by Jill Barnett
The Novels of Jill Barnett
The Novels of Jill Barnett
Now Available or Coming Soon in Ebook
From Bell Bridge Books:
JUST A KISS AWAY
BEWITCHING
DREAMING
IMAGINE
CARRIED AWAY
WONDERFUL
WILD
WICKED
THE HEART'S HAVEN
SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY
THE DAYS OF SUMMER
Visit Jill at www.jillbarnett.com
and www.bellbridgebooks.com
About Jill Barnett
Jill Barnett sold her first book to Simon and Schuster in 1988 and has gone on to write 19 novels and short stories. There are over 7 million of her books in print, and her work has been published worldwide in 21 languages, audio and large print editions, and has earned her a place on such national bestseller lists as the New York Times, USA Today, Washington Post, Publishers Weekly, Barnes and Noble and Waldenbooks —who presented Jill with the National Waldenbook Award. She lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.
Imagine
By
Jill Barnett
Bell Bridge Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright 1995 © by Jill Barnett
2010 Electronic publication - Bell Bridge Books
Digital ISBN: 978-1-935661-74-0
Originally published 1995 by Pocket Books, mass market edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact us at the address above or at [email protected]
Visit us at www.bellbridgebooks.com
Cover Design: Debra Dixon
Interior Design: Hank Smith
Artwork Credits:
Corsett (manipulated) © Viatcheslav Dusaleev | Dreamstime.com
Sea background © Leeloomultipass | Dreamstime.com
Decorative elements © Jaguarwoman Designs
:Moi:01:
To Joe Corn and His Five Cobs; to lullabies played on a muted trumpet. To Saturdays at the lumberyard and silly steps danced to the songs you played. To Dodgers’ baseball games and John Wayne movies; to your gift of laughter and your gift of life. To the man who stomped around the roof, pretending to be Santa’s reindeer; the same man of quiet strength who had to tell a ten-year-old girl that her mother died when part of him must have died with her. To fathers who teach their daughters that they can be anything and who know when to let go. To the man in my life who has always been there for me, to my dad.
Table of contents
Acknowledgments
Imagine . . .
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Cahpter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
To know is nothing at all; to imagine is everything.
—Anatole France
Imagine . . .
Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, October 1896
The bottle was as old as time.
It floated on the sea, bobbing along as if it were flotsam instead of intricately carved silver. The ornate stopper caught flashes of bright sunlight, which, to the gulls that soared overhead, made the shimmering bottle look like a plump silver herring—a prize for the plucking. Many a sea bird swooped down, only to quickly dart like reflections back into the sky when their bills hit not the soft flesh of glimmering fish scales, but instead hard metal.
It was a sad fact that there were no precious jewels on a bottle so old. A few gull pecks, a small scratch here and there, but no jewels. For gemstones, like an angel’s wings, had to be earned.
A blood red ruby would have added a dash of character to the bottle. A diamond would have given it stunning richness. But a pearl was like a hero’s medal of valor, a prize for a task so difficult that only the most unique of stones would do.
Ah, yes, a pearl was the ultimate adornment on a genie’s bottle.
Yes . . . a genie. One Muhdula Ali, purple genie of Persia, otherwise known as Muddy.
Since the beginning of time, men have argued that genies do not exist. Yet those same men believed in miracles and in the existence of angels. How many angels could dance on a pin? they had argued. (The answer is none. A pin is too small for angels. Only fairies can fit on pinheads.) But those men were not dreamers. They were pragmatists and scholars, men with little time to dream.
Muddy wanted more than anything to be mastered by one of those innocents of heart who believed in that which they had never seen or known, people of faith who needed no debate to be able to imagine.
The knowledge that those people existed out there somewhere in the human race gave him hope, hope that had lived for some two thousand-odd years. He needed to find one of those believers. A lucky innocent. Someone whom fate didn’t have it in for.
You see, Muddy had a problem. He needed all the luck he could get. His history was witness to the fact that his bottle was still embarrassingly naked. Not one single gemstone.
His first master had been none other than Paris, prince of Troy, and when it came to intelligence, Paris was . . . well, he was a few coins short of a drachma.
Indeed, for Paris had kidnapped lovely Helen, blithely ignoring the fact that she was another man’s wife. The resulting war had lasted ten years. He went on to fell his father’s kingdom when he decided that a giant wooden horse was, in truth, a Greek gift.
The basic problem for Muddy was that a genie was only as good as his master. And for some two thousand years, he had been mastered by some of humanity’s most unfortunate and unlucky souls.
There had been Nero, a man so self-absorbed that he couldn’t smell smoke. More recently, Benedict Arnold, who wanted desperately to be remembered throughout history. And there was that poor Chicago woman, Mrs. O’Leary. Her last wish had been for a milk cow. Those had been just a few of his unlucky masters.
Muddy sighed and lay back against the plump silk pillows that circled his small and confined world—the world of his unadorned bottle. He slipped his hands behind his head and let the lazy current rock him to sleep.
But just before he closed his eyes he wondered how long it would be before someone found him. Would it be months? It could be years.
With his own wish and a helpless shrug, he fell asleep, never knowing that it would only be a matter of weeks.
Chapter 1
San Francisco, October 1896
Margaret Huntington
Smith looked as if she had everything. She carried herself with confidence, and her height reinforced that image. She was tall, blond, beautiful, and wealthy. And she was an attorney—at that moment, one very happy attorney.
She wore a cat-in-the-cream kind of smile as she moved down the limestone steps of the courthouse and stepped into a shiny black brougham. She tossed a calfskin portfolio on the plush velvet seat, sat down, and gave a sly wink to the older distinguished-looking gentleman who sat across from her.
Harlan Smith laughed at his daughter’s expression. “Oh, Margaret, my girl, it’s a blasted good thing that you can hide your emotions in the courtroom or you’d never win a case.”
She tugged off her gloves and grinned at him. “I just won this one.”
“Yes, you did, and soundly, too.”
“A great compliment coming from my father, the judge.” She laughed, the hearty clear sound of a woman at ease with her laughter. “It did go rather well, didn’t it?”
“I remember when you tied your hair up in ribbons.” He shook his head, then gave a wry laugh. “Now you cut the opposing attorney into ribbons.”
“And you taught me everything I know.”
“Yes, I suppose I did.” There was a deep sense of pride in his look. And that one look from her dad made all those eternal months of work—the research, the planning, the long hours of preparing for a case—worth every exhausting hour.
They sat in silence while the carriage rolled up and over the steep hills of the city. The horses’ hooves clattered over the trolley rails while newspaper boys hawked the afternoon edition. A cool gust of October wind rode in from the Pacific and rattled the etched glass windows of the elegant carriage. In the distance, fog bells belched long and loud, and a trolley bell rang as it crossed an intersection where traffic came to an abrupt halt.
She could feel her father’s look, and she turned.
“I wish your mother could see you now,” he said. The pride was still in his eyes, along with the misty look of a distant memory.
She reached out and touched his hand. “I know, Dad. I wish she were here, too.”
He looked away for just a second, one of those quiet imagined moments of “what if “ experienced by those the dead have left behind. She released his hand, and when he turned back, his expression wasn’t as wistful. He fumbled in his coat pocket and handed her an envelope.
“What’s this?”
His face gave nothing away. “Open it and find out.”
She tore open the seal and looked inside. She took out a set of tickets, turned the top one so she could read it, then looked up. “This is a first-class ticket on an ocean liner.”
He nodded.
“Going where?” she thought aloud as she thumbed through the other tickets, then unfolded the itinerary. She whipped her head up. “The South Seas?”
“And vouchers for transportation between islands.” He smiled. “French Oceania—Tahiti, the Cook Islands, and more. A little taste of paradise for a daughter who works too hard.”
“Oh, Dad . . .” She leaned over and planted a kiss on his white-whiskered cheek. She looked down at the tickets. “Thank you.”
“Are you pleased?”
She gave him an easy smile and grabbed his hand. “Of course.”
“Good.” He began to talk about the islands, about how the South Seas still held a bit of paradise that the modern world hadn’t ruined.
She listened as she stared out the window at the bay and the misty wall of fog sitting just off shore, at the tall narrow rows of candy-colored houses huddled so close together that after traveling past them for a few streets they almost melted together like the colors of a rainbow.
This trip was her father’s dream. Not hers. But then she hadn’t had much time in the last few years to have any dreams.
She looked at the envelope and knew she’d go. Because he had always wanted to go. She frowned for a second, then slid open the envelope again and shuffled through the contents. “Dad? There’s only one ticket here. Where’s yours?”
He cleared his throat, then said, “I can’t get away right now.”
“I’m going alone? But—”
He held up a hand and cut her off in the same efficient way he handled his gavel. “The state supreme court docket is full. We have to hear the Mallard case.”
“So soon?”
He nodded. “It’s due to start the day after tomorrow.”
She closed the flap on the ticket envelope. “Then I’ll wait until you can get away.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. By that time you’ll be into another case and won’t want to get away.”
“But —”
“Don’t even try to argue this, Margaret. You won’t win with me. I’m the one who taught you how to argue a point. And I’m telling you that you will not have another case until after you take some time away.”
“You’re just throwing your weight around.”
“Yes, I am. Shamelessly.”
“Coercion,” she muttered.
“I’m also your father, and for the last five years, I have watched you work endlessly and not take any time for yourself.”
“I’m happy when I’m working.”
“You just have a compulsion to make the world fair and equal.”
“The world will be a better place if it’s fair and equal.”
“I know that, but you can’t single-handedly change the world.”
“I can try.”
“Not to the exclusion of everything else. Margaret, for the past few years you have been an attorney and my daughter. What have you done for yourself?”
“Won my cases.”
He pinned her with one of his direct looks. “Life is passing you by.”
“You make it sound as if I’ve got one foot in the grave.”
He laughed. “You’re thirty-two, and not getting any younger.”
“Thanks.”
“Go. Just go.” He paused. “For me.”
She sat there, torn, because she didn’t want to go on this trip. She’d rather work. There was comfort and safety in the law. It was something she knew well.
But she looked at her dad and knew she was going to lose this argument. She’d go. Because he wanted her to.
Her mother had died when she was barely seven. And that left just the two of them. She did have her maternal uncles, all attorneys and partners in her law firm. They had been there for holidays, there whenever her father thought he needed help parenting, and there when Margaret began to study law.
But in truth, her family was her father. And he was right. She’d go on this trip for him, because he was the single most important person in her life.
So a week later when she walked up the boarding ramp on a large Pacific liner, she did so with resigned acceptance. A number of male heads turned and followed her with their eyes. Something she had also learned to accept.
She understood that men found her attractive, but she felt her looks were a curse. She wanted, needed, to be taken seriously. Her father had always treated her respectfully, as had her uncles. But to others, once the pretty little girl with ribbons in her hair had grown up, she hadn’t become a person, she was a shell, something to ogle.
To the world, there was nothing on the inside of Margaret Smith. There couldn’t be, because she was pretty. She had to earn respect, because most of the world thought a woman who was beautiful had little else to offer.
She couldn’t be intelligent, because she was pretty. She couldn’t have any depth, because she had lovely blond hair. She couldn’t think, because she had money. She couldn’t have a heart, a soul, because she wasn’t like them.
To them, she couldn’t hurt.
She remembered how a college classmate, another woman, had looked at her once and said with vitriol, “How could you know anything about being hurt? You grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
And that was what too many people thought. That Margaret Huntington Smith had everything. No one
knew that although she had a loving father and kind, caring uncles, wealth, and beauty, much of the time, deep down inside she felt alone and scared.
She hid her loneliness, her fears, along with those instincts that were female—motherhood, sisterhood, even the occasional urge to cry for no reason. All things that her father couldn’t explain.
With only men as role models, she strived to be strong and independent, capable and focused. She grew up thinking she had to be as perfect as she appeared to the world and, more important, to one person in her life who mattered, her father. Because she was all he had left.
Maybe that’s why she worked so hard to try to make the world fair and equal. Because for Margaret, it never had been.
Two months later, Leper’s Gate Penal Colony, Dolphin Island
Hank Wyatt believed in nothing. Because he’d never had anything. Well, much of anything. He’d had a mother once.
When he was five, she took him to a foundling home. “Smile, Henry James, and be a good boy,” she had said. “Someone will want you.”
Then she’d turned and walked out the door. As if he didn’t exist.
But he did exist, and he spent the next thirty-five years making sure that everyone knew it. And no one forgot it.
No one at Leper’s Gate forgot Henry James Wyatt existed.
He was an American, a product of the Pittsburgh slums. He was trouble, but he was a survivor. A fast learner. He had to be. Life hadn’t dealt him aces. It dealt him deuces.
But he had aces up his sleeve and the instincts to know when to slip those cards into play. He knew when to cheat, when to lie, and when to run like hell.
He learned his lessons the hard way, learned early that a code of ethics wasn’t for him. No turning the other cheek. None of that do-unto-others crap. He did unto others before they damn well did unto him.
He was wrongly condemned to Leper’s Gate. A mistake. And he’d fought like hell when they’d locked him away. He spent the end of his first week confined in solitary: a three-foot-by-six-and-half-foot wooden box buried in the dirt. In the tropical sun. They gave him water once a day. No food. Food wasn’t for prisoners like Hank. They needed to be broken.
