Publishing

Scratching the Seven-Month Itch

Another great read from J.L. Salter

Chapter One

Drank way too much punch before I realized it was spiked — right before I passed out Saturday night…

Coming to in total darkness, my foggy brain ached and my eyes strained. Nothing but the sensation of immense space. Pinched my forearm to rule out a bizarre dream. Ouch! Final recollection before everything went black: exhausted and still desperately thirsty.

My tentative hands groped enough to establish I was still on the hard plank bench. No telling how long I'd been there — everything hurt when I sat up. Stretched out my arms. "Ow!" Splinter. Yeah, the fund-raising jail with square wooden bars. But why was I still there?

"Hey!" Ghostly echo. Completely alone in the dark. The Greene County Halloween Festival was obviously long over and the spooky former armory building clearly abandoned.

As I struggled to my feet, I also realized I'd selected a terrible outfit for a jailbreak: low-cut satin blouse almost covering the bustier which threatened to squash my innards. Plus a tight high-hemmed skirt, patterned hose, and one remaining shoe with a four-inch heel. No telling where the other one was. Yeah, I'd had the terribly original notion to come as a sexy witch — including a pointy hat and hand-made broom. Sure wish I'd worn sneakers and a sweatsuit.

So, how on earth did I get left behind? And exactly how would I get out?

"Hello?" I knew it was too tentative, but somehow it seemed yelling into that vast darkness could make me feel even more vulnerable than I already did.

Dilemma.

One of the big festival fund-raisers was to lock up attendees until someone donated enough money to bail them out. At first I was steamed to be imprisoned since I'd spent two weeks working on that stinking event. Then I figured at least I was off my feet for a few minutes. Once I sat down exhaustion took over, plus the spiked punch, of course. But that didn't explain why I was still there in the dark with everybody gone… all alone.

At least I think I'm alone. "Hey! Hello?" Louder. "Anybody here?"

Silence could be good or bad. But I wished somebody would come turn the lights on and get me out. Plus, I need a restroom. Why did I leave my cell phone locked in the car? Not that there was any point waiting on a rescue. When you wake up behind wooden bars in real life, no handsome stranger comes to your aid.

My forefinger hurt but I couldn't extract a splinter in the dark. Took off my right shoe since I couldn't walk in the dark with one high-heel. Better find the other one. Maybe later. Stood up. Oh, still a bit woozy from that long nap. Fumbled my way from the back of the jail. Straight ahead should get me to the door. Tripped on something. Oh, my other shoe. Thank goodness, those heels were way too expensive to leave behind.

Just a few more steps. Yikes! Bumped my head on something hanging from the top of the wooden jail. Maybe a light bulb! Checked. No, just something with a disgusting spider web attached that I didn't want to touch again, or think about, ever. Hate spiders!

One more step. Fingers brushed the bars of the front wall. Good. Door couldn't be far away. Sideways to the left. Nope. Other direction. Ah, door frame. "Do you remember which way it opens, Kristen?" No, I didn't. And I was talking to myself again. I put both shoes on the floor, reached one hand through the bars, and felt the mechanism. Angle was wrong. In order to flip this latch, my entire forearm (past my elbow) had to get through.

What kind of latch? Metal. I felt a handle… it moved. But the door didn't open. "What did the latch look like, Kristen?" I asked myself. A freezer door? No. Gate hasp? Nope. It was like those rental trailers. Have to lift something and swing something else to the side, or vice versa. Tried that. Okay, I could lift or swing, but couldn't do both with one hand.

"Hey! Anybody here who can help with this latch before I wet myself?" Multiple echoes. I'd forgotten how big the main armory space was. When the Tennessee National Guard used it, dozens of cargo trucks fit in there. After the local unit was combined with the battalion in nearby Nashville, Uncle Sam donated the facility to the county. "Thanks a lot, Sam. Now I'm stuck here." Needed to stop talking to myself.

Tried the latch again from the other side. Ouch. Tight fit. My left elbow must be thicker. Wished I hadn't drunk all that punch earlier. I should have known somebody spiked it because I'd seen lots of folks got tipsy. But I'd just said, "Whatever" and drank another cup. That's how I slept through the abandonment by my former friends and the people I'd worked with on the community extravaganza. "Memo to Kristen," I muttered, "don't ever nap in a bustier. It pinches the girls and probably leaves bruises." Ha. Not that anybody would see them. Wally the Weasel was out of my zip code and my life. Nobody else in my rented house besides Elvis the neutered feline. Even that cat was probably more romantic than Wally, AKA Walter-who's-now-ancient-history-and-I-hope-he-dies-before-I-ever-see-him-again. Hmm, sounds awful. Not a good time to scare up bad karma with another curse on the Weasel. The last curse I put on Wally had to do with shriveling up his—

Okay, it was up to me. If I flipped up that gizmo, the handle pulled the thingy out of the what's-it. Great theory. Still needed two hands. "Hey! Anybody in this stinking armory who'll let me out?"

What was that noise? Something fell over! Somebody fell over? Better be a "good" somebody. "Hey! Over there… out there. Who's there?"

"O-o-ow!" From the left of me somewhere. But what? It must have been near the refreshment area not far from my prison pen. "Who's here? If you can speak, you'd better say something real quick, 'cause I've got a big ole magnum gun pointed right at your head!" Bluff 'em, Kristen.

"O-o-ow! Stop yelling! My head's about to explode." Closer. Man's voice. Could be good news… or bad.

"Well, you'd better show yourself. And get some light over here." Take charge, Kristen.

"I don't know where the stinkin' lights are. And stop yelling." Closer… I could almost smell him.

"Don't you have a lighter or something? I thought all guys carried lighters."

He groaned a bit more. "Only the ones that smoke."

"Terrific. The one non-smoker in Verdeville has finally arrived to let me out."