Midnight at Trafalgar
Midnight at the Eiffel
Midnight in Brussels
Midnight in Moscow
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Rachel O'Neill is an American writer in England who is
betrothed to Ethan Philips. She can't believe she's accepted
Ethan's proposal, even though it's merely a business
arrangement. She's afraid of commitment and intimacy,
arrangement or not, having been miserably through it all
before. What's worse, she's unable to muster the guts to tell
Ethan she can't go through with the marriage. She complicates
her life even more by kissing a complete stranger at London's
massive celebration in historic Trafalgar Square at the stroke of
Midnight on New Year's Eve. The events that unfold rapidly
whisk Rachel into a world of adventure, romance, travel and
discovery. Here she comes face to face with eclectic characters
who appear to have been traveling together for more than one
lifetime.
Will Rachel find what she is looking for? Are her dreams real?
Will Ethan persuade her to be his bride?
Rachel O'Neill reappears in all the "Midnight" novels, so
go along with her to vibrant and exciting New Year's Eve celebrations around the world and become entwined in the drama, suspense, and romance that befalls her and the people surrounding her."
CHAPTER 1
With long slender fingers, tipped with nails the same color as her ginger hair, Rachel O'Neill traced the fine lines around her eyes and mouth as she leaned closer to the gigantic, gold-leaf framed mirror above the marble vanity. She'd never before been concerned or even mindful of age and the evolution of the aging body because she'd always been one of those very lucky women who appeared to be 15 years younger at any age. Even now one would think she was in her mid-30’s. She had good genes, but she didn't like what she was seeing in the mirror tonight regardless.
I wish I were taller! She stepped back and rose to her toes, striking a pose as if she were a ballet dancer in a robe, hands stretching high above her head towards the illuminated ceiling in the elegant dressing area of the hotel boudoir. Why couldn't I be as tall as my father?
Her father, Neal O'Neill, had been tall and stately and Rachel had always thought he resembled the screen star, David Niven. Like his father and Niven, he had been British and spoke in a light clipped manner that was tinged with a dry sense of humor. Neal’s mother was British as well, an O'Connor from Scotland. She was a tall, slender woman with red hair and freckles. But Rachel hadn't inherited the physical attributes of the O'Neill or the O'Connor clans. Dammit! Why couldn't I have been like them?
She thought about her mother as she took her mascara out of her new leopard-print cosmetic bag and began applying another coat to her already thickened lashes. Rachel’s natural dark hair which was sometimes visible at the roots, her olive-toned skin, and her 5'4" frame came from her mother's American Indian branch of the family. Rachel felt she was constantly fighting the battle of the bulge and she feared that someday she’d end up with one of those short, stout, matronly bodies that her Indian ancestors possessed. She was puzzled how her Indian mother, Lily, could be so tall and slim.
Rachel's thoughts drifted to the day she had made the startling discovery on the Blackfoot reservation in Montana when she had found her mother still alive, after spending 35 years thinking she was dead.
She quickly grabbed a Q-tip to dab the mascara that had smeared on her eyelid. Her eyes had begun to tear up with the memory and she rested her hands on the countertop for a moment, pausing as she recalled when she was just three years old and her father had lied to her about her mother.
The truth was - Lily had fled after one of Neal's nightly drunken and abusive tirades, frantically fearing for her life. The one-sided fights seemed to be seamless in Rachel's early memories of life in Bakersfield. She was far too young to know that her father despised Lily's quest to improve herself by attending college to become a teacher. He had made Lily's life unbearable and it came to an abrupt end the night he literally threw her out the door, threatening that if she dared come back to take Rachel, she'd not live to see another day. He said he'd chop her up into little pieces and bury her in the backyard. Lily believed him capable of such a horrible thing, for when he was drinking he was an ogre. She left and never came back.
"Your mother's dead," Neal had said the next morning when Rachel toddled into the kitchen, all sleepy-eyed looking for her mother.
"My mommy is not dead! She is not!" Rachel cried in defiance. "Where is my mommy? I want my mommy!" She began sobbing, running through the house, calling out and searching every room for her mother.
Neal had remained seated at the breakfast table and poured more Irish whiskey into his coffee, not a flinch or any show of remorse for what he'd just told his little girl.
Rachel stopped crying a few weeks later and after another few weeks, she stopped asking unanswered questions about her mother. Throughout her childhood, she wondered what had really happened. Too much had been left unsaid, but she submerged her questions and feelings deeper and deeper until she didn't have them anymore.
It wasn't long before Neal married Lee Dearmore, his housekeeper, a kind woman who had been taking care of Rachel.
Lee was a godsend! Rachel removed the white monogrammed hotel robe and reached for her evening dress hanging on an ornate brass hook behind her. She was wearing a black satin one-piece bra and panty undergarment with appropriate wire supports where needed. As she removed the plastic covering from her new Vivienne Westwood gown, she thought of her stepmother Lee. Yes, she certainly tried to fill the void, bless her heart.
But, her father's second marriage ended as Rachel approached her teens. Neal had become quite successful in the bar business and he had been caught up in all that went along with it - the long hours and the flirtations that led to ego indulgences. It was inevitable that Lee would become aware of and lose patience with his indiscretions and when at last she faced the truth, she packed her bags, bid a sad farewell to Rachel, and left town.
Rachel pulled the gown over her head, adjusted its fit, and began vigorously brushing her hair.
Her father had seemed to feel lost when Lee left him. He probably loved her more than he realized. He'd stopped drinking during their marriage, which could only be attributed to Lee's gentle patience and fortitude. But then Neal wasted no time at all in marrying again, this time to a local real estate agent, who turned out to be Rachel's nemesis. It was then that all remaining gentleness and kindness disappeared from the household. Shortly after, so did Rachel.
She teased her hair gently to create a slight poof. In the past, she had insisted on having hair perfectly shaped; now she liked it better just a bit out of place. She thought again of how things had worked out over the years. It's strange how it all had been leading me to my mother.
Rachel had lived for so long with unanswered questions surrounding her mother's "death", with her workaholic father's inept attempts at love and guidance, with two distressing marriages of her own, that it was no wonder that Rachel's emotional state had reached catastrophic proportions that day. She had sat, spaced-out, at her desk in a commercial high-rise in downtown Los Angeles. The repercussions of committing a financial error that had cost her employer thousands of dollars had reverberated through her.
On looking back, she realized she'd been a foolish perfectionist, and she couldn't believe she hadn't asked for assistance when she had needed it. It could have been so easily avoided, but at the time she had truly thought she could handle it herself.
Of course, she knew that when stock options were exercised, the certificates had to be dated and processed the same day as the exercise. But she hadn't quite mastered the IBM Selectric or the new program she had been using to create the documents. She had lost data as fast as she had created it and then had to start all over again. And it all had crashed down on her during an unexpected stock split, a three-day period of up to 30 stock option exercises a day.
Her boss had announced the whole mess on that September morn. The board had had to approve payment to the stockholders for the losses caused by her gross negligence. She had been terribly embarrassed and disappointed with herself and terribly hurt that she had been guilty of such a tremendous blunder.
So on her lunch hour that hot autumn day, she had thrown the rest of her responsibilities to the wind, walked from her office to the Greyhound bus station in downtown L.A., purchased a one-way ticket to the Northwest, and boarded the bus. But before she had left, she had placed some notes in an envelope and sent it through inner-office mail to her boss, spelling out instructions as to what to give to whom, meaning her keys and car, and what to do with what, meaning her apartment and belongings. The notes had said that she had needed to find herself and a life of peace, without stress.
Stress comes from within, remember. She sprayed her hair with a shine mist and reflected on what she had gleaned from her mother's spiritual influence over the past 8 years. She'd learned from her mother that awareness is the beginning of healing and if a person is continually aware of a fault within, or a bad habit, the fixing will follow. Awareness is healing and stress comes from within. Some days she repeated it to herself over and over, aware of her own inclinations and shortcomings. Awareness is healing and stress comes from within.
However, she hadn't felt any spiritual awareness that September day, 8 years ago-one day after her 38th birthday-when she had left her employer and the professional ladder she'd taken such pains to climb; when she had abandoned her son, Devin, his wife, and two children who'd been living with her.
No, that wasn't spiritual at all. As she laid the brush on a towel, she sighed heavily in remembrance and guilt and then pulled a strand of pearls from her jewelry bag. She loved pearls and diamonds. The necklace reminded her of all the jewelry and clothing she'd left behind that day and how she'd never seen any of it since. Devin's wife had taken it when she'd divorced him after Rachel's abandonment. I wonder if she enjoyed my things as much as I did.
During most of her son's young adult life, he had struggled with addictions until it had interfered with his ability to support himself. At Rachel's invitation, Devin and his family had moved in with her, which had turned out to be very chaotic for all of them - too many people in too little space with too little money.
No wonder I left, somebody had to. She picked up a cosmetic moisture container and sprayed a fine mist over her face.
But her job and her son weren't the only reasons she had flipped out. She had accumulated an insurmountable amount of debt on her credit cards-purchases of clothing and essentials for Devin's family, along with frustration purchases and rewards for herself. Creditors had called every day asking for payment. She had owed the second half of a down payment on a new Jaguar sedan-her dream car-and had been two payments in arrears.
All she had to do was ask someone for help, but she couldn't; it didn't matter whether it was personal, business, or financial. She'd never asked for help before. She wasn't going to ask her father. She didn't have close friends. She couldn't ask her boss.
My ex-husbands were pricks, couldn't ask them. She ran cold water from the gold faucet as she wondered where her ex-husbands might be. Then she rinsed her hands and rubbed scented lotion speckled with gold dust on her arms, neck and chest.
No, she couldn't have asked anyone for help in those days. No one had known about her dilemma or would have cared. She had kept her troubles buried deep within; and she had known that she had to deal with them by herself. It had been her responsibility, nobody else's. But it had been too much for her. The strain had suffocated her. She had to run to breathe-something she'd done most of her life, although in somewhat lesser proportions. It was her modus operandi to remove herself from unpleasantness even if it meant that she moved from one job to another or from one neighborhood to another. Or from one man to another. She was never in one spot long enough to become attached or grow roots.
She'd been dreaming of the Northwest, of beautiful forests, soothing lakes, and a peace one must feel in such blissful surroundings. More than once she had dreamed of an elusive Indian woman beckoning her to a fairytale-like land, somewhere.
She had always listened to her dreams and lived in them. There were times she'd force herself to sleep more than was necessary because she could dream at will. It was her means of escape. So when the time came, when her life became so unbearable that she couldn't continue as she was any longer, she knew exactly what to do. In that very instant, that one September morn 8 years ago, she had made the decision. She had left everyone and everything behind. Off she had gone, literally following her nighttime dreams and only God had known what else.
It felt as if a huge burden had been lifted off my shoulders.
She remembered how light and giddy she had felt as she rode the Greyhound buses from state to state, day after day, searching for some meaning to life, as she had been drawn mysteriously to the northern states. And then the most incredible thing had happened. She had stumbled upon her mother Lily, very alive and very well, on the Blackfoot reservation in Montana, teaching children.
Yes, Rachel could easily chalk up her smooth complexion to her mother's Indian side of the family. She thought she should be grateful that darker races were generally blessed with smooth beautiful skin.
So why the hell am I wrinkling at 46?
"Damn!" she exclaimed, as she pushed the skin up from her eyebrows. The thought crossed her mind that maybe the propensity to wrinkle sprang from another branch of the family tree.
She brushed on a finishing coat of lip gloss. Maybe her wrinkles were from her maternal grandmother's ancestors. She gently pulled her facial skin back towards her ears to see how she would look if she had a slight facelift. I do look like Grandma Emma.
Not much had been known about Lily's mother. She'd been the granddaughter of one of the first Indian agents in Arkansas, had lived in Indian Territory, and had run off and married a Blackfoot Indian when she was just 13. According to the stories, Grandma had been at the mercy of the worst of evil stepmothers. She'd been at the receiving end of exorbitant cruelty and trauma that could prematurely wrinkle the skin of a grape, not to mention that of an impressionable young girl, and certainly could alter her gene pool. Come to think of it, Grandma Emma's skin had been wrinkled since puberty. Rachel remembered seeing sepia photos of her teenaged Grandma. She knew that a person's cells could drastically change and evolve as a result of an afflicted emotional state.
But then again, it's one's perception of self that makes the changes. She remembered Lily's words and smiled as she said aloud, "Thanks, Lily. I'm definitely on the path, I am. Well, sort of."
As she looked in the mirror again, reality stared back at her. Dammit anyway! The lines in her face were more pronounced than ever on this exciting New Year's night in London and it bugged the hell out of her.
She grasped the skin at the back of her neck, holding it tight at the base of her skull and pulled the front of her neck smooth, free of wrinkles.
"Gawd! I need a plastic surgeon, Ethan!" she blurted out.
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NOVELS BY REBECCA BUCKLEY