Mr. Richardson and Me

By Heather MacCorkle

At the Writer's Farm on the MacLeod Homestead, a vibrant community of writers gather every other weekend to talk about writing, enjoy one another's company, and play with writing ideas. All goes well for a few years until Mr. Richardson shows up, and then the proprietor of the writers' retreat finds out that life can be spectacular.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665743822

Heather MacCorkle

Heather MacCorkle has written novels as a hobby for almost 15 years. Finally, a story emerged from the keyboard chaos that is National Novel Writing Month in November, 2022, that she wanted to share. This story is a memoir of the future, written so she will not forget how she wants her life to be someday. It is also a message to everyone who has endured trauma of any kind: it will get better, just hang in there.

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Copyright © 2023 Heather MacCorkle.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Interior Image Credit: Heather MacCorkle via Canva

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4383-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4382-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908749

Archway Publishing rev. date:    05/25/2023

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

I love the way you form sentences, I blurted while we spoke on the phone. He was silent for a few seconds, just long enough for me to wonder if I had said the wrong thing.

Then, he finally spoke. That’s probably one of the sexiest things one English teacher can say to another.

We both laughed then. What nerds we are! Still, it was true: I did love the way he formed sentences. I loved the way he rearranged letters of the alphabet to form words and put them together into a complete thought. Not only that, but I also loved the way he spoke them. That deep, mahogany voice. I tingled.

The next day, he came up behind me at in-service. My friend’s eyes widened as he leaned into whisper in my left ear, I love the way you form sentences.

When he had gone, she said to me, Your face is beet red. I mean beet red. What the hell did he say to you?

It was nothing, just unexpected. It’s been a long time since anyone has come up behind me like that. I guess I’m not used to it.

As usual, my friend smiled and tilted her head at the same time. She touched my arm as she told me, I’m really happy for you. You deserve it, my friend said. With another squeeze, we heard the announcement to take our seats.

When I sat down next to another friend, she leaned into me and said, I saw that you, you know. Just be careful. OK?

I nodded and told her I would tell him that too.

It’s really cute, to be honest. What did he say to you?

I’ll tell you later.

I wandered my way back to my classroom, deep in thought about too many things as usual. When I opened the door, there he was.

I had to hide a moment, or I was going to get bombarded with questions again, he said.

It’s good to see you again, I responded. He chuckled. When I told him I was getting hit with a lot of questions and observations too, he apologized for being untoward. I had to admit I really liked it, I said, if it wasn’t the best thing to do in an auditorium full of educators.

I’ll save it for texts and voicemails then, he said.

Me too.

Kinda like a little code thing.

I have a feeling we’ll have several of those. Like our own language.

How nice to have a universe of two.

There you go again, making sexy with the sentences. His expression —jaw slack, eyes gleaming— was too precious to ever forget. I never have. So, I shot for the moon. Don’t get me started, or I will talk about how I love how you rearrange letters of the alphabet to form words that go into those beautiful sentences. This could get … well…

Damn, woman… I’m going to go before I do something else inappropriate. He gave me a hug and left.

Later, my friend reminded me that she knew what it was like to be chum in the water with these sharks and to be very careful.

That was my waking dream until the day I met Mr. Richardson. Then, I had a great conversationalist in the flesh, and no longer needed my waking dream.

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Do you think we are different beings for everyone we meet, or do you insist you are always yourself and nothing but yourself? I believe the former, and think I’ve always been that way until the opening of this story. When the events that take place in this narrative occurred, I had decided that I was going to be the person I have wanted to be for a long time. I was going to be honest with everyone I met, and if they could not handle the me I am, they could move on, and neither should be sad about it. Frankly, if I were to be rejected after even a season of being with a person one more time, I did not think I would make it. Now I know I wouldn’t. To change my life, I had to change my mind.

Not only that, but I had to change my venue. I started to plan my escape from the little town where I had taught high school English for many years, and thought of moving to points south, west, and north. I drove to different towns in each direction on weekends, and thought I had found a house down south, but the sellers would not accept my offer. I could not find anything toward the west. Finally, I found the house in which I now live and work. At that time, it was called the MacLeod Farm or the Miller Estate, depending on how old the resident you asked was.

The farm had been abandoned for almost ten years when Jenny Donahue, my realtor, and I drove up to it. She had asked someone to cut the lawn, and it looked quite good, but the rest of the house was in sore need of care taking. This was the fourth house she’d taken me to, and at first, I wondered what she could be thinking. When I would ask her later, she insisted she just had this feeling this house was meant to be mine, and that my hesitation about the other three kept urging her on. Well, all right.

As we stood before it, Jenny told me its story. This was a working farm from 1880 until 2000, she said, pushing her long braid back over her right shoulder, even though it wanted to be in front. It was the home of the same family that entire time as well. There are still people around here who are mad at the family for letting it go to ruin, but that’s a story in itself. The last member of the family to actually live here did not farm at all. He was a writer, and he loved to putter around the house while he was coming up with ideas. He died about ten years ago, and the house has just sat since then. That explained a lot about the poor house.

I mentioned that Mr. Miller’s story reminded me of a poem by Seamus Heaney called Digging, and pulled it up on my phone. I read it to her, and she said it was very fitting. I asked her what his name was, and she told me Joshua, Joshua Miller.

Two of the windows in the upper part of the house had been broken, and plywood covered them. The porch roof was a bit crooked, but it covered the one part of the house I’d always wanted for my own— a wraparound porch. I ran up to the house and followed the porch around three sides. Then I went up the rickety stairs to walk the porch itself. When I returned to the front, I looked through the bay windows into what was once a formal living room, followed by another room, and then a wall that I assumed had a kitchen behind it. To the left was a grand staircase that even twisted into the living room. That staircase was probably the perfect spot for prom and wedding pictures, I surmised. Next to the stairs was a door that I thought opened onto either a little den or a closet.

There were the obligatory cobwebs, but otherwise, it seemed relatively sound. As I was peering through the window, Jenny unlocked the master lock on the door, and we went inside.

It was so dusty and musty that I knew a good airing would cheer the place up. It wasn’t mine, though, so I just walked through. I saw the formal living room up close, without the dirty windows, and could see it in its empty glory. I reveled in its fireplace. And then, there was another in the next room. There was no wall separating them, and I really liked that. I could make one big living room if I wanted, or two separate rooms. I caught myself starting to plan rooms but stopped myself.

Then, I went through the doorway and saw the kitchen. It was serviceable, if old, and quite ugly. From the kitchen, there was a side door that led out to the porch. I opened it and it squeaked in protest. When I looked out, I could see chairs and tables. I shut the door quickly.

Jenny, although having known me only a day, could tell I was very interested in the house. She asked me to come upstairs to see the rooms up there. Upstairs were eight bedrooms and four baths. Four bedrooms and two bathrooms on each side of the house took up the entire second floor. I was shocked, but tried to imagine how big the family who lived here a long time ago must have been to run a farm. Still, to me, the upstairs held more rooms than the downstairs would have allowed. In the room that would become Darcy, I said to Jenny, I am one person. How could I manage this whole house?

Well, Mr. Miller managed it well for almost a decade before he died. Not to freak you out, but he died in this house, on the couch that used to be in the parlor, surrounded by manuscript pages. He had been editing his last book when he had a heart attack and passed away. Rather than mourn him properly, his family came for a funeral and then took everything of value like vultures. It needs a mistress who needs a new beginning in an old place. You are that person. I’m sure of it. I could understand now why she was the best agent in the area. She knew how to tell a story.

I don’t think I can do this, I said. How can I afford this?

She smiled. Let me take care of that. Believe me, the remaining Millers are ready to sell. After a falling out with Mr. Miller, the others left here and haven’t been back except for, like I said, the funeral and house clearing. It’s interesting to note that even though they were not speaking, Mr. Miller never changed his will. His siblings got everything. I think once they hear your story, they’ll be willing to sell this place at a discount. Then, you can make new and positive memories here!

My last weird question for now is why do some people call it the MacLeod Farm and others the Miller Estate?

Mrs. Miller - I can’t remember her first name - inherited the house in the 50s. She had been a MacLeod until she married Mr. Miller. They farmed this place until they died and then it went to Joshua because he was the oldest.

You really know how to tell a good story.

Well, I’ve lived here all my life. It’s not like we have a ton of people around here. You know what they say about small towns: everyone knows everyone else’s business! She laughed.

We returned to the porch and sat on the steps while I contemplated taking on a physical albatross when I was still trying to rid myself of an emotional one. She pointed out the woods to our left, which would be mine, and the fields all around, which would be mine if I wanted the place.

The farmhouse was never a wonder, but it did need help, and the community provided that help. They loved knowing the house would be saved, for most people in this little town liked to preserve what had been here for years. Craftspeople came out of the woodwork, as did amateur craftspeople. The plumber and electrician charged only for the cost of the materials; soon everything was replaced with the latest equipment. New coats of paint livened the place tremendously. Chimney sweeps came out to service the fireplaces. A carpenter directed a team as they removed the wall between the kitchen and great room, and the installation of a stability beam to replace what the wall had done for over 130 years. He assured me that it would actually do a better job, and so far, he’s been right. They then fixed the porch roof and the steps. The porch itself, amazingly, was fine; it just needed a new coat of paint and sealant. I did that on my own. The bathrooms, while old, were full of antiques that still worked - a testament to 1940s plumbing standards. Therefore, I was lucky to have clawfoot tubs, pedestal sinks, and wall-hung toilets that all worked fine. The only thing I did not change much was the kitchen, although I did buy new appliances since there were none when I bought the house. The kitchen was terribly ugly, but I would tackle that later (and what a beauty it would become!). I needed a project anyway.

I was so grateful for the help I catered a party after things were finished. I resolved to do something with the house that would allow me to pay them back as well, but for a little while, I just wanted to live. No one was in a great hurry to recoup any losses, it seemed. I just didn’t like owing anyone anything. I would hold dinner parties each month at the house as my way of honoring those who helped me, and everyone came almost every time over the next six months. Finally, I heard from Mrs. Carlson that I had done quite enough to pay everyone back, and they would see me at the monthly dances. When Mrs. Carlson spoke, people listened. In their eyes, I was off the hook. While I hosted those parties, little did I know I was practicing for another career, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I still had picnics in the summer, to which everyone came. Steve let me rent one of the tents for that, because I could not fathom I would need one to store in the house. I can be so short-sighted.

An English teacher named Trudy retired that summer and mentioned to the administration that I, too, was an English teacher in search of a job in my new hometown. Remember: everyone knows everyone else’s business. I was resolved to leave teaching, but when this came up, I thought it was a sign that I wasn’t quite ready to retire. I was invited to interview and secured the job. So, I was finally able to move in permanently into this house in July before the school year started. There was still a great deal of work to do on the house. July and August were devoted to making the place home. My family came to visit during that time, and I’ve never seen so many air mattresses in my life. It was funny, but it was a sign of what was to come, even if the rooms I would eventually create were much nicer than what my family put up with while they were here that first time. Still, they did not complain, and they helped me get things together.

Within weeks, though, I was lonely. Being an only child, I really did not know how to experience loneliness. I never minded being alone. I thought I would be so happy to have my own space that the loneliness I experienced in my apartment on a regular basis would disappear. This would be my place, not a landlord’s. I could do whatever I wanted without worrying about bothering anyone. There was no one else around for several miles anyway, so I could play my music as loud as I wanted, blare the TV (I never watched it anyway), or dance, dance, dance. That only lasted so long.

Don’t get me wrong: it’s not like I sat at home all the time. I went to Steve’s general store, the bookstore, the thrift store run by one of the churches, and Lucy’s Diner. I still hated to cook, even if I did host dinner parties, so Lucy’s was a frequent stop. The food was always good, and the place was often packed, but I could sit at the counter and chat with the servers and cooks while I ate slowly.

The first time I went to Steve’s store, I made a friend almost instantly. Steve was so welcoming. He already knew my name from the house raising, as I called it. I said hello and shook his hand. He formally introduced himself.

Steven Carter, he said warmly.

Heather MacCorkle, I responded. I liked his handshake; it was just like my father taught me - strong, not overbearing, firm.

Can I show you around?

Sure! I said. He gave me his elbow and I put my arm through his.

It is not a small store. In fact, I call it Walmart-on-Stilts. For some reason, that always worked for me. It might not for you. As we walked the aisles and sections, he explained that we were walking past where the store ended when he was a kid, and moving into the first addition, then the second. He had groceries of all kinds on one side; alcoholic beverages in an aisle next to the groceries; a clothing space for women, men, and children; a dry goods and household aisle; outdoors gear in another section; and even furniture toward the back. In a separate building, he sold rider mowers, snow blowers, and all that jazz. I knew I would need those things at some point but didn’t want to worry about it right then.

Steve explained that residents did not want to travel 25 miles to buy certain things, especially in winter when it snowed, so he had taken the hint and expanded over the past decade. He was glad he did, he said.

I deliver too, he said.

I’ll have to call and place an order, I told him.

Not to tell you how to live your life, but perhaps you should come to the store. It will get you out of the house. At least, until school starts, that is.

Having lived in a small town for many years, I should not be surprised that everyone knows my business before I’ve had a chance to tell them, I said.

I’m sorry. I did not mean to offend you. Truly, I didn’t.

You didn’t. I was just remarking more to myself than to you. I’m at a disadvantage since I don’t really know anyone.

We can change that. There’s a dance next week. You should go.

A dance?

You don’t dance?

Not really, and I blushed a little as I said it. I haven’t been to a dance in decades.

Well, the good news is that most of the people there are between 40 and 60. The music is 80s, 90s, and a smattering of 2000s. We dance a little, we talk a LOT, and we have a good time being together. You should come. Everyone would welcome you.

Where is it? I was putting groceries into a cart now since we had made our way back to the front of the store and I grabbed the cart.

St. Barbary’s basement. The proceeds go to the church. Next month, it will be at St. Christopher’s. The next month, Good Shepherd. They rotate venues so all the churches benefit. The only months they don’t have dances are December and January because of the snow. He elbowed me and said, You’re going to love the snow days up here. I guarantee it. My boys still can’t imagine having to go to school much during the winter.

Yes, the snow days were plentiful and magnificent. Steve still came to see me, even if he was on a snowplow, which was nice, considering I didn’t have one. Steve took care of me, and I believe I took care of his need for companionship, even if he would never be disloyal to his wife. More on that later.

(By the way, that first dance was scary as hell. I didn’t know what to wear, how to act, or who to talk to. Steve, as usual, saved me. Until I met my Mr. Richardson, he was my date to every dance.)

CHAPTER 2

O ne day in August, I was sitting on the porch with a thermos of coffee, a huge jug of water, and my phone. As I looked out over the lawn, of which I am very proud, I suddenly became very sad thinking back to the past.

When I was in college, I had two best male friends, and they were both gay. John is not part of this story because he was more my best friend than I was his. Since Gene was way more affectionate, we spent several evenings at the beach near his house with our friend Mark (who was straight) and a boom box. We sat on a blanket in the sand and listened to Cindy Lauper. When I am sad, I sit on my kitchen floor, put my headphones on, play True Colors, and pretend I am 20 again. Pretend I just realized I’m engaged to an uber-jerk and need to get out of it. Somehow, every time, I feel his arms around me and see his legs splayed out on either side of me. I hear him whisper in my ear that I really need a new wardrobe. That was a joke in a way, although he really disliked the way I dressed.

He and Mark did not care that I cried most of the time. They loved me.

That day, 31 years later, I longed for a friend like that. Just a friend, not a romantic partner. I was done with those. I just wanted that closeness, that best-friend closeness that I have rarely allowed myself to have.

A fleeting thought rolled through my head. Why did I move here? My old friends had said they would miss me, so why did I want to leave them?

The fact is that I did not want to break down for someone to say they would miss me (and I had broken down in spectacular fashion). I wanted friends who would say they would miss me every time, just because they would.

I was starting over and hoping I truly would start over. New friends, new home, new life. Same family. I wanted certain aspects of my life left to the patterns of history, never to be repeated again. When my son Leo had said that I needed to own my story, I knew I was making the right decision. But would I be able hold it together long enough for people to truly like me before they pitied me? That was a good question.

Even though there was no one for miles to come visit me, I still hesitated before I went inside the house, put on my headphones, and sat in the middle of what would become my dining room. I played True Colors and bawled my eyes out. I must have played the same song five times before Steve found me, snotty and exhausted, in the same spot. I had forgotten that he liked to pop in.

He rescued the paper towels from their holder in the kitchen and