Bourbon Creek Excerpt

Novel in the works...

Chapter 1

Ella Morgan rolled over in bed and languorously stretched all the parts of her body that could be stretched, from the tips of her toes to the tops of her eyebrows. The sun shone brilliantly on her white duvet, car horns honked madly, and if she listened closely, she could hear Mr. Fratinelli singing in the shower. This morning he serenaded the world with a rousing rendition of Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore;” “Whennnnnaaa the moona hitsa youra eyea lika bigga pizza pie, that’s amore…” Mr. Fratinelli liked the last lines in the first verse more than the others and Ella was used to hearing them sung with exuberance. “Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling and you'll sing V-i-t-a B-e-l-l-a! Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay like a gay t-a-r-a-n-t-e-l-l-a!!!” Ella threw back her covers and for the four millionth time wondered what the heck a gay tarantella was. She would have to ask Mr. Fratinelli the next time she ran into him in the elevator.

Ella started a pot of Vienna roast and silently dedicated it to the singing Italian that lived in the apartment beneath hers. Then she pulled on a robe, slid into a pair of ratty house slippers and walked out her front door. Letting herself into her neighbor’s apartment, she called out, “Fifi, where are you? I’m here for breakfast…”Fifi never deigned to show her fluffy face, so Ella simply opened a can of Fancy Feast ocean white fish and then headed back to her own apartment.

Cher (not as in Sunny and…) was in the Hampton’s for the weekend with her boyfriend. As it was universally known by everyone in the building that Ella had no social life, she became the feeder to a great number of cats, fish, and hamsters. She didn’t mind helping out, she just wished that once she could say, “Feed Flipper? I’d love to but I’m off to Rome for the next three weeks.” Although, until that day came, she vowed to go ahead and help others so they could have the life that she didn’t. Cher’s dating escapades would have to be enough vicarious fodder for her to live on.

After her second cup of coffee and blueberry scone, Ella changed into her running shorts and left her apartment for a morning jog. The elevator careened down twenty-two floors, making her think that it just might be time for a repair. When the retracting doors opened, she charged through and ran smack into one of the buildings many doormen.

Edgar was diminutive to say the least. In fact, Ella was pretty sure that he was within an inch of holding the title of “little person.” He was also inordinately proper and reserved. He took his job so seriously, that one might think he was guarding the national treasury instead of a building full West Side Manhatanites. Ella apologized to Edgar for the run-in and then tried to scoot around him. But he bodily blocked her progress, which was a pretty bold move considering she hovered nearly two feet above him in the ethos.

While holding his ground, he declared, “Madam…”

In exasperation, Ella interrupted, “Edgar, when you call me madam, you make me feel about a hundred and eighty years old.” Then she begged, “For the umpteenth time, please call me Ella.”

Keeping his game face, Edgar tried again, “Ma’am…” a sharp look indicated this wasn’t any better so he settled on, “Miss, I have a telegram for you.” Then he thrust a bright yellow envelope at her and sure enough it said “Ella Morgan” right on the front.

Ella hesitantly reached for the envelope and asked, “Edgar, what year is it?”

“2008 Mad… Ma’am…Miss.”

Ella nodded her head and replied, “Exactly what I thought. So my question is who sends telegrams in 2008? I thought they went the way of W.W. II.” Instead of commenting, Edgar merely cocked his head to the side before returning to his post on the south entrance to the building.

Ella plopped down on one of the overstuffed chairs in the lobby and regarded the missive in her hands. She mused that a telegram delivered at 7:02 on a Saturday morning in 1947 might automatically be construed as bad new. But here in the new millennium, she had absolutely no idea what kind of information it might contain. Then a thought hit her out of left field and she wondered if perhaps it was from Ed McMahon. A telegram sounded like something Publisher’s Clearing House might use to contact a winner. She immediately became a bit giddy at the prospect. In fact, she might already be a millionaire! Unable to wait another second to learn the good news for herself, Ella tore open the seal and pulled out a single sheet of lined paper. While disappointed to discover that she was not in fact independently wealthy, she was delighted to find that the archaic form of correspondence was from her Great Aunt Claire.

Aunt Claire was one of those colorful characters that seemed to be at the heart of every memorable moment in her family’s history. Not only was she the sister to Ella’s maternal grandmother but she was also the only grandmother figure Ella had ever known; her own nana having died when she was only two. As a remnant from another time, it made perfect sense to Ella that Aunt Claire would be the most obvious choice as sender of a telegram.

Aunt Claire embraced every new level of technology with the same degree of leeriness that one might use when hugging an angry tiger. Take flying for example; Ella was convinced that the only way her Aunt would ever actually fly through the air would be if she sprouted wings or was hurled out of the business end of live canon. And as far as communication went, her preferred method of correspondence was letter writing (even though she did deign to pick up the phone every Sunday in order to hear Lila’s voice.) After all she conceded, “The phone was invented before my time, so it must be a keeper.”

Ella would then offer, “I believe the airplane was invented before your time too…”

Aunt Claire’s only response to this bit of information was to snap, “Don’t get fresh with me Ella Morgan! I could still put you over my knee.” Not that she had ever done any such thing but Ella didn’t doubt she could do it if she put her feisty octogenarian mind to it.

Ella looked forward to every letter that she received from her aunt with the same degree of excitement that one reserved for the next new episode of their favorite television program. She had volumes of chatty missives (secured in a shoe box under her bed) filled to capacity with juicy bits of gossip about everyone that Aunt Claire had ever met. Lila knew so much about the citizens of Bourbon Creek, Missouri, that she was convinced that she could recognize anyone in town by the sound of their voice alone; even though she had only ever heard their voices in her head; unhealthy as that sounded.

Ella didn’t grow up in Bourbon Creek but through her Aunt’s letters she felt like she had. She had only visited a couple times when she was very young so she didn’t have many organic memories of her own. But Aunt Claire painted such a rich and vibrant portrait of her world that Ella already knew that she loved it as well as many of the people in it.

Her eyes finally began to scan the message in the telegram. It took her a couple of beats to process what it said as it was such a surprising note. It read:

To: Ella Morgan
261 Central Park West
Apt. 22A
New York, N.Y. 10022

From: Claire Perry
3 Magnolia Lane
Bourbon Creek, Mo. 11111

Come to Bourbon Creek today. Stop. Don’t take the bus. Stop. Fly! Stop. Don’t call. Stop. Just hurry!!!


Ella immediately collected herself, stood up, and then raced to the elevator with the thoughts of phoning Aunt Claire to find out what the emergency was. But her aunt specifically instructed her not to call. She wasn’t exactly sure what to do. By one thing was certain, she couldn’t go out for her morning run, so, she concluded, she had better go back to her apartment and decide what comes next.

Once Ella walked through her door she picked up the phone to call her mother to see if she had any clue what was going on. Her parent’s answer machine picked up after the third ring and her mom’s cheery voice announced, “You’ve reached the home of Lyle and Maggie Morgan. We are out of town until June 30th, so call us back then!”

Ella rolled her eyes and was amazed that her mother didn’t include their social security numbers and the location of the spare key nestled under the fake rock in the back yard. Her parents simply had no concept that the world was a dangerous place. After all when you announce to the free world that you’re leaving your house vacant for three weeks, you are effectively laying down the welcome mat for grand larceny.

Upon hearing the message, Ella remembered that her parents had left the day before on an Alaskan cruise. She dropped onto her sofa and thought, “Am I really thinking about hopping on an airplane, destination: The Show Me State, without even knowing why?” Ella decided to look for divine inspiration in the shower and the answer she got was, “Go!”

Ella taught fourth grade at The Graham Academy for girls and summer break had started four days earlier. While she normally worked at a friend’s art gallery during the summer months, this year she had opted out. She planned on spending her hiatus making much needed home improvements on the apartment that she had bought five years earlier; as she was still living with the horrendous color chouses of the previous owners. For some reason that she couldn’t fathom, the Tompkins’s had had a real fondness for day glow colors. Walking through her front door for the first time was an experience akin to an acid flashback.

Ella’s first course of action upon moving in was to slipcover all of her furniture in white and hang gauzy sheer draperies. A couple months earlier she had finally realized that no amount of counter-decorating was going to make the color any more palatable. So she took the summer off and the only item on her agenda was to paint the hideous walls in her apartment. In the shower, she realized that the only thing holding her back from flying to Bourbon Creek, was Benjamin Moore’s Summer Mist and that could wait.

After drying herself off, Ella got on line and bought herself the cheapest ticket that she could find; which turned out to be $387.99 with an open ended return. She packed enough for a two week stay, although she had no idea how long she’d be gone, then called Cher’s cell phone to let her know that she’d put out extra dry food for Fifi. At 9:42 a.m., she walked out her door for the second time that morning and by 10:00 a.m. she was in a cab crossing the 125th Street Bridge on her way to LaGuardia.