Tales From Wexford Falls

By M. Pilotte

Tales from Wexford Falls

"Tales from Wexford Falls" is a collection of nine short stories featuring characters and familiar locales from Pilotte's novel "In the Garden of Aeden". Some stories can stand on their own, whereas others function as a sequel. Father Chris Tosi from "Garden" appears in some of the stories to offer wise counsel to those in distress, and his buddy Sergeant Smith (Smitty) is called upon when an officer of the law is needed.

The status quo is shaken as characters encounter life-altering experiences in this charming, typical New England town. Themes revolve around hopes and dreams, betrayals and disappointments.

Share Aggie O'Toole's journey as she copes with lost love and holds onto a secret that threatens to devastate her boss, Doug Sterling. In the final story, she joins him in making a monumental decision. Root for Ruthie Symond as she engages in a plan to rid herself of a unsavory former boyfriend and restore her imprisoned fiancé's reputation. Get acquainted with inn-keeper Clover Hollis as she finds herself with a grieving guest placed in an uncomfortable situation.

In this collection of short stories, the restorative power and catalytic role of art, poetry and nature provide distraction and comfort as hidden truths become known and characters remove blinders to the truth so as to embark on a new path in life. 

            

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wexford Falls Independent Press
• Release date: Jul 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393187837

M. Pilotte

M. Pilotte has always enjoyed writing, whether it be for academic purposes, newspaper reporting, or simply as a creative outlet. A lifelong learner, she earned a Ph.D. from UCONN. Following her retirement as an educator, she wrote several plays. She and her husband reside in Connecticut. email: [e-mail] web: www.mpilottebooks.com

Book preview

Tales from Wexford Falls

by

M. Pilotte

(A collection of short stories featuring

characters from In the Garden of Aeden)

Introduction

Wexford Falls , Litchfield County, Connecticut.

To get to Wexford Falls go onto Interstate-84, and between Danbury and Waterbury, take the exit that says Wexford Falls. You can’t miss it. Take the right fork off the ramp, and follow the signs until you get to Main Street. Proceed straight ahead about half a mile until you see the sign for The Clover Hollis Inn, aka The Clover Hollis Bed and Breakfast, depending on which sign is currently displayed. Make a turn there and pull up around back and come in. Clover will serve you the best cup of coffee you ever tasted and a muffin from Abigail Murdock’s Bakery, the best for miles around, probably the best in the entire county, if you ask any of the locals. Most folks will opt to stay at Hollis’s rather than the Ramada or the Hilton. It’s the personal touch that does it.

Clover will welcome you warmly and give you a history of Wexford Falls and Litchfield County, since she lays claim to being a descendant of the founding families who’d crossed Massachusetts to settle there in the northwestern hills. She’ll boast about the town’s only waterfall within a radius of twenty miles or so. Of course, that was never verified. She wouldn’t have to boast about the town’s charm. You’d see for yourself—tree lined streets, well maintained family owned businesses, churches constructed of stone, bearing the trademark of fine artisans, and an oddly shaped green from which half a dozen streets radiate. On the outskirts to the west are the farm regions and on the north side, a scattering of luxury homes constructed over the past twenty years.

Clover would encourage visitors to experience the serenity and enchantment of the meditation garden adjacent to St. Aeden Church. The curate, Father Christopher Tosi, designed it, and reporter, Beryl Baines, popularized the garden in a series of articles and photographs depicting its splendor in each of the four seasons. She and her assistant photographer, her special needs son Emil, reside in one of the town’s older, modest bungalows two blocks from the town green.

You will meet Beryl and other residents of Wexford Falls, ordinary townsfolk ensnared in a web of quirky circumstances. You may have met them in the novel, In the Garden of Aeden. If not, then read ahead and make their acquaintance now. It will be my pleasure to introduce them to you.  

I.

Billy Baines is comin’ to town

THE POSTCARD ARRIVED as anticipated, about a year to the date from last year’s and the year’s before, and so on, for twenty long years, or short ones, depending on Beryl Baines’s frame of mind or her financial state. This qualified as a short year. Her readership had grown exponentially since she tried her hand at romance novel writing when she’d sunk to desperation, financially, that is. Everything in her life hinged upon earning enough money to survive, for her and her son Emil.

It was a game they played, a race to the mail truck, and Emil was the winner by default. Beryl had just tripped on a crack in the lumpy asphalt driveway, another repair she’d have to make before the winter weather caused more upheavals. More expense. There were times when she felt that the modest bungalow she’d scrounged enough money to buy was nothing more than a money pit, but the price was right then, and she was hurting physically, emotionally, and yes, financially. From the very beginning it was repair heaped on repair to maintain their humble lodgings.

Beryl sat, her short legs splayed on the driveway, her worn khaki capris bagging out. She rubbed a skinned, dimpled knee and checked for movement in her legs. Her ego was bruised more than her precious knee. In the meantime she watched Emil chasing down fly-away mail: junk mail, letters and bills all over the driveway and the front yard, fueled by a gentle west wind, gentle on the trees and the flowers but unkind enough to Emil, who would latch onto one piece of mail only to have others blow out of his reach.

Both Emil and Beryl spotted it at the same time. It had sailed overhead and landed inches away from Beryl’s sore knee. She guessed what it was so she let Emil be the one to retrieve it, which he did. He plopped the rest of the mail on her lap and seized the postcard. It was just what he’d been waiting for, the one he’d waited for every year in June because it meant something special to him. He caressed the postcard, ran his fingers over the colorful landscape on the one side, flipped it over and began to read the other side. He held it to his heart and then burst out, Billy Baines is comin’ to town. He said it over and over again. As if Beryl Baines didn’t know.

Usually she had a week or so before his visit to prepare physically and emotionally. She couldn’t understand why she had to ready herself physically. She didn’t love him—not anymore. She couldn’t, not after what he’d done to wound her. Preparing herself emotionally was the hardest thing. Some years he looked so hot, she couldn’t bear it. Other years he’d beefed up a bit, and she found his jowls aging, unattractive. But the hot look exceeded the jowly look in frequency. She wondered how he’d look this year. She wondered if he’d ever want to come back and stay, not that she’d ever let him into her house or her life for that matter. Besides, it wasn’t his house at all. And although Emil was indeed his son, his namesake for God’s sake, William Emil Baines, Jr., he was hardly his son at all. And no, he would not be called Billy like his father or even Junior. No, definitely not. The name Emil would do.

At least that’s how Billy wanted it, that day, the day he’d realized his son was not like other babies his age, not that Billy was an expert on early childhood development by any means. Marriage, forced marriage back then, with Beryl pregnant, it was the right thing to do, or was it? Not for him, though. He’d had other ideas all along, she suspected. Emil was just the excuse he needed. And so the day arrived, the day he’d dumped her, dumped the two of them and left Wexford Falls. Left her to pursue his dream of being an artist out west. Left her high and dry with no formal education, no marketable skills, no means of supporting herself and a special needs son. And left her with a fractured heart, only able to be patched and held together by her love for Emil. And for all that, she despised Billy Baines. For months, she had no idea where he was until the postcards came and kept coming, just one a year. That was when he began his annual visits. Emil looked forward to them; Beryl dreaded them.

As Emil pranced with joy, waving the postcard high above his head, Beryl espied another piece of mail that had blown into the flowerbed. She pulled herself up, brushed off loose gravel, and limped over to retrieve it. She frowned as she noticed how quickly the weeds had invaded the flowerbeds. What would Billy Baines say? Darn, she’d been so busy lately, she should have let Emil do the weeding, but the last time she’d assigned him that chore he’d pulled up half the garden. Said he couldn’t always tell the difference between weeds and flowers, understandably, since some weren’t even in bloom yet. But her credo as it dealt with Emil was: if you show him exactly what to do and how to do it, let him give it a go, and he won’t disappoint.

Beryl waited until Emil had calmed down before asking if she could see the card, only to read it, she’d told him. She’d hand it right back to him. Cross her heart. She cut short of saying ‘hope to die’. It always made Emil nervous when she said that, and Emil still took most things literally. She wanted to know when to expect Billy Baines, or them, as it usually was. Maybe this year it would be different. And if it were, would she really care? She didn’t need to hear his husky voice, study his finely honed features, marvel at his biceps, or...check out his latest squeeze.

Beryl didn’t have to wonder what Emil would do next. If he was anything, he was predictable, rigid. That was confirmed when she entered his bedroom minutes later. He was standing there, hands on his hips, gazing at his bulletin board. She could feel his joy. This made card number twenty, and he’d already tacked it up, on display with the others. Twenty years gone, twenty cards received, four neat rows of five, rounding out the number and completing the row, which was important to Emil. Each postcard was more spectacular than the previous one. This most recent one, a New Mexican sunset spilling out colors so spectacular you couldn’t imagine.

Emil prided himself in knowing all the different colors and hues, as he’d refer to them. All 64 from his Crayola box, which he was examining now to identity the colors in the sunset. Beryl let him be. They’d talk later. He was more grown up these days after so many years in special classes designed to teach him life skills. He was less testy, so it seemed to her. She wondered how he and his father would get along this time, how they’d spend the few days that Billy stayed in Wexford Falls, always at Clover Hollis’s Inn. Billy hanging around, just to do the right thing to feel fatherly, if he ever could for much longer than that.

Beryl hated herself for feeling anything at all for Billy Baines. She hated him once he’d gone, living with whatever girl he showed up with. Then, as he’s about to come to town in June, her feelings change. What if he’s changed? What if he comes back with no girl this time and wants to...? So many love/hate emotions over the years, over and over each year, the result being a feeling of ‘forced neutrality,’ which could sway in either direction. It’s the safest way to go, she convinced herself. Want nothing, feel nothing, and you won’t be disappointed.

Beryl had become her own woman. It took time. She’d worked 40 plus hours a week, and had taken courses to earn a degree in English and journalism. No credit to Billy Baines. No, it was her friends here in Wexford Falls who’d pitched in together babysitting and helping out with expenses. Between her job as a journalist and her newfound success as a romance novelist, she’d gotten her head above water. Again—no credit to Emil’s absent father. That Emil could be so thrilled to see his father always amazed her, but she’d kept mum. Better let him enjoy the visits.

But why then did she go on a diet every spring, change her hairstyle, and buy some trendier clothes? Subconsciously, to lure Billy Baines? Now she had hardly enough time to prepare for his arrival. She’d forgotten how long it takes a postcard to get to New England from the Southwest. She was reminded a few days later when the dusty yellow van pulled into her driveway up close to the front stoop. She fought hard to ignore its presence. Let Emil discover his father’s arrival. She busied herself drying breakfast dishes, forcing her to think about anything other than the two heads she spotted through the van’s bug splattered windshield.

Billy Baines, Emil shouted over and over as he banged the screen door behind him. It didn’t close shut and continued to bang, echoing Beryl’s throbbing temples. Why did she have to have a headache? The two visitors exited the front seat and stretched. Billy first, looking luscious, tanned, his hair pulled back taut into a ponytail, his face glistening. Next to him stood a lanky blond half his age in a fuchsia tank top and unthinkably tiny shorts, ragged on the edges. If she didn’t have horsey teeth she might be pretty, Beryl said to herself. The girl’s hair was long, straight, sun bleached. And her smiles were only for Billy. She stood so close to him for fear of being separated, they looked glued together.  Emil and Billy looked at each other for a moment. Billy reached out to shake his hand, but Emil flung himself at him, hugging him, laughing, thanking him for the postcards, telling him that he now has twenty of them, a nice round number almost like his age.

Hey, son. Good to see ya. This here is Candace. Say ‘hi’ to her. Where’s your mom at? he said, his arm firmly planted around his ‘girl’s waist.

Emil put out his hand to shake the girl’s hand. Either she didn’t notice it or ignored it. She stared at Emil. He heard her say, Hey. Nothing more. She fiddled with her tank top, pulling it up, making it more presentable, or was it just to be comfortable?

Mom’s in the kitchen, Emil announced, studying the girl.

She coming out, or what? Billy asked. He took a moment to reassure Candace with a smile. It’s OK. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes, the look said.

I’ll go get her, Emil said running up the steps.  He swung open the screen door, which behaved as usual, rattling a few extra times before connecting with the latch.

In the meantime, Beryl had ample time to assess the slimness of the girl, the whole situation before her. She took a moment to check out her own face and hair in the dingy oval mirror by the sink window before approaching this year’s competition. It took several deep breaths before she could bring herself to confront the inevitable. Confident, she told herself, look and act confident. You’ve done this how many times? And it’s always the same.

Billy, she managed to say, avoiding eye contact with the skinny one. Good trip?

Same ol’, same ol’, he uttered. He assumed a casual stance—legs apart, head nodding. Oh, he’d done this so many times before. You doing OK? Looks like it. Nervous giggle. Oh, sorry, this here is Candace. She’s an artist and a damned good one.

We don’t say that ‘d’ word here, Emil, as though galvanized, interrupted. A vein throbbed on his pale forehead. That always happened when he was agitated. That’s not very nice to say about your friend. Candace met his glance and tittered.

Uh, right, Emil, uh, son. I shouldn’t have... he paused. Did he really blush? I was just sayin’ she’s a real good artist, another Georgia O’Keefe, if you know who I mean, and so young, too. Just think, she’ll only get better and better. And just think, I was the one who discovered her. How ‘bout that? And I consider myself a very good judge of artists. You know I been at it all these years. He couldn’t miss Beryl’s smirk. He dared not read her mind. Emil continued to stare at Candace as he might survey a display window mannequin. He wondered if he’d met her before. She looked so much like the others. After all, Billy Baines always brought a pretty girl with him, sometimes the same one, sometimes not. If anyone could sail through life without a care, it was Billy Baines, and he always attracted young female artists to his gallery in Taos, New Mexico. He nurtured them—a veritable Svengali, Beryl reminded herself. She wondered who was holding down the fort for him while he paid his annual duty visit to see his son.

Well? Beryl asked, trying to imagine where things will go from here. She hoped she didn’t look like she felt. Her emotions were whipping around inside her like a whirligig. She took a deep breath to steady herself and then exhaled, waiting for an answer.

Billy studied his ex-wife a long moment, contributing to her growing discomfort. Then, I, uh, you’re looking pretty good, Beryl, he nodded. The years been kind to you. So her efforts were not in vain. She’d dropped the extra twenty pounds she was carrying and let her hair grow to her shoulders, got it highlighted, tried to smile more, but right now, she was struggling, struggling not to feel, well, foolish.

But that was all it took. She didn’t need to hear that, in front of that skinny one. If Emil didn’t get such a thrill seeing his father, she’d tell him where to get off.

She forced herself to ignore that backhanded compliment. No, she didn’t look ‘pretty good’, not anywhere on par with that one attached to him. But Beryl had to admit her own teeth were less obvious than her current rival’s. I imagine you’ll be staying at Clover Hollis’s Inn. Her voice lost the sharp edge. She could envision those two going at it. That’s the way her mind worked when she was writing her romance novels. Just too bad she had to be exposed to so much of what she writes, but that’s what sells her books.

He winked at her. Unless you can put us up here. He paused, watched her do a slow sizzle. Of course, where else would we stay? Clover’s place is decent, and it won’t break the bank. Hope she’s got a room, this being June and all. Well now, Emil, if it’s OK with your mom, we’ll take off. Gotta freshen up, take a shower and stuff, you know. It was a long, hot ride ‘cross country, but seeing you is worth it. He patted Emil’s head as though he was a five-year-old. I’ll come get you for supper, OK? Emil beamed. Beryl was already heading back into the kitchen.

What else could she say? It would be the usual. He’d stop by and get Emil and they’d barbecue chicken legs out on one of Clover’s patio grills. He’d grab a few containers of salads and some cookies and soda from the local IGA market, and that was it. They’d hang out in Clover’s great room watching TV with some of the other guests. And when Billy started to yawn, it was a cue; it meant two things—time to drop off Emil and get back in the sack with Candace or whoever it happened to be at the time.

Of course, Emil never figured that out, never crossed his mind. He’d come back home and replay the entire visit. Beryl did not need to hear all about Candace’s works of art. She’d brought a few with her, probably at Billy’s insistence. Bond a little with Emil that way. Beryl could care less. His girls all fade into the woodwork over time, so to speak. They inevitably age like her and are soon cast aside, only to be replaced by greener wood, new blood. Always new artists to mentor, or in Billy’s case, well, you know what.

Beryl breathed a sigh of relief when Emil asked to be excused to go to his room and do some artwork. She always smiled lovingly when he said that. She knew he had a stash of trendy coloring books, so popular with adults now. He kept them in what used to be Beryl’s hope chest. Therapeutic, she’d heard, coloring, it has a calming effect. At least he was enjoying himself.

She was grateful to Thelma Hopkins, the housekeeper/cook over at St. Aeden Catholic Church. Thelma always had an abundant supply of coloring books at the rectory for God knows what, and in addition to giving him a few of her home baked chocolate chip cookies, she would also part with a coloring book or two. And then there was the money she’d paid him, a few dollars here and there, for helping Father Chris with duties in his meditation garden. Father Chris had allotted Emil a little patch of land behind the crab apple tree to plant whatever he wanted, and he cherished his plants. The good priest always kept an eye on the weeding in the main garden; he’d learned his lesson fast.

So Beryl figured Emil would pull out his action heroes coloring book, some crayons or special markers, and focus on the task of using as many different colored Crayolas as he could until he grew weary or until Billy arrived to get him for supper. Maybe he’d come alone and leave Candace with the chore of setting up for supper—maybe not.

Two days later Beryl was shocked to see the two of them, Billy Baines and Candace, noses pressed against her kitchen door at nine a.m. This was too much for her. She herself was hardly ready to face the day. She was nursing her second cup of coffee as she cleaned up from breakfast, Emil’s favorite meal of the day. It was a messy breakfast, his favorite, stuffed French toast, and there was powdered sugar all over her, the counter and the floor. She had a deadline at the paper, and the article wasn’t ready for the press, needed proofreading, in peace and quiet. She didn’t need those two nosing around making ridiculous small talk. They must have come to get Emil for the day. Yes, that had to be it.

Can we come in, Beryl? Billy asked, aware he was persona non grata, and that Candace was probably even more than that, if such a term exists. Beryl’s normally tidy kitchen was in disarray, and Emil had dripped maple syrup on the front of his knit shirt.

Sure, you can. Hey, Billy Baines. Hey Candace, Emil was ebullient at this hour of the day. He’d told Father Chris he wouldn’t be able to work with him in the garden. He’d be with his dad and a girl artist, a ‘d’ good one. He figured Father Chris would know he was being proper, avoiding the swear word. Beryl hoped he hadn’t said much more than that, but Father Chris could read between the lines. Beryl was so fond of the young priest and his pastor Father Bernie Monahan. They were always patient and kind where Emil was concerned; found odd jobs for him to do, especially as Father Bernie was recovering from a stroke and was still unable to do everything he used to do.

Beryl studied her son. Emil, why don’t you throw that in the hamper? She gestured at the sticky shirt front. He studied the stain, stroked it, and frowned. No, here, give it to me. I’ll rinse it out. Get yourself another one, whichever one you want. To the other two, she said coolly. You’re early today. Sit down please. He’ll only be a minute. I assume you’ll be taking him out now. Just let me know where you’re going and when to expect him home. Suddenly Beryl became aware of her dated, undersized kitchen. It was so fifties. Some day she’d update it—when she could afford to.

Got no real plans today, Candace said meekly. She broke into her equine smile directed at Billy. Whatever Emil wants is cool. She watched Billy nod in approval.

Well, that’s good. Keep it cool. It’s going to be a hot one today. He loves going swimming if you’re up to it. Beryl was forcing herself to be civil. She just wanted to be anywhere else but in her kitchen, usually her favorite spot. She’d always do her writing at the kitchen table, best place in the world, dated or not.

I dunno, Beryl, he said in a drawl she was unaccustomed to. She found it disarming this time. Maybe if he’d come alone, but not with her. Emil invited us to come see his artwork in his bedroom, and so here we are.

Beryl shrugged. Coffee? she offered half-heartedly. There was still half a pot left.

Nah, we don’t do breakfast as a rule, he confessed. Beryl could only imagine what they did do at this hour as a rule. How about you, Candy girl?

Beryl thought she’d gag when she heard ‘Candy girl’. Candace interjected, Sure, ma’am, if you got some more left. Milk and three sugars, please.

Beryl knew ‘ma’am’ was a common and polite

Reviews for Tales From Wexford Falls

[nijole g currie · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really liked the well developed plot twists, the well described characters and the Ct setting. Wexford Falls seemed very real to me. The author has an amazing vocabulary and the knowledge of what one wants to read. I like short stories that connect in some ways to one another, and that is certainly achieved in this novel. Her characters are memorable because they are very real. I recommend this book to anyone who likes to read a great tale.