THE LOVE BETWEEN THEM by Janet Cipolli

Harold and Winifred Munson were waiting to board a plane from Hartford, Connecticut to Miami, Florida. Winnie wanted to escape the brutal winter they’d been having and since they could afford it, she went ahead and booked a two-week trip to Florida. The elderly couple had never flown on a plane before and it had taken some convincing to get Harold to agree but in their fifty-seven years of marriage Harry had always ended up doing exactly what his childhood sweetheart wanted.

Now, after two hours of sitting at the airport due to an unexpected ice storm, they were both getting a slight case of cabin fever.

“Stop pulling on my sweater!" Winnie scolded as she straightened her sleeve.

Harry adjusted his watchband but not the sour attitude he had acquired since their flight had been delayed.

"I don't know why we couldn't have just gone to Atlantic City for a few days," he complained. "Look at this place, it's crawling with illegal aliens."

"Oh hush! You don't know that," Winnie scowled, "And keep your voice down."

"Why? If they can't speak English they sure as heck won’t understand it."

Over the past two hours, several people had sat down next to them but all had decided to move. Just as Harold was about to get back to his ongoing rant about the unfair cost-of-living freeze on Social Security benefits, a young man wearing a cowboy hat sat down in a seat across from them. Harold waited for eye contact before opening his mouth.

“Howdy there cowboy, where you headed?” Harold asked.

“Back home to Dallas, Texas sir.” The young man tipped his hat towards the couple.

“Oh my,” said Winifred, delighted to see such manners in a young person, “What brings you way up here?” she asked with a smile.

“Well, ma’am,” he took his hat off and placed it on the seat next to him, “I was here to attend a funeral—my Dad passed away last week.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Winifred’s face scrunched up as if she were in pain.

“Why was your Dad way up here?” Harry probed, then added with a spark. “I’ll bet it was to get away from all them illegal aliens, wasn’t it?”

"Enough with the aliens!" snapped Winnie.

The young man naively turned to Harold to answer his question.

“No sir, my father was forced to leave Texas some years back for coming out as an openly gay Republican.”

Harold arched his eyebrows, “Your father was a Republican?”

“Wait a minute,” Winnie waved her hand at her husband, “How could your father be gay?” she asked.

“It wasn’t easy,” continued the young cowboy, “First, he had to have my mother’s hands surgically removed from around his neck…”

“Hey!” blurted Harold, “Was that her on 60 Minutes?”

“Will you shut up for a second?” Winifred scolded.

Harry turned to his wife to offer a response but she was already addressing the young man.

“Your mother must have been devastated,” offering him a sympathetic look.

“Well, if I woke up next to a Republican I’d be pretty devastated too,” piped Harry.

Winnie looked at her husband, “I’m a Republican dear."

A booming voice over the airport’s loudspeaker announced the boarding of all passengers to Dallas, Texas. The young cowboy quickly put on his hat and graciously bid the elderly couple goodbye.

Winifred looked around at the dwindling crowds while Harold adjusted his watchband for the hundredth time.

“The storm must have passed,” she said with quiet anticipation.

Harry sat silently, staring forward.

“Harry?” Winnie turned to him, “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you tell me to shut up,” he huffed.

Winnie smiled to herself and gently patted his leg.

“Oh hush,” she poked.

“There you go again,” he said as he looked around for more aliens.

Winifred poked his arm. He turned to see her rosy cheeks and smiling eyes beaming back at him. They sat looking at each other and as would often happen, saw the childhood sweetheart in each other.

“Do you think we have time for another hot chocolate?” she asked coyly.

Harry perused the area of the beverage machines. “As long as a large gathering of aliens don’t get in my way.”

“And can I have some little marshmallows this time?”

Harry got up from his chair.

“You can have whatever you want Winnie.” He leaned over and gave her a peck on her soft rosy cheek before heading off to the beverage machine where a large gathering of foreigners apparently had the same idea.

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.
Janet invites you to follow her writing (button at top of page) or go to: http://fictionalseasons.blogspot.com/

CUPID'S BROKEN HEART by Janet Cipolli

It was nearing Valentine's Day and Cupid was nowhere to be found. His Supervisor decided to pay him a visit at his home and when he arrived he found the winged dumpling sprawled on his sofa in front of the television.

"Hey!" shouted the Supervisor in dismay, "What the hell are you doing? Do you realize it's only four days until Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cupid replied, staring at the TV.

"Well get up!" walking over to the television and turning off Jerry Springer in mid-sentence.

"Hey! I was watching that!" Cupid annoyingly shouted.

"This is the reason divorce is at its all-time highest," pointing his finger at Cupid, "Get out there and get some people to fall in love--you lazy bum!"

Cupid looked up at his Supervisor and decided to confess his doubts.

"I can't do it anymore boss," he sat up and pulled a pizza bite out from the folds of his belly. "What's the point? So they fall in love, big deal. They got nowhere to go from there but down. They can’t afford to buy a house, most of them are unemployed and those that do get married only end up arguing about money and blaming me, I'm sick of being the scapegoat for everybody's problems."

The Supervisor listened as Cupid continued. "Boss, you've known me for a long time. I was the one who convinced Burt Bacharach to write that song about the world needing love..."

"Yeah," interrupted the Supervisor, "and you also were behind The J. Geils Band's "Love Stinks!"

Cupid blushed. "I was pissed off that day, but now that you mention it, it does stink."

The Supervisor sensed the seriousness of Cupid's depressed state.
"Look, I'll make you a deal."

Cupid, with a look of doubt on his chubby face, "A deal? Who are you, Monty Hall?”

"I'm serious. You gather up your supplies, head out and if you can get 4,000 couples to fall in love in four days I'll give you a huge bonus."

"4,000? Are you out of your mind?" Cupid shimmied to the edge of the sofa, his feet dangling. "First of all, there aren't FORTY couples out there who want to take it to the next level and half of the ones who do can't even get married in most states. I'm telling you it's over. I'm finished!

The Supervisor wasn’t giving up. "Do you remember the day you stuck me and my wife with that misguided arrow?"

"You mean the one that was meant for Diana and Charles but I tripped over a rock?”

"That was the best mistake you ever made. I've been a happy man for many years and my wife couldn't be more pleased with her life. Did you know we got married on Valentine's Day?"

Cupid listened in silence.

"It’s because of you that our life has been so fulfilling. Even if you hook up just one couple, at least two more people will know the beauty of love in their life.”

Cupid's own heart was beginning to melt.

"Okay," Cupid spoke, wiping a tear from his eye, "I'll give it another shot."

He gathered his bow and arrows and headed out the front door. The Supervisor followed, closing the door on his way out.

"What a moron," he muttered. "Thank God I was able to get a quick annulment from that broad, what a mistake that would have been!”

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

CHOCOLATE, NOT CHOCOLATE by Janet Cipolli

Every year when Valentine’s Day rolls around, Walter Chester’s mouth begins to drool. For the past ten years, he and his wife Beth have spent cupid’s holiday at Mario’s Restaurant indulging in the most-delectable Italian foods and wine. Upon returning home, the two cozy up in front of the television to watch The Honeymooners and share a Valentine of Russell Stover chocolate.
     Unfortunately for Walter, this year Beth is determined to stick with her diet and exercise plan that she began right after the New Year’s holiday. As she prepares to break the news to her husband over breakfast, she braces herself for the inevitable tug-of-war.
     “How about hittin’ me with another short stack sweetie?” asked Walter, smacking his lips and wiping maple syrup from his chin.
     Beth, sipping her coffee, “Walt, do you honestly think you need it?”
     “If you want me to shovel that foot of snow out there so you can head over to Fat Central—yes, I do” he chided.
     Beth tilted her head with a look of annoyance, “I’ll have you know that I am totally committed to the gym this year. The girls and I have decided to take charge of our bodies.”
     Walter handed her his plate, “Cool, throw another side of “oink” on here while you’re at it.”
     Beth rolled her eyes and shook her head as she took the plate over to the stove to pile on Walter’s second helping. Foregoing further hesitation, she proceeded to bring up her plans for Valentine’s Day.
     “While we’re on the subject of food, I’ve decided we’re not going to Mario’s this year for Valentine’s Day and I don’t want you to buy me any chocolate either.” She sat down and handed Walter his plate.
     “Why not?” he asked dumbfounded.
     “Because,” she replied, “I don’t want the temptation.”
     “But it’s Valentine’s Day. We always go to Mario’s.”
     “Not this year. It will completely blow my diet.”
     Beth now had her husband’s full attention. Walter sat holding his fork over the untouched second stack.
     “You can have a salad,” he offered.
     “Walter, be serious. I’m not going to sit eating a plate of rabbit food staring at your pile of lasagna and baskets of garlic bread, not to mention the cannoli.”
     “I’ll get calamari,” Walter debated. “That’s fish. You can have fish can’t you?”
     “Not deep-fried, and you’re not hearing me…” in a singsong voice.
     “Okay,” as he finally attacks his pancakes. “We can go someplace else but I’m definitely buying Russell Stover.”
     “No you’re not, I don’t want chocolate.”
     “Well, Valentine’s Day isn’t just about YOU,” he whined. “I’m a Valentine too and I love Nut, Chewy and Crisp!”
     Beth smiled. “Yes, you are a Valentine and don’t worry, I got you something.”
     “Well its first name better be Russell,” he warned.
     Beth poured herself another cup of coffee, feeling pleased with herself for standing her ground.
     “No Mario’s, no Russell and no whining. All of us girls agreed to spend Valentine’s Day evening together at the gym, working out. And that’s that.”
     Walter stared at his wife for a minute, ”So what do you want for Valentine’s Day then?”
     Beth felt relief, “Well, since you’re allergic to flowers and perfume, how about some lingerie?”
     “I’m not going to a lingerie store,” resuming his stack attack.
     Beth laughed, “Why not?”
     “Everything is so…pink,” he stuttered.
     With a heavy sigh, Beth stared as Walter finished wiping his mouth.
     “I know!” he snickered. “I’ll buy you an Aloe Plant. You can use it on that caloric burn you’re always talking about.”
     Beth was unable to hide her disappointment, “Where is that romantic guy I married?”
     “Still here sweetie,” grabbing his coat and gloves. “Same weight too.”
     Beth bit her tongue until she heard the back door close. “Burn this.”

When the evening of Valentine’s Day arrived, Beth set off to meet her friends at the gym while Walter settled in on the sofa. The Honeymooners marathon was about to begin and although the absence of his wife was felt, the 2-lb box of Nut, Chewy And Crisp he managed to sneak past her offered him great comfort. As he ripped through the wrapping and pulled off the cover, the robustly rich smell of his favorite chocolate wafted around his nostrils till all he could do was close his eyes and feel the buzz. About five minutes later, the doorbell rang.
     “One large pepperoni?” the delivery boy asked.
     “That’s me,” replied Walter.
     The boy continued, hoping for a nice tip, “Enjoying a happy Valentine’s Day sir?”
     “Yes, very much,” shutting the door.
     It wasn’t that Walter was cheap; he just couldn’t wait any longer to sink his teeth into his Valentine treats.
     After only two episodes of Ralph Kramden sending Alice to the moon, Walter sat back on the sofa looking down at the all but empty box of chocolates and discarded pizza crusts. Admittedly, he felt like a stuffed sausage. Suddenly, the sound of keys in the front door made him jump—it was Beth!
     “Hey you,” leaping off the sofa and shoving the remains of his feast to the floor. “You’re back early.”
     The expression on her face was one of sheer disappointment.
     “They all caved!” throwing her coat and purse in disgust. “I was the only one who showed up! They all went out to dinner with their husbands, can you believe that?”
     “Aw, I’m sorry,” putting his arms around her, mainly to shield her from the incriminating evidence.
     “They’re probably all out feasting on lobster ravioli,” she moaned then noticed the pizza box on the floor.
     “You had pizza?” she asked with longing in her voice.
     Walter stretched his arm behind the sofa and pulled out her Valentine gift.
     “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he grinned as he handed her an Aloe plant wrapped with a big red ribbon.
     Beth wasn't amused. She pouted as she lifted the cover to the empty pizza box. Walter suddenly remembered the last piece of chocolate still in the box on the floor and bent over to get it. When Beth saw it her mouth dropped
     “Chocolates? You bought chocolates?” her eyes bulging with desire as she reached for them.
     “Bad for the diet,” and popped it in his mouth.
     Feeling depressed and defeated, Beth headed off towards the kitchen thinking out loud; “I wonder if kicking myself in the ass counts as aerobic activity.”
     Walter, still working on the last Chewy, “Whatever gets your heart rate up sweetie.”

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Copyright 2011 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.

HAUNTING MANORVILLE by Janet Cipolli

     “I don’t believe in ghosts."
     “It doesn’t matter what you believe or don’t believe,” countered Wilhelmina, “what matters is three days ago I inventoried 250 bottles of Sauvignon Blanc and now there’s only 226.”
     Just seconds away from Halloween, Wilhelmina and her older sister Ruth tiptoed through the stone corridor of The Manorville Winery, each of them holding a flashlight. Wilhelmina led the midnight convoy as her sister followed too close at her heels.
     “Will you back off?”
     “I’m sorry,” stepping on the back of Willy’s shoe for the twelfth time. “I can’t see with you in the way.”
     The pair traveled along the winding corridor until they reached the massive oak doors of the underground wine cellar.
     “I hope you brought the key” said Ruth to her sister.
     Willy turned holding the brass key in her hand. It had been at the very top of her to-do-list that day.

Henri and Louis Gasteau were brothers and proprietors of The Manorville Winery, a family-owned business since the early 1950’s. Their father had moved the Gasteau family from Bordeaux, France to California after World War II. He purchased 500 acres of land and began the vineyard, which steadfastly grew to be one of Napa Valley’s finest winemaking establishments.
     From the first day that the brothers took over operation of the business, they disagreed about everything—from grape variety to product cost. Unlike Louis, who was a penny-pincher, Henri enjoyed the good life—sparing no expense when it came to cars, women and promoting his wine. He would organize and host extravagant wine-tasting parties on the weekends, offering caviar and truffle-laced delicacies prepared by chefs he had flown in from Provence.
     Louis Gasteau, on the other hand, drove a pickup truck to work each day and carried his lunch in a brown bag. Always looking to cut operating costs, he would argue constantly with Henri about money.
     “We need to charge people to taste our wine—$75 for brunch and the wine sampling,” Louis would adamantly argue.
     Henri would throw up his hands, “You are a fool! People want to come and taste life! Not just food and wine. They want to be pampered, they want to be courted—just like a lover—and then they will buy whatever you put in front of them.”
     “You’re an idiot! By the time we finish filling them with your fancy hors d’oeuvres and our Gold Label wines they would have to buy the entire vineyard for us to just break even!”
     Each morning the same argument and every afternoon the brothers would retire to separate corners of the winery. Henri, in a cloud of his favorite cologne, would stroll off to the Wine Shop to offer visitors free glasses of sparkling wine and chocolate-covered strawberries while Louis stomped down to the wine cellar where he would obsess over the declining inventory.
     In mid-November of 2006, the Manorville staff was informed of the sudden and unexpected passing of Henri Gasteau. Louis didn’t offer any details of his brother’s untimely death but suggested that staffers make an extra effort to promote sales of Henri’s favorite Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc in lieu of any flowers or sympathy cards.
     “It would make Henri very happy,” Louis said.
     How odd, Wilhelmina thought, Henri hated Sauvignon Blanc. As the staff dispersed, she walked over to her boss.
     “I’m very sorry Louis.” offering her condolence, “Didn’t you mean the Cabernet Sauvignon? That was Henri’s personal favorite, wasn’t it?”
     Louis stared at her and for a split second Willy thought she saw anger flash across his eyes.
     “No, it wasn’t.” His voice retained its sternness as his eyes relaxed. “I’m putting you in charge of the wine cellar stock. It will be your job to monitor our inventory and keep me abreast of the count on a twice-weekly basis.”
     With that he went back into his office and closed the door quietly in her face.

Wilhelmina turned the key and pushed open the heavy door. Ruth’s hands were on Willy’s back as they entered the heart of the winery.
     “You really need to get a grip—turn on the light will you? Please?”
     Ruth scuttled along the wall until she found the light switch. The cellar lit up but not too brightly. There were filigree sconces on the walls fitted with low-watt bulbs from Wal-Mart.
     “Oh my, what an impressive painting!” Ruth said admiringly.
     Wilhelmina turned. “The Gasteau brothers. Henri had it commissioned by some French artist. Louis always hated it until an appraiser told him that it was worth a small fortune. Now it’s welded to the wall. Come on,” Willy waved for Ruth to follow, “and watch your step. There’s an open well up here with a 40-foot-drop.”
     “Oh great!”
     “Don’t worry, it’s covered with a plank—just be careful.”
     They walked passed the barrels and to the left, down the narrow path to the storage racks. They got about twenty feet when Willy stopped, holding her arm out to shield Ruth.
     “What?” Ruth couldn’t hold back her giggle, “Flying grapes?”
     “Don’t you smell it?”
     Ruth walked around to stand beside her and sniffed the air.
     “It smells like a wine cellar,” she shrugged.
     “It smells like Sauvignon Blanc!” Willy darted around looking between the aisles of barrels for a leak or broken bottle—anything that would explain the strong aroma that shouldn’t be there.
     “I’m getting tired Willy. I'm not having fun anymore," Ruth appropriately whined.
     Wilhelmina spun around pointing her index finger.
     “You promised to come down here and help me count these bottles! If I can’t explain why twenty-four bottles of Manorville’s finest wine have disappeared…”
     “Alright already! Geez, it’s not like you were ever good at Math—you probably just miscounted, Sherlock.” Ruth looked around, “Where are they?”
     She followed Willy another twenty feet to a row of racks labeled Manorville Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc 2006. Ruth perused the racks—anxious to be done and back home in her warm, cozy bed.
     “So, how do we do this?”
     “I’ll start here with this rack and you go down that end,” Wilhelmina ordered, pulling a small notebook and pencil from her jacket pocket, “we’ll meet at the middle rack and add it all together.”
     About ten minutes later, Ruth announced, “112.”
     Willy scratched at her notebook then shot a look of horror at her sister.
     “What?” demanded Ruth, her nerves wearing thin by now.
     “I counted 104 and with the six in the middle,” her eyes grew wider as she spoke, “now there’s only 222!”
     “Well that can’t be.”
     “Well, it be!” Wilhelmina was beside herself. “Count them again.”
     Ruth and Willy counted the Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc ten more times—and got ten different totals.
     “221 bottles.”
     “218 bottles.”
     “216 bottles.”
     “211 bottles.”
     After the tenth count, the two sisters hurriedly vacated the wine cellar, trying not to trip over each other.

Halloween morning, as the staff gathered in Louis’ office to discuss that afternoon’s wine-tasting party, Wilhelmina sat nervously awaiting her boss’s arrival. Since it had been impossible for her to sleep, she had spent the last several hours rehearsing what she would say to him.
     “Good morning folks,” Louis smiled as he entered and walked to his big oak desk, “is everyone ready for today’s event?”
     Nods and affirmations abounded throughout the room. Louis looked very pleased as he sat down. Wilhelmina began to shake as she raised her hand.
     “Uh, Louis? Can I have a word with you—out there?” pointing to the outer hallway.
     “Why?” Louis asked.
     Willy wrung her hands together as her carefully rehearsed story flew out the window.
     “It appears we have a slight problem…”

Louis stormed into the wine cellar, whacking the light switch on his way to the storage racks. When he reached the Gold Label Sauvignon Blanc his jaw dropped. It didn’t take long to count.
     “60 bottles??"
     Before he could even begin to process, he was startled by a loud crashing sound at the other end of the cellar.
     “What the…?”
     He briskly walked towards the direction of the noise but found nothing. As he started back—BANG! He spun around again, this time witnessing the heavily framed painting of he and Henri go crashing to the floor. As he suspiciously scanned the area, an all-too-familiar scent enveloped him. Could it be?
     “Henri, is that you?” He slowly walked up and down the aisles of barrels. “You have come back to ruin me?” Louis asked sarcastically. “You are as stupid dead as you were alive!”
     Louis watched and listened as he crept back towards his wine bottles. Turning the corner, he gasped in disbelief. The all-but-empty rack held just three remaining bottles. He threw his arms up to form a cross.
     “You’re not welcome here anymore! Now get out!” Louis shouted.
     As if on cue, the low-watt bulbs from Wal-Mart flew out of their sconces, hitting him in the head--one by one. He probably would have left skid marks if he could only have seen where he was going. Oops! Who removed the covering to the well?
     As the guests began to arrive, Henri emptied the last remaining bottle of his brother's wine--and poured a glass of his favorite Cabernet.
     A la bonne vie ! he toasted. To the good life!

WISHING EVERYONE A SAFE AND HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

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Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.