A Tear For Eternity.com

By Virginia Alison

A timeless energy encircles the world, drawing humanity into its grasp, eternally swirling, pulling souls together, tearing them apart in the eternal struggle of love, life and loss and amidst this cacophony there are thousands, who every day opt to open their computers hoping and believing that there is someone out there for them.

One of them is Mia, a fifty something author and self-confessed hermit whose garden is the bane of Mr Jenkins life. Juggling reality with fantasy and a lot of wine, there is no happy medium and after corrupting Mr Jenkins grandson, her reputation is a bit ragged around the edges, much like the leaves strewn across the only unkempt yard in the street, namely hers.
Calamitous, outrageous and with a flagrant disregard for the rules her one passion in life is Kip and for six years they have been involved...Over the internet.
More than aware of the pitfalls of online dating, Mia’s rather wry and cynical view of relationships from the safety of a computer screen should be enough to deter anyone, anyone except this stubborn, passionate woman who has had him in her life for so long, she yearns to know where the dream ends and the fairytale begins.
It has long been their desire to meet, yet they are both reticent to see it to fruition as too many ifs and maybes shape their path, that is until the opportunity arises.
What does destiny hold in store for two people, bound by a golden thread across the sands of time?
Will it be exquisite passion or agonising sorrow that fuels the tears for eternity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Virginia Alison
• Release date: Jul 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370011568

Virginia Alison

Born in Bournemouth, England, Virginia’s gypsy heritage led her to a rather unusual childhood. Her father worked within the oil industry and she spent much of her younger years travelling, finishing in Canada, where she attended, and graduated from St John High school in New Brunswick. Her love of the English language was due partly to the inspiration of her English Tutor. An Oxford Don, he despaired of the American/English idioms, and as she was the only English student in the school, found her a delight to teach.Spending another year in working in Canada, life then returned her to England and on to the remote Shetland Isles for three years. Following her return to the UK, she threw herself into Floristry for fifteen years, and her artistic talents took another turn when she picked up a pen for the first time to write her first dragon fantasy novel. It took another ten years and the passing of her artistic father, to discover her talent for painting. Setting out on a new path, she now paints celebrity portraits to raise money for charities. Through Face book in 2010 she met a friend who encouraged her to take up writing again, shortly after this inspiration which rekindled her spiritual beliefs, she met her (writing collaborator and co-conspirator) Keith David. They now combine their sensual words drawn from the depths of their souls, to captivate the imagination, and entice the reader to discover their innermost desires.Virginia, now residing on Madeira Island, Portugal, soon intends a final move to a small town in Texas where inspiration for the Heaven Scent trilogy originated.

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A Tear for Eternity.com

Virginia Alison

Smashwords Edition

A Tear for Eternity.com

A Tear for Eternity.com©2017 by Virginia Alison

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or author. Requests for permission to copy part of this work for use in an educational environment may be directed to the author.

This book is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons or locales, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Front cover image courtesy of © Can Stock Photo / Dole

Front cover image courtesy of © Can Stock Photo / konradbak

Website

www.heavenscentxperience.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

A TIME TO LIVE

EPILOGUE

A TIME TO DIE

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To the many friends who have crossed my path, thus providing me with the wonderful memories that have enabled the inspiration for this book.

I could not have done this without the support and love from each and everyone and

I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

This is for you.

PROLOGUE

A timeless energy encircles the world, drawing humanity into its grasp, eternally swirling, pulling souls together, tearing them apart in the eternal struggle of love, life and loss and amidst this cacophony there are thousands, who every day opt to open their computers hoping and believing that there is someone out there for them.

Simple and easy, the internet is here to stay. At the click of a button, you can waste time from talking, flirting, playing games and gambling to researching, reading, listening to music and watching movies; it has made the world a much smaller place.

One of these pastimes is online dating. Similar in many ways to long distance relationships, it has both benefits and drawbacks, but it has become a household word in the past years and whether you actually date or merely enjoy the thrill of the chase anonymously from behind a computer screen, it does have its appeal.

Dating aside, I do enjoy time online, talking to friends, filling my time with a few mindless games and generally surfing the net between the chapters of my latest novel.

Spending much of my life, hoping that somewhere out in the universe, there is someone whose square peg will fit into my round hole, who will embrace my insanities, which seem to drive themselves round the bend if truth be told, I am a wild gypsy spirit, a child of the earth who is just winging it through life.

The quote ‘Be careful what you wish for’ comes to mind when six years ago, through an online game, I met Kip. Now here is a man who gives my insanities a run for their money but I trust what I know of him and that which I do not know, is better left that way.

His consistent inconsistencies have a life of their own, however; through this, he is the oxygen that inflames the lust in my soul. He has an innate ability to fire my imagination, amongst other things, with a few words and although we have never met, if simply through talking we are good at this sexless foreplay, imagine if you will, what ecstasy waits in our first kiss.

Alternatively, I have considered that maybe he is just a liquid dream. Seeping into my soul in the dead of night when everything sleeps apart from my memories from another life, another electric, terrifying, lasciviously greedy time, when his lips touch my body while mapping the skincape unfolding beneath hot breath leaving a ripple of mesmerizing carnal pleasures, lingering in my veins.

Whichever it is, I have had him in my life for so long, I want to know when the dream ends and the fairytale begins.

CHAPTER 1

Petunias

Sitting with a glass of wine in one hand and a threadbare old baby rug clasped tightly around my neck, which I refuse to dispose of due to the memories it holds, I gaze at the black clouds rolling above what promises to be a bleak October evening.

The leaves rapidly donned their autumnal coats this year. Too quickly, the hot summer days turned into iffy, unpredictable dull daylight hours and with winter just a breath away, I want no more than to curl up and hibernate until warmth gives rise to the snowdrops heralding a new spring.

This was going to be a long winter, I can feel it in my bones and that is quite apart from those, which ache occasionally with the damp and cold.

Where am I going? What am I doing? Over the years, I repeatedly asked myself the same thing, and now, I am standing at a crossroads in my life, which due to varying unfortunate circumstances has me perched at the top of a mountain gazing at several paths, knowing one wrong move will take me tumbling down to certain demise.

Other than a few expectations imposed upon me from varying sources, one being a house for sale without a prospective buyer in sight, I have nothing major to do apart from writing the odd book and at this rate, I could manage two before the New Year; yes, it was going to be a long winter.

The chilly breeze picks up and what few leaves cling perilously to life, on the otherwise bare branches, fall and do a little dance before settling on their final resting place. I am well beyond raking any more of the rotting vegetation into piles, only to hear the wind taunting me with the words Let the dead rest where they fall, and then scatter them across the thriving grass, greener now from the autumn downpours.

Therefore, now I do just that although Mr. Jenkins from across the road might just make me feel guilty enough to tackle the gathering fall colored carpet at the weekend. The guilt trip seems to be his ongoing mission in life and year in, year out; he keeps a strict watch on my garden, ensuring that it conforms to certain standards. Not being much of a gardener with my scant knowledge of plants and even less enthusiasm, I certainly keep him on his toes.

Our Mr. Jenkins is a kind old soul and I use the word ‘old' reservedly. At the ripe age of ninety-four, he has more energy and enthusiasm than most in the area, including me, and puts this to good use by heading up the Neighborhood Watch for his patch of Homestead. His hearing has obviously not suffered with age and seems tuned to my door latch. This makes stealth runs difficult. I have even tried the back door, but without fail, he sits waiting for me when I emerge from the side gate. The alternative is to climb over the fence, down the steep incline to the river and follow along until it intersects with the main road. But that is hazardous even in the summer, so I steel myself daily to face the eyes of a hawk that peer from behind a pair of large, black rimmed, bottle bottom glasses. Perched on the end of his nose most of the time, he slowly and deliberately pushes them up until they rest on the bridge and then stares unflinchingly at his prey, which would be me. Swearing blind that it is due to his ever constant vigilance that there has been no skulduggery on his patch, we, the nearest to his ever watchful eye, placate him by keeping our lawns neat and flower beds tidy. Well, apart from me, I seem to be a bit of a fly in the ointment. This probably accounts for his constant tutting at my every move.

Earlier in the year, I found some trays of brightly colored Petunia's at the local supermarket and my first thought was that it would please Mr. Jenkins to look out upon something other than dull grass and struggling plant life due to lack of water. No, I do not often use the hose either. My ideal garden is a yard laid out with stones, paths, and lots of cactus with no upkeep involved. I made the mistake of mentioning this shortly after I moved in and Mr. Jenkins immediately impressed upon me that this was not the dessert, but a suburb with beautiful tree lined avenues and well-kept gardens. That quashed my idea of never having to look at a lawnmower again. So back to the dull grass and struggling plant life and there I was on a sunny Saturday afternoon on my hands and knees digging holes in the damp earth. Damp only thanks to the downpour the previous day, which I had to admit made the job easier. Mr. Jenkins was, of course, out watching, and looking up, I waved cheerily.

Good morning Mr. Jenkins.

Good morning dear. You are not putting those there... Are you? He asks pointedly.

Looking down at the flower bed, now riddled with holes and some drooping Petunias, I wondered what I had done this time.

Er...Yes...Something wrong?

No, no. He shook his head and tutted.

Damn the man, I muttered under my breath.

Surveying the area, I thought maybe I should put them elsewhere, hence saving me constant disapproving glances for the rest of the summer. Crawling a few feet further on, I dug another hole and looked up to see him still shaking his head. The only place remaining was the rock hard borders that lined the path. I swear that ground was impervious to water, which was obvious as even the straggly weeds refused to grow there.

I looked up again to see him staring at me. Crawling from the flower bed with its soft, malleable soil to the path with its borders filled with what might as well have been volcanic rock, I jabbed my trowel at the impenetrable sod. Tentatively looking up in the vain hope he would still be shaking his head, I was not entirely surprised when I saw him smile, nod in assent and return indoors.

A selection of choice, unladylike words gushed beneath my breath, however, for the sake of peace, I spent the rest of the afternoon digging into the arid, desert soil, only fit for cactus of course and moving said Petunias, which were already giving up the ghost.

As the last of the sun’s rays emitted an orange hue across the sky, I stood back, filthy, perspiring and with an aching back, to survey my work. The path at least had some color along either side; however, this was fading fast. No matter how much water I poured onto the resistant soil, it refused to soak in and merely ran away.

Mr. Jenkins was sitting on his porch, nodding his head approvingly. It did not take long to discover his cunning plan. Apparently, he disliked Petunias and sure enough, within a few days, the brightly colored plants joined the straggling weeds in their dry and dusty graves. So ended my enthusiasm for gardening and now, I have a virtually flowerless garden, other than a few hardy blooms, in which weeds rule, ok.

***

The sun has given way to the night by the time I gather my thoughts and retire indoors to forage for supper. The fridge holds very little inspiration and after closer inspection, the freezer is not very forthcoming with its ideas either. Looking at the bottle of wine and back at my glass the thought is tempting, but knowing I still have two chapters to finish before the night ends, I wisely decide to exchange the glass for a mug of tea and some chocolate biscuits then worry about sustenance later.

***

A word about tea here. Having spent time in Britain over the years, I developed a liking for tea. Not the wishy-washy European tea that looks like tinted water and tastes like gnats pee, but the kind of builders brew that forged an empire.

In polite society, tea has its own set of rules. One may drink it before or with breakfast. It is also acceptable to have a cup mid-morning with cookies but in many circles is unacceptable at lunchtime. The next tea break is around four o'clock in the afternoon and referred to, by the higher echelon, as ‘high tea'. The rich and famous usually serve black tea or earl gray, in porcelain cups with cucumber sandwiches and petit fours, while the peasants enjoy drinking from mugs with slabs of cake. Bedtime is the final time in the day when tea is enjoyed, however, tea is a great British institution and is the standard relaxant for any incidents that include births, deaths, accidents and bad news, for a cup