Introduction

Chasing Ordinary is about a Southern housewife who loses her way with the death of her husband. After the loss, through a series of unexpected events, and with courage, she rediscovers her confidence and happiness by becoming who she had forgotten she once was. Her journey is beautifully described through a collection of flowing true stories. Her description of each character and event is woven together to show how each contributed to and impacted her transformation. In this sequel to Far Outside the Ordinary, the story picks up a full year after the death of her husband when her college sweetheart, appears back in her life and she learns he is still in love with her. However, when it comes to parenting and relationships, nothing's ever that simple. As she attempts create a new life and have a second chance at love, she realizes extending her family requires courage to make the difficult choices that confront her.

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Lost in the Right Direction

To be honest, all I ever wanted was to go back to folding my laundry on a regular Tuesday afternoon. Back to the day when my life was simple and ordinary. But, as I sat on the ornate sofa inside the lobby of the Peabody Hotel, nothing was ordinary. Boone, my late husband, had been dead sixteen months. I hate the word dead. Passed. Departed. All vowels and consonants just synonyms for suck.

It was July. The weather outside was hot, humid and stinking miserable in Memphis, Tennessee. He sat opposite me in a fancy, gilded chair and looked nothing like I expected. But, then, I really had no idea what to expect. After all I hadn’t seen the guy--my college boyfriend-- in so many years.

His hair was still blond, only now peppered with grey around his temples. His beard was well-groomed and matched his hair. He looked scholarly.

The top buttons of his untucked shirt were open. I was relieved he was wearing gold chains. He wore two-toned loafers without socks that peeked from beneath black silk trousers. It gave him a city look. It was appealing, as if he stepped right off a GQ magazine cover. A beautiful smile-the one I remembered - was crowding his tanned face. But it was his ocean blue eyes that captivated me. They always had.

I watched him watching me as he leaned forward with his elbows on each knee, rhythmically tapping his fingertips together. He stilled them in a teepee formation and the heel of his right foot started rocking up and down. I could tell he was nervous, maybe more than me.

I studied his oversized hands, remembering how they once felt gliding over my body.

In our silence his smile broadened while we both starred and waited, neither one of us speaking. I couldn’t. It was so uncharacteristic of me not to be babbling. But seeing him, again. Well, it was surreal.

I picked up a tasseled pillow next to me on the couch and tucked it behind the small of my back. I cushioned against it and yanked my polka-dot dress over my boney knees. I glanced back up to see blue eyes boring into me. Oh God! I hoped I looked calmer than my fast-beating heart.

A few months earlier- -Dale, that’s his name, this college boyfriend sitting in front of me-- sent a condolence letter to me. I answered. and our writing began. First, only a letter or two, and then emailing. We would write every few days and share stories of family, friends and work. Soon our email exchange became more frequent, then it progressed to every day. Before we knew it, we were emailing several times a day. We never once talked on the phone or exchanged a single picture. So, technically, one could say we were strangers.

When I read his emails, nostalgia filled my heart like a gentle creeping vine. I was transformed to that girl he once knew. The girl who believed, with innocent naiveté, bad things only happened to others. In the days when she knew and dated him, she was overprotected by her physician father and housewife mother. She still believed life was safe, wonderful, and certain, as only a tenderfoot would. She knew him long before the brutality of life brushed against her and knocked her flat.

When I read his thoughts, I was transported back to the bygone days when anything seemed possible. And since I had no idea how he looked, my brain pictured the boy’s same face, physic and manner, even though I was communicating with someone much older. The brain, well, it’s a funny thing.

After four months of writing, he suggested we meet in person somewhere between our two cities –Indianapolis and Tallahassee—and try to pick each other from a crowd. It would be fun, especially since we had no idea what the other looked like.

A cat and mouse game ensued, with clues and guesses, teases and temptations. He emailed a plethora of hints (one a day) where our 30-year reunion would take place. The hinting game began.

I flew to Memphis from Tallahassee, Florida, to meet a boy I once loved, having no idea what awaited. It didn’t matter. I was stepping out of my comfort zone and taking a chance.

/

My heart raced as I walked off the elevator and looked around the spacious mezzanine level. It was vacant and quiet. There was not a soul on the floor where I stood.

As I leaned over the brass railing, I could see over a hundred people below me. I watched a flock of ducks, hens, and drakes splashing and skimming the fountain water.

I studied the tops of the men’s heads. They were short and tall, skinny and fat, and so many nationalities. No one looked like the boy I remembered.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find his smiling eyes. We stood motionless, his blue eyes melding with mine, both of ours misted with tears. A jazz band was playing the Miles Davis’s song in the background... Some Day My Prince Will Come.

We both slipped down to the mezzanine level early in hopes of spotting the other first. Neither of us wanting to wait thirty minutes longer. After all, it had already been thirty years.

/

The waiter interrupted our silence and placed a bowl of nuts on the coffee table.

“What can I get you guys to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll have a cosmopolitan, Ketal One, and Grand-Marnier, not triple sec, extra cold... oh yeah and bruised, please.” I half stuttered, blurting my order like a crazed alcoholic. I sounded like visiting a bar was something I did often. It wasn’t. The waiter pulled a pencil from his short apron and wrote down my order.

“I’ll have a beer…umm, any kind will do.”

The young waiter chuckled as he walked away.

“What did you order?” he asked.

“A martini.”

“I’ve never heard one ordered like that.”

It was no wonder he’d never heard of a cosmopolitan. He didn’t care what kind of beer he drank. I started to say what I was thinking but bit my tongue. As we waited for our drinks, we made nervous conversation. It took me two drinks to relax.

“Hope it’s okay I made reservations over there.” He pointed to the restaurant to our left.

Inside I could see waiters in tuxedos scurrying around a French décor. The name above the door read Chez Philipp, a Forbes Four-star, AAA Four-Diamond acknowledgement on the glass window. If he wanted to impress me, he did. Well, aside from ordering that no name brand beer.

During our dinner the conversation was non-stop. Well, on my end. He listened. I was reminded how quiet he was during the years we dated. Our romance was germinating over flickered candlelight, eating filet mignons. I didn’t even like red meat.

“Have you seen Beale Street?” he asked.

“Beale Street, no, where’s that?” I never left the hotel and had not educated myself on Memphis. I was too busy readying myself to meet this stranger no more. I knew he had arrived two days before me so assumed he had his bearings and our activities planned.

“Let’s go check it out. You should change into jeans.”

I was wearing my cute brown dress with yellow polka dots. I was embarrassed to say I didn’t pack jeans. Truth be told I didn’t even own them. Well, I did have one pair, but they were uncomfortable and decorated with rhinestones. Gaudy. I buried them in my closet with all the other things I never wore.

“I forgot to pack jeans.” He shrugged through my lie.

We left the restaurant and walked along South B. B. King Blvd towards Handy Park. I was way overdressed but the blues music coming from all the clubs—not to mention my martini consumption -- made me not care one iota.

The smell of barbecue filled the air. My hand was swallowed inside his as we strolled Beale Street. His hands were so much larger than Boones. I was comparing, thinking, remembering as he let go and slid his arm around my shoulder, pulling me even closer.

We walked further sharing the curtained memories of our years together and stories of the years apart. I was studying his blue eyes, laughter, and warmth in those first hours. Dale radiated warmth. I observed his mannerisms, sense of humor, and his interest in the most ordinary things. I was so grateful to be attracted to him.

Dale planned everything with one exception—his rental car. At least that’s what he told me as I climbed into a maroon colored Buick sedan.

“This looks like an old person’s car.” The words popped out of my mouth before I knew it. But I was expecting something sportier, a convertible, anything but where I sat clasping the seatbelt. I sat so low down I could hardly see out the windshield.

“I forgot to reserve; it’s all they had left.” I felt embarrassed, guilty, for a nanosecond.

“Where to?” I asked

“How about an art gallery?” I couldn’t believe he was offering to take me to an art gallery without my asking. Apparently, this man remembered how much I loved art in my emails. Score.

We arrived at the Dixon Gallery, the former residence of the Dixon family. Inside we walked around studying painting after painting, all collections devoted to French American impressionists and post-impressionists. Two hours passed before I knew it. But I could tell he wasn’t as enthused so suggested we head out for something different.

“How about Graceland?” he asked.

“Yes, fun, I’d love it.” And we climbed back inside his Buick. Okay, the rental. But what were we thinking...a Saturday at Graceland. The line was as twisted as a stick of licorice and just as we were about to get out to get in that line, it started raining. Hard. We missed Graceland and spend hours sitting inside the Buick talking. Until my stomach growled and realized the day was almost over. Sunday was brunch with his Memphis friends, the very ‘stockholder’ who picked me up at the airport and took me to the Peabody.

The weekend exceeded our expectations in every way. By the time it was over we were infused like love-sick teenagers. As Sunday crept in, we both wanted to stay longer but it was impossible. I was flying to London two days later and he had a company to run.

As we sat at the gate awaiting my boarding call, I was wondering what to say, how to end the soulful weekend. The thousand-mile distance would never work. What was I thinking when I agreed to meet this man again?

“We’ll make it work, Prissy.” He read my mind, replying to my very thought.

“How?”

“Just leave it to me, don’t worry about it?”

After the final boarding call, I pulled out my carry-on lever and walked into his arms. Without a second thought I stood on my tiptoes and whispered in his ear.

“You should dust off your old passport, come to London.” I had no idea how profound my whisper would be. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Were you surprised Prissy invited Dale to meet her in Europe after only two days together in Memphis? Would you have done this?

2. After reuniting did the relationship move too quickly? If so, why do you think it happened?

3. Was Prissy selfish to choose her happiness and Dale over Garrett’s disapproval and unhappiness? What would you have done?

4. Accepting Dale’s marriage proposal only eight weeks after reuniting was sudden. Do you think she should have waited, to give Garrett longer to get to know him before saying yes? If so, why?

5. Do adult children ever support second marriages of single parents? If so, what is an acceptable time- frame to them?

6. Did Prissy spend too much time asking the universe for answers, believing in her signs, numbers, and fortune tellers? Have you ever put your faith in the unknowns in life?

7. Should Prissy have relocated to Indianapolis after they married?

8. What might she have done differently to acclimate to her new life in a strange city?

9. Should she have agreed to move to Indianapolis, rather than asking Dale to commute?

10. When Puddles, her seventeen-year-old Poodle, was ill do you think she made the right decision to end her life? What would you have done in this situation?

11. Did you agree with Sara Britton’s decision to donate her bone marrow and later her stem cell to save someone she never met? Have you ever considered donating, or would you?

12. Do you think bringing Du and Salli back into Prissy’s life when Dale’s mother had ALS triggered a form of PTSD for Prissy. Or was it something else?

13. Should Prissy have shared her nightmares with Dale rather than keep them to herself to protect him from worrying about her, along with his dying mother? What would you have done?

14. Why do you think it took Prissy so long to begin writing after Dale bought the tools needed early in their marriage? Was it procrastinating or fear? Have you ever wanted to write your own story? If so, why haven’t you?

15. Do you think Prissy’s discovering her love for painting happened by chance, through default, or was always there waiting to surface? Have you ever considered taking lessons in painting, writing, dancing, music, or acting? Would you, or rather, could you?

Weblinks

»	Author's website
»	Follow the author on Facebook
»	Follow the author on Twitter
»	Follow the author on Instagram

Book Club Recommendations

Recommended to book clubs by 0 of 0 members.

Member Reviews

There are no user reviews at this time.
Rate this book