Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Besides, she was in old clothes, her hair was untidy and her bangs overgrown, almost covering her eyes. She hadn’t expected company, and when she was neck-deep in writing, rarely took pains over her appearance. Heck, she rarely took pains over her appearance at any time. She gave him her best, practiced, icy smile.

  “I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t alone,” he said.

  As if he cares. “I have Charlie,” she responded, tightly.

  He nodded. “OK. You have our number. But here,” he walked over to a note pad Claire had near her phone and started writing, “is my cell number. I can get here a lot faster than the sheriff. Don’t hesitate to call me if you see or hear anything unusual.” He turned and grinned. “You know, like a Victorian man in costume.”

  “He wasn’t Victorian. He was Regency.”

  “Oh, er...is there a difference?” He finished writing his number.

  “Huge.”

  He turned, his face scrunched in thought. “Um, Regency…when was that?”

  “Early nineteenth century,” said Claire, who added her standard answer, “The time of Jane Austen.”

  “Ah.” His face cleared as he came back toward her. “Well—whatever.” At the door, he turned and gave her a lazy smile. “Hey, I read some of your book reviews.”

  “Yes?” she asked cautiously. She’d had more than her fair share of negative reviews in the past two years.

  “That reporter from the Tribune said you need to live your own romance before you try writing another.”

  She crossed her arms.

  He winked. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can—”

  “Goodbye!” Claire urged him out the door and hurriedly shut and locked it.

  “Just sayin,’” he called, after regaining his foothold. She watched furtively from a window as he shrugged, then shook his head, and tramped off the porch. It was growing dark, but she watched until his car disappeared in the gloom down the drive. The nerve! He’d read book reviews but hadn’t even bothered to read one of her books.

  She turned away, but now the awful truth hit her. She’d seen a man that had left no evidence of being real. Worse, he looked like St. John—her fictional hero.

  She fed Charlie. “We know what we saw, don’t we, Charlie?” It must have seemed like madness to Adam and the sheriff when she’d described the man’s apparel, but what else could she do? It’s what she’d seen. But no footprints! What did it mean?

  Was her mother right about the cottage making her grandmother mad? Maybe it was happening to Claire, too. But every time she remembered how Charlie reacted, she knew it hadn’t been just a vision, or solely her imagination—and definitely no rabbit.

  After mulling it over, she called her mother. She’d be surprised to hear from Claire again so soon since they seldom spoke. If Mother showed any interest in Claire or her life, things might have been different. Talking to her was just a reminder of how that hurt. But curiosity about the cottage won out. As soon as uncomfortable pleasantries were over, she asked, “Can you tell me more about why you hate Dove Cottage? I need to know.”

  “Is everything all right?” her mother responded nervously. “Anything strange going on?”

  “I thought I saw someone on the property today. But the sheriff couldn’t find any sign of an intruder, not even a footprint.”

  “Are you sure you saw someone?”

  “I’m totally sure! Charlie growled at first, but in a minute he was wagging his tail, and the man petted him.”

  “A man! Maybe it isn’t safe up there.”

  “I’m okay. I have Charlie.” She paused. “Can you just tell me what you’ve got against this place—or against Grandmother? I never understood that.” She peeked out the window, holding the phone. But she couldn’t have seen the man even if he was there, it was so dark. “What made you say she was nuts? And that you wished the cottage would be demolished?”

  Her mother hesitated. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Now Claire was really concerned. Her mother knew something! She went back to the kitchen and sat down. “I need answers.”

  “No, you need an alarm system. Or a husband. Someone to keep you company if you want to live in the woods.”

  “Mother, please!”

  “Your grandmother had a lot of strange ideas, that’s all. She swore she could see visions.”

  “Well, is that so strange?” Claire asked. “Maybe she was a Christian mystic or something.”

  “No, no, your grandmother was religious but her visions weren’t.” She paused, then added, “And she didn’t have visions when she lived near us when you were a baby. They started when she moved there, into Dove Cottage.”

  “So Grandmother had visions; so what?”

  “Well…” Her mother paused. “Okay, how’s this? She believed she could see into other times of history. Is that weird enough for you?”

  Claire was shocked. She’d never heard a word about this. “Did she really believe that?”

  “That’s why I kept you away from her. You thought I was just being mean, but I didn’t want her giving you any wild ideas, filling your head with fantastic impossibilities. It’s hard enough to raise children in today’s world…” Her voice trailed off.

  Claire frowned and rested her head on one hand. “Actually, what’s so wrong with claiming to see visions of history? Even the Bible’s full of visions.”

  “Of the future. Grandmother’s were of the past. That’s a big difference.”

  Claire sighed. She headed toward the only desk in the cottage, an old-fashioned roll-top in the living area and pulled open the file drawer. “Maybe she was just having memories and called them visions.”

  “Memories of things two hundred years before she was born?” her mother asked, sardonically.

  Claire froze and her eyes bulged. “Two hundred years ago?” The Regency was approximately two hundred years ago, and Claire had seen St. John—a Regency gentleman!

  “Your grandmother went off the deep end. After living there, she no longer had an orthodox bone in her body.”

  Claire was rifling through files Grandmother had left, not even sure what she was looking for. “So are you saying she was a heretic? Like, she believed in a past life?”

  “No, not reincarnation. She was a Christian. But she went off the deep end at some point, and that cottage had everything to do with it. Her ideas got…frightening. That’s all I can say about it.”

  Later, as Claire prepared dinner, she mulled over the conversation. Was Grandmother a visionary? Or had she really gone off the deep end, as her mother said? She hoped, if either were true, it didn’t run in the family.

  When she was back at the kitchen table ready to get in more writing, she said aloud to the fictional St. John, still in that ballroom, “I have forgotten to write in your costume tonight, sir. You must stand out from the crowd, and so—a scarlet, silver-threaded embroidered waistcoat, perhaps?” She quickly entered it to the page. But she felt cold—the fire was dying. She stirred the embers and added a few logs. Spying the tallit, she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, crossing it over her chest.

  And then chaos hit.

  She heard a rushing sound, like a strong wind or waterfall—or something. And no longer was she in the cottage.

  Logic will get you from A to B.

  Imagination will take you everywhere.

  Einstein

  CHAPTER 6

  The quiet of the room vanished, replaced by a hum of background voices and sounds such as one hears at a gathering. Claire blinked, as everything was fuzzy. What was happening? Still blinking, her surroundings came into focus. She swallowed—and thought her heart would stop. She was IN a Regency ballroom! She put out a hand to steady herself. And there—wasn’t that St. John standing amongst a group of men? It was him, all right—the same man she’d seen on her property!

  Was she going mad like her grandmother? Having visions of the past? But this wasn’t the past—it was her book!
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  Despite her confusion, she noticed St. John’s waistcoat wasn’t scarlet and silver threaded as she’d just written it, but black with gold thread, visible beneath a lovely white cravat and the lapels of a twin-tailed topcoat. He wore beautifully fitted trousers, and—. Suddenly he squinted toward her. Their eyes locked, sending an electric current through her whole body. She was caught in his gaze like an embrace, captured by eyes that were curious, yet almost forbidding. He was seeing her! It wasn’t just a story!

  Get a hold of yourself. This can’t be real. In fact, she refused to believe it. Aloud, she said, “It’s just my wonderful writer’s imagination.” She’d spoken with an English accent! How odd. She tried to ignore her rising heart rate as she stared, fascinated, at the roomful of people in Regency attire. She looked down and nearly fainted. She wore a period correct Regency gown with a shawl. No, it was the tallit! And she wore satin ball slippers! What was happening? Could this be a lucid dream? It was all so real.

  Claire peeked at St. John. He was still studying her! She was filled with awe and a surprising rush of sympathy for Clarissa. St. John was an imposingly masculine man, more muscular than Claire had realized. He had a strong nose and brow in addition to those arresting eyes. No wonder Clarissa would pine for him. Claire’s heart pounded at how handsome a figure he was, in fact—but wait—hadn't she given him blue eyes? His, it appeared, were blue-grey, almost hazel, with the smallest hint of crow’s feet at their edges. And his black hair had a light tinge of grey over his forehead and at his sideburns, which added to his distinguished good looks. He was a man aging well. Could he be older than she thought him?

  Older than she’d thought? How could he be anything other than what she thought? Hadn’t she invented him? She was losing her mind!

  It was both strange and wonderful. She was like a character in her own book. Now St. John was looking, with an intrigued expression, back and forth at her and another lady. Claire followed his gaze and saw—Miss Andrews? She saw only her profile, but yes, it was Clarissa! Claire would know her anywhere! Miss Andrews was impressive in her revealing evening gown, Grecian-style headdress, and weighty jewellery. Her gown at least, Claire thought with satisfaction, fit the description she’d written earlier.

  Claire turned and saw St. John heading her way. Was he going to speak to her? This was too much!

  An imperious-looking woman stopped him. Claire sighed with relief. But chaos hit again as she heard that same rushing wind. Her head spun and everything grew fuzzy. When she opened her eyes, blinking, she was back at her laptop.

  We never end up with the book we began writing.

  Characters twist it and turn it

  C.K. Webb

  CHAPTER 7

  Dove Cottage

  Note to self: Research lucid dreams—how real can they seem?

  With a gasp, Claire pulled her hands away from the keyboard and hurriedly shut it, not even bothering to save her work. She stared at the laptop in alarm, and then, blinking, tried to assess what happened. She’d felt she was in a Regency ballroom, but how? How had she seen it all in living color as if she’d really been there? Even her own clothing had been Regency correct—that alone had to mean she’d dreamt it. Didn’t it?

  Such a thing couldn’t happen.

  She shivered. The tallit had fallen to the floor. She picked it up, draped it on her chair and stood to get a glass of water, but her legs almost gave way. She sat back down. Her hands were shaking, too. She’d been working too hard. But hadn’t she worked hard on all her novels? She searched her brain for another explanation—it couldn’t be that she was having visions like Grandmother! It was her own characters she’d seen.

  Could she have fallen asleep? But such details she’d seen! Speaking of which—she opened the laptop again and brought up the character sheet for Julian St. John. She scrolled quickly down, shoving aside her bangs to read. Blue eyes!

  She closed her eyes and saw St. John as he’d stood across from her. Her heart thumped at the memory of his dark good looks. But his eyes were not purely blue. She changed it to “blue-grey with hazel tints,” on the character sheet. She’d have to do a “find and replace” in the manuscript, changing his eye color. Was it ludicrous to change a description based upon an imaginary encounter? But all her characters were imaginary, so it was no different, really, than changing her mind about any other of their traits—except this decision seemed to have been made for her!

  She sternly reminded herself that blue or hazel, St. John's eyes were fictional. She hurriedly keyed in the clothing she’d seen on him and on Clarissa, and added all the rich details she could remember. Who could forget that black, thick hair, with its sideburns and hint of distinguished grey?

  The idea that she might be following in Grandmother’s footsteps bothered her. First, she’d seen St. John on her property, and then in the ballroom. Worse, she’d felt herself to be there, too. It was crazy, of course. But she didn’t feel crazy.

  What had Mother called it? Visions from the past? But it wasn’t the past Claire had seen, was it? It may have been a kind of vision, but it was a fully immersive experience! She’d really felt she was there, in that Regency world. How? When she’d invented it?

  She made a quick dinner of grilled cheese with ham while mulling over the experience. Slowly, she came to terms with it. She’d reached a realm of imagination that was like virtual reality. Maybe the cottage was magical and made it happen. Or maybe she’d always been capable of imagining so well, and just didn’t know it. Nothing similar had happened for any previous book, though, so something must have changed. Something like coming to Dove Cottage.

  So there was something strange about it! It magnified one’s imagination. That’s what Mother had been so afraid of, why she’d not encouraged Claire to visit Grandmother. But now Claire knew it wasn’t something to be afraid of. It wasn’t a curse, but a gift! She’d seen St. John in a way most writers never could see their characters—in the flesh, as if he were real. If it happened again, she’d not get alarmed. She’d savor the experience and try to record every detail for her book. She’d read once that the brain retains a great deal more than the conscious mind is aware of. Evidently, her researcher’s brain was putting all that retained research to good use in this imaginary vision.

  Her heart lightened. If it happened again, this would be the book to salvage her career!

  Everything you can imagine is real.

  Pablo Picasso

  CHAPTER 8

  1816, England

  Earlier

  Miss Andrews frowned. She’d been watching St. John furtively while keeping up a light banter with a peer by name of Earl Brest. Suddenly St. John came to attention. He seemed to be taking note of something with a great deal of intensity. She followed his gaze and found him staring at a woman whose face she could not see. The woman was well dressed and had a good figure, but who was it?

  She managed to get the earl walking in the lady’s direction so that when they reached her, Clarissa could finagle an introduction. She needed to know her competition. But a most unimaginable thing happened. The lady vanished! Just like that, she was gone, as though she’d never been there! Clarissa froze and gripped the earl’s arm. She looked to see St. John’s reaction, but he had turned to speak to Lady Merrilton.

  “My dear Miss Andrews,” said Earl Brest.

  “Did you see?” Clarissa asked. “That woman! There was a woman—a moment ago!” Clarissa’s legs went weak. What on earth was happening? She looked at St. John, but his face showed not the smallest surprise. He hadn’t seen the woman vanish. Or had Clarissa been imagining things? Looking around helplessly, she saw her sister Margaret was staring just where the lady had vanished. She turned the earl in Margaret’s direction. When they reached her, Clarissa asked, “Did you see her, Margaret?”

  Margaret turned blank eyes to her sister. “See who?”

  “A lady,” Clarissa said meaningfully. “That lady who was standing over there—and went away, somehow
?”

  The earl said jovially, “There are ladies throughout the room, Miss Andrews. Perhaps Miss Margaret needs a description more explicit.”

  “Yes, I need a description more explicit,” said Margaret, with large, innocent eyes.

  “Never mind,” said Clarissa. Margaret was a lackwit. Even if she’d seen the lady vanish, she’d no doubt take not the least note of it. Clarissa turned wistful eyes to see if St. John was looking at her, but he wasn’t—he was watching the dancers. It gave her a small satisfaction that at least he hadn’t stood up with any of the myriad young women lacking partners. He knew better than that. He knew she’d give the cut direct to any lady he went near.

  But Clarissa wouldn’t soon forget the way he’d turned his eyes upon that woman with intensity, such as she longed to have directed at herself. If only she’d caught a better look at the lady! She had almost been close enough and then, poof! The lady had vanished.

  There was no explanation for such a thing, but Clarissa did not doubt her senses. She only hoped, whoever that woman had been, she would stay gone and never return.

  You don't get explanations in real life. You just get moments that are

  absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd.

  Neil Gaiman

  CHAPTER 9

  Note to self: This cottage is magical. Find the deed!

  Claire pinned back her hair and scrolled to the ballroom scene where she had seen St. John in astonishing clarity. Now that she understood her experience was a gift of imagination, a help to her writing, she could only hope it would happen again. If Grandmother had seen visions, they too were simply imaginary pasts—things that seemed real, but weren’t. While Grandmother hadn’t realized they were only imaginary visions, Claire, as an author, did. She might not understand how or why Dove Cottage heightened one's imagination, but she could surely enjoy the benefit!