Love Is Never Past Tense...

Janna Yeshanova

Description

How could he possibly know that she, a complete stranger, would inexplicably affect his life and be with him forever, whether she was at his side or not? This epic story traces two lives across decades and continents. Drawn together in Russia on a romantic Black Sea beach, Serge and Janna fall headlong in love and rush into marriage.

Their divorce, months later, leads to years of "if only..." Pressured apart by family and fate, they repeatedly cross paths, never quite reconnecting, never quite letting go. Changes in the world and their careers cause them to surrender to external influences. Their destinies, shaped by post-Soviet political intrigue, collapse into a struggle for their very survival, and dreams of a better life.

He faces Soviet corruption and self doubt, his life falling toward disaster. She pushes out through Soviet bureaucracy, seeking America with $126 in her pocket, not knowing a soul. Their distant memories of passionate love spawn emails and international calls, reviving an intimate, romantic connection to remind them—and us—that Love is Never Past Tense...

Sujets

• Romance historique
• Fiction
• Romance
• Historical

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 07 novembre 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780983746232
• Langue: English

Extrait

J anna Y eshan o v a


 
 

© 2010 J anna Y eshan o v a
ISBN-13: 978-0-9837462-3-2
 
Second Edition, 2013
 
Published by Life-Spark, LLC
Published in eBook format by Life-Spark, LLC
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
 
All rights rese r v ed.
No pa r t of this book m a y be used or r e produced in any manner whatsoe v er without written pe r mission.
 
F or info r mation, please contact: Life-Spark, LLC
3136 Kingsdale Center # 110
Upper Arlington, OH 43221
ww w .life-spark.com

 
 
 


I would like to express my sincere appreciation to Sergey Yeshanov, who coauthored the Russian edition.
I am extending my greatest thanks to my dear friend Jay Elkes, who was constantly by my side providing unwavering support. Without this person, the world of many people would be bleak.
My never ending thankfulness to my friend Seldar Atamov, whose priceless support was and is so significant for me and many others.
My sincere thanks to Kimm Nordman, who helped me with the Russian/English translation. We shared much laughter, tears and encouragement during our editing and birthing of this book. She gave her time and energy through many long days and nights to ensure I kept true to my story.
Melanie Martin-Jones, who not only helped me register the copyright in the book, but also informally advised me of many facets of publishing.  Unable to put down the unedited first draft, she gave invaluable inspiration. Thank you, Melanie.
I offer my eternal gratitude to my friend, Becky Jarvis, who made a huge input in the final polish of the text.
And I have to say Thank You, Lina, for your support, advice and friendship to my lifelong friend Lina Braykowskaya, who now lives in Israel.
Many thanks to my friend from Simferopol, Ukraine Dr. Yuri Kulish, who found for me the picture with this boundless sky for the cover of the first edition compensating the photographer with two bottles of vodka.
And I am so lucky to be able to find an outstanding graphic designer for the second edition cover, David Tonkin from Australia. I offer my gratitude for your being so comprehensive in collecting and expressing the epic scope of the novel. Thank you, David!
One more person! John Ondo with Ondo Media! My thanks to you, John, for the YouTube book trailer that everybody likes so much!
I am sure the word “thanks” doesn’t have the capacity to appreciate all my friends all over the world for standing by me now, before and, I hope, after.
 
Thanks for opening my book.
 
Janna Yeshanova, 2013
Part One

How It All Began

The old man sat on the stern of the boat, lowering his thin, wiry legs into the water. They were approaching the end of their days faster than their owner: the veins that had survived the surgeries had become a bluish, knotted spider web. The old man’s feet were always cold, even during warm weather. But now the seawater, warmed by the sun, stroked them, pleasing him.
He had already been sitting like this for fifteen minutes, slowly moving the soles of his feet, every now and then dangling them over the water and then lowering them into the waves nearly lapping over the edge of the boat. It was quiet. The sun was shining high above the old man’s head, casting its heat on his shoulders and the nape of his neck. It was time to turn the boat around, but he knew that soon enough the slow waves would eliminate the need, directing his vessel so that his back would face the sun. He could have sat at the bow of the boat, but then his feet wouldn't have reached the water. Besides, sitting like that wouldn’t have been comfortable at all. What exactly is the point of these needless actions anyway, when time inexorably draws him to an event, the sole purpose of which he had sailed here? It was supposed to happen at sunset; when the sun dips down to meet the sea's horizon. This is what he had decided.
But now the sun was reaching its zenith, leaving him with an overabundance of time. He sat calmly, relishing his solitude …
 
***
 
Long ago, there was a similar boat. A young and virile man rowed confidently, deliberately moving his female satellite away from the beach and the shrill sounds of a multitude of tourists. She reclined on the boat's stern, her long legs stretched out and her hands clasped behind her head. In this position her breasts achieved monstrous proportions. Once in a while, she bent towards the stern of the boat and lowered her palm into the water, enjoying how it streamed through her fingers. Of course, sitting on the narrow bench was not very comfortable, and she was constantly shifting positions, as if to tease him. Her breasts seemed to squeeze out of her swimsuit, evidently lacking a proper-sized container. Now and then she would adjust her top, tugging it up a bit higher, but sometimes she would forget, and the tips of her brown nipples would peek out, sending him into a frenzy. He strained at the oars, trying to exhaust his sexual energy; but, alas, his efforts were futile. As soon as they had moved far enough away from the shore, of course, he intended to move closer to her, and just let whatever was to happen, happen …
Yet she sat calmly, completely oblivious to the rower—to her, it was a pleasant ride, nothing more. Sensing this, the oarsman wondered whether they would actually return to the shore in such an inglorious fashion. He had to surprise her, or at least interest her, for heaven’s sake. But not a single word came to mind. On a schoolboy’s impulse (that's essentially what he was, anyway), he suddenly got up and dove overboard. He wasn't a bad swimmer and was an even better diver, able to hold his breath for a long time underwater. Even now, he effortlessly reached the bottom. It was not deep—just five or six meters . Once at the bottom, he clung to a rock and waited as long as his lungs would allow. He and his buddies from diving class had always competed to see who could stay submerged the longest. He'd won every time, usually holding out for more than three minutes …
At last, he could feel his chest tightening—he knew this was the signal to return to the surface. If you wait too long, you might not resurface, since you can momentarily lose consciousness. That’s what their diving coach taught them. No one, of course, tried to prove him wrong. He released the rock and wound his way back to the boat, now a dark silhouette hanging picturesquely in the silver sky of the water—so seems the sea surface looking up from its depths. Purposely, he carefully emerged from the water at the nose of the boat, keeping himself hidden. Occasionally, he stole a glance at his companion, whose own gaze was fixed on the dark green waters. It was evident: worry was overtaking her. Having achieved his goal, he dove back down and immediately resurfaced right in front of her face, his wide smile expressing satisfaction. But instead of petting his long, disheveled hair, she again reclined, reminding him that it was time to return the boat to the shore; the time for their boat’s rental was coming to a close. He scurried back on board and slowly started moving the oars, but the water seemed to thicken as if feeling his desire not to return to the shore.
 
***
 
During their first three days together, Serge (as they called our hero at the time) was the quieter of the two, once in a while muttering some insignificant phrases. The first time he saw her, he silently followed her for a long time. She walked along easily, shifting her long, rather well-proportioned legs. Her thin leather skirt swung from side to side, barely hiding her shapely hips. A green blouse tightly covered her beautifully straight back. All the while, Serge followed her like she was a vision, lacking the courage to come closer or to back away. He knew that making her acquaintance was a long shot; she was simply out of his league. How could he possibly know that she, a complete stranger, would inexplicably impact his life and be with him forever, whether she was at his side or not?
 
***
 
The awkwardly over-sized and battered ship wheezed as it fought its way through the waves. Inside the ship, something screeched and grumbled as if it were suffering from indigestion, but its motor blades diligently ground away at the water, leaving a long foamy trail in their wake. It had serviced workers daily over the years, providing transport to Oil Rock s , a legendary man-made island. Groups of student interns, Serge among them, would stare into the line of the horizon, hoping to be the first to witness this world wonder . Eventually, someone would exclaim, "I see it!” Everyone focused their eyes on the line between the sea and the sky, where they could see a barely noticeable dot. Soon the dot multiplied into many. They were spread out over the sea and, as one came closer, the contours of oil towers became apparent. The view was breathtaking, and became even more so when the scaffolding joining the oil towers together became clear. Half of the sea seemed woven together by a metallic spider web—in such a romantic place, destiny directed our heroes.
Half an hour later, the ship slumped to the pier with difficulty. The student interns grabbed their suitcases and quickly exited down the ramp onto the dock. Hardened oil workers, who made this voyage daily for work, followed them down the ramp onto the island. They swapped jokes as they passed by with those who were waiting to board. The appearance of these dark-skinned men, bodies permeated with petroleum, speaking an incomprehensible Azerbaijani language, combined with the gusty but warm wind and the hot sun hanging in the clear sky, created a colorful panorama, and expectations of spectacular adventures on this island tossed so far from the sea's shore. What was there not to like? The long waves of the Caspian Sea rolled beneath the dock; the green palisades were planted in wide vats with soil; and the tea-house, whose outer walls were overrun by grape vines, housed p