Back in 2010 I started writing my very first book. I revised it a few times, tried to get an agent with it and got nowhere. Out of frustration, I shelved it. A few months later, the idea for The Broken Trail came to me and I got to work on what would be my first published novel and what is still my favorite written work of mine.

But my mom loved my first book. And she asked me why don’t I publish it since it’s complete. Well, that’s cause it’s a bit wonky. It has a prologue which is a no-no, it starts with what might be cliche opening, another no-no, and it’s too long. She said I should try to publish it anyway. I thought about self-publishing, but I don’t have the cash to do that right now and I don’t want to give Amazon any more of my money. Then I thought of serializing it, à la Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

This year I’ll be publishing the whole novel in parts on this blog. I’ll still be blogging, but at least one post per month (more likely 3 or 4) will be my novel The Davies. For my fellow writers, you are welcome to get out your metaphorical red pens and tell me where I went wrong in each post. I’m not letting myself edit heavily as I post each section, more just correcting glaring errors. It’s been a journey seeing how my writing has changed in a decade or more. For all it’s faults, I still love this story.

And this is free, no paywall. But I will be accepting donations, look out for the Ko Fi link on each post. No obligation at all, guilt-free. If you’re inclined to donate, I deeply appreciate it.

Happy Reading! The first installment is below.

The Davies of Coventry

Prologue

Meredith

At the Gas and Grab on Route One, just outside Boston’s city limits, Meredith Davies waited in the cold for the pump to finish. Spinning her keys around on her finger, she listened to them jingle while the numbers whirled along. When the pump finished, she looked through the window of the station and played the ‘Will I Quit Tonight?’ game. If the clerk was at the counter, she’d go in and pick up her usual Camel Lights. If he wasn’t she’d finally suck it up and quit. The clerk was standing at attention near the register, and she smiled. Not tonight then. It was on the list though, her not-kick-the-bucket list, along with exercise three times a week, and figure out how to like kale.

Pushing open the store’s door she heard Christmas music playing as she headed to the back wall of refrigerated items to grab a diet soda. The clock on the wall by the rack of candy read almost eight. Her daughter would have been home for an hour, plenty of time for her to have made dinner. It was one of the benefits of having Kennedy live with her rather than on campus – dinners she didn’t have to cook. Not that the girl saw it that way. Even though her daughter was the better cook and they both knew it, she complained almost nightly. Meredith chalked this up to yet another way she seemed to have failed as a mother. Not domestic enough. That could be added to the list of too nomadic and not maternal enough.

Standing at the counter she put down her soda and the roll of mints she’d grabbed. The clerk was the same guy as usual, a tall man from Bangladesh who spoke English with British intonation, but he didn’t seem to be in his usual chatty mood. “Camel lights?” she asked and gave him her friendly but not too friendly smile while she waited for him to get a pack from the rack above his head. He reached up but fumbled it and the pack dropped to the floor. Meredith was waiting for him to bend down and pick it up. He just jumped a little and grabbed another one from above. She was about to make a smart-ass comment when the expression on his face registered and she saw he was terrified.

A flicker of movement in the reflection of the window behind him caught her eye. Crouched behind the counter, just a foot from the clerk, was a man all in black, something in his hand that looked like a gun. Meredith stifled the gasp that almost passed her lips. She froze in place, adrenaline washing through her system, her brain trying to restart and pick an option, run, hide, scream. For a second it became impossible to breathe. The man didn’t move though, he must not have realized she’d spotted him.

Her mind finished racing as she watched the clerk slide the cigarettes across the counter to her. She locked eyes with him to mutely make him understand she knew what was going on and she’d call for help. He stood fixed to the spot. She began to walk away, the urge to break into a run increasing with each step she took closer to the door. Just get out, run, call cops She stuffed one hand into her bag to get her phone and reached the door.

 “Stop!” A voice shouted and she felt someone rush up behind her, grabbing her upper arm in a tight grip, pulling her away from the door. “Don’t move.” He spun her around while pushing her back a few feet. She stumbled and caught herself while he pointed the gun in her face. “Give me your phone.”

She continued scrambling for it in her bag, but she couldn’t find it. She looked up at him helplessly, hoping he’d see that she honestly couldn’t find it. His face twisted in rage or frustration and she thought how stupid, he hadn’t even worn a mask. He was young, maybe just nineteen or twenty. He looked like he had been living in his clothes. His hair was greasy and lay flat against his head. The hand on the gun was grubby with fingernails that hadn’t seen soap in a long time.

With wild eyes flicking from the clerk to her, he snatched the bag out of her hands, knocking the soda and mints to the floor. They rolled away as she stood still, too afraid to even breathe. He backed towards the door with jerky movements, his arm stuck out, gun in hand, swinging back and forth between her and the clerk.

Behind him a group of teenage girls burst through the door. Chaos erupted. The girls screamed as the man waved the gun at the crowd of them. The ones closest to the door bolted back out, but two girls were trapped as he moved to cut them off. He spotted a purse dangling from the wrist of the girl closest to him and grabbed it. The strap was cinched too tightly, and it caught against her hand as he yanked on it. Tethered to him by the skinny strap of her purse she began to panic.

Meredith reached for the girl, pulled her arm free and shoved her behind her back. “Just go.” She shouted at the thief. He looked uncertain so she held out her keys as well “Take it – the Toyota at the pump.” He juggled the bag and his gun for a moment and reached for her keys. An explosion ripped through the air and forced her backward. She squeezed her eyes shut as another, louder one sounded behind her.

When she opened her eyes she saw the thief face down in the doorway, blood pooling beneath him. The girls were screaming, a terrible keening sound that made her head throb. She felt dazed as she tried to put together what had just happened. The clerk must have shot the robber. Turning around to ask him she felt a horrible stab of pain in her stomach and a rush of something liquid. She looked down to see blood seeping through her shirt.

Everything’s okay, she thought. The police will come, an ambulance will come, and I’ll be fine. She was going to say as much to the horrified girls until she realized that she couldn’t speak. Blood was coming up out of her mouth and down her chin. She tried to put her hands to her lips, but her arms wouldn’t lift. Her knees buckled and she hit the floor, her cheek laying on the scuffed tile of the floor. Exhausted. She would just rest for a bit until the paramedics got there. It was going to be fine. She just needed a minute.

The clerk knelt next to her covering her belly with towels, wiping the blood away from her face all the while weeping. She didn’t understand…her thoughts were confused, jumping from one thing to the next.

Meredith wanted to close her eyes, but something told her to fight it, keep them open, keep awake. The noises around her grew hazier, and it was hard to concentrate on anything with her head buzzing. A rushing sound filled her ears and blocked it all out. No pain anymore either. That was gone too.

Lights though, she saw lights. Maybe that’s the paramedics now.

John

John Caldwell raised the bottle of beer to his lips and finished it off, setting it down with a heavy thunk on the bar and eliciting a round of cheers from the men seated with him. He laughed and unwound himself from his bar stool.

 “You takin’ off now?”

John turned to see Charlie giving him an assessing look. “Yeah. I need to get my beauty sleep.” They’d been there for a few hours and he enjoyed listening to the guys at the VFW trading old war stories and tales of seduction 1975 style, but he was feeling done-in tonight. It had been a tough week with a delayed build and a long fight with a subcontractor. He felt like sleeping for a week and sitting on a stool all night was not going to cure that.

Charlie slipped off his own stool “I’ll walk you out.”

His friend was the town’s fire chief and the bar’s unofficial DUI prevention. The men who frequented the VFW were mostly tradesmen and off-duty first responders. They understood each other well enough to know when to check on a guy heading out to his truck who may not be in any shape to drive it. It was either that, or Charlie was about to give him another lecture about his health, his lack of human companionship, or a mix of the two.

They headed out of the bar and into the cold night. Charlie zipped up his coat as they walked. “You got plans for Christmas?”

John smiled to himself sensing a lecture incoming. “I might head down to Rhode Island, to my cousin’s. Last year I couldn’t get away so I kind of owe her this one.” It was a half lie. Helen invited him every year and he usually found an excuse. He liked his family just fine, but her idea of Christmas was to invite forty people, stuff them full of food then make them sing carols or play party games. It was torture. “But Owen might change his mind and stay in town this year. Depends on the weather.”

“That kid is always going somewhere. Where was he headed?”

“Vermont, skiing.” He suspected that his son would spend more time at the lodge than on the slopes.

“Skiing?” Charlie shook his head. “If you have to travel at Christmas, why not go where it’s warm?”

“He went to some island last year, but none of his friends was up for it this time. I think he’s finally getting to the age where they’re all marrying off and starting families. He’s one of the last single ones.”

“Almost thirty, isn’t he? You gotta settle down some time. Of course, with the action that kid gets…” Charlie left it there and John was glad he did. He didn’t like Owen’s reputation as a womanizer. Mainly, because he suspected it was true. It’s not like they talked about how he spent his time, but John wasn’t blind. “He needs to slow down or he’ll burn through every woman on the North Shore.”

John smiled although his heart wasn’t in it. It ate at him that Owen’s attitude towards marriage was probably due to sitting front and center watching his parents’ marriage implode. When Jenna left, she cut ties with the both of them like they were nothing. That still ate at him, that she was willing to leave Owen behind. For everything else he had long ago forgiven her, but he couldn’t get over how she treated their son, how she continued to treat him.

 “Gotta get going Charlie. I’m freezing here. My old bones can’t take the cold like they used to.” He said as he opened the door of his pickup.

“I forgot what a delicate flower you are.” Charlie snickered. He had to know John was just looking for a way to end the conversation, but understanding as always, Charlie didn’t push it. “Merry Christmas, let me know if your plans change. The invitation still stands. It’s not good for a man to be on his own for Christmas. Sarah would love it if you’d come.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Okay buddy.” Charlie waved goodbye and headed back into the bar.

John started his truck and waited for it to warm up. He watched his breath fog in the freezing air of the cab and tried not to start the downward spiral in his head again. The end of his marriage was rough. The stuff that ate at him lurked just out of view, always there, never resolved. He worried about what kind of father he had turned out to be, worried about what Owen had become because of it, worried about what kind of future his kid was going to have.

He couldn’t keep hoping that everything would work out if he left it alone long enough. When Owen got home from this trip they’d sit down for a talk, a real one, even if it killed him. With that worked out he felt a bit better, put his truck into gear and headed home.

Walking through the front door of his house was a relief. It felt like slipping off a heavy coat, his shoulders instantly lifted. He chucked his keys on the kitchen counter and walked through the great room to the French doors overlooking the lawn. Despite the cold he walked right through them and down the lawn to the short chain-link fence overlooking the rocks and the water below.

This was his favorite spot and about 90 percent of why he bought this house and paid such a pile of cash to renovate it. The house sat just one hundred yards from a rocky cliff overlooking the Atlantic. The view was of open ocean, not a cove or harbor, uncluttered and free.

The night had bleached the water of any color leaving it a dark mass, but the moonlight caught the movement of the waves in the distance and made it shine. It was dark and light all at once. And the sound – there was nothing like it. The crash of the waves on the rocks below was a constant background filter, drowning out the road, and even the thoughts in his head. This was his therapy.

John stood there for as long as he could before the cold became too much, even for him, and he had to head inside. He turned on the Christmas tree in the living room, appreciating how the twinkling lights immediately made the place feel cheerful. As childish as it sounded, tonight he was looking forward to making a fire and watching the lights for a while. He wanted to enjoy the peace.

He was about to start on the fireplace when the phone in his study started ringing and he had to hustle down the hall to get it. He threw open the door and caught the phone just as the caller hung up. A quick check of the ID showed it wasn’t Owen or anyone else he wanted to talk to so he put the handset back on the cradle. He took a moment to catch his breath and figured since he was already in the study he’d grab a real drink and watch a little TV before settling in.

He poured himself a small scotch and sat behind his desk putting his feet up. Since he was alone there was no one to be appalled by his behavior. He had designed this office as his idea of a retreat. The large oak desk, the leather chairs, the old-fashioned bar cabinet, and the TV cleverly hidden in a wall of shelves were all his doing. The decorator hadn’t thought much of his taste, but that was part of the pure joy of this project. It was all his decision this time.

The news on the TV was as grim as usual. Financial markets were a mess and for a business that relied on people having access to capital, it wasn’t good news. He’d have to talk to Owen about strategies for the new year. It was one of his best decisions bringing his son into the business. Owen was good at picking the right path when there was trouble brewing. John absently rubbed away an ache in his chin as the news moved on to the big story of the week, the woman shot and killed during a gas station robbery. It was grim stuff. She had bled to death on the floor of the place waiting for paramedics.

Although he didn’t know her, he knew of her. She was a Davies and had grown up in Coventry. Davies were famous in town for being old money although he didn’t think there were many of them left or any money to speak of. He knew the two old ladies who still lived in town, but only because he’d done a few small projects at their ramshackle old house as a favor to the Pastor at First Congregational.

The coverage of the woman’s death was overkill. The media was interviewing everyone from her former gym teacher to the second cousin of her childhood best friend. None of her family was on the news or in the paper. There had just been a brief statement from their lawyer asking for privacy. Not likely to get it considering the feeding frenzy the press was still in.

John sat up, pushing back from the desk and stood. He felt…unsettled, something was off. It was like back at the bar when he had felt tired only it was worse now. He finished off his drink and looked out the window to the night sky. Lately he’d get these waves of anxiety that he couldn’t explain. It was a feeling that made his chest tight and tonight it wasn’t letting up.

Moments passed and it wasn’t any better. His heart was racing, but instead of being pumped up, he felt weak. It was late enough he should go to bed anyway. He turned to put his glass down and was stopped short by a stabbing pain. His chest seemed to be crushing in and he couldn’t take a breath, couldn’t get his lungs to expand. His vision swam with little lights and he staggered forward, grabbing at the edge of the desk. The floor rushed up at him as his legs crumpled and he dropped to his knees, falling forward to the floor, the glass in his hand rolling away unbroken.

Three days later the TV was finally off, the house quiet now, and a newspaper hit the front porch. It joined the others laying there untouched. It was John’s own face that looked out from a photo on the front page of the Coventry Times.

Local Business Leader Found Dead.

John Caldwell, owner of Caldwell Construction was discovered by his housekeeper Tuesday. Per reports, he died over the holiday weekend. He is survived by his only son.

Chapter one is up next. It will be posted later in January.

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