Colonial Acres

By Nelson Grau

Colonial Acres is a fiction novel about a cast of characters drawn to this sprawling bit of paradise in southwestern Virginia. Each character has been pulled into the vortex that is Colonial Acres by different means, but for the very same purpose, that they might be changed. Follow each as they individually come to a new and better version of themselves through the events that transpire within the bucolic landscape of the Virginia countryside. For some, the need for a change is front-and-center in their mind, their foremost concern each and every waking minute. For others, the change will come in fully unexpected ways from equally unexpected directions. There is danger. There is romance - in a tastefully innocent rendition - that is sure to keep the female audience engaged. Also, you will find sufficient fisticuffs to keep the male reader engaged as well. The author's take on Colonial Acres is that it is a Hallmark movie with a few rough edges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350953671

Nelson Grau

Having worn many hats in a working career that has spanned decades; from carpenter to plumber, electrician to industrial control, truck driver to school bus driver, there has always been one overriding desire, that of being a published author. Having long since given up on the customary path to the published world, I have pressed onward with a new course, and one that is an ever-growing segment of literature, that being a more hybrid approach. It is my desire to put forth quality work that a reader may take pleasure in and quite possibly gain some deeper level of understanding of this thing we call the human condition.

Book preview

BK90087849.jpg

Colonial Acres

© 2024, Nelson Grau

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35095-366-4

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35095-367-1

DEDICATON

This book is dedicated to Winnie Lehman from Slave Lake, Alberta Canada. She has proven to be a tireless proofreader and ally that any writer would be proud to have in their corner. As fate would decree, I am that lucky writer, and I never take for granted all the late nights she has toiled over this work, burning the midnight oil as it were, to make this the best book it could possibly be. Even after the passing of her late husband Aaron A. Lehman, a man to whom I owe much as a writer, she has still pushed forth in her never wavering support and encouragement in the effort you now see before you. Many thanks my dear friend!

Contents

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

Chapter THIRTY

Chapter THIRTY-ONE

Chapter THIRTY-TWO

Chapter THIRTY–THREE

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

Chapter THIRTY-SIX

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Chapter

ONE

Mattie works feverishly at her desk late on a Friday afternoon. Nothing special about this particular Friday, just another day in the life of a Paralegal at the bustling law firm of Spencer & Tate in the modest city of Appledale, Virginia. It is a picturesque burgh tucked gently up against the southern extension of the Appalachian Mountains in the southwestern corner of the Old Dominion state.

She deftly places the attendant stacks of documentation which keep the wheels of our beloved legal system humming into their respective binders and then carefully settles each into the proper drawer to idly rest until a new workday presents the need for their services. But there is something else that has captured her attention at this moment, it is the imminent weekend that inches ever closer as the clock carries on with its’ relentless mission. She has plans; considered options, carefully whittled down to the one prospect which presents the greatest possibility to whisk her away in both a physical as well as mental fashion.

One need only consider for the briefest bit of time the pressure placed upon a person in her position to realize the need to decompress on the all-too-short span of time between Friday at 5:00 P.M. and Monday morning at 9:00 A.M. It is a precious block of hours broken carefully down into minutes and even the seconds of life and the living thereof. She is not one to waste even a stray bit of this nirvana. Her petite thirty-four-year-old athletic build is packed onto a five-foot, four-inch frame topped with a dazzling splash of unapologetically natural blond hair cut to just a bit longer than shoulder length. Added to this is the requisite, and not totally unexpected, blue of her eyes that cast a piercing glance at whatever may cross their pathway while simultaneously exuding her rather heightened intolerance of all that is trivial or ignorant.

A soft knock on the frame of her open office door as Frederick Spencer, co-owner of Spencer & Tate, sticks his head in for a quick word. Everything with Frederick is quick, his mannerisms, his black Mercedes E-Class, even his Italian suits that are custom tailored to lend the impression of speed even when standing completely still.

Hey Mattie, how goes your day?

She swivels on her chair to greet the boss, Very well, just wrapping everything up from another crazy week.

Great job this week, for sure, he gushes, a trait she never allows herself to believe quite fully. But you better buckle up and hang on, next week is going to be bonkers around here, it’s the Weller case that is on the docket. Expect lots of overtime kid.

He always called her kid, which she took as a complement coming from his seemingly advanced station in life of some fifty-six years, each of these milestones reflected into a face betraying a far more advanced degree of the aging process. He was nothing if not devoted to his life and the craft, or craftiness, that provided all the trinkets and toys which adorned his person and property, most of which he had little, to no time for. That would include his alcoholic wife who is rarely seen and lives the life of a virtual recluse on the compound of their estate at the higher-rent end of town.

Message delivered; he is gone in a flash. Mattie pauses for the briefest of moments, her eyes coming to rest on her cold cup of coffee that sits nearly full, as she suddenly realizes the vast amount of caffeine that she dumps down the drain every day from the numerous cups of the black motivation that expend only a sip or two before they are cast aside into the sewer system and are gone forever. ‘Such a life’ she thinks.

Pete Cantrell is the next penetration into her realm, always never with a knock or a cautionary, Got a minute. Not Pete, just the barging in and taking up whatever discourse has taken up station in his feeble little mind.

Hey Mattie, a bunch of us are going down to Stryker’s Grill to unwind a little after work. Why don’t you join us?

If Pete is anything, he is sincere in a belief that he possesses some innate ability to affect the opposite gender in a positive way with his self-perceived suave approach to a conversation. In his defense, he is not the worst exhibition of the male quotient of the population with which a girl might find herself. His thick, jet-black hair is never out of place, a liberal application of hair-gel sees to that. Add to this a modestly athletic build on his thirty-six-year-old frame betraying at least a modicum of time spent in the local gym, and you have a solid B-plus on most any scale.

Come on! You know you’ve been hitting it hard all week. Life’s too short Mattie, live a little! It’s just a drink or two and maybe some wings and we can all start the weekend off on a high note. What do you say? His pleading, puppy dog eyes betrayed his ever-present flair for the dramatic.

Sorry, Pete. Got my weekend all planned. Maybe some other time, she offered, making sure to keep busy as she knew any settling of the hands would only serve to make him believe his efforts were taking root.

You’ve got to loosen up and live a little Mattie. Life is just too short! And I still believe some one of these days you’re going to give in.

"Well Pete, we’ve all got to believe in something, now don’t we. And I am certain of one thing, should the day ever arrive when I do ‘give in’, you’ll be there to take advantage now won’t you?" this offered with the slightest sliver of a grin.

Oh Mattie, you know me too well! And with that he moved to the next open door just down the hall. Hey Patty…

Mattie just shook her head. ‘Such a life’ she thought once more as she shut down her laptop and placed it into her bag. This left just a quick tidying up of the various writing utensils and she was ready to go.

The early spring afternoon spoke of the promise of a summer fast approaching. The seventy-degree air and the subtle hint of a breeze brought the scents that will fill one with hope for new life exploding from the cold grasp of a long winter. The sun had heated the asphalt parking lot to a comfortable enough point that she quickly shed her sweater as she walked past the row of Mercedes and BMWs at the head of the row to find her Rav-4 down at the far end. It sat awkwardly, seemingly an orphan amidst all the high-priced metal which is so de rigueur at any legal firm.

It was not new, but it wasn’t old either. A model of some three years vintage, it served her needs well. Its odd presence in this particular parking lot notwithstanding, the partners and staff had become accustomed to Mattie’s ride and had acquiesced to the outlier occupying the fringe of the yard. Mattie was nothing if not pragmatic, unapologetically down-to-earth might be a better description. The fact that her ride sported the base level trim package spoke volumes of the character of this girl, all that was superfluous in her world had been cast aside some time ago.

The engine duly fired, she had but one quick stop to make and she would be off, on her way to the world she held so dear, a place her heart longed for every single day, yet fate and finance would dictate only measured bits and pieces of exposure be allowed in her life. Just a quick shot down Main to the opposite side of the tracks as it were, and she would be gone. But, wouldn’t you know it, a water main break had blocked Main Street.

Well, of course, she whispered. Just what I need today.

The flagman stood blocking traffic, waving each car off onto a side street. No big deal, at least not for every other car in the line ahead of her. A modest inconvenience at most to every other human present in this line-up. But Mattie knew it was something far greater to her, a turn to be avoided at all costs, and had been duly dealt with in just that fashion for some time now. It was a line she simply did not cross, a barrier to be respected in every way. But here she was, with no way out, with the flagman feverishly motioning for one and all to keep the line moving as each car put their window down to ask what was going on, and just how long would the street be blocked.

Mattie inched ever closer, a sense of dread consuming the pit of her stomach as a dose of fatalism settled in. She had no choice but to take the right-hand turn, to accept whatever the outcome might be, and so she did. And she clutched the wheel as she drove into a cloud and was gone.

Chapter

TWO

Billy Taylor stood just inside the front entrance of his university dorm. It was 7:00 P.M. on a Saturday evening as he kept an eye peeled for his father, Robert Taylor, to pull up out front. He was dressed in a new pair of khaki trousers and a freshly pressed burgundy long sleeve shirt overlayed with a navy sport coat. Chocolate brown wingtips completed the ensemble while simultaneously finalizing the fish out of water feeling that now surrounded him. To say his attire was several steps above the average university student would be the understatement of at least one century. Especially on a Saturday evening. Especially as his classmates swirled all about in their heightened state of arousal over the partying that would soon commence.

It wasn’t the partying he would miss this evening. It never had been his thing. It held no sway over him whatsoever. Of a much greater degree of consternation to him personally, was the loss of yet another weekend spent out in the wilderness. Just himself and a backpack and the quiet repose of time spent deep in the surrounding forests. It had become his release, a refuge of sorts where he could offload the stress and baggage of another week spent in the pursuit of a degree in Business Law.

This pursuit held no deeply seeded grasp upon his own soul. It meant so much more to his father, and his family as a whole, than it ever would to him personally. But it was the family way, to climb ever higher, rung by rung, through the layers of society till the very uppermost rarefied air was reached. His grandfather had been an attorney, as was his Father Robert, who even now sped through traffic to pick up Billy for a dinner date with some of the powers-that-be in the local hierarchy of the legal field. Billy knew that as soon as they disembarked at the chosen steakhouse/watering hole he would, for the remainder of the evening, be referred to as William. The moniker Billy simply wouldn’t do in such refined company.

The use of William in reference to himself, even though that very name was spelled forth on his birth certificate, always chaffed just a bit too much. Similar to the way the collar of his dress shirt scuffed his neck as he stood peering forth into the fading light of day, looking ever faithfully for the very distinct layout of the headlights of the Jaguar XJR. There simply was no mistaking a Jaguar in any level of illumination, the cut and finish spoke for themselves, and told a much more impactful statement that the pilot of such an automobile had arrived in this game we call life.

And now those headlights swung ‘round the corner and sped up to the front door. Time to go. Time to play the part.

Chapter

THREE

His morning started the same as any other, 4:00 A.M., finding him at his desk with the first cup of coffee in hand. Patrick Steadman is nothing if not hard-working, and the recent and rare departure of an office employee left him with just that much more on his plate. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, or so he thought. He would simply plunge ever more effort of his own into the fight at hand, a situation that might not be sustainable forever, but for this morning, it was going to have to do. Another mindful sip of the strong, black liquid and he took a moment to gaze around the nickel-gap pine-paneled walls of his office. Various plaques stating a commendation here, or a thank-you there, from everything ranging from the Chamber of Commerce to the Boy or Girl Scout groups in the local area adorned a no-frills interior. The picture windows of this third-story perch provided a panoramic view of all that was the center-of-the-hub of Colonial Acres, a dream he had fought long and hard to establish over the last fifteen years. A man of some thirty-six years, he had foregone several of the usual trappings that are part-and-parcel of a full life to focus every bit of energy on his empire in the Appalachian’s.

But on mornings such as this, when the hours rolled into days, and they into weeks and each were nothing less than a non-stop effort, he knew it was time to saddle up and take a ride up through the hills. Not only to unwind just a bit, but to check out the condition of the trails on his land that the hiking crowd so loved to pursue.

He descended from his perch and made his way out to the equestrian center to saddle up his number one steed named Troy. Three of the canine residents of the grounds met him at the door and insisted on receiving their requisite measure of attention before he could continue with his intended mission of the morning. That being a ride off into the hills and dales on Troy, a quarter-horse of the most perfectly executed medium brown. He was the quintessential display of everything a stallion could be if the stars aligned in perfect sequence. Strong, stable, bigger than would be expected of this breed, and fearing nothing that man nor beast might bring his way. In a barn full of some twenty-seven other mounts, he was the steed singled out for use by the boss alone.

Patrick stood six-foot-two and settled in at a solid two-hundred-thirty-five pounds, somehow managing to maintain the greater share of his Marine Corp physique. Dark brown hair matched the same tint of his eyes, eyes that missed nothing in his surroundings. Just something he couldn’t shake, once a marine, always a marine.

The equestrian facility, a sprawling set of three massive, interconnected barns, required some five individual employees to maintain the level of care and accommodation Patrick required to see to it that any animal residing at his facility could enjoy. It mattered not if they be equine, canine, or even the sprinkling of felines that ran the roost, each had their place of comfortable repose to which they settled each night. The barns were heated in the winter months and cooled throughout the hot and humid summers that are part-and-parcel of southwestern Virginia.

The equestrian center was just one part of the grand scheme of life at Colonial Acres, a sprawling resort encompassing some twelve-thousand-plus acres of the most prime ground to be found anywhere in all of Virginia. It offered camping facilities for anything from a tent, requiring only a smooth and leveled patch of earth with a small campfire ring, to a forty-five-foot motor coach insisting upon a drive-through site with a concrete pad and full hook-ups. In addition to all this there were the thirty cabin rentals for those wishing to pack nothing more than a bag and some hiking boots.

Added to the list of things on Patrick’s plate were the operation of the General Store, the laundry facility, and the Farmhouse Restaurant, a favorite of one-and-all that pulled in a steady stream of business from the locals both in the off-season as well as the summer months. Then there was the bakery, a separate function all its own, that saw a steady turn of business year-round. In all, Colonial Acres carried a staff of some eighty-four hard-working individuals, each pulled from the surrounding community, and every one of them a committed addition for whom their place of employment felt more like a big family.

The first hint of dawn was just creasing the eastern sky as he stepped into the stirrup and swung up and onto the massive steed and slowly worked his way around the perimeter of the camping area of the sprawling property. Few of the sites showed any sign of activity save a few sprinkled here and there with small fires burning in their respective fire-rings and an older gentleman sitting quietly with a steaming cup of coffee in hand and a collar turned up to ward off the morning chill. Patrick gave a nod to each as he passed by, they in turn raising a cup in greeting. All seemed in order as he reached the spot where one of the hiking/horseback trails split off and meandered upward into the hills. Troy took the turn with no real input from the rider as these two seemed to read each other’s thoughts.

The climb started gradually, Rhododendron slowly gathering tighter on each side as the path became narrower with each turn. The trail was settling into the quintessential hiking and horseback riding venue that drew the crowds from both near and far to spend a day or an entire vacation at Colonial Acres. Troy seemed not to notice the incline; it was just another day at the office for him. Patrick needed only to settle back and enjoy the ride as the elevation changes brought ever thinner foliage and, steadily, more and more exposed rock surfaces referred to as a bald by the locals. Bit by bit the views opened all around them. A peek here, a glimpse there, until finally, they stepped out of the forest’s grasp and onto a completely unimpeded vantage point. It was here that all of nature exploded into an open-air show, every bit of vegetation stepping aside to render jaw-dropping vista’s as far as the eye could see. Patrick stepped off and found a nice rock platform to settle onto for a bit.

Below them there spread forth a panorama of sweeping green. Lush hills girdled fertile valleys with only a modicum of the intrusion of mankind to be seen. A homestead here, a barn painted red there with the obligatory See Rock City sign painted on one side. Patrick drew his thermos from the saddlebag and poured forth a steaming cup of black coffee. The gentle breeze softly swayed Troy’s tail side to side as he seemed to appreciate the surroundings just as much as his owner.

Time seemed of no essence whatsoever in such an ethereal setting. It brought to mind the reason Patrick had decided to make this region his home, to invest so much of everything that was himself into Colonial Acres and the staff that depended on him for a paycheck. He looked up at Troy, lifting his hand to rub the powerful neck, to feel the layers of muscle coursing just below the skin of the beast. He was every bit the medicine Patrick needed this morning, coupling with the fantastic view exploding below their perch. A peace settled over him; his world would be okay for another day.

But, as is so often the case, it wasn’t long before the arc of the sun told him it was time to start heading back. He mounted Troy once more, took one more gaze across the valley below, and slowly turned to head back down the trail. A short detour off the pathway provided the perfect spot for Troy to get a drink from one of the mountain streams that coursed their way down from the heights. He dismounted and led him to one of the more sedate pools of crystal-clear refreshment. As the stallion took his fill Patrick noticed the footprints of a random hiker who also knew of this spot, a spot of which Patrick thought he alone was privy. A rather deeply treaded boot-print left indentations in the softened soil leading right up to the very edge of the stream. Patrick could picture the hiker kneeling as they filtered water into whatever logo of drinking bottle they subscribed. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Must be someone who spent a great deal of time in these woods, he thought. A casual weekend hiker would have no way of knowing this stream even existed.

Chapter

FOUR

Let’s get moving Mattie! You’re going to miss the bus, Kiddo! her mother hollered up the staircase.

Mattie was scrambling to throw books and writing utensils and whatever else a young girl required to engage another day of fourth grade academia. She was well aware of the fact that her bus driver was not one to wait long at the end of the long drive if he didn’t spot her running in that direction. It was bad enough, and he would let her know it, whenever she wasn’t standing right at the end of the driveway, so time was of the essence.

A quick kiss goodbye to a harried mother, the grabbing of a lunch pail, and off she sprinted as fast as her legs would go. A glimpse of the yellow method of transportation with its’ lights blazing up the road at the Miller’s told her she was going to make the appointed pickup spot just in time.

A smile and a nod from Mr. McGentry, and she turned down the aisle to find her way to her assigned seat. It wasn’t a terrible row to be in, fortuitous in the fact that it wasn’t too far toward the back, yet sadly, directly across from Joey, a persistent little fellow who lacked any and all social awareness that should have told him she wasn’t interested in even the most trivial of conversations, much less anything beyond that.

The life of a fourth grader in the mountains of West Virginia was a mix of the very old and the relatively new, all rolled into a single day of life