The door stayed locked at all times—not only did she want to keep Greg and her friends out, she didn’t want the maintenance guys laughing at her series of women living their day-to-day lives. Sure, the manager always gave notice if there was work to be done, but still, Mellie worried that someone would see her work and sneer at how childish it was.
Soon. By fall or winter, she’d be good enough to approach the gallery and see if they’d be interested in showing her houses.
Out of the shower in record time, she checked her phone again. Still no word from Greg. Not even a text. He was never this late. What was going on? Worried, she settled into the back of the dark sedan, cranked the air up, and enjoyed the ride, knowing if something bad had happened, his assistant would have let her know.
The ping made her jump, almost spilling her lemonade.
Sorry, hon, work’s been crazy, pulled an all-nighter. Call later.
That was it. No other explanation or apology, which meant Greg had to be super busy. Whenever he was wrapped up in a case, his impeccable manners sometimes slipped. She sent back a text.
No worries, ended up having to work today. Still on for antiques tomorrow?
He didn’t respond, but she was confident he’d received the message and they’d spend the whole day together Sunday. The antique market would be the perfect place for him to propose. After all, it was where they first met six months ago.
The attack came an hour or so before dawn. One of the villagers had caught sight of the thief’s face as the man burned and knew ’twas not the wicked Thornton. The rain turned the ground to mud as Connor fought, and when he turned to take a man out at the knees, he missed the archer to his right. The arrow went through his hand, dropping him to one knee. Sensing victory, two men came at him, blades raised as lightning flashed across the sky and the ground trembled. Connor buried his dagger deep in the man to his left and, with blood streaming down his arm, cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders.
A terrible rumbling filled the air, as if an army of horses thundered toward them, but there were no advancing armies; ’twas the ground beneath their feet. Several men crossed themselves and ran, fear giving them speed.
His hand came away crimson as Connor wiped the blood from his face. The very air crackled and the hair on the back of his neck twitched and itched, his entire body shivering as if wee beasties feasted on his skin. Had death come for him? Or perhaps an ancient spirit was among them on this day of death and destruction.
The earth rumbled again, and he shifted, finding his balance, the blood in his eyes almost costing him his life. The fatal blow came toward him, achingly slow, the smell of unwashed bodies and fear filling the air. He’d only seen one blade, but a score of blades stabbed his body, and a screaming filled the air. He saw flashes of colored light and heard noises unlike anything he’d experienced in his life.
Edward rushed across the field, reaching out as Connor watched. The Thornton faded into the trees; the trees vanished, as did the men around him, until there was only Connor standing in the middle of an empty, muddy field, the rain pouring down, and yet not a drop touched him. Was he dead? Then there was silence and nothing but a gray mist in front of him.
Before he took two steps, the sky screamed, and the ground opened up and swallowed him whole, the mud filling his mouth and nose. But before it covered his eyes, he caught sight of something in the water on the ground—people dressed strangely, towering buildings—then Connor winced and felt warmth rushing across his hand before the earth embraced him.
THREE
With all the people coming and going through the museum and gift shop, the twelve-hour shift was passing quickly. Summer hours in effect, the museum would stay open until ten. She’d tidy up the counter and be home by eleven. Her boss, Jacob, had made arrangements for her to use the sedan again, and for that she was grateful. It made her nervous walking alone late at night.
Silvercreek was a small, sleepy harbor town until summer. Then the population exploded and, like many places, there were bad streets next to nice areas. Only a few weeks ago, a body was found floating in the harbor, and ever since then, she’d been extra vigilant as she walked the fifteen blocks to and from work, jumping at the smallest sound or crossing the street when a man looked at her in a certain way.
On her way to the break room, Mellie detoured for a much-needed fix. Her favorite painting was by Childe Hassam, a prolific impressionist painter from America, and depicted a woman relaxing on the porch, kicked back on a sofa, reading. Most people were here for the temporary Rodin exhibit, so she had the entire gallery to herself to sit and soak up the scene before her.
Feeling refreshed, she crossed the hallway, where lately another piece had captured her interest: part of a temporary exhibit by Frederick Carl Frieseke, the painting was quickly becoming her new favorite. It was on loan from the North Carolina Museum of Art, and entitled The Garden Parasol. The title alone made her want to sink into the work and swim through the colors.
Every day she passed the piece, never failing to stop and notice some new detail. The artist had spent many summers as a neighbor to Monet, in Giverny, France. By now, Mellie practically knew his bio by heart. The artist had used his wife for this painting, depicting the woman out in the garden reading when she was interrupted by someone, and the look as the woman glanced up from her book always stopped her, made Mellie want to dive inside the painting and take the woman’s place. The reader, of course—no way would she want to be the person who interrupted a reader. She knew all too well what it felt like to be lost in another world only to have someone call her name and rip her out of the story, blinking, taking several minutes to come back to her everyday existence.
The way the artist captured the sunlight and the colors was nothing short of astonishing, while she struggled on a daily basis with her pottery houses. And while painting and pottery were different, the level of mastery, the feelings the work evoked, was something she was afraid she’d never achieve, much like her aunt, whom the family only whispered about.
Why did artists choose the subjects they did? It was fascinating to catch a glimpse into their minds. For instance, in this piece, why did the artist choose to focus on the little moments in the private lives of women, instead of on landscapes, like many of the impressionists? As she pondered the man behind the work, a vibration from her pocket had her looking around, even though she was alone in the gallery and knew no one could’ve possibly heard the sound. The notification on the screen made her blink several times.
It wasn’t possible. There had to be some kind of mistake. One of his frat buddies playing a sick joke, or maybe Greg had his account hacked?
But the more she read and scrolled through the posts and comments, the more her stomach heaved, the hair around her face damp, and Mellie swallowed convulsively as the saliva pooled in her mouth. The man she had been so sure was going to propose tomorrow…had updated his status on his Facebook page.
And the worst thing of all? The page practically shouted he was in a relationship with Melinda Beeler. Not Melissa Evers. There were gushing comments and a string of heart and kissy face emojis from her. To make matters worse, there was a picture of them together on a sailboat out in the harbor, heads thrown back, laughing as the wind whipped their hair in their faces, holding hands and looking very much in love. It was taken earlier today.
Melinda. The horrible witch she and her friends talked about, the one who was infamous for stealing other women’s boyfriends. Melinda was never interested until the guy was taken, and quite frankly, Mellie and her friends couldn’t understand how she’d managed to pull it off so many times. Were guys today so insecure, always looking for the next thing, that they were so easily turned?
Or was it that Mellie and her friends were somehow flawed, making it easier for Melinda to steal their boyfriends? Or maybe the fault was actually with the men? After all, maybe it was something missing within them. They weren’t happy or didn’t get enough attention as a chi
ld, so they kept moving on to the next woman who showed them affection and stroked their ego.
Was the A/C on the fritz again? As she fanned herself, Mellie’s fingers shook, the screen blurred, and a drop of liquid hit the glass protector. No, Greg hadn’t been “stolen”— that implied he had no control over what happened, and one thing she knew? It took two.
Honestly, if he’d really loved her, no other woman could have made a play for his affections. There must have been some problem in their relationship he hadn’t shared because she thought they were the perfect couple. A niggling thought crept in, but she swatted it away before it could land, unwilling to think she could have missed something, been blinded all because she liked feeling smug she was in such a great relationship with a wonderful, successful guy. Phooey.
But social media as the breakup medium? What a dirtbag. This was way worse than when her friend Amy had received a breakup via text, though now that Mellie thought about it, maybe not quite as bad as Claire’s last guy. She’d never heard a word; the guy simply ghosted away, ceasing all contact, too much of a coward to tell her it was over. It took her coworker a month of frantic calls, texts, and stalking his social media posts to figure out what had happened.
A strangled sound escaped from deep within as Mellie hunched her shoulders, pulling the smock up over her mouth to muffle the sound. A group of school kids, maybe fifth grade, tromped through the hallway, laughing and talking, glancing at the art but not stopping. A teacher’s voice echoed off the marble as she called to the kids to keep moving to the Rodin exhibit.
A few whispers and snickers followed as Melissa made her way to the restroom. What did they know? Wait until those preteens had to live through the heartbreak and the trials and tribulations of dating. It wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Fast-walking the rest of the way, she locked herself in the stall at the far end and leaned back against the cold metal, the handle digging into her lower back as she put her feet up on the wall, desperately willing herself not to completely melt down, at least not until the last woman in the bathroom left.
The sound of running water echoed off the tiles, then the door opened and there was blessed silence…well, except for the sniffling and tears. Another bad choice. What was wrong with her? Wait until her brothers found out. Mellie cringed picturing the looks of pity and the comments about yet another one she couldn’t reel in. Her parents were happy together, married over thirty years, and still looked at each other with love in their eyes. Theirs was the kind of relationship she yearned for with every fiber of her being.
Even the black sheep of the family, Aunt Jilly, had found love. Four times and counting. One night, when they were all on vacations in the mountains, sitting in front of the fire in their PJs, her mom was a little tipsy and talked about her sister. Afraid to break the spell, Mellie stayed still, eager to hear about the infamous Jilly.
Her mom said her sister had been madly in love with her first husband, and when he died, Aunt Jilly had declared there was only one soul mate in the world for her and he was gone. Though she smiled through her tears, and six months later had said her husband would have wanted her to be happy, so for him she’d try and find happiness. But she still hadn’t found anyone else she deemed her soul mate, so was it true?
Was there only one person for each of us? And if so, had Melissa lost her chance? Or if Greg wasn’t her one and only, who was? How would she find him? What if he were in Australia and here she was in Maryland? Head pounding, she blew her nose again, resting her cheek on the cool metal of the bathroom stall.
Not wanting to risk running into the kids again, she sat there, letting the minutes tick by, grateful that classes were almost over and tomorrow was Sunday, so no antiquing. She could wallow all day. Now she was out a boyfriend and no longer a plus one. Mellie would have to go alone to the big family event, endure the comments and jokes, watch them shake their heads that at the advanced age of twenty-five she was still alone and couldn’t hold on to a man. It was enough to make her want to crawl into a bowl of cookie dough and never come out.
FOUR
The sound of tree limbs scratching against the window jolted Mellie awake, and her hand touched cold water as she righted herself in the stall.
“Yuck.” She wiped the wetness off on her jeans, cringing at the thought of toilet water touching her skin. “At least the water’s clean.”
Stiff from sitting so long, her back and legs protested as she stretched. How long had she been in here? It was dark outside. Who’d covered her register in the gift shop all this time? Then the reason she was hiding in here in the first place came roaring back, making her shoulders slump.
Searching the pale blue ceiling above, she looked for answers to why she hadn’t seen the signs with Greg.
“All I want is for someone to truly love me and no one else. Let me be enough. Let him be faithful, upstanding, and care for me. Is that too much to ask?”
In response, the lights blinked and went out as a nervous laugh escaped. She heard a commotion, and the door opened, heavy footfalls giving the man away. Will, the security guard, poked his head inside.
“Anybody in here? The power’s out and the museum’s closing early.”
Not daring to speak, she pressed her hands over her mouth and nose so he wouldn’t hear her breathing or the pitiful noises still clawing their way out from the back of her throat.
A beam of light played under each stall until it illuminated the floor beneath her. Perched on the toilet, she held her breath, praying he wouldn’t see her through the crack where the door met the wall. Will coughed, a heavy smoker’s hack as he looked around, all the while jangling the big ring of keys on his belt, no doubt nervous and sweating at having to set foot into the “private world of women,” as he called the ladies’ room.
A tiny smile tugged at her face as she pictured him actually encountering a woman in the ladies’ room. He’d most likely have a heart attack on the spot. The door shut, and after counting to twenty, she let her breath out in a whoosh.
“A few more minutes and I’ll face the world again.”
Unable to deal with going home to an empty apartment, knowing she was no longer part of an “us” but was now an “I” once more, Mellie sat there and picked at her lavender nail polish until there was a small pile of purple flakes scattered across the floor. After the nonstop dinging, she’d turned her phone off and somehow forced herself to stay off social media, not wanting to read all the messages piling up, both the congratulatory ones on his page and all the private messages she’d been getting asking what had happened.
Thank goodness her family or her brothers’ wives weren’t friends with Greg, so they wouldn’t witness her failure in real time. At least she could keep the death of their relationship a secret for a little longer until she was strong enough to face them and their well-meaning but hurtful comments.
When she woke again, neck stiff, Mellie twisted, this time almost falling into the toilet. Pins and needles in her legs and feet made her stumble as she risked a peek into the corridor. The museum was still. Quiet except for the rain outside. Other than the emergency lights, it was dark, the power still out.
Cold water woke her up as she splashed her face, the emergency lighting showcasing puffy red eyes, washed-out skin, and the drooping face of a basset hound. Scowling at the image, she wiped the sink off with paper towels and opened the door. Satisfied Will wasn’t lurking nearby, she made her way to the front doors and pressed on them. No go. The doors were locked until morning, when they’d automatically unlock. Fingers crossed, she tried the other doors, only to find them locked as well. Even the door by the loading dock, which was usually propped open so a couple of the employees could sneak out for a smoke, was locked.
With the power out, the security system either wasn’t functioning properly or Will had forgotten to set it when he left. It wasn’t the first time; he had trouble remembering to hit the code when he left for the night. Grateful he’d forgotten, she
heaved a sigh of relief. The sound of an ear-piercing alarm was the last thing her nerves could take after the blowup of her relationship for all the world to see and comment on.
Right about now she felt sorry for celebrities: always in the spotlight, having every outfit, weight gain or loss, and love-life mistake catalogued for all the world to judge.
When she reached Will’s office, she peeked around the door in case he was still there. Sometimes he stayed and used the museum Wi-Fi.
“Hello? Anybody here?” She peered into the gloom of the small office, risking turning on the phone to use the flashlight app. “Will? You still around? It’s Mellie. I fell asleep in the ladies’ room.”
Thunder rumbled, making her jump as she backed out of his office, shutting the door behind her. No doubt about it—she was stuck until morning. Unless… She ignored the insistent dinging and found Will’s number…which, of course, went straight to voicemail.
“Will, it’s Mellie. Somehow I got locked in the museum. Guess I didn’t hear you calling when the power went out. Could you please come back and let me out? It’s kinda creepy in here at night with no one around.”
It wasn’t like she was asking him to drive a long way. Like her, Will lived within walking distance, biking or walking except when the weather was bad and he took one of those hourly car rentals. Though for him, “too cold” was a lot colder than for her. Originally from the South, Mellie had moved up north to attend college, her parents deciding it would do her good to get out of a small town and spread her wings. But when she’d visited a few colleges in big cities, Mellie decided it wasn’t for her. All the noise and crowds, not enough green space, and so in the end she’d settled on a college in a smallish town, but one larger than her hometown. Four years she’d been in the north, and in that time her family had all ended up close by. Her parents first, then her brothers—one for a job, the other for his now wife. And in four years she still hadn’t acclimated to the cold or the snow in the wintertime.
Beyond Time: A Knights Through Time Travel Romance Page 2
