Midsummer's Eve - By Kitty Margo

PROLOGUE

According to Sylvia Browne, we each have a spirit guide. She frequently consults her own personal angel, Francine, and claims to hold lengthy and rather profound conversations with her on a variety of topics. If I have a guardian angel, and that’s a mighty big if, let me tell you, I’ll call her Tilly. Short for Atilla the Hun. Because I promise you, if Tilly could flutter merrily around while the debacle of my life was playing out in glorious living Technicolor, without once lifting a feather to intervene, then she has about as much compassion as her namesake.

Let me assure you, that not one day passed during Tilly’s nerve-wracking incarceration as my trustee, that she didn’t gaze longingly toward the stratosphere and beseech, “Oh, pray tell, what did I ever do to deserve such cruel punishment? Please allow me to return to the pearly gates and trade this crazed mortal for a less dramatic one! Why, I heard through the grapevine, just this morning, that Charles Manson is in desperate need of a spiritual awakening!”

Then again, perhaps I have misjudged Tilly. Thanks to me, the softhearted, ethereal being has most likely suffered anxiety attacks of biblical proportion and been rendered totally incapable of a return flight. I can imagine the panic-stricken look in her gentle gaze as she stood over me, since hovering was entirely out of the question, and realized, too late, that she had nervously plucked every last wing feather during one of my frequent bouts of near hysteria.

At times such as this, when I feel mired up to the ever increasing fine lines on my neck, and in danger of submerging in a malodorous, swirling cesspool, I run. Simply put. Those who know me well would feel compelled to agree that running has been a life long habit, which I perfected years ago. Those same friends have often been surprisingly quick to suggest I seek therapy for that issue, along with a few others that I can’t quite seem to shake.

However, the idea of lying on some therapist’s cold leather couch does little toward propelling me into a cheerful mood. Although, I have often wondered if a shrink could tell me why I have no memories of my childhood. Not one. Not a single memory of a best friend, a sleepover, or a secret crush. Not even a sketchy recollection of sitting on jolly old St. Nick’s lap during my first thirteen yuletide seasons. Although my sister swears I was a Barbie fanatic, and my mom has a few, rather persuasive, pictures to support my infatuation with the curvy little plastic temptress.

At any rate, as was my usual routine during times of mind-bending stress, I took refuge in the safety of my Jeep, and sped toward Atlanta to visit my college roommate. I hadn’t seen her in years and I seriously needed an extended vacation. Plus, with each mile I traveled from my sleepy little town of Twin Rivers, North Carolina, I was putting much-needed distance between my ex fiancé and myself. A distance that I desperately needed if I was to survive the hellacious breakup that still brought scalding tears to rush from swollen, bloodshot eyes at the mere thought of the man who had so carelessly performed a Lizzie Borden on both my heart and dignity.

To be honest life, as of late, has been a living hell. Okay. I just need a little time away from home to figure out how to cope. That’s all. It shouldn’t be too terribly difficult. After all, this certainly isn’t my first rodeo in the arena of getting shit upon.

One

According to the flashing gas pump symbol on the instrument panel, I needed gas. There goes half my paycheck. But, since being stranded on I-95 sounded like more excitement than I could tolerate today, I took the next exit and pulled into a gas station/souvenir store advertising peaches, pecans and free Disney tickets.

But wait, I envisioned a bright light at the end of this tunnel. There will be pecan logs! Lord knows I have a weakness for the things. Even though when I was a child and my family had taken our annual Myrtle Beach excursion, my cousin had bought three pecan logs for a dollar at a roadside convenience store. It was only after he had eaten two, and half of the third one, that he noticed little white worms swimming around in the creamy white center. I couldn’t bring myself to eat one in the forty years since,