My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) Read Free Page A

her. She was on the College Board, a banker. We’d met. Race hadn’t introduced us but he might as well have. It was at the Alumni Fundraising Dinner the previous spring. She was with a few board members and some of Race’s fellow faculty when he and I approached the group, together.
    “Sarah Burns, you know Professor Coleman but have you met Cammy, his wife?” asked Ken Logan, prominent businessman, alumnus, and fellow board member.
    “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” replied Sarah Burns.
    She was young, early thirties. She had long blonde hair. Race loves long hair. Her eyes were blue-blue, sweet smile, golden skin, beautiful hands, perfect nails and not the gaudy, too long kind, they were tastefully polished. I remember looking down at my hand as she offered me hers and noticing the contrast with my sun-damaged, garden-worn, forty-six-year-old paw.
    The group then proceeded to extol the virtues of Sarah Burns. Her intelligence, how would the college have survived the budget crisis of the last two years without her? Her wit, she made the long board meetings bearable.
    Ken Logan was so blatantly taken with her, I felt sorry for his wife who stood quietly looking at her husband, then looking at Sarah Burns, then looking at her husband looking at Sarah Burns. Surely they were having an affair. How awful for Karen Logan.
    Would it have been easier if she had been old, stupid and ugly? Yes, at least then I would have been able to question Race’s judgment. He’s not right in the head, look what he’s giving up. Knowing I couldn’t compete was a hopeless kick in the gut.
    So then our talk was all about Sarah Burns, and I wanted to know when, how, why? Race insisted he wasn’t “going there” and I could hardly blame him. I had gone from reasonably calm to ballistic in three seconds flat.
    Not getting the answers I thought I wanted, needed, I ran upstairs and locked myself in the master bathroom. Locking the door was quite unnecessary as Race made no attempt to come after me.
    I sat on the toilet, lid up, seat down, pants up, listening to the opening and closing of drawers, the zipping of suitcases, Race’s footsteps going down the staircase, and then the closing of the front door. He was breaking the rules.
    Alone, I was completely alone in the house and no one would be coming home. Janie was back at school, and Paul was off on a nine-month marine research trip in the Galapagos. I left my perch on the toilet, curled up on the bathroom floor, pressed my cheek against the cool tile, and cried, and cried.
    What I did that first week after Race left can only be pieced together through evidence. I do know the phone rang. I didn’t answer it. The doorbell too, but I didn’t answer that either. I think I ate. There were three empty tuna fish cans and several orange rinds in the sink. The shower, sinks, bath linens, and my toothbrush were dry. No bathing or hygiene rituals of any kind took place, apparently.
    On Saturday came a loud knocking, pounding, and then shouting, “Cammy, open the door!”
    Race? Why doesn’t he just come in?
    “Cammy, if you don’t open up, I’ll call the police. I swear I will!”
    I looked around the room, the kitchen, I was in the kitchen. I reached up and grabbed the edge of the center island, pulled myself up from the floor, and shuffled into the entryway.
    Again pounding, Race pleading, “Please, Cammy, open up!”
    I made it to the door and leaned against it. “What do you want, Race?”
    “Let me in, Cam! What are you doing?”
    “I’m dancing the rumba with Ricky Ricardo and drinking Mai Tais.” Oh, that would get him. Race loved to dance and he hated it when I drank. I hate it when I drink. I get silly, stupid, and then sick. I’m not cut out for it.
    My head bobbed. It was so heavy. “Why don’t you just come in?” I asked him.
    “I left my key on the entry table with a note.”
    I looked over at the table.
    Yes, a key and a note.
    I staggered over and