Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Women
Publisher: Kindle Direct Publishing
ISBN-10: 1794316566
Type: Fiction
Pages: 301
Copyright: May 12, 2020
ISBN-13: 9781794316560
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
In Book 2 of The Jessie Morgan Series, 21-year-old Jessie embarks on a new life in San Francisco, coming of age in the Pacific mist and fog. Across the continent, Twisty sits in prison, obsessed with her.
It’s 1972, and San Francisco is a global mecca for hippies and radicals. Jess can’t wait to join her friend Donna there. Driving her VW down the Pacific Coast, she’s more than ready for the city’s open Bohemian vibe, bongo-mad street life, perpetual protests, and cutting-edge counterculture.
Among the characters she meets are Cat, a tall, fun-loving Sicilian, and Carl, a Harley-riding enigma with bushy red hair. As Jessie gleefully spreads her wings in the City by the Bay, she leaves her stormy past behind.
Or does she?
This novel is recommended for mature readers due to 1970s-era sex, drugs, and profanity.
Excerpt
“I cannot believe you went to his room,” Donna said as they rode the Haight trolleybus to a free dance class.
“He promised he’d be a gentleman.”
“And you took him at his word.”
Jessie nodded. “He’s cool.”
“And you didn’t…” Donna looked around for eavesdroppers.
Jess shook her head.
“Where’s he from? LA?”
“Yeah.”
“Too far away.”
“Could be fun.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Donna, who chuckled.
“You could meet halfway…Big Sur? Pismo Beach?”
“Really, really fun.”
Donna laughed again, then got serious. “But honestly, Jess, that was dangerous. Weird shit happens here. They still haven’t found that Zodiac Killer…”
“I won’t make a habit of it…” She and Peter had relaxed in his room, kissing and laughing and talking. She’d been vulnerable, and very high on champagne and Sambuca. But it had worked out fine. He’d taken her home, kissing her again at her door.
Peter seemed comfortable in his own skin, with no need to prove anything. He was self-contained. Jess had told him about Twisty and how she needed to take things slow. Peter said he understood, and it seemed like he did. He was still showing up for lunch in Union Square, but he’d be leaving in four days. Jess had no idea what would happen, but was cool with it. She wondered if she would have been feeling this relaxed if they’d had sex. Why was dealing with men so baffling?
“That’s so neat that you went to the Palace Garden Court,” Donna was saying. “I’ve never been.”
“Have Rich take you.”
“Yeah, right. Oh! I’ll take him there for his birthday.”
“Perfect.”
“By the way, you know that chandelier we rescued from the garbage? Rich says oven cleaner will get the black soot off.”
“OK. I’ll get some.” Donna always had projects going.
“We could hang it, put candles on it.”
“Groovy.” Jessie’s room was looking better since they’d found an antique porcelain lamp at a moving sale. She was still looking for a bed, though.
Donna pulled the trolleybus’s rope and they got off by the Haight Parks and Rec building, where people were streaming into the Tuesday evening African Ballet class. “It’s gonna be crowded,” Jess said, hesitating.
“Naw.”
The class was held in an old gym where everyone gathered along one wall, stretching and warming up. Jess slipped off her sandals and stripped down to her black leotard and black footless tights. She and Donna were going to dance barefoot; some wore ballet shoes.
“Let’s stash our stuff here,” said Donna, putting her bag on the floor by the wall.
Donna looked cute in her purple sweat suit. The other dancers wore a motley mix of leg warmers, rolled up stretch pants, leotards, and tied up T-shirts that left their midriffs bare.
“OK, everybody, let’s go!” A handsome black woman with neon orange fabric tied around her hips clapped her hands, and everyone spread out on the floor. “Feel the rhythm and have fun, OK?”
Donna and Jess stayed in the back row, so they could watch. The instructor signaled to a young black guy on a metal folding chair with a tall drum between his knees, then led the group in slow kicks and stretches. The dancers in the front looked advanced; those in the rear, not so much. It didn’t take long to work up a sweat as they took turns, row by row, moving across the gym floor. They moved in wide, deep pliés, arms open shoulder height, pulsing their out-turned feet forward. Jess felt leg muscles she’d never felt before. The African movements were worlds different from the classical ballet moves she’d grown up performing. She raised her eyebrows at Donna, who just smiled.
The teacher added kicks and arm movements, gradually building combinations as they continued across the floor in lines. Another drummer joined the first and when the teacher signaled, they quickened the beat. Jess wiped her forehead on her leotard sleeve, wishing she’d worn a headband to keep the sweat out of her eyes. Next time. She was instantly hooked on this soulful, strenuous form of ballet.
Getting into the rhythm, everything faded away. Jess judged dance classes, movies, and books by how well they took her out of herself. Dancing somehow connected her with her own spirit. As she moved across the floor, there was no room for depression or worry or nasty self-talk. Instead she felt alive. During the slow barre work in classical ballet, Jess always experienced a powerful centering as she stretched to classical piano music. Sometimes she thought about studying Dance Therapy, with the goal of taking dance into prisons and other places where people really needed that centering, that feeling of well-being. She knew dance could provide that for prisoners.
As they twirled and gyrated across the floor, Jessie felt the pulsing drumbeat from her scalp to her little toes. Nothing made her fly like endorphins. They were like a body cleansing or something.
Too soon the class slowed down, the drums fading to an unhurried beat as everyone got on the floor to stretch. When they stretched their spines in shoulder stands, Jessie’s hands and upper arms tingled and burned. Damn it, her injured neck seemed worse. Shit! Jess pressed her eyes shut, rolled out of the shoulder stand, and lay flat on the floor. This was Twisty’s fault. He’d caused the wreck in September by driving drunk.
“You OK?”
Jess opened her eyes. The instructor was standing over her. “Yeah, thanks,” she replied. “Neck trouble.”
The woman nodded knowingly. “Chiropractors help.”
“Good to know, thanks. Your class is great!”
“Thanks. Hope you come back.”
It took a while for the prickly sensations to go away. She wondered how much chiropractors charged.
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