The Visions of Ransom Lake (42 page)

And then there’s his flirtatious manner—which is probably one of the things we like most about him. He’s what I like to call a “good bad boy.” Do you know what I mean? He’d never step over the line, but he’d back you right up against it and melt your knees with a moist, smoldering kiss! He’d beat the living daylights out of anybody who touched you but afterward hold you in his arms as if you were the most precious thing on earth. See? He’s a good bad boy—the kind of guy we all gravitate to.

And let’s just say it—we’re all thinking it anyway. Let’s just admit that the idea of slopping around in a smashed pumpkin with Ransom Lake is provocative! That being snowed in in an old house with nothing but a warm fire in the hearth and a soul-wrenching confession of harbored guilt from Ransom (followed by some dang serious kissing) would be life-altering! I mean, he
is
from Georgia, after all.

Yet even after our quick discussion on this, I’m still not sure we can put into words what it is about Ransom Lake that draws us in. At least not Ransom Lake the man.

As for Ransom Lake the book, I think it’s a reader favorite (and mine) for more obvious reasons. First of all, there’s Ransom Lake himself. We’ve established that far more than just lightly. Second, I think I
like
The Visions of Ransom Lake
for many other reasons as well, such as the fact that I identify with Vaden more than any other heroine I’ve ever written. I
totally
would’ve had to have shaved Ransom to see what he looked like! I love fairy tales, nature, pumpkins, autumn, and children. I love walks and climbing trees and picking apples and the scent of homemade bread. I love geodes, my uncles, pretty little snippets of poetry, pralines—and the list goes on and on. I also love, love, love the name Ransom Lake and the nickname Handsome Ransom.

Which that reminds me of something else I think I might just share with you—a true little story of my own Handsome Ransom and a kiss that was years and years in coming. I don’t remember exactly when I wrote this thingy (for a blog), but I’ll share it with you again (even though it makes me blush to think about it). It’s entitled:

Handsome Ransom

(The story behind the name.)

Of all the heroes borne of my imagination, the overall popular one, the one I am questioned about most often, has to be Ransom Lake. Anytime I’m in a gathering of friends and readers, the majority of them confess to me that Ransom Lake is one of their favorites, if not favorite, hero. Truth be told, Ransom Lake is my favorite hero too, probably because he is nearly the personification of my husband Kevin in looks, sense of humor, and otherwise. When I envision Ransom, I see Kevin in my mind’s eye, speaking in a rather Sam Elliott-ish voice. Yes, I would have to admit, Ransom Lake is definitely a kindred spirit with my husband. However, it is true the name Ransom Lake sprung from a vastly different venue—different perhaps, but romantic in its own right.

Although I have mentioned before what, or rather who, inspired the name, I’ve been so bombarded with so many questions about how I came up with it that I thought it might be time to tell the tale, anticlimactic though it may be. (But I hope it’s not!) Yes, there was an actual person in my life who I often referred to as Handsome Ransom. Handsome Ransom was a nickname I coined as my own personal endearment to him. And yes, there was one delightful moment in time when we shared a kiss. Actually, shared might not be the right word, for as I remember the moment, I was rather stunned to the toe-seams in my pantyhose when it happened!

We begin in 1977 (this kiss was a
long
time coming). I was a shy, rather self-conscious adolescent, with the worst excuse for a Farrah Fawcett-knockoff hairstyle you could’ve ever imagined. Likewise I was a comic, sometimes intentionally so, sometimes unintentionally so, and I was just starting the big middle school scene as a seventh grader. Ah, yes, good ol’ Taft Middle School in Albuquerque. This is where it all began—my renowned relationship with the (at the time) adorably cute, shall we call him, for anonymity’s sake, “Tom” Ransom. One of the only blonde boys that ever managed to turn my head, Tom Ransom shared my sense of humor and, more often than not, my row in class. Yes, Marcia Reed and Tom Ransom, fellow class clowns almost always seated together in classes due to the alphabetical order of their last names. And let me tell you, we were quite a duo! We caused a fair amount of mischief in our day, specifically in typing class and language arts. To put it simply, we were kindred spirits, two peas in a pod, two inelegant seventh grade stand-up comedians who became fast friends. I dubbed him “Handsome Ransom,” and we stayed good friends all through the seventh grade and the entirety of the eighth.

Still, teenagers are so often the victims of peer pressure, social circles, and not to mention acne. Tom and I left the eighth grade in May of 1979 as good friends, but when Valley High School became my future alma mater the next August, some things had changed.

Age fourteen and the onset of the ninth grade found me having to make some difficult decisions. Not only had all the boys I’d known the year before grown six inches to a foot over the summer, many of the kids I’d counted as friends and hung out with in middle school were now the “party” people. Leaping into sports, adolescent arrogance, and the “party” mentality, my old friends, I found, were on the other side of the fence. My side of the fence was the green-growing pasture where crazy fun, music, church friends who attended other high schools, and no drugs or drinking was the grass for grazing. My friends now grazed in brown fields of rebellion, drugs, and drinking.

Back in Albuquerque in the early 1980s, you couldn’t sit the fence—you were on one side or the other. Not that you couldn’t be casual friends with everyone, but as far as good, solid relationships went, well, I was more than just sad to see my relationships with what had been such a good group of friends change to a more awkward, less comfortable type of existence.

Tom Ransom, though not the partier most of my friends had become, was still all “jock,” a rebel, and a cliché bad boy (the rather heroic kind we girls all dream about—not the truly bad ones). He quickly became one of the most popular and handsome boys in school, the kind all the girls clamor for attention from. Still, even though his side of the fence had become different than mine, somehow we both managed to straddle it enough to have a good time together in classes. Another “R” name had been added to the list of kids slated to graduate in 1983, and that sort of busted up our capability of sitting right in front or in back of each other. Still, we managed, awkwardly talking over the new “R” kid’s head or around her. Once in a while we got lucky and the seating arrangements would sit us parallel to one another, only an aisle separating us. This turned out to be the best seating arrangement, conducive to note passing, test questions and candy sharing, and, now that we were full-fledged teenagers, profuse flirtation! Yep, somewhere along the line, Tom and I had begun to mature into more than just fellow comedians; we were shameless flirts with each other. I blush to think of it now, but we did an aircraft carrier of flirting.

On we paddled through the first two years of high school and into the third, always passing notes, cutting up, and flirting like idiots. I remember how Tom used to suck on these round, flat lollipops in English and then reach over and stick them on my face. Inevitably I’d break out with a rash of tiny little pimples, which formed a perfectly round sucker-shape on my cheek each time. Fortunately, I had good skin and was able to recover fairly quickly from these incidents.

Through it all, Tom and I stayed close in a manner. Oh, we didn’t hang out outside of school or anything, but at school and in any classes we shared, we always had a great time.

Junior year arrived, and Tom and I had only one class together—a zoology class taught by my very favorite teacher, Mr. Gunner. Zoology was awesome! We dissected sharks that year, and our hands stunk for days. It was great! But the best parts about that class were the people. I was a junior and already moving on in my mind, past senior year and onto college and life. While most others at my high school in 1982 seemed to pause, uncertain of what direction to take, I had become confident, seasoned, and ready to move on. I’d leapt over some fences and was sprinting headlong to whatever life held for me. This newfound confidence gave me wings to rise above feeling nervous or uncomfortable in the presences of those who had been good friends and no longer were. I found fear was vanquished in favor of determination and self-assurance. I had also been through a very dramatic romantic relationship and knew for certain what I did and did not want in that venue as well. Thus, I was able to completely be myself in zoology. (It helped that I was one of Mr. Gunner’s pet students too. I think I could’ve gotten away with murder.)

Yep, for five years I had known old “Handsome Ransom.” For five years I’d secreted a sort of odd crush on him—sighing over him one moment and thinking he was far too skinny the next. Still, I knew I’d always adore him—knew likewise I’d always feel rather cheated at not having had any sort of romantic interlude with him.

No romantic interlude? Now there’s naiveté for you! Looking back, it’s so very obvious we spent our entire four years at high school waltzing around in our own kind of interlude of romance. For cryin’ out loud! Neither one of us ever got anything done in the classes we had together. Both of us were constantly being reprimanded for talking or cutting up. As I was absolutely drowning in the romantic waltz, I couldn’t see it for the water. I couldn’t see it, that is, until one memorable day in Mr. Gunner’s zoology class.

Let me set the scene of romance for you—Valley High School, one hot, Albuquerque day. Having recently finished up our work on molds and spores, Mr. Gunner was preparing our class for our fish test, as he liked to call it. Thus the room was lined with jars filled with formaldehyde and every kind of fish a person could imagine. (Mr. Gunner’s room always smelled weird, by the way.) Anywho, I walked into Mr. Gunner’s classroom one day, and another boy named Sean Hasten began slathering me with his rather monotonous flirtations. (At one point, I had actually sort of liked this other boy—until he turned out to be a lecherous jerk. But that’s another story.) Mr. Gunner was in the back working on something for our fish test (most certainly a dead fish of some sort), and everyone was just sort of milling around out of their seats and goofing off. Irritated with the uncomfortable attentions of “lecherous jerk” Sean, I wandered toward the front of the room, out of his reach, to sharpen a pencil. (Back in the day, every classroom had a pencil sharpener mounted on the wall. Not sure they do that now with mechanical pencils so easily available.)

Now, in the interest of making this story as engaging as I can, I’ve chosen to write the following scene just as it happened. If it sounds like something you’ve read in one of my books, that’s probably because it may very well be that you have.

Marcia inhaled deeply, attempting to calm her rather rattled nerves.
I can’t believe I ever thought that guy was cute!
she whispered to herself.
What a jerk.
She was
relieved Sean Hasten had given up on making any more advances toward her—at least for the time being.

“
Hi,” he said, stepping in her path. It was Tom Ransom now that stood before her, his brilliantly white teeth flashing a dazzling smile.

“
Hi, Tom,” Marcia greeted, relieved and rather delighted to find Handsome Ransom in her path. Tom Ransom, “Handsome Ransom,” as she’d always called him, was such a way good-looking guy! Oh, sure, he was a bit on the skinny side, but what high school varsity basketball player wasn’t? And anyway, he was way handsome, with his feathery blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and perfect smile. Yep! The boy had an awesome orthodontist, whoever he was.

“
What’re you doing?” Tom asked.

“
Sharpening,” Marcia responded. However, a puzzled frown puckered her brow when the handsome Tom Ransom stepped closer to her rather than moving out of her way.

“
Oh,” he said. Marcia took several steps back, but he only continued to advance upon her—like some lean, resolute lion progressing on his prey.

“
Well…you know, Marcia,” Tom began as Marcia’s retreat was stopped cold when the wall behind her abruptly met with her back. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“
Really?” Marcia managed to gulp in a whisper. Her heart’s pace had sped up. She sensed something was about to happen—though she didn’t know what.

“
Yeah,” Tom whispered, his voice quiet and low, a rather seductive quality in its intonation.

“
Wh-what’s that?” Marcia asked. She couldn’t believe what was happening! Surely she wasn’t misreading the expression on his face—his rather intimate body language. But as he placed his hands against the wall at either side of her waist, pressing his body firmly against her own, Marcia was further assured of his intention.

Oh my heck!
she thought.
He’s going to kiss me!

Tom grinned the famous “Handsome Ransom” roguish grin, which Marcia had come to know so well. It was the same grin he grinned each time before he’d stuck his suckers to her face in English class the year before. The same grin he grinned whenever he was flirting with her.