The Color of Forever

by Julianne MacLean

  Bailey leaned up on her elbows and flicked her blond hair off her shoulder. “Not that I’m encouraging you or anything—but you’re a news reporter. It’s your job to ask people questions they don’t want to answer.”

  I smiled at her and dug my phone out of my purse.

  o0o

  “Thank you for taking my call,” I said a few minutes later as I walked down the beach, along the water’s edge, holding my cell phone to my ear. “I hope I didn’t take you away from a patient.”

  “I’m just waiting for the next one to arrive,” Sylvie said. “He’s a bit late.”

  There was an awkward pause, and I cleared my throat. “I see. Well, I just wanted to ask you a few more questions if you don’t mind. Yesterday, you said you experimented with lucid dreaming, and that’s how you ended up in those alternate realities. How, exactly, did the sundial play into it?”

  “I can’t really answer that,” Sylvie replied, “except to say that it always happened when I went to sleep trying to dream about the thing I wanted to remember or revisit. Then I would float out of my body and… I know it sounds far-fetched, but in my dream, I would fly to the sundial and take hold of it, and the next thing I knew, I was living another life, and not always remembering the old one. But like I said, I couldn’t control it. I never intended to go to the sundial. It just happened after I drifted off.”

  “What were you trying to remember, or revisit?” I asked.

  “That’s another story altogether.” She paused. “Things from my past—my actual past. Choices from my youth that I regretted and wished I had handled differently.”

  A volleyball came flying at me and landed in the water. I fetched it and threw it back to a group of teenagers on the beach, then returned my attention to Sylvie on the phone.

  “So you were trying to return to your actual past,” I said to her. “I wonder what would happen if I tried to dream about a past I never actually lived.”

  Sylvie was quiet for a moment. “Please, Katelyn, just let it go. You could end up screwing up your whole life. And you should know that I haven’t set foot at the Fraser House Inn since I found Chris, because I’m afraid I’ll get swept away again, and that scares the daylights out of me—because I like where I am right now. Just thinking about it and talking to you about it has me worried that it’s going to happen again. I really have to go. Please don’t call me again. I don’t want to talk about it, and you should go home.”

  Click.

  She’d ended the call. I lowered my phone to my side and gazed out at the water again, realizing that any sane person would accept that she was right, and understand that it was madness to fixate on a life that wasn’t real.

  But maybe I wasn’t sane, because all I could think about was one of the last things she said to me: I like where I am right now.

  She was happy because of her experience with the sundial.

  I wanted happiness, too.

  Which required me to reunite with my son, as crazy as that sounded.

  So I did what any intelligent woman would do in my situation. I sat down on a large piece of driftwood and googled “how to lucid dream.”

  Evangeline

  Chapter Twenty-One

  1878

  It’s rather peculiar, don’t you think? How one particular memory can take hold in your mind and never grow dim, even years later when you’ve lived a full life and thousands of other memories have piled on top of it. What is it that makes certain experiences more relevant, more vivid than others? To the point that they are burned, as if by a branding iron, onto our brains forever?

  This knowledge and understanding had not yet occurred to me as I walked along the sandy beach a few miles south of my parents’ new home in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, where I had been dragged—quite by force—a week earlier. At twenty-one years of age, I was still somewhat immature at the time, because the most relevant, enlightening moments of my life were yet to occur. And I was still terribly angry with my parents for not involving me in the decision to pack up and leave our brick townhouse in Boston where I had been born and raised, in order to migrate to a tiny fishing town on the absolute edge of nowhere.

  I couldn’t understand it. I was no longer a child. Why hadn’t they given me some notice, or at least time to prepare myself for what would surely be my sad and wretched fate on this desolate, rocky coast? Now I was completely dependent upon them for company and conversation, because I knew no one else here. Nor was there any sign of good society in this hapless backwater.

  We had been here a full week and I had yet to meet a single neighbor of a certain standing. “One would probably have to travel to Portland for that,” Father had mentioned at dinner the night before, “or even back to Boston.”

  Mother had kicked him under the table.

  That was the moment I knew—my life, as I’d known it, was utterly over.

  o0o

  My name is Evangeline Hughes, and I was the youngest of six children who all went on to independent, illustrious lives and successful marriages. It’s obvious to me now that I was an unexpected accident, born ten years after the previous youngest offspring—who was currently a banker in San Francisco, married with three children.

  I, on the other hand, was still at home with parents who should have been free to enjoy their elder years without the encumbrance of a daughter who needed to be married off—and sooner rather than later. At twenty-one, I was no longer a fresh-faced young debutante. I was, in fact, due to our unexpected removal to this place, in serious danger of being put “on the shelf.”

  For that reason, why they decided to leave Boston at that crucial stage in my social progress remains a mystery to me. I half suspect that Papa realized I was the last child who would live under his roof, and he was refusing to let me go, because we made each other laugh.

  Or perhaps he simply couldn’t pay the rent on our townhouse in Boston. That was more likely the case, for he’d been ill much of the past year, and might very well have been dismissed from his position at the bank.

  I doubt I will ever know the particulars. He refers to this adventure with the fish and lighthouses as his “glorious retirement,” and I would not dare to press him for the truth. So, a glorious retirement it shall be.

  o0o

  As I made my way along the sandy beach, stepping over giant piles of brittle seaweed and skipping to avoid the flat, foamy waves that pushed aggressively up the beach, I could not pretend to be happy about my current situation, one without friends or any romantic prospects. Perhaps it was time I simply accepted my fate to become a companion to my parents in their old age.

  Suddenly, a seagull swooped low over my head and I ducked. Then I looked down and spotted a colorful seashell in the wet sand at my feet. Wondering what sort of creature would dwell in such a home, I crouched to pick it up, rinsed it off in a tiny pool of seawater, and slipped it into my pocket to take home with me.

  As I walked, a fierce gust of wind blew my skirts around my ankles, causing them to flap like a ship’s sail. I looked up to discover the sky had turned gray with thick, low-lying clouds rolling in from the sea. The gull was now floating in one spot on the wind just over my head, his wings spread wide, as if he had no desire to travel anywhere. He was simply basking in the indulgence of flight, taking pleasure in holding steady over my head.

  In the distance, a flash of light over the horizon caused my heart to beat a little faster, then a deep rumble of thunder had me dashing up the beach to return to the coach road. A few cold, hard raindrops struck my cheeks, and I wished I had not walked such a distance from home, for I was at least two miles from the shelter of our front door.

  I barely made it up the path, beyond the dunes and sea grasses, before the clouds emptied their coffers, dumping buckets of cold hard rain on me. There was nothing I could do but surrender to the hostile conditions and accept that I would soon be drenched to the bone. I might as well have waded into the water and swam home.

  o0o

  Af
ter walking a mile in the heavy downpour, I began to shiver. My teeth chattered and my upswept hair hung heavy and limp. My shoes made squishing sounds with every step, and I tried to distract myself from the chill by rubbing my thumb over the ridges in the seashell in my pocket.

  Soon, the distant sound of horses’ hooves and the rumble of an approaching vehicle caused me to turn. Sure enough, from around the bend, a shiny black brougham appeared with a team of two black horses and a well-dressed driver out front. He wore a black cloak and top hat, and held a long whip in one hand, the leather reins in the other.

  I moved to the side of the road to allow the impressive vehicle to pass, and noted the shiny gold mountings, the green striped moldings and morocco trimmings at the back as it drove past.

  Suddenly it pulled to a halt just ahead, causing a rush of unease in my belly, for I was alone in a remote location and could not be sure of my safety. I glanced into the woods to my right, half-tempted to dash into the trees and escape, but the foliage appeared thick and prickly, so I decided to take my chances with the inhabitants of the coach.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The door flung open and a striking gentleman with wavy, black hair stepped out, top hat in hand. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and wore a fine, charcoal-gray jacket with a high, stiff white shirt collar and crimson cravat. He wore no gloves, but settled the hat upon his head before he spoke.

  “Are you all right, miss?” he asked. “May I be of some assistance?”

  “I’m quite all right, thank you,” I replied with chattering teeth.

  He stared at me a moment, his blue-eyed gaze traveling down the length of my body to the mud-stained hem of my peach-colored skirt, and back up to my soaked bodice, and the condition of my sopping hair, which had to be falling down in clumps around my face.

  “You’re shivering,” he said, closing the door. “Please allow me to offer you shelter. I will take you where you need to go.”

  I shook my head, rather frantically, for I was not in the habit of getting into coaches with strange men, however handsome and gentlemanly they appeared.

  Who was he? He certainly didn’t look like any of the rough and weathered fishermen I’d seen about the village. I felt rather overcome.

  “Please,” he said. “I give you my word that no harm will come to you. I only wish to help, and I cannot, in good conscience, leave you here on the road when the temperature is dropping.” He glanced up at the clouds. “I fear it’s not going to let up for a while.” He took a careful step forward. “Where do you live?”

  When I stretched out my arm and pointed further down the road, I realized my hand was shaking uncontrollably. “That way.”

  The man’s expression revealed that he would not take no for an answer. He strode toward me, removed his hat, and bowed slightly at the waist. “My name is Sebastian Fraser and I live here on the Cape, near the head light. Please, you must permit me to drive you somewhere.”

  Feeling numb and shivery from head to foot, and dreading the thought of walking another mile in such blustery weather, I reluctantly agreed and allowed him to escort me to his coach.

  My rescuer—it makes sense, now, to call him that—opened the door for me, and I peered in at the luxurious green, deeply buttoned upholstery and matching tasseled blinds on the windows.

  Mr. Fraser handed me up into the cozy interior, where I sat down gratefully, arranged my skirts and brushed the dampness from my sleeves. He then swung himself inside, shut the door, took a seat beside me and reached into his pocket for a clean white handkerchief, which he kindly offered to me.

  I used it to dab at my face and hair. “Thank you, Mr. Fraser. I am in your debt.”

  “Do not be silly,” he replied, tapping the handle of his walking stick on the ceiling while regarding me steadily. The vehicle lurched forward and we were suddenly on our way. “But I would like to know your name and where I should instruct my driver to take you.”

  “Of course. I do apologize. My name is Evangeline Hughes and I am new to the area. My father is George Hughes. We recently took up residence in the Vaughn Blackstone Cottage.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. “I know the place. It’s not out of the way at all. I must inform my driver.” Mr. Fraser lowered the window glass and removed his hat before leaning out into the wind and rain. He shouted instructions while the wind blew a part in his thick black hair.

  “What a spectacular day,” he said as he closed the window and sat back. “Tell me more, Miss Hughes. What brings you and your family to Cape Elizabeth?”

  Clearing my throat, I endeavored to speak in a steady voice, which was no easy task when I was still shivering from the cold. “My father has retired from his position at a Boston bank, and he wished to live close to the sea. He’s a bit of a romantic that way. I think he’s always dreamed of being captain of a sailing ship and traveling around the world. As it happens, Mr. Blackstone is an old family friend, and he offered us his cottage while he is abroad, indefinitely.”

  I refrained from mentioning that I’d overheard my parents discussing our financial situation late one night—that it was a charitable offering from Mr. Blackstone, for we were in dire straits and could not afford to pay our rent.

  “Then please allow me to welcome you to Cape Elizabeth,” Mr. Fraser said. “I am sure you will be very happy here. It’s glorious in the summer months, but I must warn you—it can be bitter cold in the winter, when the ground freezes and the trees are coated in ice. You’d best have plenty of firewood on hand.”

  My eyebrows lifted.

  “I do beg your pardon.” He chuckled, and I couldn’t help but admire the dimples in his cheeks. “That was rather tactless of me. I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?”

  “Not at all. We had ‘spectacular’ winters in Boston as well.”

  He smiled. “Indeed.”

  At this point, I would be remiss if I did not point out that my belly had exploded into a mad flock of nervous butterflies—which began the instant Mr. Fraser passed me the handkerchief and our fingertips touched briefly—for he was the most handsome man I had ever encountered in my young life.

  To begin with, his eyes were a pale shade of blue, the likes of which I’d never imagined possible on any living human being. They brought to mind an aqua-marine gemstone with flecks of golden sunlight, beaming from within. His lips were full and moist, his mouth friendly, and his nose was perfectly proportioned. He had a strong jaw, bold cheekbones and a proud brow.

  I, with my freckled complexion and burgundy hair, was positively mesmerized by his dark features and the deep timbre of his voice. He was like a hero out of a romantic legend, or a dream.

  But of course, I thought he must be married or promised to someone. He was far too handsome to have escaped the clutches of some brilliant, ambitious young lady.

  Like me?

  “Miss Hughes, may I ask…?” He inclined his head slightly. “Were you named after Longfellow’s poem, Evangeline?”

  “I was,” I replied matter-of-factly. “My mother is also a romantic, I profess. My parents are a perfect match. But I’ve always wondered why she chose to name me after such a tragic character. I hope I will not suffer a similar fate. I would prefer to live a happier life and not spend the whole of it searching for a lost love.”

  Mr. Fraser tapped his finger on his knee and gazed out the window. “Yes, we should all be spared that.” Then he met my gaze again. “Did you know Longfellow spent time, during his younger years, at the Portland Head Light? I believe his poem The Lighthouse was inspired by his affection for the place. Do you know that poem?”

  “Year after year,” I said, “through all the silent night, burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, shines on that inextinguishable light.”

  He leaned forward slightly. “Forgive me. Of course, you would know it, considering you are named after Longfellow’s greatest epic work.”

  I sighed. “It is both a blessing and a curse, for my mother was always reading his poems to
me when I would have preferred to run down to the pond with the boys and catch frogs.”

  Mr. Fraser laughed and sat back. “A noble pursuit for a young lady,” he replied with a charismatic smile that caused my heart to flutter anew.

  I swallowed hard in an effort to calm my spirits. “And what about you, Mr. Fraser? Have you lived in Cape Elizabeth all your life?”

  “I have,” he replied. “My father was a sea captain—as am I.”

  I raised my fingers to my lips. “Good gracious. Have I already blundered? Should I be addressing you as Captain Fraser?”

  “Probably,” he replied. “Although I rather enjoyed the sound of Mr. Fraser across your lips. I don’t know why.”

  His words struck me like a lightning bolt. Feeling suddenly shy, I lowered my gaze.

  “Now it is my turn to apologize,” he said. “That was rather uncouth of me. It must be the weather, knocking me off balance. Or perhaps it’s your charming company. It’s a delight to encounter a fresh face on the Cape. We don’t see many like yours. You’re quite lovely, Miss Hughes.”

  I cupped my hands together on my lap, and felt rather daring all of a sudden. “And I suspect there are not many faces like yours either. But now I am flattering you, quite shamelessly. Enough of that. You were saying…about living in Cape Elizabeth all your life?”

  His shoulders rose and fell with a deep intake of breath. “Yes. My parents built our home six years before I was born, and when they passed, they left it to me, as I was the eldest.”

  “My condolences. When was that?”

  “Almost ten years ago.”

  I gazed out the window for a moment and realized I had stopped shivering. A warm glow had settled around my heart. “You have siblings?” I asked, turning my attention back to the captain. “How many?”

  “Three sisters and a younger brother,” he replied. “My sisters reside in Portland, and my brother lives in London. He manages our British shipping interests.”