Another Book Excerpt

This is an excerpt of my next, not finished, novel. Frank Roselli was on his way to the beach cottage he and Katherine, his ex-wife, owned and shared. Myra, his live-in girlfriend had just dumped him for Jack, his long time best friend. They were on their way to Los Angeles where his friend had just landed a better position with an advertising agency out there. 

Frank went to the beach cottage to clear his mind. Ease his wounded ego.

To Cross That Bridge 

by

B.D. Adams

Chapter IV

   Not speeding this Thursday afternoon, but Frank maneuvered his red, Fiat Spider. His 1978 Spidereuropa, with the black top down, zoomed around vehicles on Ocean Parkway. He even wore goggles when he drove the car – to protect his eyes, of course. The wind in his hair tantalized!

     Frank mused: ‘Frank Roselli has pulled in front of Mario Andretti. They had been see-sawing for the lead in the last five laps. Can Roselli beat Andretti? Not yet – Andretti has the lead again. Wait a minute – Roselli has moved to the outside – he has a nose lead! They’re now side-by-side. They’re coming to the checkered flag. And … and … Roselli wins! Roselli wins! Frank Roselli wins The Monaco Grand Prix!!’

     Frank put his head back and made the crowd noise, the cheering crowd! He had to do this more often, he smiled with a happy sigh.

     He loved driving his Fiat like a race car in Monaco, France. Unfortunately, he had never been to Monaco. He and Myra had been making plans to go to Europe. He wanted to visit Italy again, now he was a grown man.

     Not in his madras shorts, he wore his khaki cargo shorts, a light blue T-shirt, and his leather Dockside shoes.

     He had gone the distance down Ocean Parkway on Jones Island to the obscured dirt access road to Oak Beach Road to go to the cottage. Just another 300 yards east of the Community Center.

     He kept mulling over the recent crap with her, Myra. He was more than glad that he decided to keep his private bank account to him only. She cleaned out the shared account, though. He could file a domestic complaint, but it was a shared account. What she did irritated him, but was it worth to file a lawsuit? Why did she leave him?

     Stop that, he scolded. No more Myra. No more Jack. Only Francis Roselli from now on.

     Francis pulled into the long driveway to the back door of the cottage. The front neighbor’s cottage was between the beach and their cottage. They allowed him, Kathy and their friends, to go down their path to the beach when desired. It didn’t look like the neighbors were there. That was good. They always liked to banter with him – be nosy.

     This cottage, his and Kathy’s, had been built several yards to the left behind the front property. However, the ocean was very seeable. He would do a lot of writing while there.

     Anxiously, impatiently he opened the screened door and unlocked the wooden door. Inside, the window over the sink was opened – there was a puff of a breeze, a little less stuffy. With a minor survey of the inside, everything seemed to be as it should. He carried his duffle to the inside of the cozy, comfortable cottage. The ceiling was faux-vaulted in the main area. A nice touch.

     Beginning with the window between the apartment sized stove and refrigerator and the small bedroom, he opened it wide. Then he moved to the living room area windows – one on the west wall near the bathroom and the two windows beside the front door.

     Just an average cottage of the 1920s. One airy bedroom, which was fairly large, with a queen-size bed and a good sized closet. The other bedroom was just a bit smaller than the front room, like a den or library. No bed – two armchairs and a small table with a lamp. The sofa in the main area made into a full bed, if needed. The matching overstuffed armchair added to the coziness of the area. In the cedar chest, in the front bedroom, there was a queen-size blow-up mattress. Came in handy many years ago for a beach weekend with friends. That was a fun weekend!

     This cottage was built in 1922 – the time of Gatsby. It was furnished, decorated in that era. However, definitely not meant for year round living.

     It was sturdy enough, though. As it was, there were oak hardwood floors, well-constructed walls of modern sheet-rock, not plasterboard, tall windows of 1920s vintage. There was very creative, outside bric-a-brac. Inside, the original cast-iron claw-foot tub with copper fixtures was spectacular!

     An article was written about the cottage by the local tabloid. He and Kathy bought it, had painted, repaired and put in a small shed that housed the beach chairs and other items. Not many of the older cottages were still in existence.  That was sad.

     In the bedroom, it was clear that Kathy had left the room spic and span after the tryst with her new boyfriend. Clean sheets on the bed, comforter neatly folded, as usual.

     He tossed the duffle bag onto the queen-sized bed. Raised those windows. Ah … refreshing!

     His curiosity got the better of him, though, as he went to the bathroom.  Even here, there wasn’t any telltale evidence that a man had been there. Frank shook his head. Did he really want to see remnants of another man?

     He and Kathy still had a kind of – affection -- for each other, which irked Myra at times. But could Frank and Kathy evolve back to something more? Especially now, with Myra gone.

     He must forget those thoughts!

     The little writing desk was still by the front window way to the left where he could look out at the beach and the breaking waves. He could gaze out when he needed a break. The laptop was placed there.

     In the kitchen, as in the bathroom, neat and clean. Frank opened a cupboard to see what might be there for food. Canned tuna, canned pork and beans and -- what’s this? A can of B&M Brown Bread.

     Bread in a can? Who was this guy she was dating? Was he someone from upstate … The Adirondacks? Frank shook his head with a tsk-tsk. Should he worry about his ex-wife? No … not now. He would open that can later to see if it was, indeed, bread.

     The fridge was empty, plugged in, but empty. He’d go to the little convenience store to see what he could buy there. Only going to be there for a few days.

     Looked into the cupboard by the sink where a few bottles of alcohol would be kept. Ah, yes. Half-gallon bottles mostly full of whiskey, vodka, rum and scotch, his favorite. That new guy must not drink much. That was good for Frank.

     The cottage felt more welcoming now with the windows opened, so he unlocked the front door and opened it wide. Then went through the screen door to step out onto the narrow porch where two white painted, wooden rocking chairs were. He just stood on the porch, leaned against one of the porch posts, to enjoy the ocean breeze. This was what he needed after last night.

     The sun was more to the west, over the city. A few seagulls flew near to the porch and screamed to him, so he imagined. They hoped he would throw food to them.

     “Go away you moochers,” Frank said, “I might have food for you later.” He laughed, but not heartily. Since he read that damned “Dear John” note, what did he have to laugh about? He smiled anyway. A smile came more easily made than a laugh.

     He would survive even this.