“I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Dalton,” Susan
Primble Scott hesitated. “No one’s been in the cottage
for years … you don’t even know if the plumbing still
works. God knows what’s been living in there.”
“
Squatters? You’re worried about squatters?” Her brother
laughed. “Fear not, big sister. If there are squatters
there, I’ll chase them out.”
“
Not squatters, exactly, but you might find raccoons. Or bats,
how about a nest of bats? I don’t know, Dalton, why not
hire a housekeeping service? The locals are certainly affordable;
let them do the dirty work.”
Dalton’s exasperation echoed across the phone line. “They
certainly may be affordable, Suz, but I don’t see that
it’s a smart idea right now for us to spend good money
on something unknown. What if we hire someone and they come back
and say the place is uninhabitable? We’ve thrown that money
away, and you’re the one who’s always worried about
mismanaging the assets from Mother’s estate. Look, it just
makes sense to run up to the lake, check on the cottage, and
then we can make an informed decision about our asking price.”
“
God! You’re such an accountant. All right then, Dalt, but
I’m coming with you; you shouldn’t go up there alone.”
“
You don’t have to do that…”
“
I want to; and besides, I could use a break right now. The design
business is slow, and don’t forget, I could insist on it;
I’m co-executor, too.”
“
Fine, but there’ll be no whining. Like you said, the cottage
could be a complete horror-show.”
“
You can’t scare me with that one, pal, I’m not the
one who saw the ghost.”
“
I knew you were going to bring that up! Listen – I was
just a kid, sick with fever, and I had a bad dream. That’s
all it was.”
“
That’s not what you said the night it happened. You were
so specific, Dalton, it freaked us out. Especially Mother; you
know how superstitious she was. She wouldn’t even go near
the laundry room after what you said.”
“
Oh, Suz, she had you fooled. Mother just wanted you to take over
doing the laundry after we lost the maid.”
“
Ha-ha. Anyway, what do you say we drive up Friday after work?
That way we’ll beat the Saturday traffic – and I
hate sitting in traffic when I could be sunning on the dock instead,
smoking lovely unlimited cigarettes and sipping a tall, cool
vodka and tonic.”
“
That sounds like a plan. I’ll swing by and pick you up
on Friday. And Suz, pack lightly, and I mean it – we’re
going to have to haul our luggage across the boardwalk and God
knows what shape that’s in. We may end up swimming our
bags through the swamp.”
“
Like The African Queen!” Suz laughed brightly. “Hey,
Dalt? When’s the last time you and I had an adventure together?”
* * * * *
By lunchtime on Friday the plan fell through. Suz called Dalton
on her cell, ecstatically happy. “Oh, Dalt, you won’t
believe who was just in here! Elizabeth Fourtney! She’s
getting divorced and she wants me to redecorate her pied-a-terre!
Me, Dalt, she picked me! And she said it’s carte blanche – the
sky’s the limit! She even wants to fly me to Paris this
weekend to look at fabric!”
“
And of course you have to go…”
“
Well, yes, of course, I mean, if that’s alright with you … I
mean, Dalt, I know we had plans, but this is once-in-a-lifetime!
If I work this right I could get national coverage – maybe
even a feature article in Town and Cottage!”
“
Suz, I get it, I get it; of course you have to go. I want you
to go. So, go.”
“
Really, Dalt? Are you sure? Why don’t you wait on the cottage
until I get back? I’ll only be gone a week, ten days at
most.”
“
No, no, we had a plan and I want to stick with it. I’ll
go up to the cottage by myself; you get your work done, and I’ll
let you know what I’ve found when you get back.”
“
I hate feeling like you’re getting stuck with this.” Suz
tapped a pencil against her desk and the sound carried across
the line. “Is there someone you could take with you? A
girlfriend, maybe?”
“
No. Unfortunately, I’m unattached at the moment.”
“
But what if you fall through the floorboards and get hurt? Accidents
do happen, you know.”
“
Why would you wish that on me? Besides, I won’t get hurt,
and if I do, I’ll call for help on my cell phone. Suz,
listen, you’re right about this job; it’s a huge
opportunity for you and I want you to take it. Please, don’t
worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
“
Alright, but Dalt, please be careful. And don’t let the
spook get you.” Suz moaned a ghostly imitation. “Whoo-hooo….”
“
Always the comedian,” Dalton said drily. “Bon voyage,
ma grande soeur.”
“
No, no, say au revoir,” Suz answered. “I hate goodbye.”
***
The drive to the cottage was everything Dalton remembered, and
then some. The narrow, easy-going two-lane highway had mutated
into a six-lane monstrosity complete with overhead bridges built
to provide pedestrian access to the gimmicky tourist traps and
smoky hamburger huts built on the wrong side of the road. Dalton
slowed the car at a familiar graceful curve that usually allowed
him the first glimpse of the lake and found the view blocked
by a row of modern townhouse condominiums. He stopped at the
corner store for a tank of gas and was shocked at the display
of nubile sun-burnt female flesh that met him at the door when
he went in to the counter to pay.
“
Afternoon, ladies,” he saluted.
The two teenaged girls tugged on their bikinis, appraised Dalton’s
stare, and giggled. “Nasty old fart,” the tasty blonde
offered.
“
Complete perv,” her pert brunette friend agreed.
“
Girls these days,” the older male station attendant shook
his head, commiserating. “I don’t know what their
mother’s are thinking, letting them out of the house dressed
like that. Will that be all, sir?”
Dalton pulled out his wallet. “Yes, as long as the SuperMart
is still in town.”
“
SuperMart? Oh no, sir, they pulled that place down years ago.
If you’re looking for groceries you’ll have to go
to the Mighty Blue Pig over at Cope’s Landing.”
“
Cope’s Landing! But that’s the other side of the
lake!”
“
Yes, I’m afraid it is, but if it’s bread and milk
you want, we have some here; and frozen hamburger patties, already
made up. They work great in a microwave, easy as could be. We
get a lot of compliments on them.”
“
I’m sure there’s no microwave at the cottage, but
the stove should still work. Alright, let me do some shopping
here; I am not going to Cope’s Landing today. I’ve
had enough driving.”
“
You could order a pizza, you know; they deliver now, straight
to your dock.”
“
Pizza?” Dalton considered the idea. “I have been
gone awhile. We certainly never ordered pizza when I was a child.”
“
I thought you looked familiar. Is your cottage nearby?”
“
Primble Minor, in Two Loon Bay.”
“
Primble! My word, it’s been a long time since we’ve
seen a Primble up here. What brings you back?”
“
My mother passed, and my sister and I are trying to decide what
to do with the cottage. I thought I’d come up and take
a look at it.”
“
Best thing you could do to that cottage is burn it down,” the
attendant frowned. “It’s half in the water as it
is. And you won’t get any pizza delivered to your dock
tonight - what with the governmental idiots raising the water
level over the winter to compensate for the snow we didn’t
get, your dock floated off your crib. It’s probably down
Moon River by now.”
“
Well, I’m just here to take a look around,” Dalton
answered weakly. “I’m not expecting much.”
“
Good thing. Primble! Sweet mother of God. Well, be prepared to
sleep in your car is all I can say,” the attendant sacked
Dalton’s purchase. “You couldn’t pay me to
sleep in that cottage.”
***
All in all it wasn’t as bad as Dalton feared. He parked
the car, loaded the bread and milk on top of his rolling suitcase
and traversed the rotten boardwalk safely. There was one tricky
moment when the overbalanced suitcase almost tumbled into the
swamp, but in the end the boardwalk was navigated and Dalton
found himself standing knee-deep in ferns and daisies looking
at his family’s abandoned lakefront cottage.
The dock was gone, that much was true, but the rest of the cottage
looked to be in pretty good shape. The chimney was straight and
well mortared, the porch floor and the roofline were both still
square; he saw no significant signs of water damage there. The
place did need a coat of deep green stain, but at least from
the outside the cottage looked habitable. Dalton reached into
his pocket and pulled out a rusty key still bearing a paper tag
labeled “P.M.” in his mother’s neat handwriting. “P.M.” for
Primble Minor. Dalton was home.
He unlocked the front door and pushed his way inside. The door
had swollen in its jamb, and Dalton had to use his shoulder to
get it open wide enough to allow his suitcase. The house smelled
musty with a nose-wrinkling undercurrent of damp wood and stale
fire. That smell would dissipate soon enough, Dalton decided,
once he opened the windows. He stepped into the master bedroom
and saw a striped mattress rolled up for storage; from the amount
of mouse droppings on the floor the mattress was going to take
some cleaning before it could be used. No problem, Dalton shrugged,
tonight he would sleep on the serviceable living room couch in
front of the fire. Nothing could be simpler or better.
He made a poor meal of hamburger patties on white bread, swilling
it down with warm beer. The electricity powered on as soon as
Dalton engaged the circuit, and the stove warmed right up, but
the refrigerator gave one shuddering, clanking groan, a long
snaking hiss, and died. Dalton found a stack of blankets in a
hall closet, safely stored in a plastic bag rolling with moth
balls, and as he curled up to sleep Dalton heard the electric
hot water heater kicking on; that was all right, too, he would
have a hot shower in the morning and tackle the project with
a fresh eye.
***
During the night the wind switched to the northeast, and Dalton
half-woke to the sound of waves splashing violently against the
shore. He was warm and cozy in his nest of blankets, and, after
noting the disturbance, rolled over and prepared to drop off
again. A faint, irregular scratching was coming from the kitchen,
and Dalton opened one eye to check on it. The kitchen door was
moving, slightly moving back and forth of its own volition. Dalton
was ready to dismiss the movement as the wind, until his rational
mind kicked in and reminded him that if the wind was blowing
from the northeast, the kitchen door was on the protected side
of the house.
Dalton struggled to come up with a reason for what he was seeing.
He could see clearly into the side porch and there was nothing
there; and yet, the door was moving. Reaching for his glasses,
Dalton clambered up off the couch and slipped into his shoes.
He moved silently across the linoleum and flicked on the porch
light. An adult raccoon stood on the porch steps, frozen by surprise
and caught in the act of trying to raid the garbage pail. The
raccoon leapt off the porch and scurried into the dark brush
beyond the yellow light. Catching his breath and as surprised
as the raccoon had been, Dalton chuckled. He’d been an
idiot, of course, he should have known better than to leave the
garbage pail out on the porch. He was just lucky the greasy smell
hadn’t attracted a bear. He pulled the pail into the kitchen
and locked the door that with luck should prevent any further
incursions from the local wildlife. Already half-asleep and dreaming
of getting snugly warm again, Dalton scratched himself idly,
returned to the living room and saw the woman staring in at him
from the window.
Startled, Dalton jumped so severely he dropped his glasses. Blinking
blindly, he dropped to his knees and groped along the dusty floorboards.
His right hand grasped an earpiece and Dalton scrambled to his
feet, fumbling to see out the window.
There was no one there.
Dalton’s heart hammered and he seemed to be breathing through
his skin. He took one slow conscious breath and forced himself
to walk over to the window. There was no one there; his imagination
had played a trick on him, the vision of the dark-haired woman
in the window an obvious result of exhaustion and indigestion
combined. Dalton crawled back into his blankets and took a firm
grip on his mind. After all, he was a grown man, and grown men
don’t believe in spooks.
The only thing was, his inner voice mocked him, the spook looked
just like the woman Dalton remembered from his fevered childhood
dreams.
***
The next time Dalton opened his eyes someone nearby was yelling “Hullo?
Hullo the house?”
It was fully daylight out and Dalton found himself absurdly embarrassed
to be caught sleeping. He struggled out of his blankets and tried
to finger-comb his hair into place. Tugging open the swollen
front door, he found an elderly lady in rubber boots standing
among the daisies. She carried a wicker hamper slung over one
arm and proffered a plaid thermos with both hands.
“
I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I am your nearest neighbor.” She
pointed toward a smaller cottage hidden among some birches. “I
heard you come in late last night, and I thought you might want
breakfast. It’s banana bread and coffee. I baked the bread
myself.”
“
Thank you,” Dalton blinked blearily. “That was very
thoughtful. Won’t you come in?”
“
If it’s no bother,” the lady stepped sturdily into
the living room. “I’m Mrs. Riddle, by the way, in
case you don’t remember me.”
“
Of course I remember you, Mrs. Riddle, please pardon my manners.
My brain’s not working yet; I haven’t had my coffee.”
“
Let’s remedy that,” the lady unscrewed the thermos
and poured a stream of steaming black brew into the plastic cap. “Here
you go. Drink it slow now. This should cure what ails you.”
Dalton sipped carefully. The coffee was piping hot and had an
oddly sweet taste.
“
It’s chicory,” Mrs. Riddle offered, noticing his
expression. “I’ll always add a little chicory to
my coffee, for flavor.”
“It’s marvelous, Mrs. Riddle. Thank you. It’s just what I needed.”
“
You’re very welcome,” Mrs. Riddle surveyed the room. “My, my,
my, I’ve often wondered how this place was holding up. I’ve been
watching it fall to wrack and ruin for years. Are you the Primble boy?”
“
Yes, I’m sorry, yes, I am,” Dalton smiled sheepishly. It had been
awhile since anyone had called him a boy. “I should have mentioned that.”
“
I thought you were; you look just like your father. Now there was a handsome
man. Quite a one with the ladies. I heard he died?”
“
Yes, Dad had a stroke, years back.”
“
And your mother? Is she still with us?”
“
No, Mother passed last May.”
“
I’m sorry to hear that. She was a gracious lady.” Mrs. Riddle stepped
back on her heels and peeked into the bedroom. “You’re here alone?”
“
Yes, quite alone. I’m here to work this weekend, not play.”
“
So, you’re planning on coming up here more often now, then?”
“
We haven’t decided what we’re going to do, actually.”
“
Well, I just thought, you know, what with the tragedy and all, you might want
to sell this cottage and let it pass.”
“
Tragedy?” Dalton felt a prickle of unease. “What tragedy?”
Mrs. Riddle squinted. “You don’t remember what happened, do you?
I didn’t think so, you were so young, but I’ll never forget the day
they pulled that pretty Irish maid up out of the water. Had a hard time with
her body, too; she’d been in the water so long she’d gone soft. Fell
to pieces trying to get her into the boat.”
“
Mrs. Riddle, I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
“
I didn’t think so, why else would you have come back? That’s what
I said to myself this morning. ‘That boy doesn’t remember what happened,
or he wouldn’t be back here’ that’s exactly what I said.”
“
What is it I’m supposed to remember?”
“
The reason your family left this cottage! The year you took so sick with fever.
Your mother was smart enough to put two and two together; she guessed about your
father and that Irish girl.” Mrs. Riddle’s lips narrowed. “She
locked this place up tighter than a drum and drove you and your sister straight
back to the city. I remember that day perfectly; it was right after they found
that poor girl’s body. Your mother left so fast I heard your father had
to follow home later by train.”
“
Mrs. Riddle,” Dalton stood angrily. “You’re talking complete
nonsense!”
“
There are none so blind as them that will not see,” Mrs. Riddle slowly
recapped her thermos. “I came here with friendly intentions, to warn you
as it were. But if you don’t want to hear what I have to say, that’s
your business. I’ll wash my hands of it.”
“
Warn me about what? What is it I’m supposed to be afraid of?”
“
Her,” Mrs. Riddle answered simply. “You need to watch out for her.
You’re his son, see, and she wants revenge. Your mother certainly knew
all about it; that’s why she never brought you back here. But she’s
still out there in that cold deep water, wanting her revenge, and since you’re
his son you’re the one she wants.”
“
That is absolute crap,” Dalton sputtered.
“
Is it?” Mrs. Riddle gathered her things. “Well, I may be old, boy,
but my eyes are still good. Take a look at your septic field out there – you
can see plain as day something walked up out of the lake to your cottage last
night, the dew’s been disturbed off the ferns. Now, I’m not guessing
who it was that left that trail – that’s none of my business - but
I can say for certain it wasn’t me.”
Dalton turned. Mrs. Riddle was right, he could see a line of damp crushed fern
stretching up from the water’s edge to the cottage’s large picture
window. The large picture window where he had seen his vision of the dark-haired
woman the night before. The large picture window overlooking the couch where
he’d slept.
***
“
Dalt? Are you there? Damn, this connection is abysmal. Hello?”
“
I’m here, Suz, lower your voice. Try speaking in a normal tone.”
“
How’s this?”
“
Better. You’re calling me on your cell phone from Paris?”
“
You noticed the number, eh? Smart boy. Yes, it’s easier than figuring out
these damn international payphones. I’ll suck up the roaming charge when
I get back. So, little brother, bonjour! How’s it going? Everything okay
up at the cottage?”
“
It’s in pretty good shape, all things considered. How’s Paris?”
“
Blow Paris! Listen, Liz flew back this morning, she simply hated the weather.
Said she wants to try Palm Beach instead. So, Dalt, listen, I’ll be home
sooner than I thought – Liz paid for the hotel two days in advance so I
thought I might as well stay put and get some use out of it. But I’ll fly
home tomorrow and then come straight up to help you with the cottage. How’s
that?”
“
I’d love that, Suz. I could certainly use your help.”
“
Dalt, you sound odd. Did you remember to take your meds?”
“
I didn’t sleep very well last night. Suz, while I have you, did you ever
hear about an Irish maid who drowned in the lake?”
“
A what?”
“
A maid, an Irish maid who drowned in the lake.”
“
Well, sure,” Suz answered slowly. “But she didn’t have anything
to do with us, Dalt, not really. She worked for one of the bigger cottages – the
Spensers, I think, as a nanny or an au pair or something. Stayed with us for
couple of weeks when you were so sick, on loan, you might say, to help out. Dad
wanted someone to watch over you during the night because of your fever and give
Mother a break. Why? What brought this up?”
“
How did she drown?”
“
Now you are digging. I think she drowned herself – at least that’s
the story I remember. Found herself preggers at the end of the season and couldn’t
get the baby’s father to help. Couldn’t go home and couldn’t
stay there – you know, the usual thing – so she walked into the lake
and finished it. Why the twenty questions?”
“
I ran into Mrs. Riddle this morning; do you remember Mrs. Riddle? She brought
it up. I didn’t remember the story, so I thought I should ask you.”
“
You saw Mrs. Riddle, did you? Christ, Dalt, don’t worry about that woman!
She was nuts thirty years ago and I’m sure she’s no better now. Listen,
Dalt, I have to go; my limo is waiting. Okay, listen, hang on until I get there,
and remember to have fun. Love you, bye!”
“
Love you, too.” Dalton snapped his cell phone shut. It was a good thing
Suz would be joining him, his sister would help settle his nerves. Suz was so
practical about things; she had a real gift for it. And maybe Suz was right and
he shouldn’t have come up to the cottage alone; apparently his nerves weren’t
what they should be. Dalton kicked aside a pyramid of broken fern and studied
the narrow footprint pressed into the shallow sandy mud. No, he decided, his
night time visitor had definitely not been the hungry raccoon.
***
By mid-afternoon the clouds had burned off and brought on the kind of day Dalton
remembered from his childhood – sunny, bright, hot even, and marvelously
clear; with his glasses he could see individual trees all the way across the
lake. The temperature inched up while he worked at cleaning out the cottage,
and Dalton found himself sweating heavily for the first time that year. It felt
great to bring order out of chaos, to really make the dust and mouse droppings
fly, and by the time he finally heaved the lumpy stained mattress out into the
sun, Dalton was ready for a swim.
He slipped on his trunks, grabbed a ragged towel and made his way delicately
down to the dock – or more accurately, the place where their dock had been.
Dalton dropped the towel on a lichen-covered boulder, and barefoot and tender,
stepped out onto the sodden timbers of the crib. He was quite aware of the spectacle
he was making of himself, waving his arms around for balance, a truly funny sight
if Mrs. Riddle was watching from her kitchen window. The old woman would think
he was mad; well, let her! What had Suz said? Blow Mrs. Riddle, she was nuts!
And blow her story, too, about the Irish maid and his father! So what if his
father had liked young girls? Dalton had already known all about that, his father
had admitted it – and warned him against it - when Dalton was twelve and
they had talked about sex. Mrs. Riddle was a malicious gossip, nothing more,
and besides, everything she had said happened thirty-five years ago, and everyone
involved in it was dead! Honestly, what did any of it really matter anymore?
After all this time, who even cared to know the truth?
“
Mrs. Riddle!” Dalton yelled, shucking off his swim trunks and mooning her
kitchen window. “I am my father’s son!” And he dove into the
dark water.
Deep down the lake was crisply cold, pure, and exhilarating. Dalton gasped when
he came up for air. He swam away from the dock and then remembered a childhood
trick of floating in the top-most layer of warmer water – the layer warmed
by the sun. He rolled onto his back and grinned to think of the picture he was
presenting to the world. His city body was so pale it was probably blinding.
Dalton felt a shadow cross his face and cupped one hand against the sun. Overhead,
a seagull hovered anxiously, its extended legs a ridiculous yellow.
“
Shoo, bird!” Dalton slapped both arms against the lake. “I’m
not dead yet!”
The gull squawked raucously and cut its wings, heading for deeper water and better
fishing. His humorous reverie broken, Dalton rolled onto his stomach and swam
for shore. He was warm enough as long as he kept moving, but he was also aware
of just how pleasant it would feel to stretch out on one of the flat hot rocks
and toast his pale skin in the sun. Near the dock he floated vertically, treading
water and considering the risks of clambering back onto the broken crib. Well
aware of the danger of stepping on a loose spike or rusty nail – Dalton
couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a tetanus shot - he also remembered
too late his aversion to the lake’s silky clay bottom. When he thought
about deliberately planting his feet into that sticky mud and feeling it squish
up between his toes, Dalton felt queerly unsettled. And then something icy grabbed
him by both ankles and pulled him under.
***
“
Dalt? Yes, Dalt, that’s right, follow my voice. Open your eyes, if you
can…”
“
Suz?” Dalton struggled to sit up and found himself strapped to a hospital
bed. “What’s going on?”
“
Dalt, Dalt! Take it easy! You’re in a clinic, a private clinic, perfectly
safe.” Suz lowered her voice. “Dalt, what happened to you out there?”
Dalton fell back against a thin hard pillow. “What do you mean?”
“
I mean what happened to you up at the lake? Mrs. Riddle had to call the OPP;
you were running around naked, screaming about some girl.” Suz leaned forward. “Dalt,
you didn’t take a girl up to the cottage with you, did you? Maybe some
girl you hired in the city?”
“
No, Suz, no, I was alone.”
“
Thank God. I’m never sure with you, you’re so much like Dad.” Suz
tapped her teeth. “So, what do you remember?”
“
I must have had my fever again.” Dalton sighed. He felt so tired he could
feel his pulse in his teeth. “How did I get here?”
“
Protective Services brought you in, once the OPP put out the fire.”
“
Fire?”
“
Yes,” Suz nodded grimly. “We’re going to have a hard time getting
you out of this one, Dalt. You torched Primble Minor before the cops could stop
you.”
“
Good,” Dalton smiled wearily. “I’m glad it’s gone.”
“
Don’t let the doctors hear you say that, Dalt; we’re trying to let
out it was an accident.”
Dalton closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Suz. I’m
okay with the way things turned out. Please don’t trouble yourself about
me; everything will turn out fine, I’m sure.”
“
You rest,” Suz stood. “Maybe the doctors can help you this time,
Dalt, I sincerely hope so. And please don’t give one thought about Mother’s
estate; I’ll take care of that. Oh, and I’ve asked the Court to appoint
me as your protective guardian since you’re in, well, here, and I’ll
make sure the clinic keeps getting paid for as long as it takes.”
Dalton turned and studied what he could see of the linoleum floor. “Suz,
I never noticed it before, but you have very narrow feet.”
“
I inherited that from Mother,” Suz displayed her trim ankle. “All
of us Bundy women have it. Mother and I were remarkably alike, when you come
to think of it.”
“
I’m beginning to see that. Suz, I’m curious. Have you ever considered
changing your hair color, to say, brunette?”
“
Why would I do that, Dalt? Blondes have more fun, and it’s such an attractive
color. If I need to go dark I can simply buy a wig. Then, when I’m through
with whatever it was I needed the dark hair for, I throw the wig away. It’s
not terribly expensive, and I consider it a short-term investment for long-term
gain.”
“
Did you even go to Paris?”
“
Dalt, you know Liz cancelled that trip and went to Palm Beach instead. I told
you about the change in plans, remember? Besides, I don’t think I’ll
be working for Liz anymore; we’ve had words. She’s so indecisive,
and, if you think about it, I don’t really need to work for anyone unless
I want to, do I?”
“
It was the chicory, wasn’t it? I should have noticed it was odd. I’ve
never tasted chicory before.”
“
You should always research a new herb before you sample it, Dalt. Some herbs
can interfere with standard medication or cause odd side effects. Mother, for
instance, was always partial to borage. She found it soothing, although it did
cause impotence. Mother used to make Dad a nice cup of tea every night before
bed. She was so thoughtful that way.”
“
Suz, I find myself worrying a little about Mrs. Riddle. Do you think she’ll
be alright?”
“
Oh, I’m sure Mrs. Riddle is fine, for now. Actually, Dalt, I’ve started
paying Mrs. Riddle a tiny amount of money out of Mother’s estate. She’s
promised to keep an eye on the lake property until I can find a buyer. It’s
not much, really, and the poor woman was struggling so to survive on her pension.
Mrs. Riddle says she’s deeply grateful for every extra dollar I can throw
her way.”
The steel door swung open and a stout nurse stood in the doorway. “I’m
sorry,” she announced dully. “Visiting hours are over. You’ll
have to go.”
“
That’s quite alright,” Susan Primble Scott tugged on her gloves. “I’m
finished here.”
From Author Martha Reed
The hardest thing about being a writer is finding the bravery to
tell the truth. Luckily, that bravery is usually linked to my twisted
sense of humor, so I manage to survive.
I came to writing late in the game basically because when I was younger
I had nothing important to say. I’ve been trying to figure it
out ever since. But I’ve always been a storyteller, and fascinated
with words. On rainy days in Ohio my mother would hand me a volume
of the encyclopedia and I entertained myself for hours. My kindergarten
teacher reported that I didn’t like playing with clay because
I knew at the end of art class I would have to clean it up; she wrote
that I preferred to gather the other children around and tell them
a story. I was six at the time. I just wish my teacher had written
down exactly what it was I felt compelled at that age to say.
Writing is the most important thing I do, and I struggle to approach
it with honesty. Right now I’m having trouble with the traditional
publishing industry because of my honesty, but I’m just not
willing to sacrifice my work to the maws of the great machine. My
sisters, who know me well, call me stubborn – I am a Taurus – but
I prefer to label it personal integrity.
My saving grace, if I have one, is that I love to travel and meet
new people, and I keep putting it out there. I’m amazed at how
many great stories complete strangers have to tell. The price of admission
is usually a quick nod and a friendly smile. “What do you mean?” I
ask, and out it comes. A story truly is the shortest distance between
two people.
So what have I written? One literary prose poem, Table for One, published
in Pearl 26; a Nantucket Mystery novel, The Nature of the Grave, which
won a 2006 Independent Publishing (IPPY) Honorable Mention for Mid-Atlantic
Best Regional Fiction. A Muskoka ghost story told with love, The Haunting
of Dalton Trimble, available in Spinetingler Magazine, and now that’s
finished, I’m off to work on my second Nantucket Mystery, The
Witch of Wauwinet.
Sample first chapters of both novels are available on my web site,
www.marthareed.com, and I invite readers to stop by and take a look.
If you like what you read, please follow the link to my Print On Demand
(POD) publisher and order a copy through their secure site; they’ll
mail it straight to your door. How easy is that?
If you’re curious why I chose to publish myself using POD technology,
and some folks are, please visit my author page at www.cozylibrary.com;
I think I’ve spelled out my reasons pretty clearly there. If
you want to contact me directly, click the email link found on my
site. I love hearing from other mystery enthusiasts, and I’ll
get back to you as soon as I can.
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