Dandelion Clock

By Mona Wynette Green

Anne Dalton has suffered the death of both parents and a bitter divorce. When she suddenly loses her job her life is shattered. She visits Jekyll Island, off the eastern coast of Georgia, it has a flamboyant history and the privacy she seeks to get her life back together. She meets David Fields and discovers that beneath his quiet facade lies a hidden personality that frightens her. Fearful but unable to walk away she is caught up in a mystery that includes danger for herself and sanity for David. The shadow of lies and deception about the death of his fiance has shattered the lives of all involved. As the truth is finally exposed, Anne and David find answers that enable each of them to restore their own lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493106837

Mona Wynette Green

My life has been spent in about a one-hundred mile radius of Waco, Texas where I was born. When your world is so small you occasionally need a boost to stimulate the gray matter. Books were always my escape, inspiration, and motivation. After several correspondence writing courses and files full of encouraging rejection letters I took writing seriously. Now in the so-called retirement years I am actively pursuing my dream to write my own stories. Between the volunteer work I do and entertaining great grandchildren I finally have the time to make the time for writing.

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Forward

When I read a newspaper feature article, with photographs, about Jekyll Island and its history I knew instantly that it would be the setting for my new novel. I started doing research on the internet, gathered books from my local bookstore, and began making plans to visit in person. I needed to stay in the historical district to absorb the feeling I wanted my characters to project. Reservations at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel provided the atmosphere I required to get started on my story.

The beauty of the island, the restored cottages, once occupied by the millionaires who chose Jekyll for their seasonal playground, the magnificent oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, all contributed to the ambience of another time and another era. A time that could transcend the years and have an emotional effect on lives in this twenty first century.

I walked the shadowed paths all through the Historic District, admiring the variety of architectural structures that existed in harmony with the natural environment of aged oaks, and stately Palmetto palms. I enjoyed the cultured variety of gardens, filled with colorful blossoms and the occasional view of the surrounding waters. All this found its way into my story, including the ruins of Horton House—Old Tabby, the du Bignon Cemetery, Faith Chapel, the old wharf, where some of the most fabulous yachts of the millionaires were once docked, the Jekyll Island Club, accurately restored, where possible, to duplicate the life style of those who originally created it and occupied it’s rooms.

I also traversed the island on a bicycle. Visiting the white sandy beaches and the busy downtown area. But don’t look for the little café that served cherry banana milkshakes. It was created out of the author’s imagination for story sake.

My apologies for any inaccuracy in the historical or geographical details. Where necessary I have taken the writer’s liberty to create a scene in order to satisfy the need of the story.

My deepest thanks to the staff and employees of the Jekyll Island Club Hotel, for making my visit so comfortable and research so enjoyable.

One day I hope to visit Jekyll again. Who knows, I may imagine another story that will bring me back to this lovely island off the south east coast of Georgia.

Chapter 1

I sat on a bench under a big oak tree, its branches draped with Spanish moss. The full moon cast eerie shadows across the plush green lawns that surrounded the Jekyll Island Club Hotel. I could see the dark outline of the tower that topped this Victorian style building. The moonlight dripping through the trees added to the surreal setting. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone this time of night. When I first noticed him as he walked across the lawn I became unreasonably angry for a moment, that someone had intruded on my space. I had purposely avoided contact with people. Now he was here.

I was following doctors’ orders to go away, relax, take long walks and set my life in order. So here I was at two o’clock AM on a pristine spring morning wandering around under a low hung Georgia moon. I sat quietly, on one of the many benches placed beside the walk that circled the Inn, hidden in the shadows of the old oak tree. I looked over at him as he sat down on a similar bench. He stared intently at a stretch of lawn where earlier a croquet match had taken place, as if the game was still going on. I hoped I could get inside the hotel without being noticed. But, before I reached the wooden steps that led to the porch and inside Lobby, he was by my side.

Allow me to assist you. The moon is blocked here by the trees. It would distress me if you should trip and fall. Thank you. I’m sure I can manage. I insist. We fellow insomniacs must look out for one another.

I felt his hand on my arm, with a firm but gentle touch, guiding me up the steps. When we reached the porch and passed through a moonlit area, I noticed his unusual attire. He wore a collarless pin-striped shirt, white linen trousers with suspenders, as if he had stepped out of another time. His face was clean shaven, his hair dark and neatly trimmed. I moved away from his side and hurried to the nearest door. Thank you. My walk helped. I believe I can sleep now. Goodnight. I dashed inside, closed the door, then turned to look out the glass panel. He was nowhere in sight. I felt rather foolish for my hasty retreat. Safely back in my room I stepped out on the balcony and looked across the silent stretch of land between the hotel and the river. As I stood there and gazed around I felt as if I had stepped into another century. A time to which the stranger seemed to belong. I remembered reading about the millionaires, names like Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Morgan, Pulitzer, Gould, and others, who in the 1880’s had organized and financed the construction of the Club House for their personal use. I glanced down at the bench where he had been seated a few minutes earlier. For some reason I was disappointed that it was empty. For the second time tonight I felt very foolish.

I stretched out on the bed so I could look at the moon and the light and shadows it cast around the room. My thoughts went to the strange encounter I’d had with this intruder of the night.

*     *     *

I don’t remember falling asleep but the warmth of the morning sun woke me and, cat-like, I stretched, moving leisurely, taking my time getting out of bed. I was determined to follow the Doctor’s orders and make the most of my short retreat.

I showered and dressed in navy slacks and a white oxford shirt. I decided I needed some color so added a bright flowered scarf around my neck. Not bad, I thought as I looked at my reflection in the small vanity mirror. I fluffed my hair, maybe should add highlights, or cut it short, something different to match the new me I was trying to create.

My marriage to Phil had ended in disaster. One day I came home and found he had stripped the apartment of just about everything he could carry, including the microwave.

I didn’t handle stress well. I had a way of deceiving myself bad things weren’t happening. When Daddy died, I refused to cry. I took over the responsibility of care giver for Mom with a stoic attitude, hiding my real feelings. Then when I lost Mom it seemed life had no purpose or reason. Now I found it hard to cope with recent setbacks. All in one day I lost my job, by way of a memo on my desk; went home to an apartment minus my husband and most of the furnishings. What was left of my world fell apart, and so did I.

I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t been for my best friend, Janice. Bless her heart, she stepped in and took over; helped me get my stuff home from the office, got the apartment in some sort of order and insisted I go see Dr. Mackey. I had somehow managed to drift through the days, not really knowing what was going on. My sessions with the Therapist began to bring things into focus and he told me it was time to get my life back. Phil had filed for divorce and that ended that. Now I had to look ahead. I realized I was still gazing at the mirror, not focusing on the reflection. I reached for my gold loop earrings; my hands were shaking. Hold on, girl don’t dwell on what’s over. I put on my earrings and, noticing the gold band on my finger, decided it was time to take it off. I removed it and dropped in my makeup bag.

I need some breakfast and a lot of caffeine, I spoke out loud for my own reassurance, as I left the room.

The hotel had a series of verandas that wrapped around the many additions that had been built on to the original Club House. On one was a small café, which served as a bakery and deli. I ordered a roll and a cup of tea and took them outside.

I sat in a large wicker chair, and let the sun warm me outside while the tea warmed me inside. I practiced relaxing from the head down, neck, shoulders—deep breaths—hips, legs, feet. My eyes were closed, and the tensions slowly uncoiled.

A glorious morning to you. You look much refreshed and well rested.

The words seemed distant at first, then I realized someone had taken the chair next to mine. I opened my eyes and recognized the stranger from last night. I was determined to be short in my response, leaving no doubt his presence was not welcome. I turned my head and saw a white sweater with blue stripes on the sleeves and hem. I looked into a boyish, smiling face. He held out half an orange with a sprig of mint perched in the center. I couldn’t hold back the smile or resist his offering.

It is a glorious morning. I must say you have a most unusual way of putting a person’s guard down. Mint in an orange?

"Why not? I think a little frivolity is good for the soul.

Most people are much too conventional."

Most people would tell you they’re not at all conventional and very much do their own thing, I said.

But, you see, that is what makes them conventional; for that is the trend and everyone is doing it. The world has become much too serious and pragmatic. People want to analyze everything, give it a name and paste labels on it. What is ‘it’?

Must we give it a name? It is the way people act, respond, relate. When they think they are being different, that is when they are most often being a clone of another’s actions and responses.

It’s much too early for philosophy, and my mind is not in a thinking mode.

Good. The sun is inviting us to play. I think something on the water is called for. I planned to go sailing and I would be pleased if you would accompany me.

I don’t even know your name. Are you a guest here?

Are names that important? I’m sure it won’t matter to the boat I rented for the day. We can get a picnic lunch, and, as luck would have it, I see you are properly attired for such an outing.

How should I address you? I really need to know the name of someone I’m entrusting with my life.

I assure you there is nothing life threatening in the simple boat ride I propose, and there are life jackets on board to make you feel more secure. But, since you insist, you may address me as David.

I like that. David is a solid name. You may call me Anne. With an ‘e’.

Well, Anne with an e, now that we have the amenities out of the way, shall we go for that boat ride?

He stood up and held out his hand. I put my hand in his and let him lead me down the walk, thinking, a few weeks ago I would never have accepted such an invitation.

The walk from the hotel to the boat dock was lined with huge oak trees decorated with silver-gray draperies of Spanish moss; interspersed were tall and graceful palmetto palms. Everywhere color greeted you from the variety of crepe myrtle trees. We passed many of the restored homes that made up the Historic District.

I’ve seen pictures of these homes and read about the millionaires who built them.

The cottages were built to accommodate family, servants and guests, replied David in his best tour guide manner.

I would hardly call them cottages, I replied. But I guess they were to the men who built them.