Determined to run away from her failed marriage, Cartier Davenport, finds herself escaping failure by secluding herself in a seaside village hidden away in the rolling hills of the English countryside.
Surrounded by her books, paints, and large over...
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c a r t i e r
I drank myself to oblivion that night. I drank until I couldn't cry or laugh or even feel anymore. I consumed my ex's alcohol until the numbness coursing throughout my vein system numbed every muscle inside my body, including my heart.
I didn't want to feel anymore, I didn't want to want these small things like a husband or a child or the house. I no longer wanted to want.
The only thing I'd allow myself to have is solitude. So, I pawned all the expensive jewelry to one lucky pawnshop owner on the south side, sold the Mercedes for half of what it's worth because I don't give a shit. Then I set the house up in Boston for auction.
I was done with caring.
And I was done with people.
🌻
"You shoore ya kin ta doin this lassie?" Mr. Byrne, an older man from Scotland broaches me from just beyond the rock paddock wall separating the front garden from the walking path.
Mr. Byrne has asked me this question every morning since I bought the property during his daily stroll and I've given him the same answer.
"Good morning to you too," I call to him tucking my thin robe tightly around my waist then murmur under an irritated exhale, "You old bastard."
Mr. Byrne mutters something else in his half-Scottish half-jumble of a language and puffs his long pipe cocking a grin and struts off nimbly down the dirt road while I close and lock the front door.
Inside, my morning coffee brews leaving a lingering scent wafting from the kitchen a few rooms away. The ceilings in my home are low, and I've noticed the smells as well as heat from the fireplace travel much better with less space to fill.
And, yes, I've learned how to light and stoke a fireplace. Thanks to Youtube.
My soft fur white slippers shuffle through the old living room mixing with the cracking sounds of the old oak hardwood floors until I reach the kitchen off to the right of the house. The ceiling angles off to where it meets the back door while the room is filled with open cabinets where my floral dish set is filed away vertically above the sink and lower country counters.
Beside the large sink that's been cracked and needing to be replaced I take a ceramic mug hanging from the exposed cabinets from an eye hook and pour myself a coffee then mix the milk into it. Since being here, I've had withdrawals of Starbucks and my favorite flavored salted caramel creamer, but I'd rather have something than nothing.
