A Summer Love Affair

Book 2: Eliot's Corner, Maine Novel

by Holly Chamberlin

Genres: Family Life; Friendship

Synopsis

Summer in Maine means breezy, sun-kissed beach days, golden evenings, and, in bestselling author Holly Chamberlin’s irresistible novels, a time for self-discovery and surprising connections . . .

Sometimes you sense something, deep inside, long before it’s proven true. Thirty-year-old Petra Quirk has always felt as if a vital element of her life is missing. It’s not until she moves back to the small town of Eliot’s Corner for the summer that she learns why. Rummaging in the attic, Petra comes across a diary. The discovery prompts her mother, Elizabeth, to make a confession to her three daughters. Decades ago, she fell in love with her husband’s best friend, Chris—and Petra is Chris’s child . . .
 
Elizabeth ended the affair before she learned she was pregnant, and Chris has no idea he’s a father. Hugh, who Petra believed to be her dad, was a good-natured but self-centered, blustering man. He and Chris seemed to have little in common, though their friendship was genuine. Elizabeth loved Chris deeply yet refused to tear her family apart. Even since Hugh’s death, she’s resisted contacting Chris. But Petra, floundering and unsure of her path, is compelled to search out her biological father, though she knows it will complicate her relationship with her family.
 
Over the course of two summers, decades apart, romance will be kindled and rekindled, life-altering decisions made, and secrets of the heart will come to light at last.
 
Praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin
 
“A great summer read but with substance. It will find a wide audience in its exploration of sisterhood, family, and loss.”
—Library Journal on Summer with My Sisters

“Nostalgia over real-life friendships lost and regained pulls readers
into the story.”  
—USA Today on Summer Friends
 

Release date: June 28, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

June 2022

Elizabeth Quirk was weeding. She enjoyed hunting for and pulling weeds; the task gave her a sense of satisfaction not to be found with many other gardening chores. Maybe it was because there wasn’t much at stake pulling weeds, whereas with planting and tending, well, so much could be done improperly, at the wrong time. Gardening had always been Hugh’s specialty. Her husband’s joy. Now, it was becoming hers, as well.

Yes, weeding was okay, Elizabeth thought, as she stood to her full, not inconsiderable height and put a slim hand to her lower back. Except when bending and crouching were no longer so easy to achieve without aches and pains. She looked down at the pile of weeds she had collected. Enough, she decided. At least for today.

Elizabeth was in the backyard of her home on Lavender Lane in Eliot’s Corner, Maine. A pretty expanse of green grass. Two large beds of flowers and three round pots of herbs. In one corner, close to the house, a marble-topped table surrounded by four wrought iron chairs with rain-resistant cushions. There was a garage, too, at the far side of the yard, a structure large enough for two cars—though Elizabeth had sold Hugh’s car after his passing—two bicycles that hadn’t been taken for a ride in years, and an upright lawnmower. Once, long ago, Hugh had announced his intention of buying a riding mower; a few of his buddies at work had riding mowers, and Hugh was a competitive man, always needing to equal or one-up his friends. But for some reason it had been important to Elizabeth to put her foot down about the purchase. A marital power play? Later, she felt embarrassed about having made such a fuss. What harm would it have done for Hugh to ride around their lawn on what amounted to a toy car, earphones delivering music by the eighties bands he had never grown out of? No harm at all. It would have brought her husband pleasure.

It was a warm day. Elizabeth realized she was thirsty and headed toward the house, a large colonial style common throughout New England. The house was painted white; the shutters were dark green; the front door was bright red. There were four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a den, a living room, and a kitchen. There was also a large attic, used for storage, and a semi-finished basement where Hugh had enjoyed his pool table and big screen television.

Elizabeth stepped through the back door and into the kitchen. She was fond of the house, but it was far too big for one person, and she was growing tired of living there. For many years—all the years of her marriage and the ones after Hugh’s passing—it had been her home. The house had witnessed familial happiness as well as domestic strife; it had listened to the wailing of babies, the babbling of toddlers, the whining of adolescents; it had seen tears of sorrow and of joy; it had enjoyed the laughter of a family who genuinely cared about one another. Still, it might be good to start afresh all around, now that she was being forced to give up her career.

To retire. Definition: to withdraw. To fall back. To take out of circulation. To go to bed.

But Elizabeth didn’t want to fall back. She wasn’t ready to withdraw from an active role in the world, or, at least, her small part of the world. This forced retirement from her teaching career was almost as big a change in her life as Hugh’s death had been. Suddenly, at the age of sixty-two, she found herself poised at the threshold of a new phase of her life, and she was scared, not so much of what challenges the future might bring as of her ability to successfully meet those challenges.

Elizabeth went to the sink and poured herself a glass of cold water. A simple pleasure, an absolute necessity. She was not so far sunk in fear and self-pity that she didn’t realize just how lucky she was to have a home, fresh running water, heat in the winter, and, should she want it, that big screen television in the basement.

Still, a career . . . The trouble was that there just weren’t many teaching jobs around, and the ones that did exist went to the younger people, as they probably should. The old needed to step aside at some point so that the young might have a chance at making their mark. That was the nature of things. The parent became the child. The teacher became the pupil. But you didn’t have to like it.

Elizabeth knew she could probably get a pleasant part-time job at a shop in town, maybe even at Arden Forest now that Arden’s second-in-command in the bookshop had moved to Boston. Such a job wouldn’t fulfill her like teaching had, but it would pass the time. And time could weigh heavily upon a person.

Elizabeth poured another half glass of water and drank it before rinsing the glass and setting it in the rubber drainer. Now what? She had never been entirely comfortable with the idea of leisure. There must be a job that needed to be done....

Of course. Elizabeth headed upstairs. There was a bright spot on the horizon, if only a temporary one. Petra, her youngest child, was coming to stay for the summer; her companionship would be very welcome. Not that Elizabeth would burden her child with her personal worries or concerns. There were things, important things, none of her children needed to know. Elizabeth wanted them to feel that they could rely on her. Even after Hugh’s death she had made it a point not to depend too much on her daughters’ support, though it had been offered generously enough.

Elizabeth walked into the smallest of the four bedrooms. She had already cleaned it in anticipation of Petra’s arrival, but another check wouldn’t be amiss. If Elizabeth needed a reminder, a quick glance around the room would serve to illustrate Petra’s uniqueness in the Quirk family. A macramé wall hanging. A statue of the Buddha. Books on philosophy, art, world religions. Novels. Lots of novels. A crocheted blanket draped across a vintage beanbag seat. A print of William Blake’s The Ancient of Days. A bowl overflowing with stones and crystals.

Elizabeth’s other daughters had never had time for the esoteric or the artistic, let alone for philosophical tracts. They were practical, focused people, who by their mid-twenties had achieved their stated goals.

The oldest, Camilla, known as Cam, had always been a caretaker; it gave her real pleasure to be of help to people. She was also efficient, competent, and down-to-earth. Physically, she resembled her mother a little and her father a lot, and had never been terribly happy having Hugh Quirk’s slightly stocky build.

Jessica, Elizabeth’s middle child, better known as Jess, wasn’t the most empathetic of people. In that way, as in many others, she was a lot like her father, abrupt, unsentimental (or invested in appearing so; sometimes Elizabeth couldn’t tell), focused. Also like Hugh, Jess had a good heart. As far as her appearance went, she combined her mother’s height and slimness with her father’s coloring, his thick, dark hair, and his natural athletic ability.

At thirty, and unlike her sisters, Petra still seemed a person very much in flux, still developing, still a mystery. On the one hand, Petra was intelligent, creative, and warmhearted. On the other hand, she was famously reluctant to commit herself to friendships, romantic ventures, and meaningful work. Why? Sometimes, Elizabeth thought she knew the answer to that question, but maybe she didn’t really know anything.

Elizabeth plumped a bed pillow that had already been plumped, wiped an invisible bit of dust from the top of the bookshelf with her forefinger, and headed back downstairs. When she reached the final step, she stopped, gripping the handrail. Suddenly, she had the strangest sense that Time had come to a halt, just for a moment, that it was waiting, poised, anticipating . . .

She remembered having felt this way before, many, many years ago, very briefly. But then, Time had rushed on again, and that moment of stillness had been lost.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. Less than twenty-four hours until Petra’s arrival.

Petra Quirk liked traveling by bus. She had never taken a long train ride, but suspected she would enjoy that experience, too. And given the fact that she didn’t own a car—she didn’t have the money to buy one, let alone to keep one in good working condition—buses and trains were a necessity. Petra, who lived in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, got along fine without her own vehicle, walking to and from a destination whenever possible; riding her bike when she was in a cycling mood; and, if necessary, borrowing a car from one of her roommates. Petra tried not to make a habit of that last; borrowing still required gas money.

For some reason unknown to Petra, the bus’s route north to Maine was taking its passengers through small towns and on back roads, which made the journey much more interesting than if they had traveled on highways. This route provided the sights of green fields studded with grazing horses; acres of active farmland; stands of old trees thick with leaves; and buildings that mostly dated from the early twentieth and nineteenth centuries.

Historical buildings interested Petra far more than modern or contemporary structures. Even as a kid she had been deeply drawn to the past, and not only in the form of its artifacts. She liked everything old. She enjoyed reading histories of nations and peoples. She liked biographies. She liked talking with people older than herself. The past had always held a fascination for her, sometimes, maybe, at least according to her father, to the detriment of her ability to pay attention to the present, to the passing moment.

Anyway, setting up a vintage business, albeit a small one, had seemed a no-brainer for Petra; learning how to use the technology necessary to that setting-up had cost a lot of brain power, most of it belonging to people other than Petra. Past Perfect had been up and running for two years now, earning Petra a steady if modest income. The website sold vintage clothing and personal accessories, as well as the occasional bit of kooky home décor, like a pair of salt and pepper shakers in the shape of black-and-white cats wearing top hats, or paintings of Elvis or Jesus on black velvet.

Amazingly, luckily, she had made a big sale in the spring, the biggest one she had ever made, but perhaps unwisely, she had since become lax about working the website. As long as the money from the sale held out, she told herself, she would be okay, but the money was now almost gone. She figured she could survive the summer if she paid enough attention to Past Perfect to generate a few decent sales per week, while scouting around for more stock that was both affordable and eye-catching. Her mother never let her pay for anything when she visited her childhood home, so her expenses would be low. Her rent was being covered by having sublet her room in the apartment she shared with two other women who she had met a few years earlier while working at a crystal shop.

Sara and Ellen, already roommates, had been regular customers, and, when the third bedroom in their place opened up, they had asked Petra if she would like to join them. It was perfect timing. Petra was being tossed out of her tiny flat on the top floor of an old, red brick Victorian because the landlord wanted to sell the building but before doing so he needed to make some major repairs and upgrades to the property. Without a lease, Petra had no legal leg on which to stand, so she jumped at Sara and Ellen’s offer. So far, so good, and Petra’s summer replacement, Lena, had been deemed a suitable housemate.

The apartment the women shared was right in the heart of Portsmouth, a charming old city located on the Piscataqua River, packed with things to do and places to explore. There was, for example, the Strawberry Banke Museum, which covered ten acres and included thirty-nine historic buildings. In winter, a skating rink was opened on the property. Petra wasn’t athletic and the idea of sliding around on a sheet of ice didn’t appeal in the least, but lots of people, old and young, enjoyed the cold weather activity.

One of her favorite places to hang out was the Portsmouth Book and Bar, located in the Old Custom House and Post Office; you could get a coffee or a beer, browse the books, and select one or two to buy. Some nights there was live music. There were also lots of good restaurants (not that Petra could afford to eat out much), and cute boutiques for browsing, like the awesome Market Square Jewelers. In Prescott Park, you could enjoy a variety of riverside gardens. The Music Hall, which had started way back when as a vaudeville theater, was now a hub for musicals, concerts, and movies.

Still, as much as she enjoyed living in Portsmouth, Petra was looking forward to spending the summer in quiet Eliot’s Corner with her mother. She had wonderful memories of growing up in the small town. Her childhood had come close to being idyllic; not once had she felt frightened or threatened or anything but loved, and that of course was mostly thanks to her parents, Elizabeth and Hugh. Sadly, Hugh had died a little over nine years before, leaving the proverbial gaping hole in the Quirk family. Petra had worried—as had her sisters—about how her mother would make out after Hugh’s death, but they had worried for naught. Elizabeth had done well. She had confronted the grief and embraced the loneliness. Elizabeth Quirk was one of those women who might look fragile or delicate but who were really very strong. Besides, her teaching career had provided a distraction of sorts from personal pain and sadness.

Petra frowned. Just weeks earlier, her mother had been forced into retirement as a result of some bureaucratic nonsense. Petra could never understand why administrators and other people in charge of things like companies and shops and schools couldn’t make an effort to work things out so that everyone who wanted a job and who was good at what they did could keep that job. Maybe she shouldn’t have dropped the Introduction to Economics class her freshman year in college. Too late now.

Petra dug into her bag for the novel she was currently reading. It was The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse. She hadn’t read the book since college, though the mood of it had stayed with her throughout the years. Only days earlier she had encountered a man on a bench in Prescott Park reading a worn paperback copy of the book. Petra had taken it for a sign that now was the time to revisit the novel. The moment she got back to her apartment she had hunted out her own worn copy. The pages were slightly yellowed and the back cover of the paperback was torn, but none of that mattered. The text was there.

No sooner than Petra had opened the novel, however, did she become aware that the bus was pulling to a stop. A few new passengers joined those already aboard, including an older woman dragging a massive wheelie bag. Without hesitation, Petra leapt from her seat to help the woman stow the unwieldy bag.

“I keep telling myself to toss this giant and buy something smaller,” the woman said, after she had thanked Petra. “But I keep forgetting!”

Petra smiled. “My father used to say that if my head wasn’t screwed on I’d lose it. Not that losing things is the same as forgetting things, but I guess neither is ideal!”

Petra got back into her seat with a feeling of satisfaction. She enjoyed being with strangers, imagining their lives. She liked brief but sincere interactions; living in Portsmouth allowed her many opportunities to chat with storekeepers and tourists, with bartenders and even passersby. Sometimes she wondered if she truly preferred these brief encounters to longer, lasting, and committed relationships. Sometimes she was afraid that the answer was yes. But maybe that was okay. Keeping a distance had its benefits.

In fact, she was pretty content with her life. It wasn’t complete or fully developed—yet?—but she was pretty much okay with where and who she was. Not entirely, but was anybody ever entirely pleased or satisfied with her life at any given point? Petra didn’t think so. Something deep inside told her that self-satisfaction wasn’t really the point of life. If only that something would tell her what that point really was, assuming a point even existed.

Petra smiled. She could almost hear her father, not one for introspection, telling her to get her head out of the clouds, to focus on the day to day. If Hugh Quirk hadn’t been the deepest person, he was still one of the kindest and most loving people Petra had ever met.

Suddenly, Petra recalled the time she and her father and sisters had gone down to Portland to see a hockey game. Jess was the one into sports, Jess and her father. Petra and Cam were along for the adventure, a trip away from Eliot’s Corner and into the city. Their father had bought them snacks at the game—popcorn and hot dogs and ice cream and soda. Petra had had no idea what was going on so far below in the ice rink, other than that there were a bunch of men in bulky clothing and helmets chasing something small with long sticks; she hadn’t once been able to locate the puck. But it had been so fun sitting in the stands, watching other people’s excited reactions, listening to the roar of the crowd or, at other moments, the boos and groans of disappointed fans. Petra remembered that her father and Jess had been two of those spectators fully engaged with whatever was happening on the ice, while Cam had looked bored and only perked up when a cute guy, older than Cam but not by much, had joined his friends in the row in front of the Quirks.

Petra remembered that she had felt a bit sick to her stomach on the bus ride back to Eliot’s Corner after having eaten all that junk food. She had sat next to her father, Jess and Cam in the seats in front of them, and he had put his arm around her, assuring her she would be fine. She remembered being lulled into a sort of sleep, her cheek against the smoothness of her father’s winter jacket, the spicy scent of his aftershave soothing. By the time the bus had pulled into the station and Petra had woken to see her mother waving to them from the parking lot, she no longer felt sick. Her father had been right. She was fine.

It was funny the things you remembered. Not always the big moments, the official turning points, demarcations like graduations from high school or college, but the small moments, the feel of your father’s jacket against your cheek as you dozed against his chest, the smell of the pine-scented candles your mother brought out in the winter months. The meaningful stuff after all.

Finally, Petra opened her book again, eager to get back to the story of Joseph Knecht’s journey from a small, seeking child to the wise, learned Master of the Glass Bead Game. Briefly, she wondered if either of her parents had read the book, maybe back when they were in college. Her mother would have liked it. Her father . . . Petra smiled. Her father would have thought it a lot of hooey.

Elizabeth was kneeling at one of the flowerbeds. She had finally gotten around to buying a pair of kneepads. Why she had waited so long to make the purchase was anyone’s guess. The larger question might be, why did any reasonably intelligent person put off doing what they knew was the right or smart thing to do?

The sound of a car slowing made Elizabeth turn. An old, dark blue Volvo she didn’t recognize as belonging to anyone she knew pulled up to the curb, and, a moment later, Petra climbed out. She waved her thanks to the two people in the front seat and came loping across the lawn.

Elizabeth smiled, stood, and opened her arms for a welcoming hug.

“Why didn’t you call me?” she said. “I told you I’d pick you up at the bus station. Who were those people?”

“A very nice older couple who live in Sterne Hollow,” Petra told her. “The wife was on the bus with me, and I helped her with her bag. Her husband was happy to give me a lift. They had the most adorable dog with them, a roly-poly pug. He sat on my lap the whole way from the bus stop to Eliot’s Corner!”

The two women went into the house. Petra looked well, her mother thought. She had been a very healthy child and teen, barely suffering the common cold, and so far, she had been as lucky in her adult life. Also, her capacity for food consumption was famous and often envied.

“You travel light,” Elizabeth said, noting Petra’s one large bag, an amorphous tapestry thing with leather handles. “You are planning to stay for the entire summer, aren’t you?”

Petra shrugged. “I figured I could always borrow something from you if I need it. We’re the same height and build.”

Elizabeth noted her daughter’s peasant-style blouse and linen harem pants. “But my style isn’t nearly as bohemian as yours.”

Petra smiled. “I’ll throw a gauzy scarf over one of your classic button-down blouses and create an entirely new outfit.”

Arm in arm, mother and daughter went into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” Elizabeth asked.

“Starved. I haven’t eaten since I had a corn muffin early this morning.”

Petra went to the fridge and began to rummage. This habit had annoyed Hugh, who had forever been reminding Petra that it wasn’t economically smart to keep the door to the fridge open too long. Petra had never learned the lesson.

Elizabeth heard the front door open and shut; it had to be Jess. She was the only one in Eliot’s Corner who felt comfortable enough to visit without notice and without knocking for entry once she arrived. A moment later, Jess was with her mother and sister in the kitchen.

“Hey,” she said in the direction of Petra’s back. “When did you arrive?”

Petra turned around to greet her sister and then went back to examining the contents of the fridge.

Jess was in her work clothes—a pair of black dress slacks; a white button-down blouse, all but the top two buttons done up; and a pair of low-heeled black pumps. Her only adornment was a pair of small diamond studs her parents had given her upon graduation from college. Elizabeth had seen other people who worked in Jess’s office, and none of them, not even the senior people, wore such a—okay, she would say it—boring and unimaginative outfit. But it suited Jess and that was all that mattered.

“Would you like something to eat?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee. Don’t worry,” Jess added, heading for the coffee maker. “I’ll take care of myself.”

“How’s Eddie?” Petra asked, now piling supplies for a sandwich onto the cutting board.

Jess frowned. “A pain in the butt.”

“If you don’t like him very much why are you still with him?” Petra asked. It was a question that often had occurred to Elizabeth.

“Oh, I like him. I probably even love him. That doesn’t mean I don’t also want to strangle him.”

Elizabeth declined to comment. The women gathered at the table a few moments later, Petra with her sandwich, Jess with a cup of coffee, Elizabeth with a cup of tea. The flatware they were using had been a wedding gift; the dishes, cups, and bowls were more recent purchases. The fancy china Elizabeth had inherited from her mother long ago hadn’t seen the light of day since the year before Hugh’s death. If she downsized, Elizabeth thought, sold this house and moved to a smaller place, maybe a condo, would her daughters want the fancy china, the silver tea service she had inherited from a great-aunt, the hand-embroidered tablecloth that had been passed down in Hugh’s family? Or would she be forced to sell it all on eBay?

Moot questions for the moment, as Elizabeth was going nowhere.

“So, what are you going to do with yourself in Eliot’s Corner for the summer?” Jess asked in the vaguely aggressive tone she often used when talking to her younger sister. “Laze around?”

Petra shrugged and finished chewing before replying. “Probably, at least some of the time. But I’ll also be working. You know I’ve got this online resale shop called Past Perfect specializing in vintage clothes and accessories. All the stuff is stored in my apartment. If anything sells while I’m away, Lena, the woman who’s renting my room this summer, will package it up and send it to the buyer. In the meantime, I’ll scour local yard sales and flea markets for more finds. Maybe I’ll check out an auction if I can find one not too far away.”

“I haven’t been to an auction in years,” Elizabeth said. “I might just go with you.”

Jess frowned. “That can’t be a very reliable way to earn a living, selling baggy old dresses and worn-out shoes.”

Petra laughed. “It’s as reliable as any other, I guess. Anything can happen at any time to shake up people’s lives and livelihoods. Anyway, I enjoy it.”

“But it can’t allow you to put away money for your future,” Jess went on.

Petra looked momentarily puzzled, then almost confused.

“It’s Petra’s choice,” Elizabeth said firmly. “We each have to make our own decisions.”

Jess sighed. “You’re right about that. Well, I gotta go. Thanks for the coffee.”

She was gone as abruptly as she had arrived, leaving through the kitchen door and closing it firmly behind her.

“I get the feeling she thinks I’m a lost cause.” Petra laughed unhappily.

“Not at all,” Elizabeth protested. “It’s just that the idea of not having a ‘regular’ job—if such a thing exists these days—puzzles her. Upsets her even. It’s her issue, not yours.”

Petra finished her sandwich, and, by the time she had, her good mood had returned. “It’ll be fun hunting for treasures,” she said. “Who knows? Maybe there’s even something buried up in our very own attic I could recycle.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I doubt you’ll find anything of interest. I was never good about saving my clothes, not even special occasion dresses.”

“What about your wedding dress? Would you be willing to sell that?”

Elizabeth was startled by the question. She supposed she had thought that Jess or Petra might want to wear it one day. Cam had wanted her own dress; besides, she had admitted she didn’t care for her mother’s. “Too fussy,” was her judgment.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Elizabeth said. “I never thought about selling it.”

“I know it’s a sentimental piece,” Petra said, “but better to sell it to someone who will wear it than let it rot away unseen.”

“That’s a point,” Elizabeth admitted. “My mother chose the dress for me, you know. I suppose I had some input, but really, we both knew the final decision would be hers.”

“I think it’s a pretty dress, not like some of the really awful stuff brides wore in the eighties. And you looked really lovely in it.”

“Thanks. You wouldn’t want to wear it one day, would you?”

“Me?” Petra chuckled. “At the rate I’m going, I won’t be a bride until I’m fifty, if ever! No, I think that, if I ever do fall in love deeply enough to want to spend my life with someone, I’ll opt for a very low-key wedding, maybe at the beach or in a beautiful field full of flowers. And I’ll most probably wear a caftan, definitely not something with a defined waist!”

Elizabeth smiled but only briefly.

“What’s wrong?” Petra asked. “You suddenly look . . . pensive.”

“I was just thinking about how my mother commandeered so many aspects of my wedding, not only the choice of dress. She was older by then; you know I was born when both of my parents were in their mid-forties. I was one of what people called ‘surprise’ babies. Anyway, I guess I always saw my mother and father as sort of double adult figures, parents and grandparents. To say no to them was impossible. At least, it felt that way.”

“Well, what sort of dress would you have chosen if you’d had your way?” Petra asked.

Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t know. Something less . . . exuberant, I guess. Then again, the dress was perfectly appropriate for the event. You’ve seen the photos. My wedding was a by-the-book affair. That was down to my mother as well as to your father. He wanted something very traditional, nothing oddball, he said.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “As if I would have gone for ‘oddball.’”

“But you might have gone for a smaller celebration?” Petra asked. “Something unique to you and Dad?”

“Maybe. None of that matters now.”

“Okay. Just think about selling the dress. No pressure, though.”

Elizabeth promised that she would give the idea due consideration.

“So, how are you feeling about this enforced retirement?” Petra asked. “It makes me so angry to think about it. I mean, you were the most popular English teacher at Eliot’s Corner Primary School forever! You’re not happy about being pushed out, are you?”

“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “I’m not ready to retire. I was angry at first, too, then sort of resigned. Now, I don’t know quite what I feel. Leaving my colleagues—not to mention the students—was very difficult. The administration had a party at the end of the term for those of us not moving over to MidCoast Primary. It was a bit of a nightmare. Very uncomfortable. Those moving on were looking sheepish; some looked out-and-out guilty. And those of us who had been let go were working hard on keeping a strained smile on our faces. I slipped out early and came home to drown my sorrows in ice cream.”

Petra reached across the table and took her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mom. But hey, look at it this way. Now you’ll finally be free to travel, maybe to meet someone fabulous and fall in love again!”

Ah, Elizabeth th