Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Episode 8: A Flash Fiction Story by Lynda Simmons, author of LOVE, ALBERT

12_8 VBT_TourBanner_LoveAlbert copy

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Enter the Rafflecopter below for a chance at winning a $50 Amazon/BN gift card. Click on the tour banner above to see the rest of the stops.

Lynda Simmons' flash fiction episode eight is now available. Watch out for episode nine tomorrow at Flirting with Romance

Flash Fiction # 8
Day of the Dead (With Interim Director, Josh Smythe)


“What time is it?” Mr. Bailey asks.

He’s the husband of the deceased. First name, Jeff, retired teacher.

“Ten fifteen, sir,” I say and extend my hand. “Josh Smythe, Interim Director. If you need anything at all today, just let me know.”

He nods and looks past me to the rows of people gathered in the Music Room where the Celebration of Life for his wife, Bernice, will be getting underway shortly.

“Your wife was clearly popular here at Willow Tree,” I say and give him a small empathetic smile.

“Sure,” he says and turns, watching someone sign the guest book. There is no casket here, nor ashes nor anything else depressing. Just Dixieland favourites in the air and photographs of Bernice on an easel. High school graduation, wedding day, the birth of her first child. Pictures that bring her life to life, reminding us that she was more than a senior with dementia.

Our company has been organizing Celebrations like this for years. The families are always delighted with the results and find the fee more than reasonable. In light of recent events, however, today’s Celebration is provided free of charge for the Rutledge family, including refreshment table, guest book and three vases bursting with the red roses Bernice loved. Instagram and Facebook have all reacted positively to the shots and Twitter is coming around. At last check, even @Hangemhigh was giving us props for kindness and positivity. Yet Bernice’s husband seems untouched, distracted. In fairness, I suppose I would be too if my wife had been found frozen to death in the snow.

As Interim Director of Willow Tree Long Term Care, my main job right now is damage control. Getting out ahead of yesterday’s fiascos to direct the public discussion and keep a couple of tragic accidents from blossoming into a full blown public relations crisis.

Since the news broke yesterday morning, I’ve been living on Twitter and Facebook, answering accusations and accepting responsibility every time my phone vibrates.

Willow Tree Cares is the message we want to get across, as well as corporate’s official stand: we had no idea that former administrator Gina Baron was so deeply troubled.

Troubled? She’s a bonafide nut job that one. Drawers full of candles, strings of pearls in every pocket and more pictures of her mother than can possibly be healthy. I heard she was in some kind of trance when they found her. On her knees, weeping, begging her mother for forgiveness. Took cold water in the face to snap her out of it.

Naturally, rumours started right away. Drugs, alcohol, sado-masocism you name it she was supposedly into it. But I don’t trade in rumours, just the truth as we would like it to be known. And our truth is that Gina Baron is undergoing psychiatric evaluation.

Maybe she shoved Mrs. Rutledge out the door, and took Mr. Bailey down to the cellar as well. The world may not know the truth for years, but they definitely know that a Celebration of Life will be held for Rick Bailey as soon as we have the body back.

“Mr. Rutledge, would you like anything before we begin?” I ask. “We offer gluten-free, dairy-free and nut free choices, all in bite-size portions and prepared right here in our kitchen.”

“Call me Jeff,” he says. “And stop trying to sell me on this.”

He heads back along the hall to where the local reporters lurk. Letting them in speaks to transparency, and the CEO is conducting a press conference this afternoon anyway. Making it clear that we’re co-operating fully with the on-going investigation and that improvements to security are already underway.

We need to reassure not only the families of our residents that Willow Tree is a safe and happy place, but also the families of those with loved ones on our waiting list. And more importantly, the investors who had the misfortune to be here during yesterday’s events.

Fortunately, I convinced them to come back this morning, to see for themselves the strength and resilience of the Willow Tree brand. I seated both of them not fifteen minutes ago, and am pleased to see them enjoying the refreshment table as they wait. Willow Tree will get through this, is the take away for today.

A line of residents shuffles toward the door. “Come in,” I say. “And enjoy the buffet.”

Over their heads I notice Mr. Rutledge, Jeff, isn’t with the press after all. He’s talking to the wife of the guy who died in the basement. Anna Bailey. Husband, Rick. Cause of death, unknown.

“Good to see you again,” a woman says to me and extends her hand. “I’m Joyce. The Bingo Lady? I’d like to speak to you once more about continuing the bingo games —”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “We knew Gina was running unsanctioned programs for a while, but you’ll understand that everything has to be tighter now. Of course, you’re welcome at the Celebration. I’m sure you knew Bernice well.”

She says nothing, just moves past me and squeezes into a row as the CEO signals that we’re about to begin.

Anna and Jeff are heading back this way. They’re both smiling, and their shoulders are touching as they walk. The romantic in me hopes that something is going on there. The cynic suspects that they’re pleased to be free of their spouses, and both agree we could have charged for the refreshments at least.

I’m composing a tweet about love and eternity when someone races past me. It’s one of the investors, pale and sweating and heading for the bathroom. A woman also pushes past me, heading for the ladies room. The old man behind her isn’t as quick. He throws up in a potted plant.

I turn back to the room. A stampede is heading straight for me.

“What is this?” I shout.

“Food poisoning,” a nurse shouts back.

And my twitter feed explodes all over me.

12_8 love BookCover_LoveAlbertSometimes all love needs is a road trip, a rubber chicken and a touch of magic

Vicky 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.

Enjoy an 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 fl y-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.”

12_8 love AuthorPhoto_LyndaSimmonsAbout the Author: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!

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Lynda-Simmons/e/B001KI3Z4O

http://www.lyndasimmons.com/
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/958842.Lynda_Simmons
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynda-Simmons-Author/149740745067442
https://twitter.com/LyndaMSimmons

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Friday, December 12, 2014

A Special Flash Fiction Installment from Lynda Simmons, author of LOVE, ALBERT

12_8 VBT_TourBanner_LoveAlbert copy

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Enter the Rafflecopter below for a chance at winning a $50 Amazon/BN gift card. Click on the tour banner above to see the rest of the stops.

Lynda Simmons' flash fiction episode five is now available. Watch out for episode six on Monday at Marlow Kelly

Flash Fiction # 5
Happy Trails
(With Nurse Dylan Feeney)


“What time is it?” Grace asks. “Four o’clock,” she continues, answering her own question on her way into Mr. Bailey’s room for the third time this morning.

“Dylan,” the doctor says.

“On it,” I say, happy to escape both files and the front desk for even a moment.

On any other day, he wouldn’t have sent anyone after her. Willow Tree Long Term Care is small and expensive with a carefully cultivated relaxed atmosphere. Lavender scents the air, music plays constantly and residents wander through each others’ rooms at will. Opening closets, fishing through drawers, even carting stuff away. That’s why important items are stored on upper shelves and everything else is labeled. Eventually, stuff finds its way back to where it belongs. No harm, no foul – as good a philosophy as any in a place where no one gets better and the days all blend together.

This isn’t where I saw myself after graduation. Dylan Feeney, Male Nurse, was heading to Africa or Micronesia, someplace where happy endings are only a vaccination away. But then I met the doctor. He’s older, sure, but we hit it off, had more than drinks. When I talked about booking a ticket to Nairobi, he offered me a job, full time with a good salary. He talks a good line and before long, the booming voice of my student debt drowned out the whispers of my heart. So here I am, chasing Grace instead of malaria and fraternizing with a staff member in secret. Not quite the life I imagined, but his place is nice and there’s nobility in caring for those who can’t care for themselves. And I don’t tell anyone that I still think about those happy endings now and then.

“What time is it?” Grace asks when I step into the room. “Four o’clock,” she says, to no one in particular.

She hasn’t rifled the dresser or even peeked in the closet. She’s intent on only thing – touching the windows, ensuring they’re closed. Or perhaps searching for one that’s open, I can’t tell, but she’s been at it for days. Inspecting every window and door in the place, a woman on a mission and normally left alone to amuse herself. But this morning, Rick Bailey’s room is out of bounds.

He was on death’s door again last night and his wife, Anna has been here since midnight. She could have gone home when he rallied around five a.m. Or when he had oatmeal at seven. Definitely when he was taken for his bath at nine. But she’s still in there, slumped in a chair, staring at the phone in her hand. And the last thing she needs is Grace coming and going.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bailey.” I head toward Grace. “I’ll try to keep her occupied.”

“Don’t bother.” Anna looks over at me. “She’s not hurting anything.”

Grace ignores me and Mrs. Bailey seems sincere. It’s back to the files for me. “Can I get you anything before I go, then?”

“A handful of sleeping pills? Perhaps two?”

I open my mouth and she holds up a hand. “Dylan, I’m kidding.” She sighs and sets the phone on the table beside her. “I doubt Rick could swallow them anyway.”

I step closer. “Mrs. Bailey, I know last night was difficult –”

“Trust me, Son, we left Difficult a while back and have been firmly mired in Impossible for some time now.” She gets to her feet, crosses to the bed. “But the good news is that he’s having fewer lucid moments. Fewer times when he looks me straight in the eye and says something that tells me he’s there and he’s listening.” She plumps the pillow. “And that’s a blessing because those damn moments keep you hoping and bringing in pictures and telling stories. Believing that if you just try a little harder, somehow things will work out.”

She glances back at the phone and I know I should leave it alone, get back to the desk, tell a counsellor to come on down. But her face is pale and her hands are shaking and if the Director wants to add this to my growing list of infractions, so be it.

“Tell me about the last time he had one of those moments,” I say and smile when she looks over. “Was it like in that movie?”

She laughs. “God no,” she says and is about to elaborate when Joyce, the Bingo Lady bustles in with her cards and dabbers. “How is everyone this frosty Friday?”

Anna glances over. Smiles. “About the same. You?”

Older than most of the residents, Bingo Lady still runs, practices yoga and volunteers here every day. A poster for the perfect retirement and a favourite with the families. “If you’re here for Grace,” she says to me, “don’t worry. I’m taking her to bingo.”

“What time is it?” Grace asks.

“Time to go,” Joyce says, and turns to Anna. “I’m picking up Bernice along the way, just so you know.”

It’s no secret that Anna and Bernice’s husband, Jeff, have been seeing each other. And I wonder now if Bingo Lady played Cupid.

“See you later,” Joyce says and takes Grace’s arm, motions me to follow her out the door. Once in the hall, she lowers her voice. “I know you mean well,” she says. “But getting her to talk about Rick won’t help her. Anna’s finally moving on, coming back to the land of the living again.”

“But he’s still her husband.”

Joyce leans closer, whispers in my ear. “He’s a potted plant Dear, just like the rest of them. If you want to help, be happy that he’ll be dead soon, before she starts to hate him.” She straightens and draws Grace closer. Gives her a bright smile. “Bingo awaits.”

“What time is it?” Grace asks then turns suddenly. Grabs my arm and looks straight into my eyes. “It’s time to go,” she says and every hair on my body stands straight up.

12_8 love BookCover_LoveAlbertSometimes all love needs is a road trip, a rubber chicken and a touch of magic

Vicky 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.

Enjoy an 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 fl y-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.”

12_8 love AuthorPhoto_LyndaSimmonsAbout the Author: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!

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Lynda-Simmons/e/B001KI3Z4O

http://www.lyndasimmons.com/
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/958842.Lynda_Simmons
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynda-Simmons-Author/149740745067442
https://twitter.com/LyndaMSimmons

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Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Flash Fiction from Lynda Simmons, author of LOVE, ALBERT

Enjoy this third segment of the flash fiction story written by Lynda Simmons. You can follow the story on the stops here: Love, Albert Book Tour Posts.

THREE
Ain’t Love Grand
(With Jeff Sanderson)


“What time is it?” my wife asks.

“Breakfast time,” I tell her and take her arm. “Shall we go into the dining room?”

But still Bernice resists and I look over at Edna’s side of the room. The curtain around the bed is drawn. The doctor is in there along with a nurse, Edna’s daughter, Janice and her ex, Marty. Their two kids are slouched in the chairs in the corner, staring at the floor, saying nothing while a man I don’t recognize paces in the hall. Janice’s boyfriend perhaps, and good for her. People aren’t meant to be alone.

“If you have any more questions,” the doctor is saying. “Come to my office. And again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Edna passed away last night. I don’t know the cause. She always looked healthy enough to me, sitting by the front door, shouting every time the doctor went by. It’s odd to think of that spot being empty now.

“I’m so sorry about your mom,” the nurse is saying. “Please let me know if you need assistance in gathering up her things.”

The doctor steps out from behind the curtain and I look away, acutely aware that I shouldn’t be witness to any of this.

“Morning, Jeff,” he says as he walks to the door.

“Isn’t it a lovely day,” Bernice sings, her smile bright and vacant. “Your room is all ready.”

Edna’s grandchildren look over. “I’m sorry,” I say and try to coax my wife to follow the doctor. But the Bingo Lady, Joyce, has arrived, distracting Bernice once again.

“Come in, come in,” she says. “Do you have a reservation, dear?”

“I do,” the Bingo Lady says. “And don’t you look lovely this morning. “ She smiles at me. “Bingo at ten in the common room.”

“She’ll be there,” I say, watching her step aside so the doctor can pass.

“Who died and made you king,” someone hollers.

The doctor jerks around, then heads off in the opposite direction, moving quickly but followed by that voice all the same. “I know who you are.”

The words might have belonged to Edna but that voice is strictly Grace, the woman in the next room. A friend of Edna’s from way back, as I understand it.

She walks briskly past the door, chasing the doctor. “I know what you’re doing,” she yells.

Does Grace understand that Edna is gone? Is this some sort of tribute?

I know only too well that lucid moments can be magical, giving those of us on the outside a glimpse of the person we knew, the one we loved. I hope that’s what this is for Grace, a moment of clarity for a dear friend. But even if it’s simple mimicry it makes me smile. And wonder if the good doctor really is up to something.

“Such terrible news,” the bingo lady is saying. She’s behind the curtain now too. “Your mother was a joy to know. A real gem at the bingo table.”

“I didn’t realize she played,” Janice says, her voice cracking.

“You mustn’t be hard on yourself,” Bingo Lady says, her tone soothing, just this side of patronizing. I’ve never cared for her myself, but I respect the work she does, coming in five days a week to hold bingo games that no one here can really play. She’s a retired therapist of some sort and brings along her own specially designed bingo cards and enough dabbers for all. The program has grown so popular she doesn’t finish until nearly noon now.

Bernice seems to enjoy the games, so I try that to get her going. “You need to have breakfast so that you can play bingo later,” I say, and she starts walking.

Who knows if the promise of bingo did the trick, or if she simply lost interest in whatever is going on behind the curtain. Either way, I don’t care. I just need to get to the dining room before 8:00.

I take my wife’s arm and we stroll along the hall. “Morning Jeff, morning Bernice,” a passing nurse says.

Bernice calls out, “your room is ready,” and I smile and we keep going.

After two years, I’m a familiar figure here at Willow Tree. Arriving every morning at 7:30, making sure Bernice eats breakfast, goes to the activities and doesn’t give the nurse a hard time on bath day. I stay until after lunch when she takes a nap and then head off to take care of my own health. After all this time, I know how important that is for both of us.

I hear the clink of silver, smell the aromas of bacon, toast and eggs before we reach the dining room. Some residents arrive in wheelchairs, others on walkers, but the majority, like Bernice get there under their own steam. Willow Tree encourages exercise and the staff does their best to keep everyone physically strong as long as possible, which I appreciate. The mental deterioration is hard enough to accept.

Turning into the dining room, I see our usual table for six in the corner. Greta is already there, getting help from a nurse, as well as Robert who still copes fairly well on his own and Anna who is feeding her husband Rick. Anna and the nurse wish us a good morning as Bernice and I approach. My wife’s apple juice is waiting and a plate of eggs and toast arrives before we’re settled.

Anna passes me a napkin. “I think you’ll need this,” she says.

I nod and unwrap it slowly. A silver door key winks at me.

“For later,” she says, and I can’t help but smile.

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Monday, December 8, 2014

Scavenger Hunt pieces for MISTLETOE WEDDING by Melissa McClone


Click the banner above for a listing of all stops on this tour.

Stop #19:


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