Shadows of Greens & Memories by Ella M. Kaye
Rated 15+
All Rights Reserved.
Note: This is a pre-release excerpt that may be changed before publication. Copyright Ella M. Kaye 2015
Image: Van Gogh, Path in the Woods, Paris 1887
Rated 15+
All Rights Reserved.
Note: This is a pre-release excerpt that may be changed before publication. Copyright Ella M. Kaye 2015
Image: Van Gogh, Path in the Woods, Paris 1887
“Didn’t
you used to be Franny Barrett?”
Francis choked back a sigh and gave the woman a half-hearted grin. “Nice to see you again, Tana. I’m still Francis Barrett. Never did like to be called Franny, you know.”
“Didn’t you? But we all did. Well, never mind. We all thought you eloped and ran off to ... was it Vegas?”
She couldn’t help but chuckle at that one. “No, not even close. Never been to Vegas and I’ve never been married. I have to run. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Making a quick escape from The Third Degree, the biggest thing Tana White Berger was known for throughout Storm Lake after her gossip abilities, Fran hustled with her red grocery basket over her arm to the cashier, paid in cash, and wondered again why she’d decided to move back to Iowa.
Maybe she should have let her aunt just sell the darned property as is, contents included, whatever they might be, so she could be rid of it. Most of it, she wouldn’t miss. But the little cottage, her father’s escape from it all, as he’d said so often, Fran couldn’t quite let go. Not until she’d come back to see it.
The place was in horrid disrepair, except for the hydrangeas just starting to show their early May yellow buds among the broad fresh-green leaves. Her father never trimmed them back for winter, so tons of pale yellow-brown thin bare stalks stuck out between the thriving darker brown stalks fresh with new life. The things had darn near taken over in between the uncut grass and the Queen Anne’s Lace flooding any previously empty space in the gardens carpeted with dead leaves. Her father would thrash his hands through what little hair he’d had left if he saw his beautiful gardens in such a state.
So she would at least fix them first. The cottage would get a better price if it looked neat and tidy and like an oasis instead of the run-down too-small mess it was. The exterior mattered most. If she could fool renters or buyers with an immaculate entrance, they would see the inside as nicer than it was. That’s how it worked. First impressions and all.
To her, the place had always been a mess. Except the gardens. The grass was often too long and she was never sure if there was much actual grass mixed in with the weeds. If it was green, her father didn’t care what was growing out there, outside his gardens. The cottage, or shack as her aunt called it, had always been a disaster. Mis-matched. Full of stuff. Not even used stuff, but just stuff. Piles of stuff. Disorderly... Fran laughed aloud as she veered her car onto the little road to her temporary home. She couldn’t even call it disordery. It was far beyond disorderly.
Her aunt had at least hauled out a bunch of garbage. She’d also called an exterminator in, to rid it of “rats” she’d said, but Fran was quite sure they were only mice and a cat or two would have worked. Maybe she would get a cat or two. For the mice. For company.
Except she wasn’t staying. A few catch and release traps would work for any mice the peppermint plants she would put around the porch didn’t deter. She already looked forward to fresh peppermint iced tea. It would help the summer move along faster.
Not that she generally wanted summer to move along fast. Summer was her favorite time in Storm Lake. Or rather, it was the only time she didn’t hate being in Iowa. So she could make do, spend some time out on the water, on the beach, maybe go to Lake Fest to see whoever was playing. Give herself time to clear out the rest of the cottage. Redecorate. Rent it. Or sell. She hadn’t decided yet.
And then head right back to South Dakota. Or not. He was from there. Still there. Maybe she’d try somewhere else.
A heaviness descended on her soul as she drove past the tacky bi-level houses in shades of brown and dark green, all pretty much the same, an easy throw-together floor plan that made them not cost too awful much. Despite her memories in her own house, in her parents’ old house, she liked the tall stone house itself and was always erringly proud of not having the same as everyone else on the street. Of course it was off the street and behind trees enough it was hard to see. But she knew.
The only thing she didn’t like about it was that her mother created the landscaping plan. Symmetrical. Simple. Fake colored wood chips in heavy layers to prevent life underneath from coming through so she wouldn’t have to mess with it. Made to look like it popped out of a magazine. It was always neat; Fran gave her mother that. But it was boring. Her mother could have let her father be in charge of that one thing in the main house, since it was his thing, after all.
And it wouldn’t have been boring.
~~~
“Someone’s moved into the old Barrett place. Know who it is?”
G.F. shook his head and tamped the sticky asphalt down into the pot hole. “Not my concern.”
“Doesn’t your old girlfriend own it now that her father’s passed on?”
“She was never my girlfriend. Hardly spoke to her.”
Jim laughed out loud. “But you were sure mad enough when she took off with that out-o-towner. Went to Vegas, they say. Got married within a week of knowin’ him. Musta been desperate. You might’ve had a shot at her.”
“Knock it off and get back to work. We’re not paid to gossip.”
“Yeah, yeah, big boss man. Think she’d pay more attention to you now that you’re doing something productive with your life? Wasn’t that her big line?”
“Got my hands full enough not to worry about what she’d think, or anyone else, either.” One final thud against asphalt and pavement and G.F. stood back to eye his work. Boss man. Right. Boss man enough to have to keep an eye on whatever loafer and temp worker they sent out on the crew each summer but not boss enough to not still be sweating like a dog’s tongue and ending up sore every night from the grueling physical labor. He was getting way too damned old for this shit.
He doubt she’d be one bit impressed with how productive he was. Paid good, though. There was that.
And with five fast-growing mouths to feed, he couldn’t afford to do otherwise. Even if one of them was a mutt he didn’t even choose to have.
Not that he chose to have four kids, either. Not his decision. Two would’ve been enough. Not his fault she stopped protecting herself without saying so, but he was sure paying for it. He’d planned on two and had said as much. After the second “accident,” he’d taken care of that nonsense and made sure no more would happen.
Then the bitch left him. And demanded child support and alimony. G.F. was darn thankful the judge saw no reason for alimony. Wasn’t his choice to break up. He’d done nothing wrong. He worked and went home, put every dime into his family, didn’t throw it away at bars every weekend or even every night like some he knew. He talked with his children, asked about their days, helped with homework, never said anything bad to or about their mother in front of them. Whether or not he would’ve had the right. Considering. She was lucky his youngest looked so much like him, or he wouldn’t believe she was.
And damn, did he adore the girl. Fortunately, she was like the good side of her mother, the side he’d fallen for, and not like the rest. She was so opposite her brothers, her boisterous all-out-there older brothers who gave her no slack for being a girl.
G.F. did. He tried to watch out for what she might need as a girl that he didn’t know much about. The girl’s mother sure didn’t do much of it. His baby would be that age soon and it scared the living hell out of him.
At least since they now lived with him, the money to support them went to direct support and not to her $100 hair appointments. G.F. figured her newest boy toy was covering it. He wasn’t, anyway, so he didn’t much care who was.
Wiping sweat off on his clean enough sleeve, he told the crew to wrap it up so they could call it a day. Beginning of May and he was sweating enough to drench his shirt by day’s end already. Summer used to be his favorite season. These days, it reminded him he wasn’t twenty anymore and working under the July and August sun was no joy and no small feat.
He couldn’t wait to get home to his plain cluttered chaotic house that was near to paid off and needed some work and hit the shower while he pretended it was just what he wanted. He’d quit telling himself by now he’d ever get it that way. Just too much to be done and he’d rather spend the time with his chaotic, somewhat undisciplined, but beautiful kids while they were still kids and had to put up with him, like it or not.
Francis choked back a sigh and gave the woman a half-hearted grin. “Nice to see you again, Tana. I’m still Francis Barrett. Never did like to be called Franny, you know.”
“Didn’t you? But we all did. Well, never mind. We all thought you eloped and ran off to ... was it Vegas?”
She couldn’t help but chuckle at that one. “No, not even close. Never been to Vegas and I’ve never been married. I have to run. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Making a quick escape from The Third Degree, the biggest thing Tana White Berger was known for throughout Storm Lake after her gossip abilities, Fran hustled with her red grocery basket over her arm to the cashier, paid in cash, and wondered again why she’d decided to move back to Iowa.
Maybe she should have let her aunt just sell the darned property as is, contents included, whatever they might be, so she could be rid of it. Most of it, she wouldn’t miss. But the little cottage, her father’s escape from it all, as he’d said so often, Fran couldn’t quite let go. Not until she’d come back to see it.
The place was in horrid disrepair, except for the hydrangeas just starting to show their early May yellow buds among the broad fresh-green leaves. Her father never trimmed them back for winter, so tons of pale yellow-brown thin bare stalks stuck out between the thriving darker brown stalks fresh with new life. The things had darn near taken over in between the uncut grass and the Queen Anne’s Lace flooding any previously empty space in the gardens carpeted with dead leaves. Her father would thrash his hands through what little hair he’d had left if he saw his beautiful gardens in such a state.
So she would at least fix them first. The cottage would get a better price if it looked neat and tidy and like an oasis instead of the run-down too-small mess it was. The exterior mattered most. If she could fool renters or buyers with an immaculate entrance, they would see the inside as nicer than it was. That’s how it worked. First impressions and all.
To her, the place had always been a mess. Except the gardens. The grass was often too long and she was never sure if there was much actual grass mixed in with the weeds. If it was green, her father didn’t care what was growing out there, outside his gardens. The cottage, or shack as her aunt called it, had always been a disaster. Mis-matched. Full of stuff. Not even used stuff, but just stuff. Piles of stuff. Disorderly... Fran laughed aloud as she veered her car onto the little road to her temporary home. She couldn’t even call it disordery. It was far beyond disorderly.
Her aunt had at least hauled out a bunch of garbage. She’d also called an exterminator in, to rid it of “rats” she’d said, but Fran was quite sure they were only mice and a cat or two would have worked. Maybe she would get a cat or two. For the mice. For company.
Except she wasn’t staying. A few catch and release traps would work for any mice the peppermint plants she would put around the porch didn’t deter. She already looked forward to fresh peppermint iced tea. It would help the summer move along faster.
Not that she generally wanted summer to move along fast. Summer was her favorite time in Storm Lake. Or rather, it was the only time she didn’t hate being in Iowa. So she could make do, spend some time out on the water, on the beach, maybe go to Lake Fest to see whoever was playing. Give herself time to clear out the rest of the cottage. Redecorate. Rent it. Or sell. She hadn’t decided yet.
And then head right back to South Dakota. Or not. He was from there. Still there. Maybe she’d try somewhere else.
A heaviness descended on her soul as she drove past the tacky bi-level houses in shades of brown and dark green, all pretty much the same, an easy throw-together floor plan that made them not cost too awful much. Despite her memories in her own house, in her parents’ old house, she liked the tall stone house itself and was always erringly proud of not having the same as everyone else on the street. Of course it was off the street and behind trees enough it was hard to see. But she knew.
The only thing she didn’t like about it was that her mother created the landscaping plan. Symmetrical. Simple. Fake colored wood chips in heavy layers to prevent life underneath from coming through so she wouldn’t have to mess with it. Made to look like it popped out of a magazine. It was always neat; Fran gave her mother that. But it was boring. Her mother could have let her father be in charge of that one thing in the main house, since it was his thing, after all.
And it wouldn’t have been boring.
~~~
“Someone’s moved into the old Barrett place. Know who it is?”
G.F. shook his head and tamped the sticky asphalt down into the pot hole. “Not my concern.”
“Doesn’t your old girlfriend own it now that her father’s passed on?”
“She was never my girlfriend. Hardly spoke to her.”
Jim laughed out loud. “But you were sure mad enough when she took off with that out-o-towner. Went to Vegas, they say. Got married within a week of knowin’ him. Musta been desperate. You might’ve had a shot at her.”
“Knock it off and get back to work. We’re not paid to gossip.”
“Yeah, yeah, big boss man. Think she’d pay more attention to you now that you’re doing something productive with your life? Wasn’t that her big line?”
“Got my hands full enough not to worry about what she’d think, or anyone else, either.” One final thud against asphalt and pavement and G.F. stood back to eye his work. Boss man. Right. Boss man enough to have to keep an eye on whatever loafer and temp worker they sent out on the crew each summer but not boss enough to not still be sweating like a dog’s tongue and ending up sore every night from the grueling physical labor. He was getting way too damned old for this shit.
He doubt she’d be one bit impressed with how productive he was. Paid good, though. There was that.
And with five fast-growing mouths to feed, he couldn’t afford to do otherwise. Even if one of them was a mutt he didn’t even choose to have.
Not that he chose to have four kids, either. Not his decision. Two would’ve been enough. Not his fault she stopped protecting herself without saying so, but he was sure paying for it. He’d planned on two and had said as much. After the second “accident,” he’d taken care of that nonsense and made sure no more would happen.
Then the bitch left him. And demanded child support and alimony. G.F. was darn thankful the judge saw no reason for alimony. Wasn’t his choice to break up. He’d done nothing wrong. He worked and went home, put every dime into his family, didn’t throw it away at bars every weekend or even every night like some he knew. He talked with his children, asked about their days, helped with homework, never said anything bad to or about their mother in front of them. Whether or not he would’ve had the right. Considering. She was lucky his youngest looked so much like him, or he wouldn’t believe she was.
And damn, did he adore the girl. Fortunately, she was like the good side of her mother, the side he’d fallen for, and not like the rest. She was so opposite her brothers, her boisterous all-out-there older brothers who gave her no slack for being a girl.
G.F. did. He tried to watch out for what she might need as a girl that he didn’t know much about. The girl’s mother sure didn’t do much of it. His baby would be that age soon and it scared the living hell out of him.
At least since they now lived with him, the money to support them went to direct support and not to her $100 hair appointments. G.F. figured her newest boy toy was covering it. He wasn’t, anyway, so he didn’t much care who was.
Wiping sweat off on his clean enough sleeve, he told the crew to wrap it up so they could call it a day. Beginning of May and he was sweating enough to drench his shirt by day’s end already. Summer used to be his favorite season. These days, it reminded him he wasn’t twenty anymore and working under the July and August sun was no joy and no small feat.
He couldn’t wait to get home to his plain cluttered chaotic house that was near to paid off and needed some work and hit the shower while he pretended it was just what he wanted. He’d quit telling himself by now he’d ever get it that way. Just too much to be done and he’d rather spend the time with his chaotic, somewhat undisciplined, but beautiful kids while they were still kids and had to put up with him, like it or not.