Table of Contents
Synopsis
What Reviewers Say About Catherine Friend’s Work
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
A Mini-Prologue, Sort of…
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Spark
Jamie Maddox is worried about her grip on reality. Has her consciousness really been transported back to 1560, landing in the body of Blanche Nottingham? Not good, since Blanche, a lady-in-waiting for Queen Elizabeth I, is plotting a murder. The other possibility that Jamie faces? She’s had a psychotic break that has trapped her in an Elizabethan fantasy while another personality—let’s call her Blanche—has taken control of Jamie’s life and is jeopardizing everything.
Jamie is repeatedly zapped back and forth between the present and 1560 (or in and out of that twisted fantasy). Betrayal, murder, thunderstorms, and two doctors complicate everything as Jamie and Blanche battle to control Jamie’s body. Just as Jamie is running out of both hope and time, help—and love—come from a most unexpected place.
What Reviewers Say About Catherine Friend’s Work
The Spanish Pearl
“A fresh new author…has penned an exciting story…told with the right amount of humor and romance. Friend has done a wonderful job…”—Lambda Book Review
“The author does a terrific job with characterization, lush setting, action scenes, and droll commentary. This is one of those well-paced, exciting books that you just can’t quite put down. …This is one of the very best books I’ve read in many months, so I give it my highest recommendation! Don’t miss this one.”—Midwest Fiction Review
The Crown of Valencia
“Her storytelling talent is superb and her plot twists continually keep the reader in suspense…”—Just About Write
The Copper Egg
“The Copper Egg by Catherine Friend is a modern day Indiana Jones style adventure. [It] has a bit of everything, adventure, kidnapping, double crossing frenemies and of course a romance. …Well written and an action-packed adventure of fun.”—The Romantic Reader
Hit By a Farm
“Hit By a Farm goes beyond funny, through poignant, sad and angry, to redemptive: all the things that make a farm—and a relationship—successful.”—Lavender Magazine
“A sweet and funny book in the classic ‘Hardy Girls Go Farming’ genre, elegantly told, from the first two pages, which are particularly riveting for the male reader, through the astonishing revelation that chickens have belly-buttons and on to the end, which comes much too soon. It has dogs, sheep, a pickup truck, women’s underwear, electric fences, the works.”—Garrison Keillor
Sheepish: Two Women, Fifty Sheep, and Enough Wool to Save the Planet
“As provocative as her reflections are, it is Friend’s acerbic wit that keeps the reader turning pages. A perfect choice for book groups, this is a look at the road not taken with a guide who pokes as much fun at herself as she does at the world around her.”—Booklist
“Friend details the challenges of balancing a writing career with sheep farming in southeastern Minnesota. …Her voice is wry and funny; she’s self-deprecating and thoughtful, and strikes a balance between teasing and kindness, whether her subject is pregnant sheep, yarn-loving ‘fiber freaks,’ or spirituality and nature.”—Publishers Weekly
Spark
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Spark
© 2017 By Catherine Friend. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-931-0
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First Edition: July 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Bold Strokes Novels
The Spanish Pearl
The Crown of Valencia
A Pirate’s Heart
The Copper Egg
Spark
Nonfiction
Sheepish: Two Women, Fifty Sheep, and Enough Wool to Save the Planet
The Compassionate Carnivore, Or, How to Keep Animals Happy, Save Old MacDonald’s Farm, Reduce Your Hoofprint, and Still Eat Meat
Hit By a Farm: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Barn
Children’s
Barn Boot Blues
The Perfect Nest
Eddie the Raccoon
Silly Ruby
Funny Ruby
The Sawfin Stickleback
My Head is Full of Colors
Acknowledgments
My mom, Irene Friend, decided that if I was going to write a novel that took place in London, I should probably hang out there awhile. Thanks to her, we spent a marvelous week in a flat on Red Lion Square, joined by my sister Sandy and my aunt Gladys, and we had a blast exploring the city. Thanks, Mom, for all your support.
I’d also like to thank my patient and eagle-eyed readers Ann Etter, Carolyn Sampson, Irene Friend, Phyllis Root, Kris Ferguson, Brent and Karen Bjorngard, and Kathy Connolly. A special thanks to everyone at Bold Strokes, especially my ever-patient editor, Cindy Cresap, and cover designer, Sheri, for creating a gorgeous cover that far surpassed the one I’d imagined in my head.
Last but certainly not least, a big hug of thanks to my best cheerleader, my wife, Melissa Peteler.
Dedication
For my mom
Since I seem to have two personalities, perhaps I should
donate my extra to someone who doesn’t have one.
—Jamie Maddox
A Mini-Prologue, Sort of…
I, Jamie Maddox, must confess that until all this happened I’d never given much thought to my own sanity. I mean, re
ally. Who stops every morning before leaving the house to take this inventory: Keys? Check. Backpack. Check. Sanity. Oops. Left it on the kitchen table.
But now, sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for my shot, I get it. The journey to becoming a nutter, as the British say, is much shorter than we think. Sanity isn’t a given. It’s a fragile mix of hope for the future and an unwavering belief in yourself. Lose one of these two and you can probably limp along.
Lose both and you’re pretty screwed.
Lose both and travel backward in time, and suddenly those people who’ve been taken by alien spaceships and operated on by little green men appear stone-cold sane next to you.
All of those things happened to me (except the little green men), so it should have been no surprise that my life ended up being truly fire trucked. That word was in my life because Aunt Nicole deplored the f-word and pleaded with me, “Jamie, dear, there must be another, less offensive word you could use.” You’d think she was eighty instead of fifty. For her, I did find an alternative, which was harder than you might think. After she died, I continue to use it, even though I suspect it makes me sound a little…well…crazy.…
Chapter One
I loved London. People there ate biscuits instead of cookies, had rows instead of arguments, and lived in flats instead of apartments. They also snogged instead of kissed, which just struck me as hysterical.
In London I inhaled history with every breath. It rose from a cobblestoned street polished to a sheen, and from the stones of the eighteenth century buildings that looked like faded blocks of soft butterscotch. Even the air felt laden with history as centuries of other people’s breaths flowed into my lungs.
After eight months here I still hadn’t tired of disembarking at random Tube stations to explore. I’d stumble onto a small, one-block park and sit on the cool iron bench as music blared from the Pakistani grocery around the corner and men argued good-naturedly outside a Russian teahouse. My partner, Chris, never came with me, since she thought a journey without a clear destination made no sense.
Today our destination—her choice—had been the National Gallery. So here I was, stuck inside staring at this “artwork,” when all I wanted to do was flee to Trafalgar Square and find Bradley. This uninspiring exhibit left me speechless. Another five minutes and I thought I might lose my mind, ironic given what happened three days later.
The “artwork” was nothing more than twelve nearly identical brain scans. While the colors of each varied a little, I couldn’t tell if the colors had been done digitally or if the neurology professor had just colored them in with a handful of Sharpies.
Chris squeezed my elbow, her blue eyes drilling into me. “What do you think? Aren’t they amazing?” Chris was everything I wasn’t—driven Type A, scientific, and crazy smart. My brother Jake once called her a computer with breasts, which wasn’t very nice.
I smiled at her. “These images are unforgettable.” The Artistry of Neurological Scans, by Dr. Anoop Rajamani had not been high on my list of must-see art exhibits.
Chris growled softly in her throat as we maneuvered around the packed room to the next brain scan. “Liar.”
I struggled for something kind to say. In art school, they called me Switzerland because I couldn’t stand giving harsh critiques. To me, if someone made art they loved, that was all the reason I needed to accept its existence. Loving what you did was infinitely more important than creating a piece that could hang next to a Degas or a van Gogh with pride. “Art should move you in some way,” I said, “even if it’s to hate it. But I’m not moved. I’m not anything.” I cocked my head. “No, that’s not true. I am curious why there is way more white in the scans for Subject Seven and Subject Twelve. Other than that, the art has failed to move me.”
Chris shot me an impatient look and moved to the next piece, her blond ponytail swishing like a haughty horse’s tail. I loved her hair.
I followed, checking my phone for the time. Bradley would be leaving Trafalgar Square in exactly thirty minutes. Because very little was certain in Bradley’s life, he kept to his schedule with the precision expected of the ex-British Army officer that he was.
“I saw that,” Chris whispered. “Why are you in such a hurry?” We stood at the far back of the crowd so we could whisper during the professor’s incredibly boring speech. “How many art exhibits have you dragged me to?”
Hmmm. Good question. “Four here, two at the National Portrait Gallery, and three at the Tate Modern.”
“What about The Sounds of Art?”
Our grimaces matched, the result of ten years together. “Yeah, okay, point made.” I’d expected The Sounds of Art to present music inspired by art, but it had been an interpretive dramatic work sharing the shrieks and howls made by paint itself as it was cruelly smashed and slapped and dragged across the rough canvas. Fire truck, that was a painful two hours.
Chris turned back to the speaker still droning on. How could I get out of here? I shifted the straps of my heavy backpack, then froze when it rattled.
Chris shot me a confused look, then leaned closer as applause masked her voice. “What’s in your pack?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.” Actually, it was a small box of Burgess Excel Adult Rabbit Food with Oregano, to be exact. Sainsbury’s had been out of the rosemary and thyme. Chris shook her head. “It’s rabbit food for Annie, isn’t it?”
I nodded, hoping my sheepish grin would buy me a little of Chris’s patience. Call me a crazy optimist, but that’s who I was.
I shifted, feeling hemmed in by the enthusiastic crowd in the small room. Someone behind me was wearing way too much lavender perfume. Perspiration slid down my back and soaked into my waistband, which made me feel sticky and cranky. The painfully microscopic details of this mind-numbing neurobiology exhibit were fascinating only to neurobiologists like Chris. When she shot me another “pay attention” look, I rolled my eyes.
“…to build this wiring diagram of the human brain, we are mapping all the structures and functions.” Dr. Rajamani spoke with an endearing, singsong Mumbai accent. He wore a knee-length yellow jacket with a Nehru collar, and yellow slacks. When the image of a banana Popsicle zapped forward from my childhood, I bit my lip to cut off the chuckle.
“Descartes’s notion that the mind and body are separate has been abandoned by most of the scientific world. As a result, scientists are studying how the brain creates our consciousness.”
“Isn’t he brilliant?” Chris whispered. She glared at me before I could come up with a sufficiently witty retort.
“My scans show brain connectivity by capturing myelin content around the nerves. The areas in red and yellow have higher myelin content, and therefore are more responsible for brain connectivity.” It was easy to get swept up in his musical accent; it was as if he were singing his speech. Then Dr. Rajamani waved his arms. “See those thin threads of white around the edges of the high myelin sections?” Chris’s professor at University College London glowed with pride. “Our project does not yet have an explanation for these white areas, but I am conducting further research.” He leaned closer to the microphone. “And this is what I have theorized. The white is the world’s first visual image of a person’s actual consciousness.”
Luckily, the crowd’s gasps were loud enough to mask my snort. I ignored Chris’s dig into my ribs. Either the Gallery had been desperate for an exhibit, or Dr. Anoop Rajamani had forked over a double-decker bus full of money to buy himself the right to exhibit here.
I tuned out as the professor began describing with great enthusiasm something called “glial cells.” Finally, polite applause followed the end of Dr. Rajamani’s remarks.
“What is wrong with you?” Chris said. “As an artist, you should appreciate the creative value of these scans, even if you don’t buy the science.”
“That’s true,” I replied. “But as a scientist, don’t you think this guy’s a little wacky?” I lowered my voice, since neither of us liked PDAs—public displays of
argument. “He believes he’s located the site of human consciousness. That’s like saying you’ve discovered what love looks like. How insane is that?”
But Chris had stopped listening and began leading me to the “artist.” When he saw Chris, Dr. Rajamani’s white teeth gleamed in his handsome face. He pushed through the others and reached for her hand.
“Chris, how are you feeling?”
“Just fine, Dr. Raj.”
“No aftereffects?”
I frowned at my partner. Aftereffects of what?
“None whatsoever.” Chris smoothly made introductions before I could ask. I had to look up to meet the man’s eyes, unusual for me. His brow furrowed as if he were on the verge of some scientific breakthrough that I’d just interrupted.
“You are the artist, no?” The professor’s childlike glee was infectious as he motioned to his scans. “Have you ever seen such colors?”
I attempted a supportive smile. “They are amazing. Thank you for sharing them with us.” I checked my phone again, the niceties out of the way. “Chris, I’m sorry, but I need to get going. I’ll meet you back at the flat like we planned.”
“Jamie, wait. Dr. Raj has something to ask you.”
Dr. Raj took my hands in both his large, smooth palms. “These scans are only the first step in locating consciousness, the spark of who we are. I need volunteers for the next, and most important phase, of my research. Chris thought you might be willing to be one of my subjects.”
Spark Page 1
