ONCE, A LONG TIME AGO
ONCE,
A LONG TIME AGO
Kay G. Jay
© 2019 Kay G. Jay
Once, A Long Time Ago
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Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Elm Hill, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Elm Hill and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
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Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019932199
ISBN 978-1-400325221 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-400325238 (eBook)
Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook
Please note that footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my husband, Chuck Johnson.
He is my one true love and my hero –
a warrior in his own right.
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER ONE
The boy was calling for him. There was desperation and fear in the voice. His boots pounding on the concrete floor echoed off the block walls as he followed the sound. The small voice was begging now. He burst into the room, his weapon at the ready and stopped dead in his tracks. He would never have recognized the bruised and bloody face of the child, but the eyes were his. He lunged at the man holding the boy in his grip.
“Angelo, what have you done!” He was stopped short by the glint of the knife blade against the boy’s pulsing jugular.
“Not so fast, Danny Boy. He sold you out.” The boy struggled convulsively to free himself.
“No Danny. You know I would not do that.” His words were made thick by swollen lips.
“It’s all right. Don’t be afraid.” Their eyes met. The boy’s trust was unwavering. No one had ever cared about him before. He was a street kid, but from the very first, Danny had looked him in the eye and had really seen him.
“Oh for God’s sake, who needs this worthless snitch?”
Before Danny could react, Angelo slashed the young boy’s throat and shoved him forward. He bled out quickly as Danny held him, blood pumping into a pool around them. His eyes never left Danny’s. He died still believing Danny would save him.
* * *
The anguished cry made the hair stand up on the back of Kenann’s neck. Without stopping to think, she leapt to her feet. Turning in circles, she dislodged the wooden lid of a packing crate onto her bare foot. With pain now added to fear’s adrenaline, she held the injured member with one hand and hopped into the hallway facing the other apartment door. The colonial style house had been divided into two large apartments. It was the only possible location of the distress. She intended to knock and inquire if everything was all right, when still hopping, she caught her toe on the edge of the large Persian rug in the center of the foyer. She slammed head and shoulder first into the door. It burst open at the force of her impact. She sailed into the room, airborne for several feet. She landed with an audible grunt and finally slid to a stop across the hardwood floor.
The ensuing silence was deafening. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she encountered bare toes and muscular calves. She raised her head and uttered an involuntary gasp. She covered her face with both hands. She heard movement and when she peaked between her fingers, she saw a towel where flesh had been.
“What are the chances of me turning around and crawling back out of here?”
“None.”
“That’s what I figured.” She sighed and accepted the hand extended down to her. As she came up to her full height, she was aware of his chest in front of her. The moon shifted from behind a cloud and bathed the room in soft light. His dark hair ruffled from sleep and the hands on his hips gave him a roguish appearance. Her mind went involuntarily to pirates. Light colored eyes made more intense by the tanned skin studied her. She felt herself begin to stammer.
“I heard someone cry out, so I came to check and well, then I sort of tripped in the hallway and ...” she held out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Kenann James, your new neighbor. I drove in just this evening. I didn’t see anyone over here when I unloaded my things.”
He found himself shaking the extended hand. He was edgy from the recurrence of the painful dream and the shock of having someone shoot into his living room like a cannon ball. She seemed harmless enough in her baggy shorts and T-shirt, her brown curly hair flowing wildly about her face.
“Do you always come to the rescue so boldly?” His deep voice echoed quietly in the room.
She turned to look at his front door standing ajar and the rug curled up at his feet. Despite her earlier trepidation, she burst out laughing. She put her hand to her mouth to stem the tide without success.
“That was quite an entrance, wasn’t it?” she managed between giggles.
The musical quality of her laughter stirred him.
“One I’m sure I won’t forget for a while. I’ll nominate you for captain at the next neighborhood watch meeting.”
She knew he was mocking her, but she didn’t mind. It was funny.
“Hey, no problem. Everything okay with you?”
“Uh huh.” He ran his hand through his already disheveled hair. She couldn’t help but admire the movement of hard muscle in his bare upper arm and chest. She wanted to ask him more questions but made herself refrain. He did not seem the type to pour out his heart to a total stranger.
“Well I promise, the next time I’ll knock.” She made her way back across the hallway and turned to open her door before saying goodnight. Instead she leaned her forehead on the door and groaned.
“Locked out?” He was leaning in
his doorway across the hall looking completely at ease wrapped in a towel.
“Yes,” she said disgustedly and kicked the door like a petulant child.
“Hang on.” He came back with two short sturdy metal pieces and had her door open in swift time.
“Thanks. I think. Do you do this sort of thing often?”
It was her turn to enjoy the sound of his laughter. “No. It’s one of my many talents now retired.”
He cut further conversation short by saying goodnight. She closed the door pondering her enigmatic neighbor and headed for her couch. Unpacking could wait. As she curled up under a favorite afghan, sinking into the soft cushions, she realized she didn’t even know his name.
She dreamed of dark-haired pirates.
* * *
The name was Daniel Joseph MacKenzie, an orphan, from Oklahoma. Because of his naturally dark skin and general aquiline features he had been told that one of his parents had probably been Native American. His light-colored eyes pointed to the other parent being of European descent. He had been left in the proverbial basket on the door step. It was a church affiliated orphanage on Mackenzie Ave. Locals referred to them as the “MacKenzie kids.” Those without names, who had not been adopted by the age of majority, were given that as their legal name. The staff provided the children with names from the Bible. They fed, clothed and educated him but he experienced his first real sense of family in the United States Marine Corp.
* * *
Kenann James had been named after both her parents. Ken and Ann James had been high spirited adventure seeking nomads. He was a photographer for National Geographic. A tall lanky man with the dark hair of the Welsh, he had an easygoing manner and his grin could charm even the most suspicious indigenous tribesman. Ann was a freelance illustrator. She had the soft-spoken ethereal manner of an artist. With her long mane of honey colored curls, she always reminded Kenann of a woodland nymph. Ann had adored Ken and was delighted to follow him anywhere the next assignment took them. Kenann (pronounced Kee` nan) had been born in Nepal, weaned in Brussels and home-schooled all around the world. She always figured she developed her desire to become a Social Worker by witnessing man’s inhumanity to man on a global scale. She learned to pack light and move fast. She called home anywhere she laid her head but “going home” meant Granny James in West Virginia. The notification of her parent’s death came from the National Geographic Society in her last week of graduate school. She had been told her parents were missing in the jungles of Borneo as their light aircraft had not arrived at their destination. Extensive search and rescue efforts had been unsuccessful, and the Society was presuming them dead. With shame, her first thought had been Adam, her father’s pilot and bodyguard and her surrogate father. Her parents indulged her. Adam loved her.
Devastated, Kenann went home to Granny. She was a little bit of a woman with a freckled face and snapping green eyes. The long braid of her youth still hung down her back. Its red color was now mixed with silver giving it the color of peaches. She loved her farm along the Ohio River, but as most Irish do, dreamed of her homeland along the seacoast of Waterford. She had left her beloved Ireland for work in London where she met Justin James, a Welshman from Llangochlen, at one of the military clubs. He was so tall and handsome, not unlike the son they created together. Their little family immigrated to the United States for work in the mines. He continued to dazzle and delight her until the day he dropped to his knees in her flower garden, dying of a massive heart attack before his fiftieth birthday.
Upon learning of her parent’s deaths, her instructors waived the finals due to her excellent record. She packed up all her belongings and returned home to West Virginia. Without bodies to bury, they erected a monument on the family farm. Granny’s church family swamped them with food and helped with chores for days following the memorial service. Granny finally put her foot down and told them it was high time they helped someone else.
Kenann studied these people with an eye of an anthropologist recording the habits of an agrarian African tribe. She was fascinated by the various subcultures and unspoken mores that governed the Appalachian community. She pumped Granny for information and shared her observations over evening meals. Granny cocked her head to the side one evening and laughed with the hint of Ireland in her voice.
“Girl, one of these days you’re gonna have to stop observing life and start living it!”
Kenann loved being with Granny. She created a warm cocoon of love and security around her. Nothing had changed on the farm since her childhood visits. The smells coming from the kitchen brought back such fond memories of being pampered by fresh baked treats. The smells from the barn hadn’t changed either and even that held its own sense of serenity and continuity. No matter what happened in the outside world, stalls had to be mucked out, animals tended, gardens planted and harvested in due season.
Granny had adored her son and his beautiful wife and wept bitterly as she stood before the monument resting beside the one of her husband’s. Yet, her serenity had never wavered. Kenann observed this phenomenon with a critical eye.
Granny told her when she asked, “Honey, God gives, and God takes way. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.”
Kenann had bitten back a bitter reply. She would not share her hateful thoughts about what she wished God would do with his giving and taking. No, she did not voice her thoughts as she faithfully attended worship services and Bible Study with Granny every time the doors were open. And they were open entirely too often for her taste, but Granny asked very little of anyone and Kenann knew this pleased her grandmother. It was one small way she could repay her.
Kenann began receiving e-mails and texts from her friends from grad school. They had all gotten jobs in their chosen fields. Kenann began to grow restless. Granny knew the signs. When Kenann’s dearest friend, Judy, called to tell her about a job in her medical complex for a master’s level Social Worker, Granny knew it was time to push a little. Judy had gotten her master’s in nursing at the same time Kenann had gotten her master’s degree in Social Work. Judy was now working out of a doctor’s office in a large medical complex attached to the hospital. The Counseling Center was looking for an MSW and was willing to provide the required two-year clinical supervision for advanced licensure. It was perfect.
Granny got into the computer and printed off the vita Kenann had developed and sent it off to Judy, who supplied a cover letter. Kenann knew exactly who to blame when the call came requesting an interview, but she couldn’t be angry. She was too excited and gladly flew back to Memphis for the interview. Before she returned to West Virginia to get her belongings she had not only been hired for this dream job, but also had found a terrific duplex apartment housed in a small colonial style house in a nice section of Memphis. Granny was especially pleased to learn it was directly across the street from a church building.
“You missed your calling, Granny. You and Jude should have hired out to maneuver corporate takeovers.”
“Are you sorry to be going?”
“You know I’m not. And you also know I wouldn’t have done this on my own. Thanks.” She hugged Granny tight.
“So, go and start living a little.” Granny swatted Kenann’s behind. “Take a few risks, kiddo. Make a few mistakes, okay?”
“What kind of advice is that from a respectable grandmother to her granddaughter? Besides I’ve seen more in my few years than most people see in a lifetime.”
“I’m talking about your heart. You moved around so much you learned to keep a part of yourself closed so you wouldn’t get hurt when you left. That became a way of life for you - the closing up - I mean. The only way we can really know ourselves is to be deeply involved with others. Get dirty. Make a fool of yourself. Open yourself up to being hurt. You’ve never lived until you felt like you were going to die.”
“Granny, what’s got into you?”
“Let’s just say I see things for you and I don’t want you to miss it because you won’t grab it when it come
s by.”
“You’re not going fey on me again, are you?”
“Oh, you laugh all you want. One of these days you’ll believe ole Granny and what she knows. Now get in that beat-up old Subaru and go to Memphis before I take a switch to you.”
* * *
Kenann stepped out of the shower and looked at the clock. She thought renting an apartment across the street from a church building would increase the probability of getting there on time. Guess not. At least she was going, even if her heart really wasn’t in it. She was still more than a little mad at God. She tossed on a summer shift and sandals and looked in the mirror to study her square face framed in naturally curly shoulder length hair. The caramel colored highlights were a natural gift from her mother. Large hazel eyes stared back at her. She harbored no illusions about her looks and spent little time on something she accepted as simply pleasant. She had earned herself a few bruises with her acrobatics the night before. She could only hope her new neighbor thought the whole escapade had been part of his disturbing nightmare.
She slipped into the back pew as the congregation stood to sing the opening song. She found the page to the familiar hymn and looked up singing the chorus. Her horrified gasp was audible in the natural pause in the lyric and all eyes turned to stare at her in concern.
The man standing on the raised platform at the front of the auditorium, raised his songbook a couple of times to encourage her to resume breathing and to drop the horror-stricken look. She came to herself and smiled reassuringly to the kindly concerned faces around her. The crowd resumed eyes forward. She then turned her narrow-eyed attention to the man on the podium who was trying desperately not to smile.
It became clear soon enough that the source of her discomfort was the minister of this congregation. She could have crawled out the door and would have done just that during his sermon, had he not lifted an accusing eyebrow as she rose to leave. She recognized a challenge when she saw one and dropped back into the seat, folding her arms in a perfect pout. As the congregation stood singing the closing hymn, he came down the aisle stopping at her pew. She stiffened when he took her elbow giving him the perfect leverage to propel her bodily into the aisle and lead her out into the foyer.
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