Bohemians of Sesqua Valley by W. H. Pugmire Read Free Book Online Page B

senior by half a year, and when he suddenly died at home I took it as a sign that I would be next. Foolish and melodramatic, I know, but there you are. It’s surprised you, my having two books published this year; I’ve always made it a habit to wait a year or two before writing a new book. What you don’t know is that I have three more completed books awaiting publication. Hopefully only two of them will be published next year. I went through a phase of mad productivity, because I thought I would be dead by the end of this year and I didn’t want to die without having added significantly to my oeuvre.” She looked at him and shrugged. “My doctors tell me that my heart is on the mend. I have thus slowed down, stopped writing. Now I can delve into other things, I can travel a bit if I feel up to it. Best of all, I can be lazy and relax. There you have it.”
    “Excellent. All I knew was that you told me you had stopped writing for a while, and that distressed me. I invited you here to give you a taste of the inspiration that has recharged my creativity, hoping it could do the same for you. I still hold on to that hope. Sesqua Valley will inspire you in ways that are new and novel.”
    Sarah shrugged. “I have no intention of doing any work here—or anywhere, for at least two years. But, yes—new inspiration, a new approach—that would be most welcome. I would like the next book I write to be absolutely unique.”
    “Your work has been so urbane—to the point where you’ve been described as a female Henry James, the writer who has inspired you the most. You have a knack for outré characters, but your settings lack imagination. I think that the valley will aid your facility for distinctive characterization, giving you a different background in which to drop your freaks and fools.” Akiva turned away from her and looked down the road toward the main section of Sesqua Town. “My friend has a charming café that serves the finest French toast I have ever tasted. Let’s go.” He linked his arm with hers and led her down the dirt road, to the main business section of town. They spent an hour at breakfast, and then Sarah said she wanted to investigate the area.
    “If it’s going to inspire new work, I need to take it all in and drink the ambiance. I confess I find this little area charming, like something from a 1950’s movie set. This town wears an aspect of unreality. Its inhabitants dress in a simple way that is neither modern nor outdated. I’ve seen but two cars. The quietude is like nothing I’ve known—where are the birds? Come, Akiva, show me this remarkable setting.”
    The poet led her away from the café and onto the sidewalks that were composed of planks of sturdy wood. Sarah drank in the rustic aura of the town as Akiva, in his low voice, spoke of various venerable homes and their inhabitants. Some of the Victorian-seeming dwellings would have fitted perfectly in Providence, for which she was becoming just a little homesick.
    “You’re frowning,” her friend informed her.
    She glanced around her before she answered, her eyes catching sight of the twin-peaked mountain. When she looked at him and tried to laugh, her noise was not successful. “I feel as though I’ve wandered into some alien realm wherein I am unwanted. The beauty of the place is fantastic—and yet one feels guilty soaking it in. To gaze too long a time at that white mountain makes me feel positively sinful, and I ache for my eyes to sink deeper into their sockets in escape. I’m not supposed to be here.”
    “I remember feeling exactly the same, especially when I began to meet the locals.” He paused, as if trying to decide how much he wanted to confess. “You don’t want to keep peering at the mountain—it doesn’t like to be scrutinized.”
    She did not heed his curious advice. “It looks like some strange slumbering beast. Those incredible arched peaks—they could be wings on a daemon’s back, ready to spread and