The Road Leads Home

By Terry R Barca

My name is Maria and you may want to judge me — find me wanting, but I need love just like you do. I’m a woman of means with a profession and an independent income. I know how to spend my husband’s money so my lifestyle is probably more lavish than yours and you think it should make me happy. Money does not guarantee that the heart is satisfied and there is no happiness unless the heart is full.
He intrigued me, and the more I learned about him, the more I wanted to know.
I stayed with my husband out of habit — we occupy the same space, but we live independent lives. I don’t make him happy, and he barely knows I’m alive.
To fall in love at my age is a wonder in itself.
I know he loves me, but it’s not that simple. First, he must decide what he wants, and if I’m lucky, that will be me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry R Barca
• Release date: Apr 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370996674

Terry R Barca

I’m an author who lives and works in the Dandenong Ranges, on the eastern edge of Melbourne Australia.I take one day at a time but occasionally I’m attacked by several days at once.My amazing wife and I have lived in The Hills for forty-three years.My favourite colour is green and so is my favourite car.I started my working life as a Primary School Teacher in the early 1970s.Since then I have been a stained glass craftsman, furniture restorer, restorer of Player Pianos and music rolls, author (twenty one books so far, seventeen audiobooks, another on the way), photographer, basketball trading card manufacturer, basketball coach, basketball player, basketball referee, part-time shop assistant, newspaper columnist, homeschool dad, husband, father, grandfather, and a few other bits and pieces, and not in this order.I’m fascinated by people, but I prefer the company of dogs.I’m not frightened of dying, but sometimes life scares the hell out of me.I think that birds are cool but I don’t believe that they spend any time thinking about me, even though I give them lots of stale bread, and the occasional pizza crust........ ungrateful bastards!

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Published by Written With A Pencil

© 2018

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Other books by Terry R Barca

Schoome

The Long Weekend

Passerby

Loyal and true

Slightly Spooky Stories

Trust

Red Wheelbarrow

Rufus

Keeper Of Secrets

Bullet To The Heart

DOT, DOT, DOT …

No Through Road

For Scotty who waits at the end of that road.

I’ve had lunch before — it’s not an unusual thing to do.

A friend calls and suggests that we ‘catch up’ over lunch. My friend will be from our circle — affluent, husband in a high paying job, plenty of time for the important tasks — clothes, decorating and generally spending copious amounts of money holding back time.

Why Mary, you look younger every time I see you.

I spend half of my life making sure that her observation isn’t unreasonable.

Of course, I return the compliment, You have the skin of a teenager, and a face like a slapped arse — I don’t say that last bit, but you knew that.

Unlike most of my women friends, I work — not full time, but I work. I have an international reputation as a therapist.

In recent times, I have been engaged in lecturing and speaking at conferences, often requiring travel. I get results way above the average, and my peers want to know how I do it. You might think I would be reluctant to give up my edge — my way of doing things, but I’m not.

It’s not the car; it’s the driver.

I heard that said about Coltrane. Anyone can pick up a saxophone, but there is only one John Coltrane.

It’s true that my methods are slightly different, but in the end, it comes down to me. People tell me things, and they listen when I make suggestions — when I give them tools to find their way out of the dark. When you are so far down you cannot see daylight, you want directions that lead you to the light, not platitudes to live by.

When I met Marcel, I was wearing a slinky gown that reached to the ground. It hugged me in all the right places, and every penny I had spent on my spectacular body was on display. My breasts aren’t large, but they are pretty. My dress caressed them and exposed just enough. I wasn’t wearing panties or a bra because it would have ruined the line of the dress —the dress I purchased only for this occasion.

One of my husband’s friends was receiving an award so the banquet hall would be full of uncomfortably dressed men imitating penguins and fabulously dressed women, all trying to impress each other while comparing their husband’s salaries.

When I first saw him, the dining hall was receiving its finishing touches. None of the bustling staff paid me any attention — one more weepy woman — what did I have to be unhappy about? An observant person would say my life looked perfect. The girls, earning minimum wage, while arranging crystal wine glasses, probably wanted to be me.

My husband disappeared into his career a long time ago, but he still expects me