Chapter 1

     There are two things I will remember as long as I live. The first is a woman with haunted eyes named Belle. The second is the turn of events that occurred at the lodge she co-owned, a place called Blue Hills Bed & Breakfast. I’d almost passed the place by in my travels. I was needing a break from the road and a place to gather my thoughts, to decide what I was going to do with my life; a life that was passing me by quicker than the open road I’d been on for weeks. I had been driving headlong up the curving mountain road away from the cities that had held nothing but painful memories and failed relationships. The furthest I could get away from people the better off I would be.
     Out of the corner of my eye I saw a log cabin converted into a bed and breakfast, an old rustic sign nearly hidden by the thick trees, declaring “Vacancy”. I don’t know what made me stop, maybe I should have kept on going, but for whatever reason, be it fate or coincidence, I pulled my old gray Lumina off the road and down the gravel drive to the partially hidden inn.
     Getting out of the car the place looked like someone’s version of paradise. Flowerbeds lined the drive and porch, a rainbow of iris, violets, and tulips. The inn was well kept, the logs and wood clean, appearing almost brand new. Even the tin roof looked unworn by time. My first impression was either the place hadn’t been here long, or the owners had just redone the cabin for the new season.
     I walked up the porch and noticed more flowers sitting up in the windowsills, windows that were shaped like hearts. It reminded me of something out of a fairy tale, where a pretty Snow White sang to the birds and talked to her flowers as if they were her friends. I smiled at the thought, thinking that could be the beginnings of my next poem, and then opened the screen door and went inside.
     The front room was small, and I saw a man working with a sander on the fireplace mantle. The sound of the screen door closing behind me got his attention and he greeted me with a genuine smile.
     “Hey there,” he said. “You’re our second visitor of the season. What can we do for you?”
     “Second?” I asked curiously.
      “Yes, the mother-in-law was first,” he chuckled.
      I grinned. “I’d like to get a room for a couple nights, preferably away from the in-laws.”
      He laughed at the joke. “Oh well, they left this morning. So that makes you our only visitor now.”
      “The day is still young,” I replied.
      “Yes it is,” he smiled, holding out his hand. “I’m John. Most everyone just calls me Captain.”
      I shook his hand. “I’m Douglas.”
      “Well Douglas, I have a really nice room upstairs, it faces the back of the mountain, and looks out over woods and garden. Would that be okay?”
      “Sounds fine. It has a bed, right?”
      He laughed. “Oh yes, it sure does. I’ll have Belle make sure you have some clean sheets.”
      “Belle?”
      “Yes, she ‘s the missus of the place. I’ll have her fix you up with some linens.”
      “That’s okay. I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll just go up and collapse anyway. Anything has to be better than sleeping in the car.”
      “Alright then. We’ll have some clean sheets for you after dinner. The kitchen is open for breakfast at 8, so you missed out on that, but lunch is at noon.”
      I looked at my watch, seeing I had a couple of hours till then. I paid him for the room, and he gave me my key.
      “Do you have any bags?” he asked.
      “Yeah, but I’ll leave them in the car for now, I’m about beat.”
     “Okay, well if you need help later, just give me a holler. We live here on the first floor, so just yell Captain or Belle and one of us will come running.”
      “Thanks,” I said. I started heading for the wooden staircase.
      “It’s the last room at the end of the hall," he called after me. “The bridal suite,” he joked.
      I found that ironic seeing it was six months ago my bride had walked out on me before our wedding could even take place. Cold feet, some say. I say she had other plans. She married a banker the following week, guess the life of a struggling poet didn’t appeal to her after all.

     The room was nice and cozy, with low ceilings and the scent of fresh cut wildflowers. A roll top writing desk sat against one wall, an oak double bed against the other. A door beside the bed led into the bathroom, which contained an old bathtub sitting on four legs. The sink and toilet seemed new, and the mirror on the wall was small enough to be called a shaving mirror.
      After my inspection of the bath, I decided I would write in my journal before laying my head down to nap. I sat at the writing desk and pulled the little journal out of my front waist pocket. I opened it and stared at the last written page. It was written the day I had left home months ago. The inspiration to compose my thoughts into any kind of written form had disappeared that day and not returned. It is not a good thing for a poet to run dry of words, but I had given up writing because all my words had become ones of betrayal and disappointment. I’d stopped writing before they had a chance to turn to real anger.
      Sitting at the writing desk, I turned to a blank page and set my pen to paper, but nothing would come. The muse was still missing, and looking around the room not one thing inspired me to write. You would think the homey feel of the room, or the old claw bathtub would be enough to inspire, but even the wildflower scent couldn’t compel me to write a single line of verse.
      The scent did make me curious though, for there were no flowers in the room. Was it air freshener? A bag of potpourri? I looked to the window and saw it was open a little. I got up and walked over, my journal in hand. The scent was coming from outside, and once I looked through that single pane of glass, the inspiration to write returned with a pleasant vengeance.
      She was working in the garden right below my window. On her hands and knees, she lovingly tended a row of begonias, one of several different types of flowers in this garden behind the inn. The flowers up front had been for show and decoration, but I could tell right away this garden was hers. These were friends and she cared for them as such.
     I could lie and tell you that upon first sight I didn’t know who she was, but the name instantly leaped into my head. Belle. This was Captain’s wife, and though I shouldn’t admit it so quickly, I was smitten instantly by the sight of her working in her garden. She had blonde hair that fell across her small shoulders. Working in the dirt had given it the appearance of straw, but I imagined on most days it would be the color of golden sunlight.
      Bent over her flowers the way she was, I couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but something told me they were crystal blue, like an ocean in which I could freely drown. She wore coveralls and a man’s white undershirt, though the dirt and dust had long turned it tan. The clothes were baggy, hiding her true size and form, but it didn’t matter, for at the time it wasn’t her figure that drew my attention, but the way she toiled diligently and lovingly over her flowers. Everything in the garden grew abundantly it seemed, and it was easy to see why. She had caused them to grow. Gentleness and caring had nurtured them from seeds to bloom. My thought of her in that moment was that here was a woman so compassionate even the flowers themselves vied for her attention.
      Another thing I noticed about her as she worked was that she was barefoot. With my watchful eye I could see the dirt on the soles of her feet, and imagined it was caught between her toes as well. The dirt seemed not to faze her though. On her hands and knees, she dug her toes into the turned earth behind her, like a child’s hands sifting through a sandbox.
      And observing all this, I began to write again. The poem came easy, flowing from me as if a floodgate had been opened and my words were as water rushing into a river. And that river flowed towards the woman below my window. Towards Belle. But she’d never see that river; she’d never hear me read those words aloud to her. I quietly tore the poem from my journal and folded it up, slipping it into my pants pocket.
     I took one last glance at Belle working in the garden. She had never even noticed me; so intent she was on tending her flowers. I stepped away from the window, and went over to the bed. I didn’t turn down the covers but just stretched out on the mattress. Before sleep came and took me to dreams, the last thought I had was of Belle at work among her bulbs and blooms, and how I could have just stood there, admiring her forever, wishing the affections she showed her flowers could somehow be transferred to a man like me.

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