A Leap in Time
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
A Leap in Time
by
Engy Albasel Neville
The Travelers Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
A Leap in Time
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Engy Albasel Neville
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-597-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-598-2
The Travelers Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedications
This book is dedicated to every little girl with a dream.
~*~
To my beautiful children Liam and Reagan,
you are my greatest and proudest accomplishment.
To the love of my life. Brian,
I love you more every day.
To my amazing parents and wonderful brothers,
Amjad and Ameer, I love you.
To my wonderful editor Cindy Davis.
Thank you for believing in my story.
Chapter One
The aroma of the antique store was intoxicating. At times the mustiness was a little overwhelming, but I quickly got over it. It’s an antique store, what did I expect, the smell of bath salts? Like every antique store I had been to in Los Angeles, this one had random items displayed everywhere and gave the impression there was more to the antiques than met the eye. It was all part of the charm to lure customers in, and then, of course, get them to make a purchase—preferably an expensive one.
There was just enough staleness and dust in the air to give it the feeling of undiscovered treasure, which I loved. I, Lexi Carter, felt like I was walking through someone’s home and rummaging through their stuff. Okay, so there was a method to the madness of the random stuff because I wanted to buy everything.
The store was set up like a small cottage, a kitchen area with all the necessities, a living room with every detail, from the window valances to the draperies, and a bedroom with a cherry wood bedroom set.
A narrow staircase led to the attic. I decided to save it ‘till the end. It was all very exhilarating. There was too much to look at, from extensive collections of china to portraits of landscapes and mannequins dressed in clothes from a different century. The place certainly didn’t lack character and I quickly decided that this was the perfect derailment to my otherwise routine weekend. I was already envisioning the people who owned the various china sets, the dinner parties, holidays and the special occasions. How beautiful the table settings must have looked with the full regalia of a dinner party: centerpieces and mouthwatering dishes.
Even under the thin layer of dust that covered everything, the untold story of every item was clear. Maybe I had the word
sucker
inked on my forehead because whatever the reasoning behind the organized chaos of this charming shop, I was hooked.
History and people’s stories from a time long gone had always intrigued me. Maybe on some level I dreamed of being part of a different world, I felt connected to the past.
Hanging above the dining room table was a crystal chandelier, magnificent and yet modest in its own way. The sunlight from the front door played on each crystal making the entire chandelier almost glow with the bouncing light, welcoming and warm. When I was younger, I daydreamed about living in England during the Jane Austin era and attending elegant dinner parties where place settings like this would be the norm. To my dismay, I was born in modern times where tradition, formality and dinner parties were a thing of the past.
I made my way up the narrow, creaky staircase. The attic was divided into two sections. The front was set up like a parlor or receiving room: two small chairs around a table casually arranged with books. The back half-resembled a traditional attic with a jumble of wood furniture, and piles of books, records and paintings against the wall. I dug around the conglomeration for a while, finding nothing of interest. I was turning to leave when my eyes rested on a flat object—covered in an old bed sheet—leaning against one of the chairs. A flashing yellow arrow might as well have been pointing to it. The shape led me to believe it was a painting. Odd that none of the other paintings were covered.
My heart pounded with excitement as I drew closer. Holy crap! I felt like Indiana Jones. Well, maybe not quite, but still it was exhilarating. With trembling hands, I stripped off the sheet, and revealed, as expected, a painting. The colors and beauty took my breath away. It was like nothing I had ever seen and yet it was so familiar. The genre was common: an oil painting of a field of wildflowers with a meandering creek. On the near side of the creek was a massive oak-like tree with branches that hovered protectively over the water. In the far distance, a narrow road lined with arboretum trees led to an ancient city protected by a stone wall along its perimeter. The city looked like something from another century in a land far away. I feathered my fingers across the beautiful hand-carved mahogany frame.
The closer I looked at it, the more I realized how enchanted everything looked. The landscape seemed to have two personalities—two faces. There was the sunny bright landscape, warm and inviting. From a different angle, the perception was darker, as if touched by the magical hour of twilight. The painter was absolutely brilliant in capturing such contrasts, and his color palette was genius. None of my scavenger hunts in antique shops had ever revealed anything like this.
It didn’t take long to decide on purchasing the captivating painting. I knew exactly where it would go, above the couch in my living room.
Chapter Two
With my living room and bedroom windows open, the cross breeze was refreshing even on the hottest summer days. I stood back to admire the painting on the wall behind my couch. Today the sunshine was particularly potent. It threw a slash of light across my new landscape, illuminating the mountains as if they were on fire.
I loved this apartment. The building was built in the early fifties in an old Spanish style with white stucco and red trim around the windows and flower boxes. The apartments still had their original hardwood floors, a rarity for any apartment these days, especially in Los Angeles where everything was carpeted. There were only four units; each had private parking at the back. It was comfortable and private, an absolute gem. We were a small community within the bigger community of West Hollywood. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
As I started for the kitchen to make some herbal tea, a knock came on the door.
“Dear, are you decent?” called my neighbor Mrs. Ashton.
Since I moved in two years ago, we’d become close. She was more like a friend than a neighbor—though sometimes I wasn’t in the mood for company. Today was one of those times. I just wanted to savor my painting in privacy.
“Come on in, it’s open,” I called.
“Hi Lexi, how was your day?” She was smiling brightly, as usual. Her tall slender frame, neatly tied white-blonde hair and dainty still-smooth features almost hid her real age. For someone who spent most of her time at home, she was always elegantly dressed and coiffed to perfection. She dropped into her favorite overstuffed chair that just happened to face the painting. I wondered how long it’d take for her to notice the new addition.
“Hi, Mrs. Ashton,” I called as I took the box of teabags from the cabinet. I didn’t have the heart to fully avoid Mrs. Ashton because, more often than not, I welcomed her company. Bottom line, if she wanted to have a chat, a chat is what she would get—without question. “Want a cup of tea?”
“Sure. Thanks. What have you been up to today? I noticed you were gone most of the afternoon.”
“Good. Just a little shopping.”
“Oh. What did you buy?” She started to get up from the chair.
“Just a painting from the antique shop on Robertson.” I tried to sound calm and patient despite my urge to be alone.
“Oh my, it’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah, I thought so. The store owner said it was Pompeii,” I said.
“It’s mesmerizing. You can almost envision yourself there.”
I had to hand it to her, she spoke my language of dreamy, whimsical fantasies. It’s why we got along so well. Putting my impatience aside, I took a deep breath and embraced our chat. If you can’t avoid it, embrace it, right?
“Yeah, I guess. I didn’t think of it that way.” I dropped teabags into cups, and then returned to the living room while the water heated.
Mrs. Ashton stood with one knee on the couch, and was leaning in for a closer look.
“I was drawn to it and figured it was a sign,” I told her. “I’m tired of looking at bare white walls.”
She didn’t need to know I’d also fantasized about being part of such breathtaking scenery. I was the queen of daydreaming and had a healthy, colorful imagination.
Almost envision myself in it? Am I kidding myself—it’s all I’ve thought about since I laid eyes on it.
“Oh sure. We’re drawn to things for a reason, even if we don’t know it at the time,” she murmured as if lost in her own daydream.
There was a quirkiness about Mrs. Ashton and at times, her approach seemed harsh, maybe slightly pushy, but I suppose being a book editor for years can contribute to that. By now, I knew her well enough to know that beneath the no-bullshit façade was a selfless, lovely, caring and amazing human being.
We stood like goofy teenagers gawking at the painting. When the water boiled, we tore ourselves away and had tea in the bright, sunny kitchen.
Mrs. Ashton sighed dreamily, the cup clasped in both hands. “Mr. Ashton and I used to have tea in the afternoons. We liked to pretend we were in England. High tea. You know?” She was quiet a while. I didn’t break into her thoughts. Suddenly she giggled girlishly. “He was the greatest love of my life.”
“Who—Mr. Ashton?”
She shook her head. “No. His name was Troy. We met when I was only nineteen studying abroad in New Zealand. Because of circumstances—age and geographical challenges—we lost touch. I never forgot him or stopped thinking about him…all these years.”
“But you married somebody else,” I said.
“Yes, and John was wonderful. We built a great life together here in Los Angeles. He was a TV commercial producer. You’ve heard me talk about that.”
I had. I wished I could find someone to make me sigh like that.
Damn Mark! How can one man, one doomed relationship, one sad ending—even eight months later—have such an impact? I had been so in love, so naïve and so disillusioned. Never again. In truth, our breakup was hard on him too. He couldn’t understand how I could walk away when he was finally giving me everything I wanted. He didn’t understand that I was emotionally broken and had lost trust in him and us.
Maybe by straightening my spine and taking on new responsibilities, just maybe, I’d find myself again and reconnect with all the things that once made me happy. Today was a major step in that direction. I was already feeling more myself than I had in a long time.
Mrs. Ashton had told me once that the key to a happy relationship was to maintain your own identity, your own interests and circle of friends so you didn’t lose yourself in the relationship and end up resentful and miserable. It seemed like a simple enough formula and yet so many couples got it wrong.
“As you know, we never had children of our own.” She gave a wistful sigh. “We never regretted that decision because it allowed us time to devote to each other, charity and travel.” Another sigh.