Moving On

MOVING ON

A Prairie Romance

ANNETTE BOWER

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

Praise for Annette Bower

Moving On

"
Moving On
 
is a delightful and emotional tale of love and loss. Trauma nurse Anna Jenkins on stress leave after the death of her fiancé and Nic
k Donnelly, a soldier who lost a leg while serving in Afghanistan on a peacekeeping tour, lean on each other to rebuild their lives. Together they discover a future to live for." — R. Barri Flowers, bestselling author of
 
Forever Sweethearts
 

MOVING ON

Copyright©2014

ANNETTE BOWER

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

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

All rights reserved.  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.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the 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.

Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
588-0

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Cam

Acknowledgements

I thank Soul Mate Publishing, Founder and Senior Editor Deborah Gilbert for accepting Moving On, A Prairie Romance as a re-release.

I thank my editor Char Chaffin, acquisitions editor for Soul Mate Publishing.

Chapter 1

Anna Jenkins pushed her foot on the brake as her hatchback picked up speed on the hill. The posted speed limit for the Town of Regina Beach was thirty miles per hour. She passed old cottages with verandas and gravel driveways surrounded by blossoming lilac bushes tucked in among new homes with steel doors and trees with spring green leaves shading designer interlocking block paths. Her doubts about moving to a small town washed in her fatigued mind like the waves pushing and pulling along the shore of Last Mountain Lake, that expanse of blue where the road she was on ended. Just past noon and no one was on the street.

After scanning street signs, she turned west on Fairchild and followed a natural curve onto Green Avenue, creeping along until she found the address that was etched in her memory. Regina Beach would be her safe haven. A place where no one knew her fiancé had died a week before their wedding. It was her sorrow and she was tired of sharing it with those who seemed to want to keep it alive like some macabre game where they could report to their friends and family.
I saw her today and she looks awful. I just didn’t know what to say but if you ask me, Murray wouldn’t look twice, never mind proposing, if he saw her now.

She hadn’t overheard anyone say these words, but she had her suspicions. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just accept their wedding gifts back instead of allowing her to keep them piled in a rented storage space before she left Toronto?

Sure, this chance at another beginning was because someone else had died. People dropped like flies in her life. Murray’s uncle bequeathed his house to Murray and because Murray was dead, she was the beneficiary. A shudder of grief ambushed her. She leaned her head on the steering wheel.

Her mother had suggested a plane ticket from Toronto and a long weekend vacation to check things out instead of rushing headlong into the unknown. But Anna couldn’t. It was now or never; she’d driven for four days. She turned off the engine, opened the door, and pushed one sensibly soled foot onto the stone path that led to the house.

The windows were dirty and the exterior paint cracked and flaked. This was just the place she needed if—as ‘they’ say—your environment would reflect your state of mind. Maybe in this place ‘they’ would get off her back. She locked the doors to ward off thieves from her black suitcases piled in the car.

What was she thinking? The street was empty. Besides, a battered guitar case shared the passenger seat with empty water bottles and take-away food wrappers, so it looked as if someone had already rummaged through her belongings.

Anna plowed through fallen leaves and broken twigs spread over the stone pathway leading to the steps. The screened summer door sprang open but the solid weather door refused to budge. She twisted the key, jiggled the doorknob, and finally turned sideways to bump her hip against the stubborn paint-encrusted slab. Banging against something and having it move felt wonderful. The momentary hip sting was an annoyance compared to the pain she’d endured over the last year.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open, sucked in stale air, and watched dust motes floating on a current of the outside breeze.

The lawyer hadn’t known if Murray had spent any time here. Part of her wanted to look around and think of him as a carefree child, then a young man whole and alive, while the other part of her longed for a clean slate.

Anna ran her hand over the white refrigerator and matching stove and trailed a finger in the dust on the country kitchen table and chairs. Through a large window she noted an expansive view of blue water. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, reminding her she was thirsty. When she turned the taps at the kitchen sink they squeaked, but yielded nothing. All that water out there but none where she was going to live.

She walked down a hallway and peered into doorways until she found the bathroom. The taps in the sink and tub repeated the noise and the toilet had green liquid in the bowl. She stomped a foot against the tiled floor.
Damn
. There were a few bottles of water in the car, but how would she use the other facilities? She didn’t know how to rough it; Murray was supposed to teach her how to camp in the wilds.

Anna turned at a knock on the door. A woman shading her eyes looked through the mesh.

“Can I help you?” Anna called.

The woman’s hand, fingers tipped in bright red, clasped the white doorframe. “Perhaps I can help you. I’m Margaret Lamb from next door. What right do you have to be here? I’ll bet you’re one of those agents come to sell the place since John passed away. He’s finally at peace. With the cottage boom, someone’s going to get a fair chunk of money for this property. John had this place a long time. I sure hope you do a good job of selling this cottage—and not to a bunch of party animals. I’ve been here since the eighties, so there’s not much I don’t know or things I can’t tell you.”

When the woman stopped to inhale, Anna held up her hand. Mrs. Lamb must have understood the universal signal to ‘stop,’ for she pressed her ruby-tinted lips together and fell silent.

“Mrs. Lamb.”

The woman nodded.

“Please come in.”

Mrs. Lamb stepped onto the checkerboard-patterned kitchen tiles. Anna slammed the screen door behind her. One of the woman’s shoes disturbed the dust on the white tile, while the other looked like a beacon in the night against its black counterpart. Dressed in a flowered over-blouse and pink slacks, the stout, elderly lady couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.

Anna leaned on a chair. “I’m not a real estate agent.” Mrs. Lamb’s mouth moved to speak, but Anna continued, “I don’t intend to sell. I’m here to live. I’m thirsty. I don’t have any water.”

“Miss—?” The unspoken question hung as the woman’s eyebrows rose in query.

“Anna Jenkins.” She held her breath, hoping the months since the accident were enough time for sympathy to fade away and not cross her new neighbor’s face. She’d had enough of that. This pity party was over.

Mrs. Lamb didn’t recognize her name. Anna smiled in relief. The woman might know everything in her town, but her knowledge had limits.

“Miss Jenkins, I can’t be too careful these days. And it seems to me,” Mrs. Lamb said as her eyes darted around, “that most young professionals would prefer something a little more modern without as much work as this old place needs.”

“Although I appreciate your watchful concern, it’s been a long day. I just want a drink of water and a comfortable chair.” Anna paused. The whine in her voice reverberated in her ears. She could feel how the humidity had affected the hair she’d recently had permed. The collar of her once crisp cotton blouse, even the lapel of her buttoned gray blazer and the creased press of her black pants all seemed more at ease.

“Perhaps this house is just what I need,” she said thoughtfully, almost to herself.

“Don’t look so worried, dearie. Beach living relaxes most city folk eventually. Now come on over to our house. I’ll put on a pot of tea and Herman can answer your questions about the water.”

Anna followed Margaret through a gate in the hedge to a white house with green trim and flower boxes holding spring tulips nodding in the breeze. Mrs. Lamb opened the door to her home and stepped aside for Anna to enter.

Her mind circled back to her grandma and memories of an aroma of baking bread and simmering stew intermingled with floor wax. The afternoon sunbeams bounced from the bric-a-brac to the crocheted doilies on the stuffed backs and arms of couches and chairs. From the corner came the rhythmic sound of a rocking chair.

“Herman,” Mrs. Lamb sang out.

The newspaper lowered to reveal blue eyes behind round, wire spectacles, and a toothless grin on his weathered face.

“Herman, put your teeth in! We have company.”

The grin turned away as a slight hand reached for a glass on the side table. When the man faced forward again, his false teeth gleamed. “And who is this pretty girl?”

Anna hadn’t been called a girl in a very long time. She supposed twenty-eight was a girl to someone who was probably on the other side of seventy.

Mrs. Lamb shook her head and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Anna’s going to live in John’s place.”

Her husband leaned forward in the chair. “Pleased to meet you, Anna! We’ve been watching over the place. Now I’ll have a better reason to keep an eye on it.”

“Herman, I’m checking with the doctor. Ever since you’ve been on that heart medication, your mouth says everything before your brain censors it.” Margaret walked behind his chair and rested her hands on his shoulders, skimming her lips across his thin hair. “The water needs to be turned on in John’s house.”

Anna concentrated on searching out stray pieces of fluff on her jacket. A trick she had learned at grief counseling when moments of tenderness shared between a couple triggered memories best held until she was alone.

When she dared to look up, she noted how Herman patted his wife’s hand, still on his shoulder. With his free hand he glanced at his pocket watch. “Too late today. You’ll have to go to the town office at nine tomorrow. Janis will have you organized in no time.”

“I’ll go and put on the kettle.” Mrs. Lamb gave Herman another little tap.

“Sit down and relax until it’s ready. She makes a good cup of tea even if I still prefer coffee.”

The sound of cups rattling on saucers seemed to resound in the brief silence as Anna and Herman both gazed out of the window at the rolling water.

“You look puzzled, Anna.”

Was it her imagination or did Herman’s teeth click with each syllable?

“I could buy some water and stay there tonight, I suppose,” she said.

“Not that easy, girlie! There’s the bathroom to consider—no water, no flush.”

“There must be a hotel in a resort town.” She didn’t want to leave. She’d finally catapulted herself into her future.

Margaret placed a tray with a teapot, china cups and saucers, and a plate of cookies on the low sofa table. “Yes, but it’s closed right now, getting all cleaned up for the summer visitors.”

“What about the Donnelly B and B?” Herman mumbled between bites of cookie.

“You’re a genius. I’ll call right now.” Margaret jumped from the chair on which she’d perched like a bird on a wire.

After Margaret left the room, Herman leaned toward Anna. “I hope we get to be friends real soon so I can take these teeth out.” He tapped his upper plate with his finger.

“Herman! I can’t leave you for a minute on your own.” Margaret came back into the living room flapping a piece of paper. “They have one room that’s ready and if you’re not looking for bacon and eggs for breakfast, they’ll put you up. You could always come here for bacon and eggs.”

“More tea, Annie?” Herman clicked his teeth.

“Herman, her name is Anna.”

“But she looks like an Annie. You know I call them as I see them, Margaret dear.”

“At least have the courtesy to ask the woman.” Margaret and Herman both turned toward her.

Anna drained her cup. There was of course Little Orphan Annie, or Annie Oakley, or even Annie Hall. She should nip this in the bud but her new neighbors looked hopeful. “Can I think about being Annie?”

“Don’t take too long. If he gets it in his head, that’s who you’ll be.”

“I promise, I’ll give it consideration.” Anna waved away the offer of another cup. “I’ll be floating down that lake if I drink any more. Thanks for the offer of breakfast, but I’ll be fine with whatever they serve.” She opened her purse and brought out her notepad and pen. “Could I have directions to the B and B, please?”

“The best way for you to get there is to go back to your place, turn south on Fourth Street until you get to the Kinookimaw Road, then turn east. At the intersection, turn south again and drive until you see the sign.” Margaret turned and pointed with each new direction.

Anna wrote everything down.
How hard could it be?

“Don’t listen to her. Just back out of the driveway and return the way you came into town. This time you’ll go up the hill and at the three-way stop continue on straight ahead until you see a nice white fence on your left and then the sign.”

“Yes, you can go that way, too.”

“Got it!” Anna waved her note pad. “Thank you. I’ll lock up and drive there now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Margaret followed her to the opening in the hedge. “It’ll be nice having a woman next door. Herman and John always seemed to have a lot to talk about. My Herman misses him especially now he has to stay put after his heart surgery.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Anna’s own heart pounded anxiously.

“Doctor says as good as always once he heals. He just has to let things mend.”

“I’m glad. Thanks for popping over.” Anna turned toward her door and took long breaths as she rummaged for her key.
He’s going to be fine. He is going to be fine.
She knew about the critical timeframe regarding heart failure, from her career as a trauma nurse. She pulled the door closed and walked back down the stone steps, unlocked her car, and settled into the seat. This was a small reversal. She could do anything for one night.

The cottage would be there tomorrow as it had been for half a century. It required hard physical labor to bring back some of the luster and that was probably what she needed, but not today. Right now she didn’t have the strength to unload her boxes and cases from the trunk and back seat. She pressed down the gas pedal and drove out of the valley.

With a golf course on her right and a whitewashed log fence on her left, the railing stopped like a gapped tooth and a sign announced the Donnelly Bed and Breakfast.