The Closet

 The Closet

Jimmy Jackson returned home after a long day of swimming at his friend’s house. Every muscle in his 12 year old body ached from the extensive exercise they had been through and now he wanted nothing more than to relax as he made his way up the staircase to his room.  

As he entered the room he noticed that his mom had piled his clothes neatly on his bed indicating that he had to put them away, so he did. When it came time to hang his shirts up in the closet he reached in and pulled out a couple of hangers. As the clothes swayed, something in the back of the closet caught his eye. He looked again but the clothes were covering where he wanted to look so he reached into the closet and pushed the clothes aside. There was a brass doorknob, shining like a beacon, glaring out at him. All thoughts of tiredness disappeared immediately. He looked carefully around the knob. He checked for a door that could exist no more than this knob could. There was no door. Only the knob. He reached out and turned the knob. It turned like a regular door knob but nothing happened. It felt solid in his hand. It was an old fashioned type of door knob. Usually with a door knob like that there was a keyhole where the key would be inserted. Jimmy inspected carefully and not only was there no keyhole, there was no door. He searched all around the wall where the door knob was but it remained a solid wall. “Weird,” he thought.

His grandparents' house was once an old farmhouse. The house long ago stood in the middle of a farmers field but now it was surrounded by other houses in the middle of town. It had many secrets but this was a new one. He thought about where his closet was located. It backed onto the stairway. He rushed out into the hall and checked the stairway. There was no knob on the wall of the stairway. Feeling dejected he quickly returned to his bedroom and to the back of his closet. The door knob was still there. He turned it, twisted it, pulled on it hard with both feet on the wall for leverage but to no avail. The doorknob remained static. Having thought of everything he could do to get the knob and expected door open he did what every 12 year old boy does when he is faced with a dilemma he cannot solve. 

"Mom," he called. "Could you come up here for a minute?" He stepped out of the closet to await the arrival of his mother.

"What is it?" she asked as she entered the room.

"Can you take a look in the closet, back left, behind the shirts."

"Okay," she replied, a little perplexed. "Back corner, left side. Hmmm," she said as she moved the clothes out of the way. "Flat wall, Painted expertly if I do say so myself."

"What?" roared Jimmy. He raced into the closet beside his mother. He stood, mouth agape, looking at the place on the wall where the doorknob had been just seconds ago.

"Is there something here I am supposed to notice? Or is this one of those diversions people need to surprise you on your birthday."

"Your birthday is months away," replied Jimmy as he let the clothes fall back and then moved them out of the way a couple of times. "That’s weird," he said.

"What’s weird?" she asked.

"When I was putting the clothes away there was a doorknob at the back of the closet but it’s not there now."

"I know there is no doorknob, nor was there a door in that closet. It backs onto the stairway. I also spent a great deal of time locked in that closet by your uncle.” She shivered at the memories her words invoked.  “If there was a door I would have used it." his mom replied. "I think your imagination has run away with you."

"I didn’t imagine it," he said with anger building on every word. "It was there. I felt it. I pulled on it. Nothing happened." 

"Right,” she replied. “You need to put the rest of your clothes away and get washed up for dinner. Five minutes at most," she said as she exited the room.

Jimmy sat down on the bed confused. He knew what he saw. It was there. What had happened? Slowly he got up off the bed and walked to the closet door. He reached into the closet and pulled the clothes aside. There on the wall was the shiny brass doorknob. He blinked, looked away and looked back in the closet. The doorknob was still there. He shook his head musing over why it was there now and not when his mom was there. Surely it didn’t mean that he alone was supposed to see it. He reached out, touched it, turned it and then stepped back. Again nothing happened. It was just a door knob in the back of his closet that his mom couldn’t see.

It was time for dinner. His mom kept him busy through the evening so it wasn’t until the next morning that he had a chance to explore the doorknob further. He stood before his closet, took a big breath and took a step forward and then he stopped dead on the spot. Something was different in the closet. He took a good look before he noticed that there was a door outlined in the back of the closet. He shoved the clothes aside roughly and stood peering at a solid wood, old fashioned door with the brass doorknob attached to it. Oak was his estimation. Two inlaid panels, top and bottom, surrounded by very solid wood. A very formal, and he supposed expensive, door. 

"Whoa!" he said to himself silently. "This is just too weird." It was then that he noticed the envelope attached to the door. The handwriting was an old fashioned script. He peered at it carefully, reached out and felt it. The envelope felt like nothing he had ever felt before in his life. The script was a bit hard to read. He pulled it off the door and glanced at it more closely. He turned it over. Nothing was on the back.

"Jimmy," his mother called out. " Are you planning on coming downstairs this morning?" She got like this when she was annoyed about something. He was sure he would find out in a minute. He would have to be quick. Being patient was not one of her strongest points.

"Be down in a couple of minutes," he replied. He looked back at the envelope, then turned it over and lifted the flap. He pulled out the paper inside. It was written in a flowery style almost cursive in its form. The paper felt thicker than most of the paper he normally wrote on at school. It was almost cardboard in its feel but was easily more bendable. He flipped the paper over and saw that there was nothing written on the back side. He stared at the writing again, slowly determining what was written there. It was written in crisp script:

Beyond the door is what you seek

Turn the handle. Take a peek!

Enter the chamber if you dare

But friend beware

Tis’ not with your eyes

But with your heart

That messages deliver

What they impart

For all that is sought

Is never owned

Our message is for you

Alone

Jimmy peered at it wondering what it all meant. Messages deliver what they impart? Pretty bizarre. As he was thinking about it he gazed at the door and then back at the paper. He read it over again and then he noticed something in small print near the bottom of the sheet of paper. 

Enter if your heart is pure.

"Well," Jimmy thought. "Can a heart ever be pure? It has all that blood running through it and blood is pretty messy and disgusting." He decided to chance it anyway, his curiosity getting the better of him. He walked forward and turned the doorknob. At once the door opened. He paused uncomfortably, took a big breath, and looked at the door where it had opened. He looked through the door expecting to see the staircase that ran on the other side of the door. To his surprise he was looking down a long hallway. It was dark in the hall. He looked back at his windows and saw light streaming through from the morning sun. He looked back at the hall. Pure darkness. He took a step through the door and the door shut quietly behind him. It gave him a start but he moved forward into the room.  

The first thing he noticed was that there were windows but the shades were drawn. He walked over and lifted the blinds filling the room with light. He looked further around the room. He noticed that there was an old fashioned wooden bed with what looked like straw coming out of the end of it. He touched the blankets and felt a coarseness he had never felt before. He looked up and saw that there were spider webs everywhere. In one corner of the room he saw an old hockey stick. He walked over to it. The label on the handle said #4 ORR. There was a card attached. "This stick is the one in the famous picture from 1970 when the Boston Bruins won the Stanley Cup." Next to it was a bat that looked like it was painted black from top to bottom with an envelope of money attached to it. He looked at the name on it. Shoeless Joe Jackson. On the wall above them was a very old picture, a sketch really of a very famous painting he had seen in a book, The Mona Lisa. It was hanging above the bat and the stick. In the corner of the room was a very old airplane that didn’t look like it should be able to get off the ground.

On the wall beside the stick stood a wall of bookshelves. As he scanned it Jimmy saw many books. Some he did not recognize the titles or authors. Others he did. There were books by Hemingway, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald and many older than that. Sitting beside them was a pristine copy of The Deathly Hollows. He pulled it from the shelf and flipped open the cover. Inside was inscribed "Couldn’t have done it without you." He put the book back without comment. On the wall closest to the door there was a desk. Above the desk was a splendid painting of Sunflowers. On the desk was an old document that had what looked to be the first draft of something in a strangely written handwriting. ”Four score and seven years ago,” he read. Sitting on the document was a very old pair of glasses, as if waiting for the owner to return. And in the middle of the desk was a book. The book stood open to the center page.

"What is this?" he asked himself. He looked down at the book and heard.

"This is the room of inspiration," the book read. Jimmy jumped back and landed on the bed. He felt as if he was being swallowed up by the bed as he struggled to place his feet firmly on the floor. Once he gained his composure he looked at the book again. There was nothing but a blank page.

"A room of inspiration," he thought to himself. "I wonder how a room can be inspiring?"

Suddenly things began swirling. The plane came to life and was zooming around the room. The hockey stick began moving and a gravelly voice began a play by play. Books flew off the shelves and opened with voices flying from the page.

Jimmy stepped back and shouted "enough!" Everything shot back into place and silence reigned. The book on the desk had some more writing on its page.

"A room of inspiration is a place where ideas are developed and thoughts become real," the book had written.

"So why am I here?" Jimmy asked.

"Before something really important happens there are seeds sown. They are cultivated carefully, given reasons for developing and after careful consideration moulded into something that exemplifies  excellence. Today you have been invited to begin the process. It is time to develop your idea although you may have no idea it is being developed but it is. The seeds are being planted. After years of trials and tribulations and careful thought your idea will spring forward into life."

"Idea?" thought Jimmy to himself. "I have an idea that needs to be developed.

"Everyone has ideas," said a voice coming from the doorway. Jimmy looked up quickly to see an elderly man close the door and walk to the closet to hang up his hat. "You have ideas. One of those ideas is important. It will develop over time. You are having an idea right now."

"I am?" mumbled Jimmy.

"Come now Jimmy. You are wondering who I am and why I am here in the secret room you have been invited into at your Grandparents house. I am the muse Rodney at your service."

"Rodney?" Jimmy thought to himself. "How can a guy so old have a name like Rodney"

"My mother's side. It is an old family name. Yes I am the muse."

He looked around in wonder. "How is a hockey stick inspiring?" Jimmy asked. It was curious that a piece of wood would be in the room.

"The use of it by the owner was inspiring. The imaginations of anyone who saw the game were inspired. The dreams of children about the picture were inspiring. Writers have made references to it. This is but your first visit to the room of inspiration. It will be the first of many. Now, it appears that you are yet to be truly inspired but the invitation is still there. Your seed has been sown. You may return at any time you choose. Be inspired here, but for now you must return to your bedroom."

Jimmy looked the muse straight in the eye. "This is just too weird."

"Yes, I suppose it is. It is what all the others who have written, thought, and developed ideas in this room have thought over time. Leonardo was afraid that his talents had left him."

"Leonardo?" said Jimmy. "Di Caprio?"

"Ah yes," said the muse. "Di Caprio was inspired here and continues to be inspired but, alas, I am talking about Da Vinci."

Jimmy looked somewhat skeptical. "And what about Shoeless Joe?" He asked.

"Joe was inspired by the thought of playing the game to the best of his ability. It was his only real idea. It was so simple but so worthwhile because it reflected the best of who he was. The last time he visited he left the money from the 1919 World Series. He didn’t want it. He played to win. He always played to win. But now I must insist. You must return to your bedroom."

Jimmy walked towards the door. "You said I could come back?"

"Yes. Any time."

"How will I know when it is time?" Jimmy asked.

"The door knob will appear."

"In the closet?"

"Always in the closet. But not always at your Grandparents house. When you are ready and the time is right it will be there. The door knob knows when the time is right."

Jimmy nodded as he stepped through the door. There are some things in life that are better to accept as they are. This appeared, to Jimmy, to be one of them. He closed the door gently and headed for the stairs. It was time for breakfast and then to have some fun.

 Hi all. Here are a couple of writing software programs that you can check out. I  have used them both and they are fairly user-friendly. They enable you to organize and format more easily. There is also an AI assistant that won't write your stuff for you, but can act as a good research tool. 

Screenplay writing: https://app.arcstudiopro.com/

All other writing: https://www.butterdocs.com/

There is a free trial for each and then it is about $100/year. If two people were to go together, one could gift the other and get it for about $79/year. I shall post them here on the side gadget under Helpful Links.

 Here is a rhyming website that impresses me.

https://www.rhymezone.com/

Forest Floor

 

The forest is calling
I listen
Enormous trees surrounding
I inhale the cool air
Slowly releasing
I ask for permission
A maple shares his name
Gull, Gull, Gull
My right hand on his bark
He gifts me balance, protection and strength
A mushroom nearby whispers
"Be wise, trees have no sense of time"
The spirit realm felt near
An environment I could thrive in
A place to quiet the mind
I thank the maple, stepping away
The forest continues to sing 
I listen

 

The Difference

Flights of fancy 

Or 

Fancy flights

Knowing the difference

Makes it right

 (A while ago ago I decided to convert some of the comedy sketches we did onstage in our improv troupe, Illustrated Men, into short stories. To try to preserve them in a literary form because, being totally improvised, there were only video recordings to mark their passing. This one here was a western parody we did in the 80's.)

Incident at Backhandle

The bright sunlight that streamed in through the window woke Hap Johnson from a deep slumber. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep but he knew it was too late. His head hurt, it had a been a long night playing piano at the bar and despite his rule never to hang about after work, he had slung back more than a few with Hevern Darden who had traveled all the way in from the Double K to see him. So, what could he do? He looked at the clock on the dresser. Two o’clock. He’d better get going.

He threw off the thin cover and stood up. He walked to the washstand by the open window and using both hands, splashed the icy water over his head and unshaven face. He shivered, took down the dirty towel and dried himself off as he regarded the long view across the plains. He put on a clean shirt and a vest and his scuffed bowler hat and left the room. He had slept in his trousers again.

The wind was blowing dust and tumbleweed down the main street of Backhandle, Nevada and few people wandered the boardwalks. A couple of riders went by heading east towards the ranch lands, their faces covered with their kerchiefs. A buckboard was being loaded up outside the general store and a couple of ragged children were laughing and trying to push each other into the horse trough outside the sheriff’s office. Hap could see the sheriff inside at his desk doing some paperwork. The deputy was sweeping the pine floors with a long straw broom.

He crossed the street and strode up to the front door of the Golden Pony saloon and peered over the swinging doors before entering. There was nobody inside but the bartender, Gus, cleaning glasses at the far end of the long mahogany bar. Gus looked up as Hap came in. Gus was a heavy man of about forty-five and balding but what hair he had left was jet black. He wore an apron done up around his waist and the red straps of his suspenders were wide and stood out against his blue cotton shirt.

“Mornin’ Hap,” he said, turning and putting some of the old glass mugs up on the shelf.

“Mornin’, barkeep,” Hap replied and walked over to the bar. “Mighty quiet around here today.”

“Yep, real quiet for a western town, circa 1890,” Gus mused.

continue reading

 

 

 

I’ll Be Home Soon

The swish of a paddle

The call of the loon

Waves breaking over the bow

I’ll be home soon

A campfire at night

The hiss of the wood

Roasted marshmallows on fire

I’ll be home soon

Long grown trees

Sitting on a hill

A brand new dock

At the ices will

In my thoughts

 Everyday 

Long to be there

Where there's a will there's a way

A cool summer morning

Leaves bristle on high

Doves coo their summer warning

I'll be home soon

Summer becomes the fall

The water starts to cool

Wood stove blazes red hot fire 

I’ll be home soon

When Life Becomes Mundane

 

Mable Fernsby was set in her ways. Having retired five years ago she had settled into a comfortable routine. Each day had it’s own rhythm and until now that suited Mable just fine. She enjoyed time on her own painting, crafting, reading and doing puzzles. But recently she decided she needed to shake things up in her life. She had become too predictable. So how did Mable attempt to break from this pattern she had fallen into? She normally did her grocery shopping on Wednesday, but occasionally now she waited until Thursday. She always met her sister Louise for lunch on Monday, but occasionally now suggested they meet on Tuesday instead. Yes, Mable was indeed making big changes in her life. Louise didn’t actually notice. Lunch on Monday wasn’t etched in stone, Tuesday worked for her. Louise was the older sister, a widow with two grown girls and two granddaughters, her life was unpredictable and busy, but she always made time for Mable. They lived within walking distance of one another in an old neighbourhood where they had both spent their entire life. Louise travelled the world with her husband until she lost him suddenly more than fifteen years ago. Her daughters were only teenagers at the time and Mable stepped in to help. Louise would be forever grateful to her younger sister.

Friday was Mable’s favourite day. Probably a throwback to her working life, it signalled the end of another work-week, a weekend to relax with her hobbies, visit her sister and nieces and just relax. Retirement made everyday a weekend, but Friday still held that special vibe. So every Friday, Mable enjoyed a leisurely walk, window shopping and a pot of tea in her favourite little cafe just a few blocks from her house. On this particular Friday in October, Mable was feeling especially comfortable. She had her favourite quiet table nearest the window, and having dropped in at the library after window shopping she had picked up a copy of Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None”. A novel she had read several times, but enjoyed it so much she just felt it was time to read it again. She treated herself to two slices of apple cinnamon bread, poured her first cup of tea and settled in to start reading. Out of the corner of her eye she saw an acquaintance coming in and hoped he would not see her. She shifted slightly to face the window. It was too late. He was standing by the edge of the table. She couldn’t be rude, so invited him to sit with her. He accepted, and said he would return with his coffee. She put her book away and realizing she probably looked disappointed, made a concerted effort to appear delighted to see Flynn. He returned with his extra large frothy coffee and a very large toasted bagel. This seemed to indicate Agatha Christie would have to wait until Mable got home.

Flynn flopped into his chair, almost spilled his coffee, and dropped his bagel on the placemat. Mable gave him a little grin and started some smalltalk. How have you been? Haven’t seen you around. Flynn didn’t require much encouragement to talk about himself. She heard about his wife and children whom she had never met. She heard about the renovation they were having done on their home though she had no idea where he lived. She forgot how she knew him. As his voice seemed to drift further away she began searching her memory to explain how they had any connection. He said something that brought her back to the moment. He was talking about real estate and yes, that was it. He had been the real estate agent for her sister’s last move, and Louise had met him through the real estate deals on both her daughters purchases. The older girl had met him through her in-laws and everyone raved about his ability to close a real estate deal to the advantage of everyone involved. So the explanation of how Mable and Flynn met came back to her and she remembered several parties where they had both been guests. He was still talking about real estate when she refocused on the one-sided conversation. Apparently the market was on an upswing. Mable could easily sell her house for one point five million. Did Flynn know she had only paid one hundred and two thousand dollars nearly forty years ago for her little house. Flynn was telling her she could sell her house, move to a quiet small town just outside the city and put a big chunk of cash into savings. He proceeded to tell her about all the clients he had helped do exactly that and how happy they were in the country. He made something she had never thought of doing sound like something that she really must consider.

The conversation took a turn towards general small talk again and Flynn suddenly realized he had somewhere he had to be. He had barely touched his bagel and still had half his coffee, probably cold now. But he left it behind and said his goodbyes. He had taken a few steps from the table when he returned, handed Mable his business card and offered his services if she should decide to make a move.

It really was never a consideration. Forty years in her little house that cost her one hundred and two thousand dollars. Her tea had gone cold, her apple cinnamon bread only half eaten. She wrapped up the bread in a napkin and decided to head home where she would make a fresh pot of tea and start her book.

As she walked home along the busy city street she suddenly noticed the sound of the traffic and was aware of having to step aside to avoid bumping in to other pedestrians. She turned onto a side street. It wasn’t so bad. Street and pedestrian traffic was light but she made a conscious decision to scrutinize the neighbourhood. Had she just become accustomed to certain unpleasantries? Cars were parked on both sides of the road, making the driving lane a tight squeeze for two way traffic. Some gardens weren’t so well kept and some houses were in desperate need of paint or a new roof. She approached her own house, now worth one point five million according to a very highly praised real estate agent.

Friday night Mable always made herself a light dinner, watched a movie or streamed a few episodes of an old TV show before going to bed to read or do a crossword puzzle. On this Friday Mable was distracted with thoughts of real estate and lots of money in saving’s accounts. Agatha Christie was still waiting, but Mable couldn’t concentrate. She decided she would call Louise tomorrow and ask her opinion.

It was a restless night. The sound of traffic had never been a concern for Mable, but tonight she was very aware of car horns, screeching brakes and sirens. Why had she never noticed this before?

The next morning Mable made her usual Saturday breakfast. Scrambled eggs, peameal bacon, toasted English muffin, orange juice and tea. She sat in her kitchen looking out the window into her garden. It was a very small garden, not enough room for even a little vegetable patch. She had an idea. Before she called Louise she’d search the real estate listings for properties just outside the city. There really were some beautiful listings and lots of open houses this weekend. She phoned Louise, asked her if she would be free on Sunday for a drive to the country. Yes, she’d love to take a road trip. Louse was intrigued. Mable had never suggested a road trip on such short notice. They always required at least two weeks planning. Would they pack a lunch or stop for a bite to eat somewhere along the way? Were there antique stores to visit, craft stores or art galleries? Louise had no idea what this trip was about. Her sister said they would discuss it along the way. She only knew she was to pick Mable up at ten o’clock on Sunday morning and she should have a full tank of gas.

Mable spent the remainder of the day Saturday imagining how different her life might be. The excitement of the possibilities had her feeling giddy. She spent several hours scrolling through the real estate listings.There were three she was most interested in. Two were in a small town about seventy five kilometres from Louise’s house and one was just 10 kilometres more than that. Each house was a bungalow and even the smallest lot was an incredible ninety feet wide. One had a raised vegetable garden, a greenhouse and a small outbuilding she could use as an arts and crafts studio. It was listed for seven hundred and fifty thousand. She could sell her little house for one point five million and easily put seven hundred thousand in the bank. Eighty five kilometres from Louise wasn’t so far really. They could still meet for lunch once a week if each of them drove just forty two point five kilometres and that’s not so far. Louise would have her own room and could stay as often as she wished.

Another sleepless night for Mable. She was up early and waiting on the front porch for Louise when she arrived at ten o’clock as agreed on. Mable had printed off the information for the listings she was most interested in and had printed a map with explicit directions. The open house for the one that most appealed to her would begin at noon. It was the furthest, but only ten kilometres more than the two closer listings which, to be perfectly honest, Mable had already eliminated and really ten kilometres isn’t so far. She almost skipped down the walkway to meet Louise at the curb and save her from having to squeeze into a parking spot. Louise noticed the skip in her step, the big smile on her face but still had no idea what this road trip was about. She stopped the car and Mable climbed in. She held her print outs in a manilla folder which peaked Louise’s curiosity. She didn’t shift into drive, waiting for Mable to tell her which way she would be going. No small talk, no good morning, no how are you. Louise just asked, which way?

The instructions were simple. Up to the highway and head east. The route to the highway was straightforward and usually took about five minutes. Neither Mable or Louise realized this particular Sunday there was a charity half marathon being run. Mable complained that the roads were always being closed on weekends for one reason or another but Louise said she had never taken much notice because they rarely ventured out by car on a Sunday. In fact, Mable never drove on a Sunday. Mable spent very little time driving, so little that Louise was often tempted to suggest they share one vehicle between them and split the cost. This would have been a perfect opportunity to raise the idea but Mable told her to hold on tight because she had big news to share.

Louise was shocked. Was this her sister talking about moving to the country? Her sister who had lived in the city her entire life? Her sister who had seemed happy with her quiet routine, shaking it up occasionally by getting together for lunch on Tuesday instead of Monday? She listened as Mable talked a mile-a-minute about all the information Flynn had shared. She’d have so much more space around her. It would be so quiet. Her bank account would leave her set for life. Louise said the concept made sense and if it was something she really wanted to do there was nothing holding her back. That’s what Louise said. What she thought was something else. Mable had never even hinted that she might move. Never. She was so set in her ways. Was money an issue? She had never shown any concern. She had an excellent pension, Louise knew that. She had decided to wait until she was sixty-five to collect her Canada Pension, but she could apply this year if she needed it. Why hadn’t Louise realized that money was an issue? Mable was describing the house she wanted to see and Louise agreed it sounded wonderful. When would they see one another? Mable had that figured out. They’d meet for lunch half-way and Louise could spend as much time as she wished visiting her in the country. What about shopping and doctor’s and dentist’s? Mable explained to Louise that they do have stores in the country and she could go back to the city for appointments. What about shovelling the snow and cutting the grass in this immense garden? Mable would have so much money in the bank, surely she could hire someone. Mable had a solution for every issue Louise raised and this was how the conversation continued as they sailed along the highway. Before they knew it Mable was telling Louise to take the next exit and go north about ten minutes. And so she did.

The open house signs were posted on the main road which had a ribbon of autumn colours on each side and as far as the eye could see. They followed the signs directly to the house. It was more beautiful than Mable had imagined. There were several other people viewing the house and one young couple deep in conversation with the agent. The sisters strolled through the garden, admiring the raised beds and the greenhouse. The outbuilding Mable would use as a studio was incredible. She could already picture herself spending long leisurely mornings creating art. They hadn’t stepped a foot inside the house, but Mable knew this is what she wanted. This was the shake-up she’d been dreaming of.

The house didn’t disappoint. Everything was perfect. The young couple left and the agent asked if they had any questions. Louise wanted to know about the structure, the foundation, the roof, the electrical and plumbing systems. Mable wanted to know why the owners would want to give up such a tranquil piece of heaven. They had lived in the house about two years, but wanted to move back to the city.

If it’s possible the drive westbound was longer than it was eastbound. Traffic was heavier, it seemed people were heading home from cottage country. Louise asked Mable if she had fallen in love with the house. She had. Was she going to make an offer? She’d think on it overnight and have a decision in the morning. The agent said there was a lot of interest and he was certain it would sell quickly, likely with a bidding war.

When they reached their exit the half marathon was over and the roads had been reopened. Mable noticed the trees were beginning to change colour and there was a crispness in the air. Traffic was light. Their favourite cafe was still open so Mable offered to treat Louise to tea. They both thought that would be a nice way to end their road trip. Mable thought the cafe would be busy on a Sunday evening but it was actually very quiet. The sisters were pleased their cozy table near the window was free. A waitress approached and Mable commented that she must be happy the Sunday rush was done. The waitress shrugged and told her it’s never busy on Sunday. There was one other table occupied by a young couple and a man dressed in an expensive looking suit. Their conversation was loud enough to be heard without the sisters appearing to eavesdrop. The smartly dressed man was a real estate agent and the couple was excited about a house in the neighbourhood. He asked if they could stretch their budget because there was a lot of interest and he was certain it would sell quickly, likely with a bidding war.

By the time Mable was going to bed she was feeling too tired to think. Louise had dropped her off given her a big hug, said she would look forward to hearing her decision and asked if they would be having lunch tomorrow since it was Monday. Mable said she would call her in the morning and they could decide then. She slept well. She didn’t hear any car horns or screeching brakes or sirens. When she woke on Monday morning she knew exactly what she would do. She phoned Louise. She told her she really needed to shake things up. Instead of having lunch today she suggested they meet on Thursday. She would do her grocery shopping on Tuesday this week and today she would spend with Agatha Christie.