Freda's Place

8 February 1783 Haven, France Having taken up residence here at The Haven more than a month ago and having settled in quite nicely, I had hoped to be several chapters further along with the next grand scribble.  As it turns out, French wine and French art, French music and -dare I admit it even to myself? -- Frenchmen are quite the distractions a writer does not need.  It is high time this state of non-productivity changed.  I must write here or go home and write there.  Father's home being the home of my dear new mother causes me to believe it would be better if I learned to write here. Here on this page, I vow to write.  In the morning.  After the wine has worn off and before the other residents of Haven are out of bed. 

February 6 Mother has been gone exactly one year today.  Jack Gray woke up on February 6 a year ago today and decided that would be the day my mama breathed her last.  So much has changed since then and I have a hard time believing she'd be proud of what I have become.  I had to do the horrible thing I did that sent me on the run.  Of that there is no doubt and I believe Mother would understand that.  But the choices I have made since then might trouble her.  At the very least, she would be puzzled as to how her "good boy" turned into a woman on the run from the law.  Now, I am in Philomenaville, far from home.  Not that there is anyone or anything left for me back east anyway, so being far from home doesn't make any real difference that way.  I have met some fine folks here, but I don't dare get close to any of them.  That nice lady detective has even invited me to come stay with her and her husband, Mr. Rolley, on their farm out on the edge of town.  I t