Life Is A Foreign Language
A Novel
Rayne E. Golay
© Copyright 2005 Rayne E. Golay.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
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ISBN 1-4120-5409-5
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Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
Pacific Northwest Writer’s Association
Contest 2004-Critique
LIFE IS A FOREIGN LANGUAGE
Overall I really loved this story.
Your basic idea and theme are clear. Despite being limited to a small excerpt of your book these carried right through. I like the imagery of the rose. It’s often used in literature because it’s so powerful, and your use here doesn’t feel like a cliché. What happens to Nina happens to us all: the realization that roses come with thorns and so does love.
I like what you did at the very beginning: got the story going instead of describing weather or back-story. So I was drawn in right away. I found your plot very plausible and believable throughout. Good orchestration of your characters in their daily motions and interactions throughout your excerpt.
Although it’s seldom possible to write a story without switching character viewpoint, I am usually most satisfied when I spend most of the time in one character’s viewpoint. You’ve done a good job as I felt like I was solidly inside Nina’s head most of the time. I felt part of the story.
Nina’s motivations are clear: basically she’s there to grieve, heal and build a new life. And from the little bit I’ve read I see that she manages to do this, even though it causes her further grief. I’m satisfied that her character arc of learning how to live and love again doesn’t necessarily mean that every part of her life is going to be okay. Readers depend on writers to put them into uncomfortable situations vicariously, and you’ve certainly done that.
I thought you drew your secondary and peripheral characters quite well.
In your dialog it was mostly obvious through the grounding you used who was speaking. I see you seldom use dialog tags for the speaker, but they way you’ve written your story they would only get in the way so good job here.
I was seeing and smelling Florida through your story, so great job with your setting.
I think the tone of your piece befits the subject matter. You as the writer stand in the background and tell your story simply, letting your characters shine. Overall an excellent piece.
Good luck!
LIFE IS A FOREIGN LANGUAGE, READER FEEDBACK
LIFE IS A FOREIGN LANGUAGE kept me turning the pages from beginning to the end. As the story got into full swing, I so hoped for a happy ending, but that was not to be in the classical sense of the word. Nina Brochard is a wounded woman. Hurt, she dares to take the risk to start the process of change, to love and embarks on the path of healing. I came away enriched by knowing the people in this novel. RAYNE E. GOLAY writes with fresh and lucid sensitivity. Her characters are made out of whole cloth.
John Moederle, Masters Degree in
International Relations
Geneva, Switzerland
Michael Hamilton, the male protagonist in the novel LIFE IS A FOREIGN LANGUGE is a man I would have liked to have in my life. All through the novel, I found myself wondering if Nina Brochard would learn the lessons he was so clearly there to teach her. Was I learning them myself in some indefinable way? RAYNE E. GOLAY’s visual descriptions have an immediacy about them that allowed me not only to read the story but to actually live it. She writes with a refreshing style, a voice all her own.
Deborah Anne Walton, English Teacher
Geneva, Switzerland
In the novel LIFE IS A FOREIGN LAGUAGE, Nina Brochard’s internal voyage from abnegation and humiliation through to self-realization tugged at my heart and mind. I learned a lot from this novel. Nina’s story is universal and moving, with which the reader certainly can identify. RAYNE E. GOLAY describes her main characters strikingly, yet manages to leave room enough to tickle one’s imagination. I visualized Nina’s and Michael’s emotional and physical nuances in vivid Technicolor. Brava!
Janet Hacin, Psychotherapist
Geneva, Switzerland
This book is for Rene, in loving memory.
My husband, my rock.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
With special thanks to the following:
YAEL, my daughter, for your very valuable comments after reading the first draft;
ARON, my son, for never questioning;
VANIA, my granddaughter, the smile in my heart;
ALAN LANTIERI, a great
artist and a wonderful friend, for believing in me; BETTIE WALES, my skillful editor;
My six readers; your wise remarks and suggestions were an inspiration; and
All my fellow writers at Writers Village University for your constructive feedback.
My deep gratitude to DON PRATT who carried the message that turned my life around.
Dream what you want to dream; go where you want to go; be what you want to be, because you have only one life and one chance to do all the things you want to do.
Chapter 1
Florida!
Nina Brochard gazed across the expanse of manicured lawn and exotic shrubbery, inhaling deeply of the fragrant April air. This was all so different from France. The best part—it was half a world away from André.
She’d finally taken the step to save her sanity, and prayed the price she would have to pay wouldn’t be too steep. Having arrived only the night before, she felt jet-lagged and so homesick she could cry—her entire body ached from the pain of separation. Brushing away the tears she shook her head. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past or fall apart; practical things needed to be done.
Notepad and pen in hand, she went to the garage and hit the switch that controlled the outside lights on each side of the door. When she arrived last night, one of them was dark. Just to make sure, she flipped the switch on and off a couple more times, but indeed, the one on the left was burned out.
She looked at the growing list. “Most of this stuff is more than I can handle by myself,” she muttered, “but I’ll be darned if I can’t change a light bulb.”
Leaving pen and pad on the hood of the car, she hoisted the folding ladder from its hooks on the back wall and opened it under the burned-out light. Three rungs up, eye level with the light fixture, she reached to unscrew the light bulb. Nina was about to remove it from the socket when she felt the legs of the ladder sink into the soft earth. She fumbled, trying to grab hold of the wall, scraping her knuckles against the stucco as she fell. The ladder landed on top of her with a stunning whack to the side of her head.
Nina lay flat on her back in a prickly fern, a knot of branches poking her painfully between the shoulder blades. Her right foot, twisted at an angle, was still caught in the ladder.
She breathed deeply, trying to clear her head. Her thin T-shirt did nothing to soften the fiery burn of the needles. By wiggling her foot, she was able to free it, but felt a sharp, piercing pain in the ankle. With an effort she pushed the ladder to the side.
“Are you hurt? Here, let me help you.”
She looked up to see a man bent over her, his hand outstretched. He seemed gigantic as she lay on her back, glasses askew. She’d lost one loafer and her hair was a likely mess of unruly curls. The relentless midday sun beat down on her, intensifying the hot wave of embarrassment at being caught in such a predicament. She tugged at the T-shirt to cover her bare midriff.
Unceremoniously he lifted her in his arms and put her on her feet. “Better?”
Her clothes clung like a second skin, moist with perspiration. She took a step and bit her lower lip. “Ouch, that hurts.”
“Your ankle?”
“Yes. I must have sprained it.”
“Let’s get out of this heat. I’ll take you inside.”
She held her breath to keep from groaning and nodded.
The man put an arm around her waist. Step by step he led her, hobbling on one foot, through the garage and into the house.
Nina’s quick glance revealed he was tall, somewhere around six feet plus, but she wasn’t good at guessing heights, or ages for that matter. A dark sienna tan covered his smooth skin, and smile creases radiated from the corners of his eyes. His shoulders were broad, his body trim … quite a good-looking man.
“Where do we go?” he asked.
Panting from the pain, she motioned toward the den. “There, on the couch.”
He carried more than walked her across the floor and lowered her to the couch. Pulling up a chair, he removed her lone loafer. “Now then, let me take a look at that ankle.”
“It’s all right. You’ve already done enough.” She waved him away, burning with awkwardness from so much attention. Alone in her house with this man, a stranger, she felt uneasy, and she tried to formulate a polite dismissal. “Thanks so much for your help. I’ll be all right now.”
Not taking the hint, he gently palpated her ankle, watching her reaction.
It didn’t hurt, but when he tried to move the foot, she cried out.
“Painful?”
“More than that. It’s agony.”
“You may have broken a bone. There’s a walk-in clinic close by, managed by a colleague of mine. I’ll drive you there.”
“You’re a physician?”
“Yes, I’m a pediatrician.” He held out his hand. “My name is Michael Hamilton.”
His hand felt soft as it grasped hers in a firm handshake. His intense blue eyes held her captive for a moment.
“I’m Nina. Nina Brochard.”
He smiled at her, a kind gentle smile. “Nice to meet you, Nina. My son, Brian, mentioned a foreign lady bought this house a few months ago.”
“Yes. I only lived here for a few weeks before I had to return to France.” Her eyes met his. “Brian’s your son? And Samantha’s your daughter-in-law?”
“That’s right.”
“Why, of course. I met them when I was here in the fall. They’ve been so good to me. When I arrived last night I found they’d filled the fridge with drinks.” She pointed at the coffee table. ‘And they brought the fruit.”
He smiled. Nina studied him as he sat next to her. He was handsome in a masculine, outdoorsy way. A high forehead and a slightly aquiline nose gave him a strong face, softened by his frequent and gentle smile. Laughter danced in his jacaranda blue eyes. His dark hair showed the merest dusting of grey at the temples. She guessed he’d be close to sixty, as she was.
“You’ll probably want to clean up a bit before we go.” Michael touched some dried mud on her arm. “Could I bring you a washcloth?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, and she heard the sound of running water and drawers opening and closing.
Nina looked through the glass door at the sparkling water in the pool on the lanai, wishing this silly accident hadn’t happened. There were more important things she had to deal with. She thought of her husband, André; his years of betrayal had set in motion an avalanche of forces she’d been powerless to arrest. Her daughter’s anger and threats disturbed her deeply, but her only choice had been to escape to Cape Coral to stay sane.
Michael’s voice interrupted her troubled thoughts. “There’s mud on your cheek, as well, and dried blood on the back of your arm.” He handed her a damp cloth.
“Thanks. You’re very thoughtful.” As well as she could, she cleansed her face and arms. She turned to face him. “Better?”
“Much.” He wagged his finger at her and grinned. “Don’t go away. I’ll get the car and be right back.”
While he was gone, she tried to get up, but almost passed out from the pain. So she stayed put and waited for him, cursing herself for being so clumsy.
Michael returned after a few minutes, holding her loafer in the air like a trophy.
“I’ll need my purse. It’s in the bedroom, if you don’t mind.” She almost choked on the words. Goodness, it was difficult to ask for help. She was used to being in charge. Now she shrank from being helpless and vulnerable.
He returned and handed her the purse. “Anything else before we leave?”
“No.” She needed to use the bathroom, but she’d rather eat live frogs than ask him to take her there.
Aided by him, she stood, and with his arm around her waist, she hobbled to his car at the end o
f her driveway, where he opened the door. Leaning against the side of the car, she gazed at her bungalow-style house with its panoramic windows and attached two-car garage. Fronted by deep emerald green lawn, tall palm trees, clusters of frangipani and hibiscus, the home had a simple, understated appearance. Content, she smiled. This was a palace—her new home.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded. He helped her into the front seat and moved her bad leg inside.
“Thank you, Michael. I haven’t even asked if you have the time to take me to the doctor. Am I keeping you from anything?”
He looked at her and smiled. “No. Nothing I’d rather do. I have a few days vacation and volunteered to do some repair jobs around Brian’s house. I was checking the sprinkler system when I saw you fall.”
She laughed. “I’m glad you were there.”
“So am I.”
He’d been dressed in paint-stained coveralls and a checkered shirt when he came to “rescue” her. Now he wore a pair of jeans and a powder-blue polo. He settled behind the wheel and adjusted the air-conditioning. “Too much air for you?”
She shook her head, appreciating his thoughtfulness. “No, it’s just right.”
He backed out of the driveway and expertly maneuvered his way along the winding streets. His hands on the steering wheel were lovely—slender wrists, long hands with tapered fingers and well-tended nails. Sensitive hands, made for healing.
“How come you’re fixing light-bulbs?” he asked.
“What did you say?”
“Doesn’t your husband take care of repair work around the house?”
Her heart skipped a beat, then pounded heavy in her chest. I wish he hadn’t brought it up. For a few moments I was able to stop dwelling on André.
She shuddered from the memories. “Yes, when he’s around.”
“Isn’t he here now?”
“No.” She hesitated, then added in a whisper, “We’re separated.” She stared through the windshield. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
They drove in silence. The radio played a piece by Boccherini, melodious and soft. She sensed him looking at her and turned to meet his gaze.
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