At Last Read online

  At Last

  by

  Aliyat Lecky

  www.ravenpressllc.com

  Published by Raven Press LLC

  Copyright © 2015 Aliyat Lecky

  At Last

  First Edition

  All rights reserved, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 and the United Kingdom Copyright Act of 1956 and 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938988-69-1

  ISBN-10: 1938988698

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real, except where noted. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental, except where noted.

  Cover Painting by Katherine Lugo

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE – VERNAL EQUINOX

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  INTERLUDE – SUMMER SOLSTICE

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  INTERQUEL – WINTER SOLSTICE

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONTACT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Braimah and Abiba,

  God given narratives in my story.

  DK, thanks for being a sounding board

  throughout this process.

  Marian, my binary,

  whom I will always thank.

  Joyce, my mother, thanks for it all.

  PROLOGUE – VERNAL EQUINOX

  NOAMI SAT BACK comfortably in her chair, breathing in the fragrant air, perfectly content simply to be out in the day. She loved this time of year when everything was fresh and new. The potential of life, which accompanies the crisp wind of spring, galvanizes the weary left sluggish from a long winter’s hibernation. Spring, she felt, presented the opportunity to begin anew, which was precisely what she needed after an uncomfortable break-up. The concluding stage of a demanding relationship was difficult, and rendered the harsh winter all the more bleak and severe. This year’s spring had been particularly slow in coming. The seasonal battle waged against winter had proven to be long and drawn out as though the thaw would never take hold. Nevertheless, as always, spring persevered against the mighty winter, and came through splendidly green and plenteous.

  She looked again from the photo to the woman. Not that she needed to. The act was mostly out of habit in a desire to capture her subject honestly. It wasn’t as though she didn’t know her almost intimately, at least on a superficial level, having never met nor spoken to the woman. That was not uncommon for her. She always connected with her clients despite the assignment. After all, it was difficult to follow someone around, sketching bits of their life on the pad she was never without, and not learn something about them. It was her way of discovering enough to capture their personality in her art, but she never really came to know the people she followed around town. Yet, this job was atypical and unlike any others. This new subject had affected her differently. She had elicited a desire to create beauty more than any other had before. Noami felt invested somehow. For instance, the woman was seated with her back to Noami, yet she knew precisely the expression her face held, and almost knew what she was thinking as she pondered over her morning coffee. This job was different because, somehow, without crossing the line of professionalism, Noami was more involved with her subject than ever before.

  Noami rubbed chalk grit from the heel of her hand, and watched the woman’s friend arrive. She was certain the friend was aware of her presence. In fact, there were times when she seemed to search for Noami, as if she expected to find her there. That was often the case when the family enlisted the help of someone close to the subject to assure accessibility and cooperation.

  Now, as the friend approached, she looked around until her eyes fell upon Noami sitting a little over twenty feet away. She smiled. Noami was sure of the smile, though it was just barely perceptible and accompanied by the slightest nod of the head. The friend said something to the woman, and they switched seats, so that the woman sat facing Noami. Was the friend assisting Noami? Of course she was. Noami blew her hands clean, hoping to avoid black prints on her favorite jeans. She sighed, pushing the charcoal dust off her pant legs. Graphite on her pants was inevitable.

  She glanced again at her subject. After following her for weeks, Noami would miss watching her in action. Noami would miss the way she seemed to perform as though she was always aware of her audience, but certainly could not have been: her slightest gesture, her various expressions, her restless behavior, and quirky habits. Like the way she bit the lip of her cup when she appeared to be concentrating on a thought or idea that seemed to be just out of reach, or the way she pulled hard on handfuls of hair at the nape of her neck when she seemed to stumble upon what clearly seemed to be an exceptionally good idea. Noami enjoyed this gesture immensely. There was a sexual power that hid beneath the unconscious body language.

  In fact, Noami had been able to mine quite a lot about the woman during the time she shadowed her. After all, she had been following her for weeks. She had come to really like her. Noami was unaware of the world around her as she checked off in her head what she learned. She allowed the data to inform her strokes as she listened to the charcoal scratch across the soft paper, the black lines creating life on the page. She writes for a living, or at least, writing is a great hobby. She paints. Often frequenting a local store for supplies. She loves art of all kinds, and often visits galleries with her friend or daughter. She loves to take in the sights of downtown Minneapolis, and is never without her camera. She abhors cigarette smoke to the point where she doesn’t allow anyone to smoke in her presence. She has many friends. She’s full of life. She’s approaching the winter of her life—and is sexy as hell.

  Noami had to remind herself a few times that the lady before her was the wife of a patron. She was just another job, just another bank deposit, and just another portrait that needed to be completed on time despite the sly smile and suggestive eyes that peered up at her from her very own sketches. Did she capture that mischievous expression, or was it the look of her own design?

  Noami looked again to face her subject. For the first time in a long time, Noami felt disappointed that, save her name, she in truth knew very little about Helen Dahl.

  ONE

  EVERY NOW AND again, life settles itself on the unaware so stealthily, that before we realize what has happened, life has plotted a path that we look back on with great interest, but don’t necessarily recognize. There, in that moment when we find ourselves at a crossroads where recognition fails us, we begin to wonder where our life has gone. We discover that if we choose to, we have the option to shake the dust of time and habit out of our heavily hooded eyes, and see for ourselves what has truly transpired. We may see a life elapsed dully by the passage of time and our own inaction, and are forced to take stock of the personal sacrifice which life has forced upon us. Then, even after our reflection is done, we are ready again to acquiesce and follow once more. Life is there with us, standing sharply to the right, anxious to carry on as if we were t
he lesser participant in this fraudulent partnership.

  Helen found, as she gazed below from what felt like a double-paned prison, she had arrived at such a crossroads. She looked down at the terrain sliding away below, and wondered if there was any place on earth where no man had been before. If so, she would like to be there now. Away from family, commitment, from life, from junctions and defining moments. This mood was not so sudden as to take her by surprise. She had been feeling uneasy for a while. She felt haunted by something unidentifiable. An idea that lingered just out of reach—perhaps a phantom—which she could not turn to face, yet was sure she, herself, had at some point bargained with Life to acquire.

  Mistakenly, others believed she had the perfect life. She knew better. They only witnessed what she allowed them to view—the perfect American family that lived in their perfect American home located in the heart of the heartland in Hidden Oaks, Minnesota. They saw only beauty. They observed only her literary success, and the lifestyle that success afforded her. They noticed the style and grace by which she seemed to approach life as a local superstar. They saw her gain national notoriety of the highest caliber. As these observers—these people, these fans, these they’s—superficially scrutinized the beauty of her life, they also took special note of her generosity and philanthropy to the community, even when offered in anonymity. They adored her. She had even allowed the public to meet her very own children, Sydney and David. Her husband, of course, they all knew well, even before they knew Helen, however, she allowed them only so much entry into her life.

  The lightness, she shared—an example of a little slice of Minnesota heaven for all to enjoy or even emulate. The rest, she kept to herself—a lesson she had learned very early in her youth. Other lessons taken from her youth defined for her the good life, and dictated that it was to be sought after at all cost and projected outward. Even at risk of finding herself after decades of living at a crossroads, looking back on a life that seemed nothing like she envisaged for herself. Such lessons, she had to admit, she had no hope of recalling. They were half-hidden truths guarded by foggy ambiguity that guided her decades later.

  She turned again to inspect the land thousands of feet below. Yes, the rest she would keep to herself. She had been so successful thus far keeping private matters private. What others did not know—not even her family—was that as lives go, hers was far from perfect. Helen was skilled at making her life reflect just what she wanted. She was, after all, a writer of fiction. Romantic fiction, the best type for those wanting to create romantic allusion. What others did not perceive was that Helen Dahl’s perfect life did not come without great sacrifice.

  Helen repositioned uncomfortably in her generous seat. She hated to fly. The confinement of a plane always made her feel restless. There was never enough to distract her on the flight from the musings she wished to avoid. Not even her writing. Her work would not save her from feelings that had been plaguing her for months. She felt overcome by a growing sensation of being trapped. She looked around at the other passengers shut in with her and held in the air by tons of metal and innovation. She smiled despite herself. She couldn’t help but think of the plane as a metaphor. She would use it later in her novel writing, though maybe she would morph the plane into a private jet. That was more sensational—romantic, even. Her new heroine would be whisked away on a leer jet to a tropical paradise, yet would be resistant to her love because she felt trapped. No. Too contrived.

  Helen deleted the last paragraph she had written, and closed her laptop for the umpteenth time. She pushed the call button. The flight attendant was at her side in seconds. Helen did love first class.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Yes, a drink please. A Mojito.”

  When the flight attendant returned with the drink, Helen inquired on the arrival time. A full hour before landing was just enough time to take a look at her latest work in progress. She settled in her seat, computer reopened, and Mojito at the ready.

  She began typing once again. “Charlotte wondered if she would ever be free of her sisters…” She stared at the words, willing them to develop into a new chapter. Concentration was at minimum. There was no use. Her head filled with thoughts of everything but Charlotte. Most pressing was her deadline. Charlotte’s escapades had to be ready in less than a month. There seemed to be too much getting in the way of Charlotte being fully realized. The task lists, the family obligations, the meetings, and other commitments that had to be kept. Then there was her looming, unavoidable birthday. It wasn’t that she minded aging. Helen was of the mind that each year granted her more wisdom and security. She felt great, looked great, and had never been healthier, and she dared anyone to suggest that she had lost any luster, even after nearly six decades of living. What plagued her were the activities surrounding her birthday. Those damn yearly celebrations. Her preference was to spend a quiet dinner with her family and closest friend, Angie.

  Richard had always insisted on a large gathering to show off his wife, who, at her age, was still considered quite a trophy. The wives of other men Richard’s age wished they were still as stunning as Helen was. Even those who were their husband’s second or third wife. In truth, Helen enjoyed knowing this. She was a starter wife Richard could be proud of. He was. He trotted her out at every opportunity, including her own birthday celebrations—especially her birthdays. They, in particular, emphasized what a prize he possessed. So obvious. It was as though Richard were saying, “Look at my wife. She is smart, beautiful, talented, and has a set of tits a twenty-year-old would die for.” Helen’s birthday parties were a local event where both his political connections and business partners alike could come to see how prosperous the “lucky bastard” had become.

  Helen shifted irritably. She had no outward reason to expect a house full of people hidden in her home ready to spring out and yell, “Surprise!” She hadn’t had any reason to expect a party all the years prior. Nor had Richard ever indicated he was planning a bash. Each year, she informed her husband she didn’t want a party, yet she knew when she stepped through the door that a hundred or more party guests would be there waiting. She would then be whisked up to her room to change while the party raged below her.

  Helen checked her reflection in her compact. Make-up. Check.

  Throwing a party would be just the thing Richard would do despite the constant requests to do otherwise. She had reminded him several times before she left about her deadline, and he knew she was working on borrowed time. Helen wondered if he even listened to her anymore. He certainly didn’t behave as though he listened. As a consequence, she would have to spend the days following the party to get her home back in order, not to mention the “thank you” cards she would have to write. Her work would suffer once again. The lucky bastard, indeed. He, of course, would go off to the office, thinking nothing of the inconveniences he caused.

  He used to be so considerate. That was one of the things Helen found so appealing about him. He was not simply an open-the-door-for-the-lady considerate. Richard was naturally solicitous. Almost a way of life considerate. He made it his mission to make sure his family was cared for and content. That was before his company transitioned from home to commercial construction and way before he won his current seat in the state legislature. She couldn’t say, however, that it was politics that had changed him. He was working for a politician as an aide when he met Helen. Money had not changed him, either. He had grown up with old money. Yet something in her marriage was different. Somewhere along the way a divergence in the way she regarded him transpired.

  Helen twisted the band on her left hand absentmindedly. All things considered, Richard was a good husband. He didn’t cheat. He allowed her to work and travel without ever complaining. While she was away, he took over her part of the familial responsibility regarding the children and household. At least he made sure all was taken care of properly, if not by his own hands. He was a busy man, after all. Richard never let Helen down, ever, at least not when it really
mattered. Most importantly, he loved her unconditionally. She was sure of that. He told her daily. He called her more than once a day to tell her so. He sent flowers and held her as long as she needed after making love. He seemed to need and enjoy the closeness as much as she did. He believed he was fortunate to have her.

  Nonetheless, something continued to wedge between them. Helen could not name it, but was sure of its presence. She sipped the last of her Mojito before ordering another. The drink was cool, crisp, and seemed to give her the audacity to further explore her marriage in a way that she hadn’t before. Helen could not escape the idea that her marriage was changing. Perhaps an element of her marriage was indeed different—Richard, herself, their relationship. She could not pinpoint what, but something was changing.

  Helen considered her relationship with her husband in general terms. Little had changed in the past twenty-six years. Her marriage was routine. She liked routine. Richard, then? No. Richard had remained the constant through the years. Before they were married, he was a charmer who doted on her. After they married, he doted on his family. That was perfectly acceptable, even admirable. The only time he seemed less interested in Helen, was when they brought home their first child—a daughter, Sydney Rose. That was reasonable, even enviable.

  Helen twisted against a developing headache. Before she had a chance to use the call button, her elbow was pushed from its resting place by the attentive figure of a flight attendant next to her seat.

  “Ma’am? How can I make you more comfortable?”

  Her initial response was a naughty one. She elected, however, not to risk causing the woman any discomfort.