Burning Tides: A Narrative Fiction

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“Riley Camille, this is your mother. Don't hang up.” I had just tossed the last of the downed branches onto the burn pile, taking advantage of the break in the weather to do a little clean up before the next storm. The dead pine burned hot and smokeless, and soon would be a glowing mound of ash that tonight's predicted rain would douse. “What can I do for you, Greer?” I said, sinking onto the upended fir round I used as a stool, and cursing myself for not checking the caller ID. “It is I who am doing something for you.” She was using the more-sophisticated-than-thou elocution she'd acquired as a starlet at Olympus Pictures, though six decades and a pack-a-day Benson and Hedges habit had blunted its steely edge. “But before we get to that, how are things in the countryside, or wherever it is you live? Have you remarried?” …show more content…

“No, not married,” I said. I heard a lighter's scritch and a moment later she exhaled a lungful of smoke. Eight hundred miles between us and I automatically held my breath to avoid inhaling it. “Well, I suppose you shouldn't give up hope. I'd advise you to ply your charms, but as Ned would say, it's like asking a plow horse to run at Santa Anita.” Harlan “Ned” Nedlin was a former second-rate talent agent who had success in the late-Seventies launching the movie careers of stand-up comics who then promptly traded up to better agents. He became a velour track-suited fixture in my life when I was a sixteen year old box-girl at Gelson's Market. One afternoon, after I loaded his bag of grapefruit and vodka into the trunk of his Jaguar, Ned offered me five hundred bucks to meet him after work at the Del Capri Motel. Upon confiding the affront to my mother, she defended my virtue by making Ned her third husband. “People say it's uncanny how much I resemble you,” I said. “It's not the horse's conformation that wins the race. It's the

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