Elisabeth Fanci Hill
For as long as she could remember they had called her Betsy. And then one day in the rolling hills of Virginia, as she drove away from a marriage and the small town where she had lived for 27 years, she stopped at a small motel for the night. The motel on Fanci Hill. It was there that she suddenly knew that her life had changed forever. Betsy died there and Elizabeth was born. And for the purposes of writing this book, her pen name would be Elisabeth Fanci Hill.
Max, the brindle English Bulldog was her only companion on the journey. Elizabeth was moving to Savannah, Georgia. Savannah beckoned to her soul.
A business woman, who was prominent in the community, she has had it all: education, the big house, the successful husband, the vacations and all that accompanies apparent success. Beneath the enviable surface of her life was her secret reality: more tears than laughter, more fear than joy. She was a woman enormously capable of putting on a happy face.
Elizabeth decided to pursue writing as a career. This is her first book. She is her own main character. By “fictionalizing” herself, she is able to attain a level of objectivity as she reflects on her life and searches for an answer to the question that pesters her: Why did I allow myself to be mistreated? Why do women marry and stay with abusive men?
The book is, at times, painful to read, intensely honest and brightened by dark humor. It’s also about writing and the role of writing as a catalyst for change. It is one woman’s brave odyssey inside herself. And what seems to be an ending becomes a beginning.
Elisabeth Fanci Hill is the pen name for the author who resides in Savannah, Georgia.
She is a freelance writer, photographer and business woman, active in the quirky society which characterizes Savannah – a unique city in the Deep South. She is the mother of three girls,and has remarried “for the last time” adding two new children to her family.
She and her husband are proud grandparents of one girl and one boy.
Chapter One
Momma Snail: Carrying Her House On Her Back
Betsy walked slowly up the tree-lined street toward her house. Fall foliage wouldn’t be far away. The leaves had that familiar, brittle smell of imminent death. She carried a flowery ceramic mug with a plastic travel lid in one hand. It had permanent lipstick stains on it. She wondered what is particular about lipstick that dishwashers can’t remove it, but it doesn’t stay on lips very long. Remember when the new wine bar in town opened and every one who went there got a glass with some one else’s lip imprint on it? Probably until someone pointed it out to the proprietor. Remember that, MAX?
MAX was her best boyfriend so far. She often spoke to him about subjects both whimsical and deep. She was somewhat concerned that he didn’t hear well - seldom giving any indication that he knew he was a part of the conversation - not even a cocked head.
In the other hand she held the red handle of the retractable dog leash. From her vantage point she could see the black wrinkly balls, and stumpy brindle tail of her English Bulldog, MAXimus. This was a day like most of her days (to all appearances) with just seasonal variations.
For 10 years she had walked around this same block with two different Bulldogs. Her white female, Bubbles, had died of the respiratory failure that plagues Bulldogs. It had taken a while to get over that sadness and find another puppy. But she had and here was the totally adorable MAX. Like a stuffed toy, his face was an irresistible soft thing to grab and kiss. A kiss always makes MAX sneeze. Like harrumph. Ears softer than any material which might come to mind. From the extra folds around his mouth emerged a giant tongue. He was a ladies leg licker - a lotion connoisseur. When he wasn’t busy, the tongue usually peeked out of his mouth - a little pink thing. Or sometimes way out like the morning after. His large round brown eyes seemed deep and thoughtful. And very calm. Some have described the Zen of the breed. His head was huge by Bulldog standards, large in proportion to his body which looked like a beer keg on four legs. Dark brindle with blacker tiger stripes. All muscle. His head was a heavy burden for a dog to haul around, so MAX would search out eye level places to set it down. Coffee tables worked well. His face had a white mask which reminded her of the Phantom of the Opera. He also had a little white on each front paw. She always marveled at his perfection: where toenails emerge from white fur, the nails were white - where they came from brindle they were brown. What lovely breeding!
