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IS IT POSSIBLE FOR A MEMORY TO OUTLIVE ITS OWNER?
Ophelia Browne knows the answer is yes. She knows because she’s been granted the unique gift of finding and caring for forgotten memories. But now she’s nearing ninety, and Browne women seldom live beyond such an age.
Before time runs out Ophelia must find her successor…someone who can carry forth the gift and keep the memories from fading. When broken-hearted Annie Cross shows up on the doorstep of The Memory House Bed and Breakfast, Ophelia knows she is the one.
As the two women sip dandelion tea and share stories, Annie begins to uncover new memories. Ugly ones. Ones buried deep enough to hide the scars. Excitement turns to fear when a thread of violence begins to unravel and Ophelia knows they have gone too far.
Literary Awards for Memory House –
FAPA President’s Book Award
Praise for Memory House –
“A magical book of memories, treasures and stories from a Masterful Southern Storyteller…” Judith D. Collins, top 1000 Reviewer
“Magical realism that will enchant…” Heidi, Rainy Day Ramblings
“Wonderful, heartwarming story of love and life…” Sherry Fundin, Reviewer
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The loft was like a black hole – #fridayfiction
Speaking of Edward’s death brings back memories I thought were dead and buried. Those were terrible times; times so bad there’s not even a way of describing them. Although the smell of death was all over that loft, I called Doctor Kelly and told him to come quick because Edward had stopped breathing.
I suppose I was hoping that by some miracle they could breathe life back into him, but of course such a thing wasn’t possible. After I called the doctor, I went back to the loft and sat beside Edward. I kept thinking maybe there was something I could do for him. Maybe he’d wake up and ask for a glass of water or an aspirin. Now I can see how foolish such thoughts were, but back then I didn’t have the ability to think rational. When the person you love more than life itself is gone, your heart and mind are filled with sorrow and bitterness.
I blamed myself for not being here, and I blamed Edward for building that damned loft. No matter what anybody said, I knew if he wasn’t up there he would have called for help and he’d still be alive. For almost two years, I didn’t even step foot on the staircase. I left everything exactly as it was. The sheets crumpled and laying half on the floor, the imprint of Edward’s head still on the pillow and the lamp beside the bed still turned on. Eventually the bulb burned out and the loft was like a black hole that had swallowed up my reason for living.