Dear Maude

By Denise Liebig

2017 Readers' Favorite Awards Bronze Medal Winner, Fiction-Tall Tale Category

"Beautifully written, this story brings time travel to life!"

Upstate New York, 2012. Emily Stanton, a sociology major, graduates from college and is obligated to work for the mysterious company that funded her education. But a job with Evergreen Research Corporation is not what she expected. From fancy balls and operas to corsets and kid gloves, Emily learns to be a specialist in 1910 society. In the process, she finds herself fully immersed in the lives of wealthy aristocrats and industry leaders, whose thirst for power leads them to manipulate everything, including time. Thrust into this strange and dangerous world, Emily becomes their most important asset.

Unable to trust her coworkers or her surroundings, Emily finds herself alone—with her very survival in the hands of a handsome stranger, Wendell Beringer. Unfortunately, Emily soon discovers that he has a few secrets of his own. Can she trust this man or the feelings she develops for him? Only time will tell.

Follow Emily’s unexpected journey, where journal entries to her deceased aunt and the powerful secrets they contain, become her only link to the life she once knew and the future she must choose to follow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Liebig
• Release date: Oct 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310965562

Denise Liebig

A fan of everything vintage, Denise Liebig’s desire to be a fly-on-the-wall during the early 1900s was what first inspired her to write DEAR MAUDE, and later, FOR THE LOVE OF MAUDE, and FOREVER MAUDE, the books of The Dear Maude Trilogy. Her travels, family stories/ experiences, and her love of a good silent movie also lent a hand. When she’s not imagining stories about the past and writing them down, Denise lives in the present with her husband and three kids.Book Awards: Dear Maude -- 2017 Readers' Favorite Awards Bronze Medal Winner, Fiction-Tall Tale Category

Book preview

Prologue

TODAY’S THE DAY I bury my journal—not because it’s dead, but because it needs to live. This is the only way.

I was so naïve when I first started writing in it. What it became—what I became—hardly can be described in words, but they are all I have. So it is with words that I begin.

My name is Emily Stanton. I was born in Portland, Oregon, to a free-spirited liberal arts major who chose to give me life over completing her part-time college career. It seemed to be a hereditary decision, handed down from her mother. Her parents, Papa Bob and Nana Rosie, were self-proclaimed Children of the Universe, a title they used to describe their often misunderstood lifestyle, which included a year-long adventure from their studies, starting in the summer of 1966. That all ended on a rainy day in March 1967, when the weight Nana Rosie had put on in the winter produced a seven-pound, four-ounce baby girl—my mother. Nana always said the clouds parted when they heard my mom cry, so they named her Sunny. After that, Papa Bob went on to medical school, and Nana Rosie, a former sociology student, stayed home to raise Sunny, the most important human-interest project of her life. Fascinated with her every movement, change, and mood, Nana recorded Sunny’s life in journals—volumes of them.

That is where I inherited my love of journal writing. It is both a blessing and a curse, as all love is.

Chapter One

I REMEMBER IT vividly—Saturday, April 7, 2012. Although I didn’t know it at the time, that date would mark the end of my world.

The morning began shrouded by an overcast sky that hung heavily over the campus of Carlston University in Upstate New York. The desolate, dew-covered lawns and pathways, winding endlessly around the school, were devoid of footprints that might have indicated any sign of life. That wasn’t unusual, though, especially on a morning after several Easter-themed frat parties. In fact, most sensible people were sleeping soundly in their dorms, with the unfortunate exception of my roommate, Sophia, whom no one would ever accuse of being sensible. Instead, she was intent upon consuming our dorm room—its floor space and air space—as if it existed only for her. I suppose, in her mind, that was exactly why it was created.

Her high-pitched voice could cut through any material with razor-like precision. It was deadly, and she was well versed (literally) in its use and effectiveness. No manner of pillow or blanket could escape its wrath; even mattresses were no match for her glass-breaking, shrill tone.

I thought—or at least hoped—I was dreaming.

Em…

The sound whispered, then drifted in the air, as if floating on the breeze.

Emi…

It grew stronger.

Emily?

The almost metallic noise belched its hot breath unmistakably in my ear.

Emily Stanton!

What? I barked toward the offending sound, my face fixed in a morning grimace.

Look, I’m sorry to wake you, but…

I opened my eyes to see Sophia squatting only inches from my dorm room bed.

I have been up all morning working on my lit paper, and I’m completely freaked out!

Great. Here we go! I fluffed my pillow and sat up against it in preparation for another one of Sophia’s rants.

I have a sociology paper due Tuesday, a chemistry exam and a math quiz on Monday, and my lit teacher thought it would be ‘fun’ to write ‘a few’ pages about a haunted house! It’s April! The words spewed from Sophia’s mouth like steam from a boiling tea kettle.

Still half-asleep, I stared blankly at my overwrought, finger-quote-wielding roommate. Her voice rose with every word as she paced the floor of our dorm room, alternately gesturing at the door and the window with every turn. The movement suddenly made me feel nauseous. I quickly swung my legs out of bed and placed my sock-covered feet on the carpet, then slowly drew my head between my knees. I think I’m going to be sick, I moaned.

Sophia, oblivious to my comment, continued her descent into the absurd.

I closed my eyes in an attempt to block out Sophia’s pacing, but the room began to spin. My ears rang like a church bell on Sunday morning, forcing me to my feet. I reached the door in two steps, flung it open, and narrowly missed Sophia in the process. I rushed into the hall, fighting to balance myself as I made my way to the restroom, where my stomach contents quickly reminded me of my overindulgence at the frat party the night before.

Several flushes and twenty minutes later, I left the cold comfort of the tile floor and sought the closest sink to rinse my mouth and splash water on my face.

When I was finished, I looked up at the mirror, pushed the wet hair from my face, and let it fall back in blonde strings that rested limply along my shoulders and back.

Apparently waterproof doesn’t mean hangover-proof, I mumbled to the mascara-covered face staring back at me. I’m even patriotic. I strained closer to examine my normally clear, blue eyes that now were bloodshot and swollen.

After several failed attempts to remove the mascara with a wet paper towel, I weakly shuffled back to my room.

Wow! You look like hell, Sophia said, then quickly resumed her tirade. So I got up super early to try to get it all done, but I can’t stand anything I’ve written so far. She plopped down dramatically on her bed.

I was still in the doorway, squinting at the alarm clock to see the time. Six o’clock? I screamed into the room, closing the door behind me. Are you crazy? It’s Saturday! I directed my attention toward the dorm room sink and my toothbrush.

Two brushings and a thorough face washing drowned out the accelerating complaints of Sophia. Once I was done, I shuffled to my bed, unfluffed my pillow, and resumed my previous sleeping position with my back to her.

Well? Sophia asked in disgust.

What now? I mumbled into my pillow.

Can you help me?

With what?

With what? What do you mean, with what? With my lit paper! she screamed at the back of my head. Weren’t you listening?

I had hoped the question was rhetorical, but in an effort to get myself closer to my goal of getting Sophia to stop talking, I took a deep breath into my pillow and offered her the only reasonable response I could muster: Maybe you haven’t noticed here, Soph, but I’m a little hungover. Thanks for disturbing me. If you had really wanted my help, you would have let me sleep. Now, I’m useless.

Sophia ignored my comment. Oh, come on Em. You’re so much better at writing than I am.

I could hear the syrup in her voice and turned my head slightly to catch her flashing her world-famous dental work in my direction.

Whatever, Soph, it’s not working, I muttered, turning back to the wall.

After a long pause and an even longer moan-like sigh, Sophia finally blurted, Okay, what do you want?

Want? I was attempting to fall asleep until her words caught my attention. Huh?

You know what I mean. What do you want? Unable to hide her frustration behind her teeth or her money as she was so accustomed, the real Sophia reared her ugly head with condescension and impatience.

The cobwebs continued to clear in my head as I once again fluffed my pillow, propped myself up against it, and slowly processed the potential of the opportunity unfolding before me. How much do you need to write? I asked.

Just a page.

"If it’s that short, why can’t you write it?"

I thought that Sophia’s money wrote all her papers. Then, I remembered her sometimes boyfriend and paper-writing partner in crime. Or what about Nathan? Don’t tell me you broke up with him again.

Whatever, Emily, Sophia snapped.

Fine. I slid down my pillow while pulling my blankets up to my chin.

Yes, okay? There. I said it. Yes, she sputtered, then folded her hands in a praying gesture. Come on, Emily! Daddy’s coming to town tonight for Easter, and he’s taking me shopping tomorrow. I’ll never get all of this done by then.

Daddy. Sophia both feared and worshiped her father and would do anything to please him. I stared at her for a few seconds, trying to search my hungover brain for something I could use against her. Unfortunately, my head felt as if it had been flushed down the toilet minutes before; I had nothing.

Really, Emily, are you going to help me or not?

Just show me the assignment and whatever you’ve written already. I groaned, fighting another wave of nausea on the heels of my missed opportunity to play the Daddy card.

Sophia walked to her desk, shuffled through some papers, and handed me two.

I skimmed the scribbled pages. What a train wreck! I think I wrote better than this in kindergarten, I said to the papers, before I learned to read.

Sophia was humorless by nature and acknowledged my attempt at a joke with a loud, Humph! as she continued to pace the floor.

I laughed and tried to turn my attention back to the nightmare assignment in front of me, but the constant movement of my roommate proved too much for my stomach. I felt as if I were having an out-of-body experience as I suddenly and instinctively flung my blankets back, dropped the papers onto the bed, and attempted to exit the room. Instead, the sound of muffled voices in the hallway caused me to seek the comfort of my dorm room sink as a convenient alternative to a run of shame to the restroom.

Sophia gagged at the sink-side scene while she stuffed her other homework into her backpack. I’ll be in the library all day. Just give me something I can turn in, she said from behind the hand she had firmly cupped around her nose and mouth.

I ignored her as I gripped the sides of the sink for support.

Not waiting for a reply, she slammed the door behind her.

After cleaning the sink several times, I shuffled across the floor to open the window and air out the stuffy, stench-filled room. I took several deep breaths, then returned to my bed and bent down to swat Sophia’s writing assignment onto the floor before climbing in.

Fortunately for me, most of our other neighbors had been out late as well, so the dorm remained quiet for most of the morning. After several hours of uninterrupted sleep, I awakened in a better frame of mind and body. Two large bottles of water and a long, hot shower later, I was ready to start on my homework.

My conversation with Sophia seemed in the distant past, and I chose to address her writing assignment by walking around the papers that had been deposited on the floor earlier. It quickly became a habit to step around and ignore the sheets. By the afternoon, I was finished with my own homework and was leaving the room when I accidently stepped on one of the pages.

Oh, you again, I said from above.

I stared at the papers for several seconds before bending down to pick them up. If only I had known what would transpire as the result of such a simple act, I would have left them in their place. Unfortunately, I didn’t know.

Instead, I turned the assignment over in my hands several times, growing angrier with each flip of the page. She thinks she can buy her way through school! I worked too hard to get here—and I just can’t stand cheaters!

I fought the urge to crumple the sheets in my hands, but curiosity overcame me. As I started to read, I glanced at the bottom of the assignment page and noticed a sentence that brought a smile to my face. Ha!

I sat on the floor and reread the sentence aloud: This assignment is for extra credit only. I giggled and skimmed the page again. I love it! She deserves this.

Sophia and I had been roommates since our freshman year in college. One of the conditions of my scholarship was to live on campus all four years. It seemed reasonable until my junior year, when all of my friends escaped the dorm life and rented apartments in town. Another condition of my scholarship was that I could not have a vehicle on campus. Soon, my friends moved on without me, and I was stuck with the only other senior who was not allowed to live off campus—Sophia. Her father thought it was safer for her to live in the dorms. Ironically, she usually lived with her boyfriends and seldom spent any time in our room, except when she was between relationships.

She needs a new boyfriend! I exhaled loudly into Sophia’s assignment. And I need to make sure she never asks me to help her again.

After spending several minutes on the floor contemplating the many ways in which my life would improve without Sophia in it, I heard my appetite finally return with a grumble. I stood and stretched, then locked the writing assignment safely in my desk before leaving the dorm in search of a late lunch. Deep in thought about Sophia’s assignment, I did not realize she was screaming my name until I had almost reached the student union.

Stanton? She was standing near the entrance with her hands on her hips, surrounded by an entourage of her equally annoying friends.

I jumped back at the sound of my name in that unmistakably irritating screech that only Sophia could deliver and nearly stumbled into a bench in front of the building.

Sophia’s friends laughed as she asked, What are you doing here?

Why? I quickly recovered and edged closer to the door.

She ran toward me. Hello? My paper!

If it were possible to hear the last thread of my patience snap, it would have made a resounding twang that echoed loudly in all directions. I was finished. I was hungry, tired, and annoyed by the needs of that over-indulged, under-educated brat. I really didn’t care for Sophia’s friends or what they thought of me, and I was beyond tired of the way she treated me in public. I had nothing to lose.

I stepped defiantly toward Sophia, making her stop several feet from me. Aren’t you supposed to be in the library? I didn’t wait for an answer. Maybe if you made a habit of spending a little more time there and less time being social, you might have already finished it yourself!

Is it done? she asked, ignoring my response.

I pretended to look around nervously. What is wrong with you? I whispered. Do you want to get caught? I reached for the door to the student union. We’ll talk about this in the room.

She stepped closer, until her nose was almost touching mine. "We’ll talk about it now!"

No, we won’t. I’m hungry, and I need to eat! I pushed past her and entered the building.

Meet me in an hour! she called after me, her fists clenched at her sides.

I guess you don’t own her after all, her friend Katie said, giggling sarcastically.

Sophia scowled in reply as she walked back to the group.

Chapter Two

AN HOUR LATER, I was still in the student union, staring at the clock on the wall. It’s only been an hour. I’ll wait another twenty minutes, then think about going back to the room.

Forty-five minutes later, as I was scouring the bottom of my purse for change to buy a brownie, I came across my dead cell phone. Oops! I said with a smile. I envisioned Sophia pacing our room, leaving me new voice mails and texts with every turn.

I made slow progress back to the dorm, relishing every bite of my brownie and making plans for that evening with several passersby. I took the last bite as I approached my building. That was good. I stared at the empty wrapper as I entered the front doors. I want another one. Then I remembered the two lint-covered pennies and sticky dime I found earlier in the bottom of my purse. Sophia’s lucky I don’t have more change and that I promised my family I would avoid using my plastic whenever possible. Otherwise, I’d be following my craving back to the student union.

As I entered the dorm, I intentionally passed the elevator and headed for the stairwell. Taking some of the stairs one at a time and others up one and down two, I finally reached my fifth-floor dorm room, just in time to see Sophia stomping in the opposite direction, heading down the hall to the restroom.

Am I late? I mumbled to myself sarcastically. I opened the door and walked to my desk to retrieve the writing assignment locked inside.

Two and a half hours? Sophia screamed only moments later from the open doorway. Her hands were on her hips as she stormed into the room. My father will be here any minute to pick me up! Do you have any idea how much he despises waiting?

I didn’t care, and might not have voiced it, but the sugar from my brownie was kicking in. That, coupled with the screaming-roommate routine, caused an adrenaline rush that seemed to be settling in my mouth. Well, I—

"Is this it? she asked, staring at the papers in my hand. Without waiting for a reply, she lunged forward.

I whipped the sheets behind me and quickly stuffed them underneath me and sat on my desk.

Sophia’s arms flailed around me like an octopus, trying to rip the papers free.

Listen! I screamed.

What? she barked back, only inches from my face.

We-have-not-a-greed-up-on-the-terms. I enunciated through gritted teeth, just staring at her nearly purple, enraged face in front of me. Go-close-the-door.

Sophia obeyed, then stood against it, glaring at me while gripping the knob behind her in an obvious attempt to regain her composure. What do you want?

I hadn’t actually bothered to revisit that question before that moment, but Sophia’s behavior seemed to spark nasty thoughts deep within the bowels of my imagination. Thinking on my feet, I gave her the only answer that came to mind at the time: You asked if I have any idea how your dad despises waiting. I was going to say that I don’t know. In fact, I know nothing about your father. The terms, therefore, are that I want to meet him.

What!? Sophia lost her grip on the doorknob.

I said—

"Of course I heard you, you idiot! Why do you want to meet my father?"

Because I do. Decide now, or I’ll destroy the assignment. I maintained eye contact while I reached down to turn on the paper shredder.

Fine, Sophia said. Now, give it to me.

I handed her the papers.

Her face reddened again as she stared down at them. What is this?

The stuff you gave me earlier. I’ll give you the assignment after I’ve met your father. Then, another thought popped into my head. In fact, I really didn’t get enough to eat today. I think you need to invite me to dinner too.

Sophia’s face grew even more inflamed as she looked from the papers to me. I hate you! How do I even know you wrote it?

You don’t, I said, trying not to grin. However, I’m your only hope.

Sophia threw the papers on the floor and rushed toward her cell phone. She snapped it up and began to scroll violently until she finally pressed a button on the phone face and put it up to her ear. Hi, Daddy. It’s me. She spoke in the best Daddy-can-I-borrow-the-keys-to-the-car voice I’d ever heard. Well, I was wondering if my roommate could come with us tonight.

I smiled and rolled my eyes.

Oh please, Daddy! Please?

Several seconds of anticipation later, my ears were rewarded with, Daddy, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! followed by, I love you. We’ll see you in half an hour. She ended the call and just stared at the phone in her hand.

What a performance! I screamed with laughter. You’re good.

Well, your paper had better be worth it.

I nodded in satisfaction. Oh, it will be.

Sophia stood with her gaze fixed on me for several seconds before running to the outlet near the sink to plug in her curling iron. She mumbled under her breath as she opened her closet door and began to shuffle her hangers along the rod, pausing every few seconds to look in my direction before resuming her work in the closet. Do you own nylons? she finally asked.

I thought briefly. No, why?

Good God, Emily. Are you clueless? Her eyebrows were tense above two glaring blue eyes, and her hands were firmly planted on her hips. My dad is coming in less than half an hour, and I need to make you presentable. Sophia turned back to her closet, produced a new package of nylons from one of her drawers, and tossed it to me. Put these on.

Although she wasn’t the most academic student I knew, Sophia was the best dressed, so, trusting her judgment in the fashion arena, I caught the nylons and began to put them on.

Eew! She shivered while glaring sideways at me. My God, you could French braid your shins!

I surveyed my legs and looked up just in time to catch the two disposable razors she tossed at me.

You’ll probably need them both…maybe even a lawnmower, she added. She scowled at my legs again, then let her gaze travel toward my shoulders. By the way, you’re going sleeveless, so be sure to take care of ev-ery-thing.

I lifted my arms to look at my pits, but Sophia’s attention was already drawn back to her open closet.

You have five minutes, Em, she said with her back to me.  Hurry…but don’t cut yourself.

Dictator! I collected my robe, undies, shower gear, and razors, and went in search of a free shower stall. In less than five minutes, I returned, showered and smooth. I stopped short of fully entering the room to stare, unenthused, at the simple black dress lying limply on my bed.

Noticing my disappointment, Sophia offered, in an exaggerated British accent, Sorry, luv. No time to dilly-dally. We’ll just accessorize. Wasting no time, she placed both hands firmly on my shoulders, pulled me into the room, and ordered me to put the dress on, while simultaneously slamming the door closed with her foot.

Although we had been roommates for almost four years, we never dressed in front of each other. Sophia was usually at her boyfriend’s and only used the dorm room as a glorified storage spot for last season’s wardrobe. So, when I removed my robe, she gasped in surprise.

Wow, Emily! You look great!

Well, I do enjoy my lingerie. I was not interested in fashion, but I did appreciate fine undergarments and bought most of my things online, including the black lace bra and matching panties I was wearing.

Yeah, that’s nice, but I meant your body. Sophia turned me toward the full-length mirror on the inside panel of her closet door. Why don’t you show it off more? She stared at my reflection. I figured you dress like a frump because you have something to hide. I never would have guessed it was a model’s body.

Sophia’s compliment was a new experience for me, one I didn’t like. While I was growing up, looks weren’t exactly stressed in my family—or even discussed, for that matter. Although my relatives were all fairly attractive, it was often difficult to tell behind the beards or long hair, and miles of crazy fabrics that seemed to cover them all. Looks were a non-issue and having attention drawn to me made me uncomfortable, eventually becoming my Achilles’ heel. Worse, if an attractive guy happened to be added to the mix, I would turn all shades of red at once and melt slowly into a puddle of my own mortification. It was my personal hell.

Therefore, as I stood before the mirror, I felt a bit foolish, fighting the rising blush that would soon transform my face into a beet-like banner of humiliation. What is she talking about? Look at me? No, look at her! I couldn’t help but admire Sophia’s straight black hair and pale skin that surrounded a pair of almost violet-blue eyes. She looks like a celebrity.

As I again looked at my own reflection, I studied my wet hair, an enviable natural shade of blonde that was neither straight nor curly. In fact, to get it to take either shape required more time and effort than I was willing to give, so I frequently wore it in a ponytail. Then, I surveyed my thin build with its proportionate curves—or a lack thereof as I now began to scrutinize my figure. Compliments not only made me nervous, but they caused me to question the motives of the person who offered them.

I turned to examine my profile in the mirror. Sophia hates me, so why is she being so nice? Engrossed in my internal dialogue, I absently put on the dress Sophia handed me, then rolled the nylons over my legs before sitting in a chair near the sink. Standing behind me, she blow-dried and curled my hair like a professional, giving it a long, oxygen-replacing shot of hairspray upon completion. I fanned the air and coughed several times as she pulled another chair in front of me and sat down to apply makeup to my virgin face, which had never ventured beyond mascara and lipstick.

I have skin allergies, I said.

Not tonight, you don’t. After a few more minutes, Sophia exclaimed, Perfect! before checking her watch. Ten minutes. She ran to her closet and squatted before it to rummage through the boxes at the bottom. Her hunt soon produced a pair of black stilettos, which she handed to me and said, Practice.

Meanwhile, Sophia donned a form-fitting electric blue cocktail dress that resembled something that belonged on a Milan runway. She quickly freshened up her makeup and slipped on a pair of matching shoes taken from a box on a shelf in her closet. While standing in front of the open doors, she rummaged through her jewelry box and found a white gold and diamond necklace and matching earrings for me, as well as a platinum necklace, earrings, and bracelet set, which dripped crystals like a chandelier, for herself.

Impressive. I was amazed by the tornado-like transformation Sophia just pulled off and stopped to admire the results prior to searching for my bottle of perfume.

No, what’s impressive is that you can even walk in those shoes, Sophia said, staring in disbelief.

Well, I guess all those years of ballet finally paid off. God knows that’s all I gained from it.

Sophia nodded and handed me a black sequined handbag. Here. Put your stuff in here. We need to go.

I deposited my ID, money, and cell phone into the small bag, then added the lipstick and compact Sophia gave me.

One more trip to her closet produced a black silk scarf, fringed with rows of black glass beads for me and a shimmery, electric blue silk one for herself. I had always been inept when it came to fashion, so I watched and copied Sophia as she draped her scarf along her back, adjusting it evenly from side to side before letting it drop gently onto her forearms.

We admired ourselves a final time in front of the mirror before she gently pushed me toward, then out the door, into the now busy dorm. The noisy hallway grew silent as we walked confidently past our neighbors who stood in speechless amazement. Several wondered who the mystery girl with Sophia was, while most others just stared.

Wow, I said from the safety of the elevator. They were looking at me as if they’d never seen me before.

Quite frankly, Emily, I doubt most of them have. She paused to eye me up and down. Definitely not this way.

In the lobby, I smiled at my admirers, mostly male, as Sophia and I floated past them toward the limousine that was parked outside the front doors.

I could get used to this VIP treatment! I enjoyed the thought as I walked into the night and entered the empty limo through the door the driver was holding open for us.

I guess Daddy will meet us there. Sophia’s voice sounded flat as she slid into the seat beside me.

That’s okay, I said. "I was hoping to relax a bit before meeting