On My Way - Eve Langlais Page 0,1

me rolling off the edge of the bed onto the floor.

Damn. Oops.

Another one of my fine moments. I was on a roll this morning. Hello, I am Naomi Rousseau, hitting the other side of forty, divorced, still about thirty pounds overweight, and, despite all my attempts, not quite winning at life. Did I mention I was clumsy, too?

I used to have a gym teacher, a kind man, who claimed my lack of coordination came from being left dominant. A lefty who smeared all her schoolwork, the blue pen staining the side of my hand all through high school. The struggle was real.

Then there was the stigma of being left-handed. There was a cashier at the grocery store that used to perform the sign against evil whenever she saw me, and I am pretty sure I once heard her mutter something about me going to hell.

Going to hell because I wrote with the less dominant hand. Seemed a little extreme to me. Meriting a spot in Hades should be a little more difficult, say like having dirty thoughts about random men. I’d been doing that a lot lately.

I’d heard stories about women getting horny when they hit midlife. I’d assumed it was a myth. I’d not felt anything at all when I was married to Martin. Barely the slightest interest and the few times I did get in the mood—usually by reading an excellent book—I took care of business myself—quickly, with sticky fingers and a hint of shame as if I did something tawdry.

Of late, I’d gotten over that mental block. I had to because, once I’d accepted being single, my body went into carnal overdrive. Suddenly I became very interested in sex—and my lack of. I wanted to get laid. If only I could get the nerve to date.

Maybe I’d be brave enough if I lost a few more pounds.

I was pretty sure I’d lost at least two wrestling my blanket. I certainly breathed a little hard. I lay on the floor for a moment, resting. I could do that most of the time without screwing it up.

The ceiling overhead soothed with its glow-in-the-dark pattern. Using a luminescent paint, I’d traced the odd symbols etched in the beams that held up the roofline. Those marks were repeated throughout the house, along with other symbols. I had no idea what they meant or if they were just decorative. I enjoyed looking at the pattern they made. Especially in my room. At night, if I stared long enough, I’d swear they moved. The sigils appeared as if they floated and formed shapes that I could almost understand.

Crazy. Just like my recurring nightmare about Maddy the lake monster was nuts. I’d recently debunked the whole haunted lake myth.

Can you believe, when I first moved into my grandma’s cottage after my house burnt down, the whole town actually believed we had a mythical creature problem? Even I’d almost succumbed to the mania for a bit until I discovered a company had taken over the old mill in town and was experimenting with a new geological digging tool. Lo and behold, in the dark, at night, their machine to mine lake mud looked just like a monster.

People, being superstitious by nature, freaked out. It didn’t help that Airgeadsféar—the company with an unpronounceable name—was so secretive. Especially with their business dealings. The company had snatched up more than three-quarters of the properties in town. The inhabitants that remained were either determined never to move or were holding out for a bigger payout.

I belonged to the former category. The cottage I’d inherited from my grandma wasn’t for sale. As for the store I’d purchased with the funds I’d recently acquired? Mine. All mine. Not that I had any idea what to do with it.

For a brief time, I’d entertained this grandiose idea of opening my own bookstore, only the town had one already and wasn’t populated enough for two. Serving food, even coffee, didn’t appeal. If I wanted to make tips, I could waitress part time for Orville at Maddy’s, the local diner.

There was a grocery store already, plus a hardware shop, leaving me with few options. I couldn’t cut hair or do nails, and I had no sense of style according to my friends.

Nor would I open up a psychic shop like my daughter, Winnie—born Wendy Abigail Dunrobin—kept suggesting. Although, with the townsfolk believing I was descended from witches, it might actually work, but I was keeping that as a last resort.

“You okay up there? I