A 2020 PNW Writer’s Association Finalist
Unpublished Mainstream Fiction

A Synopsis 

Gwen’s abusive ex-fiancé sets fire to her house. Gwen escapes, but the lingering effects of his abuse haunt Gwen, and she checks into a clinic specializing in PTSD. Equipped with emotional tools, a three-legged border collie therapy dog, and a new name, Gwen, now Aveline, relocates to a remote town on the Oregon coast.

Aveline rediscovers her love of knitting, quilting, and weaving, skills she had learned from her Gran while growing up on her sheep farm. Myra, Aveline’s new neighbor, becomes her guide and introduces her to foraging and the riches of the ocean and mountains. And Guy, a sheep farmer, becomes more than just a source for her fleece.

As the summer goes on, Aveline finds a sense of belonging, but even as Aveline works to establish her Oregon life, she gets word that Kyle targeted a dear friend, and now she is dead. Buried memories of abuse from Aveline’s past resurface. With the new insights, Aveline creates a large two-story fiber art installation in the back room of a local brewery reminiscent of her lost home. But when online photos of “The Brewery Blanket Fort” go viral, Aveline is set on the path of a life-or-death confrontation.

Chapter 1

The ashes of my beloved house lingered in the back of my throat. I peeled a stick of mint-flavored gum with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel. I was driving away from Ohio. From Kyle’s threats. From the charcoal remains of my beloved house. I was driving away from my mental wounds and nursing my physical ones. I needed to get to Oregon. It was my dream of a safe place, where my Gran had grown up. Even though Gran had died many years ago, I felt her love reaching through my memories. In the chaos of the fire and the aftermath, I’d wrapped myself in the comfort of those recollections.

The longing in Gran’s voice was always there when she’d talked about her childhood home. “I wish I had taken you there, Gwen. You would have loved it so. Only my love for your grandfather was strong enough to pull me away. How have the years slipped by without going back? Promise me you’ll visit someday and think of me when you see the ocean.”

It was nearly four a.m. I pulled over at a truck stop on the south side of Portland for gas and coffee. Only a few hours more to the Oregon coast, but I was too tired to push through. Maybe I’d get a candy bar to chase the caffeine. Not the ideal breakfast, but I needed the energy.

Reaching for my wallet, I knocked the satchel with knitting needles and soft wool down to the floor, and balls of yarn rolled out.

“Damn,” I muttered, as my skeins of therapy tangled with the snack wrappers and old maps. One more unravelling thing in my life.

My body was stiff as I climbed out of the truck. My right knee was still balky from the fall. I could feel the heavy imprint of Kyle’s hand shoving me and my legs twisting as I crashed down the stairs. The long days on the road hadn’t helped. I’d driven straight through, stopping only when I couldn’t go any further. Escaping Kyle as fast as I could was my only goal. I shook my head to dislodge the thought, and my neck complained at the sudden movement.

Everything was different since the fire. Since the fire. I stretched my arms over my head and then touched my toes. If only I could so easily stretch my vibrating nerves, pounding heart, racing pulse, and spiking adrenaline back to normal. I’d hoped to leave those fight-or-flight behaviors behind, but they’d hitched a ride after all.

There was The Before. When I was a successful architect, moving into the dream house I’d finally built, living with my fiancé. Then there was The After, with a restraining order and a pile of rubble, trying to patch together my life as if nothing had happened. If only. I could no longer focus or predict my body’s responses. I was always looking over my shoulder for fear of Kyle and his obsessive “love.”

My burning house was a wake-up call. Followed by another fire in the dumpster behind the office. No evidence of how it began, but I knew. The investigation into the fire was ongoing but wasn't likely to point to arson. Kyle was too smart for that.

I straightened and reached high over my head. In a few more hours, I’d reach the Pacific Ocean. “Gran, I’m nearly there,” I whispered. “I’m nearly there.” I had no plans beyond getting to the sea and fulfilling my promise to Gran.

The Universe has a plan. Believe. It will work out. I pressed my palms to my forehead to implant that idea.

Still stretching, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large dark-haired man getting out of a familiar black SUV. He wore a yellow baseball cap and sunglasses, despite the darkness. Kyle is here. He’s followed me. No, no, no. I dropped into a low crouch. Peering around the corner of my truck, I followed his movements. He hadn’t seen me. I could still escape.

I eased open the truck door and slipped into the seat. Bile rose in my throat. I had to pass the gas pumps to get to the road. Head down, I eased my foot on the accelerator, willing myself to be invisible. Then I saw the license plate. Idaho.

I slammed on the brakes, opened the door, and threw up. My vision narrowed, a tunnel appearing before me. I started to slip away, to disassociate from my body, as I’d done after the fire, and again on a job site. I’d ended up in the hospital, twice, where it had taken days to coax me back from my far-away mental escape.

It wasn’t Kyle. Stop. Not again. Stop. But the downward spiral had already begun. I pulled myself up, gripping the steering wheel until my hands ached. Stay. Breathe. I couldn’t breathe. I was choking. Heart racing, crying, hiccupping, sobbing. I was afraid.

With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone, dropped it, scrambled to find it again, and dialed Claire. Claire was my former roommate and my power-of-attorney holder, alpha female, sister-from-another-mother, successful lawyer, and guardian angel. Claire picked up on the first ring.

“I can’t…I can’t breathe,” I gasped. “Chest hurts. So bad. Can’t stop. Can’t breathe.”

“Listen to me, Gwen,” Claire’s voice took on a familiar, soothing tone. “You’re fine. I’ve got you. Take a deep breath. That’s it.”

I took one shuddering breath.

“Hold it. Now let it out. Do it again. That’s right.”

I took another.

“In, hold, then out. Can you feel me rubbing your back? Imagine I’m there with you. In, hold, out.”

It took a while, but the tunneling vision began to widen. The ache in my chest started to loosen.

“That’s right. See, I told you the deep breathing exercises from yoga would be useful someday. Remember when I over-stretched and ripped my pants? There wasn’t enough elastic in the world to hold in all my parts.” Claire laughed, “what a show that was.”

A jerky sputtering sound escaped my clenched teeth. But her joke worked. My breathing slowed some more.

“That was close. Too close,” I said, scared at how quickly I’d almost lost it again. I reclined my seat, chest still heaving, and closed my sore, tired eyes. “Claire?” I whispered, my throat burning with acid.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“You were right. I need help. I can’t live like this. I can’t lose it again. I can’t keep ending up in the ER. Next time they’ll want to commit me.”

“I know.”

Claire’s concern wrapped around me. I held the phone close to my ear, trying to make the link stronger. “Why did I leave? I’m all the way across the country, and I don’t know what to do.”

“If you're ready for help, there's an excellent clinic about an hour south of Portland.”

“How do you know that?”

“I researched all the clinics in Oregon before you left. Can you drive?”

“I think so. Yes, I can if you keep talking to me.”

“Good. I’ll text you the address of the clinic. Why don’t you sit for a few minutes? Can you pick up your knitting? That might help. Meanwhile, I’m going to let them know you’re coming. Then I’ll call you back and keep you company.”

An hour later, I pulled into the Mountain View Clinic parking lot. I pushed the all-night buzzer on the door with a trembling finger.

“I’m Gwen Tremaine. I need help.”