On The Rock

By Phyllis L Humby

It’s been five years since Sylvia Kramer abandoned the turmoil of her former life in Toronto and found refuge in Newfoundland. During her attempt to make a fresh start, Sylvia experienced a brutal home assault, suffered the loss of her newfound soul mate, and developed a disquieting suspicion about a friend’s newborn baby. Now, having finally settled into a peaceful and accepting existence on Old Broad Road, her calm is shattered when she’s informed of an ominous scheme instigated by her desperate ex-husband. Sylvia’s life is further disrupted when her neighbour Jamie invites a disgraced lawyer from Boston to stay with him On The Rock.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crossfield Publishing
• Release date: Oct 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990326202

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2269 Road 120, R7, St. Marys, Ontario, N4X 1C9, Canada

Copyright © Phyllis L Humby 2020.

ISBN 978-1-990326-11-0

ISBN 978-1-990326-20-2

All rights reserved.

Published in Canada.

Editor: David Pretty, Isabel Armiento

Proofreader: Isabel Armiento

Cover concept: Brodie Williams

Cover and interior: Magdalene Carson RGD New Leaf Publication Design

Crossfield is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, scenes and situations are all drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any persons, living

or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: On the rock / Phyllis L Humby.

Names: Humby, Phyllis L., author.

Description: Sequel to: Old broad road.

Identifiers: Canadiana 2022018139X | ISBN 9781990326110 (softcover)

Classification: LCC PS8615.U4445 O62 2022 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

It gives me pleasure to dedicate this book to

Barb Karowich, my long-time friend.

We were ten years old when we met –– she’s my only friend who actually knew my parents. We had sleepovers and babysat together. We watched Elvis movies . . . some as many as thirteen times! We screamed over the Beatles, went to Paul Revere & the Raiders concerts, and even attended a Rolling Stones concert. The two of us hung around the corner store waiting for the owner to unpack the latest edition of Teen Beat magazine. I was the talker in class and invariably the teacher included Barb in my reprimands. She was the brainy one and often shared her finished homework with me. I was the daydreamer and shared my imagined stories with her. She came to my wedding . . . the first time around. As adults, it wasn’t easy to stay in touch. Years might go by before I’d call her parents to track her down in Toronto or Vancouver. Or she’d call one of my relatives, usually my sister, to get my current address or phone number. Now and then there’d be a surprise birthday call, which made the day even more special as memories flooded back. Even now, we don’t get together as often as we’d like, but after sixty years the love is still there. Barb was supportive when we were kids and still offers me encouragement. She made a difference in my life. Forever friends . . . 

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

One

The pounding on the front door frightened Sara and she raised her arms in the air to me. With the toddler on my hip, I made my way to the sunroom. The drizzling rain had turned to sleet and, at the sight of the RCMP officer, I feared the worst. A lump formed in my throat at the thought of Christine having an accident. My mouth opened and closed, but before I could form words, he spoke.

Miz Kramer, Constable Eli Butt. I’m here concerning your husband, Paul Kramer.

I’d been so frightened about Christine that the air whooshed out of me in relief. Though the name was right, it had to be a case of mistaken identity. Dan and Darlene would have called if something had happened to their father. Sara squirmed down out of my arms.

I had a husband named Paul Kramer, but we divorced nearly five years ago. He lives in Ontario.

Sara hugged my leg and peeked around at the uniformed man in the doorway. Nanny, who that man is?

The young officer bent to one knee. The crease between his eyes disappeared, and he smiled, revealing the overlap of his front teeth. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the likes of those big blue eyes before. What’s your name?

Sara Pamma, she said, pronouncing Palmer as best she could for a two-year-old. Her arm tightened around my leg when his hand grazed the five platinum pigtails sprouting from her perfect little head. Despite the uniform and cruiser, I pulled Sara closer and asked for his identification.

My neighbour Jamie was in Boston visiting cronies from his old homicide division. My only other neighbours, Lucy and Gar Whipple, lived at the end of the road — not close enough to hear screams for help. Unfortunately, I knew that with certainty.

Despite the tragedy that occurred shortly after I moved to Old Broad Road, I chided myself for being overly guarded. Reassured by his badge, I stepped aside. The constable followed us towards the tantalizing aroma of simmering moose meat and cookies baking in the oven.

We’re aware of your divorce, Miz Kramer.

The officer placed his briefcase on the coffee table and then looked towards the sofa. When I nodded in reply, he indicated that I take a seat as well.

Your ex-husband has been arrested, ma’am.

My prestigious husband, who’d enjoyed weekly golf games with the mayor of Toronto, was hardly the felonious type.

For what? Jaywalking? I responded.

Miz Kramer, this is a grave matter. He’s been arrested for conspiring to commit murder.

That’s impossible. There are obviously two Paul Kramers. I absently handed a storybook to Sara as she pulled on my arm. I know for a fact that there are two Sylvia Kramers because . . . 

His voice overrode mine as he handed me a photograph. Is this your husband?

The glossy photo showed the image of a gaunt old man. But there was something about his stance, the left foot forward while leaning to the right, that made me fumble in my apron pocket for reading glasses.

He was arrested when he tried to hire an undercover officer from the Toronto Police Service to kill someone.

Though he’d aged considerably since I’d last seen him, the man in the picture was Paul. At least it appeared to be. A second look at the posture and the right hand thrust in his pocket confirmed it, and I removed my glasses and flopped back in the chair.

This is absurd. He’s not capable. I know him . . .  My voice trailed off at the memory of our separation after forty-three years of marriage. No, actually I don’t know him. My eyes squinted shut against the pain that had never gone away.

Regretting my flippant attitude, I focused on the seriousness of Constable Butt’s allegation.

You say Paul wanted someone dead? Who?

The officer stole a glance at Sara. In a hushed voice he replied, I’m sorry to inform you, Miz Kramer, but the contract was on you.

Sara tugged at my apron as the oven timer sounded. Cookies, Nanny. Cookies.

Shushing the excited child, I studied the pictures. There must be a mistake.

The officer was motioning towards the kitchen as the words I get them, Nanny finally registered, and I lurched after the toddler. Sara climbed onto the leather-padded bench at the table and watched as I pulled the trays from the oven. Cookies crumbled in my convulsive attempt to transfer them to cooling racks. Fighting against rising panic, I stilled my hands with tight fists and cast a glance to the waiting officer. A three-sided fireplace was all that separated the kitchen and living room. A chill went through me, despite the heat from the glass-enclosed flames.

My sweet Sara clapped her hands when I placed two oatmeal chocolate cookies on a plate and splashed milk into her glass.

Thank you, Nanny.

Sara’s smile would melt the icebergs right out of the sea. Stroking her pink cheek, I stole a kiss before returning my attention to Constable Butt. Before I could speak, the front door opened.

Hello, Christine called out.

Sara, with a cookie in each hand, ran to greet her mother. When Christine carried her back into the living room, the concern at seeing the police car in my driveway was evident in her furrowed glance and questioning look.

Everything’s fine, now. Put on the kettle to boil. I’ll join you in a minute.

The officer followed me out of the room and back to the front entrance in the sunroom. Once we were out of earshot, I took uneven breaths and brushed my hands through my hair.

This is preposterous.

We have the video showing the exchange of money and explicit instructions of your whereabouts here in Newfoundland, directly to your door on Old Broad Road.

The idea of Paul being filmed in an undercover sting like I’d seen countless times as a fan of true crime shows made me dizzy. Ringing in my ears dimmed the sound of the water trickling into my goldfish fountain. My jaw clenched against the familiar light-headedness and nausea. All warning signs of an anxiety flight. That’s how I now referred to my out-of-body episodes. It couldn’t happen now. Not in front of a stranger.

I regulated my breathing and focused on my surroundings. November’s grey light seeped through the skylight and, beyond the long windows of the sunroom, the bare branches of the birches stood stark against the sky.

Constable Butt waited with his hands behind his back, quietly giving me time to digest his information. With an erratic breath, I collapsed into a chair. Clutching a brightly-hued pillow to my chest, I buried my chin into its navy and gold scrolls.

Why would he want to kill me now? There’s no reason for it. The next words came out in a rush. I moved all the way to Newfoundland and have never, in all these years, returned.

After a deep sigh, I spoke in measured cadence.

So, why now? Why would he want me dead?

The officer folded his lanky body onto the ottoman, shortening the distance between us.

Miz Kramer, he began in a soft voice, we understand that your husband had a life insurance policy on you.

He raised a hand to silence my objections and added with considerably more force, Yes, it is legal. Two million dollars. That’s motive for murder, ma’am.

My husband owns the most successful commercial real estate firm in Toronto. My voice was a strangled whisper. This makes no sense. Two million dollars is not a ton of money to that man.

Things can change, now. It appears he’s experiencing hard times. The lilting inflection of the Newfoundland accent further warmed the tone of the young constable’s voice. His bare-bones face had one redeeming feature: soulful eyes. Undistinguished lashes framed the hazel brown orbs that exuded empathy. This doe-eyed stranger had turned my world upside down.

My body slumped forward until the pillow I clutched was on my knees with my face pressed against it. The feel of Constable Butt’s hand on my arm startled me. I stood and moved to the windows, turning away from him and everything he had to say.

The weather had changed yet again and flurries began to blanket the grey-brown dreariness. I must warn Christine and Sara to be careful on the now snow-covered icy path, I thought, as my mind drifted from the insanity of what I’d just heard. Then the sound of Constable Butt’s voice tugged me back.

Here’s my card. I know you’ll have questions when you’ve had time to think this through. He nudged my arm, a bony wrist protruding from his sleeve. Here, take my number. Call me, anytime. If there are further developments, I’ll drop ’round.

He hesitated in the open doorway.

I’m sure it’s good and done, Miz Kramer, but keep your doors locked and mind yourself. I’ll be back.

He flipped his hat over his dark, closely-shorn hair, a shy smile evident in his stern nod. He looked towards the childish sing-song coming from the kitchen and, mistaking Christine for my daughter, said my family would take good care of me. My family. My head was spinning with questions . . . and outrage.

Two

Hearing the front door close, Christine entered the sunroom, knelt beside my chair, and pressed a mug of tea into my hands. Her large grey eyes registered stark disbelief.

You heard?

Enough, she whispered.

Sara skipped into the room with her crayons and paper and attempted to climb onto my knee before her mother scooped her into her arms.

I can’t talk about it, Christine. There’s so much . . . 

You look terrible, maid. Go up to your room, now, and drink your tea. We’ll be here.

With effort, I took one leaden step at a time towards the spiral staircase leading to my loft bedroom. Why hadn’t Dan or Darlene mentioned their father’s difficulties to me?

The glass doors of the upper balcony revealed the darkening sky over the ocean, as I wandered to the ensuite bathtub, my comfort zone. Gazing at the stars shining over Conception Bay through the skylight had always calmed my most agitated state of mind. Without the will to pour a bath, I returned to the bedroom where I slouched in a chair and sipped my tea. As the outdoor temperatures dipped, the flames ignited in the gas fireplace, and a reddish glow pooled across the cherry hardwood.

My headache escalated to a migraine as I tried to fathom what drove Paul to such desperate measures against the mother of his children. Dregs of hot tea washed down my pain pill and I stumbled to the bed to snuggle under a cashmere throw. A sing-song nursery rhyme wafted up the stairs, comforting me with Christine and Sara’s presence.

The police officer wasn’t totally wrong about Christine being family. Hired as my interior designer following the renovation of my house on Old Broad Road, she soon became indispensable in all aspects of my life. We formed a close relationship during those months of fabric swatches, furniture hunting, and paint chips. Just as Kevin had become like a son to me, Christine was the sensitive, caring offspring that Darlene could never be.

My eyes riveted to the phone on the night table and my mood switched to anger. How had I not been told that Paul’s realty business had gone sideways? Only fear that they’d hear the accusation in my voice kept me from calling Darlene or her brother Dan. My grown kids invariably prodded the shrew in me, which made me feel ashamed. Dan and Darlene had grown up showing me less respect than they would a stranger. The consideration and deference shown me by my new friends made me aware of our unhealthy relationship. It was further proof of my failings as a mother.

One thought suddenly saved me from being stricken with feelings of self-contempt –– the Army meal. Heaving myself off the bed, I rushed for the stairs. Volunteering for the Salvation Army food kitchen was a serious responsibility. Not even the threat of imminent death by a hitman could deter me from feeding the less fortunate when it was my turn on the schedule.

Christine met me at the bottom of the stairs with a bolstering hug. I turned off the heat under your stew, Syl, and I have the first lot of biscuits in the oven.

That simple act of thoughtfulness brought tears to my eyes. My emotions were on the surface and it wouldn’t take much more for me to break down.

Do you want to talk about it? I can stay with you. Christine clasped my upper arm and rubbed it affectionately.

I’m okay. I’ll try to reach Dan and Darlene later. For now, baking the rest of the biscuits will keep my mind off all this craziness.

A reassuring embrace, and a promise to call if there were any new developments, encouraged Christine to gather up Sara’s belongings.

The little one struggled against her snowsuit, but we soon had her dressed and ready for the outdoors. I gave a big kiss and hug to Christine and a thousand baby kisses and hugs to my little Sara. Watching them move hand-in-hand down the snow-covered walkway with their tin of nearly-forgotten cookies evoked a smile in spite of my worries. Shivering from the icy air swirling around me, I called out to Christine to take care driving, before sliding the bolt lock in place.

When my kitchen duty was finished, I settled in my reading chair with a freshly-brewed pot of Earl Grey. The snow was coming down heavier now. Not only was it aesthetically pleasing, but it was also safer for driving than the freezing rain we’d been getting of late.

Unable to focus on a book, I felt uncharacteristically alone and wished Jamie were next door. We’d become best friends since he’d moved into the only other house at my end of the road. The former detective had retired to Newfoundland just over two years ago, right around the time Sara was born. Sara. So much had happened in my relatively short time in Chapel’s Cove.

It hadn’t all been good, but life in Newfoundland had liberated me. Now Paul was controlling my emotions again. A mournful cry spilled into the quiet. It’s not fair. Leave me alone. LEAVE ME ALONE.

Three

The phone rang once, twice . . . Pick up, Dan. Three rings, then four. Tamara’s voice came on the line.

It galled me that she answered his cell phone. Dan’s affair with their nanny/housekeeper had rocked the family. After Katrina and the twins moved out, Tamara had taken over both Dan and the household, creating yet another wedge between my son and me. She made no qualms about asserting her control. My continuing close bond with my daughter-in-law irked Tamara into an intense dislike of me.

Sylvia?

I’d like to speak to Dan, please.

Dan’s having dinner.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Tamara, it’s important that I talk to him tonight. Have him call me.

Sure, I’ll tell him.

I could only hope. It was 8:30 in Ontario but, with the ninety-minute time difference, it was approaching my bedtime.

After much fidgeting, I leapt to my feet and paced the front room and kitchen, reliving the moment Constable Butt handed me the picture. Thin and haggard, Paul had been difficult to identify and I wondered if he’d been ill. Why had Dan and Darlene not said anything? Knowing he was continuing to sacrifice me for his own good didn’t ease the heartache of seeing him looking old and frail.

The ambience of the kitchen offered comfort. From the moment I saw this house, despite the mouse droppings and the light bulb hanging from an overhead wire, my heart had raced with possibilities for this space. It was the kitchen that had inspired me to renovate the abandoned house, rather than bulldoze it. This had been the beginning of my new life and had become my refuge. At least until the night of the break-in. My hands gripped the cold, granite countertop as I braced myself against the intrusive flashbacks.

Seeing Sara’s miniature apron next to the baking counter brought a smile to my lips and momentarily restored my equilibrium. I shrugged the knots from my shoulders and absently aligned measuring cups and spoons on their hooks before turning off the lights.

Aching joints and muscles protested as I moved around the front room, switching off lamps until I had only the flames in the gas fireplace to guide me to the staircase. Constable Butt’s advice sent me back to the patio doors to double-check the lock before I went up to my loft. Now, settled in bed, I held the portable phone and stared into space to await the return call from Dan.

Darlene and Dan had not immediately accepted my decision to stay in Newfoundland. It actually took eighteen months for them to visit me in Chapel’s Cove. After a rocky start, I introduced them to my new world and all my friends, including Kevin Chrysler and Christine Palmer.

Restless, I flung back the covers and left my bed to prowl the room. My heart skipped when I looked at the photo and recalled Gwynnie and Ryan Howard’s anniversary celebration at the Bay Roberts Hotel. The invitation had arrived at Annie and Roy’s in Holyrood, where I was staying at the time, and the opportunity to socialize with people from my new community excited me. The screech-in ceremony they’d arranged as a welcome was a unique experience and an honour that I’d always cherish.

The photographer had captured this candid moment with Kevin, his father Carl, and me in conversation. My fingers traced Carl’s handsome jaw line, and brushed along his hair, while recalling the dance we’d shared that night. Carl, why did you have to die? My eyes puddled.

As the pity party continued, my thoughts returned to Paul. My ex. The jailbird. His life had taken a devastating twist. It was unimaginable to think of him as a broken old man in a concrete cell. He’d been accomplished and distinguished, and I was proud to be his wife . . . until I wasn’t.

The way I found out the truth was shockingly unkind. I’d been gobsmacked. The unbidden vision of Paul and Jake’s faces contorted in passion resulted in months of restless nights. I wondered if the memory of the expression on my face when I opened the door ever kept Paul awake.

My eyes drooped with emotional fatigue as tangled thoughts collided. To the world, we’d ended our forty-three year marriage due to irreconcilable differences. Friends thought I was crazy and our grown children blamed me for breaking up the family. It resulted in stress, confusion, and an onslaught of panic attacks.

It had never been my intention to move away from my family. When my marriage abruptly ended, I ran. That’s the honest version. I just ran. I told myself, and everyone else, that I needed a few weeks touring Newfoundland, a place I’d always wanted to visit, just to clear my head. Except I never returned.

I should have sought professional help to get me through it. Not because I now carried the secret of my husband’s identity, but because I’d lost my own. Forty years of my life had been a charade. Life as I knew it had vanished. But the love I felt for my husband didn’t disappear because he was gay. We had too much history for me to not care about him.

Knowing he’d hired someone to kill me sucked the air from my lungs. I grasped the table’s edge for support. Oh, Paul, did you tell them how to kill me? Did you say I shouldn’t suffer? If Sara were here with me, would the killer . . . The thought of something happening to Sara buckled my legs until I lay crumpled on the floor, the silver-framed picture still clutched in my hand.

The sight of the brilliantly-coloured koi tattoo that stretched along the inside of my forearm rescued me from a complete meltdown. A spiritual coping mechanism, it inexplicably calmed me in times of distress. Matthew had suggested this image following my horrifying attack, and it served as a reminder that, like the koi fish, I’m also a survivor. Yes, I’m swimming upstream . . . again. My hand stroked the colourful gills as I climbed back into bed.

Though expecting the call, the sound still startled me. I wiped my tears with the edge of the sheet, and yanked the covers aside to find the ringing phone.

After my first breathless hello, I cleared my throat and spoke again. Dan seemed preoccupied, and he stifled a belch in his greeting.

Mom, what’s up? You don’t usually call this late.

Well, I have good reason.

Why? What did I do now? He whined like a child, a forty-four-year-old child.

Dan, why didn’t you tell me about your father? I had no idea he was in financial trouble.

What business would that be of yours? His voice took on a critical edge.

The comforter bunched in my fist. I suppose it became my business when your father hired someone to kill me.

What are you talking about? His shrill tone was like that of his sister.

I winced and pulled the phone away from my ear. After hearing the detailed account of the police visit, Dan’s impudence faded, and his voice lowered to a conversational tone. No. I think there’s a mistake. The old man wouldn’t do something like that.

Well, you’d better believe he did. The words quivered on my tongue.

Tamara’s voice droned in the background and Dan’s attention shifted. I have to go now, Mom. If you hear any more, let me know. I wouldn’t worry about it though.

Did your dad go bankrupt, Dan?

Mom. I don’t know. I know Dad and Jake ended their partnership.

Which partnership would that be? I thought.

Jake moved to Arizona and Dad was working some clients for Maxim Realty. Then he just stopped.

They dissolved the realty firm? What happened to all the money?

Maybe you should ask yourself that question.

Well, Son, at least he kept enough for a hitman.

Four

The sound of the phone nudged me awake and I looked over to see the name Christine lit up on the call display. Groggy, and nursing a dull headache, I assured her that I was fine. Sara’s pleadings in the background caused her mother to hold the phone to her ear, and her sweet jabbering began in earnest. We blew kisses at the end of the call, and I fell back onto my pillow with a smile.

Without warning, guilt attacked with a sickening thrust. My heart ached with love for Sara while my own grandchildren were growing up without me. Darlene’s boys, Steven and David, were now fifteen and twelve. Her youngest child, Quinn Jr., was not much older than Sara. I’d never seen him other than pictures, and Dan’s twins had started school. My heart hurt for them. But remorse and heartache were not enough to lure me back to Ontario. This drama with Paul had dredged up the soul-destroying betrayal, and a return to Toronto now was tantamount to torture. I massaged my swollen eyes.

After breakfast, I dressed in warm layers and emerged into the crisp November air. My boot treads left a staggered pattern in the snow, and the flakes were still accumulating as I headed down Old Broad Road to visit Lucy and Gar Whipple.

Where’s Lucy?

Checkin’ her snares. Yesterday she came in all smiles. Come back with scatter rabbits but there was ten-dollar bills in three of the slips. His eyes registered merriment at the good fortune. Twice what she’d get for sellin’ ’em. Oh, it’s happened before when somebody couldn’t wait to bottle or stew some rabbits.

We laughed together as I shrugged off my coat and eased into position in front of the wood stove. Jamie’s golden retriever, Jack, raised his head from the braided rug at Gar’s feet. After a brief acknowledgement, my furry neighbour resumed his nap. Gar, who’d been reading The Telegram, folded the St. John’s newspaper and placed it on top of the pile at the side of his chair. We spent some time discussing current events, but the real breaking news was the thwarted attempt on my life. Something I wasn’t comfortable sharing with my friends. Not yet.

Gar and Lucy never forgave themselves for not rescuing me the night of the invasion. Though just up the road, they were unaware I was being beaten, and worse. If my life were in danger again, Gar would load his shotgun and never leave my side.

Jack stretched one leg, then the other, and shook himself. He nudged me and snorted until I buried my fingers in his silky neck and rubbed vigorously. Dogs have this wonderful sixth sense of knowing when we’re stressed, and Jack stayed with me, his chin on my knee, slobber dripping down the side of my pants.

Gar, you’ll hate to see Jack leave when Jamie comes home.

"Oh, he’s here a