Out of the Past (Heritage Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1 PG-13 All Iowa Edition) Page 28

  Regarding the money for Make-a-Wish, Liz called and said that some people have already been helped because of my donation that I gave them. There is a boy with cancer that lives here in the Chicago area, close to where I live I think and his wish was to fly in a helicopter, and he was able to do that, just yesterday. It was always his one thing that he wanted, just like meeting you was mine and I’m so happy that we could give his wish to him. Mom said that the trust is all set up and ready to start helping others as well and it is just so cool to think of all the other kids that we may be able to help, isn’t it?

  Oh before I forget, what you told me in your last email about Dave and the cow, (which was hilarious!) it was the kind of scene that I could imagine in a modern day romance novel and Dave sounds like the kind of man that I would wish for—for myself. I hope that you and he have a long and happy life together, Torie, and I hope that you appreciate each other and live your life together as passionately as Beau Gardner and Melody Turner did in Passion’s Fury and if I get well, or even if I don’t, maybe in my next life, (because I simply must believe that I will get and deserve a do-over at some point), I will still be owed one soul mate who will find me someday, somehow and I will cherish him and he me, until the end of time.

  I’m getting so tired that I’m getting a little sappy, I think. I’ll need to finish this up tomorrow…

  Chapter 33

  The parking lot of the United Brethren Church in Downer’s Grove’s, Illinois, was filled almost to overflowing as Dave and I found a spot and parked our rental car. I flipped the visor down and looked into the mirror on the backside and checked my appearance. I looked like a wrung out washcloth and felt like one too. I didn’t have any makeup or mascara on my eyes because I’d already been a crying mess more than once today as we’d gotten dressed and ready at the hotel.

  Dave rounded the car and opened my door, extending his hand to assist me out.

  “How you holdin’ up, babe?” he asked with concern.

  A light cool breeze caught my hair as I climbed out and he smoothed a wisp of it off of my face as he kissed my forehead before closing and locking the car door.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him as I squinted up at him, wincing as the brilliance of the sunshiny day assailed my tired eyes. I managed to straighten his black tie and ran my hand along the lapel of his dark-gray suit coat, checking his appearance.

  “Let’s go,” I said bravely as I gave him my hand and he tucked it into the crook of his elbow and we started across the lot, following behind a stream of other mourners.

  As we entered the lobby of the church, we were each handed a memorial pamphlet with several beautiful photographs of Claire on the front cover showing her at different stages of her short life: one as a baby lying on her stomach, huge blue eyes and a smile that seemed endless; another as a child of about ten; and also the photo that she’d emailed me from just before she’d become ill at fifteen, with her long dark-brown hair spilling over her shoulders.

  We moved along in a line then to where two young girls stood beside several poster boards on easels which were full of photographs of Claire and her family in hundreds of poses and situations; her entire time on earth lovingly lain out, so that all could see and share a glimpse of a life well-lived. At the top border, along the center board of the three that were displayed, was her birth and death year and just below in bright fluorescent blue, purple, and pink marker with sparkling glitter all around the words, was written “In Celebration of Claire Elizabeth Neumann.”

  Claire had once been to Mexico; she had once been to an ocean shore and had made a sand castle on a bright, sunny day; she had reached the summit of Pike’s Peak and had stood at the very middle of the suspension bridge over Royal Gorge with her arms flung wide open; a fearless grin on her face as she took in the grandeur, while her mother cringed in the background, clinging to the bridge railing with both hands and in obvious terror of the dizzying height. She had spent time at Walt Disney World, had seen the White House and the Statue of Liberty, she had ridden horses, played the piano, played softball, had been a Girl Scout, had gone fishing, and she’d had at least two slumber parties with girlfriends as they had camped out in front of a television with a big bowl of popcorn.

  She had obviously loved her two younger siblings, a boy and a girl, very much, and there were many photographs of them sharing laughs and hugs. There were Christmas mornings and Easter egg hunts, family picnics and birthday parties and I noted with interest the photograph of her seated, at about eight-years-old, in a professional generational portrait with her parents and each of their sets of parents and a generation of great-grandparents standing just behind her mother Marilyn’s parents.

  Dave and I slowly admired each board, and when we’d finished, he took my hand in the crook of his arm again, and we entered the large modern sanctuary of the United Brethren Church which was quickly filling to capacity.

  An usher showed us to a seat, and we scooted into the pew, moving to the inside where I sat down next to a teenaged girl, who was sniffling and dabbing at her eyes. Her mother had a sheltering arm about her shoulders and I could guess that the girl was probably a friend or classmate of Claire’s because she looked to be about the same age.

  The background music, which had been produced by an organist at the front of the sanctuary, came to an end after Claire’s family had been ushered slowly to their reserved area at the front of the room. Once they were seated, a recording of a song began to play over the speakers from some unknown source. It was The Band Perry and their song “If I Die Young” which was perfect but such a heartbreaking choice, and I couldn’t help but think that Claire or maybe one of her close friends had chosen this song for her—someone else who had known, as I do, just how much she had longed to find her one true love.

  The crowd all stood as if in one single motion, in a show of respect as we watched the light honey-maple stained casket draped with a large spray of pink roses making its way toward the front of the sanctuary, while the words of the song brought tears to the eyes of most of those in attendance. Dave wrapped a comforting arm about my shoulders and lightly rubbed my upper arm as I dabbed at my own blurry eyes, barely able to keep my composure.

  Chapter 34

  I shuffled through the newspapers displayed in the wire stand next to the front door as we entered the S.S. Kresge store. I’d been able to see my reflection in the plate-glass window as we had come in, out of the bright sunlight. I was probably twelve or thirteen with medium-brown shoulder length hair, pimples, and a poodle skirt above saddle shoes and white bobby socks. I was completely stumped—I had absolutely no idea who I was.

  The woman with me was probably in her mid-forties, clothed in a neat and tailored lemon-yellow-striped dress with a full skirt that fell below the knee and high heels. Her blonde hair was in a short style and as I looked her over it struck me that she reminded me of June Cleaver, from the TV show Leave it to Beaver—all she was missing was a string of pearls.

  As I perused the newspapers now, I was looking for today’s paper so that I could figure out the date—always important information. It dawned on me as I scanned the rack that the only paper available was the Eddyville Times. This is odd, I thought. Am I in Eddyville? If so, then this is a completely new location for a time warp and several miles from the town of Fremont. Eddyville is on the far side of Mahaska County and situated where three counties intersect; Mahaska, Monroe, and Wapello; Eddyville straddles all three. Regardless, I was definitely not in Fremont or vicinity and I was very confused by this. In my head I struggled to make some kind of sense of it as I looked for the date to the far right of the headline; Friday, July 3, 1959. Wow, 1959! I thought. This is the most recent date for a time travel that I have ever experienced.

  It seemed pretty benign though, so I was in Eddyville shopping, big deal—easy breezy, except that I felt like I was totally out of my element. I turned the date over in my mind again and again while mentally bringing up my family tree and trying
to consider all possibilities. But my pondering was interrupted when I was suddenly brought up short and I listened to a young woman speaking and I turned from the rack.

  “Mom,” she was calling. “Bridget says that Barbara and Ricky aren’t going on the float and that they’re waiting at the campgrounds instead. They have to go with us, right?”

  I swiveled around following the sound of her voice and got just a glimpse of her face as she brushed by me, heading for the checkouts that were just a few feet away—but it had been what she had just said that had been absolutely astounding. Those two sentences she had uttered as she joined a group of people and continued even now to try to get her mother’s attention, were epic.

  The group she had joined of attractive, mostly blond haired people, all looked very similar, with their green eyes and pronounced cheek bones. As I watched the girl push by her siblings, it all came together for me in an instant; at least part of this time travel puzzle fell into place. They were the Thompson family and the girl with the attitude had to be Suzanna, the oldest of the five kids. I had never met these cousins, but we were all descended from the Mills family line, and I had seen their photos because all of their faces had been splashed across newspapers and periodicals throughout Iowa and the entire nation.

  Suzanna joined her mother who was preoccupied with unloading a shopping cart and the girl continued to whine and complain about her siblings as her mother paid little attention to her tirade. Then I felt a creepy feeling tightening in my stomach as I saw the man who strolled around the corner from a food aisle and approached them, placing a few more items on the conveyer belt to be added to their purchases. It was the father of this family, and he was a hulking blond tower of a man. Mark Thompson smiled amiably at Suzanna and assured her that every member of the Thompson family would be on the family float for the July 4th parade in the town of Craton or there would be no fireworks display for any of them.

  “Ha—ha,” Suzanna smirked at the kids. “Told you so.”

  I knew the handsome yet icy-cold looking face of Mark James Thompson. I knew his wife, Cindy, who timidly looked on during this exchange and who was my blood cousin and the only dark-haired member of the Thompson family. I knew the children: nineteen-year-old Suzanna, seventeen-year-old twins Bridget and Barbara, sixteen-year-old Tim, and eleven-year-old Ricky. And unfortunately I also knew that by the end of this summer day in 1959, the entire family would be dead—murdered by their own trusted husband and father, and he would be running for his life from the authorities during one of the biggest man hunts in Iowa’s history. It was just so creepy, seeing them like this.

  Totally absorbed with watching the drama playing out before my eyes, I was startled when June Cleaver took me by the hand and dragged me along with her as she approached the family just as the cashier was finishing with ringing up and bagging their purchases.

  “Why, Mark and Cindy Thompson—fancy meeting you here,” June said with amusement.

  “Why, Phyllis and Lisa, what a surprise,” Cindy returned politely and her eyes caught mine.

  “Hi,” I managed to say shyly while inside my head, I was scrambling like mad trying to sort this all out. Phyllis was a Mills cousin. Lisa, her daughter, was born about 1947 as near as I could recall.

  “Hey, Tim, how are you?” Phyllis asked with an air of genial comradery.

  I knew that Tim Thompson had been to the boys’ state basketball tournament in Des Moines in March of 1959. The newspaper articles I’d read about the murders had made a lot out of that fact and the fact that he had been one of the youngest participants, he being only a sophomore that year. Phyllis had been a participant in the girls’ state basketball tournaments back in her high school days and they had that in common, I decided quickly.

  I was pulling out all the stops and dredging the deepest recesses of my brain for tidbits of knowledge and putting my genealogy chops to the ultimate test regarding these families and I was pretty proud of my prowess, if I do say so myself. I came from my thoughts quickly though, when there was a hesitation in the conversation as Phyllis waited for some acknowledgement from Tim. I looked over at him to see his eyes darting around with uncertainty.

  “Fine,” Tim answered after an uncomfortably long pause.

  Oh my god! I thought in horror. It was all I needed to recognize him; it was Dave, it just had to be and he was currently inhabiting the body of a teenaged boy who, before this day is over, will have his brains blown out by the trusted father in horn-rimmed glasses and a flattop haircut standing by his side.

  “Hey, Tim,” I blurted out suddenly. “Happy day before the 4th of July! You were at the basketball tournament in Des Moines this year and you did great because not many sixteen-year-olds play at the tournament, you know and I can’t believe that the 1959 school year is finally over.”

  I conveyed as much information to him as I dared and by the strange looks that I received from absolutely everyone, I knew that my remarks had sounded really ridiculous and lame, but I didn’t give a shit. Then I gave the secret signal and I prayed that it would go unanswered. I reached up to tug on my left earlobe, and Tim immediately did the same. There was absolutely no doubt about it, it was Dave.

  I needed to get him alone and tell him, but what could I possibly say? It wouldn’t change the outcome because what will be will be, regardless of whether he knows about it or not. If Dave stays here and doesn’t warp out of here soon, he is going to experience a horrific blood-bath that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy, let alone the man that I love with all of my heart and soul.

  But wouldn’t it be cruel if I were to warn him about what I know to be coming, knowing full well that he will have no way to escape the carnage? To say to him, Hey, you’re gonna die today, and then walk out of the store with Phyllis and leave him to deal with the reality of it all alone. Or would it be more humane to keep the knowledge from him and just pray that he warps back home soon, never needing to know?

  Before I could make up my mind about what to do, the entire Thompson brood bid us farewell and Dave actually turned and chanced a quick wink at me as he followed along behind the others. Then with a burst of sun-heated wind that rushed inside as Mark Thompson held the door open for the rest of the family, and with the tinkle of the chime sounding as the door swung shut after them—Dave was gone, walking off with the family and into a nightmare that he had no clue was coming.

  ***

  Phyllis picked up a spool of thread and called to the young salesclerk. “Miss, would you happen to have any more of this shade in the back?”

  The girl reached to take the spool of dark blue thread from Phyllis’s outstretched hand and hurried through a swinging door at the wall of the fabric department.

  I kept turning to look toward the plate-glass windows at the front of the store hoping to see what—I don’t know. It wasn’t as if I was going to see Dave suddenly dash back inside to see me because I know that he has no more power to resist his experience than I do. So I impotently fidgeted and paced back and forth behind Phyllis’s back as she continued to browse over the sewing supplies.

  “Look at this, Lisa. Isn’t that fun?” she asked me, pointing out a bolt of bright-purple paisley patterned cloth.

  “Yuck, I don’t like it! Mother, can’t we go?” I asked impatiently.

  “Where is it that you think you need to go to, Lisa? You know that we’ve had is day planned out for a week, so don’t you dare start with your attitude, young lady, or we’re going to have some trouble,” Phyllis warned sternly and it was obvious to me that she was in no hurry to leave.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m just bored and I want to go home,” I whined with a heavy sigh but what I really wanted, was to get out of this store and out to the street where I might possibly spot the Thompson family again.

  Phyllis looked at her delicate gold wristwatch before responding. “We aren’t going home, and our lunch date with Grandma isn’t until 11:30, so you’d better just simmer down. Go look at some of the boo
ks until I’m done here,” she said, pointing with a flutter of her manicured fingers toward a wall rack full of magazines near the front of the store. With a growl of true frustration at my impotent lack of power to do anything but obey her and with my fists clenched into tight balls at my sides, I stomped off in that direction.

  ***

  As I perused the wall full of reading materials, I acknowledged to myself that they would be very interesting to me if it wasn’t for the situation I was dealing with; all of the half-a-century old magazines featuring the current hot topics and movie stars of 1959. The TV Guide cover featured Father Knows Best and Marilyn Monroe and her costars from the movie Some Like It Hot were gracing the cover of Silver Screen while Elvis Presley was on Movie Mirror as well as about a dozen other teenybopper magazines.

  All I could think about though was Dave and so I turned abruptly, walked straight up to the glass front door of the store, and pushed it open, stepping out onto the sunbaked sidewalk. I looked up and down the block hoping that maybe I could see the Thompson family along the street and get another glimpse of Dave but they were long gone.

  “What would that accomplish?” I mumbled to myself.

  I was losing it on the inside—totally losing it. I was thinking irrationally that if I could just see him, I’d run up to him and hug him tight and give him a kiss.

  “Yeah and then everyone including Dave would think that you’d totally lost your mind,” I hissed under my breath. “You are not Torie, and he is not Dave,” I reminded myself angrily of the obvious truth.

  So after taking one more fruitless look around the busy street, I yanked the door open and reentered the store, finding Phyllis where I’d left her, leisurely browsing over the bolts of cloth in the fabric department and I knew already that this was going to be an excruciatingly long day.

  Chapter 35