Jeraline's Alley

by Becca C. Smith

  Copyright © 2021 by Becca C Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Red Frog Publishing a division of Red Frog Media

  Visit our website at www.redfrogpublishing.com

  First published in 2021

  Cover Art and Design by Stephan Fleet

  Chapter Heading Art by Phoebe Wood

  (IG: @Phoebewoodpaints)

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN 9781949877311

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This story has lived with me for a very long time and in many variations, so it makes perfect sense that I ended up writing the first draft in twenty-one short days. Sometimes when the story is ready, it’s ready. To all the dreamers out there: no matter what your age, never give up. Let your imagination guide you and know that someday your dreams will come true.

  And to my husband, Stephan: I love you with all my heart and soul! I’m the luckiest person in the world and I thank my lucky stars every day that I found my soul mate and our life together is one big, magical adventure!

  The night was perfect.

  “You are the most beautiful girl in the world, Jeraline. I can’t believe how lucky I am,” Josh said to me, his eyes staring into mine with an intensity that always made my toes tingle.

  “How lucky we are,” I answered with a dazzling smile.

  The moon was bright and full, towering above us as we danced on the large marble-tiled balcony that extended from the castle’s ballroom. Other attendants of the ball danced inside, enjoying a night of magic and festivities. The gowns alone were enough for the eyes to feast on for days. But my gown? It was the most stunning dress of them all. Intricate blue, yellow, red, orange, and white crystal beads swirled on top of black velvet, as if a tiny universe existed in its fabric. The bottom of the dress parachuted out to such a fullness I was surprised Josh could reach me. But when he pulled me close, hands gently touching my waist and the fitted corseted top, I shivered with the sensation of feeling perfectly aligned with everything in existence.

  Not to be dramatic.

  But it felt pretty dramatic.

  And Josh.

  Everything about him was a dream, from his tailored tuxedo to his beautiful face, but mostly his eyes captured my heart. Those honest, endearingly sweet eyes pierced through my soul, and I instantly knew how much I loved him, and I hoped my eyes told him the same thing.

  Because I did.

  I loved Josh.

  We danced as if in a fairy tale, with the giant castle looming behind us, silhouetted from the bright moonlight. We had danced so far away from the glass doors of the ballroom, I didn’t see anyone else anymore.

  It was just the two of us.

  Me and him.

  Him and me.

  I didn’t need anything else in the world.

  He bent down to my ear, ready to tell me something that I was sure would make my heart beat faster.

  “I’m sorry, Jeraline, but I think I’m getting too old to dip you,” Josh said.

  Huh?

  “But you’re twenty-two.”

  The scenery shattered in front of me as I now stood in the living room of the apartment I shared with my grandmother, Anna. She held me and looked as if she was about to dip me, despite her reservations of being seventy years old.

  “No, you’re twenty-two,” she replied. “And I don’t want you dipping me, so can we call it a night? My back is right at that point where if I turn the wrong way . . . crunch. I don’t want another pull. The last one had me out for two weeks. I should do my stretches.” Grandma pulled away from me and lifted her left arm, stretching sideways.

  I was a far cry from my fantasy: hair tied back, my clothes pretty ordinary (jeans and a sweater), and my face as plain as it got, or at least that was the way I saw it. My grandmother, of course, would disagree (what doting grandma wouldn’t?).

  “Do you need some ibuprofen?” I asked her.

  Grams continued to do her stretches as she nodded a big yes to me. I walked over to the counter, grabbed the bottle of pain relievers, and poured her a glass of water.

  She stepped closer and took the cup and pill bottle. “Thanks.”

  Looking around our apartment, I sighed in contentment. It was cozy and warm and had truly become home to us these last three years. It wasn’t big by any means, a little less than seven hundred square feet, but for a two-bedroom it was the perfect fit. The living room and kitchen made up the main space, with three doors on the west wall that led to each of our bedrooms and the bathroom in the middle. Definitely no room for a dining room, but Grandma and I usually ate at the couch watching TV anyway. We did have two cherry-red stools underneath the butcher-block-topped kitchen counter, which had a small lip that served as a bar, but I don’t think either one of us had used it once since moving in.

  A few pictures of us and my parents hung sporadically throughout the apartment, and the furniture situation was pretty basic: cushy couch, plushy armchair, dark wooden coffee table, and the aforementioned stools. Simple but effective.

  Fairy lights draped two of the walls, which didn’t help my overactive imagination any since it always gave me hope that when I opened my bedroom door I’d be stepping into another world.

  Grandma had put them up after we moved in here three years ago to cheer me up, right after my parents had been killed.

  Their twinkling lights had helped me cope at the time.

  At least I had Grams though. I didn’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t been there for me.

  Plopping down on the couch, I accidentally let out a huge sigh. It was about as theatrical as they come, though I hadn’t meant it to sound that way.

  It drew Grandma’s attention instantly. “What’s wrong, Jeraline?”

  I half laughed. “Nothing. I didn’t mean to sigh that loud.”

  “I feel a little better now. We can finish the dance if you like?” Grams didn’t seem like she was buying my nothing excuse.

  “I’m really okay, and I don’t want you pulling anything,” I responded.

  Sitting down next to me, Grandma paused for a minute as if considering something, then trudged forward with the conversation that always made me cringe. “There are so many apps today for dating. You’re not interested?”

  “Grandma.” I sighed for real this time.

  “Dancing with your grandmother at nine o’clock at night isn’t exactly what I’d imagine a fun time for most people your age.” She eyed me up and down, wheels turning when she asked, “What’s wrong? You look nervous.”

  And there it was.

  The crux of my “accidental” dramatic sigh. “Tomorrow at the bookstore we’re having an author come in and do a signing. I don’t want to mess it up.” I smiled at her warmly. “And dancing with you is the highlight of my night.”

  “I don’t want you to miss out on anything. You don’t go out much, and you don’t have friends like you used to . . . It’s been three years since we lost my Hannah and Paul,” Grandma said carefully.

  She was testing me. Testing to see how I’d react. She was right, but I didn’t want to make friends. I didn’t want friends. Josh was the only one I had even considered being friends with, but I had barely spoken three words to him since he started working at the bookstore a few months ago. And frankly, that was the way I wanted to keep it. I was too scared to put myself out there. It might be worth it, but it might not, and
I didn’t want to take the risk. Not yet anyway.

  Grandma seemed to sense my reluctance to talk about the subject (possibly because I never wanted to talk about the subject) and said, “Being in a relationship isn’t the meaning of existence, but I was with your grandpa Ed for thirty years before he passed, and let me tell you, Jeraline . . .” She paused, eyes full of wonder as she continued, “It was magical.” Grams gently took my hands in hers. “Your parents may have died before their time, but their love was like a fairy tale too. I want that for you. Or if it’s not with a person, then whatever else you’re passionate about. Sewing? Fashion? Books? Anything you want. I just want you to do it. What about that school you wanted to apply to? Why don’t you do that?”

  “Grandma, you know I can’t afford that.” Cassiopeia Design School. It was my dream. A place I could learn about sewing and fashion, because so far everything I knew about sewing was self-taught. But it cost too much money. Who would pay for the loans after I graduated? It was something that was out of reach.

  “We could make it work, if it’s what you truly want?” Grandma’s eyes sparkled with hope.

  My defenses shot up like a steel wall as I resisted the urge to yank my hands away from hers. There were a million reasons why I didn’t apply other than money . . . a bunch of other things, just none of them were coming to me right now. I didn’t dare tell her about the contest the school was running—the prize being a full scholarship. She’d probably do something insane, like try to get me to enter! The truth was: I wasn’t ready. I just wasn’t ready. She had struck a nerve, but I didn’t lash out. I kept my cool and answered, “Someday, Grandma, when we’re better off financially.” I hoped she’d stop pushing.

  She did.

  Grandma took her hands away from mine and lifted them in supplication. “All right. No more lectures. I’m one to talk anyway. My butt has been plastered to this couch for twelve years.” She cocked her head to the side, musing, “Is it possible to have watched every show available on streaming?”

  My chest relaxed from relief at the change of subject. “If anyone can do it, you can,” I teased.

  That was my cue to leave. Standing up, I kissed the top of her head. “I’m going to bed. I have to make sure everything is perfect at the store tomorrow. I don’t want to give Rachel any reason to fire me.” Rachel. My boss. The bane of my existence. Tomorrow was a big day for the store, and I didn’t want to mess it up.

  “You’ll do great.” Grandma was already surfing through the TV show menu of one of the streaming networks. She’d officially lost interest in my stress attack concerning tomorrow’s big event.

  I walked through the door furthest to the right as Grandma landed on some kind of British murder mystery show and pressed play.

  My bedroom.

  My oasis.

  My escape from reality.

  A tall bookshelf stretched all the way to the ceiling and greeted me on my left, full of every book I’d ever loved. I had an addiction. I loved books. I loved everything about books. And I worked at a used bookstore, so I could hardly be blamed for the amount of books I owned.

  Jumping into new worlds, experiencing things I never would in real life: climbing mountains, flying on a giant eagle’s back, having superpowers, defeating pure evil. All of it. Reading made me cry, laugh, seethe with rage, be filled with such happiness that I’d have tears of joy. And if I was being honest, the only friends I had were characters from books. I wasn’t ashamed to admit it, but I talked to them on a regular basis. Crazy? Probably. But characters in books were easier to connect with than real people. Real people could let you down. Real people could leave. Real people could die.

  But not the people in books. Even if they died in the book, they still lived forever, and those were the kind of friends I needed.

  Next to my bookshelf was my double door closet that held all my sewing supplies and clothes. On the adjoining wall was a single window that overlooked the building next to ours, which was always a bit awkward. Hundreds of glass gateways into strangers’ private lives and vice versa. It was why I had thick curtains and shutters. I didn’t want anyone spying on me, especially since my bed lay right underneath it.

  A small table with my sewing machine on top of it was against the wall facing my closet and bookshelf. Right now, I had a couple sketchbooks opened and lying next to the machine, designs I planned on making. When I wasn’t reading, I was sewing. It was the only way I knew how to express myself and bring to life what was inside my head. And now that I saw that dress in my fantasy with Josh tonight, I knew what I needed to sew next.

  Sitting down on the plushy office chair, I thumbed through the sketchbook, trying to find a blank page to draw on. Ignoring the flyer I had jammed in there about the Cassiopeia Design School contest, I tried to focus on the dress I had imagined in my fantasy. I passed by some of my favorite drawings of gowns that were currently hanging next to me on the portable clothing rack leaned up against the wall. I needed the space to hang them since my closet held mostly fabric and supplies, and I barely had room for actual clothes.

  Once I had a design in my head, my brain wouldn’t rest until I completed it. Gowns were my favorite. There was something so magical about a full-length dress, especially one with an enormous train. I didn’t know if my gowns were any good, but I hoped someday I could make something that would stun anyone who saw it with its beauty.

  Picking up a pencil, I began to draw. Before long, I had a rough sketch of what I had seen in my head. A thrill of excitement shot through me, and my mind was already piecing together the pattern. For some reason, my brain just saw how to make things, and I would make them. I couldn’t explain it. It would appear like puzzle pieces floating around in my head, and I somehow knew how to fit them all together.

  It felt good.

  It felt right.

  It felt like destiny.

  There went the dramatics again. Maybe I did spend too much time alone?

  After I was happy with the sketch, I crawled into bed and reached over to switch off the lamp on my nightstand. I paused when seeing the two framed pictures resting on its surface along with my favorite old beat-up copy of The Gateway to Winterbrook right next to them. The book was on its last legs, filled with hundreds of creases, pages on the verge of falling out, but it was loved and it showed. Picking up the book, I thumbed through it, glancing at all my favorite marked quotes.

  Satisfied, I put the book down and looked at the first framed picture. It was Josh’s Employee of the Month photo. Yes, I stole it. Sue me. I have a problem.

  As if in answer to my gnawing guilt, the character Olivia from The Gateway to Winterbrook materialized next to me, sitting on the bed, her adorable twelve-year-old face already eyeing me in disappointment. “I can’t believe you stole that from the store.”

  I tried to hide the shame on my face, but I could tell it wasn’t working, so I reasoned with Olivia. “It’s like when you first saw the door that led to Winterbrook in the bookstore. It called to you, and you knew it was yours to open.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You are not comparing stealing an Employee of the Month picture on a wall with how I found a gateway into another world, are you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You should return it.” Olivia gave me side-eye.

  I knew she was right, hence why I was imagining her. And admitting that made her disappear entirely.

  I was alone once more.

  Putting Josh’s picture down, I picked up the second photo.

  My parents. Hannah and Paul Arnold. Happy on the top of the Empire State Building in mid-dance. Staring into each other’s eyes, radiating pure love. As I pictured them dancing, the photo came to life and they waltzed with glee, ending with a kiss.

  I missed them so much.

  Placing the picture back next to Josh’s, I looked up at the ceiling and said, “I hope you’re still dancing up there.” Tracing my finger over their faces, I sighed. “Good night.”

/>   I walked up to The Hidden Corner bookstore trying to push down the rising chug in my stomach. My poor gut took the brunt of all my stress, and I wondered how long it could possibly survive, the amount of times I’d put it through the ringer. I’d be dead by thirty at this rate.

  Deep breaths.

  I won’t screw up and embarrass myself. I won’t screw up and get in trouble with Rachel. I won’t screw up and look like an idiot in front of Josh. I just won’t screw up.

  Easy.

  Except not screwing up wasn’t in my nature. Born to be a bumbling disaster, I was like that cartoon character that no matter how everything was perfectly set up for them, they’d somehow find a way to utterly destroy it all by simply existing.

  The bookstore always lightened my mood though, no matter how much stress I was under. I had found it right after my parents died and thought it was a sign to work there since its name was The Hidden Corner and that was the name of the bookstore in The Gateway to Winterbrook, where Olivia found the door to Winterbrook. Though Rachel had vehemently denied she named the store because of the book, it didn’t matter to me.

  I had found it.

  It was fate.

  And after their death, I had felt compelled to be there. That compulsion was one of the reasons I’d stayed there for three years despite Rachel not liking me.

  The building itself was two stories, the top floor being Rachel’s apartment (since she owned the store), but the bottom was pure magic. Set on a corner with double glass doors as the entrance where the two walls met, each wall had its own unique design. One side was a row of five giant, plaster book spines almost eight feet tall with classic book titles: The Illiad, The Three Musketeers, Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations, and Frankenstein. And the other side was a beautiful mural filled with every book character imaginable all having a picnic at a park by a lake, which I had thought was a tribute to the Stephen Sondheim musical Sunday in the Park with George, but I was quickly corrected by Rachel that both her mural and the Sondheim play were inspired by the painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat. Regardless of how condescending Rachel was with her explanation, it boiled down to a never-ending spiral of inspiration, which was fine with me.