Jeremy’S Cottage: A Gathering of Short Stories

By Violet Grayson

Jeremys Cottage is a collection of short stories, all fictional, in which ordinary people become ensnared in dilemmas, sometimes not of their own making. Each person asks for help and receives a message through a chance meeting, a dream, a fleeting thought, or even what at first appears to be a tragedy. A beloved pet might hold the solution at times. Each answer sets that person on a path out of the dilemma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466993860

Violet Grayson

Born in her grandparents’ bedroom on October 11, 1925, Violet Grayson says of her writing, “At the age of fourteen, I wrote a poem and a rather dismal short story. I sent the short story to Collier’s magazine, where it was immediately rejected. I redeemed my pride by later winning a school-wide essay contest at Cumberland High School and becoming an at-large reporter for our school paper, The Chronicle. As a senior, I was named literary editor of our yearbook. My English teacher, Mr. Skahan, suggested I switch to the college course since he saw me as scholarship material, but that was too much of a reach in those Great Depression years. After graduating in 1943, I worked in an office, married in 1949, and became a mother in 1950 and then a single parent in 1952. My writing would have to wait until January 1986 when, at the age of sixty, I launched my literary career.” Violet has had twenty-four personal-experience stories, articles, how-to pieces, and short stories published. She also wrote a column for the Foxboro Reporter in her former home of Foxboro, Massachusetts. In California, since 1993, she contributed to “Two Cents,” an opinion column in the San Francisco Chronicle maintained by a pool of citizens. She is an active member and Secretary of Writers West of Alameda Inc. This is her fourth book. The first, In the Village Lonsdale, was published in 2006. Her second, A Gossamer Cord, was published in 2011. Her third, Jeremy’s Cottage, was published in 2013.

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Copyright 2013 Violet Grayson.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-9385-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-9387-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-9386-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911954

Trafford rev. 08/01/2013

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CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOREWORD

THE TRUTH STONE

VERA’S DIARY

HENRY AND JONATHAN

THE FIFTH SEASON

JEREMY’S COTTAGE

THE APPLE ORCHARD

LOVES ME, LOVES ME NOT

CRAGGY HEAD COVE

WILD STRAWBERRIES, WILD GRAPES

WHERE THE ELEPHANTS GO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

To my grandparents, Alfred and Lillias (Richardson) Grayson, for introducing me to the comfort of spiritual belief.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my loving and talented daughter, Darcy Morrison, for the beautiful cover.

Thanks to the members of Writers West of Alameda, Inc., for their helpful and encouraging comments during the writing of my book.

FOREWORD

Although I’m a member of the Episcopal faith, my grandmother and grandfather were Spiritualists during the 30’s when that movement was at its strongest. Since I grew up hearing about spiritual messages, it didn’t seem strange to me when I personally had those experiences. It wasn’t scary or eerie but simply a warm comforting feeling that I was being guided and watched over and was not alone in my confusion.

Jeremy’s Cottage is a collection of short stories, all fictional, in which ordinary people become ensnared in dilemmas, sometimes not of their own making. Each person asks for help and receives a message through a chance meeting, a dream, a fleeting thought or even what at first appears to be a tragedy. A beloved pet might hold the solution at times. Each answer sets that person on a path out of the dilemma.

The path in turn opens up a new way of living and thinking that brings hope and serenity into that person’s life.

THE TRUTH STONE

Love means to commit yourself without guarantee.

Anne Campbell

The plane landed and taxied up closer and closer to where Sandy stood among the cluster of military wives and families. Behind them, a banner held by two men and rippling slightly in the breeze, read, Welcome home from Iraq!!! As the jet whine settled into silence, the cabin door opened to allow a stairway to drop down. A soldier, squinting in the bright California sun, appeared at the top and waved to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. Sandy’s eyes filled with tears. She watched eagerly for her husband.

There he is! He’s home. He’s home. Greg’s home, he’s safe and tonight we’ll be together. Aching to disobey instructions and race to him, she could only wave frantically until he spotted her. He broke into a run, his duffel bag bouncing against his shoulder. My handsome Greg. She rushed into his arms, hugging him tightly while he squeezed her so she could barely breathe. Let’s go, he whispered. Walking beside him, holding his hand, looking up at him, she knew she must be dreaming.

The dream continued through that day and that night and the next day. Greg had come home. Nothing could ever pull them apart again. After their second day in the motel room, they drove her aging VW north to Berkeley and the studio apartment they’d rented in 2003, a few months after both had their degrees from the university.

That’s where he’d confessed ages ago, it seemed, that he wanted to go to Iraq. You know I’ve always dreamed of flying a helicopter, the same way my dad did in Vietnam, he explained, idealism burning in his voice. The war won’t last long and I can use that experience for the rest of my life. When she didn’t speak, he added, I won’t be leaving right away. My dad told me you need math skills to be able to land and maneuver the helicopter. I have those but I’ll have to learn more, of course so I’ll have to do some training.

Trembling partly with anger and partly with fear, Sandy demanded to know, What about us?

He snuggled her in his arms. Let’s get married as soon as possible. She closed her eyes and leaned against him and whispered her agreement.

A tiny gathering in Berkeley City Hall replaced the grand wedding they had planned almost from the day they met in the eighth grade. The week-long honeymoon became two nights in a luxury hotel and the year they expected to be apart stretched into a little more than two, but the nightmare had ended. He was home, safe and alive. They’d be together forever and ever.

As the days folded into each other, she waited for him to talk about Iraq but he seemed more anxious to concentrate on the future. I want to get an old car, he told her, so I can look for a job. When she asked about Iraq, he answered quickly and changed the subject. She gave up. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready. At least, he’s home and I can touch him and hear his voice and feel him close to me in bed. I should be grateful for that. Still, she ached to share their separate adventures—to laugh and cry together over their stories.

Several days after his homecoming, he phoned to tell her excitedly, I got it. I got the job. I’ll be flying for KMIT, covering the Bay Area News. That night they ate out and drank several celebratory toasts to his good fortune. We can move, he told her, beaming. Let’s start looking this weekend. Eventually, they found a two-bedroom apartment on Hearst Street. Life was full and wonderful, except for that first morning Sandy had to rush to the bathroom. I feel lousy.

As the day wore on, the nausea passed but when she threw up again the next morning, she decided to tell him. While he was dressing for work, she eased in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. Sweetheart, I think I have some news for you. She linked her hands behind his head. Remember the night we celebrated your new job. Well… she paused dramatically, I think we’re pregnant. Instead of sweeping her into his arms, he stared at her without moving before, belatedly, as though realizing what she wanted, he pulled her to him and held her.

That’s great. Are you sure? She wondered why his voice sounded shaky.

Well, I’ve thrown up two mornings in a row and yet I feel better as the day goes on, so I guess I am. Aren’t you happy about it? Is it too soon?

No, no, it isn’t too soon and yes, I’m happy. I’m just—well, surprised, I guess. He held her for a long time. I’d better get going. I’m a little late. You take it easy today and we’ll talk some more tonight. I’ll just grab a bowl of cereal and I’ll call you later. He finished dressing, ate quickly and was gone.

The incident passed and once she had seen a doctor and received the final diagnosis, Sandy invited both sets of parents to Sunday dinner. They were ecstatic, slapping Greg on the back and patting Sandy’s stomach. Greg smiled and laughed with them, but Sandy couldn’t shake her uneasiness. She did her best to ignore it, telling herself she had better start preparing. A few nights later, searching in her drawer for clothes she could wear to fit a thickening waist, she stopped and grinned. Greg, look what I found. As he came into the room, she showed him the small, white, ocean-polished stone lying in her palm. Remember this—the truth stone? Remember when our eighth-grade class went to Santa Cruz for our end-of-the year outing and I found this on the beach? I teased you that it was magical. ‘If you hold this in your hand,’ I told you, ‘you have to tell the truth or demons will come and tickle you to death.’ She grinned again. Let’s do it. Let’s try it—come on. She closed her eyes. Yesterday, I had an extra brownie which I’m not supposed to eat because I’m not supposed to gain too much weight. She opened her eyes and held out the stone.

He stared at it before slowly taking it from her palm. Sandy waited for him to speak but had to strain to hear him when he finally said, I have something I have to tell you. Let’s go in the other room and sit on the couch.

Sandy’s stomach contracted. Afraid it would hurt the baby, she caressed her stomach as she sat down next to him. Holding the stone tightly, his head drooping, Greg began his story. When I was in Iraq, I had to rescue wounded guys and fly them to the field hospital. I kidded with one of the nurses on duty. He smiled slightly. It helped because we saw some pretty awful sights. He paused and continued in the same subdued tone. "We became good friends. One night when she was going off-duty and it was dark, I offered to walk her back to the