Timeless Moments - Michelle Kidd (ebook reader for laptop TXT) 📗

at once. If my husband finds you, make no mistake, he will kill you.” Her chin tilted upward.

“R-i-g-h-t.” He dragged the word out slowly. “Your husband? That sounds like a terrific idea. I’m sure he’s worried sick about you. You’re obviously not feeling yourself. You seem . . . hurt. Maybe a little confused . . . Let’s call him. I’m sure he's anxious to find you and take you home . . . or wherever it is you're staying.” Again, he regarded her, but she couldn’t read his thoughts.

“This is my home, you imbecile! You are the one who is confused.” Their eyes locked—she refused to concede. With her jaw clenched, she hugged the book across her chest. Her cheeks burned with heat.

“Lady, I’m not sure where you’ve been hiding all day, but this is my home.” He took note of the book. “What have you got there?”

“None of your business.” She blinked hard and sat straighter.

He moved closer as he spoke in soothing tones. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I do know I watched you run inside my house this morning. I searched all over for you, and you . . . you . . . somehow managed to disappear.” He waved his hands in an exaggerated circle. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but there is definitely something weird about you.”

“Ghosts? I assure you, sir, I am quite real.”

“Prove it,” he said, edging closer.

“I’ll do no such thing. Why should I prove anything of a sort?”

“Because you are in my house.”

He was so close now she could almost touch him, and smell the scent of soap—hardly the vagrant she’d first thought him to be. She was more offended and curious than frightened at this point, especially when he seemed to find her anger amusing.

She gave a rather undignified snort and her eyes flashed. “You are insane, sir.”

“I’ve been called worse . . . and that’s probably true, but the fact remains, here you are, and you’re trespassing.”

“For goodness sake, why do you keep saying that? Are you daft?"

“Daft—who says daft?”

“I do! Now you’re just making fun of me!”

She dug her nails into her palms feeling frustration grow, yet oddly enjoying the banter. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thrown off the burdensome mantle of submission and said exactly what she thought. It felt good!

It wasn’t something she could explain, but she sensed that this man wasn’t going to strike her —wasn’t there to beat or hurt her in any way. Maybe it was the mischievous sparkle in his eyes, but it made her want to throw politeness to the wind and exercise a bit of spirit she thought had died. “You are making fun of me,” she challenged.

“Absolutely not.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Just seems an odd choice—a little dated.”

“Dated? How dare you!” But there was no anger in her voice.

“Look, we’ve obviously gotten off on the wrong foot. I’ve offended you, and I’m sorry.” He extended his hand to her as if he expected her to take it.

The breech in etiquette wasn’t particularly offensive, although a gentleman didn’t normally offer his hand to a lady first. Nevertheless, she ignored his outstretched hand. “Friends? We haven’t even been introduced—I don’t even know your name, sir.”

He gave an exaggerated bow. “Jack Vines, at your service, ma’am.”

“You are a highly unorthodox man, Jack Vines. I’ve a feeling I may be daft as well, as I’m still sitting here talking to you and not yelling for assistance.”

“Oh we’re back to that again, are we? Pray, to whom would you be yelling to for assistance?” His tone took on an exaggerated air.

“Why, my husband, of course.” The thought of Hunsdon sobered her a bit.

That brought no response—it was clear he didn’t believe her. Instead, his eyes traveled back to the book she was still holding. “May I see what you are reading?”

Indecision seized her better judgment and twisted it. She knew she should urge him to leave, certainly not accommodate his request, yet despite herself; she turned the book around so he could read the cover.

He reached for it, and in doing so, his hand passed right through hers. The look on his face was one of horror, a look she was sure was reflected on her own. He almost dropped the slim volume. His image rippled like a reflection in a pond. Like an illusion, he danced in front of her for a moment before the waves stilled.

“What are you?” she whispered.

“Me?”

“Are you an angel?”

He shook his head. “Definitely not an angel, and I’m not a ghost . . . I don’t think.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “I would hope that I would remember dying.”

“So if you are not a ghost, and I’m not a ghost . . .” She faltered. She raised her palm extending it toward him.

He mirrored her gesture until their palms met, sending the images flickering once more. They broke contact and waited for the shimmering to settle.

“Astonishing,” she said.

He looked down at the book in his hand, reading the title, “The Crest 1915. What is this?”

“My yearbook.”

“Your yearbook? You mean it belongs to you . . . what school?”

“Lynchburg High School.” There was only one high school, yet she noticed his look of confusion as if he were waiting on her to clarify. “Is there another?” she asked.

“Yes—eight to be exact.”

Jewel laughed aloud at the absurd thought. “Ridiculous. You are mistaken, sir. There is only one, and that is, LHS.”

“But how did you get this? It’s almost a hundred years old.”

“What!” She laughed again. “No, silly, it’s mine—1915. Two years ago.” Then she sobered seeing he was serious.

He flipped through the pages, not sure what he was looking for, but stopped abruptly. “This is you.” He studied the picture and then studied her. “But how . . . It can’t be. Why you’d be . . .”

“I’d be what?” Her face had gone white, and she trembled.

“You’d be over one hundred years old. Jewel . . . it says your name is, Jewel Boydoh. Is that right?”

She nodded, too stunned for words.

“Jewel, this is 2014.”

“No?” She shrank back. “It isn’t possible. It simply isn’t possible.”

“And yet somehow it is. Tell me . . . you say this is your home—what do you see when you look around?”

“I . . . I see my room,” she answered.

“No, I mean, describe it for me.”

Jewel flushed, unable to find the words. “I don’t know . . . a bed, my dresser.” She flung her arm, indicating the room, “Chairs, fire in the grate . . . I’m not sure what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. For me, this is an empty room. It’s freezing.”

“No—no, there is a fire. Look over there. Surely, you can feel its warmth.”

He ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head. She noted the particular way it stood up, and then smothered a ridiculous thought to smooth it back into place. He moved abruptly across the room toward the fire in the grate. Its flames danced around the room. She saw his intention—

“No—wait!” she cried out.

He stooped, hesitated, and then put his hand right into the flame before turning to stare at her calmly.

“How’d you . . .” The words came out in a whisper.

“You see . . . nothing.” He withdrew his hand and held it out for her inspection. Miraculously, it was unscathed.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, Jewel. There’s just nothing here.”

She felt as if the world was spinning around her. It didn’t make sense. How was it possible for him to be in the room and not see what she saw? Then it occurred to her. “You’re still holding the book. My book.”

“So?” He stood and walked across the floor.

“Isn’t it obvious? It is something we can both see—something that is exactly the same to both of us. I had the book, now you have the book. It is something that can be passed back and forth.”

But rapidly approaching footsteps outside her bedroom brought further speculation and discussion to an abrupt halt. With a desperate signal, she gestured to silence him. Panic filled her. There was no place to hide. She watched helplessly as the door opened . . .

This book is an excerpt. It is available @ Amazon.com 

http://a.co/0s8Zg4i

Imprint

Text: Michelle Kidd
Images: Kindle Press
Cover: Kindle Press
Editing: Kindle Press
Publication Date: 02-23-2013

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Dedicated to all my friends that encouraged me along the way.