Purest Fiction: A Parade and a Hero

Purest Fiction: A Parade and a Hero

As the author staggered downhill under her load, a turquoise convertible rolled by. She grinned, having taken childhood trips in an identical car.
One block from her apartment, a city worker placed sawhorse barricades across the street. The turquoise convertible idled behind them, and the dark-haired driver leaned out and spoke to the city employee. Then he shrugged, and turned toward his passenger. The redheaded woman braided her long hair.
She wasn’t near enough to make out their conversation, but the mystery partially resolved itself when the author heard a marching band. After a deep breath, she stepped forward. A parade was nothing to cause worry. It’d hold the attention of everyone on the street. As she approached the corner, the author paused for a few moments.
The band stopped playing, and a majorette wearing a purple-sequined leotard launched her baton toward the traffic light. It missed by inches, tumbling down to land in the hand she held behind her back. In the silence, the author heard the couple in the convertible. He had a Boston accent, and hers was an Irish lilt.
“I’m glad we came west for our anniversary trip, my love. ” He chuckled. “We even have front row seats at a parade.”
“The boys are having the time of their lives out on the sloop. We could have let them have a holiday like this long ago,” she answered.
The author staggered, landing against the signal post. One plastic bag split, and the oranges bounced down into the gutter, rolled crazily beneath the car’s wheels. Their movement caught the driver’s attention, and he stared toward the curb. The author’s eyes locked on his, and she sagged, shaking, to sit on the sidewalk.

He touched his wife on the arm. “The woman at the curb is Lady Dru Sterling. I’ll be right back.”

He opened the door and approached the curb. Crouching, he grasped the author’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Smiling down into her face, he captured the bulging plastic bags in a sure grip.
“This curb is uncomfortable, Lady Sterling. Come watch the parade with us.”
The author mouthed silent words. Her glance swept from his face to the woman waiting in the classic car. The man nodded and tucked her arm in his, guiding her into the street.
“Yes, dear Lady Sterling, you know us. Tell me, am I less trustworthy than you created me to be? Come natter with Shona.”
They stepped within reach of the turquoise convertible, and she stretched out her hand. The metal was solid, warm, vibrating beneath her palm. The driver flipped his seat forward; she stepped in, sat on the smooth white leather of the back seat.
He put the plastic bags on the car floor and bent to retrieve her oranges. “Shona,” he said as he slipped into his seat, “our friend Lady Sterling needs a holiday. Have you any suggestions?”

He passed an orange to his wife, kept one, and handed the last to the author.

The redhead tore the orange peel and the scent rose. “Oh, Ruarri, she must see Cobh. We’ll go by sea.”

Purest Fiction is a short story with twelve parts. To read from the beginning, please visit: Purest Fiction: Off Ramp.
Read more of my published short stories here.