Pandora E-Book

Charley Marsh

• Herausgeber: Timberdoodle Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Curiosity changed the course of mankind.

Pandora was the first mortal woman and the first bride. Zeus gave Pandora a storage jar for a wedding gift which she of course opened. Who wouldn’t? It was a wedding gift, for crying out loud. The evil spirits trapped inside the jar were freed and have wreaked havoc on mankind ever since.

Fast forward to today . . .

Pandora Jones lives in a modern stone castle stuffed to the roofline with handmade boxes filled with the worries and troubles she collects each night. Trying to atone for her ancestress’ costly mistake leaves no room for friendship, let alone romance.

Head God Zeus sends his handsome eldest son to set things right with Pandora, but neglects to tell him who, what, or why. That would take all the fun out of the game–and everyone knows the Olympic gods love their games.

Leseprobe

Pandora

Romancing A God Series

Charley Marsh

TIMBERDOODLE PRESS

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Cassandra

Charley Marsh

Chapter 1

About the Author

Pandora

Copyright © 2019 by Charley Marsh

All rights reserved.

Published 2019 by Timberdoodle Press.

Originally published as Pandora’s Penance.

Pandora is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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. For more information contact the publisher: https://www.timberdoodlepress.com/

All rights reserved

Print Book ISBN# 978-1-945856-64-8

Cover Art: algolonline/depositphotos.com

Introduction

The Story Of Pandora

In Greek mythology Pandora was the first mortal woman, modeled from clay by the gods. Apparently early man lived a harsh life, imposed on them by those same gods. Prometheus felt sorry for the early men and gave them the gift of fire to ease their lives, angering Zeus. Stingy bastard.

Zeus commanded the creation of woman, beginning with Pandora who he then gifted to Promotheus’s foolish younger brother as a bride. Zeus gave Pandora a storage jar for a wedding gift which she of course opened. Who wouldn’t? It was a weddinggift, for crying out loud.

The rest is well known history. The evil spirits trapped inside the storage jar were freed and have wreaked havoc on mankind ever since.

Our story next picks up in modern times in a small city in the midwest . . .

Chapter 1

Pandora Jones hurried down the dirt alley, a worry clutched to her chest in one slender gloved hand. Her long, midnight blue wool cape—the one fashion indulgence she allowed herself—fluttered behind her and turned her shadow grotesque.

She scanned the bank parking lot that edged the east side of the alley and kept close to the brick store backs that fronted the opposite side, skirting around the awkward metal dumpsters that every business in America seemed to possess.

How many back dirt alleys had she wandered in her short life?

Too many. So many that she was beginning to believe that her entire life had been lived in the dark spaces of La Crosse. And she saw no end in sight. No way out.

The pungent, metallic smell of a quick rain shower on the parking lot’s pavement overlaid the fresh sweet scent of the newly opened crabapple blossoms that decorated the open bank lot.

At three in the morning Pandora knew that anyone she met in the alley would mean trouble. Even the cops. How could she explain to the police that she ventured forth every night to collect the worries that plagued the small city of La Crosse, Wisconsin?

They would assume she was crazy and drop her at the nearest Psych Ward, never to be released because there was no family left to release her to.

And maybe they’d be right, Pandora mused, as she reached Albion Street and turned right, away from the river. All of the women in her family, as far back as the earliest recorded human history, had devoted their entire lives to collecting the world’s worries and stuffing them back inside the special boxes that they built to hold them.

She blamed her crazy life on her ancestor—the original Pandora who opened the famous box and loosed its contents upon the world.

The original container hadn’t actually been a box, but a covered jar called a pithos. Some translator had misread the word in the original manuscript and his translation stuck.

Pandora knew the translator had been a man because a) back then women weren’t allowed to perform such important tasks like translating ancient scrolls, and b) no women would have made that mistake. A woman would have been very aware of the difference between a box and a jar.

So the first Pandora had unwittingly released worries and illness and death and evil onto an unsuspecting, and until that moment, carefree world.

Of course, it wasn’t really her ancestor’s fault. She’d been set up by the almighty Zeus. The jar was a gift, and what woman would not open a gift? Especially a gift from a god. A drop-dead handsome god that enjoyed playing games. The bastard.

Despite the blossoming spring trees, the night still carried a sharp bite of winter’s chill on the air. Pandora pulled her cloak tighter around her and held it with her free hand. She wished she’d remembered a hat. Her ears felt cold and her nose ran.

She pushed her arm free of the cape and wiped her nose on her shirt sleeve. Disgusting, but what could she do? Tomorrow night she would remember to carry a hankie and wear a hat.

A car passed by one block over on Winter Street. Bass music boomed from its speakers, pulsing shock waves through the air. She caught the flash of blue strobe lights between the houses and the music abruptly cut off.

She had been wise to take Albion Street home even though she lived on Winter. The cops always patrolled Winter because of the large mansions that filled several city blocks. Early in La Crosse history, Winter Street had been the home of the wealthy, the movers and shakers who helped build La Crosse into the bustling city that it was today.

One of those Winter Street mansions belonged to the Jones family. Her family. Built two hundred and fifty years earlier by Warren Jones, an early La Crosse lumber tycoon, the large stone mansion—more of a small castle really—had remained in the Jones family until passing to the current Pandora, the last of the Jones family line.

The last Pandora. Unless she married and produced more little girls—an unlikely scenario given her current occupation. Where did a nice young woman who slept days and scoured the city every night find the opportunity to meet young men suitable for marrying—or even just mating?

Short answer—only answer—she doesn’t. The creatures that roamed at night were not good father material.

The very thought that she would be the one to break the family tradition made her want to scream with frustration.

Pandora had been searching for a suitable mate for ten years now, ever since she had turned twenty. Her mother had given her strict instructions before her death. What to look for in a man, what to avoid, how to test a potential candidate.

She had never reached the testing phase. None of her potential suitors ever called back for a second date.

She didn’t understand why not. She had registered with a dating/matchmaker service and done everything a woman was supposed to do to attract the opposite sex.

She bathed and perfumed, painted her face and lips, wore the latest fashions, pretended to be interested in whatever the man said, laughed at flat jokes. The list went on and on.

The bottom line was that dating was work. Hard work. She had grown tired of it and then simply stopped because none of the men she dated were very interesting, and who wanted to waste their life on a dull mate?

Not her. Not even for babies.

No, she amended. She lied. At this point she would put up with a lot to create a child. To have family again. There just were no candidates.

Pandora swore under her breath and cut between two large homes that had been broken into smaller apartments. These broken-up older homes catered to seasonal college students, of which La Crosse had many. There were five such buildings on this block alone.

Too many students, in her opinion. The large number of female transients cut her potential pool of mates into a very small number. A number so small that it currently contained not a single specimen.

She pushed down the familiar lump of loneliness and frustration and concentrated instead on getting home unseen.

A soft light glowed in the window of the ground floor apartment on her left. Pandora stopped as she often did, and stood in the deep shadows of the adjacent building while she observed the students who lived in the lighted ground floor apartment.

She knew there was an ordinance against Peeping Toms, and if she was honest with herself she was breaking that ordinance. Peeping Pandora. How much lower could she sink?

Disgusted with herself, she turned to continue on, but her feet faltered and stopped.

Two men and two women occupied the apartment’s living room. One of the women had lived in the apartment for the last two years.

It pained Pandora to know that this woman had no problem getting dates. Ever.

She knew this because she cut between these same buildings nearly every night. Their back yards, long since turned into off-street parking spaces, backed onto the grounds of her mansion and provided a way to come and go without being seen.

And nearly every night she saw the occupant of this ground floor apartment entertain a seemingly endless stream of men.

Take tonight. There she was; Miss College Student, a curvaceous blond, wrapping her arms around a thin, brown haired man. They were slow-dancing to music Pandora could barely hear, hips grinding against one another, lips locked as if glued together.

Practically the same scene greeted her every night. Petite, yet curvaceous, blonde with different guy. Every night, a new guy.

What did she have that Pandora didn’t?

An intense longing and a deep sense of envy washed over her. Thirty years old and she had never even been kissed. How the devil was she supposed to find a mate and reproduce before she grew too old if she couldn’t even get kissed?

While it was true that her people lived longer lives than the average human, they still had the human’s limited years of reproductive capability. Her mother had been very clear on that subject while she lived.

“You should have your baby before you turn fifty, Dora. Things get a little iffy after that. Even better, reproduce in your thirties. That’s the ideal time. That’s your prime for making babies.”

Well, dammit. She was thirty. She was ready to go. There were only ten years left of that ideal window her mother had mentioned. With no prospective mates in her past or on the horizon, things were looking pretty bleak for the plight of mankind.

The worries filling the secret pockets in her cape stirred. The ache of longing deepened. The worries drew from her pain and grew stronger.

“Cut it out, Pandora,” she said aloud. “You know worries feed on each other. Finish up. Go home.” She tore her attention away from the dancing couple and forced her feet to move, slipping through the hedge to her own back yard.

The irony of Pandora’s situation never occurred to her. She devoted her life to collecting the world’s worries, but who would deal with hers?

Chapter 2

“Tough break, boy-o, but somebody has to do it. I’m just glad it isn’t my responsibility. One of the perks of being the youngest son, you understand.” Pauli punched his older brother in the arm and grinned.

Zee scowled and refrained from returning Pauli’s punch. He knew that if he did, the fight would escalate until the ground trembled beneath their feet.

The last time that had happened they had been punished with banishment to the Australian Outback. It hadn’t been a pleasant time for Zee, a man who loved his motorcycles, fine food and drink, and beautiful women. Lots of beautiful women.

Of which there were plenty here on the La Jolla public beach where he and Pauli were skim boarding. There must be something in the southern California air, Zee mused, something that made beautiful people.

He’d have to ask his mother. She’d know. She kept track of all that kind of stuff.

The beach was small compared to the more popular west coast beaches, but had the added attraction that it tended to be used by the class of people who shopped the high-end boutiques on the cliffs above.

The type of people who bought small bars of solid gold from street vendors, and didn’t blink twice at dropping several thousand dollars for a tiny handbag.

The Beautiful People. People who never asked how much anything cost. People who needed to be seen in all the right places. People like Zee and Pauli. Shallow people.

Zee frowned. Where had that thought come from? What was wrong with him lately? La Jolla was crawling with just the sort of people he usually sought out. He should be grooving on it.

He shook off the mood, scooped up his thin, round board and out of habit winked at the pair of beauties walking by him. They giggled and smiled, then stopped. Their second time by in the last few minutes, he noted.

It rarely took longer than that for women to find an excuse to hit on the brothers. They were built in the image of their father, the greatest of the Greek gods. There wasn’t another male specimen on the beach who could hold a candle to them.

Both brothers were tall and muscular with their father’s classic features: broad forehead, full, sensuous lips, straight nose and strong jaw, intelligent, smoky gray eyes with thick dark lashes.

Only their hair differed. Where Zee’s silky, straight black hair, neatly tied back in a short queue, gave him the look of a dangerous man, Pauli’s dark curls tumbled about his face in an angelic halo that fit his easy-going nature.

“I get the blond this time,” Pauli whispered, skimming up beside Zee and hopping off his board. “Last time you stuck me with the redhead I thought she was going to chew my manly unit off.”

Zee grinned at his brother. “Hey, if I remember right, you begged me to let you have the redhead. I told you they could be tough to handle. But no worries, if you aren’t man enough, I’ll take this one.”

The glare from Pauli’s eyes only made Zee’s grin grow. While the brothers loved each other dearly and would defend one another to the death, they also enjoyed a healthy competition when it came to the fairer sex.

“Hello ladies,” Zee said smoothly, “what are two such lovelies doing unescorted on such a prime day? Perhaps my brother and I should remedy that situation, wouldn’t you agree, Pauli?”

The busty redhead giggled, her augmented breasts practically jiggling out of the tiny scraps of cloth that barely met the decency laws.

“Polly? Isn’t that a girl’s name?” she asked in a whispery lisp.

Zee gave an inward sigh. While it was true that he enjoyed beautiful women, he preferred them to have brains. That particular combo seemed to be in short supply in his life lately. He gave a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah, it sounds girly, but my brother is a pussy, so the name fits. How would you ladies like to join us for dinner and dancing this evening?”

He held out a strong, well-formed hand. “My name is Zee and this handsome loser is my brother Pauli.”

The redhead gave him a limp, weak handshake and giggled again when he brought her hand to his lips and brushed them lightly across its freckled back.

“We’d love to have dinner with you,” answered the blonde. A typical Californian, she sported the requisite long straight hair, even features, even tan, athletic body. A woman interchangeable with a million other young California women.

Zee realized he had grown bored with the state. It was time to move on. Perhaps his father’s directive had come at a good time. At least it gave him a purpose and something to do.

Besides, he’d get to ride his new bike halfway across the country. Thinking of the new motor bike, he smiled and dropped the redhead’s hand.

“Great. Why don’t we meet you cliffside around eight o’clock? We’ll grab something to eat and then hit a couple of the clubs.”

They parted ways, the girls whispering and giggling and looking back over their shoulders as they walked away. The brothers returned to their skim boarding.

“That redhead had a great body, Zee. I almost wish I hadn’t called the blonde. And did you hear her talk? All soft and feminine-like.”

Zee shook his head at his brother, his mouth twisted in disgust. “You have a lot to learn about women, boy-o,” he said, throwing Pauli’s earlier term back at him. “That redhead was about as fake as they come. Fake body, fake voice. I’m already bored with her and the evening hasn’t even started.”

Pauli tucked his board under his arm and eyed his brother speculatively. “What’s wrong with you, Zee? You’re usually full of energy. You love picking up women. You seem sort of . . . flat today.”

“I feel flat. I guess I’m just ready to leave this place. Father’s errand came at a good time, I think. I’ll head out tomorrow. How about you?”

Pauli’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I’m sticking for a while longer. I’ll take the blonde out tonight, but I’ll set up a date with the redhead for later in the week since you don’t want her.”

He punched Zee lightly on a well-formed bicep. “You can always call me if you need any help with the mysterious errand.”

“Yeah, like that will ever happen.”

The brothers smiled at each other good-naturedly. They were very different, and at the same time very close. Best friends as well as brothers.

Feeling better, Zee tossed his skimboard onto the receding surf and leaped on it.

Chapter 3

Pandora slipped through the gap in the wooden fence that separated the rental properties from her own yard. Standing against the fence, she carefully searched the mansion’s treed grounds for movement.

Seeing nothing to alarm her, she ran to the rear entrance and let herself into the mudroom.

Under normal circumstances, the massive Jones mansion, four stories of pale yellow limestone fashioned into round turrets and large, square, sunny rooms, would be far too large for one small woman to occupy.

But Pandora Jones’s circumstances were far from normal.

She removed her cape, scooped the worries from its interior pockets, plopped them into a waiting box, slapped down the cover before the other worries could escape, and kicked of her worn leather boots.

Energy efficient night lights guided her through the mudroom, through the large kitchen and into the front hall.

Here everything changed. Every bit of floor space, with the exception of a narrow path that wound through the mansion’s halls and stairways, was filled from floor to ceiling with boxes of all sizes and flavors except cardboard. Cardboard was a poor material for holding worries and ills.

There were wooden boxes of every size and shape, carved and plain, adorned and unadorned, painted and unpainted. There were boxes made of brass, of silver, stainless steel, galvanized metal, tin, and iron. Boxes of precious jade, celadon, bakelite, Chinese enamel, paper maché. The variety and quantity boggled Pandora’s brain.

Her female ancestors had been slaving to atone for the original Pandora’s carelessness almost since recorded history began. How many of their homes existed around the globe like this one, filled from basement (or dungeon) to ceiling with boxes of worries?

The Pandora women were the ultimate hoarders. But instead of hoarding normal stuff like normal people did—toilet paper, coffee, paper, clothing, books, shoes, clocks—they hoarded something intangible, something that had no substance but possessed the power to affect billions of people.

No wonder she couldn’t find a mate, reflected Pandora as she slipped the newest filled wooden box of worries onto the top of a pile. She took a moment to adjust the pile so it wouldn’t crash over, then made her way back to the kitchen, the only room in the house that had yet to be filled.

Pandora had grown up in the kitchen. By the time she was born most of the mansion had already been filled with boxes. Her great-great-great-great grandmother had migrated to America from Greece and married Warren Jones in the early 1800s. She had then immediately set to work building boxes, and began to methodically fill the attic rooms with the worries she collected each night.

Subsequent generations of Pandoras filled each room, and then each floor, until Pandora and her mother, also named Pandora, were forced to move into the kitchen.

She didn’t mind living in the kitchen. She loved the old red Aga stove imported from England decades before, a stove that kept the kitchen warm and homey, and the pale, limestone fireplace at the opposite end with a sofa and two deep, leather easy chairs placed to capture the fire’s heat on cold winter days.

She loved to sit at the old scarred farm table and drink her tea from a thick pottery mug while she looked out the large rear-facing windows.

Somewhere under all the boxes in the fancy dining room with its punched tin ceiling and artist painted walls was a formal cherry dining set and a matching cherry buffet filled with the family’s best china and silver.

She had no idea when the dining table had last been used. Her mother had pointed out the dining room doorway to Pandora once, but by then the room was stuffed with boxes and the hall path had bypassed it so she’d never actually stepped foot in there.

She stored her meager wardrobe in a lower section of an old, marred walnut buffet that rose to the ceiling and held what were once the servant’s dishes, mixing bowls, and what books had been rescued before the library’s shelves had been blocked with boxes.

Pandora set the tea kettle on the Aga to heat and slipped into her favorite blue and white striped flannel pajamas and heavy wool socks. It took only minutes to heat the water for her favorite peppermint tea.

She carried the steaming mug to one of the leather chairs and sank gracefully into it. Staring into the low-burning fire, inhaling the fragrant scent wafting from the mug, she contemplated her life. It was something she found herself doing too often lately.

Thirty years old. The house was nearly filled. She had no marriage prospects, not even someone she could use to impregnate her and then discard. She had no friends and no family left in the U.S.

Where would she go next? Her mother had always told her not to worry about the future. “The future will take care of itself,” was her mother’s favorite answer when Pandora questioned her about money and what she should do when the house could hold no more worries.

Now her mother was gone. Pandora had one room left to fill, the room she lived in, and the family money was nearly gone as well. Her mother had not planned well, and had left Pandora with few options.

Pathetic. Her life was pathetic and she had nobody to blame but herself. And the original Pandora, of course.

With a heavy sigh, she set down her tea mug on a small table set beside the chair and picked up a fine carving chisel and the block of wood that would soon be a new box.