Still Waiting For The Sun

By Robert Segarra

Inheritances come in all shapes and sizes, but Jane Whitley never could have imagined how hers would turn out. Depressed and uninspired, she had been unhappily going about her business living her life in New York City when out of the blue she received news about a windfall that had suddenly come her way. But it wasn't the sort of windfall she could easily have accepted. In order to receive this inheritance, she would have to give up everything she had in New York and travel down to North Carolina. At first she resists, but during one particularly bad stretch, she relents and decides to take a chance and see what life somewhere else may have in-store for her. After all, she tells herself - "Life is all about second chances." In due time, Jane finds herself on her way to try and discover what might lay in her future. What would you do if you were in Jane's shoes?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Segarra
• Release date: Dec 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370072972

Robert Segarra

ROBERT SEGARRA is a New York artist, writer, and musician with many writing, art and illustrated pieces to his credit. Originally published in the summer of 2007 "STILL WAITING FOR THE SUN" details the difficult life of an unmotivated woman as she receives a very bizarre inheritance that just may change her life if she has the courage to accept it. The book has been re-edited and republished as of 2016. Other books include, "MILLION DOLLAR HARRY," "EVER DARK," TEMPORARY ANGELS" and "GODS & WEREWOLVES." The long poem, "HEAVEN" was published in 2016. Some of his other book projects are "CROW HILL & OTHER POEMS" and the illustrated children's books, "IF TIGER COULD TALK" - and the holiday favorite - "THE CHRISTMAS MOUSE." About a dozen of his screenplays have been produced as films and have aired on television, and screened at film salons and festivals. There are many other projects in the works as well. His poetry has won awards. His artwork has been favorably reviewed in USA Today, and in other publications. And, he has designed artwork, posters, flyers, and clothing logos for such institutions as The Easter Seals Society of New York. Over the years, his paintings have been a part of several New York City art exhibitions, a number of which have ended up in private collections. He writes, records and produces music as the one-man band, "BILLY J BRYAN & THE AX GRINDERS." The music can be found online at CD Baby, iTunes, Amazon and many fine e-tailers. And the music can be heard online, live and archived, at various Internet radio stations, such as EGH Radio, Wig-Wam Radio, Rocker's Dive Radio, Open The Door Radio, Lonesome Oak Radio, Howard's Power Pop Stew, Take-Two Radio, KSCR, Spotify and many others sites and stations.

Book preview

Chapter One

The sky grew dark and high winds caused the hotel lights to flicker off and on.

I think we're going to need the candles tonight, said Jane Whitley, the owner and manager of The Rawlings Hotel.

Should we start up the fireplaces, ma'am? asked Ronnie Mc Vicar, the desk clerk.

That's a good idea, Ronnie. Please get someone on that immediately.

Miss Whitley struggled to suppress her concern, but it was clear that this storm was going to leave quite a trail of devastation in its wake. Still, she was determined to keep her staff, her guests, and her hotel from feeling the full effects of the coming weather. It didn't seem to matter that she had long ago paid her dues, becoming a bona fide local resident in one of the most active storm areas in the country. Each time a storm passed through the region, Jane felt as if she were starting over again in the area. With each and every storm that barreled through Eatonville, she felt tested by the weather, tested by her past, and tested by her neighbors.

Arnie, please help me to shutter up the windows and secure the screen doors, barked Miss Whitley.

Yes, ma'am, Arnold Beanfield replied.

One by one the shutters on all 45 windows were forced shut as a steady, windblown rain beat against everything in its path. The magnolias and palms down near the shoreline swayed back and forth as the tempest made its presence known. Rain gutters started to fill and overflow. And birds that should have been settling down to roost for the evening had already taken flight either further inland, or north or south, it didn't matter, as long as it was away from the coming storm.

Neighbors in the nearby Colonial, Victorian, and Revival houses also went about closing up their shutters and protecting whatever they could, however they could, from the impending noreaster.

Up and down Main Street there was no one to be seen. Occasionally, a vehicle would pass by slowly, driving visibility hampered by the pelting raindrops upon its windshield as it rode, as it sought out refuge somewhere away from the storm. Traffic lights dangled and danced in the heavy breezes, shooting multi-colored searchlights in odd directions. Huge clusters of leaves flew from the trees down on to the cobblestones. And now and then, an unfortunate soul would run by, coat pulled high above the shoulders in an attempt to keep at least some of the cold rain from getting into their clothing.

On Rugby Road a window screen was loosened from its sash and sent crashing down to the street below. The noise startled those inside the house, and they promised themselves they would investigate what had happened when the winds died down. But this squall was just getting into gear. The night was young and so was the storm. Leaves and twigs were blown from the tallest and the smallest trees, collecting in rain gutters and storm drains, threatening to clog these as the drops continued to fall. Water pooled at street corners and wherever the run-off was slow, and in most places it had gotten to the point where it was no longer safe to be outside. Wherever shelter could be found was where anyone reviously out and about on this night with any sense already was, or already quickly headed. By the time Miss Whitley and Arnie Beanfield were done, both were soaked and exhausted.

Chapter Two

Miss Whitley stood alone on the screened porch drying off. She watched as the waves crashed over the breakwater several hundred feet away. The loneliness and desolation of this image brought tears to the eyes of the 37-year-old hotel owner. She often wondered what it was that a year and a half ago had lured her to accept the challenge of running a small southern business such as The Rawlings Hotel, being that she was a born and bred, die-hard native New Yorker.

But it was at trying and defining times like these that the memories of how it all came about reminded her. The locals would rudely question her presence through odd head games that they played on strangers, upsetting her, and at times causing her to forget why she had decided to drop everything and relocate. But even early on, deep down she did indeed know the reason, whether she admitted to it or not. And that reason was a personal one, and thus far known only to Jane.

In the strictest sense of the word, Jane was not a total stranger to the area. A branch of her family on her mother's side had long-standing roots in the region, and the young family from New York had visited them on a semi-regular basis. And tomboy that she was, Jane had spent entire summers running around the marshes and fields looking for one adventure or another. There wasn't a field or a face that she didn't know back then. She became acquainted with the folks and the area, and they came to know her as well.

But people have short memories, and when she was 13, her parents divorced and these visits occurred with less frequency, eventually coming to a complete halt. Jane never questioned the cold shoulders and odd treatment she had since received, understanding the wariness toward strangers on some level, and trying to block these unpleasant experiences out when they did occur. It seemed to her the easiest remedy. For Jane, it was far simpler to avoid these thoughts rather than face them, and so that was what she did most often. This was not the case with other memories, however, such as those surrounding the legal aspects of her latest twist in life.

The images of the reading of her great-grandfather's Will came to mind often, along with the feeling that she might be doing something worthwhile and rewarding with herself after years of wandering through life, going through the motions, and working toward a career she wasn't even sure she wanted back in New York. Jane knew it was vital that she feel useful in whatever it was she ended up doing. She needed to know that whatever she did with her time, it would ultimately have to mean something to somebody other than herself. And so she decided that the challenge that would come with relocating and running the hotel to be possibly what she craved and had been searching for all these years. Her great-grandfather intuitively seemed to know what was missing from Jane's life, even if he hadn't a clue as to how dissatisfied she had become with her existence. He could not have known what she had wanted, Jane not knowing this herself, yet he made an overture with this final act that had the potential to change Jane's life in ways she hadn't imagined. Roscoe Miller never explained why he had chosen Jane as heir to the hotel, he merely did it. And the arrangement he set in place made it difficult for her to make any decision other than to accept his terms.

Miss Jane Whitley was studying to become a teacher at Columbia University in New York City when she was informed that she would be receiving an inheritance from her deceased maternal great-grandfather from North Carolina. Unfortunately, this windfall did not come in the form of a financial inheritance, a trust fund, or any sort of outright cash sum. Instead, her great-grandfather had decided to leave her the hotel that he had established a long time ago. Had he chosen to leave her the cash equivalent, this godsend would have enabled her to continue her education and then some. He apparently did not think that this was in her best interest, and in accordance with his wishes, Jane was to keep his business running. If, the Will stipulated, in a specified period of time, there was or continued to be verified and documented difficulties, or hardship of any kind, then, and only then, would Miss Whitley be permitted to sell the property and recover whatever cash value could be obtained.

At first she returned to New York, making no overtures toward accepting the proposition. She was content to let her inheritance quietly slip away. Then, in July of 1994, three months after the reading of the Will, Jane Whitley suddenly sublet her Brooklyn Heights apartment and moved to the tiny barrier island of St. Helena, a section of the tiny town of Eatonville off the coast of North Carolina. She had never given anyone any explanation as to why she decided to accept ownership of the hotel, and Jane was not always certain that she understood, but she had accepted it, proclaiming to any who would listen that she was in for the long haul. Many family members guessed that her reasons were financial, and to a degree they were, but this was not the only reason. In any case, putting her finger on her true motivation was perhaps more complicated than she wished to admit or address. That she needed a fresh start was all that she would allow herself to acknowledge.

And so, Jane Whitley set out late one Friday afternoon from Penn Station. It was the second week in July, during the middle of a heat wave, which should have made leaving easier, but strangely enough, it didn't. Her first thoughts regarding whether or not she had made the right decision in leaving the safety of her home in New York for the uncertainty of a new one in North Carolina surfaced at this time. Soon, however, she became lost in her travels and in her thoughts.

The rolling of the dismal-looking commuter train seemed to tranquilize and hypnotize her into a different mind-set, one where she no longer worried as much about the importance of this particular decision. The rhythmic beating of the steel wheels against the tracks and railroad ties dulled the pangs of anxiety and doubt, hammering out a sense of calm in Jane, to the point where it no longer felt as if this were a life or death situation. Instead, she looked at the move as if it were the perfect opportunity for a new beginning, and this was what she had secretly hoped for all along.

The train let out a whistle at every crossroad and every town it came to as it passed from New York to Eatonville. Cities, towns and stations with names like Newark, Trenton, Rahway, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Carrollton, BWI, Union Station, Newport News, and Charlotte passed in an endless parade, blurring as the trip wore on. Soon it grew dark, and the faces, cars, and homes were no longer visible to her except whenever there was a scheduled stop, and then it was only when porch lights were turned on that she was able to discern their presence.

Still slightly depressed, exhausted, and unable to sleep, she stared out the window. Under the dim moonlight, she was able to make out the homes and shops along the way. Jane wondered what the people in each little town and each city she passed through were feeling, dreaming, thinking, doing for a living, and doing at that precise moment. She wondered had they heard the whistle blast as the train barreled through and if they had thoughts of a similar nature about her and her companions on the train. Were they as curious as she?

Under a steady rain, the train pulled into the Eatonville station at 1:15 in the morning. She arranged to have her bags delivered the next day, and with her travel bag in hand, she enlisted a local cabby to take her across the Ballard Street Bridge to St. Helena's. With a little bit of difficulty, she managed to find the hotel and was led to her room. Ronnie Mc Vicar, the youngish desk clerk was there to greet her.

Hello, Miss Whitley, let me show you to your quarters. I hope your trip wasn't too rough. The kitchen's already closed, but I took the liberty of leaving some chicken sandwiches and a bottle of wine on the coffee table in your suite, he said, as he led her up a half flight of stairs behind the darkened kitchen.

Thank you very much, Mr. Mc Vicar; that was very kind of you, but I don't think I'll be doing much eating tonight. I'm very tired, she replied.

Oh, you can call me Ronnie. That's what everybody calls me. They arrived at her room, which was located at the end of the east wing. It had a stunning view of the ocean. Well, I'll leave the sandwiches. And, if there's nothing else, I'll be getting back.

No, that'll be fine.

Good night, then, he said sheepishly.

Thank you, I'll see you in the morning...around nine?

Sure thing. You're the boss.

And with that he left her to become accustomed to her new surroundings. And they were spectacular. Although it was dark, it was clear to Jane that the taxi had left her at a grand and magnificent structure. The hotel had once been a Carolina mansion, complete with ornate decoration and exquisite detail inside and out. It made a perfect place to entertain guests. Inside, the long hallways ran with plush, rich red, gold, and blue carpeting. The rooms were located on opposite sides of the corridor, and lit by cheery gold-plated art deco wall-sconces, soft light beaming through thick milk-white glass. The lobby was decorated like one expansive cozy family room, with a fireplace, several long lavish sofas, sitting chairs, coffee tables, a radio at one end, and a television at the other. Several palm and Ficus trees were scattered around the room. During the holidays, this sitting-area was prepared with seasonal ornamentation, with wreathes, ribbons and other items, creating a more welcoming and festive atmosphere at the Rawlings Hotel.

Jane was awestruck by everything she saw, and it took her mind off anything that might have been bothering her. Within walking distance was the Atlantic Ocean with its white sandy beaches; while over toward land, there was the quietest stretch of marsh that she had ever seen.

The cab she had taken from the station took this route across the marsh, and she marveled at its loneliness and beauty. On one side was deafening silence, and on the other were the rolling waves crashing upon the moonlit sand. Waves that had traveled across a giant expanse of ocean were washing up at her backdoor.

Her room was light and airy, and decorated in such a way as to suggest a sort of combination Caribbean-Victorian flavor. In fact, a good amount of the architecture in the region was of this style: a smooth eclectic blend of New England and Caribbean culture. The streets in the village were cobblestone, upon which feral chickens could be seen walking to and fro at will. And the bridge across Miller's Marsh, a steel and wood affair, was partially covered, like those ancient disappearing Yankee structures of the north. Magnolia trees lined many side streets, and the main shopping area off Ballard Street was lit by old gas street lamps. Eatonville was idyllic. It was as near to paradise as Jane believed any place could be. And she knew that if she could only shake her feeling of melancholy, she could indeed be happy on St. Helena's.

Chapter Three

Several times during the night Jane awoke feeling comfortable, but this would only last for a brief moment. Upon realizing she was far from familiar surroundings, she would again become agitated. On each of these occasions she had difficulty returning to sleep. She'd cry, she'd ponder her predicament, and wonder what had been on her mind when she'd made the decision to relocate. Each time she could come up with no satisfactory answer. At 2:00 AM, finding it more and more difficult to doze off, she rose and sat in the cushioned paisley chair that had been placed in front of her bedroom bay window, from where she could see out across the darkened marsh and meadow.

She noticed a tiny structure halfway out between the hotel and the tree line. Jane wondered whether it was a tool shed or some other type of storage facility. From this distance she could not be certain. As she stared, she realized that there was a light burning inside it. As she watched a little longer, she noticed that from time to time a shadow would pass before the small window facing the hotel. She had not taken a complete inventory of the exact number of buildings her property contained, nor had she had the opportunity to review her property lines. As far as she could tell, the structure was on her land, but investigating who owned it, and who may have been using it, would have to wait until dawn.

Sometime before 5:00 AM, Jane fell asleep where she sat. This time she did not awaken again until after the workday had begun. Somewhere between night and morning, the air seemed to have come alive with the sound of creatures of every kind. Ducks and geese flew by overhead, honking and quacking every now and again in their migration to another place, perhaps more hospitable many miles away, or perhaps they were returning to St. Helena's from somewhere less comfortable. At this stage, Jane had no idea what the case could be. She just knew the scene was spectacular. Mourning doves, crickets, and click beetles were quieting down after a long evening of activity. Several times during the night, Jane had heard the blasts of the train whistle as it pulled into the station, and she could hear the taxi-cabs as they drove along, several hundred feet away on the road near the bridge.

Her adjustment to life on the tiny island was not going to be one of merely leaving behind a noisy city for the peace and quiet of a country existence. Instead, she found that the nightly sounds of rural creatures could be as disturbing as a garbage truck hauling trash at 3:00 in the morning in Brooklyn Heights. The sources may have been different, but they were noises nonetheless, noises that she would have to get used to. And it was in fact these noises that had roused her from her deep sleep.

By the time she realized how long she had overslept, Jane grew mortified. She had wanted to make a good impression on the people who worked so dutifully for her great-grandfather for so many years, and here she had not even managed to wake up at a decent hour. What would they think of her?

Fortunately, she looked up at the calendar above her work desk to notice it was a Saturday. And while it may have been considered a day of rest to city folk, it was not a day of work either, not in the strictest sense of the word, at least not for Jane in her new home. They kept a different calendar in these parts. People here lived a more laid back existence. They hustled when they had to, and as Jane would learn, they strolled when they could, and relaxed when the feeling took them. Eatonville's version of the rat race had much fewer rodents and moved at a relative snail's pace.

Outside, a few storm clouds lingered from the rains of the night before, but the sun was valiantly struggling to break through. Its persistence paid off as dazzling rays beamed down all over the sleepy inlet. Countless pools and puddles stood in many furrows and low-lying areas. These would soon be gone, but for the moment, these mini-lakes provided many places for the children to play and sail paper boats.

Yaye, the small ones would shout each time that their homemade craft traveled across one of these puddles to where they had wanted them to go.

Back and forth they would go pretending to be famous explorers discovering new worlds. They would play this game for as long as they could, but by the afternoon they would be moving on to some other game as these pools would most certainly be dried up. And when Jane finally did emerge from her cocoon she encountered a relaxed looking Ronnie Mc Vicar.

How'd you sleep last night, Miss Whitley? he asked.

Well, I'll tell you, at first I didn't. It was too quiet maybe, or maybe it was the rain, but whatever the reason, I tossed and turned for most of the night. Eventually I did fall asleep, and it wasn't until I heard the honkers passing by that I finally woke.

Yeah, well, you'll get used to the noise. I did.

I guess it would be stupid of me to ask, but you do get a lot of storms here; am I right?

Yeah, it's not like tornado alley or nothin', but we do get our fair share of storms, and hurricanes. Although, we haven't had a real big one in a decade.

I guess that means we're due?

I hope not, Ronnie said.

I'm kidding. It's just that in New York, we don't get storms like this on a regular basis.

You don't, do you? he wondered.

Oh, that's right; you've never been to New York. Sometime I'll have to tell you about it. You'll be amazed. It's not like what you hear.

I'll look forward to that.

Miss Whitley decided that the opportunity to get to know her new employees, as well as her neighbors, had arrived. The best way to accomplish this would be to use the least intrusive and threatening method possible. Jane thought it would be relatively easy to sneak around inconspicuously, fade smoothly into crowds, trying not to be noticed, while at the same time be as observant as she possibly could. She was, after all, out of her element. She was a stranger in a very small town, where people tended to keep to themselves. For although they were cordial and friendly, the town's people were cautious of strangers. She remembered this from the visits she had paid her great-grandfather during summer vacations and spring breaks. And little did she know that one day she would be returning, no longer as a guest of one of the town's most respected citizens, but as sole heir to the hotel he had left behind. In a place where distrust was common, it would be easy for her to quickly become unpopular.

Conscious of this, Jane quietly left the hotel with a copy of the Eatonville Gazette, and a detailed map of North Carolina under her arm. She told Arnie Beanfield and Ronnie McVicar that she had some errands to run, and she set out to explore her new world.

Chapter Four

Jane had no idea what living in a small town would be like now that she was on her own. She had visited Eatonville on many occasions, but only on vacations and other similar stays, and had never had to worry about such mundane topics as transportation, career, or any of the other day-to-day things that an adult resident would have to consider. She learned that even the smallest of towns was still too large to effectively explore on foot.

Are there any cabs around here? an exhausted Jane asked of one old man.

Nah, not around here. If you go down the road a bit, you'll come by the library. If you make a left there and walk down a few more blocks, you'll hit the end of Main Street. You're bound to see a cab somewhere in there, answered the man who appeared to be in his seventies. He squinted and never looked directly at Jane. Then he removed his straw hat as he turned his head up to see exactly to whom it was that he had given directions. Not from around here, are you?

Well, I am now, she answered. You see, I inherited the Rawlings Hotel. Roscoe Miller was my great-grandfather.

Is that right?

Yes, indeed. Did you know him? she asked excitedly.

Jane had hoped to find someone like this old man, someone old enough to have been around that could tell her all she wanted to know about her great-grandfather and local history, someone that could assist her in assimilating.

No, I never did, he said dryly.

Have you lived here long? she asked, wondering whether he had retired to the area and was not familiar with Eatonville or St. Helena's Island.

Born and raised right here in Eatonville, right off President Street, he said.

"Have you ever heard of the Rawlings Hotel?

Yeah, I heard of it.

But you never knew my great-grandfather? she asked, frustrated.

What need do I have of a hotel? My folks built their own home, and as soon as I was old enough, I bought one of my own. I ain't never had no need of no hotel.

I ask because I’m interested in learning more about my new home, she said, in an apologetic tone.

May I suggest the public library? It's right on Ballard Street, you can't miss it. It's right by the post office.

Oh, I hadn't thought about that, she said.

They have an archive that I think you could use. The old man slowly got to his feet and walked over to his pick-up truck, muttering, Darned foolish woman; relocates from the city where they gots their heads on ass backwards and gets lost in a piss-tiny town like this? Lord, help her.

Jane pretended not to hear him, but the words stung. She expected to find the southern hospitality she had remembered from her childhood, yet could not find now to save her life. It seemed that everything she recalled from her childhood and even recent memory was different.

I guess you people have little patience for a carpetbagger, she said.

Long ago, she had felt at home in Eatonville. She now wondered when and why things had changed.

Meanwhile, Ronnie found an upset Arnie Beanfield walking about his tiny cabin, piling clothing and belongings into a worn out cardboard suitcase. Arnie lived out in what would be described by as a shack, but what was referred to by the locals as Miller's Cabin. It was originally a wooden, box-like structure covered in tarpaper, with a door and a few windows cut out for light and ventilation. And in it a very rambunctious Roscoe Miller first found refuge many years ago.

But since handing it over to Arnie, Roscoe saw to it that the place was modernized. He had it covered in shingles, added a real hardwood floor to the deck, and bead-board to the interior walls. He hired the same contractors, plumbers, electricians, and handymen that worked on the hotel to fit the shack with the latest lighting and plumbing fixtures. And he also arranged to have some landscaping done in order to give it the look of a separate piece of property. Eventually, ivy climbed up part of the cabin and a section of white picket fencing was added to give the place a charming, though still tiny, appearance.

Is anything wrong with you? Ronnie asked his friend.

Nah, I don't know. I don't know if I'm needed around here anymore, said a depressed Arnie Beanfield.

Why would you say that? Did Miss Jane say something to you?

No. She doesn't have to. I don't like her.

You don't? Why not? Ronnie asked.

Well, I know you like her, so I won't be nasty, but she seems to not like anyone here. She doesn't want to get to know any of us, and I get the impression that she wants to fire us all.

I don't know where you'd get that idea. I got a good impression of her.

I know, and that's because you like her. Don't bother to deny it, because I see the way you look at her, and the way she looks at you. It's obvious, you like each other.

Ronnie didn't know what to make of this revelation. It was true, he did like her, but he doubted that Jane felt the same about him. Arnie continued to pack his bag much more slowly.

Are you sure you wouldn't rather discuss the situation with Miss Whitley herself before you go assuming she doesn't want to keep you on?

I couldn't do that.

Never being one to leave anything unspoken, or at least not fully investigated, Ronnie asked a few more questions designed to put Arnie more at ease.

I really think you should talk to her about it. I have never heard her say anything bad about anyone working here at the hotel.

Are you saying that, because you want me to like her because you like her?

Of course not. You can, and should, ask her yourself.

Arnie considered this for a moment. The two had been friends for many years, and had been rescued right off the streets at the same time by Roscoe Miller when they were teens. Roscoe saw something in each of the individuals he invested time, love and money in, never asking for anything in return. Most of the time his investment came back to him tenfold, via good wishes, kind words, good deeds, and in fine upstanding young men and women. He did for others what Old Man Rawlings did for him; he took a chance and gave them a chance as well.

Okay, I'll go talk to her, Arnie said. Maybe she'll be like Miss Senecky. Do you remember her?

Sure, I remember Miss Senecky. What about her?

When we were in first grade Miss Senecky checked our homework every day, to see if we did it correctly, remember?

Yeah, I do.

Well, she used to rip out my pages every single day. All I had to do was misspell one word, and out came the entire page. She was a pretty thing; we all had a crush on her, but she was nasty. Not a very happy person.

Yeah, she did the same thing to me.

I used to get doubly punished; first by her, and then by my folks who saw my book falling apart and asked me what was going on. Arnie paused. Well, after she got married to the gym teacher she turned into one of the nicest teachers I ever had. She was sweet and friendly, and she never tore out another piece of paper from my book again.

"Yeah, I noticed that. But what does that have to