It was the day Georgette Carlisle read that NASA slammed a rocket into the moon. No one really cared. It was only the moon, not Jupiter or Saturn. The moon, somehow, had slid onto a backlist of newsworthiness by current day standards.
The day coasted out of sight into a flotsam of more noteworthy press and seemed to fade against the furor still being aired and printed about Michael Jackson. Things seemed topsy-turvy. It was the exact same day, Georgette had posted her first ever monthly recipe contest on Facebook. So, when her old friend called, the moon’s event slid into other things that didn’t seem quite important at the moment but would eventually change people’s lives.
Helen tried to hide a tone of desperation in her voice. Georgette still heard it. Even with her friend hundreds of miles south, even through the tiny phone, she could see Helen’s face.
Her lithe jaw line quivered as she spoke through her cell somewhere outdoors, her mousy almost colorless hair unruly around her face, a ballet hand grappling at the wispy thin strands as she looked around at the busy street corner in Phoenix, the cars rushing past her like hot wind. As if Georgette were standing there with her, she could see a nervous frown bridging her forehead, causing that single soft fold to form between the skin of her eyebrows.
She saw her glossy lips move with each fractured word. The two women, complete opposites in mind and body. But, she knew this woman well. Always cloaked in something. Always scheming.
Even so, Georgette still trusted her. Helen, although slippery at times, would remain a true friend.
The call startled Georgette. A mounting bank of clouds trimmed the perimeter of Sunnydale threatening action. It was early morning. A time when the diner’s kitchen stays quiet. Except for chopping of food on the butcher block counter’s soft wood, the place at this time, remained perfectly peaceful.
She had been dicing up a chunk of milk chocolate. The cocoa scent had attacked her nose and sent a pang of hunger like a knife into her gut.
First, the unnerving quality of the ring on her cell, something she hardly used but kept on just in case, made her jump. In fact, the sound for unknown callers she’d chosen was Beethoven’s Fifth. Hearing those first disturbing solemn four chords, da da da dum, and then its second set the same but different, made her look around, wondering.
Until she figured out the phone ringing was in her own purse.
Seeing her name displayed Georgette realized Helen had gone back to using her maiden name, Wellen. She quickly flipped open the cell.