The last first time, p.1
The Last First Time, page 1
The Last First Time
Mary Rogers
Copyright © 2022 by Mary Rogers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is coincidental.
This book contains content that may not be suitable for young readers 17 and under.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Last First Time
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my own hero, Chris, and to the people of Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction MFA program, most specifically Wendy Lynn, Lee Tobin McClain, Barbara Miller, Jeni Beth Fred, Cathy Matuszak, Alicia Wright, Melanie Mower Bates, and to the many gracious mentors such as Cherry Adair, and Virginia Nelson.
Chapter One
Sherman
Once more into the breach.
The breach was exhausting.
Sherman was here and now, but when is now? It wasn’t quite the crazy question it seemed, although it had taken him a few ‘nows’ to figure it out. He—Sherman Bedford, born in New York in 1789, was alive over and over again—always the same, always the age he was when he was first thrust into the void he had come to call The Nothing. That is what it was. He had no memories of anything in these prolonged periods and only remembered his first and original life, and the ‘nows’ that came after it.
The only constant was that she was here, giving him another chance. “I will find you,” he said out loud to himself, mostly to see if he could hear his own voice. “I am here. You are here, and I will find you.”
“Yes, Sir. I am here. You have found me.”
The issuer of the statement was Thomas. The only constants were the business, the house, her, and Thomas. He never really knew what would happen when he first became aware, so he tended to move gingerly. Last time he was back, they would have called it ‘Trippy, man!” Who knows what they would call it today, if he even knew when today was. This time, when Thomas answered he jerked his head around. I guess nothing happens. Hmmm. Good to know.
“I see. How are you, Thomas?”
“Very well, sir. Will you be wanting your meal, soon?”
He was hungry. How did he always come at just the right time, and how did he always know he was hungry? “Yes, Thomas, I will.”
After a moment, he spoke to himself, to her, to who or whatever was in control of this. “Here we are again.”
“Yes, sir. Here we are again.” He looked at Sherman expectantly. When Sherman said nothing, he continued, “I’ll see to your meal now.” He headed downstairs.
Sherman had to remember that butlers were trained to be unobtrusive. Quiet. Stealthy. All good qualities, of course, unless you’re just back from whatever void he was in. “Stop talking to yourself, Sherman.” No one answered. Good.
He turned his head to the dressing room he was seated in. He saw that the clothes were all different, thank God for that. Last time, he could not believe the clothes in his closet. While these were still going to be different, the colors did not look shocking.
Each time he was back—he was back to win her. Each time he was back, he failed. He figured he returned until he got it right. Just how long would he have to get it right, and what would happen if he finally failed for good?
Unaware what Thomas did or did not know, this much was certain: he was always there when Sherman ‘awoke,’ he would never seem surprised, and behaved as if he had just seen him instead of his having been conjured up as he had been (had he been?). He never implicitly said that he was aware of the circumstances of his situation, but it finally seemed to Sherman that asking Thomas might just get that question answered. Why had he never done so? He should do it today.
As Thomas appeared with a tray of tea and sandwiches, Sherman decided to take the gamble.
“Thomas,” he said.
“Sir?”
“We need to talk about this situation, Thomas. We need to stop pretending that this is not happening, or that this is normal. We need to stop acting like you are bringing me dinner after just seeing me at lunch.”
Thomas went about his work. He finished with the tray and replied. “Lunch, sir.”
“Pardon me?”
“Lunch, sir. It is lunchtime. It is your lunch, and the last meal I served you was breakfast.” He moved to Sherman’s side to pour the tea.
“I see.” Sherman didn’t know what he could expect from this exchange that was different, but he had hoped that Thomas would be the key to this time being the last time. His hope was dashed almost before it had fully formed. “Ah, well.”
Thomas poured the tea. “I last saw you when I served you your breakfast.”
It seemed the cup would never fill. Sherman nodded. “Of course.”
Thomas finished pouring and looked at Sherman. “I last served you breakfast forty-seven years ago.” He smiled. “Welcome back, Mr. Bedford. We have our work cut out for us.”
Wide-eyed, he could only stare. Was that an acknowledgment that he, Sherman Bedford, was indeed some form of time traveler? That he was here before, and was here over and over again, over the course of hundreds of years? He could not help it. When he looked up, he was seized by the most uncomfortable feeling that he might weep. Thomas seemed to understand and put a comforting hand to his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Sir. We shall endeavor to get you up to speed. Much has changed, sir. Much has changed.”
“Indeed, Thomas. I cannot imagine.” He took a moment to collect himself. “I have given that up because I never could have imagined the things that have come to pass.”
“Yes, Sir. Time waits for no man.”
“Or does it, Thomas?”
“No. It does not.” He set out some silver. “Some men, however, can outwait time.”
Sherman smiled.
“When you are finished with your lunch, we shall begin our preparations. It is 2019, sir. Again, so much has changed.”
“All I can say is thank God those changes did not include you, Thomas.”
“Indeed, sir.” He moved to the side of the room and held up a small black plastic item with many buttons on it. Pointing it at the large flat black box thing on the wall, he pushed down his finger on a button and turned the box to life. It was a television.
“Remarkable!”
“Yes, sir. I will leave this on for you to check the news of the day. This is a channel called CNN. Cable News Network, I believe. You will need to watch this a fair bit.”
“What channel is it?”
“On our service it is channel fifty-seven.”
“There are fifty-seven channels? Good Lord, what is on all of them?”
“There are over a thousand channels, but we only get about one hundred. Then there are the music channels.”
Who could possibly watch so many channels? “You watch music? Concerts? Performances?”
“Some. Mostly it is hearing it with pictures or information about the performer or the piece.”
“I have much to learn.”
“Yes sir,” Thomas replied, “but I have faith that you will get it all in hand shortly.”
“Thomas,” Sherman said, “Bronwyn?”
“In good time, sir. As we are now in accord on how this works, you know she will be here. It is up to us to bring her here” he replied as he indicated the immediate surroundings with a sweep of his hand.
“Would it be impertinent to say I l ive for this?”
Thomas smiled. “No sir. Just accurate. I will come back later, and we will begin.”
With that he left the room, and Sherman had a new appetite, and a new attitude. He would get the chance again. He would meet her again, and he would win her. He would make this the last first time.
Chapter Two
Winnie
“It’s Sunday, Darcy. Have some pride and stop begging.” Instead, her cat acted with prejudice, and Winnie figured sleep was like Elvis. It had left the building. Mr. Darcy could always be counted upon to be the first one awake due to his ravenous hunger. And because of this hunger he felt it incumbent upon himself to make Winnie Galley join the land of the cognizant as soon as he did. Purring while covering up the usual suspects for respiration—her nose and mouth—it was get up and feed him or never breathe again. Winnie made the choice to live.
Padding over to the kitchen to make tea, she turned on her computer to see what was going on. One e-mail stuck out.
“Call me when you get this, re: 30-day notice. Signed, R. Dennis – Owner”
It gave a phone number. She was prepared for this, but it was different to know it was coming than it actually being here. Putting his kibble in his china bowl—a cat named Mr. Darcy deserved Royal Doulton—she began her day. This horrible wretched day.
“Kale, Darcy! I blame it all on kale!” Mr. Darcy looked up at her but didn’t seem to care. “You’ll care when I have to move you again, just wait.” He kept that serene and all-knowing face turned her way, but she could tell it was only to make her feel better. He turned back to his food.
It was Sunday morning for heaven’s sake, and only 8:00 am. “Darcy, he said to call when I got this.” She checked. It was sent eighteen minutes ago. “We have to give the landlord thirty-days-notice whether we are going to stay in this apartment or find another, which we will have to do.”
Darcy didn’t look concerned.
She began dialing the number on the e-mail and thinking she must be getting old; this year went faster than she remembered. It felt like she had just finished moving in, but it was eleven months later. She could stay, but the apartment wasn’t rent controlled, he had jacked the rent way up. NOLITA was very desirable. Someone would want it and be happy to pay. This meant showings, and her having to keep the place super clean, and be available to be here when they showed it to people who could afford the extra that she could not. “What does it mean, Darcy, that moving day is always April first? Maybe a fifteen-month lease next time?” The phone connected.
“Richard Dennis.”
Brusque. “Hello, Mr. Dennis, this is—”
“Yeah, I have the ID, kiddo. So, I see you got the e-mail. Great. You know, I’m downstairs, I could come up.”
He didn’t waste time. “Um, can you give me fifteen minutes or so? I need to shower quickly and get dressed.”
“Sure, sure. I’m down here with the Bensons. Just text and I’ll come up.”
“Okay. See you then.” She headed for the shower, mentally taking a quick look around for what she needed to clean.
She was ready in twenty minutes. She texted, and the knock came about five seconds later. What? Was he waiting at the door? Sheesh. She opened it. “Mr. Dennis, come in.”
“You know about this next year’s rent, right?”
No small talk, no ‘How are you.’ “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“I really can’t talk, kiddo. I have five tenants reporting they’re moving out, six if you’re in that number. I have over ten people who responded to the ad, so I need to get this going.”
She was stunned he didn’t seem to care a bit even if it was only for show, but not really surprised. “You put an ad in already?” She shook her head. “I wanted to ask you if you can maybe lower that increase to one fifty? It will hurt, but I can do it. I can’t see how I can do two hundred.”
“Yeah, that’s real estate in New York, kiddo. I figured that for you, young, single, artist—”
“Writer. I’m a writer.”
“Sure, sure. Creative type. Income not too steady, right? I wish you good luck, but I’d like to start showing this next week, as per our lease agreement. Want to sign here?”
She considered trying again, but he was rocking back and forth. He looked like he had plenty of things to do and was late for every one of them. Instantly, she knew it would do no good. In shock, she leaned over and took a calming breath. She signed. She didn’t think the pen was back in its cap before he hit the door.
“Good luck, kiddo.” He stopped and looked around. “DUMBO is super-hot right now, not far away, easy access to town. You might like it there. I have a building, it’s got a lot of people want to see it, but you’ve been a good tenant,” he looked some more, “kept the place up. I can even slide the security deposit over, maybe give you a hand with moving. My brother-in-law has a truck. Give him a fiver and he’s good.”
“Fifty dollars?”
“Cute. Five hundred, kiddo. Let me know. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be full by next weekend.” He said this over his shoulder just before the door closed. It was shut before she could have answered anyway.
By 8:30 it was done. She locked up behind him and sat down. Her life just took a major detour in less than an hour.
She was here before NOLITA was NOLITA. Back then it was just north of Little Italy, not the vaunted NOrth of LIttle ITAly that it is today. Now those six simple letters of the alphabet had the power to make the financially well-off New York renters and buyers swoon, and wanna-be renters and buyers despondent. She had been here since she was a teenager, but now it was full of young Hollywood, older celebrities, new money, and a handful of people like her - born or raised but not able to pay thirty-five hundred a month for a minuscule one bedroom of indeterminate repair. Not if she wanted to eat. “Prince Street is certainly priced for one, Darcy.” He appeared unmoved by this information.
She made a decision to use the dreaded kale as a bellwether for her next place. “We will call it ‘The Kale Scale’, Darcy.” Whenever a place is getting trendy, you could spot it with the amount of kale in the markets, on the menus, in the smoothies. “The more the kale, the hipper it is, and the hipster crowd is like the plague of locusts in Egypt were. Like the Kardashians.” Darcy seemed interested when she said that name. Ugh. “Even you like them, Darcy?” She shook her head. Kale was like the Kardashians. It has bad taste, gets all over things and places it doesn’t belong, and you can’t get away from it no matter how you try.
She had noticed a severe upturn in the amount of Pug dogs and French Bulldogs around the neighborhood walked by people wearing fedoras. That, too, was a warning. Then came the cats-eye sunglasses, the multi-colored hair, the lumber-sexual look – a general tendency to dress like you lived in the Pacific Northwest when you were, in fact, in the center of Manhattan. “It’s probably the bleed-off from Brooklyn, Darcy. Like feather and arrow tattoos.”
She gave Darcy one last pet and picked up the paper. Checking the obituaries for someone who died in a good neighborhood, she found nothing. “We’ll have to go the hard way, paying a real estate rental company.” It was an ugly fact of New York living: if nobody died in or moved away from a good neighborhood, you were stuck paying a rental fee. “I’m barely ahead, Darcy.” He soldiered on with his eating. Sure, she could get something for less, but she might have cockroaches you could put a saddle on.
To supplement her income, she took side jobs; editing, articles, the odd pamphlet or brochure work. It kept the wolf from the door and allowed her to bank a little, too. Maybe one day own a place of her own. Briefly she thought of New Jersey, and shuddered, imagining it would be a little like death. Death without good pizza. Perhaps this lack of her favorite basic food was what made it so affordable.
Maybe Brooklyn? Was DUMBO the answer? Great pizza, but would it signal her giving up? “No. Brooklyn is awesome, but this is home.” It was Manhattan or bust, but why did that feel so literal?
8:40 am. She made herself another cup of tea, sat down again with The Times in her lap, and waited for Mr. Darcy. Darcy never disappointed, and he sat right on her lap across the paper she needed and began to purr. Considering 9:00 am the earliest decent hour to begin calls on a Sunday morning, she had time for her tea, for Mr. Darcy, and to consider what was next. “Only one way to find out, right Darcy?” He didn’t answer her, but he never did. He stopped his grooming to glance at her with his enigmatic gaze. “If only you could talk. You always look like you have the answers.” Winnie thought more on that. “Or a hairball.”
