Novels by Michelle McLaren

Autumn in New York was a sight to behold. The city transformed into a vibrant canvas of reds, oranges, and yellows. For Jane, it was a season of reflection. Each rustling leaf, each breeze seemed to echo her internal turmoil, making her more contemplative than usual.One weekend, she decided to visit the Central Park. Donning a light jacket, she strolled through the park, soaking in the beauty around her. The park was alive with activity – children playing, couples walking hand in hand, and artists capturing the breathtaking scenery on their canvases. She felt a sudden urge to paint – to capture her feelings on a canvas. Finding a quiet spot by the lake, she began to sketch.As she drew, she let her mind wander back to Mike and their last few exchanges. The words 'time' and 'space' had been emphasized, but Jane knew Mike well enough to know that it wasn't indifference. It was contemplation.Lost in thought, she didn’t notice someone approaching her until a familiar voice said, “That's

Months turned into seasons in the bustling city of New York, and Jane felt like she was on an unending roller-coaster ride. Her job was demanding yet fulfilling, her social life was vibrant yet at times overwhelming, and her love for Mike was consuming yet unvoiced. Each day was a unique mix of emotions, challenges, and experiences, and Jane was learning to navigate it all with grace.At work, she was making significant strides. Her art therapy sessions were getting increasingly popular, and she was being recognized for her innovative approaches. She worked tirelessly, putting in hours of research and preparation for each session. Her work, although demanding, brought her immense satisfaction. Each smile, each breakthrough from her patients was a validation of her efforts, fueling her passion further.Alongside her job, Jane was also pursuing a part-time course in Art Therapy. Balancing her studies with her demanding job was no easy feat, but Jane was determined. She pulled long night

As Jane was slowly carving out a new life in New York, she still held onto a piece of home - letters from Mike. Mike had taken to writing her letters, sharing intricate details about their town and friends, his coaching job, and even about his mom's famous apple pie. Each letter was a tangible piece of home, a connection that tethered Jane to her roots.Jane cherished these letters. She would often read and re-read them, drawing comfort from Mike's words. His letters were full of warmth and humor, a reflection of his personality. And every time she read them, her love for him seemed to grow a little more.One letter stood out in particular. Mike wrote about a local music festival they used to attend every year. He described the music, the people, the food stalls - everything in vivid detail. As Jane read the letter, she could almost hear the music, smell the food, and feel the energy of the festival. It was as if, for a brief moment, she was there.Despite her love for Mike, Jane was

As the leaves turned golden and fell to the ground, marking the arrival of autumn in New York City, Jane found herself adjusting to the rhythm of the city. It was a change from the tranquil pace of her hometown, yet she found herself embracing it.The Hope Art Therapy Center where she interned was located in a beautiful brownstone building in Manhattan. It was bustling with activity, a sanctuary of healing for those who sought it. Jane was discovering the power of art in healing, guiding her patients through their journey.At the center, Jane found a mentor in Dr. Harper. He was an experienced therapist, his words of wisdom helping Jane navigate the complexities of their work. Under his guidance, she grew both as a therapist and an individual.Despite her hectic schedule, Jane found time to explore the city. She wandered through the colorful streets of SoHo, strolled in Central Park, and admired the timeless beauty of the Metropolitan Museum. New York City was an eclectic mix of art,

Jane's life in New York was a whirlwind. The city was vibrant, full of life, and bursting with energy. It was vastly different from the quiet, familiar town she had left behind. She started her internship at the Hope Art Therapy Center, immersing herself in her work and the city's unique culture.Her days were filled with new experiences and challenges. She worked with a diverse range of patients, learning to navigate the complexities of art therapy. Her mentor, Dr. Harper, was an experienced therapist who guided her through the process, his wisdom and patience invaluable to Jane.Despite the excitement and the new opportunities, Jane found herself missing Mike. She missed their shared moments, their camaraderie, the familiarity of his presence. She found herself reaching out to him, their conversations filled with shared experiences and new adventures.Mike, on the other hand, was excelling in his role as a soccer coach. He loved his job and was gaining recognition for his dedication

The last year of college came with many challenges, as Jane and Mike were both preparing for their future careers. Yet, they remained each other's pillars of support, navigating the complexities of their academic responsibilities together.Mike's heartbreak over Lisa was slowly healing. He was finding his old rhythm again, his smile returning, his passion for soccer coaching more evident than ever. He appreciated Jane's support and often told her how grateful he was to have her in his life. Jane, on the other hand, held onto her secret love for Mike. She was there for him, comforting him, supporting him, and cheering for him. But every smile, every touch, every shared moment was bittersweet. She loved him, but she could never tell him.One day, Jane received a call from her professor about an internship opportunity at a renowned art therapy center in New York. It was a golden chance to jumpstart her career and gain practical experience in her field. However, it would mean moving away

The day was awash in gold and auburn hues when a crisp parchment arrived at Vincent's door. Abigail watched curiously as he broke the wax seal and unfurled the letter, reading its contents. His eyes widened in surprise, then twinkled with mischief. "What is it?" she inquired."It's an invitation," Vincent responded, showing her the intricately designed card. "To the Masquerade Ball at the Duke’s Château this weekend."Abigail gasped. The allure of a 19th-century masquerade was irresistible. "We must go," she insisted.Vincent nodded in agreement, though his expression had a hint of concern. "It's a grand event with influential attendees. Many will be curious about you, my mysterious companion."She smirked, feeling a surge of excitement. "Then let them be curious. It's a masquerade, after all. Everyone hides behind a mask."Over the next days, they were consumed with preparations. Abigail's anticipation was infectious. Vincent sketched ideas for their costumes, merging his artistic vi

The morning light was creeping in through the small window of the cozy cabin, casting a soft, ethereal glow on the slumbering figures entwined in a warm embrace. The previous day’s shared intimacy had deepened their connection, a bond strengthened by shared smiles, exchanged words, and quiet understandings.Vincent was the first to wake. As his gaze fell upon Abigail, her chest rising and falling gently in peaceful slumber, he marveled at her presence beside him. How an anomaly in time had led her to him was beyond his understanding, but he thanked the heavens nonetheless.He carefully extricated himself from the bed, attempting not to disturb Abigail's slumber. Draping a loose shirt over his bare chest, he moved quietly towards his makeshift studio, where his easel stood under the window, illuminated by the morning light. Picking up his paintbrush, he lost himself in his work, his strokes capturing Abigail's likeness from his vivid memories. An hour passed. The sun had risen higher,

The sun was particularly harsh that day, as if nature itself was protesting against the romance blossoming in the lavender fields of Provence. But neither Abigail nor Vincent seemed to mind. They spent their day like they usually did: Vincent with his canvas, and Abigail, often lost in the captivating beauty of the landscape and her lover's unwavering dedication to his craft.Abigail sat under the shade of a grand olive tree, absorbed in the book she had found in the cabin's petite library. It was a collection of folktales from the region, and she found herself fascinated by the age-old stories of love, betrayal, magic, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. Reading these tales gave her an even deeper appreciation for the era she had stepped into, its rich tapestry of culture and tradition wrapping around her like a well-worn quilt.Vincent, on the other hand, stood out in the sun with his easel and paints. His brushstrokes were deliberate and confident, each one transforming

In the days that followed their reunion, Abigail and Vincent fell into a comfortable routine, with the rhythm of life in 19th century France once again becoming familiar. Vincent would rise early to work on his art, the natural light of the early morning hours his favorite for painting. Abigail, meanwhile, found herself waking later, wrapped in the warm blanket of Vincent's embrace, their nights having been filled with whispered confessions and the rekindling of their love. One morning, Abigail emerged from the bedroom to find Vincent at his easel, completely absorbed in his work. She watched him from the doorway, taking in the sight of him, so immersed in his art that he didn't notice her presence. There was a look of intense concentration on his face as he applied stroke after stroke of vibrant color to the canvas. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tanned and toned forearms, and his hair was ruffled in a way that gave him a boyish charm. As if sensing her gaze, Vince

The sensation of time travel was as disconcerting as ever, an intense tingle crawling up her skin, followed by a sudden gust of wind that swept her off her feet. Abigail found herself amidst the familiar lavender fields of Provence, with the sun setting, casting long shadows over the land. But her eyes were only searching for one person – Vincent.Walking towards his house, her heart pounded with anticipation. The sight of the quaint, old house, surrounded by lavender bushes, evoked a sense of nostalgia and belonging. It was as if she was returning home after a long journey. As she moved closer, she noticed a light flickering inside the house. Her heart fluttered at the prospect of seeing Vincent, and she quickened her pace.Upon reaching the door, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the door knocker. Uncertain and nervous, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for the moment. And then, gathering all her courage, she knocked. The sound echoed in the quiet evening, seeming almost

Abigail found herself in a constant state of restlessness. Sleep eluded her, and she would often spend nights just staring at the magical hourglass. Its sand, stuck in time, mirrored her heart, unable to move on, unable to forget. She longed for Vincent, his comforting presence, his intoxicating scent, and his tender touch. The void he had left seemed impossible to fill, and every moment in her world felt like a punishment.One afternoon, while Abigail was working at the museum, an incident changed everything. She was arranging a new exhibition, focusing on the artwork from the 19th century. Among the artifacts was a portrait of a woman, beautifully painted, capturing the essence of innocence and grace. But what caught Abigail’s attention was the striking resemblance the woman bore to her. The same blue eyes, the same auburn hair, the same smile that Vincent adored. It was like looking into a mirror. She quickly glanced at the signature at the bottom - it was Vincent’s.The realizatio