The Village of GERARD'S CLIFF
Many thanks
to my husband Ray.
THE VILLAGE OF GERARD'S CLIFF
Carol Anne Vick
Copyright 2014 by Carol Anne Vick
Chapter I
"I don't miss him."
There. She'd said it aloud, finally verbalizing what she'd been feeling for the past two months. The guilt that had previously washed over her every time she reflected on her lack of feelings for her poor, dead husband, Patrick, was absent this time, and the hand holding the paintbrush - which was poised to add a touch of blue-green to the crashing wave - dropped to her side.
Allie sighed, lowered herself onto the folding stool set up in front of her easel, and turned her head to look at the scene that lay before her, as she rested her hand holding the paint brush across her knee. The dirt pathway that wound around along the edge of the rock face was now devoid of the fragrant pink and white sea roses that she loved and the honeysuckle that bloomed in summer. The granite cliffs, poised high above the upper rocky beach, appeared even more stark this time of year. The fierce waves crashing on the white, sandy shore below her were both energizing and soothing. Allie never tired of the sights, sounds, and smells of the Cliff Walk, and she let her eyes wander over the exquisite landscape as her mind brought forward other, less pleasant memories.
No, it wasn't quite true that she had no feelings at all, she thought, as her fingers slowly twirled the brush's handle. When the authorities called her to identify her husband's body, she'd gotten sick, hadn't she? The sight of his lifeless, broken, and bloody body being hauled off the fishing boat and laid on the dock would stay in her head forever. But, she had to admit to herself that, after the shock of his death on that fishing trip, and the tasks of getting through the paperwork, the planning of his modest funeral, the scattering of his ashes were finished...after all of that was over and done with....her life became.....better? Was that the right word? She wouldn't have wished him dead, of course not. But, why did she feel relieved....less burdened....more like herself...than she did when he was alive?
She tilted her head back slightly and watched a lone seagull slowly swoop down to grab some tiny morsel on the beach. Feeling chilled, she pulled the collar of her green parka up around her ears with her free hand.
After a few more minutes of self-contemplation, Allie methodically gathered up her painting supplies, and folded her stool and easel. Since there were no guests at her inn on this absolutely gorgeous day in November, she took her time walking the short distance to her establishment...her inn now...all of it now her responsibility. Patrick's older brother, Ethan, had, almost immediately after the funeral, offered to buy The Colborne Inn from her, but she'd refused. She wanted to see for herself if she could continue to run the place successfully.....she knew she could. And there was no way she would move from this heaven-on-earth spot she and Patrick had discovered, and moved to, on a spur-of-the-moment decision seven years ago when she was twenty-five and he, thirty.
Allie slowly walked back to the inn, her cold hands carefully carrying the wet canvas and satchel of paints and brushes, the folded easel and stool tucked under her arm. Her sturdy, tan hiking boots crunched on fallen twigs, and brown leaves. She crossed a small lane, then turned down the dirt walkway that led to the entrance of The Colborne Inn.
Chapter II
"Damn it to hell!"
Connor swore as he swerved just in time to avoid hitting the moose that was sauntering across the highway, ironically, just a few feet from the sign that read Watch out for Moose.
"Where is that turn-off," he muttered to himself, as he righted his black Camaro. He smoothed back his short, black hair with a slightly unsteady hand, and looked nervously down the road ahead, which was becoming increasingly dark as day turned to dusk.
A few minutes later, he managed, in the dimness, to make out a sign that read Village Road, and quickly turned right onto a more narrow and even darker two-lane road. Where on earth was this place? As he fumbled around the passenger seat for the paper with his hand-scribbled directions, he was starting to wonder if he'd made the right decision to take this job, located, obviously, in the middle of nowhere, and a cold nowhere to boot.
While cursing his decision under his breath, Connor spotted the final turn-off to the Village of Gerard's Cliff. A few minutes later, pulling up into a gravel parking area with an entrance sign that read The Colborne Inn, he was rewarded with the sight of a dimly-lit yellow frame building, set in a clearing, backed with rows of mature evergreen trees. There were several areas around the back of the building that were bordered by white picket fences, that he assumed were gardens in warmer weather, but that now simply looked empty and forlorn, adding to the desolation of the place, in his mind.
Connor parked, unwound his long frame from the car, and retrieved his suitcase from the trunk. He was aware of the loud crunching of his shoes on the gravel as he made his way to the front entrance, and felt as if he were the only person for miles around. As he turned left onto the walkway at the front of the building, he felt a cold breeze that brought with it the scent of the ocean. Now that's more like it, he thought, as he took a deep breath, and leaning his head back, stretched the tension caused by hours of driving from his neck and shoulders. He walked up the six steps to the wide porch, casually noticing the four white wicker rocking chairs, and assorted wicker side tables. As Connor approached the cranberry red front door, he noticed the fat wreath of interwoven twigs hanging from a wide, flowered ribbon that lay against the rectangular beveled glass insert in the upper portion of the door. He noticed that the window was curtained on the inside.
He knocked on the door.
"Mr. Garrison?" A slim young woman opened the door, and gave him a pleasant, but rather benign smile. "Welcome to The Colborne Inn. I'm Mrs. Colborne. I hope you didn't have too much trouble finding us," she added.
Connor had not known quite what to expect at the inn, but whatever it was, this wasn't it. He found himself staring down into a pair of glistening brown eyes, rimmed with dark lashes and dark slashes of eyebrows above. For a split second, he felt confused, then he quickly regained his composure.
"A moose tried his best to stop me," he smiled down at her, "but other than that little encounter...overall, it was not a bad drive." He lied, eager to get to a room and lie down.
She held the door for him as he entered, then locked it and led him across a large front parlor. Connor eyed the crackling fire in the gray stone fireplace, which was obviously the focal point of the room. He could see himself sitting in front of that fire, drinking a cup of hot, steaming coffee, reading a good book, as a snowstorm raged outside. The cozy room was painted in a softly muted, green. They passed two sofas, arranged perpendicular to each other near the windows, both slip-covered in a green and rust-flowered pattern, several lamps, and four plump armchairs, two of which anchored the fireplace. The chairs were paired with side tables, a couple of them littered with books piled in a haphazard fashion. He stopped to admire one of several paintings that adorned the walls, all of which depicted rocky cliffs, and ocean waves crashing upon white beaches in various seasons and weather conditions.
"You'll be staying with us for two weeks, I see."
He turned at the sound of her voice and noticed that she had moved behind a tall desk at the far end of the room where a hallway began.
"Yes, and paying up front, as I told you on the phone." He walked up to the desk, and set his suitcase down on the floor next to his blue-jean clad legs, and well-worn, brown boots. Looking around, he added casually, "Am I the only guest for the night?"
He noticed that she tensed slightly, then, con
tinuing to look at the ledger, she replied just as casually. "There will be a couple coming in later tonight." She looked up at him and smiled, "If they don't run into that moose, that is." Connor smiled and handed her the money.
As she put the bills in the cash drawer, Connor scanned the desk. It was neatly organized with a phone, assorted pens in a small earth-colored jar, a calculator, a metal organizer with several folders, a small vase of dried flowers and the large leather-bound ledger, which was filled with neat cursive. He watched as she wrote a notation next to his name in the ledger, noticing the absence of a ring.
She looked at him, and smiled. "You're in The Garden Room for your stay, Mr. Garrison. I'll show you to your room. Breakfast is served in the dining room from seven 'til ten." She started to move down the hallway to his right, turning her head and adding, "Our chef makes a wonderful French Toast stuffed with cream cheese. She serves it with warm syrup and pecans on the side. You have to try it."
Connor picked up his suitcase, and followed her up the wooden stairs, the center of which was covered with an ochre colored, oriental runner. They continued down a softly-lit hallway, painted a deeper shade of green than the parlor. What he assumed to be antique sconces hung on the wall next to each guestroom door. The various physical aspects of the inn were not all that caught his eye, however. He couldn't help but take notice of Mrs. Colborne's thick, honey-colored hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail that reached half-way down her back. The ponytail swished softly from side to side as she walked purposefully down the hall in front of him. He couldn't help but admire the view of the back of her rust colored blouse tucked into almost-snug tan slacks. They reached his room, which was located at the back of the inn and she unlocked the door, pushed it partially open, and handed him the key.
"Unfortunately, you won't have a view of our beautiful garden, since it's November." Mrs. Colborne gave him a rueful smile. "I hope the room meets your expectations. Have a good night," she concluded with a smile, turning back toward the stairs. Before he entered, he took one last look at the inn's proprietor, as she walked back down the hall. Don't be an idiot, he admonished himself, as he carried his suitcase through the door, and into the room.
He glanced around him at the guestroom's furnishings, as he laid his brown leather suitcase on the plump and inviting dark green comforter. The walls were covered in a two-toned green striped wallpaper that ended at the white chair-rail and wainscoting. His double bed was pine, with a curved solid headboard and footboard. A clock, black phone, and lamp sat on a black table next to the bed. In the corner next to the white-shuttered window, there was a black wicker rocker, with a light green cushion, and a pine side table with a brass lamp. He could see the partially-open door of the attached bathroom on the other side of the bed. Not bad, not bad, Connor shrugged, as he unzipped his suitcase. He flipped open the top, and started unpacking.
The Village of Gerard's Cliff Page 1