Dolphins at Sunset

By WES SNOWDEN

Climb aboard the luxurious Windjammer sailing ship, Star Galaxy, with Rhonda Taylor as she breaks away from her life of despair in search of the unknown destiny that awaits her in the enchanting Greek Islands. It's a voyage of discovery for the young woman. A voyage that will ultimately force her to choose between the three unexpected options the capricious tides of fate have thrown her way.

Will Rhonda make the right choice? The one that will turn her world upside down forever or will she give in and surrender to the safety of the familiar? This finely crafted romance with it's warm and satisfying conclusion is a genuine page turner for readers of all genres.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: CORVENT CREATIVE
• Release date: Jul 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781386283423

WES SNOWDEN

After a successful career as an international business owner, Wes Snowden now spends his time between Toronto, Vancouver, and Scottsdale, Arizona. As a relatively new author, Wes has written a broad range of  books, all unique in their storyline. Although his writings are enjoyable for all ages, the author enjoys writing kid's stories for grown-ups the best. Wes has just finished four full-length adult novels- White Swan Wishes, Zachary's Gold, One Last Move and The Leprechaun Wars All four will be published by spring of 2020. Reviews and comments always appreciated at: [e-mail]

Book preview

RHONDA

Isat alone in the empty staff lunchroom, hunched over my book. With only five minutes left in my afternoon coffee break, I didn’t want to waste a precious moment. As a result of a family tragedy, I had been forced to leave Laurel Run High School before my graduation for financial reasons. And now, to try to better myself, I used my daily break times to slowly and methodically work my way through a selection of literary classics.

At my current rate of reading, I had a lot of catching up to do.

I checked my watch, then headed up the stairs to the salon. As I made my way, a quotation from today’s reading still lingered in my mind. It was a famous quotation by Henry David Thoreau. I thought the words were the saddest thing I had ever read.

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.

I almost made it back to my workstation unnoticed, then I heard the sarcastic voice of my boss, Donna Williams.

Nice of you to show up, Rhonda.

Sorry, I murmured. I was studying and lost track of time.

Donna, as befitting the manager of the Shears to Share Salon, didn't take kindly to empty workstations, especially when customers were waiting. I checked my watch. Just three hours to go until the time of day arrived that I hated the most—when my safe refuge at work closed and I had to go home.

I swept the area around my chair, dealt with three squirming kids in a row, then the door to the salon opened, and my last customer of the day entered. The old fellow walked haltingly, leaning for support on the aluminum walker that was his constant companion. A portable miniature oxygen tank was strapped tightly to his sunken chest.

Old Bert Medley was a retired coal miner. Like many of his breed, he suffered greatly from the devastating effects of black lung disease, the penalty for his many years of labor in the poorly ventilated coal pits.

I greeted the old man with a cheerful hug before helping him into the chair. He was one of my favorites.

What will it be today, Bert?

Just make me look young again, Rhonda, Bert said, then coughed with a rasping, wet, disturbing sound.

I’m a hair stylist, not a bloody miracle worker, I said with a laugh.

With Bert's thinning hair, I could easily finish up in less than five minutes, but I knew Bert never thought he got his money's worth unless he was in the chair for at least a half-hour or more.

I didn't mind because Bert was a great storyteller. He always had a tale or two about the raging coal fires burning deep below many coal towns. According to Bert, most people were unaware that the fires continued to rage below their feet.

You know, Rhonda, most folks don't realize how bad these underground coal fires can be. Lots of them are still burning all over the States. We had one right here in Laurel Run that started back in 1915 and didn't get put out until 1973.

That’s way before my time, I said.

Then how about this? Bert wheezed. Down the road in Centralia, a huge fire has been burning for forty-seven years right under the town. They say at its peak, when someone died, you could take them to the cemetery for a traditional burial and a cremation all at the same time. Two for the price of one.

I laughed, even though I had heard the tale many times over.

Bert, I said, you guys are extinct as the dodo birds. Coal is dead and clean energy is the wave of the future.

We continued our good-natured argument until Donna came and announced it was closing time for the salon.

Shit, I thought, Now I don’t have a choice. I have to go home to the asshole.

HOME SWEET HOME

Outside the shop, a constant drizzle from dark leaden skies made our bleak coal town of Laurel Run look even more forlorn than usual. I was forced to walk home because our old pick-up was still being held hostage at Ernie’s garage awaiting payment for repairs.

As I walked, I took stock of myself.  Thirty-two years old, always depressed, fat, and my feet hurt. I was born in this hell hole, and I’ll probably die here, too.

If I were truthful, I would have to say I wasn't really heavy, just a little on the pudgy side. Other than a few care lines on my face, people have said I’m quite an attractive woman. I knew I could slim down if I’d resist joining my useless husband, Joe Turner, in his constant diet of pizza, chicken wings, and beer.

I turned into the walkway, almost tripping over the broken cement, trying not to be overly depressed at the sight of home. Our two-story clapboard bungalow was severely in need of a paint job. The front lawn was a joke.

Anything I tried to plant on my own immediately died from the toxic buildup in the soil from the many years of surrounding mining activities. The original red shingle roof showed numerous black tar patches producing a checkerboard effect eerily similar to the decayed teeth on a vagrant.

I didn’t need my key because the door was unlocked. As I entered, the familiar pungent odor of cheap cigars and stale beer washed over me in waves. I also didn’t need to see