FF (January 2012) Q. Kelly - Third

Tudor historian Helen Franklin is horrified when her dying scientist father leaves her a most unusual inheritance: Anne Boleyn. Yep, Anne Boleyn as in Henry VIII's beheaded queen. She is a time traveler and is having trouble adjusting to the modern world. Helen tells herself she does not have time for Anne. Yalia, Helen's wife, has been distancing herself from Helen for three years, and Helen needs to decide if she wants to save their marriage.

Then the unexpected happens. A romantic relationship develops among Yalia, Anne and Helen. Can the three of them figure out their lives together, especially when time might be running out for Anne?

If you like any of these book, support the author by buying it.


Sample

Prologue

Anne's teeth used to be bad, so she had a workaround for when she brushed them. No matter that her teeth were marvelous now. In her mind, they would always be worn little pebbles. Her workaround was simple: no looking in the mirror. Anne wandered through her apartment, taking in the library, the neatly arranged books, the many paintings she had done and the living room with the security guard, who was usually Jordan. When she was almost finished brushing her teeth, she went back down the hallway. Afterward, Anne took a long, luxurious bath, complete with bubbles. This morning was no different except that before her bath, Anne used a Ped-Egg to touch up her heels. Her morning routine was complete by seven a.m.

She decided she wanted to paint today. Outside.

Anne returned to the living room. "How is the weather?" she asked Jordan.

"Same as yesterday, ma'am."

Anne nodded and informed Jordan of her plans. She bundled up in her heaviest coat. She carried her paints and a chair, while Jordan carried the easel and a blank canvas. He set up camp a respectable distance from her, so respectable that when he inevitably talked into his walkie-talkie, Anne could not make out his words.

What shall I paint today? Anne had no model except the walls and the courtyard's sole ornamentation, a skeletal tree. She could go back in and find something to serve as a model, but she did not feel like it. She would pluck a model from her imagination. Anne wore gloves, thin gloves. Not the best to keep the cold from her fingers, but she would sacrifice comfort for mobility.

Hmm. Anne realized something. She had been approaching the courtyard's walls wrong. Yes, they confined her. Yes, they were high, white and foreboding. A terrible subject. But to paint on...

"Jordan, may I paint on the walls?"

Jordan frowned. He frowned at everything Anne said. "The walls?"

"I can get much more on them than on the canvas. Also, this space needs brightening."

Jordan barked in his walkie-talkie. A few minutes later, he said: "Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you."

"One section of wall to start with."

Anne chose her section, the farthest from the Icarus building, her prison. The skeletal tree had given her an idea. Anne dipped her brush into brown paint but changed her mind. She picked a fresh brush and went for purple. Her family tree would not have the usual brown trunk and brown branches. Anne painted a fat, solid purple trunk. The trunk had to be sizable, given the craziness of her family tree. Anne painted branch spaces for her mother and father, got more purple, and then painted spaces for her brother and sister, and then for her husband, his parents and his siblings.

She painted the branch for her child.

She added two branches for her child's half-siblings by Catherine and Jane. After a moment's thought, she inserted branches for Catherine and Jane themselves, and for her husband's other wives. Ah. Wait. Her husband had recognized one illegitimate son, so he and his mother ought to be part of the family tree too.

Anne stepped backward, then backward. No room for more branches, unfortunately. She had done a tremendous job. The spacing was excellent, despite the on-the-spur additions. Not perfect, but she could make a rough draft sketch later today and paint over the tree tomorrow. Start anew, add the two spaces. Purple had been entirely appropriate. The tree was long and expansive. The branch spaces curled downward like claws, like her husband's abusive power. Maybe Anne would add leaves later, after she added names.

Maybe leaves only with little Elizabeth's branch.

"Ma'am." Jordan again. "Dr. Franklin is coming down for a chat."

"Very well." Anne did not like Josiah Franklin, especially now that he was dying.

Death meant Josiah dropped by daily, sometimes more than once a day. Anne cleaned purple paint off her brush. She dipped it into pink paint. She painted pink grass—why the heck not? She would go psychedelic. Anne loved that word.Psychedelic, psychedelic.

Her life was psychedelic, indeed.

"Dr. Franklin, ma'am."

Anne continued painting psychedelic pink grass. Let Josiah Franklin come to her. His motorized wheelchair was smooth, but not smooth enough to be entirely silent on the brown, dead grass.

"Anne," Josiah Franklin said.

Anne stopped painting. "What?" She would make no move to sit. She would assert what little power she had over the man—this gaunt little dying creature who held her life in his hands. Pathetic.

"What are you painting?"

"My family tree. Or, rather, Elizabeth's family tree."

"Ah."

Anne pointed out the branch where she would put Elizabeth's name. "She goes here."

"Are you sure you do not want to see her again?"

"I am sure," Anne said. She knew that one thing. She felt it surely and certainly in her bones. Her daughter should stay where she was. Her daughter should not become a prisoner like her mother.

Josiah eyed Anne's brush. "May I?"

"No."

Josiah clasped his hands in his lap, and a small smile touched his lips. "Do you remember your first painting lesson with Regina?"

"Yes."

"Now look at you."

Anne refused to let Josiah's words sneak into the part of her that responded to flattery. "Why are you here? I am not telling you anything."

"I've made arrangements. Will make arrangements."

"Arrangements?"

Josiah's gaze roamed the family tree and settled at the top. "You realize I have a month left. At most."

"Yes."

Josiah eyed Anne speculatively, and she tightened her grip on the paintbrush. She had assumed Josiah would leave her here in the hands of his underlings, especially nasty Benjamin. But perhaps not.

"I will tell my daughter about you. She'll take care of you. She'll do better by you than Regina and I did."

Anne blinked. "Your daughter? Helen?"

A half-grin from Josiah. "Naturally."

The half-grin made Anne feel stupid. Naturally, Josiah had said. Meaning: You know full well I have but one child, and she is Helen. "You are dismissed," Anne said stiffly. "I must resume my painting."

"You have talent," Josiah said. "You truly do."

Anne kept silent. Josiah Franklin deserved no thanks, for anything. Anne selected black paint and pressed her brush against the wall. She would make a field of black poppies among the pink grass. A few moments later, she heard Josiah's wheelchair retreat.

Helen Franklin.

Anne was not sure how she felt about Josiah's news. At least Anne knew where she stood with Josiah. Starting over with another person was not appealing. What would Helen Franklin do with her? How would Helen treat her, view her? Would Helen see Anne as a plaything too, a wondrous creature, or as a person?

Regina, Helen's mother, had shown Anne several pictures of Helen. Helen had tousled, shoulder-length blond hair and light eyes, the kind that were green some days and blue other days. Helen's nose was slightly crooked, maybe from an errant fist or a misthrown ball. Or maybe it was genetics. Helen was married, Anne knew that much. She had dogs, and her wife's name was Yalia.

And Yalia had killed a six-year-old child. Accidentally, but still...Regina had worried about Helen and Yalia a good bit after the shooting. Yalia was a damn fine cop, Regina Franklin said, until she was faced with a situation no one should be in.

Guns, Anne thought. Guns are no good.

She finished the poppy field and wished that Josiah was not dying. Anne did not want, did not need, any more upheavals in her life.

"Ma'am," Jordan said. "Dr. Franklin has contacted his daughter. Be prepared to meet her tomorrow about two o'clock."

Anne's chest was heavy. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. So quick.

"Tomorrow is her birthday," Jordan went on. "Forty years old."

"How nice," Anne murmured. In other words, I am nothing but a present. A toy.

Chapter One

Helen would have to kiss Devon good night. No doubt about it; after three dates, Devon had been giving Helen certain looks, certain touches. Helen tried to focus on her dinner—chicken and baked potato—but could not taste the food. The chicken probably was good; it was thick, succulent and juicy. And Devon was nice, with kissable lips: full and pouty. In other circumstances, kissing them would be no tragedy.

"Are you all right?" Devon asked.

Helen cut a piece of chicken. "I'm fine." Insert fork, chew, pretend to taste. "Mmm. This chicken gets better with each bite."

Devon laughed. "I agree." She had gotten chicken too, but with salad. She speared a piece of lettuce and chewed.

"Rabbit food," Helen said.

"What?"

"Salad is rabbit food. Can't stand it."

"Come on. You can't beat salad."

"I'll bring you rabbit pellets next time. See how you like them."

Devon 's lips tugged up. "So there'll be a next time."

The knot in Helen's stomach intensified, and she forced herself to smile. "Sure."

"You don't sound enthusiastic."

Helen glanced down, at her half-eaten chicken. "I like you, Devon . I really do."

"I like you too. How can I make you feel better?"

Nothing will make me feel better. "I'll figure something out," Helen said as brightly as she could, avoiding a suggestive undertone to her voice. Move to safer territory. "So you started reading my book last night?"

"Mmm. Got to Chapter Five." Devon munched on more rabbit food. "It's tragic. So much went into getting Edward born, and then he dies at such a young age."

Helen had to agree. She was a Tudor historian and had written two books on the Tudors. Her more recent book was on Edward VI, the only surviving legitimate son of Henry VIII, if dying at sixteen years old could be called surviving. Helen had a soft spot for Edward, whom historians had neglected. Edward became king at a mere nine years old and had never come into his own. His uncles and other power-hungry men had manipulated him, had ruled in his stead. He had died still a child, died at an age where historians would not write much about him. Helen wanted to change that, and her biography on Edward was a good start.

"I'm thinking about taking a risk," Helen told Devon .

Devon raised an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

"Maybe I'll dip my toe into fiction. I could write an alternate-history book, one based on if Edward had lived, had loved, had married. If he had become a true king and not a boy puppet."

Devon set down her fork. "Wow. I'd definitely read it."

"Thanks." You're just being nice. But that's okay. "I have it outlined already," Helen admitted sheepishly. "I gotta force myself to sit down and write. Type, rather."

"You having writer's block?"

"I guess so. Fiction is..." Helen chuckled. "It's similar to nonfiction in many ways. You gotta have flow and people to root for or identify with. But in other ways, fiction is a whole different animal."

"I can imagine."

"Plus you know I'm crazy busy with work." Helen's full-time job was as a history professor at Gallaudet University . Being a Tudor historian was not too lucrative.

Devon laughed. "I'm glad you found time for tonight." She squeezed Helen's hand and gave her another look. "Glad, for sure."

Helen hoped her responding smile was not strained. "Awesome."

Helen and Devon finished their meal without saying much more. Devon insisted on paying the bill, and they walked outside. Their cars were parked side by side. The night was frigid, normal for late January in Northern Virginia . Helen puffed out several breaths. She liked seeing her own breaths. Breaths were real. Significant. They had shape. They were not formless beings.

Devon opened her car door.

It's now or never. "Wait a sec." Helen slid her hand into Devon 's, hoping she was coming across as enthusiastic. However, she had the sinking feeling she came across as robotic, because robotic was how her heart felt—batteries, spark plugs, forced emotion. Helen had not kissed a woman other than Yalia in fifteen years. Yalia had always been enough. Had being the operative word. Helen could not remember the last time she and Yalia kissed, truly kissed, or had a good laugh or a good cuddle, and that made her sadder than anything. What the shooting had done to Yalia was crazy. The shooting had transformed Yalia into a different person. She shot someone, but she might as well have been shot in the head and gotten traumatic brain injury. But, no. Yalia was fine physically. Emotionally was where the damage was.

Stop. Not exactly true this is all Yalia's fault, or the shooting's fault. Helen bore her share of responsibility, but she would not think about that just now.

Helen kissed Devon, a peck on the lips, and Devon drew back. "Helen, I..." Devon sighed. She ran her hand through her short hair. "I really like you. But you're not into me. Not in the way that counts. Maybe we should say goodbye permanently. Don't waste my time, or your time. This thing with your wife..." Another sigh. "You're in love with her. You don't want anyone but her."

" Devon ."

Devon grinned. "Hey, good luck to you and Yalia. Really. And if you ever get over her, give me a call."

******

Yalia was asleep when Helen got home, and so were the furkids. Great. Only eight-thirty, and they're asleep. They were snuggled together in bed: Yalia, Mario, Luigi, Toad and Bowser. No room for Helen. As usual. She wandered into the living room and flopped onto the couch. She'd move the pets in a bit. Or just fall asleep here. Whatever. Yalia certainly did not care. Helen fished her iPhone out of her purse and navigated to the ad she had posted two months ago.

Discreet Women Only, Please

This ad is more of an explanation, perhaps an essay, than an ad. But that's where I am in my life. Bear with me, and if you make it to the end, maybe we'll be good for each other ;-) First, know I am married and have been for ten years. (I am almost forty years old.) My wife and I embodied the "love at first sight" cliche. Several years ago, my wife was involved in an incident I won't go into detail on here. I will just say the incident has changed the landscape of our marriage, and not in a good way. So, this is where I am now. I love my wife. I keep hoping my wife will "wake up" one day and be herself again. In the meanwhile, I'm not sure what I am looking for. Perhaps a friend. A friend who can be a little more than a friend, if you get my gist. Someone who won't get involved overly deep. Someone who won't fall in love with me.

Someone discreet. Someone practical, who knows life is gray and purple and orange, not black and white.


Helen clicked the trash-can icon. A message popped up: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE THIS AD? YOUR ACTION CANNOT BE UNDONE.

"Sure I'm sure," Helen muttered. She pressed "Yes." What had she been thinking? She had been a nervous wreck since she posted the ad, since she started going out with other women. Nothing significant had happened, nothing physical, anyway, until the slight Devon kiss tonight. Helen simply was not cut out to sneak around her wife's back. The time to face facts had arrived. She would have to leave Yalia. Yalia was showing no signs of changing her mind about not wanting children, and Helen would be forty years old tomorrow. She would need to get pregnant, or adopt, soon.