Read an #excerpt from Just Another Sunday by @ElizabetGood #ComingOfAge
Just Another Sunday
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Just Another Sunday is a compelling five-year snapshot of one woman's life, taking us through teenage angst and rites of passage, new love and broken hearts, friendships and betrayal, triumph and tragedy, and one family's struggle to cope with the inconceivable.
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
Seeds of Promise, April 1968
Leftover March winds swept with it heavy April rains as Frank Benedict tossed his wet keys on the counter. They slid across the Formica, and crashed somewhere below. “Oh, per l’amore di Pete!” Frank whispered in Italian. Damn keys make so much noise, he thought in English. Frank held his breath, listening intently with eyes toward the ceiling. He heard nothing but relentless rain. Hmm, no signs of life yet? It’s awfully quiet up there, he thought. Frank glanced at his Timex. It’s six-thirty. She must be gone by now, he decided with a shrug, and removed his water-beaded raincoat, draping it over a counter stool. He eyed the nearby steps. “First things first,” he whispered. Those keys can wait. I’ve got to check the water level. That rented pump better work, he thought, and anxiously descended his basement steps.
***
Frank sighed as he sat against the dampened coat with elbows to knees and head bent toward the floor. So far so good, Frank thought. He rubbed his forehead. It’s not like that last rain. Not yet anyway. What a mess that was, he lamented. I can’t keep renting cheap ones. I need my own sump pump, just in case it happens again. Maybe that flood was a freak thing — a fluke. Maybe this house just needs to settle, and we’ll be home free. We’ll be fine, he thought, running fingers through his thick dark hair. Yeah, that must be it. Frank looked up, focusing past gale force rain rattling the kitchen slider, eyes settling on his backyard fence. Terrific, those saplings are going to break in this wind. I just planted those trees. He expelled a deep sigh. Ah, for Christ’s sake, I can’t think about this anymore, he thought and wiped concern from his eyes. He peeled galoshes off his shoes. Frank retrieved the keys from under the sink cabinet, and then brewed himself a percolator full of Maxwell House coffee.
***
As he poured the first cup, his teenaged daughter bounded the stairs from her second floor bedroom. With arms full of gear and her head in the clouds, she called out to the air in a huff, “Terrific. I’m gonna be late for the bus,” she said with exasperation as she reached the bottom step, and emptied her arms toward the floor.
“You’re still here? You were so quiet. I figured you left by now,” Frank said, checking his watch.
“Yep. I’m still here,” Lia Benedict said while stepping over gear to check the morning’s weather. After a quick circular palm wipe she peered out the living room window. “My hair took forever,” she said to the rain-soaked glass. “Of all days, why does it have to be raining cats and dogs?”
“It’s nasty, sweetheart. Wait for me. I’ll drive you,” Frank offered from the kitchen.
She rolled her eyes. “Geez, Daddy. A ride from my father on my first day?” she said. “How lame would that be? Besides, I think it’s stopping,” she said while intently waiting for slowdown in pools of mud on what would eventually be a lush green lawn. Frank Benedict would have it no other way. “I can’t wait any longer, Daddy. I can’t miss that bus.” She hustled to the landing, picked her black rain slicker off the floor and slipped it on. “Thank God, it stopped,” she said, peering out the front entrance. “I gotta go, Daddy. Love ya.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. Have a good day.”
She secured every button, retrieved the umbrella, tote bag and purse from where they landed, and flew out the door.
Frank shook his head and chuckled. She’s always behind the eight ball, that one. She hates getting wet, Frank thought upon hearing a new wave of wind-driven rain pounding yet again. He checked his watch for the third time. “She’ll be back,” he whispered confidently, as he carried his cup to the foyer, placing it on the banister post. “That crazy kid’s always in a rush,” he said aloud, then secured shut the solid oak entry door to his new home. The next thing I buy is a storm door, Frank thought, as he looked toward his shoes and the wet hardwood floor. “God damn rain. It must be a Nor’easter.”
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