The Dreaming Heart

By Patricia Bradley

Thank God, I am a risk-taker. My diary is evidence. I wanted adventure. Perhaps romance. I needed to prove that, at forty, I was not too old to find romance. My instinct told me that the time was right. I went to Turkey in mid-1993 and found both adventure and love. I also predicted that my diary of my year in Turkey would form the basis for a romantic novel. It has done so.

In this novel based on my diary, I am Kate, a forty-year-old teacher and loving, single mother of four sons. I have been with my Australian school for twenty years, and now I feel it is time for a break from my responsibilities as a parent. It’s time to welcome new adventures and, hopefully, romance. I jump at an offer to take a year’s leave from my school and teach in Istanbul.

My diary shows how I live life to the full. As I write this novel, I can read the sequence of events that led to perhaps the most romantic, challenging, exciting, scary times in my life. And I can be eternally grateful that I did jump in and face life. At the start of my year in Turkey, two handsome, well-educated men became potential romantic interests. And then, unexpectedly, a third man came into my life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992384524

Patricia Bradley

Patricia Bradley is the author of Counter Attack, as well as the Natchez Trace Park Rangers, Memphis Cold Case, and Logan Point series. Bradley is the winner of an Inspirational Reader's Choice Award, a Selah Award, and a Daphne du Maurier Award; she was a Carol Award finalist; and three of her books were included in anthologies that debuted on the USA Today bestseller list. Cofounder of Aiming for Healthy Families, Inc., Bradley is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and Sisters in Crime. She makes her home in Mississippi. Learn more at www.PTBradley.com.

Book preview

The Dreaming Heart

a novel

by

Patricia Bradley

The Dreaming Heart

Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Bradley

First Edition, published in the United States in 2013 by

Bradley PJB Books

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This Book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form (beyond copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the United States Copyright Law, and except limited excerpts by reviewer for the public press), without written permission from

Patricia Bradley.

Printed in the United States of America

Author services including cover, interior design and layout provided by Pedernales Publishing, LLC.

ISBN 978-0-9923845-0-0 Hardcover Edition

ISBN 978-0-9923845-1-7 Paperback Edition

ISBN 978-0-9923845-2-4 Digital Edition

Listen to your heart...

—Advice from Yalim’s aunt

Prologue 2013

Since I was a teenager, I have kept a yearly diary to record birthdays, appointments, various other bits of news, and sometimes my thoughts in code. Tonight I am recording a day that began with no special news to report. However, by mid-afternoon, my memories and emotions had been activated beyond my anticipation.

Facing the television and settled in my favourite leather armchair, I tuck a wool blanket around my knees. The light in the room comes from the flickering brightness of the screen. Indifferent to the monotonous flow of words from the presenter of the documentary, I glance at the screen and see Istanbul, Turkey, my home for a year. The man on the screen begins to speak, and the sight and sound of him jolt me to immediate attention. It cannot be Hakan! But it is. I recognise his tall, slim build and noble features. His deep voice resonates in my soul.

For a moment, the shock freezes my whole being, and then, little by little, the sight of Hakan’s much-loved profile releases cherished memories of my life-changing adventure in Turkey.

I close my eyes to recall the sequence of events leading up to our first meeting. I then remember that my colleagues presented me with a travel journal when they heard I was leaving to teach in Turkey. It has my notes on my year in Turkey. I am sure I still have it.

My fingers tremble as I fumble through the kitchen drawer, then grab a flashlight and head to the attic and my travel case, which is still full of souvenirs. The contents of the case look as fresh as the day I brought them home.

The Dreaming Heart

Wednesday, 6th June 2010. Reminders of love, laughs and tears in Istanbul.

My God—there it is. My diary. It’s wrapped in a silken scarf patterned with exotic birds and flowers. I pick it up, and as I remove the diary from its folds, the faint aroma of Hakan’s cologne hits my nostrils. He wore this scarf during the cold months and gave it to me when I admired the colours and patterns. I bunch it up in my hands and bury my face in it, breathing deeply. And here’s another diary, a brown, embossed, pocket-diary given to me by my students when I was leaving for my first, month-long journey to Turkey. I close the lid of the travel case and carefully take my treasures downstairs, where I sit on the carpet, my back against the armchair, and unfold the scarf. Then I open the diary from my colleagues. As I read pages at random, floods of memories make me forget the present. I’m suddenly back in Turkey.

I quickly scan the pages to find the date I decided to go back to Turkey after my brief visit and teach there. I look for clues as to when, why, and how I made such a momentous decision. Tucked away at the back of the diary, I find a business card from the school principal. I read his kind words wishing me a safe return to Australia but a speedy return to his school.

Finally, I locate the page where I recorded my first thoughts on living in Turkey for a year. Scanning the pages at the end of the diary, I realise I had forgotten that I continued to record my thoughts in this tiny book after I returned and faced the scary task of rearranging my life at home.

Saturday, 19th June 1993. I visit a few schools during my last week in Turkey to find a teaching position

I am loving my one-month holiday in Istanbul with my friend Liz. It’s a huge, exciting revelation for me to see, among other things, the fantastic range and excellent quality of the clothing in the modern shopping centres of this Islamic nation.

The principal of a private international school encourages me to apply to fill a recent vacancy. He explains that a teacher will be relocating to the Arab states to be with her husband and adds that the school has apartments for teachers near the apartment I’m sharing with Liz.

My decision? An immediate yes.

Wednesday, 23rd June 1993. Melbourne, Australia. I ask for a year’s leave of absence.

As the head of my school grants my wish, he also teases me about my future and predicts that I will meet someone and stay there.

My relocation to Istanbul is a direct result of meeting Liz, the daughter of a friend’s neighbour, while she was on holiday here in Australia. Liz has been teaching English in Turkey for several years, and her enthusiasm for that country fires my sense of adventure.

Our first meeting was at my friend’s party. Taller than me, Liz is slim and statuesque. Her skin is a light shade of café latte. That night, her long, glossy, black hair enfolded her shoulders, and a sprig of sweet-smelling jasmine was visible behind one ear. She told me that her ancestry was a mixture of Sri Lankan and Dutch. Though she was born in northern Europe, her parents brought her Australia when she was a baby. Fluent now in five languages, she travels all over the Far East on a regular basis.

Her life fascinates me. She suggests that I come to stay with her in Istanbul for a month during the mid-year school holidays in Turkey. Then she offers to look for teaching opportunities for me. Because she and I are about the same age, I know this will be an excellent opportunity. I’m sure I’ll regret a lost opportunity if I don’t take it.

When I tell Liz, she is thrilled to hear I will be coming back for a year.

At home, however, my family have mixed reactions. So do friends, colleagues, and students. First, they imagine me being forced to wear a veil. Then they worry that I’ll be kidnapped, held in white slavery, or suffer the horrors of some exotic disease.

My decision to go back to Istanbul reveals the depth of misconceptions about this lovely modern land. They keep referring to the film Midnight Express with its story about dangerous people involved in drug smuggling. Months later, when I tell Turkish friends and colleagues about the film, they agree that it damaged people’s perceptions of Turkey.

I have three weeks to finalise my responsibilities to my Australian school whilst organising passport, plane tickets, and lists of instructions for my four sons. My heart races whenever I see an article in a magazine or newspaper or television coverage of Turkey. My bubble of excitement is growing.

At the same time, preparing for my one-year absence from Australia is more emotional and challenging than I expect. My most painful experience is my father’s collapse, which happens just one week before I am due to leave.

Kate, he says to me, if you don’t go, don’t you know it’s the same as saying you’re waiting for me to die?

Although he is in considerable pain, his strong spirit is obvious. I go to see him on my way to Melbourne’s international airport, determined not to think of the possibility that this might be our last time together. His positive attitude enables me to start my Turkish adventure with a renewed sense of excitement.

After confirming my booking with a travel agent, I decided not to fly directly to Istanbul. I wanted to enjoy my year away as much as possible, so I took the travel agent’s offer of an overnight stay in Frankfurt, Germany, with a short flight to Istanbul the next day. The alternative was a gruelling twenty-three hour flight from Melbourne to Istanbul via Singapore.

I want to feel invigorated for the start of my new life in Turkey.

Saturday, 24th July 1993. Hussein drives me to Liz’s apartment.

Before I left Australia, Liz telephoned to say she may not be back from her trip to Egypt in time to meet me, so she’s sending a male friend to the airport. His name is Hussein. She says he will be holding a placard with my name on it. He will drive me to her apartment. She described him as about my height, clean-shaven, and with short, dark hair. She thinks he’s about thirty years old (maybe thirty-five) and that he is university educated and holds a responsible position with a well-known export firm. I asked her to tell him I will be wearing dark blue trousers and a bright yellow sweater. I admit I’m choosing these colours to be recognisable. Of course, they also compliment my fair skin.

The plane lands on time in Istanbul in balmy, summer weather. I immediately discover I need to become accustomed to the arrangement of the year north of the equator. At home, June, July and August are winter months, whereas here these months are summer months.

I am surprised to hear many of the passengers clapping as the plane stops at the terminal, but someone tells me that this is a traditional way of thanking the captain of the aircraft for a safe journey. Stepping down the steps and onto the tarmac, I feel none of the strangeness of my first visit. There is, in fact, a comforting sense of familiarity. Thanks to my earlier visit, I know the formalities and within minutes I am walking from the customs area towards a sea of excited faces. Many people are holding signs to signal they represent a travel agency or a hire-car firm. Others hold signs bearing the name of the passenger they are waiting for.

I soon catch sight of Hussein holding his sign with my name on it. Taller than me, he looks impressive. His square physique holds the promise of a strong body. He is dressed in a well-cut, dark blue suit. I am immediately attracted to the genuine warmth in his voice, his tanned smiling face, and his dark brown eyes. He strides towards me and, after a firm, warm handshake, reaches for my two pieces of luggage.

Welcome, Kate. Welcome. Come with me.

I am infatuated in an instant! He is charming and well educated, I say to myself as I walk beside him to his car. Is Hussein Liz’s friend? Is he her lover? Thank God he can’t read my mind!

He pays the porter, and soon we are seated in his car, my luggage in the boot. He drives along the road that runs parallel to the Bosporus, which is part of the straits near Istanbul that form the boundary between Europe and Asia. I am awestruck by the magical setting and gaze at ancient, beautiful mosques and their slender minarets. Before my first visit here, I read about this land and fell in love with it. Today there is no need to hurry, so we stop for coffee and sit outside in the welcome warmth of late summer.

Captivated by the view, I almost forget where I am until I finally register that Hussein is speaking to me. I turn away from the beautiful scenery and look straight into his dark, smiling eyes. I feel the instant attraction between us.

Do my eyes reflect my emotions? He is Liz’s friend. I don’t know anything about their romantic status.

I make an immediate decision to be no more than friends with him. My quick decision helps me to be more relaxed and open.

On our way to Liz’s apartment, he stops at a nearby shop and goes inside, leaving me in his car. He soon returns with his arms full of fresh, crusty bread and an assortment of food in a small cardboard box, plus a newspaper. He explains that he wants to make sure the apartment has fresh groceries and the Turkish daily newspaper, which he tells me with a grin, is written in English. There’s even a challenging crossword in English. He says he’s curious to find out if I can complete it.

Saturday evening, 24th July 1993. An auspicious start to my year in Istanbul.

After we arrive at Liz’s apartment building, which is an impressive, cream-coloured structure of four storeys, I take the box of groceries, Hussein picks up my luggage, and we take the tiny lift up to the third-floor apartment. Once in the apartment, he makes sure I am familiar with the facilities. He also explains that electricity and water are unreliable here. He instructs me to telephone him if I need help before Liz comes back. Thank God for Hussein’s thoughtfulness! Knowing that I am tired from my flight from Germany, he declines coffee. Before he leaves, he gives me his contact details and asks if he might steer me to some of his favourite places in Istanbul after Liz has finished guiding me around.

Weary but satisfied with the day’s events, I yawn and speak aloud to the apartment’s walls. This is an unexpected and exciting start to my year in Istanbul!

Too sleepy to wander around and get to know the layout, I walk into the closest room. It holds a single bed, a dressing table with several drawers, a small armchair, and a tiny, ornate, wooden wardrobe. This is obviously the guest bedroom. I find a note from Liz on the pillow welcoming me to Istanbul and telling me to make myself at home in her apartment. The note also explains how to work the television. She says I should help myself to food and drink in the refrigerator.

I make a short telephone call to my family in Australia to let them know I’ve arrived safely, and after I have recorded my thoughts about today in my diary, I snuggle under sweet, rose-scented sheets.

Sunday morning, 25th July 1993. When I wake up to my first full day in Turkey, the sun is streaming through the white lace curtains.

Hearing strange noises in the wall behind my bed, I finally realise that it’s the sound of water running through pipes. I sit up, look around the room, and see large, colourful posters from Liz’s travels throughout Europe and the Middle East. There are also several small, oval-shaped, silver ornaments called harem mirrors. On the pale pink marble floor are several small mats woven in rich reds and blues. They feel velvety under my bare feet when I get out of bed. On the dressing table, I find a pair of multi-coloured, hand-knitted, woollen slippers Liz left for me. Putting them on, I walk around the room, enjoying their warmth and comfort. What a fantastic present! Did Liz make them herself? I find it hard to imagine the sophisticated Liz knitting anything.

Unpacking my bags, I fill the drawers and the small wardrobe, then go out to the kitchen.

I’m curious to discover what Hussein bought. The first thing I find is a small block of Swiss chocolate, which I break open immediately. After enjoying a square of delicious, velvety heaven, I cut a few slices off the fresh, crusty loaf of bread. When I notice that the slices look like the outline of Australia, I smile. Then I spread soft, creamy cheese over the bread and make myself a cup of coffee.

My first day in Turkey has begun.

Making myself another cup of coffee, I wander over to the windows to familiarise myself with my surroundings. There are apartment blocks as far as I can see, but no trees or flowers. I later learn that unscrupulous people cleared vast, ancient forests to build these apartments.

Next, I turn on the television, but because I do not know the Turkish language, I understand nothing. Soon I begin to wonder if I will ever understand conversations interspersed with sounds like chock and chock-chock. Nevertheless, it’s fun trying to guess what the programs are about.

Monday morning, 26th July 1993. I finally feel it’s time to explore the town.

When Hussein telephoned last night, he asked if I had been out for a walk; I admitted that I had not. I promised to go outside the next day.

After writing long letters to family and friends and reading the teaching materials redirected to me from Australia, I go out for a walk. But I don’t go very far.

Wednesday morning, 28th July 1993. Liz arrives home.

Suddenly, it’s time to welcome Liz back from her journey to Egypt. She had already arranged for a taxi to bring her to the apartment, so I don’t have to venture into the airport. After she unpacks, we begin chatting and she explains that chock is actually the Turkish word very. This is my introduction to the Turkish language.

Then she and I begin to plan our tours to different parts of Turkey. After she insists that I take a break from my class preparation to walk around Istanbul, I soon learn to navigate the narrow cobblestone lanes and locate the shops around her apartment and close to the school.

Friday evening, 30th July 1993. Over the past few days, Liz has guided me to her favourite cafés.

We often end our long walks at a café, drinking Turkish coffee and eating delicious Turkish pastries as we gaze out upon the beautiful Bosporus. Because we walk everywhere, I hope the exercise will keep my weight under control. I am in awe of Liz chatting to shop owners in Turkish and wonder if I will be able to do that by the end of my year here.

Monday morning, 1st August 1993. Preparing to teach at my new school.

I settle down to organize my classes for the new school term. I will be teaching the history of Islam and geography to the fourteen- to fifteen-year-old students and essay writing and spelling (in English) to the junior school students. The principal organised the delivery of a selection of books on Islam, geography, and primary school English. They arrived last week. I admit my current knowledge of Islam is not great and look forward to the opportunity to learn more. The teachers will meet on Monday. The students start later in the week.

Monday, 10th August 1993. I know I am going to enjoy teaching at this school.

I’ve just met the other teachers and the staff. Everyone is friendly. Most of the teachers are from England and are excited to share their experiences and advice with me. We have a delicious lunch, which is provided each school day, and we eat with the students. The principal tells me he has employed Australian teachers before and liked their professional attitude.

Sue, one of the teachers from England, shows me around the whole school. Married to a Turkish man named Yalim, she loves the country and her job as a drama teacher.

Saturday evening, 27th November 1993. I’m getting used to my new life in Istanbul.

Autumn is always a