Amber Dan-Dwayne Spencer (romantic books to read .txt) 📖

had already gone to DEFCON level two. In an effort to not show my anxiety, I shrugged. Keeping my butt well below the surface, I shyly grinned, slipped my swimsuit off, and tossed it onto the deck. The water rushing around me felt like freedom.

Chapter Seven

The Chosen

It took Flower only a few minutes to wash out my swim trunks and lay them out on the deck to dry. It’s a guess, but I figured she knew I would not get much scrubbing done with her there because when she finished, she left saying I needed my privacy. Alone, and up to my waist in clean fresh water, I felt the liberty to swim around and enjoy myself. The soap and cloth turned out to be exactly what I needed to get rid of the playa’s leftovers. As for the river, it wasn’t like some I’d seen where the water rushed along, making whitecaps and all. Rather it moved at a brisk flowing pace, washing over me only to swirl in recesses near the shore.

Whoever had the idea to build those steps at the end of the deck was a genius. It made climbing out of the river as easy as walking onto my back porch. I slipped my swim trunks on and sat on the deck, kicking and splashing the water below. Flower had been right. It was difficult to see the cracks in the decking, much less anything in the water.

Maybe I expected to be greeted by a hundred naked hippies holding hands and singing “Kumbaya.” After all, my expectations of the commune were based on one old codger’s remarks about a hippie girl he befriended in a diner. As it turned out, his description had been completely off base. Regretfully, I had been there for forty-five minutes and I hadn’t been enticed, drugged, or encouraged to run around naked.

Quite the opposite. In fact, Flower gave me space and respected my privacy. While I bathed, she washed my clothes like a mom would. Come to think of it, there was something matronly about her, despite the halter and the dangling fringe. She reminded me of a sexy version of Donna Reed. How could a twenty-something woman wearing a hot halter top remind me of a television version of a mother? I decided that would require some intense thought.

Moms on TV are all helpful and caring, doing all the best things for their kids. They bake cakes, clean the house, and help with those extra credit projects—doing all of it while wearing their high heels and pearl necklaces. I would trade my mom for Lucille Ball or Shirley Jones any day. The very best thing about those TV moms was how they never yelled hateful things at people, at least not like mine did, and they made me laugh.

Maybe that was why Flower reminded me of a TV mom. She talked softly. I couldn’t imagine her yelling at anyone. Though it seemed a good comparison, I would never compare Flower to my psycho mother. They were nothing alike.

Simply thinking about mom, much less the thought of going home, made my stomach do flip-flops. I consoled myself by relaxing and assessing the area; even through the darkness, I could tell this was one of the most beautiful places on Earth. It would’ve been possible for me to have sat by the river and reveled in its peaceful flow forever, all the while pondering the mysteries of my life. But as some great person once said, all good things must come to an end. It was time for me to find my friends.

I walked back up the path. It sounded strange to even think Jimmy Dugan could be called my friend, but I guess that’s life. I had a teacher once who kept a saying on her desk. Change is a certainty. Oh boy, was her plaque right or what? In only one day. I had befriended the school bully, run away from home, saved a drowning man, lied to a police officer, bullied my best friend, and skinny-dipped in a river. Change had hit me in the face, and I was pretty sure there was more to come. Oddly, we had started acting like each other, and worse, I had acted like my mother. Right there, I decided, some changes were not always for the good. Note to self: watch your responses or you’ll become a raging harpy.

I topped the rise and headed back toward the huts and trailers. In the lighted meadow, Flower sat on a cut log, waiting patiently for me. “Are you refreshed and cleansed?”

“I think the answer to that is yes, but don’t hold me to it.” We walked about twenty yards and I realized I didn’t know exactly where I was going. “Where are my friends? I thought they would be here too.”

“They are at the Roundhouse. We’ll arrive there shortly.”

We made our way to the outskirts of the hut and trailers when she stopped next to a fuel-operated lantern. “I have to be sure.” Taking my arm, she said, “May I look closely at your eyes?”

“I guess so.” We moved closer to the light where she leaned over to make her examination. Without a doubt, more weird crap was about to come down—I felt it. My skin tingled up and down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

She removed the lantern from the post where it hung, brought it close to my face, and studied me, her steel-like focus unbreakable. Perhaps it was the brightness of the light, but for some reason dizziness overpowered me. My knees grew weak, and I tumbled to the ground.

Flower’s face disappeared from my vision. Everything went hazy, a mist emerged between me and reality. On the other side of the fog stood a frightened young woman, a raven-haired beauty in