Tip the Cup of Guilt Madam

By Arlene Mighton

Tip the Cup of Guilt Madam is about a Nobel Laureate’s widow, Cheryl Boucher, and her struggle with depression following her husband’s death, and her eventful succumbing to dementia.

While in therapy to deal with her depression, she and her two daughters discover that Karl Boucher had a secret mistress and a daughter. This sends the family into a free fall, and they research who it may be. The story becomes more complicated when Cheryl finally learns she has early dementia. The widow tries to outskirt the family by not going into a care facility. A circus, an activist movement, and a trip to a Kentucky Derby are part of the widow’s plan to circumnavigate the inevitable.

As Cheryl eventually finds herself in a care facility, her path intersects with the chaplain of the Manor, sparking a profound love that defies societal expectations. Furthermore, Cheryl undergoes a profound religious experience, though many skeptics question the authenticity of her encounters. Some dismiss her religiosity as mere superstition, while others raise doubts about the validity of love blooming within a mind plagued by dementia.

Tip the Cup of Guilt Madam weaves a captivating tapestry of human emotions, exploring themes of loss, betrayal, resilience, and the transformative power of love. Join Cheryl on her extraordinary journey as she navigates the complex web of her past, confronts the challenges of her present, and seeks redemption in the face of doubt and uncertainty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886939378

Arlene Mighton

Ms. Arlene Mighton began her writing career in Montreal and then California. Upon returning to Canada to retire, she took up writing full time as a hobby. She joined the group Writer’s Ink and after one year, began the process toward publication. Previously, she worked in Montreal and was associated with Canadian Culturama Programs, an organization promoting Canadian authors. She is currently a third-year student in the Bachelor of English program at the University of Saskatchewan. She now lives on an island, near her family and likes to work out, travel, and attend cultural events.

Book preview

About the Author

Ms. Arlene Mighton began her writing career in Montreal and then California. Upon returning to Canada to retire, she took up writing full time as a hobby. She joined the group Writer’s Ink and after one year, began the process toward publication. Previously, she worked in Montreal and was associated with Canadian Culturama Programs, an organization promoting Canadian authors. She is currently a third-year student in the Bachelor of English program at the University of Saskatchewan. She now lives on an island, near her family and likes to work out, travel, and attend cultural events.

Dedication

To Dorrie Manu—Thanks for your sharp insights, wit, and humor as you

journeyed the book evolution with me.

To Mark Malatesta—You were the light in the dynamic world of

New York publishing.

Copyright Information ©

Arlene Mighton 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Mighton, Arlene

Tip the Cup of Guilt Madam

ISBN 9798886939354 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798886939361 (Hardback)

ISBN 9798886939378 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023915015

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

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Acknowledgment

I would like to thank Dr. Barbara Langhorst for her brilliant analysis of my writing thus far. Special thanks to Writer’s Ink for their fine work in editing my writing and offering critical thinking. To Dorrie Manu, thanks for proofreading the script before it went to the publisher. Thanks to Mark Malatesta for his guidance and downright brilliance in preparing my script for New York publishing. Thanks to Pen to Paper for their humor and thoughts toward publishing. Thanks to Camelia for her keen insights. Last, thanks to Ben List and the team at Austin Macauley for accepting the manuscript for publication.

Chapter One

Depression

Cheryl Boucher sat quietly in the dark burgundy armchair in her deceased husband’s library, and stared endlessly into space. It was now almost three o’clock in the afternoon, and she had not altered her position since one o’clock. Finally, feeling some need for a change, she slowly rose from the chair, and made her way to a large bay window on the far side. She gazed at Baylor Street in the distance, and watched a group of children play kick ball with one another. There was shouting, laughter, screaming, and joyful playing by the youngsters, but she could not feel their zeal or excitement. A dark curtain of depression had come over her since Karl’s death six months ago, and she felt anchored to the floor with a ball and chain. Not even the sun, the trees, or the flowers seemed to move her anymore. Now, everything was black.

She glanced at the armchair, and noticed a book sandwiched between the cushioned seat and the arm rest, and slowly walked toward it. She grabbed the book and then sat down, anticipating to begin reading another chapter. But her mind drifted back to her husband’s Nobel ceremony and medal presentation seven months ago. Those were exciting moments and she would always cherish them. But her thoughts played havoc with one another, and she found herself escaping to the past, and reliving precious memories from days of yesteryear. Her early years had been eventful and filled with great joy and energy. Oh, how she longed for those feelings again.

Cheryl was the oldest daughter in a family of three children, and privilege had been theirs from the start. Beatrice, the second child, was as precocious as Cheryl but didn’t have the intellectual capabilities the other two children had. She was a flaming redhead with a hot temper, and wasn’t afraid to show it. The girl was mischievous with visitors and loved to play tricks on them. This caused Beatrice to experience numerous disciplinary measures at the hand of the mother. Jacques-Robert, nicknamed ‘Jimmy’ by an American diplomat, was the youngest of the three with blond hair, blue eyes, a thin, muscular physique, and looks to burn. Already, at his young age, girls swooned over him and wanted his attention. He was athletic and loved to ride horses in his spare time. Cheryl, the eldest, was the brains of the family and ‘the darling,’ according to the mother. She could quote Latin poems by heart in grade school, read Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, and play the piano with precision and determination. Like ‘Jimmy’, she loved riding horses. The youngster would spend hours practicing jumps and racing with the horse, Burnt Oak, around the tract. At one point, she thought of becoming a professional horse rider but the mother curtailed the interest by holding monthly poetry readings, and having Cheryl go to numerous book fairs. Thus, the mother directed the boisterous girl toward the academic side of life.

Cheryl paused and looked at the clock-it was three forty-five now. Where did time go? She felt depressed again, and wanted to crawl into a large sink hole and disappear forever, leaving behind these horrid demons. But she kept returning to memories of the past and settled into the chair to reminisce again. She pondered about her parents and relived their past, first in France, and then, their eventual travels to Bar Harbor, Maine, to establish their own wine industry. The Beauvieux household, her father’s legacy, belonged to an old French dynasty dating back to the fifteen hundreds in the region of Bordeaux. The ancestors became prosperous in wine-making, and their unique skills in crafting fantastic wines soon knew no bounds. There was demand for their wines throughout the continent of Europe, extending to Africa and the near and far East. But the market in North America remained largely untapped, and this excited adventurers and pioneers in spirit.

Cheryl’s mother, Celine, grew up near Paris, the daughter of a well-known solicitor, Pierre Montmarte, and an actress-film maker. She had the usual privileged life along with her two brothers and one sister. Her childhood was filled with numerous parties, art evenings, and horse-back riding. In the teen-age years, she took up archery, fencing, and karate at the request of her father. There had been an increase in thefts and muggings in the area, and this was one way to ensure his ‘darling’ had some protection for herself. In the late teens, Celine had matured into a sophisticated, young aristocrat with reddish-blond hair, gray-blue eyes, a full bosom, and a slim physique. She was, indeed, beautiful. Jean-Guy Beauvieux, Cheryl’s father, came from an established middle-class family who had made their fortune through hard work and an abundance of good luck in the Bordeaux wine industry. Jean-Guy was a rustic sort, with a whiskey sounding voice, reddish-brown hair, and hazel-green eyes. He was academic, loved all sorts of sports, and was an expert in fencing and Lacroix. Celine and Jean-Guy met in university, and soon they were married. They were a restless couple, desiring for adventure and excitement, and they found their answer in a new wine market in America. Two years after the marriage, they sailed to Bar Harbor, Maine to begin a new life as wine connoisseurs and wine distillers. The great terrain of cliffs and rugged coastline, the wild, tempestuous flowing ocean, and a backdrop of fir-trees and forestry captured the young hearts on their first few days of arrival in America. This was their land, and their presence here was meant to be.

Upon arrival to Bar Harbor, the two bought a large plot of land near Canook, Maine for growing various types of grapes for wine making. But the weather wasn’t as temperate for grape growth as France was, and Jean-Guy had to make new adjustments to his wine industry. He could use fruits such as apple, blueberry, and black currant as a substitute for the grapes. He would still have grapes that were imported from New York but other fruity tastes made the wine menu intriguing and gave new and exotic tastes. Soon the winery was a well-known distillery, and was gaining recognition nationally in America. For the birthday celebration of the oil magnate’s great grand-mother, Lillibet Milner, Ray ‘Bebe’ Milner asked Beauvieux Wines to provide an exclusive list of their special wines for the event. Jean-Guy did not disappoint on his promise. There was talk and gossip for days about the exceptional Beauvieux wines.

In 1940, the Beauvieux, family welcomed their first daughter, Cheryl, to the family. Soon, Beatrice and ‘Jimmy’ followed. Childhood passed uneventful for all three children, and gave way to the adolescent years, a time when the youth of America were staging uprisings, smoking marijuana, and dancing naked at rock concerts. Friends and acquaintances plus the Beauvieux family were well aware of the counter-culture movement sweeping the country, and welcomed long week-end retreats away from such teen-age vagaries. The get-aways were hosted by the French family at Eagle Rock, their seaside home. The three children jumped at this opportunity, and had their own guest list as well. One guest was ‘Killer Joe,’ who secretly brought marijuana, and even a small package of heroin to snort. Cheryl smiled as she recalled the night when ‘The Killer’ introduced the drugs to the small mob of teens staying at Eagle Rock. It was twelve thirty at night and the group of eight quietly took a small boat and disappeared into the night. ‘Jimmy’ had already taken his first snort of heroin and was feeling the effects of this lethal drug. Suddenly, as he stood in the boat, he fell to one side and into the water. He surfaced face down and was unconscious. ‘Scooter Jones’ dived into the cold water, turned him over, and started CPR. The other teenagers were frantic. But ‘Jimmy’ came too, and next morning, he had a lot of explaining to do about his bump on the right side of the head. Cheryl had had her first taste of marijuana, and liked the connection with the outer space it evoked but heroin was too risky. There would be future parties to venture into that dangerous world.

Cheryl came out of her day-dreaming, and looked down at her watch again—it read four-forty. She was surprised her daughter Constance had not come to the library to check on her. She was so depressed today, and subconsciously, twisted the heels of both shoes aggressively into the carpet. How she longed to feel those high feelings of excitement and intrigue again. She thought of the years at Yale, and realized they would always be Karl’s and her special moments. Eventually, they settled into academic life at Yale where Cheryl taught mathematics and Karl tutored in English. Karl was a prolific author, and soon was on the New York Times best seller’s list. International fame followed and he was sought after as a speaker and guest-lecturer. Cheryl was busy raising their two young daughters but basking also in the fame of her husband. Then came the evolution for the Nobel.

She glanced at her watch again, and the time read four-fifty in the afternoon. The sun was giving up its altitude in the sky, and losing its brilliant shine to a soft yellow hue. The Nobel had created stir in the Boucher household, and all four hoped Karl would at least make the short list. The agent representing him was a millionaire who was given to philanthropy and promoting the arts. She was beautiful, rich, and a widow-her husband had passed five years ago in a boating accident. Cheryl clashed with her on more than one occasion, and told the assertive woman to keep her distance from Karl. Cheryl smiled to herself with some effort as she remembered the agent being put into her place at the private dinner hosted for Karl when he made the short list. She spoke softly to herself—Serves the woman right for trying to meddle with me. She asked me the same question that she asked the other guests: ‘What is my definition of evil? My answer-You are the evil one.’ She was taken off guard and turned her heel in another direction. It felt good to stop the ‘glamour puss’ dead in her tracts. Then the announcement came from Stockholm.

She remembered the telephone call the first week of October at five o’clock in the morning, and the announcement that Karl, her husband, had been awarded the Nobel prize for literature. First, they were in complete shock. As reality pressed in on them, they shouted and danced, then called to the maid to prepare breakfast. Following the announcement, there were numerous speaking engagements, luncheons to meet the Laureate, and a fan-fare of activity in preparation for the ceremony.

But on return to Canook, Maine, life seemed to send her a curve ball. The prestige of the Nobel wasn’t as compelling as it was earlier, and Cheryl felt overcome with waves of anger and jealousy. Today, she still felt that everything had been sacrificed in her husband’s best interests, and she had gained little in return She was the husband’s accountant for the past twenty years, and managed all of his financial endeavors. They were now well-off, lived in an upper middle-class neighborhood, and were privileged with luxuries. She was the mother of two young daughters, and felt the bond between them had strengthened over the past few years. However, her personal hobbies of painting and writing had been sidestepped because long work hours were necessary to keep the books current. Anger swirled in her as financial endeavors confronted the widow but she was too exhausted to do anything about it. She was disconcerted every time thoughts of Karl appeared, especially his numerous intellectual pursuits, lectures and travels abroad without her. The past five years were under increasing strain because they spent less and less time together. In short, Cheryl felt cheated and betrayed by her deceased husband, who had done little to value their time and efforts together. And now he was dead.

January 6th, 1995. The darkest day in history. Her mind went back to that awful day which catapulted the family into chaos. Emotions were very mixed, and she felt scornful at times. The thought of asking for a divorce had come to preoccupy her waking hours over the past five years, but she had held off hoping their relation would improve. It didn’t improve, and she finally decided to meet privately with Karl to discuss it. He entered the library that afternoon, pompous and over-bearing, dressed in a dark navy St. Laurent suit, and a silver-gray tie with silver-inscription cuff links and tie-clip to match. He moved his copper and bronze-tooled cane from hand to hand, intrigued with the meeting. He seemed anxious and tried to hurry, stating he had another commitment in hour. She vividly remembered their discussion and the cardiac arrest following.

Her thoughts went back to the Nobel ceremony again, and now she felt totally mummified. The joy and excitement had vanished, and her emotions felt cold and frozen in time. She stared at the Grand clock ticking away, and people and faces from the Nobel came before her. Her body went taut as the blurred face of a woman appeared. She leaned forward in the chair for a closer look, but she could not discern who this individual was.

******************

It was five thirty now, and Cheryl was beginning to fall asleep. Constance had crept into the room and observed her mother. The doctor noticed she was starting to doze and that was of concern to her. This was not the first time since her father’s death that her mother was drifting off to sleep in the daytime. Her mother would frequently go into the library, lock the door, work on the family financial books for a brief period, and then droop her head and fall asleep. Constance was sure she slept two to three hours at a time. Naturally, this helped to conserve her energy but it was sidetracking the real issue—coming to grips with the deepening depression. The doctor had a secret key made to the library so she could access it when her mother was there behind locked doors. Today, she had stealthy unlocked the heavy library door, entered the room, and perused Cheryl sleeping in an armchair. She muttered to herself, What a copout. Mother doesn’t need all those hours of sleep. I’ve about had enough. This is it.

Mother, mother, are you okay? I’ve been in the room for ten minutes, trying to initiate a conversation with you. You just sit there like a dummy, refusing to speak, exclaimed the oldest daughter, who was home from Harvard Medical School for ten days. She was very intelligent, assertive, and direct, and was deeply concerned about Cheryl. She walked over to the armchair and took her hand. It felt cool and clammy, and her face looked haggard in spite of the immaculate grooming.

Mother, you’ve been in the library all afternoon. You haven’t eaten any scones, and the tea is cold. I caught you dozing off again. The time has come for us to make a decision. I’ve booked an appointment for you to see a psychiatrist, Dr. Wilber Nortan, next Tuesday afternoon at 1300. You have been in a depression for the last six months, and are not getting better. Edgar, the gardener, will drive you to the office. Come now, supper is served in the dining room. Esmeralda has made your favorite dish, crab cakes with scallop potatoes. Cheryl looked sideways at her profile in the full-length mirror next to the bookcase for several seconds. She was aging with the depression, and today she looked in the seventies. She adjusted the lace collar of the white blouse, then brushed the dark blue skirt with her hands. She ran her fingers through her reddish-brown hair, and finally turned to Constance and remarked with indifference, I’m not hungry. You go eat with your sister, Beryl. I don’t need a psychiatrist, and I can fend for myself. Now leave me alone, she spoke with frustrated anger. I can’t have an afternoon to myself without a daughter or hired help, for that matter, interrupting it. How did you get in to the library, anyway? I thought the door was locked so I wouldn’t be disturbed. Do you have a key? she suspiciously questioned, annoyed that her afternoon was disturbed and intruded upon.

Constance spoke up. Yes, mother, I had a duplicate key made for the library. I’m glad I did because you may sleep away a good part of the day. This is not how to handle your deepening depression. You are only avoiding the inevitable. You need to start to take control of your life again.

Cheryl waved her head back and forth, and finally shouted out loud, I am in control of my life right now. Don’t make these ridiculous nonsense-comments to me. Her cry had been shrill and high-pitched, and a desperate call for help.

But Constance was firm and demanding. Mother, you are coming to eat today, and you will be going to Dr. Nortan on Tuesday.

She brushed back the reddish-golden curls from her face, and then, gently, but firmly, lifted Cheryl up and held onto the body against her green jump suit. The two walked slowly out of the library, and made their way to the dining room to eat.

Chapter Two

Therapy: First Session

Cheryl’s Mercedes sped along the boulevard to Dr. Nortan’s office. She sat quietly in the back seat, brooding over the events planned for today. She pulled out an exquisite make-up case from her purse, a gift from her late husband, and powdered the nose and face. Dressed in a brown shantung-silk suit with matching pill box hat, she looked very coquette for the afternoon. Her black patent shoes and purse completed the outfit. However, her feelings were not in sync with her sedate look. Basically, she felt even more depressed today.

She entered the waiting-room and the secretary motioned her to a seat. Sharp at one o’clock, Cheryl was shown into Dr. Nortan’s office. The office was modestly furnished with Spanish sofas and end-tables, and had Columbian and Venezuelan art on the walls. A large library of books, all bound in leather covers of green, purple or red, occupied one wall. Scattered through the books were pictures of his family and rare pieces of oriental China. In one corner, was an exquisite gold and bronze telescope, a gift from a former Saudi patient. Very soft music played in the background.

Dr. Nortan was sitting in his office chair and writing notes, as well as updating files. He seemed very preoccupied with the moment. As soon as he saw Cheryl, he stopped, closed his file, and prepared for the session. Wilbur Nortan was fifty-five years old, six feet tall, and one hundred and seventy pounds. He had silvery-gray hair that was neatly manicured, wore a lilac shirt with black pants, and sported a gold Rolex watch, a gift from a wealthy business man. His steel-gray eyes were compelling and sharp, and his look engaging. He rose from his office chair, moved near Cheryl, and gazed at her. Then he spoke in a placid manner.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Boucher, I’m Dr. Wilbur Nortan, a psychiatrist and psycho-analyst, practicing Gestalt therapy and Jungian analysis. I am in private practice and have had good outcomes with my patients. Your daughter called and made an appointment for you. She updated me with the events that happened several months ago, and the untimely death of your husband. And she tells me you have been in a deepening depression ever since.

He gently shook Cheryl’s hand, then sat down beside her. The widow looked unnaturally blank and exhausted, but finally mustered up enough energy to speak.

I don’t know why I’m here. Yes, I am depressed but am functioning at home. Why do I need therapy? My daughter got a little carried away.

Dr. Nortan sat back in the chair and spoke quietly, but intelligently.

You look very depressed and I’m sure your husband’s death has much to do with it. Why don’t you begin with the day he died and tell me about it? You are very sad over his passing, and need to get your anger moving. Tell me about the day.

Cheryl was surprised at his direct manner and paused briefly before answering. She was very self-conscious and anxious, now. Finally, she overcame her reluctance and spoke.

"My husband and I returned from Stockholm in December and our spirits were very high. Karl was now a Nobel Laureate and was excited for the future. He had had angina while in Sweden, and took several nitroglycerine tablets to relieve the pain. When he came back to the United States, he stated the pain had basically stopped. I was thrilled, too, with the future, and was relieved that the chest pain had finally yielded to an occasional twinge. However, those high-spirited feelings waned as I found myself back in his financial books, trying to keep abreast of his monetary assets. I had kept the books for the last twenty years, made sound investments, paid the bills, and remunerated the taxes. But our lives were going in two separate directions for the past five years, and I was becoming more and more discontent with the relationship.

Finally, January 6, I asked to meet with him privately. He came into the library, looking very svelte in his bespoke suit, and said he could only stay for thirty minutes because he was meeting someone downtown in an hour. I decided to come directly to the point, and told him I had been thinking about our relationship for some time. Now,