The Arabella Redemption

By Diane Hagan

About the Book
This is the evolution of a woman lost in her own life. She rediscovers the world through the eyes of an annoying child who will not go away. This story is about the impossible made possible by a touch of the divine magic that reflects a love so great; it pokes a hole through time itself

About the Author
Diane Hagan is an only child raised in the backwater area of Maryland on the Chesapeake bay. Attended the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, and the University of Pennsylvania.
Hagan owns and operates Upton Studios LLC, an historic lighting conservation company. She lives with her husband and pets in the deep woods of Southern New Jersey

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: May 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887295633

Book preview

1.  Philadelphia 

The snoring woke me. I opened one eye to the dark, bleary world that was my studio apartment. Drool had formed a perfect slimy puddle beneath my cheek where my head had rested on my old, worn drawing table. With a kinked neck and bleary eyes, I looked at my watch. It was miles beyond midnight. Rubbing my face, I stood, stretched, and yawned. It was time to give up on the drawings and hit the sack. Pushing back my chair, I hit the corner of my TV set, spilling DVDs onto the floor and into boxes that contained my files. The clatter rang and bounced against the walls of the studio like cannon fire in the dark, silent hours of the morning. I extricated myself from my chair and clumsily picked my way through my storage containers to my tiny bed that occupied a corner of my studio.

It had been a busy week with the first drafts of the zoo project due by Friday, and half a dozen cartoons waiting for ink. Slumping down on the mattress, I looked at my apartment in the shadows cast by the streetlights. The space was packed solid. My stove, which I never used, was host to paint pallets and empty cans. My refrigerator had become incognito with magnets holding sketches, photos, phone numbers I never called, along with new projects, old projects, and never-gonna-happen projects. I wondered how I found my way through the debris at all.

I wrapped my arms over my head and gave my shirt a yank and dropped it on the floor, wondering what had ever become of my closet. Pulling my jeans off to join my shirt, I dropped myself onto my bed, sinking down into the mattress.

I laid with sleep-laden eyes and traced the shadows of passing cars on the ceiling from outside my Philadelphia studio window. Sirens, gunshots, people running, and the ever-constant sound of cars on the Vine St. Expressway filled the studio by day and an ominous quiet like the aftermath of a devastating storm filled it by night. As sleep folded over me, the echo of daily sounds all blended together into a cacophony of mind-numbing noise and was punctuated by the occasional sound of a screaming child.

It was the screaming child still ringing in my mind that woke me up in the morning.

Rubbing the sleep from my face, I picked my way back across the studio to the coffee machine, which was the only appliance still visible. For just a second, I questioned the solitary life that I had willfully chosen. My career had replaced the need for any other purpose.

The hot, steaming liquid ran in a stream into my cup as I watched the bubbles form around the surface. Coffee in hand, I made my way to my studio door for my morning paper. My neighbor, Ms. Jay, saw me bending over to fumble at the wrapped bundle of newsprint just outside my door as she walked past to catch the bus at 12th & Vine.

Up all night again? she muttered.

Yes, I mumbled back and turned back toward my apartment.

Always work naked? she muttered louder as she turned the corner toward the elevator, and I heard the doors slide shut.

I looked down at myself.

Dang.

I must start paying better attention or find some blind neighbors. I clutched the newspaper tightly to me and backed into my studio, dang, dang, dang. I tossed the paper in the general direction of my table and watched it skitter to a halt on a stack of boxes next to my desk. The second it hit my desk, the rubber band broke and blew apart like it had taken a direct hit from a leaf blower.

I pulled my shirt on thinking, What a spectacular day I have ahead of me.

Once half decent, I set about gathering up all the pages of paper now distributed unevenly throughout my impossibly cluttered room. The only page I could reach easily was the classifieds. And right there staring back at me from the real estate section were ‘houses for sale.’ I paused for a second as a dim and distant idea struggled its way into my consciousness. I gathered up the rest of the paper and then sat down with my coffee. I turned to the headlines ‘Presidential race hampered by glitch in starting gate, 2 candidates injured, 10 hospitalized.’ Then the weather, then the personal interest where a woman with 17 children sued Trojan. By this point, the coffee had worked its magic. I stood up and picked my way precariously toward my small bath. After my teeth were brushed, pants on, and hair swept up into place, I returned to the desk. The paper was opened to real estate classifieds again, where it must have fallen when I stood up.

That slow struggling thought suddenly popped into my mind…. Why shouldn’t I buy a house? Why not find a place of my own with plenty of room, parking, and maybe even some grass? It wasn’t that bad of an idea. I had lived in this one room studio apartment since I had graduated from school. My friends had all moved out, found mates, built families… with kids. Suddenly I remembered why I had chosen this life. I was not a fan of kids… but I was a big fan of animals, and with my own place, maybe I could have a cat. I liked it. It felt deeply correct. So, in a moment of either weakness or inspiration, I don’t know which, I pulled out my cell and called the number. A very friendly voice answered and wrote down my wish list. After a minute of key tapping, she told me the house that had caught my eye was still on the market. It was clean, cheap, and in a great neighborhood just outside of Philadelphia where I worked. We made arrangements to meet and tour the property. Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I met this agent at the Reading Market pretzel stand. We grabbed some lunch, then climbed into her car and headed for the country.

A short drive later, we entered the ancient, tree-lined neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city filled with lovely and updated Victorian homes. Sara, the real estate agent, pulled her car into a corner lot with long gravel drive and large trees framing the entrance. We pulled up to the house and stopped. She let me sit there for a second and take it in. The home was old and not maintained, but still had plenty of its original pizzazz. There was a large porch across the front with wild gardens blocking the steps. It was actually quite beautiful. How long has this been on the market? I asked, more out of obligation than conviction, because I already knew I was home. Sara told me that the house had been passed down through the family who had built it, and the last owner had passed away two years prior. With no apparent heirs, the house had simply sat vacant until the neighbors had pestered the city into resolving the vacancy.

We exited the car, and my new adventure began as gravel crunched under my feet. Climbing through the weeds and overgrown bushes at the front door, we hopped up onto the wooden porch. The porch was solid. Sara stood smiling as I perused the front of the house. The frames were all there, and the windows were all intact. The place needed a good coat of paint and a little putty. Sara slid the key into the lock with a tiny click and opened the door. She giggled. I looked at her sideways as I stepped into the house. The interior blazed to life with the click of a switch, and there before me was positively beautiful, old home. It was open concept at a time when open was not the style. On my left was a large living room with a fireplace, dining room with large windows, and decent-sized kitchen in the back. To the right of the front door was a staircase with walnut banister and ornate stairs. Upstairs were three bedrooms and a bath with small, quaint balconies outside of each window. All the place needed was paint. I fell in love.

Steadying myself against impulse, I asked the obligatory questions