Wanting To Breathe Her In

By J.T. Dodds

Join Michael Allen on a profound journey of self-discovery and redemption in 'Wanting to Breathe Her In.' Having left behind a successful partnership in a tech company and burdened by a lifetime of regrets, he had given up on the joys of life. But everything changes when he meets Rachel Anderson, a woman who teaches him to embrace the world beyond mere survival. With Rachel's authenticity as a guide, Michael learns to trust again and uncovers the beauty of life's unexpected gifts.

Set against the backdrop of Toronto, the isolated mountains of Western Massachusetts, and a charming village in Mexico, Rachel's journey as a successful copy/manuscript editor takes her on a path she never imagined. On the shores of the Mexican Riviera, she discovers that life can be a timeless romance, and that love knows no age. As she rediscovers her desire to be loved and to share her love with someone, Rachel realizes that romance need never die, no matter how long one lives.

'Wanting to Breathe Her In' is a heartwarming tale of keeping love alive in your heart, of embracing second chances, and cherishing the serendipity of life. In a world of self-discovery and cross-cultural connections, this enchanting novel reminds us that love can find us when we least expect it. Some may call it fiction, but others may say it's simply the way life is meant to be."

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.T. Dodds
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223675761

J.T. Dodds

John, a citizen of the United States and Canada has been writing poetry for over half a century delving into themes such as relationships, spirituality, creativity, and his passion for life, John has self-published a collection of 15 volumes including two enchanting children's books composed in verse, namely A Sneaky Twitch of an Itch and The Journey Home, as well as a compilation of essays and poetry centered on the subject of aging, titled Comes A Time. While permanently living in Ajijic, Mexico, with his artist wife, Candis, John has penned 5 novels under the pen name J.T. Dodds: a trilogy titled To Each Their Own Goodbye, consisting of Book 1: Anywhere Except Yesterday, Book 2: A Long Way From Nowhere, and Book 3: When Tomorrow Is Never Enough, two standalone novels, If You Are Born To Be A Tamale, and Wanting To Breathe Here In.

Book preview

It’s all about keeping romance in your heart, never letting it die before you do, no matter how long you live. Some say its fiction, some may say it’s the way it’s supposed to be.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2023 John Thomas Dodds

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system,

without permission.

Cover photo from Pixabay.com

77 Rio Papaloapan

Ajijic, Jalisco, México 45920

Tel: [phone]

332-605-5432

[e-mail]

DEDICATION

For Mi Esposa Candis, without whom this novel could never have been written, the story of Rachel could never have been told, and Micheal’s journey would have ended, with never having known what true romance is all about.

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To all the cats in our lives that have shown us, over the years, what unconditional love is all about.

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Also by John Thomas Dodds

Poetry

In Our Own Backyard

A Still Silent Space

Sen-Essence

Aging Beautifully in Light of You

A Stroll Through the Village of Ajijic

Small Altars Where the Sun Performs

Places That Hold An Energy Of Love

Footprints In The Dust

Learning To Lean Back On Living

Kats Kids & Kreativity

Father Hunting

Free To Be Me

Gone Fishing

Children’s Poetry

A Sneaky Twitch of an Itch

A Journey Home

Fiction

Anywhere Except Yesterday (J.T. Dodds)

A Long Way From Nowhere (J.T. Dodds)

When Somewhere Is Never enough (J.T. Dodds)

If You Are Born to be a Tamale(J.T. Dodds)

Essays

Comes A Time (2016)

"THERE IS NO BOND BETWEEN US,

NO NEEDINESS OR WANTFULLNESS,

ONLY LOVING THE WARM COMFORT

IN A WINTER’S DARKNESS OF

OUR FLESH FOLDING OVER ONE ANOTHER

A HUSBAND NEEDING TO COME HOME TO

ONLY YOU TO CATCH THE MOONLIGHT

AS IT LAYS SHADOWS ACROSS YOUR BODY

WANTING ALWAYS TO BREATHE YOU IN"

Wanting To Breathe Her In

A Novel

DEEP DIVE IN DOVER

1

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Michael, in a time of waning middle age, sat on a cold metal bench on a barren concrete pier, reminiscing about another time—an earlier time when life was something to hold onto because he wanted to be there, to participate, creating memories he could anchor in his heart like the hug of a good woman. He looked around mid-morning, not a soul anywhere—not on the beach, the pier, or along the boardwalk. The tourist places were shuttered for the season. Across the Lynn River, a concrete breakwall paralleled the pier, and a couple dozen dirty white seagulls sat on the edge waiting for slim pickings.

It was all golden at one period, this Gold Coast on the northern shores of Lake Erie. After the War of 1812, the ‘Port’ was known worldwide as the largest freshwater fishing port in the world. Michael remembered in his youth the old fishermen talking about when they could fish until the shallowest of the Great Lakes froze over. Now he could sit on the pier all day, and not one Turtle Back fishing tug would pass by and head out to sea. Not just because it was friggin cold this month of the year, but life was forever progressing or decaying, and the time it takes to look behind you, the flotsam and jetsam of years have floated back out to sea never to return.

There was a strong enough wind to create whitecaps in the channel, and at the end of the pier, waves frothed at the foot of the Port Dover Lighthouse. The lighthouse was a square wooden tower, one of the oldest in Ontario; it was, for the many years he lived in the Port, his playground, his diving board into the clear blue waters, his mountain to climb, and fort to play on. Michael’s mother had moved from Buffalo, New York, where her husband had been working toward the end of the Second World War, to Port Dover in the early 50s. She was escaping from an abusive relationship. Her family had been neighbors to the Lombardos in London, Ontario, and Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians played Port Dover in the Summer Gardens. It was a safe haven for her and her son. Even though she was not one of the founding residents that dated back to the early 1800s, Evelyn and young Michael were still accepted into the community.

Michael’s best friend, well into his teens, was the son of a fisherman, and their world evolved around sand, sun, snow, ice, and fish. When Stanley’s dad took him out on the Miranda for the first time, both boys got to stand behind the wheel in the pilot house and captain the Turtle Back in open waters. Standing under the shell in the back of the fishing tug, they were fishermen pulling in and letting out the nets full of blue and yellow pickerel, lake trout, and perch. Those were memories that stuck with a kid.

Stanley’s father was part of a long lineage of fishermen and was the only father-figure Michael knew. Undertows were a constant hazard on the shallow shores of Lake Erie, and after being pulled free from one, the young boy gained a hero for life. He was seven when Stanley’s father saved him from drowning, right beside the pier, and that feeling of being dragged under and out into darkness also stayed with him all his life.

The pier remained deserted while Michael sat, traveling back in time. The north shore was a seasonal habitat, and any bird worth its salt left the freshwater for a warmer clime. He had just spent the last few months chilling out in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, trying to break the patterns he had slipped into, trying to climb out of the dark well he found himself in. With nowhere in particular he wanted to return to, he picked a place where life had been kind enough to be labeled good memories. The small fishing village, now a tourist spot, was far enough from Toronto, the metropolis he had lived in up until now, and the Port was isolated enough to accommodate his need to work on recovery.

His wife had finalized the divorce, sold the house, and moved to Calgary to be near the kids and grandchildren, and now they wanted nothing to do with him. Divorce had been her decision, having reached the end of her rope with a depressed workaholic who had never really been comfortable with family life, having had nothing to compare it to. Michael, on his part, lost interest in any aspect of family he did have after the kids moved on. He discovered in retrospect that he had nothing in common with his wife of 30 years and couldn’t play the game anymore either.

Michael rented the same small house his mother and he had lived in with the option to stay a year. Whether that would fly, he had no idea. The owner, Ben Eaglesmith, who had lived in the Port since the early ‘20s when the Port Dover & Lake Huron Railway brought tourists to the beach, and fish were exported by rail and ship, not only to Canada but also the US. Along with the house, there were several cabins on the hillside close to the lake. Ben had been kind to his mother and didn’t charge her rent when they lived here. He was now long in the tooth, the grumps having replaced any sociability he might have had, but still had a heart of gold.

Instead of warming up, it became cooler as the morning progressed with an accumulation of clouds. The predictions were calling for another year similar to 1996 when Lake Erie froze over completely. Michael stood up and stretched. A lone figure bundled for the weather passed by him, heading towards the lighthouse. There are thirty-two benches along the pier, the majority dedicated to fishermen drowned in Lake Erie. Michael took one last look around, then turned to read the dedication on the bench he was sitting on:

"In Memory of Father and Son

Peter J. Chestwood

Stanley P. Chestwood"

It was in early October when Stanley and his father took the Miranda out into Lake Erie for some fall fishing. Schools of walleye remain offshore in September and October; steelhead and salmon could be found off the mouths of tributaries. That was the day Hurricane Opel, after wreaking havoc in Mexico leaving thousands homeless and scores dead, the most intense category 4 storm on record, battered the US on a trail of destruction from the Florida Panhandle until it dissipated in Ontario, Canada, after producing gale winds over Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. Stanley and his dad were unaware of the approaching storm and didn’t make it back to a safe harbor. Michael placed his hand on the engraving. Why you, Stanley? Why not me? Why am I the one still standing?

He left the pier, leaving behind on the bench a small brown paper bag with an empty pint of vodka.

2

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If October and November were colder than a witch’s tit, the first week in December was like living in an icebox. A cold front dragged its frozen butt across Lake Erie, and lake-effect snows over the warmer shallow water created blizzard-like conditions. Working in shifts over a two-day period under heart attack conditions, Ben and Michael managed to snow-blow and shovel paths from cabin to cabin, and Michael learned a few new swear words in the process. From Ben’s enclave, it was four blocks to the storefront he rented on Main Street. With the exception of foraging for the basic necessities in the few shops open in the center of town, it was his excursion into reality.

Sunshine always follows a storm, making the minus 2 Celsius bearable. Sid poked his head out from under Michael’s parka as they trudged along the unplowed sidewalk. Like his namesake, he had long ears showing he was wise. Lean and short-haired, he was never too far from the heat of his savior. As they did every morning, they first stopped at the Dover Dairy Bar for a coffee and a bagel. The waitress would always put down a small bowl of goat’s milk for Sid. Everybody knew animals were not allowed in eating establishments. Sid, however, was no ordinary resident of the Port. Michael had rescued him half-frozen on the lake shore, and once he thawed out, they were joined at the hip. He went everywhere Michael did and was a familiar figure in his storefront window, soaking up the occasional winter sunshine. Sid was short for Siddhartha. Michael figured Buddha must have been a cat in one of his lifetimes.

The Dairy Bar was a two-star greasy spoon where all the regulars, the Who’s Who of Port Dover, gathered for their news and gossip, and it’s where rumors percolated. The old fishermen clientele owned the place, and favorite tables were reserved in indelible ink. They would arrive in the morning, one after the other, like Turtle Backs heading out to sea. No menus were needed, and the coffee came brewed in a bottomless pot that probably could use a cleaning now and then. The faded walls were covered with dozens of historical photos of the Port, the dust on their frames dating back to the time the pictures were taken. Old was in, from the flooring to the clientele. Everyone, that is, except Sally.

Sally was the buxom waitress who ruled the mornings, vivacious and chatty, covering the diner at warp speed. At thirty-five, she was a single parent, the sole supporter of two boys, and a lifelong resident. Her husband was one of the sailors etched on the park benches, and that made her gold with the old men of the sea. She had them all wrapped around her little finger and had a wicked tongue that would shame a sailor.

You’d think you were married to that damn cat, Michael. When are you going to start feeding it? It can’t live on milk alone.

It’s the breed, Siamese, slim and beautiful, just like you, Sally. They don’t eat a lot. Sleep and play, that’s it.

Well, I eat and sleep a lot. With two kids, she looked around the room, and keeping the clientele here from atrophying at the tables, play is on the short end of the stick. You’re not quite dead yet. When am I going to see that girlfriend you’re hiding away in Ben’s cabin? I can’t believe Sid’s the only pussy in your life.

I’ve given up on relationships. The last one did me in. And Sid’s had his balls snipped, so it’s just the two of us.

Well, if your electric blanket doesn’t work and you need to keep warm at night, I might give you my number. That is, if your balls haven’t been snipped.

The regulars were beginning to tap their coffee cups on the tables. It was their call for attention. Unlike the urban species, it seemed fishermen outlived their spouses.

Jeesuz, you’d think they’d dehydrate without a full cup. Most of them look like prunes anyway.

Sally was a tease, and it was all in good fun. No doubt the old men scattered throughout the diner did not go unscathed. Michael got to know a few of them by name. That’s as far as it went unless your great-grandfather fought in the War of 1812. He was okay with that. It’s where he wanted to be.

He bundled Sid up and headed across the street. His shop, as he called it, was a small one-room storefront on the street level of the Port’s historic town hall. For decades, the town hall was the center for political and local life for the Port residents. In the late fifties, during Michael’s youth, the town hall fell into disrepair, mainly due to a lack of taxes and interest. Now it was the centerpiece, housing Port Dover’s premier tourist attraction, The Lighthouse Festival Theatre, established in 1980. Along with specialty stores and boutique entrepreneurs, a renewed interest over the years in a historical getaway from the burgeoning urban areas surrounding Lake Ontario accompanied it.

When Michael moved to the Port in October, he was seeking to hide, to hunker down where his demons could torment him without having to deal with the embarrassment of someone else’s pity. Only he found Ben’s Cabins were more of a hibernaculum than he could handle. He rented a space on the main drag and called it a shop, although unlike the specialty gifts, home décor, apparel, wine, and cheese emporiums, it was a workspace for him and his computer, which gave him a place to at least keep one foot among the living. He filled it with the books and artwork he rescued from the divorce—everything his ex didn’t take to Calgary—and everything was for sale. Michael had no desire for collecting things anymore. Not even people. The past was baggage. He put a sign in the window: COMPUTER/INTERNET SERVICES. Leaving it open-ended, he figured he could handle anything that came in through the door. He didn’t need the money, not that the shop would generate much anyway. As a recovering workaholic, he needed to keep busy, and he needed the bottle of vodka he always had close at hand. Of course, that’s exactly what always got him into trouble in the first place: work and booze, stoking his depression, ending his marriage.

3

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Today was one of the winter days when Michael forgot about the thermometer, when the outdoors became a Kinkade or Rockwell painting. The sun barreling through the front window was much to Sid’s delight, whose favorite spot was on the front window ledge. With two weeks to go before Christmas and a foot of snow, there wouldn’t be a lot of visitors strolling along Main Street, if any. By noon, it turned into one of those winter wonderland sunny days when you could open the doors and let the cool, fresh air permeate. Michael cranked up the stereo, and being an opera buff, Saturday was his day for the Metropolitan Opera, the longest continuous classical radio series in broadcast history. For over thirty-five of Michael’s sixty years, he was tuned in whenever the opportunity presented itself. Opera and contemporary Blues and Jazz, his favorite genres of music, represented to him the feeling, the passion, the depth of the human instrument, and the beauty of voice that could make one laugh, make one cry. When he needed to chill out and get in touch with his feelings, there was no better way than getting down with the Blues. Jazz was the mellow acceptance making life easier to digest.

Absorbed in the performance of Madame Butterfly and focused on the computer, he didn’t hear the stomping of feet at the front door.

Anybody home?

Jake Morrow, after years on the political stage, had crafted a persona and a voice that demanded attention. When he entered Michael’s shop, it was the voice that preceded him, rolling along the stacks, surprising him.

You would think on a weekend before the holidays you could find a bloody parking space on Main Street. He was talking to nobody and everybody. The county mayor treats this town as if it were a country hamlet, and ward councilor Sandusky is useless. He half-turned to his companion. Watch your step, Rachel. At least this store made a half-ass attempt at clearing the sidewalk.

The shop was narrow with two rows of bookshelves down the middle. Michael’s desk acted as a counter at the end. He reached over to the two-way radio on the shelf beside him and lowered the volume on the radio a touch. Depending on what he was doing on the computer at the time, visitors could be annoying.

He watched as the older gentleman edged slowly down the aisle, panning the artwork on the wall, scanning the books as if he were looking for a particular title. He was bundled in fur from a beaver hat to mukluk. Michael could just make out through the shelves a second person stopping at the entrance to pat Sid. Jake made it to the desk and, without hesitation, stuck out his hand.

Jake, Jake Morrow. I read your sign.

Even with his short, stocky physique, he was a commanding figure, and Michael, having lived in a suit and tie world, sensed the intensity of his persona. He leaned on Michael’s desk as if it were a lectern, like a snow owl eyeing its prey.

I see by your sign you know something about computers.

Michael stood up and shook his hand. It was like getting caught in a vice grip. After years on the political stage at the federal level, Jake had shaken thousands of hands.

Enough to keep me out of trouble. You need a little help?

Maybe. I’m thinking of kicking the do-nothing County Mayor out of office next October in the county elections, and I’m told I may need a campaign website, or something similar to that. Do you do this sort of thing on the Internet?

My company does in Toronto. I suppose I could put something together for a good cause.

And you are? Do you have a card?

Michael Allen. Pleased to meet you. No cards, I’m trying to stay low profile. Let me give you my cell phone number.

He bent over the desk and scribbled his name and number on a pad. When he straightened up to hand it to Jake, he froze. Wrapped in a Boyaryn white Canadian raccoon fur hat was a face that completely took his mind off Jake. Rachel stepped up to the desk.

"Un bel di vedremo, nice to meet you. I believe that’s what’s playing, Madama Butterfly. Exquisitely beautiful."

Yes, you are. It’s not what he meant to say, it just slipped out. He suddenly felt self-conscious, running his hand through his uncombed hair. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.

She smiled. Who’s the soprano?

Renata Scotto, as Cio-Cio San, and John Alexander as Lieutenant Pinkerton. It’s Saturday at the opera.

I love Leontyne Price as well. Cute little store you have here. Are these books for sale?

Everything’s for sale. This is my hobby farm, and I needed something to fill the space.

In her gloved hand, she held a copy of The Couple’s Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for Modern Lovers by William Martin. How much might this little book be?

That’s a great little book, and it’s illustrated with exquisite ink-brush drawings. One of those books you want to keep handy to accompany romantic thoughts. No charge. Make it an early Christmas gift.

Michael had totally forgotten about the fur ball next to her and was mesmerized by the sparkle in Rachel’s eyes. Jake, waiting with his hand out for Michael’s phone number, jumped in.

You two have something in common: books and Toronto. He turned to Rachel and changed the subject. He was used to being at the front of the line. Mr. Allen here tells me he has, or did have, a company in Toronto that deals with this Internet. Turning back to Michael. Is that right?

Yes, I did occupy a space in Toronto when I was a teenager. My roots, however, belong to the Port. It’s why I moved back.

Rachel is visiting from Toronto. She works for a publishing house. Married my son, once upon a time. Emphasizing married.

Thank you for the book, Michael. That’s very kind of you. No need to wrap it, I’ll carry it next to my heart. It’s where it belongs, I take from your synopsis. I’m staying at Jake’s carriage house over the holidays. Maybe we’ll run into each other.

We have to go, Rachel. We still have to plow through a couple of blocks to get to the Beach House. The street down to the lake probably isn’t cleared. He took Michael’s phone number and put it in his pocket. I’ll be in touch.

Michael followed them as they made their way towards the front door. Rachel stopped before exiting, leaned over, and stroked an accommodating Sid. Then turned to Michael.

What’s your Siamese’s name? He’s quite beautiful.

Siddhartha. He’s my little Buddha buddy.

Yes, now we’re old friends. Thanks again for the Christmas present. I read on the inside jacket, ‘The ability to love each other in natural and fulfilling ways is written into the very nature of each person on Earth.’ I suppose it’s possible.

She put on her mittens as she walked out into sunlight. Michael picked up Sid and stood in the doorway, watching her as she caught up to Jake and took his arm. Even ankle-deep in snow, Rachel’s steps were a little lighter. In the process of finalizing an abusive and long-drawn-out divorce from Jake’s son, she