My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) by Cynthia Lee Cartier
Authors: Cynthia Lee Cartier
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okay.”
“You’re really going to sell your house?”
“I don’t know. If I don’t, what do I do? Stay in Texas, work at some job for an hourly wage and let Race pay my mortgage because I can’t afford to? I don’t want to be dependent on him. Go back to school? And how would I pay for that? Have Race pay for it? Things are going to change for me, have changed, whether I like it or not. There’s a lot of equity in the house. Selling it is the only way I’m going to be able to…” My eyes got hot and my throat was hurting again. “I’m going to take a shower.” I grabbed my clothes and walked toward the bathroom. Then I stopped and turned and faced Loretta. “I love it here, Lo.”
“I know you do, Cam.”
As I stood under the spray of the shower, I tried to imagine someone else living in my house in Texas. What would they change? Would Tuscan Love and Spring Woods Green be painted over with basic white? Would the new owners take care of the gardens or let them die and cover them with a layer of low maintenance landscape rock?
I think Loretta told the girls any talk about the lodge was off limits that night. We stayed in and played cards and not a word was mentioned about it.
The next morning they were still moving slowly, so I rode out to the lodge and walked around. At the back of the property, I found an old fruit orchard that was in bad need of some pruning and there were a few dead trees needing to be replaced, but peach, apricot, plum, pear, and at least four varieties of apple trees stood in four neat rows.
There was also a patch of wild strawberries and a bramble of raspberries that had been picked over by the birds. The raspberries grew along a post and rail fence that bordered a road I later learned was Grayson’s Pass.
Hoping to talk to George, I kept an eye out for him but he wasn’t around, or he was hiding from me. My mother’s father was a quiet, serious German man who, on rare occasions, gifted me with a pat on the head or a smile so slight that I knew I had barely caught it.
As a little girl, I had such a sense of accomplishment when a joke I told him or a song I sang to him elicited the tiniest of responses. And when my grandfather was around, my mother was different. She told stories and her face was lighter, softer, and she smiled. We were like a couple of monkeys dancing to the crank of an organ.
On the way back to the inn, I pushed the bike to the back of the property and through the back gate. I rode up to the middle of the island and to Grayson’s Meadow. It was like looking at Sara’s painting and I took pictures from the angle that I remembered to be the same viewpoint, high up on the ridge.
From there I followed Gabriel Creek and passed a swimming hole that was filled with teenagers swinging over the water on a tree rope. Just before the creek flowed under a bridge and became one with Lake Brigade, I saw the cottage that was one of Sara’s other subjects. The bridge led to Shoreline Drive, which I took back to town.
By that evening Dawn was ready to go out again. She picked a restaurant with a bar and dancing that was crowded and noisy, the kind of place where people go to meet each other but where you can’t hear what anyone is saying. Inside the restaurant we stood at the podium by the front door and waited to be seated.
“Let’s look for something else. This place is packed,” suggested Sandi.
I added, “And loud.”
“Don’t be ancient.” That’s what Dawn says to try and manipulate others into doing what she wants to do.
“Oh, no, let’s be ancient,” goaded Sandi.
“Oh, yes, prehistoric,” I agreed.
“I want to eat here,” Dawn whined. “They’re supposed to have great food and I want to dance.” If she had turned on her baby talk, I was out of there.
From the back of the room, a man left a corner booth and walked up and stood in the middle of our little group. While looking Dawn up and down, he asked, “Would you ladies like to join
“You’re really going to sell your house?”
“I don’t know. If I don’t, what do I do? Stay in Texas, work at some job for an hourly wage and let Race pay my mortgage because I can’t afford to? I don’t want to be dependent on him. Go back to school? And how would I pay for that? Have Race pay for it? Things are going to change for me, have changed, whether I like it or not. There’s a lot of equity in the house. Selling it is the only way I’m going to be able to…” My eyes got hot and my throat was hurting again. “I’m going to take a shower.” I grabbed my clothes and walked toward the bathroom. Then I stopped and turned and faced Loretta. “I love it here, Lo.”
“I know you do, Cam.”
As I stood under the spray of the shower, I tried to imagine someone else living in my house in Texas. What would they change? Would Tuscan Love and Spring Woods Green be painted over with basic white? Would the new owners take care of the gardens or let them die and cover them with a layer of low maintenance landscape rock?
I think Loretta told the girls any talk about the lodge was off limits that night. We stayed in and played cards and not a word was mentioned about it.
The next morning they were still moving slowly, so I rode out to the lodge and walked around. At the back of the property, I found an old fruit orchard that was in bad need of some pruning and there were a few dead trees needing to be replaced, but peach, apricot, plum, pear, and at least four varieties of apple trees stood in four neat rows.
There was also a patch of wild strawberries and a bramble of raspberries that had been picked over by the birds. The raspberries grew along a post and rail fence that bordered a road I later learned was Grayson’s Pass.
Hoping to talk to George, I kept an eye out for him but he wasn’t around, or he was hiding from me. My mother’s father was a quiet, serious German man who, on rare occasions, gifted me with a pat on the head or a smile so slight that I knew I had barely caught it.
As a little girl, I had such a sense of accomplishment when a joke I told him or a song I sang to him elicited the tiniest of responses. And when my grandfather was around, my mother was different. She told stories and her face was lighter, softer, and she smiled. We were like a couple of monkeys dancing to the crank of an organ.
On the way back to the inn, I pushed the bike to the back of the property and through the back gate. I rode up to the middle of the island and to Grayson’s Meadow. It was like looking at Sara’s painting and I took pictures from the angle that I remembered to be the same viewpoint, high up on the ridge.
From there I followed Gabriel Creek and passed a swimming hole that was filled with teenagers swinging over the water on a tree rope. Just before the creek flowed under a bridge and became one with Lake Brigade, I saw the cottage that was one of Sara’s other subjects. The bridge led to Shoreline Drive, which I took back to town.
By that evening Dawn was ready to go out again. She picked a restaurant with a bar and dancing that was crowded and noisy, the kind of place where people go to meet each other but where you can’t hear what anyone is saying. Inside the restaurant we stood at the podium by the front door and waited to be seated.
“Let’s look for something else. This place is packed,” suggested Sandi.
I added, “And loud.”
“Don’t be ancient.” That’s what Dawn says to try and manipulate others into doing what she wants to do.
“Oh, no, let’s be ancient,” goaded Sandi.
“Oh, yes, prehistoric,” I agreed.
“I want to eat here,” Dawn whined. “They’re supposed to have great food and I want to dance.” If she had turned on her baby talk, I was out of there.
From the back of the room, a man left a corner booth and walked up and stood in the middle of our little group. While looking Dawn up and down, he asked, “Would you ladies like to join
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