Lynda Simmons is a writer by day, college instructor by night and a late sleeper on weekends. She grew up in Toronto reading Greek mythology, bringing home stray cats and making up stories about bodies in the basement. From an early age, her family knew she would either end up as a writer or the old lady with a hundred cats. As luck would have it, she married a man with allergies so writing it was.
With two daughters to raise, Lynda and her husband moved into a lovely two storey mortgage in Burlington, a small city on the water just outside Toronto. While the girls are grown and gone, Lynda and her husband are still there. And yes, there is a cat - a beautiful, if spoiled, Birman.
When she's not writing or teaching, Lynda gives serious thought to using the treadmill in her basement. Fortunately, she's found that if she waits long enough, something urgent will pop up and save her - like a phone call or an e-mail or a whistling kettle. Or even that cat just looking for a little more attention!
Sometimes
all love needs is a road trip, a rubber chicken and a touch of magicVicky Ferguson loves her husband Reid, always has, always will. But with two kids to think about, it’s time for the free-wheeling, sports car loving pilot to put his feet on the ground and lay down some roots. Reid can’t imagine life without Vicky but neither can he see himself pushing a lawn mower or driving a mini-van. They’re on track to a divorce neither one wants until a last request from beloved Uncle Albert puts them on the road together one last time.
Excerpt:
“Which brings us to the issue at hand,” the
lawyer said and opened a file. “I have here the last will and testament of
Albert Ferguson. Handwritten but perfectly legal.” He leaned down and picked up
Albert’s old leather suitcase. It was the only thing the old man ever carried –
the true master of travelling light. Lyle set the case on the desk, undid the
straps and slid back the zipper. Reached inside and came up with a pair of
Groucho Marx glasses, complete with bulbous pink nose, bushy eyebrows, and a
formidable mustache.
Reid sat
forward. “Not the glasses,” he said, a smile already tugging at his lips.
Lyle nodded
solemnly and put them on, carefully adjusting the nose over his own before
picking up the paper again. The lawyer’s delivery was perfectly straight, if a
bit nasal. “I, Albert John Ferguson, being of sound mind and body— ”
Reid
glanced over at Vicky. She was staring at the lawyer, eyes wide, lips pinched
tightly together, holding back her laughter.
“Do hereby
bequeath all my worldly goods to my favorite nephew and niece, Reid Allan
Ferguson and Victoria Ann Ferguson, to be used as they see fit. This includes
one hand buzzer, one whoopee cushion, one pair of Groucho glasses.” He reached
into the suitcase again. “One rubber chicken –”
“I’ll take
that.” Vicky’s face turned pink when the lawyer paused and looked at her over
the nose of the glasses. “For the kids,” she added, and turned to Reid. “Unless
you want it.”
“Not at
all.” He pointed to the suitcase. “But I’ve got dibs on the fly-in-the-ice-cube.”
“One
fly-in-the-ice-cube,” Lyle continued, and set it in front of Reid. “One can of
worms—”
“Snakes,”
Reid cut in. “They’re snakes.”
The lawyer
slid the can toward him and Reid popped the lid. Three long colorful snakes
sprang from the tin and flew over the desk, squeaking as they bounced against
the walls. “They were always his favorite.” Reid smiled at Vicky. “Do you mind
if I take them?”
She held up
the whoopee cushion. “Not as long as I can have this,” she said, and Reid
understood why Albert had loved her, too.
“You can go
through the rest on your own later,” Lyle said, taking off the glasses and
setting them aside. “But in return for his worldly goods, Albert has a favor to
ask.”
Reid raised
his head. “A favor?”
“More of a
decree really.” Lyle cleared his throat and resumed reading from the will. “In
return for my worldly goods, Reid and Vicky must promise to take my remains to
Seaport, Oregon. ”
The
chicken’s head bobbed as she sat up straighter. “But I thought he’d already
been buried.”
“Not
quite.” Lyle lifted a plain white shoebox out of the suitcase and set it on the
desk in front of them. “He’s been waiting for you.”
Reid stared
at the box. “That’s Albert?”
“Ashes to
ashes.” The lawyer picked up the box. “I know it’s not much to look at, but
it’s practical, sturdy, and holds up to five pounds of loved one, no problem.”
He looked from Reid to Vicky. “The point is Albert didn’t want a fancy urn
because he wasn’t planning to spend much time in it anyway.”
Reid shook
his head. “I don’t understand.”
Lyle
smiled. “Your Uncle Albert wants to fly one last time.
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