Tag: chick lit

Only One?
chick lit · daily prompt · favorite author · fiction · Humor · Jane Austen · Love · prose · Women’s literature · Writing · Zora Neale Hurston

Only One?

Amy26 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What book could you read over and over again?
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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!

That I’m a Talented Writer
chick lit · daily prompt · fiction · poetry · tennis · Women’s literature · Writing

That I’m a Talented Writer

Amy45 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What was the best compliment you’ve received?
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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.*

Outlander
chick lit · fantasy · fate · fiction · Writing

Outlander

Amy14 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?
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Outlander is a romance/fantasy series on the Starz cable network and app with a huge dose of history, war, nursing, medicine, herbology, intense relationships, family drama – the list goes on. It’s not strictly fantasy, and it’s not strictly chick flick material – it’s packed with substance, great acting, intricately woven storylines, and an overall captivating experience.

I read the novels in college and waited 142 years for the rights to be optioned. Starz began production in 2013. I was elated. But I was also a little apprehensive, because I had read all of the books to date, and I was worried that the actors chosen for the roles would not match up with the characters I had envisioned in my mind. Turns out, I had nothing to worry about, as the casting has been superb in the series.

Claire, our heroine, portrayed by the super-talented Catriona Balfe, an Irish actress.

If you haven’t read the novels, I would recommend doing the hard work first: read the books before watching the TV series. Everything is more in the novels. Each book is close to 1,000 pages long. There’s much more substance in the books and a great deal more character development. The reason for that is the material has to be truncated to fit into an approximately 47 minute episode each week. And the seasons are short – it varies, but right now we’re in Droughtlander, waiting for the second half of Season Seven to resume. And when I say waiting, I mean waiting for up to a year and a half. But enough about Droughtlander. It’s a sore subject.

I feel sorry for people who only know that the TV series exists and who don’t – or won’t – read the books.

Jamie, our leading male, portrayed by the wonderful Scottish actor, Sam Heughan. He’s either just said, or is about to say, “Je Suis Prest” – Clan Fraser’s motto. I know this because this is one of my favorite scenes.

Sidebar: for anyone who adores costume history as much as I do (and believe me, I do, it was my minor in college), the costumes in this are exquisite. The costumes in Season Two are especially jaw-droppingly beautiful, as the show takes place mostly in France. Please don’t get me started on French fashion. I will blabber on for hours.

My rec: start with the novels, then watch the series. I’ve watched (and read) Outlander *way* more than five times. And they’re worth it.

The books and TV series get: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all right reserved

The Traveler – Sequel
chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Writing

The Traveler – Sequel

Amy27 Comments

Read The Traveler either for the first time, or to refresh your memory before reading this. Reading the sequel won’t make much sense unless you start there and return here.

✨

Mrs. Grant!” Cole exclaimed, leaping from the carriage just as a rotund blonde woman of about 40 years of age bounded from the huge, wooden double doors of the white stone house. She toddled to the carriage, holding onto her straw bonnet all the way.

“Nicky!” the blonde woman squealed, her voice far more high-pitched than her rotund figure would have indicated. They met on the gravel driveway in a very affectionate embrace. I was disgusted and surprised by my jealousy-tinged gut reaction at the sight. I clucked at my reaction and rolled my eyes.

“Ah, ha!” I yelled loudly from my perch in the carriage. “You said your friends call you Cole!” I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my left eye. “Why did your blonde friend here call you Nicky? Stop this charade right now, Langdon! It’s not funny anymore.”

“Oof, Nicky, you’ve got yourself a wild one there!” Mrs. Grant said with a snort of laughter.

He sighed and whispered something I couldn’t decipher, no matter how far I leaned in their direction. He threw me a look of exasperation. “Yes, and since Mrs. Grant is my aunt, she can call me whatever she wishes. She prefers the name Nicky, sorry to say.” Mrs. Grant swatted at Nick’s shoulder and he ducked out of the way, giggling.

“Oh,” I said quietly to myself, settling back into my seat. His time-travel charade remained intact and my confusion was growing. But that wave of jealousy was gone.

“Miss Reynolds, you may exit the carriage,” Nick waved to me.

“It’s Maisie, and don’t order me around, Langdon,” I snipped.

I hopped down, landing softly in the gravel, my 21st century attire not only looking very out of place, but very soiled from the day’s events. Mrs. Grant tried her best not to stare at my disheveled hair and clothes, nor at my bag. I saw her mouth “Langdon?” to Nick, as if she were questioning my mental state. You’re not the only one who thinks l’m crazy, lady. All three of us here, and the doc back in town, are of that mindset.

We walked through the huge wooden doors into an impressively large yet cozy foyer, under foot was a white marble floor and on the walls, a relaxing robin’s egg blue paint. I hadn’t seen plaster walls for years, and wondered for the third time in about as many minutes if the ability to see detail this richly meant that I was able to dream vividly, or if I was indeed supplanted into 1904. Shaking off the thought as quickly as it came, I looked around. There was not an air of grandiosity of the room, which was a bit odd for such a high ceiling and majestic outward appearance.

The place was comfortable, spacious and had a pleasant, cheerful, almost playful vibe. A spindly, tall man of about fifty came up to me nodded once and bowed ever so slightly, reaching for my carryon and garment bag. I handed them over cautiously, not sure where they would end up, but making a mental note to be sure to have them when I left. Langdon was not going to accuse me of losing his museum’s property! My eye landed on a statue perched on the mahogany side table next to me: a winking elephant. I snorted slightly at the sight, Nick turning his head discreetly in my direction at the sound. I rolled my eyes and looked away, turning my attention to the painted portraits hanging on the far wall leading into a narrower hallway. “Who are all of these children?” I asked as my eyes scanned portrait after portrait. Nick and Mrs. Grant were whispering about me (again), and my voice cutting across the room and echoing off of the floor seemed to startle them. “Are these children yours, Mrs. Grant?” I asked, waving my hand vaguely in the direction of the wall of portraits, bewildered. l turned to stare at her with wide eyes, taking stock of her appearance, wondering how she’d birthed over twenty-five children. She was large and quite sturdy-looking, but not old enough to have produced so many kids.

“Heavens no, my dear!” she exclaimed and hurried over to me. “At least not in the usual sense,” she added, confusing me further. Langdon did his best to try and hide a smirk, but I saw it.

He cleared his throat and sauntered over to us. “Mrs. Grant runs an orphanage here, Miss—”

“Maisie,” I reminded him drolly. “What’s with your short-term memory problem? I’m the one who hit her head, not you.”

“Maisie. Right. Mrs. Grant takes in children whose parents are not able to raise them, due to this reason or that.” He seemed uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one pristine black boot to the other, his sentence cut short when it should have contained more information – more revealing, juicy information. His hair fell into his right eye as he glanced to the floor, inspecting his pristine boots for invisible scuffs or scrapes, perhaps.

“Like, if their mothers are unwed young ladies or if their parents have died, or something equally as scandalous?” I bluntly asked, letting my curious eyes slide from the portraits to his downcast, immeasurably attractive face. I thought I’d test the waters; see if he was really going to conform to proper manners of the day. It was 1904, was it not?

Langdon’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, threatening to smile. He held it in well, though, and before he could speak, Mrs. Grant piped up, “I see you speak your mind, Miss Maisie! Good, good…good indeed! Yes!” she exclaimed excitedly, something secretive in her expression. “The orphans who come to me are special cases…”

“Special cases?” I implored, interested.

“Special cases,” Langdon piped up. “The orphans Mrs. Grant accepts into her home are juvenile delinquents who have been deemed incorrigible by their guardians and, in most cases, the rest of society.” He smiled warmly into my eyes, inviting me in, if I was willing. I wasn’t.

“Oh…” I frowned slightly. “That’s very admirable of you, Mrs. Grant,” I declared, squinting my eyes as I pondered what Langdon was getting at. “So Langdon, you brought me to stay here, in an orphanage filled with juvenile delinquents who have been cast out.”

He shrugged his shoulders casually. “I thought you could teach them a thing or two about behavior.” His dark eyes twinkled with mischief.

“You’re saying I could teach them about good behavior?” I said brightly, playing along.

“Now, I didn’t say that, did I? Milton!” Langdon suddenly bellowed for the servant, causing me to jerk my head back and open my eyes widely.

“Yes, sir?” Milton dutifully appeared from the shadows.

“Good man! Mrs. Grant has told me of the new Egyptian pieces she has acquired for the children’s history lesson. Would you show me to them, please? You know how I fancy history.”

The two men left and I stood staring after them. Damn that wily man. He’s as annoying in 1904 as he is in 2005.

Mrs. Grant stuttered and moved closer to me, frowning slightly at the sight of my clothing, perhaps attempting to distract me from wanting to chase after Langdon and smack him for insulting me. “Perhaps, Miss Maisie, you would care to change your attire? You must be quite uncomfortable following your… long journey.” I had no idea what Langdon had told her regarding my “long journey,” nor was I presently wishing to ask.

I glanced down to my crumb, coffee, dirt and sweat covered ensemble, embarrassed. “Oh…well, yes, that would be lovely.” I half-smiled and accepted Mrs. Grant’s warm grin with ease.

“Milton has placed your belongings in a guest room on the second floor, I believe. Milton!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Milton appeared again, without Langdon.

Poor Milton; he could have really used a pair of roller skates. I smiled to myself imagining the tall man on wheels.

“Have you put Miss Maisie’s belongings in the Pink Room?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Capital!” she exclaimed and clapped. I watched her with fascination. I hadn’t heard that word used in that way since the last time I watched ‘Pride and Prejudice.’ Oooo…maybe I’ll see Colin Firth here! Oh wait… he’s not real…well, he’s real, but he’s not here, he’s in 2005…drats!

Disturbed by the increasing speed by which 2005 seemed to be deserting me, I linked my arm through Mrs. Grant’s and distracted my troubled mind by thinking instead of Langdon in his tight breeches and pristine boots. Insufferable man.

“It’s pink…it’s definitely pink…” I noted, when Mrs. Grant inquired of my opinion. I gnawed at my bottom lip and scanned the room. In fact, the only items in the room that were not pink were my bag and me and Mrs.Grant. Milton had laid the bag on the floor right next to the door, as if he had been in a hurry, or had been frightened of the bag. Or maybe he had been frightened of all of this pink.

I wandered about the room, peeking in drawers, surveying the place, and the view out of my window. My mouth curved into an involuntary smile when I saw Langdon, under a large oak tree, hopping about on his shiny-booted feet, apparently mortally wounded by a very vicious-looking wooden sword a small boy of about eight years old had impaled him with.

Mrs. Grant came to stand beside me, letting out a soft cluck of air. “He’s good with the children. He’ll spend hours playing with them, engaging their minds and their spirits, and ask nothing in return.”

“Is that so?” I asked, a different side to Langdon suddenly revealed, a side that I admitted to myself I’d like to see more of.

But which Langdon was this? What year was I in? Was this all a delusion? I put my hand to the glass of the window and felt it cool to my touch, smelled Mrs. Grant’s lavender perfume alongside me, mixed with the fragrance of the pink roses to my left, on the tall dresser. It all seemed so real…even the way Langdon peered up to the window, startled to see us standing there. Even the way his glossy brown hair flopped into his eye and he smiled a bit bashfully, realizing we had been watching him.

“I am not his aunt, you know,” Mrs. Grant said suddenly, breaking the spell.

“No?” I asked, my heart suddenly pounding within my chest.

I thought for sure she could see it beating.

She shook her head, frowning a bit. “No, I am not his aunt.

I am his nanny. His aunt was a dreadful woman…” Mrs. Grant’s frown spread to all of her features, her eyes clouding over in remembrance.

“Mrs. Grant, Langdon is nearly thirty. He still requires a nanny?” I was being witty, or I was attempting to be witty; Mrs. Grant was still lost in thought, and I doubted she’d heard me.

“Of course not, dear!” she giggled. “I was employed as his nanny until he grew too old to need me any longer. And then his aunt died…” We were both watching Langdon at play. By now, he had been definitively killed, lying prone on the grass, allowing me a fine view of a fine view.

“Does Langdon, erm…Nick have any siblings?” I thought of

Penny and Sam and felt a tug at my heart.

Mrs. Grant chuckled and rapped at the window before flinging it open. “Hey there, Davy Jones, mind your manners with Mr. Langdon! Say you’re appreciative to him for allowing you to murder him so violently, if you please!”

I stifled a chortle and pursed my lips. “Davy Jones?” I asked, trying to remain straight-faced. I could go either way with this; Davy Jones as in the singer from the Monkees, or Davy Jones as in the bizarre euphemism for death: Davy Jones’s locker.

“What? Oh, yes,” she answered, distractedly, keeping close watch on Davy Jones. He did in fact bow to Langdon, who was still lying on the grass, though he had rolled over and was fending off some kind of large, hairy animal. Langdon’s face broke out in a dimpled grin when the dog (?) swiped its long tongue across his forehead. “Yes, that’s our newest charge, David Jones. He’s ten years old, but small for his age.” She sighed with resignation or something like it. “His father died last year leaving him as man of the house, and his mother was ill-fit to care for him; she left him alone most nights to…well, to do what she did to earn money. In the end, it was not enough. Young Davy took to stealing to feed himself.”

“How did he end up here?” I wondered.

“Ahh. Well…one evening, he tried to pickpocket Nicky.”

“Get out! Really?”

“Oh yes…and Nicky, being the generous, forgiving man that he is, instead of having him dealt with by the police, arranged with the boy’s mother that he should come here to live.”

My eyebrow had shot up and stayed there upon hearing Mrs. Grant say generous and forgiving, and have those words be linked to Langdon. I had not thought he was capable of either, whether in 1904 or in 2005.

I frowned as I watched the boy, now practically riding the dog (?), nothing of his past life evident in his play. My eyes shifted to Langdon, who was casually sprawled out under the tree, spinning a blade of grass between his well-shaped thumb and index finger. My eyes traveled from his hands to his face, only to realize he was watching me as intently as I was watching him. And from underneath his brows, as was I. From my vantage point upstairs, far away, brave, and out of immediate danger, I held his sultry brown eyes until the wind and Davy Jones’s laughter diverted them.

“So tell me about these siblings, Mrs. Grant,” I said a few moments later, as I was preparing to undress. “Is there…running water in the house?” I asked meekly, somewhat embarrassed by not only the soiled clothing I wore, but by the question. I didn’t want her to think I was totally fooled by their 1804 ruse, but then again, I was leaning towards thinking there wasn’t a ruse. Either way, I needed a shower.

Mrs. Grant’s blue eyes suddenly expanded widely, appearing very much like marbles about to roll out of her head. “Do you hear rushing water, Miss Maisie? Oh, heavens! Not that leak in the roof again! Mil-ton!” She had run out of the room at breakneck speed, leaving me no chance to call after her and explain. I bit my bottom lip in thought, my dilemma no closer to being solved.

I took a deep, frustrated breath; the action was cleansing but did not set my mind at ease. I hastily undressed, tossing my dirty clothes into a heap on the floor and sat heavily on the bed: comfortable, but lumpy. Not like my mattress at home, that’s for sure. I frowned at the pink covering on the bed. The tiny rosebuds were meticulously hand sewn. I peered closely at my surroundings; not one item in the room was what could be labeled “modern.”

“What’s that movie with Jim Carrey? The one where hes been put into his own world and he doesn’t know it…crap! What is the name of that movie!” I had begun talking to myself as I dropped the gown over my head, Mrs. Grant having disappeared from sight and no running water in my immediate future; desperation and jet lag had set in. I was putting the finishing touches on the day dress ensemble that I had brought along in the bag. The buttonhole was still a mess – you’d think in a hallucination the buttonhole would have been fixed, but no.

“The Truman Show!” I yelled to no one in particular, reaching around to affix the button within the tattered buttonhole.

Out of my immediate field of vision, but very definitely a blur on the outer edge of my sight, a green blob leapt past my doorway, followed by another larger, somewhat fatter green blob that landed directly in front of my doorway. I stood stark still, waiting, watching. “Ribbit!” said the fatter green blob to me as I raised an eyebrow at it. I moved closer to my new guest, wondering how he’d arrived, and who else he’d brought with him besides the guy who’d already taken off before him.

“Hello there,” I said after a few moments of studying the reflection of the crouching small boy in the large mirror hanging in the hallway. “You didn’t know I could see you there, did you? Your frogs went that way,” I pointed down the hall. His stifled, ornery giggles turned to wide-eyed wonderment as he saw me in the mirror. He shuffled to his feet, his large green eyes blinking under his dark brown, shaggy bangs. His head shook slowly.

“I didn’t think so. Hello, my name is Maisie. What’s yours?” extended my hand and he stared at it.

“My name is James, ma’am,” he replied courteously, his attention suddenly diverted.

“My frogs!” he exclaimed.

✨ Apologies for the cliffhanger folks, but this is where the story ends. For now. Please let me know in the comments if you want the story to continue! It was intended to be a novel at the outset. What does everyone think of that idea? Please let me know your thoughts in the comments! ✨

The Traveler is here

The Traveler – Prequel I is here

The Traveler – Prequel II is here

The Traveler – Prequel III is here

The Traveler – Prequel IV is here

©️2024, itssmyisaid.com, all rights reserved

Image©️thebeginningatlast9.wordpress.com

The Traveler – Prequel IV
chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Women’s literature · Writing

The Traveler – Prequel IV

Amy17 Comments

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.”

©️2023, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved

Prequel I is here

Prequel II is here

Prequel III is here

And where it all started (sort of) The Traveler is here

Image credit: Kevin at thebeginningatlast9.Wordpress.com

The Traveler – Prequel III
chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Women’s literature · Writing

The Traveler – Prequel III

Amy44 Comments

“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.

©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved

Read The Traveler – Prequel I here

Read The Traveler – Prequel II here

Read The Traveler – where it all started

image credit: Kevin at thebeginningatlast9.wordpress.com

The Traveler – Prequel / II
chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Women’s literature · Writing

The Traveler – Prequel / II

Amy28 Comments

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.

Hmph.

Stay tuned for The Traveler – Prequel / III!

Catch The Traveler – Prequel I here !

The Traveler – is here .

©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved

image credit: Kevin at thebeginningatlast9.wordpress.com

The Traveler – Prequel / I
chick lit · fiction · Humor · The Traveler · Women’s literature · Writing

The Traveler – Prequel / I

Amy112 Comments

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.

Stay tuned for The Traveler – Prequel / II!

Go to where it all started: The Traveler

©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved

image credit

Kevin at: thebeginningatlast9.wordpress.com

The Traveler
chick lit · fiction · Humor · Short story · Women’s literature · Writing

The Traveler

Amy68 Comments
Art by Kevin

Once again, I am participating in Kevin’s No Theme Thursday 2/15/24 edition.

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.

Read The Traveler Prequel I first, here

Next, The Traveler Prequel II, here

Then The Traveler Prequel III here

Next, The Traveler Prequel IV here

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.

To be continued…?

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