Life through an Hourglass

By C. M. Disney

Life is like a ball of yarn. Sometimes tangled, but always fun to play with.

When seventy-eight-year-old Mary loses her husband, she is unsure about her future. Mary has a dodgy hip, but she cannot picture herself in an old age home. Her very soul needs freedom, friends and wine.

An advertisement gives Mary the idea of becoming a permanent guest in a smart hotel. Great food, a clean room and the opportunity to make new friends. What is not to love? Life becomes infinitely more interesting when Mary develops a close friendship with the hotel owner.

But Mary has a little secret. It whispers in her ear and follows her everywhere. The only way to find peace is for Mary to confront her past. Then again, is it better to confront her past, or let sleeping dogs lie?

An honest, heartfelt novel about a woman who touches the lives of people around her in unexpected ways. Life through an hourglass is a must-read story about friendship, hope and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. M. Disney
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9780473667474

C. M. Disney

Claudia has been in love with books for as long as she can remember. She wrote and illustrated a number of children's books, but found more enjoyment in writing fantasy and women's fiction.Claudia lives in Wellington, New Zealand with her husband and a couple of crazy cats. In her spare time she dabbles in martial arts and sampling wine. In case you wonder, Disney is her real surname. No, not related :-)

Book preview

When you carry a secret

That simply won’t cease

It will darken your soul

And empty your peace

So redeem yourself

Get rid of this spell

The price of a secret

Is a step into hell

© 2023 Claudia Disney

CHAPTER ONE

The rain pitter patters on my umbrella. Dark clouds streak across the sky, turning an already wet spring day into a cold, miserable one. On the horizon, shrouded in a thick mist, I see the shadow of large pine trees. A puddle trickles around my leather boots, but I don’t care. I’m standing at the grave of my husband Robert, staring down at the soil that is his new home. It was a large funeral with hundreds of people attending.

He was a good man, Mary.

So sorry, my dear. He had a heart of gold.

If you need anything, and I mean anything, let us know.

But the weather chased them all away. I’m utterly alone for the first time in my seventy-eight years, and the miserable weather is no match for the sadness in my heart. Fat drops fall on Robert’s grave, and I wonder if his feet are cold.

My mind wanders to the time Robert and I met. It was a whopping fifty-nine years ago, but I remember it like yesterday. At the time, I still lived at home with my parents. The local library was within walking distance of our home, my quiet sanctuary in a busy world. On that fateful day, I forgot my book bag. It was a patched bag my mother sewed from an old pair of jeans, just the right size to fit the pile of books I constantly dragged home. I didn’t feel like running home to fetch the bag, thinking that I could carry my books just as well without one. My heart pounded as I pushed open the heavy library door. Today was the first day of the month, the day on which our library received new books.

Good morning, Mary.

Good morning, Mrs. Smith. Do you have any new books today?

Mrs. Smith, our kind hearted librarian, smiled down at me and pushed a pile of books across her desk.

We sure do. I haven’t even packed them away yet. Have a look and see if you like them.

I liked them. A lot. Which is how I ended up walking home with a gigantic pile of books under my arm. They were heavy, and it didn’t take long for sweat to trickle down my face. A few minutes later, sweat also trickled down my back and arms. The books felt slippery, and I hitched my hip to support them. They had other plans. I gasped in horror as the large pile of books slipped off my hip and tumbled on the pavement in a flutter of pages. My cheeks flamed bright red with embarrassment. What would Mrs. Smith say if she saw how I treated her precious books?

I fell on my knees, scrambling to grab the books before anyone trod on them. My mother would have reprimanded me for not acting like a lady, but I didn’t care. People walked past me, tutting or sighing in exasperation at my clumsiness. Pairs of shoes flashed past my scrambling hands. Some smart and shiny, others old and scuffed. But one pair of shoes stopped, brown and freshly polished. A pair of hands joined the shoes, and within seconds, those hands stacked my pile of books in a tidy row on the pavement. Sitting back on my heels, I looked up at the owner of the shoes. He was roughly my age, eyes as black as raven feathers, and his cheeks dimpled when he smiled down at me.

It looks like you need some help, he said.

I jumped to my feet with as much grace as I could muster, smoothing my dress down with dirty hands. My cheeks still burned with embarrassment as a long lock of hair fell over my face.

Thank you, I stammered.

I’m Robert. Nice to meet you.

I shook the warm hand Robert offered and thanked him again. He picked up a stack of books and placed them in my arms. He took the other stack, holding it in his arms like precious cargo.

What were you thinking carrying such a large stack of books? Are they all your books?

I nodded. My mind was spinning, and my mouth stopped working.

You must be very clever to read this many books. So, which way?

Robert raised his eyebrows and looked at me. It took my mind a few seconds before it realized he asked me a question.

Oh. Yes, of course. This way.

Robert smiled and happily followed me home, carrying my books with no effort. When we arrived at the gate, I put my half of the books on the ground, and took the other half from Robert.

Thank you for your help, I said, looking into Robert’s dark eyes and getting lost in them.

It was my pleasure. You never told me your name.

Internally, I cursed my bad manners. What would my mother say?

How rude of me. My name is Mary.

Well, nice to meet you, Mary. Can I see you again?

I blushed, but he was so kind that I couldn’t refuse.

Yes, of course.

Robert did see me again. The very next day, to be exact. And called on me almost every day after that. My parents were not thrilled. Robert was only a baker, after all. They reminded me regularly that I would have been better off with a doctor or a lawyer. Not a common baker. But I ignored the nay-sayers. Robert had his own successful bakery, and we married a year later. Robert was ‘the one’ for me, my book knight in leather armor. We never had children, but we had great times together. Many years’ worth of adventures and memories. Granted, I wasn’t happy when he smacked the car into a wall. To avoid hitting a cat, he said. Or when he painted the lounge a different color without consulting me. But I regret nothing.

When Robert arrived home last week with a headache and sore chest, nobody thought anything of it. This time of year, a lot of people catch colds. He went to bed early and seemed better the next morning. His chest still ached, but Robert soldiered on like he always did. He collapsed without warning while I was preparing lunch. I’ll never forget the feeling of helplessness that settled on me like a heavy blanket while we waited for the ambulance. I held Robert’s hand and stroked his handsome face. In the end, nothing could be done. Heart attack, they said.

Mary, you’re getting wet.

My mind jerks back to the present. Father Kilcullen puts a hand on my arm and leads me away from Robert’s grave. I don’t want to leave, but the puddle around my leather boots is growing and I shiver.

Do you have someone to take you home? the priest asks.

I shake my head.

I’ll drive myself home. Thank you, Father.

There is doubt in his kind eyes.

I’m fine, I promise.

You can visit Robert anytime you want, Mary. For now, go home and keep warm.

I will, thank you.

Father Kilcullen pats my arm and walks back to his parish. I look back over my shoulder at Robert, but Father Kilcullen is right. It is getting cold, and Robert wants me to go home. A lone bird circles high in the sky, its haunting call echoing over the quiet cemetery. A tear rolls down my wrinkled cheek, and I swipe it away with irritation.

It is dark by the time I arrive home. Home, the large white brick building Robert and I purchased twenty years ago. It is the last building on the street and borders on a quiet little paddock. Rose bushes surround the house, turning our home into a small slice of fragrant paradise.

I half expect to hear Robert’s voice when I open the front door. But the only sound is that of my shoes on the wooden floor. My heart is heavy as I walk to the kitchen. There are no warm cooking smells, nobody to wrap their arms around me and ask how my day went.

It serves you right. This is karma. Karmaaa.

My head jerks up at the dark whisper. There it is, the voice of my conscience, always there to remind me of the bad things I have done. It has been many years since I heard that horrible inner voice, and can only think the stress of Robert’s passing has brought it back.

Go away, leave me alone.

I grab a large glass from the cupboard, open a bottle of champagne, and fill the glass to the brim. I gulp it down, savoring the taste of the sweet liquid. The house feels too large now, and the dark shadows in the corner are almost ominous. Eventually I’ll need to sell. This space is too large for me to rattle around in on my own. And at seventy-eight, I guess I’m not that young anymore, either. My hip strains under the burden of arthritis, and I don’t handle the cold like I used to. I take another sip of champagne. Tonight I will not be thinking about my troubles. Tonight, I will celebrate the good years I had with Robert.

CHAPTER TWO

I wake up the next morning in a champagne induced haze. My hand automatically reaches for Robert. Instead of my husband, it finds a cold sheet and reality hits my sleepy brain like a bucket of ice water. I sigh, turn on my back and stare at the white ceiling. I remember painting that ceiling. Robert and I splashed paint everywhere, and my arms ached for days. There was paint in our hair, on our faces, even some paint in my ears. I smile at the memory and allow a tear to drip onto my pillow.

I’m angry with myself. Enough with the waterworks, Mary. Life goes on. I swing my legs out of bed and sit up slowly, my hip complaining as I go. I slide my feet into fluffy slippers while I wait for the pain to settle down. Step one for the day is done. I got out of bed. Do I want to stay in bed and pull the blankets over my head? Absolutely. But nothing good will come of it, and I can just imagine what Robert would say.

"Really, Mary? You are better than this. Get up and get out."

Step two for the day. Go downstairs and pour myself a strong cup of coffee. I grab my dressing gown from the back of the door and crab my way down the stairs. Pain shoots from my hip into my back, and I suck in a sharp breath. By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, it has settled into a familiar dull ache. I add an extra scoop of coffee to my cup while I wait for the water to boil. Looking through the large kitchen window, I notice