Chasing Temptation: The Glenn Jackson Saga

by M. S. Parker

  “What in the hell are you telling me?” I asked.

  “I’m telling you I don’t know who this woman is,” he said simply. “You told me she claims she had a driver’s license, but the state of Pennsylvania says no. You told me what college she went to—they say no. The man who handles arrivals at the studio entrance doesn’t even have a record of her arriving. Everybody has to pass through those gates, Glenn. You know that.”

  He reached for his coffee, then proceeded to tuck away more food.

  The sight of it was enough to make me sick.

  I didn’t know who the woman was.

  His words began to race around in my head, screeching like an alarm.

  I’d come here prepared for a lot of things—no news, or worse…he’d have news and it would be the worst kind.

  But this? How could I have been prepared for this?

  He didn’t know who the woman was.

  Now I realized, I didn’t know who she was.

  5

  Maya

  I sat on the bed in the exhibition that was due to open soon, dedicated to the life of Florence Woods.

  In my hand, I held the necklace.

  It wasn’t burning hot, or even warm, the way I had so often felt it in the past.

  Maybe I’d done what I was supposed to do, back in 1962.

  Florence had lived and gone on to do great things with her life.

  But Glenn…

  I tried not to cry as I thought about everything I’d learned, the things I’d read—and everything I hadn’t read about the man I’d wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

  It had been five weeks since I’d come back, and every day, I wondered what I’d do if I had the chance to go back to him. It seemed crazy. It wasn’t like the sixties were a peaceful time in the history of the world.

  It wasn’t like I could pick up a phone and call my parents and ask them about it, either.

  There were things I had here that I loved. Or had loved. But lately, nothing could offer me any real happiness. Mom and Dad had come out to visit me, and even Dad had commented about how sedate I seemed.

  Sedate must be code for listless.

  We’d had a marathon movie night, watching some of our favorites from the eighties, but I’d ended up cutting out halfway through the second one, pleading exhaustion.

  The truth was, I just hadn’t been able to handle hearing people laugh. It hurt too much, especially when I didn’t think I’d ever really laugh again.

  I missed him. With every breath I took; with every part of my soul.

  “Maya?”

  I looked up and smiled at the petite blonde in the doorway. She was one of the volunteers brought on to help with the exhibition—and great-grand-daughter of Florence.

  Just seeing her—and her smile that reminded me so much of Florence—was another ache.

  It was like I’d somehow forgotten how to be part of my own life.

  “What do you think?” she asked, moving into the small room that Florence had made her own.

  “I like it.” I needed to brush up on my acting skills. Offering a wobbly smile, I stood up and moved over to the small table that displayed a diary. “Everything looks so…authentic. Did you do all of this from photographs?”

  “For the most part, yes.” She moved closer to me. Casually, I tucked the necklace into my pocket with one hand, gesturing to the diary with another. It was tucked off behind a golden rope. “Is that hers?”

  “It’s a replica. She always wrote in diaries, kept most of them. There was one that went missing not long after…” She stopped and looked away. “Well, I’m sure you know about that time in her life, of course. As much as she’s influenced you.”

  “Of course,” I said woodenly.

  It was the diary I’d left at Glenn’s. Where was it now? I hadn’t realized this one was a replica. It must have been designed to look so aged.

  But they were striving for authenticity here.

  Swallowing the knot, I pulled out my phone and gave a false, but surprisingly convincing groan. “It’s gotten so late. Thank you for letting me come out here again.”

  “It’s no trouble.” She held out her hand. “Your uncle has been a great help to us. We’re happy to do something to pay it back.” She winked and added, “If you can, try to get him to come to the opening gala. He doesn’t like to appear in public much.”

  I assured her I’d do my best.

  Assuming I couldn’t get back to 1962.

  “Maybe you should consider changing your major.”

  I jumped at the sound of Uncle Daniel’s voice.

  Looking up from the book in front of me, I blinked at him, confused. “What?”

  He gestured to the book, which focused on the Civil Rights movement from beginning to end. “You seem to be reading about the movement a lot.” He shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong—I approve.”

  I smiled. “I imagine you do.”

  Uncle Daniel was gay. Equal rights for all was something that should matter to him.

  “It’s just…” He paused and blew out a breath. “The past few years, you haven’t shown much of an interest in anything like…this. I thought you were looking at a career in fashion or something.”

  “Yeah…maybe.” Trying to shrug it off, I turned my attention back to the paragraph I’d been reading, although I’d have to start all over again if I wanted to hold it my head. How could I explain to him that the thought of designing dresses now seemed trivial? I knew it wasn’t, but I’d seen too many things, and I couldn’t turn myself into the girl I’d once been.

  “Maya.”

  The quiet intensity of his voice got to me and I looked back at him.

  “If something was wrong, would you tell me?”

  My heart slammed against my ribs and I struggled for the answer.

  Licking my lips, I said slowly, “If I thought there was some way you could help, yes. But sometimes, a girl has to figure things out on her own.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “But a woman knows when it’s time to reach out. Even if it’s just to talk.”

  He turned and left.

  I wanted to tell him.

  Really.

  But if I did, he’d think I was crazy.

  I was having a hard enough time not thinking so myself.

  The house didn’t look anything like it once had.

  Old and unkempt, the brick had started to crumble. I crossed my arms across my breasts and shivered.

  I’d lived here with Glenn.

  We’d been so happy here.

  Now, the house was up for sale, and it was clear it had been empty for a long, long time.

  Biting my lip, I looked around. I’d left the car I’d borrowed from Uncle Daniel almost a quarter mile down the road, not wanting to have it close to the house. The last thing I needed was to have the cops realize somebody was here.

  The big stone wall would keep anybody from seeing me, I hoped.

  I’d found a gap where the stone had collapsed, thanks to a heavy tree branch that had fallen and crushed it. Nobody had so much as attempted to repair it.

  In fact, there hadn’t been attempts to repair or maintain anything.

  It made me more than a little sick inside, and it had only gotten worse when I got close enough to see the house. Windows were broken. The graffiti painted across it made it clear that I wasn’t the only one who’d found the gap in the wall.

  As I edged closer, I pulled my phone out, hoping I wouldn’t stumble across some strung out druggie. If I had to call the cops, Uncle Daniel would die. My parents would kill me.

  But after a few hesitant minutes of edging around, it seemed clear that nobody was around—at least, not now.

  Tall straggly trees rose into the air side by side with saplings, and the brush was so thick, I had to take a roundabout way to get to the house. I ended up on the back of the property and when I drew near, I was standing just a few feet from the little grotto where he'd proposed.

  My e
yes burned.

  "How did this happen?"

  How had our beautiful house turned into...this?I'd disappeared.

  And although I'd spent the past month trying, I didn't know how to get back.

  I tried not to think about everything I'd read about Glenn the last month. It had eventually gotten to the point that I'd deliberately avoided searching for information on him, just because it hurt too much.

  Our beautiful place seemed to echo what had become of him. A tragedy.

  Starting toward the walk that led to the house, I crossed my arms over my chest.

  I didn't even make it two feet before I stopped. Something crunched under my foot. The sight of the syringe had me freezing. The pale, washed-out light of the sun made it easy to see other syringes. Graffiti marked the walls of the house and the empty windows of the house stared out at me like eyes.

  "Shit," I muttered, kicking at the syringe. Much of the path was overgrown. Who knew what lurked inside that grass? It would be a very bad idea to go any closer when I was just wearing a pair of tennis shoes.

  Although everything in me wanted to go inside there and find...something...it would have been completely stupid of me to hang around when I didn't have anything to protect my feet from whatever might lurk on those needles. "Boots," I said. "Good thick boots."

  I had a pair.

  I'd put them on and come back tomorrow. I'd bring a backpack, along with a flashlight, and anything else I could think of to bring.

  I turned to make my way back to my car.

  The sight of the house located just beyond the swimming pool made me pause.

  It was Mrs. B's house.

  That’s when I felt it.

  The necklace in my pocket heated.

  Just once. But it was enough that I felt it even through the fabric of my jeans. Without even thinking about it, I started toward the little house, thinking about the afternoons I'd spent working in the gardens with her. The gardens had been planted around her house.

  Even now, I could see the patches where they'd been, but now they were overgrown with weeds.

  Her rose bushes were monstrous, twisted and so thick—if there were any roses left among thorns, it was impossible to see this. The house looked a little more cared for. Or maybe I was just being hopeful. I had no idea.

  Edging closer, I searched the property, careful to keep an eye on the path. There were a few syringes, a lot of beer bottles. But the path was intact for the most part, and the weeds were nowhere near as thick here.

  Once I'd taken a few steps, something hot pulsed in my palm.

  I looked down, surprised to see that I'd pulled the necklace out.

  And it was glowing in that weird way it had done before.

  Blowing out a shaking breath, I moved faster and faster until I was running. I came to a halt on the porch, the boards creaking under my feet. Reaching up, I pressed my hand to the door. The necklace swung in my other hand, smacking against my thigh.

  "Please," I whispered. I had no idea what I was asking for.

  Reaching down, I closed my hand around the door knob and twisted.

  It didn't move.

  I could have screamed. Desperately, I twisted harder and slammed my other hand, now closed into a fist, against it. "No!" I shouted. "No!"

  Disgusted with myself, and angry for reasons I couldn't understand, I kicked the door, pushing against it.

  "Damn it." That door became a target for my fury and I kicked it again and again, pounding my fists into the wood. And it didn't move. In desperation, I threw my weight against it.

  When it gave away, it caught me off-guard. Tumbling forward, I ended up in the house, on my hands and knees, surrounded by the remnant of the door.

  "Dry rot," I muttered, a little dazed.

  Palms stinging from my attempt to catch myself, I sat up and looked around.

  Something inside me broke a little more. The walls bore more evidence that people had been flopping here for a long, long time. The room was empty, save for a busted couch. Even from here, I could smell it.

  There were more bottles littering the floor, and judging by the smell in the air, there were things rotting inside the house. Aside from the trash and the couch, the only other thing I could see was the remains of a table.

  But the necklace was still pulsing hot in my hand. I couldn't go back outside. Not yet. Drawn deeper into the house, I found myself checking closets and cabinets, looking in the drawers in the kitchen, searching anywhere I could think to look. There was something here. I had no idea what. But I could feel it.

  Most of the rooms yielded little more than trash, but in the bedroom, there were boxes. Some of them still had lids precariously perched on them. But others had been dumped onto the side, papers scattered everywhere.

  Slowly, I knelt. Gravitating up a few pages, I stared at the first one that came to hand, reading it without comprehension for several moments before I realized what it was.

  A will.

  I recognized some of the names.

  One of them was Peter.

  Unable to read anymore, I put it down and gathered more of the pages. Cards. Contracts. A deed...I froze when I saw it. It was a deed to this house.

  The rest of the papers fell from my hands as I read it.

  He must have lived here.

  Feeling sick, I hurriedly gathered up the papers, needing to put them out of sight.

  Without looking at any of them, I went to dump them into a box.

  I picked the first one I saw and went to bend over it, intent on one thing—putting these pages away.

  But I froze, unable to move.

  The box wasn’t empty.

  Heart hammering, I stared at the simple blue book. The sight of it made my heart start to race, and I began to feel a little faint.

  "Florence's diary," I whispered. Carefully, I reached in and picked it up. "What is it doing here?"

  Bringing it to my chest, I cradled it. The necklace was burning hot now and I closed my eyes, feeling like I had found some vital, missing piece of myself.

  Furtively I looked around, although I really wasn't expecting to find somebody else. Tucking the diary into the crook of my arm, I stood up and started forward. I'd take it home and look at it later. The diary had to have something to do with everything. Each time I'd gone back or forth, it had been because of the diary.

  The necklace pulsed. Slowly, I reached up to touch it. "The diary...and the necklace."

  I hurried forward, determined to get back to Uncle Daniels and try to figure out what it was that moved me back or forth.

  I went to close the door when I crossed the threshold only to stop and laugh. There was no door. Nothing save a few stubborn inches that still clung to the hinges. The rest lay in pieces on the floor. Moving outside, I took a deep breath. Dark clouds had moved in, and I swallowed a curse. The forecast had talked like rain might be moving in, and I needed to get the hell out of here.

  Rain in California could be a bitch, something Uncle Daniel had warned me about. They went so long between rain that flash flooding was a dangerous potential.

  I heard the cracking. Thunder--

  But no. Something was giving way under me.

  As I fell, I swept out my hand, trying to grab onto something. Already falling, I had no chance.

  My head struck something sharp and hard. Pain exploded and lights flashed in front of me. Then everything went dark.

  6

  Maya

  Something wet hit my face. Again, again, again. I batted at it--or tried to.

  That simple movement sent pain jolting through me, a pain that had a locus inside my head.

  Groaning, I went to probe the source and found myself touching cold, wet mud.

  And rain splattered in my face.

  Memory began to flicker sporadically, and I swallowed the nausea burning in my throat. Slowly, I sat up, staring around. Flickers of lightning lit up the house in front of me. I rolled onto my hands and knees. A flash of light
ning spilled over the gold of the necklace. I grabbed it, looking around for the diary.

  I remembered.

  I'd found the diary and was coming down the steps.

  I fell.

  I didn't see the diary anywhere.

  Panic flooded my throat and I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and turned on the flashlight. No diary. Lurching upward, I stumbled back toward Mrs. B's little house. Every movement caused pain to hurtle and spin through me, but I sucked it up and pushed through it.

  The diary. I'd dropped it. It had to be here.

  I'd come through the door and dropped...

  I froze.

  The door.

  It had been broken.

  Now it stood in front of me whole and untouched—solid.

  Slowly, I reached for the doorknob. It didn't open. And it felt a lot more solid than it was before. Not daring to believe what I suspected had happened, I backed up and stared at the house in the flickers of lightning.

  No graffiti.

  Another look out around the yard showed the roses were cared for, and gardens tended.

  I could see the looming dark shadow of the house.

  The small shelter of the porch allowed a degree of protection, and I stood there, staring at the house as lightning flickered, giving small bursts of illumination.

  The lawn had been cut and there was water in the pool.

  "I'm back."

  Without even taking a moment to think it through, I took off running.

  The elation I felt died, turning so quickly to dismay.

  The house was empty.

  Not just empty, but...abandoned, it seemed.

  At first, I'd tried to go inside but the doors had been locked—all of them. I couldn't remember a single time when the back door had been locked.

  But then again, I couldn't remember a time when Mrs. B hadn't been here.

  That wasn't what really bothered me though.