Ordinary Thoughts, Essays and Short Stories

Author: Virginia Boshears (Page 1 of 8)

Motivation, Where Art Thou?


Upon retirement, my bucket list consisted of nothing more than the first drafts of two novels I wanted to finish. Last month, I exceeded that goal by publishing a third book. I had a lot of fun writing it, just as I enjoyed writing the first two. And once all the dreadful editing was done, getting those books released into the world was just as fulfilling as I’d hoped. 

But now I’m feeling sort of…oh, I don’t know…blah, I guess. It’s not that I don’t want to write. I do. I love writing. When I’m in the throes of it, I get swept away, and it’s like my ADHD goes out the window. Even time ceases to exist. Writing is a wonderful escape, but it’s not something I can do simply by snapping my fingers. The muse shows up at her pleasure…not mine. Currently, she’s nowhere to be found, and the idea of trying to crank out anything creative makes my brain hurt. I do have some thoughts about my next project — and there’s no rush since I make my own schedule — so I don’t know why the fact that I’m not yet banging away at it bothers me so. 

It may have something to do with the fact that I have an abundance of unfettered time to do as I please, and it bugs me when I can’t get myself to put it to good use. And by good use, I don’t mean the laundry list of To-Do’s around the house and property. I mean writing…or more precisely…writing something worth reading. 

Last year, I blogged about the fact that I felt I wasn’t doing as much as I “should” with my free time. In that post, I mentioned a Come-to-Jesus talk that helped me decide to stop worrying about meeting some arbitrary standard. It would seem, though, that I’m having trouble following through. What looked good on paper, and even felt right at the time, is a lot tougher to put into practice than I expected.

I’ve been at this retirement gig for four years, and you’d think I’d have it mastered by now. At what point do I stop feeling guilty for not being busy 24/7? I have no doubt I’ll get going on the aforementioned project at some point, and intellectually, I know it’s okay to take a creativity break. A long one, even. I’ve just got to get over this idea that I’m wasting precious time by doing the mundane things that bring me joy…like reading, playing word games, lazing on the porch swing, and taking the occasional day trip. Truth be told, those sorts of relaxing activities are some of the main attractions of retirement. At least they are for me.

As I write this, I can’t believe I’m literally complaining about the luxury of having free time. I mean…how messed up is that? I’m usually such an optimist, but on occasion, that stupid negativity just grabs hold and refuses to let go. 

I have a feeling it may be time for another Come-to-Jesus talk.


I’m pleased to share that my first three novels are available on Amazon.

For information and purchase options, click here.

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A year ago today, our hearts were broken. Saying goodbye to our sweet boy, Smoke, was devastating. It’s always that way when you lose a pet.

We adored all the cats we had through the years – as noted in one of my previous posts here – but when it came to Smoke, the loss hit us especially hard. We could never quite put our finger on it, but there was just something different – something special – about Smoke. 

I used to say he must have been a puppy in another life because he was so much more affectionate than the other cats we’d had. He was extremely skittish around other people, but when it came to me and my husband, he absolutely loved being on one of our laps or in bed with us. If we were too busy to accommodate him, he’d often sit and watch what we were doing — frankly, I think he liked to supervise — or he’d curl up and nap nearby so he could still be close to one of us. And when we’d return from being gone for any length of time, he’d unabashedly let us know how much we were missed. 

The amount of joy he brought to our lives was immeasurable, and a year after his passing, we still feel the void. It’s been particularly tough for me the past several months because I decided to take my aunt’s advice and write a book about Smoke. Doing so has kept his life — and our loss — front and center. I’ve cried more during this time than I did right after he died. But no matter how raw I’ve felt, I’m so glad I listened to my aunt. Reliving parts of our life with Smoke has been bittersweet…heart-wrenching and wonderful, all at the same time. 

The book, Smoke – A Cat’s Tale, is finally finished and has been released into the world. While it’s fiction, there’s a lot of truth scattered throughout, and I think it paints a pretty good picture of what Smoke’s life was like. At least that’s the way I heard it when he was whispering in my ear as I pounded away at the keyboard. 

I hope you’ll consider reading the book and spending a little time getting to know Smoke and his friends. The link below will take you to it, and if you have Kindle Unlimited, you can read it for free. It’s not a kid’s book; it’s merely a story where most of the people in it aren’t actually people. And even though it’s sad in places, don’t worry…it really does have a happy ending. 

My one wish is that this book will do a proper job of honoring Smoke’s memory. It’s the very least I could do for such a beloved boy. 


For information and purchase options, click here.


I’m pleased to share that my first three novels are available on Amazon.

For information and purchase options, click here.

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Charge It!


After recently reading a Facebook post about music, I commented that I like to listen to ‘70s rock while doing stuff around the house. When I do that, I generally use earbuds so I don’t disturb my husband if he’s not in a particularly musical mood. I also mentioned that, at that very moment, I needed to clean the bathrooms, and I hoped my earbuds were charged. 

They were not. 

As I went about the oh-so-fascinating chore of cleaning the bathrooms – sans music because I didn’t want to drown out my husband’s TV program – I got to thinking about all the different wireless devices I own. There are the earbuds, of course (actually, I have two sets), but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Besides my phone, I have a face massager, a neck fan, a facial cleaner, a neck/back massager, an iPad keyboard, a cordless bathroom scrubber, a set of heated knee massagers, three iPads (excessive, I know), a hair trimmer, and even a heated eyelash curler. Oh, and don’t forget the portable power units that have to be kept fully charged in order to juice up my devices if the electricity goes out. 

I threw that list together off the top of my head, and when I realized I probably left out a few things, it made my head spin. And not in a fun way. 

I know many of the devices on that list come across as unnecessary luxuries, but as someone who enjoys spending a lot of time at home, it’s nice to have them at my disposal. What’s not so nice is the inevitable disappointment when I go to use something and find it’s dead as a doornail. 

Keeping the devices plugged in all the time would solve this issue, but having a lot of clutter around makes me anxious. Considering how many of these doodads I’ve got, they’d be scattered all through the house, and the very sight of them would eventually make my head implode. Still, I want to find some logical way to keep them charged. 

I think I’ve finally come up with a simple solution, and it was as obvious as the nose on my face. I already keep a daily planner for tasks and appointments, so I’ve entered “device charging” as an ongoing task. I’m staggering two or three per day throughout the week, and they can be done using only one or two outlets. That way, they’ll all get charged – and stay that way – and I won’t be faced with the bitter angst of not being able to use my earbuds. Or worse…not being able to curl my lashes. 

Am I aware that what I’ve got here is a First World problem not worthy of this level of concern? Why, yes. Yes, I am. But there are times when even trivial molehills turn into mental mountains. At least they do in my brain. So…First World problem or not…if I can come up with a doable solution, I consider it a successful day.

And can’t nobody take that away from me.


I’m pleased to share that my first three novels are available on Amazon.

For information and purchase options, click here.

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I will turn 69 next month, effectively putting an end to that same number of years on this planet. As I get ready to embark on my 70th trip around the sun, I can’t help but think back to previous birthdays and what they meant to me. 

While my sense of recall is flawed at best, a few birthdays over the years have left their marks. The first one I remember was when I turned nine. I was in the third grade, and my mom had agreed to let me have my first-ever birthday party. Nothing extravagant, of course…we didn’t have the money for that…but I was excited by the prospect of inviting a few friends over for cake and ice cream. Before we had a chance to even start planning, though, another girl invited all of our classmates to her birthday party. That might not have been a problem, but ironically, we shared the same birthday. Since she’d already invited everybody, Mom decided it would be in poor taste for me to have a party at or around the same time, so mine was canceled before it even got off the ground. And to add insult to injury, Mom said it would be impolite not to accept the other girl’s invitation. So not only did I not get to have a party of my own, I had to go celebrate someone else on what should have been my special day. Not gonna lie…that was a tough pill for this former nine-year-old to swallow. 

The next birthday of note was my 18th. My first husband and I, along with our infant daughter – yes, I was quite the young mama – had just moved from Indiana to Rhode Island. I don’t know if it was morbid curiosity or just my way of letting off steam, but since the legal drinking age there was 18, I decided to celebrate that birthday by getting plastered for the very first time. My husband started me off with sloe gin and Coke. At some point, I foolishly switched to straight gin, and the last thing I remember from that night was reading the TV Guide out loud to my husband. The next day was one of the sickest, most wretched days of my life. And deservedly so. I can say without reservation that I reaped what I sowed. To this day, I can’t even entertain the thought of drinking sloe gin.

The next twenty or so birthdays weren’t particularly memorable. Don’t get me wrong…my family has always made me feel special…but we don’t tend to throw big birthday bashes.

My 40th, though, kicked off a personal annual tradition. I took off work that day, had the house to myself, and did whatever I wanted…slept in, read, watched TV, and basically just chilled out. A lot of people seem to dread turning 40, but it didn’t bother me at all. 

Birthday 45 came a week before my mom passed away. Her final year had been filled with excruciating pain, and my dad, brother, and I pretty much lost ourselves in our efforts to keep her as comfortable as possible. She was our only concern. The last thing on my mind that year was my birthday, but it got celebrated anyway because that’s just the sort of loving family I have. One of my daughters even gave me a gift that held a unique meaning for me…a tambourine. Surprisingly, a birthday I didn’t think I cared about turned out to be extremely special. 

As I mentioned earlier, turning 40 was no big deal. But 46? That was a whole other story. I still remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror muttering to myself when my husband came in and asked what I was doing. I swung around and said, in a rather unfriendly tone, “I’m 50!”

“No,” he said. “You’re not. You’re only 46.”

“Everybody knows that 46 starts the downward spiral to 50,” I countered. “So that’s what I might as well say I am now. I’m 50.”

There was clearly no point in trying to convince me otherwise, so he wisely walked away and let me stew in my own grumpy juices. 

Funny thing is, when I finally did turn 50, it was totally anticlimactic. I’d already mourned my youth at 46, so when 50 officially showed up, it was a non-event. I didn’t feel “old.” I just felt like me. I do remember wondering how I might feel when 60 rolled around, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t consider myself old then, either. I had a feeling, though, that 70 might be another matter. 

And now, nearly two decades later, I’m almost there. Yes, technically that birthday is still thirteen months away, but my 70th year will launch when I hit 69 in a few weeks. 

As I revisit the thoughts I had back when I turned 50, I wonder how I’ll feel in a year. Physically, I have to confess I’m noticing the ravages of time. My joints started betraying me years ago, and they don’t seem to have any intentions of reverting to their glory days. And intellectually, I think I’ve been left in the dust when it comes to technology…something that’s pretty important to stay on top of these days.

Mentally, though, I don’t feel much different than I did in my 30’s and 40’s. The biggest change is that I finally feel emotionally settled. I worry less about things I can’t control, I try to notice and appreciate the little wonders in any given day, and I’m fully aware that I’m blessed beyond measure.

So, physical and intellectual issues aside, I’m feeling pretty good about approaching 70. The looming question now is…how will I feel when 80 is right around the corner?

I guess only time will tell.


I’m pleased to share that my first two novels are available on Amazon. For information and purchase options, click here.

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Happy Christmas!

Countless years ago, I was listening to a tape by motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar, and one of the things he said that really hit home was that the average person goes to his grave with his music still inside his head. I realize he meant that in the broadest of terms – as in, all of our creative gifts, not just music – but I took it rather literally because most of my writing at that time was in the form of song lyrics. I didn’t know how to write music or play an instrument (and I wasn’t about to sing them to someone who did), so I knew those songs would eventually be buried with me. It was a rather sad acknowledgment, but one I came to accept…until now.

When I created this blog a couple of years back, I let my guard down and began sharing my writing with anyone willing to read it. Those posts have always been in the form of essays or short stories. This month – with Christmas hanging in the air – I decided to let my guard down even more and share one of my songs.

I penned the following back in the ‘90s, and it continues to creep into my head every Christmas season. I’m only posting the lyrics because no one deserves to be put through the torment of hearing me sing. It may read like a badly formatted poem, but hopefully, its spirit still comes through.

Jesus is Born


Joseph and Mary rode into the town

To find no room at the inn

Calmly, patiently they bedded down

Among the cattle, and then

As the bright star glowed

Overhead it showed

Where the babe lay safe on the hay

Praise Him!

Praise Him!

Angels proclaimed

Jesus is born today


Shepherds who watched o’er their flocks in the fields

Saw the heavenly light

Hearing the news of the birth of their King

They took off in the night

And they found the baby

In swaddled clothing

Asleep and warm where he lay

Praise Him!

Praise Him!

Angels proclaimed

Jesus is born today


Bearing their gifts for the new baby King

Wise men came from afar

Frankincense, gold, and myrrh did they bring

As they followed the star

And they found the child 

In a rugged stable

And knelt before Him to pray

Praise Him!

Praise Him!

Angels proclaimed

Jesus is born today

So, there you have it…my one and only attempt at a Christmas carol. 

If tuneless lyrics aren’t your thing, perhaps you’d prefer a story instead. And not just any story, but a Christmas story. Well, it so happens, I can give you that. It’s a rerun from last year, so you may have already read it. If that’s the case, feel free to log off and find something a bit less stale and a lot more entertaining. I promise I won’t be offended. 

But if you haven’t read the above-mentioned story and think you might like to check it out, simply click the button below. Christmas with Frank is one of those sappy, feel-good tales that just might revive your belief in love and hope. Even if it doesn’t, it still provides something wonderful because one of the characters is a sweet little dog. 

And let’s be honest here…who doesn’t love a sweet little dog?

Wishing you a Very Merry Christmas

and a Fabulous 2024!


I’m pleased to share that my first two novels are available on Amazon. For information and purchase options, click here.

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Appreciating It All

I devoted November to NaNoWrimo – that nifty online challenge to write a novel in 30 days – so I had no plans to post an essay this month. But my thimbleful of followers will be delighted to know I finished the challenge a couple of days early, giving me time to throw something together for this blog. 

Of course, I’m embellishing my number of followers. Pretty sure they’d all fit on the head of a pin…with room to square dance. 

Anyway, my subject this month is far from original. Since November is best known for Thanksgiving, it’s only logical that gratitude would be at the forefront of most people’s minds. I’ve no idea why we tend to narrow that emotion down to a single month, though. Honestly, we ought to be grateful for every day we wake up breathing. But I’m not going to hop up on that particular soapbox today. I’m just here to share a sample of some things I’ve been thankful for this month:

  1.  Every day…I woke up breathing. (I figured it was best to get the obvious out of the way first.)
  2.  I successfully gave up sugar. Again. 
  3.  I remembered to pay the property taxes. 
  4.  Our casino trip didn’t involve taking out a second mortgage. 
  5.  My writing challenge was successful, and it produced a first-draft novel in a genre I’ve never attempted before. 
  6.  The lights on the garlands and Christmas tree all worked when I plugged them in. 
  7.  We didn’t get any snow.
  8.  I lost three whole pounds.
  9.  I found a new home for the unused sewing machine that mocked me every time I walked past it. 
  10.  I got to spend a pre-Thanksgiving dinner with – and I say this with zero bias – the most fabulous family in the entire world. 

While I may not always succeed, I do try to live with an attitude of gratitude. And not just in November, but all year long. Some days it may be hard to find much to be thankful for, but there’s always something…even if it’s just the fact that, as mentioned previously, I woke up breathing.

On a more serious note, when I take into account the amount of unrest in other parts of the world, I’m immensely thankful to live where I do. 

As we go into the Christmas season, my wish is that we all learn to hold onto that which makes us grateful. Regardless of whether it’s grand or insignificant, it all matters.


I’m pleased to share that my first two novels are available on Amazon. For information and purchase options, click here.

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Pop on That Writer’s Cap

Courtesy of NaNoWriMo

In a few days, I plan to open the proverbial vein and try to create something intelligible out of whatever spills out. November 1st kicks off NaNoWriMo — National Novel Writing Month — and the objective is to write a 50,000-word novel in 30 days. There’s no time for research or editing. You just pound out the words until there aren’t any more words to pound…or until the end of the month…whichever comes first. 

You might fall significantly short of that 50,000-word goal — like I did the first time I participated — or you may end the month with a full first draft of your very own book. It’ll likely be rough, sophomoric, and downright cringe-worthy, but it’ll be something of your own creation. A part of you.

The books I published earlier this year were the results of two different NaNoWriMo challenges I completed well over a decade ago. Once those challenges were over, I set the manuscripts aside with vague promises not to forget about them. And while I didn’t forget entirely, I did let them sit untouched for many, many years. Work, family, and life in general had a tendency to take priority. There always seemed to be something else vying for my attention, and let’s face it…I’m nothing if not a skilled procrastinator.

When I finally did drag those manuscripts out for proper rewrites and editing, it was like getting reacquainted with old friends. Editing isn’t a particularly enjoyable task, but revisiting the stories and characters made it almost fun. Bringing both books to fruition and releasing them out into the world has been just as fulfilling as I’d hoped, and neither of them would even exist if not for NaNoWriMo. I think that’s sort of cool. 

It’s said that everyone has a story to tell, and November could be the perfect opportunity to get it told. While novels are works of fiction — which is the intended goal for NaNoWriMo — I see no reason why a person couldn’t use those 30 days to put their life story into words. When participating in this challenge, we’re really only in competition with ourselves. If someone would rather write a memoir instead of fiction, I say go for it. The bottom line is that you don’t need anyone’s permission to write whatever you want, so there’s no danger of being hauled away by the NaNoWriMo Police.

So, what do you say? Feel like joining me for a month of insane, unfettered creativity? It can be daunting, but it can also be a lot of fun. Sure, there’s a fair chance you might throw in the towel by the third day — and there’s no shame in that — but there’s also a chance that, if you stick with it, something wonderful and uniquely you will present itself on November 30th

Unleashing your inner storyteller may not be your cup of tea, but hey…you’ll never know unless you try. 


I’m pleased to share that my first two novels are available on Amazon. For information and purchase options, click here.

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The Potential Down-Fall to Autumn

Autumn is, hands down, my favorite season. The spring rains are over, the blistering heat of summer is past, and winter’s frozen fingers haven’t yet snared me in their grasp. 

I love watching the foliage change from green to orange to yellow. I love the smell of burning leaves. And I love the anticipation of our family getting loud and boisterous around the Thanksgiving table. 

As a woman who’s endured hot flashes for three decades, I live for the cool days of “sweater weather.” My idea of a perfect afternoon is wrapping myself in a cardigan and watching squirrels chase each other through the trees while I sway back and forth on the porch swing. I don’t even mind listening to my husband grouse about the never-ending chore of raking and mulching because it’s all part of this magical season. 

There are those, though, who do not share my enthusiasm for this time of year. A long time ago, I was going on and on about the beauty of fall, and a friend of mine made it abundantly clear that she absolutely hated everything about it. In her words, autumn was the gateway to “death, dying, and destruction.” When I asked what on earth she was talking about, she explained that it was because fall led to winter. And for her, winter was nothing short of abysmal. While I thought her assessment seemed a bit harsh, there was no doubt she was dead serious.

That was my first real experience with the depth and severity of seasonal affective disorder. Up to that point, I didn’t realize the changing of the seasons could have such a negative impact on a person’s emotional well-being. For those folks, it’s a real struggle to make it through to the other side where they can once again feel the hope and promise of springtime. 

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, it isn’t uncommon for a lot of people to experience short-term mood changes when the daylight hours start getting shorter. Fall may very well lead them into what can be described as the “winter blues.” Luckily, their symptoms are rather low-level and abate naturally with the onset of spring when flowers begin to bloom, trees start to bud, and daylight hours gradually increase.

There are others, though, who don’t merely have the blues. Their unwelcome emotions significantly impair their ability to handle day-to-day life. What they’re likely dealing with in those instances is seasonal affective disorder (SAD), a type of depression. When it comes to SAD, mood changes are more serious than simply feeling down, and they can have a severe effect on how a person feels, thinks, and handles daily activities.

Symptoms of SAD follow those of other major depressive disorders. Changes in appetite, sleeping excessively, low energy, feelings of hopelessness, and difficulty concentrating are just a few of these symptoms.

Without getting too science-y – which I couldn’t if I tried – it appears that SAD is induced by low levels of serotonin, a brain chemical that regulates mood. Also, while serotonin may be too low, melatonin – a brain hormone that causes our bodies to become sleepy – may be too high. And from what I’ve read, SAD sufferers are generally people who experience other types of mental disorders as well, such as major depression or bipolar disorder. Whether that’s always the case, I don’t know. I just know SAD is a tough row to hoe.

If you notice a negative change in your emotions at this time of year, and you suspect it’s more than just the winter blues, please seek the advice of your doctor with regard to diagnosis and treatment. Light therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, antidepressants, and/or Vitamin D may help alleviate some, if not all, of SAD’s symptoms.

Until my friend so bluntly laid it all out for me, I had no idea what a downer autumn and winter could be for some people. I’ve never dreaded the onset of falling leaves, snow-covered roofs, and icicle-draped branches. That means I’m extremely fortunate to be able to add “I don’t suffer from SAD” to my long, long list of blessings.

Sadly – no pun intended – I’ve learned that not everyone is that lucky.

For more information, click here to visit the National Institute of Mental Health website .


I’m pleased to share that my first two novels are available on Amazon. For information and purchase options, click here.

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Fantum & Foster


My second novel is out! Fantum & Foster sat on the shelf gathering dust almost as long as my first book did – which was well over a decade – and there were times I wondered if I’d ever find my way back to it. I did, though, and I’m so glad. It was an emotional but fulfilling ride.

A weary boy.

A broken mom.

And a very special dog.

Foster grew up seeing, hearing, and feeling things no child should ever have to see, hear, or feel.

Dahlia was thrust into motherhood when she was much too young. She did the best she knew how but in all the wrong ways.

Fantum, a scruffy little terrier, was sometimes the only light in Foster’s often dark and dreary existence.

Together, they navigated the slippery slopes of their shaky life, until inevitably, it all came crashing down.





Foster prayed the baby wouldn’t wake up as he grabbed the phone on its second ring. Shooting a glance at his gently snoring wife, he whispered, “Hello?

A cough on the other end of the line was followed by the voice of a seasoned chain smoker. “I’m calling for Foster Monroe.”

Speaking,” Foster said, still whispering as he slipped out of bed. He padded into the master bathroom and eased the door shut behind him.

“Mr. Monroe, this is Detective Chuck Tennon from the 3rd Precinct. I’m calling about a Dahlia Waters.”

Foster plopped down on the edge of the tub, unconsciously rubbing the back of his neck to assuage a not-yet-there migraine. His fingers tightened around the receiver, and he asked, “What about her? What’s happened?”

Another cough into the phone, and then there was that gravelly voice again. “Mr. Monroe, are you any relation to Dahlia Waters?”

Foster sighed and said, “Yes, Detective, we’re related. She’s my mother.” He leaned his head against the cool tile and asked, “What’s she done this time?”

“I’d rather not go into this over the phone. I know it’s a god-awful hour, but can you meet me at St. Pete’s?”

“The hospital?” Foster’s knuckles grew white as he squeezed the phone tighter. “Has my mother been in an accident? Is she all right?”

“Mr. Foster, if you’d just be kind enough to come on over to the hospital, I’ll meet you in the emergency room and answer all your questions.”

“I’m on my way,” Foster said as he disconnected the call and started back into the bedroom. He softly slipped the phone back on its charger, but not softly enough. He sensed Emily shift in the bed, and when he looked up, she was lying there staring at him, her brow a triple row of faint but uneasy lines.

“What is it, hon? Who was that on the phone?” She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. “No good ever comes from a call in the wee hours like this.” Emily looked more closely at Foster. “It’s your mom, isn’t it?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and began stroking the back of his wife’s hand. He was vaguely aware of how velvety her skin felt. It always did, and it always gave him a sense of calm. “Yeah, it’s Mom. Again. That was a police detective, but this time she’s in the hospital instead of jail. I’ve got to get over there.”

“Well, what happened?” Emily asked as she got up and reached for the clothes she’d draped over the chair the night before. “Was she in an accident?”

Foster shook his head and said, “He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. Just said he wanted me to meet him at St. Pete’s…in the emergency room. That can’t be good.”

“I’ll call Inez to come over and stay with the kids.” Emily was already pulling her jeans on under her night clothes.

“No, no, you need to stay here. Jacob has swim class in the morning, and there’s no reason for him to miss out just because his grandmother has managed to get herself into yet another bind.” He fastened his pants and kissed his wife, pulling his sweater over his head as he walked out into the hall. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”


Foster carefully maneuvered his car through what felt like endless darkness. It was one of those pitch-black affairs that challenged your headlights and made you question whether the sky ever truly hosted a moon and stars. To make things more interesting, it was raining, so the lights from the oncoming cars were more blinding than usual. Foster pulled into the hospital parking lot and found a space close to the emergency room entrance. He locked the car, dashed through what was quickly turning to sleet, and then all but skidded through the automatic doors. There was an empty waiting area to his right, restrooms to his left, and an admittance desk directly in front of him. A short, chubby nurse was standing with her back to him.

“Excuse me,” Foster said as he leaned on the edge of the desk. “Can you help me?”

The nurse slowly turned around and eyed him with the weary interest of someone who’d spent about four hours too long on their feet. “What is it you need, son?”

“My name is Foster Monroe. I’m supposed to meet a Detective Tennon here. It’s about a patient who was brought in tonight. Dahlia Waters?”

The nurse’s bored expression was replaced with one of grave concern, and she said, “Oh, of course, of course, Mr. Monroe. Yes, that policeman has been expecting you. He’s waiting right down this corridor.” She shimmied out from behind the desk and started down the hall, motioning for Foster to follow.

“What can you tell me about my mother? Was she in an accident or is she ill?”

Avoiding eye contact, the nurse shook her head and said, “Right now, you just need to talk to the detective. Here we are.” She stopped in front of a room that looked like a small private waiting area, and the sign above the door read Consult Room #2. Foster vaguely recalled hearing someone say it was never a good sign when a doctor asked the family to gather in a consulting room. He wondered if the same held true when the summoner was a cop.

The nurse, Adina Oakes according to her name badge, cleared her throat and said, “Detective Tennon? Mr. Monroe is here.”

Nurse Oakes patted Foster’s arm and then shuffled back up the hallway. A tall white-haired man, drowning in a faded overcoat, stood up and approached Foster, right hand extended.

“Mr. Monroe, I’m Detective Tennon. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Foster shook the man’s hand and noticed how cold it was, as though blood circulation and his body had yet to make their acquaintance. “Detective, what’s this all about? The nurse couldn’t seem to give me any information.”

Tennon gestured toward the chairs, and as both men sat down, he said, “Before you can see her, I need to ask you a few questions.”

Foster didn’t like the fact that he still had no answers about his mother’s condition – or why she’d even wound up in the hospital in the first place – but he’d long held a deep respect for authority, so he simply nodded as an indication for the officer to continue.

Tennon leaned forward resting his forearms on his knees, and he looked directly into Foster’s eyes. “Mr. Monroe, your mother was found in an alley over on West Baker Street, back behind the Frisky Inn. A customer had gone out to the alley to take a…,” Tennon dipped his head toward Foster and smiled slightly. “Let’s just say, the bathroom was occupied. Anyway, he found your mother lying behind the dumpster. She’d been severely beaten.”

“Oh, my god,” Foster swiped his hands over his face and peered at Tennon. “How badly is she hurt?”

“We’ll get to that, son. I just need to make some sense out of a few things first.”

“What kinds of things? What are you talking about?” Respect for authority aside, Foster was beginning to lose patience.

The detective reached into one of his jacket pockets and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside was a filthy billfold that looked as though, decades earlier, it might have been made from some type of floral quilt. “Does this look familiar to you?”

Foster took the bag from the officer. He held it up to the light, turned it over a couple of times, and then said, “Yes, it’s my mother’s. She made it when I was little. She used to make a lot of things like this. Sold them at flea markets to make extra money.” Foster handed the bag back to the detective but hesitated a moment before releasing it.

“Okay, we thought this was probably hers, but the picture on her driver’s license is so old…expired, you know…it was hard to be sure she was the same woman in the photo.”

Foster nodded his head. He often found it hard to believe the woman his mother had become was the same one who worked well into the night creating purses and wallets out of recycled clothing and bedspreads just so she could put food on the table when he was a kid. He looked at Tennon and said, “You mentioned some other things you needed to ask me about. What else?”      

The detective nodded his head and pulled another plastic bag from his jacket. This held a small glass vial with a white powdery substance inside. “Have you seen this before?”

This time, Foster did not reach out for the bag. He had no intention of touching it. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen that particular vial before, but he’d seen plenty like it in his mother’s possession over the years. “I can’t say for certain, but my guess is it belonged to her. My mother’s been an addict for about as long as I can remember.” That old familiar knot began to tighten in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t help but wonder how many more times he’d have to come face to face with his mother’s ruination.

Tennen offered an understanding nod and said, “Well, the only other thing she had on her when she was found was this.” He held up a larger plastic bag that was filled with something gray and matted. This time, Foster didn’t hesitate when he reached for it.

“Oh, my god. I can’t believe she still has him.” He felt tears burning the corners of his eyes.

Him?” The detective asked, confused.

“Yeah. Fantum. My dog.”


Chapter 1



Foster’s fingers froze mid-tie over his right sneaker as he slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder.

“This yours, kid?” A dirty, overweight man with a gin-blossom nose held a gray ball of fur up over his shoulder.

“Give me my dog, mister.” Foster stood up, stretched to his full five feet, and stared directly into the man’s eyes. “He’s mine. Give him.”

“How’s that, now? This nappy little piece of turd is your little doggy, is it? Well, now, let’s just see if he’ll come when you call him.” The man hefted the little terrier up over his head and lobbed it into a nearby dumpster.

“HEY!” Foster spared just enough time to kick the man in the groin before running to the dumpster and scaling over the side. He was barely aware of the string of profanities and groans coming from the man he’d just ball-busted. His fingers scrambled through takeout containers and wadded newspapers until he caught hold of something furry and pulled it up out of the trash. “Fantum, it’s okay. You’re not hurt. I won’t let him get you again.”

Foster hugged the dog to his chest and stood up, peering over the side of the dumpster to see if the man was still there. All he saw was the backside of the creep as he limped across the street and disappeared inside Bailey’s Tavern. “Come on, fella,” Foster said. “Let’s get outta here.”

After running three or four blocks, Foster finally slowed to a walk until he came to the city park. Spying an empty bench under a huge sycamore, he sauntered over and sat down, carefully placing the dog on the bench beside him.

“Seems like some folks just don’t know what’s good for them, huh, Fantum?” He rubbed the little pooch behind the ears and smiled as he snuggled him against his leg. The dog hadn’t uttered a sound. Not when the man tossed him into the trash and not when they were running down the sidewalk. Fantum was probably the quietest dog anybody would ever come across. Except when he and Foster were alone. Then he’d speak his mind. Now, though, in the public view of anyone who chose to walk through the park, he silently lay there…seemingly happy and secure just to be close to his master.

Foster let his gaze drift over to the playground area and noticed a couple of classmates on the monkey bars. School had been out a little over a week, and he hadn’t run into many of his friends lately. Funny how he had plenty of people to do stuff with when school was in session, but it was hard to find anyone to hang out with during the summer. Hard for him, anyway. Foster wasn’t the type of kid to just pop over to somebody’s house and ask them to go for a bike ride or shoot some hoops. Whenever he did that, it felt weird…sort of like begging someone to spend time with him. At school, kids had to see each other anyway, so joining a kickball game at recess or right after school didn’t seem to be asking all that much.

Now he was met with that familiar dilemma of whether to stay where he was or go over to where the other kids were playing to see if he could join in. He couldn’t just leave Fantum here on the bench, but he also couldn’t risk the guys making fun of him. No one understood Foster’s connection with his little dog, so for now Foster decided they would just head home. Maybe he’d come back by himself later and see if his friends were still there. They wouldn’t bust his chops over Fantum if the dog wasn’t with him.


“Foster, honey, izzat you?”

Foster blanched at the thick slur drifting out of his mother’s bedroom. Dahlia Waters had been living more in the bottle than out lately. “Yeah, Mom. I’m just going to get something to eat and then go back outside.” He hoped for no response, but instead, he heard her slippers shuffling down the hallway toward the front room.

“Let Mama fix you sumpin,” Dahlia mumbled as she reached out and pulled him into a stinky embrace of Heaven Scent and Jim Beam. She didn’t seem to notice him tense up as she held on. “You need to eat more, baby. You’re all skinny bones.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Look, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll make us both some sandwiches?” Foster guided her to the ratty sofa and held her arm as she plopped down onto a stained cushion. He grabbed a little book up off the floor and put it on her lap. “Here’s the TV Guide. Pick something out and I’ll turn on the TV for you when I get back.” As he turned to go into the kitchen, he heard a sad little laugh.

“Wonder who’s the parent here…” she said as she let her head fall back against the sofa.

By the time Foster had the bread and peanut butter out on the kitchen table, he could hear Dahlia’s soft snores. He tiptoed to the doorway – although stomping his feet wouldn’t have roused her – and looked in at the specter of the mother he loved so deeply. Her hands lay limp at her sides, the TV Guide was on the floor again, and her legs were stretched out in front of her. The dark circles under her eyes had become a permanent reminder of how wrecked she was. He may have been just a kid, but he feared if his mother didn’t change soon, she’d be dead before he finished high school. That was a thought too hurtful to linger over, so he went back to the table and got to the business of making their dinner.


Foster ate his sandwich and walked down the hall to his bedroom. He tucked Fantum away in his own little bed by the chest of drawers, and then he went back to the front room and slipped outside. When he got to the park and saw that his friends were no longer there, he sat on one of the swings and pumped back and forth, getting as high as he could. He quickly got bored with the swings and started searching for bugs or unusual rocks under the hedges along the perimeter of the park. The most interesting thing he found was an empty Trojan package. He had no personal experience with those, but he knew some of the older boys kept them in their wallets. The only reason he even knew that was because, when he was little, he’d asked Billy Abbott what the round lump was in his billfold, and Billy took the package out to show him. He didn’t explain much about it, other than to say he really hoped he’d find a girl pretty soon who would let him try it out on her. Then he winked at Foster and told him that was just their little secret. He said if his mom ever found out he was carrying that around, she’d kick him three weeks from Sunday.

After spending a few more minutes looking under the bushes, Foster walked back home and found his mother splayed on the sofa pretty much as she’d been when he left. He went into his room and picked Fantum up, then climbed onto his bed and laid down with the little dog on his chest. Stroking his fur, Foster looked into Fantum’s eyes and said, “Feels like it’s just you and me tonight. Just like most nights, huh?” Fantum merely stared back.

Eventually, Foster decided it was probably time to rouse his mother, although he wasn’t sure why. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Maybe she’d be feeling better and would want to do something with him. They could play a board game or maybe make some Jiffy Pop and watch TV together. They used to do that a lot before whatever was wrong hit the fan.

Foster wandered back to the front room and saw that Dahlia had shifted to where she was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa. She let out a soft groan as he lifted her legs onto the seat cushions so she’d be in a more comfortable position. Opening one eye, she gave him a crooked smile and then was out like a light again. Foster took the old torn quilt from the back of the rocker and spread it out over his mother, pulling it up just under her chin. It wasn’t the least bit chilly, but doing that made him feel better.

He didn’t need to check the clock to know Dahlia had been out for a good four hours. Light from the streetlamps filtered in through the living room window and cast a soft glow over her hardened sandwich. Foster started to reach for the plate so he could take it into the kitchen, but reconsidering, he simply sat Indian-style on the floor by his mother and waited for nothing in particular.

Care to Share?

The Letting Go


The hotel looked out over the Eastern Seaboard, but Rebecca was oblivious to its panoramic view of the ocean. She didn’t even notice the sounds of the waves crashing outside her open window. Her gaze was focused on a painting that hung above the bed’s headboard in her tiny room. It was a cacophony of primary colors that was probably the product of some struggling abstract artist but, to the untrained eye, it could just as easily have been created by an overly excited five-year-old. As for Rebecca, she had no opinion one way or the other as to whether the art was good or bad. She was staring at it, yes. But she wasn’t really seeing it. Her mind was elsewhere. 

Her mother, strict and imposing, was under the impression that Rebecca was on a little getaway with her best friend. Her best friend, loving and loyal, would take this secret to her grave. In truth, Rebecca was off on her own for the next two days. It wasn’t so much a getaway as it was a journey of solitude…a necessary reprieve from her daily normal so she could set things right in her heart without interruption. 

Tugging her suitcase up to the bed, she unsnapped it and pulled out her bathing suit, robe, and sandals. Ten minutes later, she was ankle-deep in the Atlantic, watching the gulls fly overhead. She wasn’t a strong swimmer and had no intention of going out much farther, but the shallow water was warm and soothing and, for the moment, slowly strolling back and forth was exactly what her soul needed. 

It was the middle of the week, and the beach wasn’t crowded, but several other bathers were scattered up and down the shoreline. They were far enough away that Rebecca could just barely make out the drone of laughter and conversation. As she willed her mind to be silent, she soaked in the world around her. There would be plenty of time later to delve into the mental work that awaited her. For now, it felt luxurious to simply be. 


Leaving the water behind her, Rebecca spread her robe out on the beach and lowered herself down, being careful to keep her wet, sand-covered feet off the fabric. She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and raised her face to the sun. It was no longer possible to keep her thoughts at bay, so she opened her mind and allowed them free rein. It was time to begin what she’d come here to do. 


Three years prior, in the fall of 1943, Rebecca and her mother had been standing next to a small bonfire in their backyard. Rebecca’s trembling hands held a stack of envelopes tied together with a blue ribbon. Tears streamed down her face as she looked pleadingly into her mother’s eyes. 

“Girl, you’ve wasted enough time. I’m not going to tell you again.” Her mother’s lips were set in a thin line, and her eyes held no hint of affection. The balled-up fists resting on her hips obliterated any hope for mercy. 

Rebecca had always been a daddy’s girl. Her father was warm and funny, and his love for her felt endless. He would never have stood by and let this happen. But a stroke had stolen him from her two years earlier when she was only eighteen, so now it was just her and her mother. And her mother was a harsh woman who either couldn’t or wouldn’t love her the way her father had. 

Standing here now, knowing what was expected of her, Rebecca’s stomach was filled with a sour hatred for the woman who had brought her into this world. They’d been together twenty years, but her mother had always been a stranger to her. And now this stranger was destroying the only happiness she had known since before her father passed away. 

Rebecca hugged the bundle to her chest. Her voice, quiet and rough from crying, broke the malignant silence between them. “Mother, please. Please don’t make me do this.” She knew it was pointless, but she couldn’t stop herself. 

“Young lady, if you don’t do as I said…and right now…I will do it for you.”

Slowly raising the bundle to her lips, Rebecca kissed the ribbon and tossed her hopes for a happy life into the flames. She glared at her mother, who merely nodded, and then Rebecca ran sobbing back to the house. 


Wiping tears from her cheeks, Rebecca came back to the present. She stood up, looked out over the ocean, and could tell more time had passed than she realized. From where the sun hung in the sky, it appeared she’d been woolgathering for a couple of hours, and now she was bound to be sunburned. She grabbed her robe, chastised herself for not finding a shady spot, and trudged through the sand toward the stairs to the hotel. 

After a bath to soothe her red shoulders, Rebecca put on a yellow floral sundress and straightened the seams in her stockings. She then tied her brown wavy hair back with a white ribbon and wandered down to a diner near the hotel. After ordering a ham sandwich and a Coke, she settled back in her chair and looked around at the other patrons. There was a young couple at a table across the room, and they sat side-by-side with their heads leaning in toward one another. They were talking and smiling, and Rebecca could sense the depth of their romance. It brought a smile to her own face, but hers bore a hint of sadness as her mind traveled back in time.


James had been a marine. Tall and muscular with a sandy-haired buzzcut, he’d approached her in front of the Morehead City Five-and-Dime and asked for directions to the library. As fortune would have it, that just happened to be where Rebecca was heading, so she invited him to walk with her. 

In the time it took to stroll the three blocks from the store to the library, Rebecca learned that James grew up in Nebraska, had been in the Marines a little over a year, and was stationed at Cherry Point. While whispering in the library, she discovered his favorite color was green, his favorite singer was Bing Crosby, and his favorite food was fried chicken. By the time they were back in front of the five-and-dime a few hours later, Rebecca realized she was falling in love.

James had to return to base the next day, but he wrote to Rebecca at least twice a week, and he came back to town on every leave. They took the bridge to Atlantic Beach a month after they met and, while staring out across the ocean, James declared his love and gave Rebecca a Marine insignia charm on a silver chain. Six months into their courtship, he learned he was being transferred to the west coast. Rebecca was heartsick, but James assured her nothing would change. And, for a short while, he was right. 


“Care for a piece of pie or maybe some ice cream?”

Rebecca jumped and knocked her fork off the table.

“Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The waitress bent down and retrieved the fork from the floor.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Rebecca said. “I was so deep in thought I didn’t hear you walk up. What did you ask me?”

The waitress slipped the fork into her apron pocket and smiled. “I just wondered if you’d be interested in some dessert.”

Rebecca looked at her half-eaten sandwich and shook her head. “As good as it sounds, I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was. Could you please bring me the check?”

“Of course, sweetie. I’ll be right back.”


The sun was setting, and the walk back from the diner was much cooler than the walk there. Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest and wished she’d grabbed her sweater on the way out earlier. As she approached the hotel, she noticed the same couple from the diner entering the large double doors. Apparently, they were guests there, too. She wondered if they were married or just dating and if their stay at the hotel was one of total intimacy or one of careful closeness. Her times there with James had always been the latter. The temptation was there, of course, but she was protective of her honor, and James respected her principles.

Once back in her room, Rebecca opened her suitcase again and removed a small leather case. She settled back against the bed’s headboard and let the contents from the case spill out onto the spread. There wasn’t much…just a couple of pictures, some movie ticket stubs, and a tiny box.

One of the photos showed her with James at the county fair a few weeks after they met. The other was taken when they were here at the hotel shortly before he left for California. It had been freezing then, and they looked a little silly all bundled up on the beach, but the ocean behind them was as beautiful as ever.

Rebecca ran her fingers over the photos and let her heart remember the thrill of spending time with James, the heartache of having him move across the country, and the despair over having to devastate him with a “Dear John” letter. A letter she never would have written had it not been for her mother.


After the incident in the backyard, Rebecca had been lying on her bed when she heard the screen door slam and her mother’s footsteps coming up the stairs. Her bedroom door was open and she stiffened as the footsteps stopped at her doorway. She raised up on one elbow, wiped her tears, and faced her mother. But she didn’t speak to her.

“Get up now and come down to the living room. The letters are burnt, but there’s one more thing that must be done. And it must be done now.” Her mother didn’t wait for a reply before turning and going back down the stairs. Rebecca sighed. There was nothing left but to follow.

Sitting at her father’s writing desk, she pulled a sheet of stationery from the drawer and picked up the silver fountain pen she’d given him for his birthday shortly before he died. She didn’t look at her mother. She simply sat there with the pen poised over the paper.

“You are going to write a letter convincing that young man that you never want to see him again. He is not to try to contact you, and he is never to return to Morehead City.” Her mother emphatically tapped her finger on the desk blotter as she spoke. “You will tell him you’ve moved on without him and do not want him to embarrass himself by attempting to pursue you. Do you understand? Do you have any questions?”

There was a part of Rebecca that wanted to scream at her mother that she had a thousand questions. That she didn’t understand why her mother was brutalizing her this way…why she was so hell-bent on ruining her daughter’s life. She’d tried over and over to explain that the nights with James at Atlantic Beach were innocent, but nothing she said ever made a difference. Now all she could do was shake her head. The time for pleading and questions was over. Another person – someone more spirited – might have rebelled against the unfairness of it all by slamming out of the house and never looking back. But Rebecca wasn’t another person. She was who she was. Her father had loved her fiercely, but he also instilled in her the importance of respecting her parents…both him and her mother. No matter how horrible it felt, this was the way it had to be. She had to honor her mother.

Taking a deep breath, Rebecca put pen to paper and composed an unequivocally persuasive farewell. More than once while writing it, she had to turn her face away to avoid staining the stationery with her tears.


Rebecca set the photos down and wiped her eyes. Picking up the little box, she gently tossed it back and forth and let her mind wander over all the times she and James had laughed and danced and reveled in each other’s company. She pressed her fingertips to her lips as she thought back to those kisses full of love and desire. Then she lifted the lid from the wooden box and took out the charm that rested on its velvet lining. The chain was gone…having been broken when her mother, in a fit of rage, tore the necklace from around Rebecca’s neck. Now, the only things she had left from that relationship were her memories, a few mementos, and the tiny charm James had given her when he asked her to be his girl. 

But she wasn’t his girl anymore. Her mother had seen to that. And while a part of her would never forgive her mother’s cruelty, she couldn’t deny that what came next was much better than anything she could have hoped for.


As life tends to do, the world moved on after Rebecca’s mother sent that letter. She’d done it herself because she didn’t trust her daughter to follow through. If James ever did try to reach out, Rebecca never knew about it. It wouldn’t have surprised her, of course, if he had and her mother intercepted his attempts. But what was done was done, and she set her mind to moving past it.

A couple of years after ending things with James, Rebecca was chatting with some girlfriends in a coffee shop when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and found herself staring straight into a pair of sparkling blue eyes. They seemed to possess a bit of mischief, and the attractive young man attached to them introduced himself as her future husband. Rebecca was vaguely aware of her girlfriends’ giggles as she peered up into that semi-serious face. She furrowed her brow and tilted her head, but she said nothing. Frankly, she was at a loss for words. He smiled, gallantly kissed her hand, and walked out of the shop. Rebecca stared after him, completely dumbfounded. She’d halfheartedly dated a few men since James, but this was the first person to truly pique her interest. Now he’d all but vanished and she had no clue who he was. 

The small accounting office where Rebecca worked was right across the street from the coffee shop, and she’d eaten her lunch there every day since the encounter with her mystery man. She hadn’t been able to get him off her mind, and she felt both excited and pathetic over the fact that she kept coming here in hopes he’d return looking for her. On the fourth day, when she’d just about convinced herself that she was wasting her time, she looked up as the bell rang above the door. There he stood. Thick dark hair, a rather sheepish grin, and those remarkably bright blue eyes. He strode quickly over to her table.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

“No, but I’m just about to leave. My lunch hour is almost over.” She didn’t have to be back for a good fifteen minutes, but she didn’t want to seem eager.

“Oh, well, uh, okay. I just wondered if…” All the bravado from the other day had disappeared. Now he didn’t even seem to be able to form a complete sentence.

“Listen, I really should go.” Rebecca started to get up but the man gently placed his hand over hers.

“Wait. Don’t go yet.” He was actually blushing. “Look, I’ve been trying to get back here for days to see if I might run into you, but my job’s had me working out of town. I just got back this morning and took a chance you might be here. I think I’m still sort of stunned, though, that you truly are. Here, I mean.” He flashed a broad smile, and Rebecca felt her resolve melting away.

“So,” she said. “What exactly is it you do that kept you out of town for days?”

“I’m a reporter for the local paper. And a photographer, too.” There was that sheepish grin again.

“Impressive. I’ll have to start reading the news. But seriously, I really do have to go.” Rebecca stood and grabbed her purse. The man got up and stepped aside.

“Before you leave, I’d like to properly introduce myself.” Then, as if he feared she’d flee before he could finish, he inhaled deeply and rapidly blurted out, “My name is Alexander Reeves. My friends call me Alex. I work at the paper like I said, and I live in an apartment above the five-and-dime. I like to fish, I play the mandolin, and I don’t go to church every Sunday, but I do go sometimes.” He paused to take a breath and then said, “Oh, and I’d very much like to take you to dinner. This Saturday, if that works for you.”

Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh. She hadn’t been this drawn to a man since James, and it felt nice. Reaching inside her purse, she drew out a pencil and notepad. She scribbled something and tore off a sheet. “Here,” she said, handing him the note. “This is my address and phone number. You can pick me up at six.” She left the shop and was halfway across the street when she realized she hadn’t even told him her name. Well, she thought. I suppose he’ll figure it out.


Alex did figure it out. He knocked on Rebecca’s door promptly at six. He’d actually arrived a good ten minutes earlier and had been lurking just beyond a tall bush until it was time to pick her up. Rebecca knew this because she’d been ready at least fifteen minutes early and had been peeking out her bedroom window. She watched as he stood out there kicking pebbles. One hand was shoved deep in his pocket, and the other held a beautiful bouquet of daisies. She was tempted to go on out and tell him it was okay to be early but, for reasons she couldn’t explain, Rebecca found his efforts to be johnny-on-the-spot quite charming, and she didn’t want to break the spell.

At the sound of his knock, she hurried to the door before her mother could answer it, and she slipped out onto the front porch.

Alex held the flowers out to her. “I hope you like daisies. I don’t know why, but you just strike me as a daisy kind of girl.”

“Thank you. I do like daisies, and these are especially pretty.” Rebecca didn’t want to go back inside and risk running into her mother, but luck was with her. There was a half-full pitcher of water on the table next to the porch swing. “I’ll just put them in here for now and find a vase after I get home.” She plopped the flowers into the pitcher and turned back to face Alex. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” he said as he rested his hand under her elbow and led her down the steps. “I hope you don’t mind walking. My car has a flat. I thought maybe we could go down by the water to Becker’s Inn. If you don’t think it’s too far to walk, that is.”

Rebecca slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and said, “Not too far at all.”


Becker’s Inn was the first of many, many dates. Alex and Rebecca ate lunch together often, went to dinner at least twice a week, went to the movies almost every Saturday night and, several times, they found themselves having impromptu picnics in the park a couple of blocks from where Rebecca lived. Alex was witty and self-deprecating and, as the weeks turned into months, Rebecca found herself falling head over heels for this wonderfully shy reporter. And, miracle of miracles, even her mother seemed to approve.

One day after coming back from a Sunday drive, they settled down into Rebecca’s porch swing, and she asked him how he’d managed to come up with the nerve to introduce himself the way he did back when they first met.

“Honestly?” He sort of chuckled. “I almost didn’t introduce myself at all. I’ve never been one to just go up to a girl and start talking. But when I saw you, I knew you were special. Much too special for me to simply pass by. I’m still not sure what I was thinking when I said what I did, but it was the only thing that came to mind.” He took her hands in his and gazed into her eyes. “It still comes to mind. A lot.”

Rebecca blushed but didn’t look away. “Alex, what are you saying?”

He was blushing now, too. In one swift move, he slid off the swing, dropped to one knee, and pulled a ring box out of his pocket. He popped it open, revealing a dainty white gold ring with a modest diamond set between two small sapphires, Rebecca’s birthstone. “What I’m saying is…or I guess, what I’m asking is…Rebecca Parker, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”


Rebecca had everything loaded into the car before daybreak. She strolled around to the back side of the hotel and gazed out over the vast ocean one last time. The sun was rising up out of the water as though being slowly lifted by some invisible string. Her heart had lifted, too. Just like all those letters that had been tied up with blue ribbon, Rebecca had tied up the memories of her time with James. The letters were gone. That relationship was gone. And, now, so was the pain. She was finally able to tell James goodbye, and it was time to go home. As she walked back to the car, she dropped the little leather case – with all of its contents – into the waste bin next to the hotel.


Driving back over the bridge to Morehead City, Rebecca felt only excitement about the life that spread out before her. She’d hated the fact that she couldn’t give Alex an answer to his proposal right away. But she knew she had some emotional housecleaning to do before she could agree to be his wife, and he didn’t question her when she asked for a little time to get her thoughts in order.

It wasn’t that she was unsure about her feelings for Alex. She knew she loved him, and she never once compared him to James. They were two entirely different people from two entirely different chapters of her life. It was just that she needed to shake out those old thoughts and let them go. Her love for James had been real, but it never fully took root. Her love for Alex was deep and strong and ran through the very marrow of her bones. Even though it had been painful to lose James, she’d learned she could live without him. But the very idea of not having Alex in her life was utterly unthinkable. 

Now, as she cruised along, she held her left hand up over the steering wheel and imagined that lovely ring on her finger. The ring Alex had so thoughtfully chosen specifically for her. The ring that would join them together forever. There wasn’t a doubt in Rebecca’s mind that the life she was heading for was the life she longed for. She had no regrets.

James was her put-to-rest past.

Alex was her bright and beautiful future.

And it was a future that sparkled even more radiantly than the brilliant North Carolina sun.

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