{"id":5030,"date":"2017-04-30T19:23:18","date_gmt":"2017-05-01T00:23:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=5030"},"modified":"2020-09-05T03:35:22","modified_gmt":"2020-09-05T08:35:22","slug":"the-storytellers-part-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/the-storytellers-part-3\/","title":{"rendered":"The Storytellers Part III"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div><\/div>\n

Patricia Crisafulli<\/a><\/h2>\n

Original Fiction<\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n

The Storytellers, a three-part novella, first appeared on Faith Hope and Fiction in 2007 under the title, <\/em>The Legendary Storyteller Sisters. We are pleased to share a slightly updated 10-year anniversary version here.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/i>Read The Storytellers<\/em> Part I<\/a><\/div>
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n

I<\/span>had slowed down since arriving in West Palm Beach three months before, my pace leisurely and fluid. My life here was different; I was different, a change that seemed both gradual and radical. For one, I was more relaxed and <\/em>more creative, an impossible combination back in New York. The proof was in the nearly one hundred pages of my new novel, Special of the Day<\/em>, that had poured out of me in eight weeks. I spent several hours a day immersed in my protagonist, Cindy Sinclair, who left the corporate grind for a small-town diner she\u2019d bought on a whim. Her inexperience resulted in near disaster, but each time she reached out for help it materialized. The more adversity I piled on Cindy, the more it buffed a shine on her character.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

On early morning walks, I invented scenes that would later take shape at the keyboard\u2014a far healthier preoccupation than my obsessive bouts of \u201cwhere is Dennis now and when will he call me.\u201d We saw each other about once a week when he was in town and kept in touch with the occasional text or email while he was traveling. I loved being with him so much it made the stretches in between unbearable. Days would go by with my text as the last one sent and no reply from him. Just when I couldn\u2019t stand it anymore, he\u2019d call and make a date, and all would be well.<\/p>\n

One morning, I changed my walking route, crossing the Southern Boulevard Bridge into Palm Beach, then strolling along Ocean Boulevard. The first swimmers bobbed in the waves and a few sun-worshipers staked their claims on the white sand. Taking off my sneakers and socks, I walked barefoot to the edge of the water.<\/p>\n

In a moment of clarity so strong, as if a voice commanded me, I knew I was not going back to New York. My practical mind took over, tallying what I could probably get from the sale of my condo, my savings, and my stream of income. I could make it happen. Leaving the beach, I indulged in anticipating how I would tell Dennis my decision. Even though he was in commercial real estate and not residential, he would be more than happy to help me.<\/p>\n

I took the long way home through the side streets. It was still early\u2014not quite seven-thirty\u2014and traffic was light. At the next intersection, I ignored the \u201cdo not walk\u201d signal and strolled across the street toward a sandwich shop, hoping to get a cup of coffee and maybe a bagel to go. I never got to the front door.<\/p>\n

A familiar car was parked at the curb. The door to the shop swung open, and Dennis emerged with a paper bag under one arm and a woman on the other. They leaned toward each other, as if sharing some secret. The woman threw back her head and laughed, her neck arching swan-like. I watched as Dennis kissed her on the lips then opened the car door for her. My fingertips fluttered to my mouth, remembering how and when he had kissed me like that.<\/p>\n

Then Dennis saw me. \u201cKate,\u201d I heard him say, but I walked away as fast as I could without running. My so-called boyfriend was dating another woman and probably more than this one. His assiduously kept schedule of our dates did not just accommodate his work demands, but his social ones as well.<\/p>\n

I walked dry-eyed across the bridge to West Palm Beach and along Flagler Drive to The Sisters\u2019 house. Eerily calm, my shock hardened to conviction, I decided to leave immediately. My Manhattan condo was sublet for another three months, but I\u2019d buy my tenant out of the lease. If I couldn\u2019t do that, I\u2019d find another place to stay even if it meant sleeping on somebody\u2019s sofa.<\/p>\n

I entered the house and slammed the door behind me.<\/p>\n

\u201cOnly one thing could upset you like that,\u201d Bess said from the hallway. Standing there, tall and regal, she suddenly seemed like one of those TV matriarchs who meddle and manipulate. That\u2019s what she had done to me.<\/p>\n

I whirled around to face her. \u201cYou knew about Dennis, didn\u2019t you? You knew all about his pretenses\u2014his lies. You knew it and you didn\u2019t warn me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow would we know?\u201d Lillian, short and round, fluttered in from the direction of the sunporch and stood beside her sister.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t give me that crap\u2014unless you admit that everything<\/em> you tell people with your stories is complete fabrication.\u201d I threw my hands up in the air and let them fall with a smack against my thighs. \u201cOf course it is. You don\u2019t have any ability other than to tell a really good story and get people all worked up in your little fantasy tales.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDennis is seeing someone else.\u201d Bess stated the fact with such detachment, I wanted to yell at her for her insensitivity.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long have you known?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bess smiled faintly, her eyes telegraphing what I took as pity. \u201cThe minute you walked in here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou must have known he was a womanizer.\u201d<\/p>\n

Lillian\u2019s face regained a little of its color. \u201cWe never told Dennis the whole story of his life. He never wanted to know. We don\u2019t tell unless people ask.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid I ask?\u201d I spat back. \u201cDid I ask for you to meddle in my life, which was going along pretty well? Did I ask you to upset everything?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t you?\u201d Bess replied. \u201cHaven\u2019t you matched us question for question, taking bold steps that we didn\u2019t force on you? Coming here was your own choosing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou told me if I stayed in New York I\u2019d be on the trajectory toward mediocrity, or don\u2019t you remember?\u201d Tears that had been stinging my eyes began to flow.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou had no life in New York, dear,\u201d Lillian said softly. \u201cYou were only existing, the way you always had. You needed to break that pattern in order to move into what you are capable of.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd all this talk of the book I was destined to write and the man who would break down my barriers.\u201d I shook my head angrily. \u201cI fell for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo tell me,\u201d Bess continued, \u201caren\u2019t you writing a book that your agent can\u2019t get you to finish fast enough? Haven\u2019t you been in a relationship that helped break down the barriers you have inside?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut that\u2019s not what I wanted. I wanted a relationship, not a man who would break my heart by cheating on me.\u201d My words drowned in my sobs.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour story is far from over,\u201d Lillian began.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop.\u201d I raised my hand and turned my head away. \u201cI can\u2019t hear another word.\u201d<\/p>\n

Retreating to my room, I fell across my bed and cried. Exhausted, I slept and then awakened so disoriented I thought for a moment I had only dreamed the events of the morning. I stayed in my room the rest of the day and into the evening. Dahlia brought me dinner on a tray and called to me through the closed door. Dennis texted me a few times, but I refused to reply. Then he went silent.<\/p>\n

On the third day of my exile I phoned my mother and sobbed the whole long story to her. She listened sympathetically and offered to come to Florida, but I wouldn\u2019t be staying there long enough for her to make the trip. \u201cThen come home,\u201d she said. \u201cWhy can\u2019t you do your work here?\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly, I knew what I was going to do: I would return to my childhood home in northern New York State\u2014just twenty or so miles from where Giselle du Mont, heroine of my first novel, had once lived. I had to get away from Palm Beach, The Sisters, and everything I associated with this place.<\/p>\n

I found Bess and Lillian in the kitchen and told them I was leaving just as soon as I could arrange the flight.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust one question,\u201d Lillian interrupted.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease don\u2019t do this,\u201d I begged. \u201cYou\u2019re not responsible for my choices\u2014I am. I gave you more power and authority in my life than I should have.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy did you come to Palm Beach?\u201d Lillian continued.<\/p>\n

I shook my head. Talking to the two of them was futile.<\/p>\n

Bess picked up from there: \u201cWe told you to make this move only if it was what you felt destined to do. If you moved because of Dennis or because of us then you came for the wrong reasons.\u201d<\/p>\n

Over the past few days I had asked myself repeatedly why I had come. For Dennis? Partly. Because I thought The Sisters could help guide my life? Perhaps. Had I come because I was enchanted by the idea of having an adventure? Absolutely. So I had come for myself, after all. But now that same self\u2014deeply wounded and bitterly sorrowful\u2014wanted to go someplace safe. \u201cI called my mother. I\u2019m going home.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bess\u2019s eyes bore into me. \u201cWhen you say \u2018home,\u2019 do you mean the place where you were a little girl who felt completely out of step with everyone around her? Or do you mean your condo in New York where you locked yourself away from the world? Why not stay here where you have lived more in three months, for better or worse, than you have for years?\u201d<\/p>\n

I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, put my head down and cried.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/p>\n

Over the course of the next week, I took in the soup that Dahlia cooked and the moments of conversation The Sisters offered. I explained to my editorial clients that I was ill, but assured them I would soon be back to work. Special of the Day<\/em>, however, remained frozen in a time that would never be again. I couldn\u2019t work on that novel without thinking of what had created it: my optimism and belief that I could invent a new life for my protagonist, Cindy, as I reimagined my own.<\/p>\n

Two weeks later, I was still in Palm Beach and back into a routine that included my morning walks and work on client projects. Busyness was balm for my wounded heart, and I kept up a pace that more than made up for my previous delays.<\/p>\n

Early one Thursday morning, a pounding noise interrupted my concentration and drew me outside. On the south side of the house two men were breaking up loose pieces of stucco, no doubt to prepare the area for patching.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid we disturb you?\u201d Danny Collins asked as he rounded the corner of the house.<\/p>\n

He and I had never talked about the incident when I found him in my sitting room, reading my manuscript. After his written apology I figured that we\u2019d just pretend it never happened. Our truce meant avoiding each other. \u201cI heard the noise and was curious what was going on.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBess and Lillian found a small crack in the stucco and, even though I told them it\u2019s just a surface crack, they insist on getting it repaired,\u201d Danny explained.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey do seem a little diligent in their house maintenance,\u201d I added.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think they just like keeping things in order. Sometimes people of a certain age, well, they get concerned about how things might be later on.\u201d<\/p>\n

So spry and lively, The Sisters never looked or acted their ages, although I knew they were in their mid- to late-eighties. \u201cWell, I had better get back to work,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow\u2019s the novel coming?\u201d<\/p>\n

Studying my sandaled feet, I weighed my answer. \u201cI\u2019m really busy with some other projects so I haven\u2019t had much time to work on it.\u201d I headed back into the house.<\/p>\n

I did try to work on Special of the Day <\/em>after that, sometimes late at night when I couldn\u2019t sleep or first thing in the morning before I set off on my walk. My wooden sentences lacked all emotion and I deleted much of what I wrote. When my agent inquired, I told her I had hit a block and needed time. She spoke encouragingly and urged me to keep going.<\/p>\n

Flowers arrived for me the next day. Dennis<\/em>, I thought, my heart rising on a little tide of hope that he felt completely desolate without me and was willing to do anything to get me back. The fear followed that hope, and I knew then that I didn\u2019t want to go back to him. I was still too fragile and Dennis had not proved himself anywhere near trustworthy with my feelings.<\/p>\n

The message on the florist card was typed: \u201cDon\u2019t give up the novel. Keep writing.\u201d It wasn\u2019t signed.<\/p>\n

My agent, I smiled, remembering how she had encouraged me as I revised Grand Dame of the North Woods<\/em> for a second time, and had talked me through the jitters when my novel was in editorial committee review at my publisher. I didn\u2019t need to see her name to know her trademark.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake them with you,\u201d Bess encouraged me. \u201cNothing inspires art like beauty.\u201d<\/p>\n

Upstairs in the sitting room where I worked, I sent an email, thanking my agent for her kindness and encouragement, recalling what a faithful supporter she had always been. I told her the flowers were beautiful and inspiring me to write. Her note was a quick and happy reply: \u201cGlad you\u2019re back to writing. Keep looking at those flowers! Florida must really be in bloom now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Within a week, I was writing regularly again, picking up where I left off, although Cindy Sinclair faced a new round of disappointments and setbacks that left her questioning every decision she made. As she muddled through, slipped, and regained her footing, I found my own strength.<\/p>\n

My mother called more frequently, cheered that I was feeling better and back to writing, and assured me that Dennis was \u201cjust one fish in a great big ocean and the right one would come along.\u201d Pleased with her metaphor she added, \u201cToo bad he turned out to be a shark.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Mom; I\u2019ll only date guppies from now on,\u201d I told her, and we both laughed, which felt very, very good.<\/p>\n

I sent more pages to my agent, which pleased her very much, including the developing depth of the character. She suggested I go to New York soon to have lunch with my editor, who had seen the first chapter of Special of the Day<\/em>. When I got off the phone with my agent, I ran excitedly down the stairs to tell The Sisters that I was off to New York. I searched through the house, calling out their names, but couldn\u2019t find them. Outside I found Danny and his crew working on another stucco crack.<\/p>\n

I shielded my eyes against the sun as I walked barefoot across the grass. \u201cWhere are Bess and Lillian?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

Danny walked over toward me, his expression somber. \u201cLillian didn\u2019t feel well, so Bess took her to the doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? When?\u201d I gasped. \u201cWe had lunch together about two hours ago and she was fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight after that,\u201d Danny told me. \u201cI offered to drive her, but Bess told me she could do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t someone tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were busy working, and Lillian demanded that no one disturb you. It\u2019s very important to Lillian and Bess that you keep on writing. You have to respect that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d I shook my head. \u201cWriting is writing. This is Lillian.\u201d<\/p>\n

Danny drove me to the hospital where we found Bess, who explained that Lillian had suffered a stroke. As she spoke, Bess looked her age, her skin papery with deep lines around her mouth.<\/p>\n

We sat together, waiting for a doctor or nurse to tell us something other than what we knew. I had five minutes in ICU with Lillian, who seemed to have shrunk in the past few hours. I was looking at a shell left on the beach; the beautiful creature who was Lillian had all but fully departed.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go home,\u201d Bess said, rising from her chair. \u201cRead me some of your story, Kate. I would like that very much.\u201d<\/p>\n

We sat in the kitchen as the last of the sunset painted the slats of the shutters. Danny poured three glasses of lemonade while I started to read. When I finished, Bess smiled and told me that, yes indeed, this was the book I was destined to write. Danny said nothing, but gave me a nod and a wink.<\/p>\n

The phone rang shortly thereafter. It was the hospital. Lillian had another stroke, much more severe this time. Danny had his keys in his hand before I could even find my shoes, and the three of us went together to the hospital.<\/p>\n

Lillian died the next morning. I\u2019d like to say I was a support for Bess, but it was the other way around. The funeral at the little church The Sisters attended was simple, and every pew was packed. Dennis was there alone and nodded to me, but we kept a respectful distance from each other. Toward the end of the service, Bess walked unescorted to the lectern and briefly eulogized her sister and best friend.<\/p>\n

\u201cLillian loved life and she lived well. If you remember anything about her, please remember that. Living well means knowing when it is time to leave the party, before you overstay your welcome. Lillian has left our party for a bigger one. She\u2019s waiting there, getting everything ready, and when we join her, we\u2019ll pick up where we left off.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bess didn\u2019t get out of bed the next morning. Given the emotional trauma and physical strain of the past few days, it was to be expected; Bess was, after all, eighty-eight years old. When I tapped lightly on her bedroom door, after Dahlia had brought up her breakfast tray, I knew it wasn\u2019t just fatigue. Bess was getting ready to join her sister.<\/p>\n

Sadness pulled me down to a place of utter abandonment. These women whom I had known only a few months had truly become my family.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere are some things I need to tell you,\u201d Bess began, digging her fists into the mattress to pull herself up.<\/p>\n

I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the delicateness of her bones, and hoisted her upright against her pillows.<\/p>\n

Bess asked for her teacup from the tray, and I handed it to her. And then she told me the story of her life. When she was a child, Lillian was orphaned, so she was taken to Bess\u2019s house. The Sisters, it seemed, were really first cousins. From the time they were very young, they told stories. Other children gave them a penny or an apple, and adults who learned of their tales paid them a quarter or fifty cents. Their stories brought out the truths, dreams, and longings held deeply inside others. Then it was up to each person to live according to the story of what was possible. Those who did may not have had all their dreams come true, but their lives were certainly more satisfying than those who didn\u2019t try.<\/p>\n

Lillian told me about Leonard, a dashing young soldier whose best friend courted Bess. During the war it was easy to be reckless in love, to give away one\u2019s heart on a whim. Every soldier you saw on the train, in the bus station, even on the street was someone who could be killed within the next few weeks or months. When Lillian saw Leonard, she gambled with her heart, married after six weeks, loved her husband fiercely, and sent him off to battle. Lillian did the same; so many young women did. Bess was the first to be informed of her husband\u2019s death, and then it was Lillian\u2019s turn.<\/p>\n

\u201cI did not have enough time with Leonard to mourn what we lost, only what could have been\u2014the years together, the children we never had. And as brief as it was, I knew that love was the one for my life,\u201d Bess said. \u201cI thought Lillian might remarry\u2014she had a steady gentleman friend for a while\u2014but in the end, she did not. When I asked her, she said there wasn\u2019t enough room in her heart for two men.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bess\u2019s eyes met mine. \u201cI want you to understand that it wasn\u2019t the loss that crowded out everything else, it was the intensity of the love I had known with Leonard.\u201d Her gaze drifted to the opposite wall. \u201cI fancy sometimes that Leonard is waiting for me, still looking dapper in his uniform. I do hope that when I get to heaven, I\u2019m not sixty years older than he is.\u201d She winked at me and we both smiled.<\/p>\n

The story continued; how she and Lillian had returned to the family farm, taking care of Bess\u2019 parents, whom Lillian loved as her own. After Bess\u2019s parents died, they sold the farm and started moving to new places. Every few years, they picked a different city and state, just for the adventure of it. They made new friends, especially those who were drawn to their storytelling gifts. A few times they had to take regular jobs: Bess as a typist and Lillian as a secretary. Mostly they lived off the well-invested proceeds from the farm and the modest income they made from telling stories.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut there was one story that was different from all the others.\u201d Bess brightened; there was nothing she loved more than a good tale to tell: \u201cWe met a woman named Mary who was very worried about her son\u2014a brilliant young man, but taken to daydreaming. Computers were new then, and he spent hours in a university lab, even though he was just a kid. Mary worried so much about him. She couldn\u2019t understand why he wasn\u2019t exactly like her\u2014talkative and outgoing. We told Mary that if she stayed out of his way and just loved him, he would become all he was capable of being.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd did she?\u201d I asked, knowing everything must have turned out okay, otherwise Bess wouldn\u2019t be telling me this story.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou tell me.\u201d Bess gave me a conspirator\u2019s smile. \u201cMary\u2019s last name was Gates, and her son was Bill.\u201d<\/p>\n

It took a heartbeat for it to register.<\/p>\n

\u201cMary told her son what we\u2019d done for her. He was so grateful that when he started his company, he gave us some stock. That has turned out to be quite a generous gift. Bess and I have lived quite comfortably because of it. After that, we never had to charge anyone a dime for storytelling. Everything we did was for free\u2014just to help people.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bess closed her eyes and her cheerfulness faded. \u201cThere is one more part of my story that I must tell,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cYou must listen and not interrupt.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her breathing was labored and I wanted her to stop, but Bess pushed on. \u201cI always knew I would have a daughter to whom I would bequeath everything. I\u2019ve known this all my life, from the time I was a little girl. After Leonard died, I thought perhaps I would mother some orphan left on my doorstep. I waited, but no one ever showed up. I began to doubt my own story. Then you came.\u201d<\/p>\n

I opened my lips to speak\u2014my father was dead, but I had my mother. Then I remembered my promise not to interrupt.<\/p>\n

\u201cFrom the moment I saw you, I knew you had so much talent and life within you, but hidden like the proverbial light under a bushel. I wanted to help you let your brilliance shine. And yes, I did know Dennis wasn\u2019t the one for you, but I couldn\u2019t interfere. When I saw how much spunk you had, how well you managed your loss, you reminded me of myself. I knew you were the one I waited for.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d I smiled, not bothering to wipe away the tears that flowed down my face. \u201cI will never forget this time that we had together.\u201d<\/p>\n

A smile spread slowly across Bess\u2019s face. \u201cI know you won\u2019t forget it, because it\u2019s all yours: the house, the stock portfolio\u2014everything except the car. We gave that to Danny.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, that\u2019s not necessary. The family\u2014I mean, what will they think?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bess gave me a look of exasperation. \u201cThey\u2019ll think that you moved to Florida to bilk your old distant relatives of their fortune. What do you care? It\u2019s not the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n

I reached for Bess\u2019s hand and held it a long while, watching as she settled back into her pillows. The nurse came in and checked Bess\u2019s vitals, but I stayed. At some point, I dozed off too, and Bess\u2019s hand fell slack against mine.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/p>\n

The second funeral was a replay of the first, and at the end of it I was too exhausted to move. I took to my room for a week and grieved.<\/p>\n

In the weeks that followed, the pace of my work soothed me and brought me back into the rhythm of my life. Special of the Day<\/em> was coming together well\u2014my tribute to The Sisters who had given me the precious gifts of time, space, and encouragement to write. I told my agent and my editor the initial draft would be finished in two months.<\/p>\n

Taking a break one day, I went out to the patio and sat beneath the umbrella with a glass of lemonade, feeling the heat and humidity that wrapped me like a blanket. It was too much to endure for too long, but there were still spots in the depth of my bones that needed warming.<\/p>\n

The back gate opened and Danny appeared. I hadn\u2019t seen much of him since the funeral. \u201cGot a minute?\u201d he asked me.<\/p>\n

I pointed to the chair opposite me. \u201cHave a seat.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have one more obligation to Bess that I have to fulfill,\u201d Danny began. \u201cSo if this is a good time, can we take care of this right now. I have Bess\u2019s instructions to follow, and I want to do this right.\u201d<\/p>\n

I went inside, found my sandals and grabbed my purse. Danny was at the front of the house in the Rolls, the engine running.<\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t drive far, about a half dozen blocks, and stopped in front of an old house, a weathered shell of the glory that it had been, now encased in scaffolding. \u201cThis is my house,\u201d he said simply. \u201cBess made me promise that I\u2019d take you over here and show it to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Danny told me he started rehabbing houses twenty years ago, first working for someone else and then with his own business. \u201cI\u2019d buy a property, fix it up, sell it, and invest the proceeds in the next property,\u201d he explained. \u201cAs much as I like new construction and I\u2019ve made a good living at it, my heart has always been in restoring these old ones. It makes my mother proud.\u201d I smiled at his comment, realizing it was the first I ever heard of Danny\u2019s family.<\/p>\n

\u201cI taught history for a few years, English too, which is why I\u2019m more qualified to appreciate your writing than you realize. But I had always worked construction during the summers, from college onward, and it called to me. When I switched careers, my mother was heartbroken until I told that instead of working in dusty old volumes, I now work in dusty old houses. This is the history that I preserve, in a very tangible way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Donning hard hats, we toured the gutted interior: a graceful curved staircase, leaded glass windows, five bedrooms, three bathrooms in dire need of upgrading, a formal dining room, a small parlor, a den that was being converted into a family room, and a spacious kitchen and butler\u2019s pantry.<\/p>\n

Then Danny reached for my hand, pulled me toward him, and kissed me. Stepping back, but not letting go, he looked up into the expanse of the house. \u201cSo are you writing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs a matter of fact I am.\u201d I hoped he would kiss me again\u2014him, not Dennis. \u201cGood. When I figured out you\u2019d stopped, I sent you those flowers. But I was afraid that if you knew they were from me, you\u2019d have burned them and your manuscript out of spite.\u201d<\/p>\n

He had sent the flowers? No wonder my agent had responded a little cryptically to my note. \u201cI never thanked you\u2014I didn\u2019t know. And I guess I owe you an apology for being mean to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m just glad you stopped verbally eviscerating me for reading your pages,\u201d Danny smirked. \u201cNot that I had any right to do that. I am sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

I pulled him toward me this time. \u201cWell, you read the first pages and you heard most of the middle when I was reading to Bess. I suppose you want the whole thing when I\u2019m done.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUh-huh,\u201d Danny said. \u201cI like your stories, Kate, and I\u2019d like to read them for a long, long time.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Patricia Crisafulli,<\/strong> M.F.A., is an award-winning writer, published author, and founder of FaithHopeandFiction.com<\/em><\/a>. She received her Master\u2019s in Fine Arts (MFA) from Northwestern University, which also honored her with the Distinguished Thesis Award in Creative Writing. She is the recipient of three Write Well Awards for best-of-the-web literary fiction for stories that have appeared on FaithHopeandFiction<\/em>. She is the author of several nonfiction books and a collection of short stories and essays, Inspired Every Day,<\/em> published by Hallmark.<\/p>\n

Image Credits
\n\u00a9 Melis82 | Dreamstime.com – Vintage Background Photo<\/a>
\n\u00a9 Aniram | Dreamstime.com – Woman Walking On The Beach Photo<\/a><\/p>\n

 \n<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Patricia Crisafulli Original Fiction<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":5054,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,18,1],"tags":[108,170,180,16],"class_list":["post-5030","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-patricia-crisafulli","category-uncategorized","tag-destiny","tag-fiction","tag-introspection","tag-romance"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Storytellers Part III | Faith Hope & Fiction<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The Storytellers, Part III: \u201cDon\u2019t worry, Mom; I\u2019ll only date guppies from now on,\u201d I told her, and we both laughed, which felt very, very good.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/the-storytellers-part-3\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Storytellers Part III | Faith Hope & Fiction\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The Storytellers, Part III: \u201cDon\u2019t worry, Mom; 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