Finding Promise (The Promise Series A Small Town Romance) Read online

  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.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 1

  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 to
wns 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.

  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.