Magic Minutes

by Jennifer Millikin

  Dayton takes my veil and flips it to cover my eyes. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying not to sound impatient. Now that I’m here, I am more ready than I’ve ever been for anything in the history of ever.

  Dayton offers me his elbow. “Let’s do this.”

  We step into the sun pouring through the open doors. It warms my skin instantly. Beyond the guests are grape vines as far as I can see. The Sutton vineyard. Noah has spent the past year learning everything he can about the family business. When we get back from our trip abroad, he will take over and his dad will finally retire.

  Pausing, I look down the aisle and find him.

  Noah.

  I’m transported back to the day I felt rough arms pull me from beneath the water’s surface. I was shocked, maybe a little indignant, until I saw his face. Intent, worried, confident. How long did it take him to get me back to the edge of the lake? A minute? That’s all the time it took for magic to engulf us, as if Aphrodite herself looked down and cast a spell.

  I’m supposed to wait for Dayton to lead me, but I start forward. I can’t wait a moment longer.

  Dayton falls into step and leans into my ear. “Behave,” he says in a voice so soft it’s barely a whisper.

  “We’ll see about that,” I sass back, but my eyes are on Noah.

  His body looks relaxed, but his eyes are the opposite. Emotions swim through and seep out on to his face. The sun illuminates slivers of moisture on his cheeks. I reach him, and he pulls me close.

  “Okay, now I think I’m drowning,” I whisper.

  He leans his forehead against mine. “Me too.”

  The End

  The Lifetime of A Second (The Time Series Book Three)

  Available August 8th

  Preorder here

  *Author’s Note: The Time Series are standalone novels.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brynn

  I blinked, and they’re gone.

  The Saguaros, I mean.

  The tall, multi-limbed cactus only grow in the Sonoran Desert. I only grew in the Sonoran Desert, too, until it became clear Phoenix could no longer be my home.

  All I had to do was climb into a car and point it north. Such a simple ending following a catastrophic journey.

  Me and the Saguaros. We’ve disappeared.

  The vehicle I’m in does a terrible job absorbing the black tar road. The road noise rushes in, whirling around us. It doesn’t even matter. The air is already thick with awkward silence. What does a little road noise hurt?

  We drive on, through a wide-open swath of nothingness, and the car climbs higher. A small sigh escapes my lips at the first pine tree. In less than a mile we lose the tall, scrubby bushes and there are only pine trees, some clustering together and others spaced far apart. I feel somber at the sight of some that are barren and blackened by previous fire. It seems unfair they’re left standing, bearing the marks of how they were ravaged for all to see.

  At least my marks hide on the inside.

  My shoulder bumps the hard plastic door as the driver changes lanes and speeds up to pass a semi-truck. He sends the massive truck a couple beeps from his horn as we go by. Under his breath, he grumbles about the left lane versus the right.

  I should’ve known someone who spells his name Geoff would be a bad driver. The moment I saw his name I wanted to call him Gee-off but resisted the urge.

  Leaning forward, I open my mouth and say the first words spoken to one another in two and a half hours. “It should only be twenty more minutes.” Looking down, I check the map on my phone again.

  I look up, catch his gaze in the rearview mirror, and immediately avert my eyes.

  “I’ve never been asked to drive this far before,” he says.

  He’s fishing for information. And he’s going to come up empty. The phrase ‘Life or death’ used to be said by my dad when I complained and he wanted me to see how inconsequential my complaint was. But this is not like that.

  This is actually a matter of life or death.

  And to make this all work, I have to trust a stranger who drives too fast and wants to know why he’s taking me to a small town in the woods.

  If he recognizes me, I’m screwed.

  I pull the ball cap lower onto my forehead. Without thinking, I reach for my long hair, being held back in a ponytail. My fingers keep reaching, curling against the cloth interior of the seat instead of my hair.

  I’ve done that so many times since I chopped off my long, blonde hair two days ago. I wonder when that will end? The hair is gone.

  Another sacrifice.

  Or, perhaps, a penance.

  If giving up my hair could atone for what I’ve done, I’d be bald in a heartbeat.

  Nothing can change what happened.

  The judicial system decided I wasn’t guilty, but in my heart?

  Guilty.

  Guilty.

  Guilty.

  We’re almost there.

  “Number forty-seven,” I tell the driver. He crawls down the street at the same time I’m filled with an overwhelming urge to arrive. So now you go slow?

  My nails dig into my palms as I will myself to calm down. To distract me, I study the homes we pass. They are small, squat, and each one has a chimney. The front yards are tidy, some of them have flowers rising from terra-cotta pots. I lean in, focusing on the house on the corner. The tip of my nose pokes the window. The house is nondescript, no flowers or bushes in sight and the door is black. Shiny, midnight black.

  That door screams its message loud and clear: Stay away.

  I want that door.

  Too bad my rental agreement won’t allow me to paint. Or install an alarm system.

  “Here you are,” Geoff says, slowing to a stop.

  By the time he makes his way to the rear of the car, I’ve pulled out my two bags and placed them on the ground. This is the first time I’ve seen him standing. He never got out when he pulled up to pick me up from the gas station I gave him the address for.

  Geoff’s left leg is missing. In its place is a metal rod. Now I feel like an ass for disliking his name.

  “Accident when I was a kid,” he says, pointing down. He shrugs. “Sometimes I forget it even happened.”

  I nod because I don’t know what to say and I still feel awful. I was a terrible companion for that long car ride. But that’s the thing about disappearing. It comes with stipulations. Starting with: Don’t be memorable. I can’t tell a funny story or have a meaningful conversation. I can’t be a vibrant color in someone’s memory. No magenta, or teal. I am beige. Endless, insignificant beige.

  I used to be the brightest shade of yellow. Happy, outgoing, ebullient.

  One second of time turned me into a neutral shade.

  And it will be my color forever.

  I’ve come to accept that. It’s one of the reasons I decided to run. Well, that and the other thing. The thing that will always have me looking over my shoulder.

  “Good luck, Ms.—”

  “Brynn,” I say quickly, not wanting Geoff to say my last name again, in case one more passage of it through his lips prompts it to stay in his mind longer than necessary.

  Already I regret not using a fake name. My middle name seemed like enough of a deviation, but I’m not so sure now. Last week, this was all just an idea in my head. I received his most recent hate mail, and after I placed it alongside his other letters, thought You should skip town. From that one tiny thought came big choices. I began searching for places to rent in northern Arizona, and when I found a place ready for immediate move-in, I snapped it up. Ginger, the owner of the eleven hundred square foot cabin, was chasing her dream of backpacking through Europe and would be gone for six months.

  Perfect, I told her. What I didn’t tell her was that I’ll be long gone by the time she comes home. Three months of wages is all I need. Just enough to pad what my parents will give me when their season is finished. I arranged a property manager for my place, packed my bags, gath
ered all my important documents, and Elizabeth Brynn Montgomery dropped the Elizabeth. I did not pass Go, I did not collect two hundred dollars.

  I ordered a car and had it pick me up two blocks from my condo.

  Now that car is driving away.

  And I’m here in Brighton. A town dwarfed by sprawling, sunny Phoenix. Standing on the sidewalk and staring at the small home in front of me.

  The yard is neat, the grass a deep green and trimmed.

  Three stairs connect the front walkway to the porch, and each step is buffered by a small pot of geraniums. On either side of the front door hang two rustic lights that resemble lanterns.

  “Here we go,” I mutter, and bump bump bump my rolling suitcase along the cracks in the short driveway. Ginger said the house key would be under a pot of flowers. I lift one after the other until on my fourth try I find one gold key on a silver key ring.

  The inside of the home looks much like the outside. Tidy, modest, and sparsely decorated. Ginger must have a thing for apples. The curtains are blue and white gingham with red apples lining the bottom and top. A large, framed picture of apples hangs on the wall in the living room. Fake apples are piled in a basket on top of the fridge.

  It takes only a few minutes to walk through the place. In the hallway, I find a locked closet and realize Ginger must’ve put some personal items in there. There are no photographs in the place, no books, or anything that tells me anything about Ginger as a person. They all must be in that closet, and it strikes me as sad that these things can mean enough to take up space in our homes but can so easily be locked away. Is that the way it is for everything? Are things only as important as we make them?

  The thought depresses me, but the feeling isn’t new.

  I won’t take those pills the therapist gave me. At the request of my parents, I went to see someone. She kept calling what happened the accident. But it wasn’t an accident. The therapist said she understood that, but for my sake, they would call it an accident because from my standpoint it was one.

  I rub my eyes, an attempt at banishing the thoughts. Thinking them won’t help anything. What’s done is done. And it can never be undone.

  Instead, I search the place. Open every cabinet, sift through every drawer, until I’m certain I know every inch. After that, I dump my suitcase on the bed and put everything in its proper place. The master bedroom is large, Ginger said, because she’d knocked out the wall between the two bedrooms. “When you’re single, one large is better than two small,” she’d said, then asked me if I was single.

  I answered her quickly, saying, “Yes, and I plan to keep it that way.”

  Besides, nobody will want me now.

  Not after what I’ve done.

  I don’t remember falling asleep. Or what woke me up.

  I roll over, place a hand over my eyes, and take a deep breath. I know what I will see when I open my eyes, but I’m not ready to see it. The unfamiliar walls, the furniture that isn’t mine.

  Tap, tap, tap tap tap. I sit up, my heart banging in my chest. Instinctively I know it’s not him. He wouldn’t knock.

  I stand, glance in the mirror above the dresser, and swipe my fingers under my eyes. The mascara streaks don’t budge.

  A second knock drifts to me, this one soft and out of cadence. Turning away from my reflection, I hurry to the door and peer through the peephole.

  A woman.

  My lips twist, thoughts rushing through my head. Meeting people is unavoidable, but so soon? I planned to hide out as long as possible, living off the protein bars I brought until I was ready to venture out. Grocery shopping and finding a job have to happen soon, but I wanted a couple days to hole up and absorb what I’ve left behind.

  I gulp in a breath of air and open the door.

  The young woman smiles. She lifts a hand, waving. “Hi. I’m Cassidy Anders. I live next door.” She points to my left. Looking down, she says, “This is Brooklyn.”

  A child. I hadn’t noticed a child. She stands only three feet tall, her head barely reaching her mother’s mid-thigh. Gripping the door handle, I try not to slam the door closed. I want to be away from these people.

  My therapist taught me what to do in these situations when panic grips me and I feel like my world has tilted off its axis. Breathe in one, two, three, four and out one, two, three, four.

  “Are you okay?” Cassidy asks, eyes squinting with concern.

  “Yes,” I bark, wincing at the harshness in my voice.

  Brooklyn hides behind her mother’s leg, and shame fills me. Like the depressed feeling from earlier, shame is not new to me either.

  “Yeah, okay. Well, I, uh…” Cassidy holds out a silver tin with a clear plastic lid.

  I don’t want what she’s offering, but my hands reach for it anyway, a reflexive response.

  I look down at what is in my hands, then back up to the woman. She is young, very young, maybe my age. She has smile lines that I don’t have. A swipe of flour dusts her forearm.

  “You made me a pie?” The astonishment in my voice is embarrassing. Baking a pie is not a new concept. Someone being kind to me? That hasn’t happened in a while.

  Innocent until proven guilty are words we use to remind us not to judge too quickly. But let’s be honest. It’s really guilty until proven innocent, and even then, the guilt leaves behind traces, like smudges of ash following a fire or particulates floating in the atmosphere after an explosion. The slate is never fully wiped clean.

  “You’re our new neighbor, right?” Cassidy offers a friendly smile, but I can’t seem to reciprocate.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And your name is?” She cocks her head to the side, her eyes tentative. Her smile has faltered. Maybe she has that sixth sense that mothers develop. My own mother claimed to have one.

  “Brynn,” I answer finally, balancing the pie in the crook of my left arm and offering her my right hand.

  She seems relieved by this customary display of normalcy. We had a rocky start, but perhaps I’ve passed her test after all.

  “Mommy, can I go play now?” Brooklyn’s little voice floats up from her hiding spot behind Cassidy. Her head is stuck out and she looks up at her mother, eyes big and wide, waiting.

  “Sure, sweetie, but not for too long. Taylor will be here soon.”

  Brooklyn yells with excitement and jumps down each stair, landing on each step with two feet and a solid thud. When she hits the grass, she bolts for her own front yard.

  Cassidy turns back to me. “She loves her babysitter. I, on the other hand, do not like needing a babysitter.”

  “Oh,” I say. I could make conversation. Ask Cassidy why she needs the babysitter. Ask her about Brooklyn. How old is she? Is she in school? What’s her favorite color? Hell, I could even ask Cassidy what flavor the flipping pie is.

  But, no.

  I’m not in Brighton to make friends.

  I’m here to blend in, make money, and run.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is a one-man show, but getting it from my brain and into readers’ hearts takes a team.

  A hundred thank you’s to Julia, the very first person to read this book and set me straight on Northern California weather. Without you it might be snowing in wine country.

  My BFF Kristan. You called me at night when you finished reading to tell me you needed Noah and Ember to fight harder for their love. A friend who will tell you what you want to hear? That’s easy to find. A friend who will tell you the truth because she wants to make you better? Priceless.

  Murphy Rae at Indie Solutions, thank you for making my beautiful, eye-catching covers. Before someone reads my blurb or my words, they see your cover. It’s possible your job is the most important one.

  Also by Jennifer Millikin

  Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book One)

  The Day He Went Away

  Full of Fire