It isn’t possible for me to answer this question with just one book, so I’m going to list them all. There may be a few that I have forgotten, but these are the ones I have in my bookcase.
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. This is my favorite novel. Ever. It was required reading in American literature class, and I’m so pleased to have been introduced to this amazing wordsmith Ms. Hurston.
The Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon.
Any and all titles by Bill Bryson.
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison. This is a fantastic novel. I’m not sure if it’s still in print, and I don’t believe the author ever published another novel, which upsets me to this day.
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.
I, Elizabeth by Rosalind Miles.
The General’s Mistress by Jo Graham.
The next three novels are a series by author Diana Norman. Sadly, she has passed away and there will be no more novels in the series. The first book is A Catch of Consequence, followed by Taking Liberties, and last but not least is The Sparks Fly Upward. This author also wrote under the pen name Ariana Franklin. I was today years old when I found that out, so I am excited and will try to get my hands on the novels she wrote under that name.
The next one is the first book in the “Undead” series by Mary Janice Davidson. I thought the first book was the best: “Undead and Unwed.”
Next up is author Katie McAllister (a pen name), with Men in Kilts and Improper English being my favorite titles from her.
Jane Austen – the whole catalogue.
Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.
Villette by Charlotte Brontë.
Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George.
Forever Amber, by Kathleen Winsor (this is a particular favorite of mine, though it is rather sordid, especially for the time period in which it was written.)
And the last one is Absalom! Absalom! by William Faulkner. Just kidding. I despise this book. I had to write a paper on it and I hated every second of it. I don’t particularly like Faulkner nor his writing style, and that’s being polite. Faulkner perfected the run-on sentence, and that’s being polite.
That’s my list. What are some novels that you can’t get enough of and read over and over again? Let me know in the comments!
Perhaps – no – most assuredly, it is I who placed myself in this position. I do not speak of ruling the queendom. No. That is my birthright. That you don’t see a throne next to mine is my doing.
When I was born a girl I was expected to marry. And marry well. From the age of four, suitors were brought to me. Old men! Can you imagine? Vows were to be exchanged for titles given. Oddly, every single one of these suitors was deemed not fit by my father, or fate took them another direction. Some in not so pleasant directions.
When I was twenty years old and started refusing suitors, my father would not speak to me for three months. It was quite possibly the downfall of his health. You can blame that on me too, if you wish.
When I was twenty years old, there was a new stable lad employed to work with our finest horses – mine included. The lad was my age, and while he showed proper deference to me, he also showed me friendship, which no other servant had the courage to do. He would prepare my horse and sometimes we would have long discussions about life. Ha! What do two twenty-year-old children know about life? He treated me as a person, not as a queen-in-waiting. He did not let me get away with much. My attitude is often times haughty. I make no apologies for it. I am Queen and at that time I was queen-in-training. I must be strong at all times. I must not and will not entertain fools.
But when I was around him, I did not feel like a queen-in-training, and it was rather difficult to act haughty. I felt like who I imagined I always should feel like as a child, when I dreamt of having another life. A simple life, a life raising chickens and cattle and having a husband, friend and lover in one person, someone who could understand me, and would want to try. And children. We would have three children. They would laugh and play in the grass, their cheeks rosy from exertion, their tiny legs traveling as fast as they could to catch the chickens, and we would delight in the sight. My husband and I.
I began having the same fantastical daydreams when I was around this lad, not just when I was alone. I watched when he would interact with others, and I had people observe him when I could not. He never raised his voice in anger to anyone. He was as calm as the river on a late summer evening. The aura around him was yellow, just like the sunset on that late summer eve. His hair was flaxen and soft, I just knew it. I wished to touch it, but I dared not. It would be most improper, and dangerous for him. His eyes were dark blue and smiling. Always smiling. They twinkled with mischief more than not. When we were near the horses and I could freely be myself, I never felt more alive.
Shortly after I turned twenty-one, for several days I did not see the stable lad. My concern was that he had become ill. I was mistaken and quite pleased to see him when he returned. My ladies-in-waiting helped me into my favorite dress: the light blue silk. It was far simpler than anything I would wear for official business, but it was perfect for talking with the stable lad. I made my way to the barn and saw him brushing the horses. I could feel my face light up as if the sun itself were grazing my skin. I greeted the lad and asked him if he was well. He said he was quite well. He had very recently exchanged wedding vows. That was why he was not at the stables.
This was the first time I had to use the Ice Queen façade. And I was yet to be Queen. I congratulated him and quickly made an excuse to part company. The façade wouldn’t hold much longer, and I could not bear to be seen as the soft creature underneath. As soon as I turned away, I could feel my countenance change into one of grief and broken-heartedness. My eyes shed tears even as I told them not to. He called out to me, but I wouldn’t turn around. I could not bear it.
I spent the rest of the day and night alone in my chambers. No one was permitted. Of course by now you must’ve guessed: I was in love with the lad. He had never once mentioned he was betrothed, and if he had, what could I have done with that information? I was meant to marry above him. Millions of my tears would not have changed anything. But knowing he was married made the realization that he could never be married to me more pronounced. I wished I were his wife. I wondered what she looked like. I never asked anything about her, even though I saw the lad often at the stables. We talked and joked after my initial heartbreak had healed a bit, but there was this thing in between us now, a barrier. I didn’t want it there, but a wife is hard to remove. A queen-in-waiting impossible to get out of. The situation was ill-fated.
I became Queen at twenty-five, just as the stable lad became a father for the first time. My father‘s efforts to find me a suitable match were unsuccessful. I decided no one was good enough and I held to that belief. I disappointed my father and I did it intentionally.
When I was thirty, his second child was born. I saw him still, at the stables, and we spoke as we always had. We never spoke of his wife or of his children. It is not that I didn’t care, it is because I cared too much. To know about his life would reopen wounds that were almost – but not quite – scars.
I have recently learned that his wife has run off with a wealthy man. The children are grown, the lad now a man of my own age. You may be asking yourself, Dear Reader, “What now will the Ice Queen do? She never married. She rules the queendom fairly, but suffers no fools. She surrounds herself with birds and other creatures, including her beloved horses, and she is old enough to make her own decisions regarding her own queendom and her own person.”
Let me tell you then. I am sure you want to know. And even if you don’t, I am going to tell you, because I am Queen.
One crisp morning, I walked alone to the stables. I found my lad filing the horses’ hooves. His expression was forlorn, as one would expect. He looked up at me with teary eyes that made the blue stand out even more. He was much older, we both were now. I could not stop myself from crying with him. He hunched over, embarrassed by his tears and apologized. He did not curtsy, and I was glad for it. I took his hand and held it between my own two hands. We had never touched in this way before. Yes, Reader, it was still not appropriate. But I am Queen, and I rule the queendom.
What do you think happened next, Dear Reader?
I will tell you. Not because I am Queen, but because I am a woman. And I know you want to know. But let’s keep it between us.
In the next moment, I saw yellow, like the sunset on a summer eve, I felt soft hair under my hands, and a gentle touch on my cheek. Right before I closed my eyes, I saw dark blue, like the blue of gently rolling river waves with a strong current underneath that cannot be seen, only felt.
From the first time it was said to the present, I am truly humbled and appreciative. There is no greater feeling than releasing what lives in your mind and heart to the outside world, and having people identify, relate and enjoy it. Even if it’s not feel-good reading material – perhaps especially then: when the subject matter is dark and from deep within, yet people absorb, reflect and are sometimes without words – stunned, overwhelmed. It is a risky venture to share one’s work. It can be met with unfavorable comments. There is a level of vulnerability that one must accept as a writer. In the beginning it was very difficult to be vulnerable, to risk being not enough, and to accept criticism as well as praise. I appreciate everyone who reads my words, regardless of their opinion of them. But for the ones who do enjoy reading my words, and for those who do identify with them, it buoys my soul. There is no greater compliment.
Thanks, everyone. I appreciate you all.
* featured photo is of me holding the author’s proof of the first version of my book. I made many changes and from those changes became what the novel is now. But, boy was I so proud to have that book in my hands.*
I was the donkey at the party with the tail about to be pinned to its ass, the piñata that was going to be whacked, the—you get the idea. It was going to be uncomfortable, that much I knew, but what I didn’t know was from which direction the jab would come and if I could escape without losing much blood.
I noticed three other people in the room as I walked through the glass-paned French doors, all female and none too happy with me, it seemed. The oldest of the women was a pretty lady, in the way that older English women are: no wrinkles, no sun spots and very fair with full cheeks even though the rest of their bodies are slim. She had her blonde hair styled into a bob and sprayed stiff with hair spray (to combat the rain here, I supposed) and her clothes were well-tailored, of course.
The other two looked as if they had been shipped over from an American mall just today and would say, “Hi! Like, did you see this new lip gloss that I just now bought? Oh. My. God. It is sooo pretty!” any second. Pretty girls, with curly brown hair and loads of energy that barely contained itself in those cushy leather chairs.
Each of their eyes landed on me just as I had gotten through scanning them and the spacious, state of the art conference room we were in.
“Hullo!” Penelope piped up. (It was no “Hi!” but it was close and said with as much exuberance as any American kid I knew.)
They all leapt out of their chairs and bounded over, even Lady Langdon, in her own dignified sort of leaping manner, who, lagging behind her daughters considerably, made her way over.
“I’m so sorry l’m late. Please accept my sincere apologies. I was… detained. Out front. By him.” I shot Earl the Black Pearl a look of contempt as I pointed at him over my shoulder. While he glared at me as if he were bored by the very sound of my voice, his sisters looked at each other with raised brows and faint amusement. Lady Priscilla simply smiled and changed the subject to something along the lines of “How was your flight?” Translation: “I am changing the subject at once to avoid this uncomfortable feeling i have now because my son is clearly a jackass.” (OK, so that was my translation, but I was sure I wasn’t far off from her meaning.)
Nick handled the introductions and I jumped right into the speech I had prepared. You do realize, however, that this speech was written with the intention that I be able to recite it all at once, smoothly, in about fifteen minutes and then get straight into setting up the job? Sure, it sounds like a reasonable expectation, but no one told that to the jerk in the front row who asked me a completely unrelated question just as I was making an important point.
“Do you require any batteries for your camera?”
“No. And actually, I was commenting that your collection seems to be quite impressive and has many pieces from the Regency era, which happens to be my favorite to study.”
“Don’t you just love Jane Austen?” Penelope piped up.
“Yes, Penelope, I do! She was a fantastic writer and timeless in her observations.” I smiled and winked at her.
“So, as I was saying, the main reason we want to set everything up in here is for logistical—“
“Do you really admire Jane Austen?” His voice was so…venomous, that I couldn’t ignore him, nor could I slap him in front of his mother, however much my fingers twitched to do so. I did snap my pencil in half, however.
“Yes,” I ground out through clenched teeth.
“Why? I find her sexist, boring and clannish.” He leaned back in his chair expecting an argument from the looks of it.
I felt my mouth gape open and hang there like a fly catcher.
“Are you allergic to shutting up? Or do you have a touch of diarrhea of the mouth?” I hastily shuffled my papers and mumbled to myself under my breath, “Ha! He calls Jane Austen sexist, boring and clannish…I can’t think of three more apt words to describe him in the English language…” Then, just as quickly as I had began my mumbled tirade, I stopped, fearing I would be sent home on the next flight by Lady Priscilla in a matter of minutes, if I didn’t. Say goodbye to your new promotion, and your job, Maisie…
Instead of the ripping of a new one I thought I’d get from Lady P., what I heard and saw were three females stifling laughs while one pig-headed male turned all shades of red and stared daggers through me until I’d finished talking. But–oh-so-thankfully–he did keep his mouth shut and l yanked my self-assurance back to front and center using my bad attitude as an impetus.
“Any questions?” I asked cheerfully as I zipped my bag closed.
“No? OK, then I have one: may I see the collection now?” To say I was anxious to see what they held would be an understatement. My fingers tickled to don those gloves and lovingly caress the priceless capsules of history. I couldn’t wait to see each piece, touch it, imagine what the person’s life was like who wore such an elaborate costume. Only the richest of the rich preserved their clothing through time; everyone else wore and recycled their clothing until it was in tattered rags. Poor me, to be forced to handle fine silks, cottons and wools in some of the most skilled handiwork ever. I sighed happily from the burden.
“Of course, Maisie! Let’s get started right now, in fact.
Nicholas, would you please unlock the door to the storage area?” Priscilla (as she directed me to call her after I floundered over ‘Mrs. Lady’ and ‘Your Royal Errrr’…) asked Nick as we all made our way down the large hallway and down a flight of steps.
Nick nodded and jogged ahead of us to get the keys. I kept one eye on Priscilla and the other on Nick’s shapely backside. Sue me for having eyes that work too well sometimes. And what a nice sight it was.
“Whew! It’s cold in here!” I said out loud to distract myself from looking at him too long.
“Yes, it is. It’s temperature and humidity controlled to protect the clothing,” Captain Obvious announced as he flipped on all the lights.
“I know, I am familiar with the field in which I work. I was simply making an observation.” I scanned the room and saw racks and racks of covered garments. It felt like Christmas.
“Oh,” he said as if I had dejected him out of the room, right onto his ass.
“Sorry Nick, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just that I’m really tired from my journey.” Priscilla and the girls went off to investigate why one of the racks was slightly crooked; I heard their clipped feminine voices echo as they walked away. I turned to Nick. I did feel guilty for being snippy, and I was about ready to apologize for everything nasty I had said since I arrived. I studied his actions as he waited for his mother to get out of hearing range; only when she had gone far enough, did he walk slowly up to me, lean down into my face and make me think he was going to kiss me. My heart started to race from seeing his nicely shaped mouth up close and I backed away with a frown that was soon to be paired with a roundhouse kick if he didn’t quit it. He chuckled, I guess due to my expression, and backed off.
“What are you doing?” I whispered loudly. I turned to walk away and I heard him say my name softly. I hesitated only because of the tone of his voice. It was intriguing.
“What?”I rolled my eyes as I waited.
Stupid man, he leaned into my face again! “Hey! I told you—” I swatted him away.
“Maisie, I think it’s important that I tell you this with discretion,” he whispered softly, his rich eyes looking deeply into mine. I felt my toes go numb.
“Wh, wh, what?” I stuttered uncoolly.
“Maisie…” he hushed, his breath tickling my face.
“Yes?” I breathed. He brushed his thumb along my face, sending chills up my arms. (Check: toes were still numb.)
“You have a piece of food stuck to your face. Looks like scone…saving it for later?” He opened my hand and placed the yummy treat I had overlooked into my palm. I cursed myself silently for doing a hasty job of checking for crumbs in the rearview mirror. Nick bowed to me as he elegantly backed away, flashed me a blinding smile and winked as he called to his mom, “Mum, I can fix that rack, if you wish.”
“You’re squinting. Shouldn’t you have worn sunglasses on a sunny day like today?” I raised my arm to shield my eyes to view this joker more clearly.
“Thanks for that, Captain Obvious. I left them at home, mistakenly believing the sun doesn’t shine here.” He was tall, that much I gathered, though I still couldn’t make out his features, and he was decked out in jeans and a t-shirt with thousands of tiny spots of paint on them. I hoped this meant he was a worker in the museum, not that this shirt was actually his idea of fashion.
“That’s a rather stereotypical belief, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” I shrugged.
“Anyway, it doesn’t much matter unless I can’t purchase any sunglasses here,” I snipped. I took a deep breath and let it out loudly and slowly. It had to be 9:50 already. No time for banter with a doofus.
He moved smoothly down three steps, ending up at ground level and looking me square in my eyes, even though I stood on the first step and was 5’10” with those heels on. Well. Nosy he may be, bordering on rude even, but I almost forgot about all of it when I looked at him.
Mr. Rude Painter Guy was tall, I was right about that. Mid-twenties, I would guess, and he had the uncanny ability to cause the next snide remark I had lined up to halt on my tongue, just by being. His wavy, dark brown hair nearly glowed red in the bright morning sun and his eyes were like rich chocolate with a touch of cayenne. He had a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his straight, olive-colored nose, the sight of which erased the slight frown that had formed on my face. His cheekbones were disgustingly high and angular (yeah, I was jealous) and his lips were wide and voluptuous (again, jealous). I stood there perfectly still, staring blankly at him. My name had eluded me at present.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and did this thing with his eyes that made my left knee buckle slightly.
“Can I help you?” I asked stiffly, as if I had developed amnesia and had made myself a proprietor of the establishment.
“Pardon me?” He seemed confused and that vaguely bugged me.
“What?” I scrunched my nose at him.
“What?” Now he was confused and sounded so.
“What? What?” I couldn’t help ribbing him solely for amusement.
He was standing close enough that I heard him growl. “You were the one committing trespassing moments ago. My question to you was, ‘May I help you?’ as you proceeded up these steps here.” He pointed down as if I had no clue I was perched on steps.
“So?” I turned to continue up the stairs and shrugged him off. “I’m going up here now. Buh-bye.”
“I can’t allow you to do that.” He grabbed my arm to stop me.
“Excuse me!” I yanked my arm away and glared at him. “And why can’t you allow me to do that?”
“I don’t know who you are, for one, and for another, I doubt the Langdons would have any business with you.”
Mr. Rude Painter Guy has not only a biting tongue, but a superiority complex. Impressive. “I have an appointment that started, like—“ I glanced to my watch. “It started five minutes ago!
I’d love to chat with you, but I have to run.” He grabbed me again before I could out-maneuver him.
“Who are you?” his eyes narrowed at me and became nasty, ugly, most definitely bitter chocolate.
“What’s it to you?”
He growled. I found the sound perversely erotic, and wrinkled my nose at this self-awareness.
“Fine. I see I am not going to make my meeting anytime soon if I don’t tell you. My name is Maisie Reynolds, and if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr. Langdon that I am already late for—thanks to you.” I yanked my arm away for the last time and marched up the stairs, relieved to feel the breeze cool me.
“Maisie Reynolds? You’re Maisie Reynolds?”
“Yessss, for thirty years now. And you are…?” I stopped at the door and leaned my head against it for balance when his probable identity first flashed in my mind. I spoke into the door and pleaded with it to hold me up, just as he opened his mouth.
“I’m Nick Langdon, Maisie Reynolds. Now allow me to escort you to your meeting with Mr. Langdon. Oh…that’s right, I will be taking my father’s place this morning, as he had an emergency to attend to. I was venturing out to meet you when I came upon you breaking and entering.” He had the nerve to smirk and cough to cover his laugh.
“Just entering, not breaking. The stupid thing is already broken, Nick Langdon. And I heard you cover your laugh just now, and I know you knew who I was the whole time, so just stuff any further comments up your lovely arse, please.”
He was polite enough to allow me to enter the building first, and in utter silence, save my loudly clicking heels, led me down the hollow hall. I had the strangest sensation he was leering at my butt.
I had flown out of New York at 8 p.m., when the sun was setting but the air was still quite humid; it was humid enough that my hair never fully dried, and therefore ended up as a flaxen curtain framing my face. I arrived in London (with same curtain pulled back in a hair clip) at 8 a.m., with sunny skies and exactly the same 75 degree temperature, minus the humidity. The winds were cool and succeeded in waking me enough to manage the drive to Bath without falling asleep at the wheel. I usually got a roaring case of jet lag each and every time I flew across more than one time zone, which caused me to stumble around for days as if I were drunk or had an undiagnosed case of narcolepsy. I did once fall asleep while in a very important meeting in Madrid, but luckily, my head jerked up as it hit my chest and no one noticed. Even luckier was the opportunity for a siesta an hour later.
But now I wouldn’t have that chance; in fact, I barely had time to pee before I left the airport. I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and headed for the car rental counter. I began to mentally prepare my speech for the morning meeting at the museum with Mr. Langdon, proprietor and big wig aristocrat.
“Julie. Hi, it’s Maisie. I’m here. Yeah. I’m getting a car and I should be there by ten, so all is on schedule. Be sure to tell Mr. Irwin.” I juggled the phone as I handed my insurance card and driver’s license to the clerk in front of me. I smiled sweetly at him, remembering what happened with the last clerk, Sunshine, and how I ended up in this predicament in the first place.
“Well, I’m on my way right now, thank goodness. My flight was late, I drooled on my ivory silk cami while sleeping on the plane, and I have to pee like a mo-fo. I don’t have my little intro speech prepared yet and now I have to drive for hours to get to Baaath. Other than that, I’m peachy keen. So, I’ll see you in two days? Three. Right, right. See you then. Bye.”
Chad the Clerk at Swift Car Rentals made fourteen photocopies each of my license and insurance card as I stood watching, stunned. “Shall you be taking finger prints, as well?” I winked and he turned red.
“It’s all according to the rules, ma’am, you understand.”
“Of course,” I mumbled. I really, really don’t like to be “ma’am-ed,” and especially not by someone three years younger than myself; he was definitely at “Sir” age himself. My only comfort was the English accent. It sounded more like “Mahm,” which was cool – a different word altogether and not nearly as loaded with the sound of old age.
I stopped by the loo (“when in Rome” as the saying goes…) and while in there I stood at the sinks and dabbed fervently at my spit-stained top. The water caused the top to become transparent directly in the middle of my chest, and I quickly threw on my wrinkled blazer to maintain some sense of dignity. I refreshed my make-up and fluffed my hair before I took one last look in the mirror. I mumbled under my breath my displeasure. “I could scare away scarecrows.”
Unfortunately for my silk camisole, the scone and the coffee I had brought along with me in the car also ended up down the front of me, creating a lovely menagerie of browns and tans with crumbs glued on for texture. If it weren’t the only top I had access to in that moment, I would have framed it as original art.
However, I had to work with what had, and what I had underneath this one of a kind creation was a second-degree burn. I rubbed some lip gloss on it (the burn, not the camisole), blew cold air down my chest and hoped for minimal scarring. Oh, if the Aristocrats could see me now.
I headed southwest, following the map given to me by helpful Chad at Swift Car Rentals. I reached down for the notes on the seat beside me very, very quickly, keeping one eye on the road, one eye on the car in front of me, and my right hand on the wheel as I tried not to swerve into oncoming traffic. I wished that I had written the bits about the Langdon family more legibly as I was to meet Mr. William Langdon, proprietor and from all preliminary accounts, some special kind of crusty Brit— in just under an hour. A guy like that required prep time, no doubt. I cursed myself for sleeping my entire flight away when I could have been studying.
Here’s what I gathered by skimming my scribble-scrabble:
The Langdon family can date their ancestry in Britain to the year 1210, where they settled in Bath, apparently desiring to experience the curing qualities of the sulfur waters that bubble from the earth there. The current installment of the Langdons laid claim to some kind of royalty way back when —an earldom or some such title —and William Langdon (aforementioned crusty Brit, who incidentally is never without his Ascot tie, or so I’d heard) was the Earl of Summertime-oops, I meant Somerset-presently speaking.
Following the extensive family tree made my already weary eyes cross in confusion; I couldn’t remember my granddad’s first name half of the time, and now I had to keep track of a bunch of Brits.
OK. So let’s continue: William Langdon and his wife Priscilla (a blue blood in her own right) were the proud parents of three baby crusty Brits. There was Nicholas, the oldest at thirty or so, and successor to this Earl gig when old Bill died; unfortunately I hadn’t written much at all about this Nick guy. It was a shame really, because he had “potential,” at least on paper. I flipped my pages over and back again but l only found a sentence for him: Heir apparent, apparently, so clear the air. “Why do I persist in writing cryptic, smart alecky notes for myself?” Two months prior that phrase must have meant something or at least sounded humorous.
Now it was annoying.
Nick had two younger sisters, Samantha and Penelope, aged twenty and fifteen, respectively, and according to my notes, they were beyond ecstatic over this museum opening. The entire family had an appreciation for the history found in garments and had quite a fine collection of their own to contribute. Mr. Langdon had the idea to open a private museum initially, twenty or so years beforehand, but my notes said the rest of the family was enthused about the project, and that was all I needed to know. It was important for me to have full cooperation of the family if they were all going to be hands-on; I would need each one of them to help set up the costumes for photo shoots and cataloguing, plus it was going to be a dreadfully long two weeks if we didn’t get along.
That said, I hoped to make a connection with all of them but thought of Nick in particular. He was to inherit it all, including the costume museum. I hoped he would have a vested interest in the vests and all of the other objects, as well. And excuse me, but he was close to my age, he was single, he was in line for an Earldom and he most likely would have an alluring accent—how could my interest not be piqued?
Forty minutes later I found myself entering Bath city limits and dying for a shower. No rest for the weary and all that, so I ventured onward to the Langdon Costume Museum of Bath—stinking of coffee and scones and stale airplane air and hoping the Earl in Waiting wouldn’t mind my unique brand of cologne.
I rounded the circular drive to park in the lot directly behind the medium-sized square building, admiring its light stone façade as I did. The building resembled many of the others in the city that must have been built around the same time, in the late 1700’s, l guessed. It was a bit dirty – from pollution, I gathered—but other than that it projected a quiet strength quite fitting for an Earl’s museum. There was a wrought iron gate just in front of the entrance that gave me a bit of trouble as I tried to open it. I jiggled it as best I could with one arm loaded down by my notebook and necessary equipment, and the other awkwardly grasping as if my hand were numb. My attempts weren’t good enough; it wouldn’t budge, not even with a forced grunt and a soft pleading followed by a louder threat to commit bodily harm against it.
“Dammit!” I growled one last time and, as if by magic, the stubborn lock allowed me through. I guess it only understood curse word requests.
“May I help you or shall I leave you to burglarize this establishment?” a crisp male voice came from the step about ten feet away, shocking me off the ground a few inches. “Ahh! Don’t do that. I’m still winding down from my fight with the gate.” I shot my iron nemesis a glare. “The last thing I need now is a heart attack. Oh, and you’re really funny, by the way.” I squinted up at Smart Ass Mystery British Man from the bottom step; I hadn’t brought my sunglasses, figuring the sun never shone in England.
I stared blankly at the large screen, its words flashing directly above my head. Even the ambience of normal airport noise couldn’t distract me from gawking, nor could common decency intervene to close my gaping hole of a mouth. I blinked four times to clear my vision, hoping to be jolted from this inconvenient day-mare. Nope, it didn’t work. The stupid thing still read “Flight 221 to Heathrow— Cancelled.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” I scream-whined out of frustration. “Grr….” There were several older, very obviously American tourist ladies congregating nearby, all donned in matching Campbell plaid vests, white shirts with lace cravats and some kind of touristy kilt-like skirt for women—again in Campbell plaid—looking at me as if I had been raised in a barnyard. Well, I did just growl out of frustration, I’ll give ’em that, but I was not decked out in a medium-weight wool. In July. In New York. I smiled apologetically (because they looked so cheerful and silly), and waved, ensuring them I was not about to attack. They turned slowly back to their maps and itineraries, though by their wary glances it seemed likely they were still not quite sure if I was harmless or not. Right about then I felt like I had been reared in a barn and not given any coping skills with which to manage this crisis, rather than the unremarkable, pleasant upbringing that l experienced in actuality. It must’ve been the heat and that promotion to Account Manager, effective immediately, that was getting to me. “Okay, let’s not freak out, Maisie. You can totally deal with this minor setback. This has happened to you before and it got sorted out rather easily. Piece of cake.” I tugged at my suit to straighten it, pivoted on my heel, and, with confidence, stomped straight to the ticket counter–then back again when I realized I had forgotten my trusty carry-on bag, which was packed with such impressive efficiency that I didn’t need a suitcase (not that l’m bragging very much). I was very proud of my ability to travel lightly, even with my camera equipment and occasional costumes I usually only required one additional checked bag. I smiled smugly to myself as I hoisted the strap over my shoulder and proceeded to the ticket counter for real this time.
The skill of packing efficiently didn’t arrive overnight, that’s for sure. I had acquired a lot of practice improving upon my technique as an assistant photographer and costume historian who traveled extensively, photographing period costumes for magazines, books, private collectors and any other organization that was willing to pay the big bucks to my employer, renowned worldwide. Talk about an awesome job–and now that I’d gotten the promotion I’d strived for three years to achieve, I felt even more enthusiastic about the future…and the past.
So now began the true test. With the promotion came complete responsibility for this plumb new assignment in England that we’d bid on and won. In addition to having another person to help on assignments–the flighty but surprisingly efficient Julie, who wouldn’t be catching up with me for three more days, the promotion meant I was placed in charge of the whole job, start to finish. So, sorry for being frazzled, but I didn’t want to blow it before even leaving the U.S.
I was traveling to Bath (or “Baaath” as the English call it), to a small costume museum that, in a few weeks, was having a grand opening for the public to come in and view the collection. I was hired, or rather my employer was hired, and I was sent, to catalogue each piece before being displayed and to verify the years and styles of certain pieces that seemed to stump everyone else. I questioned my boss about the authenticity of a historic costume museum just opening now, in the 21st century, but he assured me that most of the pieces were acquired through private collectors over decades, if not centuries. It seems that the owners of the museum, an esteemed, pedigreed family of the area, had finally acquired a large enough collection to open it to the public, which was their intention all along. In fact, I was anticipating the initial meeting of these seemingly benevolent folks at the museum very much. The problem was that it was scheduled for 10 a.m. local time and so…
Damn it if this flight was going to be cancelled on me now!
I had a crucial meeting to attend to, and I was nothing if not punctual.
I shook off my slight frown along with my thoughts and stared at the wisp of a girl in front of me as she barely cleared the top of the ticket counter. I wondered if she was old enough to be employed. She wore an expectant, annoyed expression, as if she had said something brilliant and was waiting for me to respond.
I almost had to look down on her; at five foot eight, I was nearly towering over the poor thing. “Hi, how are you? Yeah, my flight’s been cancelled and I need to get to England. ASAP.”
“Ticket, please,” she demanded in a surprisingly deep monotone. I handed it over dutifully. Do as you’re told and no one gets hurt, Maisie. “Flight 440 leaves in an hour for Gatwick. That’s all I have.” She looked so bored. I began to think they weren’t paying her enough to even be civil, or that perhaps she hadn’t yet been taught manners in kindergarten.
“Okay then, Sunshine, give it to me.” Two hours later I was on my way to jolly, old England. Notice I said two hours later; it seems Sunshine was a bit off on her time estimates, after all. As I nuzzled peacefully down in my seat, I sighed once and thought of the exciting journey ahead before I settled down into one of my favorite pastimes—sleeping. I passed the seven hours delightfully dozing.
I wrote this story a long time ago and have not developed it further. It was another book idea just like last week’s story. I’ve tweaked it so that it can appear along with this picture that instantly reminded me of my story. Thanks for giving my story a home, Kevin!
Edit: all of the installments of the story have been published. Before you read The Traveler, read Prequels I-IV. Then read The Traveler, then the Sequel. I will put the links below. It will make more sense if you do it that way, as these were Chapters 1-6 of a book I haven’t finished.
Now read The Traveler, the story you in right now. It starts below.
After reading the story below, you are ready to read The Traveler sequel here
And that is where the story ends – for now. Thanks everyone for reading and supporting my almost-book. 🫶
✨
As I stepped off the curb, I wondered why I had agreed to repair the gowns, and then, why I didn’t just travel the four blocks to my hotel. While I was trying to avoid tripping over my feet, I looked to the left for vehicles coming toward me. Problem is, I was in England.
Stepping out into traffic and looking the wrong way, well, I didn’t see the black blur that was suddenly next to me—on me — is a more apt description.
I lay in the road with people milling around me for several minutes before I came to. A sharp, rich, English-accented, male voice bellowed, “Doctor! We need a doctor at once!” My eyes shot open in alarm when I realized he was most likely calling the doctor for me. I saw blurry figures peering down at me, with one leaning over, precariously close to toppling. Confused, I closed my eyes again and wondered with a goofy smile if every man in Heaven spoke with a British accent. Heaven would be just fine in my book, if so. Suddenly sleepy, my eyes stayed lazily shut as I gave into the drowsy, light feeling.
“Madam! No! Do not shut your eyes! You must keep them open or you might never open them again!” A crisp, rich voice ordered stiffly. Who is this guy? His piercing voice is disrupting my nighty-night time, I thought as I tried snuggling into my blankets. I reached for them, but when I did, I felt no blankets, no cozy warmth. No covers? Why don’t I have any sheets on my bed?! I cracked one eye open to survey.
“Eeks! I’m lying in the middle of the freaking road!” I screeched as I bolted and sat upright, immediately regretting that sudden move, as the searing pain in my right arm caused the nausea to rise in my stomach in a flash and I froze to avoid vomiting.
“Madam, do not move!” It was The Voice again.
“Oww, my arm really hurts,” I croaked out after the nausea had passed. I squinted my blurry eyes in the direction of the guy with the cool voice, but I didn’t see anyone there.
“Clear the way, the physician is coming through,” Mr. Voice ordered the onlookers. His authority seemed to do the trick. As I surveyed my bum arm, I heard the bustle of the crowd as they parted. Wow, this guy must have pull in some major quantities.
“Oww,” I hissed at the pain and decided to leave my arm alone. My head hurt, too, but with my left hand I couldn’t find any gashes on my face or head —that was a good thing. Maybe I have a concussion. “I so don’t need a concussion while in England. My insurance will not cover this,” I mumbled to myself. Feeling less nauseous, I tried to crawl-unnoticed-to the my bag that I had with me when I was hit. My sight was still a bit fuzzy, but Mr. Voice could see me, apparently.
“And where are you going?” he asked with mild interest. I stopped mid-crawl and smiled up at the blurry face sheepishly.
“Over here to check on my bag?” I offered helpfully.
“No, you most certainly are not. The doctor is here to examine you for bodily harm following your accident,” he answered simply. He placed his hand on my shoulder gently but firmly, to let me know I was not moving another inch.
“Okay, whatever.” I shrugged and glanced up at the face with the somehow familiar voice. He was so close now that I could make out his features with ease.
“It’s you!” And it was him-Nicholas Langdon, Royal Pain in the Ass, from the museum. Same chocolate brown eyes, same dark brown hair, same hot bod, same voice… It all made sense now.
“Nick Langdon.” I narrowed my left eye and gave him the once over. Okay, the thrice over.
He blinked three times. “Pardon me, madam?” He asked quietly with large, disbelieving chocolate candy coin eyes. “I am quite certain we have never met before.” He studied me for a few seconds. “How do you know my name?” he asked with thinly veiled interest. He had the nerve to sound ruffled!
“Ha! That’s a good one, Nick. Not twenty minutes ago you gave me orders not to destroy the gowns!” I rolled my eyes and studied him closely, my vision finally focusing enough to scan my immediate surroundings, which, at present consisted of one handsome but irritating Langdon and one older man with a sadistic streak who carried a black physician’s bag.
“Ouch! That hurts…doctor.” I said suspiciously as I narrowed my eyes at the dude carrying the bag.
“Sorry, dear. Please do stop moving,” he pleaded with an exasperated sigh.
“Right. Say, Nick…what’s with the get-ups you two are wearing?” I nodded first to him and then in the direction of the doctor. He didn’t answer me immediately, rather, he looked at me blankly for several seconds. I looked him over closely. Somehow he and the doc had gotten their hands on some darn good Victorian costumes. If he swiped those from the museum and he’s yelling at me for repairing two gowns, l’ll deck him. I fumed to myself. Still, it was a gorgeous outfit. I tried not to gawk.
All topped off with a top hat, naturally. Nice, very nice, indeed.
The jerk looked dashing. The doctor was similarly outfitted but not nearly as scrumptious.
“Excuse me, Madam, but I don’t know of what you are speaking. Perhaps you are out of sorts now you have been struck by the carriage-“
“Carriage? Carriage?”
“Yes. Carriage.”
“Is that what you people call them?” I snorted.
We looked at each other as if neither one of us spoke the other’s language.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he said slowly so I could follow. “As I was saying, perhaps you are out of sorts since your…er…accident.”
“Don’t get condescending with me, Langdon,” I pointed at him and frowned at the doctor who forced me to look up and down, side to side, following his gloved finger.
“What is your name, madam?” The doctor asked warmly.
“Maisie Reynolds.”
“Miss Reynolds, can you tell me today’s date, with the year included, if you please?” The doctor winked conspiratorially at Langdon, as if he were on the precipice of curing me. Knowing the date was not going to help fix my arm. And even if I had a concussion, I wasn’t suffering from amnesia. I wished someone would call an ambulance for goodness sake.
“It’s August 12th, ’05.” I answered drolly. Duh.
“Ah, ha! There is the problem, my dear!” The doctor exclaimed.
“It’s August 12th, yes, but the year isn’t ’05, it’s 1904.”
Langdon said smugly, apparently overjoyed that he could break this news to me.
I did a double-take right there on the ground. And then I laughed and laughed. I wiped my eyes as the tears streamed down.
“Nick you really got me with this, I’ll hand it to you. 1904.
Carriages. Top hats and Morning suits. What a hoot! And look, you even got Doc here to participate in your theatrics. And that woman over there…look at her gown! Isn’t it fabulous—” My voice trailed off.
I glanced around me as quickly as I could with a pounding headache and noticed then that the entire street was authentically 1904-ish.
There were old cars, cobbled streets, finely dressed ladies and gentlemen mingling with the poorest, grimiest-looking of the poor. There were cozy storefronts, an open market, and a very real stench of coal.
“Amazing, just amazing. Nick, this is one hell of a recreation.
Is this all for the grand opening?” I looked up at him with wide eyes, completely convinced he was a genius – a sexist pig genius.
Nick shared a look of concern with the doctor who was rummaging through his black bag for something to wrap my elbow with.
“Er-” Nick waffled.
“What?” I felt a sense of foreboding all of the sudden, like I had entered the Twilight Zone.
Nick crouched down and took my left hand gently. His eyes were mesmerizing and so kind. Okay, I thought, now I know I have a concussion.
“Mrs. Reynolds-“
I shook my head. “No. Not ‘Mrs., “Miss. Doc was right the first time when he addressed me as ‘Miss. Mrs. Reynolds is my mother.”
Nick gasped slightly. “And you travel alone, without a chaperone?”
I scrunched my face up in confusion. “Huh? Why would ! need a chaperone? I’m thirty, for God’s sake!”
“I see…” A look of amusement passed over his face, but just as quickly, Nick put his business face back on. “Miss Reynolds, I am Nicholas Langdon—”
“YEAH, I knoooow… What is going on Langdon?” I frowned at his latest Captain Obvious act; he could do so much better.
“Ahh, I do not know how you know my name, as it is quite apparent by your manner of speech and dress that you are not from London nor from England, and you must have only arrived here very recently judging from this unusual bag which you carry.” He pointed to my bag as it lay in the muddy puddles of the cobblestone street. How’d they get the streets from tar to cobblestone that quicky?
“Great. So we’ve gone from Captain Obvious to Sherlock Holmes,” I said dryly. “And you’re the one with memory loss if you don’t remember me at all, Nick.”
He jerked his hand away. “I am called Cole by my friends.”
He buffed an already pristine-looking button on his coat. “As I was saying, you have suffered a head injury of some kind-” They nodded in agreement, over eagerly, I might add. “—As a result of the carriage impacting you as you attempted to navigate the street here.” He gestured with his big hat head toward the street I was currently residing on. The doctor finished his examination and declared me “confused.” I rolled my eyes as I sat there contemplating the obvious decline in the state of health care.
He knelt down to my level again, bringing those eyes back in full view. Be still my racing heart! “You need rest. You will feel better tomorrow, the doctor has assured me. He could find nothing wrong with you—”
“Yeah, I guess he couldn’t out here in the middle of the street instead of in a hospital with diagnostic tests and modern equipment…”
Nick sighed. “Where are you staying? Please allow me to escort you there,” he said with genuine chivalry. Hmm… I think I like this 1904 Nick much better. Can we keep him after the grand opening has ended?
But it was all an illusion-some kind of cruel game. It slowly, fully registered that Nick Langdon was beyond mean and nasty. He was leading me to believe I was going crazy. An elaborate hoax was underway to trip me into insanity, and all because he didn’t trust in my abilities. His sisters told me the whole story of how furious he was when his father chose to go with my employer rather than a British company. So this was his attempt at forcing me off of the assignment; he assumed he could convince his father to accept the bid from the other company once he had proven me unstable, and my employer incompetent. Well, I had news for Langdon-I wasn’t going anywhere but back to my hotel room to rest up for tomorrow’s work.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t need your assistance, Cole. I can find my way back to my hotel unaided, thank you. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow, and I fully expect to be at work.”
“Work?” His luxurious eyes were as wide as half-dollars.
“Oh, come on now. Enough with the act-you know exactly what I’m talking about!” I stood slowly, picked up my bags with my good arm and took a deep breath. I looked Nick/Cole over one last time to fully appreciate his fine masculinity dressed up in an early 20th century day suit once more; that is, before this hoax was revealed. Such a shame it would all be over when the ruse was lifted. I sighed and turned to go, but I didn’t get far.
Cole grabbed my arm gently and turned me to face him.
“You know, madam, it is not safe to… work…the streets…do you need money? I can help you to find a respectable home to lodge in, I’m sure…” he whispered. His eyes and lips so close to my face mesmerized me for a time, so that I didn’t register what he said-at first.
“What?! You think I’m a prostitute?” This had to be the worst insult he had slung at me yet. And I made quite a scene about it, too. For all his attempts at discretion, I was yelling at the top of my lungs. “That’s right, when I’m not working ninety hours a week as a Costume Historian and Photographer, I’m a street walker! Is that what you truly believe about me?” People were stopping and staring by this point and Cole shared conspiratorial looks with Doc before gently nudging me toward what I assumed was his car. I plopped down hard on the seat and he gracefully sat across from me. “I’m sorry, Miss Reynolds, I misunderstood your words a moment ago. Forgive me. Please allow me to escort you to your dwellings.”
He looked so damned sincere and I was tired of arguing with him. Plus, my arm and head hurt. “OK, fine. It’s only four blocks from here.” He told the driver where to go and we were off. I was certain the scenery would change back to modern day once we reached my hotel and that cool Cole would morph back into nasty Nick. We jiggled and bumbled along in the car, with an awkward silence between us. I felt my expression of awe turn into a frown as we reached the end of the third block and there was no change in scenery. To be honest, I was more than a little concerned for my mental state.
“Umm, Cole? This…this is my hotel here,” I lied. I took a quick, desperate survey of the street and saw a quaint establishment with vacancies. The rising panic in my gut made me want to bolt out of the car and run as far as I could, to anywhere that would lead me back to 2005.
Cole peered up at the two-story building just ahead on the right and called for his man to stop the carriage. “Are you certain this is the correct place?” He sounded concerned, but it looked fine to me. Besides, I had to remind myself, this is all an illusion, anyway.
“Miss Reynolds, this establishment doesn’t seem proper somehow. Why don’t you let me arrange a lodging for you-” Cole grimaced up at the shutters, that, upon closer inspection, were in obvious need of repair. The one on the left looked as if it would fall at any second and crush both of us flat like pancakes. The front door was a tattered, peeling shade of faded cobalt blue and the ground floor window was so grimy I couldn’t see through it. “Uhhh-” I hesitated. Even in make-believe land I did NOT want to lodge there.
Cole nodded and seemed to understand my reticence immediately. He called to his driver at once and we drove off. “I cannot allow you to stay here. We will call on someone whom I think will have plenty of space for you to stay until you decide otherwise.” Chivalrous Cole was a welcome relief and soothed me a bit, although the fact that the scenery did not change from 1905 to 2005 at all in the course of driving to his friend’s house was worrisome. About ten minutes into the uncomfortably silent journey, and after much thoughtful deliberation with myself, I decided that I would go with the flow and accept it all as a reality.
If I did have a concussion, there wasn’t anything I could do about it, anyway. Maybe I’d have to wait until the swelling in my brain went down and I suddenly snapped out of it. Or maybe it was all a dream and I’d wake up at any minute. Regardless, I couldn’t think about it anymore. I was in 1904 and I would savor the experience as if it were real, until it was not real.
And, if I were truly dancing gaily around in the fields of madness, then, hey, being crazy was looking as promising as the huge stone mansion we were approaching after twenty-five minutes of bumping along in the car, both of us ignoring the amazing zing in the air when our knees bumped as we rolled to a halt.
The following “spicy” story is my response to Kevin’s No Theme Thursday 2/8/24 challenge . Thanks for the amazing, inspirational art, Kevin!
Art by Kevin
Ibiza, Spain.
I walked out to the sea’s edge, dressed in my borrowed costume, the frilly hem wet from the small waves crashing along the shore. The light was perfect. I could hear the party revelers behind me, enjoying the return of their famous son, if only for a few weeks. I knew he was back there, waiting, probably watching me as I danced, and my heart filled with joy and contentment. I closed my eyes and continued to twirl, enveloped by the scent of the sensual, beckoning night-blooming flowers, the sounds of faint music and twinkling laughter, the whispers of lovers floating on a zephyr, and the assurance of an equally sublime day to follow this. They were all palpably present, and they were magical.
✨
The next evening…
We dance in the Square, under the twinkling strands of coiled lights that run from the store fronts across the way to our old world, charming hotel behind us, crisscrossing back again, forming a cozy, shimmering roof over our heads. The tiny white lights cast a warm glow onto the bright white sidewalk beneath our feet, the latter of which have no agenda other than to move with each other, and to the live music being performed in the distance. Older people stroll by, glance and smile at us, knowing him, of course, and wondering about me, the curvy, auburn-haired vixen with an American accent. He’s not a very good slow dancer, nor am I, and our height difference is appallingly noticeable, but when we dance, we laugh, and when we laugh, well…we love. And so it is: I love to dance with him.
We sway with the music as I feel him take my hand and turn my palm face up, anticipation showing itself as shivers up my spine. His head down, hair falling into his face, his smoldering eyes holding mine as he lands his sensual mouth in the center of my palm. His lips linger there for several seconds, so I feel the full effect of his kiss; I draw in a quick breath of surprise. Every nerve ending I have a screaming out to him, “Me! Me! Me! Kiss me next!” He must hear them, for his lips then travel to my wrist, where he opens his mouth slightly, and I feel the tiniest tip of his tongue dart onto my pulse point. “Oh, my,” I mutter as I breathe in another rush of air. He smiles against my flesh, I can feel his teeth on my arm as he does. He nips the skin on the inside of my arm so gently, it feels like a child’s tentative touch. By the time he reaches the inside of my elbow, I have had three shivers cascade up and down my back and have weak legs that threaten to give way. “Max…” I breathe as I stare, dumbfounded, at the top of his shiny mink-colored head, darker still in the night. His hair smells like that wonderfully fragrant shampoo I bought yesterday, and it makes me want to bury my face in it. “Shh…” he orders me and continues on his determined way. “You are trying to make me turn into a puddle of piddle, aren’t you?” He smiles again, this time against my neck, before attempting to produce what feels as if it would be the biggest love mark in the world (we’re talking Guinness Book of World Records). “Don’t make semi-permanent marks on me, Maximillian,” I warn him sternly. Then I whimper.
My voice fails me, but my thoughts rail against my skull rapidly. “You’re funny,” I manage to giggle, before he cups his broad hands around my face, and landed a decisive, almost possessive kiss on my mouth. It is rare that he kisses me this way; usually it’s not unless he hasn’t seen me in a while, or if he’s about to leave me for a while. My mind reels. I don’t know where he learned any of this, but I definitely approve. I think.
I notice now that he’s got full, dark lips in the muted light, swollen from kissing me so hard, shining with the remnants of my lip gloss. His eyes are expectant, and maybe a bit satisfied with himself, no doubt because he can see the look at my eyes.
“You like?”
I nod slightly, but nothing more
“Do you want me to do it again?”
I nod again, weakly.
He reaches for my other arm, but I stop him.
“No. You can do whatever it is you’ve just done, and yes, please, but not here. Surely you must realize the effect your mouth has on me. “
He smugly grins. “Maybe I do.”
I lean up on my tippy toes and run my hand through his hair to move it away from his ear. “Let’s go into the hotel now, Max. I really want to go now, don’t you?” I whisper in the nape of his neck. He nods and laughs once, suddenly going quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies.
We make the short journey to the hotel then climb the stairs rather than take the elevator up to our floor. I feel a warm hand sweep under my dress to my calf. I continue to climb the stairs quickly, almost tripping.
“Wait.”
“What?” I turn, alarmed by the severe tone of his voice. When I look at him, his eyes are blue, and piercing into mine. “Oh, Maximillian, please don’t look at me like that – not here.”
“Go to the roof,” he says and moves closer, staring into me with those eyes.
“Go to the roof,” he repeats, this time with more authority.
“But I thought we were going inside.”
“First, let’s go to the roof,” he says gently, and I glance at his full lips and messy hair, and I walk myself right on up to the roof. I’m such a sucker.
“So now what?” I ask gently as I cross my arms over my chest to shield myself from the chilliness. It’s windy on the roof and I don’t want to be here. I throw a glance to the twinkling lights below, and to the stars above, and despite a 1000 watt desire to be snuggled in 600 thread count sheets with a 200 pound man, the view really is quite lovely. Alongside me is my own modern pirate, dark and brooding, and for the love of God (who/what/where), if He’s in attendance, is directly across the street shaking his head at us. And why can’t Max control the amount of testosterone he’s sending out?
Max moves closer and reaches out to touch my face; his hand is shaking, which I find peculiar. Just beyond him, I see the cathedral, illuminated by a spotlight aimed at the blue lead glass.
“Max, no.”
“Why?” He mumbles into my neck as I shut my eyes tightly to block out the church, as much as to savor his mouth on my skin.
“God is watching.” I feel silly as soon as I say it, and I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, he just keeps tracing the side of my face with his finger.
“God watches us always, whatever we do,” he tells me, like I need schooling.
“Yes, I realize that, but – maybe He doesn’t want to see us out here, on the roof, getting our freak on,” I attempt to explain.
“Why not?” he asks, now tracing my lips with his finger.
“Do you love me?” he asks bluntly.
“Yes. Like I love summertime and sleeping and books and dark chocolate.”
He snickers. “And I love you like I love ice cream, PlayStation, and tennis.” I have to smile at his childlike simplicity; to be ranked among those items must mean good things for my standing.
He leans against the stone wall and takes a deep breath. “Do you want to know what I think?” He asks me casually.
“Yes, I do.” I’m still studying him closely, wondering what he will say next. I never know.
“Well, I think love is God and God is love. That building is only one symbol for God; there are many others,” he says softly as he nods in the direction of the church. “The sea is God, the sky – when I am with you like this, or when you are in my arms, I feel God in these moments also, because my heart is full of love for you. Is that wrong or bad?” He asks it, but he is sure of his beliefs, so it is really only for my sake.
I understand now. My limbs feel weak, I need to lie down and my heart wants to dart out of my chest, but I get it. “You brought me here, to make love on the roof, to show the universe what our love is like; to share what we have, because you’re sure love cannot be wrong, even though there are obstacles we must overcome, yes?”
“Yes, in a way, that is part of it.” I guess I still don’t have it precisely right, and it seems like he wants to keep his reasons to himself. That’s all right; I think I understand enough. He reaches for me; I nestle into him, feeling like a child learning a lesson I should’ve already known.
“And also to share with my family who have died and my ancestors who came to this island long ago.”
“Pirates?” I ask as I rest my cheek against his chest, feeling the smooth, heated cotton scented with love. (Love is also the blazing heat of a man and his scent, and the effect of it on a woman who is under his spell.)
“Maybe” he teases. “And maybe your ancestral people are here too, or they come to visit you sometimes.” I feel his hand brush my hair and hear his voice vibrating in his chest as he talks; it transports me back to times long ago, leaning on my father’s chest, listening to his voice rumble, feeling the gradual pull of sleep tug at my tiny eyelids. It happens even now as I’m associating that memory with the present.
“Max, do you want them all to see? I mean, some things are private.”
“But it is love between us, and all the people who have come before have done what we do. It is nothing new. Besides, they see us anyway, if we are on this roof, in bed, or sitting at dinner with everyone else.”
“I kind of hope they shut their eyes at certain times.” He laughs quietly and squeezes me tighter.
“Maybe they do, but God does not.” He turns my face to his. “Are you ready to go to bed now, or do you want to talk more?” He searches my eyes and I want to get lost in his. Well, his everything.
“Yes, I want to go now.” As he takes my hand and leads me to the stairwell, I steal a glance at the blue lead window, some 50 feet away. At that moment, the spotlights flicker out and jolt back on almost immediately.
“Max. God just winked at me.” He gave me one of my own looks of exasperation executed very well, and we giggled all the way to the bed.
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This was a scene that came to me as an inkling of a sequel to my first novel, Love Match, tweaked a bit for this challenge. The second book has not yet come to fruition, but I hope you enjoyed this snippet.
My perfect day, from start to finish, was the day I received the first batch of my book in the mail. A close second was doing book signings. The process of writing a novel took much longer than one day, of course, and it wasn’t perfect, but the feeling of handling a solid book that contained words I strung together, was unlike any other feeling previously or since. I could think of other ways to spend a perfect day, but none as profound as this for me, as a lover of words.
I started writing this book in 2003, and the idea formed over a fairly short span of time. I have been a tennis fan since the age of 15, and I am not going to tell you how many years ago that was, but it was approximately 102 years prior to 2003.
When I write, I see images. I see the scene playing out between the characters, where they are, what they’re wearing, their facial expressions, if the air is still or breezy, hot or chilly, and I see it start to finish just as a film or on a real in my brain.
The novel started with a small seed of an idea that turned into an image in my brain. The scene was the end of the book. I hand wrote most of this book in a black, hardbound canvas covered book that was probably meant to be a journal. I have journaled my whole life and I have written my whole life as well, although not for public consumption.
So the image that I saw in my head of the scene, playing out of the end of the novel, I wrote at a feverous pitch, on the first page of my black bound book. I then had to form character names, settings, and all the good stuff that goes along with novel writing. Which I had never done before. I bought books, I researched how to outline, but basically I winged it. I wrote the novel in about three months. The scenes played in my mind, and I was able to extricate the best out of the story that I could. I edited and re-edited the novel. I pitched my manuscript to agents and publishing houses for a full year of my life. I had some interest but never any yeses. Frustrated and emotional as I was, I refused to accept defeat. I decided to self publish. Back in 2005, when I finally got past trying to find a publisher and an agent, self publishing wasn’t as acceptable as it is these days. Nor was it as accessible. It was, however, much more affordable. I chose to use lulu.com, which probably was due to the fact that that was one of the only self publishing houses available at the time. Uploading the novel was a fairly simple process. I chose the cover, the font type, the color of the font, and the cover is from stock image. Formatting the pages was a bit difficult and the first print proof of the book was too many pages, too large of a font, not the right cover, not the right title or font – not the right anything.
So, I went back to the drawing board and finessed it into what it is now. I paid extra for the international ability to sell on Amazon, and once I received the first shipment of books myself, I couldn’t believe that I had done this. I had a book with an ISBN and it was registered at the Library of Congress and it was available for sale on websites. I held this bound grouping of words in my hands, and it came out of my brain. It was surreal.
Because I did not have an agent I had to hustle my own promotions. I held book signings at local bookstores, I made sure all local bookstores had copies of my book from the warehouse, I promoted it as much as I could through word-of-mouth and through online sales. Shortly after I wrote the book and launched it, I switched careers that involved a lot of training, and the creative part of my brain went dormant. I am still in the career that I switched to all these years later, but I have recently found joy in writing again. I owe it to a muse I found in the most peculiar place. I lost my muse long ago, so to find another one in a weird place, and completely unexpectedly was a shock and a joy. So thank you muse, and I will see you at the park in 2033. Until then, I’m pondering ideas for a second book, but I have no solid kernels on which to build yet. For now I continue with daily prompts, poetry and short stories, about some of my favorite things, which include Paris, cats, dogs, pigeons on the lamb, and Sometimes relationships.
For those of you who have considered writing a novel, or working on a novel, or have finished a novel, what are your experiences with the process? For example, I started at the end and worked my way back to the beginning. I worked pen and paper. I edited my own book with the pages looking like a murder scene had taken place. There was so much red pen. I didn’t tell anyone I was writing a book until I was done the book. I felt like it would be breaking a spell I was under. For me when I write I get in a zone. Does anyone else experience that? What are your experiences as you are writing whether you are working on a novel or another piece? Please comment below!
*I originally posted links to my book on a separate page on WordPress, but it has disappeared. I don’t think WordPress likes tennis.*
The song I thought of today is Unwritten, by Natasha Bedingfield.
I am unwritten Can’t read my mind I’m undefined I’m just beginning The pen’s in my hand Ending unplanned
Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten
Oh, oh, oh
I break tradition Sometimes my tries are outside the lines We’ve been conditioned to not make mistakes But I can’t live that way
Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins
Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten
Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins
Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten The rest is still unwritten The rest is still unwritten
“It's Amy,” I said. 