Sylvia’s gone and Marnie, her best friend, is worried about me. I don’t blame her. My mood has been bleak lately.
She’s offered me the use of her Port Dover cottage and, of course, I balked, but then gave it some thought, and decided to take her up on her suggestion.
Who knows, maybe lake breezes and lonely beaches might be therapeutic.
At the very least, making the effort should placate Tom Eaton, my publisher, who’s worried my half-finished novel might permanently remain a work in progress.
The drive to Dover was actually pleasant.
It was a beautiful late fall day and the tree-lined woods skirting the highway were a McIntosh plaid of red and green with the occasional splash of yellow.
The car windows were open, and the wind blustered like muffled thunder.
The bitter scent of fall was in the air.
It was a golden day and I felt better than I had for weeks.
I decided to eat at a small restaurant on the main street.
Dover was strange town and still had the feel of a beach strip.
Despite the trendy bistros and artsy shops the community had its rough edges.
Each Friday the 13th thousands of bikers descended on the town for a reunion and I could spot a few Harley’s and Honda’s parked by the side of the road.
But no phobic Fridays were imminent, so I’d be spared the onslaught of Hell’s Angels or wannabe weekenders for the duration of my stay.
I ate at a French bakery with the unlikely name of Urban Parisian Patisserie & Boulangerie. Despite the off-putting name, I had a great meal consisting of a Swiss cheese sandwich, French onion soup and espresso.
The waitress seemed friendly—maybe a little over the top, but then, I hadn’t been out much lately.
She dropped the bill with a smile. Jill was written across the bottom with a drawing of a huge heart.
No telephone number or x’s and o’s, and I was glad, because I didn’t think I’d be able to handle that—at least not now, and probably not ever.
My morose mood came back and I paid my bill and hastily left, retreating to the safely of my car—where I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes, and slowly exhaled.
Maybe I wasn’t ready for prime time.
Or perhaps, it was just a case of one step forward, and two back.
I drove to the cottage following the GPS map and found it was just over a five minute drive from the main drag.
The closeness to the downtown disheartened me, until I pulled into the drive and found it was the last cottage on the street and was situated on a cliff with a commanding view of the lake.
I felt I had found myself in a 1940’s film—The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, perhaps?
I should have at least felt a slight frisson—some sense of apprehension, but didn’t.
In some way I found the view of the lake comforting, even though towering cumulus clouds were building on the horizon, looking dark and ominous.
The prospect of a fall storm excited me. Maybe I hoped it might provide a distraction.
But the sad truth was the storm in my mind prevented me from feeling anything but Sylvia’s absence.
