The Village of Gerard's Cliff

The Village of

GERARD'S CLIFF

Many thanks

to my husband,
Ray,

for his patience,

and

to my sister,
Debbie,

for her advice.

THE VILLAGE OF GERARD'S
CLIFF

Carol Anne Vick

Copyright 2014 by Carol Anne
Vick

Smashwords
Edition

"I don't miss
him."

There - she had said it
aloud...finally verbalizing what she had been feeling for the past
two months. The guilt that had previously washed over her every
time she reflected on her lack of feelings for her poor, dead
husband, Patrick, were absent this time; and the hand holding the
paintbrush (which was poised to add a touch of blue-green to the
crashing wave) dropped to her side.

Allie sighed, lowered
herself onto the folding stool set up in front of her easel, and
turned her head to look at the scene that lay before her...the hand
holding the paint brush now lay resting across her knee. The dirt
pathway that wound around along the edge of the rock face was now
devoid of the fragrant pink and white sea roses that she loved and
the honeysuckle that bloomed in summer. The granite cliffs, poised
high above the upper rocky beach, appeared even more stark this
time of year. The fierce waves crashing on the white, sandy shore
below her were both energizing and soothing. Allie never tired of
the sights, sounds, and smells of the Cliff Walk, and she let her
eyes wander over the exquisite landscape as her mind brought
forward other, less pleasant memories.

No, it wasn't quite true that she had
no
feelings at all, she thought, as her
fingers slowly twirled the brush's handle. When the authorities
called her to identify her husband's body, she had gotten sick,
hadn't she? The sight of his lifeless, broken, and bloody body
being hauled off the fishing boat and laid on the dock would stay
in her head forever. But, she had to admit to herself that, after
the shock of his death on that fishing trip, and the tasks of
getting through the paperwork, the planning of his modest funeral,
the scattering of his ashes were finished...after all of that was
over and done with....her life became.....
better?
Was that the right word? She wouldn't
have
wished
him dead... of course not....but, why did she feel
relieved....less burdened....more like herself...than she did when
he was alive?

She tilted her head back slightly and watched a lone
seagull slowly swoop down to grab some tiny morsel on the beach.
Feeling chilled, she pulled the collar of her green parka up around
her ears with her free hand.

After a few more minutes of self-contemplation, Allie
methodically gathered up her painting supplies, and folded her
stool and easel. Since there were no guests at her inn on this
absolutely gorgeous day in November, she took her time walking the
short distance to her establishment...
her inn now
...all of it now her responsibility.
Patrick's older brother, Ethan, had, almost immediately after the
funeral, offered to buy The Colborne Inn from her, but she refused.
She wanted to see for herself if she could continue to run the
place successfully.....she knew she could....and there was no way
she would move from this heaven-on-earth spot she and Patrick had
discovered, and moved to, on a spur-of-the-moment decision seven
years ago when she was twenty-five and he, thirty.

Allie slowly walked back
to the inn, her cold hands carefully carrying the wet canvas and
satchel of paints and brushes, the folded easel and stool tucked
under her arm. Her sturdy, tan hiking boots crunched on fallen
twigs, and brown leaves. She crossed a small lane, then turned down
the dirt walkway that led to the entrance of The Colborne
Inn.

Connor swore as he swerved
just in time to avoid hitting the moose that was sauntering across
the highway, ironically, just a few feet from the sign that read
"Watch out for Moose."

"Where is that turn-off,"
he muttered to himself, as he righted his black Camaro. He smoothed
back his short, black hair with a slightly unsteady hand, and
looked nervously down the road ahead, which was becoming
increasingly dark as day turned to dusk.

A few minutes later, he
managed, in the dimness, to make out a sign that read Village Road,
and quickly turned right onto a more narrow and even darker
two-lane road.

Where on earth was this place
.
As he fumbled around the passenger seat for the
paper with his hand-scribbled directions, he was starting to wonder
if he had made the right decision to take this job, located,
obviously, in the middle of nowhere, and a cold nowhere to
boot.

While cursing his decision
under his breath, Connor spotted the final turn-off to the Village
of Gerard's Cliff. A few minutes later, pulling up into a gravel
parking area with an entrance sign that read The Colborne Inn, he
was rewarded with the sight of a dimly-lit yellow frame building,
set in a clearing, backed with rows of mature evergreen trees.
There were several areas around the back of the building that were
bordered by white picket fences, that he assumed were gardens in
warmer weather, but that now simply looked empty and forlorn,
adding to the desolation of the place, in his mind.

Connor parked, unwound his long frame from the car, and
retrieved his suitcase from the trunk. He was aware of the loud
crunching of his shoes on the gravel as he made his way to the
front entrance, and felt as if he were the only person for miles
around. As he turned left onto the walkway at the front of the
building, he felt a cold breeze that brought with it the scent of
the ocean
.
Now that's more like it, he thought, as he took a deep
breath, and leaning his head back, stretched the tension caused by
hours of driving from his neck and shoulders.

He walked up the six steps
to the wide porch, casually noticing the four white wicker rocking
chairs, and assorted wicker side tables. Connor approached the
front door, which was painted a deep cranberry red. A fat wreath of
interwoven twigs hung from a wide, flowered ribbon and lay against
the rectangular beveled glass insert, curtained on the inside, in
the upper portion of the door.

He rang the
bell.

"Mr. Garrison?" A slim
young woman opened the door, and gave him a pleasant, but rather
benign smile. "Welcome to The Colborne Inn. I'm Mrs. Colborne. I
hope you didn't have too much trouble finding us." she
added.

Connor had not known quite
what to expect at the inn, but whatever it was, this wasn't it. He
found himself staring down into a pair of glistening brown eyes,
rimmed with dark lashes and dark slashes of eyebrows above. For a
split second, he felt confused, then he quickly regained his
composure.

"A moose tried his best to
stop me," he smiled down at her, "but other than that little
encounter...overall, it was not a bad drive." He lied, eager to get
to a room and lie down.

She held the door for him
as he entered, then locked it and led him across a large front
parlor. Connor eyed the crackling fire in the gray stone fireplace,
which was obviously the focal point of the room. He could see
himself sitting in front of that fire, drinking a cup of hot,
steaming coffee, reading a good book, as a snowstorm raged outside.
The cozy room was painted in a softly muted, green. They passed two
sofas, arranged perpendicular to each other near the windows, both
slip-covered in a green and rust-flowered pattern, several lamps,
and four plump armchairs, two of which anchored the fireplace. The
chairs were paired with side tables, a couple of them littered with
books piled in a haphazard fashion. He was admiring one of the
several paintings that adorned the walls, all of which depicted
rocky cliffs, and ocean waves crashing upon white beaches in
various seasons and weather conditions, when he heard her say, "You
will be staying with us for two weeks, I see." He noticed that she
had moved behind a tall desk at the far end of the room where a
hallway began.

"Yes, and paying up front,
as I told you on the phone." He walked up to the desk, and set his
suitcase down on the floor next to his blue-jean clad legs, and
well-worn, brown boots. Looking around, he added casually, "Am I
the only guest for the night?"

He noticed that she tensed
slightly, then, continuing to look at the ledger, she replied just
as casually, "There will be a couple coming in later tonight.." She
looked up at him and smiled, "...if they don't run into that moose,
that is." Connor smiled and handed her the money.

As she put the bills in
the cash drawer, Connor scanned the desk. It was neatly organized
with a phone, assorted pens in a small earth-colored jar, a
calculator, a metal organizer with several folders, a small vase of
dried flowers and the large leather-bound ledger, which was filled
with neat cursive. He watched as she wrote a notation next to his
name in the ledger, noticing the absence of a ring.

She looked at him, and smiled. "You're in The Garden Room
for your stay, Mr. Garrison. I'll show you to your room. Breakfast
is served in the dining room from seven 'til ten." She started to
move down the hallway to his right, turning her head and adding,
"Our chef makes a wonderful French Toast stuffed with cream cheese.
She serves it with warm syrup and pecans on the side. You
have
to try
it."

Connor picked up his
suitcase, and followed her up the wooden stairs, the center of
which was covered with an ochre colored, oriental runner. They
continued down a softly-lit hallway, painted a deeper shade of
green than the parlor. What he assumed to be antique sconces hung
on the wall next to each guestroom door. The various physical
aspects of the inn were not all that caught his eye, however. He
couldn't help but take notice of Mrs. Colborne's thick,
honey-colored hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail that reached
half-way down her back. The ponytail swished softly from side to
side as she walked purposefully down the hall in front of him. He
couldn't help but admire the view of the back of her rust colored
blouse tucked into almost-snug tan slacks. They reached his room,
which was located at the back of the inn. She unlocked the door,
pushed it partially open, and handed him the key.

"Unfortunately, you won't
have a view of our beautiful garden, since it's November." Mrs.
Colborne gave him a rueful smile, "I hope the room meets your
expectations. Have a good night," she concluded with a smile,
turning back toward the stairs. Before he entered, he took one last
look at the inn's proprietor, as she walked back down the hall.
Don't be an idiot, he admonished himself, as he carried his
suitcase through the door, and into the room.

He glanced around him at
the guestroom's furnishings, as he laid his brown leather suitcase
on the plump and inviting dark green comforter. The walls were
covered in a two-toned green striped wallpaper that ended at the
white chair-rail and wainscoting. His double bed was pine, with a
curved solid headboard and footboard. A clock, black phone, and
lamp sat on a black table next to the bed. In the corner next to
the white-shuttered window, there was a black wicker rocker, with
light green colored cushion, and a pine side table with a brass
lamp. He could see the partially-open door of the attached bathroom
on the other side of the bed. Not bad, not bad, Connor shrugged, as
he unzipped his suitcase, flipped open the top, and started
unpacking.

Allie walked slowly back to the front parlor to straighten
up and wait for the couple's arrival. They shouldn't be too much
longer, she thought, looking down at her watch. As she returned
several of the books back to their rightful places on the shelves,
her mind wandered to the last arrival. Connor Garrison, she
mused...no ring...single man, she assumed...thirty-six years old,
according to his driver's license....two week stay at a bed and
breakfast in a remote area of Maine...a writer, perhaps?...seeking
solitude to gather his thoughts? Sometimes, she was able to figure
out people without really talking to them. Some guests liked to
chat, and she was fine with that. There was so much going on in
this country to be concerned about. Up 'til now, 1971 had been
exploding with protests against the war, arguments over China, just
to name two, so there was never a shortage of serious subjects to
discuss. She preferred thoughtful conversations as opposed to
chit-chat for the sake of filling up time. Many guests though,
liked their privacy, liked doing their own thing, and she left them
alone, except for the usual greetings, and suggestions for outings,
and sight-seeing excursions.