Given Time

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2017 E.D. Parr

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-324-7

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: CA Clauson

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  GIVEN TIME

  E.D. Parr

  Copyright © 2017

  Chapter One

  “I have a good feeling about this guy, Nora.” Rory stacked the newspaper cuttings and journal articles in the order he wanted to arrange them on the collage he intended making in a few days’ time.

  “That’s good to hear, sir. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how tired you are these days. A new project will invigorate you, no doubt.” Nora Carter picked up the tray that held Rory’s finished mid-morning coffee. She pursed her lips. “It might do you good to eat a little more.”

  Her employer placed the sheaf of papers carefully under a folder in his desk drawer.

  “I don’t have much of an appetite right now.” Rory excused the fact he’d not touched the thin slice of fruitcake on the tray. He smiled at Nora. “I might take a walk by the river before lunch.”

  Nora left his study with a sigh.

  Rory brought out another folded piece of paper and pushed it into an envelope. He looked around his study scanning for a place his brother might find the letter. If it comes to that. A grim smile passed fleetingly over his face. I’ll take that walk right now. He still held the envelope in his hand when he pushed his feet into his boots, and then, as he pulled on his old sheepskin jacket, he jammed the envelope in the deep pocket. He wound a scarf around his neck against the cold March wind. Good enough—for now.

  ****

  “Angel Starc, Mr. Angel Starc, your flight is boarding. Please report to gate seven.”

  Angel couldn’t move. He froze on the molded seat of the airport lounge with tears gathering in his eyes. A breaking news ticker tape scrolled across the base of the TV screen bolted to the wall.

  “No.” The single word fell from his lips. Angel stood on shaky legs. He stared at the newsreader.

  “In news just to hand, artist Rory Starc was found dead in his country home this morning. Police have stated that they do not believe there are suspicious circumstances, but there will be the usual coronial investigations into Mr. Starc’s death. Rory Starc was forty-six years old.”

  Nausea forced him to sit again and, feeling faint, he bent over his knees.

  The man in the next seat spoke, concern in his voice.

  “Are you feeling okay, buddy?”

  Angel straightened. “Thanks for asking. I’m okay.” He stood, cleared his mind, grabbed the handle of his carry-on bag, and strode away. It wasn’t until he entered Logan airport’s long-stay parking lot that he allowed himself to think again. If he hadn’t closed down his thoughts, grief would have robbed him of the ability to breathe. He opened the trunk of his car and threw his bag in. As he closed the trunk, overwhelming regret bent him over. He leaned on the gray metal of his car and sobbed. When Angel thought he would throw up from crying so hard, he forced himself to open the door and climb into the driving seat. He gazed through the windscreen at the row of cars in front of his. Two years and a day—I should have been in touch. I wish…

  Angel grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket and called his assistant.

  “Marcie, I’m not going to Paris after all.” His voice failed.

  “Angel, er, there’s been some news. I was just about to call you. I don’t know if…” His assistant stammered.

  He broke in and whispered. “I know, Marcie, I saw it on the airport lounge TV. I’m going to his place instead of Paris. Will you … will you call Michel and the crew in Paris? Tell them to go ahead without me, or not … right now I just need to know what happened to Rory. Tell them I’ll call in a day or two to touch base. I can’t believe this. I feel so ashamed, Marcie. I should have been there … I should have made up with him. I should have given it time. Now it’s too late.”

  “The same could be said for him. He could have called you. It’s a very sad thing and I am so sorry for your loss, but you can’t do this. I know it’s hard, but if you must lay blame, then both of you were at fault, and Angel, didn’t you try very soon after you left? I thought you sent a Christmas card…”

  Angel’s shoulders sagged. He couldn’t forgive himself right then. “I, I didn’t mail it. I thought, ‘why should I be the one who always makes the first move to make up when we fight?’ It was always that way.” His throat thickened with unshed tears. “I’ll get going. It can be a couple of hours’ drive along the coast depending on the traffic.” He knew he couldn’t talk much more. All he wanted to do was cry again.

  “Hey, maybe you should swing back to the office and Tim can drive you. Are you okay to drive all that way after hearing this news?”

  “I’ll call you when I get there. I’ll take it easy. I’d prefer to be alone. Thanks … for thinking of me.”

  “Take care and make sure you do call.”

  Angel slipped his phone into his pocket and started the car. His hands shook on the wheel and he took a deep breath. I should go to the apartment and pick up a few things. I guess my suitcase is on its way to Paris. He reversed the car as tears streamed down his face.

  Angel’s tears had given way to nausea when he slipped easily into a parking spot on the opposite side of the road to his apartment building. Buildings on this leafy end of the street weren’t high-rise. Angel enjoyed the vintage feel of the place. He charged across the road and darted in. Angel never took the tiny elevator. He ran up the stair flights to his top floor apartment.

  As he threw a few things into a duffle bag and put a dark suit into a cover with a built-in hanger, he recalled the fight he’d had with his brother two years ago. Regret flooded him afresh and he bundled the luggage to the front door. He went to his kitchen and brought a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. He uncapped it and drank a few mouthfuls. Why has no one contacted me? The television is no way to hear about your brother’s death, and what … what did he die from? Angel stormed into his study and checked the answering machine—nothing.

  He was loading his bags into the trunk when his smartphone buzzed. Finally.

  It was his brother’s wife.

  “I’m so glad you called. What happened, Samantha?”

  “I’m sorry, Angel. I asked that you be informed immediately, but obviously, it didn’t happen. I don’t know details. Rory and I separated shortly after you and he stopped talking. His housekeeper found him slumped across his desk. The police have ruled out foul play. I had the feeling Rory was ill about six months ago, but he wouldn’t confirm it. I thought about you over the years, but had no idea if I should call. Sorry…”

  “I didn’t know about you and Rory splitting up. Of course, I had no idea he was sick. I’m driving to the house.” Angel’s voice trembled.

  “Do you still have a key? I don’t know if we’re allowed in the place. I guess I should ask the detective who interviewed me. I haven’t spoken to Rory in weeks. He seemed okay then. He was always busy, always working … I suppose his office staff knows he’s … I should call them just in case … where will you stay?”

  Angel walked to the door of his car and got in as he answered. “I have a key to the house. I’ll stay there, unless I hear from you that the police say it
’s not okay. Wouldn’t you think they’d call me? I’ll call you from there, later.” Confusion mixed with grief stopped Angel from thinking straight. He meant to ask for the name of the detective, but the question flew clean away as he stared out of the car window.

  “Okay. Things might be a mess. You know what Rory was like—disorganized, deliberately obtuse … sorry. I’ll see you later. Drive safely.” She ended the call.

  Angel put his phone on the hands-free attachment and started the car.

  “The sooner I get there the better.” He said aloud, and, after glancing in the mirror, he pulled away from the sidewalk and joined the sparse flow of traffic.

  Chapter Two

  The second time Matt experienced his latest weird feeling he was standing in front of the airport restroom mirror. He gazed at his reflection. What? What’s going on? Is this about where I’m going? He attempted to focus on the lingering pictures like gray shadows in his mind. A building, a house, a path through trees, fast water tumbling on dark stones, a man writing, someone hunched over in pain—Matt frowned and turned from the mirror. He couldn’t make the pictures clearer, and as the feeling that something strange awaited him dissipated, sadness replaced it. Matt had grown used to what he called his ‘mysteriousness’ over the years. He kept it a secret, all the same. It was minor in reality. The occasional premonition such as this one, a predictive dream, or hunches that were useful if he was in a position to use them, infrequently augmented his innate creativity. Matt might be used to it, but recently the melancholy that increasingly accompanied his ‘mysteriousness’ wore him down. His nature erred toward happy and hopeful.

  He expelled a long sigh as he pushed open the restroom door and wandered to the business lounge that belonged to the airline. He helped himself to coffee and a Danish pastry. Sadness still gave a droop to his shoulders. He put his early morning refreshments on a low table and slumped in an adjacent chair. He stared at the music journal someone had left on the table. Another hazy notion fell unbidden into his mind—a man pushing something into his pocket. Matt heaved a sigh. He willed the picture away, wishing he had real visions if he was going to have anything, so that at least he could see the people and places clearly.

  Matt had looked forward to this trip for months. It excited and surprised him when the call came in early autumn offering him the chance to work with artist Rory Starc in the States, but since his acceptance, increasingly depressive episodes dogged him. Matt now considered himself, not only mysterious, but also mystified. He checked his phone for the time. He only had an hour’s wait before he could haunt the seating around the gate for his six AM flight from Paris.

  He sipped at the coffee. A wave of edginess made his stomach ache. He pushed the Danish around on the plate with his fork. Exasperated, he stood and took the escalator to the shopping mall. I’ll wander around the shops. Maybe that will cheer me up and waste the hour. Matt bought a magazine to read on the plane. The flight was only seven hours and he generally fell asleep on planes. Journeys always fatigued Matt no matter how short. He heaved a sigh of relief when it was time to board the Air France flight.

  ****

  Matt left his magazine in the pocket of the airplane seat. He filed from the plane along with the other passengers, guided by the tunnel walls until he reached the main airport areas and the luggage carousels. He went through customs so easily it surprised him. Generally, he experienced interminable line-ups. Matt retrieved his suitcase and trundled along to the exit. Drivers circled the barrier with signs displaying names of passengers. Matt saw his, Matt Loewe.

  He headed to the man with a polite smile, and was soon on his way to Rory Starc’s hometown.

  Matt gazed out of the car window at the gathering clouds. By the time he’d checked into the hotel, rain spotted the windows of his suite. He’d ordered coffee and a BLT from room service, intending to unpack quickly, eat, and then familiarize himself with the tiny town before dark. He would contact the artist the next day as planned.

  Matt switched on the TV and hung up his coat. He’d put away only a few items when the news update caught his attention. Video of people laying flowers outside a house played, overlaid with the serious voice of a reporter. “Rory Starc was found by his housekeeper this morning.”

  Matt spun around from the closet where he was hanging the one business suit he’d brought with him. He snatched up the remote and increased the sound on the TV.

  “Popular in the small town where he lived and worked his whole life, people are already showing their surprise and grief at his sudden death. Flowers and candles are piling up outside the gate of ‘Willodene,’ the family home.”

  Matt slowly sat on the end of the bed. His thoughts tumbled as he stared at the screen where a pictorial tribute to Starc showed his seminal works.

  A knock at the door forced Matt to his feet. He called out, “Come in,” without even asking who it was.

  The room service attendant brought his order to the table by the window, passing him with a polite nod.

  Matt stood transfixed in front of the TV where the reporter finished up the news segment about Rory Starc.

  “People are saying he had a heart attack. It’s very sad. He lived only a couple of streets away. He used to come in for dinner at least once a week.” The server stood next to Matt, joining him in staring at the screen with genuine sorrow evident in his tone.

  Matt turned to the hotel staff member who’d brought his meal.

  “I’d like to take some flowers. Is there a flower shop nearby?”

  The young man beckoned Matt to the window.

  “The town consists of two streets. This one and Main Street, which runs along the end of this street—makes a T-shape and right in the middle there’s a flower shop. The thing is, there might not be much left to buy. Mr. Starc was very generous and gave a lot to this town. People are genuinely shocked and saddened by his death. Will I send out for a bunch of flowers now? That way you can walk over the street to Mr. Starc’s place when you’ve eaten. See the alley way over there between the shops … that leads onto the street where his house is.”

  Matt nodded gratefully. “Thank you, that’s perfect.” He found his wallet and provided money for flowers and a tip.

  Matt drank some of the coffee and picked up one half of the BLT. He took a bite and gazed out of the window. I have no idea where this leaves me. I guess I should call someone tomorrow—the place we were to work, yeah, I’ll call there. How incredibly sad. He was way too young to die—had so much more to offer. Matt recalled an exhibition of Starc’s sculptures he’d attended in Paris. So full of emotion. He sat on the chair and finished his coffee. He left the other half of his BLT. The news had stolen his appetite.

  The flower order arrived to his suite along with a pictorial map of the small town. Rory Starc’s house and studio was one of the landmarks—a little picture of a rambling house surrounded by trees with a blue river running close. A long ranch like building with barrels of bright flowers either side of the front door represented the hotel. Matt scanned the map. With its vivid colors, it was the antithesis of the gray day outside. Rain fell in mists.

  Matt folded the map and put it into his overcoat pocket. He picked up the flowers, turned up his coat collar, and left the hotel. Rain drifted away, replaced by semi-twilight and cold.

  Matt walked swiftly to Rory’s house. As he approached, a shiver went up his spine. The gray shapes he’d seen in his mind’s eye before his flight were those of this house and the woodland beyond. Matt had no doubt that if he followed the path to the river it would rush by over large dark stones. He slowed his pace and joined a small group of people leaving flowers at Starc’s gate. He laid his flowers alongside a huge bunch of Calla lilies and straightened. Another shiver crept up Matt’s back. Someone’s watching me. He turned and gazed around.

  There was no one across the wide street, only a sleek sedan. Matt couldn’t see anyone in the car because of the dark tint and the growing gloom. He went back to the
hotel. Tomorrow after I’ve made the call, I’ll check out the river. I’ll wander down here again. There must be some reason I had the premonitions. This is where I’m supposed to be right now. My hotel is booked for ten days so I might as well stick around.

  Chapter Three

  Angel arrived outside his brother’s house. Situated in rural surroundings, and with a river running at the bottom of the extensive gardens, the house boasted six bedrooms and accompanying bathrooms. Angel and Rory inherited it from their parents. In fact, it was their family home, but Angel had left as soon as he could. Later, after their parents died in a car crash, Angel lived and worked there with Rory for a time, until Angel went in a different career direction. He hadn’t been back to the house for two years.

  He gazed across the leaf-strewn road. The ornamental gates were closed. Bunches of flowers and wreaths lay on the sidewalk. People had already begun to pay their respects and display their sadness. As Angel slumped in his car seat, reliving memories he’d hoped never to, a few people wandered along and left more flowers outside the gate. I had no idea Rory was so loved. He was such a grouch … well, to me, to Samantha…

  The late afternoon sky grew dark gray. The occasional splatter of rain, carried on the wind, hit the windscreen. Angel was about to exit his car and brave entering the house, when a man walked up to the gate carrying flowers. Tall and dressed in black jeans, boots, and an obviously expensive knee length black overcoat, he was both strikingly fashionable and suitably somber. He laid the flowers with the other tributes to Rory Starc.

  Angel flicked his gaze up and down the figure. From the well-cut thick dark hair to the tips of his toes, the man radiated elegance. He turned and even from across the street, Angel could see how handsome he was. Who is he? Intrigued, Angel watched the man walk away along to the end of the road where he turned the corner, and Angel lost sight of him with a sigh. It wasn’t every day that Angel saw a man he’d like to meet romantically, and it was a sad thing that it was on the day of his brother’s death.