Seventy-Two Hours

by Stringham, C. P.

  Seventy-Two Hours

  By C.P. Stringham

  Text Copyright © 2012 C. P. Stringham

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedicated to my crazy,

  Yellow Submarine-working,

  nature-loving, shoebox-beer-drinking,

  vodka-swilling, Twitter friends from Minnesota!

  This is for all of your tweets about aliens

  and Big Foot. You break the monotony in my days.

  Table of Contents

  Seventy-Two Hours

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements…

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements…

  This book is a-dream-come true for me. Years of writing for my own entertainment and allowing “the voices” in my head to be heard…fellow writers will understand this reference. If you are reading this acknowledgement page, thank you for purchasing my book. I hope I have written characters you will find believable and likeable through all of their flaws. While I am working on a project, I spend more time in conversation with them than with my own family. Which is a perfect segue into my first acknowledgement. To my poor, neglected family, thank you for allowing me my writing time when “the madness” hits. I know it isn’t easy dealing with my partial consciousness when I am present. Your support is appreciated and I love you all so very much.

  This book would not have been possible without the wonderful editing provided by Ali Bennett. Thank you, Ali! You graciously gave up time during your precious summer vacation to lend me your help. Not many hardworking public school district employees would be willing to do that. I would also like to recognize my literary guinea pigs: Lorri Johnson, Diann Anderson, Alecia Galvin, Theresa Glisson, Bobbie Jo Strope, Cindi Webster, Caitlin McBratney, and Jeannie Inman. Most of you were with me from the start of Seventy-Two Hours; cheering and pushing and critiquing. Ladies, I will always be grateful for your input. Most especially, I’d like to thank My Gal Friday, Vivian Johnson. Viv, you were the first guinea pig. I can honestly say that I love being able to move you to tears through my writing. Not many friends would stick around for the “abuse.” Don’t plan on going anywhere!

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Traffic through downtown Watkins Glen was fierce with holiday weekend tourists. The shops along North and South Franklin Streets seemed to be reaping the benefits of its increased summertime population. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians and some of the stores had moved clothing racks and shelving outside their doors showing off merchandise to help draw potential customers inside. Souvenir shops, cafes, pubs, and antiques stores all counted on a successful summer tourism season. That area of Seneca Lake, in Upstate New York, was known for several things; the picturesque lake itself, wineries, and Watkins Glen International Race Track. Much of their tourism traffic depended on the weather, which could be unpredictable in the winter. Lake effect snow could creep in with little to no warning and amass a significant amount of snowfall in a matter of a few short hours.

  Watkins Glen was an hour commute from our house in Northeastern Pennsylvania. When our sons were young, we made a point of visiting the area at least three times a year from spring until fall. Now that the boys were young adults, they seemed to keep busy with their own plans.

  Our oldest son, Hudson, finished his second year of college in the spring. He managed to wrangle an invite to one of his frat brother’s homes in New York City for the Fourth of July fireworks display on the river. Ironically, the same river he was named after. Hudson was conceived during our trip to New York six months after my husband, Chris, and I married. Our middle child, Carson, had just graduated from high school and was busy attending a multitude of graduation parties. He was our social butterfly. This weekend’s party involved camping out in tents with his fellow classmates. Clinton was our youngest and also our troublemaker. He’d passed his freshman year of high school by the skin of his teeth. The over-achiever gene his brothers inherited from their father seemed to have skipped over him. He was born the day after William Jefferson Clinton was reelected. Hence his name. For this holiday weekend, he’d accepted an invitation from my in-laws for an RV trip to the Outer Banks. They’d be gone for two weeks. Time spent with his dotting grandparents was more appealing than staying home with his often quarrelsome parents. Hell, given the choice, I’d have gone along with them as well.

  I taught 8th grade American History at our local junior high school and was off for summer vacation. I’d opted out of attending teacher’s conferences and workshops or taking career padding courses for new certifications that year. I wanted to enjoy some much deserved freedom. Time for myself. It seemed selfish when said like that, but it was needed nevertheless.

  Chris worked long hours for a nearby glass manufacturing corporation. His job title was Senior Engineer of Life Sciences Products. Chris didn’t work the job. He lived it. It was the reason he’d survived the tumultuous economy when downsizing and forced retirements were a way of life for big business and the only way to stay profitable.

  Our marriage seemed to survive his lack of attention until two years ago. I really couldn’t put my finger on the actual moment I began to turn resentful towards his absences from our home and family life, but it coincided with Hudson leaving for his first year of college; a precursor to empty nest syndrome setting in. It was only compounded by Carson’s recent graduation.

  Maybe that was the culprit. Weren’t relationship experts always claiming that a simple event in our lives can make us behave completely against what was considered normal behavior for us? Maybe what I was feeling would pass when I accepted the fact that my children were almost adults and therefore making their own lives.

  “You’re quiet, Jen,” Chris said from the driver’s seat interrupting my thoughts.

  I always initiated our conversations in the past. I’d finally gotten fed up with being the moderator of our marriage. “I guess I’m tired,” I replied satisfied with its double meaning.

  “A time away will do you some good.”

  “Did Jim say how many they were expecting?” I asked not at all in the mood for a dinner party with some of his co-workers.

  “No.”

  “At least Nancy will be there,” I replied on a sigh knowing that she’d probably keep the numbers small due to the size of their cottage.

  Jim Palmer was Chris’ closest friend and golf partner. They also worked together. We’d known him and his wife, Nancy, for 15 or more years. I liked Nancy. She wasn’t part of the phony corporate wives club that ran rampant in our circle. She worked outside of the home, like me, and was honest and unpretentious. Over the years, the two of us learned quickly to stick together during the monotonous work-related social events our husbands had to attend. I wouldn’t have survived those events if it wasn’t for her.

  I hadn’t spoken with Nancy since plans for their dinner party came about. I’d made a dish to pass. It was a standard gesture between us. Both of us liked cooking. For their dinner, I made bite-sized crab quiche appetizers and, since I had plenty of time with the boys being out of the house, made a large lemon torte with
raspberry sauce.

  Trying to make the best of it, the dinner party would serve as a nice distraction for the evening. My mind had been overly occupied. Knowing Chris and I would have the house to ourselves, at least until Sunday morning (depending on Carson’s plans,) caused short panic attacks with me. The scenario of being alone with him was a fate worse than dying.

  When we returned home, I needed to find the courage to tell my husband of 21 years I wanted a divorce. It was the only way to escape from the feeling of routine hopelessness that had taken over my life outlook. I did love him at one time. I know I did. Wholeheartedly. Now, I couldn’t stand being in his company. Feelings of love had turned to annoyance. Grating annoyance. So much so, that when he spoke on endlessly to me about the one thing he was passionate about, his work, it was all I could do to maintain my control and not scream at him to shut up.

  I sat up straighter in my seat. “You just passed their road,” I told him.

  We were traveling on Route 14 North along the west side of the lake. We’d been to the Palmer’s cottage enough over the years for me to know what road it was on.

  “I’m going a different way,” he told me.

  His explanation didn’t bode well with me. Maybe it was my new combative approach to all things married. I liked a good argument now. It was the only spice in our marriage.

  “That ‘no outlet road’ was Black Walnut Road. Their cottage is off of Black Walnut Road. Therefore, the only way to reach it is by taking Black Walnut Road,” I stated full of snark. “Unless, of course, you plan on picking a random dock and arriving there by boat.”

  What he didn’t hear was what passed through my mind at the end which was, “But that would require imagination.”

  “Ye of little faith.”

  “Look, just admit you missed the turn so we don’t have to drive completely around the lake.” I realized I was tapping my foot impatiently against the floor mat. “Why are men so afraid to admit when they’re lost?”

  “Jen, you’re purposely trying to bait me and I’m not going to take it. We’re not going to argue tonight,” he scolded as if he were handling an errant child.

  “Whatever.” A response that, as a teacher, I hated to hear uttered by one of my students.

  We drove another mile or so when he signaled for a right turn. I held my tongue. It was difficult. Just as many of the other roads off from the lake, this one also had row after row of grape vines growing along the sides of it. I had no idea what vineyard they belonged to since we seldom traveled further north than the Palmer’s cottage.

  I finally decided to pull out my cell phone and send Nancy a text message letting her know we would be late. Chris asked me what I was doing, but I chose to ignore him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Less than a minute later I received a reply from Nancy. It was a simple, one word response, “What?” I responded with, “Chris missed your road. Taking scenic route.” Again, I waited a short time for her to answer, but instead of a text, my ringtone went off.

  “Hello, Nan,” I answered.

  “Hey, Jen, what’s going on? You have me completely confused,” she said on a laugh.

  “I just wanted to tell you that we’re on our way, but we’re going to be late. Ferdinand Magellan here drove past your road. By the time he admits it and we get turned around and backtrack, we’ll be more than fashionably late,” I informed her.

  “Come again? Where are you?”

  “My guess is about 7 miles beyond the road to your cottage.”

  “You’re going to our cottage?”

  Her confusion was now contagious. I looked over and regarded the man sitting behind the wheel of the car. His jaw was set and he kept his eyes forward.

  “You aren’t at your cottage, are you?” I asked without taking my eyes off of his profile.

  “No. Jim’s sister and her family are in from Ohio. They’re staying with us,” Nancy explained. “Jim and Chris must have crossed their wires.”

  “I think this was all Chris’ doing,” I said on a murmur. “Sorry to disturb your family time, Nan. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I ended the call and held my phone in my lap. The rows of vines gave way to dense woods as the road went from blacktopped to dirt and continued a winding and twisting decent towards the lake.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” Chris finally stated in his defense.

  “You lied to me.”

  “I misrepresented the reason for our trip to the lake because I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You’ve overshot ‘surprised’ and are getting pissed off,” I snapped. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “Would you have agreed to it if I’d told you the truth?” he posed. “Would you have been open to a weekend away with me?”

  I didn’t answer him. I didn’t have to. He knew what my answer would have been.

  The road turned right and closely followed the shore of the lake. He turned into a private driveway shaded heavily by trees before bringing his SVU to a stop in front of a rustic, two-story log cabin. Shifting into park and then turning off the engine, he removed his keys and played with them nervously in his hands.

  “I want to go home,” I finally told him.

  He took a deep breath, expelled it loudly, and said, “No.”

  I clutched my cell phone angrily. “Fine. I’ll call Carson to come and get me,” I announced smugly.

  “Go ahead,” he replied as he opened his door, got out, and left me behind to stew over his nonchalant departure.

  After a bit of swearing on my behalf, I called Carson’s cell phone only to be told to leave a voice mail. My current predicament wasn’t something to leave in the form of a detailed message so I decided to end the call. Out of our three children, Carson was the most intuitive to the current state of his parent’s marriage. He would even understand why.

  After unlocking the cottage, Chris returned to unload the hatch. I decided to get out and approach him about ending his silly weekend getaway.

  As he hefted a box of groceries, I surveyed the rest of the items that had been concealed by the closed cover; two overnight bags, our large Coleman cooler, and another box of supplies.

  I decided to stop him from carrying everything inside since I was determined to get my way. “Chris, stop. Stop taking things inside. I want to go home.”

  He came to an abrupt stop, glared at me, and said rather succinctly, “No.”

  I gave off a tired laugh. “You’re going to keep me here against my will? Is that the plan?”

  “I take it you couldn’t get a hold of Carson?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder who else you could call because I’m not leaving.”

  “My mom. I’ll call her next,” I said with confidence.

  He laughed at my response. “I don’t think she will. She felt a weekend away was a great idea. You’re mother’s a smart woman. She sees what’s happening around her.”

  My parents had a soft spot for Chris. From the very beginning. He was courteous, endearing, and turned out to be a great provider. What they didn’t understand was, by being a “great provider,” he was never around for his family. And when he was, the time was always interrupted by conference calls and video chats.

  He broke into my thoughts when he said, “You could always call him. See if he’ll come and get you.”

  While I was still reeling from his comment, he carried the box off to the cottage. I watched him walk away. Stunned and feeling trapped.

  After considering my limited options, I gave in and carried our bags inside. Under normal circumstances, the cottage would have provided a most welcomed weekend away, but not this time. Regardless, I took in and appreciated the simple, but homey touches inside. The open floor plan of the first floor with its kitchen, dining area, and living room. Tall wooden-beamed ceilings. Hardwood floors with braided area rugs. It was cozy.

  “The bedrooms are upstairs, if you want to take our bags up,” he suggested before turning on his heel and heading out
for another load.

  I made my way up the open staircase with steps made out of half logs in search of our sleeping accommodation choices. There were two small rooms each furnished with a simple double bed and a vanity dresser that took up most of the floor space. I checked to see which bag was mine and tossed it on one of the beds. He could have the master bedroom all to himself. I left his bag sitting on an old Windsor chair that sat right inside the door. That room was larger, (not by much,) and held a king size, lodge-style bed with logs used to make the frame, headboard, and footboard. An old quilt was folded up at the foot of the bed. Crisp white sheets and one of those waffle-weave blankets were tucked in around the mattress. Four plump, white pillows gave it a very inviting look. It said, “Climb in, close your eyes, and relax in my cotton cocoon. I’ll make all your troubles disappear.”

  I shook it off. Staying in that room would only make Chris feel as if his plan was working. It wasn’t. While the two of us were sharing the same bed at home, this foreign environment made me want my distance from him. His actions had only forced my hand. Instead of discussing things at home over the weekend, I was being forced to tell him during the romantic weekend he planned. Talk about a twist of fate.

  Chris was downstairs putting groceries away. He had an apple that he was taking bites out of in between stocking shelves and an open bottle of beer setting beside him.

  I crossed my arms as a chill went through me. It was 82 degrees outside and the cottage had been closed up. Even with the few windows that Chris had opened on the first floor, it was still stuffy. Why I was cold, I didn’t know. It had to be my nerves.

  “Did you decide to stay?” he asked while closing a cabinet.

  “I don’t have a choice right now, do I?” I answered.

  “You’re other ride didn’t pan out?” he asked before taking a long pull from his Amstel Light.

  I decided to play dumb. “I already told you I couldn’t reach Carson. I didn’t leave a message.”

  “I wasn’t referencing our son. I thought maybe your boyfriend would be willing to make the trip for you.”