The Old Man and the Watch: Searching for the Long Road Home

By Jo Jewell

A wrong number leads to life-changing events for a woman haunted by her past in this enchanting novel of fate, friendship, and new beginnings.
 
Small events can change lives forever. That’s what Kerri Perry learns when she decides to return a call from an unfamiliar phone number. Hoping it’s news that she won a sweepstakes, she is instead greeted by the voice of a solitary old man named Morgan Thomas Fairchild. Though their initial conversation is tense, Kerri and Morgan soon develop an unlikely friendship. And when Kerri meets Morgan at his lavish estate, she realizes how completely her life has truly changed.
 
For a chosen few, a certain special pocket watch holds mysterious power over new beginnings. The watch once belonged to Morgan’s brother before being passed down to him. And now Morgan passes it on to Kerri.
 
Years ago, Kerri survived a terrible car accident that took the life of her childhood sweetheart. Since then, she has carried a heavy burden of guilt and shame that has kept her from living her life. But as the pocket watch works its magic, secrets are revealed that open a new path for the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781639843091

Book preview

The Old Man

and

The Watch

Searching for the Long Road Home

JO JEWELL

Pen It! Publications, LLC

The Old Man and The Watch

Searching for the Long Road Home

JO JEWELL

Pen It! Publications, LLC

ISBN #:  978-1-949609-11-0

Copyright © 2015

Printed in the United States of America

by Pen It! Publications, LLC

Second Edition

2018

Cover Design by: Tom Rodriguez

The Old Man and the Watch: Searching for the Long Road Home by Jo Jewell

Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, without the express and prior permission in writing of Pen It! Publications.  This book may not be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is currently published. 

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   This is a work of fiction. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect that of the publisher.

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Published by Pen It! Publications, LLC

812-371-4128   www.penitpublications.com

Published in the United States of America by Pen It! Publications, LLC

ISBN: 978-1-949609-11-0

Dedication

To Linda Manfre and Kathie McGuire,

the women in my life who inspire courage.

Acknowledgements

No story is ever told without the influence, input, and inspiration of many. I would like to thank John Walker who was my muse. I started writing this story based on a call I received from him, which was a wrong number. He made me think, What if? I will always value the friendship we had.

As I developed the story, Linda Manfre, a dear and close friend, encouraged me to throw it out there and see what happened. She always believed in me. She taught me to draw on my own courage.

Kathie McGuire, I owe you so much! You are like my fairy godmother, who made a lifelong dream come true. During the process, you inspired courage, which brought strength and determination to the women in this story.

During the story, I sought out people who could answer my sometimes-dumb questions, sometimes reflection, and sometimes opinions. Thank you, Police Chief Tony Crisp and the Maryville Police Department. Your patience and willingness to answer all those queries is much appreciated.

Thank you, Pen It! Publications, LLC for being awesome to work with, and your insightful guidance. I never felt like I was going it alone.

Most of all, thank you, dear reader, who saw this book and read it with great expectation. I hope I did not disappoint. I hope you fell in love with the characters as much as I did.

                      Part I-Home

Chapter One

                   Nerves

It was careless of me, I suppose. That was the trouble with me and why I always seemed to find myself in some situation—I never stopped to think; I just acted on impulse. As I held the phone to my ear and listened to that smooth, raspy voice—that voice that belied many years of heartache, joy, laughter, and anger—my mind floated back to a time that stood still. I think I was waiting for something, anything, to happen that would kick-start my life again. Sometimes I just needed to hear him. He was my rock in a sea of insanity. I slowly hung up the phone, hating to break the fragile connection between me and my future. I drifted away with the memory of his voice.

This is the story of how one phone call changed the tilt of the earth we know as every day. Though I tell the story, dear reader, you will come to realize one does not merely relate an entire lifetime. There are lives within lives, scattered like shattered glass, flowing as a tide, taking different paths, seeing with different eyes, and yet…yet, we are all held together by a golden thread, which begins the tapestry. The tapestry tells the story, not one individual.

Morgan Thomas Fairchild was his name. It was an early summer afternoon in July of 2005 and hotter than Hades. Flowers wilted with the morning sun, vegetables boiled on their vines, and leaves on the trees drooped with the sheer weight of the heat. There was no running around outside barefoot for fear of burning the soles of my feet. I had closed up the apartment and turned the air conditioner on, but it was already sweltering. The unit coughed and hacked and rattled and gasped; death was imminent. That’s what I would do. I would wait too long.

The phone rang as I was dragging a floor fan across the kitchen floor, and I momentarily thought of not answering it. With a determined nod of my head, I made a solid decision not to. I hated ringing phones. The sound pierced my brain and stabbed at me until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I would not answer it. I would pretend my head didn’t pound, my chest didn’t hurt, and my hands didn’t feel like they had palsy. Trying my best to ignore it, I placed the fan in first one doorway then another, trying to decide which room was the best for borrowing cool air. Hell, they were all hot! Hot and humid. It was like trying to breathe hot bath water.

The phone silenced, the pain subsided, and the guilt kicked in. What if it was Mom? What if it was Ed McMahon with a million-dollar sweepstakes? As usual, I would have taken too long and missed my chance. I checked the caller ID. The number wasn’t familiar. Who was MT Fairchild? What an odd ID. I couldn’t deny the guilt any longer, and I called the number back. It rang several times as the sweat pasted my hair to my forehead. Telemarketer? Then a slow, gentle voice said, Hello?

My mind raced as I tried to place the voice with a name, but I was coming up blank. I didn’t know this voice. I was ready to slam the phone down. It wasn’t Mom or Ed McMahon.

Is this Home Care? the man asked.

Um, no. I’m sorry. Why was I apologizing? I continued. Your number was on my caller ID.

Yeah? he answered with suspicion in his voice. Do I know you?

I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t recognize your name, I replied.

Then why would you be callin’ me? he asked.

I began to feel ridiculous. What was I thinking? Why couldn’t I just hang up? There was something in that slow easy voice. Something oddly familiar.

Well, you called my number, I said defensively. Then my mind latched on to something he had said. Were you trying to call a nurse? ’Cause if you were, I’m not a nurse. You have the wrong number. You might want to double check the number and try again.

A racking, wet cough erupted through the phone line. Hey, you okay? I asked loudly. The cough became even more strained as I heard him gasp for breath. You want me to call 911 for you? I heard him wheezing and gasping as he tried to clear his air passages.

Shit, I’d be dead by the time you decided to call for help, he growled. Now. Who the hell are you?

Panicked, I slammed the phone down. I went into the kitchen, fixed a glass of iced sweet tea, and sat in front of the fan. I rolled the icy glass across my face and down my neck, which left a wet trail making me feel cooler. What a jerk! I thought. He called my phone. Trying to be nice, I’d called him back to let him know he got the wrong number and then he yelled at me? Old people. They think the frigging world revolves around them. I thought of calling him back and giving him a piece of my mind just for being rude. Wait a minute. I considered that he might have been in trouble. He was trying to call a nurse. I thought of calling him back, introducing myself, and explaining that I want to make sure he is okay. I’d make it all proper and more civilized. I pictured him slamming down the phone, thinking he had gotten hold of a pest.

The phone rang again. Startled, I jumped right off the chair with my heart pounding and scooped the phone up.

Hello? I demanded.

Kerri? It was my best friend of many, many years.

Oh, hey, Deb, I said with a sigh.

You okay? she asked, sounding somewhat confused.

Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. What’s up? I replied in an attempt to steer her away from the subject of my mood. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to talk about the call with the old man.

Well… she began slowly, I saw where Burlington Coat Factory is having a huge sale, and I thought maybe we could grab lunch and check it out. You wanna?

A sale? I love the clothes at Burlington Coat Factory. I live in a two-bedroom apartment with 700 square feet. When I first moved in, I should have known I was in trouble. First off, the kitchen was tiny, barely more than a second thought. The kitchen table had to sit in one corner of the living room, which meant I only had room for a love seat and one chair. There was a place to plug in the TV and French doors leading out to the postage stamp balcony. It was a cramped space, but the closet—the closet was huge! Greedily, I could see nothing but that big beautiful closet. I’ll take it! I’d said to the landlord practically drooling as I thought of filling the closet with jeans, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. And I loved scarves. I would finger their texture and study the blend of colors. I imagined the possibilities of scarves. Simple square pieces of material that sprang to life when knotted, slung, pinned, and tied. I never wore scarves, but now I could because I could hang them in my big beautiful closet. And I would too. I’d hang them up, so I could see them any time I wanted.

Sadly, this many years later, there was only one scarf in my closet. A heavily knitted one in black and gray yarn that I wore in the winter. The magnificent closet held an odd array of old kitchen counter appliances; boxes of knickknacks; a jumbled tangle of jeans too small, too big, too threadbare; T-shirts sitting in stacks on the floor; an old yard sale area rug, Kubi, my big orange cat, once peed on; empty hangers hanging helter-skelter on the rod; and one plastic poinsettia. Big closets make up for little storage space.

Nah, I don’t think I’m up for it today, I heard myself say.

What? Deb screeched. You sure you’re okay? Did you not hear me say Burlington?

Yeah, I just… I just what? I just…well, it’s still a few days till payday, and I kind of went over my budget on those cross trainers last weekend. It sounded lame, even to me.

Deb tried to get me to talk, but I just didn’t feel like it. She eventually got frustrated, said goodbye, and hung up. I felt momentary shame for the relief.

I kept thinking about that phone call. I found myself thinking about it while I fixed a salad, and I was still thinking about it when I turned off the AC and opened the windows to listen to the tree frogs and crickets in the velvet night. I fell asleep thinking about it. As I drifted off to sleep, I figured it had finally happened. Fumes from all those new running shoes over the years had eaten away my sanity. I wondered, for the hundredth time, why I had an obsession with running shoes when I never went running. I also wondered if I should paint my room that rosy pink I saw in the Style magazine. Then I wondered what color Kubi’s parents were. He was a huge, orange tabby with slightly gray tint. When we first became roomies, I kept trying to wash the smudges of dirt off of him before realizing it was the barest of a gray tint in his fur. It took a long time for him to forgive me for that. Whatever I wondered, it always came back to that phone call. What barb had pierced my heart that I couldn’t let it go?



I woke in the morning still fretting over that stupid phone call. It really bothered me that someone out there was thinking I was a nutcase. I’d always tried to do the right thing, although sometimes it was ass backward, but usually things worked out all right in the end. There was just something—I couldn’t put my finger on it. As I lay in my bed with the barest of morning breezes teasing my lace curtains, I looked around my bedroom. The walls were a green seafoam color trimmed in white. I thought it very avant-garde to accent in bright screaming red and deep royal purple. My furniture was secondhand, which I painted in what I insisted was distressed white, but yeah, I guess mostly it was just a bad paint job. However, I had to live here, and I liked it. That’s all that mattered. I was kind of going for that beach-girl-meets-sophisticated-city look, but I have a feeling that was just my imagination.

I cuddled deeper into my pillows and turned my head to look out the window. Pearl and lavender colored the sky. There were no clouds in sight, and the birds sang cheerfully until the heat cooked it right out of them. I was in my favorite spot for my favorite time of day. It was still hot, but the morning breeze carried a coolness that belied the heat of the day. I lived on the third floor, which was a total nuisance when going up and down stairs, but, at the same time, when I looked out my window I saw blue sky and on occasion, wispy, cotton-colored clouds. It was at those times I was glad for my tiny third-floor apartment. The people on the first floor had a floor over their ceiling. When they looked out their windows, they saw privacy fences and snotty-nosed kids playing in the dirt. The second floor occupants also had a floor over their ceiling and when they looked out, they could almost see over the privacy fences. That seemed so unfair. It was like taunting them with a world they’d never see beyond the fences. I, however, I had the endless sky above my roof. I was closer to the clouds, the sunshine, and heaven. My room was my haven, my refuge, my hidey-hole from the world. What did Mr. Fairchild’s bedroom look like? Was he close to the clouds? Probably not. It was probably all burgundies and antique furniture that was old as dirt with heavy drapes to block out any sunlight and only the sound of a grandfather clock ticking away seconds that were soon gone forever. Tick tock. Kubi walked across my pillow and stomped his way across my chest.

I threw the covers back and padded softly to the bathroom. I was in the shower before the water warmed. After hitching my breath, I let the cold water run over me. I tried to pretend I was in a waterfall. Soon I gave the hot water knob a twist and breathed a sigh of relief when the cold water became lukewarm, then hot. Did Mr. Fairchild take showers? On the other hand, did he have one of those bathtubs you could step into and turn it into a Jacuzzi? I giggled to myself. I was sure painting a drab picture of him. It served him right for yelling at me and being rude.

I finished rinsing the shampoo out of my hair and stepped out. Kubi sat glaring at me apparently bent out of shape because I’d dared take a shower before feeding him breakfast. I lived alone with Kubi, and that was just fine with me. He was my soul mate, and we didn’t tread on each other’s freedoms. It was an agreeable arrangement.

Put on your jock strap and deal with it, I said. His tail went straight up as he stalked out of the bathroom.

I swiped at the fogged mirror and looked at myself. I was still young, I supposed. I felt much older on the inside than I looked on the outside. I still had tone to my body. I was still slender, kind of. Maybe I was getting a bit of a pouch. I turned to the side to peek at my mid-section profile. I wondered if I still had my gym membership. Probably not since I couldn’t remember my last trip there. My mousy brown hair was cut short in a pixie style. I always believed my eyes were uneven. They were almond shaped, deep brown, and uneven. I didn’t wear makeup, and I didn’t curl my hair. Once I tried to compensate by plucking my eyebrows. I quickly determined that wasn’t a good idea as it took forever for them to grow back. My breasts were small but firm. Funny, I had never wanted those big boobs I saw on celebrities. I put my hands under them and pushed up. I would look ridiculous with big boobs. They fell back into place with hardly a jiggle. I sighed. Oh well.

What did Mr. Fairchild see when he looked into the mirror? I felt myself blush. Why did I have this insatiable curiosity about a person I did not know? I had so many questions, and I felt an obsession coming on. It was the voice. I had an unexplainable need for his voice. I would have to call him because that’s the only way I would ever know. I glanced at my bathroom clock and it said 9:45 a.m. It was too early. Wasn’t it? He probably slept late. No doubt he didn’t spend his mornings looking at himself and analyzing his surroundings. He was probably eating dry toast and coffee, chewing slowly with his mind blank. He sounded old. What could be left for him to think about? Was he just trying to get through another day? Was he just one slow step closer to death? I felt my eyes tear. He wasn’t so different from me, was he?

It was 9:50 a.m. The hell with it. I picked up the phone and dialed his number before I could change my mind. The phone rang and rang.

Hello? said the voice.

Mr. Fairchild, good morning. My name is—

I’m on the Do Not Call list. Please don’t call back! he said firmly.

No! I quickly said. I’m not a telemarketer. I talked to you yesterday when you called my number by mistake! I quickly explained.

Young lady, what is it exactly that you want from me? he demanded.

That caught me off guard. In my mind I wanted the control, but he was asking me questions. Questions I didn’t have answers to. How could I tell him there was something nibbling at my brain? Just a blurry halo around something familiar, and yet so out of focus it was hard to know if it was real or not. Kubi was playing with a plastic ring off the milk jug, chasing it around the kitchen. I absently chewed my lower lip, unable to answer. What did I want from him?

You on drugs? he asked harshly waking me from my revelry.

What? I answered, surprised. What…no…No! Honestly, Mr. Fairchild, I’ve been thinking about our talk yesterday! I stammered.

And? he asked flatly.

I raced around in my mind trying to find some good reason for this insanity. Just keep him on the line. Hurry! Think of something, anything!

Well, are you okay? I asked. You had a terrible coughing spell while we were talking, and I was worried. I guess I’m checking up on you.

Mr. Fairchild said softly, Really?

Yeah.

And why would you care? he asked. I thought I could hear sadness.

I don’t know, I said honestly. It’s just that, well, since we talked yesterday I just can’t get you out of my mind.

Who are you? he asked suspiciously.

My name is Kerri Perry, I replied.

There was silence on the line. Had he hung up? Was he about to hang up? No, there was no dial tone. Kubi had pushed the milk jug ring under the refrigerator and was trying to will it back to the middle of the floor.

You pullin’ my leg?

No, sir. My name is Kerri with a K, Perry.

He chuckled. Reminds me of hari-kiri.

I smiled in spite of myself. He was making a funny. Cute.

I’m Morgan Thomas Fairchild. You gonna be callin’ me all the time? he asked.

I felt myself blush. Suddenly I felt like an intruder. I was intruding on this man’s life. A life I knew nothing about, but desperately wanted to know all about. Who could possibly explain why we’re drawn to some people and repulsed by others?

Well, your name came up as MT Fairchild. I thought a mountain was calling me! I countered.

He laughed a deep-throated rumble and went into another coughing fit. I waited patiently for it to subside. After a while he cleared his throat and chuckled again.

Listen, Kerri, is it? You seem like a nice enough young lady. Why you want to waste your time on an old man? You ought to be makin’ Saturday plans with your friends, not talking to a half-dead soul, he said gently.

I’m doing exactly what I want to do at exactly this time, I answered. May I ask you a question?

Maybe.

What color is your bedroom? I asked while holding my breath.

"My bedroom? he asked. You a pervert?"

I laughed in spite of myself and explained to him my analysis of my bedroom that morning.

There was silence on the other end.

He must have thought for all intents and purposes, I was harmless, because finally he said with a laugh, You are one strange kid. Well, my walls ain’t painted, they’re papered. My wife picked out the paper many years ago. Damned little pink roses on tiny red ribbons. I hated it when she picked it out. Too girlie. Men don’t like to sleep in rooms with roses and ribbons. Of course, it’s been so long the roses have faded somewhat, but I just can’t bear the thought of gettin’ rid of it. The background ain’t white anymore, more like the color of a coffee stain; but I look at those roses, and I see my Aggie in them. She was my everything.

Now it was my turn to be silent.

My Aggie went home to be with her Lord some ten years ago.

I am so sorry, I whispered. My hand was hurting, and I realized I was gripping the phone so hard my knuckles were white.

I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. Fairchild. If you ever need a friend, I’d like it if you would call me, I said gently.

I’m comin’ up on my eighty-ninth birthday. Friends are a waste of time.

I swallowed hard. Okay.

I very gently hung up the phone.

Chapter Two

         Me ’n Aggie

Deb was pouting as she sat across the table from me at Pickles ’N’ Pete’s Diner.

"Come on, Deb, you know I’m not ready to date," I pleaded.

Well, why not? she demanded. Kerri, it’s been—

Do not say it, Debra Nicole Hatfield! I warned. I felt the tears well up, and I promised myself they would not fall. I peered down at the burger and fries in front of me, which suddenly congealed into a greasy mess. My stomach cramped into a knot. I felt my chin start to quiver and that just made me angry. Leave me alone! my mind screamed.

Deb had that soft look in her eyes she got every time she knew she had stepped over the line, and I could tell she was choosing the next words she would say very carefully.

I’m sorry, Kerri. I know. She placed her hand over mine, and I prayed she couldn’t feel me trembling from my head to my toes. But, honey, she pleaded, you have to get back into the world of the living sooner or later.

Not now, I said. My life fits me! I have Kubi and we do just fine! I don’t even want someone else cluttering things up! I could feel my voice begin to take on hysterical tones.

Deb sighed heavily. Then when?

I don’t know, but not now! I’m just not ready. I hoped that would put a stop to the conversation. Lunch was already ruined, it was pouring rain outside, and to top the whole day off with a cherry, Kubi went out the night before and didn’t come home. I hadn’t talked to Mr. Fairchild for two weeks since I’d left the ball in his court. My carefully constructed world was unraveling at the seams. I felt panic grip my chest and squeeze out my breath.

I have to go, I said abruptly. There wasn’t enough air in the diner, the noise was deafening, and I was feeling that out-of-control panic setting in.

Kerri, I said I was sorry, Deb quietly murmured glancing around at the other diners to make sure no one saw her friend on the verge of flipping out.

No, hey, it’s okay, I said quickly. "I’m just