Forever Maude

By Denise Liebig

Forever Maude is the third book of The Dear Maude Trilogy. The first two, Dear Maude and For the Love of Maude, follow the journey of a college graduate, Emily Stanton, whose first job is anything but conventional. Thrust into the mysterious world of time travel, Emily learns to survive by baring her soul and secrets within the pages of a journal she addresses to her great-great-aunt, Maude, and by losing her heart in a romance that knows no boundaries, including time.

”...imaginative, well-written, and difficult to put down.”

Heartbroken, carrying a bag of antique coins and the heavy burden of her aunt's untimely death, Emily leaves the world of time travel and her beloved husband, Dell, behind. It doesn't take long for her youth, beauty, and valuable coins to assist her in finding a new life in the Italian nightclub scene of the 1980s.

Regardless of which time she is occupying, however, Emily cannot escape her past or forgive herself for the lives she ruined. So when that past finds her, Emily must choose between her new life and an uncertain future with the loved ones she abandoned.

And that's the easy part.

After reunions and parallel lives once again pull at Emily's heartstrings, a new romance and all its problems might be her only hope for a normal life--the one she had before becoming a time traveler.

But can she ever go home? Or is her lone outlet found within the pages of a new journal--a safe haven of sorts--inspired by a woman who never changes, a woman who remains forever Maude?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Liebig
• Release date: Oct 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463112953

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

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It had been months since I cried, fainted, or even blushed. That was the old Emily, the one born in 1990. The new me was on my own for the first time in years—the lone mistress of my destiny—with a new life before me, just waiting to be discovered.

Unfortunately, regardless of which Emily I was trying to be, I was miserable. I let my amazing great-great-aunt and best friend, Maude, die and for that, I would never forgive myself. She was supposed to pass peacefully in her sleep at ninety-six, single and childless. But I traveled back in time and introduced her to the husband she was never supposed to have, whose child she gave up her life at twenty-two to deliver.

The guilt and regret I felt for my actions were overwhelming. So I left the world of time travel and everyone in it behind, carrying only a bag of antique gold coins and justifying every movement I made afterward.

They can just reach into my past and retrieve a different Emily, one who doesn’t ruin everything she touches! I told myself daily.

That was the beauty of time travel—mistakes could be erased with the addition of a parallel life. Johann, patriarch of the time travel empire Holtz & Sons or H&S, could do just that. He had already taken that approach in his past selves he named Dell and Shane, making one my husband and the other my boyfriend.

Now I had neither, but I also didn’t have my old life, of which I made such an utter mess. Yes, my future no longer was predetermined—I held all the cards and could play the hand however I saw fit. Most importantly of all, the rules of the game were part of the big unknown as they should have been all along…at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Chapter One

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Although time travel left me with a bag of several dozen antique coins, capable of supporting a lavish European lifestyle, I had a conscience that would never allow me to enjoy such a life.

A round of drinks at the right club bought more than just alcohol; it often gained a new friendship with a kindred spirit, typically the daughter of a wealthy tycoon whose love was measured within the contents of her daddy’s wallet. I acted as either her sidekick or instigator; regardless, I was simply the sponge she needed to foster her rebellion, and I felt no remorse for my actions. In fact, I was oddly comforted by the company of those who used me for either my companionship, my money, or both. After all, I had ruined too many lives to deserve anything more.

Each club was different, but the results were the same. I was in Genoa, Italy, in one of the many bars near the waterfront on a Friday night in April 1989, but it could have been any time. The Riviera teemed with young people looking for fun, and I was willing to fund it.

Another round! I called from my perch atop the bar.

I was surrounded by a mass of young smiling faces, raising their glasses and voices toward me. No one seemed to mind that I didn’t know Italian. My money bought me fluency in any language. Besides, my hair was long now and bleached by the Mediterranean sun. I didn’t exactly blend into the crowd, nor was that my desire—for once in my life, the attention didn’t bother me.

So I smiled in reply and stepped down onto the closest available stool to revel in the gratitude of those paying homage to their new best friend—me. Settled on the seat and with my elbows resting on the marble bar behind me, I surveyed all of the smiling faces that surrounded it. Amid the rustic, plaster-covered stone walls and plank floors, the crowd was filled with mostly twentysomethings—girls with big hair and formfitting spandex dresses, much like the black minidress I was wearing; men in slacks and shirts with turned-up collars, unbuttoned at the top to reveal chains that blended into their abundant chest hair. I acknowledged each "grazie" with a smile, wishing their gratitude would fill the void inside me.

It didn’t.

In the end, everyone seemed to want my company—everyone, that is, except me. Instead, I pretended to pay attention to the affections of a nearby cuff-linked man whose rings and watch filled the space that separated us. His wedding band glistened despite the darkness of the club, apparently serving as nothing more than another meaningless piece of jewelry. My thoughts drifted to my own wedding ring, stowed safely in the train case I left behind—in another life.

I continued to offer a fake smile at the man I mostly was ignoring, consumed instead by my thoughts, until a gorgeous Italian man in his late twenties drew my attention back to the club. A perfect smile and twelve layers of confidence preceded him as his intense almond-shaped eyes met mine and held them captive from across the room. His shirt fit like a glove with buttons, flattering his every move as he navigated the crowd, similar to a fish swimming upstream through a sea of my admirers.

I smiled back, knowing how his night would end. In addition to the wealthy young heiresses who frequently adopted me, the men were even more abundant. They soon lost interest, however, when their jewelry and furs rewarded them only with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Neither their money nor their model-good-looks could compete with the memory of my husband.

I shook my head. You’re not Dell! Aside from a similar muscular build, my Austrian husband was at least ten years older and six inches taller than the man approaching me, and most likely outweighed him by forty pounds or more. Fifty, I decided, finally leaving the man’s gaze to size him up. Dell could snap you like a twig; especially if he saw the way you were looking at me. I met the man’s unwavering eyes again, seeing the brown and wishing they were blue. I remember when Dell looked at me that way. I followed the smile forming at the corners of his eyes, then traveled to his temples and to his dark hair that was slicked back, glistening amid the bar lights. It was a stark contrast to Dell’s light brown hair, soft and grazing his shoulders, always beckoning me to run my fingers through it.

I missed my husband, but I knew that I also missed my opportunity to deserve him when I walked away from my life—our life—and never looked back.

My newest victim wasn’t privy to that. However, before the man could reach my spot at the bar, a loud Salute! erupted, and its aftermath cut off his approach and the future disappointment that was in store for him.

Although the crowd around me cheered and showered me with their affection, I felt alone; worse, I felt lonely, overwhelmed by the memory of my husband and aunt, whose lives I no longer could share. But I’d made my choice and had to live with it. So I took a deep breath and tried to channel the theater class I’d taken at school or at least the confidence it often gave me, by once again climbing on the bar. Who wants to party at my place? I jumped down and headed for the exit.

I didn’t have a place, but no one appeared to notice as they cheered in their ignorance and followed me as if I were the Pied Piper, out the door and to the marina. The owner of the yacht I decided to invade didn’t seem to mind the popularity my actions brought either. His false hairpiece and unnaturally whitened teeth had midlife crisis written all over them as he welcomed us aboard. He later offered me unlimited use of an oversized stateroom in exchange for my discretion.

I didn’t mind, nor did my conscience, when, a little before dawn, I heard the remnants of my host’s lifestyle choice tiptoeing along the dock just outside my window. Instead, I let the gentle rocking of the ship lull me back to sleep until the sound of a vacuum charging my closed door awakened me with a start. Slightly disoriented and with my heart racing in my ears, I left the stateroom and walked the narrow corridors in search of fresh air. Drawn to a set of glass doors that revealed a seating area at the stern of the ship, I finally saw what I’d missed the previous evening in the dark. Although the yacht was a monster, able to give at least four school buses a run for the money, it was dwarfed by many of the ships moored on either side. I settled myself into a blue-cushioned chaise to better appreciate the view.

Location, location, location, I whispered to the mammoth, yacht-shaped silhouettes rocking before the rising sun.

The words barely were spoken when my host’s manservant brought me a small, white, steaming cup of coffee, surrounded by sugar cubes on a little saucer. Then he left without a word. I preferred tea but didn’t complain. Instead, I scanned the multicolored horizon, stirring my cup and admiring my handiwork.

Aside from my overwhelming desire to walk clumsily along the precipice of self-destruction and make every effort to lose my footing and fall into the void, I had to admit that surviving the 1980s in Italy wasn’t such a bad gig.

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Along with the social side of life, I had to learn how to embrace economic realities as well. It had been almost a year since I left my old life behind, walking through the front door of a villa in Varazze, Italy, wearing only the clothes on my back and carrying a purse containing the bag of gold coins. They were a souvenir from a visit to 1700s Vienna; beyond that, I had no knowledge of their origin or value. So, when I first arrived in Genoa, I spent hours in a library, poring over books in English regarding gold coins until I finally found a match.

Bingo! I held one of the coins in my hand, feeling the round edges and raised emblems on both sides. A Spanish royal coin, blah-blah-blah, die-cast, blah, one of few minted for King Philip V of Spain…worth how much? I clasped my hand over my mouth. Hundreds of thousands of dollars?

I quickly discovered that rare coin dealers were easy to find, but they asked too many questions. Their favorite was, Where did you say this came from?

With such a large bag of coins in my possession, I knew I would need to become adept at the answer if I didn’t want to get ripped off. I used the first sale to perfect my response.

Oh, Granny gave this to me for graduation! She always said it was rare, I said to the man behind the counter.

I looked young for my age, so at twenty-five, I easily passed for a recent student or an existing one, for that matter. I often used that to my advantage by offering an innocent smile at the end, my cherry on top.

The dealer, with a newfound gleam in his beady eyes, proceeded with his own response. It is in fact quite rare; however, it will be difficult to find a buyer for such a specific piece.

Baloney! I studied the man’s expression, thinking of what the Maude I knew during my childhood would have said. A teenager in the 1920s, my Nana Rosie’s aunt and her sayings guided me throughout my youth and beyond.

Oh, that’s strange, I said. The last dealer told me he could sell these all day long. With my research to back me, I simply smiled. Thanks for your time.

I reached for the coin, but the man held it firmly in his grasp.

How much did the other dealer offer? he asked.

I left the shop with the lire equivalent of two hundred thousand dollars and proceeded to spend some of it on clothes, friends, a fake passport, and a train ticket to Switzerland to safely store the remaining coins in a bank vault.

Then I met Yuri.

He was a creep but held the corner in the underground coin market, and he never asked questions. His handshake was the only sincere part of the transaction, along with his parting request: Come to me first if you have others.

I planned on it.

In the meantime, I became skilled at saving my money. Aside from my wardrobe and the occasional round of drinks at a club, I seldom had to spend anything. My heiress girlfriends and doting, frustrated boyfriends lavished me with their lifestyle. As a result, I lived comfortably on the proceeds of the original two sales.

Although the coins erased most social and economic barriers, they couldn’t eradicate all the consequences of leaving my old life behind—especially being trapped in the past. I knew I’d already blown it with my husband and Maude, but the knowledge that I would never be reunited with my mom where I last left her in 2013 also remained—that is until my lonely mind thought otherwise.

At twenty-two, during her on-again, off-again undergraduate experience or experiment as her dad, Papa Bob, termed it, Mom spent a semester in Italy in the fall of 1989. Growing up, Mom spoke so highly and frequently about her European experience that I always felt as if I had traveled there with her. Now was my chance to do just that.

Without the benefits of time travel to assist me, I watched April pass slowly by on the calendar as I formulated a plan, which finally came to fruition in May. On the sixth, I boarded a train in Genoa bound for Rome. I’d been up all night second-guessing myself, and even the gentle rocking of my first-class train car couldn’t calm my nerves.  Two hours into my trip, I exited the train in Pisa and boarded another. An hour later, I arrived at my final destination—the Firenze Santa Maria Novella railway station in Florence, a modern, rectangular contrast to the gothic church and other architecture that surrounded it. Without delay, I worked my usual magic with the local affluent set who enjoyed frequenting clubs near where Mom would be living in Florence’s city center.

By the first week of June, I had acquired the unlimited use of an expensively appointed flat. The floors were covered in Carrara marble and woven rugs beneath antique furniture, the kind found in museums and auction house catalogs. The owner, a real estate tycoon, preferred Monaco over Italy. And I preferred the hidden safe the flat offered, into which I relocated my bag of coins from Switzerland. I also enjoyed the flat’s location directly across from the multistoried, stone-faced hostel Mom would soon occupy.

I felt like a stalker but decided it would be worth the effort—even though Mom wouldn’t know me, I could at least be near her, which, I was certain, was closer than I’d ever be again.

Her group arrived in Florence on August 15. By the eighteenth, they were treating the nearest disco, Club Spasso, as if they lived there. The club was known for its busy discothèque in the rear but also held several marble-covered, wooden high tables and stools near the entrance.

That evening, I found a table next to the bar and started buying rounds for my new American friends. We hadn’t been introduced, but they graciously accepted the drinks as if they or someone in their group had known me for years. By the fourth round, Mom hadn’t arrived, but her roommate and I were becoming best friends.

You know, Lizzy slurred, you look a bunch like my roommate.

Although I’d known Lizzy my entire life, she was meeting me for the first time, and I had to stifle a laugh as she blinked several times and leaned closer to me. Lizzy was a young nineteen with a quirky fashion sense that extended into her adult years. So it didn’t surprise me to see her taking a slightly modified Cindy Lauper approach to the ‘80s. Her purple eyeshadow and heavy eyeliner competed for attention with her light brown hair, which was pulled into a ponytail and teased in all directions as it spewed from the crown of her head. She was wearing a pink, polka dot tutu over black tights and a pair of God-awful green rubber boots that, along with the hair color, appeared to be her spin on the look.

I hear that a lot, I said, glad she hadn’t accused me of resembling her.

Ignorant to my sarcasm, she simply nodded and giggled in response.

By the way, where is your roommate? I asked, pretending to search the crowd. A quick scan didn’t reveal Mom, but it did offer me a typical conclusion—I was the only sober one in the group. Whenever alcohol surrounded me, I never drank anything other than mineral water. I was too afraid of losing my money, my better judgment, or both.

Oh, she’s homesick. I can’t get her outta our room, Lizzy slurred.

Great. Four rounds for this?

Well, it sounds as if we need to change her mind! I stood from the table and grabbed Lizzy by the arm.

Weighing in at less than 100 pounds, she was too drunk to struggle and well on her way to either being sick or passing out. I was determined to find my mom before either happened.

Lizzy turned her liquid gaze in my direction. Okay, you lead da way.

Where do you live? I asked, trying to sound convincing, although I already knew the answer.

Oh! She descended into a round of giggles from which I thought she would never recover. That’s right. Ya don’t know where I live!

Fantastic, Aunt Lizzy. Was this the first time you ever drank? Within minutes, I had my answer as I stood on a side street near the bar and held the ends of her ponytail, while she vomited on both of our shoes.

Lizzy?

I heard my mom’s voice before I could see her in the darkness.

Oh, there ya are, Sunny, Lizzy said, still slurring. We were juz comin’ ta drag ya out with us. Her words were still hanging in the air when another round of vomit succeeded in painting the front fender of a parked car—a red Ferrari that fortunately had its top up.

Mom was just steps away when I glanced at her, then quickly returned my attention to Lizzy. Looking at Mom was similar to gazing in the mirror—except for the ratty spiral perm she had the misfortune of wearing. Also, unlike me in my designer electric blue minidress, Mom resembled a frump in her torn jeans and oversized T-shirt.

Fashion never was a strong familial trait in anyone other than Maude, but seeing Mom made me wish it were.

Regardless of her age, wardrobe, or resemblance to me, I hadn’t seen my mom in years, and I felt my lip start to tremble. Bent down, still holding Lizzy’s hair, I tried to smile up at Mom, but her cold stare changed my mind.

Sunny, it…good…see ya! Lizzy’s speech was a garbled mess. My new friend here…so nice…bought…a few drinkies.

Define ‘a few.’ Mom looked at the vomit and then met my eyes. She didn’t bother to introduce herself.

Escorting Lizzy to her room was a two-person operation that involved wading through an ancient fountain to clean the vomit from our shoes. Once she was safely tucked in bed with a garbage pail for good measure, Lizzy blew me a kiss and slurred something unintelligible in my direction.

I wanted to laugh, but the glare I caught from Mom kept me from opening my mouth.

Terrific, whatever your name is! You nearly killed my friend! she screamed.

Uh— I’d forgotten how proficient Mom was in delivering a tongue-lashing. She had been on the debate team in high school and used every bit of her skills against me, especially during my teenage years.

What’s your name? she asked.

It’s—

Forget it. I don’t even care. It will be the last time I see you, so it doesn’t matter. Get out!

The whole one-sided conversation was over, and the door was slammed in my face before I even could register that it had begun.

I felt pretty foolish standing in the hallway in a puddle, wearing vomit-infused blue pumps, so I sulked across the street to my flat and tried to recover from my stupidity.

Great, Em. You’ve just succeeded not only in meeting Mom for probably the last time in your life but in estranging yourself from her without hardly opening your mouth. Nice.

I wanted to flush out Mom not become a sugar mama to her friends—worse, I went one step further and became her worst enemy.

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I didn’t sleep well that night, but by the next evening, I was determined to give it another shot.

What do I have to lose? I admired my reflection in my bathroom mirror. Maybe these shoulder pads. The white minidress more than made up for its lack of fabric elsewhere by offering two enormous pads, extending inches beyond my shoulders. Enjoy it while you can, I said to both pads before leaving the flat for Club Spasso.

Unfortunately, I soon discovered the downside of buying rounds for broke college students; once you do, you can’t get rid of them. That became abundantly clear when Mom’s classmates all fought to sit next to me, but Mom wouldn’t even look my way; instead, she left our group and disappeared into the crowd.

Why does your roommate hate me so much? I asked Lizzy.

Oh, she doesn’t hate you, per se; she just hates what you represent.

What’s that?

You know, the whole rich-versus-poor thing. She hates your kind.

I’m not rich! I said, attempting to downplay the obvious by pulling my purse onto my lap and crossing my arms over my designer dress.

Right, well, your daddy is. Either way, she despises you.

My daddy? I don’t even know who he is!

Why are you talking…to her? Lizzy and I jumped at the sound of Mom’s voice as she stood behind us.

I, uh, well… Lizzy said.

After glancing Mom’s way, I turned my attention to the tabletop and shook my head.

During my sleepless night, I thought of all the things I wished I would have said to Mom on our first meeting, had I not been so focused on a happy reunion. A conversation I’d once had with her about her childhood in Oregon stood out:

I had a chip on my shoulder a mile long, Mom had said. I never saw the other side—mine was good enough for me. I grew up in Portland, but after your Papa Bob and Nana Rosie had retired to St. Helens, I moved with them and shunned the city and all that I thought it stood for. She shook her head and laughed. I was a city girl through and through, but you couldn’t tell me that. Maude sure tried, though.

How? I’d asked.

Oh, you know Maude. She just shook her head and inserted one of her sayings—‘Lighten your load, Sunny girl! Live and let live, and then dance a jig.’

Did you?

Mom laughed. I didn’t dance, but I learned to pick my battles—the important ones, anyway.

So back in the bar, sleep-deprived, hurt by Mom’s reaction to me, and armed with a lifetime of knowledge I could use against her to finally reign victorious, I decided to give her a taste of her own medicine.

What crawled up yours? I asked, staring up at her.

Excuse me?

Yes you, Little Miss Holier-Than-Thou! What’s your problem?

Mom just glared at me, so I stood to face her. What…can’t find one of your snippy little comments to shoot at me?

You’re—

I’m what? I asked. I’m related to one of those evil people who helped fund the study-abroad program that brought you here? Or one of those people you despise, because if you didn’t, you actually might find yourself having a good time?

She just stood with her mouth open and stared—speechless.

You’re as closed minded about me and my life as you accuse others of being toward you, I added. If you’d open your eyes and look around for a change, you might find that the world is a pretty amazing place. Heck, you might even start to lighten up and enjoy yourself. What a thought!

With that, I turned and walked out of the club, amid the stares of her classmates and other patrons. The applause started just as the door closed behind me.

The evening was still early, but I had no interest in spending it with or around anyone—I just wanted my flat. On the way, people passed me on the sidewalk, traveling to their evening destinations while talking animatedly in their beautiful Italian tongue, but it didn’t make a difference. Winning an argument with Mom wasn’t as fulfilling as I’d hoped; instead, it left me feeling pretty empty.

Nice bonding experience, Em, I mumbled under my breath. I think you really impressed her—in fact… The sight within a shop window kept me from finishing my sentence.

It was almost hypnotic—the object of my attention bore a leather exterior embellished with jewels, surrounded by a leather strap that buckled on one side. A journal! I needed Maude, and that was just the thing that would take me to her.

Adding an incredibly overpriced pen, I almost ran to the flat with my new purchases.

Locking the door behind me, I deposited my purse on a nearby hook and walked without delay to the kitchen table.

Saturday, August 19, 1989

Dear Maude,

I miss you so much! I wish I could tell you this in person. I would even settle for having you read this sometime in the future, but my actions have guaranteed that that will never take place. I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. You’re my best friend, and my world isn’t the same without you. Please forgive me, Maude. I need you! I wish I hadn’t lost you forever.

I put down the pen, and for the first time in months, I cried until I had nothing left inside. Growing up, Maude was eighty years my senior, but we shared a bond that I never had with anyone else. Regardless of the situation, she always was on my side. Even after her death when I was fifteen, I sought the comfort of Maude’s influence and wise advice by later addressing a journal to her. In the Maude journal, I detailed my life during my senior year in college and into the crazy world of time travel to which my first employer, Evergreen Research Corporation, introduced me. My marriage to Dell and the life I found with H&S, a company of which Evergreen was unaware, also filled its pages.

I buried that journal, along with its secrets, for my dear Maude to find as a child in the 1920s. But those secrets she unearthed and our chance meeting in 1926 when she was a teenager, led to consequences I couldn’t face—in any time period.

I relieved a nearby tissue box of a few sheets, then I pulled the journal back toward me and continued to write:

I met my mom as a college student, and boy is she uptight! I’m living in Florence, directly across the street from her hostel. I bought drinks for her friends so I could meet her. Now, she thinks I’m a rich girl—ha! I wonder if anyone told her that Papa Bob’s salary as a doctor didn’t exactly make them poor. I guess you see what you want to see. Either way, she hates me. Funny, though, I’m not a fan of her either. I had expected to meet a younger version of my mom—instead, I found a hypocrite with a superiority complex. I know she became pregnant with me in college, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be close enough to her to become my father. I must be a test tube baby.

I miss you, Maude. I would do anything to have you alive and with me today. Anything.

Love,

Emily

Chapter Two

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The next morning found me in a foul mood with no prospects for improvement. While I thought I was living the life I deserved, I couldn’t escape the loneliness it brought. And my life became even lonelier when I thought of my humorless mom and the judgmental attitude I despised.

I laid in bed, staring at the coffered ceiling