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 fa...