MORE THAN THE MOON
Page 1
A. Rosendale
MORE THAN THE MOON
A Novel
First published by A. Rosendale 2021
Copyright © 2021 by A. Rosendale
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A. Rosendale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A. Rosendale has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
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To Mom
Contents
Acknowledgement
I. PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
II. PART TWO
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
III. PART THREE
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Epilogue
Also by A. Rosendale
Acknowledgement
As a child, I had the opportunity to travel far and wide with my family. While I’m not nearly as well traveled as Dirk, my experiences around the world inspired his many adventures. Many thanks to my mom and dad for all the exploring! Mom, thanks for reading the first edition and the tips moving forward with publishing.
I also must thank Brad for annoying me into finally trying my hand at publishing. All your prodding finally bore fruit.
Thanks must also go to you, the reader. I hope you enjoy reading of Alma and Dirk’s adventures as much as I did writing of them!
I
Part One
Chapter 1
He faced the windows of the coffee shop, leisurely watching passersby on the street outside. His every appearance was of a relaxed businessman stopping for coffee on the way in to the office. A long gray trench coat covered his suit. He lounged back in the stiff chair, one knee crossed over the other. The foot suspended in the air tapped along to the faint music playing over the coffee shop speakers.
The shop was a madhouse at this time on a Friday. Customers huddled inside, craving the ounces of caffeine that would see them through the final day of the workweek. Without seeming to, he took in details of the café and its clientele. He’d never visited this particular coffeehouse, but found the décor enjoyable. The lighthouse mural behind the bar provided a unique atmosphere and fit in with the lifesavers and oars hung from the walls and ceiling. The patrons fit the stereotype for urban morning commuters. There were businessmen and women, construction workers, and college students standing in line or idling at tables.
He found himself staring at a particular woman across the room. He hadn’t meant to stare; in fact, he made of practice of avoiding stares. What caught his eye wasn’t the suit and pencil skirt, or the petite reading glasses perched on her nose, or even the attractive round face. What had distracted him was the hardbound, weathered and rotting old book on the table before her. He caught a sudden whiff of the ancient paper, a musty smell that lingered in his memory. He knew the scent was his imagination; there was no way he’d actually smelled the old volume from across the crowded coffee shop, jammed with sweaty humans and coffee grounds.
Frowning at the distraction, he returned his gaze to the street just in time to see his target pass the tall windows. He waited another thirty seconds, then idly gained his feet, stretched his shoulders, and left the shop for the stinging cold of midwinter. The paper coffee cup on the table he’d occupied still steamed from piping hot, unconsumed coffee.
* * *
He returned home that night with a sense of triumph. His long assignment was successfully completed. He poured a scotch to celebrate and moved into the living room. Placing the scotch on the coffee table, he shed his coat and relaxed onto the couch cushions. He propped his black wingtips on the table, loosened his tie, and sipped the warming liquor.
‘Take a few days of R and R,’ his supervisor had suggested.
The recommendation always brought mixed emotions. He enjoyed his career and didn’t mind the long, stressful hours, but he also appreciated time between cases to clear his head. He’d learned not to provide too long a period to relax, because clearing his head left room for unwelcome thoughts. Although he lived alone out of both necessity and comfort, he was no stranger to loneliness. Being busy tended to keep that sensation at bay.
When the scotch was gone, he stripped and stepped into a steaming hot shower, lingering in the blissful heat for a time. Finally cleansed from the day’s tribulations, he toweled dry and fell into bed.
* * *
He slept in later than usual, then lay in bed awake for a long while, relishing the relaxed state that accompanied the conclusion of an especially long assignment. His mind was blissfully calm, a nearly foreign sensation.
‘R and R,’ he thought. ‘Rest and relaxation. Well, rest, check. Relaxation…’ Unsure what to do with his time, he pondered the word. In the summer, he would have taken the opportunity to kayak the river, but the mere thought of the biting cold gave him a chill. ‘I’m getting old,’ he thought with a smile. Ten years ago, a little chill wouldn’t have fazed him and he’d already be on the water.
Idly, his mind drifted to the coffee shop he’d visited yesterday. The lighthouse mural had stuck in his mind. So had the beautiful woman with the tattered old book, he admitted.
Settling on the day’s activity, he pulled on a sweater, jeans, and hiking boots, followed by a thick ski coat, and proceeded downstairs. The flag on the street corner across the way was snapping in the wind and the sky was overcast. He considered taking a taxi, remembered the café was only about three miles away, pulled the hood on his coat up, and stepped outside.
The walk was cold and windy, but refreshing. He loved the winter wind for the simple cleansing effect it had on the over-polluted city. The cool arctic front had a way of blowing all the city scents away and delivering a fresh, invigorating air that filled his lungs with life.
He swept the hood off as he entered the shop and rubbed his hands together. ‘Gloves,’ he said to himself. ‘Gloves would be brilliant.’
The line was significantly shorter late on a Saturday morning and he stepped up to the bar quickly.
“Black coffee, please.”
“Large or small?”
‘Relaxation,’ he thought, meaning he had absolutely no plans from this point forward. “Large.”
“For here or to go?”
“For here.”
The barista filled an enormous bowl shaped mug with steaming dark roast and exchanged it for the cash he provided. He bypassed the creamer stand and glanced over the seating options. Only a few of the tables had occupants and most were locked in conversation with a companion or two. He noted with embarrassed satisfaction that the bookworm from yesterday was seated at the same table by the far wall. Shaking his head at his ridiculous behavior, he weaved through the tables and chose a seat by the window where he could observe the entire area, a habit instilled by years at his job.
He noted a bookshelf across the room. ‘Take one, leave one,’ the sign read. More to keep his mind from wandering than for need of reading material, he crossed to the books and perused the titles. Resolutely avoiding the crime thrillers and mysteries, he found a historical fiction and returned to his seat. He warmed his hands on the huge mug briefly and glanced at the woman at the next table.
She was wearing black leggings and boots and a long, fluffy white sweater. Those tiny black spectacles were again perched on her nose and she was engrossed in the ratty old book. It looked like she was nearly finished.
He took a sip of coffee and cracked the paperback in his hand.
* * *
Some time later, a satisfied sigh escaped his neighbor. He peered at her over the pages. She had removed the glasses and was staring out the window. The back cover of the book lay open.
“Good book?” he asked with a smile.
The deep voice interrupted her reverie and she looked at him. She’d noticed him entered the shop earlier and recalled his presence as he settled into the nearby seat, but had ignored him since. His lean facial features alluded to a man who was athletic, but his thick sweater hid the muscular arms and chest she suspected rippled beneath. Those aquamarine eyes gazed at her with intense intelligence. Though gentle now, she sensed an austerity behind his captivating eyes.
She nodded. “Yes. Very interesting.”
“Mind if I ask what the title is?”
“Dante’s Inferno,” she answered, holding up the ragged binding for him to see the gold lettering inlaid on the cover.
He gave a low whistle. “That’s intense.”
“Yeah. It’s a pretty deep topic.”
“I’ll say! Especially that final level.” His eyes twinkled with humor and she laughed at his dark joke.
“First time reading it?”
She nodded sheepishly.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much. As you said, a very enticing idea, to consider your life’s transgressions and not only what punishments might be meted out after death, but what other souls will keep you company there.”
As she spoke, he stared into her steel gray eyes. It wasn’t for several seconds after she stopped talking that he realized he’d again been gawking at her. He nodded, hoping to disguise his rapture with interest.
“What do you have there?” She motioned to the paperback and he shrugged.
“Historical fiction. I just borrowed it.” He waved at the bookshelf.
“What’s it about?”
“Well, it started off with a religious rite in an ancient Mayan temple. Then it fast-forwarded to modern times with an archeologist examining the disappearance of the Mayans in the Yucatan. She’s encountering some resistance with locals as her research progresses.” He shrugged again. “It’s interesting, I guess.”
“You enjoy historical fiction?”
He nodded. “I do. History, in general, actually. Historical fiction is a…clever way of presenting historical fact. You clearly enjoy the classics.” He motioned to the hardbound volume and took a sip of coffee.
“I enjoy every genre, I suppose. Have you read Clive Cussler?”
He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose I have.”
“You should look into his books. He’s quite…clever with his presentation of history and mixes in a little science fiction as well.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for the recommendation…” He paused for her name.
“Alma,” she supplied and extended her hand.
“Dirk. Pleasure to meet you.”
The smile she shot him made her steel eyes turn bright gray, like the sky just before dawn.
“Well, I better get on my way.” She finished the last gulp of coffee and slipped her book and glasses into a shoulder bag. It was the same tan leather bag he’d noticed by her side the day before.
“Nice to meet you, again, Dirk.” She pulled on her coat and shot him that smile again.
“You as well, Alma.”
He watched her through the window until she disappeared around the street corner. Pleased with their brief exchange, he returned to his book with a subtle curl to his lips.
* * *
Dirk woke naturally around seven, which was when his alarm would typically draw him from the bliss of sleep. Despite an afternoon at the gym and an evening watching movies in his apartment, his first thought was of the coffee house. Or, more accurately, of Alma. The scent of that musty old book already mingled in his memory of her stormy gray eyes. He allowed himself a momentary dream, then shook his head clear. Regardless of her potential company at the coffee shop, he’d come to like the place. He tucked the borrowed paperback in his pocket and stepped outside. Yesterday’s wind had carried a flurry of snow to Boston. He again debated hailing a cab, but decided to brave the elements.
A quick glance brought a brief stab of disappoint. Alma’s reading nook was vacant. With a shrug he insisted was genuine, he ordered his large mug of coffee and retired to the table by the window.
A few minutes later, the door jingled open, accompanied by a bluster of snowflakes. Dirk looked up and an unbidden smile came to his lips. Alma was brushing white specks from her sandy brown hair, which was tied back in a bun in an effort to keep some sort of order. She peeled thick gloves from her hands, stuffed them in her coat pocket, and unzipped the heavy ski coat. With a small mug in hand, she meandered to her usual table. It wasn’t until her coat and bag were slung on the back of the chair that she noticed Dirk.
He felt her gaze and
smiled over the pages. “Morning,” he greeted.
“Good morning,” she replied with a gentle grin. Nimble fingers extracted her glasses and another thick hard back, this one in pristine condition.
“What’s in store for today?” he asked curiously.
She held up The Help and he grinned.
“Historical fiction,” he noted.
Alma shrugged. “You inspired me, I guess.”
With that, they burrowed into their separate books. Dirk finished his coffee and stood to fetch more, then hesitated.
“Refill?” he asked.
Alma looked up, feigning surprise when she’d been more than aware of his movement past her table. “Oh, sure. Two sugars, please.”
He slid the full mug across the surface and rejoined his text. His kind gesture distracted her and she couldn’t refocus on Mississippi civil rights.
“How are the Mayans faring over there?” she asked.
Dirk splayed the book open face down. “Well, not so hot. They’re still gone, after all. What part are you at?” He nodded at the book.
“Skeeter just came home. You’ve read it?”
He nodded. “Quite the interesting take on 1960s Mississippi, wouldn’t you say?”
Her brows raised in fascination. Those intelligent green eyes captivated her. “What do you do, Dirk? What’s your job?”
He answered without hesitation with a prearranged response. “I’m a consultant for the Navy.” It was at least partially true.
“The Navy? Wow! What do you do there?”
“I just consult on computer systems. Nothing exciting. And you, Alma? What’s your job?” He found that he loved the feel of her name on his tongue. He wanted to say her name more, to feel the way the soft a’s rolled gently from his mouth. The thought both elated and disturbed him.
“I teach at Boston University.”
“A professor? In what?”
“Marine biology.”
“Interesting. What’s your specialty?”
“Orcas are my preference. I spent last summer on Puget Sound, tracking a pod’s summer rituals. I published a paper on the subject. Currently, I’m researching the summer diet of Friday Harbor seals, versus their winter pickings. I hope to do some field work next year.”