Shine

by R. L. Jameson

  However, I don’t want to tell my mother that I’d never think of an abortion. Granted, having this baby now isn’t the best of times. Not when the man who helped me make this child is dead, and I have had a rung of bad luck concerning my career, so I’m essentially making no money right now. But I can’t help but want this baby, even if I am constantly sick. And tired. And moody. And crazy. And, god, my boobs hurt so much I wonder if someone’s taken a meat tenderizer to them.

  Still, I want this baby.

  But I’m not going to tell my mother that.

  Idiotically childish to keep that from my mother?

  Probably.

  But when it comes to her, I never think straight. I hate looking at myself from her point of view. I always come up short. I’ll never be good enough. And, yeah, I’m sure she’s ashamed of the way I ended up pregnant from a one-night stand with a mercenary I never planned to see again, who died, not while on his job, but by getting drunk and driving when he returned from Africa to his Kansas home.

  “Look, Mother.” I try to breathe in the hopes that the frigid air of the Montana mountains might give me some kind of clarity. I’m not a child. I’m not a child. I just act like one around my mother. “I need some time. I’m not running away.”

  “You’re almost two months pregnant, Deidra. I’m not sure this is good for the baby, all this thinking. Unless you’re planning on killing my grandchild.”

  I hate myself for it, but I’m envious of my baby. My mother has never wanted me as much as she wants this child.

  I swallow down my bitterness, tasting copper and resentment. I might vomit again. God, I’ve become a professional vomiter.

  “I just need a week or so,” I say, hoping the extra saliva in my mouth will subside.

  She’s quiet for an eternity again, and I put my Jeep in reverse, foot still on the brake. I’m not sure, but I feel eyes on me. It could be the clerk who checked me in to my lodge, showing me pictures of the humongous cabin. She seemed nice, the clerk, but I’d hate for anyone to catch sight of me in the grips of my mother.

  My cheeks heat and my constantly tearing eyes finally spill over. I angrily wipe at my face but then realize what I’ve done.

  Unfolding the vanity mirror from my Wrangler’s roof, I check my face. I’m white. But there are two splotches of red, exposed from where my tears washed away my makeup. In those splotches are my freckles which I expertly conceal every day. I started covering my freckles when I was twelve. In an attempt to look more like my mother—flawlessly ageless, she could be Michele Pfeiffer’s twin—I hoped the makeup would make me look more like my mother’s daughter. I have black hair to her blonde, freckles to her porcelain, hazel eyes that look like mud compared to her piercing light blue ones. I am not my mother’s daughter.

  It might seem odd to wear so much makeup and be a professional photographer. There’s this thought that I’m rugged and outdoorsy. I am. But I always need my makeup mask to cover my face. I need it as much as I need air. I can’t explain it well, because I know it means there’s something intrinsically fucked up about me. I suppose it spells out that I’m still trying to be acceptable, to be like my mother, to be liked by my mother.

  I dab and smooth my cheeks until my skin is back to what I know—creamy whiteness. It’s fake, my complexion. I’d like to think of myself as an authentic person, but my mask makes me wonder if I’m actually a liar. However, I can’t help but wonder if everyone else is a liar too. We all lie about something.

  I back away from the parking lot and begin to find my way to the lodge my mother paid for.

  “Deidra.” My mother’s voice surprises me since she’s been quiet for so long. “I—I understand, I think, why you’d want to run away from me.”

  “I’m not running away, Mother.” I shouldn’t drive while talking on my cell. I can easily switch to Bluetooth, but I don’t. I’m too wrapped up in whatever my mother will say next, hoping I can shield myself from the pain of what might come.

  “Oh, of course you are.” Her voice is so hard, like a palm against my cheek when slapped. “You’re acting like a child. A spoiled child, I might add.”

  I am spoiled, and I know it. My mother’s family is rich beyond measure. Only, I didn’t understand that growing up. I knew my father’s family always mentioned something about how easy it must be for my mother, how easy it must be for me. I didn’t understand what they meant until I was a teenager. I had a beautiful and gigantic house throughout my childhood. I had a great education; my mother insisted upon boarding academies and an Ivy League University. I had the finest clothes.

  When I realized how vastly different my upbringing was compared to others, I wanted to apologize for it. I still do. I’ve given away most of my money, ashamed I had it in the first place. Even the money I earned from my photography, I just pissed or gave away.

  But with all that money and the pretty things, I’m not sure if I ever felt the warmth of love. I know I’ve never felt acceptance.

  Poor little rich girl, right? I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. So I do my best to swallow that down too.

  “Thank you for renting the lodge for me,” I say weakly, feeling defeated and more tears form in my eyes, blurring my vision. I’m following the map the clerk gave me and as I turn a corner on the snow and ice-packed road, I see the two-story log cabin, complete with a vaulted ceiling and wrap-around porch with little fairy lights along the railing, making the expansive house look like a welcoming home.

  It’s a beautiful humongous cabin. Too nice and way too big for just me. I’m scared I’ll cry more, ruining my makeup.

  My mother doesn’t speak again. I’m used to the cold shoulder.

  Then I realize there’s static on my phone, and joy spreads through me as I realize I’m losing reception.

  “—lo? Hello?” My mother’s voice sounds as warm as a sword. “Deidra, are you still there?”

  I’m always paralyzed when it comes to my mother. I just sit and take whatever she dishes out, maybe wincing for my defense. But the phone is cutting in and out, and I do the crazy thing of just hanging up on her.

  I stare at my phone, amazed at what I’ve done, and that’s when I lose control of my Jeep. Flinging the phone away, I clutch at the steering wheel as I spin sidewise toward the front of the huge cabin. Shit. Braking as hard as I can, I chide myself. I needed to pay attention to the road, where I was driving. Instead, I was transfixed to my mother’s voice. Like a moth to a flame.

  I was already driving slow. And I’m aiming to make impact into a snowdrift beside the cabin’s porch. There are a million thoughts that filter through while I’m skidding: Thank god the drift is there. Please let the crash be small. I need my baby to be all right. Shit. I can’t keep listening to my mother. She’s going to kill me.

  Then the tail end of my car softly thumps into the eight-foot drift. The impact is slight, but I’m clutching the steering wheel, trying not to cry, not sure if I’m breathing, and hoping the crash didn’t hurt my baby. Please, please, let my baby be okay.

  My Wrangler’s door is suddenly yanked open. A bearded man wearing black puffy snow gear is staring at me. For a second, I’m mesmerized by his eyes. They’re the color of the sky on a summer day—so intense, so blue. Not like my mother’s which reminds me of ice on the Antarctic Ocean, but his are the color of heaven.

  He doesn’t say a word. His beard is dark, but there’s red and blond mixed in. With such a heavy beard I can’t quite guess his age, but he wears a few lines around his eyes. He might be older than me. I don’t know. He just stares at me, his dark brows furrowed.

  I swallow. “I’m okay.” I don’t know why I say this. I’m not sure if I am.

  He reaches around me, his face inches from mine. He smells like snow and pine trees. He’s big and wild. Or maybe his beard is making me think he’s some wild man. With a click, he undoes my seatbelt then puts his arms under me. In a second, I’m out of my Jeep and in his arms.

  “Jesus, is she okay?” />
  In a daze, I look in the direction of the deep voice who said that. There’s another bearded man, also wearing a black parka and black snow pants, jogging closer. The other man is darker, black beard, eyes so dark they look black too. His brows make the same pucker marks on his face as his friend’s.

  The man holding me doesn’t say anything as his companion nears. He looks down at me, glances at the Wrangler, then looks at me again.

  “I’m okay,” I parrot myself from earlier, looking from one man to the other, stunned I’m being held.

  The darker man is close now. He’s bigger than the man holding me, and he’s glancing at me from head to toe.

  “Did you get hurt?”

  I shake my head.

  “Did it look like she got hurt?” asks the taller man to his friend.

  I’m a little frustrated I’m no longer being talked to, but the man holding me hefts my body higher on his chest, cradling me closer. He shakes his head after he stares at me a long time.

  The taller man sighs. “Are you staying in this cabin?” His voice is nice. Reassuring. Smooth and baritone. He waves his arm at the lodge my mother rented for me.

  I nod.

  He nods too and looks at his friend. “Put her inside. Warm her up. I’ll get her Jeep free from the drift.”

  Without a word, the man holding me turns and does as directed.

  I should be afraid. After all, two wild Montana mountain men are…what are they doing?

  Rescuing me.

  Maybe because I’m spent from the conversation with my mother, but for some odd reason I relax against the man carrying me.

  Just for two more seconds, I’ll relax. Then I’ll be scared. Or anxious. Or whatever it is I should be feeling when a strange mountain man has a hold of me. But for two more luxurious seconds, I’ll give in and let go.

  You can find out more about FLY HERE!

  Or perhaps you’d like to read an exciting time-travel series from Red L. Jameson. Here’s an excerpt from Enemy of Mine, Book 1…

  Prologue

  * * *

  The poor girl is so exhausted, she’s sleeping through your rummaging around in her underwear drawer. Or wait, is that a herd of buffalo stomping through Erva’s things?” Clio snaked a dark red brow high at her sister, Erato.

  Erato, clad like Clio in a golden toga also with burgundy-colored hair and smelling of Mediterranean lavenders, pulled out a purple thong. “Girl? I think not. She’s a woman. Looky here.”

  Clio giggled, but then sucked in her mirth with a bite of her lip. “Stop it. You always get me into trouble.”

  “Well, what are you doing here anyway? I thought we’d planned to go to that male stripper club.” Erato looked around the dark and bland bedroom. Even cheap hotel rooms had more character. The only human element to it was the piled books and papers strewed about the nondescript floor. “Instead I find you here in this God-awful mess.” Then, Erato snorted. “Get it? God-awful?”

  Clio rolled her eyes. “We’re muses, not gods, love. And I’m not convinced I’m awful.”

  “Nice. Insult your own sister, why don’t you?”

  With a smirk Clio sat close to Minerva Ferguson, Erva, on her beige bed. While Erva slept soundly, Clio pulled back a few strands of long blonde hair from her creamy complexion, sighed, and smiled at her sister. “We’re here because...because...”

  “Oh God, not again.”

  Clio cleared her throat. “She’s so deserving, Sister. I’ve been watching Erva for quite a while now. She finished her dissertation two years ago, but her supervisor won’t let her argue it, won’t let her graduate. She should have been a professor by now. Instead, she works like a dog for her supervisor, a Dr. Peabody. Can you believe that name? Anyhow, Erva has been working tirelessly for a place at her university; she is one of the most knowledgeable in her area of expertise; she’s being held back by evil Dr. Peabody; and—oh!—she’s had one hades of a bad day today. The dean observed her classes—all of them—and in her last class one of her students accidentally poured water down her front. She looked like she was going to enter a wet t-shirt contest. In front of her dean! She was mortified.”

  Erato leaned over her sister to stare down at the human in pink flannel pajamas. “She’s got great boobs, that’s why the little accident happened. Are those even real?”

  Clio growled and turned quickly, making Erato fall on Erva in a lump of giggles.

  As Erva stirred, Erato scurried off her to sit closer to her sister. Erva curled in a ball on her side, fists tucked under her chin.

  “Did you drug her?” Erato asked.

  Clio shook her head. “She did that herself. She drank a whole bottle of Moscato wine before bed.”

  Erato sighed. “She’s been beat up by the world. What else is new, Clio? Why do you always do this? You think you can save everyone?”

  “I don’t think I can save everyone.”

  “Just historians?”

  “Well, why not? I am their muse, after all.”

  “You don’t see me saving every romance writer, do you?”

  “Um, yeah.” Clio crossed her arms. “The rise in romance writing is monumental. Further, many romance writers are finally making good money too. You can’t tell me you didn’t have something to do with that.”

  Erato bit her bottom lip playfully.

  “I knew it!”

  Erato pressed a finger against her full lips. “Shh, Sissy. You’ll wake your new project.”

  “So you’re agreeing with me? You think I should give Erva a glimpse?”

  Erato shrugged. “Why not? Where is she heading?”

  Clio couldn’t help but chuckle again as she scooted even closer to her sister. “That’s the fun part! Minerva’s doctorate pertains to the American Revolution, but get this. This little all-American, blonde, doe-eyed girl is in love with a British officer of years afore. Her dissertation defends one of the youngest English generals to serve during the war.”

  Erato arched a brow. “So she’s in love with her former enemy?”

  Clio smiled appreciatively.

  “I love complications.”

  “Oh, I do too, Erato.” Clio took a large inhalation, then gently shook Erva’s shoulder, while Erato pulled more blonde hair from the mortal’s face. “Waky, waky, little historian.”

  Erva moaned, but didn’t open her eyes.

  Erato leaned forward until she was a couple inches from Erva’s face, then screamed, “Oy! Wake up!”

  Erva sat up with a start, fists swinging, her eyes hardly open enough to see.

  “Oh, I like her. She’s a fighter,” Erato said.

  “I know. She’s quite deserving of this.”

  Erva looked from one muse to the other in blurry-eyed wonder. “I’m dreaming.”

  Clio chuckled while she shook her head. “No, dear girl. I’m afraid you’re not.”

  “Are you going to rob me then? In togas?”

  Erato giggled. “The only thing I like that you own are all those thongs. You’re a bit of a randy girl underneath the nerdy historian exterior, aren’t you?”

  “You know what kind of underwear I wear? Are you Homeland Security? Please don’t waterboard me.”

  Erato turned to her sister. “She’s funny too. I really like her.”

  Clio nodded and found Erva’s slender hands. After placing them in hers, she said, “Sweet girl, you’re still drunk and think you’re dreaming. But you’re not. You’re going to wake in a different century, in a different town too. I hope you like New York City in 1776.”

  “What’s her boyfriend’s name?” Erato asked.

  “General William Hill.”

  Erva flinched. “What? Why are you talking about him?”

  Erato snickered. “Look. She’s defensive. She’s so cute about him!”

  Erva tried to retract from Clio, but Clio was much too strong. She held the human in place. “I’ve arranged for everything. You will be staying with him. You can ask him anything you want to know
. You will have a glimpse of what life was like for him. You will then return here, back to Boston in your time, and write about it. You’re the only one who has done him justice. But I need you to write more and get it out to the world. He was a hero, but is only known as a villain. Or lazy, at best. He was neither, as you well know. You will become his champion.”

  Erva swallowed and shook her head. “I don’t—”

  But then Clio released one of her hands, and with a snap Erva instantly fell back asleep.

  Both Clio and Erato stood and watched the human.

  “When she wakes,” Erato said, “she’ll have one hades of a headache.”

  Clio smiled. “She’ll have much more than that.”

  * * *

  Chapter One

  * * *

  In fact it is Brooklyn, 12th day of September in the year of the Lord 1776

  A scream rent through the manor, much the way a musket shot could whiz by. It was beyond startling. It crawled into General Lord William Hill’s skin and settled there, forcing him to repress a grimace, while he raced to his chamber’s door. Unlatching it with a jerk, he rushed into the elaborately decorated yet stark white hallway, to be met by two maids and his own man of business racing toward him.

  “Sir, I—” Paul, Will’s personal man, stammered.

  Muffled sounds emerged from the closed door across from his own. Surely Paul hadn’t put the visiting lady so close to him? For some odd reason her letter of introduction and even her entrance into his rented house seemed beyond his recollection. He knew she was to stay with him, but much more than that he couldn’t remember.