The Art of My Life

Tracy Krauss' 2013 Top 5 Reads

Book Review Sisters 2012 Top 5 Reads

When I read one of Ann's
books, I can't put it down. The multi-layered relationships that
develop between the characters, the painful honesty of complex
human emotion and depravity, and the vivid descriptions engage me
in a way not many people can.

Sandi Greene, English
professor, Author with Desert Breeze Publishing

and Written Word
Communications

I can't tell you how many
times I wanted to grab Cal by the ear, drag him over to a chair and
give him what-for about his bad choices and stupid decisions.
That's how real these people will become to you.

Traci Bonney, Author and
blogger at Tracings, Where Words Collide

Ann is an amazingly talented
writer. If you have read Kicking Eternity, you know what I'm
talking about. She grips you on the first and won't let you go EVEN
AT THE END.

Anne Baxter Campbell,
Blogger at A Pew Perspective

The story and conflicts were
written and spun in such a way that it kept me not only engrossed,
but intrigued and interested. I felt the characters' desire, their
passion, their pain and frustration. I couldn't help but fall in
love with all of them and wish them the best, learning from their
pain and seeing how similar it rang with challenges from my own
past.

Nona King, Author and
Reviewer at WordObsession.net

By

Ann Lee Miller

This is a work of fiction. The events
and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended
to refer to specific places or living persons. The author has
represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to
publish all the materials in this book.

The Art of My Life, All Rights
Reserved, 2012

Copyright © 2012 Ann Lee
Miller

Published by Flawed People
Press

Gilbert, Arizona

Produced in the United States of
America

Cover Art by Robin Roberts at Red Red
Design

RedRedDesign.com

Ashland, Ohio

Edited by Susan Meissner

SusanMeissner.com

Thank you for downloading this ebook.
It remains the copyrighted property of the owner and may not be
reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any
means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical, without the
express written consent of the publisher except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you
enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their
own copy at Smashwords.com. Thank you for your support.

To learn more about Ann’s books and
what is coming next from this talented author visit
www.AnnLeeMiller.com
. You can follow Ann on Twitter
(@AnnLeeMiller) or Like her Facebook Author Page: Ann Lee
Miller

My Son and My Friend

Aft
—a part of the boat at or
near the rear

Ballast
—weight stowed in the
keel (bottom of the boat) to stabilize the boat upright

Barnacles
—small, hard-shelled
marine animals that cling to any surface submerged in
saltwater

Binnacle
—compass
housing

Bulkhead
—an upright partition
separating rooms of a ship

Boom
—horizontal beam attached
to the mast and bottom edge of the mainsail

Bow
—the front of the
boat

Chart
—nautical map

Chock
—a guide for an anchor,
mooring or docking line, attached to the deck

Cleat
—a fitting used to secure
ropes

Cockpit
—area from which the
boat is sailed containing the wheel and engine controls.

Companionway
—a stair or ladder
leading from inside a boat to the deck

Dinghy
—ship's small
rowboat

Dock box
—all-weather storage
box anchored to the dock, roughly the size of cedar
chest

Drink
—a slang reference to a
body of water

Dry Dock
—location where boats
are removed from water for repairs

Fore
—a part of a boat at or
near the front

Gangplank
—a ramp leading from
dock to boat to facilitate boarding

Head
—ship's bathroom

Hatch
—entryway into the cabin
of a boat, usually a slab of wood or fiberglass that slides open
and shut

Helm
—the wheel by which a ship
is steered

Hull
—the body of the
boat

Jib
—the foremost sail of a
ship

Jib telltale
—a scrap of
sailcloth sewn to the jib that reveals wind direction

Keel
—a fin down the centerline of the bottom of the
hull

Knot
—a nautical unit of speed
equaling l.l5 MPH

Lifeline
—a wire guardrail
surrounding the deck to prevent people from falling
overboard

Luff
—the flapping of untrimmed
sails

Mainsail
—the largest sail
attached to the main mast (The foremost and tallest mast on a
Yawl)

Mainstay
—wire support for the
mast that extends from the top of the main to the foot of the
mast

Mast
—the tall pole holding up
the sails

Mooring lines
—the ropes that
tie a boat to a dock

Painter
—rope used to moor a
dinghy

Piling
—a long heavy beam driven
into the ground underwater to support a dock

Port
—left, as a sailor faces
forward; the opposite of starboard/right

Porthole
—window on a ship,
usually round in shape

Seawall
—cement wall erected
along the shore to prevent erosion

Sheet
—the rope used to control
the sail

Slip
—parking slot for a boat
tied to a dock in a marina

Sole
—the floor of a
cabin

Stern
—the rear of the
boat

Transom
—the back of the
boat

Wake
—disturbed water left
behind a moving boat

Yawl
—a two-masted sailboat with
the fore mast taller than the aft mast

July 15

Ever have a painting you’ve
stared at for years—and loved? Then, one day, you see something
which alters the way you view the piece forever. And you have to
decide whether the art has been irreparably marred or merely
deepened.

Aly at
www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

Cal walked through the tinted glass
jail doors into the loamy scent of Bermuda grass, pine bark, and
freedom. The surf shorts and T-shirt he’d worn three months ago
when the cop clamped metal on his wrists hung loosely, misshapen,
like a life that no longer fit.

He scanned the weather-bleached
asphalt, the smattering of cars roasting in the Daytona Beach
summer. Sun glinted off the windshield of a silver
Honda—Aly’s?—blinding his eyes, yanking her last words to him into
the whiteness.
I love you, John Calvin Koomer.
Usually he
blocked out Aly’s admission, but in jail the video had played over
and over—the certainty in her eyes, the tremor in her
voice.

He squinted at the Honda. Sweat
slicked his armpits and tickled the side of his face.

Maybe he should have slept with Aly
when she offered. He shook his head, dissolving the idea. No. It
didn’t matter that protecting her from another guy taking what he
wanted had earned him two and a half years of looking at the back
of her head. It had been the right thing to do.

He’d smoked weed to forget her,
crammed Evie into Aly’s place inside him, but going to jail had
ripped away everything but the truth.

He loved Aly. Always had. Always
would.

And it was time to do something about
it.

The rumble of an engine pulling into
the lot jerked his head around. His mother’s minivan puttered
toward him, mowing down the stubble of his hope.

He glanced back at the Honda. No
college graduation tassel dangled from the mirror. No silhouette of
the Virgin Mary was rusted into the right front bumper.

The car was empty. Like he felt
inside.

Mom angled into a parking space, her
maneuvering as precise as everything she did.

His flip flops scraped the blacktop as
he shuffled toward her. As his hand closed around the chrome door
handle, heat branded his palm. He climbed into the stream of the
air conditioning blowing from the dash, and the door clunked shut
behind him.

Mom reached for him, and his breath
stuttered.

When was the last time they’d
touched?

She wrapped awkward arms around him.
“I—I’ve wanted to hug you ever since the first day I visited you at
jail.”

His hand lit on the fabric stretched
across her dancer’s back. He sucked in gulps of human affection and
the talcum scent of childhood while his mind tried to solve the
puzzle of his mother. He coughed, searched for words to fill the
silence, and found none. For a heartbeat he was ten with tears
pricking the backs of his eyes.

She released him.

Relief, then the desire to cling to
her, flushed through him making him feel lightheaded.

His mother’s slim fingers shifted the
car into reverse. Her dark hair, slicked back from her face in her
customary ballerina bun, exposed the scar running from her temple
into her hairline. It whitened now, the only hint of emotion on her
face.

According to Grandpa Leaf, Mom had
been dropped on her head as a child—causing her to rebel into
conservatism from her hippie upbringing. Leaf always cackled after
he told the story.

Why couldn’t Henna—his lumpy
grandma—have picked him up? He pictured her, in one of her bird of
paradise muumuus, beaming at him—someone he didn’t have to measure
up for.

“Your grandmother is giving you her
boat.”

His jaw swerved toward Mom. She might
as well have said Cape Canaveral would launch another
Discovery
with Henna as pilot. The forty-one foot Catalina
he’d sailed a thousand times materialized in his mind.

“Your father and I thought it might
give you a fresh start. You could run charters like you and Fish
used to talk about when you were kids.”

That was before Fish fell in love with
politics in tenth grade. He could almost see Fish’s perennially
sunburned face. God, it had been a long three months without
Fish.

His mind swerved back to Henna, the
dots connecting. Henna held herself responsible for his going to
jail. He’d tell her she didn’t owe him anything. But he knew she’d
make him keep the
Escape
.

So what if he’d been caught with Henna
and Leaf’s weed? He’d rather do the time in the Volusia County
Correctional Facility than watch his grandparents go to jail. They
were more like leftover flower children than drug dealers. And he
loved them. His favorite childhood daydream had been imagining Mom
sitting him down and saying, all serious, that she was sorry, but
Henna and Leaf were his true parents. He’d sniffle, plow a hug into
Henna’s soft middle, then race free and wild into the rest of his
boyhood—the way he was meant to be raised.