This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2011 by Alexandra Monir
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Monir, Alexandra.
Timeless / by Alexandra Monir. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Forced to live with her wealthy, estranged grandparents in New York City after her mother dies, sixteen-year-old Michele retreats to her room where she finds a diary that transports her back to 1910—with life-changing consequences.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89410-7
[1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Wealth—Fiction. 3. Social classes—Fiction. 4. Families—Fiction. 5. Love—Fiction. 6. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 7. New York (N.Y.)—History—1898–1951—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M7495Ti 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010019657
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
DEDICATED TO MY PARENTS,
WHOM I LOVE AND CHERISH
FOR ALL TIME.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Michele stood alone in the center of a hall of mirrors. The glass revealed a girl identical to Michele, with the same chestnut hair, ivory skin, and hazel eyes; even wearing the same outfit of dark denim jeans and black tank top. But when Michele moved forward, the girl in the glass remained still. And while Michele’s own neck was bare, the reflection in the mirror wore a strange key hanging from a gold chain, a key unlike anything Michele had ever seen.
It was a gold skeleton key in a shape similar to a cross, but with a circular bow at the top. The image of a sundial was carved into the bow. The key looked weathered and somehow wise, as though it weren’t inanimate, but a living being with over a century’s worth of stories to share. Michele was momentarily seized by an urge to reach through the glass and touch the curious key. But all she felt was the cool surface of the mirror, and the girl with Michele’s face betrayed no notice of her.
“Who are you?” Michele whispered. But the mirror image didn’t respond, didn’t even appear to have heard. Michele shivered nervously, and squeezed her eyes shut. What was this?
And then, suddenly, the silence was broken. Someone was whistling, a slow melody that created goose bumps on the back of Michele’s neck. Her eyes snapped open, and she watched in shock as someone joined the girl in the mirror. Michele’s breath caught in her throat. She felt paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare at him through the glass.
His eyes were such a deep blue they seemed to dazzle against his contrasting thick dark hair. Eyes the color of sapphires. And though she could somehow tell that he was around her age, he was dressed like none of the other boys she knew. He wore a crisp white collared shirt under a white silk vest and tie, formal black pants, and black patent leather shoes. In his white-gloved hands, he held a black top hat lined with silk. The formal clothing suited him. He was more than good-looking, much more than could be conveyed by the word “handsome.” Michele felt an unfamiliar ache as she watched him.
Her heart racing, she stared at him as he carelessly peeled off his gloves and dropped his hat, the three items falling together in a heap on the floor. He then reached for the hand of the girl in the mirror. And to Michele’s astonishment, she felt his touch. She quickly looked down, but though her hand was empty, she could feel his fingers interlacing with hers, the sensation causing a flutter inside her.
What’s happening to me? Michele thought frantically. But suddenly she couldn’t think anymore, for as she looked at the boy and girl embracing in the mirror, she felt strong arms encircling her own waist.
“I’m waiting for you,” he murmured, smiling a slow, familiar grin that seemed to hint at a secret between them.
And for the first time, Michele and the mirror reflection were in sync as they both whispered, “Me too.”
Michele Windsor awoke with a shock, gasping for breath. As she took in the sight of her darkened bedroom, her heartbeat slowed and she remembered—it was just The Dream. The same strange, intoxicating dream that had haunted her on and off for years. As always, waking up from it brought the pain of disappointment into the pit of Michele’s stomach, as she found herself missing him—this person who didn’t even exist.
She’d been just a little girl when she’d first begun dreaming of him, so young that she hadn’t yet resembled the teenager in the mirror. The dreams were infrequent then; they came just once or twice a year. But as she grew up, looking like the twin of the girl in the mirror, the dreams began to flood her consciousness with a new urgency, as if they were trying to tell her something. Michele frowned as she slumped back against her pillows, wondering if she would ever understand. But then, Confusion and Mystery had been principal players in her life since the day she was born.
Michele rolled over onto her side, facing her bedroom window, and listening to the waves lapping the shore outside the Venice Beach bungalow. The sound usually lulled her to sleep quickly, but not that night. She couldn’t seem to get those sapphire eyes out of her head. Eyes that she had practically memorized, without ever having seen them in her waking life.
“See that I’m everywhere, everywhere, shining down on you …”
The pulsing hip-hop beat of the Lupe Fiasco song “Shining Down” blared from Michele’s iPod alarm the next morning. She unearthed her head from the covers and pressed the Snooze button. How could it already be morning? It felt like just moments earlier that she had managed to fall back to sleep.
“Michele!” a voice sang out from across the hall. “Are you up? I made pancakes, come eat them before they get cold.”
Michele’s eyes flickered open. Sleep or pancakes? That was a no-brainer. Her mouth was already beginning to water at the thought of her mom’s specialty. She threw on a robe and fuzzy slippers and padded through the modest house until she reached the cozy kitchen. Marion Windsor was in her usual morning mode, sipping coffee while studying her newest clothing designs in her sketchbook. The crinkly sound of Marion’s favorite old jazz record, by none other than her grandmother Lily Windsor, echoed from their vintage record player.
“Good morning, sweetie,” Marion greeted her daughter, looking up from her sketchbook with a smile.
“Morning.” Michele leaned over to give her mom a kiss and glanced at the sketch she’d been working on. A long, flowing dress with a bit of a Pocahontas-circa-2010 feel, it was right in keeping with the other bohemian-chic pieces in her mom’s line,
Marion Windsor Designs.
“I like it,” Michele said approvingly. She settled into her seat in front of a plate of golden pancakes topped with strawberries. “And this, I definitely like.”
“Bon appétit.” Marion grinned. “Speaking of food, do you have lunch plans with the girls today?”
Michele shrugged as she inhaled her first forkful of delicious pancake. “Just the usual, nothing special.”
“Well, I have a free afternoon, so I was thinking I could pick you up at lunch and we could go for burgers at Santa Monica Pier,” Marion suggested. “What do you say?”
Michele gave her mom a sideways look. “You still feel sorry for me, don’t you?”
“What? No!” Marion said innocently.
Michele raised an eyebrow at her.
“Okay, fine,” Marion said, relenting. “I don’t feel sorry for you, because I know you’re so much better off without him. But I can’t stand to see you hurt.”
Michele nodded, looking away. It had been two weeks since her first real boyfriend, Jason, had broken up with her on the eve of the first day of school. His exact words had been “Babe, you know I think you’re the best and all, but it’s my senior year and I can’t have the baggage of a relationship. I gotta live it up, play the field. You get it, right?” Uh, not exactly. So Michele had to begin her junior year with a broken heart, which grew all the more painful last week, when word spread that Jason was hooking up with a sophomore, Carly Marsh.
Marion reached across the table and squeezed Michele’s hand. “Sweetie, I know how hard it is to see your first boyfriend with someone else. It’s just going to take a little time to heal from this.”
“But really, I should be over it,” Michele vented. “I mean, all he ever talked about was water polo, and he was about as romantic as a toothpick. I just really miss—I don’t know.…”
“That butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling of wanting to be with someone, and knowing they feel the same way about you?” Marion guessed.
“Yeah,” Michele admitted sheepishly. “Exactly.”
“Well, I can promise that you’ll have that again, but with someone so much better,” Marion said intently.
“How do you know that?” Michele asked doubtfully.
“Because we mothers have an intuition about these things. So when you see Jason with Carly, do your best to just shrug it off and think how lucky you are to be free for a guy who’s actually worthy of you.”
Michele shook her head wonderingly. It never ceased to amaze her that her mom had such an optimistic outlook on Michele’s love life—or even still believed in love—after all Marion herself had been through in that department.
“I’m serious,” Marion insisted. “And in the meantime, are you using all this as fodder for your writing?”
“Oh, you know it,” Michele said wryly. “Lots of angsty song lyrics and poems.”
“That’s my girl,” Marion encouraged. “You’d better let me read some of it soon.”
“Once I edit everything down to perfection? Sure,” Michele said with a grin. “And I think I will take you up on burgers at the beach.”
Even though she was more than a little skeptical of Marion’s predictions about her love life, Michele always felt better after confiding in her. It had been the two of them against the world since Michele was born, and there was never a problem or a heartache that Marion couldn’t fix with her stubborn resolve and humor.
“Honey, you’re looking pretty pale,” Marion noticed, eyeing her with concern. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Not really. I woke up in the middle of the night after dreaming about Mystery Man, and then it took me forever to fall back to sleep.”
“So you saw him again,” Marion said, her eyes lighting up. “Do tell.”
“Mom, I know you think the dreams are cool and all, but I can never meet this guy in real life,” Michele reminded her. “So the whole thing is actually really irritating.”
“Well, I think it’s romantic. Maybe it’s your subconscious telling you not to worry about Jason, that you will find someone special.” Marion glanced at her watch. “Yikes, it’s seven-thirty! You’d better go get ready.”
“Okay, I’ll be back in fifteen.” Michele hurried to her room and changed into a fitted white tee, Abercrombie jeans with a skinny metallic belt, and a pair of black flats. She quickly ran a brush through her hair and dabbed on some concealer and lip gloss before tossing the three beauty essentials into her messenger bag.
Michele found Marion waiting in their Volvo outside the bungalow. As they set off toward Santa Monica, Marion flicked on the CD player. “I want you to hear my latest discovery,” she said. “Well, maybe that’s not the most accurate description, since she’s a Grammy-winning artist who’s been around for decades. But I only recently heard about her, and she just might be my new favorite singer—after my grandmother, of course.”
Michele curiously waited for the music to start. Her mom had such eclectic taste she never knew what to expect. This music surprised her. It managed to be heavy and light all at once, both breezy and aching. As soon as she heard the opening chords of the two Spanish guitars and the swaying Brazilian rhythm, Michele felt like she was transported to an exotic paradise. But when a woman with a deep, husky voice began to sing in Portuguese a melody rich with minor keys, Michele instantly knew that she was singing about pain. And yet the song wasn’t sad, exactly.
“Nostalgia,” Marion explained. “That word she keeps singing, sodade—it’s the Portuguese word for a nostalgia so intense we don’t have a direct translation for it in English.”
“Wow.” Michele picked up the CD case and looked at the cover photo of the singer, who appeared to be in her sixties or seventies. Her name was Cesaria Evora. Michele and her mom listened to the rest of the song in silence, and as the final chords played, Michele asked, “What does it make you think of?”
Marion paused. “Home,” she said so quietly that Michele almost wondered if she had misheard.
She stared at her mom. “Really?”
But they had just pulled up in front of her school, Crossroads High. Marion didn’t answer; she just smiled at Michele and smoothed back her daughter’s hair. “See you at lunch, honey.”
“Bye, Mom.” Michele gave her a quick hug. “Love you.”
“I love you too. Good luck with—you know.” Marion gave her a meaningful smile before zooming off, her long auburn hair flying behind her.
Michele dashed to her locker and found her best friends waiting for her, Amanda typing away on her iPhone and Kristen inspecting herself with a compact mirror. Seconds later, the girls were heading down the hall to class, arms linked as they chattered. Michele was conscious of eyes on them as they passed, but the stares were mainly directed at her friends. Amanda was a leggy blonde budding model, while Kristen was the star of the soccer team. Michele had to admit that growing up with both the school beauty and the star athlete had made her conscious of how painfully ordinary she was in comparison. In her most private moments, she’d fantasized about returning to school after summer vacation as a new and improved Michele. She would transform herself from the girl-next-door type into a mysterious, stunning beauty, and she would finally gather the courage to take her mom’s advice and submit her song lyrics to record labels and singers, becoming a wunderkind songwriter—
“Uh, earth to Michele!” Amanda waved a hand in front of Michele’s face. “Did you hear what I just said?”
Michele gave her friend a sheepish smile. She really needed to quit daydreaming in public.
“No, sorry, what?”
“I asked if your mom has any ideas for our Halloween costume this year.”
“Oh, right. She’s taking me out for burgers this afternoon, so I’ll ask her then. But we still have over a month left.”
“I know, but since we’re hosting a party this year, our costumes have to be extra fabulous,” Amanda said importantly. “I mean, people have come to expect a lot from
your mom’s designs.”
Michele chuckled. “Okay, well, don’t worry. You know she can live up to the hype.”
Every year since they were little, the three girls had coordinated their costumes, with Marion designing and sewing their ensembles. From trick-or-treating as kids to Halloween partying now that they were older, Michele loved the sense of belonging she felt as she and her best friends sauntered into the night, arm in arm, wearing their beautiful costumes.
The three girls hurried into their first-period junior-senior economics class just as the final bell rang. As Michele slid into her seat, she couldn’t help glancing at Jason. She tried to ignore the familiar pang in her chest at the sight of his sandy dark-blond hair and brown eyes, which were focused away from her.
“Morning, class,” the teacher, Mrs. Brewer, greeted them. “So, in keeping with our study of the history of commerce, today’s lecture will cover one of the greatest commercial merchants in American history.”
Michele froze. She was pretty sure she knew who Mrs. Brewer was referring to.
“August Charles—” Michele felt her whole body tense up, as it did whenever the name was mentioned.
“Windsor,” Mrs. Brewer finished. “Of the famed Windsor family. He was America’s first multimillionaire. August Charles was born to a poor Dutch family in the year 1760, but from childhood, he was known for his brilliant mind and fierce ambition. At the age of twenty-one, he began a career in fur trade, which was the start of his meteoric rise to fortune through trade and real estate. His descendents furthered the empire by gaining control of the burgeoning New York railroad …”
Mrs. Brewer’s voice seemed to fade as Michele looked around at her classmates, some of whom were listening and taking notes, the rest clearly zoning out. But none of them would ever have believed that Crossroads High’s own Michele Windsor had been born into this very family.
Marion had often said that hers was a cautionary tale for all Manhattan heiresses, that privilege came with a dark underbelly that few could see. Their neighbors in the laid-back Los Angeles town of Venice Beach all thought of Marion and Michele Windsor as the average single mom and daughter, with no connection whatsoever to that famous East Coast family of the same name. And that was just the way Marion liked them to be: anonymous. So while Michele’s aunts, uncles, and grandparents lived in New York splendor, spending their summers in Europe and snagging invitations to White House dinners and Broadway premieres, Marion and Michele struggled to make ends meet on Marion’s modest clothing-design income, with Michele’s after-school waitressing job providing some pocket money.
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