Love & The Goddess Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the Goddess in all women and the men who love her.

  “I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”

  CLARISSA PINKOLA ESTÉS

  First published in 2013 by

  GoddessMECA

  www.goddessmeca.com

  All rights © 2013 Mary E. Coen

  Paperback

  ISBN: 978-1-909483-03-3

  Ebook – mobi format

  ISBN: 978-1-909483-04-0

  Ebook – ePub format

  ISBN: 978-1-909483-04-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, filming, recording, video recording, photography, or by any information storage and retrieval system, nor shall by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  The right of Mary E. Coen to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events featured in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead, organisation or event, is purely coincidental. Any mistakes are the author’s own.

  Produced by Kazoo Publishing Services

  222 Beech Park, Lucan, Co. Dublin

  www.kazoopublishing.com

  Kazoo Publishing Services is not the publisher of this work. All rights and responsibilities pertaining to this work remain with GoddessMECA.

  Kazoo offers independent authors a full range of publishing services. For further details visit www.kazoopublishing.com

  Cover design by Andrew Brown

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  When I sat down to write this book, I first considered doing a memoir covering a period in my life when dramatic events were an almost daily occurrence. Some were traumatic while others were inspirational, bringing healing along with renewed joy, hope and laughter. And so I wished to share some of the wisdom and systems of healing which helped me through a difficult time in my life – they are woven through the fabric of this story.

  Ultimately I decided to respect the privacy of loved ones and acquaintances I met in Ireland and South America, including the wonderful Healer referred to herein. Instead I chose to write a work of fiction with as much authenticity and humour as possible. In the interest of the story having a realistic feel, I have, however, used authentic place settings, with the exception of the fictitious village referred to as Kiltilough in north Galway. No such place exists.

  The Goddess theme is central to the story as Kate uses the names of each of the Goddesses in the myth of Persephone, Demeter and Hekate at various times on different internet dating sites. As she identifies with each Goddess, she attracts different men into her life who mirror some aspect of herself. Her voyage of self-discovery and healing takes her from Galway in the West of Ireland to an Ashram in rural Brazil and on to the Andean highlands of Peru.

  This is entirely a work of fiction and any similarity to people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  It was my dream home, the kind I’d always imagined living in as a child. There was something reassuring about old houses with meandering ivy wrapped around them like a lovingly hand-woven comfort blanket. Yet now I sighed as I took stock of the house where I had lived for the past twenty-three years. What was wrong with me? I should be glad to be home. It was the last day of term and three months of summer lay ahead of me. No more trekking into Galway in rush-hour traffic, no more teaching temperamental young cookery undergraduates all determined to be the next celebrity TV chef.

  I turned off the car engine. A flock of swallows darted among the orderly row of evergreens which flanked the house like soldiers on sentry duty. The rigidity of the trees bothered me. I’d always thought that trees, shrubs and flowers should be planted in sinuous beds, curving languidly as nature intended. But there was no convincing a man who liked everything to conform to straight lines and neat geometric shapes. Being married to a perfectionist had its challenges and sometimes I felt that – unlike this house – I didn’t quite live up to them.

  Taking a quick peek in the rear-view mirror, I pulled out my make-up purse from my bag and applied a slick of red lipstick. Grabbing a brush, I attempted unsuccessfully to transform my flyaway copper red mane into well-defined layers. Still far from perfect. With dark shadows under my eyes, I looked as if I’d been plugged into an electric socket and left there to fry. Hardly surprising – today had been the most unpleasant ending to a college year I’d ever had, with my worst student threatening to challenge the mark I’d given him for his practical exam.

  I grabbed two plastic bags of shopping from the back seat. Things had been more strained than normal between myself and Trevor, so tonight I’d planned his favourite meal. Struggling up the steps with my lecture notes and the shopping, I noticed that the front door stood ajar. My stomach fell. Trevor was home ahead of me. Why today, of all days? I’d hoped to have everything ready before he came in from the surgery.

  Inside, after kicking off my court shoes in favour of indoor pumps, I slipped my files on to the hall table. Tucking my white cotton blouse into the waistband of my skirt, I anxiously tried to make myself look presentable. Part of my plan had been to change into something a bit more elegant than the navy work skirt Trevor was always scowling at. My black cocktail dress was hanging waiting in my dressing room, but there was no time to change now. I’d have to straighten myself up as best I could. “I’m home”, I called out. The scent of disinfectant hit me and I guessed he was in the kitchen. Had I left a mess this morning? Anxiety fluttered in my chest. I was sure I hadn’t – so what had he found to clean?

  When I pushed open the kitchen door, he was standing with his back to the Aga. A shard of sunlight came through the French windows, hitting the arrangement of copper pots overhead, causing them to twinkle in all their polished glory. The kitchen was spotless, exactly as I’d left it. I heaved an inward sigh of relief. “Trevor. You’re home early?”

  His brown eyes met mine and he made a half-hearted effort to smile,
sweeping his hand through his wavy salt-and-pepper hair. Recently, he’d started to look older, the lines on his forehead deepening and crows’ feet settling into more permanent folds around his eyes and mouth. Despite my being fourteen years younger than his fifty-eight years, I still found him more attractive than any other man. I dropped the shopping on the floor beside the island unit, and stood on tiptoes to kiss his lips. He turned away, a distant expression on his face, and pulled out one of the high-backed wooden chairs from the island. “Sit here.”

  “In a few minutes.” Unnerved by his snub, I headed to the fridge to take out a bottle of wine. “I’ve had such a day. Ron Clarke claimed he’d overbaked the lobster because my notes were wrong. Imagine him blaming me. He’d completely botched the timing. And his Tarte Tatin was hopelessly undercooked. And then he said I’d better give him a distinction or he would challenge the result.” My words rushed as I struggled to uncork the wine. “Dear old James had to give me a hug in the staff room. He said I should take a break from it all by joining him on some mad trip to Peru.” Smiling, I turned to hand Trevor a glass of wine.

  He didn’t take it. “Kate, please sit. We need to talk.” His tone was curt.

  “Talk away.” I forced another smile. I was determined to remain upbeat in the hope of diffusing his strange mood. I placed the wine on the counter and reached for the shopping, hauling out a bag of risotto rice, shiitake mushrooms, and a bag of prawns. “I’ll have your favourite dish rustled up in jig time.” Droplets of melted ice fell from the bag of prawns on to the granite work top. I could feel Trevor wince and imagined him doing mental arithmetic on the bacterial count. Sure enough, he grabbed a bottle of anti-bacterial spray and placed it in front of me with a thud.

  “You talk too much and never listen,” he said.

  “Me, listen?” I threw down the bag of prawns, reached for a dish cloth and furiously squirted the spray around. “I’m trying to multi-task here.”

  His voice was low as he spoke: “I want a divorce.”

  I felt as though I’d just been slapped across the face. Did I hear right? “What do you mean?” I knew I was standing there like an imbecile with my mouth open, but I couldn’t do anything about it.

  “You heard me. Come on. It’s no surprise. We’ve been strangers these past couple of years.”

  My head was reeling. I put my two hands up to my temples. “I thought we were going through a rough patch. I thought we’d be all right in the end.”

  “The rough patch has lasted too long. You’ve never been the same since he died.”

  His words twisted a knife in my heart. I drew a sharp breath. “Of course I’ve not been the same. How could I be? I can’t just pretend it never happened. It’s not my fault I couldn’t just box it up and package it neatly the way you do with everything. Hardly a reason for divorce, is it?”

  “Plenty of other reasons.” He spat the words at me. “You always wanting me to go to therapy despite the fact I think it’s a load of rubbish. I’ve a bell in my ear listening to you quoting that so-called ‘therapist’ of yours, yet he hasn’t managed to get you off sleepers, has he?”

  “That’s rich coming from you, since you’re the one who prescribed them in the first place, along with those awful anti-depressants – which I’ve only just managed to ditch, by the way.”

  “Yes, against my wishes. At least Prozac kept your mood even!”

  “Turned me into a spaced-out Stepford wife, you mean. Do you realise how absurd your supposed logic is regarding pills?” I shook my head, confused by what he was saying. His increased eagerness to point out my every fault had certainly not helped my mood of late. But divorce? I couldn’t fathom it. I blurted, surprising myself, “Is there someone else?”

  “Yes.” He lowered his head.

  His confession hit me like a tsunami. “Who?”

  “Martha.”

  “No. No!” I was conscious of myself shouting, and could hear the incredulity in my own voice as realisation hit. “Not… Martha?” I searched his face in the hope this was some sick joke but his expression remained stoic. Surely this could not have happened with her of all people, his dowdy secretary. My mind flew. I’d noticed she’d smartened herself up, had a new haircut… But, Martha? “How could you do this to me? I love you more than my own life!”

  “Kate, I didn’t plan this. I’m sorry.”

  “Does it mean anything that we are a family? What about Julie? Does she matter to you at all?” I gestured weakly to the family photograph on an overhead shelf. Julie’s trusting smile now seemed out of place as she sat between us. Taller than me, with a full-toothed smile and effortlessly erect posture, she was strikingly like her father. I stared at him. “Does ... Does everyone in the village … Do all your cronies at the golf club know about this?”

  “Nobody knows. This has not been going on behind your back. It happened unexpectedly. I’m sorry, Kate.”

  His compassionate tone was more than I could bear. “Did you wait until I was old to dispose of me like I was a second-hand car to be thrown on the scrap heap?” Seized by a fiery gripe in my lower belly, I wrapped my arms around my abdomen in an effort to hold back the mounting pain. “You always loved getting new things and throwing away the old, didn’t you? My child-bearing years are over so I’d fail the good old NCT test. Is that it?”

  “Your age has nothing to do with it.” He shook his head, his voice becoming practical, factual. “I constantly compliment you on your style and how well you look. You look better now than you did at twenty – you even laugh at yourself in that picture of the hippie dress with your hair all curly. You’ve come a long way since then.”

  “Well, despite me molding myself to suit you, it didn’t work did it? I suppose I should have seen the signs when Martha lost weight and started dressing like me – or rather, the way you like me to dress.” I placed my hands on my hips. “You’re a veritable Professor Higgins in your ability to groom women. They should offer you a job on Extreme Make-Overs! You’d save them a fortune in plastic surgery.”

  Trevor gave me the kind of bored look I’d become accustomed to whenever he wished to dismiss me. The look that made me feel annihilated, like I no longer existed. “I’m not staying here tonight, Kate, when you’re becoming hysterical.” He strode towards the door but caught his foot on the bag of shopping, the contents spilling out on the floor. Muttering under his breath, he kicked a honeydew melon into the hallway where it hit the skirting board with a thud.

  I followed him as he climbed the white painted staircase and marched down the corridor to our bedroom. There I stood, watching him from the doorway as he crossed the room to slide open the wardrobe doors. The room was perfect; all cream and gold, spotless mirrors, not a crease on the duvet cover. Why had I bothered? I had to get up half an hour earlier than I needed to, to get the house exactly as he liked it before I left for work each morning. Why had I bothered?

  He hauled down a canvas overnight bag, reaching for a nearby alarm clock to throw in. It was only then I realised the bag was already packed – blue-striped pyjamas and socks sitting on the top. Registering how prepared he was, I wanted all hell to break loose. “Hysterical, am I? Your favourite word for describing women. Martha’s welcome to you. She’ll have her work cut out with you once she finds what a bloody perfectionist you are to live with.”

  He shot me his trademark smirk. “Don’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed the benefits of my high standards, Kate. Other women would kill for seven-star holidays in Dubai and Vegas.”

  “Everywhere we went was fake and sterile and shallow. I hated Dubai and the pretentious plastic people. And the only good thing about Vegas was the Indian reservation.”

  “Is that what you really thought? Well I hope you enjoy staying in a flea-infested hut on your next holiday to Bongo-Bongo land.”

  I recoiled, shuddering. “Martha really is welcome to you. She doesn’t know how misogynistic you are. All she sees is the charming, caring doctor. Once she sees the extent of
your God complex, she’ll find out how big your ego is. And boy will she have to pander to it.”

  A moment later, he was down the stairs, and as the front door slammed behind him I collapsed on the bedroom floor sobbing, remaining there for what seemed an eternity, rocking to and fro like a baby as I cried my eyes out. Why me? I kept asking. And how had I not noticed anything? Trevor used to refer to Martha as “a frumpy country girl” so I’d presumed he was indifferent to her, found her boring even. Yet Martha, for all her fake smiles, had a disturbing way of narrowing her eyes when speaking to me. I had always felt she was too possessive of Trevor. Why hadn’t I said anything? When she’d given herself a makeover, I’d wondered if it could be for the benefit of a man. Yet I’d dismissed any suspicions about her, reminding myself that she was a great organiser and an invaluable asset in Trevor’s practice, convincing myself that any thoughts that she could have designs on him stemmed from my own insecurities. Or so I’d thought. Now it seemed that Trevor and Martha were not the only liars and cheats. I had placated myself with my own silly placebo of delusion.

  Hauling myself off the floor, I wandered from room to room, mulling over the arguments we had had, the sulky repressed silences that could have resulted in either of us killing each other had we been so inclined. But no. We were too civilized for that. Instead we had stuffed down our growing resentment of each other, in the hope everything might work itself out. “Damn you, Trevor!” The walls and high ceilings echoed back my cry. I stared at those same walls in the vain hope they might offer me some consolation. After all, they had witnessed laughter more often than tears and shouting. In the first year of our marriage we had made love in so many different places, even on the stairs. It was funny to think of Trevor having been so enthusiastic as to tolerate the wooden edges digging into his back. Framed photographs down the stairs reminded me of family occasions like Julie’s Holy Communion. I remembered the time, as a three-year-old, she had chanted out a verse from Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes and we had fallen about the place whooping with glee, while the scent of muffins baking in the Aga filled the house. But what now? How was I going to tell Julie that there would be no more celebrations, that life could never again be the same?