The Kaleidoscope

by B K Nault

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for B K Nault

  The Kaleidoscope

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Ruddy complexions were like skywriting,

  a girl in high school had told him once. The message may appear slowly, but everyone can see it for miles around and remember it for days. “I have to get back to work.” He gathered up his trash and headed for the can. When he turned around, Pepper was standing close, nose to his chin. “Tell Glenda hello.” Before he could go, she grabbed his arm.

  “Harry, I really mean it. I am glad I saw…what I saw. Where did you get it again? Could I get one like it, or is that a one-of-a-kind thing?”

  He told her about the encounter in the park with the homeless man. “It’s a mystery why he picked me.” He pictured the day of the handoff, the police hurrying the old guy away before he could explain himself. The police responding to his own complaint about the vagrants camping out. She was the first person he shared this with.

  “You have been given much responsibility in many areas.” With that, she stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek. “You have been given a gift. Thank you for sharing your magical looking-piece with me.”

  “Um. You’re welcome. And thanks.” He demurred, dropping his hand from her grip. “But I don’t believe in magic.”

  “A man of science and numbers, I get it.” She tipped her head sideways, considering him. “The mysteries of the universe reveal more than we see with our eyes or hear with our ears. If we slow down and really absorb what it’s trying to teach us, we might be surprised and delighted.” She poked a slender finger at his chest. “I choose to keep my mind open to the possibilities. What about you, Harry?”

  Praise for B K Nault

  “What I liked most about THE KALEIDOSCOPE is the complexity of the story itself. It has a rich plot with all sorts of twists and turns. Harold goes through a clear transformation over the course of the novel, and there is a lovely lightness to the story despite the sometimes dark actions of the characters.”

  ~T. Greenwood Stewart

  ~*~

  “I love how the novel hits different chords; being at times inspirational, metaphysical and scientifically speculative even while following a thriller-like narrative. Beverly Nault managed to create an adventure with characters I actually cared for.

  The most memorable parts of the novel are the ones which show how looking into the kaleidoscope changed the characters’ lives. Everyone has some secret fear that holds them back from fully enjoying all that life has to offer. As the characters faced their own fears during the course of their adventures, I found myself stymied that I was feeling hope and inspiration while reading an adventure/science fiction/thriller novel.

  It takes a certain kind of talent to write a novel that contains different aspects from different genres while still maintaining a coherent narrative. Beverly Nault has skillfully created a journey that can suck in readers from various backgrounds and leave them pondering questions the book raises about life, meaning and relationships hours after they’ve finished reading the novel.”

  ~Eduardo Aduna, Readers’ Favorite

  The Kaleidoscope

  by

  B K Nault

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Kaleidoscope

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Beverly Nault

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0109-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0110-5

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To anyone brave enough to face their future,

  no matter their past.

  Acknowledgments

  My multi-hued support team includes friends and family without whom The Kaleidoscope might not have seen the light of day. First, all glory goes to the Creator for the gift of story and imagination. You color our world in palettes of tragedy, drama and comedy, allowing us to ask “what if.”

  To my husband, Gary—you encourage, believe in me, laugh at all my jokes, and manage all things IT. My sister, Brenda Keller—your prayers and cheers keep me banging away at the keyboard. Barbara Rainey, my artistic mom—you passed me the mantle of creative arts; I hope you approve that I chose to paint my pictures with words.

  Karla Ramsey—the germ of Harold’s journey began one day as we drove across Houston and brainstormed him into existence. You’ve been the auntie, if a story ever had one, ever since. As resident physician, you kept the medical details on track. (She’s really diligent, y’all. Any errors are my own.)

  Jesse Skallerud, my first reader—your insight and fine-tuning helped me with the details. Now get your own book written.

  T. Greenwood—you were the first professional to lay eyes, and a red pen, on The Kaleidoscope’s early manuscript, without which Harold would have languished in multiple endings and confusing car chases.

  My crit partners, Dona Watson, Ashley Ludwig and Joanne Bischof—for your backstage pep talks and high fives, honest feedback and awesome advice on everything literary, there are no words to say enough, but anyway, thank you. Also, a great big shout out to Rebecca Farnbach and all the regulars in the second Tuesday of the month critique group—your friendship and prayer, encouragement and thoughtful pointers are evident in all my work.

  In theater, the leads bow last, and it’s appropriate to mention everyone at The Wild Rose Press, from Rhonda Penders to Kinan Werdski (best, most patient, editor ever) to Diana Carlile’s cover art, and the rest of the crew who I know are back there working silently—Harold and I thank you all. Your brand may be “where romance blooms”—and Harold definitely thanks you for that—but it should be “where authors bloom.” You’re a true delight to work with. Thanks for believing in The Kaleidoscope. To my readers, God bless. I write for you, and you’re always on my mind and in my heart. Here’s to bravely facing your future, no matter how difficult your past.

  Chapter One

  Harold sidestepped to avoid tripping over blankets covering a mass of unwashed humanity, and found himself nose to nose with a street hawker waving a pamphlet in his personal space. “S
ave the city’s historic architecture!” Harold snatched the flyer, skimmed the heading, and shoved it in a trashcan as he swam back into the flow, avoiding an elbow and earning a “Watch it, dude.”

  The brisk stream of Los Angeles pedestrians slowed for no one. A police unit screamed past, the shrill echo bouncing between the high-rise real estate soaring into the cerulean California sky and the squat, crumbling structures in dire need of refurbishment. The nostalgic versus the practical. The future erasing the past. Good riddance. Harold clenched elbows to his sides against the noise and chill. The late spring temperatures would warm into the seventies later, so he’d left his Members Only jacket at the apartment. He straightened his cotton shirt underneath his messenger bag’s strap and kept pace with the crowd.

  Bulging at the seams like an adolescent outgrowing a wardrobe overnight, the city’s newer-is-better philosophy, based on fleeting, flickering images and teardown sets, didn’t bode well for historical landmarks. Harold didn’t care much for the past anyway. Head down, he allowed himself to be carried along through alternating microclimates, from zones warmed by the granite high-rises blocking the Pacific Ocean breezes to the colder pockets left behind from the nightly cooling. Harold accepted his comfortable daily routine like a plow horse yoked to the team.

  Georgia had crusaded to save the crumbling, broken-down artifacts, their façades hiding faulty plumbing and dangerous wiring. Their small apartment had become headquarters for community awareness meetings, posters lined the walls, and their phone rang day and night with alerts from volunteers. Since she’d moved out, Harold had thrown himself into his job to prove to her he could be worthy of her return.

  In line at the coffee cart, Harold checked the time.

  He planned his route serpentining the homeless in the park, ordering his coffee so he could be at his desk by nine. Besides his punctuality, Harold prided himself on his charity, but the street people had increased beyond his patience. They’d sprouted in acceptable heaps by the duck pond several weeks ago, but their sprawl forced him to swing wide to avoid their grimy, smelly mounds of blankets and lineup of carts and backpacks. The day couldn’t come soon enough when the city would finally demolish the church, along with its Wednesdays-only soup kitchen that lured the vagrants. When they were finally gone, he would perform a touchdown dance across the park. In his head, anyway.

  At his office building, coffee cup in hand, Harold double-timed the staircase and sailed inside, his steps echoing around the atrium lobby. ID card drawn for the guard and swiftly replaced, he tapped a loafered toe to send a subliminal message to the couple ahead of him selfishly absorbed in a personal discussion, and by 8:58, he pushed the elevator button. Despite the challenges of the morning, he promised himself, this was going to be a good day.

  Safely in his cubicle, he dove into the lines of code he’d begun inspecting for errors last Friday. Written by a team he wasn’t originally a part of, it was a jumbled shambolic mess, as if someone was learning by doing. Or trying to hide something they didn’t want found. He’d recently caught discrepancies that saved their client millions and a potential class action lawsuit. Software fraud was becoming more and more sophisticated, and Harold’s nerves thrilled down to his argyle socks when he imagined catching a cyber-thief in action.

  Deeply absorbed in the bowels of an intricate line of code, Harold cradled his chin in his hands to realign his back, which spasmed when a bright “Good Monday mornin’, Mr. Donaldson” derailed his train of thought. The daily interruption never failed to tune his spine to high tenor. Made worse because he could never predict the timing.

  Rhashan approached, dread-locks Pac-manning over the carpeted gray walls until his colorful, inappropriate clothes, Caribbean hairstyle, and armload of leather bands so ill-suited for the office towered over him. Harold made a note to bring his many violations up at the next departmental meeting.

  “You have a nice week-end?” The mail carrier lifted a handful of envelopes, his sing-song rhetorical question the essence of every time-suck Harold hated.

  “I’ve a lot of work to do.”

  The large man shrugged, and carefully aligned the stack at Harold’s elbow. “You have yourself a nice day.”

  Harold twisted back to his monitor. It was never a good idea to encourage Rhashan lest he mistake it for an invitation to chat.

  “How you been doin’ since your wife move out?”

  Harold could feel the man’s dark eyes rolling up and down his back. “We’re working on reconciliation.”

  “Good luck with dat.” Rhashan moved along, strolling behind the mail cart as if the department was his private domain, the occupants on exhibit for his personal entertainment. The bobbleheads encouraged his vapid conversation, enjoying the ritual like caged animals in a zoo performing for treats tossed over the walls.

  Rhashan’s cart paused in front of the corner office: Harold’s next step up the corporate ladder. Soon enough he’d convince the suits he was ready for promotion, and prove to Georgia he wasn’t a boring loser going nowhere.

  Eyes trained on the screen, Harold counted the seconds until he could stir without attracting more of Rhashan’s unwanted banter. He ran a finger down the numbers to the bottom line. Even a bumblebee had more method to her dance than Rhashan.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Donaldson?”

  “Good heavens, Rhashan, you startled me.” The ridiculous tam, askew and leaking black corkscrews, was another issue for the list of grievances. “What is it?”

  “Sorry, mon.” A large-knuckled hand, silver rings flashing, held one of those massively reproduced flyers addressed to no one in particular. “I missed dis.”

  Harold scanned it without turning his head. “That could have waited until tomorrow.”

  “I won’t leave any for tomorrow. No orphans in my bas-ket!”

  The space between Rhashan’s front teeth twinged Harold’s ire worse than the gaps in his to-do spreadsheet.

  “Say, good luck on your promotion. I heard about the way you saved the day, you should be a toe-in.”

  Harold took the flyer and placed it on the stack of mail he would open at precisely 4:30 P.M. “Shoe-in.”

  “I heard you have, what they say…a sixth sense for catching dese tings. You lucky mon.”

  “Nonsense. It was just good old-fashioned hard work.” Harold couldn’t believe Rhashan had the gall to imply the six weeks he’d spent re-building the compromised database had been mere luck.

  “Sorry, Mr. Harold. If you say so.” Rhashan backed away. “See you lay-tah!” Hips swaying to a tune more suited to island culture, he whistled away in his insouciant cloud of joie de vivre.

  Harold clicked Save and opened the next file. Probably already hopelessly mangled by some data entry clerk downstairs.

  ****

  The next morning before he left for work, Harold called Georgia as he had done every morning since she’d moved out. She’d ceased answering, but he always left a message anyway. “You’ve made your point, now come back. I won’t complain about your committee work, or…” Harold was trying to come up with new ways to entice her back when a clicking prompted him to check the ID. “Hello, Geo—”

  “Harold, for heaven’s sake. Stop calling me. I told you we’re—”

  “Before you say anything else you’ll regret”—he held the phone away from his ear so she’d be forced to listen—“you should know I have taken the steps to be considered for that promotion to Senior Investigator. You see? I’m not in a rut.” His fist opened and closed at his side. “And I’m willing to let you continue your meetings here.” The last concession was the clincher, and he fully expected her to gush over the magnitude of his gesture.

  “You monitor bank accounts for fraud, Harold. What, are they giving you more staples for your stapler? Nice try.” Scratching noises had Harold imagining her cradling the phone against her ear while she did something else more important than talking to him. “Now I have news. Our divorce will be final in three weeks, and as soon
as I can, I’m marrying Gilbert. He gets me, Harold.”

  He pictured the calendar push-pinned into his cubicle wall. The interviews began in ten days, and he could conceivably land the job well before she could go through with it. “Before you left, you told me you hated my rut, and that I didn’t understand your feelings. Well, now I get it. I am willing to let you continue with your little crusades. And I think you should reconsider our vows.”

  “Harold, you don’t even drive. They’re not promoting someone who has to take a cab everywhere. And you still don’t get it. I want to be with someone whose blood runs hot, who cares deeply about life. You spend all day hiding from the world, Harold. You’re cold, you have no soul, no love of life. No passion. Consider what you’re missing by hiding your feelings underneath what happened to you a long time ago. I waited and hoped, but I could never break through. I give up.” She paused, but he couldn’t form a rebuttal to all that. “I’ve got to go. There’s a council meeting this morning. We have one last chance to stall the St. Mark’s demolition. And don’t call them my little crusades. These landmarks mean a lot to me. Good luck, Harold.”

  She hung up, and he weighed the advisability of redialing and reminding her that Gilbert’s job as a Sparklett’s delivery driver was an odd kind of passion, and he wasn’t hiding from what happened to him as a kid. He’d just been able to forget the past and move on. But he was already three minutes behind schedule.

  During the eighteen minutes it took to shower, shave, and dress, he replayed the script. Grandma Destiny had warned him he could never pull off marriage; he was just like his father. But he was not like his father, and he had managed to build his life to prove otherwise.

  Scraping his right cheek with the razor on its third and final day, Harold was more resolved than ever to prove to Georgia she should return.

  On one of her latest protests she’d met Gilbert, who was delivering water to the courthouse one day when she was picketing the 101 freeway widening, and she hadn’t come home at all. She’d left thirty-four-year-old Harold alone in the mission style bed they’d dragged home from the thrift store and sanded and stained over the next three weekends. His only satisfaction was that Grandma Destiny had believed to her death two years ago that he was happily married. The streaky varnish still wafted pungent when the late afternoon sun warmed the bedroom. It had been the final piece of furniture they’d worked on together and Harold was determined to lure Georgia back to share it with him once again.