Finding Promise (The Promise Series, A Small Town Romance)
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Authors: Aneesa Price
Finding Promise
by Aneesa Price
Text
Copyright 2012 Aneesa Price
All
Rights Reserved
This
book is dedicated to the loves of my life.
Rashaad,
thank you for all that you are; all that we are.
To my
daughters, Aaliyah and Zarah, I wrote this book, hoping that if I risked
and
followed my dream that I would inspire you to follow yours.
Gulping down the water she’d bought at the last gas station,
Caroline looked around hopefully for an exit to a town. She’d been driving the whole
day, as she had on and off for the past month and was hot, tired and famished.
With sweat trickling down the sides of her face, beyond the point of irritating
her skin anymore, her next goal was to get an icy drink, a meal, a shower and a
bed. In that order. Could it be a month already? It was amazing how time flew
and yet, in the last few weeks, she’d seen and experienced so much more than
she ever had, in her pampered life, as a New York society princess. She knew
that to others she may seem like either a petulant child or someone gone crazy
with grief. She didn’t know if she was crazy or not but knew it wasn’t from
grief. All she knew was that she could not have stayed in New York a moment
longer pretending to be mourning her dead husband and being smothered by her
controlling family. After the funeral and the finalization of the estate, she
had a moment of clarity that nothing was keeping her there but her. She could
no longer stand to be surrounded by so many bad memories of broken promises,
humiliation and control. Feeling smothered, she panicked, packed and drove
away. She’d had no destination or plan. She was neither confident about her the
activity nor her ability to continue.
Look on the bright side, I’ve done it! I’ve made it this far
and I can persevere. I’m calling the shots now she told herself, feeling a
sense of delight at that freedom. Whilst saying this daily mantra she spotted a
glimpse of the ocean and it looked enticing. The sun glistened on the water
creating the illusion that it was winking at her when it peaked through the
gaps in the trees. There’s such beauty in the world and I can participate in
it. With thoughts of the sand between her toes and the cool ocean motivating
her, she continued to look for an exit sign. Continuing along the winding road,
at times hugging the coast, at times going through the adjacent oak and pine
forest, she spotted the sign, Welcome to Promise. The ground around the sign
was covered with white-flowering nannyberries and whorled tickseed, its bright
yellow, daisy-like flowers announcing summer. Two majestic red cedar trees,
strategically placed, stood guard behind it, as though their dominating
presence was indicative of things to come. Well, she needed something
promising, she thought, grinning at the pun. She took a deep, steadying breath
and took the exit.
It was yet another town but also another adventure. She
couldn’t believe how much her life had changed since the advent of the road
trip. In truth, she’d left New York with no expectations. Gone were the days of
a pre-planned schedule of charitable events and dinners with her husband and
family acquaintance. Looking at her less than perfect nails, she relished the
fact that she hadn’t had an appointment at a salon, previously done more out of
obligation to create the perfect picture, instead of for just plain fun. Fun.
I’ve been having fun and I can continue to do so. It was certainly in order.
Well, she’d made up for it this past month in a very big way. She’d been to a
variety of small towns that she’d never even heard of and met the type of
people her husband, no, she corrected herself, her late husband and family
would never have given a second glance. It had been at first terrifying and
then wonderful. Some towns were nothing more than a road you passed through
with a general dealer attached to a gas station and a few houses. In those
towns, the general dealer really did deal in generally everything and she had
stopped there more out of curiosity than necessity. Other towns held quaint
buildings and charming people that gave much and took little, perhaps sensing
her insecurity and need for privacy. Caroline, whose whole life seemed to have
been scripted for her since birth, was experiencing the unknown everyday she
chose to, she thought again, smiling and giving herself a mental pack on the
back. Caroline wondered what Promise would offer.
Turning the windows down so she could feel the breeze
against her skin, she noted that it had acquired a golden hue from all her
recent driving. No sun-bed had ever given her such a healthy glow, she
reflected with a smirk. A slight breeze played with the wisps of long, dark
hair that had come undone from its chignon. Rotating her stiff muscles in her
long, slender neck, she pulled her designer tank top down over her calve length
jeans, no longer hunched into her car seat but sitting up now. She was petite
and slim and the seat was adjusted so that people looking at her may have been
forgivingly mistaken in thinking that she was right against the steering wheel.
Feeling the alternating warmth of the sun and relief of the breeze, her dark
brown, almond-shaped eyes sparkling in anticipation, she started taking more
notice of her surroundings. Her full lips in a pretty oval face broke
into a heartfelt smile.
As she neared the town, she searched for glimpses of the
beautiful Atlantic through the gaps in the trees that lined the road and
breathed in the fresh, salt-tinged smell again. In areas where the line of pine
and oak trees were thicker, the air was a fragrant, exotic mix of pine and sea.
Along with scrub oak and pitch pine, the landscape was dotted with the
occasional sign for accommodation, from luxurious, small lodges to camping
sites. There were also indicators to bicycle and walking trails. This must be a
tourist destination. And from the state of the road and the landscape, it
seemed both wild and well-tended. She guessed that both were probably true. One
of her father’s acquaintances was a hotel developer and she recalled tedious
dinner discussions where he regaled them with tales of his newest designs.
She’d learnt that the wild and natural look often took months of work for
hotels to obtain. Occasionally, she passed what seemed to be private roads; in
the form of dirt roads leading to property named after what she assumed were
its owners. These must be private holiday homes. She reflected back to her
parents’ perfect house in the Hamptons. It is a beautiful example of modern
architecture meets artistic expression with a lot of steel, glass and contemporary
Italian and French furniture. As beautiful as a Christiano Montello chair was,
in all its Perspex glory, it did not invite one to just plonk down and curl up
into it.
The road seemed to be nearing the town as there were fewer
gaps between properties now. Many of the properties had the vacant, yet
well-tended air of vacation homes or country retreats. Some of the homes were
sturdy and functional and some looked older with a hodge podge of additions
added over time. Others had very modern houses on it that somehow didn’t completely
suit the rugged landscape. She caught glimpses of dams, horses and a few fields
where wild daisies pushed through the long blades of grass and the profusion of
lilac offered by Russian Sage. Unlike the houses in some of the towns she’d
ventured through recently, nearly all of these looked to be in excellent
condition. The town must be prosperous, recollecting that the quaint New
England coastline was a favored tourist attraction.
Intrigued, she thought that perhaps, she’d be able to stop
here for a while, maybe even for a few weeks. She had always loved the beach
and the simplicity and intimacy of smaller towns appealed to her. Why, she
didn’t know. She’d never spent time in simple, beach towns. When she had
traveled with her family or husband it had been to commercialized coastal hubs
that were like one big beach resort or to luxurious hotels in wonderful,
cosmopolitan cities. “Preferably European, dear, even Martha’s Vineyard is becoming
rather crass”, she could clearly remember her mother telling her social
organizer. Maybe this appealed to her because it was so very different from her
prior experiences.
The road inclined uphill and further ahead, she saw what
looked like a charming, white house; old and vacant. As she neared it she
spotted a lopsided For Sale sign hanging from a short, little gate with an
equally short nannyberry hedge on either side. The hedge had lost its shape and
held rebellious branches holding tiny white flowers jutting in all
directions. It would offer a feast of berries for birds in late summer.
Wow, she thought, her breath catching in her throat. The
house was spectacular. Pulling her Range Rover to the side of the road, she
looked at her surroundings. She could see a pale blue and white A-frame house a
bit further down the road and she remembered passing what looked like a locked
up vacation house just before this hill; well-kept, the windows and doors
closed and curtains drawn, like a toy packed back into its box waiting for its
owner to play with it again.
Alongside the road, pretty wild flowers, in a multitude of
colors, jostled against switchgrass, beach grass and golden rods for sunlight.
There was a peaceful sort of silence here, interrupted by the occasional cry of
the gull and she swore that she could hear the creaking sounds a weather vane
move lazily in the even lazier wind. All these houses were concentrated along
the one side of the road. On the other side was a cliff followed by an uninterrupted
view of the temperamental Atlantic. The white of distant boats glistened in the
distance amongst waves twinkling with stars as sunlight reflected off it.
Getting out of the car, she was assailed by the smell of the
ocean and the accompanying sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below
the cliff. How strange that such a dramatic act could produce such a soothing
lullaby. It reminded her of holding a shell to her ear when she was a little
girl, giggling at the magic therein. Back then she believed in fairy tales and
as a teenager she believed, hoped that her prince will come and rescue her from
her golden cage. Thinking of her late husband, she felt the prickling of
despair and determinately ignored it. This place may not be a fairy tale, as
she long ago realised was a fallacy, but it is beautiful, the afternoon sun
waving its magical wand and casting a gentle, golden glow across the landscape.
Tearing her gaze away from the view, she looked up at the
house. It was a beautiful double-storied building clad in wood and painted
white. The lower level had porch steps leading to an entrance, trapped between
a corner bay window to the left and a wide porch that wrapped around the rest
of the left front and side. The mid-length railing was unpretentious and
charming, though she could imagine brookie lace running along the top wooden
beams of the porch, between the columns attaching holding up the porch roof.
The porch was clear of any furniture, no swing that seemed to belong there and
no plants to enliven it. Large wooden, French sliding doors led onto the porch
required a touch of paint. Windows, perfectly matched on either side of the
entrance below, hinted at an assortment of rooms. The house was topped with a
tin roof in faded green and that same green was echoed, in various stages of
fading, along the wooden window trim. With evidence of all that wood, she
expected that the inside of the house had hard wood floors. She spotted a
chimney so there must be a fireplace, which hopefully worked.
The entire front of the house had a view of the ocean that
met the edge of the cliff along the road. The house and garden must have been
designed to make the most of the view. The people who had lived it this house
loved the ocean, choosing to be part of it rather than just happening to reside
here.
Between the landscape, view and what she saw of the house,
she knew that she wanted it. She’d never felt pulled by any material thing
before. When buying things was commonplace, a duty, it lost its allure. So, the
sudden whim to own the house was a foreign feeling. As though her feet moved of
their own accord, she headed towards the little gate and wedged her slight
figure through a slight gap. The pathway leading up to the gate was so
overgrown that she could not open it much further. . Her tank top already
boasted brown smudges from squeezing through the gate. The hems of her jeans
were already coated with dirt where it hit spots where dead plants and grass,
being denied care, had given up. To the left of the gate was a post box that
was not visible from the road as the hedge and an unruly shrub had had enclosed
it. It was a stalwart from the 1950’s. A white painted pole with a white box,
mandatory flap on its front, attached to it.
