Lulu's Loves

Lulu’s Loves

Barbara S. Stewart

Previous Publications

Tate – March 2015

The Face in the Mirror – April 2014

Feel Like Makin’ Love – Oct 2013

(Book 3 of the Rock and Roll Trilogy)

When I Look to the Sky – April 2013

(Book 2 of the Rock and Roll Trilogy)


Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under - December 2012

Rock and Roll Never Forgets - August 2012


(Book 1 of the Rock and Roll Trilogy)


Sweet Surrender – February 2012 (Rereleased September 2015)

My beautiful cover was designed by:

Kellie Dennis

Website:
www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk

Facebook:
www.facebook.com/bookcoverbydesign.co.uk

Twitter: @bookcoversbyme

Editing by: Karen at Barren Acres Editing

Author photograph by Tom Johannes at TRJ Photography

Copyright © 2015

Barbara S. Stewart

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13:
 978-1517155216 
(CreateSpace-Assigned)
 
ISBN-10:
 1517155215

Just So You Know…

Lulu’s Loves
is a work of fiction–my thoughts, my dreams. Any names, characters, places, and occurrences are purely a product of my creativity, or they’re used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, locales, companies, businesses, or events are coincidental.

No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations represented in articles of review.

Dedication

To every girl and woman who kissed one too many frogs

before she found the real prince…

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Pushers and Pimps

I’m not sure where I begin. I know that I wouldn’t be the writer I am now without the many lessons I’ve learned. Each word I type takes me to a new place. Every day I pray that each mistake I make along the way helps each next word I type come out better than the last. I can see it, but the road is long and ever-changing, and I must change with it.

I’ve also seen what I write change–a little “more” with each one. This story of Lulu has taken me far from my comfort zone, but I’ve been encouraged to do it. ‘Kick it up a notch’ was the challenge. I hope I did it well. I hope that my steps into “more” are done in a way that you feel the story. That’s always the biggest thing to me–that you
feel
the story. It isn’t just about sex, it’s about the feelings and emotions. It’s about the people in the story, and what they’re going through and what they’re experiencing at the time when intimacy occurs. I hope you feel
that
.

Readers and friends ask me where the ideas come from. I don’t know, they just come to me and the words flow and become a story. I had a lovely conversation the other evening with a very interesting 93-year-old woman named, Frenchie. We talked about everything! At 93 she had some stories to tell, and I added to the conversation with my own. I told her about my books, Gene, and my mom.

My mom…Alis would read anything, and I miss her. I miss that she didn’t get to experience any of this. She had one story way back in 1988 that I submitted to Redbook Magazine. They returned it with a nice little piece of paper stapled to it (did we not have yellow stickies in 1988
?
) The note wasn’t a rejection letter, it was a note that simply read:
“Thank you for submitting your short story. It has been carefully considered by our judges and was not chosen a winner.”
When they returned it, I gave it to Alis. After she passed away, I found it in her cedar chest-the place where she kept her most prized possessions.

At one point, as Frenchie and I spoke, she told me she saw an aura above me. I smiled, and then she asked where the ideas for my books came from. I told her I really didn’t know, just that an idea would come to me and continue until I had a story–no planning or plotting–just evolution. She said she knew where they came from: “Your mother gives you those stories.”

I love the idea of that.

I hope I do you proud, Alis.

Thank you each of you who have taken a chance on me and followed me along my journey. I’m blessed by all of you. I’m blessed by ‘the one’ who said to ‘another one,’ “You have to read this book.” I love that you reach out to me and tell me you shared my story, and then we become friends, and then the person you shared it with does the same. What I cherish are ‘the ones’ who tell me: “You will never know how this book affected me.”

I have to acknowledge the ladies in my circle of friends who believe in me enough to want me to succeed–they’re my PUSHERS. They continue to shove me along every path before me. They have the balls to tell me, “this isn’t good enough,” or “you need to change this.” They make me stop, mid-sentence at times, and ask my self WWTPTM (what will the Pushers tell me?) Their guidance helps me grow everything about this journey so that when I turn the next corner I’m ready. Tonya, Ashley, Francine, Trish…I love you for believing in me! There are many others, but these ladies are always there, no mater what is going on in their lives. I appreciate you more than words.

Thanks to my beta readers for reading Lulu’s first words and helping me get to the last. Francine, Tonya, Diane, and Jen W., you helped me make Lulu better, and I hope that you’ll be proud when you tell people you were part of it. I know that I went back and forth on the “more” part, but I feel good about the end result.

Thank you to Karen for jumping in and helping me clean it up while my editor is going through some personal things in her life. I appreciate you for helping me get Lulu out of the nest.

Thanks to all of you who PIMP me by sharing my works on your websites and Facebook pages, sharing me in the blogs you write and the ones you follow – I can’t get there from here without you.

Thank you–ALWAYS, ALL ways–to my Gene for believing in me and reading through every word with love in your heart (and the red pen in your hand!) But mostly this time, thank you for trusting this leap of faith. Thank you for being open-minded and telling me, “It’s time to grow.”

I hope Lulu’s experiences find a place in your heart as they did in mine.

Love,

Barbara

Prologue

September 2016

As the day breaks, the sun peeks over the trees outside my window, as life around me becomes clear, I find myself thinking of the past, all those steps that led me to this moment.

I turn the desk lamp on and see the screen in front of me come alive; and I think about LIFE, LIVING and what that means. I think about how each moment before, that led me to now, was part of me becoming who I am.

Suddenly words pour from my fingertips. The light click of the keys is music to my ears…

Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. It just comes. I believe that there is a greater plan, and that we will be led to the path that is our destiny. Sometimes the path has twists and turns; sometimes it’s riddled with potholes and bumps, all causing you to slow down and make detours to avoid the hazards of the road ahead. There are places on the path that are smooth, and although you can speed through, you need to do so cautiously, so you don’t miss anything. At times, it seems that the path is steep, leading you to soaring places, and there are those times that are so low that you think you can never rise above.

But it all has a way of working out.

You end up where you are because every experience in your life brings you to that place.

Jason

1988

Seventh grade was the worst thing I’ve ever lived through. I. HATE. BOYS.

There, I said it. I meant it. Boys sucked. Jason Dean told me that I had the biggest, best boobs he’s ever seen in front of the whole gym class! The girls all laughed. The other boys just stopped and gawked at my chest. It. Was. Awful.

“Just ignore him, he’s an idiot,” my best friend, Rachael, told me as we walked away.

“He is an idiot, but the sad thing is he’s right. They are huge!”

“They are, but he didn’t need to announce it to the whole class,” she said. She sneered, and rolled her eyes at him in disgust. “He’s a cocky jock that loves attention. I don’t like him.”

“What did the teacher say?” my dad asked, when I retold the story to him.

“That it was inappropriate. What does that mean anyway?” I barked.

“That it was rude,” he replied.

I saw him smirk. “Why are you smiling?” I asked, standing with my hands on my hips. My face was red. I could feel it. I was mad!

“I’m smiling because you’re growing up. The boys are starting to notice you,” he responded.

“I don’t want them to notice me!” I snapped at him.

“You will. Some day soon you will. I promise, Lulu.”

I went to my room after the conversation with my dad. I didn’t want to talk to him about my boobs or boys. He’s old.

I sat on the edge of my bed thinking; there was a lot to think about. My dad was the most important person in my life. All of a sudden, I started crying. I couldn’t stop. I cried big monster tears. I was crying so hard I was shaking. Finally, there was a knock at the door.

“Louisa?” He turned the knob, pushed, and peeked his head through the opening.

“Don’t call me that! That’s what she called me! You call me Lulu!” I sobbed. He sat down beside me and cradled me in his arms, stroking my hair.

“I’m sorry. Are you crying because you miss her?” he asked in a soothing voice.

“I’m crying because I’m mad!” I bellowed. “I’m mad!”

“At her?”

“Yes! I shouldn’t have to talk to my dad about boobs and boys!” I ranted.

He held me closer, petting me, whispering. “It’ll be all right, Lulu.”

“How do you know?” I sobbed, my body still shaking.

“Well, if it helps, I was a teenage boy once, and I know a little bit about boobs,” he said trying hard to make light of the seriousness of our situation.

“She should tell me! She should be here to tell me about all of that. I shouldn’t have to have my dad tell me about my period and all the joys that come with that! She should be here!”

“But she’s not,” he said in a calm voice. “She’s not here, Lulu.”

“Why?” I wailed.

He thought for a long time before he answered. “God needed her more than he thought we did. So now, you and me, Lulu, we have to figure all this out on our own.” I saw the tears trickle down his cheeks. He was mad too.

Marsha Nicole Pritford Welk was the best mom ever. She had the most beautiful dark hair brown eyes, and the best, biggest smile I ever saw. But she’s not here anymore. When I was five she got sick. I don’t remember much except that she was really sick. My dad says she had breast cancer, so it seems weird that he’s okay talking to me about my boobs.

She had to go to the hospital. She had an operation, and she was there a long time. After that, she had to go to appointments just about every day. She got sicker and skinnier. Her hair started falling out. After a while, she ended up having to stay in her bed all the time. She was just too weak to get up.

On school days, I couldn’t wait to get home to sit with her and tell her about my day. She was a teacher before she got sick, so she was good help with my homework. She tried to put on a happy face, but I always knew it was a show; she just wanted me with her.

On weekends, Dad and I both hung out in her bed because we wanted to be close to her as much as we could. I always tried to sit as close to her as I could get. She smelled so good. She smelled like love. She taped our conversations with a tape recorder she kept beside her bed. She’d tell me funny stories about when she was young. She’d tell me stories about her and my dad, and how they met. I wonder what happened to those tapes…

One night in the middle of the night, my dad came and sat on my bed to wake me.

“Lulu, wake up. Grandma Pritford is going to take you to her house,” he said.

I looked around; it was still dark. “Why?”

“God took Mommy home,” he said and started crying.

My dad was a big man, I mean he played in the city basketball league, and he was old, and there he was crying.
This can’t be good
, I remember thinking.

“
This
is her home,” I told him. He hugged me close, but I think he needed the hug more than I did.

“God needed her more than he thought we did.” I was only eight.

That was the first time he said it. Now here he was saying it again.

“Do you miss her?” I asked him, wiping my eyes, finally calming down.

“Everyday, Lulu.”

“Is that why you don’t date other ladies, ‘cause I know Rachael’s mom likes you,” I told him. “She said her mom wishes you’d ask her out to dinner or something.”

Rachael Murray and I have been friends since my mom first got sick. Her grandmother, Jeannie Evans, works with my dad. I spent a lot of time with her family when Mom was in the hospital. Everyone wanted to be there with her. Dad didn’t think it was a good idea for me to go all the time, so Mrs. Evans took me home with her. Rachael was a bonus. Rachael’s mom was divorced. Her dad left when Rachael was seven.

“I’d rather eat dinner with you.” He smiled. It was like he wanted me to think he was happy or something. I knew he wasn’t. “I don’t want to go out. I want to stay here with you.”

“I’m sorry I had a fit about the boob thing,” I told him, and this time, it was a real smile that he shared with me. “It’s just weird talking to your dad about stuff like that.”

“You know, you could talk to Grandma Pritford or Welkie,” he said.

Welkie was his mother and she didn’t want any form of ‘grandmother’ attached to her in any way. She was kind of sassy and wanted to stay young. Grandmother terms “tell all,” she said. She’d been single for a long time, divorced from Pop because he made her feel old.

“I’m good,” I said. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We always do, Lulu,” he said, and pulled me closer for a big bear hug. “I love you so much. I guess we need to go shopping and have someone tell us what you need to do to contain those things so they aren’t so noticeable.”

“Dad!” I screeched.

I’ve had big boobs; that was just a fact. I was almost thirteen and the lady at the store said she was pretty sure they weren’t done growing. Great. Just great. She fitted me for a ‘proper’ bra; we got a few and headed home.

On Monday when I went back to school, Jason Dean walked over to my locker.

“Sorry about Friday,” he said. I actually think he meant it, but I was still mad. My dad would say I was ‘pissed.’

“Go away.”

“Miss Marks called my mom…”

“So you’re saying you’re sorry because your mom said you had to? Go a-way,” I hissed, giving emphasis to the syllables.

“No, Lulu. She didn’t tell me to apologize. She told me about your mom. I’m really sorry. I mean it. I’m sorry I was making fun of your boobs. But they really are the nicest, biggest ones I’ve ever seen.”

“Go away,” I said again.

“Want to go to the basketball game with me Thursday night?”

“Why would I even think about that?” I asked sarcastically.

“Because it’d be fun?” he said, but it sounded more like a question.

He looked at me as he leaned against the locker. He was a cute boy. All the girls thought so. He was taller than most of the boys and had some muscles. His brownish-blond hair was cut so that it was wavy and he had eyes that were sometimes green but mostly brown. I believed he was sorry for embarrassing me, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hang out with him.

“I need to think about it.”

“Can I call you?” he asked as I walked away. I didn’t answer him, and I didn’t look back.

He called, but I didn’t talk to him, and I didn’t go. I wasn’t sure I liked him. He called a couple of times, leaving messages asking me to call him. I’d find notes in my locker and saw him around school, but I ignored him. I think I wasn’t interested after the whole boob ordeal.

I was able to avoid him for a while, but at the beginning of eighth grade, Jason Dean asked me out again. He never stopped asking to do something, I just kept saying no. As time passed, I found that the harder he tried, the cuter he got. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“Are you ready to forgive me? I’d like to ask you to a movie or something? Come on, Lulu, you can’t hold a grudge forever. I told you a bunch of times I was sorry,” he said with a wink. His eyes seemed to shine.

“Maybe on Saturday. Call me,” I said, and started to turn away. He grabbed my hand and pulled me back to face him.