Autumn Spring Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Bree Principal and Linda Morton have sacrificed their personal lives for career and family. Now, in her late sixties, Bree is forced to return to her hometown in East Texas, where she begins to discover things about herself she has refused to acknowledge for fifty years. Do both she and Linda—who is finally out and proud—have the courage to claim the type of life they’ve never allowed themselves to embrace?

  Autumn Spring

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Autumn Spring

  © 2015 By Shelley Thrasher. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-578-7

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: August 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  The Storm

  First Tango in Paris

  Autumn Spring

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Ruth for helping me get this one off the ground, Justine for critiquing my early efforts, Sheri for creating the beautiful cover, Rad for publishing my novel, and Connie for being there during the entire process. Thanks to all of you—you know who you are—for letting me memorialize you in this story.

  Dedication

  For my sister—a grandmother extraordinaire; my mom— a distinguished senior citizen; the NWAs—my old friends; and TAG and Jewel members—my new friends.

  You’re the best.

  Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

  Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

  And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

  —“Ode on Melancholy,” John Keats

  Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too…

  —“To Autumn,” John Keats

  If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

  —“Ode to the West Wind,” Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Chapter One

  Bree Principal slung her legs over the side of her girlhood bed and rushed to lower the window she’d left open last night. Shivering, she almost slipped on the slick floor. Damn. She wasn’t eighteen any longer. She certainly didn’t want to fall and end up in assisted living like her mother had recently.

  The huge weeping willow outside was still green, she noticed, as she closed the window. The old tree’s long, slender leaves hung waiting for the first frost to make them blaze like a yellow-gold fire. She’d forgotten how beautiful the willow was, and would become.

  She dashed into the bathroom and threw on some makeup, then ran a brush through her hair. What a wreck. She hadn’t slept well last night, her body still humming from flinging as many clothes as she could grab into a couple of suitcases and rushing to O’Hare. Of course her flight had been late, but it’d taken only two and a half hours in the air to reach Dallas. Then she’d had to rent a car and drive almost that long southeast to her hometown, deep in the piney woods of East Texas.

  Her black jeans lay where she’d tossed them onto a chair last night, and she pulled a white University of Chicago sweatshirt out of her still-packed suitcase. She had to go meet the woman her mother seemed so impressed with when they talked on the phone last night.

  Speeding up South Main, Bree admired the familiar old two-story houses lining the street. Huge trees shaded them, and their yards were raked clean of the leaves and pine straw that had already fallen. Yellow and orange plants dotted their neat flower beds, though the first frost of the season would kill them. Pumpkins, stacked three or four tall, decorated some of the front porches, and one home even featured a dummy dressed as a witch, wearing black and stirring a large cauldron.

  How many times had she and Ann cruised this street? Ann loved the expensive houses and always talked about how she planned to live in the biggest one of the lot someday. Bree hadn’t found anything wrong with Ann’s parents’ home in the country, but Ann had always itched to be a city girl.

  Ann smoothed her long, straight blond hair back from her chiseled face. “Let’s go see who’s sitting on the square tonight.”

  “Oh, it’s probably just the same old guys,” Bree said. “They’re all so uncool.”

  “But I want to see if anybody new shows up.”

  “Why don’t we drive back home and eat some ice cream instead? I’m hot.” Bree wasn’t in the mood to share. This was her last summer at home, one of her last Saturday nights with Ann before she went away to college.

  “Don’t be such a drag. I might meet somebody special.”

  Ann inched a little closer, almost near enough for Bree to touch the bare skin that Ann’s red off-the-shoulder dress revealed.

  “Okay. If that’s what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Bree gunned the motor of her brand-new Rangoon Red Mustang, the best graduation present in the world.

  She jerked herself back from 1964 to the present and took a left instead of driving uptown like Ann had persuaded her to do that night more than fifty years ago. If only she’d ignored Ann’s request and turned around. Maybe they’d still be together now instead of—Bree shook her head. She and Ann were both long past the cruising stage.

  Instead, she parked in front of Silverado, a large white building that resembled a compound and occupied the spot where the Youth Center she and Ann used to frequent once stood. She needed to forget about the past and act her age. It wouldn’t be all that long before she’d be living in a place like Silverado herself.

  *

  Linda Morton climbed out of bed at six a.m. and meandered into her office. What a great night’s sleep. As she sat down on the carpeted floor, folding her legs and resting her hands in her lap, she heard the small clock on the wall. Tick, tick, tick.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in, her stomach balloonin
g. In and out. In and out. The ticking sound slowly morphed into the whoosh of blood flowing through her arms, her chest, her thighs. As she let herself relax and visualized one of her most cherished memories, her breathing and heartbeat slowed, and her head dropped forward.

  Linda sat between her parents in a battered pickup, her dad steering it down a country road canopied by trees bursting with new leaves. How green and lush everything was. He stopped at a gate made of welded iron rods, and her mom jumped out and opened it, then pulled it closed behind them. They passed an ancient barn made of logs and a new large red one, crammed with bales of hay, a rusty tractor, and assorted farm implements. Following two dirt ruts through a field covered with crimson clover, cows grazing in the distance, they slowly approached her favorite spot.

  Other vehicles had already parked in the grove sheltered by old cedar trees. Car doors slammed, and Linda leaped out of their old Chevrolet and ran to meet her favorite cousin. Her uncles and her mother’s mother, sisters, brothers, and their families tossed horseshoes, which clanked when one of them hit the metal stake at either end of their throwing area. Her mother, aunts, and grandmother spread lunch out on the weathered picnic table, where they’d all gather later to eat. Linda and her cousins swung on old tires tied to ropes hanging from branches overhead. The sun shone in the clear blue sky, and a gentle breeze kept them cool.

  After lunch, Linda picked berries with her grandmother. They wandered over the hundred-acre farm, stooping to pluck sweet dewberries from low-growing vines and larger blackberries from thickets. As they strolled along, her grandmother taught her the name of every tree, bush, and plant they passed and described each one’s healing powers. Bluebirds, cardinals, and sparrows flitted about, serenading them on this cloudless Mother’s Day.

  Safe and relaxed in her favorite mental space, Linda focused on her breathing again. In and out. In and out. Slowly she lowered her hands to either side of her body and placed her palms on the soft carpet. Dropping her head forward, her spine curving as she bowed, she let herself sink downward—into the floor, through the carpet and concrete, spiraling into the earth far below her.

  Small white roots emerged from the sides of her feet, ankles, hips, and hands. They wormed down into the ground and eventually reached a vast pool of bright white light. The light permeated her white roots and traveled up, up, up into her, like water through drinking straws. The light warmed and energized her, filled her like clear liquid in a glass, circulating through her every vein.

  Linda raised her hands and clasped them together in her lap. As she gradually straightened, she imagined herself glowing like an old-fashioned incandescent bulb. She directed the heat and strength of the light at the negativity lurking inside her, visualized the light dissolving it like fog on a misty morning. She was the sun, she was life.

  Her meditation almost complete, Linda deliberately placed her palms on the floor again and let the swirling light and energy washing through her flow back deep into the earth. Part of her went with it, but part of it stayed with her. She was at one with the universe.

  She heard the clock tick again. After several more deep breaths, she rose from her sitting position, invigorated and ready to face a new day.

  *

  Bree pushed through the double plate-glass door at Silverado, signed in at the front desk, and strode down the first hallway to the left. She rapped on the door decorated with a wreath of colorful autumn foliage, then entered the room.

  “Hey, Sarah,” she called. “Ready for your appointment?” Paintings covered practically every wall of the sitting area, a large portrait of Bree’s dead brother Brett hanging directly behind her mother’s recliner. It dominated the small space and made her hurt inside when she looked at it.

  “Be ready before long.” The familiar voice evidently came from the bathroom. “The nurse won’t be here for a while. Grab a seat.”

  Bree looked around. What would it be like to move from a huge two-story house to this tiny place? “Okay. But you don’t want to keep her waiting, do you?” Bree shook her head. Her mother had always been late for everything. Bree prided herself on being early for her obligations, especially as the curator of a prestigious museum in Chicago. The people she dealt with there were usually all business, and time meant money.

  The minutes ticked by, and Bree stared from the closed bathroom door to the front door of her mother’s small apartment. She felt like she was at a racetrack, anticipating the starting gun and wondering which horse would appear out of the gate first—her mother or the woman taking care of her.

  Finally, she jumped up and strode over to the bathroom door. “Are you okay? Need any help?”

  Bree had no idea how to deal with an older person in this situation.

  “I’m fine,” her mother called. “I told you to sit down and relax for a change. And stop worrying. I’ll be ready on time.”

  Bree paced for a few minutes, then walked over to a sliding glass door. At least Sarah had a good view. The leaves of a few trees in the manicured open area outside had begun to turn yellow and red, but they wouldn’t reach their full glory for another month. She focused on the dead ones already littering the ground and told herself to calm down.

  Sarah had brought her easel and some canvases and paints. Bree stared at a work in progress that sat on the easel. Her mother had already captured the throng of slender branches of the huge willow at home, stripped bare, as it was every winter. Was that how she felt right now in this new environment?

  Her paintings were usually much more colorful than this, though the ones right after Brett was killed had been filled with beige and gray. After several years, Sarah had finally begun to use more color, hinting that her grief had subsided a bit. But the dull tones had returned.

  Bree frowned. At least, in this place, her mother had a nice view, plenty of people to socialize with, and someone to dispense her medicine and check on her regularly. And she could spend as long as she wanted painting, instead of worrying about tending to a large house.

  “Here I am. Told you I’d be ready on time.”

  Finally, Sarah appeared. Her iron-gray hair was cut in a flattering style, though she looked more stooped than the last time Bree had seen her. Pushing a walker, she wore a decent pair of pants and her painter’s smock. At least she wasn’t letting herself go.

  “It’s good to see you, Bree. Thanks for coming, but you really didn’t need to.”

  “I wanted to.” Bree gave her a quick half hug, then glanced at her watch.

  “My nurse is never here exactly when I expect her”—Sarah shrugged—“but she always seems to be here when I need her.”

  Bree looked down at the woman she’d known so long yet didn’t think she’d ever understand. Sarah’s eyes, which usually shifted from blue to green to hazel, had lost some of their clarity, just as Bree feared Sarah had. Well, at ninety, she had to have weakened some.

  Her mother maneuvered her bright-red walker over to her recliner and eased into it.

  “Hey, I like your new wheels.” Bree had tried to convince her to use a cane for years but never succeeded. Sarah had always insisted she didn’t need it, but all those falls at home must have finally persuaded her.

  Her mother pushed the walker to one side. “It’s all the rage among my new set of friends.”

  Bree tried to copy her light tone. “Maybe you can organize some races in these long hallways. The other residents could place bets.” She chuckled, but Sarah’s chilly expression made her stop.

  “You’ve watched that old sci-fi movie Cocoon too many times. We don’t have a fountain of youth. Not even a swimming pool. People live as best they can here, and then they die.”

  Bree thudded down on a nearby hard chair. How could Sarah face her own death so calmly? She’d never fully accepted the loss of her only son almost sixty years ago.

  Someone knocked softly on the door.

  “Come on in. It’s open,” Sarah called.

  A woman peeked through first—short w
hite hair feathering around her face and round eyes assessing the situation. Then she burst through the door—graceful, Pillsbury-doughboy plump, soft and sweet, and…well…edible, like an enticing dessert. And she glowed as if someone had turned the three-way bulb in a lamp from 50 watts to 150.

  “Bree, remember Linda Morton?” Sarah asked, but Bree could barely speak. She was letting her eyes adjust to the heightened brightness.

  “Linda. I’d never have recognized you.” She blinked, then swallowed. Just Ann’s little sister, she told herself—no one to get excited about. “I can’t believe it. After all these years.”

  Linda beamed even more brightly and dropped her bag of medical supplies onto a low table. “How the heck are you doing, Bree?”

  “Can’t complain. How about you?” Bree tried to regain her breath from the surprise of seeing Ann’s sister and the force of Linda’s bear hug.

  “Never better. Spending time with only a few special people like your mom out here at Silverado is a real treat.”

  Sarah seemed to regard them as actors in a play she was directing. What was she up to?

  “What have you done with yourself all these years, girl?” Bree asked.

  Linda shrugged. “Got married. Raised kids and now grandkids. Always somebody to take care of or something to do at the church or in town. You know the routine.”

  Bree rolled her neck to work out the effects of Linda’s hug and the litany of her dull life. A typical straight woman. How predictable. “Actually, I don’t. My routine’s never included anything like that.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think. You’ve had an exciting career and traveled all over the world.” Linda looked up at her as if seeing her clearly for the first time since she’d arrived. “You were always different, special.”