Somewhere in Time

by Alyssa Richards

  “Addie!” Blake yelled.

  It was a tug of war between the painting that felt it must hang on to me, and Blake’s grasp, which was just as unrelenting. With a heave and a jerk, my body finally ripped from Monet’s emotional purchase, and I landed sunny-side up with Blake beneath me on the floor of Fowler’s office.

  “Oh!”

  “Everything okay?” Fowler asked from the doorway with a glass in each hand. “Am I missing all the fun?”

  Fowler placed the glasses of scotch on his desk then extended a hand to help me. Once upright my stomach felt nauseous, and my skin clammy. With eyes pasted wide, I reached for the floor again and wished it to stop spinning.

  “What happened?” Fowler asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I guess I lost my balance,” I said stupidly, and climbed back onto my feet. Slowly, I smoothed and dusted my soft gray woolen pants, even though there wasn’t anything to brush off. Blake hopped up on his own and raised a hand to refuse Fowler’s help.

  “Are you okay?” Blake asked. His hands squeezed my arms as they traveled downward, as if he tried to prove to himself that I was all here.

  “That was hideous,” I said after Blake helped me to a chair. I cut my eyes to the Monet for the unsuspecting monster in the room that it was, and tried to flatten my windblown hair. I figured I looked as hysterical as the emotions I’d just left. My body gave an involuntary shudder, and the grief Monet ingrained into this work began to leave me. Intentional or not, I’d never seen anything like it. “How could something so beautiful on the outside be so debilitating on the inside?”

  Fowler handed me a glass of scotch, then sat in the high-back chair I had sat in earlier, and studied me with the most peculiar concern. His chest barreled on a deep inhale.

  “What happened? Are you sure you’re okay?” He leaned forward and studied me.

  I nodded and pushed a crazed lock of hair away from my face. When he placed his glass on the table, he picked up the photo I’d left there. Only his eyes raised to meet me, and a chill covered my back.

  “I have a few questions I’d like answered,” I said breathlessly.

  “As do I,” said a stern voice I didn’t expect to hear.

  The three of us turned with alarm in its direction and saw Grace and Smith standing in the doorway.

  “Ms. Montgomery, sir,” Smith belatedly announced Grace. He intuited the tension in the room, bowed and scurried away.

  Grace glided into the study with all the beauty of a deadly storm. Fowler smiled when he stood to welcome her, the bob of his adam’s apple the only sign of nerves. She paused next to Fowler, eyed me with care, then followed the energetic trail to the Monet and back to me again.

  I crossed the short distance to where she stood, took the photo from Fowler, and handed it to her. “What is this?”

  “Something I would rather you hadn’t seen.”

  “I never suggested she touch it,” he said to calm her, and met Grace toe to toe.

  “You put her in front of it,” Grace said. “You wanted this to happen.”

  “It was worth a try,” he said and raised one eyebrow over his glasses at her.

  The garment of a well-worn argument threaded between them. It was now obvious to me that for as much as Grace didn’t want me to experience the Monet, Fowler did.

  “This may very well be an option. You have to keep moving forward on this,” he said.

  “Not at any risk.” Flames of anger leapt in Grace’s eyes.

  Though I’d always known Fowler as a man who could hold his own, I felt for him to be on the receiving end of Grace’s temper. I looked at the pearls around her neck and the pearls she wore in the photo. They were arranged differently today, but they were clearly one and the same.

  Blake walked over to us and Fowler took the photo from Grace’s stilled hand, handed it to Blake.

  “It’s a lovely snapshot, don’t you think? Grace didn’t want the photographer to take it. Scott insisted and she’s always had a hard time saying no to him. Haven’t you, dear?” Fowler said gallantly. “Most people did. Or do.”

  Chapter 32

  “Tell me what happened.” Grace bit out the words, turned the steering wheel hand over hand, and navigated the car around the fountains and the green of the ancient city squares.

  “I don’t even know how to explain what happened.” And I didn’t want to explain. What I really wanted were answers to all my questions, but I wasn’t strong enough to argue. I felt oddly weak and in need of food.

  “Start from the beginning. You touched the Monet? Did you have intent when you touched it?”

  “Yes. My intent when I touched the Monet was to take an energetic break since I’d stared at the photo of you and F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald for too long and I wasn’t getting any answers that made logical sense.” I inhaled long and deep and placed my hand on my stomach in an effort to quell a wave of nausea.

  “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll give you something that will make you feel better.”

  “Really, Grace? How about this: you tell me what the hell is going on with my family, that photo, and the Monet, and I won’t go work with Otto.” I’d never yelled or cursed at Grace in my life. This was a first. My day was full of firsts.

  Grace's breath was equally measured on both the inhale and the exhale, and her lips thinned into near disappearance. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Addie.”

  “I’m asking for answers, Grace. Answers about my own family. Answers you should want to give me so I can help them, not to mention protect myself. If you’d been straight with us a long damn time ago about Dad and Grandad, maybe then Otto wouldn’t still be in our lives holding their whereabouts over our head and threatening our lives with it. And it would be nice if you would help me for a change instead of working against me.”

  “All I’ve done is help you,” she growled. “And anyone else in this family who's gotten wrangled into Otto’s world.”

  “You judge and criticize me for not using my gifts the way you want, you abandon us for years at a time without explanation, you keep secrets from me like I’m a child, but you don’t help me.”

  Grace slowed the car to avoid the tourists that clogged the walkways on Bull Street. I watched her face and knew she was caught between what she’d held secret for years and what I needed to move ahead.

  “I’ll endanger your life by telling you,” she said.

  “My life is already in danger,” I said. “Telling me couldn’t make that any worse.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Grace said.

  Then we turned onto the dirt lane that led to our family home. We passed under the long threshold of live oaks and the car jostled back and forth, a gentle rocking I’d found comforting as a child.

  Pea gravel crunched under the tires and Grace stopped the car in front of our majestic home. She sighed. For the first time since I’d known her, age crept into her features. Resignation replaced the usual sparkle in her eyes. A long, thin finger pointed at me. “I’ll tell you. But first you’ll tell me what you saw in the Monet.”

  When Blake and I reached the kitchen, Grace took a tuna fish sandwich from the refrigerator and put it in front of me. “Eat this. It will make you feel better.”

  In the few minutes she’d gotten to the kitchen before me, she’d taken the crusts off, cut the bread on the diagonal, and put a few chips on the side, just as she had when I was little. When I finished that sandwich, she handed me another. I waited to see if she would still slice and peel an apple for me, too. No such luck.

  Now Grace stormed around the kitchen, slammed cabinet doors, and muttered mostly unintelligible rantings.

  Lexie descended the back stairs, having showered and changed her clothes, but her swollen eyelids and blotchy skin told me the tears hadn’t yet stopped. Not that I would have expected them to.

  Grace kissed Alexa and gave her the triple pat just before she passed her on the steps. “Family meeting in ten.”

&nbs
p; “If she hadn’t called it, I would have,” I whispered to Blake.

  “She’s a lot like Carolena.” Blake stroked the rasp of stubble along his jawline, and narrowed his eyes at Grace when she disappeared up the back stairway. “She doesn’t see that the more she holds back, the more she puts you in danger.”

  Black currant, gardenia, and lavender peony notes from Grace’s perfume hung in the air like blooms on a vine. “I don’t think she’ll ever cough up all of her secrets. Not entirely, anyway.”

  “Carolena, either.” Blake raised his eyebrows and smiled at Lexie, who flopped into a chair next to me. She crunched into a small red apple, then swished the bangs away from her face.

  “You okay?” I asked with a mouthful of sandwich and crumby lips.

  “Gettin’ there. Isabella did some energy work on me while y’all were gone, and I feel better.”

  I patted her hand with my own triple pat. “Heartbreak is one emotion that won’t be rushed. Take your time.”

  She took her hand from under mine and held my hand tight. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things to you.” She swallowed the last of her oversized bite of apple, then exhaled thick and heavy. Her face was tight with the stress of humiliation. “I was completely enchanted, literally, with his attention—how I thought he felt about me. He was so handsome and full of charm. I never took an objective minute to think about how I felt about him, or if this was a good situation to be involved in. I just ran headfirst, jumped right in. And destroyed my career.”

  “Most women would have gotten swept up in that charm. Sometimes it’s hard to see those ulterior motives.”

  “Well…I’m sorry,” she said.

  I squeezed her hand in return and felt the warmth exchange between her heart and mine. “We’re fine,” I said. “You don’t have any worries about us.”

  She let go of my hand and hugged me hard.

  Chapter 33

  We gathered in the main family room, the four Montgomery women and Blake. Grace stood at the fireplace and adjusted a few family photos. She was no longer muttering, but her emotions were now a muddy mix of anger and dread.

  Grace and Isabella had met behind the closed double doors of Grace’s bedroom before we convened. Now a plan seemed to be in place between the two matriarchs. I wondered if I’d have to fling it apart to get all the answers I needed.

  The door to the veranda was open an inch, and the cool, damp, salty air wove a thick seaside flavor into the room. Blake built a fire, while Isabella and Alexa popped the corks on two bottles of red wine and filled five glasses halfway. Lex peppered our mother with endless whispered questions about the meeting that couldn’t be answered fast enough.

  We all settled into our usual family seating order, while Blake occupied a historically empty seat beside me on the couch.

  “Addie read a piece of art at Fowler’s house earlier today. Monet’s L’Ile aux Orties. I’d like to hear about this reading first, then Isabella and I have some things to share about John and Campbell.” Grace nodded to me, my cue to begin.

  I felt as though I were poised on the edge of the high dive. When I jumped, my life would be forever changed. There was no going back.

  “Did you have an intent when you went into it?” Grace asked.

  “Well, it wasn’t to go into it, I can tell you that. No, my intent was just to take a break from reading the photo of you and Fowler and the Fitzgeralds. I intended to read a few interesting facts about Monet and leave it at that.”

  “Who are the Fitzgeralds?” Lexie sipped her wine. I could tell from the way she asked that she thought they lived locally.

  I slipped the black-and-white photo from my jacket pocket. Blake walked across the room with it and handed it to her.

  “Holy…” Lexie’s mouth hung open and she flipped the photo from its front to back side several times. “Is this real?”

  “Go on,” Grace said to me.

  “It wouldn’t allow me to just read it. It sucked me in, it wanted to…”

  “Own you?” Grace said.

  “Yes,” I said, thankful that someone understood the monster that had taken ahold of me.

  “Why would a painting want to own you?” Lexie asked. She held the photo close to her eyes and inspected it.

  “Because that’s what people with unresolved grief can do—they grab ahold of whomever and whatever might rescue them. Or at least distract them from their pain,” Grace said.

  “Initially, there were options,” I said. “Like hallways I could travel. I just noticed them and I felt I could travel there. Then these crosswinds kicked up with all sorts of debilitating emotions. They attached to me and grabbed at me. If Blake hadn’t caught me and pulled me out, I don’t think I ever would have gotten out of that painting. Honestly, I think I would have lost my mind if I had to spend time in there.”

  Grace’s lips pressed together with sympathy.

  “I’ve never experienced a piece of art like that before. Usually, there’s just information to read about the art and the artist. This one was more…alive and possessive.” My body shivered and Blake put his arm around me.

  Grace stood and clasped her hands together. “Do you think someone else might be able to navigate their way around that painting?”

  “You mean, you?” I asked. My insides steeled themselves against a potential slam.

  “Anyone,” she said and waved a half circle in the air.

  “I don’t see how. It’s too disorienting,” I said. “I think it’s your turn now.”

  Grace gave a singular nod and leaned against the side of the mantel. “There’s no easy way to tell this story, no best place to begin,” she said, then stared at her shoe and she drew a circle with her toe in the air. A little movement that said to me she’d rather be anywhere else, doing something other than what she had to do next.

  She took a sip of wine and cleared her throat. “This started years ago…when Otto received a painting that, when touched by the right person with the right set of gifts, could transport them through time.”

  Blake and I glanced at each other, then back at Grace.

  I thought about the Monet at Fowler’s house, how my hand had gone right into the painting, and how its traction had drawn me into it. Indeed, it did seem as though I could have traveled through its history.

  “Who gave him this gift?” Blake asked.

  “Carolena. Did she ever discuss this with you?” Grace asked the question but she appeared to already know the answer.

  The room went still and I counted in the awkwardness. One one-thousand, two one-thousand…

  Blake shook his head only once, and barely. The muscle in the side of his jaw flexed. “Not specifically, no.”

  “As the story was told to me by John, Carolena was the one who actually found the paintings and discovered their long-held secret. They had been stored and forgotten in a special section of the basement of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When she worked there, she discovered them.

  “There were six in all, and the smaller-sized paintings were models for the room-sized murals that he intended to paint. We don’t know if he ever finished the room-sized murals. The six smaller pieces that exist are a set of watercolors painted by Arthur Wentworth after his wife and child died from the flu in the late 1890s. He painted these pieces as therapy to help him overcome his loss. As a result, his undying love for them, and his longing to be with them in happier days gone by, was imbued in the brushstrokes of the paintings. Each time his brush dipped into the paint and spread across the canvas, he meditated on his love for them, until finally the painting opened a portal to a time one year before their death. He traveled through that portal and, as you might imagine, he was able to prevent their deaths this time.”

  Grace reached across the top of the wide mantel and selected a small thin book from a collection of three.

  “He documented his experience in his memoir,” she said, and handed the black book to me. I held it mid-air.

  �
��Of course no one believed his fantastic story. His peers accused him of hiding his family and then disappearing with them for the sake of selling books and paintings. Everyone except for one friend, that is,” Grace said.

  “Monet,” I said.

  “Monet.” Grace nodded, her eyes now bright and clear once again. “We think several of his paintings may be portals. Unfortunately, none of the ones I’ve had access to have been a direct link to John and Campbell. We’ve either landed too early in history or too late.”

  Lexie leaned forward in her chair and it creaked.

  “You traveled through Monet’s L'Ile aux Orties?” I asked.

  “I haven’t tried it. In fact, I didn’t want to try it until I was sure that you were safely hidden away from Otto. Sometimes those experiments don’t go as…planned. And from what you’ve told me, I think this one is too dangerous to try at all. There are many inherent threats with this type of travel,” she said. “Though Wentworth’s are easier than Monet’s, they all have their risks.”

  “So, Dad and Grandad are where, exactly?” I asked.

  “They originally landed in 1895.”

  “La Belle Epoch,” Lexie said and her green eyes glowed romantically.

  Grace nodded. “Yes, and knowing that, they spent most of their time in Paris. They were searching for a Wentworth and there was far more art to choose from in Paris than New York. Now they’re back in New York, and it’s 1920.”

  “So, they were joyriding through time, and what…got lost?” I couldn’t believe what I was asking.

  Grace’s face grew stern before she said it. “No. Otto left them there, with no way to get back.”

  Goose flesh covered my arms in a shiver. Of course Otto was capable of doing such a heinous thing. And now it made sense why I felt they were alive and why I couldn’t sense their whereabouts. “Why couldn’t they get back?”

  “The paintings are like doorways and have to be accessible on both ends of time. One of the last things that Otto told John and Campbell was that he would destroy his Wentworth so that no one could get through it from the other side. A closed door, if you will.”