Mr. Richardson and Me , livre ebook

Archway Publishing - Heather MacCorkle

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117 pages

English

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Description

This book is a memoir of the future, a source of hope for all who need to rebuild their lives after experiencing trauma.
At the Writer's Farm on the MacLeod Homestead, a vibrant community of writers gather every other weekend to talk about writing, enjoy one another's company, and play with writing ideas. All goes well for a few years until Mr. Richardson shows up, and then the proprietor of the writers' retreat finds out that life can be spectacular.

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Fiction

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Publié par	Archway Publishing
Date de parution	06 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781665743822
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

MR. RICHARDSON AND ME

HEATHER MACCORKLE

Copyright © 2023 Heather MacCorkle.

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

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

Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957

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

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

Interior Image Credit: Heather MacCorkle via Canva

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4383-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-4382-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908749

Archway Publishing rev. date: 05/25/2023
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
“I love the way you form sentences,” I blurted while we spoke on the phone. He was silent for a few seconds, just long enough for me to wonder if I had said the wrong thing.
Then, he finally spoke. “That’s probably one of the sexiest things one English teacher can say to another.”
We both laughed then. What nerds we are! Still, it was true: I did love the way he formed sentences. I loved the way he rearranged letters of the alphabet to form words and put them together into a complete thought. Not only that, but I also loved the way he spoke them. That deep, mahogany voice. I tingled.
The next day, he came up behind me at in-service. My friend’s eyes widened as he leaned into whisper in my left ear, “I love the way you form sentences.”
When he had gone, she said to me, “Your face is beet red. I mean beet red. What the hell did he say to you?”
“It was nothing, just unexpected. It’s been a long time since anyone has come up behind me like that. I guess I’m not used to it.”
As usual, my friend smiled and tilted her head at the same time. She touched my arm as she told me, “I’m really happy for you. You deserve it,” my friend said. With another squeeze, we heard the announcement to take our seats.
When I sat down next to another friend, she leaned into me and said, “I saw that you, you know. Just be careful. OK?”
I nodded and told her I would tell him that too.
“It’s really cute, to be honest. What did he say to you?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
I wandered my way back to my classroom, deep in thought about too many things as usual. When I opened the door, there he was.
“I had to hide a moment, or I was going to get bombarded with questions again,” he said.
“It’s good to see you again,” I responded. He chuckled. When I told him I was getting hit with a lot of questions and observations too, he apologized for being “untoward.” I had to admit I really liked it, I said, if it wasn’t the best thing to do in an auditorium full of educators.
“I’ll save it for texts and voicemails then,” he said.
“Me too.”
“Kinda like a little code thing.”
“I have a feeling we’ll have several of those. Like our own language.”
“How nice to have a universe of two.”
“There you go again, making sexy with the sentences.” His expression —jaw slack, eyes gleaming— was too precious to ever forget. I never have. So, I shot for the moon. “Don’t get me started, or I will talk about how I love how you rearrange letters of the alphabet to form words that go into those beautiful sentences. This could get … well…”
“Damn, woman… I’m going to go before I do something else inappropriate.” He gave me a hug and left.
Later, my friend reminded me that she knew what it was like to be chum in the water with “these sharks” and to be very careful.
That was my waking dream until the day I met Mr. Richardson. Then, I had a great conversationalist in the flesh, and no longer needed my waking dream.

📖
Do you think we are different beings for everyone we meet, or do you insist you are always yourself and nothing but yourself? I believe the former, and think I’ve always been that way until the opening of this story. When the events that take place in this narrative occurred, I had decided that I was going to be the person I have wanted to be for a long time. I was going to be honest with everyone I met, and if they could not handle the me I am, they could move on, and neither should be sad about it. Frankly, if I were to be rejected after even a season of being with a person one more time, I did not think I would make it. Now I know I wouldn’t. To change my life, I had to change my mind.
Not only that, but I had to change my venue. I started to plan my escape from the little town where I had taught high school English for many years, and thought of moving to points south, west, and north. I drove to different towns in each direction on weekends, and thought I had found a house down south, but the sellers would not accept my offer. I could not find anything toward the west. Finally, I found the house in which I now live and work. At that time, it was called the MacLeod Farm or the Miller Estate, depending on how old the resident you asked was.
The farm had been abandoned for almost ten years when Jenny Donahue, my realtor, and I drove up to it. She had asked someone to cut the lawn, and it looked quite good, but the rest of the house was in sore need of care taking. This was the fourth house she’d taken me to, and at first, I wondered what she could be thinking. When I would ask her later, she insisted she just had this feeling this house was meant to be mine, and that my hesitation about the other three kept urging her on. Well, all right.
As we stood before it, Jenny told me its story. “This was a working farm from 1880 until 2000,” she said, pushing her long braid back over her right shoulder, even though it wanted to be in front. “It was the home of the same family that entire time as well. There are still people around here who are mad at the family for letting it go to ruin, but that’s a story in itself. The last member of the family to actually live here did not farm at all. He was a writer, and he loved to putter around the house while he was coming up with ideas. He died about ten years ago, and the house has just sat since then.” That explained a lot about the poor house.
I mentioned that Mr. Miller’s story reminded me of a poem by Seamus Heaney called “Digging,” and pulled it up on my phone. I read it to her, and she said it was very fitting. I asked her what his name was, and she told me Joshua, Joshua Miller.
Two of the windows in the upper part of the house had been broken, and plywood covered them. The porch roof was a bit crooked, but it covered the one part of the house I’d always wanted for my own— a wraparound porch. I ran up to the house and followed the porch around three sides. Then I went up the rickety stairs to walk the porch itself. When I returned to the front, I looked through the bay windows into what was once a formal living room, followed by another room, and then a wall that I assumed had a kitchen behind it. To the left was a grand staircase that even twisted into the living room. That staircase was probably the perfect spot for prom and wedding pictures, I surmised. Next to the stairs was a door that I thought opened onto either a little den or a closet.
There were the obligatory cobwebs, but otherwise, it seemed relatively sound. As I was peering through the window, Jenny unlocked the master lock on the door, and we went inside.
It was so dusty and musty that I knew a good airing would cheer the place up. It wasn’t mine, though, so I just walked through. I saw the formal living room up close, without the dirty windows, and could see it in its empty glory. I reveled in its fireplace. And then, there was another in the next room. There was no wall separating them, and I really liked that. I could make one big living room if I wanted, or two separate rooms. I caught myself starting to plan rooms but stopped myself.
Then, I went through the doorway and saw the kitchen. It was serviceable, if old, and quite ugly. From the kitchen, there was a side door that led out to the porch. I opened it and it squeaked in protest. When I looked out, I could see chairs and tables. I shut the door quickly.
Jenny, although having known me only a day, could tell I was very interested in the house. She asked me to come upstairs to see the rooms up there. Upstairs were eight bedrooms and four baths. Four bedrooms and two bathrooms on each side of the house took up the entire second floor. I was shocked, but tried to imagine how big the family who lived here a long time ago must have been to run a farm. Still, to me, the upstairs held more rooms than the downstairs would have allowed. In the room that would become Darcy, I said to Jenny, “I am one person. How could I manage this whole house?”
“Well, Mr. Miller managed it well for almost a decade before he died. Not to freak you out, but he died in this house, on the couch that used to be in the parlor, surrounded by manuscript