On the Edge of Dangerous Things (Dangerous Things Trilogy Book 1) by snyder-carroll s. Page A
Authors: snyder-carroll s.
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new Town Cars, his navy, hers cherry red. You never saw her in the same bathing suit twice. She talked endlessly about their three kids who went to posh private schools and on to Notre Dame and into the family business. Four years ago, Eve and Marvin bought the old mayor’s 1953 West Wind on the Intracoastal at the end of Coconut Palm Drive. They had it shredded and carted away and put a brand-new Destiny prefab in its place. Hester never saw a trailer like it, granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, a crystal chandelier, Jacuzzi tubs in both bathrooms, and a gas fireplace.
If Eve’s trailer was the palace, then Dee’s was the pits. Dee Larson, a retired state worker from Connecticut, had been a secretary in the accounting department, which to Hester’s thinking must’ve been a rather dull way to spend forty-three years of your life. But to hear Dee talk, the people she worked with were fascinating. She had wild stories about outrageous liaisons. Accountants, it seemed, screwed around more than college kids on spring break in South Beach.
Before Hester accepted Dee’s stories as gospel, though, she had to consider the fact that once you got to know Dee, you learned she would say or do just about anything to be the center of attention. It was obvious by the neglected appearance of her dark and dingy 1982 Vagabond trailer that she’d rather be out somewhere gossiping than home cleaning. Why, to even get from the doorway to the kitchen, you had to navigate stacks of Sun Sentinels and Star magazines, and boxes and bags full of yard-sale finds or things she swore she was getting ready to take to Goodwill. The once-olive sheers on the windows were as old as the hills. Orange-brown faux-wood paneling made the space look even smaller than it was. The counter in the kitchen was obscured with open cans of food, a grease-encrusted toaster oven, and an array of dingy Post-it notes Dee had obviously written to herself a while ago. When Hester went to visit her a couple of days before the hurricane, Dee ushered her past the disorderliness to the bedroom, where two twin beds were hinged to opposite walls. Thankfully, nothing was on them. Dee made Hester sit on one while she propped herself up with pillows and reclined like Jabba the Hutt on the other and told her a half-dozen stories.
“Eve, you know what?” Dee said now, “Marvin’s not the only one around here who thinks some developer wants to get his hands on the park. I heard the other day…”
“I hate to interrupt, girls…” Hester didn’t hate to interrupt at all, but she said it anyway. “I had a rough night last night and I really need to rest. So do you mind…”
“Hitting the bottle again, old girl?” Dee had a twinkle in her eye, but Hester felt herself stiffen at the comment. Really, Dee hardly knew her well enough to make such an accusation.
“Come on, Dee, my place is a mess. I’ve got to get somebody over here to put a tarp over the bedroom and…”
“And her poor husband’s in the hospital,” Eve added. “Leave her alone, Dee. Can’t you see she’s upset?” Eve turned to Hester with a serious look on her face that reminded Hester of the way her mother frowned at her when she got her first period. It was an expression that meant, “You poor thing.” It made Hester miss her mother, again, for the millionth time.
“Hester, you should’ve gone in the ambulance with Al the other night. You want me to drive you to the hospital now? How is he anyway? He was barely conscious.” Eve reached across the table, put her hand on top of Hester’s and patted it like she was trying to tamp down dough.
Dee was rooting in the refrigerator for some milk. Her large buttocks in her bright-red sweatpants looked like a giant inverted heart. She was mumbling something about fat-free milk and how gross it was. Hester slipped her hand from under Eve’s and started feeling worse about everything. She knew Eve meant well. They both meant well.
If Eve’s trailer was the palace, then Dee’s was the pits. Dee Larson, a retired state worker from Connecticut, had been a secretary in the accounting department, which to Hester’s thinking must’ve been a rather dull way to spend forty-three years of your life. But to hear Dee talk, the people she worked with were fascinating. She had wild stories about outrageous liaisons. Accountants, it seemed, screwed around more than college kids on spring break in South Beach.
Before Hester accepted Dee’s stories as gospel, though, she had to consider the fact that once you got to know Dee, you learned she would say or do just about anything to be the center of attention. It was obvious by the neglected appearance of her dark and dingy 1982 Vagabond trailer that she’d rather be out somewhere gossiping than home cleaning. Why, to even get from the doorway to the kitchen, you had to navigate stacks of Sun Sentinels and Star magazines, and boxes and bags full of yard-sale finds or things she swore she was getting ready to take to Goodwill. The once-olive sheers on the windows were as old as the hills. Orange-brown faux-wood paneling made the space look even smaller than it was. The counter in the kitchen was obscured with open cans of food, a grease-encrusted toaster oven, and an array of dingy Post-it notes Dee had obviously written to herself a while ago. When Hester went to visit her a couple of days before the hurricane, Dee ushered her past the disorderliness to the bedroom, where two twin beds were hinged to opposite walls. Thankfully, nothing was on them. Dee made Hester sit on one while she propped herself up with pillows and reclined like Jabba the Hutt on the other and told her a half-dozen stories.
“Eve, you know what?” Dee said now, “Marvin’s not the only one around here who thinks some developer wants to get his hands on the park. I heard the other day…”
“I hate to interrupt, girls…” Hester didn’t hate to interrupt at all, but she said it anyway. “I had a rough night last night and I really need to rest. So do you mind…”
“Hitting the bottle again, old girl?” Dee had a twinkle in her eye, but Hester felt herself stiffen at the comment. Really, Dee hardly knew her well enough to make such an accusation.
“Come on, Dee, my place is a mess. I’ve got to get somebody over here to put a tarp over the bedroom and…”
“And her poor husband’s in the hospital,” Eve added. “Leave her alone, Dee. Can’t you see she’s upset?” Eve turned to Hester with a serious look on her face that reminded Hester of the way her mother frowned at her when she got her first period. It was an expression that meant, “You poor thing.” It made Hester miss her mother, again, for the millionth time.
“Hester, you should’ve gone in the ambulance with Al the other night. You want me to drive you to the hospital now? How is he anyway? He was barely conscious.” Eve reached across the table, put her hand on top of Hester’s and patted it like she was trying to tamp down dough.
Dee was rooting in the refrigerator for some milk. Her large buttocks in her bright-red sweatpants looked like a giant inverted heart. She was mumbling something about fat-free milk and how gross it was. Hester slipped her hand from under Eve’s and started feeling worse about everything. She knew Eve meant well. They both meant well.
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