Indiana Belle (American Journey Book 3)
INDIANA BELLE
A novel by
John A. Heldt
Copyright © 2016 by John A. Heldt
Edited by Aaron Yost
Cover art by LLPix Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, with the exception of brief quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
NOVELS BY JOHN A. HELDT
American Journey Series
September Sky
Mercer Street
Indiana Belle
Class of '59
Northwest Passage Series
The Mine
The Journey
The Show
The Fire
The Mirror
Audiobooks
The Mine
The Journey
The Show
The Fire
September Sky
Follow John A. Heldt online at:
johnheldt.blogspot.com
To Amy Elizabeth
All I remember is how dark it kept getting. – Lela Hartman, Tri-State Tornado survivor
A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know. – Diane Arbus
Kisses are a better fate than wisdom. – E.E. Cummings
A witty woman is a treasure; a witty beauty is a power. – George Meredith
Love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. – 1 Peter 4:8
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright and Disclaimer
Novels by John A. Heldt
Dedication
Quotations
Chapter 1: Cameron
Chapter 2: Cameron
Chapter 3: Cameron
Chapter 4: Cameron
Chapter 5: Cameron
Chapter 6: Geoffrey
Chapter 7: Cameron
Chapter 8: Cameron
Chapter 9: Cameron
Chapter 10: Cameron
Chapter 11: Cameron
Chapter 12: Cameron
Chapter 13: Cameron
Chapter 14: Cameron
Chapter 15: Cameron
Chapter 16: Cameron
Chapter 17: Candice
Chapter 18: Cameron
Chapter 19: Cameron
Chapter 20: Candice
Chapter 21: Cameron
Chapter 22: Cameron
Chapter 23: Candice
Chapter 24: Cameron
Chapter 25: Cameron
Chapter 26: Candice
Chapter 27: Cameron
Chapter 28: Cameron
Chapter 29: Cameron
Chapter 30: Cameron
Chapter 31: Cameron
Chapter 32: Cameron
Chapter 33: Cameron
Chapter 34: Cameron
Chapter 35: Candice
Chapter 36: Cameron
Chapter 37: Cameron
Chapter 38: Candice
Chapter 39: Cameron
Chapter 40: Candice
Chapter 41: Cameron
Chapter 42: Cameron
Chapter 43: Cameron
Chapter 44: Cameron
Chapter 45: Cameron
Chapter 46: Cameron
Chapter 47: Cameron
Chapter 48: Cameron
Chapter 49: Cameron
Chapter 50: Candice
Chapter 51: Cameron
Chapter 52: Candice
Chapter 53: Cameron
Chapter 54: Cameron
Chapter 55: Cameron
Chapter 56: Cameron
Chapter 57: Cameron
Chapter 58: Candice
Chapter 59: Cameron
Chapter 60: Cameron
Chapter 61: Cameron
Chapter 62: Cameron
Chapter 63: Cameron
Chapter 64: Cameron
Chapter 65: Geoffrey
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1: CAMERON
Providence, Rhode Island – Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Cameron Coelho picked up the photograph, gazed again at the pleasing image, and smiled. Talk about a bonus. Of all the things he had expected to find in the package from Indiana, a picture of a strikingly beautiful woman was not among them.
He placed the photo, a five-by-seven-inch sepia portrait, on his coffee table and slowly traced the face of the woman with his index finger. He found the action pleasing and comforting, if also pointless and unnecessary.
The woman, Candice Louise Bell, had posed for the portrait on her twenty-fifth birthday, or Valentine's Day 1925, according to the writing on the back. Attired in a tasteful but revealing top, skirt, and sash, she embodied the spirit of a rebellious age. A teasing smile suggested a playful side that surely had not gone unnoticed.
Cameron pushed the photo aside and dug into the flat box he had received that day. He found mostly what he expected to find: personal letters, business correspondence, notes from numerous interviews, and pages torn from a diary. Each represented a moment in the life of a woman who had blazed numerous trails as a reporter, columnist, and social chronicler.
Cameron had requested the materials on a January visit to Evansville. After learning from a historian that Mary Murphy, Bell's ninety-four-year-old niece, possessed some private papers she might be willing to sell, he decided to pay her a visit. It proved to be a wise decision.
For five hundred dollars, Cameron procured a stack of handwritten letters and a promise from Murphy that she would send him anything else she might find. As it turned out, she found a lot. She sent him materials that local libraries did not have or even know about.
Cameron had learned about Bell's work as a doctoral student in history. He considered her papers essential to his understanding of Indiana in 1925, the focal point of his dissertation on the social norms and cultural dynamics of Middle America in the Roaring Twenties.
Cameron quickly scanned and sorted the items. He put personal letters and diary pages in one pile and professional documents and correspondence in another. If nothing else, he wanted to bring order to the process of evaluating and digesting what Mrs. Murphy had sent him.
He placed the last document, a diary page, atop the personal pile and returned to the photo, which occupied a space of its own. Once again, he noticed the lovely face, the seductive eyes, and an impish grin that was nothing less than intoxicating.
Who are you?
Cameron laughed to himself as he considered the irony. For most of his twenty-eight years, he had desired to be in the company of a beautiful woman on Valentine's Day. Now that Mary Murphy had granted his wish, he wondered whether he should be thankful or unappreciative.
He let his eyes linger on the lovely image a few more seconds and then glanced at the two stacks of documents. He did not know how many useful nuggets he would find in each pile, but he suspected he would find more than a few.
Cameron picked up the stack of personal papers and took a closer look at the diary page on top. He admired Candice Bell's graceful penmanship, the way she organized her thoughts, and her scrupulous attention to detail.
Then he noticed a passage at the bottom of the page that he hadn't noticed before. Part of a long diary entry from January 30, 1920, it stood out like an adult bookstore in a neighborhood of family homes, schools, and churches.
"Today would have been Father's sixtieth birthday. Mother reminded me of that as she went
through a box of his belongings. She still speaks of him as if he had been gone only two years instead of twenty, but I don't mind listening to her reminiscences. Most are interesting. Some are even fascinating, including her oft-repeated claim that Father and Uncle Percival uncovered the secret to time travel on their 1898 expedition to the Sierra Nevada. I suspect she has succumbed to nostalgia again. One never knows when a woman speaks of her long-lost love."
Cameron read the passage again. Time travel? Was this lady for real? He flipped the page and looked for elaboration but found only a new diary entry covering another subject. On January 31, 1920, Candice Bell seemed to care more about a job prospect than the possibility that her father had discovered something modern physicists believed was impossible.
Cameron sifted through Candice's personal papers, pulled the diary pages, and went through them one by one. He needed only three minutes to find more grist for the mill.
"September 20, 1921: Speaking of coincidences and small worlds, I met a man from Truckee, California, today. Edmund Fisher, a representative from West Coast Paper, visited the Post this afternoon to peddle newsprint. When I told him that my father and uncle had once passed through Truckee, he waxed poetic about his hometown and the Sierra Nevada. Mother, of course, has long had a fascination with Truckee. She insists to this day that Father and Uncle Percival discovered a time-travel formula in a cave ten miles south of that town. I did not tell her about my encounter with Mr. Fisher. I did not want to encourage her."
Cameron went through more pages and soon found another gem. Tucked in the middle of a diary entry from October 3, 1922, it pushed his curiosity into overdrive.
"Mother spoke about Father and time travel again. She does so whenever she reads about scientific expeditions, anthropology, or California, a state she has never seen. She mentioned him this morning while reading a story in National Geographic Magazine. When I asked her if he had ever shared his time-travel secrets with her, she said no. She said he recorded the details of his expedition and his 'time-travel formula' in a journal she has not seen since the time of his death. I remain skeptical of her claims, but I no longer dismiss them out of hand. Even science cannot explain all of the world's mysteries."
Cameron returned the page to the stack, stared blankly into space, and pondered the writings of an increasingly interesting woman. He had more questions than answers.
Had Candice Bell's father and uncle really discovered a formula for time travel? Had they traveled themselves? Was there more to all of this than the idle musings of a social chronicler?
Cameron did not know. He did not know any more about time travel than he knew about the mating habits of sloths, but he did know where to look for answers.
He reached for his phone and asked it to call an old friend. He was not sure what he would say when that old friend answered his phone, but he was sure he would say something.
This was a matter that required an expert's attention. Fortunately for Cameron Coelho, an expert in the subject of quantum physics was just a phone call away.
CHAPTER 2: CAMERON
Bristol, Rhode Island – Friday, February 17, 2017
Cameron smiled as he approached the gray colonial at 954 Narragansett Street. He had not visited the residence in nearly two years, but for all practical purposes, it was his second home.
As a boy, he had come to this address seven days a week to deliver the Providence paper. As a college senior at nearby Roger Williams University, he had come here almost as often to woo a sassy blonde named Ashley Rutherford.
Even after his relationship with Ashley had run its course, his friendship with her father, Alfred Rutherford, professor emeritus in physics at Brown, had not. Cameron had paid a visit to the academic at least once a month to discuss school, the neighborhood, and politics.
The professor opened his door even before Cameron had a chance to knock on it. He wore the smile of a man welcoming home a prodigal son.
"Did you drive?" Rutherford asked.
"I did," Cameron said. "I parked down the street. I had to."
"I believe it. This storm is something else."
Cameron continued up the walk. When he reached the door, he brushed snow off the sleeves of his coat, looked at his mentor, and stuck out a hand.
"It's nice to see you again," Cameron said.
"You too," Rutherford said as he shook the hand. "Come in, young man. Come in and make yourself comfortable."
Cameron did as requested. He took off his coat, placed it on an antique rack, and walked across the living room to a large sofa. He sat down and placed a leather portfolio next to a carafe and two mugs on a coffee table. Comforting flames flickered in a gas fireplace a few feet away.
"I see you made coffee," Cameron said.
"I made your coffee," Rutherford said. He joined Cameron on the sofa. "I assume you still drink French roast."
"I do."
"Then help yourself. I made plenty."
Cameron poured himself a cup of coffee and settled into his seat. He spoke after his friend – a thin, graying man of sixty-two – did the same.
"Thanks for seeing me on short notice," Cameron said. "I hope you didn't leave Boston early because of me."
"I didn't," Rutherford said. "I left early because of this wretched weather."
"How is Ashley these days?"
"She's fine. She's a mother now."
"No."
"Yes. She and Eric had a boy in October. I'm a grandfather."
"That's awesome," Cameron said. "I'm happy for you. What's the baby's name?"
"Alfred James," Rutherford said with a smile.
Cameron chuckled.
"I'm not surprised. Ashley told me years ago she would name her first boy after you. I guess she wasn't kidding."
"They plan to call him by his middle name," Rutherford said. "They apparently don't want to traumatize the lad any more than necessary."
Cameron laughed again.
"That's funny."
Cameron sipped his coffee and gazed admiringly at Rutherford, a widower and father of two daughters. He had missed visiting with this man almost as much as he missed living in the blue-collar neighborhood just south of Warren. He was once again in his element.
"How about you?" Rutherford asked. "Are you keeping busy?"
"I am, for the most part," Cameron said. "I'm still balancing work and play. I just got back from a research trip to Iowa, Illinois, and Indiana. I'm getting ready to write my dissertation."
"I don't envy that."
"I hear you."
"Do you still sail?" Rutherford asked.
Cameron nodded.
"I haven't since October, of course, but I plan to change that soon."
"What did you do with your boat?"
"I put it in a warehouse near the marina. I asked my landlord if I could keep a cat in my apartment, but he drew the line at cats with whiskers."
Rutherford chuckled.
"I see you haven't lost your sense of humor."
"I have to hold onto something," Cameron said. "Times are tough."
Cameron smiled sadly as he considered the irony. Times were tough for many people in this part of New England, but they weren't tough for him. Thanks to a three-million-dollar inheritance from the grandparents who raised him, he was financially set for life. He lived modestly in a poor neighborhood in Providence because he wanted to.
"You'll manage," Rutherford said. He smiled. "You always do. Now I know you didn't brave this blizzard to discuss daughters and boats. What's on your mind?"
Cameron sat up, took a breath, and gathered his thoughts. He wondered if there was a good way to address a subject that many people, if not most, relegated to science fiction.
"I want your opinion on something," Cameron said.
"What's that?" Rutherford asked.
"I would like to know if you think time travel is possible."