by H. R. Holt
‘IN ALL OF INFINITY’
By: H. R. Holt
Copyright 2013 by H. R. Holt
Smashwords Edition
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Dear Reader:
It is with heavy heart that I bestow this book upon you, for its first draft was written when I was twenty-three, and still learning the craft of novel writing. I was younger then, and one knows how the heart can be when one is younger.
I seek to obtain reviews for this book, but—more than this—I hope that you are able to finish this book feeling as though you gained something in unraveling the story put forth. Most of what I write comes from my head, but this one comes from the heart. After all, in all of infinity, what is greater than love—without an adventurous fantasy thrown into the mix?
Enjoy!
♥ Prologue ♥
If guardian angels existed, there was not one present at the death of Esme Reagan. The darkness crept along the floors, walls, ceiling, and engulfed the furniture. Even the lantern light was spawned from evil itself. Her husband, Emmanuel, was the only person present, but darkness had already begun devouring the sanctity of his soul.
He stood at her bedside, sweat dripping from his brow. She was in pain and there was nothing he could do, but let nature take its course. Although the best doctor in York County, Virginia, he didn’t possess the technology to save her. No one did. He felt useless.
She smiled, reached her hand to him. He sat down and took her hand, administering a cool rag to her forehead. Her smile widened because she knew he was trying to keep from falling apart. She was proud of his strength.
“Do you remember when we met?” she asked weakly. He kissed her hand, nearly choking when he realized how cold it was. “It was only two years ago, wasn’t it? 1923? Oh, that was the best year of my life. The very best…”
He held her hand tighter, watching as a flash of pain passed through her eyes. If she could hold on until morning, until daylight eradicated the darkness, she would be safe. She couldn’t promise this, though, because it wasn’t her right. She couldn’t promise him anything, but he loved her for trying.
“Manny,” she whispered. She looked into his austere blue eyes. There was much unsaid as they gazed at one another, both knowing they didn’t have time. “Manny, I’m dying.”
His heart surged into his throat, realizing she was right. He leaned close and kissed her forehead softly, smelling the potency of her jasmine perfume and sweat. He felt tension there as she succumbed to another flurry of pain, and kept his lips there, trying to make it vanish.
“You won’t die. I won’t let you,” he whispered and choked. “I love you.”
He rested his cheek against her forehead, felt her fading breath on his neck. Teardrops that he’d fought the entire night began escaping his eyes, and he let them fall because he no longer had control. She was dying.
***
In July of 1923, almost as welcoming as the sunlight, the aroma of her jasmine perfume drifted along the wind. He remembered turning towards it, immediately enraptured by her radiance. With long blonde hair and dark blue eyes, she was a dream; and she found his auburn hair and pale blue eyes more becoming than any man’s.
“Bride or groom?” she asked and sat with him. She gestured towards the happy couple with a tilt of her head.
She glanced over her shoulder, towards the buxom brunette and her wiry, bespectacled spouse, watching them dance. The bride’s head was on the groom’s shoulder, who was resting his cheek on her head, whispering. Esme couldn’t keep a smile from forming on her face.
Although she was present for the groom, who was a colleague at the school where she worked, she had brought them together so she was at the wedding as a friend for both. Esme was responsible for the set up of the outside canopy, and for the choice in music. She was pleased to finally be able to sit.
“Bride,” he answered.
Esme smiled thoughtfully at him. She felt as if she’d met him before, but knew that was impossible. She’d just moved to York County, running from a past that she wasn’t proud of, and kept herself busy at work. The only people who knew her were those she worked with, so she’d never met this man before.
“My name’s Esmeralda Navy,” she said and extended her hand.
He nodded. “Emmanuel Reagan.”
He took her hand in his and they immediately felt bolts of electricity charge through their veins. Although he was indifferent until then, he felt as if he’d come to life at the mere touch of her skin. He realized she was holding her hand over her heart. He smiled, wanting to take her hands, hold them, and kiss them.
“Pleasure to meet you, Manny,” she said and took back her hand. They hadn’t shaken hands, merely held, but that had been enough. “Is it ok if I call you that?”
He continued smiling. “Sure.” He didn’t care what she called him, as long as she stayed near him; let him breathe the very air she was breathing. “May I call you Esme?”
“Yes,” she said and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. “I’d like that a lot. So, do you dance?”
“No,” he said. She looked at her hands in her lap. “But I can be persuaded.”
She met his eyes and smiled again. They became so caught up in each other’s presence that they didn’t hear their names being called. When they separated, Fate herself began planning another time for them to meet.
Although he was thirty-eight and she was ten years his junior, they couldn’t avoid being attracted to each other. He sought her out in every face and ray of sunlight, but refrained from going any further. He delved into his work and attempted to forget her, but he couldn’t. She tried the same, but the end result equaled his. Only weeks after the initial meeting, she asked about him and discovered he was a doctor. As a ploy, she faked twisting her ankle and came as a patient.
“How did you do this again?” he asked with a smile, watching as she bit her lip. “You were…playing tennis?”
She was amazed by how gentle he was as he examined her ankle, and met his eyes with a smile. His heart soared. He still couldn’t believe she was here, even though he’d done more than a double take when he saw her waiting to see him.
“I know it’s silly,” she said with a small laugh, looking away. The laughter reminded him of dainty bells because it was so soft and beautiful. “I stepped on the ball and fell over it with my foot at a strange angle.”
“Do you play tennis often?” he asked and attempted to calm his heart. “I’ve never heard this happen before. It seems quite peculiar…”
Her eyes seemed to change hue as she glared at him, enraged, but he also saw happiness in them. “What are you insinuating?”
“You tell me,” he said and stepped back, crossing his arms. He watched as she wiggled her foot into her shoe, realizing how little pain she was undergoing. The smile on his face widened. “Doesn’t that hurt in the slightest?”
She stopped and looked at him, blushing. “Well, it was worth a shot.” She stood and met him eye-to-eye, then stared down at her heels. She laced her fingers and began making a circular motion with her thumbs. Although she was almost infantile in her actions, he realized there was more to her. Finally, she looked at him. “I wanted to meet you again.”
“Why?” he asked and pocketed his pen. “And why go through such extreme measures? I mean, you could have called me, met me somewhere for coffee..
.”
“Because I feel…drawn towards you…and I’ve never felt inclined to pull myself closer to anyone in all my life. A phone call would not—could not—be the same. I had to make sure I wasn’t…intoxicated…when I began feeling this way…for a stranger…”
He blinked. “You seem sincere.”
“I am.”
He put his clipboard under his arm and took a few steps towards the door. Before he could turn the doorknob, he felt overcome with a desire unlike any he’d ever felt. He looked over his shoulder at her before turning completely.
“I feel the same,” he said at last.
She smiled and the light from the sole window made her even more beautiful. There was something in the back of his brain that told him that he’d felt the same since the moment he met her. She was magical.
***
The months slipped by and they found themselves happily married. They purchased a house in the country, away from the demands of York County, of work, of people. Since there was a decline in Victorian architecture after the war, they were able to afford an elaborate five bedroom house of this design. Although he didn’t like the house at first, she loved it and he knew that was all that mattered. Her happiness.
They were settled in by the winter of 1924, and sipped champagne through the night while they made love. When they grew exhausted, they lay quietly on a bed drenched in sweat from their passionate lovemaking, from desire’s nectar. He held her close, feeling her warm body pressed against his, and kissed her head.
“I love you,” she said and ran her hand along his chest. She stretched her neck up and kissed his chin. “I hope my baby is as handsome as you.”
“Handsome? I’m aiming for beautiful,” he said and kissed her head. “I’m sure, no matter what, our baby will be loved.” He realized she wasn’t speaking, and then heard a quite sob escape her. “Esme, what’s wrong?”
“I’m just so happy,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I never thought I’d find anyone I loved so much. I feel as if this is a dream. I never want to wake up.”
“Well, if it is, and you do wake up, I promise that I will find you. I’m never going to let you escape me. You’re sworn to me for life.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said and raised herself up, covering his mouth with hers.
The bed that had been their beginning in this house, in this life together, would be her end. The promise that he’d made was impossible to stand beside, because she was escaping him. The God she worshipped was taking her from him, and he, a man of science, couldn’t do anything to stop Him.
“I’ll never leave you. Not really,” she said and ran her fingers through his hair. He lifted his head and looked down at her. She smiled and held his head in her hands. “I wish we had more time. There’s so much to say…do…” She stared across the room, seeing only darkness. “We don’t have time. We’re never given enough time.”
“You won’t die. I won’t let you,” he repeated, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. He was a scholar, yet he couldn’t find the words for how he was feeling. He felt dimwitted.
“This—” a wave of pain surged through her. He wrapped his arms around her and waited for the pain to subside. “This...isn’t right…it’s not supposed to happen this way.”
He felt her body weaken, waited for her to breathe again. She didn’t. He pulled away and looked at her. The only sign that she was once alive was her warmth, slowly fading, and the tears slipping from her eyes. He closed them with his thumbs and kissed her mouth, wanting her to live.
“No. No!” He lifted her body from the bed and cried, the smell of jasmine still embracing every inch of her, still able to control him. With a rasping voice, he uttered a final, “No.”
The only entity in the room was Death, who would not speak back. Emmanuel looked around, wanting to hear her delicate laughter in his ears. It would not. He searched for her brilliance and found it fading, slipping away into the darkness. With a shudder, he realized he was alone.
He had lost the love of his life and the child within her womb. Fate had pulled their lives together by strings and severed them, but she was far from over.
♥ Part One: If Anything, a Body ♥
Esme Reagan and her unborn child were laid to rest in York County Cemetery on a rainy day in August of 1925, a death foreseen by few that touched many. She had been a highly loved teacher at the local school for the past two years. Even when she was pregnant, she couldn’t stay away. Those who predicted her death, because she wasn’t one meant for childbearing, blamed her sudden ending on her husband, Dr. Emmanuel Reagan.
The day of the funeral, he turned forty. He felt and looked decades older and the weather attempted to emulate his mood. He dressed in black and the sky became the darkest gray it could without becoming ebony. The expression on his face made even his closest acquaintances question if they’d ever seen him smile.
Emmanuel was an only child and he’d been orphaned at a young age, having been left under the care of his elderly aunt. Since he was too young to remember his parent’s funerals, both of which passed on a year apart, he hadn’t a memory of the sadness surrounding such occasions. He understood how his mother could die of heartache, though, because he felt overwhelmed by his emotions.
Emmanuel glanced at the gravestones beside his departed wife, seeing the names of his parents, Jonah and Opal, who’d both died in their thirties. He realized he didn’t know them as much as he would like, even though he’d memorized the stories. He felt as if he were burying his beloved by total strangers, but ignored the fact and focused all of his attention on the preacher.
His mind drifted and he recalled the first day he was brought into Aunt Camilla’s life. He’d spent a year or so going from orphanage to orphanage, but he was such a peculiar child that no one held onto him for long. Although he was curious like most children, he seemed to turn his curiosity into an obsession. There were nights when he couldn’t sleep for wondering about the function of sleep, the causes of death, anything that could possibly cross his mind. Even though he was strange, everyone he’d ever met sympathized with him. He was such a handsome, distraught child.
Aunt Camie (as she preferred being called) was his aunt on his mother’s side. She’d been married once, but her pairing with Colonel Chris Dobson wasn’t a fruitful one. He was sure that it was her lack of faith that caused them to be unable to have children, but he had loved her anyway. Their love, even after his death, was what astounded Emmanuel as being his first taste of admiration between two people of the opposite sex.
She was fifty when he first met her. She was the only one who wanted him, although he had several other relatives. He remembered her arms around him, the smell of spring all around her, and the warmth in her hazel eyes. He knew then that he was home.
As he stood, a man of age, wisdom, he recalled some of the words Camie had told him. She was sitting on the porch, rocking in a rocking chair, sewing his pants where he’d torn them when he was running from someone—a girl.
“Emmanuel, I fear you’re in for a life of trouble…and I won’t be able to sew your pants forever.”
He found a smile forming on his face, remembering how sincere she was, but stopped before it could fully appear. Camie had always been full of humor even when she wasn’t trying to be, and always so honest. He was truly in for trouble and so was anyone he met…not to mention those he chose to love.
He took the first shovel of dirt and threw it onto the casket, the hollow sound sending a shudder through his body. He felt as if he’d never eaten a morsel in his life, as if he’d never taken a sip of water. He felt empty without her near. As the rain continued drenching him, he wished he could switch places with Esme and his unborn child. He wanted to be dead.
With legs growing weak and tears streaming down his face, hidden by the rain, he began walking away. He heard their whispers but he didn’t meet any of their eyes. They didn’t understand. What he and Esme had was special, never to be s
urpassed by any written tragedy. They couldn’t understand, and, for once, he didn’t want to explain.
