I’m going back into the past to the moment when I last saw Jessica Skye. I want to actually meet and be with her this time.
I hurriedly shower, shave and put on my navy suit and blue pin-striped shirt— I leave the collar unbuttoned so as not to look too formal—after all, it is a garden party.
Once I’m changed and ready to go, the tremors begin again, so I hastily drink a glass of Shiraz to steady my nerves and then head to the basement and the doorway to my dreams.
I once again find the set of curving stone stairs which I climb only to encounter a third unlocked door that opens into a book-lined study. The door is cleverly disguised as a section of bookshelves.
As before, I climb the spiral stone staircase and enter the turret room—a lovely den with mullioned windows, a fireplace and a huge writing desk.
From outside on the lawn, I hear the sounds of laughter and faint music. I go and look out. My breath stops.
The same world of the Thirties emerges before my eyes.
There’s a garden party on the back lawn—people sipping champagne and dressed in the style of the Thirties. There are gleaming vintage cars parked in the circular driveway, and beyond, the tennis courts in full use.
I can’t reconcile what I’m seeing now with the world I know. I part the drapes to get a better view and as I do, a beautiful blonde woman glances up at the window and notices me.
It’s Jessica, holding a champagne flute in one hand and dressed in a sleek, pale blue gown that emphasizes her sylph-like figure.
She stares up intently, seeming to draw the soul right out of me.
We stare, transfixed for several moments, and then she gestures for me to join her. It’s then I notice a door that leads to a small balcony and a set of concrete stairs that spiral down to the garden.
I descend the stairs as in a dream—floating down, feet not touching the stairs.
She’s waiting at the foot and hands me a champagne flute. I can’t believe how flawless her skin is nor how dark and lustrous her eyes.
“I don’t believe I know you,” she whispers. “Are you crashing my party?”
Her eyes are dancing with merriment and it’s infectious.
“I’m a jewel thief, I’m afraid. It’s dreadfully embarrassing to be caught this way.”
“Then you’re a second story man,” she giggles. “I think it’s romantic. You remind me of Valentino.”
I’m so close to her I’m drawn in by her gravity, the soft powdery scent of her perfume and her red glossy lips.
“Do you want to kiss me?”
My throat goes dry. I can only nod.
The next moment she’s in my arms, and so light, she’s almost weightless. I feel I’m not hugging a physical body so much as embracing a form. I look into her eyes and gaze into an endless starry sky.
I’ve never been in the presence of anyone so beautiful.
“You have me at a disadvantage Mr. Valentino—I don’t know your name, but I’m sure you know mine.”
“It’s Leon—Leon Perkins.”
She frowns, and scrutinizes my face. “Hmm, you’re not an actor—or at least, anyone famous.” A look of concern crosses her features, “You’re not a realtor, are you?”
I burst out laughing. “Oh no, not a realtor. I’m a writer.”
“Oh well, that explains everything—your sensitive soul and your penetrating gaze.”
“Actually, I think that describes you more than me.”
“Then we must be soul mates,” she smiles.
“There is an undeniable affinity.”
“But I don’t understand Mr. Perkins—how did you elude my security?”
“Oh please, not Mr. Perkins—way too formal. Call me Leon—and the truth is, I didn’t elude your security guards—I live in this house.”
“Really?” she smirks, “and all this time I thought the name on the deed to this property was mine.”
“It is,” I explain, “but what I mean is… Look, the truth is, I’m from another time—the twenty first century actually. I bought the house and in the future it’s mine.”
“And just how far from the future did you come?” she asks teasingly.
“Seventy-eight years—I live in 2016 to be precise.”
Her face darkens. “I see. You’re serious aren’t you? How do I know you’re not a crackpot with a made-up story intending to stalk me? There was a dreadful bohemian man last month that did just that—insisted he had a Pooka guiding him. Why should I believe you?”
On impulse, I reach into my pocket and bring out my cell phone. Her eyes grow wide when she sees it.
I push the sleep/wake button and the screen lights up. With my index finger, I slide it to the right and the date and time appear.
Her eyes grow huge with horror and I watch in stupefied fascination as her face pixelates into tiny black tiles and slowly disappears.
Stella finds me the following morning in the garden—in precisely the same spot where Jessica died.
I’m dehydrated and incoherent—raving about a garden party and needing to go back.
I’m admitted to hospital and end up in the critical care section on intravenous while they run tests.
Everything seems out of whack—my blood sugar, heart rate, and my mental state.
It takes three days to stabilize me and return me to some state of coherence. The doctors are convinced my binge drinking triggered some heavy negative physical symptoms.
Elias, my shrink, drops by and sees me—that’s surprising. GP’s don’t even make hospital visits—and, on top of that, he’s amazingly supportive and understanding—compassionate even, which I didn’t expect and find hard to accept.
But he is a shrink and can’t resist adding in his own two cents:
“You need someone less tempestuous, than Maya, Leon. You need some calm in your life.”
I muse inwardly upon his remark.
Well, that’s true, I tell myself, but the situation has already resolved. Maya disowned me—told me to look her up when I get my act together.
As for Stella—well, she’s willing to play Nurse, but I politely decline. But I have to admit the girl has heart.
“Well, who knows what tomorrow may bring?” I finally tell them all facetiously, but I know right now I’m damaged and not much use to anyone—myself included.
I really do need to find that eye in the centre of the hurricane—that still-point in my crazily spinning life.
But it won’t be Stella, I’m not interested in a career woman.
I guess I’m still looking for enchantment.
