Authors: Nicola Graham
Don't Look Back
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events, locales, business establishments, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2014 Nicola Graham
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
First Edition 2014
ISBN-13: 978-1502594846
ISBN-10: 1502594846
Cover Design by Alex Soto
Cover photography credit Romrf/
shuttershock.com
Edited by Linda Seed
www.lindaseed.com
This book contains adult content.
DEDICATION
For Donna.
May our friendship continue till we’re old and grey.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my husband who allows me the freedom to travel and dream, and my family whose patience is tested when I immerse myself into the fictional lives of others, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To my trusted circle who met Kate and Sully first, I appreciate your extraordinary efforts. Taking their story from my heart to paper was only the first step of a long journey, and I sincerely appreciate everyone that walked this path with me.
CHAPTER 1
LAX, Terminal Two,
August 23, 2010
“Flight 002 to London Heathrow is now boarding at gate sixty-five.” The announcement cuts into the quiet corner I have found at another gate that is far less crowded.
“Well, that’s me,” I mumble from the airport lounge chair where I have been sitting for at least the last hour. Dusting off the crumbs from my blueberry muffin breakfast, I stand, bending down to gather my carry-on bag and jacket. I briefly catch the eye of the handsome, grey-haired gentleman who has been quietly sitting opposite. He appears tired in his wrinkled charcoal business suit, and now he looks slightly amused. I suddenly realize I must have spoken out loud, something I do when I’m
nervous, or so my teenage daughter informs me. Embarrassed, I smile politely and head for my gate, telling myself not to let that happen again.
The airport is a constant hub of energy: bodies moving in different directions, people from all walks of life and of all nationalities. It never ceases to amaze me that no matter what time of day or night, no matter what season of the year, the airport is always busy. As each person passes me, I wonder where they are going, or where they have come from. I am intrigued that each of these people here in the terminal has a purpose for traveling today—each has a story.
Approaching the gate, I pull my phone from my rear jean pocket and quickly type my husband one final text before the phone goes off for the remainder of my trip.
Boarding now. Have a good weekend and don’t forget me on Tuesday. I emailed you the flight details. Katie
.
Hitting send, I promptly power off the phone, tucking it into my bag, and continue my stroll toward gate sixty-five. I catch the smell of freshly brewed coffee from a small café as I pass, my boot heels clicking with each step, echoing under the high ceilings of the sunny terminal. I already know Dave won’t text me back. He knows this drill by now, as I have completed this journey more than a dozen times over the course of our fifteen-year marriage, although usually with Allie. He’s well aware that from this point on, I will be on my English mobile phone if he needs me (which he won’t). He doesn’t check in with me while I am away; an occasional
text or email is fine but unnecessary, in his eyes. Being the responsible man that he is, he will be there to pick me up on Tuesday, and he’ll be happy to see me, glad to have things return to normal. He will try to feign interest in my trip. I already know this is who he is, and I accept that.
His lack of interest and enthusiasm used to hurt my feelings, but I have come to accept that he is secure with who we are, and he loves me to the best of his ability. We are neither happy nor unhappy, caught in a limbo between the two—a semi-happy marriage. We rarely argue, and we genuinely love each other, yet deep down, something is lacking, and neither of us is willing to do anything about it. Our relationship is calm and predictable. We work together, which some people find either amazing or terrifying. For us, it’s part of the package, the foundation of our relationship.
We met years ago while working at National Division Equities, where I took an entry level position right out of college. He was part of the management team overseeing my department, and we became friends. Over time, we transitioned into lovers. Dave was the opposite of the type of man I am usually attracted to. I suppose, in the end, that’s why I agreed to go out with him: He was the reverse of the men from my past, and I needed my life to go in a different direction. Dave was safe and kind, and he offered me stability; he was exactly what I needed.
I consider myself fortunate in many ways. None of my friends’ husbands would be so easygoing about their wives traveling across the world alone for a long weekend to surprise an old friend. But I
know that Dave would never want to come with me; he has no interest in traveling. I have learned that if this is what I want to do, then this is something I do alone, or with our daughter. Together, Allie and I have traveled throughout Europe on wonderful adventures, all while Dave is content staying at home.
Allie is thirteen and the apple of her father’s eye. She is beautiful, already nearing my five-foot-seven-inch height, with long, fair hair, green eyes, and a smile that could melt ice in the deepest Alaskan winter. In some subtle ways, Allie reminds me of myself at that age. We share a similar build; I was taller than most girls in my class at her age. Even though our eye color differs, our high cheek bones and smooth skin tone are equal, and she has my childhood nose.
She has a bright future, too; I see a strong, confident young lady growing up before my eyes, very different from the shy girl I was. I made a promise to her on the day she was born as I swaddled her protectively in my arms, inhaling her newborn scent for the first time. I vowed that I would never disrupt her childhood and would do everything within my power to bring her happiness; she would have stability, security, two parents who loved her, and a house with a white picket fence. Allie would have everything I felt had been taken away from me, and no matter what the sacrifice, I will always stand by that promise.
As I approach the gate, I see that we are taking off on schedule. I am thankful there will be no delays. Allowing for the eight-hour time difference, I should arrive at Heathrow early Saturday morning,
and I have set aside the remainder of the day to make my way into Harptree, my old hometown. I feel the slight flutter of butterflies in my belly as I wait my turn in one of the center lines, every couple of seconds inching closer to the gate.
“Boarding pass, please,” an older lady with salt and pepper hair neatly tied back in a ponytail asks politely as I step toward the gate. I watch as she scans my boarding slip, handing it back to me efficiently. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Jacobs, enjoy your flight,” she concludes, diverting her attention to the next person in line. I take a deep breath and step toward the sloping jetway to the awaiting aircraft. My journey has begun.
Settled in my seat, hand luggage neatly stowed in its correct place directly above me, personal items tucked into the seat pouch in front, I secretly pray for the vacant seat next to me to remain empty. Believe me, an empty seat is valuable when you’re confined to this small space for twelve hours. I casually browse through a magazine, happily watching as passengers pass by. I’m thrilled when they announce the doors are closing in preparation for departure. Unzipping my boots and pulling them off, I stretch my legs out as much as I can and close my eyes, trying to relax as we prepare for takeoff.
I grew up in the small town of Harptree, set in the middle of the beautiful English countryside. We were surrounded by endless rolling wheat fields, working farms, deep, mysterious woods that blossomed with bluebells in the late spring, and the peaceful River Harp flowing at the bottom of our housing estate, providing endless hours of summertime entertainment. Our little town seemed
grand to me back then, and the market was full of the latest European fashions. London was a couple of hours away by car or train, and so was the coast. Everything in the town was within walking distance, and as children, we roamed free with little restriction compared to nowadays. I was fortunate to have this beautiful place as my childhood playground.
This was all stolen from me when my mother married an American Air Force pilot. When I was fourteen, we moved to Southern California, which was a traumatic experience and a huge culture shock. The two lifestyles were so different, like night and day. I was ripped from my English home and deposited in what appeared to be the middle of a barren desert. We were about sixty miles inland, east of Los Angeles, in a dry, tumbleweed valley worlds away from the glamour of Hollywood and the sunny surf that had falsely been promised to me. I found myself thousands of miles from my home, my extended family, and my friends. It amazes me that I survived as well as I did, although I can’t say the same for the relationship between me and my mother.
I now feel like both places are home—or perhaps what I feel is that neither is home. I consider myself a nomad of sorts, split in two, unable to feel completely settled. England feels like home when I first arrive; it’s almost like a piece of me remains there, and as soon as I touch down, it magically finds me. I love the fresh air, the green grass, hedgehogs, magpies, the history, and of course, fish and chips. The list goes on and on, but in reality, I cannot envision living there again, unless I win the lottery and have a quaint cottage on the
Cornish coast with excellent central heating. I feel like I am betraying my heritage, because I prefer the lifestyle I have in California. To be honest, I cannot imagine raising my daughter in England these days, as the childhood I once had no longer exists. But something is lacking in my life in California; a piece of me is missing, and I can only assume it’s that tiny part of my heart that stays behind.
Diana McFarren-Hearst is my oldest and dearest friend. We met when we were six years old at junior school, and from that day forth, all my wonderful memories of growing up in England have her beside me. We were about the same height back then, and Diana always had dark brown hair neatly styled in a pixie cut, her nose sprinkled with freckles. I was the opposite, with my sandy brown hair pulled into a boring ponytail and my forehead framed by an uneven hand-trimmed fringe, thanks to my mother’s poor hairdressing skills. My blue eyes seemed plain compared to Diana’s deep, rich brown eyes, and much to my disappointment, I didn’t possess a single freckle. I always envied her, and as we blossomed into teenagers, most of the boys found her more attractive, as I was all arms and legs, continuously going through an awkward stage. Diana had a confidence about her, and it was a magnet drawing all the boys to her. Her outgoing personality helped her to do what she wanted. I was content standing at the edges of her overflowing, bubbling energy, forever grateful for her friendship.