by Eve Gaal
Table of Contents
Acknowlegments
Prologue
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 Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One-Hundred
Chapter One-Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One-Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One-Hundred and Five
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Chapter One-Hundred and Seven
Chapter One-Hundred and Eight
Chapter One-Hundred and Nine
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Penniless Hearts
Eve Gaal
Copyright (C) 2013 Eve Gaal Layout Copyright (C) 2015 by Creativia Published 2015 by Creativia
eBook design by Creativia (www.creativia.org) Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/
Txu 1-838-344 (Library of Congress) This book 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 events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
This book is dedicated to my brother and sister
Acknowlegments
Flipping through my trusty but outdated dictionary from 1973, I came across the word adman. The definition is a person who designs, sells or writes advertisements. I did all those things for many, many years. In fact, I was one of the first female advertising executives at some of the larger papers, back in the day. Not as far back as “Mad Men” but maybe 15 to 20 years later. I've never watched that show, possibly because it sounds like reliving the past through male role models. I can't even imagine a show about the things we had to do, say and write just to please our customers. Anyway, it's weird to think I was an adman when most of the time, I called myself an advertising executive or an ad consultant while some people thought I was just driven, manic and too full of ideas. Truth be told, a good adman is only as good as his graphic artists and I want to give a huge thank you to those who helped interpret my ideas and put them onto paper. My first experience with a graphic artist was in 1982 at The Fullerton Daily News Tribune where my friend Yvonne Shea tried desperately to find me the appropriate clip art or she'd draw the illustration I needed from scratch. A true professional, I will never forget our wonderful rapport and I'm glad that after 33 years, we're still friends. At The Herald Examiner/Herald American and South Gate Press there were many wonderful people including Tom who illustrated by hand, way before things were created on computers. At The Daily Pilot, I was pulled out of a writing position to reenter the world of being an “adman” and was lucky to work with the amazing Vic Cook who drew wonderful caricatures and helped me tremendously. When he received an offer from Filmation Studios, it led to a vacancy that motivated change. I went to The Los Angeles Times where Diana Geiger attempted to follow my hastily drawn layouts, turning out wonderful advertisements. I also need to thank my personal assistants Chris, Dallas and the late Sally Salazar. The Pagination department employees I want to thank are Larry Claybaugh, Tony Wille and Cathy Tessier for their perpetual support and kindness. Later on, I went to work for The North County Times where the wonderful publisher Dick High understood that advertising departments needed quality artists. Fortunately, I was blessed to work with some of the world's most talented individuals including Joshua Lynne, Cindy Droubi and Mark Zier. Everything they created was on an Apple Macintosh computer and I grew to understand more about the possibilities available thanks to the genius of Steve Jobs. The pagination department at the NCT included the miraculous Alyssa Mercier who I must thank for enduring fortitude and patience.
Thank you to Patsy Marshall for taking a chance on me for my college internship, as a writer for The Berry Vine, the employee newsletter at Knott's Berry Farm. Thank you to Roy Rivenburg for publishing my poems in The Titan University publications and The Sun Newspaper. At one point, I was hired to write restaurant reviews for an entertainment publication specifically designed for South Orange County called Datebook, but a new publisher knew about my advertising background and the writing was short-lived. I'd like to thank my editor from that time, Scott Hayes.
After a lifetime in the newspaper business, a very surreal even
t took place when Nicole Brambila wrote a front-page story of my life for the local paper. Bestselling author Norma Beishir became a follower of my blog posts and encouraged my writing. She introduced me to all her other writing friends. The volumes of friends and contacts I have made through Writer's Digest Magazine has also allowed me the privilege of meeting encouraging authors Mari Collier, Barry Parham, Michele Arkon, Mark Hunter, Maria McKenzie and William Kendall who all bring different dimensions and ideas to the forefront about modern publishing. Lastly and most importantly, I have to thank my husband Steve, because his loving and biased support always makes me feel special.
The characters in my book are a conglomeration of sorts and even though certain traits and features may look and sound familiar, it is simply coincidental because they are all figments of my imagination infused with the wonderful memories my friends helped me create.
* * *
Prologue
Rocks and boulders that stand atop mountains for eons eventually loosen their solid grip, tumbling down into awaiting valleys. The woman she works with would say it's because of the stars. Things moved, and they change perspective if only for a life altering instant. Between restlessness and adventure there is a truth that calls those who listen, while fear and fatigue hold most everyone firmly in place.
Penny leaned against the kitchen counter. She felt exhaustion grip her shoulders before shooting down her spine. Simply writing the word spaghetti on a sticky note made her feel unbalanced. Beyond tired, an internal motivation kept her working, labeling the meals for her dad in a cocoon-like trance that braced and enveloped her, so she wouldn't fall over. After the last plastic container went into the freezer, she turned off the lights and headed for bed. Unless the world turned upside down and everything changed, no one would miss her or even notice she was gone. Well, maybe Dad would miss her, she thought, as her head touched the pillow and she entered her dreams.
*
“The Princess will see you now, your Highness.” The messenger turned to lead the Prince into a massive bedroom where soft breezes lifted curtains, revealing dancing stars and a giant moon slouched low in the summer sky. Warily, the Prince entered, listening for her lyrical voice, watching for her fair skin, and inhaling the scent of her delicious, mesmerizing fragrance. The sound of his shoes echoed on the mosaic tiles and the unmistakable aroma of violets and patchouli tickled his nose. The scent drew him deeper into her luxurious boudoir, where a lone canary sang in a tiny, filigreed cage, reminding him of the longing in his heart.
“Penelope, I have come for you,” he cried out over the bird's enchanting song. “Are you here?” His eyes glanced around the room towards the canopied bed. “Don't worry, your father the King, knows our plans. He will escort us out of Pannonia with any belongings you wish to bring. The royal mapmaker is charting our course and planning enforcements. God has protected me in battle and I have come to claim my love. Please, my darling, do not be afraid.”
Approaching the giant, four-poster bed, he found her sobbing, huge pearl-like orbs that gently rolled down her tender rose-kissed cheeks. The sight of her pain almost stopped his heart faster than the time his stallion nearly tossed him over a ledge. No gold or silver could match the value of his beloved's tears, he thought, looking quietly at the copper haired maiden, who would soon be his Queen.
Moist green pools looked longingly up into his warm amber eyes. “Come here,” she whispered, patting the silk covers and then clasping her hands together as if in prayer.
“Why do you cry, my dear?” He asked, kneeling down near the bed and placing one of her hands into his palm.
“I don't want to leave father.” A tear dropped from her face to her bosom–and the Prince shuddered when it made him think of a dagger entering his chest.
“Oh, my dearest,” he said, standing up and pulling her up into his arms. “We can bring him to our kingdom.” She buried her head under his chin while he smoothed the back of her shiny hair, attempting to calm his beloved. Her sobs blended with the sound of the canary, and the loud drumming under his ribcage. “There, there,” he said, rocking her back and forth and caressing her cinnamon-hued tresses. “You're breaking my heart, please don't cry.”
Reaching for a lace handkerchief, she stuttered, “If…if he leaves, then this great country will suffer without him.”
The prince wiped the tears from her face and took her head between both his hands and kissed her. Full of passion, this kiss sealed them into timeless eternity, miraculously entwining their two souls forever. Minutes passed, but time stood still, until she looked up and quietly said, “The world will change because of our love.”
*
Awake, but not ready to coax herself back into reality, Penny strained her ears listening for the song of the canary. She looked towards her curtains hoping to see a breeze, but they were motionless, and the only sound she heard was the street sweeper, loudly brushing giant wheels outside.
Dad must have turned the thermostat up, she figured, pushing aside a shock of red tendrils plastered onto her forehead. Getting a jolt into the twenty-first century was difficult at six in the morning, especially after one of her dreamy, vivid fantasies. One more day, she thought, pulling back the sheets and slowly pushing her feet towards the shower. One more day….
* * *
Chapter One
Confidence radiated from Penny Himmel, as she sailed through the front door, holding two Subway sandwiches, two sodas and chips in one hand and her purse with the airline ticket in the other. A quick glance at her Tinkerbell watch made her walk faster, into her office at The Daily Globe. After catching her breath, she noticed it was relatively quiet when she entered the cubicle area where the sales and graphic art departments merged. The sales people were out making their calls, but the top producer, Tina, had bundles of loose ends to get through before she could get out on the road to visit her customers. Seconds after setting Tina's lunch down, she heard her cackling voice snap across the room, like an F-16 breaking the sound barrier.
“What took you so long?” she hollered, but Penny didn't wince. Tina took two, long, elegant strides with her towering, lean legs, into Penny's personal space. Rustling the straw out of the wrapper, she quickly shoved it through the plastic lid to suck down her compulsory daily dose of caffeine. Most of the time, Penny tuned it out, by developing a growing immunity to Tina's demoralizing outbursts. Besides the high-volume yelling, there was the demeaning way the Amazon laughed at her hard work and told her to redo everything from scratch. Caffeine and sugar only amplified Tina's cynical put downs but Penny had a supreme talent in pre-empting her cat-like vanity, an ability that helped her survive as Tina's personal graphic artist and overworked assistant.
“Oh God, I needed that.” Tina exhaled, after sucking down almost half the drink and pulling the lipstick covered straw from her mouth. “Next time, get the extra-large drink,” she gasped.
Whatever. Nothing Tina could do or say would get in the way of her excitement. Tomorrow she'd be on vacation and Tina would need to learn to work with another slave for a while. Of course, it all depended on the stars.
Tina's emotions swayed with the daily horoscope. Each morning Tina would grab The Times, The Herald and The Globe and after careful scrutiny, she'd pick the happiest, most positive horoscope as her guide for the day. If all three were less than favorable, she'd throw the papers on the floor or rant about raging sunspots awaking the Roman moon goddess, Luna. During these flagrant demonstrations, Penny felt like a turtle pulling her head into its shell, letting Tina's ridiculous behavior flow like saltwater off her back.
Right now, they had deadlines to meet, and Penny didn't like the pinched look on Tina's normally sedate face. Sedate as in frozen and superior, like some strange condescending monarch ruling her own miserable universe. At least Marie Antoinette suggested cake, but knowing Tina, Penny figured she'd offer the poor masses dry bread, until lopping off their heads, while charging the onlookers admission. She was whacked.
/> Kicking off her pumps, Tina curled one long leg under her body in her ergonomically designed, special-order office chair. Typically tense around deadline, she said, “We have to start building that Ford ad for this weekend's Lifestyle section, you know.” For someone who acted so superior, she sure recited the same predictable lines and she sure seemed haunted by that huge clock on the wall that frequently made her frown. Time, Penny figured, must be Tina's main nemesis. The deranged illusive enemy that even Tina didn't know how to manipulate.
“I do know,” Penny said cheerfully, powering up her Mac and putting down her sandwich. “Look, I already started working on it. What do you think?” Penny stared at the screen, afraid of turning towards Tina while her creation slowly emerged on the monitor. The ad portrayed a giant Ford logo at the top with a nice photographic lineup of the latest models in the middle. The only other place Penny could stare was the wall with the clock, but in its place, Penny saw a ticking bomb with red dynamite.
Pulling the straw out of her mouth, Tina loudly exclaimed, “No, Penny, that is so bo-o-ring.” Smiling inwardly, Penny thought about her life and how Tina would fall down dead if she knew the monotony and responsibility in her routine, lackluster life. “You know he wanted something exciting that jumped off the page–and what's with the small type?”
Looking around, Penny felt self-conscious at Tina's loud assessment of the ad. The smell of tuna filled her cubicle and assaulted her nose. It used to be entertaining, Penny thought, watching the drama unfold on Tina's sculpted, marble-like face. Her animated expressions reminded Penny of a bad scene in a poorly acted foreign soap opera. Describing her day when she got home usually made her dad burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Lately however, Penny simply found her increasingly aggravating. Besides, every single ad she designed was supposed to 'jump off the page.'
“What is this?” Tina asked, pulling a cucumber slice out of her sandwich and tossing it into the trash. “You know I like pickles in my tuna sandwich.”
“They ran out. Sorry. Anyway, pickles are cucumbers and those are good for you—less sodium,” Penny replied, feeling her shoulder muscles tightening, in anticipation of Tina's upcoming reaction to her bold statement.
