Bridie's Diary E-Book

Giselle Renarde

• Herausgeber: Giselle Renarde
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Bridie never expected to find herself in this position at midlife: leaving her husband and moving to the ends of the earth, purchasing her childhood home, falling in love with her tenant... 

Ness is everything Bridie is not. She’s young and bold and artsy and trans. Bridie can’t fight the attraction. It’s addictive. It’s overwhelming.

But when Bridie’s best friend shows up to remind her what life was like when they were lovers, she’s torn between fresh possibilities and familiar passions. Will Bridie choose the old or the new? Or will life choose for her?

Lesbian fiction from award-winning queer Canadian author Giselle Renarde.

Leseprobe

Bridie’s Diary

© October 2019 by Giselle Renarde

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.

Cover design © 2019 Giselle Renarde

First Edition 2019

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Table of Contents

Disclaimer

Bridie’s Diary

The House

The Husband

Teeth

The House Again, and Other Matters

The Basement

The Welcome Wagon

Oh Good! A Visitor!

Another Try

A Surprise

The Girl from the Chocolate Shop

Working Stiff

Fern’s Turn

Maybe It Was Sex?

In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

Aftermath

Getting My House in Order

Life Goes On

Remains

Big News

A Future Together

Everything’s Going to Be Okay

Also in the series | The Lesbian Diaries:

ABOUT GISELLE RENARDE

Bridie’s Diary

The Lesbian Diaries

Book 2

By Giselle Renarde

The House

I’M NOT SURE WHY I’M doing this.  I don’t even know where to start.  It’s been nearly 40 years since I’ve looked at a diary, much less written in one.  The last time I set pen to paper, I was probably mooning over David Cassidy. 

But I didn’t need an excuse then.  Why am I looking for an excuse now?

When I was young, I never sought permission.  Not for things like this, for writing my experiences and emotions.  It was taken for granted that a young girl needed time to herself, time alone with her diary, to work through the changes that were happening in her body, in her life.

Well, I need that time, too.  My body is changing.  My life is changing.  I need this.

Hear that, diary?  I need you.  Now more than ever.

Because right now, more than any other time I can remember, I have nothing.  I have no one.  Except this house.  I have this house.  And the girl in the basement, though we haven’t even met. 

Apart from that, my whole world has come crashing down.  Or did I tear it down?  I’m not entirely sure.

Let’s start with the house, shall we?  This house is an instigator.  This house started everything.

Or perhaps it was a phone call that started everything.

My brother called to tell me this place was on the market again.  The house we grew up in.  This house.  He’s the only one in the family who’s kept in touch with friends from the island, from this small town where we were raised. 

When we were teenagers, the one thing everybody had in common was a deep, spiritual thirst to leave this town.  Go far, far away.  Most of my friends left even before I did, but I got out eventually.  How the place didn’t become a ghost town, what with droves of teens leaving on an annual basis, I’ll never know.

I suppose some people stayed.  That’s how my brother found out our old house was up for sale.  He heard it from someone who’d stayed.

We got talking about the old days.  My siblings and I don’t get together much, so we like reminiscing whenever we get each other on the phone.  We talked about the many quirks of this creaky old farmhouse.  No double-glazed windows, no sir.  Those panes rattled and shook any time there was the slightest breeze outside.

Those old windows didn’t do a great job of keeping us in, either.  We started sneaking out when we were, oh, say, eleven?  Twelve?  They talk about kids today, but we weren’t much better.  In some ways, we were worse.  Climbing down the trellis.  Me and my sisters running around with older boys, with the ones who hadn’t yet fled.  Dreaming about the day when it would be our turn to shake off the dust of this one-horse town.

And yet, here I am.  Back again.  After all these year.

The Husband

AFTER I GOT OFF THE phone with my brother, I wandered into the living room, where Aldo sat watching TV, Al Bundy style, with one hand shoved languidly inside his trousers.  When I walked into the room, I caught him picking his nose.  One hand in his pants, the other lodged up a nostril. 

He didn’t stop just to humour me.  He looked up, thumb inserted deep inside his nasal cavity, and asked, “Who was that on the phone?”

I told him who.  I told him about the house I grew up in, about it coming up on the market.

“Oh yeah?” he said, which might give you the impression that he was engaged in our conversation.  I can assure you he was not.  He removed his thumb from his nose, but he didn’t take his eyes off the TV just because I was pouring my heart out.

I told him how much I would love to put my feet inside the old place, see what kind of changes the new owners made after my parents sold up and died. 

“Can’t you see it online?” Aldo asked.

To his credit, he clearly was listening, at least to the words if not to the spirit of what I was saying.

And I’ll give him this: it’s true.  These days, you can look up anything online. 

I went into the kitchen and grabbed my tablet and brought up the MLS.  The listing was there, sure.  But were there pictures?  Only one.  An exterior shot that looked as if it had been taken in 1974.  No photos of the home’s interior. 

When I got here, I could plainly see why the sellers weren’t keen on showcasing what the house really looked like.  But at the time, at home, with Aldo, I was intrigued.

My husband still had both eyes glued to the television when I returned to the living room.  “The listing’s online, but no interior shots.  Gee, I’d love to check out the old homestead.”

“Oh yeah?” he said—his old standby.

“I want to go back,” I told him.  “I know it’s far.  It’s a plane ride and a rental car and a room for the stay, but this is why we’ve been working so hard all these years.  Working our butts off and tucking money away, saving for a rainy day.  Saving, always saving, never spending one red cent.”

Aldo didn’t respond.  Something on television captured his full attention.

“Do you want to come with?” I asked him.  “Want me to show you the house where I grew up?  The town I lived in back when I was young?  You’ve never seen it—any of it.  Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

It took him a very long moment to respond, and I’m sure he only said anything because I was staring at him so intently.  Finally, he shook his head and said, “No, I...”

Something exploded on TV, and that’s all I got. 

“No, I...” 

That’s it.

But that was enough.

I took my tablet upstairs and looked at flights.  There was one leaving the next morning, just after five.  Soon.  But I had to leave soon.  If I didn’t leave soon, I wouldn’t go at all.  And something compelled me.  Something I couldn’t name.  The old house was calling me home.

So I booked my flight.  Called in to work and left a voicemail for the bosses: “I’ll be taking tomorrow and Monday off.  Sorry for the short notice.  Something came up.  Unavoidable travel.”

Then I started packing.  Thoroughly packing. 

I must have known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I didn’t plan on coming back.  You don’t pack as much as I did for a four-day weekend.

It was only after I’d called a taxi that I made my way downstairs—with a lifetime’s supply of luggage.  You might think it odd that it was after one in the morning and my husband hadn’t come to bed, but this wasn’t odd in the least.  Not for him.  He’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, as usual: feet up, head back, looking corpse-like—except that corpses don’t snore, as far as I’m aware.

After dragging my luggage to the front hall, I crept into the living room to say goodbye.  I expected to feel... something.  Sadness or... something. 

The last thing I expected to feel was numb. 

And yet, when I looked at my husband with his mouth gaping wide, all I could think about was his thumb crammed unapologetically up his nose.  He didn’t stop picking just because I’d entered the room.  He would call that intimacy—he didn’t have to put on airs.  But you know what?  A couple of airs here and there wouldn’t hurt.

Everything happened in a daze.  I told myself this was only natural, considering the time of night—of morning, rather.  My body begged for sleep, and yet, when I was finally in my seat waiting for my 5 o’clock flight to take off, all I could see in my mind’s eye was my husband’s gaping mouth. 

Teeth

ALDO’S BOTTOM TEETH are so crammed together they jut in every direction.  He’s got dark brown coffee stains where one tooth meets the next.  The more I think about his mouth, the more disgusted I feel. 

Maybe I should take a look at my own teeth before I’m so critical of his.  I just can’t help the way my stomach turns when I think of him.  His teeth didn’t look that way when we met.  I could show you a picture, if I had one with me. 

Aldo had perfect teeth when we married.  Pearly whites.

It’s age that crams teeth together, age that had stains them yellow, then brown.  That’s what happens, as the years go by.  If you don’t pay attention, your teeth crowd in on one another.  They discolour badly. 

That’s what happens, if you let it. 

My friend Jacintha taught me all that.  I don’t happen to be an expert on teeth and aging.  Neither is she.  Her fancy boutique dentist warned her about these things. 

Jacintha’s the type of woman who takes special care in her appearance.  She’s roughly my age, but you’d never guess it from her looks.  I’d say she might even be a year or two older than me, though she’s the type whose age is impossible to pin down.  Smooth cinnamon skin, thick raven locks.  If you spotted her on the street, you’d fall instantly in love.

Botox, lasers, lotions and potions—Jacintha goes in for all that.  She’s a captain of industry, but she could just as easily pass for a movie star.  She’s got that going for her: star quality.  And a mind like a steel trap.  At least two PhDs that I know of. 

Her infinite allure draws in all sorts of people, but most get turned swiftly away.  Why she keeps me in her life, I’ll never know.  I don’t have much going for me.

Now less than ever.

It bothers me, slightly, that I’m so preoccupied by the memory of my husband’s teeth.  I’ve never been the type to judge others based on outward appearances.  It’s what’s inside that counts.  That’s what I’ve always said.

But there’s something about those teeth that turns my stomach.

I have this feeling in my gut that I’ve made the right decision, even if the voices in my head are telling me I’ve screwed up. 

Royally.

The House Again, and Other Matters

THE HOUSE LOOKS JUST the way I remember.  Isn’t that wild?  I haven’t set foot in this place in... how many years?  Thirty? 

Nothing’s changed but the furniture. 

What are the chances? 

You’d think someone, somewhere along the way, would have done renovations.  The place needed them, badly, even when my family lived here.  But I guess this area attracts people who have no money—myself included, now that I’ve wiped out my personal savings to buy this house. 

And quit my job.

The Gods must be crazy, and, apparently, so am I.

Who does a thing like that?  Who flies to a town on the edge of the country and buys a house that’s practically falling apart without even running it by her husband?

Sorry.  Ex-husband.

I couldn’t bear speaking with Aldo, voice to voice.  I left him a message saying I’d be living out here for the foreseeable future.  I hope he caught my meaning.  He hasn’t tried calling me back.  I guess that’s where we’re at, me and Aldo: I end our marriage in a voicemail and he doesn’t even bother to respond.

Call me a coward.  Go ahead.  It’s nothing I haven’t called myself.  It’s entirely warranted.  I am a coward.  I’m afraid of confrontation.  I’m afraid of hitting the nail on the head.