The Violet Hour
Written By:
Andrea L Wells
ISBN 978-1-4958-0585-1 Hardback
ISBN 978-1-4958-0586-8 Paperback
ISBN 978-1-4958-0715-2 eBook
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:
Copyright © 2015 by Andrea L Wells
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.
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 events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to my husband, my son, and my daughter – for without whom,
this book might have been published three years sooner.
And to my best friend, Chris – for without whom, this book
would never have been finished.
“One fire burns out another’s burning, One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish.”
William Shakespeare – Romeo and Juliet
Andrea Wells – The Violet Hour
Preface
I didn’t consider my mission suicide but I knew I wasn’t coming out of this alive. Simply, there was no other choice. To continue putting the ones I loved in further danger was not an option. It seemed like the ultimate sacrifice. I refused to spend the next year running. And even if I survived, I knew I would never be ready for the next chapter of my life.
Andrea Wells – The Violet Hour
Chapter 1
“And so it begins,” I mumbled quietly to myself. I stepped inside the clothing boutique marked with an address that was nowhere near the Rodeo Drive I was used to shopping on.
I hadn’t checked to see where Kate was before pulling the dress off the hanger and heading to the dressing room. I closed my eyes while I took off my clothes, slipping the dress over my head. When I turned around and opened my eyes, my stomach suddenly clinched into a hard knot, taking my breath away.
‘I miss you,’ I mouthed to the reflection standing in the mirror.
I fell to my knees sobbing, crying like I was never going to stop. I cried like I thought if I cried hard enough, she would come back and put her arms around me.
At first, all I saw was the sparkle of color through my drenched eyes. A long-sleeve dress clung tightly to my skin. I ran my hands across the sequined fabric, cool to the touch. The back felt completely open down to my waist though I couldn’t be sure as I sat frozen in front of the mirror. The color was her favorite. The dark purple cast deep shades of violet as I deeply inhaled. The dress reminded me so much of her. Looking into the mirror, I could imagine it was her, my mother, wearing it. Caught in the fantasy, I reached out to touch her, but my fingers brushed only glass and my heart caught in my throat.
I knew Kate was the one touching my shoulders because the caress was firm yet sympathetic. I didn’t turn to check. Instead, Kate turned me toward her, effortlessly lifting me up and cradling me in her arms. She began carrying me like a newborn. I was a newborn in a sense. Helpless.
Andrea Wells – The Violet Hour
Chapter 2
I slowly blinked my eyes a few times trying to read the bright red numbers on the alarm clock a few feet away. It was almost midnight yet I couldn’t remember anything after being placed in the front seat of the car and hearing Kate shut the door several hours earlier. I sat up and noticed I was in a baggy white tee with sweats. I didn’t recognize the clothes because they weren’t mine. Kate must have taken the dress off and returned it to the store. I probably ruined it. I certainly ruined my first day in Wyoming.
As I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I refused to turn on the light. I had seen enough of myself in mirrors for one day. I walked back into the bedroom toward the window where a cool breeze swept the curtains, making them slowly dance. I grabbed them in midair and threw them aside, stepping outside onto the balcony.
The moon was full. I felt like I could reach out and touch its blazing copper-orange flesh, a color I’d never seen before. The sky was radiant with stars making the grass sparkle like glitter. I took a deep breath and moved to the edge of the deck placing my elbows on the railing and my head in my hands. Tears fell from my face to the ground below. I didn’t sob. I didn’t even make a sound. I couldn’t make a sound. Pain flowed through my veins like poisonous venom, numbing as it traveled.
I needed her. She was supposed to be there for me. Forever. She was supposed to be there when I finished high school, when I graduated college, when I got married, when I had children, when my children had children. She was supposed to help me dress shop for prom, pick out an apartment, select an agent for my career, plan my life. I felt so far from wherever she was. I felt so far away from everything I’d ever known… from the person I used to be. I used to be happy and I’d give anything to go back. Back to my old self. Back to California. And, I’d give anything, anything, to have my mom back.
The breeze blew strands of my hair that stuck to the tears running down my face. I rubbed the hairs away and took a deep breath. It smelled like the ocean and for a moment I was back home. Taking another breath, I realized it was actually the smell of rain. Thunder began to rumble over the mountains as I moved away from the railing and sunk into one of the lounge chairs. Pulling my knees to my chin and wrapping my arms around my legs, I held on for dear life. Gazing back into the moon’s face, my eyes began to dry from the breeze.
I wondered if I would last twelve months in Wyoming. It seemed easier said than done. However, I had nowhere else to go. I had no one to go back to. Brody, maybe. I loved him and he loved me, but a part of me knew it was over. It was over before all this. It took me leaving California to see that.
As if a buzzer on a game show for getting the correct answer, I heard a clock inside the house chime midnight through the open windows below. The breeze came to an abrupt halt though thunder still rumbled in the distance. Little hairs stood up on my arms. I looked out into the forest in front of me and considered going back inside. I couldn’t see anything in the diminishing light of the moon as clouds began to cloak, fracturing the moons face, but I could hear something rustling in the leaves down below. As the clock struck its final chord, my breath sharpened and my heart pulsed, sending a hard chill through me that made the hairs on my arms stand in attention. I picked my head up off my knees and focused harder on my sense of sight and sound. Still unable to see anything, I could feel I was being watched. Having grown up in the Hollywood eye, I had developed an uncanny sense for knowing when someone was watching me – trying to capture my photo. This felt different – dangerous, really dangerous.
As if to prove me right, a wolf began howling, and the sound echoed around me.
I leaped from my chair inside, slamming the large window shut. Cold shivers scattered from the tips of my toes to the back of my neck sending me across the room, into bed and under the covers. I forced my body still, listening.
The bedroom door slowly creaked open and I held my breath.
Kate whispered my name and I lay silent until I heard her close the door again. Sneaking only my eyes out from under the covers, I made sure she was gone.
As I lay awake catching my breath and replaying the events of the day, I quietly reached for my brown and pink Louis Vuitton purse on the floor and began sifting through the bag until I found the magazines I had picked up at the airport. Fumbling my hand around the nightstand, I found my ce
ll phone and clicked the screen only far enough to keep it lit. My eyes immediately focused on the cover story of the latest gossip magazine. A single photo of my mother and a bold-faced headline proclaiming her shocking death glared back at me. I flipped over to page thirty-two to finally read the story.
On Monday morning, August 31st, the world awoke to the shocking news that super-model and actress Michelle Keller-Jarvis died at the age of 37. “The family is mourning their tragic loss, and ask for privacy during this very difficult time,” said a rep for husband Richard Jarvis, Tuesday morning. The rep also later confirmed Mr. Jarvis was taking a few days from work and headed to the couples’ London home after the funeral. The funeral took place Thursday morning in a sun-filled cathedral church in downtown Los Angeles. A source close to the family told us about the Thursday morning service; “It was as if Michelle showed up two days earlier with a party planner and decorated for the occasion, though gorgeous and every bit as beautiful as Michelle herself, it was still very sad.” The family was well known for their extravagantly planned parties and events, often hosting large award show after-parties in their 15,000 sq. ft. home in the Hollywood Hills.
Reporters and paparazzi were not permitted to photograph during the service, but were allowed to fill the entrance of the church. Mark Smith reports: “The room was filled with the whispers of hundreds of people and the aroma of over a few thousand bright white and scarlet red roses standing in tall clear vases tied in black velvet ribbon. There wasn’t an empty spot for more floral arrangements in the entire congregation or an empty seat in the pews. The flowers seemed to lead the way down the aisle. The people were all dressed in black. Front and center, as she always could be found, was Michelle Keller-Jarvis dressed in vintage Chanel. It was a very sad affair.”
The famous model/actress took her final trip down the red carpeted church following the service on September 3rd. She was laid to rest in an undisclosed Los Angeles cemetery. Michelle leaves behind her real estate mogul husband, Richard Jarvis and her socialite daughter, Logan Keller. The cause of death is unknown though an autopsy was completed. Results won’t be available for three more weeks. The current whereabouts of Logan are unknown.
Though I’d witnessed with my own eyes her lifeless body, seeing it splashed across a gossip magazine made it strangely real. It was like someone punched a hole through the center of my chest and the rest of me was caving, falling apart from the damage. I ran my fingers over the four-page spread covered with photos of her. The most recent and probably last photo ever taken of my mother was from a sunny Saturday we spent together. As soon as paparazzi spotted us in the restaurant they hovered until we were finished, waiting outside to photograph us as we left. In front of her white Range Rover, we posed together for the relentless photographers before closing the door and taking off. The photo showed her tall, yet tiny frame, dressed uncommonly casual in baggy white linen pants with a fitted, black tank top. Sandy blond hair fell around her narrow sun-kissed face, showcasing her gorgeous teal-blue eyes – her best feature in my opinion.
Flames began to set fire around the hole in my chest.
I carefully tore the photo from the glossy magazine, neatly folding over the rough edges. Tears fell as I ran my fingers over my mother’s kind face, longing to be back in that very moment. If only I’d known those few hours spent together that afternoon would be among our last… I could hardly bear the thought.
Instead of putting the magazines back inside my bag, I shoved them in the nightstand drawer beside me then carefully tucked the picture in a small pocket of my purse. I dug around the bag, pushing aside makeup, a checkbook, loose credit cards and my wallet before stumbling across the small Swarovski crystal mirror, originally my mother’s, I’d last looked at on the plane.
As soon as we’d hit cruising altitude, I had pulled off my dark sunglasses while the woman sitting next to me in First Class watched. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours the entire week and it showed. Looking in the mirror then, the bright teal of my eyes were surrounded by swollen shades of pink and blue. Although normally tan, my skin seemed drained of color. I hadn’t eaten in days. Even the first-class meal they’d handed me had no appeal. My thick, long, blonde hair looked and felt like straw; a total mess. Each passing day added one more day to the longest amount of time in my life I’d gone without talking to my mother.
Deciding not to open the mirror again since I’d see the same images, I tossed it back into my bag. It made a noise colliding with the large white envelope marked with my first name: ‘Logan.’ I opened the envelope revealing the last two things my step-father, Richard, gave me: a single plane ticket and thousands of dollars in cash. Richard handed me the envelope the morning of my mother’s funeral. He looked down at me; he dressed in a Tom Ford suit and I dazzling in my mother’s Valentino dress, and flatly informed me, “This is what’s best for both of us.” His idea of my notice to vacate, leaving me motherless, homeless and booked on a one-way flight to the middle-of-nowhere.
I traced my finger over my name on the ticket. ‘Logan Keller’ had a nice ring to it, a name I envisioned on a Hollywood Star one day, but I barely knew the second half of my name. My mother and father divorced when I was five. Mom married Richard shortly after we got to California and hyphenated her last name. I, however, kept the only piece of Kevin Keller I had. My father stayed right where I was born, while my mom took me on her journey to Hollywood. She arrived an unknown single mother, and through will and determination transformed herself into an amazing actress, successful model and adored fashion icon. When interviewed about her success and drive, she always replied with a version of the same answer, “My daughter. I do it for my daughter, Logan. My success lies in the path I’ve created for Logan. She can go anywhere and be anything. I do this all for her.”
I had only visited my dad once when I was about ten and vowed to never go back to the sleepy little town. Unfortunately, Sheridan, Wyoming was my new temporary home.
I didn’t see Richard again after the funeral. Avoiding me was an easy task for him to accomplish, considering he owned four homes in the state of California alone, not to mention the mansion he was staying in while ‘taking a few days off in London to mourn the loss of his wife.’ The majority of my life was spent in the 10,000 sq. ft. Mediterranean-style residence, the smallest of the four, nestled in Laguna Hills, California. Richard was a real estate tycoon and was either never home or never at the same home I was. He traveled the Pacific Coast buying and selling real estate to the rich and famous. The Laguna property was the first place he and my mother had bought together and where I attended school. My mom didn’t want me jumping from school to school because of their schedules, so they kept the house simply for me to live in.
School hadn’t started at Laguna Hills High yet, but just my luck, Sheridan High School had already begun classes by the time I’d arrived. Since we were eleven, my best friend Lindsey Hamilton and I had dreamed of our senior year together. Now, I felt nothing but dread.
Lindsey’s parents were also Realtors and resided in the house next door. The beautiful garden that separated our two homes was where our friendship began. We would pretend we were princesses, fairies and queens ruling the floral landscape. People often referred to us as twins from the same blonde haircuts to the bright blue eyes, we sounded the same, acted the same and seemed to have the same opinions on everything. For being so much alike, one would think we’d never get along, but it was the exact opposite. She was the sister I never had.
Thinking about Lindsey made me inevitably think about my only other best friend and boyfriend, Brody Wilson. He and I started dating my sophomore year of high school. Soon after his graduation, he moved to L.A. with friends and I’d seen very little of him over summer break. Still, as soon as I called him sobbing about my mother, Brody came back to Laguna to spend the rest of the week with me. Our relationship wasn’t always on the best of terms living an hour away from each other, so I had no idea how it was going to survive livin
g nearly twenty hours apart.
My dad had never so much as ventured outside the confines of the Wyoming state lines to visit me since the divorce. My relationship with him literally consisted of talking on the phone maybe a few times a year. Now, I’d be spending the next year living with him and his new wife, Katherine – whom I’d never met until she picked me up at the airport. Kate, as she prefers to be called, decided it would be a good idea to stop at her friend Jackie’s clothing boutique on the way home from the airport so she could drop something off. Little did either of us know I’d have my first emotional breakdown on the dressing room floor.
As we waited silently beside each other for my plane to begin boarding, Brody tried to convince me this would be a good experience. I had questioned in my mind who he really thought this would be good for. He didn’t sound like the boy who had swept me into his arms at his graduation ceremony and told me he’d never love anyone as much as he loved me – he sounded more like Richard had, handing me my one-way ticket to Wyoming. Still, I ignored my doubts and told Brody as soon as I turned eighteen I’d be back to Cali to live with him. So far, I hadn’t changed my mind. Twelve months was a long time… but not that long.
My eyes began to feel heavy as I listened to raindrops begin to spatter on the roof and the faint sound of a lone wolf howling in the distance. Tomorrow was the start of a new chapter – the one where I’d try to find myself again. And, the one where I’d meet my father for the first time in seven years.
Andrea Wells – The Violet Hour
Chapter 3
I jolted awake when my phone started buzzing from somewhere beneath my pillows. Glancing around the room, I felt slightly disoriented. Hoping the seemingly longest day of my life was just a dream, I silently prayed that at any moment I would catch a whiff of the warm California breeze rushing through wide open windows. Instead, the smell of wet pine and wilderness was trapped in the air. I dug around for my phone and tapped the screen, the bright light momentarily blinding my sleep-filled eyes. When I regained focus, the time read eleven forty-nine in the morning. I also noticed my phone had automatically switched time zones. Just one more change in my life I had no choice over.
The Violet Hour (The Violet Hour Series) Page 1