A novel about an Italian American
 who finds it impossible 
to mind her own business


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Now Available at Amazon.com




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ABOUT THE AUTHOR



Rose Marie Boyd, a graduate of Trenton State College, resides in Arizona. The author enjoys reading, writing poetry, painting and taking long walks. She is also an avid tennis player.

You can access information
about her previous novel, 
THE SPAGHETTI SET, Family Served Italian Style 



 You can read her poetry blog,

“ROSE’S UNIQUE POEMS”, 

The author appreciates feedback from her readers. Comments or questions regarding her novel Depending on Your View may be emailed to: dependingonyourview@gmail.com

TV INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR ROSE MARIE BOYD


ABOUT THE BOOK

Prescott's Courthouse Square



DEPENDING ON YOUR VIEW
A Snoopaholic's Quandary


Maria Montagna is in a funk. Early retirement in Prescott, Arizona hasn’t turned out to be as wonderful as her husband Jack predicted. The Italian American from New Jersey considers her current small-town life to be humdrum.

But then, during the wee hours of a moonlit night, insomnia sets the stage for some excitement.  Stepping outside to cool off from a hot flash, Maria spots a man barging into her neighbors’ house. Too curious about what might be going on behind their closed doors, she can’t stop herself from keeping tabs on Denise and Bob Bendon.

As the young couple’s troubles go from bad to worse, Maria itches to get involved.Should she meddle in the Bendons’ affairs or should she mind her own business?

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You might ask the author, “Is your novel about a menopausal busybody with questionable intentions or is your book about a concerned neighbor with a noble cause?”

"Hmm,” she’d reply, “that really depends upon your view.”



Prescott's Watson Lake


Chapter One Preview


Prescott's Bradshaw Mountains

DEPENDING ON YOUR VIEW
A Snoopaholic's Quandary

CHAPTER ONE

Maria Montagna looked out the living room window and spotted a roadrunner scampering across their front yard. The bird paused on a boulder, providing her with a perfect photo opportunity.
She scooped up her digital camera, a recent yard-sale-find, and hit the power button. A close-up of the bird would require use of the camera’s zoom feature. But she didn’t know how to activate it.
The roadrunner took off just as she figured it out.
“Oh well,” she murmured, “it’ll be back.”
She aimed the camera at the broader landscape and checked the display panel. The Bendons’ rooftop rose in the forefront, its chimney clearly outlined. But the plant life on the Bradshaw Mountains beyond it didn’t stand out. The pine trees and scrub oak clearly visible through her bird-watching binoculars blurred into a lumpy carpet of green.
You get what you pay for, she thought as she tossed the camera onto the seat of a nearby armchair.
She pushed up her bifocals and followed the rise and fall of the mountaintops. The longer she squinted at the mounds, the more she was reminded of rolling waves. Il mare, the sea.
She closed her eyes and pictured the Atlantic Ocean. She recalled the taste of salt on her lips…the feel of sand between her toes…the scent of fresh fish on the grill…the sound of family and friends at seaside reunions.
She reopened her eyes and, sneering at the high-desert mountains, muttered, “A sea without water, humph.” She turned toward her husband and, throwing up her hands, questioned what good this waterless sea did for her, “Che bene mi fa?”
“Huh?” Jack lowered the TV’s volume. “What’d you say?”
Che bene mi fa?” she repeated, knowing full well he was incapable of giving her a satisfactory answer. He’d never understand how staring at the Bradshaw Mountains made her miss the Atlantic Ocean and the people who shared her love of it, even if she explained it to him in English.
“There you go with the Italian again,” he croaked in a New Jersey accent thicker than hers. “Who you trying to impress?”
“Just practicing,” she retorted. What you don’t use, you lose.”
“I think you oughta lose it.”
“Hey, if I wanna throw out some Italian now and again, you can’t stop me.”
“Mexican’s more useful ’round here,” he declared.
“You go right ahead and learn it. I’m sticking to Italian.”
“Suit yourself.”
She turned back to the window in time to catch a covey of quail flitting from one juniper to another. As the smallest bird disappeared under its branches, she heard the feathered sultan and his harem squawking. She wondered what was going on in the privacy of their tent. But her imagination failed her. It came up empty.
She again faced Jack and whined, “I’m so bored. Nothing ever happens around here.”
“What’d you expect to happen?”
“Something more exciting than quails playing hide and seek.”
“Thought you liked watching the goo-goo birds.”
“I do. But I’d like to see people once in a while.” She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I miss our old neighborhood.”
She stopped short of admitting how much she missed overhearing business negotiations, heated arguments and lovers’ spats between their Italian American paesani, all from the convenience of her New Jersey front stoop. She wished their Prescott neighbors left their windows wide open or sat on their porches. But, even if they did, their houses were too far apart for effective eavesdropping, and their personalities too dull to be entertaining.
“There was always something going on in the hood,” she lamented.
“Like what, gang fights and muggings?”
Mamma mia! You know that’s not what I meant.”
He switched off the television. “How ’bout we go to the Courthouse Square tomorrow?”
“Nice try, Jack,” replied Maria. “But no thanks.”
“Why not? You was dying to go this morning.”
She folded her arms under her bosom. “I told you today was the last day for the craft fair.”
“Better yet. Less tourists tomorrow.”
“For sure,” griped Maria. “Nobody hangs at the square on a weekday except stoned drifters and old geezers dragging their precious mutts around by the collar. Better watch where you step.”
“We don’t need to walk around. We can relax on a bench,” suggested Jack.
“Sounds exciting. But I think I’ll pass. I’d feel out of place in heaven’s waiting room.”
“What’re you talking ’bout? If you didn’t dye your hair brown, you’d fit right in.”
She lifted a lock of her pageboy. “For your information, Mister, this shade’s chestnut, not brown. And, while we’re on the subject of hair, let’s talk about what’s left of yours. Not much as far as I can tell.”
“So?” Jack ran his fingers over his thinning patch. “Maybe I’ll shave it off.”
“You a skinhead?” she laughed. “Next you’ll be telling me you want a motorcycle.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Pfft!” She waved off the absurdity of it.
“Plenty Joes my age ride ’round here.”
“Yeah, old farts with gray ponytails pretending to be Hell’s Angels. If you ask me, Prescott doesn’t have enough young people.”
“What? This town’s got three colleges and a whole herd of Mexicans spitting out babies left and right.” He flipped a thick-knuckled hand toward the front window. “We even got us a young family living right ’cross the street.”
“Who, the Bendons? I hardly ever see the hermit crabs,” complained Maria. “You’d think they were hiding from the law or something.”
“Maybe they are.”
Her eyes opened wider. “Pensi? You really think so?”
“God, you’re such an easy mark.” He stood up and sucking in his gut, hiked up his Bermuda shorts. “If I told you they was under witness protection, would you believe that too?”
She twisted back toward the window and consider the possibility, but then shrugged it off.
Jack approached her. “Come on, Pumpkin.” He placed an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her closer. “Let’s go sit outside and watch the sun set.”
She patted his hand. “Sure, why not?” Maybe I can catch a glimpse of the Bendons through their window blinds.
    As Jack nudged her toward the door, she reached for her binoculars. But they weren’t in their usual place on the sill.


Arts & Craft Festival at Prescott's Courthouse Square



Chapter Two Preview

Prescott's Whiskey Row

DEPENDING ON YOUR VIEW
A Snoopaholic's Quandary


CHAPTER TWO


Bob Bendon slouched on the patio lounger. His skin and the bottle he clutched were coated with sweat.
He had already consumed enough beer to tranquilize a shorter man. But he wanted more. No, he needed more, a heck of a lot more. He needed it to squash his dark thoughts about the past…the present…the future. They came and went one after the other like the ants crawling in and out of the potato chip bag he had dropped to the patio.
He downed the last of the beer then tossed the empty bottle across the yard. It landed against a Russian sage.
A lizard emerged from under its lavender blooms and scooted beneath the branches of a nearby manzanita.
Bob reached for a handful of stone and threw it at the second bush. “Go on. Get the hell out of here!”
The lizard sprang out and squeezed between two boulders.
Nobody ever listens to me.
Bob struggled up from the lounger, stomped on the ant-infested bag and then trudged into the house. Finding his wife and kids nowhere in sight, he plodded toward the kitchen, the refrigerator, his next bottle of Heineken.

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Denise Bendon sat alongside her preschooler on his captain’s bed. She turned to the last page of his favorite book, Dr. Suess’s Green Eggs and Ham, and read it to him.
“The end,” she said as she clamped the book shut.
She stood up and placed it on the beside table, next to an auditory monitor, a replica of the one in her toddler’s bedroom.
“Don’t go Mommy,” he pleaded. “Read it again.”
“No, Bobby.” She tightened her platinum ponytail. “Once is way more than enough.”
He sprung up from his pillow, the bounce of his kinky mane a reminder that he was overdue for a haircut. “Can we play a game?”
She pushed the room-darkening shade closer to the window. “No. Mommy’s too tired.” She moved in to give him a goodnight kiss.
He grinned up at her. “You don’t look tired to me.”
Denise realized she was beyond tired that evening. The role of the good mother was draining the life out of her. She would never botch her lines or walk off stage during a performance. But she needed an intermission, the sooner the better.
“Believe me. Mommy’s so tired she could fall asleep standing on her head.”
“I’m not,” giggled Bobby. He slipped out from beneath the sheet and attempted a headstand.
“All right. That’s enough.” She got him to settle down and handed him a few picture books. “Here you go. Read these until you get sleepy.”
“I want juice.”
“No, you’ve already brushed your teeth.”
“I’m thirsty. I’m thirsty.”
“Then Mommy will get you a cup of water. I’ll be right back.”
Denise didn’t blame him for stalling. She put both children to bed earlier than usual to spare them from witnessing another senseless quarrel.
Her toddler had zonked out as soon as her curls hit the pillow. Danielle’s easy, she thought as she dragged her feet down the hallway. But Bobby’s another story. She prayed that by some miracle he’d be sound asleep when she returned with the water.
I need to relax. God, I hope their father will let me.
Denise entered the kitchen to fetch the water for Bobby. But Bob’s grumblings distracted her from the task.
What’s his problem now?
She glanced over the granite counter into the great room. Her husband was there turning in a circle as he struggled to pull his polo shirt from his kakis. How pathetic. He looks like a dog chasing its own tail.
“Dumb, stupid-ass shirt,” mumbled Bob as he yanked the last of its hem free. He raked his fingers through his hair. His dirty-blond cowlick refused to be tamed. It snapped back up in defiance.
He then flopped down onto his throne and, raising its footrest, waved the TV's remote like a scepter. He clicked from station to station until he chanced upon one broadcasting a war movie. Gunfire exploded from the speakers as he downed the last of his Heineken.
Denise clenched her fists. “Please lower the volume, Bob. The kids are in bed.”
He dropped the empty bottle and, ignoring her request, ordered, "Get me another beer."
Denise wanted to shake him by the shoulders, insist he tell her what was really bothering him. If he got it off his hairless chest, he might stop drinking so much and lighten up on her. But she knew he’d never leak such top-secret information.
“Where’s my beer?” growled Bob.
“Give me a minute. I need to get Bobby some water.”
“Hey, who pays the bills around here, him or me?”
She dug her fingernails deeper into her palms. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just get me my damn beer.”
“God forbid the master of the house should have to wait.”
Bob reached for the empty bottle beside his recliner and hurled it over the counter at her. The bottle whooshed over her head and then bounced off the stainless steel refrigerator. It crashed down to the tile, shattering into pieces.
“All right, calm down. I’ll get you your precious beer.”
Denise scraped the glass aside and, opening the refrigerator door, latched a shaky hand onto another Heineken. She twisted off the cap, spit into the bottle and wiped all evidence from the rim.
She asked herself why she stayed with Bob.
Bobby whined for her, “Maaaah-meeee.”
Reason enough?
Denise delivered the beer to Bob. “Here you go.”
He snatched it out of her hand and, without even a nod of thanks, returned his attention to the television screen.
She glared at him. Ungrateful lush.
She then fetched the water for Bobby and, after letting him take a few sips, gave him a peck on the forehead. “Sleep tight, happy dreams.”
Denise pondered a temporary escape as she headed back to the kitchen. She rejected the option of waking her toddler and carting both children to Walmart or the booth of a fast food restaurant. Dealing with her daughter’s crankiness and her son’s tantrums would be no less taxing than running a marathon with two screeching monkeys strapped to her back. Besides, she’d never be able to sneak by Bob with both kids in tow. She’d wait until later, after Bobby fell asleep and Bob passed out.
No one will ever miss me.
She licked her lips as she pictured the stretch of bars along Whiskey Row. A stranger in the seediest tavern would flirt with her. He would order her a stiff drink. She imagined where it might lead.
The automatic icemaker dropped a frozen load, its clatter snapping her back to reality. Denise knew she would never cheat on Bob. Fidelity was something she didn’t take lightly.
It would also be irresponsible to skip out on the children. Bobby or Danielle might wake up crying for their Mommy. No matter how much she wanted to get away from it all, the ankle bracelet of responsibility was too strong a deterrent. There was no choice but to stay cooped up under house arrest.
Denise retrieved the dustpan and broom from the walk-in pantry and swept up the remnants of the shattered bottle. It would be awful if one of the children were to encounter a sharp piece of glass.
She carried the loaded dustpan to the trashcan and lifted the lid. The stench of rotting food accosted her nostrils.
Her grandmother used to say bad smells were premonitions of worse things to come. How much worse can it get around here?
She emptied the dustpan into the trashcan and then pulled at the plastic liner’s drawstring. But the bag held tight. It refused to lift out. She wedged a foot against the canister’s bottom lip and, determined to remove the foul omen from the house, yanked even harder on the drawstring. The bag finally gave way, the momentum springing her backwards into Bob who had just then staggered into the kitchen.
“Hey!” he barked. “What the hell’re you doing?”
She raised the garbage bag higher. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”
Bob shoved her aside. “Go on. Get out of my way.”
He opened the refrigerator door and, grabbing another bottle of beer, shook it at her. “Don’t mess with me tonight.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
She watched him stumble away and then, with bitterness oozing from her pores, lugged the garbage bag into the garage.
 It was darker and stuffier in there.
She squeezed past her Audi and made her way to the trash bin. She lifted the lid, only to be accosted by an even more horrendous reek.
She pictured her grandmother tapping her nose as a warning.
God! I need some fresh air.
Denise dumped the bag into the bin and then pressed the button for the automatic garage door opener. The motor activated and its attached light fixture flashed on, its glow brightening the garage.
A toy soldier was lying on the cement floor by the driver’s side of her Audi. She headed over to retrieve the toy and, while the garage door was still grinding open, latched onto the car’s door handle for support.
She was about to stoop down. But, before she could bend her tired knees, something grabbed hold of her ponytail. Her head snapped back.
     "Where do you think you're going?"



    


Prescott's Thumb Butte