by T. A. Foster
What is the significance of Ivy’s family in the story?
Do you think Richard Grace is right to be so concerned?
Did you feel sympathy toward Simone? What about Holden?
If you could Time Spell, would you be as steadfast as Ivy in her commitment not to interfere with the past?
Where would you want to travel?
There are obvious contrasts between Jack and Finn. Are they supposed to be opposites?
Finn is extremely charming. Does that personality skill always lead to positive outcomes?
Each main character is driven by love to some extent. Talk about how love leads them to carry out different actions. How is love different for Ivy than it is for Helen?
Stonevine, Connecticut, 1952
Helen
I STRUMMED my fingers along the edge of the baby grand piano, and exhaled a stream of smoke into the already stuffy room. I nodded at George as his fingers banged out the notes to Blue Tango on the piano. The band was taking a ten-minute break and George jumped at the chance to show off his playlist on the ivories.
This party was dull. Carolyn Crawford’s engagement was the talk of the town, but this soiree was turning into a drag. Her parents had filled their upper Stonevine home with the town’s most prestigious, wealthy, and affluent families to celebrate their only child’s upcoming wedding. Of course my family, the VonRues, were included. No doubt, we were at the top of the list.
The VonRues were at the top of everyone’s list. My father, Charles, had a hand in the success of Stonevine. There wasn’t anyone at this party who didn’t owe him something, and he knew it.
One of the waiters walking by offered a glass of champagne. I greedily accepted the chilled beverage and surveyed the room for a rescue from George’s singing. He had moved on to an Eddie Fisher song. Where was Peter? Why couldn’t I find him in this crowd?
I did my best to take tiny sips of the champagne, but it was sweet and cold and I was bored. I knocked the glass back and heard an instant chuckle from over my right shoulder. Someone was watching me. I turned to face the man who had found my boredom so amusing.
I caught my breath and reigned in my smile. Surely my perfect, creamy skin had turned bright pink as I flushed from the thoughts of him and those devilish eyes. I had never seen eyes that color before. It was like flecks of diamonds were glinting at me. Who was he? I was confident I knew everyone Carolyn invited. Maybe he was a cousin or perhaps someone’s date. Whoever the stranger was, he certainly wasn’t from Stonevine.
Daringly, I thought about introducing myself or asking him if maybe he played the piano, but the instant I glided forward he turned his back to me and began shamelessly flirting with the girls crowding around him. Really, those girls are indecent—throwing themselves at a man like that. Let them make fools of themselves. Who would want to bother with someone like him? His tux didn’t fit quite right, he laughed a little too loudly, and it looked like he had straight bourbon in his glass. He most certainly was not from any of the families I had spent my life socializing with.
I reached for one more glass of champagne floating by on another waiter’s tray and turned toward the door. I stepped on to the Crawfords’ front porch and inhaled the Connecticut spring air. I wanted to shake off how that man stared at me, but at the same time, I wanted him to do it again.
Looking through the windows of the house, I saw my friends, arm in arm, gathering around George and his silly singing. Carolyn and Phillip were at the center of the circle. Truly, they made a lovely Stonevine couple. That will be Peter and me in a few months.
My mother was already planning the precise details of our engagement announcement. She had chosen my deep blue cocktail dress for the evening—she liked to plan. I couldn’t believe it when she told me it was the same one Princess Margaret had worn. As if it was designed especially for my tall thin frame, the folds of the silk hugged my hips swishing like an airy cloud when I walked. We were waiting until after Carolyn’s party to break the news to our friends. Stonevine can only handle one lavish wedding at a time. And the VonRues were not going to let my engagement to Peter Willoughby be anything less than spectacular.
I sighed and leaned against the column closest to me. At nineteen, I knew I was ready for marriage. Two years at Briarcliff had taught me how to achieve the necessary duties my socialite wife status called upon me to perform. All Briarcliff girls knew how to do those things. Me, I just knew how to do them better.
Peter would give me a wonderful life. We’d honeymoon in Paris for the summer then come back to Stonevine and find a charming home, probably close to my parents. Father had offered Peter a position at VonRue Holdings as the Vice President of Operations. There would be parties, bridge every week, and trips to the city for the theater. We had already decided we would have one boy and one girl. What more could I ask for? It was all planned, all settled, and all tidy.
I pulled out a cigarette from my clutch when the door opened and a giggling girl scurried past me with an eager suitor in tow. Her curls bobbed up and down as they darted into the shadows created by the corner of the house. “Shhh.” She giggled some more. I don’t think they saw me on the porch.
I had no interest in listening to this nonsense. I stuffed the unlit cigarette in the silk purse and turned to rejoin the party. I might as well search for Peter. Shouldn’t he be looking for me? Irritated my future husband hadn’t noticed my absence, I huffed and pulled on the door handle.
“Whoa, pretty kitty. Where are you going in such a hurry?”
He was there, filling up the doorframe in his ill-fitted tux. The beautiful stranger with the mesmerizing eyes. The reason I needed fresh air. The man who made me lose my senses for an enthralling five seconds. And there were only inches between us.
“Cat got your tongue?” He teased.
I snapped back, “Certainly not. I’m looking for my…my…date.” I tried to step past him, but he remained planted in the doorway. “Excuse me. I’m trying to return to the party.”
He laughed. “Now, just wait. If you have to go looking for your date, it’s apparent he’s the wrong Joe for you.”
My eyes dropped to the floor. I was equally vexed and embarrassed that this man I didn’t even know said exactly what I was thinking.
“You don’t know Peter. He’s quite the gentleman and quite the catch. He would never leave in the middle of a conversation. That would be rude, wouldn’t it?” I glared at the stranger and his perfectly carved cheekbones. He looked like a flawless statue I had seen in my art history books. “I’m sure he can’t just break away from his current company. Besides, I’m more than capable of entertaining myself.”
He laughed again, and I absorbed every vibrating note ricocheting between us. “I can see that you are. Defend him if you like, but if my date was as gorgeous and sexy as you are, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight—not even for a second.” His eyes dipped toward the V in the sweetheart line of my dress.
Did he just say I was sexy? Out loud so everyone within earshot of the Crawfords’ porch could hear him? I felt his pale icy eyes undressing me right out of my couture gown. My head was spinning. This outsider was crossing all kinds of lines I couldn’t even fathom. He was dangerous. He radiated something undeniably sinful and powerful. I smiled as I felt it encircle me in slow undulating rings.
I took a step back, and then another so that the tall handsome guest had room to close the door. There was just enough light from the windows to allow me to see his wicked smile and captivating eyes, even though most of him was a mysterious silhouette cloaked in darkness.
In one long stride, he cut the distance between us, and his hand reached for the column my back was now pressed against. I heard the band start up again, and the words to You Belong To Me suspended in the air between us.
Avoiding the bright headlights beaming onto the porch as a car cruised past the party, I turned my head to the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw and felt the intensity of his stare bearing down on
me. I no longer heard the incessant giggles of the couple in the shadows. We were alone.
“I guess I should properly introduce myself. That’s how you all do things out here in Connecticut, right?” he asked.
I nodded lightly, eagerly waiting for the name to tumble from his perfectly shaped lips. The name of the man who was holding me between a place of balance and the edge of a dark cliff. Tipping my chin toward him, I leaned in closer, and traced the curves of his mouth with my eyes. I couldn’t stop staring—wondering what it would feel like on mine. He was taunting me, dragging this charade on for what felt like endless tension-laden seconds.
“I’m Holden Chadsworth.”
I cleared my throat. “Helen VonRue.” My rehearsed and rigid social upbringing bubbled to the surface. Instinctively, I extended my gloved hand to take his, but he brushed it aside, knocking it out of his way. I bristled at the rough contact, but felt intoxicating heat stirring within me.
His voice sliced through the air between us. “Now that formalities are out of the way let me show you how we introduce ourselves where I’m from.”
Both slapping him and kissing him seemed like acceptable solutions to quell the burning sensation taking hold of me. Searching my instincts for direction, I felt his presence arresting my every decision. I didn’t recognize the hunger trembling through my body or the overwhelming craving for this outsider to touch me. What was he doing to me?
He pressed his lips against mine roughly, and I squirmed from the weight of his body crushing into me. I tried to free myself from his overbearing frame, but dropped my protest when his arms encircled my waist and pulled me toward him. I knew at any moment someone from the party—maybe my parents—maybe Peter—could walk onto the porch and see me lip to lip with this stranger, pressed against the Crawfords’ column, not resisting the touches that should only happen behind closed doors. But there was something wickedly delicious about Holden Chadsworth, and I was willing to taste every last drop—no matter what the consequences.
WHEW! I didn’t remember New Orleans being this hot on my last trip. I pulled my shirt away from my chest and fanned myself. The sun scorched my skin. I looked around for a cold drink.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” The director’s voice boomed overhead. “You’ve got this all wrong. Let’s take a break and start over in thirty minutes.” The mob holding lights, microphones, and fans scurried like ants in all directions.
I jumped from my seat, and made a dash for the drink cart tucked under one of the few umbrellas on the set. I let my hand linger a little too long in the ice bucket of sodas.
“Darlin’, you need some help cooling off?” The deep sexy voice and Texas drawl ebbed over my ears like a slow wave.
Startled, I pulled my hand out of the ice bucket, and with it, a diet soda. I laughed. “Yes, you caught me. I didn’t know it was going to be so hot today.”
He laughed and reached in front of me to grab a water, his arm barely grazing my stomach. “I take it you’re not used to being on a movie set? We’re in for the long haul today, darlin’.” He twisted the cap off the water bottle and chugged the sixteen ounces.
I watched him wipe the water off his full lips. “That obvious? Yeah, it’s my first time. I’m Ivy. Ivy Grace.” I smiled at the tall actor who had me smitten about five movies ago.
“The writer? I know who you are. I was just waiting for the director to yell ‘cut’ so I could walk over and say howdy to you.” His white teeth peeked through his lips. “I’m Evan.”
I was smitten a little bit more. It was the combination of the Texas accent and the perfect-teeth smile. He had warm gray-green eyes that lit up when he talked. I liked the way he paused between his words and wasn’t afraid to look into my eyes, even if we were only talking about the weather.
The sweat trickling down the back of my neck was my cue to step away from the drink cart and America’s heartthrob, and perform a quick outfit change.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Evan.” I wiped my palm off on my hip and held it out to him.
His hand clasped around mine. “Nice to meet you, Ivy. Catch you around?”
“Of course, looking forward to it.” I grinned.
“Stay cool.”
I smiled at him again and watched him saunter over to the rows of talent trailers bordering the side of the set. I squealed on the inside. I couldn’t believe I had just met the Evan Carlson, hottest movie star, playing the lead in my movie. I looked down at my shirt and saw water droplets bleeding through the cotton fabric.
Great—movie star encounter with a wardrobe malfunction. I grabbed my leather bag with the script I was working on, and found a makeshift ladies room. The talent had individual trailers, where they could escape from the oppressive New Orleans humidity. The star accommodations were equipped with air conditioning, televisions, and cold drinks, but the rest of us had community lounges.
The ladies room was empty, so I opted to use my Glamour Spell. It was quick, easy, and never failed me. I watched my reflection in the lean-to mirror transform from one of sticky clothes, damp blond tendrils, and the beginning traces of football player mascara to one of a new crisp shirt, shorts, and fresh makeup. I smiled at my reflection. Now, I felt ready to flirt with hunky movie stars.
I was in New Orleans for a few days to work on the last-minute changes for Masquerade’s screenplay. I wrote the book a few years ago, but after the wildly successful novel and movie for Vegas Star, my second novel, my team at Raven Publishing pushed Masquerade on Hollywood, and it worked.
The movie executives wanted to bring more of my characters to life on the big screen. The creative team invited me to the set today to watch the behind-the-scenes action unfold in person. Little did they know, I had seen all of this in person once before, only then it was actually 1945.
I grabbed my bag and headed out as a few girls from the sound crew headed in. They couldn’t stop giggling about something they heard Evan say. I paused in the doorway, hoping to girl talk with them, but they clammed up and waited for me to leave.
The production of Masquerade took place all over the city. Today’s scenes were located in the far-reaching fingertips of New Orleans. The director wanted to capture as many of the outdoor shots while the forecast predicted sunny days. According to the local meteorologists, a hefty early summer storm was brewing in the Gulf, and the daylight opportunities would be limited.
The set designers had settled on a plantation house to stage the romantic scenes between Josette and Luke. It was hard for me to let go of the story, and hand over my creative license to a group of people I didn’t know, but it was all part of the screenwriting package. I was starting to accept that the movie world was a uniquely different place from where my literary roots were planted.
You see, I’m not just a writer or your average girl. I’m a witch. I write stories about the places I’ve been and the people I’ve seen. The hard part is I can’t share my magic with anyone in the non-magical world. I can’t tell anyone about my Time Spell. With a lot of practice, I perfected a spell that allows me to travel through time. What I see along the way manifests itself in the pages I write back at home in Sullen’s Grove, North Carolina.
The spell almost cost me my family and Jack, but I won’t fall into that trap again. After everything that happened in Las Vegas last month, I vowed to avoid stories involving danger. I can’t jeopardize the lives of the people I love. I won’t.
I surveyed the majestic main house. Monstrous columns climbed to the top of the porch. The style was reminiscent of architecture I had seen on most every plantation house in the South. A wrought iron railing fenced in the second story plaza. Black shutters hung on either side of the plantation windows. I loved the ripple effect of the waves in each windowpane; it gave them such character and charm.
The breeze kicked up, and I watched the moss entangled in the oak branches float above the road. I imagined the tourists who drove along the entrance hopped out to take pictures of the trees and the house. It wa
s breathtaking. The production studio purchased a week of filming at Magnolia Plantation, so the crew didn’t have to worry about tourists milling about trying to catch glimpses of the film’s stars. Occasionally, I spotted a local reporter on the side of the set interviewing someone in the cast or someone on the production crew.
New Orleans had become quite the Mecca for movie hosting in the years since Hurricane Katrina had bored down on the South’s most treasured city. The locals welcomed the business and the free publicity the big Hollywood studios infused into the economy. Reporters flocked to the movie sets trying to garner personal interviews usually only captured by national magazines and entertainment news shows.
Evan emerged from one of the talent trailers, and from a distance, I thought I saw him throw me a wave. I waved back, just in case, and settled into my seat to watch the next scene between him and Emmy Harper, the actress playing Josette. I pulled my sunglasses down low, trying to shield my face from the intense afternoon sun, and retrieved a fan from my bag. I doubt anyone would know that fan wasn’t in my bag five minutes ago. This ardent heat was forcing me to dip into the magic bag of tricks that I usually reserved for private appearances.
Evan strolled to the front sidewalk of the house and waited for the director to shout, “Action.” One of the makeup artists powdered the front of his nose, and brushed the shoulders of his Navy uniform with a lint brush. I giggled at the face he made during the makeup attack. Looking satisfied with her presentation, she returned the brushes to her apron belt, and stepped back to let Evan and Emmy start their lines. My wrist rocked back and forth with the fan as I listened to the actors exchange words only a few feet in front of me.
“Josette, I’m leaving. Come with me.” Evan stretched his hand out to Emmy.
His face was pained. Her back was turned to him, and she was at the top of the stairs, leaning against one of the formidable plantation columns.