Ellen L. Ekstrom
Alice Martin discovers herself in a quaint English shop. Iconic historical figures appear no sooner than she thinks of them; they come and go, offering advice – unwanted, but always interesting. While there, Alice learns that she can change definitive moments in her history, to correct mistakes made in two important relationships: with her first love, Quinn Radcliffe, a sensitive classical musician destined for the concert halls of the world, and with Donovan Trist, a charming archeologist with New England blue-blood and expensive scotch in his veins. Each has a hold on Alice, and what she is compelled to undertake begins a momentous and sometimes painful journey. Throughout her travels, Alice is linked to love by a melody, the luminous and evocative Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. As she seeks answers and happiness, Alice knows one thing is for certain – this is not a trip to Wonderland, but deep into her heart and soul.
ISBN Trade Paperback: 978-1-926760-65-0
ISBN ebook: 978-1-926760-58-2
FICTION | Literature
258 pages
List Price: $14.95 | $4.99
Published: October 30, 2011
Praise
"...a solid read ... that many people will enjoy..." - Night Owl Reviews
"Ellen Ekstrom has turned a basic story of first love and heartbreak into a sparkling piece of literary fiction. The protagonist's name, Alice, is aptly chosen, since her journey is rather like the one into the rabbit hole (or through the looking glass). Right off the bat, Alice finds herself in what might be the afterlife, whimsically populated by famous dead people who like to do crosswords, drop enigmatic advice, and serve her Diet Pepsi and cheesecake in a cute village shop overseen by a strict Proprietress (in a form resembling Helen Mirren playing Queen Elizabeth II). But Alice can't merely lounge and chat: she keeps getting thrown back into scenes from her life, in out-of-sequence order, to remind her of the important moments and--evidently--to give her a chance to change a few details and recapture a lost happiness.
I was greatly impressed by the way in which Ekstrom presented a life in random sequence in a way that still made sense as a whole, yet kept me guessing and hoping till the end on the most important questions. I completely related to the ache of looking back on your losses and errors and difficult moments--anyone would. And most of all, I loved her writing style, which was crisp and gorgeous throughout, scintillating with sensory details (oh, the colors, the tastes, the music!). Here's hoping we all get a quasi-afterlife village like the one Ekstrom has created." Molly Ringle - Author
Excerpt
My story began much in the same way as any other, say, for example, David Copperfield.
I was born.
Where it concerns this story, however, it was a different kind of birth; one that began with death.
I heard the conversation, and they called it around twelve oh-two in the morning – at exactly the same time as my birth, strangely enough. Even so, I’d like to respectfully disagree with those who assumed things they should not: that I died.
I did not die; I am not dead.
Not yet at least.
At least, I hope not.
Oh, wait…
Frankly, I didn’t remember the exact moment of my demise, nor did I remember pain. I remembered minutia, like ordering breakfast, or waiting for transit, or falling to sleep clearly as if it were a second ago – but then, I knew somehow that I existed in kairos rather than kronos, and a second in kairos is a thousand years on Earth.
Objects and places, people, appeared out of the ether like rainbows – there wasn’t a bright light to herald comings and goings, but soft flows of color that became shapes, then objects, then people, and places. For example, when I wrote this, I was sitting in what looked like a See’s Candy Store, the one at the convergence of Market, Sutter and Sansome in San Francisco, but it was set in a picturesque English village, perhaps somewhere in the Cotswolds or Dorset, somewhere in Thomas Hardy’s imagination – or mine. There were yellow daffodils and freesias in vases on every counter; the display case wasn’t stocked with caramels or almond bark, or Bordeaux creams, but with books. Little leather volumes that had straps across the front cover – like a child’s diary, the one you had to open with a key that usually hung around your neck along with a skate key, to keep one’s secrets safe from a brother’s or parents’ inquiring eyes.
On the shelves where heart-shaped boxes of nut chews and creams usually sat were small casks of parquetry wood. There was a coffee bar with an espresso machine and a display case full of cheesecakes of every kind. There were round café tables with heart-backed, cushioned chairs to match, and yellow gingham curtains on the mullioned windows. It was as if I had stepped into one of those faux Victorian shops at Disneyland.
Over the counter was a medieval sign with the word “CURIOS?” in great purple letters – “Curious?” in English. I called my home away from home, my way station on the way to wherever I was going the “Curiosity Shop.” Yet, I was the only one in the Shop who was curious.
No one seemed to mind that I was sitting in the corner farthest from the door with my laptop. My Starbucks coffee travel mug, the one with the strawberries on it, was never drained of its cappuccino: small, skim milk, no cinnamon. I had a bottle of Diet Pepsi, too, and that was always cold, never lost its fizz.
People came and went quietly. Many of them were strangers to me; most were historical persons I studied and wrote about, even idolized. A few approached The Proprietress, a stern, beautiful woman who resembled Helen Mirren, but Mirren as she portrayed Queen Elizabeth II. Her hair was coiffed in a 1950s bob, and around her neck was an opera-length strand of exquisite pearls. She wore an ill-fitting, severe blue suit and carried a Princess Grace-style handbag in the crook of her arm. I looked down at her feet and nodded in approval; at least she wore Vivien Westwood pumps – Anglomania – Lady Dragon, to be precise. Customers’ needs were met efficiently and with an economy of motion and conversation. Once in a while a cask came down from the shelf. Sometimes the book in burgundy leather with gold tooled arabesques came out of the case, sometimes the vermillion with silver findings, but never the book in lapis lazuli suede with silver clasp and decoration. I wanted more than anything to see what was in that book, gaze down at the mysterious trinkets in casks that were unlocked, opened and locked up quickly.
One thing was certain: I must have been dreaming.
Or…I really was dead.
For I looked up from my writing one day and standing out on the sidewalk looking in was my brother Dennis, who died at the age of thirty-one. When our eyes met I felt the breath go out of me, then a surge of adrenalin coursed through me like an electrical current. He smiled, every dimple increasing, and turned away, walking into a hat shop across the street.
Also by Ellen L. Ekstrom
A Knight on Horseback | Armor of Light | The Legacy