by J M Fraser
“Look who caught a lovebird,” Kara called.
“Get a room,” Brad shouted.
Brian’s mom and dad would have done him a huge favor by shoving those two back into the car and heading out for some ice cream or something. He hadn’t shared his plan with Rebecca yet.
But all four closed in on the porch.
“Hey, guys, meet Rebecca.” Just saying her name made his throat lumpy.
Mom wrapped Rebecca in a hug. “You must be freezing! What sort of boy keeps his girlfriend sitting outside in the cold?”
“Brian finds ways to keep me warm.”
“Within the guidelines of the code?”
“I’ve almost lost my way with him more than once,” Rebecca said.
Kara elbowed Brad. “Lucky for you, I’m far more wanton.”
Could this get any more embarrassing? Thankfully, his mom steered Rebecca up the stairs and away from the clowns.
“I can help with the meal, Cassandra,” Rebecca said. “I’m only a fair cook, but I do have a wonderful old recipe for bread pudding.”
“I’ll bet it’s old,” Kara said.
As his mom fiddled with her key in the door, she shot a miffed glance back at Brian before turning to Rebecca with dewy eyes. “I don’t like that scarf around your neck.”
“It’s nothing.”
“How many times have you had to wear these little nothings of yours?”
“Nine.” Rebecca’s voice trembled.
“Nine times? My son’s a dolt when it comes to sorting his future out in any kind of a reasonable timeframe.”
The dolt grinned. Maybe he’d been slow, but he’d finally sorted his future.
* * *
Mom whisked Rebecca into the kitchen, where they busied themselves banging pots around and talking up a storm. Some major bonding was going on in there, so Brian ducked down the basement stairs to give them some space.
The Taj Mahal glimmered in its resting place on a shelf. His dad and Brad worked at the table just below, sorting pieces for a new model, and Kara sat on a stool beside them with her nose in a novel, waiting for the inevitable call to find a missing piece.
Brian hesitated to tell them anything. He’d thought of a great plan, the only road to happiness, but the sight of his family busted his heart.
He tried to rally. First of all, he’d given up the lion’s share of his family life on the day he started college. This second move, although much worse, simply represented another step in growing up.
Didn’t it? After all, if sacrifices of this magnitude weren’t commonplace, why was he always hearing clichés such as manning up, toughing it out, taking one for the team?
Kara glanced up from her book. “What’s the matter? You look ready to cry.”
“No I don’t.” He grabbed the stool next to her. Tried to organize some of the little bricks. Felt everyone’s eyes on him.
He needed to get on with it. Walk them through the scenario. And lighten the mood or he would bust into tears. “Hey, did I ever tell you guys how I fell asleep doing homework one night and typed a poem on my computer?”
Kara dog-eared a page and closed her book. “You mean you were sleep-walking?”
“Yeah, I guess. But suppose I started sending emails to everyone. You would have thought I was awake at my computer rather than wherever we go when we sleep.”
Dad arched his brows. “Wherever we go?”
Kara winked. Maybe she got where this was heading. “Or you could leave a phone in a drawer and mind-meld somebody sleeping into sending texts for you…or Facebook posts, Twitter, whatever.”
She got it, all right.
“Yeah. The possibilities are endless. Asleep or awake. I’d always be in touch. And you could write back.”
Her eyes turned soulful. Deep. A little sad? “Would you always be asleep? For, like, a couple hundred years or something?”
Brian almost couldn’t answer. He looked down at the floor. “Mostly, except for classes and maybe some holiday visits, I guess.”
Brad shot off his stool and raced to the stairs in comic, hell-bent hurry. “Ma Danahey! I think Brian and Kara broke into the spiked punch!”
“Brad!” Mom’s shout rang down the stairs. “Bring Kara up here and help Rebecca set the plates out.”
Brad turned to Kara.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll follow you in a second.”
Brian waited for Brad to disappear up the stairs before turning to his dad. “How much do you know?”
Dad said nothing for so long he obviously knew everything. He took a deep breath, then rallied and slapped him on the back. “You’ve gotta chase your dreams, Brian.”
Kara hugged him. “We’re so proud of you.”
Brian couldn’t force any words past the lump in his throat.
* * *
After dinner was finished and the rest of the family made a discreet getaway to the kitchen or the basement or wherever, Brian sat with Rebecca on the living room couch. The most amazing girl he’d ever met hummed “Silver Bells” while straying her hands to the gifts he’d given her—a heart-shaped locket hanging from the gold chain around her neck and a turquoise bracelet decorating her wrist.
The blaze in the fireplace put on a light show, shifting up and down the color spectrum. Yellows, oranges, purples, and blues danced in sync with her tune.
“Rebecca?” he said.
“Hmm?”
“It’s time for you to go.”
“To…go?”
“Yeah, but not alone.”
She turned to him and stared, lower lip quivering, eyes welling up.
“I’m coming with you, Rebecca, through one of the portals. We’ll spend the next couple hundred years in exile together.”
She had her arms around him in an instant. “Oh, Brian, Brian, Brian, I so wanted this! From the very beginning I hoped you’d join me. But I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t…”
“I love you,” he said.
Brian glanced over her shoulder, saw one of the sparklers he needed, reached out to snatch it…
And all was right with the world.
* * *
A warm breeze ruffled Brian’s hair. He gazed at his Kia, stuck on the side of the road where he once pushed it. He’d miss the old thing.
“Try lifting your hood again. That’s a universal symbol for drivers in distress, isn’t it?” The comment coming from behind had a hint of amusement in its delivery.
He turned to Rebecca. “The eclipse was a nice touch that day.”
“I have a gift.”
He took her hand and walked with her along the worn footpath. They passed the oak tree and eventually reached a fork he hadn’t noticed before. The World of Mortal Dreams had a knack for evolution.
Rebecca pulled him left, away from the cabin, and led him forward until they came to a different tree. Maybe they’d find a 1920s writer dancing inside to the rhythm of a Scott Joplin rag.
* * *
Rebecca squeezed Brian’s hand. “Agatha Christie has a window in her kitchen. I can show you how to cast your worries.”
“I don’t have any.”
She supposed she no longer did, either…only anticipation, hope, and blinding love.
She steered him away from the tree. “Let’s visit Agatha another time, Brian. I want you to meet my mother.”
Did You Enjoy The Witch of the Hills?
Please do this writer a solid, by hopping onto your favorite retailer’s site and leaving a reader review. The process is simple:
(1) Type The Witch of the Hills in the search box.
(2) Click the cover picture.
(3) Scroll to the bottom and click Write a review.
(4) Write a bit about your experience traveling through time with Brian and Rebecca. Who or what did you enjoy the most? You don’t need to write much. Some reviews are only a few words in length. Others are longer. Just do what feels comfortable to you.
(5) Once you’re finished, whi
le you’re still in Amazon, maybe you’d like to read Faulty Bones? You’ll find an excerpt on the next page.
Thank you!
J.M. Fraser
Excerpt from
Faulty Bones
by J.M. Fraser
One day, running on empty and down to my last few dollars, I run into a friend of a friend who introduces me to another friend, who tells me about Hal, who knows some guy named Philippe. A French guy. Philippe has a scam going. Counterfeit chips.
Enter Philippe. We’re at his joke of an apartment, and I’m sitting across from him at an ancient Formica table with wobbly legs, in a kitchen so old the appliances are colored yellow and green. Not white or stainless steel like the kind I’d buy if I could ever build up a bankroll large enough to cover anything more than a poker buy-in and the next meal. We’re talking hard times all around, and that shouldn’t make any sense to me, given the fact Philippe is supposed to be a successful counterfeiter and all.
But I’m a little too desperate for cash to worry about that. Besides this man’s nationality has captured my entire focus, distracting me from all else, cuz for a poker player, there’s nothing more important than the initial read. Ironic, huh?
Anyway, Philippe isn’t French. He’s an everyday, balding, older guy with tattoos all over the muscled arms bulging out of his dirty T-shirt. He looks like another Joe or Bob or Hank. A former seaman or retired cop who let himself go in his declining years. Until he opens his mouth to speak.
“What can I help choo weef and how much woudchoo pay me?”
Yep, he’s Russian through and through, not only based on his accent, which I won’t try to pathetically imitate anymore, but also the give something to get something attitude, especially the way he emphasizes the word pay, dragging it out slowly, the same way he’d undoubtedly prolong my torture if I fail to return every penny I’ll ever owe him, notwithstanding the fact I’m a woman, and a pretty one at that. Uh-huh, that’s a brag, but I work long and hard at taking good care of myself. We’re talking six miles of roadwork a day, minimum. I eat the right foods, barely any at all, and thanks to the unfailing wisdom of my late mom, I brush my hair to a shine at least once a day. She always said what a man finds the most appealing in a woman at first glance sits north of her forehead. My mom insisted on that, so don’t believe anyone who claims they’re a tits man or a legs man. That all comes after the initial impression.
I know all about reads, believe me.
I gaze into Philippe’s eyes, cool as can be, and I silently count to twelve before answering, just to convey how unintimidating I find his subtle menace and the overall dire situation I may be getting sucked into. Who in their right mind goes to a man who isn’t only Russian but undoubtedly mobbed up, to get involved as a mule for his dastardly counterfeiting enterprise? Yes, my right knee is beginning to tremble in its hiding place under the table and out of view, but I command it to hold steady. Not one inch of my body can even hint at the absolute terror causing my heart to pump a thousand miles per hour.
Otherwise, I’m sunk with a guy like this. He’ll have me for breakfast if that half-empty bottle of vodka at his elbow hasn’t satisfied his appetite already.
“I don’t like the feel of you,” I say in a steady voice, “so let’s just say I came for a visit, and I choked down a nice glass of vodka with you, but now I’ll be on my way.”
That’s what’s known as a bluff, folks.
I start to rise from my chair, but quick as an eyeblink, he has me by the wrist with a powerful hand. Anyone…anyone would scream at this point, but I’ve commanded all body parts, including my throat, to behave, so I merely whimper, and then I bust out crying.
Acknowledgements
How do I begin thanking people after this ten-year journey of a novel-writing experience? So many critique partners and beta readers have come and gone. But Mia Jo Celeste and Helen Johannes have always been there for me, and they stick around. Thanks you so much!
I also want to thank Elle J. Rossi for a fantastic cover that will certainly draw more readers than my meagre storytelling skills ever could.
Finally I do remember my two earliest beta readers who shared thoughts and suggestions with me at a time when this novel still needed a lot of work. Carolyn Fraser and Yvette Graff, thank you!
About the Author
J.M. Fraser is a businessman and writer. He empty-nests with his better half, Mary, in the suburban prairies west of Milwaukee. When not doing whatever it is that they do, they spend as much time as they can with their two daughters, Carolyn and Natalie, and a cute little grandson named Colin.
