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Newest Publication by Arlene Krieger, renown Las Vegas Author

Arlene Krieger has published the following books about Las Vegas: Freedom Twice Lost, a biography of a wrongly accused man who sat on Death Row for 14 years, Tony Sacca Las Vegas Ambassador of Entertainment, a biography of a legendary performer, Little Anthony, My Journey, My Destiny, a biography of the iconic Little Anthony of the Imperials, The Nite Kings, a biography of Rich Perez’s struggle to be inducted into the Entertainer’s Hall of Fame in Las Vegas.

The author has lived in Las Vegas for many years and began writing stories about major personalities living in the city. She has been privy to meet influential people in Las Vegas who have hired her to write their stories.

Her newest release is a novel based upon observations and insights into the world of Las Vegas attorneys.  It is a rare comedic view of their lives and how they conduct the business of law. A must summer read that will make both men and women, attorneys and their clients roar with laughter. Her writing has been touted by major critics as excellent, interesting, and page turning. Bill O’Reilly commented that Little Anthony, My Journey, My Destiny, is a “must read.”

Privileged Attorneys Las Vegas Style

Privileged Attorneys is a romantic comedy wrapped around a Las Vegas law office. Ted, the stalwart father and head of the firm, after making millions of dollars, decides to retire. His dilemma is that he has three sons, who are also attorneys in the firm, and he can’t decide which son should become head of the firm and with it, a substantial trust fund. Unbeknownst to his wife, he creates a contest: the three sons will have six months to put money in the firm’s coffers. Whoever deposits the most money is the winner. In Ted’s eyes, this becomes the easiest solution to the problem.

We see three happy sons who end up fighting and enacting ridiculous antics to deposit the most money. At one point, the firm receives a letter from the state bar to cease and desist many of their outrageous ploys.

When Susan, the wife and matriarch of the household, discovers Ted’s plan, her anger bars him from their master suite. Ted’s life turns into shambles as he sees his sons fighting and his wife reject his love.

Richard, the eldest, single, working in personal injury, finally finds love that turns array. John, the middle son, has four children, a houseful of pets and confusion and practices bankruptcy. Paul, the youngest, who looks exactly like Richard, practices family law and has had four divorces under his belt but finally discovers the “one”.

There is love, anger, despair, and absurd humor as the story takes place from the beginning to the end of the contest. The theme, “There are some things they never taught you in law school,” clings through every thread of the story. Humor is visited from the simplest slapstick scenes to the top of the cynic chart

                                                      Forward by Airrion Love

                I think we are more popular today than when we first hit the top of the charts in the 1970’s. Back then, we were part of a movement, a new genre in music. Our fans cheered us on at the shows, tuned into the radio and bought our records. All the while, they were creating memories. Now, when we perform, our music brings back those memories. When I look at the audience and I see some people crying, others laughing, or holding hands, I know they are remembering those feelings when they first heard our music. Our songs are woven into their earlier experiences. The fans come to hear our music, and they come to remember; their first loves, the day they left for View Nam, for college, the family reunion, their wedding day, the birth of their children. Our songs become reminders of their lives. For over fifty years the tunes have been played on the radio, the internet, in movies, on television and live. We are more than a part of musical history; our sounds are part of the American culture. As we travel around the world, our music is recognized in every major country. I thought it was time to thank our fans, to tell the story of The Stylistics and to honor the music we made.

Chapter 3

                “It’s snowing,” said Tillie as she threw her arms in the air with an angry gesture. My first day of spring break and I have to shovel the driveway! Hay Mr. Jones, Sam, are you just going to sit there like a couch potato while I shovel the snow?”                                              “If you wait until the morning it will be all melted, just have a little patience, dear,” he answered. “You’ll see, when we pull the car out for church on Sunday morning, it will have all disappeared. Now why bother to go through all that work when you don’t have to?”                                                                                                                             Tillie did have to agree, what was the hurry? The mail carrier was the only reason to clear the entrance to their front porch and she sure wasn’t arriving on Sunday morning. Tillie knew Sam was right, but she didn’t have to admit it, so she closed the garage door, and began to rethink how to spend the rest of the week. She hadn’t taken a real vacation like her friend Mollie because Sam, a construction worker, was in the midst of a project and the deadline was the first week in December. Approaching retirement, he grabbed every job opportunity adding money to his swelling pension fund. Forty years in the making, using the sweat off his back, he and Tillie would have a nice income each month from the union. So here he sat, sprawled across the sofa just like an over-stuffed couch potato. Turning on CNN his day was filled watching an endless stream of college and professional sports. The past few months had been grueling building a mid-size high rise apartment in the center of downtown South Orange. Between the traffic, the pedestrians, the endless trips to the county clerk’s office to obtain a multitude of building code approvals, he was physically and mentally exhausted. All he wanted to do was kick back, down a few beers and watch sports.                                                                                                       Tillie, too, could begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. She was the first computer teacher the middle school had hired and over thirty years later she was still seated at the keyboard, now wireless, teaching young students. The difference between her current students versus thirty years prior was a reversal of roles; oftentimes the students taught her more than she taught them. All of her young charges had access to the latest in technology and were unafraid to tinker around with the newest applications. The basic programs like word and excel were so widely used that the curriculum had drastically changed. She felt it was senseless to teach programs the students had already mastered, so she centered the classes on research, complimenting the material they were learning in science and math. This killed two birds with one stone; it made for better national test scores and taught the children a love for learning.                                                                                                                                 “Dear, we seem to be out of potato chips, and that special dip you make me, and oh, there is only four bottles of beer left in the refrigerator,” Sam pined. Tillie stormed into the living room, starred into his chocolate brown face wearing a hopeful grim and suggested he remove his ass from the sofa and go to the store himself. He knew she would be grocery shopping, as she did every Saturday morning for the past five years, but it wasn’t for their household, it was for her dad. Crawling to the incredible age of ninety-one, he had lost most of his hearing and was extremely unstable when he stood, he was incapable of shopping at the crowded supermarkets. Like clockwork, every Saturday, Tillie took the Dodge truck and filled it up with food and essentials for both homes. She knew she couldn’t use the excuse that a couple of inches of snow on the ground would abate the habit, their truck could travel through fire and brimstone without a scratch. Zipping up her waterproof leather boots, she threw on her favorite parka, plucked the grocery list from the basket near the computer and gallantly voyaged forth into the wintery like weather. Adjusting the rear view mirror to suit her five-foot-six frame, she carefully pulled out of the slippery drive way. This early spring snow was heavy with water, making the roads  slick and dangerous. Luckily she was in no hurry, she was on spring break, it’s just that she wasn’t getting a break with spring weather. No doubt she had grown sick of the ever-inclement weather and hungered for sunny more inviting skies. She envied Molly, who at that moment was basking in Florida, ah the great feeling of the bright sun warming up the body, heavenly, just heavenly.                                  Tillie unwrapped the paisley head scarf revealing a pristine light cocoa colored complexion. When she smiled her thick bow-shaped lips, which were religiously painted a deep copper color, contrasted with a set of spotless white teeth. Her wide forehead was splashed with softly curled dark brown bangs and her high cheeks, highlighted in a bronze peach rouge. An ageless face, it was a sore spot among her colleagues who spent hours scrutinizing her face for one wrinkle and damn if they could find one.  Unlike her spouse, she refused to allow her body to morph into middle age; she exercised as if it were a religious experience. Not a day went by when her feet tracked less than three miles. What she feared more than death was becoming fat.                                                                                                                                              Knocking loudly on the oak door and she heard the familiar shuffling of her father’s feet padding against the wooden floor. Placing the groceries on the kitchen counter, she looked into his eyes and sensed a sorrow that she hadn’t seen in the past. His once dark skin had turned an ashen color, even the darker freckles that surrounded his eyes had faded. He barely spoke as his daughter dutifully put away the groceries and then began to prepare his lunch. “I’m not hungry today. Don’t even bother with making anything,” he said.                                                                                                                                                                                 “You have to eat,” she protested.” Look at you, you are withering away to nothing.” Banging away at the pots and pans, she prepared several dishes that would last him a few days. She always made hard boiled eggs, cut up fruits and vegetables, and today, she would cook a pot of sausages and meatballs. The problem was she could never trust him to turn off the oven and put the food in the refrigerator, so she stayed longer than usual. She loved her dad, and whatever she did for him was out of love. Almost a decade ago her mother had died leaving her father lonely, and inept when it came to anything having to do with the housekeeping. During their forty years of marriage, her mom had been the perfect housewife, catering to his whims and running the household. He never cooked a meal, cleaned a room, or changed a sheet, now, ten years later, the housework still proved daunting, especially since he was heading toward his late eighties. But he had refused to leave the home. It was all he knew, all his memories were locked up in this two story brick townhouse. He had lived here for the past forty years and it was his full intention to die here. It broke Tillie’s heart to see him so morose, to never wear a smile, to never see his eyes light up. Yet in some ways he was one of the lucky ones, he was in perfect health, he was just growing old. His basic financial needs were covered by the monthly social security deposit and he received a pension, which allotted a few luxuries, but for now, that money just sat in his bank account. He was well enough to take a trip, maybe do a senior cruise, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He sat home alone, now, for almost ten years and vegetated, waiting for death to arrive. When his wife died, she literally took his heart and he has been able to love again.                                              Tillie had suggested an endless list of activities prodding him out of the house, but he was stubborn and refused to acquiesce to any of her ideas. She even went so far as to interview a potential renter just so there would be another human in the desolate home but he forbade the intrusion.  After a while, she too gave up the fight and caved into the Spartan way of life he had chosen to live.                                    Lowering the flame on the pot of simmering spaghetti sauce, she began cleaning the two- story home. Her routine never altered, she changed and washed the bed sheets, threw in a load of clothing and towels, washed down the bathroom, and swept the hallways. In less than an hour, the place was spic and span, smelling of bleach and window cleaner. Brewing a pot of coffee, she extracted a set of cards from the kitchen drawer, a pad and pencil, pointed to the kitchen chair and they began their weekly game of Blackjack. She always let her dad win; it was never in her best interest to beat him at his own game.                                                                                                                                                              When the sauce had finally finished cooking, Tillie ladled out a bowl for her dad’s afternoon meal, set it on the table, and encouraged him to eat. Grabbing a broom from the pantry, she excused herself and shoveled off the snow-covered steps leading to the front door. For now, this was a band aid, but at least it appeared clean, just in case a visitor from a foreign planet should arrive. Washing the dishes, and placing the cooked food in the refrigerator, Tillie kissed her father goodbye, climbed into the SUV and drove home. Tears flooded her eyes; the heartbreak of losing her mom, and emotionally losing her father was overwhelming. Her stomach tightened until she felt as though she would vomit. What was the point? Why go on when in your heart you had no reason to live? She needed to grasp these feelings that were paramount in her dad’s mind. Was it guilt or selfishness that caused her to beg God to give her dad endless days on this earth? He had come to terms with his life; for him it simply meant nothing. Death was welcome because he could join the love of his life in heaven.

                Sam had been loafing on the sofa all afternoon and took a cursory look at his watch; Tillie had been gone almost the entire day. He jumped up when he heard the truck tires crunch against the snow, slipped into his loafers, opened the side door and helped carry in several bags of groceries. For the first time in months, she had tears running down her cheeks and a dour expression coating her entire face. It was her father. She was unable to cope with the way he had chosen to live his life and Sam could tell it was breaking her heart.                                                                                                                                     “In one word,” said Tillie. “Joyless,” and then she continued to cry, releasing an unending flood of tears that wouldn’t stop. Sam busied himself dragging in the heavy grocery bags, brushing the snow off his jeans before he entered the kitchen. He had heard it all before, but today, her tears were relentless. After they had put every box and package away, Sam took her arm and sat her down at the kitchen table.                                                                                                                                                                                           “What is it? You seem so unusually unhappy. What happened to bring on all these tears?”                                                                                                          “You know Sam, I think today I am crying for myself. I look at the way my dad lives, if you call that living, and I don’t want my life to end up like that. I don’t see the point in living if there is no joy, no happiness, no reason to even bother getting up in the morning. That is how he lives his life. I had to practically force him to eat and I believe the only reason he did was because I stayed and told him I wouldn’t leave until he ate something. It scares me to think I could wind up like that. Yes, I think that the tears I shed today were for me. Living alone, never seeing or talking to another human, never feeling the touch of another, never sensing that your life means anything to anybody, well that sucks for me. I need people. I am blessed to have many friends that I love, who love me and we would do anything for each other. My life is bigger than my own, my life ties to you, our kids and to our friends. This network of people makes my life both meaningful and filled with contentment. We celebrate life on a daily basis, whether it is a meal together, or a school function, or church on Sunday, or going to the movies. Every day is a day worth living, or should be a day worth living. You know Sam, we will have plenty of down days after we are dead and buried, but now, in this moment, we are alive and we should embrace it and relish it.” He stood up and took his sweet wife into his arms and held her tightly.                                 “True words from the heart,” he added. “You are right. I know you don’t want to end up like your dad, and quite frankly neither do I. So, let’s make a plan that would ensure our life course takes a different route, and I don’t mean that one of us ends up living with one of our three kids. That would be my definition of hell.”                                                                                                                                     “Mine too.” A slight smile began forming at the corners of Tillie’s mouth as she began to ruminate on their future.                                                                                                                                                The snow had finally stopped as dusk settled in, but the streets were still wet and icy. After the emotional strain from the afternoon, they decided to brave the foul weather, and find a place for dinner, maybe even see a movie, or go the local bar and listen to music. Anything to get out of the house and block the memories of the day.  Seated at their favorite Thai restaurant, Tillie couldn’t help but wonder how her best friends, Erica, Molly and Rachel felt about their futures.  For almost thirty years, they had loved each other. They had been there when times were great, and when times were tough. They had fought, disagreed, laughed, complained, and openly shared their lives. In fact they had become a family of friends. Nobody has the ability to read a crystal ball, or predict how they would end up, but at that moment Tillie and Same were securely in charge of their future. They could alter their lives so they didn’t end up like Tillie’s dad.

                                                       Chapter 4

                Erica arose from bed, shivered, put on her slippers and flannel robe and lumbered down the steps to the first floor landing. “Hmp,” she snorted examining the thermometer, “The damn pilot light must have gone out again for the tenth time that year.” The sunlight peeking through the living room drapes was unusually dark for April, and looking at the wall clock, even darker for eleven o’clock in the morning. Flinging back the drapery ties, she discovered the darkness was due to a snow storm. “In April?” she said out loud.  The echo from her voice bounced off the high ceilings, to the highly polished oak floors deadening at the stucco walls. It was late enough, she knew the renter would be awake unfettered by her outrage. Tapping gently on his door, Erica announced the heat was probably off and wouldn’t he enjoy the task of relighting the pilot light so they could both be warm.                                                                                “I hear you, Mrs. Hernandez,” answered her tenant. “Just give me a few minutes to dress and I’ll have that all taken care of for you mam.”                                                                                             “How many times have I told you not to call me that? It makes me feel like an old lady and I’m not quite an old lady although I am working on it. I’ll make you a deal. You fix the heater, and I’ll fix you a nice breakfast.” She knew the answer to that question as she listened to Jimmy rustling around the first-floor bedroom.  A flush of the toilet and Jimmy made his grand appearance. While he headed down the dank stairwell to the bowels of the home, she headed to the kitchen.  Erica brewed a pot of coffee, cooked a four egg mushroom omelet and toasted two bialys. It never ceased to amaze her how much food this thirty-five year old perpetual college student could consume. Wiping up the last morsels of the egg, he put the plate in the large stainless steel sink, thanked his landlord and took the coffee mug back to his room. “There is more if you want,” she said as the door to his room slam shut.                                            She climbed the steps back to the bedroom, dressed, and returned to the kitchen carefully listening to the weather forecast. Another few degrees colder and she would be able to see her breath in the dampness. The sporadic clicking sound along with a slight hissing of the radiators meant that soon the house would be warm. It was the first day of spring vacation, and unlike her other friends, she had not made any real plans. As an art teacher, her mind was always spinning, she never really had any down time. She loved art, and with the passing of her husband she felt blessed that she had a career that could keep her mind and hands busy all the time. The product of her talent pervaded every room in the house. There were pictures on the walls, sculptures on tables and desks, and pottery dishes and bowls displayed in every room. That was the problem, there were so many rooms, so many very lonely rooms, so many large empty rooms. Since her husband’s death, five years ago, the house felt more like a mausoleum than a home. Lonely never seemed to properly describe how she felt, it was more like a constant lingering ache in the center of her chest. Sometimes the pain was less pronounced, but regardless of what she did, where she went, or how much wine she gulped, it was always there. Alone, rattling around the huge home, she was advised by her children to sell it, move out and move on, but she could never bring herself to sign the papers. She was happy she hadn’t because the value of the property had tripled over the last two years, and would probably fetch even more when the time came to sell. Since there was no husband in sight and she intended it to stay that way, she did the next best thing. One evening she placed an ad in two of the local college papers listing a room for rent. After interviewing a procession of candidates, she settled on Jimmy. Older, he appeared the most stable, and capable of serving as a handyman should the situation occur, and lately the situation had occurred a lot more often.  Glancing at the dusty cluttered walls, she was cognizant of the fact that as she was aging so too, was her home, and it required constant care and maintenance. Hmm, the walls needed a fresh coat of paint as her hair needed a constant retouch. She remembered the shock upon hitting forty, and how gray strands began poking out from her crop of raven black hair. This intrusion, or genetic fault, had to be rectified, and thus the monthly trek to the beauty supply store to purchase a packet of hair color. After living in the home for over thirty years, it was a lot easier to color her hair, than paint the walls. She simply ignored the need for touch-ups. At least Jimmy had enough skills to keep the house comfortable and running properly. Some things she let go, but heat was not one of them. Rubbing her hands together, her fingers were finally nimble enough to hold a paint brush. Thank goodness for Jimmy.                                                                                                                                                                          There had to be some joy, after all she was on vacation and was supposed to be having some fun. Although she loved her best three friends, Tillie, Molly, and Rachel, they too were on vacation, and she wouldn’t impose on their holiday. Besides, she knew that Molly and Rachel were out of town, and Tillie was busy trying to help her ailing father, who was the constant butt of her negative remarks. His behavior constantly exasperated her, and she was completely frustrated by his situation. Before spring break, she swore she was going to rectify the problem, but she had no plan.                                    Pulling back the living room curtain, a sliver of sunlight angled into the room, perhaps the day would not be a total washout. Optimistically, she took a few sips of coffee, retreated to her bedroom, pulled on a pair of waterproof boots, slipped on a pink wool sweater, walked back down the steps, added yet another layer of warmth, a ski parka, and fifteen minutes later, she was sitting in her army green jeep, primed and ready for the day. It was work just getting dressed for the harsh weather, this didn’t feel like a vacation day, it felt just like any other Saturday morning. Her first stop was the local hardware store. Jimmy had made a list of items he needed to repair emergencies in the house. Parking at the last empty spot, she extricated the list from her purse, grabbed a metal shopping cart that was dripping with the remnants of the early morning snow, and meandered through isle after isle. Bending down to pull out a light bulb, her back side was  gently tapped by another shopping cart. Arturo who had not paid attention as he was too busy looking up, had failed to notice what was right in front of his nose. He pulled back the cart and apologized for the bump. Startled, Erica abruptly stood up, rubbed her bottom, which was sufficiently padded with layers of winter clothing and starred into his gray eyes. Again, he apologized, and asked if she was okay. In fact she was but what she really needed was someone to decipher the list of items. “I tell you what,” suggested Arturo, “To make up for running into you, I insist on helping you shop.” His ruddy face and thick wavy gray hair represented a man in his sixties, yet his body was erect and sturdy, and he exuded a confidence that, well, she found surprisingly attractive.                                                                                                                                                                                    “You look familiar,” she said, “But I can’t place where we have met.” He took her arm, and gazed directly into her face, he knew who she was, yes he knew Erica Hernandez, but they had never spoken.   “I used to work with your husband, we were buddies. He spoke about you all of the time, actually, I feel like I have known you for years. After he died, that was the end of that. I stopped hearing about your artwork, and your life as a teacher. I’m still working at the same place, but no one can replace your husband. I thought about contacting you a year or so after he was gone, but then I didn’t know what to say, or if you might rebuff me, or worse yet, just hang up on me.” Stuttering, he realigned the conversation.  “It must be hard living in that big home of yours, and from the looks of your long list, it needs a lot of work.”  He grabbed the paper and she followed him around the store like a young puppy dog until everything was securely placed in the cart.                                                                                                                 “Well, I guess that’s it. I have everything I came into the store to buy. So I guess I will see you again, in say five years? Besides, you have wife to go home to. She must be worried that I have taken so much of your…”                                                                                                                                                                          “No,” Arturo quickly responded, “I don’t have a wife. I’m afraid I lost her the year before you lost your husband. I have been alone for six very long years.” There was a deafening silence as each was ruminating over the prospects of perhaps becoming acquainted, or in Arturo’s case, reacquainted. He then pulled a list from his pocket and explained, like Erica, he too had a home that was much too big for one person, but he hadn’t the heart or the will to sell it. “How about,” they both began simultaneously, and then each laughed out loud at their trepidations.                                                                                                                         “How about,” repeated Arturo, “We meet for a light meal tonight, and I can help you with all of your assorted purchases. I mean, that is, unless you have something else planned.” He was starring at his feet, too embarrassed to look up into her face and read rejection.                                                                                         “Actually, I would love to have dinner with you. It’s my spring vacation, and so far it has been filled with horrible weather, and a house that seems to be slowly falling apart. So yes, I would love to have dinner with you. I guess you have five years worth of catching up to my life, and I have, well I guess around sixty years catching up with your life. I am sure we can find plenty to talk about.” Arturo suggested a Spanish seafood restaurant located at the edge of Newark.  She thought, a date, my first date in five years, and he thought, my first date in over six years. Shaking hands, they parted, each with odd expectations of what that evening would bring.                                                                                                                  Life can be hard, in fact brutal, but without love, there is no hope and no sense of clinging to that all important thing; living. Fate had dealt her hand, perhaps the gods had spoken, or perhaps their astrological signs had lined up perfectly, and maybe it all just boiled down to the laws of statistics.  Now, here were two healthy, intelligent human beings, financially set, with proper cars, homes stock with food and supplies- all the ingredients that they needed to survive, but they lacked the one ingredient to supplant living, the essence of love and friendship. For all intents and purposes, we are social animals who crave the need to interact with other humans and without this we whittle away to nothing. Maybe it’s easy for some of us to crash through the torments of a lost spouse gather enough emotional strength and begin searching anew, but for many, this fortitude is severely lacking. Sometimes it takes another person, a friend, or a relative to address the insurmountable heartbreak, and sometimes it just takes a jolt, or in this case, a bump in the rear, to readdress the fomenting fears.                                                                  What an auspicious way to begin the otherwise dull vacation. Erica still had many other errands to run, the grocery store, the dry cleaners, and the bakery, but rethinking the possibilities of the evening, she added the wine store, and a pit stop at the hair salon. Examining her face in the rearview mirror, she decided it was time for an overhaul. The walls to her home could wait to be painted, but those stubborn gray hairs, and the dry ends needed to be lovingly cared for. Calling the salon, they promised a four o’clock appointment, perfect. Taking another look in the mirror, she slapped her cheeks, too dull, she thought and off she went to the beauty outlet where they did a free makeover with purchase,(in essence, not really free).                                                                                                                                                    Prioritizing the errands, she completed the food and wine shopping, picked up the dry cleaning, skipped the fattening bakery and called it a morning. Pulling into the long driveway the clouds had broken apart, blowing away the clouds and creating a more promising forecast. Jimmy’s car was gone, which meant she would be sloshing through the snow covered driveway, making several trips back and forth from her car to the kitchen landing. Tossing the last bag on the countertop, she diligently put everything it its proper place.                                                                                                                                                          Time for a little fun. Carting the last few toiletries upstairs, she changed her clothes. The worn jeans and raggedy pink sweater were just fine when covered up with a winter parka and all she was doing was grocery shopping, but now she was in the big league of shopping, she would go to the cosmetic store and have her face redone. This outfit would not do, and further it would not due for her hair appointment. Still freezing, she selected a pair of wool gabardine pants in a tattersall pattern of brown and red, a red cashmere sweater, and waterproof brown leather boots with a slight heel. Plucking a thin wool scarf, she wrapped it loosely around her neck and was ready to face the world. Scribbling a note about the supplies purchased from the hardware store, she pasted it to Jimmy’s door, grabbed a bottle of water and planted herself behind the wheel.                                                                                                As expected, even in the most inclement weather, the beauty supply outlet store was teeming with customers. There wasn’t an empty makeover chair available. She walked over to her favorite make-up brand and entered her name on the list. “Ten minutes,” said the artist, “Just hang around while I finish this lovely lady.” The women in the chair was pushing sixty and she looked gorgeous, but not plastic or phony. Killing ten minutes in this vast store dedicated to the preservation and beautification of women, was an easy task. There were rows upon rows of make-up, hair products, skin care products, perfumes, and bathtub and shower soaps. Buried in the middle of an isle were several products for men. Should I or shouldn’t I? She questioned. If he paid for the meal, it would be a nice gesture if she gave him something in return, and since it wasn’t going to be sex, perhaps a nice gel soap for the shower would be perfect. Placing the item in the metal mesh basket, she strolled over to the artist, and plopped into the empty seat. “I want to look special, can you make me look real special?” asked Erica.                     “Don’t be anxious,” responded the artist as she reviewed the customer’s basket. “Hot date tonight? I’m going to make you beautiful.” With a swish of a few cotton balls, her face was wiped clean and became a fresh canvass. First there were several creams and moisturizers, then subtle layers of make-up beginning with her face, to her eyes, and finishing up with a fresh coat of lipstick. “Done.” Looking in the mirror, Erica was thrilled with the makeover, she looked and felt twenty years younger. Selecting a few of the products, she stood in a long line, paid, and then with a lilt in her walk, steadied the car in the direction of the hair salon. It had been eons since she had someone overhaul her locks, but the time, and the occasion had finally arrived.                                                                                                           Seated in the salon chair, Janine, the color expert, propped-up Erica until her head and torso were reflected in the mirror. Squishing up her nose, Janine shook her head in disgust as she reviewed the homemade coloring mess in the customer’s hair. “Been a long time Erica. What kept you away?” Before the humiliated customer could respond, Janine held up a long strand of hair and pointed to the array of colors. “Now, just what color do you really want?” By now, Erica was so remorseful for traitorous actions, that of coloring her own hair, she couldn’t decide. “Just chose the one that will make me look younger,” said Erica.                                                                                                                                                       “I must say you do look beautiful today, much better than the last time I saw you, perhaps over a year ago,” she added in sardonic fashion. An hour and one half later, Erica emerged from the tortures and ridicule of Janine, but she looked great, better than in a very long time. Her hair was black, smooth and thick, softly flowing around her face and cascading down her back. Adding a smile, her confidence was finally at an all time high. There wasn’t time to go home, it was almost six and she wasn’t going to be late for dinner. School teachers, even the art teachers, were attuned to being on time, perhaps even a bit obsessed. She would not allow Arturo to stew by himself at table, if fact, she preferred to be the first to arrive.                                                                                                                                                                             Extracting the bottle of men’s gel from the bag filled with beauty products she tucked it inside her purse. Applying another coat of lipstick and readjusting the neck wool scarf, she handed the keys to the young valet anxiously walked into the restaurant. Arturo was already seated at the bar, next to an empty chair. “I guess old habits never die,” he laughed making fun of the fact they had both arrived early.  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Embarrassed, she pulled out the gift and thrust into his hands.                                                                                                                                                                                        “I don’t know,” they again said in unison, but this time they both howled with laughter.                                  “Hell, isn’t this getting old stuff hard? But you know what’s hard, it’s being with a pretty lady and completely tongue tied. After we parted this afternoon, I knew we could have talked for hours, but my tongue seemed to stop working.” The sat at the bar, nursing their drinks. The place was packed, and noisy, but the smells of the garlic infused seafood, the faint sound of canned music, and the dimly lit interior tempered the cacophony. They were escorted to a small corner table, where Arturo took the lead, and ordered a pitcher of Sangria. “Don’t say it’s the beer goggles talking, but you look ravishing. You hardly look like the woman I bumped into this morning. I mean, not to say you didn’t look good this morning.”                                                                                                                                                                                            “Okay, mister, you just put your foot in your mouth, but thank you, I guess,” as she nervously twisted a long lock of hair. “So this makes eleven years. Six for you and five for mean that neither of us has been on a date. If we can’t laugh, and feel awkward about this dinner, then we are not human. So let’s just get that out of the way, and I think the rest of the evening will go quite well. Now let’s figure out what we have in common besides two deceased spouses.” He was bodacious; he reached across the table took her hand and gave her another kiss on the cheek.                                                                                   “Unlike your husband, I am actually planning on retiring one of these years. Like you, I live in one of those fine old Victorian homes that has become more taxing to maintain as the years roll by. I don’t think I want to spend all my money on  heating bills, when I could be sunning myself on the warm Floridian coast. I sell insurance, and between the internet and email, it truly doesn’t matter where I call home. After the snow storm today, anyplace but here might be warmer then New Jersey.”                                     “Florida?” responded Erica, “That’s not for me. It seems the entire state is filled with a population that is languishing around swimming pools just waiting for fate to take its course. I want more out of life than that, but from the way I have been living the last five years, I know that is hard to believe. Can I be candid? I loathe living by myself. I took in a border, not because I needed the money, but because I needed some companionship. His name is Jimmy, at thirty-five, he is a perpetual student, who pays just enough to cover the utilities and fix things that I could never figure out. It’s the sound, or perhaps the security that I am not always alone at home, that comforts me.”                                                                        Laughing, Arturo admitted the same thing, but resolved his dilemma by purchasing a dog. “You think you are the only one who can’t stand coming home to a silent house, where no one greets you, or cares if you live or die? So I went to the pound and saved the life of a mangy mixed breed and I called him Lucky, it was his lucky day. He is loyal, loving, and he doesn’t care when I curse up a storm, or take all the covers from the bed. Some food, a couple of walks each day, and petting in the evening and he is a happy camper. I sure do love that dog.” He extracted the cell phone from his shirt pocket and displayed several shots of Lucky in the act of being a dog. “So you see, as this conversation continues, we seem to have a lot in common, don’t you agree?” The waiter brought over the first course, chicken soup, it didn’t matter that they didn’t order it, or even if they hated chicken soup, it was part of the traditional meal the establishment had been serving for over fifty years. Considering the temperature outside it was a welcome starter and they promptly delved into the huge steaming bowls. The bus boy deposited a huge basket of freshly baked Portuguese bread with a bowl of sweet butter on the center of the table.                                                                                                                                                                                                               Erica and Arturo looked at each other and again said together, “I’ll be full after this.” But of course they continued eating. Shortly, the soup bowls were whisked away and replaced with individual metal pots filled with seafood steeped in a garlic green sauce, the signature house dish. It was intense with flavor, and filled with large pieces of lobster, crab meat, shrimp, and clams. The only way to properly eat this was with a soup spoon. This time Erica raised her hand, flagging down a passing bus boy and asked for two spoons, and another round of napkins. They devoured this in silence, relishing every single bite. Looking up she noticed a trickle of sauce sliding down his chin, and she grabbed the new napkin and dabbed. Startled, he looked up and they stared into each other’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I guess old habits don’t die,” and she proceeded to weep. “You must think me a bungling fool. I didn’t mean to be so, um so, attentive.”  Arturo put down his spoon, took her hands and stared into her eyes, this was another speechless moment but this time neither of them could break the ice. The waiter, noticing the couple had stopped eating came over to make sure everything was satisfactory, which knocked them out of their silent stupor. Dabbing at her eyes, she apologized, but he refused to accept it, and continued to eat, allowing, if perhaps on purpose, more food to trickle down his chin. When the course had ended, Erica was holding a napkin filled with green sauce, and Arturo was holding her hand.                                                                                                                                                                                        The waiter carted away the empty dishes and silence ensued. This was a poignant signal that the evening was closing in on them, and neither one was ready to leave. Fondling his napkin, he looked into Erica’s sparkling eyes and suggested dessert. “No thanks.” Ah, he rethought the perfect option. When the waiter fastidiously returned he ordered two Irish Coffees, and received a smile from Erica. Silence again, and then as if the two were a broken record, they said in unison, “They had had a wonderful time.” This time Erica broke out with a low guttural laugh, it was just all too funny and awkward for  them.                                                                                                                                                                                                   “I tell you what,” she suggested, “Since we both seemed to have such a good time don’t you think we should repeat this?”                                                                                                                                                              “Yes, you are quite right, we must absolutely repeat this impossibly bumbling date. Tell me, Erica, how do you get good at such a thing?”                                                                                                                 “You don’t have to be good at all, not that you weren’t, all you really have to do is feel a little something for the other person. “ As they lethargically sipped on the whiskey-laced coffee, topped with a mound of whipped cream, they talked about their lives, about their work, their families, and the emptiness that took up permanent residence in their hearts. Too many years had passed that would make either of them feel guilty about dating, or to find love again. Tonight was just an acquaintance, an initial meeting of the minds, a soft touch, an exchange of inner thoughts, and a sharing of loves lost.  Arturo walked Erica to her car, and they agreed on a date for the following Saturday, but this time, he would be chivalrous and properly pick up his date. Six o’clock was the magic hour, that would give them the entire evening to enjoy dinner and then who knew, maybe see a movie, or crazier yet, go to a lounge and cut a rug. He opened the car door, and leaned in to give Erica a real kiss on the lips, and she was just drunk enough from the pitcher of Sangria and the after dinner coffee to allow him such liberties. As he turned to leave, she grabbed his sleeve and returned his kiss with a juicer finish. “Well then goodnight,” which of course they yelled in unison.

Chapter 5

                Struggling with the huge suitcase Rachel finally managed to hoist it into the pack of the SUV. Harry, whose suitcase was just as heavy hoisted up the second one and shoved them close together.  They had another passenger to pick up on this cold snowy Saturday morning in April. Taking the wheel he coaxed the car out of the slippery driveway and onto the wet streets. It was early, barely six o’clock in the morning, but with the snow dusting the streets they didn’t want to take a chance they would miss their flight to Florida, which meant they would miss the cruise, which would be a disaster since it was Harry’s mother’s eighty-seventh birthday, and this was how they were celebrating. Rachel called Rhea and informed her they were on their way, and to make sure she was bundled up for the unusually cold weather, and not to forget her large assortment of drugs.                                                                       Although the front door to the condo was unlocked, Rachel rang the bell and then entered the overheated one bedroom musky smelling quarters. The home was immaculate, not a dirty dish in the sink, or a newspaper spread out on the coffee table.  It appeared as if no one lived in the place, that it was an entity that survived without human interaction. “ I’m in the bedroom”, Rhea yelled. “It’s so early, so damn early.” Pointing to the partially opened drapes she noted that it was still pitch black out. The dutiful daughter-in-law grabbed hold of the overly stuffed suitcase, and escorted Rhea slowly out the door and into the waiting car. Harry hardly budged as he pretended not to notice his wife juggling both his mom and her oversized bag, while slinging the leather purse over her left arm. Carefully, as if walking on egg shells, Rachel pried open the backseat door, and then ever so gently lifted the elderly woman into the seat. Rachel soundly shut the door and then inserted the final piece of luggage into the trunk. Sweating, she was annoyed beyond reason by Harry’s callous behavior, but she returned to her seat, patted Harry on his thigh and told him they were ready to proceed. “My cane,” yelled Leah.                                              “Okay mom, I will go get it.” And out of the car she dashed, instantly returning with the cane and the wallet that had been left next to her bedside.                                                                                                      “I think we now ready to go.”                                                                                                                                      As they approached the airport there was clot of travelers standing next to the check-in counter at American Airlines, and from the way they were dressed, it was very likely they were all headed to the same destination. Again Rachel carefully held Rhea as she existed the car, handed over her purse and extricated the luggage from the trunk. The two stood in line while Harry actually did something on his own, and that was park the car in the long term lot. They would meet each other inside the terminal where the temperatures were a lot more agreeable. Rhea, a true curmudgeon, never stopped complaining, there was always something awry, and if it wasn’t her poor health, then it was the news cast, or the weather. But the one thing Rachel noticed was that Rhea never complained about her friends, and that was because she didn’t have any. Her life evolved only around herself, and a few sporadic calls she made to her son, Harry (who never bothered getting out of the car to assist with the luggage). Lonely was how she portrayed her mother-in-law’s life, and that was precisely why Harry thought it would be such a great idea to take his mother on this birthday cruise. Worried that she couldn’t travel alone, he thought this would be the next best thing. They purchased her a private room, but without balcony; that was simply too dangerous for an aging woman who needed a sturdy cane to negotiate the simplest of moves. The ship was one of the largest afloat, and touted such sophisticated equipment that one would be unable to feel the waves slapping against the side.                                                  Harry was waving the three sets of tickets in the air as they headed toward the security gate. His belly protruded through the bulging buttons at the bottom of the Tommy Bahama shirt, and his khaki pants were stained with oil from the three powdered sugar donuts he consumed while waiting for his wife and mother earlier that morning. He looked like he was returning from the trip, not going. Perspiration beaded up at the base of his temples (where once a thick head of light brown hair had grown). The extra winter weight was obviously causing havoc with his ability to move lithely. Shoving through the crowds, he ran forward when he spied several empty wheel chairs on the other side of the security gate. After the ubiquitous pat down Harry grabbed a chair, waited patiently until his mom emerged from the gate and placed her purposely into the seat, cane and all. He grabbed the handles and the three walked through the terminal, it was almost a mile until they reached the gangplank. By then, Harry’s shirt was soaked, and Rachel was panting with exhaustion carrying Rhea’s over-sized purse filled with a pharmacy of drugs.  It was barely seven o’clock, but Rachel felt like an entire day had come and gone, she was wiped out. Her hundred or so students didn’t tax her as much as one needy elderly woman. For the first day of spring vacation, she was anything but relaxed. They finally boarded the plane, and inserted Rhea between them. If she took the window seat then they both had to get up when she went to the bathroom, but if she took the aisle seat, then she would complain that someone was always bumping into her. The cold hard fact stood: she had no other choice than to take the middle seat. She could complain, and she would, but at least these remarks would be shared by both Rachel and Harry.                                                                                                                                                                                    Her decision was easy. When the lovely flight attendants came around for the gratuitous drink offerings, Rachel ordered two mimosas, hell she thought, Rhea would never know, she would probably just complain that the orange juice wasn’t freshly squeezed, but it might just lull her into a quiet sleep.       The jog of the wheels released from the underbelly of the plane awoke the three travelers from their sleep. The final leg of the journey commenced as they claimed their luggage, boarded revamped school busses, and took a short trip through the crowded streets of Miami to the dock. This time there were hundreds of people lined up waiting to board the huge cruise ship. Rhea took her cane and walked the twenty foot distance over the foot bridge connecting the port with the ship. She looked down and shook, “there is water below us.” Rachel took that to mean she should grip Rhea’s arm and carry her over the threshold. Thank the lord there was several wheel chairs huddled next to the welcoming crew. Harry brought the chair over and she sat down as if she were the queen of England.  After a few minutes of wandering around the deck trying to locate an elevator they finally arrived at their rooms.  Rhea had the inside room, and Rachel and Harry had the more spacious outside suite. The two doting children unpacked her bags, flipped on the television set, put out a cold drink and then left her on her own accord while they decompressed.                                                                                                                                  “Wow,” said Rachel, as she began to unpack the suitcase, “This was sure a great idea of yours, I just wish you would participate a little bit more. I think, not that I am a prognosticator, that this will be the vacation from hell, but please don’t quote me on this. Just getting your mom out of her room and up to the dining hall a couple of times a day will be a daunting task. By the way, do you have a key to her room?” He looked around, and put his hands in his pockets and nothing, no, he hadn’t even thought about asking for a duplicate key. “While you take care of this matter, I am going to put on my swimsuit. I will see you at the top deck, just look for the woman drinking a large Mai Tai,” she added. Pulling out a floral one piece suit, she studied herself in the small bathroom mirror. Not too shabby for 60. She had maintained her weight and svelte body by good eating habits and constant visits to the gym. She kept her hair long, make-up minimal, and clothing contemporary. From a distance she didn’t look a day over thirty, which was a constant source of pride for Harry. Speaking of which, he treated his looks and body in total opposition. His idea of exercise was a game of golf followed by downing several beers at the club bar. His thick grey-streaked curls ran amok over his forehead and over his ears. He just didn’t care much for his own appearance. At least he showered daily.                                                                                                                     Ahh, now this is living, Rachel thought as she slowly savored the rum filled concoction. Lying prone soaking in the delicious Florida sun, a gentle breeze caressed her body as the ship departed the port. The loud blast of the horns signaled the official beginning of the journey, but the rum had already jump started that relaxed feeling. Listening to the ship crash through the waves, she wondered how her friends were enjoying their week off. Tillie and Erica had made no definite plans, but Molly was on her way to the northern tip of the Florida to some tiny city. They were driving; what a long distance to cover in just a week but the town was so small and obscure it was almost faster to drive than to change planes three times.                                                                                                                                                                                   “I got it,” announced Harry as he proudly held up the duplicate key to his mom’s room. “Now we can all rest easy. Do you think I should go check on her?”                                                                                          “We just got here. How about you order one of these delicious drinks and settle down for a while. Your mom isn’t going anywhere, she is probably fast asleep, dreaming about what she can complain about.” The pool waitress took their order for two more drinks, and the rest of the afternoon was all but a blur for the couple.                                                                                                                         Although she would have preferred the later dinner seating Rachel knew that Rhea would never endure until the eight o’clock meal, so they showered early, dressed and she knocked on Rhea’s door. No answer. Taking the key she slowly opened up the door and saw her sleeping soundly. There was no way that she would wake an eighty-seven year old woman out of a deep sleep, so she silently slipped out of the room. She and Harry quibbled about the situation and then agreed they would have room service prepare a meal and leave it next to her bed. With that problem solved, they had the entire evening to themselves. Taking a stroll around the ship, they stood in a very long line and were finally seated in the center of the lower dining room. The place settings were elegant, as were the linens, but the glassware was sturdy, lacking the delicate ting one gets when you want to grab someone’s attention at a wedding. This probably meant that too many crystal glasses had met a swift and broken demise after a short stint at sea. Perhaps the stabilizers weren’t all that they were cracked up to be. Ordering glasses of red wine, they examined the abbreviated menu. One could order anything and everything, and as much as you wanted. If you ate a steak and wanted another, the waiter would happily retrieve the second order. The staff was there to please, and of course pick up the tips at the end of the voyage. “This all looks so delicious,” said Harry, as saliva began dripping out of the corners of his mouth. Mopping up the mess with the pristine napkin, he began a dissertation on the reason why saliva was produced, but Rachel had heard the dentist explain this theory a dozen or so times before to her friends, family and children.                                                                                                                                                                               Because it was spring vacation, the ship was filled to capacity, and because they had opted for the earlier dinner seating, every child on the ship was also dinning at the earlier hour. It was so noisy Rachel could barely hear herself think above the screaming. “I think we should investigate those specialized restaurant options.  After teaching for over thirty years, I was really in the mood for a vacation that wasn’t filled with the sounds of unhappy overtired irritable children; I have that every day in my classrooms.” The couple skipped dessert, and left the dining room as fast as possible. They walked up several flights of stairs and then circumvented the upper level, the views were spectacular. The southern skies were blanketed with millions of twinkling stars, the world seemed so expansive and filled with opportunities, and yet their lives did not.                                                                                                                                  “I think we should go check on my mom,” suggested Harry. He took Rachel’s hand and they walked down several flights of steps to their room. She opened the door, kicked off her heels and grabbed a pair of flat sandals. The constant sway of the ship’s once gentle rocking picked as they headed toward the first stop on the itinerary. A flatter pair of shoes would make negotiating the hallways much easier.  Harry knocked on Rhea’s door but there was no sound, not even the television was on. He thought that was odd, so he knocked a couple more times. Her dinner tray must have been quickly removed from the narrow hallway.  He extracted her key from his pocket, knocked again and then they quietly entered the tiny state room. Rhea wasn’t sleeping in her bed, so Rachel knocked on the bathroom door. Again, there was no answer. With a sense of terror, she turned to her husband, “There is no answer.” She twisted the door handle and gently pried open the metal door. No Rhea. She flung back the ropes of the shower. No Rhea. Now Harry’s face registered that same expression of terror. For a moment they starred catatonically into each other’s eyes, they had no idea what they should do. “Let’s go up to the infirmary,” he suggested, and off they went, walking down several series of stairwells  as the boat continued to bob and weave in a more pronounced manner. They hurriedly entered the small room and asked to see the doctor. There was a nurse on duty and they quickly explained the situation, but the nurse spoke no English, so they kept reiterating, “doctor! Dooooocccctoooorrrr!.” Finally she picked up the phone and several minutes later, the docotor arrived. At least the ship’s doctor spoke English and they quickly explained that Rhea was missing and desperately needed assistance. With that the doctor phoned the captain and explained the emergency situation. After giving a thorough description of the missing person, the captain sent out every available staff member to help locate Rhea and once she was found to escort her back to the infirmary. There was nothing the couple could do but sit and wait. Harry began pacing the tiny waiting area, he felt guilty, he blamed himself for his mom’s disappearance but all he wanted to do was give her a memorable birthday, and now look what happened. It was dark outside, and the ship was gigantic, she could be in a million places, or worse, she could have gone overboard. How would they ever find her? An hour passed and another, and finally at three in the morning, a room service attendant brought her safely into the arms of her family. By now both Rachel and Harry were hysterical thinking for sure she had jumped overboard, or maybe someone had pushed her. Rhea was unharmed, but appeared to be in a confused state of mind. At this juncture, they were afraid to take her back to her room and their small one bedroom wouldn’t hold her. The doctor suggested she spend the night in the infirmary and the next day she would run a few simple tests to see if there was anything acutely wrong. Rhea was already dressed in her pajamas so they just put her to bed, and announced they would return in the morning.                                                                                                              “What a nightmare.” They climbed several sets of stairs, arrived in their suite, put on tee shirts and went to bed. It was now four in the morning and by Rachel’s clock, they had been up for twenty-four hours. This was the vacation from hell ,was her last thought as she finally closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.                                                                                                                                                                  They slept through breakfast and past the first lunch seating. Grabbing a glass of juice, they walked down to the infirmary. Rhea was sitting up and the doctor was examining her, “”I’m almost done, please have a seat.” Come on in, she motioned. The three sat next to each other on the cramped bed and prepared for the diagnosis, if there was one on such short notice. “Physically, your mother is fine,” the doctor began, “But have you noticed her behavior lately? After a long discussion the two of us just completed, I’m sorry to tell you but I believe she has all the symptoms of Alzheimer’s. I have explained this to her and she understands she has limitations. This is probably a shock, and a cruise ship is not the time or the place to have to hear such a diagnosis. We certainly don’t want a repeat of last night so we should discuss how to handle the rest of the vacation. There are six more days at sea, although we make three land stops.”                                                                                                                                                  Harry turned to his mother and asked her if she truly understood the severity of the situation and she said she did. She promised that she would never leave her room unattended again. The doctor borrowed a small pager from the children’s room and wrapped it around Rhea’s wrist. “Now if you should ever get lost again, we will be able to find you. We use these all the time to find lost children, although it’s small it works and we will be able to locate your mom anywhere on the ship, but she must wear this at all times. Agreed,” asked the doctor. Rhea bobbed her head up and down and began to cry.                      “I didn’t mean to ruin our vacation,” she said. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know that I am sick. It just came on all of a sudden.”                                                                                                                                                          “Of course you didn’t know. You don’t need to apologize, let’s just try and enjoy the rest of your birthday gift,” responded Harry. The couple grabbed her hand and led her back to her room. The vacation from hell continued.                                                                                                                                                            “How are we going to get through the week, Harry?”                                                                                       “With a lot of alcohol,” he replied.                                                                                                                                            And they did manage to get through the week. There had been high winds and the touted calm boat oscillated with an unsettling sway. The babysitting service had been suspended due to an outbreak of stomach virus, so all the children were wildly stalking the decks in search of mischief and they found it. A group of older children decided it would be great fun to stuff up all the toilets on the aft deck where the swimming pools were located. There was an unprecedented stench, and Do Not Enter signs were immediately posted as the crew mopped up the obscene mess. One evening Harry ordered vichyssoise, and the cream had curdled, making him violently ill. Sick as a dog, he remained in the room, but the television wasn’t working and because the ship was full, there was no other set available. The room steward located a dvr and Rachel went to the lending library and rented a dozen movies to make Harry’s recuperation a little less painful. It rained the last two full days at sea, but the sky cleared up just as the boat was gently docked at the Miami port.                                                                                                                    Time to leave the ship! Because Rhea was elderly, they couldn’t race off the boat, but they existed as fast as was humanly possible. Then to claim their luggage, back onto those awful revamped school busses, gather up the luggage, enter airport security, eventually  land, go through customs, reclaim the luggage, get into the car and finally, just eight hours later, arrive at their doorstep.                                                “I need a vacation from this vacation,” complained Rachel. Her bright red hair was still frizzed from the humidity, her freckles more pronounced and her green eyes were completely bloodshot.  Examining herself in the mirror she announced “I look awful. I just returned from a luxurious cruise, and I look like I have just returned from boot camp!” Harry kissed her and told her she looked just fine, and he was very sorry for the horrible vacation. Holding up two complimentary coupons, he reminded her that the next trip would be half off.”                                                                                                                                              “Half off,” she yelled, “Half of hell. That’s some bargain.” Exhausted from the trek home, they unpacked threw in a load of laundry, washed off a layer of sea salt and vowed they would make a decision about Rhea in the morning, after coffee.                                                                                                                Life throws you curve balls and there isn’t always an answer or a reason why stuff happens: it just happens. And so with Rhea, after numerous consultations, tests and deliberating, Harry placed her in an assisted living facility. Part of the problem, suggested the social worker, was Rhea’s isolation. After her spouse died, she lived alone, hardly if ever leaving the home. She never socialized, talked to friends, or even ventured to church. Her mind had turned into a vegetative state, it simply stopped working. Based on this sad prognosis, Rachel and Harry, moved her into a facility that would see to her physical needs and safety, but the reality was her mind was going and at a rapid rate. Rachel stared straight ahead as they left the facility, she couldn’t look back, she was afraid she would she would glimpse the pathetic look on Rhea’s face. Hard, harder than they both imagined it would be to say good-by to a woman who was once smart, agile, and full of life. On the somber drive home they made a promise to each other they would never allow their lives to come to that point.                                                                                    There had to be a better way of living, an alternative to wasting away by yourself. There were no predictions, and no guarantees when we are born of what will befall us, but Rachel and Harry believed they had the power to alter their lives so every single day would be filled, and they didn’t take that to mean joy, just filled with life. They could foresee days with aches and pains, sick days, but what they could foresee was the power to keep their lives full and active and engaged. The question was how. They had plenty of time to figure this dilemma out, for Rhea it was too late. 

Money and status – these are the achievements for which lawyers are popularly known to aspire. And, indeed, many do aspire and achieve those things, but they’re not guaranteed to provide happiness; far from it, according to new research that includes data from 6,200 lawyers.

In fact, the research shows that lawyers who are paid the least – those working in public-service jobs – enjoy the highest levels of health and well-being. Meanwhile, partner-track jobs and high income have nearly no correlation to happiness.  

“Throughout the history of literature, we’ve been given many examples illustrating the folly of blind ambition,” says Arlene Krieger, a paralegal and literary humorist who authored the novels, “Privileged Attorneys: Las Vegas Style,” an off-kilter look at a family-run law firm, and “Freedom Twice Lost,” which chronicles the failures of the American legal system involving a lawsuit given national attention (www.arlenesbooks.com).

“But lawyers aren’t like most people; they’re sharks, at least that’s what so many jokes and quotes have told us. Any cut-throat lawyer wouldn’t want to tarnish this reputation, which is so valuable in this competitive industry. Like it or not, lawyers are like other people. If you want to be happy in the legal profession, you’ll need more than making partner.”

                                Press Release: Cornell Gunter’s Coasters

                A slice of music history that would have never come to light; it’s the story of one of the most famous Rock and Roll singers of the sixties as told by Charlie Duncan. A lively and funny yet at times pensive and pragmatic, it discloses the very private and public life of Cornell Gunter. 

                Cornell Gunther’s untimely death left little to the world’s knowledge of his genius. His family had disowned him and the only person who really knew him was Charlie Duncan, friend, business partner and co-musician.  Charlie was a renowned drummer who later went to the frontline and became the “Charlie Brown” of the group.                                                                                        Cornell, a flamboyant homosexual who hid this secret for years while travelling the world entertaining millions of fans lives on today through the dedication of Charlie Duncan. The music and lyrics created by Lieber & Stoller is recited by a new generation of fans. Cornell’s humor and antics of an eccentric performing artist who’s singing and musical talent was captured in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is articulated throughout his decades of live performances. The story is about his talent, his music, and the secrets he held for a decade. Beginning in Coffeyville it traces Cornell’s life to California where he began to shine in high school meeting artists who eventually became his colleagues. From little known bands, he followed his dreams to New York at the Apollo Theatre, his tours around the southern belt of America, and eventually, world tours. A legacy in the American music scene, his music lives on through Charlie Duncan’s tenacity and the legal battles to secure the legacy in perpetuity.

The forward by Airrion Love, one of the two remaining original singers.:

      Forward by Airrion Love

                I think we are more popular today than when we first hit the top of the charts in the 1970’s. Back then, we were part of a movement, a new genre in music. Our fans cheered us on at the shows, tuned into the radio and bought our records. All the while, they were creating memories. Now, when we perform, our music brings back those memories. When I look at the audience and I see some people crying, others laughing, or holding hands, I know they are remembering those feelings when they first heard our music. Our songs are woven into their earlier experiences. The fans come to hear our music, and they come to remember; their first loves, the day they left for View Nam, for college, the family reunion, their wedding day, the birth of their children. Our songs become reminders of their lives. For over fifty years the tunes have been played on the radio, the internet, in movies, on television and live. We are more than a part of musical history; our sounds are part of the American culture. As we travel around the world, our music is recognized in every major country. I thought it was time to thank our fans, to tell the story of The Stylistics and to honor the music we made.

                    Introduction

                Fifty years and counting, The Stylistics have been performing and recording. It is rare that any single performer or group can sustain themselves in the limelight for over a half a century. What is their secret? What makes millions of fans around the planet return to witness their genius? How were they fortunate enough to attract the top writers and musicians? The answers to these questions unfold while the book tells the story of the iconic group.                                                                                                                         The music attributed to the ensemble is a genre unto itself. Their sound is instantly recognizable, their voices and harmonies perfectly intertwined. And in 2024, as they arrange themselves inside a state-of-the-art recording studio, singing new music, it is clear their voices ring as beautifully as their very first recording.                                                Some will say it’s luck, some say the spiritual world has imbued them with purity of sound, but as the author of this book, I believe it’s innate talent and the tenacity of their hard work.                                                                                                                                      Let their sound go on forever!

Heart of A Designer is a “how to” start a clothing business. Fraught with comedy, the story line is a process of the rigors of the grueling and competitive designer world. Although the glamorous visions are what most imagine, it is the day-to-day laboring that creates a designer collection. The story plays into the heart and soul of anyone who has a passion for their work. It is a rare story of how family members can work in harmony creating a desired product and a lucrative business. Love, sharing and tenacity, move the characters through the process of developing a national brand of clothing. This is the story of how that happens.
Arlene Krieger has a BA in Sociology from the University of Arizona, a MA in education from Kean and a BS from the University of Baltimore. Freedom Twice Lost was her last book, a biography of Roberto Miranda. The book is saga of an immigrant leaving Communist Cuba to have freedom swept from beneath him in America. The true poignant story makes the reader question the American Legal System, the purpose of civil rights and the value of each human life.

A Las Vegas Affair

            The romance novel is centered on Brea, who meets the love of her life in college. Brea was raised in a small town outside of Boston and both her parents toiled in blue collar jobs to be able to send Brea and their other two sons through college.

            In her junior year, she meets and falls in love with Noel, who was raised in midtown Boston in an upper-class neighborhood. Elizabeth, Noel’s mother, is unhappy with her son’s choice and tries to derail their relationship.

            After college, Brea begins student teaching in a Boston urban high school and meets a young student whose brother, Jeff, was wrongfully charged with murder. Brea writes Jeff’s biography and Willard, Noel’s father who is rich and has many connections, finds a publisher. Despite all efforts, the book does not set Jeff free.    

            Brea and Noel soon marry. Willard, who loves his new daughter-in-law, continues to find subjects who want their biographies written and she churns out several books.                  

            While Brea is happy in her life, teaching and writing, Noel becomes despondent in his father’s accounting practice. On a whim, the couple moves to Las Vegas. Noel’s genius with money lands them a dream house, although it needs fixing up. She continued writing and he continued his profession in a prestigious Las Vegas firm. One of Noel’s clients, Sandy Star, a world-famous performer, asks Brea to write his biography. During the writing process Sandy and his wife, Stephanie divorce.  Stephane has grown fond of Noel’s accounting skills and becomes one of his clients. She is intensely jealous of her ex-spouse and thinks Brea, who meets him twice weekly for lunch, is his lover. Stephanie begins flirting with Noel and demands his time and affection. Things escalate as Stephanie becomes more obsessed with Noel.

            Sandy’s biography is finished and there is a book launch with three hundred media present. Stephanie, who has harbored intense jealousy, pulls out a gun and does the unthinkable. The media sent this shocking vision around the world.

            Brea is heartbroken, believing no one would ever ask her to write another biography but the sales of Sandy’s book skyrocket. Offers come flooding in asking her to write other stories. Brea reflects on her first book and how well she wrote the story, but Jeff was still in prison. Flush with money, she uses her royalty check and hires a crack defense team who changes Jeff’s destiny.

                Decades of teaching together had sealed these four colleagues as best of friends. They had lived through both good and bad times and knew each other better than they knew themselves. As each headed in different directions for what was to be their last Easter break, they would inadvertently return, all with a similar remedy as to how they wanted to live out their lives: it would be together. Life, they agreed, was for the living and each day was to become a fulfillment of cherished dreams.  They would all live together in one home spending the balance of their lives in interactional bliss.

                When they finally arrive to the promised city, Las Vegas, their once predictable lives turn upside down. Each day was filled with twists, turns, excitement; a veritable pot of mixed emotions. They got more than they bargained for, and life blossomed into a rich and fulfilling experience

              Cornell Gunther’s untimely death left little to the world’s knowledge of his genius. His family had disowned him and the only person who really knew him was Charlie Duncan, friend, business partner and co-musician.  Charlie was a renowned drummer who later went to the frontline and became the “Charlie Brown” of the group.                                                                                         Cornell, a flamboyant homosexual who hid this secret for years while travelling the world entertaining millions of fans lives on today through the dedication of Charlie Duncan. The music and lyrics created by Lieber & Stoller is recited by a new generation of fans. His character is fraught with humor and antics of an eccentric performing artist whose singing and musical talent was captured in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The book celebrates his talent, his music, and the secrets he held for a decade. Beginning in Coffeyville, the story traces his life to California where he began to shine in high school meeting artists who eventually became his colleagues. From little known bands, he followed his dreams to New York at the Apollo Theatre, his tours around the southern belt of America, and the world tours. In each scenario the humor and genius of his talent is told through the eyes of Charlie Duncan.                                                  A one-of-a-kind artist, this one-of-a-kind story will capture and entertain generations who knew the original Coasters and the legacy of Cornell Gunther’s Coasters. People only know his music, not the untold story.  It is rare that a serious story line can contain extraordinary humor, making this a win-win entertaining read. 

                                                                                                Chapter 1

                On the second level of the underground parking lot a gentle breeze floated over spot marked 201, reserved for Richard Brothers. The dimly lit corridor emitted the smell of musty air tinged with a sea breeze from the cool morning marine layer. There was a gentle hum of the Mercedes as the motor quietly shut down. The shiny black car reflected the overhead lamps illuminating the stunted height of the ceiling. Cracking open the car door, a black loafer stepped onto the recently swept floor. Standing straight up, Richard collects his brief case and listens for the arrival of his brothers, John Brothers and Paul Brothers.

                The oldest of the three brothers, Richard greedily grabbed the best looks from his parents. Standing six feet tall, from the top of his thick black wavy hair to his piercing blue eyes, strong chin, and a perfect symmetric physique, he is the most handsome of the brothers. His demeanor is marked with an unabashed confidence and an enduring perseverance. Being the oldest brother has been the burden he has had to bear, always at the mercy of his envious siblings. Richard knew he was blessed from birth and never made excuses for all of his lustrous assets. Single at thirty-four, he is still in pursuit of the perfect mate. It’s not that he is so self-absorbed, rather, that sudden spurt of heart throbbing heart stopping love has yet to occur. He had always thought he would see her, and he would know-that an anvil would strike the top of his head, and his eyes would partially fall out of his head. He is still waiting.

                Pulling back the navy gabardine sleeve on his Basile suit, he double checked the time on his Piaget. It’s Friday, eight o’clock in the morning.  Smiling, he hears the loud roar of John’s five-year-old Chevrolet swerving into spot marked 202. Brother number two has arrived.

                Emerging from the sedan, John, one year younger than Richard, pushed back his light brown hair, rearranged his pin dot tie and grabbed his wrinkled khaki poplin jacket. He is the shortest of his brothers, stretching to five nine inches, but that was when he was wearing his black patent Florsheim's. His body is lean, and his cheek bones are high, his brown eyes are set closely together as if he was always intensively studying a legal document. He felt cheated. He was the second born and should have been at least an inch or two taller. Maybe his mother forgot to eat when she was pregnant. But in spite of his undistinguished appearance, he always sports a wide smile. What he didn’t receive in good looks he received in brains and the blessing of a beautiful wife who has given him with four healthy lively children.

                “For goodness sakes, fix your tie,” laughed Richard observing the remnants of a jelly donut drizzled over John’s tie.  “You look like you just walked out of a dryer. Your suit is so rumpled the judge might ask the clerk to have it pressed. Or, I know, you think this will help you get sympathy from the judge and make our clients think you don’t earn much money. “

                “Give me a break,” answered John.  “It’s Friday and I had to drop off the twins at school. Just as they were getting out of the car, they leaned over to kiss me and poof, there went the contents of the jelly donut down the front of my favorite tie. I licked most of it off at the first traffic light. This is my lucky tie, and I can’t go to court with it.”

                Further scrutinizing his younger brother, Richard noticed a hole in John’s shoe and a dark brown spot on the back of his pants.

                “What else happened this morning? “Asked Richard

                “You have no idea how hard it is to get out of my house. What with my four kids, two golden retrievers and a most beautiful wife, my hands are full. So, Maria needed a little help with the pooper scooper.  I grabbed it and it seemed to have a mind of its own.  The pooper scooper scooped a hole in my shoe while the fully loaded pooper scooper went flying into the air landing behind me ricocheting off the ground and into the back of my pants.”  Shrugging his shoulders he was in a hurry to leave, that it was too late to change and besides, the rest of his suits had been sent to the cleaners.

                “Get the receptionist to spray Lysol on you before you enter the court room,” advised Richard.

                A slight gush of stale air rose, and they heard the roar of Paul’s Land Rover arriving. Gently maneuvering his SUV into spot 203, he grabbed a pile of cases and shoved open the car door with his leg.

Standing up, smiling at his brothers, he quickly bent over, and retrieved several cases that had slipped out of his arms.

                “Good morning, guys,” he smiled. “Looks like I am the last to arrive. Did you have a great evening? Well, all I can say is having wife number four surely keeps my juices flowing. We didn’t even get to dessert, at least the gooey kind, if you know what I mean. Yes, we did have a type of dessert, but it sure wasn’t fattening. I just took her right there at the table and…

                “Yes, we get the picture,” said John, looking a bit miffed.

                Paul, aged thirty-two, is the youngest of the brothers and was first in line when they handed out the brains, but last when it came to relationships. Just under six feet, his handsome face is shaped just like Richard’s. They could almost be twins, except Paul has another thirty pounds added to his frame. It’s not that he appears fat, just heartier. This is attributed to a steady stream of wives, each one trying to outdo the other both in the bedroom and at the dinner table. His large car reflects the results of his previous three marriages, one child from each wife and now wife number four has been hinting she wants a child. Every night, just as he is about to sleep, Veronica begins a low seductive clicking sound, tick, tick, tick, she says. Perhaps this is her subliminal way of reminding her spouse, at 30 years of age, her time to have a child is running out. Thus explains the oversized Land Rover. With three rows of seating, it should handle whatever comes his way. Paul is just thankful that Veronica is allergic to dogs, one less mouth to contend with.

                Unable to erase his smile, he joins his brothers as they briskly walk through the dimly lit parking lot corridor and into the waiting elevator. Joining several other passengers, they are whisked to their tenth-floor office at the City Building. One of the most prestigious skyscrapers in Las Vegas. Their father, Ted, had taken a lease the day the building opened. Yes, the three brothers did not fall from tree, they are all apples on the attorney tree, and Ted Brothers, their father, is the top limb.

                The broad double oak doors touted the sign: Brothers Attorneys-At-Law. At the top of the list Ted Brothers, Esq. followed by Richard, John and lastly, Paul.

                “Just because my name is the last on the list, doesn’t mean my sign should look like this,” he said annoyingly, pointing to the Esq. that had become slightly ajar, dangling precariously from the door.

                “I will have Monica fix it, I promise,” said Richard as he opened up the door to their law office. The waiting room was filled with clients. Unable to tolerate Paul’s sour disposition, Richard grabbed him and kissed him right on the lips. That woke him out of his sulking mood and certainly made for great entertainment in the waiting room.

                Monica, the office receptionist and manager, promptly stood up and drew a smile as broad as her high cheek bones.” Bravo,” she said to her three bosses, “This is a great way to start our Friday. Now gentlemen, before you get comfy in your offices, your father called and has requested you adjourn to the conference room He said he wanted to talk to you and that you should all be in the same room.”

                Like three little puppy dogs, obeying their trainer, they walked to the conference room. It’s not that they were intimidated by Monica’s statement, rather they trusted and respected her commands, especially when it came from their father. Standing five feet seven inches, she has taken charge of the office for the last five years. Smart, but lacking funds to complete law school, she did the next best thing and took a job running a law office during the day while taking classes in the evening. Over the years, as raises were added to her bank account, she promised herself she would one day get that law degree. For today, at age twenty-six, she was satisfied running the office for the three brothers and studying in the evening. Her dark skin, and Amazon queen stature was arresting to both men and women. On several occasions, her prominence had stopped office brawls and soothed the most bruised egos, while clients waited for their appointments. Monica took her position seriously and spent every moment devouring the law. Whatever information came her way, she stored in her well-equipped brain, knowing one day all of this knowledge would make her a successful attorney. In terms of money, her goals were a bit loftier than her bosses and she would put her degree to use helping the poor black communities, where excellent legal advice came at a price too high for many to afford.

                The suite had a spacious, yet sparse sitting area, replete with the most current magazines and soft background music. There were four large attorney offices, and four smaller paralegal offices, a spacious conference room, two storage rooms, and the tiniest alcove which served as a kitchen. The bathrooms were communal and shared with other tenants on the same floor. What captured Ted’s eye when leasing the space was the expansive panoramic view of the Las Vegas skyline. On a clear day you literally could see forever. As the three brothers trooped into the conference room, they were puzzled by their father’s request. Opening the door, they laughed about where each would sit during the conference call.

                Ted never left a detail undone. Cunning, and perhaps convening, he had the space set up to create leverage on his side of the table, referring to this as the hometown advantage. The room was used almost exclusively for depositions- the most boring and loathsome process of litigation. Depositions are to gather facts from witnesses and various and sundry individuals before a trial takes place. The process is tedious and can take hours and days out of a lawyer’s busy schedule. So, he came up with some tools to underhandedly expedite the process. The opposing counsel always sat looking out the windows, which is in itself very distracting. Ted then had his landscaper’s cousin refashion half of the luxurious appearing blood red leather swivel chairs. The cousin extracted all of the stuffing and replaced it with a substance the texture of cement. Those chairs appeared lavish but in fact were miserably uncomfortable. Ted went so far as to create a special chair for the requisite court reporter, also embellished with a cushion as hard as cement. He had long ago discovered this speeded up the testimony allowing him more time to handle waiting clients. He further equipped the room with a hidden camera so he could spy at documents being passed by the opposition. Legally, they could tape the hearings, but he had additional bugs placed under the table, and the back wall, allowing him to pick up on whispers. Underneath the oval teak table, he had a tiny video camera that could view documents slipping in and out of opposition’s files. The camera had a special lens that could see in the dark and enlarge tiny print. There was no detail that went undone. The Brothers Law Firm was feared and hated by most of the litigation firms in the county of Las Vegas. They always won.                                                                                           No grass gathered under Ted’s feet. He was always in search of perfection, which in his mind was the most amount of money he could make on a case in the least amount of time. Ted had purchased elaborate software and had experts train the staff how to implement it in the most efficient manner. He read every article on running a profitable and tight ship, and this had paid off. Person per person, their firm was the second richest in the city. The three brothers gathered at the teak table were the recipients of their father’s diligent efforts.

                “Rock, paper, scissors,” as the three played their juvenile games. And as usual John lost. He took the rock-hard seat facing the window. “Not so bad today,” John said. “I can almost see Red Rock Casino.”

                Moncia called into the room and announced their father was on the phone. “Good morning sons,” said Ted. “I have gathered you together to invite you to our home Sunday for an early dinner, say around four o’clock. Susan, that is your mom, is going to make all your favorites. I will see you all then. Please don’t forget my beautiful grandchildren. There is something I want to talk to you about and do not wish to discuss such matters in the office. I have to go, they just called my foursome, and I can’t be late for the tee time. Have a great day in court.”

                “It’s not like dad to sound so mysterious. He must have something up his sleeve. I guess we will all have to wait until Sunday,” said Richard. All nodding in agreement, they paraded out of the room and into their respective offices.

                Efficiently, Monica handed each attorney a case file and gently reminded them their clients were seated in the waiting room. George Thompson was the first to arrive on this warm sunny Friday morning. He carried a bottle of vitamin water and a worn briefcase. Grabbing the key to the men’s room, he rushed out to make a pit stop before the devastating meeting with John, his bankruptcy lawyer. The client stood up and surveyed the other nervously waiting clients. “You know this is my third time here,” he said. “It’s like I have been recycled. First, I met with Richard, who got me a great settlement on a car accident. That drunkard ruined my car and almost killed my wife. But maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad, since a year after my fat settlement, I found her in bed with my best friend, drinking my expensive favorite champagne. I came back here again and that time Paul helped me out. He wrapped up my divorce in under six months and I was out dating in a blink of an eye. It’s funny, women don’t seem to mind a short bald man when he has a lot of money in the bank. I grow a foot taller and add a few strands of hair whenever my portfolio grows another few million. But alas and alack, the last few investments were disastrous and have left me penniless. So now I am back here to see John, the undertaker, I mean the bankruptcy lawyer. Full circle, I have come full circle.” Sorrowfully looking at the stunned clients, he admitted he didn’t want to destroy their day. They should all know that these were the best lawyers in town. “They don’t come cheap, but then neither did my ex-wife. They get the job done. You hardly feel a thing,” he blurted out as he put his hands over his eyes to avert the inevitable tears.

                “There, there,” Monica sympathetically said, as she gradually eased George back into the chair. Grabbing some tissues, she began mopping up his tears.

                “Ah, there you are,” said John, as he escorted the client into his office. Softly closing the door, Monica could her John advising George that this would be a piece of cake, all he had to do was tell the trust.

                “Tell the truth, "Stuttered George. “That is all I have ever done and look where it got me.” Shrugging his shoulders, he pointed to his bare wrist that once sported a gold Rolex watch.

                Client number one down and two more left, thought Monica as she reached for Mrs. Lowenstein’s file.

                Tapping Mrs. Lowenstein on the shoulder, the receptionist escorted the client and her latest boyfriend to Paul’s office. Handing the attorney the new file, Monica shut the door and formed a sly smirk on her face. This was Mrs. Lowenstein’s sixth visit to the office: the first as Mrs. Jackson, then Mrs. Vasquez, then Mrs. Alstaad, then Mrs. Jones, and now Mrs. Lowenstein. But her last name, guessed Monica, was about to change.

                “Monica,” shouted an annoyed Paul, “Please bring me all of Mrs. Lowenstein’s files.”

                Nodding, she located Lincoln, the staff legal assistant and official gofer, and asked him to round up all the client’s previously files. A half hour later, Lincoln, tapped on John’s door, with the stack of files so high, Lincoln appeared headless. The top file was so precariously balanced, it fell and was caught mid-air by the attorney.

                “Thanks,” stated a still annoyed Paul. “Mr., ah I did not catch your name.”

                “Just call me Jake,” said the boyfriend.

                “Well, then Jake, can you give me and Mrs. Lowenstein some private time?” asked Paul.

                On cue, Lincoln, knew exactly how to handle the situation and promptly escorted the boyfriend out of the office and into the waiting room.

            The romance novel is centered on Brea, who meets the love of her life in college. Brea was raised in a small town outside of Boston and both her parents toiled in blue collar jobs to be able to send Brea and their other two sons through college.

            In her junior year, she meets and falls in love with Noel, who was raised in midtown Boston in an upper-class neighborhood. Elizabeth, Noel’s mother, is unhappy with her son’s choice and tries to derail their relationship.

            After college, Brea begins student teaching in a Boston urban high school and meets a young student whose brother, Jeff, was wrongfully charged with murder. Brea writes Jeff’s biography and Willard, Noel’s father who is rich and has many connections, finds a publisher. Despite all efforts, the book does not set Jeff free.    

            Brea and Noel soon marry. Willard, who loves his new daughter-in-law, continues to find subjects who want their biographies written and she churns out several books.                  

            While Brea is happy in her life, teaching and writing, Noel becomes despondent in his father’s accounting practice. On a whim, the couple moves to Las Vegas. Noel’s genius with money lands them a dream house, although it needs fixing up. She continued writing and he continued his profession in a prestigious Las Vegas firm. One of Noel’s clients, Sandy Star, a world-famous performer, asks Brea to write his biography. During the writing process Sandy and his wife, Stephanie divorce.  Stephane has grown fond of Noel’s accounting skills and becomes one of his clients. She is intensely jealous of her ex-spouse and thinks Brea, who meets him twice weekly for lunch, is his lover. Stephanie begins flirting with Noel and demands his time and affection. Things escalate as Stephanie becomes more obsessed with Noel.

            Sandy’s biography is finished and there is a book launch with three hundred media present. Stephanie, who has harbored intense jealousy, pulls out a gun and does the unthinkable. The media sent this shocking vision around the world.

            Brea is heartbroken, believing no one would ever ask her to write another biography but the sales of Sandy’s book skyrocket. Offers come flooding in asking her to write other stories. Brea reflects on her first book and how well she wrote the story, but Jeff was still in prison. Flush with money, she uses her royalty check and hires a crack defense team who changes Jeff’s destiny.                                                                

                   Fleeing the confines of Communism, Roberto Miranda arrived on the shores of America to have his freedom torn away the second time. Landing on Death Row, his life was about to end for a second time. This is his story to freedom.

                Racing out of Cuba from the infiltration of Communist regime, Roberto Miranda sought political asylum after a terrifying boat ride into the Straits of Florida. Witnessing his friends and countrymen drowning in makeshift boats, he promised himself if he landed safely, he would let the world know what was happening. The ugliness of Communism.

                After a stint in a holding camp, he was sponsored by a northern farmer who paid the bus trip up to a northern state. At the first drop of snow, Roberto packed his bags and headed to Las Vegas. It was a guarantee he would never see snow and the city was also known for its large Cuban population. Packing his few possessions, he arrived in Las Vegas, enmeshed in the Cuban community, found a place to live and a job.                                                                                                      A murder took place. Roberto knew the victim and he knew the murderer. Framed for the crime, without adequate funds, Robert relied on a public defender to defend him. Fresh out of law school, the inexperienced attorney, who was conducting his first murder case, casually accepted Roberto’s death sentence as part of his education. Fourteen years on Death Row sat an innocent man, never knowing which day on earth would be his last.                                                                                                                                                      An angel appeared, Attorney Laura Fitzsimmons, who had studied the file and quickly realized Roberto’s inept representation. Astute, she filed the right pleadings, attended the hearings and through her tenacious work, an innocent man was finally released.                                                                                                         Reentering society, Roberto gleaned a bevy of friends who provided necessities and the representation of Gerry Spence, one of the top litigation attorneys in America. Exposing the sham of the public defender, Clark County coughed up the largest award ever given to wrongfully accused man. The outcome was a six-million-dollar award along with a dozen laws changing the landscape of the Public Defender’s Office.                                                                                   Roberto had no intentions of becoming a martyr for the poor, the immigrants, nor the Spanish speaking asylum seekers, yet in fact, that was how his life played out. A hero, a man of unspoken virtues, his life made a difference. He changed the lives of thousands landing on American soil seeking the platitudes inscribed in our constitution.