Welcome Reluctant Stranger

by Evelyn Journey

  “Lovely name. Less formidable than Ava. She's now taken form in my head.” Elise glanced at her watch. “I must go, too.”

  Greg rose. “I'll give you a ride home.”

  “But that's out of your way,” her father said. “You can drop her off at the train station. She does it all the time.”

  Mrs. Halverson placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Let them decide what to do.”

  Hello, Agnieszka (Between Two Worlds, Book 2), a sequel/prequel hybrid.

  A raw tale of early love, rivalry and betrayal

  “Can music save your mortal soul?”

  —Don McLean, American Pie

  Her oldest son’s suicide attempt forces Agnieszka (Elise’s mother) to reveal a past she has kept from her children. A young Agnieszka discovers a passion for music upon hearing her grandaunt Jola, a concert pianist in Poland, give a recital. Jola hones her talent and feeds her dreams. But thorny relations with a mother tied to her roots and betrayal by Jola and Lenny, the young man she falls in love with, shatters her dreams.

  A 70s story of love, betrayal, and the healing power of music.

  Secrets, Hello Agnieszka

  Elise Halverson-Thorpe sat, perusing a client's testimony at her desk in mid-afternoon, green highlighter in hand. She still had a half-inch thick of testimony transcripts to go through before she could stop for the day. She might have to bring some work home again.

  She lifted the highlighter to mark a phrase in the transcript, but the cellphone in her shirt pocket vibrated and interrupted her movement for an instant. She groped for the phone while she dragged the clear green ink across the phrase.

  She knew it couldn’t be Greg, who usually called sometime around noon. Before she swiped it, she glanced at the screen.

  “Dad,” she muttered to herself, surprised to see her father’s face.

  He rarely called her at work, aware that she might be arguing a case at court or taking testimony or deposition from a witness. What could he want from her at two in the afternoon?

  “Dad. What’s up?”

  “We’re at the hospital, but don’t be alarmed. Everything’s okay now. It’s Peter.”

  Her father’s voice was low and calm, but she detected an edge to it. He was struggling to sound normal and in control.

  “Peter?”

  She put the green highlighter down, next to a red one, and closed the two-inch thick transcriptions of testimony taken from the woman she was currently defending on a murder charge. Her third such case in as many years of working with the Public Defender.

  She leaned against the back of her chair and gripped the telephone tighter. Her father was taking a while to answer, and she grew apprehensive with every second he remained silent.

  “Yes. He swallowed a bottle of pills. Mom found him unconscious in the tub. But he’s okay now.”

  “What? What are you saying? He tried to … kill himself? Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  Her mind went blank for some seconds before a tangle of thoughts and emotions closed in on her: No, not possible. Not you, Peter. No. I don’t understand. Why? What’s going on with you? Why choose death over life? No! How could you? How could anyone?

  “Elise, are you all right? Are you still there?” Her father’s anxious voice broke through her turmoil.

  She swallowed hard to clear her throat. She wanted to say, No, I’m not. How can I be? Have you ever heard a ‘Yes’ more devastating than that? Instead, she said, “He did it in your tub?”

  “Yes, he came last weekend, said he missed us so much he wanted to stay a week. That was unusual, but we never wondered why. We were just so happy to have him with us for a while. He travels so much in his work, we hardly ever see him.”

  “The pills, how …?”

  “He must have had them. We don’t have any in the house.”

  Elise was silent again. She could hear her father breathing, echoing her own labored one.

  She forced herself to speak again. “But … he’s okay now?”

  “Yes. Yes. And he’s been seen by a psychologist. How were we to know that he was going to do it? Nothing was different about him.”

  “That’s apparently not unusual,” she said weakly, but her mind was still struggling with that devastating “Yes.” Peter tried to kill himself. But why?

  Her father said, “How can anyone know then?”

  That was, at least, a question to which she might have some answer.

  She said, putting on her authoritative, professional voice, “People serious about suicide don’t often say a thing, according to our psychiatric experts. We have defendants who attempt suicide and if they have no history of similar attempts, psychiatrists can’t always diagnose them early enough to put them on suicide watch.”

  Her voice ended in a quiver she couldn’t control.

  “He was in a good mood,” her father said with a sigh.

  “We’ve seen that, too.”

  “I can’t help thinking we went wrong somewhere.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything you did.”

  “He made dinner for us twice this week.”

  “I didn’t think he could cook.”

  “I don’t know why we didn’t see it coming.”

  “None of us might have.”

  “I thought I knew my children very well.”

  “I thought I knew Peter well.”

  “I’ve never seen Peter so hopeless.”

  “Neither have I. Nor so desperate that he’d try to end his life.”

  “He’s kind of intense.”

  “But people say that about me, too.” Her voice was finally as calm as she wanted it to sound.

  Her father let out another long sigh. “We have so many things we must work out. I still have to call Justin. Mom wants you both to come for dinner tomorrow. Greg, too, of course, and Goyo. Can you make it at three?”

  “Yes, of course. How is she?"

  “Worse than me, I’m afraid. As if she wants to take the whole burden of guilt on herself. Anyway, talk to her tomorrow.”

  *****

  Greg reached out to put his arm around Elise, but she was not there. He jerked his groggy head up toward the clock on his side table—an hour after midnight. He looked around the dark bedroom. After three years of marriage, groping at that space in the middle of the night could still give him a start and a now-familiar sinking sensation in his gut. To his relief, it was only for an instant.

  Five years ago, he had awakened to find Elise gone, leaving him alone on their first wonderful night together. He was left with feelings of misery and desolation he hadn’t been able to forget. Two painful years followed when he had to face some hard lessons about himself. Those were behind them now.

  He saw her standing against the large window, bathed in the greyish yellow light of a partial moon streaming into the room. His gaze traced her silhouetted figure—from her profile crowned in a luxurious halo of golden hair, along the sinuous line of the throat that sloped gently toward her nipples and curved around her breast, then slid down to her belly, slowly swelling from the life she was nurturing in her womb.

  His wife had grown more beautiful in his eyes, as the years went by. Maybe, that was what love did to people.

  Elise was sipping water from a bottle, and even in the dark, she looked pensive. She crossed her arms in front of her stomach and bowed her head, strands of hair falling on her cheeks. He didn’t see much of her face anymore, but he could imagine her anxiety. She was worried; he knew that. That phone call from her father, shortly before she left the Public Defender’s office that afternoon, distressed her deeply.

  She had phoned him right after to tell him about Peter. She could not continue her work and decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. He hadn’t seen her that upset in the three years they’d been married. He decided to come home early. She needed him.

  He’d been shocked at the news. The Halversons seemed to
be a well-adjusted, but earnest lot with a few quirks to occasionally surprise those who didn’t know them very well.

  He watched Elise raise the bottle to her lips and drain it of its contents. She tossed the empty bottle in a trashcan, walked toward the bed, and crawled in. As she lay down, Greg lifted the bed sheet and wrapped it around her. She snuggled into his warm embrace, shivering a little.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, not really. You were quiet. But I can always sense when you’re not in bed with me. That’s what wakes me up.”

  “I do have to get up sometimes, you know. And it gets worse as my stomach gets bigger.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  Her skin felt cold against his and he rubbed her arms and back gently with his palms.

  “You’re cold all over. Your arms are almost icy."

  “Yes, it was probably stupid to get up without my robe on, but I was hot.”

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not too long. I was burning and my mouth was so dry. I had to get me some water.”

  He lifted her right hand to his lips and blew on it; he gave the left the same treatment. He tucked both hands inside the sheets, next to his warm chest.

  “Aren’t you glad we have a little refrigerator in the study?”

  “You think of everything.”

  She planted a quick kiss on his chin. “I can’t remember being that thirsty when I was pregnant with Goyo.”

  “It’s not because you’re pregnant. You moan, you know, the whole time, with your mouth slightly open.”

  He grinned, his eyes twinkling in the near darkness.

  “Speak for yourself. I watch you, too. You’re worse.” She slapped his bare buttocks playfully.

  Greg laughed softly and gathered her closer. “Okay, okay, back to sleep. You’ll have a long day tomorrow. When are you going to Mom and Dad’s?”

  It took him more than a year to feel comfortable calling Elise’s father “Dad,” who had always been “Charles” to him although he was at least twenty years older. They’d been good friends before they became family.

  Elise said, “Shortly after lunch. She wants us there by three, but I’d like to talk to her before Justin and Dad get there. What time do you think you’ll come with Goyo? You don’t have to, you know.”

  “Don’t I? But I have to. Peter and I aren’t that close, unlike Justin and me, but he’s family. Besides, this sounds serious and you may need me. Are you very worried?”

  “Not about any danger to Peter right now. He’s getting help. But I can’t shake this feeling some scary thing is going to happen. Like an emotional tsunami we can’t escape.”

  “That is a scary thought, but you may still be in shock. Give yourself time. Tomorrow night, you’ll wonder why you were so worried.”

  “I hope so.” Elise didn’t sound convinced.

  “You sure you don’t want Bob to pick you up at your office and take you? It’ll be quicker and he likes driving you around. It’s been a while since you’ve been on that train.”

  “I rode that train from the East Bay all the time. I don’t think anything much has changed.”

  “You’re carrying another precious life in here,” he said, caressing her belly.

  “Goyo went through the same experience. He survived. Don’t be such a worrywart.” She pulled his face down and kissed him.

  Margaret of the North

  A sequel to Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South.

  A Victorian feminist tames her man.

  What happens after the titillating ending of the BBC miniseries, North and South, based on Elizabeth Gaskell’s novel?

  Gaskell’s novel has been described as a romance set against a backdrop of occasionally violent strikes as the working class fought for their rights against tyrannical masters. Margaret of the North is a Victorian feminist bildungsroman (coming-of-age novel) couched in romance. The romance is not only in the love between John and Margaret but also in the adventure and excitement that Margaret goes through as she discovers herself and fully realizes her womanhood. It is a journey that happens quietly and mostly internally.

  Margaret moves from an idyllic Southern village to a harsh bustling Northern city. There, she confronts her place in a rapidly changing society and her growing awareness of her persona as a woman, one who wants a voice and makes a mark.

  Prologue, Margaret of the North

  The train chugged out of the station in a shroud of grayish white smoke and as it gained speed, the shroud swirled away, up into the hazy May sunshine. Slowly, the countryside unveiled itself. The vibrant young greens of fresh growth, sprinkled with a luscious spectrum of yellows and reds, glistened on meadows dewy from the lingering moisture of winter.

  Margaret distractedly watched the lush landscape. In about an hour, it would give way to more smoke, diffused but pervasive, billowing not from the train but from ever-churning machines in cotton mills that meant life for the denizens of the modernizing city of Milton.

  At that dense city as different as it could be from the hamlet where she grew up, a city of stale, particulate-laden air and of somber shades of gray—from its atmosphere to its buildings to the mood of its inhabitants—Margaret had chosen, on this fateful day and at the age of 22, to make her home. There, she would marry, raise a family, and fashion a future for herself that she hoped to look back on with some measure of fondness as well as gratitude.

  She smiled at her reflection on the glass window and, with some amazement, gazed at the image behind hers, a bit blurrier but unmistakable—strong profile, tan complexion, dark hair, and aquiline nose. John Thornton was deep in thought, an arm resting on her shoulders, his head slightly bowed, and a smile playing on his lips.

  Margaret studied his reflection for some moments, incredulous at how quickly her fate changed; how the aching emptiness of resigning herself to the loss of his regard was supplanted by a wondrous, unbelievable happiness at regaining it. What sweeter bliss was there than getting what one's heart desired—after that desire had seemed so impossible that, just a short hour ago, one dared not hope at all?

  Margaret had made a choice, a clear and inevitable one, in her mind, that she arrived at by yielding to sentiments which could not be tamed any longer. The choice might seem unusual for her who hardly ever made momentous decisions impulsively.

  She was inclined to brood and mull carefully over her choices, encouraged by an intellectual clergyman father whose collection of books she explored at will, in a small country hamlet free of distractions from competing pursuits and compelling company. To her, returning to live permanently in Milton was not a question of the right or wrong choice. After nearly two years of sorrow and mourning, she simply seized happiness when it was right there before her. This happy choice was taking Margaret back to Milton for the second time on this day.

  Absorbed in reverie, John and Margaret were startled to find themselves at another train stop, bustling with people getting off the train and rushing through the platform.

  The train inspector opened the door to their compartment. "Good afternoon, Mr. Thornton, madam. May I see your ticket ma'am?"

  Still distracted, Margaret straightened, absentmindedly reached into her bag and handed the inspector her ticket.

  "This is for London, ma'am. You're on the train to Milton."

  Before she could reply, John said, his tone calm but firm, assured that he would not be contradicted, "Inspector, Miss Hale is my fiancée. I am taking her back to Milton to marry. Her ticket is for the opposite direction but it costs the same, doesn't it? What's the harm? Are we not almost there?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Thornton. I suppose it will do. I’m sorry Miss Hale. I was just doing my duty."

  "It's quite all right, Inspector. In fact, I thank you for being so accommodating."

  The inspector bowed, scanned the length of the train, and stepped away. He blew his whistle and the train was soon speeding to Mil
ton.

  Margaret smiled gratefully as John drew her closer. "You shall meet my mother again. I hope that turns out all right."

  "I did see her this morning at the mill."

  "You went to Marlborough Mills?"

  "Yes. How else would I find you so we could discuss business?" Margaret glanced at him, amused.

  "Was Henry Lennox with you?"

  "No, he went for some breakfast. We left London quite early." Margaret paused thoughtfully. "Your mother is a formidable woman. I admire her for being frank and sincere. But I think she does not find it easy to like me."

  "She will probably find fault in anyone I marry but particularly you, I'm afraid."

  Margaret was not surprised, aware that Mrs. Thornton thought her, a Southerner with strange ideas, unworthy of her son. She turned away, hiding the momentary apprehension in her eyes.

  But John did catch it, as fleeting as it was. "You are unlike the other women my mother meets in Milton. She may find you more daunting to deal with. I suppose mothers are anxious about being replaced in the affections of their sons when they marry. Mine is no exception."

  Margaret remained silent. What could she say? She knew only too well how strongly attached Mrs. Thornton was to her son, how her life revolved around him and his work. Mrs. Thornton would be unhappier than most mothers at her son's marriage to any woman, but most profoundly so if she was that woman.

  Margaret stared at the now wilting rose on her lap, unwilling, just then, for her happiness to be disturbed by concerns about Mrs. Thornton's distress. She turned her attention back to the scenery where greenery was metamorphosing into structures on the outlying areas of a big industrial city.

  Earlier that morning, she had been in Milton with Henry Lennox, her adviser on the handling of her newly acquired wealth. She convinced herself that they came on important matters of business—to present John Thornton a proposition to restore the operation of Marlborough Mills.

  But John was nowhere in Milton and they left barely two hours later. She was certain yet again—as she had been when she moved back to London a year ago—that she would never return to Milton. She left with a leaden heart, her spirits sinking to depths almost as low as when she lost her parents. She thought herself prepared for Mr. Thornton's indifference, even rejection, and yet, his mere absence plunged her into inexplicable gloom.