A Moment Forever Read online

  A Moment Forever

  Copyright © 2016 by Cat Gardiner

  Publisher: Vanity & Pride Press

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9973130-0-0

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting brief quotations used in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design: JD Smith Design, 2/2016

  Editors: Sheryl Gordon, Kristi Rawley

  Pinterest Inspiration Board: Here

  Spotify Playlist: Here / YouTube Playlist: Here

  Dedication

  To the Sisterhood of the Swan

  Women who believe in soul mates, enduring love,

  re-kindled love, and finding love a second time around.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  Maps

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Book Club Questions

  Author Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Novels

  Maps

  One

  A String of Pearls

  Summer, 1992

  “I know it looks a bit worse for the wear and needs some work, but I imagine you’ll have Primrose Cottage back to her former splendor in no time,” the Martel family lawyer stated from his position at the curb before 300 Bradford Road in Victorian Flatbush, Brooklyn.

  Juliana Martel raised a humored, disbelieving eyebrow. The once beautiful three-story home was an absolute train wreck. “You’re an optimist, Mr. Gardner.”

  “Four million dollars can restore a few homes, Juliana. I’ll put you in touch with some contractors who are experts in historical restoration and will have it completed by the fall.”

  Age and neglect had taken its toll on the historied home and, unfortunately, the picturesque tree-lined neighborhood did nothing to hide the smashed flower urns, broken steps, and dirty windows. A black, wrought iron security door looked out of place, taking away from the former magnificence. The 1901 building’s once peaceful Wedgwood blue color had now faded to dingy gray along with the white trim surrounding the bow windows on the second floor. The third floor looked downright spooky with its two newspaper-covered windows as though concealing the secrets of the former owner who vacated it in 1950. The saddest image of all was the sweetheart swing, hanging by a single chain on the front porch.

  Standing at the curb beside the old gentleman, Juliana gazed up at her great-uncle’s former residence. If it weren’t for the giddy, euphoric feeling coursing through her at this moment, the hair might have stood up on her slender arms at the thought of what lurked in that attic.

  “Should we go in?” she asked.

  “That is why we’re here, right? To get you settled.”

  Barely able to contain her enthusiasm, she bounced in her black converse. To say she felt awed by the residence before her was an understatement. “It’s really mine, isn’t it? The creepy house, the money … the renovations?”

  “All yours. Mr. Martel saw to its transfer to you alone.”

  “Why me? I didn’t think he knew who I was.”

  “Trust me, he knew, and I’m positive he had his reasons for gifting you Primrose.”

  “Would it have gone to my father had he lived?”

  “Nope. Just you.”

  “And my money-hungry, evil ex-mother can’t get her greedy hands on it either, right?”

  “That’s correct. Do not worry on that account. Your great-uncle made sure that this bequest was documented after Susan’s divorce from your father was finalized.”

  Wow. This century old home was now hers and hers alone. Continuing to examine the house from the curb, she thought of all the work Primrose Cottage needed. The term “fixer upper” was an understatement, but that didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be looking this gift horse in the mouth. The house was free and located in one of the most sought after neighborhoods in Brooklyn—and hers she reminded herself for the one hundredth time. The real estate market in this once affluent area was on fire and with a potential value of a million dollars, she wouldn’t concern herself with the current condition. Mr. Gardner was right. Both her father and great-uncle’s estates paved the way to a complete historical restoration with more money to last at least two lifetimes and six decrepit old houses.

  At the recent reading of her father’s will, Juliana had been surprised to learn that Primrose Cottage was given to her on her twenty-fourth birthday—four weeks earlier. She had no idea her great-uncle even knew of her existence, let alone would bequeath a house to her along with a fortune. Who knew this home had been sitting here empty for all those years?

  “My great-uncle isn’t going to show up some day demanding his house back, is he?”

  The lawyer looked around the neighborhood. “I have no reason to believe that William Martel will be returning.”

  The grandniece knew only small details about her grandfather’s brother. How could she know more when no one spoke of him? She was two generations removed from this man her father once mentioned had survived a German POW camp. Did she even remember what he’d said or how that had happened? No, she was never very interested in her family history, not that she had much other family to learn about. As a junior writer for Allure magazine, fashion and visual art were her passions. Ancestry, history and social science, not so much.

  What Juliana now knew was that her great-uncle had been wealthy beyond belief and without question never wanted to be found because he never was. Mr. Gardner explained that on occasion, the family would receive a special birthday card or a brief note to let her grandfather know his only brother was still alive. All included the same instruction: not to sell the house, he had arranged for its conveyance. William never included a return address, and he never indicated what he was doing with his life.

  What Mr. Gardner couldn’t explain to her was why William had left Primrose Cottage to her without a word in the first place and, apart from morbid curiosity surrounding the specific details, she really didn’t care. Although, she did wish she could thank him.

  “You’ll thank him for me, right?” she asked the lawyer.

  His warm eyes and gentle smile met her gaze before he stammered slightly. “I, er, don’t expect to hear from him.”

  “So he could be dead?”
>
  “Anything is possible. He is my age, after all.” He chuckled.

  The petite, blonde shrugged then politely stated what any person of good upbringing would. “You’re not old. In fact, you look about 50!”

  She promptly turned her attention back to the house, hoping that the mystery surrounding the money, the cottage, and her great-uncle’s disappearance would be forgotten. Why dwell on the unimportance of it? The man was wholly unconnected to her and her modern, day-to-day life.

  Disregarding the big red “fragile” label, Juliana not-so-carefully held one of the many moving boxes from the back of her new Jeep Cherokee as she continued to bounce up and down, ready to take the walkway stairs two at a time.

  A woman walking a small dog at the curb came toward them. “They say it was built by the Guggenheims as a honeymoon cottage for their daughter.”

  Curious, Juliana glanced over to where the stranger stood. “The Guggenheims, as in museum Guggenheims?”

  “Yes, sad how the home fell into such a state. I never knew the previous owner.”

  “Neither did I.” She glanced at Mr. Gardner. “But he did.”

  “Yes. It was once the Guggenheims. The former owner purchased the cottage from them in 1942 before leaving for the war.”

  In typical New York fashion, having dispensed her unsolicited information and unenthusiastic of further conversation, the woman continued on her way with both hers and the dog’s business. She looked back to Gardner and Juliana, noting the moving box and reconsidered her abrupt adieu. “Welcome to Beverley Squares. Geraniums would look lovely in new flower pots.”

  Juliana promptly turned to the lawyer, ignoring her neighbor’s passive aggression about the condition of her new home. “Well, shall we enter, Mr. Gardner?”

  “Of course! I’m as curious as you are.”

  “Thank you for meeting me today. I really had no one to do this with. My best friend has so many responsibilities at the magazine, and Grandpa, well, you know. This is difficult for him.”

  “Has he said anything about your father’s death?”

  “Nothing. I just figured that coming here to his brother’s home, might add to his grief. It’s sad that they lost contact with each other.”

  “It is, but there is a season for everything, and just maybe, this house could be the catalyst for change.”

  She didn’t know what he meant by that, and frankly, she couldn’t see how a house could bring people together, particularly if her great-uncle was dead. “Well, thanks again.”

  “I’m glad to be of assistance to you.”

  Together they ascended the steps to the broken walkway then stepped onto the tenuous porch where she placed the moving box at her feet.

  A floorboard creaked when she tried to peer through the decorative antique glass panes of the front door. The dusty curtains on the opposite side hindered her view. She took a deep breath, readying herself as though about to be carried over the threshold.

  “Welcome to Primrose Cottage, your new home, Juliana Martel,” the lawyer said with a smile when he handed her the key.

  “Yoo hoo!” another woman waved from across the street. “You there, at Primrose Cottage. Yoo hoo! What are you doing?”

  “You go ahead, Juliana. I’ll attend to your inquisitive neighbor.” He winked before departing down the walkway.

  The key fit, the door groaned, and the cobwebs freaked her out when she entered into the dark foyer.

  “Ew, ew, ew!” she screamed immediately feeling suffocated by the stale, dead air within.

  Halting her dramatics, she snapped her mouth closed, standing shell shocked in wonder of her surroundings.

  She gazed around feeling as though she entered into a time warp and she was a visitor from the future. With the turn of the house key, she had turned back time. Covered with thick dust and the scent of age, the furnishings and décor were that of a bygone era she knew nothing about. Up until that very second, Juliana had never given any thought to those “old timers” referred to as the Silent Generation. Primrose Cottage was a perfectly preserved, frozen narrative.

  A vintage time capsule, the house had a strange appeal that might have been comforting if not for the darkness and the chill rising up her spine. It felt empty and cold, dank and musty, a place void of life and breath for forty-two years. Sadness hung in the air.

  She placed the box at the foot of the staircase, then took in every detail; her wide-eyed gape traveled the length of the hallway before her. In the kitchen at the far end, she could make out a white stove, unlike any she had ever seen. It was massive and dominant yet exuded warmth and security. Three matching dishtowels, each embroidered with large, red roosters hung from the oven door.

  Behind the French doors beside her was a spacious parlor. She opened the grimy glass, and her eyes fixed upon a fireplace, which still had charred wood remains on the grate; broken pieces lie scattered in the hearth. Juliana imagined it once ablaze, particularly when she noted a piece of scorched paper lying amidst the ashes beside one of the tarnished owl andirons.

  A few photographs were displayed upon the mantle, their images shrouded behind an inch of soot and dirt. Across the room looked to be an antique radio and record player. She could just make out the word “Zenith” at the center of the console. Even a folded afghan lie undisturbed over the arm of the damask chair beside the cabinet. A pack of Camels sat forgotten on the end table and a half-smoked, snuffed out cigarette rested at the edge of a cut glass ashtray. Juliana imagined a thin blue trail of smoke rising from the lit end of the now extinguished existence of her great-uncle.

  It was exactly how William Martel left it on that hot summer night, August 8, 1950.

  Forgetting the moving box, she entered the room, strangely disregarding the drooping cobwebs hanging from the ceiling light fixture above her head and the intermittent squealing she heard behind one of the walls. She felt at once as though she intruded or trespassed on sacred ground.

  Drawn like moth to flame to the four picture frames on the mantle, she crossed the room to examine the largest—a brass and black hanging stand. With the edge of her oversized sweater sleeve, Juliana wiped the dust away. Each circling smear slowly revealed the image below until finally a gorgeous, sophisticated young woman’s face stared back at her. Eyes filled with laughter, long lashes, and perfectly painted lips were only small details to admire. Lush, dark waves framed her pretty face. Pearls. Juliana fell in love with the three-strand pearl choker hugging the woman’s neck.

  “Who are you?” she curiously asked the black and white photograph as though expecting an answer.

  She picked up another vintage frame. Ornate silver surrounded the image, and again, it revealed the same woman sitting upon a park bench. Long legs crossed demurely at her ankles above white peep toe shoes. Fashionably dressed under a wide-brimmed hat, she sat waving to the camera, her radiant smile making it clear to Juliana that the woman was in love with the person taking the photograph. At the bottom of the image read in sloppy penmanship, Lizzy—1942 in black ink.

  Juliana smiled. “Hello, Lizzy. Nice to meet you.”

  Taking the smallest of the four into her hand, she wiped away the vestiges of over four decades, revealing the alluring brunette standing with a handsome uniformed man beside an old car. They appeared so happy, so in love. She wondered if this was her great-uncle. If it was, well then, suddenly his mystery was worth a little investigation. Suddenly, William Martel’s previously disregarded obscurity had turned enigmatic and intriguing. This gorgeous, tall, soldier beside this attractive woman was worth a second look, and judging by the expression on Lizzy’s face, she thought so as well.

  After replacing the photograph beside the first three, Juliana noticed a Christmas greeting card, and at the edge of the mantle, a crushed service cap with its gold, spread eagle medallion rested beside another photograph. Cobwebs spanned from one to the other as though creating a connection between the two, a connection she severed with a quick swipe of her wris
t over the glass and web. It revealed his military portrait. Below the image sat silver wings and a uniform patch embroidered with a stork holding a bomb instead of a baby.

  “Wow. This stuff is so cool, and he was soooo handsome.”

  She suddenly realized that this was a shrine to the love of this couple—to this woman, Lizzy. Juliana’s eyes moistened at the obvious feeling and care put into the displaying of each item and, truly, she felt an interloper in her newly acquired house.

  Removing the Christmas card, she read the inscription.

  December 25, 1942

  My Dearest Darling,

  I miss you terribly. Know that you are in my heart this Christmas and always. I love you. Please take care of yourself and come home to me soon.

  Yours,

  Lizzy

  In the space of four minutes, her great-uncle was no longer the mysterious man she felt indifference toward. Her once morbid curiosity had now become genuine poignant interest. It didn’t matter that what happened to this couple was fifty years in the past. What mattered was that something did happen, and she couldn’t help but to feel the emotion displayed upon the mantle. She found her mind formulating a resolve—I have to know.

  The inquisitive writer in her demanded to uncover and discover the hidden and long-forgotten truth. Oblivious to her snug fitting, drainpipe jeans, Juliana squatted before the charred remains in the fireplace and very gently picked up the scorched remnant of the letter lying in the hearth. Barely discernible, but definitely there, she read what remained upon the once elegant stationery. The letters E.R were embossed in a flourish at the top center of the page.

  August 8, 1949

  My Dearest Darling,

  My hand is trembling as I write this. My heart is breaking for what I must do. My tears won’t stop, yet I must … You know that what we did …

  … I love you. I will never stop loving you, never. I am yours until the end of life’s story.