The novel, Old Broad Road, is a realistic
portrayal of a middle-aged woman on the run in an unfamiliar setting.
***
My eyes closed against the sudden brilliance of the bathroom
light. Unsteady, I clutched the side of
the sink and squinted at the tormented reflection in the small motel
mirror. If only it were just a nightmare
and not a memory.
Holding a wet washcloth against my face and the back of my neck
calmed my panic. I peeled off my
nightgown and reached for a towel.
Back in the shadowy room I slipped another gown over my head. Avoiding the damp sheets, I crawled into the
opposite side of the bed and closed my eyes.
The disturbing scene continued to haunt me. Even summoning images of the majestic
coastline did little to rid my mind of the numbing memory.
Resigned to another sleepless night, I turned on the lamp and threw
back the covers. With an impatient tug
on the belt of my robe, I began the chronic ritual of pacing the floor – my
arms wrapped tightly around my body.
My grown children and my friend−my best friend Maggie−thought I had
lost my mind. They seemed to think I
would do something crazy. Crazy? Like what?
Kill myself?
These last few months I had shut myself off from the rest of the
world. My integrity was shattered; my
life was a sham. No one knew the
truth. Not Darlene. Not Dan.
Not Maggie. No one.
My chest tightened at the thought of returning to Toronto. Silent words ricocheted off the four
walls. I nodded my head with inner
reasoning, knowing that a new start was the only answer.
This resolution, followed by two quick intakes of breath, brought my
pacing to a halt. My hands shook with
the enormity of my decision to abandon my family for a future in
Newfoundland.
Taking care not to shatter the miniature carafe against the tap, I
prepared coffee. While the brew
sputtered, I reached for the discarded local paper. The sports section floated to the floor while
I clung to the smudged newsprint marking the ad I had noticed the day
before. The realty advertisement. Hunching forward, I scanned the listing, my
finger stuttering across the page.
Two acres on Old Broad
Road, a rural property located in Chapel’s Cove, on the Admiral’s Coast between
Avondale and Holyrood.
Old Broad Road. As soon as I saw the
listing, I knew it was for me.
***
“Let’s check the property first,” I called back over my shoulder,
without a sideways glance at the empty house.
The smell of wet vegetation and seawater created a nervous flutter within
me and an urgent need to explore. Seeing
the salt-water bay, overlooked by jagged rocks, calmed me in spite of the
exhilaration I felt.
The real estate agent made impatient but gentle exclamations to get
my attention. “Miz Kramer? You’re not dressed for this damp
marnin’. Let’s go in, now,” he urged in
his lilting pitch.
This waterfront property on the southern tip of Conception Bay was
as close to paradise as I could imagine.
A small community of a few hundred homes scattered along the shore and
inland.
My stomach churned at the thought of what I was doing. A fear of being sick in front of this
stranger was a growing worry, but there was no turning back. Chapel’s Cove would be my refuge. I refused to dwell on the anticipated
backlash of Dan and Darlene. My mind was
already made up!
“Yes, this is it. I’m
sure.” I nodded toward the view.
His eyes widened and he took a small step forward, an incredulous
expression on his face.
“You haven’t seen the inside of the house. That’s where all the work is, maid. ’Tis fairly isolated here and I don’t think
you know what our winters are like,” he fussed.
The representative’s strong east-coast accent made him difficult to
understand. “You’d be lonely as a gull
on a rock livin’ ’ere.”
“If I didn’t know better I would think you didn’t want to make a
sale this morning.” My voice inflected a
haughty tone – one I had perfected over the years.
Turning toward the abandoned house, I glanced down at my sodden
canvas shoes feeling the wetness soak through to my socks. The rain had stopped and I closed my eyes and
inhaled. The smell of the damp earth
aroused a childhood memory of shiny worms inching across a wet sidewalk. Recollections of my childhood or, indeed, my
life before I became Mrs. Paul Kramer, were rare.
A cool wet breeze ruffled my hair and moistened my skin. I turned back to the magnificent view, now
blurred through tear-stung eyes. Looking
down at my arms, I noticed the mist settling into the fine wrinkles of my
relaxed skin. The agent, his head angled
to the left, ended my wandering thoughts with a dubious look.
“I plan on checking the house,” I assured him. “But this view is hard to pass up, Mr.
Howard.” A cajoling look softened my
brusque manner.
Turning away from the crest of the craggy coastline once again, I
looked up at the brown weathered edifice.
Clinging to the back of the house was a wooden deck atop supports from
the sloped landscape. Its stilt-like structure
appeared to tremble as the breeze grew stronger.
Delighted with the natural rugged property, I did not look forward
to going inside the house, which at a glance looked old and unloved − much like
the way I felt. Water-drenched weeds
tangled around my ankles, coaxing me back to the panoramic shoreline, yet I
reluctantly began my approach to the dwelling.
Seeing the decaying bottom step of the raised deck, I changed direction
and led the way to the front of the house.
Through the open screen door, the battered inside entry with its
peeling paint, added to the general tired appearance. I was beginning to understand the realtor’s scepticism.
Author: Phyllis Humby
Hi
Audrey,
Here is my submission. It is the prologue and a bit of the first
chapter of my first (and unpublished) novel, Old Broad Road.
I live in a rural area
and so a picture was a puzzle. However, I sent a picture taken from our
backyard showing the fields beyond. That should work!
Cheers,
Phyllis
Camlachie, ON
Visit The Write Break
at phyllishumby.blogspot.com
Hope
you Like my facebook page at facebook.com/TheWriteBreak
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