My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) Read online

  My Way Home

  A NOVEL

  Cynthia Lee Cartier

  1st Kindle Edition

  Published by

  STORY CREEK BOOKS

  Post Office Box 270314

  Ft. Collins, Colorado 80525

  Copyright © 2008 Cynthia Lee Cartier

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Justine Elliott

  www.booklayoutguru.com

  ebook by EBooks by Design

  www.ebooksbydesign.co

  For more about the author and her writing, please visit: www.cynthialeecartier.com

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 — Wake Up

  Chapter 2 — That First Week

  Chapter 3 — What Do I Know

  Chapter 4 — Completely Lost

  Chapter 5 — The Call

  Chapter 6 — Lighter and Lighter

  Chapter 7 — Island Grown

  Chapter 8 — I Rounded the Corner

  Chapter 9 — One of Those Dreams

  Chapter 10 — The Acceptance Stage

  Chapter 11 — Living on an Island

  Chapter 12 — Take the Risk

  Chapter 13 — Friends

  Chapter 14 — The Last Twenty-Five Years

  Chapter 15 — Questions

  Chapter 16 — The Heart

  Chapter 17 — Race and Cammy

  Chapter 18 — Ours, All Ours

  Chapter 19 — Welcome to St. Gabriel

  Chapter 20 — Our First Two Weeks

  Chapter 21 — Treasure Hunting

  Chapter 22 — Together

  Chapter 23 — If All Went Well

  Chapter 24 — Celebrate

  Chapter 25 — July

  Chapter 26 — Surprise

  Chapter 27 — A Great Show

  Chapter 28 — Muddy Luck

  Chapter 29 — The Crescendo

  Chapter 30 — Timer or a Lifer

  Chapter 31 — Sleigh Ride

  Chapter 32 — Our First Guests

  Chapter 33 — A Good Pair

  Chapter 34 — Surprised

  Chapter 35 — Beverly Rivers

  Chapter 36 — The Cellar

  Chapter 37 — Let it Go

  Chapter 38 — A Basket of Rhubarb

  Chapter 39 — A Lodge Full

  Chapter 40 — Home

  Where we love is home,

  Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

  Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., Homesick in Heaven

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wake Up

  It was a Friday when the walls came tumbling down. I remember because we were expecting our daughter, a junior in college, to be home at dinnertime to start her spring break. My husband Race took me by the hand and sat me down on the loveseat at the end of our bed. With tears in his eyes, he slowly, carefully and articulately spoke for what would be the most painful and devastating thirty-five minutes of my life. Up to that point in my life, that is.

  Thirty-five minutes, I know because I was timing wild rice and cherry stuffed Cornish Hens. The timer interrupted Race as he was stroking my hair and telling me I would always be one of the most important people in his life, but he had to move in a new direction. He apologized, “I’m sorry, Cammy. I’m sorry.”

  I was in such shock I think I was nodding as the tears rolled down my cheeks. Then I got up, without a word, and followed the beeping of the timer to the kitchen.

  It wasn’t until we were all sitting at the dining table that I looked across at my husband and over at our daughter and realized he wanted a divorce. That’s when the fog really rolled in. It might have been more real, less numbing if there had been shouting or coarse words. But we never really did that. And that, I had thought, was because we were so right for each other—soul mates.

  Chewing seemed to be a chore and the rice felt as if it was sticking in my throat. Eventually, I stopped eating and I just watched and listened with a plastic smile on my face. You hear about out-of-body experiences. It wasn’t quite that. It was more out-of-mind. I could feel my butt in the chair, the fork in my hand, I could see and hear, but I didn’t comprehend anything that was said at dinner that night.

  Race has this scrumptious laugh. I always loved his laugh. Especially as it rolled out because of something Paul, Janie, or I were saying or doing. Janie was in fine storytelling form, I think. She must have been. Race was leaning forward, huge grin, punctuated by huge laughter. I’m sorry I missed that conversation. If I had been present of mind, I would remember it fondly, I’m sure.

  Dark hair, green eyes, fair skin, Janie looks like me. People say we look like sisters. It’s an inflated compliment, I know, but I like when I hear it. It’s a confirmation, a reminder that she’s part of me. She really does look like me, minus ten pounds and wrinkles, but her mind, her personality are her father’s.

  Like Race, Janie’s a great storyteller. And like Race, she was born loving words and she uses them carefully. When either of them speaks, it’s going to be good. I envy that. Our son Paul and I, on the other hand, shoot from the lips as Race would say. If we think it, you’re probably going to hear about it.

  Race looked at our daughter with the devotion that he had for his children from the moment they were born. Devotion that I once saw in his face when he looked at me. When did he stop looking at me that way?

  The two of them went back and forth with such intense engagement that my fogged state went unnoticed, as did my retreat into the kitchen where I spent over two hours cleaning. Or, so I thought it went unnoticed.

  When Janie came in to say goodnight, I hugged her too long. Then she held my face in her hands, the way she had done since she was a toddler and had something serious on her mind. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m so happy you’re home, honey.” I hugged Janie again, briefly that time. Then I spun her around, patted her bottom, and pretended to boot her out of the room with my foot, the way I had done since she was a toddler, shooing her off to bed. She threw her head back as she disappeared out the door and flashed her famous smile, her father’s smile, on my face.

  By then the fog had lifted enough for questions to line up in my mind, pushing and shoving to be first. With my baby girl off to bed, I went looking for answers.

  I found Race in his study, sitting in his old leather reading chair. I sat on the ottoman in front of him, which I always did but knew instantly was a big mistake. I felt like a little girl, looking up at him. Race refused to talk anymore about the “situation” while Janie was home.

  “Why did you tell me an hour before she walked in the door, th
en?” The tears were pooling in my eyes, blurring my vision, but I didn’t wipe them.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I knew there would be a list of plans for the summer by the end of the week, and I didn’t want Janie looking forward to things that aren’t going to happen. I thought it best that we didn’t go down that road, being…”

  I waited for him to finish, and then held out my hands as though I wanted him to give me something. And I did want him to give me something, anything. “Being what, Race?”

  Race stared at my hands as if something was going to magically appear in my palms or light beams might shoot out from my fingertips, then he said, “It will be different this summer.”

  “How, how will it be different?”

  “Cammy, you asked for a reason why, and I told you. That’s the reason. I’m sorry.”

  It was a reason, a horrible, awful reason.

  “I have questions. We need to talk,” I insisted.

  Race reached over to take my hand, and I pulled away. He got a hurt look on his face. Did he not know what he was doing to me?

  Why is he trying to be kind while he is doing this cruel, cruel thing? So confusing.

  And then Race said, “Cammy, I’m sorry, it may not have been the best timing, but we need to keep this from Janie until the end of the semester. We can’t expect her to finish her courses with something like this hanging over her head.”

  Something like what? Why didn’t he just say it? Divorce. But I couldn’t say it either. He’d gone nuts. He’d gone completely mad, or maybe he had always been and I hadn’t noticed. Or, maybe I was nuts.

  “Well, Race, maybe you should have kept it to yourself until the end of the semester. Do you really think she’s not going to find out?” Word, words, so many words, and my questions weren’t getting their turn.

  I could see by the look on Race’s face he hadn’t thought it through very well. And he always thought everything through—through and through. Race sat there looking like a lost little boy, but a boy who was determined to do what he was going to do. He’d find a way.

  It reminded me of Paul’s face when he was seven and he came home with a stray puppy that Race told him he couldn’t keep. Our son’s eyes filled with yearning, hurt, and determination as he pled his case to keep the little mutt.

  “I couldn’t wait, Cam. I’m sorry. Promise me we’ll wait to talk until Janie leaves for school on Sunday, please.”

  Again, Race reached out for my hands. I stood up and fell backwards over the ottoman. He was immediately on his feet and tried to help me up, but I rocked to my knees and pushed him away.

  When I was back on my feet, I left the room and went up to our bedroom. Race slept in his study, rising early to go for his run in the morning. Janie was never the wiser.

  I made my way through the next week, a shell, cooking all of Janie’s favorites and feeling relieved when I came down the stairs or entered a room, and Race wasn’t there. When he was, I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t look at him.

  At the same time my mind was numb and frantic and was filling up with questions, which I listed obsessively behind the Journal tab of my day planner that I call Einstein. How long have you been planning this? Are you having an affair? Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?

  I lay in bed at night thinking mostly about Race having an affair. Was there someone else? Of course there was. Isn’t that what a new direction means, a new direction with someone else? Men don’t leave to be alone.

  We had been happy, hadn’t we? We had a good life, great kids, family, friends, a nice home, regular sex.

  Where is this coming from?

  I was a good wife. Well, there were times when I was over committed, the house got messy, cluttered, and meals were hit and miss. And the sex was regular but not always great. But what did he expect after twenty-five years of marriage?

  This is reality, life.

  It had to be a woman, a tramp. Yes, some home-wrecking, blankety-blank bimbo.

  A student. Oh, no, not a student. Not someone Janie’s age. Oh, dear God, please no.

  I was a student when I met Race, a junior at UCLA, spring semester. Race was a teaching assistant who was doing all the teaching as it frequently goes at big universities. Introduction to American Literature, the first day of class, I walk in, sit down and wait for the professor who doesn’t show up, not even on the first day. I think I spotted him in the hall a few times during the semester, but I couldn’t be sure.

  The twenty-six-year-old teaching assistant arrives, killer smile, wavy dusty-blonde hair, blue eyes that you could see from the cheap seats, and an athletic build that was apparent under a plaid button-down and khakis. He came into the room with an aura. I’m not just saying that. He glowed and immediately grabbed the attention of every student, even before he spoke. That’s the way I remember it anyway.

  “Welcome scholars, wordsmiths, lovers of prose. And for those of you who are here to sit, soak, and skip on to your next easy credit, buckle up. Walt, Emily, Henry David, Edgar, John, Edith and a cast of others are all waiting in the wings to see if you can hear the voice of your own soul, calling you to feel deeply, think clearly, and live fully.” Those were the first words I ever heard Race speak. I know, because I was taking notes.

  Race made literature, authors, writing all important to our understanding of history, our environment, ourselves, and each other. He was teaching us how to slow down enough to feel the acceptance and comfort in Gatsby’s smile and to see the simple making of a pie, so plainly there in front of us, as we read John Steinbeck’s description of Liza Hamilton doing just that.

  Race was teaching because he loved the words and he loved to make his students love the words too. And he did it. He made us love them and he made us feel in awe of their power.

  Race ran a study group every Thursday night. I got up at five o’clock those days to work before classes. Papa Geno and I had an agreement. I prep-cooked on Thursday mornings and he got someone to fill my Thursday night waitress position.

  “You wanta no worka Thursday night, you worka in the kitchen in the morning,” Papa told me as he scooped pasta and ladled sauce onto plates that he was snatching from the shelf behind him. “You wanta worka here?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Leo, the seventy-two year old waiter that had worked in Papa Geno’s father’s restaurant in Italy, was singing Moon River with a thick Italian accent. He leaned down to peek through the pass-through and winked at me. Then Papa slid three plates across the counter that stopped just short of the edge of the server station. Leo scooped them up and was out the door to the dining room.

  “I need people to worka. You wanta job, you worka the hours.” At the top of his lungs, he yelled at his oldest son, “Toni, you get me those mushrooms today or you looking for the piazza?” He stabbed some linguini and held the pasta-draped fork in front of my face and I could feel the steam on my cheeks. “Me no hire lotsa peoples that worka little. Too many nota good.” He slapped the noodles on a plate, ladled on some sauce and slid the plate across the counter, just tapping the other two.

  With dishes loaded up and down their arms and arguing, Papa’s wife, who everyone called Mama, and his sixteen year old son, Joey, pushed through the swinging door.

  “But, Mama, Johnny and Marco are going.”

  “You nota going to some party with wild kids.”

  “They’re not wild, Mama. They’re my friends.”

  “Wild friends.”

  “You’re gonna make me a freak, Mama. Tell her, Cammy, boys should go out and be with their friends.”

  “You wanta go to nica places with people, then you go. But no naked girl parties.”

  “Naked girls, good one, Mama,” said Toni as he brushed past with a box of mushrooms he was taking to the sink to wash.

  Mama slapped Toni in the back of the head as he passed.

  “There won’t be any naked girls,” insisted Joey.

  “No.” Mama put the dishes in the
sink, set her hands on her hips, and locked eyes with Joey.

  “But, Mama—” Joey pleaded as he stacked the dirty dishes.

  Geno reached back and hooked Toni’s neck in the crook of his arm and kissed his cheek. “Listen to your, Mama, Anthony.” Then I heard Papa whisper to his son, “I’ll talk to her, calpo caldo.” He released Toni and patted my cheek with the back of his hand. “You be Thursday, here at six of the morning, Bella, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m not exactly a morning person, and I had a Wednesday night class that semester, but I needed the job, and I loved working in that crazy Italian kitchen for that crazy Italian man. And nothing would have kept me from that study group.

  It was in those study sessions that I got to know Race Coleman. His favorite foods—turkey with stuffing and cranberries, pancakes, fried biscuits with gravy, peaches, asparagus, grilled cheese sandwiches, ice cream, and pie, any kind of pie. He grew up in Texas in a big family, and he wanted to write a novel. We both wanted to live in a big city or a small town but not the suburbs. We both loved to camp and our favorite part was sitting around the fire telling and listening to stories. We were both early risers in the summer, late in the winter and liked all the seasons. We both liked crowds sometimes, small gatherings sometimes, and being alone sometimes. We both wanted to travel to all seven continents. We both wanted children, two or three.

  Race talked about literature and life with passion, and he listened with passion. But what devoured me was the way he looked at me.

  Amidst the loud and sometimes heated debates over who was the first writer to develop a unique American style and what was the great American novel, Race Coleman stole my heart, and I discovered what it meant to be deeply and uncontrollably in love.

  Fall semester my senior year, I was no longer a student in Race’s class. But he and I faithfully took the same paths across campus, which precipitated regular, chance meetings where we would exchange a few quick words.

  “How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “How are you?”

  “Good.”