The Transformation of Francine

By Candace Murrow

When most fifty-year-old women are settled in their lives, Francine’s life is falling apart. A chain of events, beginning with a minor car accident, shakes Francine’s foundation, causing her to reevaluate her career and her relationship with the people closest to her: her husband, her daughter, her best friend, and a former lover.

The Transformation of Francine recounts the pivotal year in the life of Francine Blythe as she copes with betrayal and loss, rekindles her passion for life, and opens herself up to love again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candace Murrow
• Release date: Jul 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9780984704163

Candace Murrow

Candace Murrow, a Pacific Northwest author, writes poems, short stories, and novels. She enjoys writing about the intricacies of relationships and how people face life’s problems. Murrow is a highly intuitive writer. The paranormal, a favorite subject of hers, inhabits many of her writings.

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The Transformation of Francine

Published by Candace Murrow at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Candace Murrow

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

http://www.candacemurrow.com

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Rose from the Grave

Visions of Hope

The Day Mel Quit Dreaming and Other Stories

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Other titles by this author

Connect with the author online

CHAPTER 1

Early Monday Francine woke with a restless feeling. She slid her hand from the heat of her body to the cold side of the bed and thought of Bill. But Bill had landed in Tokyo hours ago and was not due home until tomorrow.

To ease her mind, she left the bed's warmth in search of the remote control, which she found lodged between the tan cushions of the living room sofa. She switched on a news channel and skimmed the headlines for any airline mishap. None surfaced.

She thought of her daughter, Erin, in San Francisco and listened for reports of any earthquakes in the area. While the reporter droned on about unrest in the Middle East, she studied the news ticker streaming across the bottom of the screen until she was satisfied nothing out of the ordinary pertained to her.

After breezing through a hot shower, she donned a tailored gray suit and a white silk blouse, the outfit she always wore for good luck on the first day of a trial. She applied a modest amount of makeup and wrestled with her straight hair, all the while plagued by a nagging sensation she could not quite place.

A few sips of coffee and a bite of toast were the only bits of nourishment her stomach would allow. Even the bay's sights and sounds that normally soothed her--the rippling water, the screeching gulls, a sailboat's billowing sails--gave her no relief.

By the time she had slid behind the wheel of her Lexus, she shrugged off the restlessness as normal anticipation of presenting before a jury. She had worked hard to get to this day, and it would only be natural to feel edgy and apprehensive. Already her blouse clung to her moist skin.

Gray clouds dipped low in the sky, and the air held a damp, mildew smell, but no raindrops splattered the windshield. Even so, she made sure her umbrella was close at hand before she backed out of the driveway and swung onto the two-lane road.

To ward off her angst, she began rehearsing her opening remarks while adjusting the rearview mirror, unconcerned about the truck that had suddenly jerked away from the curb and nosed in behind her. Traffic converged on Grant and First streets, and she came to an immediate halt behind a long string of cars.

When the light changed, she waited to join the slow, forward motion of one auto after another. As she eased on the gas pedal, she glanced in the mirror and noticed the fixed stance of the 4 x 4 pickup that had followed her all the way from her house. The driver held back until there was a space of several car lengths between them.

A rush of fear, a warning, rose in her. She knew she was going to be hit.

Instinctively, she slammed on the brakes so she wouldn't crash into the vehicle ahead of her. The truck barreled toward her and rammed the rear of her car. In a split second, she felt the impact, heard the crunch of metal, then everything went blank.

As she awoke as if from a nap and gradually regained consciousness, the speedometer occupied her line of vision. It felt as if she were floating in a bubble of amber light. She blinked her eyes, trying to focus. A knocking came from her left, and a far-off voice told her that her airbag must have malfunctioned and asked if she was all right. She opened the door and made an effort to swing her legs to the ground, thought she had actually moved them, but her muscles were leaden. Her feet were rooted to the floorboard.

A man with a gray mustache instructed her to sit tight because help was on the way. He speculated she had been unconscious for several seconds. In her muddled state of being, all she could do to acknowledge him was to return a vacant stare.

She strained to put the pieces of the puzzle together and recalled a pickup storming toward her. She asked the man if he was the one who hit her. He shook his head and told her the offending driver, a man wearing dark glasses and a wool cap pulled down over his ears, had managed to veer around her without hitting anyone else and had sped off, leaving the scene of the accident.

The Harbordale police arrived, followed by the wail of an ambulance. They had her license and registration, which she must have given them. They asked her questions to judge her neurological health: her name, Francine Blythe; the date, September 12; her age--through the haze she remembered she had turned fifty recently and thought they could have been more sensitive and asked a different question.

From their casual reaction to her answers--nodding and no repeat queries--she guessed she had passed the test, but her body longed to shut down. They strapped a blood pressure cuff on her arm, checked her pulse, and told her they wanted to take her to the hospital for observation. Though she protested, a young police officer intervened and made the decision for her. At least she had the presence of mind to ask the officer to contact her workplace before the medics transported her away.

Francine's admittance to Harbordale Memorial was a blur of activity: a doctor's exam, X-rays to check for broken bones, and an IV inserted into her arm to replace fluids. By the time she was situated in a semi-private room, her mind was picking up speed. She panicked at the thought of missing the most important trial of her career. She tried inching off the bed but was stopped by the jabbing pain that traveled up her spine and lodged in her upper vertebrae. She slunk back and lay still.

Getting released from the hospital was foremost on her mind when Mandy, one of her coworkers, walked in. Clad in a smart navy-blue suit, her hair in a trendy cut, she towered over most women and carried herself like a model. Francine used to tease her that she was in the wrong profession. But she was tough, devoted to the job, and she reminded Francine of her younger self when she had first begun her career as a prosecuting attorney.

You need some light in here. Mandy opened the blinds wide, so Francine had a broad view of the fir trees in the parking lot, whose branches were now dripping rain like teardrops. Mandy pulled up a chair. How are you?

I've had better days.

You picked a dramatic way to get out of the trial.

Very funny. And what do you mean 'get out of the trial'? This is only a minor setback.

They sent me to give you the news.

Francine eyed her warily. Let me guess. Stan cut me out and was too chicken-shit to come in here and tell me in person.

He tried to get a delay, Mandy said, but because of the publicity and how long it's taken to get this case tried, not to mention the jury, the judge wants to proceed. He gave us the rest of the day to regroup. Stan would have come, but he couldn't take the time. I'm sorry to have to tell you.

Francine heaved a resigned sigh. Brad can easily take over the lead. He has access to my files, and he knows this case as well as I do.

He's already taking over with no problem.

I bet he is.

I'm sorry I can't stay, but we wanted to put your mind at ease about the trial, so you can concentrate on your recovery. She stood and had to step aside for a nurse who was carrying a vase overflowing with reds, yellows, and pinks, ushering in a sweet floral scent. We all chipped in, Mandy said as she neared the door. Take care, Francine.

The large-boned nurse with short, frizzy hair set the vase on a corner table and handed her the card. That's some bouquet. I counted at least ten different kinds of flowers...daisies, carnations, even red roses. Bet it cost a mint. Your coworkers must be pretty fond of you. She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Francine's arm.

Francine waited patiently for her to finish. So when can I break out of this place? I'm not feeling all that bad. She shifted position and stifled a groan.

As you already know, there aren't any broken bones, but you hit your head pretty hard. If you stay stable, you'll more than likely be discharged in the morning. Dr. Jansen will let us know for sure. She cocked her head toward the hallway. And that good-looking cop? I'm going to hate to see him go.

When was he assigned to me?

He's been here since this morning, shortly after they brought you in. Are you sure we can't call your husband? Or what about a parent?

My parents aren't living, and my husband is in Toyko at the moment.

What about a child, a sibling?

Francine thought of Erin, but decided not to worry her. I'll make a call later.

The woman placed Francine's purse where it could easily be reached. Press the button if you need anything.

Francine opened the card from her coworkers and read the note: Hope you get back on your feet soon, the Gang. Though it was a nice gesture, it didn't comfort her at all, knowing she was off the trial.

She settled back to rest, but directly across the hall people were jabbering at the nurses' station. A cart rolled by with a squeaky wheel, a phone rang, and an elevator jogged to a stop.

Aggravated, she was tempted to sneak out of the building when there was a tap at the door. Lingering by the entrance with a jacket slung over his arm was a tall, slim man, wearing dark slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt. His thick, salt-and-pepper hair was combed to one side.

Cliff. She smiled, feeling hopeful for the first time since they brought her in.

How are you feeling?

Like a truck ran over me.

I see the concussion hasn't stifled your sense of humor. He approached the chair vacated by Mandy. Mind if I sit down, or are you too tired for a visit?

Sit, please. I could use the company.

As he grasped the chair to pull it back, the sight of his hairy arm, his broad hand and narrow fingers brought up a flash of memory, accompanied by an unanticipated quiver, a carryover from times past. Her warm cheeks must have appeared flushed. She hoped he hadn't noticed.

I was out of town this morning on business, he said as she forced her mind back to the current conversation. I came as soon as I heard.

So, what's with the guard dog in the hallway?

After all the threats directed your way, do you even have to ask?

You don't think it was an accident then.

Do you?

She stayed silent, although that very thought had also crossed her mind.

Does Bill know?

He's in Toyko, but he'll be home tomorrow, so I don't think there's any sense in alarming him.

If you were my wife, I would want to know.

She averted her eyes for a moment, ignoring the awkward remark. And how have you been?

He gave a halfhearted shrug, then sauntered over to the vase of flowers and sniffed a carnation. Heard they took you off the Lambert trial.

Mandy was in and out of here in a New York minute with the news, but I know by tomorrow I'll be ready. I just need a night's rest. I don't feel all that bad.

I think it's more for security reasons, Francine. It's best you let it go. Anyway, I don't think you'll feel so chipper in the morning. The soreness creeps up on you. Have you got a ride home?

You know, I haven't even thought that far ahead, she said. I don't even know what shape my car is in or where they took it. Lana's gone to some New Age thing in Colorado. I suppose I'll call a cab.

I'll hear nothing of that. I'll give you a lift, and I'll also check on the Lexus. He ambled toward the exit and turned back. You're one tough lady. Now get some rest.

With Cliff's absence, she suddenly felt an emptiness inside and an urge to talk to Bill, for the sound of his voice if nothing else. Because of the time difference, she waited until it was 9 a.m. in Tokyo, a reasonable hour to place her call.

She let minutes go by while she debated whether or not to bother him. Then on impulse she took the number from her wallet and dialed the hotel where he always stayed on his flights overseas and asked the desk clerk to ring Bill Blythe's room.

The phone rang five times. She was about to hang up when a woman came on the line, her greeting coming over a weak and crackly connection. Francine was taken aback. She stared at her cell as if it were something foreign, then clicked it off.

She was tempted to forego the call, but figuring the clerk had made an error, she tried again. After an anxious minute, she was relieved to hear Bill's voice. I had them buzz you a second ago. They must have given me the wrong room because some woman answered.

What are you suggesting, Francine? Of course it was the wrong room. His tone was unexpectedly caustic.

I'm not suggesting anything, Bill. Should I be? And why are you so irritable?

Just forget it. It's been a trying weekend. The clerk probably didn't understand you the first time. Anyway, what's wrong? You never call here. Is Erin all right?

She's fine as far as I know, although she never calls me. It's me. I was in a minor accident.

Did you say accident? I'm having a hard time hearing you.

That's funny, because now you're coming over loud and clear. No one was in the next bed, so Francine spoke up. I was in an accident, but it was nothing serious. I was rear-ended and got a slight concussion. They brought me to the hospital for observation overnight.

How serious is it?

Not serious at all. Nothing broken. My brain is still intact. I'm just sore and weary.

I'll be flying back to Seattle in a few hours. I don't think I can get home any faster than that.

I wasn't calling to disrupt your schedule. The doctors are being cautious, that's all. They do the same with everyone. I have no serious injuries. I'm fine. I'll be home in the morning, and I'll rest until you get back tomorrow night. So just carry on with whatever you're doing there.

After an uncomfortable pause, he said, What about the car? Is it drivable?

I don't know. I don't even know where they took it. I got hit by a 4 x 4 pickup, so I'm sure there's damage.

How are you getting home?

She wondered if she should make up a lie, but ruled against it and said with hesitancy, Cliff volunteered.

Cliff Sullivan?

It's either him or take a cab. Everyone else is busy with the trial. And Lana is in Colorado.

I should be the one taking you home, Francine, not Sullivan.

Really, Bill, don't make this any more than it is. He'll drop me off and be on his way. I'm sore and I'm tired. I need to rest. I'll see you when you get here.

All right then. Take care of yourself... He hung up before she had a chance to say goodbye or exchange a loving word.

His last comment seemed caring enough, but his voice had dipped lower and trailed off near the end, and by that she could read his displeasure. Whether or not she referred to Cliff by his first name or in the formal sense, as Detective Sullivan, as she was prone to do over the years, seemed to make no difference in Bill's mind. She wondered if the incident with Cliff, which had never been repeated, would ever fade from Bill's memory.

Her thoughts drifted away from Bill to the trial and how hard she had prepared for it--the days and evenings away from home, along with the occasional weekend. She wasn't like Mandy, young, with a hunger for the job. Working as a prosecuting attorney was becoming more tiresome than the fulfilling profession it had once been.

The dull throb in her head had not let up, and thinking about work had left her drained. The pale walls and gray skies, not to mention the hospital's dreary, antiseptic odor, did nothing to lift her spirits.

She sifted through her purse for a brush and stumbled across an old photo of her and Bill, taken in earlier, happier times. She ran her finger along the tattered edge. How she had changed, aged because of the job--unlike Bill.

Maybe the accident was a wake-up call. Maybe twenty-five years was enough. But what would Bill say if suddenly out of nowhere she told him she wanted to quit? She could only imagine his response. She wished she had Lana to talk to.

CHAPTER 2

The doctor had just left Francine's room after discharging her with a prescription for pain medication. She swung the curtain around for privacy and began the arduous task of getting dressed. When she bent forward to pull on her pantyhose, she muffled a curse and decided to forego the hose. She put on her bra, although as flat-chested as she was, she had second thoughts about wearing it. Without pausing to catch her breath, she reached through the sleeves of her blouse. Next, she stepped into her half-slip and started tugging it to her waist. Then the hurt caught up to her. She leaned against the bed and moaned a little, waiting for the ache to subside.

The curtain rustled, and a deep, raspy voice said, Are you okay in there? Need any help?

Cliff. Hello. I'm just trying to get my skirt on without causing my body to go into a million spasms.

Want me to call the nurse?

I'm sure she has more important things to do than help a grown woman get dressed.

Why don't you let me help you? No sense in being a martyr.

Let me try one more time.

After Francine let out an anguished whimper, Cliff presented himself and got right to work, as if he were dressing a mannequin, without leering or dallying. She held on to his shoulders, and before she knew it, he was buttoning her blouse, a task she hadn't attended to. When he grasped the top button, he gently kissed the top of her head. Told you the second day is the worst.

Once she was wheeled from the hospital and settled in his Camry, she asked about her car.

I saw it earlier this morning, he said. Appears it will be totaled. The back is pretty smashed in.

Oh, god, Bill will have a fit. He always acts as if he's loaned me that car. What about the truck that hit me? I'm sure it was a newer model of some sort. I couldn't get the make.

It was a late model Ford. They found it abandoned after the accident. Stolen property. He glanced her way. They haven't caught the perpetrator.

She contemplated the gravity of the situation and remained quiet until they were parked in front of the pale green house on East Shoreline Drive.

He hefted the vase of flowers, and his free arm became her crutch as she took cautious steps down the walkway. After she was inside, he hovered by the door. Can I do anything for you? I can run to the store if you want me to.

You've done enough already, Cliff. I have everything I need here. I'm just going to rest until Bill gets home.

Why don't you let me make you some tea before I go?

He seemed intent on staying, and though she hadn't admitted it, she did have qualms about being alone. You know, that would be nice. There's some chamomile on the third shelf in the pantry, a gift from Lana. The kettle's on the stove. I'm going into the other room to change.

Need any help?

I can manage.

When she came into the kitchen in her maroon sweat suit, two cups of tea were on the table, along with the flowers, and Cliff was at the sliding glass door, taking in the scenery. He broke away and sat down. Ever get tired of the view?

Sometimes I take it for granted, she admitted. Days might go by, then I'll glance up all of a sudden and notice the boats churning the water or the seagulls flying by. I guess that's what working too much will do to you.

How did you ever get the doctor to discharge you with all the pain you're having?

I faked it. I wasn't about to stay in that place another hour. She sipped the soothing tea, inhaling the sweet apple-like scent. I'm glad you decided to stay.

I have to confess. I have an ulterior motive. I'm here until the plainclothesman shows up.

Oh, come on, Cliff. While I was in the hospital, maybe, but the county doesn't have the funds for this kind of protection. Besides, why would I need it now? I'm off the case.

You can't be too careful, Francine. Think of who you're dealing with. Anyway, the cop is a retired friend of mine. He agreed to park at the curb until he sees Bill's car.

Are you paying him?

Let's just say he owes me a favor.

I really don't think it's necessary.

Just humor me, okay?

She rubbed the back of her neck, her brow wrinkling. Ooh, that's sore.

I said you would feel it the next day.

Sitting here with Cliff, she felt relaxed and comfortable enough to express her feelings about work. If anyone would understand, it would be Cliff. I'm sure you know, when something unexpected like this happens, it makes you take stock of your life. While I was lying in that hospital bed, I actually entertained thoughts of quitting the job. Can you believe that? Me, quitting? Maybe I'm just burned out. Maybe I need a vacation.

Why don't you go up to the cabin for a few days? It's a good place to think and work things out.

At first she was puzzled, then the memories flooded in. I couldn't go there.

Why? Was our weekend together that terrible?

Really, Cliff, that was twenty-six years ago.

Twenty-five.

A lifetime ago. And besides, I would be surprised if it was still there after all these years. Things change.

"I know for a fact it