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WELL TRAVELED ROADSPART 1- The BeginningIANIan Whitecap was sixty years old, retired professor at the local university. He was atall man still fit with a little thickening around his waist. He wore his hair rather longand it stood out from his head as a white halo curling across his forehead. He had aprominent nose and bright blue green eyes that always seem to have a twinkleabout them. His lips were finely formed and more likely than not settled into asmile.He now lived in a small New England village in an old historic house tall and narrowin a row of tall and narrow houses. The back parlor where he now sat at his desk infront of a casement window overlooking the back garden had been turned into hisstudy. Bookshelves lined the walls and a comfortable fire burned in the fireplace. The room was furnished in old leather chairs and a thick Turkish rug. It smelled of leather, beeswax and age.Age…yes age as Ian sat back in his chair looking at the computer screen in front of him, he was writing a book, loosely based on his life, the way it was and the way hewould have liked it to be had he made different choices. Not that he was unhappywith his life for he had a brilliant career and had married the love of his life. Sadlythe love of his life had died ten years ago from breast cancer. He had buried a partof himself with his wife and had not filled the void left by her passing. He spent hisdays at the university library, walking in the park and down at the corner tavernwhere he took his evening meals. His golf clubs lived in the trunk of his car and heusually played on Wednesdays and Fridays. He was inevitably invited out to oldfriends homes for meals to fill out a table on a regular basis for he was a goodconversationalist and still quite presentable.Ian ran his hand through his wild hair and looked up to the end of his garden seeingsmoke swirling up to the gray skies beyond his fence. A small smile played aroundhis mouth, it would be Patricia Wells having a bonfire. Patricia had moved into thehouse next door some six months ago and they had traded hellos and occasionalpleasantries over the garden fence. He thought her a fine woman, tall and willowywith a long gray ponytail down her back and wide spaced clear gray eyes. He heldthe pencil in his hand like a cigarette, having given up cigarettes after his wife hadbeen diagnosed with cancer, the urge to smoke had never left him and he stillenjoyed a slim cigar now and then. He chewed on the eraser for a minute anddecided to have a stroll in his garden, perhaps engage Patricia in conversation?

PatriciaPatricia Wells was sixty one years old and a poet. She sold her house in NorthCarolina after her husband died and moved back to the town where she was born.Always drawn to the old row houses she had snatched up the house as soon as itcame on the market probably paying too much she thought but no matter, she hada house and a garden all her own. She was a manic gardener and set to work in thegarden before her packing crates were emptied. It was now the middle of Octoberand she was raking up the leaves from the maple trees and the last of the applesinto a pile. She loved the smell of burning leaves, bringing back memories of herchildhood and the great piles her grandfather had raked up into ditches and burnt. There had been a great hue and cry when she sold the house and moved north. Heronly child a daughter had cried, pleaded and foretold horrible things that couldhappen to her alone without family around. Patricia had held her ground, it wasafter all her life now, what she had left of it to enjoy, and she intended to do justthat. For the first time in her life she was in charge and could make her owndecisions. She wasn’t entirely alone without family, she had a brother and sister-in-law who still lived in the town and if her daughter wanted to visit she was welcometo come bring her husband and her grandson.She stopped and rested her gloved hands on top of the rake breathing in the smellof the smoke and listening to the music coming from her house for she had left thedoor open to hear the Mozart piano concerto, Jeunehomme drift over her garden asshe worked. The music drowned out other noises and so she didn’t hear herneighbor come out in his garden and her thoughts being miles away did not see himleaning on the fence. If she had seen him she would have been glad for she likedthe thought of his male presence in the house next door. They had first met on the sidewalk in front of their houses, he coming from thegrocery with a bag in his arms, and she washing off her steps with a hose. He hadinvited her in for tea and she had declined being wet to her knees and said anothertime perhaps. Sadly the time had not come for she fell into getting her house inorder and her garden in. She saw him frequently in his garden and they talked of her planting and the weather. She knew he was a retired professor and had told himof her writings. One day she handed him a slim volume of her poetry over the fenceat his request and he had not returned it.Satisfied her bonfire was under control she stamped her feet and turned to go in.Her face lit up in a smile when she saw Ian.“Good morning Ian, I didn’t know you were out, I hope the music hasn’t botheredyou?”“No not at all, I was rather enjoying it.”

She hesitated for a moment and then asked, “would you like to come over for tea, Iwas just going to put the kettle on?”“Why yes, I would, I’ll just come through the gate then.”IAN and PATRICIAHe followed her down through the garden to her back door where she toed off herboots and went through to the kitchen to the sink to wash her hands. Ian stood inthe doorway.“Please come in you can make yourself comfortable in the other room if you’d like,I’ll see to the tea.”“Yes, thank you.” The layout was the same as his house except a wall had comedown between the kitchen and back parlor making it one large room. He wanderedaround in her room seeing a large oak table pushed against a wall that held hercomputer and piles of books. Comfortable furniture arranged around the fireplacethat held no fire though it had been laid. The room was chilly from the back doorbeing open. A drop leafed table pushed against the back window held a large vaseof flowers.“Shall I start your fire?” he asked hopefully.“Oh please, I’d forgotten all about it. I tend to forget most things when I’m in thegarden. It’s gotten quite cold in here.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her earand pulled her long woolen cardigan around her waist and went to turn down hermusic.She pulled out a teapot, cups and saucers and laid a proper tea tray beforebringing it in to her room and placing it on the large ottoman in front of thefireplace.“Please sit Ian, just make yourself at home, I’m not the best hostess, I’m afraid.” They settled down in the two chairs on either side of the fire. “Cream and sugar? These are chocolate chip cookies I baked yesterday, not bad.” She offered.“They’re very good, I like chocolate chip biscuits. I like this large room too, I’ve keptthe original layout and made this room into a study, unlike your room, it’s ratherdark and gloomy.”“Gloomy, dark doesn’t always make a place gloomy.”“No…perhaps it’s the occupant.”“I shouldn’t think of you as gloomy, you seem a bright happy person to me.”