Sunsets of Inverness

By Joe Ballard

Im not young anymore, Andy. Im in the sunset of my life. Time is quickly ticking by. And I was never good at being a bachelor like you. I need to be with somebody, and I think Annie is the one.

So claims Harold Barker, a sixty-six-year-old resident of Tomales Bay, California in this sweet and poignant exploration of love in later years.

Having taken a part time job as a paper delivery man, Harold becomes attracted to a woman on his route, Annie Emerson, and although his attempts at initiating a romantic involvement with her begin auspiciously, he is unexpectedly rebuffed as both must come to grips with the ghosts and memories of past loves. Clarity for Annie eventually comes from a young woman, Emily Ruckus, who Annie once guided away from suicide while for Harold assistance comes from his close-knit group of friends in Operation Woo.

In Sunsets of Inverness we find a couple struggling with what we all must come to terms within our waning years, the loss of life partners, and the search for meaning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477281994

Joe Ballard

After working the tough streets of San Francisco as lead detective and partner of the Coastside Detective agency, Joe Ballard has taken to writing in his retirement years. Sunsets of Inverness is his first book. To learn more about the author and his other works, please search online for Coastside Detectives.

Book preview

SUNSETS

of

INVERNESS

JOE BALLARD

ah_.png

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

Sunsets of Inverness is a work of fiction. All characters describe in the book are fictional. Any similarities to actual events or situations are clearly coincidental.

© 2012 by Joe Ballard. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/25/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8200-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8199-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

I

T he image in Emily Ruckus’s head was one of serene beauty, where she would be lying peacefully on a clover-covered ocean bluff at Point Reyes National Park, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. There, she would pass over quietly, after performing some devised ceremonies filled with personal symbolism. She would chant and burn sage and give a blessing to the four directions. She would burn sweet grass, and once all was done, if she was lucky, a passing cloud would sprinkle a few drops of rain upon her as a final blessing from the heavens. The exact location where she would perform the rituals prior to her demise was still an unknown, but she was sure a dreamy green hill was out there that she would eventually lie upon with her hands lightly folded across her belly.

There, she would lie in her eternal sleep, until a grazing herd of Tulle Elk would come upon her. At first, they wouldn’t notice her in her stillness—until one, grazing next to her, would brush his lips against her ear, as he went for an especially succulent clover. Startled at first, he would then quietly determine that she was in her final repose. Emily had once heard that if you played dead when attacked by a bear, the animal would stop and actually bury you in a shallow grave. She was betting that Tulle Elk might do something similar and she dreamed that several would gather around her and then dig a shallow grave with their hooves.

Gently, they would lift her by their antlers and place her into this grave. They would then cover her with dirt and maybe, just maybe, one might break off a sprig of lavender and place it on top of her burial place as a final memorial. Who knows, they might even bark or howl, whatever Tulle elk do, at the moon that night, acknowledging her loss to the world. Emily knew that it was a stretch that things would unfold the way she dreamed, but there was still a possibility that they might turn out that way.

But now, she had another problem. Excessive rain, soil movements, and freezing temperatures had made spring 1995, along the Marin County roads to Point Reyes National Seashore, prime for a pothole population explosion. Emily had just started to bounce along Bear Valley Road when Blinky, the name Emily had given her 1968 silver Volvo, dropped into a cavernous pothole. The car slowed upon its exit from the hole, shook, and then died with barely a sound.

Oh, please don’t do this to me Blinky! Emily patted her car’s dashboard, turned off the ignition, crossed her fingers, kissed the steering wheel, and then tried to restart the car—nothing.

Shrimps! Emily jumped from the car, slammed the door, and then kicked it. Frack! Emily cursed again, hopping on one foot, before settling down on the hood of her car where she massaged her toes through her open-toed Birkenstocks.

When the pain subsided, she sat back in her car and cried into her hands, Why won’t anything ever go the way I want it to? She grabbed a little purple daypack off the passenger seat floor to look for some Kleenex. The daypack was brimming with a cacophony of herbal remedies in dosages that she thought halfheartedly might help push her over to the other side. She did not want man-made chemicals to spoil her body. At death, she wanted to be like lilies at a funeral: a symbol of the restored innocence of the soul.

She dug deep into her daypack, retrieved some Kleenex, and dabbed her face to soak up the tears. She then retrieved an envelope with the word Jeff written on the outside of it. She picked it up and her eyes began to water again. She knew what the envelope contained, since she was the author.

Emily retrieved her straw hat from the back seat, and with the daypack in hand, she climbed out of her car. The air was cool and her lean vegetarian frame shivered within her loose-fitting cotton East Indian pants and blouse.

Well, thanks for nothing, Emily said to Blinky. She began to walk along the road; then, as an afterthought, she picked some wild daisies and placed them under Blinky’s wiper blades.

I’ll be back. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you here. You deserve a better place as well. Emily patted the hood of the car then continued down the path.

Morning sunlight danced through the trees and lightened the paved roadway. A lazy bend, followed by a dirt road, with a hand painted sign reading 223 Emerson Valley Road seemed to be an inviting place to call for road service. Emily walked down the gently sloping curved road that was bordered by wisteria and blended into towering redwood trees. In the distance, she could hear a deep echoing dog’s bark, and after a final turn, a beautiful two-story farmhouse came into her vision.

II

A nnie Emerson sat in a paisley upholstered chair. She was in the midst of a daily ritual: On the small coffee table in front of her sat a pile of newspapers. A phone book covered a puzzle that was waiting for the majority of its pieces to be put in place. At her feet lay a large brown and white mutt. A light, suspended on a chain from the living room ceiling, dimly illuminated the room. Two lamps, one on a desk, the other free standing, were dark. An enormous bookshelf filled with books was against one wall, while a television in a wood housing from the fifties was against another. Several oil and water color paintings of seascapes during storms covered portions of the flower print wallpaper. A mirror, Christmas cards, silver candlestick holders, an ornate jewelry box, and a photo of an elderly gentleman in a highly wrought silver frame rested on the fireplace mantle. An ornate wooden table, holding a vase full of dried flowers and a telephone, stood at the room’s entrance.

With a black marker, Annie placed a mark next to the name Henry Gravenstein, as listed in the obituary section of the Marin Independent Journal. Henry Gravenstein, born 1934, died . . .

Mugsy, Annie called to get the dog’s attention. Ever hear of Henry Gravenstein?

Mugsy turned his head and gave her a questioning look.

Me neither, Annie said. She leafed through the phone book; it was filled with names and numbers crossed out with a black marker. When she came across Henry Gravenstein’s name, she crossed out his name and number as well.

Such a sad state of affairs, she said to Mugsy.

Suddenly, Mugsy jumped to his feet and ran to the heavy curtains that concealed the living room windows. He began to bark, his body sticking halfway out from underneath the curtains.

Mugsy! Come here! Annie slowly stood, to the serenade of popping joints. Lord, you would think it was the end of the world.

Mugsy continued barking; his tail now wagged and his body was shaking.

Every morning it’s the same thing with you two. Annie flung open the curtains that concealed the bay windows in her living room. Morning sunlight bathed the room, as did the dust motes that had been shaken from their perch upon the curtains.

Well, I don’t see the Williams boy, Annie said, as she scratched Mugsy’s head. You’re jumping the gun. Annie shielded hers eyes so she could look past a little rock garden glistening with morning frost. A recently mowed grassy field began where the rock garden ended, and was bordered in the distance by redwood trees.

Mugsy’s ears pointed forward, his tail rose, and he began to release muffled barks as a lone figure came into sight walking down the dirt road.

I

From where she was, Emily could see the front screen door of the old Victorian farmhouse open violently as a brown and white dog rushed out and ran across the front porch and down the stairs. Emily glanced at her surroundings and thought about running up a nearby tree as the dog rushed along the dirt road toward her. She quickly realized the closest one was a redwood tree and its branches were too high to reach and probably too weak to hold her weight. The dog came closer, barking as he ran. Emily dropped her backpack. She couldn’t outrun the dog, not in her Birkenstocks. Instead she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth in acceptance of her apparent fate.

Mugsy! commanded a woman’s voice. Heel! Fuss! The dog immediately stopped barking and Emily no longer heard its approach. Come along. It’s safe, yelled the woman. Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.

Emily opened her eyes and realized she had been holding her breath. An elderly woman was in the doorway of the house waving to her to come. Emily hesitantly walked toward the dog, which was now sitting in the middle of the road.

Mugsy was at attention, his eyes glued to the strange woman, who was wearing a large artificial sunflower on her straw hat. Cautiously, Emily stepped up to Mugsy. Oh, you’re a good boy, she said as she extended the back of her hand. Mugsy eagerly licked Emily’s hand, and then watched as she proceeded toward the house.

On the