Once Beyond a Time

by

ANN TATLOCK

ONCE BEYOND A TIME BY ANN TATLOCK

Published by Heritage Beacon Fiction

an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

ISBN: 978-1-941103-90-6

Copyright © 2014 by Ann Tatlock

Cover design by Goran Tomic

Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at:
www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

For more information on this book and the author visit:
www.anntatlock.com

All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words.

When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Once Beyond A Time by Ann Tatlock published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

Brought to you by the creative team at LighthousePublishingoftheCarolinas.com:

Eddie Jones, Rowena Kuo, and Michele Creech.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Tatlock, Ann.

Once Beyond A Time/Ann Tatlock 1
^st
ed.

Wow. I can’t remember the last time I was so absorbed in a book. I LOVED this novel. I’ve always been taken with the idea of God existing outside of time and this book captured that so beautifully. Utterly engaging.

Sarah Loudin Thomas

Author of
Miracle in a Dry Season

Ann Tatlock is a remarkable writer. I have not enjoyed reading a book this much in a long, long time. I was sucked along by the characters and their lives, by the uniqueness of the setting, and by the beauty of her language and storytelling.

Holly Lorincz

Editing and publishing consultant
Lorincz Literary Services

Once Beyond A Time
is a novel less about time and more about healing and forgiveness. Even as the house transcends time, the themes Tatlock weaves transcend decades. We see, very clearly, how enduring our pain can be, and how sweet forgiveness can be. Highly recommended.

Aaron Gansky

Author of
The Bargain, Firsts in Fiction,
and
The Hand of Adonai Series

This is the best book I have read in a long time and I read a lot! The characters became a part of my life and I wanted to step into the pages and become a part of theirs. The story was intricate but not confusing, deep but not underwater, weaving together several plots, mysteries and truths in a natural and fun way. You don’t want to miss this one!

Robin Prince Monroe

Artist and author of
Devotions for the Brokenhearted

Ann Tatlock has served up a truly great story!
Once Beyond A Time
tugs at your imagination, pulls you into a captivating world of “what ifs,” and confronts very real conflicts in a very surreal manner – I thoroughly enjoyed it!

Denny Brownlee

Actor, voice artist and comedy writer

Once Beyond A Time
is a window into the soul of every human; it’s a picture of what it is to live and love and hurt and struggle and triumph and rejoice. Hauntingly honest and beautifully written, I found myself emotionally drawn in to the lives of the characters.

Mike Dellosso

Author of
Fearless
and
Rearview

There is nothing sweeter than the gentle hand of words when written by Ann Tatlock.
Once Beyond A Time
is no different. In this story, Tatlock draws you into her world and allows you to wander from age to age with her characters. A read that is “timeless.”

Cindy Sproles

Author of
Mercy Rains

Time is what keeps
everything from
happening at once.

——R
AY
C
UMMINGS
,
The Girl in the Golden Atom

Friday, July 12, 1968

M
Y FIRST THOUGHT
now, of course, is that Carl will never come home.

Not really, anyway. Not to the home he left only a short time ago. When my son comes back from Vietnam—and please, God, let him come back—he’ll return to a place he’s never been, and where none of us really wants to be. Not Sheldon. Not I. Certainly not Linda, who makes no effort to hide her anger. Digger is the only one at peace with the move, and that’s because at eight years of age he’s simply too young to know any better. To him, leaving the familiar and landing in some remote corner of North Carolina is just another adventure.

That’s not to say this place is without its charms. I stand here on the wide front porch of the old house and look out over the mountains. Because we are up high and in a clearing, I can see for miles and, yes, the mountains, layers of them, are oddly blue. The Blue Ridge Mountains. After a lifetime spent in the flat farmland of southeast Pennsylvania, I have the same feeling of hushed awe I got every time I stepped into the Cathedral Basilica in Philadelphia. The ceiling was so high, and there was so much open space! I almost longed to sprout wings and soar upward to touch the pinnacle of that domed ceiling.

But here, the ceiling is infinite and endless and untouchable, for the
dome is the sun-streaked sky, and the walls are a living landscape formed by the mountains. I think I might find it beautiful, if only I could see it without the pain.

But I can’t. Because the pain is at the heart of why we’re here.

Sheldon had an affair. Two months I’ve known, and yet I can scarcely bring myself to believe that this is
my
life, that
I
am the woman scorned. It’s something that happens to other women, not to me. I didn’t even suspect, though it was happening right under my own roof with a young woman who is my own cousin. I was so certain of my relationship with Sheldon, so secure, so proud of our twenty years with scarcely a bump in the road that I couldn’t even see what was playing out in front of my eyes.

Not until the whole thing was over, and Sheldon came to me in tears, did I know. The night he confessed, his words literally knocked me off balance, and I had to stumble to a chair and sit. My hands shook, and I couldn’t catch my breath. What was he saying? What was he asking of me? I shut my eyes, rubbed my temples with my fingertips.

He knelt at my feet, his hands folded in my lap. “Forgive me,” he said.

Forgive you?

I felt myself breaking apart like an old star giving out and floating off, bits and pieces, into space. Which part of me should forgive you, Sheldon? Which broken part?

Finally, I managed to string six words together and spit them out. “When did you stop loving me?”

I opened my eyes. He was shaking his head, looking horrified. “I never stopped loving you, Meg. I swear, that’s the truth.”

I didn’t believe him. You don’t cheat on someone you love. You couldn’t do that to someone you love.

From somewhere inside me, a scream rose up that seemed to go on and on. I pushed Sheldon away. We fought. Bitterly. For hours. That night he moved into the den.

The next day, the deathly silence fell over us. The marriage which just
twenty-four hours earlier had been my whole life, was now gone. Just like that. But there was more to come. Not only did the affair ruin our marriage, but Sheldon, in some misguided act of penance, allowed it to strip him of his life’s work. Quietly, without explanation, Sheldon resigned from his job as pastor of First Baptist Church of Abington.

“What will we do?” I asked.

“We will start over somewhere else,” he said.

I thought of leaving him. I thought of finding a job and an apartment and raising the kids on my own, but in the end, I couldn’t muster the strength and courage it would take to do it. And when finally Steve called and said, “Listen, Sis, one of my salesmen just quit. I’ll give the job to Sheldon if you all want to come down here. Just wait till you see this place; it’s beautiful. You’ll love it”—I went along with it. Sheldon took the job, and we left our home state of Pennsylvania to come down here to Western North Carolina where my brother ended up eons ago when he married a southern girl. Steve loves it here, and he thinks everyone should love it here. As I stand on this wide porch and look out over those far blue hills I think, maybe I would love it here too if I weren’t already as good as dead. I can hardly pull any of this mountain air into my lungs, much less allow the beauty to enter my soul.

I thought I had proved Mother wrong, but she was right after all. “Love always ends,” she said, “and men always leave.” Those were her words to me when Daddy left her for wife number two, whom he later left for wife number three and number four. It’s a wonder Steve has stayed with Donna all these years. How is it he didn’t end up like Daddy, while Sheldon did? Not in the leaving, but in letting love die.

My jaw clenches. I can’t give in to the anger right now. Steve and his family will be here any minute. I move down the porch steps and find Digger playing in the drive, digging in the dirt with his shovel and his bucket, making a race track for his Matchbox cars. He’s smiling, laughing to himself. He’s the only untroubled soul around here. It gives me a
moment’s pleasure just to watch him; Harrison, my last-born, the surprise. Linda was nine and Carl ten, and next thing I know, I’m pregnant. A surprise, yes, but never “the mistake.” Never.

Harrison Benjamin Crane. From the day he was born, he’s been my joy.

Steve and Donna came up the summer he was two, and when Donna saw him digging in the garden, she exclaimed, “Well, look at the littlest Crane, out there digging in the dirt! He’s building himself a whole little town!” And then Steve added, “But isn’t that what cranes do? Work in the dirt and build things?” And we all laughed, and ever since, he’s been Digger. Now, it seems hardly anyone remembers his real name. Except me. Harrison Benjamin Crane, the only real joy I have right now.

A car horn honks and Digger jumps up and waves. The drive is so long I can’t see the beginning of it from the porch steps, but in a moment, there’s Steve’s car—a Chevy, of course—pulling up to the house. The car stops, and they all pile out: Steve, Donna, Jeff, and Marjorie. Come to welcome us on our first day in Black Mountain, North Carolina.