Britwitch
Classically curvy
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2004
- Posts
- 23,086
<<This thread is closed, for myself and Firmhanded_Daddy. We hope you'll enjoy our story.>>
Dennysville, Maine
July, 1954
Deborah felt as if she’d spent several months of her life on the coach that was currently winding its way through lush green farmland. She was hot and uncomfortable, her back was one long ache of pain. Her eyes idly following the scenery the flashed by the window, anything was better than pretending to listen to the middle aged man who’d sat next to her for the last few hours.
She’d already heard quiet enough of his ‘life stories’ to last her a lifetime of her own. His name was Al. He was a salesman, like his Daddy and his Grandaddy before him. His wife had left him just like his Momma had done to his Daddy and so on and so on. Even though she tried to drown out his loud Southern drawl still it invaded her ears as he related some ‘hilarious’ tale to a man of a similar outlook sat across the aisle.
Feigning drowsiness and then sleep had been the only way of getting him to stop talking to her directly. Subtle hints had simply been a waste of breath. Now his attention was focused elsewhere Deborah had allowed herself to open her eyes. Not that there was much point. Her eyes looked through the glass but they barely saw past her own hazy reflection. She looked sad and tired, she felt worse. This was a journey she never thought she would ever have to make alone.
Deborah was a widow.
Widow. It seemed such an odd label for a woman of her age at barely 32, she was surely too young. After all, it was peacetime, there were no brave young men being blown up half way round the world for ‘the greater good’. The war in Korea was over and the so-called war with Russia wasn’t real, not to her way of thinking. She couldn’t even cling to the idea that her husband, her Danny, had died for any kind of noble or glorious reason. He’d been stolen from her by a drunk driver. And with him, she’d lost everything.
As if losing the love of her life hadn’t been torture enough, it was only at the will reading she discovered just how much she had lost. Her apparently business minded husband had been easily led and a series of cleverly worded contracts had signed over his share of the company he’d founded to his partner upon his death. There were debts she had no idea about which meant their home would be taken. She was left alone and, aside from some small savings in her bank, a house she’d inherited from an Elderly aunt was all she had.
A colonial style, 3 bedroom home on the coast in Maine, was where she was going. A town little more than houses clustered together around a main street, the population she estimated couldn’t be more than a few hundred. One suitcase held all she could carry, the few pieces of furniture she managed to rescue from their home would follow later. She couldn’t think of anywhere else to go but the house. She had vague memories from her childhood of summers spent at her aunt’s house, with its large garden which only ended when it reached the river at the bottom outside the old, slightly, rambling house it had been a joy. Going there now, alone, and without her aunt there to meet her, it felt far from joyous.
Eventually the coach came to a halt in what she assumed was considered the centre of town. Stepping down she instantly felt out of place. The small town where everyone knew everyone, where everyone probably knew her or at least knew of her. She could almost feel the stares as she carried her case down the road in the direction she believed the house to be in. The breeze ruffling the full skirt of her dress as she walked, the bright colour singling her out as much as anything. The dress clinging to her natural curves, highlighting her bust despite the modestly high neckline and wrapping around her small waist. She raised a gloved hand to push an errant curl of honey coloured hair back from her face, pushing it back behind her ear to join the rest of the blonde waves hanging down past her shoulders, a few sections pinned up and back around her face. The sun far hotter than she was expecting made her dress suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight. Eventually her eyes fell on her destination and, grateful for the shade provided by the trees that lined the path to the front entrance, Deborah walked up to the house. Taking a breath she knocked briskly on the large wooden door. To her surprise it swung inwards.
Pausing for a moment she stepped into the relative gloom inside, blue eyes squinting into the shadows.
“Hello…?” Deborah set her case down on the floor, easing off her gloves and looking around. “Anyone here? It’s me, its Mrs. Meadows...” Her voice echoed slightly allowing her to realise just how large a house she’d inherited. She frowned, walking through into the main family room. It was like entering a time warp. Everything from the smell of the wood floors, to the heavy curtains at the windows, there was little that had changed from her memories. The letter from her aunt’s lawyer had mentioned a caretaker who lived in the house and had been helping her aunt maintain the property and garden for the last few years. “Well, he’s got be here somewhere…” She mused, walking through to the kitchen and then stepping out onto the back porch which looked out over the garden. “Hello…?” She called out again, a slight edge of frustration entering her voice, hands rising to rest on her hips.
Dennysville, Maine
July, 1954
Deborah felt as if she’d spent several months of her life on the coach that was currently winding its way through lush green farmland. She was hot and uncomfortable, her back was one long ache of pain. Her eyes idly following the scenery the flashed by the window, anything was better than pretending to listen to the middle aged man who’d sat next to her for the last few hours.
She’d already heard quiet enough of his ‘life stories’ to last her a lifetime of her own. His name was Al. He was a salesman, like his Daddy and his Grandaddy before him. His wife had left him just like his Momma had done to his Daddy and so on and so on. Even though she tried to drown out his loud Southern drawl still it invaded her ears as he related some ‘hilarious’ tale to a man of a similar outlook sat across the aisle.
Feigning drowsiness and then sleep had been the only way of getting him to stop talking to her directly. Subtle hints had simply been a waste of breath. Now his attention was focused elsewhere Deborah had allowed herself to open her eyes. Not that there was much point. Her eyes looked through the glass but they barely saw past her own hazy reflection. She looked sad and tired, she felt worse. This was a journey she never thought she would ever have to make alone.
Deborah was a widow.
Widow. It seemed such an odd label for a woman of her age at barely 32, she was surely too young. After all, it was peacetime, there were no brave young men being blown up half way round the world for ‘the greater good’. The war in Korea was over and the so-called war with Russia wasn’t real, not to her way of thinking. She couldn’t even cling to the idea that her husband, her Danny, had died for any kind of noble or glorious reason. He’d been stolen from her by a drunk driver. And with him, she’d lost everything.
As if losing the love of her life hadn’t been torture enough, it was only at the will reading she discovered just how much she had lost. Her apparently business minded husband had been easily led and a series of cleverly worded contracts had signed over his share of the company he’d founded to his partner upon his death. There were debts she had no idea about which meant their home would be taken. She was left alone and, aside from some small savings in her bank, a house she’d inherited from an Elderly aunt was all she had.
A colonial style, 3 bedroom home on the coast in Maine, was where she was going. A town little more than houses clustered together around a main street, the population she estimated couldn’t be more than a few hundred. One suitcase held all she could carry, the few pieces of furniture she managed to rescue from their home would follow later. She couldn’t think of anywhere else to go but the house. She had vague memories from her childhood of summers spent at her aunt’s house, with its large garden which only ended when it reached the river at the bottom outside the old, slightly, rambling house it had been a joy. Going there now, alone, and without her aunt there to meet her, it felt far from joyous.
Eventually the coach came to a halt in what she assumed was considered the centre of town. Stepping down she instantly felt out of place. The small town where everyone knew everyone, where everyone probably knew her or at least knew of her. She could almost feel the stares as she carried her case down the road in the direction she believed the house to be in. The breeze ruffling the full skirt of her dress as she walked, the bright colour singling her out as much as anything. The dress clinging to her natural curves, highlighting her bust despite the modestly high neckline and wrapping around her small waist. She raised a gloved hand to push an errant curl of honey coloured hair back from her face, pushing it back behind her ear to join the rest of the blonde waves hanging down past her shoulders, a few sections pinned up and back around her face. The sun far hotter than she was expecting made her dress suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight. Eventually her eyes fell on her destination and, grateful for the shade provided by the trees that lined the path to the front entrance, Deborah walked up to the house. Taking a breath she knocked briskly on the large wooden door. To her surprise it swung inwards.
Pausing for a moment she stepped into the relative gloom inside, blue eyes squinting into the shadows.
“Hello…?” Deborah set her case down on the floor, easing off her gloves and looking around. “Anyone here? It’s me, its Mrs. Meadows...” Her voice echoed slightly allowing her to realise just how large a house she’d inherited. She frowned, walking through into the main family room. It was like entering a time warp. Everything from the smell of the wood floors, to the heavy curtains at the windows, there was little that had changed from her memories. The letter from her aunt’s lawyer had mentioned a caretaker who lived in the house and had been helping her aunt maintain the property and garden for the last few years. “Well, he’s got be here somewhere…” She mused, walking through to the kitchen and then stepping out onto the back porch which looked out over the garden. “Hello…?” She called out again, a slight edge of frustration entering her voice, hands rising to rest on her hips.