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    Three Months in Maine: The Incorrigible Dale Doogan
    Three Months in Maine: The Incorrigible Dale Doogan
    Three Months in Maine: The Incorrigible Dale Doogan
    Ebook125 pages2 hours

    Three Months in Maine: The Incorrigible Dale Doogan

    By Mary B. Blalock

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    Back in Tuscaloosa County, nobody could hold a candle to Grandpa, and in Dale Doogans eyes, nobody ever would. But lately, Dale isnt so sure that he deserves the respected family name.

    Since puberty, Dale has harbored a passion for older ladies, and on more than one occasion, has reaped the benefits of neglected, lonely housewives. After years of sexual misconduct, he is faced with the consequences of his actions, and distraught and guilt-ridden, he leaves his Alabama home in search of redemption.

    In the dead of winter, he moves to Bugle Island, Maine, and within weeks, finds himself intrigued by his neighbor, Charley, a senior lady by any standards, and the two are soon fast friends. But that comes as no surprise to Dale, given his past reputation.

    Charley has a roommate, Stella, and although Dale spends almost every waking moment in their apartment, the other woman continues to remain unseen.

    Bouncing from the happenings in Maine to reminiscing into his past, Dale searches his soul to become the man his grandpa raised him to be.

    A tale of sexual awareness, accountability, and friendship.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateOct 31, 2012
    ISBN9781475957617
    Three Months in Maine: The Incorrigible Dale Doogan
    Author

    Mary B. Blalock

    A retired mother of five, grandmother and great-grandmother, Mary B. Blalock spends her free time writing, gardening, and working word puzzles. She is the author of two previous novellas, The North Wing of Sunset Manor and Three Months in Maine, and is currently working on an upcoming book of short stories. She resides in Cowpens, South Carolina.

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      Book preview

      Three Months in Maine - Mary B. Blalock

      Copyright © 2012 by Mary B. Blalock.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

      iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

      iUniverse

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

      www.iuniverse.com

      1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      ISBN: 978-1-4759-5760-0 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4759-5761-7 (ebk)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920035

      iUniverse rev. date: 10/26/2012

      Preface

      "It’s not your fault . . ."

      Staring out into the darkness, the lights of Regional Airport sparkled as a million fireflies on a country moonless night, and if not for my miserable disposition, I might have been impressed. While Presque Isle awaited our landing, I fastened my seatbelt, and leaning back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath to calm the jittery nerves.

      This was my first flight, but it was not fear of flying that had my stomach tied in knots. Nor was it the fear of not knowing what awaited me below. A sickening sensation stirred in my gut, bringing my stomach to roil, and although my conscience took a stand to battle the demons, pangs of guilt surged from the depths of my soul, dousing any hope I had of redemption.

      The ground rushed to greet us, and with the precision of an expert, the pilot landed the plane without incident. Mildly curious, I watched jet-lagged travelers scurrying to exit the ramp in their rush to get to wherever they were going while I lingered a moment in my seat, still puzzling over what insanity made me think I would find peace in this frozen chip of iceberg.

      I could not come up with a single excuse to justify making this journey north. I didn’t know anything about this part of our great country, knew nothing of its people, its livelihood, or its culture, and being one who has always hated cold weather only brought up more questions to the unsettling choice of leaving behind a mild southern climate to brazen the frigid temperatures of Maine.

      Having grown up in a rural territory sparse in population and non-existent manufacturing, I was a green-horned plowboy, and the only thing I knew anything about was farming, Doogan Hollow’s chosen occupation. Since the mid 1800’s, the Doogan name stood foremost in cotton sales, and as of late, are more widely known for our grain shipments. My Dad, Grandpa, and his dad before him have all tilled the land, and everyone we know is, in one way or another, affiliated with farming. Even the store where we shopped for necessities… work boots, overalls, and straw hats… is owned by an agriculturist who answers to the name of Farmer Jim.

      Until I boarded US Air in Birmingham, I had never been a hundred miles north of Doogan Hollow. I had found all the comforts a man could want within the boundaries of Alabama’s state line, and nothing beyond that had sparked an interest. Yet, here I was, seemingly a million miles from home with another forty to go before reaching my journey’s end, Bugle Island, Maine.

      Maybe it was fate that led me here. Or destiny. I really couldn’t say, as I had not given it any real consideration. My destination had been determined by standing over a map of the United States, closing my eyes and letting my finger trace a route. Landing atop the state of Maine, I repeated the process to select a town, and although I had never even heard of Bugle Island, it seemed as good a choice as the next. Without question, I packed a suitcase, and along with my usual wear, threw in a heavy winter coat and a couple pair of long-johns. Before going downstairs to tell my folks, I called ahead to reserve an apartment, and now, after two layovers and hours into flight, I had arrived.

      When the plane stood empty of passengers, I reached into the overhead compartment to retrieve my bag, and even before I stepped onto the ramp, I felt a blast of glacial air making its way past my collar. Right off, I knew coming here could prove to be a big mistake.

      Outside the airport lobby, I raised my hand to attract the attention of a waiting taxi, and handing him a scribbled address, I climbed inside. The cabbie made a weak attempt at small talk, and not really interested in his chatter, I dozed off.

      It’s not your fault, her voice sounded from my dreams. It’s just who you are.

      She was the reason I had come, the reason I had uprooted my life and left my family behind. That’s what I wanted to believe, that it was all her fault, but the bands tightening around my heart forced a muffled scream.

      Liar! Liar!

      We’re here, the driver’s voice roused me from my sleep.

      I opened my eyes and looked around. At first glance, it didn’t look like much, the streets and buildings needing some restoration, but becoming fully awake, I sensed a whisper of quaintness about the town. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was home.

      I let the manager know I had arrived, and getting the key, made my way down the hall. I unlocked the door and flipped a light switch, grateful that someone had turned up the heat before my arrival.

      The apartment came equipped with appliances, and a quick inspection revealed one bedroom… no bed, but that was ok by me. I didn’t need much. Never had.

      I set the suitcase inside the closet, whereupon, the sleeping bag tucked away on the top shelf beaconed my aching bones to lie down. I could not have been more tired if I had been out riding the John Deere all day, and I took the roll down and prepared a comfortable place on the floor.

      A quick shower later, I draped a towel around my midsection and went to check the TV for reception. The picture came in crisp and clear, and with a country boy’s eye for detail, I took a step back to assess my new surroundings.

      This is going to be a good year . . . God willing.

      Three Months in Maine

      Absently, I flipped the calendar to expose the first day of February, mentally calculating four weeks had gone by since I arrived in Bugle Island, a small town by any definition, but sizably more populated than Doogan Hollow. I had found the people here much like the weather, cold and unfriendly, and only begrudgingly did I admit that it might have something to do with my own unsociable behavior. I had become a hermit, spending much of the day glued to the soaps, whereas now, I was on a first name basis with the Chandlers and Newmans.

      Financially, I was doing all right, although my resources were bordering a little below the comfort zone. I was not too concerned about it. Back home, I still had some money in the savings account I started at graduation, but the hefty roll I brought with me when I pulled out of Doogan Hollow was rapidly dwindling. I figured on getting out there early this morning and put in a few job applications. Just yesterday, I spotted a cardboard sign in the window of Helm Street Diner advertising for a dishwasher, and down at the square, Community Grocery needed a shelf stocker. Not too promising in career choices, but right now, either job would suffice.

      I put on my warmest coat… the one with the fur lining that I never had the opportunity to wear back in Alabama… and pulled a sock-hat over my ears, topping it off with a badly worn Stetson I refused to throw away.

      I walked outside, the sudden glare from ice patches in the street blinding me, and I stood a moment for my eyes to adjust, debating which direction to start.

      A small voice came from behind, soft, with just a hint of accent, the tone bearing little resemblance to the few New Englanders I had encountered… the butcher, the barber, the mailman… and even before I turned around, I knew her roots stemmed from another country.

      Cowboy, could you give me a hand?

      The old woman, seventyish I’d say, was looking at me as if she meant to get an answer.

      What do you need? I asked, hoping it didn’t require any physical activity on my part. It’s not that I was lazy; farmers aren’t built that way. But I knew from experience one kind deed begets another, then another and so on, and I certainly didn’t want to give the impression that I would be the go-to man for all her future onerous needs.

      Stella and I want to move the davenport in front of the fireplace. I tried to do it myself, but it is a devil of a thing and Stella isn’t worth a flip. Seems each winter gets colder than the one before, and these old bones have been hurting so, lately. I think it would be much nicer if I could cozy up in front of the fire, don’t you think? Could you spare a minute to help an old lady?

      I looked to the left, then right, wondering if there was any way I could get out of it now.

      I was just headed… I started, and suddenly decisive in my route of prospective employment, I pointed, down Helm. Try Jenkins.

      He isn’t worth a flip, either. Please… she persuaded.

      I paused a second to ponder the situation. On the one

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