Silvia and I had a long stormy relationship but always worked things, that is, until this past year when everything went south.
Nothing was working for us and so Silvia decided to go south herself and fly to Hawaii to sort things out.
But unfortunately, while there, she died in a surfing accident and now I'm having a hard time getting over her loss.
Marnie, her best friend, is worried about me and suggested I needed to get away by myself and try to recover.
She offered her Port Dover cottage as a retreat.
It's off-season, early October, and already the weather has turned chill and I realized it has matched my bleak mood lately.
At first, I balked at Silvia's generous offer, but on reflection realized my mood had been bleak lately.
I gave it more 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.
So, here I was a few days later, on the QEW highway on my way out to Dover and finding the drive actually pleasant.
Overall, it was a beautiful late fall day and the tree-lined woods skirting the highway were a McIntosh plaid of red and green with occasional splashes of yellow.
The trip itself took just over an hour and I was actually sad when it ended so soon.
The car windows were open, and a chill breeze had made muffled thunder in my ears.
Above the road before me, huge cumulus towers had filled the sky and made me feel good that there was a bitter scent of fall in the air.
It truly turned out to be 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. But despite the trendy bistros and artsy shops it 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 with no phobic Friday in sight, 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, Urban Parisian Patisserie & Boulangerie and had a great 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 big 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 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 guidance 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 open view to the lake comforting, even though the towering cumulus towers in the distance now looked darker and more ominous.
Nevertheless, the prospect of a fall storm excited me, and maybe part of me hoped it would be a distraction.
But the sad truth was the storm in my mind was preventing me from feeling anything other than Sylvia’s absence.
