Finding Promise (The Promise Series, A Small Town Romance) (2 page)

The garden was dominated by a huge lawn, which gave it the
impression that it was bigger than it was in reality. The flower beds edged
along the front and sides of the lawn with a dilapidated gazebo at one side of
the garden holding garden furniture and remnants of jungle gym on the other.
Behind the pathway stood a line of red maple, Japanese white pine and red cedar
trees that, long forgotten, were tangled in each other as though, through
loneliness, their branches reach out to their closest friend. She too needed a
friend and the familiarity of her own company was creating dissonance. Perhaps,
here, she could find what she was looking for; friendship and the comfortable
familiarity that accepted what was instead of what should be. A single figure
on the garden path, she stood, envisioning sitting on that patio to watch the
ocean and welcoming friends and neighbors coming through the gate, simply
because they desired her company. 

Smiling tentatively at this daydream, she advanced up the
path to the house. Here, too, were the remains of beds of what must have been
bright, sunny flowers, now nothing more than dried, brown twigs. It must have
been a lovely, vibrant garden she thought, noting a profusion of misshaped
topiaries and heather bushes gracing a garden bed in front of the porch
railing. She recognized some of the plants from a New England guide book she
had bought at a gas station when she’d entered the area. When one traveled and
ate alone at gas stations, travel guides became adequate companions. Other
plants and flowers were unrecognizable, probably because they grew so
intertwined that when you looked at it, you weren’t sure where the one began
and the other ended.

She wasn’t daunted by the state of the house and its
grounds. It was obvious that the house was in dire need of TLC but with some
work, it could be postcard perfect. Like the old adage, if home is where the
heart is, the property, with all its flaws, had already stolen a piece of her
heart. Shaking her head in amusement, she stepped up to the front door and
looked through its windows. The door was made of thick, solid pine and in
certain areas, patterned; stained glass filled its panes, creating a pleasing
mosaic effect.

Cobwebs caught in the flopping chignon holding up her hair,
as she bent closer to the windows to look inside. Caroline hardly noticed the
dust and the missing tiles decorating the antique, cast iron fireplace,
envisioning cozy evenings curled up under a throw, reading a book instead. A
huge empty room signified where the fireplace was located and the floors were
indeed hard wood. Excited to see more, she moved quickly from window to window
peeking into the empty rooms. There was one window set high on the side of the
house and being short, she couldn’t reach to look into, so she guessed it was a
bathroom or guest toilet. Each room she passed was delightful to behold.

When she got to the back of the house, she saw what looked
like a mud room and a kitchen big enough to move around in. The visions she had
of herself preparing meals while a guest kept her company at a big pine table,
were stronger than the reality of the brown and mustard linoleum floors or the
chipped cream paint of the cupboards, hinting at the wood beneath it. The back
yard held a washing line, some of its chord snapped, snaking along the grass.
The yard hosted a wooden entertainment deck with a well-used barbeque. She
pictured an awning over a refurbished deck with a gas barbeque and a picnic
table and chairs. In a far corner sat a wooden tool shed that looked as though
it would collapse as soon as its door was opened. The garden shed could be
replaced and there was enough land to start a vegetable and herb garden. The
back yard wasn’t fenced in and instead was surrounded by the same grass and
bush she saw along the road in front of the house.

Images of Fourth of July barbeques, comfortable conversation
with friends and relaxing evenings on a porch swing assailed her. Things that
she’d only read about and never experienced increased her need to attain the
house. Optimistic and excited, she realised that it was perfect. She could heal
this house and maybe find the opportunity to heal herself too. She might just
have found a place where she could live and belong.

It could not have been more different than the upscale New
York apartment that she’d lived in for the five years that she was married. Her
parents had coerced her into selling the house and moving back in with them,
her father telling her that it was poor form for a woman to live on her own.
Ironically, Caroline had stayed on her own in the apartment more often than she
had shared it with her husband. It was on the day that she signed the final
papers to sell the apartment that she embarked on her adventure. Faced with the
bleak prospective of living with her parents for the next few years until she
was manipulated into another unhappy marriage of her father’s choosing, served
as the final motivation for her to run. She had packed her identification
documents, purse, a few bags of basic clothing and left a note for her parents.
She had also left cupboards full of designer clothing and a safe full of
expensive jewelry. Those things had come to mean little to her. She needed to
get away from the world that she’d been accustomed to, knowing that it wouldn’t
help her heal. I can heal this house and through that maybe I can heal too.

Overwhelmed and nervous but feeling strongly that this was
meant for her, she decided to investigate the sale of the house. Not having bought
a house before, she had no idea what a house such as this would cost. What
would she need to buy the house? She had her identification documents but did
she need anything else? She realised that she needed some answers and walked
towards her car.

A dusty truck, evidently used to hard labor, was pulling up
behind hers. Drat, this better not be another prospective owner. It was a
ruggedly, handsome man and he was heading towards her. “Good afternoon,
ma’am.  Are you lost? I saw your car parked out here and thought that you
might be looking for some directions but that house over there is vacant. Is
there anything I can assist you with?”

“No, thank you. I was just taking a look at it. It’s
charming.” She smiled in what she hoped was a friendly manner, not feeling too
friendly with fatigue beating down at the door.

With work on his mind, Luke said good bye and started to get
back into his truck. “Oh wait. Sorry to bother you, I can see that you’re on
your way somewhere. Could you please point me towards the town?”

“Sure, just head on straight down that road and before you
know it, you’ll be there. You can’t miss it.” He waved good bye as he drove
off.

Imagine that, mused Faith. People here actually stopped you
to ask if you needed help.  If what she’s seen thus far was anything to go
by, the town must be spectacular.

Promise didn’t disappoint her. After passing a few more
houses, she entered the seaside town of Promise within ten minutes. The house
is certainly conveniently located close to town. Her first impression of the
town was that it was a hidden gem, if the medieval land of Cockaigne had
existed, the place of happiness and plenty, this was an Americanized version of
it probably looked like. She’d had no idea, when taking the exit less than an
hour ago, that she’d come to such a quaint, prosperous little village. Taking
the road down the hill, she noted that the town was nestled into the curve of
the bay, with the road tapering inland though the commercial hub of the town. A
beautiful, traditional town square ended the road, and in its centre, hinting
at its patriotic community, stood an immaculately maintained, white bandstand
with American flags attached, proudly waving in the breeze. A surprisingly
large selection of small and medium sized buildings seemed to offer an
assortment of wares and services, in what must be the main street. The town was
designed so that the town square was on the one end of the main street, towards
the foot of the hill that stood, protecting the bay as though nature had
created a semi-circular fort around it. The road, perpendicular to the hill led
straight to the harbor before tapering towards an attractive waterfront
development, bustling with tourists seeking respite from the heat in its shops
and restaurants. From this arterial street, smaller, narrower streets branched
off to neat homes. Nearing the waterfront, all her car’s windows rolled down
she smelled the catch of fish and the sweat of the fishermen, their boats
bobbing gently on the water, in contrast to their calls to each other, showing
off their spoils of the day. Obviously this town’s two primary sources of
income were fishing and tourism.

She parked her car at the waterfront development. A sign at
the entrance announced its name, The Pavilion, and listed its rules,
restaurants and stores. The sunny weather seemed to have lured many people to
it. She could see a white, sandy strip of beach at the far side of it, bathers
dipping in and out of the ocean and people lying on bright beach towels, worshipping
the sun. Children rode their bicycles on a promenade, hollering to each other
as they engaged in what seemed to be a race. A family, walking lazily and
eating snow cones as though that was the purpose of their day, moved
effortlessly out of the way, undisturbed by the noise. A mother ran after a
toddler in a costume covered with a hooded towel, while the father looked on in
exasperation holding a beach umbrella and an assortment of things they had
deemed necessary for an outing to the beach. They must be tourists, she
thought, laughing softly at this sight. Between the promenade and the
waterfront shops was a small grassy bank with picnic tables and benches dotting
it here and there and in no orderly fashion. An elderly couple sat down, weary
from their walk in the sun and a group of adults strolled hand in hand towards
the tables, carrying picnic baskets. At the waterfront shops, a number of
restaurants lined up next to each other, occasionally interrupted by another
store. Many of the stores catered to the tourist. Parents, harassed expressions
on their faces, were followed by children gleefully carrying small bags, out of
a trinket store with sand in bottles and an uncanny amount of objects, on
display in its window. Swimming costumes and towels, in a rainbow of colours,
swayed softly in the breeze amongst buckets and spades in a beach goods store.
The store seemed so packed with stock that it gave the impression of wanting to
spill onto the pavement. A few teenage girls, being watched with unabashed
interest by a group of nearby boys, chattered their way inside, holding more
bikinis than they could possibly wear in a few years, let alone one summer. A
teenage boy was buying an ice cream for his girlfriend from a quirky stall in
front of a novelty candy store. It was the most unique ice cream stall she had
ever seen. It looked like it came straight from the 1950’s, cleverly resembling
a sugar cone basket holding globs of pink, green and vanilla ice cream. The
‘cherry on top’, she grinned, was the roof of the stall, held up with poles
made to look like sticks of caramel and chocolate. A very apt sign across the
cherry announced its wares in bold letters, ‘Good ‘ol Fashioned Ice Cream’.

At the reminder of food, her stomach protested its hunger.
The restaurants offered the opportunity to continue watching the comings and
goings of the waterfront visitors. Each restaurant had tables set on the wide
cobble-stoned area in front of it, not encroaching onto its neighbor’s space as
though someone had drawn and invisible line that could not be crossed. Quite a
few people were sitting down with sundowner drinks in hand or an early dinner.
She chose one of the quieter restaurants, not wanting company just yet,
preferring to settle in and just observe the town life on a late, Sunday
afternoon. After meal consisting of a salad and grilled cod with a glass of
chilled white wine, served by friendly waiting staff, she decided to look for
accommodation. A long, hot, fragrant bubble bath and a quiet room seeming like heaven
now that her stomach was full.

“Can you recommend a hotel or bed and breakfast?” Caroline
asked the waitress when she brought the bill.

“We don’t have a hotel but there are a number of bed and
breakfasts or lodges outside of town. If you want something convenient and
decent, there’s an inn further up at the other end of the waterfront.” The
waitress looked at the tip, happy to add it to her day’s collection. “Its peak
season, so you may struggle to find accommodation. In that case, the tourist’s office
in Main Street should be able to help you out. Main Street isn’t very big so
you should find it easily enough.”

Thanking her for her advice, Caroline anxiously set off to
find the inn; she needed accommodation for the night at least. She couldn’t
fathom getting into the car again and driving, especially when she still
intended to investigate the house.

Walking towards the furthest end of the waterfront
development she saw it. If it was more modern, it probably would have fit into
the category of boutique hotel. But the word, inn, suited this old
three-storied building better. It was made of stone with varnished wooden
balconies that stood in sharp contrast to the brightly colored plastered
buildings that comprised the rest of the waterfront. Even its name spoke of a
bygone era. It was called, simply, Seafarer’s Inn. Established in 1903, the inn
had roots here and yet, despite being old, was lovingly tended to as it was in
good condition. The thought of watching the ocean from the balconies of one of
the rooms appealed to her and reminded her of the house. She could have her
bath and afterwards Google the area and property market over a cup of coffee on
her smartphone. She thought of updating her Facebook wall then decided against,
content to continue isolating herself from the people she knew.