Good Vibrations excerpt

Duh, I forgot to put the cover in the last blog. Here it is. I love what Trace did with the title.

When Sunny McCafferty heads off to protest at the 1968 Democratic Convention, the last person she expects to meet, much less fall for, is a wounded Vietnam vet.

Not all of Joe Marcellino's wounds are on the outside. Being with Sunny makes him feel alive again.

A Vietnam vet. A beautiful peacnik. Can two people on opposite sides of a bitter divide make a go of it and create good vibrations?

Genres: Nostalgic Contemporary (1960s-era) / Exhibitionism / Public Places
Heat Level: 2

Excerpt:

Grand Central Terminal, New York City, August 1968

"Your train is leaving on Track 13, sir," the attendant said as he slipped the train
ticket across the counter.

Joe grimaced and pocketed it. "Great," he muttered under his breath as he turned
to leave. He'd been dogged by bad luck all year, ever since he was shot during the
Tet offensive. "Should have taken a plane instead."

He grabbed his duffel bag with his left hand, leaned on his cane with the right one,
and headed across the Main Concourse toward the information booth in the
center. The place must have been something to see in its heyday, but age and
neglect showed everywhere. The huge Kodak sign over the East Balcony blocked
the sun and added a note of tackiness. Ditto for the model hawking the latest
model Cadillac.

He glanced up at the windows and ceiling high above. His dad had come through
here on his way home from WWII and raved about the station. "Don't forget to
look at the ceiling," he'd told Joe over the phone just the other day. Joe glanced
up, but the mural of the heavens was dimmed by years of grime. Yet another
difference between his homecoming and his dad's.

The station wasn't crowded. Hell, the few people there seemed lost in the
cavernous space, but he was aware of the stares that followed his slow progress.
He hobbled along, back rigid and eyes straight ahead. He hated the stares. Some
were merely curious, others hostile. Worst of all was the pity he saw in some
faces.

It would have been just as bad at the airport, he told himself. Worse, maybe, since
there would be more people and a longer walk. And there was no way in hell he
could bend his injured leg enough to sit in an airplane seat. The train should be
better.

He hated wearing his uniform in public, but he'd had no choice. Not if he wanted
his military discount. Besides, all his civvies were at home in Chicago. Along
with his huge family eagerly waiting to welcome their wounded hero home.
They'd shower him with love and attention and food until he was ready to scream.
He loved the hell out of them, but his loving, smothering family was one of the
reasons he'd joined the Army after finishing college.

When he arrived at the gate area, he checked in with the New York Central
conductor for his train ticket, then stood in line to check in with the Pullman
porter. He'd reserved a roomette, a small second class sleeping room for one
person, insuring room to stretch his leg and privacy for most of the journey.

"Do you have any checked baggage?" a porter asked.

"No, just my duffel bag," Joe replied.

"I can take that for you, sir."

Joe handed over the bag and told the porter his room number. He could manage
the bag, but the porter probably needed the work. Not many people took the trains
any more.

He turned to head toward Track 13 and saw her. It was hard to miss her, from the
top of her head, covered with wavy red hair, to the impossibly long legs revealed
by her short tan wraparound skirt. His breath caught as he surveyed her. A finer
example of American womanhood, he'd not seen in years. She was tall, only three
or four inches shorter than his five feet eleven inches. She turned and saw him and
smiled. He nodded and smiled back, his heart suddenly racing. Hers was the
first friendly face he'd seen all day. He read no curiosity, no hostility, no pity in
her expression, just open friendliness.

He headed down the walkway and she fell into step with him, letting the other
passengers rush by them. They walked in silence for a few minutes while he tried
not to stare at her breasts as they swayed gently with her every step. He was pretty
sure she wasn't wearing a bra under the embroidered peasant blouse that had
slipped off one shoulder.

God bless America. Land of free love and home of the braless.