She's Me (The Vicarage Bench Series)

by Mimi Barbour

  She's Me

  Book One

  of

  The Vicarage Bench Series

  by

  Mimi Barbour

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents are either the product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously, and any

  resemblance to actual persons living or dead,

  business establishments, events, or locales, is

  entirely coincidental.

  Vicarage Bench Series – Book One

  COPYRIGHT 2011 by Mimi Barbour

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used

  or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without

  written permission of the author except in the case of

  brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: mimi@mimibarbour.com

  Cover Art by Viola Estrella

  Edited by Nan Swanson

  Also: Author of

  The Vicarage Bench Series Books

  He’s Her

  We’re One

  Together again

  Together for Christmas

  Also: Author of

  Angels with Attitudes Series

  My Cheeky Angel

  Hi Devious Angel

  Great Reviews for She's Me

  “A cross between Sleeping Beauty and a girlie version of Back to the Future....a story full of surprising twists resulting in happily-ever-afters.”

  ~Lisa, Night Owl Romance Book Reviews

  “A funny, endearing story of how four people struggle to co-exist in two bodies....The characters are believable and while you are laughing over their mishaps you are falling in love with [them]. This is a great read.”

  ~Whitney, Simply Romance Reviews

  "I loved these three stories. What a brilliant idea to have bodies intertwined. It's so different from the usual time travel."

  ~Anita Birt, author of A Very Difficult Man

  “Wonderful array of characters...and...wonderful changes and growth. Dialogue is snappy and... humorous. ("Hell's bells, now I can't even cry without getting hassled....") The...relationships that drive this story are hysterical.”

  ~Snapdragon, The Long and the Short of It

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  He’s Her (Book two of the Vicarage Bench Series)

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Vicarage Bench Series

  Angels with Attitudes Series

  Praise for The Vicarage Bench titles

  Dedication

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Contact Page

  Chapter One

  The large, oval mirror reflected what the top magazine photographers captured in every front-page sensation featuring Jenna McBride. Beauty might be skin deep as told to plain, hopeful little girls, but Jenna had never heard those words. All her life there had been comments about her “natural chestnut glory” or her “intense blue eyes with diamond-like highlights.” Even her figure, slender and tall, was unproblematic, as her system tended to wear off whatever she chose to eat, although since she chose the healthiest of foods she glowed with fitness.

  As Jenna sauntered past the mirror she slowed to check herself out, as she was apt to do when passing any reflecting surface, and she spied her secretary’s grinning image behind her.

  “Marnie, wipe it.”

  The grin disappeared, but Marnie’s eyes remained full of merriment.

  “Has Harvey called?” Harvey was the favoured man of the month, taller than Jenna, with eyes of a similar cobalt tone, hair silvered with distinguishing highlights, and more money than many banks.

  Marnie’s answer was tinged with disdain, which was not lost on Jenna. “Yes, he’ll be there to pick you up at the airport tomorrow evening. His exact words were, ‘Tell her to doll up, because I want to show her off to some college buddies who’ll be joining us for a late dinner. They don’t believe me when I tell them she’s a female version of myself—eye candy.’”

  Jenna’s laugh was fake and forced as she stepped outside the famous vicarage where her last shoot had taken place three days ago. She was burnt out from the many assignments she’d crammed in over the past few months. It seemed as though every manufacturer in the world wanted to have her face represent their products. Enough was enough. She needed to veg and catch her breath.

  The quaint vicarage was over a hundred years old, filled with relics from the past and a peaceful ambience in which a person could unwind. The verdant colours of the vines clinging in masses to the exterior framed the stained-glass windows, while pink roses twining in and out here and there added delight for the viewer. The foliage explosion nearby covered a crumbling stone wall that enclosed a large garden filled with hybrid roses, all blooming, permeating the air with their fragrance. On the other side of the wall was a surprisingly busy lane where the folks of the small town frequently walked or drove by, following their daily routines.

  Her normal choice of a holiday hotel it wasn’t, but for some unknown reason Jenna had fallen in love with the atmosphere of tranquility on sight and, reluctant to leave it, had rented the nest for a few extra days for herself and her secretary to relax after the shoot. It was essential for Marnie to stay there with her, not just for reasons of answering the telephone and other business matters, but because Marnie had worked almost as hard as Jenna these last few months and deserved a break. Keeping up with the daily correspondence, being at Jenna’s beck and call and catering to her every whim still left Marnie a bit of time left over to spend as she pleased.

  Jenna was heading to her special place, a wooden bench near the roadway where she could people-watch, one of her favourite pastimes. She liked to breathe in the scent from the pink roses that trailed over the trellis behind the bench and gave a fresh contrast to the natural greyness of the oak. Today the scene was framed by a sky bluer than normal. She meandered along toward the empty bench, Marnie close behind her. As she stopped to smell a particularly gorgeous rose, a thorn bit into the fleshy part of her finger and she squealed with pain.

  A strangeness settled over her as she sat to pull out the spine. As soon as her body touched the bench, a trancelike state began to take hold. Her mind felt numb, and later she would swear that her body floated away from her and disappeared in small drifts, like a cloud shifting.

  Finally, she broke loose from these imaginings and turned to talk to Marnie, who was nowhere to be seen. She shook her head and reached up to rub her forehead, but when she touched herself she knew something was dreadfully wrong. It was as though she were having an out-of-body experience. Everything around her had altered. She closed her eyes and slumped further down on the bench. She twisted herself agitatedly, opened her eyes again and looked in every direction. It was then she realized that the road looked oddly different from the one she remembered.

  She swivelled every which way, still seated because she felt weakened somehow, too weak to stand. And then she spied her dress and screamed. When she’d walked outside, she was wearing white jean capris and a navy-and-white designer top, with a rhinestone-decorated white jean jacket to set off the ensemble.

>   Now, clutched in her shaking hands, her garb seemed to be a full-skirted, polka-dotted garment that hung down well past her knees, along with—what scared her silly—white gloves over her decidedly plump hands.

  Chapter Two

  “What the hell is going on?” she cried, and then, glancing up, her frantic gaze met the startled eyes of two ladies dressed for church in their flowered Sunday dresses and matching hats, their white-gloved hands carrying what looked like Bibles. They stared at her over the flower-covered stone wall, obviously wondering if they should call for a straight jacket. Across the lane a couple of teenage girls in miniskirts were gawking at her, too, eyes emphasized by lots of dark makeup, white-lipsticked mouths in O shapes. They looked like something out of an old movie. Just passing the gate was a slender man, a bit on the short side, well proportioned but of nondescript looks. He turned in quickly and came rushing to the garden bench, where he knelt in front of her.

  “Are you in trouble?” he asked, greenish-grey eyes full of kindness. His straight-cut beige pants and Perry Como sweater looked strangely old-fashioned, and so did his short, side-parted, brown hair.

  Jenna’s whole body trembled, shuddering so severely her purse fell from her hands and emptied onto the grass. Distressed, she moaned and covered her shocked eyes. She’d never seen that bag before.

  Quickly and efficiently, the stranger gathered her belongings and waited patiently for her to calm herself. In an apparent effort to help, he began to talk.

  “My name is John Norman, and I’m the doctor here in town. I have a practise in my house, which is right down the lane if you have need of medical assistance.” He kindly pried her hands from her face and manoeuvred the motion in such a way as to give him access to her wrist so he could check her pulse. “Take a deep breath, my dear, and calm down.”

  Jenna looked up, fear swelling within her. “What is wrong with me? I feel so different. You’ll think me crazy, but this dress I’m wearing—I’ve never seen it before in my life, or these ridiculous gloves.” Voice rising, she stared into his wary eyes and notched the shock up one more level. “And these hands aren’t mine.”

  She started to cry in great, gulping, pitiful sobs that grew shockingly louder when she heard herself. These noisy gasps—loud, brash and disgustingly honest—were nothing like her normal crocodile tears.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Here in the vicarage. I’ve rented it with my secretary for a few days.”

  “Oh, is that so? Well, I’m surprised the Bowens would rent out their home, but I guess they were planning to be in London for at least a month. I don’t know them well, after all. I only recently moved here to open my practise. Why don’t you come in with me,” coaxed John, “and we’ll go and get you a nice cuppa. You’ll soon calm yourself. By the way, what is your name?”

  Jenna was more than ready to get away from the growing crowd of nosy onlookers gathering in hope of some excitement. “Jenna McBride. I’m a freelance model. You’ve probably seen some of my work in Vogue or Chatelaine magazine. In fact, I’ve been on so many front covers, I’ve forgotten them all.”

  John nodded, eyes partially closed as he listened. He helped her to her feet, whereupon she realized he was looking down at her. This brought on another bout of tears because not many men were taller than she was, when she was dressed in killer heels like the ones she’d put on just that morning.

  It wasn’t until she stumbled that she noticed her rhinestone-studded, three-inch wedgies had been replaced by plain white pumps. They were decorated with hateful tiny bows perched at the junction where her toes were obviously scrunched together, forced into shoes too small.

  Tears fell faster, and she was on the verge of fainting as John guided her to the entrance of the old house while supporting most of her weight, not an easy accomplishment. The unlocked door added validity to her story, and his relief was palpable.

  The room they entered felt familiar to some extent. The old damask draperies embracing the windows allowed insufficient light, but nonetheless she was able to peer all around. She let out a shriek when she spotted the oval mirror. It was like an old friend, and Jenna ran to look, gladness in her heart.

  She passed out cold, going down like a large, felled tree, and only John’s instinctive awareness and quick action saved her from a frightful fall. He gathered her bulk into his arms and half steered, half carried her to one of the two golden wingback armchairs by the fireplace. He sat her down, whereupon she slid and flopped to one side, legs wantonly spread but covered by her rather long, bulky, polka-dotted skirt. Her small feathered hat slid down over one eyebrow, and her cheeks spread like jowls over her chest, similar to a young baby’s before the neck is fully formed.

  Opening her bag, he searched through her belongings for a phone number or address, and his features, thoughtful at first, became concerned and finally puzzled as he held her driver’s permit, dated 1960. He made his way into the sparse kitchen and found all the makings for tea, then searched for a cloth and some cold water.

  It took several minutes of bathing her face and calling to her before Jenna came around and opened her big, brown eyes.

  “What is your name?” He questioned her slowly.

  “I don’t know,” whispered a voice filled with fearful trepidation. “When I looked into the mirror, it wasn’t me looking back. I’ve changed.”

  “You’ve changed?” He used the same calmness and gentleness in his tones that reassured his most troublesome patients. “How have you changed?”

  “My name is Jenna McBride. I was in this same room only a few minutes ago with my secretary, Marnie Yung. I was dressed in totally different clothes, and I was so—soooo—beautiful.” Her screeching wail had him swiftly patting her hand and shushing her in a patently worried manner.

  “It says here in your handbag that your name is Lucy McGillicuddy and that you live a few blocks away on Wilson Street. You have an employment card from the library that names you as the assistant to the head librarian.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s crap, nonsense. I’m a model and was here on assignment with a major makeup manufacturer. I took the last few days as holidays. I’m an American. My home is in Seattle. I’m twenty-five years old. And I’m beautiful. Not like that fat blob I saw in the mirror.” The staccato sentences drilled into him as he sat with his mouth ajar and his eyes bugging out. Jenna jumped to her feet and flew back to check her reflection in the mirror, still disbelieving.

  “Dammit, what is going on?”

  “Do come and sit down, please. You’re wearing me out,” he said, remonstrating, but soothingly. “Your picture is on your library card, and it looks accurately like yourself. You are Lucy McGillicuddy.”

  “No, I’m not! This person isn’t me,” she yelled, stabbing her fingers into her overabundant chest. From what she had seen in the mirror, she was a short, frizzy-haired, blotchy-skinned fatty in a ridiculously outdated dress and nasty makeup. “I want to be me again!” she wailed, and the tears collected in her eyes until they all but obliterated the brown before they overloaded and streamed out like waterfalls.

  Suddenly, she straightened and the waterworks stopped. “I’ve got it.” She snapped her fingers—or tried to but the gloves impeded the action. “My bedroom. My things must still be in there.” She stormed out and he trailed behind her.

  In a few moments they returned to the parlour. Once again Jenna couldn’t explain. Nothing belonged to her in the bedroom, not one item. In fact, she hadn’t recognized the room’s furnishings at all. John began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I think we’d better leave here. I don’t believe we belong. Let’s get you home and see if something in your personal surroundings could be the key to getting your memory back.”

  Hours later, after a quickly-thrown-together meal made by John, two cups of tea made by John, and numerous crying bouts made by Jenna, who hated tea and unsurprisingly preferred spec
ialty coffees, they weren’t any closer to figuring out what had happened.

  He had taken her to a small house that was old-fashioned in the extreme and most likely had belonged to Lucy’s parents or even grandparents at one time, since Lucy was a young person and the furnishings were the sort elderly people would have found comfortable. The place was downright sad, with a lonely feel to it. The one well-used armchair was dressed in starched doilies, with a plastic-shaded floor lamp aimed for the sitter and a footstool posed close by. The sofa and other chairs were pushed well back. The floor-model television was one Jenna recognized as similar to what she’d seen in her parents’ old photo albums from before she was born. Piled high on the end table by the armchair were numerous romance pocketbooks. Please, Please Me, the first record album produced by the Beatles, was leaning against a record player.

  John asked for the umpteenth time, “You sat on the bench and felt faint?”

  “Yes. At the time, my secretary, Marnie, was telling me that my boyfriend Harvey was going to meet me at the airport and take me out for dinner when I arrived stateside.” She sighed loudly. “She was saying he’d told her that he wanted me to look extra nice so he could show me off to some friends we were to have dinner with.”

  Distaste settled clearly over John’s features, and Jenna found this offensive.

  “He’s a looker, and rich. And he likes being with beautiful women. I was very beautiful.”

  “You’re still beautiful.” John stated in a gentlemanly manner, jollying her along.

  “I’m huge, and I look like a Cabbage Patch doll.”

  “What is a Cabbage Patch doll?”

  Something clicked for Jenna. Her memory zoomed back to the strangely dressed people and the old vehicles she’d witnessed after her spell, all of which she had put down vaguely to the fact that she was in a small township in England where everything was slightly old-time compared to Seattle. She grabbed John’s arm and demanded, “What is the date today?”