Tarot Haunting
“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” ―Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
Prologue
0
The Fool
Cassandra Angelica Visconti, born in a picturesque New England town, grew up in an overprotective home. Her parents showed their love by sheltering her from what they considered a dangerous world.
While the five-letter word worry aptly described her mother, regardless of feeling happy or angry, her father stoically hid his emotions.
From her childhood onward, her parents didn’t encourage their only child to voice opinions or question their dogmatic values. Devout in their religious faith, they worked hard and made financial sacrifices in order to send their daughter to Catholic schools.
From as early as Cassandra could remember, everyone called her Cassie. Yet her middle name, Angelica, better described her. A studious child she excelled in her studies. With both parents working, she spent a great deal of time alone. All through grade school and high school, she obeyed her parents by coming directly home from classes. She didn’t protest when they told her she couldn’t invite friends to their home. Truth was she didn’t have many friends. Homely in appearance, taller than her peers, she wore thick lens glasses. Following her mother’s instruction Cassie parted her curly hair down the center of her head and make long braids on either side.
On Sundays, donning her plaid school uniform or the unflattering matronly clothes her mother insisted she wear, classmates teased her. During the week, not belonging to any cliques, she didn’t linger in the school yard. On warm days, she didn’t ride a bike or hang out at the seashore. Rather than risking ridicule, it felt safer to stay in the house completing homework assignments, doing chores, and reading until her mother returned from her office.
Together they prepared dinner.
“Where did you learn to cook?” Cassie asked more than once.
“From your great grandmother, Teresa.”
Cassie never tired of hearing her favorite story. “When did that happen?”
“I was nineteen when I married your dad. Days after our wedding, the military deployed him in the Middle East. With the ‘Tanker War’ going on in the Persian Gulf, I was beside myself with worry. To make matters worse, while he was gone, I discovered I was pregnant. Having a difficult time with morning sickness, I became depressed.
“Your dad’s grandmother invited me to live with her. She pretended she was lonely and wanted company. I knew she took pity on me. To get my mind off missing your dad she gave me cooking lessons. A true challenge since I didn’t even know how to boil an egg. She was a wonderful Italian cook and generously shared her old world recipes.”
As an adolescent, tucked away in the privacy of her room, Cassie enjoyed reading historical novels. Her favorites were set in beautiful castles, palaces, and mansions. Enthralled by the few stories she had heard about her great grandmother, Cassie searched the library for books about Italy’s bygone days. From pages describing colorful fictional as well as real personalities, Cassie fabricated daydreams where she was a heroine falling passionately in love with a handsome hero.
In college, she didn’t share most young ladies’ fascination with fashion and men. Thus, she didn’t fit in with her contemporaries. Cassie didn’t get caught up with fads. She continued to defer to her mother when shopping for clothes. Certain she’d be rejected, she didn’t try out for a sorority. She wasn’t asked out on dates or invited to campus parties. She usually spent Saturday nights with good books. She rationalized by telling herself the young men she saw on campus paled in comparison to the dashing supermen she encountered in the stories she read.
After graduating, she attended postgraduate school where she earned a doctor of philosophy degree in history. Through those years, she repeated her isolating pattern.
In contrast to the glamorous females she admired in novels, Cassie’s appearance reflected her conservative perspective. Although she purchased her own clothes, they resembled her mother’s solid, dark, loose fitting slacks and blouses. Her footwear either black or brown was flat and plain. She continued wearing glasses. She didn’t apply make-up to her olive complexion. Frustrated by her coarse, unruly hair she merely pulled it back into a tight bun.
At age twenty-nine, her life was stable and her parents were proud of her. More importantly, they respected Cassie.
She rented a one-bedroom apartment in New York City. To help her set up home, her relatives graciously gave her their discarded furnishings. Although she earned enough money to purchase new items she felt obliged to keep the things other people had given her.
With only a few hours to her parents’ home, she frequently spent weekends visiting them.
During the last several years, Cassie established a definite routine: rising at six thirty, showering, drying her hair, dressing, eating a bowl of wheat cereal, and taking the subway to her workplace. Employed by a private research firm, she shared the third floor space with a team of historians. Most often, the area was deafeningly quiet.
Her supervisor, Mrs. Jansen, had an impersonal managing style. She usually communicated via email. Cassie appreciated the precise details provided for each assignment. All day long, sequestered to her tiny cubical she examined articles and prepared reports for university studies, and private individuals needing facts for their nonfiction works.
One morning the phone on Cassie’s desk rang. Its shrillness startled her and the other historians.
“Come to my office ASAP,” her supervisor requested.
Cassie immediately worried. Had she messed up in some way?
She clicked off her computer, briskly walked to the end of the hall, and knocked on Mrs. Jansen’s door before entering.
In an atypical, friendly tone, Mrs. Jansen instructed, “Please, take a seat.”
Cassie sat on an uncomfortable chair opposite the smiling woman.
“I have a special project for you.”
Cassie felt a sense of relief.
“Our client, Mr. Jared Ashbel, the creator of the popular television program Fact or Truth is planning an exposé on the occult usurping the true meaning of tarot cards. You’ll work closely with him and his staff until he has enough historical data to fill a lengthy segment.”
The mention of tarot caused a resurgence of anxiety to churn within Cassie.
Mrs. Jansen continued, “Instead of your regular salary, Mr. Ashbel will be paying you a substantial monthly wage. And at the conclusion of the assignment he intends to give you a sizable bonus.”
Regardless of the extra money, Cassie felt she shouldn’t delve into tarot. An excuse flew from her lips. “I’m at a critical juncture in the study you gave me two weeks ago. I simply can’t take on any more work.”
“Send me all your files. I’ll complete the report.” Mrs. Jansen asked, “Do you know much about tarot?”
Cassie shook her head from side to side thinking, She knew as a Catholic she shouldn’t be interested in it.
“Mr. Ashbel specifically requested you,” Mrs. Jansen shrugged her shoulders, “but he wouldn’t disclose why.”
Like a tug of war, two sides of Cassie pulled to gain dominance. One side warned she should refuse the assignment even if it meant losing her position. The other side promised the task would be a stimulating adventure.
She listened to Mrs. Jansen, “Mr. Ashbel is an important client. He’s a man I wouldn’t dream of disappointing. I suggest you spend the rest of the day doing a little background work before you report to the television station tomorrow.”
She handed Cassie an envelope. “You’ll find the details of where, when, and whom to report to in here.”
With mixed emotions and shaky hands, Cassie returned to her desk. While she uploaded the files of her present assignment and emailed them to her supervisor, Cassie recalled, the day of her job interview.
Her first time in New York City, she arrived three hours early for her appointment. While waiting, she decided to wander through the exhibition halls of the nearby Morgan Library and Museum. Too nervous to pay attention to most displays she suddenly froze. Her eyes fixed on the Visconti-Sforza tarot cards. Their brilliantly painted images survived from the fifteenth century.
She quickly learned they originated in Milan, Italy and comprised one of the oldest tarot card decks. Absorbed in her discovery, Cassie lost track of time. When she glanced at her watch, she dashed out of the museum, ran through the streets, entered the tall building, and took the elevator to her destination.
Minutes later, a panel of experts drilled her on research strategies and statistical paradigms.
Once the grueling interview was over, rather than thinking about her responses, her mind drifted to the tarot cards she had viewed earlier. She wondered, Why hadn’t someone in her family mentioned them?
Cassie stopped at a cafe, ordered coffee, and called her parents’ home.
Her mother immediately asked, “How’d the interview go?”
“I won’t know for a couple of days.”
“I’m sure you did well.”
“Thanks for your confidence. Hope you’re right.”
“What do you think of the big city?”
“It’s an amazing place filled with surprises.” Cassie described her trip to the museum and asked, “Mom, did you ever hear of the Visconti-Sforza tarot cards?”
“Don’t even look at them. Tarot cards are evil.”
“They were originally made in the 1440s for the Duke of Milan’s court.”
Her mother’s voice was firm and definite, “The Catholic Church forbids us to believe in divining or any form of fortunetelling.”
“The cards weren’t intended for those purposes. Although classified as playing cards it’s believed they were designed as an enlightening experience for pilgrims seeking spiritual understanding.”
Her mother pleaded, “Promise you’ll forget the cards.”
Cassie knew it wise to reply, “Sure, Mom.”
Once she moved to New York City, Cassie revisited the Morgan Library and Museum. At the gift shop, she purchased a duplicate deck of the Visconti tarot cards. That night she admired the exquisite illustrations painted by famous Renaissance artists. On the Major Arcana or triumphs, numbered zero through twenty-one, she noticed visual references to Visconti family traditions.
Cassie’s heart pounded. She longed to understand the many symbols contained on each card.
A feeling of guilt washed over her. She put the cards back in their box. She placed the box on the top shelf of her coat closet.
Wanting to obey her mother, Cassie tried to forget them.
Despite her attempts, tarot seemed to haunt her.
Ads popped up in newspapers and magazines advertising fortunetellers who read tarot cards.
On a street near her apartment, neon lights flashed Tarot Readings.
In the break room, a group of coworkers asked Cassie to join them. “We’re having a tarot party and invited a card romancer. She does incredible readings.” Without giving a reason, Cassie declined the invitation.
On many a night, Cassie dreamed of the complex images colorfully adorning the twenty-two Major Arcana. She often wondered how the occult derailed the tarot from its holy path and placed tarot down a dark road.
She jokingly referred to her assorted thoughts as personal dialogues with tarot’s ghost. She felt a calling from this mythical spirit to vindicate the cards and eradicate the decks’ tarnished reputation.
With her present assignment of researching the mysterious decks, Cassie felt an uncanny exhilaration. Because of her Visconti heritage, she felt destined to uncover the truth about tarot. She also, felt a longing to embrace researching the decks in order to proclaim their original intentions.
She read various interpretations of the cards. Most commentators agreed, their symbols transcend ordinary realities and offer a connection to another dimension. Religious scholars pointed to biblical revelations. Some claimed the cards provide a pathway straight to God.
From a psychological perspective, individual interpretations could focus on a few of the multiple symbols to illuminate inner conflicts.
Jungian interpretations explained the cards as brain pictures drawn from the collective unconscious and representing archetypical figures.
She reviewed several decks. The most popular was the Rider-Waite tarot deck. She read The Church of Yahweh’s website. With an emphasis on Christian imagery, it contained detailed and fascinating interpretations of these particular cards. Ironically, by the time Arthur Edward Waite had illustrator Pamela Colman Smith copy the images, the cards had taken on a fortunetelling mystique.
Cassie scanned and saved each card in a file.
She couldn’t imagine why Jared Ashbel, the famous television personality, hired anyone to provide tarot information. The internet contained scores of articles, books, blogs, and websites filled with interpretive materials and artistic commentaries regarding the many decks.
She laughed at how people misused tarot in silly ways from illustrating them with Disney characters to the devil. Again, she wondered how the misguided use of the cards, namely fortunetelling, was popularly associated with the original decks.
In her mind, she asked her tarot’s phantom ghost, Did the occult innocently borrow the concept of the cards, merely because they were available? Hundreds of years after the cards’ creation, did the occult intentionally steal tarot and wage a campaign to defame the original intent of the cards, cloud their holy symbols, and distort the value of the cards?
She thought of something she first learned in grammar school and relearned many times since, God created only good.
In general, evil didn’t create anything. Rather, it took what was good and transformed it into negativity.
Cassie felt the occult’s transformed decks were a malevolent mockery of the original and almost sacred tarot cards.
She scribbled notes. She felt comfortable doing her job of compiling data. Like other assignments, Cassie didn’t have to agree or disagree with information. All she had to do was research other people’s opinions.
This assignment felt different. Emotions flooded her. She needed to separate her feelings, her beliefs, from objective research.
Cassie studied an image of the first Major Arcana. It was numbered zero and named the Fool.
One theological interpretation explained the card captures the moment of silence before God created the universe.
The card symbolized endless possibilities.
She chuckled. The card seemed to predict her situation. At this stage, she had no idea where her upcoming assignment would lead.
Mrs. Jansen stopped by Cassie’s desk. “Best you leave for the day. I wouldn’t want you tuckered out when you report to the folks at the television station.”
Cassie didn’t hesitate to follow her supervisor’s suggestion.
Upon entering her apartment, Cassie opened her coat closet and reached up for her deck of the Visconti-Sforza tarot cards. Using Roman numerals instead of Hebrew ones, these cards had nothing to do with Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism.
She sat at the mahogany dining room table. It had belonged to her great grandmother, Teresa. She stroked the distinctive grain and envisioned its surface covered with delicious food.
She removed the card labeled 0, The Fool. She studied it and wondered, Are the seven pens in his hair a reference to the seven days it took the Lord to create the universe?
She read about the Fool standing on the edge of a cliff. It could represent someone apart from the community, someone a bit mad.
She held the card over her heart, closed her eyes, and thought.
Was she stepping off the edge of her trouble free world?
Was she about to betray her religious foundation?
Was she committing to a trickster’s venture?
Was she a fool detouring from establishment’s religious roots?
Regardless of her questions, she felt determined to conduct a methodical investigation. She felt ready to take the first step and commit to a questionable journey.”
She walked across the room and stared into an antique beveled mirror over the fireplace. Her great aunt Josephine had given it to her. Cassie cherished the heirloom. She wondered about the many faces that peered into the reflecting glass. Had other relatives taken unnecessary risks or had they conservatively lived pragmatic lives?
As she peered at her image, she thought about the origin of her name.
Greek mythology introduces Cassandra as the daughter of Trojan King Priam and Queen Hecuba. Legend claims Apollo felt attracted to Cassandra’s beauty. In order to seduce her he gave her the gift of prophecy. When she refused to be intimate with him, he felt cheated, angry, and vengeful. Spewing forth his rage, he placed a curse on Cassandra. Although her prophecies were true, no one believed them. Instead, many people considered Cassandra insane.
Like the pictured mythical Cassandra, Cassie also had dark brown, curly hair and brown eyes. She wondered if she too was crazy.
She told herself, “Maybe I’m a fool, because I’ve decided to commit to an undefined challenge. Maybe I’m mad, because I’m ready to jump off a predictable existence into an unknown life changing spiritual journey.
She wondered, Maybe even if her findings were true, no one would believe them.
A burning excitement convinced her to delve heart, mind, and soul into this venture.
She mused, Just maybe she was called to be what her other Greek name, Angelica implies: a messenger of God.
Want to read more? viewBook.at/TarotHaunting
“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” ―Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
Prologue
0
The Fool
Cassandra Angelica Visconti, born in a picturesque New England town, grew up in an overprotective home. Her parents showed their love by sheltering her from what they considered a dangerous world.
While the five-letter word worry aptly described her mother, regardless of feeling happy or angry, her father stoically hid his emotions.
From her childhood onward, her parents didn’t encourage their only child to voice opinions or question their dogmatic values. Devout in their religious faith, they worked hard and made financial sacrifices in order to send their daughter to Catholic schools.
From as early as Cassandra could remember, everyone called her Cassie. Yet her middle name, Angelica, better described her. A studious child she excelled in her studies. With both parents working, she spent a great deal of time alone. All through grade school and high school, she obeyed her parents by coming directly home from classes. She didn’t protest when they told her she couldn’t invite friends to their home. Truth was she didn’t have many friends. Homely in appearance, taller than her peers, she wore thick lens glasses. Following her mother’s instruction Cassie parted her curly hair down the center of her head and make long braids on either side.
On Sundays, donning her plaid school uniform or the unflattering matronly clothes her mother insisted she wear, classmates teased her. During the week, not belonging to any cliques, she didn’t linger in the school yard. On warm days, she didn’t ride a bike or hang out at the seashore. Rather than risking ridicule, it felt safer to stay in the house completing homework assignments, doing chores, and reading until her mother returned from her office.
Together they prepared dinner.
“Where did you learn to cook?” Cassie asked more than once.
“From your great grandmother, Teresa.”
Cassie never tired of hearing her favorite story. “When did that happen?”
“I was nineteen when I married your dad. Days after our wedding, the military deployed him in the Middle East. With the ‘Tanker War’ going on in the Persian Gulf, I was beside myself with worry. To make matters worse, while he was gone, I discovered I was pregnant. Having a difficult time with morning sickness, I became depressed.
“Your dad’s grandmother invited me to live with her. She pretended she was lonely and wanted company. I knew she took pity on me. To get my mind off missing your dad she gave me cooking lessons. A true challenge since I didn’t even know how to boil an egg. She was a wonderful Italian cook and generously shared her old world recipes.”
As an adolescent, tucked away in the privacy of her room, Cassie enjoyed reading historical novels. Her favorites were set in beautiful castles, palaces, and mansions. Enthralled by the few stories she had heard about her great grandmother, Cassie searched the library for books about Italy’s bygone days. From pages describing colorful fictional as well as real personalities, Cassie fabricated daydreams where she was a heroine falling passionately in love with a handsome hero.
In college, she didn’t share most young ladies’ fascination with fashion and men. Thus, she didn’t fit in with her contemporaries. Cassie didn’t get caught up with fads. She continued to defer to her mother when shopping for clothes. Certain she’d be rejected, she didn’t try out for a sorority. She wasn’t asked out on dates or invited to campus parties. She usually spent Saturday nights with good books. She rationalized by telling herself the young men she saw on campus paled in comparison to the dashing supermen she encountered in the stories she read.
After graduating, she attended postgraduate school where she earned a doctor of philosophy degree in history. Through those years, she repeated her isolating pattern.
In contrast to the glamorous females she admired in novels, Cassie’s appearance reflected her conservative perspective. Although she purchased her own clothes, they resembled her mother’s solid, dark, loose fitting slacks and blouses. Her footwear either black or brown was flat and plain. She continued wearing glasses. She didn’t apply make-up to her olive complexion. Frustrated by her coarse, unruly hair she merely pulled it back into a tight bun.
At age twenty-nine, her life was stable and her parents were proud of her. More importantly, they respected Cassie.
She rented a one-bedroom apartment in New York City. To help her set up home, her relatives graciously gave her their discarded furnishings. Although she earned enough money to purchase new items she felt obliged to keep the things other people had given her.
With only a few hours to her parents’ home, she frequently spent weekends visiting them.
During the last several years, Cassie established a definite routine: rising at six thirty, showering, drying her hair, dressing, eating a bowl of wheat cereal, and taking the subway to her workplace. Employed by a private research firm, she shared the third floor space with a team of historians. Most often, the area was deafeningly quiet.
Her supervisor, Mrs. Jansen, had an impersonal managing style. She usually communicated via email. Cassie appreciated the precise details provided for each assignment. All day long, sequestered to her tiny cubical she examined articles and prepared reports for university studies, and private individuals needing facts for their nonfiction works.
One morning the phone on Cassie’s desk rang. Its shrillness startled her and the other historians.
“Come to my office ASAP,” her supervisor requested.
Cassie immediately worried. Had she messed up in some way?
She clicked off her computer, briskly walked to the end of the hall, and knocked on Mrs. Jansen’s door before entering.
In an atypical, friendly tone, Mrs. Jansen instructed, “Please, take a seat.”
Cassie sat on an uncomfortable chair opposite the smiling woman.
“I have a special project for you.”
Cassie felt a sense of relief.
“Our client, Mr. Jared Ashbel, the creator of the popular television program Fact or Truth is planning an exposé on the occult usurping the true meaning of tarot cards. You’ll work closely with him and his staff until he has enough historical data to fill a lengthy segment.”
The mention of tarot caused a resurgence of anxiety to churn within Cassie.
Mrs. Jansen continued, “Instead of your regular salary, Mr. Ashbel will be paying you a substantial monthly wage. And at the conclusion of the assignment he intends to give you a sizable bonus.”
Regardless of the extra money, Cassie felt she shouldn’t delve into tarot. An excuse flew from her lips. “I’m at a critical juncture in the study you gave me two weeks ago. I simply can’t take on any more work.”
“Send me all your files. I’ll complete the report.” Mrs. Jansen asked, “Do you know much about tarot?”
Cassie shook her head from side to side thinking, She knew as a Catholic she shouldn’t be interested in it.
“Mr. Ashbel specifically requested you,” Mrs. Jansen shrugged her shoulders, “but he wouldn’t disclose why.”
Like a tug of war, two sides of Cassie pulled to gain dominance. One side warned she should refuse the assignment even if it meant losing her position. The other side promised the task would be a stimulating adventure.
She listened to Mrs. Jansen, “Mr. Ashbel is an important client. He’s a man I wouldn’t dream of disappointing. I suggest you spend the rest of the day doing a little background work before you report to the television station tomorrow.”
She handed Cassie an envelope. “You’ll find the details of where, when, and whom to report to in here.”
With mixed emotions and shaky hands, Cassie returned to her desk. While she uploaded the files of her present assignment and emailed them to her supervisor, Cassie recalled, the day of her job interview.
Her first time in New York City, she arrived three hours early for her appointment. While waiting, she decided to wander through the exhibition halls of the nearby Morgan Library and Museum. Too nervous to pay attention to most displays she suddenly froze. Her eyes fixed on the Visconti-Sforza tarot cards. Their brilliantly painted images survived from the fifteenth century.
She quickly learned they originated in Milan, Italy and comprised one of the oldest tarot card decks. Absorbed in her discovery, Cassie lost track of time. When she glanced at her watch, she dashed out of the museum, ran through the streets, entered the tall building, and took the elevator to her destination.
Minutes later, a panel of experts drilled her on research strategies and statistical paradigms.
Once the grueling interview was over, rather than thinking about her responses, her mind drifted to the tarot cards she had viewed earlier. She wondered, Why hadn’t someone in her family mentioned them?
Cassie stopped at a cafe, ordered coffee, and called her parents’ home.
Her mother immediately asked, “How’d the interview go?”
“I won’t know for a couple of days.”
“I’m sure you did well.”
“Thanks for your confidence. Hope you’re right.”
“What do you think of the big city?”
“It’s an amazing place filled with surprises.” Cassie described her trip to the museum and asked, “Mom, did you ever hear of the Visconti-Sforza tarot cards?”
“Don’t even look at them. Tarot cards are evil.”
“They were originally made in the 1440s for the Duke of Milan’s court.”
Her mother’s voice was firm and definite, “The Catholic Church forbids us to believe in divining or any form of fortunetelling.”
“The cards weren’t intended for those purposes. Although classified as playing cards it’s believed they were designed as an enlightening experience for pilgrims seeking spiritual understanding.”
Her mother pleaded, “Promise you’ll forget the cards.”
Cassie knew it wise to reply, “Sure, Mom.”
Once she moved to New York City, Cassie revisited the Morgan Library and Museum. At the gift shop, she purchased a duplicate deck of the Visconti tarot cards. That night she admired the exquisite illustrations painted by famous Renaissance artists. On the Major Arcana or triumphs, numbered zero through twenty-one, she noticed visual references to Visconti family traditions.
Cassie’s heart pounded. She longed to understand the many symbols contained on each card.
A feeling of guilt washed over her. She put the cards back in their box. She placed the box on the top shelf of her coat closet.
Wanting to obey her mother, Cassie tried to forget them.
Despite her attempts, tarot seemed to haunt her.
Ads popped up in newspapers and magazines advertising fortunetellers who read tarot cards.
On a street near her apartment, neon lights flashed Tarot Readings.
In the break room, a group of coworkers asked Cassie to join them. “We’re having a tarot party and invited a card romancer. She does incredible readings.” Without giving a reason, Cassie declined the invitation.
On many a night, Cassie dreamed of the complex images colorfully adorning the twenty-two Major Arcana. She often wondered how the occult derailed the tarot from its holy path and placed tarot down a dark road.
She jokingly referred to her assorted thoughts as personal dialogues with tarot’s ghost. She felt a calling from this mythical spirit to vindicate the cards and eradicate the decks’ tarnished reputation.
With her present assignment of researching the mysterious decks, Cassie felt an uncanny exhilaration. Because of her Visconti heritage, she felt destined to uncover the truth about tarot. She also, felt a longing to embrace researching the decks in order to proclaim their original intentions.
She read various interpretations of the cards. Most commentators agreed, their symbols transcend ordinary realities and offer a connection to another dimension. Religious scholars pointed to biblical revelations. Some claimed the cards provide a pathway straight to God.
From a psychological perspective, individual interpretations could focus on a few of the multiple symbols to illuminate inner conflicts.
Jungian interpretations explained the cards as brain pictures drawn from the collective unconscious and representing archetypical figures.
She reviewed several decks. The most popular was the Rider-Waite tarot deck. She read The Church of Yahweh’s website. With an emphasis on Christian imagery, it contained detailed and fascinating interpretations of these particular cards. Ironically, by the time Arthur Edward Waite had illustrator Pamela Colman Smith copy the images, the cards had taken on a fortunetelling mystique.
Cassie scanned and saved each card in a file.
She couldn’t imagine why Jared Ashbel, the famous television personality, hired anyone to provide tarot information. The internet contained scores of articles, books, blogs, and websites filled with interpretive materials and artistic commentaries regarding the many decks.
She laughed at how people misused tarot in silly ways from illustrating them with Disney characters to the devil. Again, she wondered how the misguided use of the cards, namely fortunetelling, was popularly associated with the original decks.
In her mind, she asked her tarot’s phantom ghost, Did the occult innocently borrow the concept of the cards, merely because they were available? Hundreds of years after the cards’ creation, did the occult intentionally steal tarot and wage a campaign to defame the original intent of the cards, cloud their holy symbols, and distort the value of the cards?
She thought of something she first learned in grammar school and relearned many times since, God created only good.
In general, evil didn’t create anything. Rather, it took what was good and transformed it into negativity.
Cassie felt the occult’s transformed decks were a malevolent mockery of the original and almost sacred tarot cards.
She scribbled notes. She felt comfortable doing her job of compiling data. Like other assignments, Cassie didn’t have to agree or disagree with information. All she had to do was research other people’s opinions.
This assignment felt different. Emotions flooded her. She needed to separate her feelings, her beliefs, from objective research.
Cassie studied an image of the first Major Arcana. It was numbered zero and named the Fool.
One theological interpretation explained the card captures the moment of silence before God created the universe.
The card symbolized endless possibilities.
She chuckled. The card seemed to predict her situation. At this stage, she had no idea where her upcoming assignment would lead.
Mrs. Jansen stopped by Cassie’s desk. “Best you leave for the day. I wouldn’t want you tuckered out when you report to the folks at the television station.”
Cassie didn’t hesitate to follow her supervisor’s suggestion.
Upon entering her apartment, Cassie opened her coat closet and reached up for her deck of the Visconti-Sforza tarot cards. Using Roman numerals instead of Hebrew ones, these cards had nothing to do with Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism.
She sat at the mahogany dining room table. It had belonged to her great grandmother, Teresa. She stroked the distinctive grain and envisioned its surface covered with delicious food.
She removed the card labeled 0, The Fool. She studied it and wondered, Are the seven pens in his hair a reference to the seven days it took the Lord to create the universe?
She read about the Fool standing on the edge of a cliff. It could represent someone apart from the community, someone a bit mad.
She held the card over her heart, closed her eyes, and thought.
Was she stepping off the edge of her trouble free world?
Was she about to betray her religious foundation?
Was she committing to a trickster’s venture?
Was she a fool detouring from establishment’s religious roots?
Regardless of her questions, she felt determined to conduct a methodical investigation. She felt ready to take the first step and commit to a questionable journey.”
She walked across the room and stared into an antique beveled mirror over the fireplace. Her great aunt Josephine had given it to her. Cassie cherished the heirloom. She wondered about the many faces that peered into the reflecting glass. Had other relatives taken unnecessary risks or had they conservatively lived pragmatic lives?
As she peered at her image, she thought about the origin of her name.
Greek mythology introduces Cassandra as the daughter of Trojan King Priam and Queen Hecuba. Legend claims Apollo felt attracted to Cassandra’s beauty. In order to seduce her he gave her the gift of prophecy. When she refused to be intimate with him, he felt cheated, angry, and vengeful. Spewing forth his rage, he placed a curse on Cassandra. Although her prophecies were true, no one believed them. Instead, many people considered Cassandra insane.
Like the pictured mythical Cassandra, Cassie also had dark brown, curly hair and brown eyes. She wondered if she too was crazy.
She told herself, “Maybe I’m a fool, because I’ve decided to commit to an undefined challenge. Maybe I’m mad, because I’m ready to jump off a predictable existence into an unknown life changing spiritual journey.
She wondered, Maybe even if her findings were true, no one would believe them.
A burning excitement convinced her to delve heart, mind, and soul into this venture.
She mused, Just maybe she was called to be what her other Greek name, Angelica implies: a messenger of God.
Want to read more? viewBook.at/TarotHaunting
Between the Vines: a memoir
Non ci ricordiamo dei giorni, ci ricordiamo dei moment--an Italian Proverb
We do not remember days, we remember moments.
Chapter One Infancy (As told to me by Mama and Papa)
Under radiant sunbeams, my mama, Rosa swelled with expectant life. With tender affection, she rubbed her rounded tummy.
“I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and show you our land.” Her eyes perused the planted rows. “These vines nurtured by your papa produce luscious grapes.”
She sighed with deep emotion. “And you, my precious little one, are a reflection of your parents’ abiding love.”
While Rosa walked between the vines, warm rays penetrated the soil. The pleasant spring temperature stirred water collected in grapevine roots, urging it to travel to the tips of pruned limbs.
Throughout the vineyard, Rosa searched for signs of the ’bleeding of the vines’, a time when each would drip more than a gallon of stored water.
Soon the earth was moist, reassuring Mama all was well.
Day after day, she strolled down rows of brown vines waiting for buds to break through their wounds. Her keen eyes caught the first glimpse of growth. Delighted at the tiny green buds, she readied herself for my arrival. She made extra food for my papa, Angelo. She washed and ironed clothes. She packed a suitcase and placed it in Papa’s truck. She cleaned the windows and scrubbed the floors. She wrote a list of instructions for Aunt Bess who would care for my brother, Marco, while Mama was in the hospital.
Early in summer, drenched in sunshine the buds pushed out shoots. Mama knew it was time for my birth. Sensing her discomfort, Papa helped her into the front seat of their truck. His lips brushed her cheeks.
He whispered, “I love you, cara mia—my dear.”
Together they waved goodbye to five-year old Marco, who bravely held onto Aunt Bess.
“Hurry,” Mama advised “This baby is coming fast.”
An hour later, I arrived.
In the hospital room, Papa poured his private stock of late harvest zinfandel port.
When he filled a glass for Rosa she said, “Angelo, I still can’t drink. My milk must be pure for our Lucia.”
“One sip won’t hurt her and will help build your strength. Let’s toast our miracle.”
With raised glasses, they honored me by sipping the jewel of their labor.
Papa dipped his pinky into his glass. Then he transferred deep purple liquid into my mouth. “She’s sucking so hard, I’d better give her a little more.”
Rosa stopped him. “Basta! Enough!” But months later, when I was teething Mama rubbed a few drops of syrupy port on my gums. The liquid like a magic elixir erased my discomfort and made me content.
In my infancy, Mama cradled me in her strong arms. Taking me between the vines, she pointed to scaly shoots and fluttering leaves.
“Ancient Phoenicians began growing primitivo grapes in your papa’s hometown, Puglia. Papa learned to tend vines on his family’s vineyard in southeastern Italy on the Salento peninsula.”
Mama’s familiar, clean, lavender scent enveloped me. I thrived on her rich milk. Her soothing lullabies rocked me to sleep.
My cheeks were full and rosy. My fat tummy and chubby legs made Papa laugh. He raised me in the air, spun me around, kissed my head, and held me close.
“My light and my joy,” he said with affection.
Between the vines, Papa introduced me to his living treasures. He placed me near the flowering clusters. I turned my head toward the pretty flowers.
“Like you our vines are blossoming. Like your future, they will yield fruit.”
While we waited for grape berries to arrive, Mama told me, “Your father bought this land for you and your brother, Marco. Our vines are young, but still yield grapes good enough to sell to winemakers.
“Your Papa is a vigniaiolo, a wine grape grower. He works here and as a farmer in other men’s zinfandel vineyards. Zinfandel grapes, bold, black skinned and fruity remind him of his beloved primitivo grapes. It is his dream to return to Italy, gather primitivo cuttings, and bring them here to grow in California.” She held me close. “Always be proud of your Papa. As the proverb says, Il contadino ha scarpe grosse e cervello fino. The farmer has big shoes and a fine brain.”
Mama placed me in a sling made of soft fabric. She positioned me over her heart. Soon she let me touch the hardened fruit.
“These first fruits are still sour and not good to eat. Like you, they need time to mature.”
After fruit set—when flowers formed berries—sun kissed the grapes for forty-five days and ripened them. The grapes changed color. Employing ancient scientific methods, Papa measured their sugar levels. Having mastered the art of knowing when to pick his grapes, he one day declared, “Rosa, Marco, Lucia, the grapes are ready for harvest.”
It was a busy time with much to do. Papa, Mama, and a few strangers cut the grape stems, let them fall into baskets, and emptied them into bins. Using Papa’s forklift, the men stacked the bins in the bed of his truck. A definite rhythm pulsed through the vineyard. As if it was music, Papa started singing to the repetitive tempo. Soon everyone followed his lead. The Italian and English songs conveyed the excitement of the harvest.
Within hours, Papa, still humming a tune, made the first of several deliveries to his customers who would use our grapes to create blended wines.
Scattered grape clusters remained on the vines. Mama picked these slowly, pressed out their liquid, and let me drink the sweet juice.
She told me, “Our fertile soil produces luscious grapes. In the future, it will grow magnificent grapes. Your papa crafts a signature port and will one day create fine wines on this land we call Vino Baci Vineyard, Wine Kisses Vineyard.”
She set a long table overlooking our vineyard. While I sat in a highchair, guests gathered. We listened to Papa expressing gratitude for our blessings, especially the abundant harvest. Following a sumptuous feast prepared by Mama, Papa humbly served his aged zinfandel port.
Mama told me, “You’ll celebrate your first Christmas during leaf fall.”
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Non ci ricordiamo dei giorni, ci ricordiamo dei moment--an Italian Proverb
We do not remember days, we remember moments.
Chapter One Infancy (As told to me by Mama and Papa)
Under radiant sunbeams, my mama, Rosa swelled with expectant life. With tender affection, she rubbed her rounded tummy.
“I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and show you our land.” Her eyes perused the planted rows. “These vines nurtured by your papa produce luscious grapes.”
She sighed with deep emotion. “And you, my precious little one, are a reflection of your parents’ abiding love.”
While Rosa walked between the vines, warm rays penetrated the soil. The pleasant spring temperature stirred water collected in grapevine roots, urging it to travel to the tips of pruned limbs.
Throughout the vineyard, Rosa searched for signs of the ’bleeding of the vines’, a time when each would drip more than a gallon of stored water.
Soon the earth was moist, reassuring Mama all was well.
Day after day, she strolled down rows of brown vines waiting for buds to break through their wounds. Her keen eyes caught the first glimpse of growth. Delighted at the tiny green buds, she readied herself for my arrival. She made extra food for my papa, Angelo. She washed and ironed clothes. She packed a suitcase and placed it in Papa’s truck. She cleaned the windows and scrubbed the floors. She wrote a list of instructions for Aunt Bess who would care for my brother, Marco, while Mama was in the hospital.
Early in summer, drenched in sunshine the buds pushed out shoots. Mama knew it was time for my birth. Sensing her discomfort, Papa helped her into the front seat of their truck. His lips brushed her cheeks.
He whispered, “I love you, cara mia—my dear.”
Together they waved goodbye to five-year old Marco, who bravely held onto Aunt Bess.
“Hurry,” Mama advised “This baby is coming fast.”
An hour later, I arrived.
In the hospital room, Papa poured his private stock of late harvest zinfandel port.
When he filled a glass for Rosa she said, “Angelo, I still can’t drink. My milk must be pure for our Lucia.”
“One sip won’t hurt her and will help build your strength. Let’s toast our miracle.”
With raised glasses, they honored me by sipping the jewel of their labor.
Papa dipped his pinky into his glass. Then he transferred deep purple liquid into my mouth. “She’s sucking so hard, I’d better give her a little more.”
Rosa stopped him. “Basta! Enough!” But months later, when I was teething Mama rubbed a few drops of syrupy port on my gums. The liquid like a magic elixir erased my discomfort and made me content.
In my infancy, Mama cradled me in her strong arms. Taking me between the vines, she pointed to scaly shoots and fluttering leaves.
“Ancient Phoenicians began growing primitivo grapes in your papa’s hometown, Puglia. Papa learned to tend vines on his family’s vineyard in southeastern Italy on the Salento peninsula.”
Mama’s familiar, clean, lavender scent enveloped me. I thrived on her rich milk. Her soothing lullabies rocked me to sleep.
My cheeks were full and rosy. My fat tummy and chubby legs made Papa laugh. He raised me in the air, spun me around, kissed my head, and held me close.
“My light and my joy,” he said with affection.
Between the vines, Papa introduced me to his living treasures. He placed me near the flowering clusters. I turned my head toward the pretty flowers.
“Like you our vines are blossoming. Like your future, they will yield fruit.”
While we waited for grape berries to arrive, Mama told me, “Your father bought this land for you and your brother, Marco. Our vines are young, but still yield grapes good enough to sell to winemakers.
“Your Papa is a vigniaiolo, a wine grape grower. He works here and as a farmer in other men’s zinfandel vineyards. Zinfandel grapes, bold, black skinned and fruity remind him of his beloved primitivo grapes. It is his dream to return to Italy, gather primitivo cuttings, and bring them here to grow in California.” She held me close. “Always be proud of your Papa. As the proverb says, Il contadino ha scarpe grosse e cervello fino. The farmer has big shoes and a fine brain.”
Mama placed me in a sling made of soft fabric. She positioned me over her heart. Soon she let me touch the hardened fruit.
“These first fruits are still sour and not good to eat. Like you, they need time to mature.”
After fruit set—when flowers formed berries—sun kissed the grapes for forty-five days and ripened them. The grapes changed color. Employing ancient scientific methods, Papa measured their sugar levels. Having mastered the art of knowing when to pick his grapes, he one day declared, “Rosa, Marco, Lucia, the grapes are ready for harvest.”
It was a busy time with much to do. Papa, Mama, and a few strangers cut the grape stems, let them fall into baskets, and emptied them into bins. Using Papa’s forklift, the men stacked the bins in the bed of his truck. A definite rhythm pulsed through the vineyard. As if it was music, Papa started singing to the repetitive tempo. Soon everyone followed his lead. The Italian and English songs conveyed the excitement of the harvest.
Within hours, Papa, still humming a tune, made the first of several deliveries to his customers who would use our grapes to create blended wines.
Scattered grape clusters remained on the vines. Mama picked these slowly, pressed out their liquid, and let me drink the sweet juice.
She told me, “Our fertile soil produces luscious grapes. In the future, it will grow magnificent grapes. Your papa crafts a signature port and will one day create fine wines on this land we call Vino Baci Vineyard, Wine Kisses Vineyard.”
She set a long table overlooking our vineyard. While I sat in a highchair, guests gathered. We listened to Papa expressing gratitude for our blessings, especially the abundant harvest. Following a sumptuous feast prepared by Mama, Papa humbly served his aged zinfandel port.
Mama told me, “You’ll celebrate your first Christmas during leaf fall.”
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XOXO
Chapter One
As I stood at the edge of my home sphere, I peered at Orb Terra radiating a crimson glow.
Its fury color matched my anger.
“You fool,” I chided myself. “Your ignorance pushed Mina away.”
Had she returned to her lesser globe?
I used both hands to hold open my eyelids preventing them from blinking. I scanned the rotating red circle hoping to find her, but changing gases distorted my view.
Would she remain in a place of uncertainty, a place of danger, a place without me?
Sifting through varying densities, I examined formations.
This remarkable, exquisite woman could have her pick of men. Why would she choose insensitive, simple me?
Why would she choose a foreigner when she could be with a man of her own kind a man who could resonate with her beliefs?
Tears welled. I let go of my lids letting the drops fall.
I pleaded, “Please Mina, come back to me.”
Once again, I attempted my search. I held my lids open, but my concentration decreased. An invisible shield prevented my brain waves from evaluating the terrain. Updated calculations indicated in order to obtain accurate readings I needed to make physical contact with the orb.
Disregarding the impracticality of such a venture, a force larger than reason propelled me.
I jumped into my transport ship. With the tap of a button, I sealed my body in the familiar space. My fingertips rapidly touched a screen setting a series of navigational instructions.
I awaited a reverie to tranquilize my thoughts at least until the first stop.
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Chapter One
As I stood at the edge of my home sphere, I peered at Orb Terra radiating a crimson glow.
Its fury color matched my anger.
“You fool,” I chided myself. “Your ignorance pushed Mina away.”
Had she returned to her lesser globe?
I used both hands to hold open my eyelids preventing them from blinking. I scanned the rotating red circle hoping to find her, but changing gases distorted my view.
Would she remain in a place of uncertainty, a place of danger, a place without me?
Sifting through varying densities, I examined formations.
This remarkable, exquisite woman could have her pick of men. Why would she choose insensitive, simple me?
Why would she choose a foreigner when she could be with a man of her own kind a man who could resonate with her beliefs?
Tears welled. I let go of my lids letting the drops fall.
I pleaded, “Please Mina, come back to me.”
Once again, I attempted my search. I held my lids open, but my concentration decreased. An invisible shield prevented my brain waves from evaluating the terrain. Updated calculations indicated in order to obtain accurate readings I needed to make physical contact with the orb.
Disregarding the impracticality of such a venture, a force larger than reason propelled me.
I jumped into my transport ship. With the tap of a button, I sealed my body in the familiar space. My fingertips rapidly touched a screen setting a series of navigational instructions.
I awaited a reverie to tranquilize my thoughts at least until the first stop.
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Christmas Escape
Dedicated To the Brave Men & Women of Our Armed Services
Chapter One
Most Christmas memories make me cringe.
Dad was a drunk who ranted and raved about not having any money to buy gifts. Yet, he somehow found extra bucks to splurge on whiskey. His temper flared at the mention of getting a tree but, on Christmas Eve, he always dragged in a straggly mess he found discarded at a tree lot.
While sweeping up pine needles, my mother would profusely thank him. My brothers would haul out a box containing ornaments and strings of lights. No matter how careful they were, a glass bulb would break setting dad into a tirade. “You ungrateful brats get to bed.”
Early Christmas morning, my brothers rushed to open the few presents my mother managed to buy. Unable to afford wrapping paper she covered the boxes in newsprint: comics for the kids, sports pages for dad.
In between sips of his favorite, alcoholic libation dad repeatedly wished everyone, “A ### Merry Christmas.”
To this day, I hate cuss words, because they remind me of my offensive father. I walk out on movies after I hear a few swear words. I’ve thrown away heaps of books where the vernacular is laced with profanities and I avoid people who limit their vocabulary by relying on four letter expletives.
When the boys opened their packages they expressed excitement. While playing, their voices created a din. My father, half in the bag, joined in their games at least for a few minutes. Then he started getting rough slapping one boy on the side of his head and pushing the other to the floor. The boys followed suit becoming rambunctious. Why they never learned is beyond me. Suddenly, my father’s mood would change. Along with his foul breath, he’d spew out obscenities. His hands would reach for one boy and his feet for the other. He usually pinned them down. My guess is he wanted them to realize what was coming.
He listened to them plead. “Please, Dad, don’t.”
In slow motion, he’d pull off his belt. With all his strength he’d strike. At times, the boys were lucky and scrambled away. If they did, Dad would hurl his wrath on my mother who was puffing on a cigarette passively watching.
At that point, I ran to my room, hid under my bed and prayed he’d pass out.
It seemed other families spent the day in similar fashion. Through the thin walls of our tenement, I could hear familiar scenarios: a mother punishing a child because a cheap toy broke; a father screaming at his children to be quiet; a mother whining about spilt milk; a father threatening to beat the living daylights out of a kid because the dad couldn’t figure out how to assemble a toy.
Nowadays, I dread the Christmas season. Fortunately, the accounting firm where I work closes for the weeks before, and after, Christmas. Adding my vacation gives me time to avoid all the fuss: no Christmas parties, no secret Santa, and no Christmas card exchange.
During the last few years, I’ve spent my Christmas escape in warm climates. This November, I was heading for a plush resort in Scottsdale, Arizona. Its online ad boasted of sunny days with temperatures in the high seventies and low eighties. A delightful change from the windy, cold Chicago I was fleeing.
While waiting to board a flight to Phoenix, I glanced around the bustling airport. Folks bundled up in winter gear were chatting, reading, texting and talking on their cells. Not wanting to lug a heavy coat to the desert, I wore a cardigan sweater under a light jacket. My eyes wandered to the large windows. A silvery plane taxied along the tarmac.
The cries of a toddler caught my attention. His young mother attempted to quiet him. She removed his snowsuit and cradled him in her arms. Her cooing voice suggested, “Hush Jonathan hush.”
The boy squirmed, thrashed his legs, and screeched.
A gloved hand appeared from the seat behind them. An exaggerated, high-pitched voice said, “Hi Jonathan, I’m Mitch. Want to play the counting game?” The glove slowly folded each digit. “One, two, three, four, five.”
Entertained, the toddler stopped crying and tilted his head toward the puppet, touched it, and giggled.
A ticket agent announced, “Phoenix Flight 397 is now ready for boarding.”
The majority of the crowd stood.
I heard the young mother thank the puppeteer.
The man turned to acknowledge her. His intriguing face rugged, manly, and heavily scarred stunned me.
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Dance Fantasies
Prologue
Rough hands groped Ava’s youthful form.
She flinched, attempting to shrug off a nightmare.
Fleshy fingers stroked her skin. She struggled to open her eyes.
Within the moonlit room, a shadowy figure loomed above her. Impossible to recognize features she stared at a faceless silhouette.
Excessive weight held her down. Putrid sweat dripped on her forehead, slid down the bridge of her nose, and onto her chin. A stench of stale tobacco reminded her of Pastor Thomas.
The foul man pulled her pajama bottoms.
An inordinate fear choked her screams. Her legs flailed kicking, hitting nothing.
The sound of an approaching car offered hope. Its flashing lights flickered against the ceiling.
Her attacker eased his grasp.
Ava sucked in her breath and managed to crawl out from under his reach. She skid across the bed and rolled onto the carpeted floor. She stood and ran toward the door.
His tallness blocked her way. He grabbed her hair yanking her close.
She struggled to get free. As she twisted, she felt his hot breath skim her cheeks. She recoiled.
His arm squeezed her torso lifting her.
She gasped for air.
Lowering her, he reached under her T-shirt. His slobbering mouth sucked her right breast.
With all her might, she pushed away from him.
His great force leaned into her causing her to stumble.
Her body grazed the open window. A slight breeze stirred the curtain. She felt the brush of soft fabric before falling down, down, down.
***
Hushed voices awakened Ava. She wanted to respond but couldn’t speak, couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t move.
Memories swirled in her head. She recalled standing on a mat facing her mirrored closet. Waves of excitement interfered with her concentration as she stretched her thin arms over her long legs. Happy thoughts floated in her mind. She still couldn’t believe she was accepted to The Julliard School of Dance. In six short weeks, she’d be flying cross country, to New York City, to pursue her dance fantasies.
Her fingertips easily reached her toes. Without exerting much effort, she pulled one leg behind her back. Her eyes wandered until they caught the reflection of a lavender gown. She smiled remembering the day Kirk Thornsby, the most popular and cutest guy in school, asked her to the prom.
Her best friend Teri warned, “Don’t count on going with him. He only asked you to make Jessica jealous. If he gets her back Kirk won’t even remember your name.”
With a mere two days before the senior prom, Kirk hadn’t cancelled.
The sound of the phone ringing caused Ava’s heart to skip a beat.
She raced out of her room and down the stairs.
She heard her mother saying, “Oh no. How serious was her heart attack?”
Ava knew the call was about her Aunt Sally who had a serious heart condition.”
“We’ll leave as soon as possible,” her mother put down the phone and hugged Ava. “No need for you to change your plans. Aunt Sally will soon recover, but we’re going to San Diego to help your uncle with the children.”
Two hours later, her parents were ready to make the eight hour drive from northern, to southern, California.
“Sure you want to be alone? Why don’t you stay at Teri’s house?”
“Mom I’m almost eighteen. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t let Kirk in after the prom,” her father warned. “Don’t even tell him we’re gone.”
Her mother gave Ava a quick hug. “I spoke to Pastor Thomas. He said he’d gladly stop by to take pictures of you and Kirk.”
“Mom, how could you ask that creepy man to watch me.”
“Don’t be silly. He’s a good neighbor and a charitable person.”
“He’s always smoking cigarettes and reeks of stale tobacco.”
“Poor man is entitled to his one vice.”
“Whatever.”
Her mother smiled.
“Tell Aunt Sally I love her.”
Hours later, Ava lay in bed. She was glad Kirk called to confirm their date. When she told him about her aunt, he kindly offered to come over and watch a movie with her. Too bad, she had to turn down his romantic offer.
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Prologue
Rough hands groped Ava’s youthful form.
She flinched, attempting to shrug off a nightmare.
Fleshy fingers stroked her skin. She struggled to open her eyes.
Within the moonlit room, a shadowy figure loomed above her. Impossible to recognize features she stared at a faceless silhouette.
Excessive weight held her down. Putrid sweat dripped on her forehead, slid down the bridge of her nose, and onto her chin. A stench of stale tobacco reminded her of Pastor Thomas.
The foul man pulled her pajama bottoms.
An inordinate fear choked her screams. Her legs flailed kicking, hitting nothing.
The sound of an approaching car offered hope. Its flashing lights flickered against the ceiling.
Her attacker eased his grasp.
Ava sucked in her breath and managed to crawl out from under his reach. She skid across the bed and rolled onto the carpeted floor. She stood and ran toward the door.
His tallness blocked her way. He grabbed her hair yanking her close.
She struggled to get free. As she twisted, she felt his hot breath skim her cheeks. She recoiled.
His arm squeezed her torso lifting her.
She gasped for air.
Lowering her, he reached under her T-shirt. His slobbering mouth sucked her right breast.
With all her might, she pushed away from him.
His great force leaned into her causing her to stumble.
Her body grazed the open window. A slight breeze stirred the curtain. She felt the brush of soft fabric before falling down, down, down.
***
Hushed voices awakened Ava. She wanted to respond but couldn’t speak, couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t move.
Memories swirled in her head. She recalled standing on a mat facing her mirrored closet. Waves of excitement interfered with her concentration as she stretched her thin arms over her long legs. Happy thoughts floated in her mind. She still couldn’t believe she was accepted to The Julliard School of Dance. In six short weeks, she’d be flying cross country, to New York City, to pursue her dance fantasies.
Her fingertips easily reached her toes. Without exerting much effort, she pulled one leg behind her back. Her eyes wandered until they caught the reflection of a lavender gown. She smiled remembering the day Kirk Thornsby, the most popular and cutest guy in school, asked her to the prom.
Her best friend Teri warned, “Don’t count on going with him. He only asked you to make Jessica jealous. If he gets her back Kirk won’t even remember your name.”
With a mere two days before the senior prom, Kirk hadn’t cancelled.
The sound of the phone ringing caused Ava’s heart to skip a beat.
She raced out of her room and down the stairs.
She heard her mother saying, “Oh no. How serious was her heart attack?”
Ava knew the call was about her Aunt Sally who had a serious heart condition.”
“We’ll leave as soon as possible,” her mother put down the phone and hugged Ava. “No need for you to change your plans. Aunt Sally will soon recover, but we’re going to San Diego to help your uncle with the children.”
Two hours later, her parents were ready to make the eight hour drive from northern, to southern, California.
“Sure you want to be alone? Why don’t you stay at Teri’s house?”
“Mom I’m almost eighteen. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t let Kirk in after the prom,” her father warned. “Don’t even tell him we’re gone.”
Her mother gave Ava a quick hug. “I spoke to Pastor Thomas. He said he’d gladly stop by to take pictures of you and Kirk.”
“Mom, how could you ask that creepy man to watch me.”
“Don’t be silly. He’s a good neighbor and a charitable person.”
“He’s always smoking cigarettes and reeks of stale tobacco.”
“Poor man is entitled to his one vice.”
“Whatever.”
Her mother smiled.
“Tell Aunt Sally I love her.”
Hours later, Ava lay in bed. She was glad Kirk called to confirm their date. When she told him about her aunt, he kindly offered to come over and watch a movie with her. Too bad, she had to turn down his romantic offer.
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.
Alaska Awakening
Chapter 1-Marvin
As the plane entered its final approach, Marvin felt sucked into its gravitational pull. His bald head was jerked forward, causing him to feel queasy. His wide shoulders knocked against a cream-colored wall, and his eyes peered through a tiny window.
Akin to a flying carpet, a flock of white-winged scoters rose up before him. An instant later, the feathery rug vanished.
Rather than following the narrow coastline, the aircraft appeared to be aiming straight for the dense forest. Exhilarated by this unusual descent, Marvin gripped the armrest of his cloth-covered seat. He felt his heartbeat quicken. His rapid breathing initiated dizziness. A pleasant buzz prickled his senses.
A series of bumps signaled a safe landing on the makeshift sandy runway. Spotted sandpipers appeared disinterested in the artificial bird. Marvin watched them scampering away from the plane. They headed toward the waves.
With difficulty, Marvin uncrimped his arthritic fingers and unclasped his seatbelt.
His heavyset body felt a gush of tepid air as their guide Roy opened the hatch. The unexpected warmth deflated Marvin’s enthusiasm. A bitter taste invaded his mouth.
Their pilot, Gary, shut down the engine and turned to face the passengers. He gave them a mocking smile, revealing yellowish uneven teeth. “Folks, looks like you’ve arrived.”
Through his thick glasses, Marvin glanced at his Rolex. “How could we be in the Aleutian chain? We’ve only been airborne for an hour or so.”
Susan reached across the aisle, grabbing Marvin. Her sharp nails bit into his wrinkled forearm. As he tolerated the slight discomfort, Marvin looked at her disparaging glare: squinted eyes, sucked in cheeks, and pouted lips.
In an attempt to avoid her stare, Marvin gazed passed Susan out the arched window. From the shoreline, grasses filled a meadow. Beyond, rows of trees skirted glaciers.
Marvin glanced at the other passengers. Tucked into her seat, Bea Nolte leaned forward. Her husband Bart rubbed his eyes. Tess and Frank Spenser continued to flip through the pages of their respective magazines.
Gary paced up and down the aisle, barking out orders. “Giddy up, folks. Get your packs and step into these here great outdoors.”
Marvin once again spoke up. “Why? Is there a mechanical problem?”
Rather than answering, Gary continued, “Get movin’ gramps.”
“Hey, what’s the big idea? Where are we?” Marvin asked.
Gary poked Marvin’s shoulder. “Keep your trap shut.”
As Marvin pried his bulk out of the confining seat, he felt drops of perspiration dripping from his forehead onto his chin and down his neck. He stared into his friends’ faces imploring them with his eyes to get involved, but they didn’t. He eased his body back down. “I’m sitting tight until we get some answers.”
In one swift move, Gary lunged toward Marvin. From his pocket, Gary pulled out a .45 caliber gun. He pointed the steel barrel inches from Marvin’s face.
“Got the message, old man?”
Marvin felt his stomach lurch. In silence, he followed Gary’s commands.
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Alaska Awakening
Chapter 1-Marvin
As the plane entered its final approach, Marvin felt sucked into its gravitational pull. His bald head was jerked forward, causing him to feel queasy. His wide shoulders knocked against a cream-colored wall, and his eyes peered through a tiny window.
Akin to a flying carpet, a flock of white-winged scoters rose up before him. An instant later, the feathery rug vanished.
Rather than following the narrow coastline, the aircraft appeared to be aiming straight for the dense forest. Exhilarated by this unusual descent, Marvin gripped the armrest of his cloth-covered seat. He felt his heartbeat quicken. His rapid breathing initiated dizziness. A pleasant buzz prickled his senses.
A series of bumps signaled a safe landing on the makeshift sandy runway. Spotted sandpipers appeared disinterested in the artificial bird. Marvin watched them scampering away from the plane. They headed toward the waves.
With difficulty, Marvin uncrimped his arthritic fingers and unclasped his seatbelt.
His heavyset body felt a gush of tepid air as their guide Roy opened the hatch. The unexpected warmth deflated Marvin’s enthusiasm. A bitter taste invaded his mouth.
Their pilot, Gary, shut down the engine and turned to face the passengers. He gave them a mocking smile, revealing yellowish uneven teeth. “Folks, looks like you’ve arrived.”
Through his thick glasses, Marvin glanced at his Rolex. “How could we be in the Aleutian chain? We’ve only been airborne for an hour or so.”
Susan reached across the aisle, grabbing Marvin. Her sharp nails bit into his wrinkled forearm. As he tolerated the slight discomfort, Marvin looked at her disparaging glare: squinted eyes, sucked in cheeks, and pouted lips.
In an attempt to avoid her stare, Marvin gazed passed Susan out the arched window. From the shoreline, grasses filled a meadow. Beyond, rows of trees skirted glaciers.
Marvin glanced at the other passengers. Tucked into her seat, Bea Nolte leaned forward. Her husband Bart rubbed his eyes. Tess and Frank Spenser continued to flip through the pages of their respective magazines.
Gary paced up and down the aisle, barking out orders. “Giddy up, folks. Get your packs and step into these here great outdoors.”
Marvin once again spoke up. “Why? Is there a mechanical problem?”
Rather than answering, Gary continued, “Get movin’ gramps.”
“Hey, what’s the big idea? Where are we?” Marvin asked.
Gary poked Marvin’s shoulder. “Keep your trap shut.”
As Marvin pried his bulk out of the confining seat, he felt drops of perspiration dripping from his forehead onto his chin and down his neck. He stared into his friends’ faces imploring them with his eyes to get involved, but they didn’t. He eased his body back down. “I’m sitting tight until we get some answers.”
In one swift move, Gary lunged toward Marvin. From his pocket, Gary pulled out a .45 caliber gun. He pointed the steel barrel inches from Marvin’s face.
“Got the message, old man?”
Marvin felt his stomach lurch. In silence, he followed Gary’s commands.
Buy romance adventure Alaska Awakening. http://www.amazon.com/Alaska-Awakening-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00NOABMG4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1411040181&sr=1-1&keywords=alaska+awakening
Grandfathers’ Bequest
Chapter One
Salvatore
As bullets crisscrossed overhead, panic raced through my veins. Weaving between dead bodies, I searched for cover. As I rounded a corner of the rusty tanker, I spied a door. With a slight push, I slipped into blackness, knelt down, removed my gloves, and prayed I would survive the night.
In the stillness, my mind played out the events leading to my entrapment.
My friend Tony told me I could earn a couple of extra dollars. “All you have to do is some unloading at the docks.”
“Is it legal?” I wanted to know.
“Of course, kid. I do it all the time. That‘s how I got the money to buy my wheels.”
The old metal door creaked open, returning me to the moment.
A muffled, but familiar voice whispered, “Hey kid, is that you?”
“Tony?” I muttered, unsure if I felt happy to have his company or angry because he had led me into this mess.
“Look what I got, Sal.”
How foolish he sounded. How could I see anything in the dark?
Before Tony could elaborate, I heard the squeaky door open again.
“It’s me, Mariano.” Heavy breathing bounced off the metal. “The uptown mafioso just landed to have it out with the downtown bosses.”
“Forget about that stuff. Let them settle their own vendettas,” Tony said.
“What about us?” Mariano persisted. “One way or another, our lives are over, abbiamo finito, siamo morti, capisci?”
His edict made me grasp the situation. Mariano, like Tony and me, was an apprentice carpenter. He spoke the truth. Even if we managed to survive, we wouldn’t be able to escape the black hand of the mob.
“Didn’t I say forget about that? I have a surprise for you. I can make you rich.”
Mariano shot back, “Basta, enough. I don’t want to hear anymore of your schemes.”
With an authoritative air, Tony continued, “Listen, you two. I’ll be brief. Downtown’s big boss, Nicolo DiBennedetto, is floating somewhere down the river. His top rival Guilio Costanza is lying dead on this floating hearse.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Mariano quipped.
“Okay, okay.” Tony hesitated before saying, “I took two leather satchels from the tight grip of Mr. C’s cold hands.”
“Are you crazy?” I asked.
Tony chuckled. “Here’s the best part, guys. Can you guess what’s in Costanza’s luggage?”
Neither of us uttered a sound.
“Well, I’ll tell you. American gold certificates.”
Mariano’s voice quivered. “How do you know, Tony?”
“’Cause when I drove Guilio here tonight, I watched him finger the notes.
“He caught me looking at him in the rearview mirror. He told me he had more money with him than I would ever see in my lifetime. Well, he was wrong, ‘cause now the mullah is all mine.”
I asked, “Don’t you think someone saw you take those valises?”
Tony answered, “No one saw me do anything during all that confusion especially while it was snowing.”
“How can you be sure when you and Mariano saw me enter this room?”
“The truth is, with all the commotion, nobodies like us aren’t noticed by anyone but other nobodies.” Tony cleared his throat. “Get it, guys? I’ve got big bucks.”
Neither Mariano nor I responded.
Tony went on. “This is your lucky day, compaesano. You’re exactly at the right place at the right time, because I’ve decided to take you two in as partners.”
“No thanks, Tony,” we said.
“Hey, what gives?”
“I don’t want any part of the money. It’s dirty, Tony.” I said with conviction.
Mariano spoke more realistically. “They’ll kill us if we don’t give it back. You know how they operate. Nobody gets away with stealing from the mob.”
Tony had a quick comeback. “The kingpins in both mobs are dead. So what can I do with the money? I can’t betray Costanza by giving it to the new boss. If I did, I would be fingering myself as one of Guilio’s boys. That would mean I’d be signing my own death warrant. I have no choice but to keep the loot. Best of all, I’m willing to share it with you in exchange for a small favor.
“You guys can always use a little extra dough. Am I right?”
“Count me out,” I declared. “If, and that’s still a big if, I get out of here alive, I never want you to tell me about ways I can earn a few extra bucks.”
Mariano weakened. “How much are you willing to pay, Tony?”
“Five hundred big ones,” was Tony’s enticing offer.
Our brains focused on the incredible amount. In those days, especially for people in our position, this was a fortune. Dollar signs danced in our minds and took up all the room in our heads. We no longer considered the risks involved in Tony’s plan.
“You have my undivided attention.” Mariano joined forces with Tony.
With only a tinge of reluctance, I said, “Guess I’m in too. What do we have to do?”
“Since I may have been seen by one of the hit men driving Costanza over here, I can’t be the one to carry the cash off the boat. Instead, each of you take one bag apiece and go home. Hide the money in your rooms and I’ll pick them up later.”
“That’s it?” Mariano mused.
“Yeah, that’s it. Easy, isn’t it? However, don’t even think about opening up the bags so you won’t be tempted to take any samples. Remember, you work for me now.
“I know exactly how much is in each satchel. I’ve been around these hoods long enough to have learned a few tricks about ways to punish the idiot who dares to cross me.”
Within seconds, the squeaky metal door opened and Tony made his exit.
You can find Grandfathers' Bequest on the following links:
US: http://www.amazon.com/Grandfathers-Bequest-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00M7HP356/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1406605849&sr=1-1&keywords=grandfathers%27+bequest
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Grandfathers-Bequest-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00M7HP356/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1406606198&sr=1-1&keywords=Grandfathers%27+Bequest
Canada: http://www.amazon.ca/Grandfathers-Bequest-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00M7HP356/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1406606346&sr=1-1&keywords=grandfathers%27+bequest
Chapter One
Salvatore
As bullets crisscrossed overhead, panic raced through my veins. Weaving between dead bodies, I searched for cover. As I rounded a corner of the rusty tanker, I spied a door. With a slight push, I slipped into blackness, knelt down, removed my gloves, and prayed I would survive the night.
In the stillness, my mind played out the events leading to my entrapment.
My friend Tony told me I could earn a couple of extra dollars. “All you have to do is some unloading at the docks.”
“Is it legal?” I wanted to know.
“Of course, kid. I do it all the time. That‘s how I got the money to buy my wheels.”
The old metal door creaked open, returning me to the moment.
A muffled, but familiar voice whispered, “Hey kid, is that you?”
“Tony?” I muttered, unsure if I felt happy to have his company or angry because he had led me into this mess.
“Look what I got, Sal.”
How foolish he sounded. How could I see anything in the dark?
Before Tony could elaborate, I heard the squeaky door open again.
“It’s me, Mariano.” Heavy breathing bounced off the metal. “The uptown mafioso just landed to have it out with the downtown bosses.”
“Forget about that stuff. Let them settle their own vendettas,” Tony said.
“What about us?” Mariano persisted. “One way or another, our lives are over, abbiamo finito, siamo morti, capisci?”
His edict made me grasp the situation. Mariano, like Tony and me, was an apprentice carpenter. He spoke the truth. Even if we managed to survive, we wouldn’t be able to escape the black hand of the mob.
“Didn’t I say forget about that? I have a surprise for you. I can make you rich.”
Mariano shot back, “Basta, enough. I don’t want to hear anymore of your schemes.”
With an authoritative air, Tony continued, “Listen, you two. I’ll be brief. Downtown’s big boss, Nicolo DiBennedetto, is floating somewhere down the river. His top rival Guilio Costanza is lying dead on this floating hearse.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Mariano quipped.
“Okay, okay.” Tony hesitated before saying, “I took two leather satchels from the tight grip of Mr. C’s cold hands.”
“Are you crazy?” I asked.
Tony chuckled. “Here’s the best part, guys. Can you guess what’s in Costanza’s luggage?”
Neither of us uttered a sound.
“Well, I’ll tell you. American gold certificates.”
Mariano’s voice quivered. “How do you know, Tony?”
“’Cause when I drove Guilio here tonight, I watched him finger the notes.
“He caught me looking at him in the rearview mirror. He told me he had more money with him than I would ever see in my lifetime. Well, he was wrong, ‘cause now the mullah is all mine.”
I asked, “Don’t you think someone saw you take those valises?”
Tony answered, “No one saw me do anything during all that confusion especially while it was snowing.”
“How can you be sure when you and Mariano saw me enter this room?”
“The truth is, with all the commotion, nobodies like us aren’t noticed by anyone but other nobodies.” Tony cleared his throat. “Get it, guys? I’ve got big bucks.”
Neither Mariano nor I responded.
Tony went on. “This is your lucky day, compaesano. You’re exactly at the right place at the right time, because I’ve decided to take you two in as partners.”
“No thanks, Tony,” we said.
“Hey, what gives?”
“I don’t want any part of the money. It’s dirty, Tony.” I said with conviction.
Mariano spoke more realistically. “They’ll kill us if we don’t give it back. You know how they operate. Nobody gets away with stealing from the mob.”
Tony had a quick comeback. “The kingpins in both mobs are dead. So what can I do with the money? I can’t betray Costanza by giving it to the new boss. If I did, I would be fingering myself as one of Guilio’s boys. That would mean I’d be signing my own death warrant. I have no choice but to keep the loot. Best of all, I’m willing to share it with you in exchange for a small favor.
“You guys can always use a little extra dough. Am I right?”
“Count me out,” I declared. “If, and that’s still a big if, I get out of here alive, I never want you to tell me about ways I can earn a few extra bucks.”
Mariano weakened. “How much are you willing to pay, Tony?”
“Five hundred big ones,” was Tony’s enticing offer.
Our brains focused on the incredible amount. In those days, especially for people in our position, this was a fortune. Dollar signs danced in our minds and took up all the room in our heads. We no longer considered the risks involved in Tony’s plan.
“You have my undivided attention.” Mariano joined forces with Tony.
With only a tinge of reluctance, I said, “Guess I’m in too. What do we have to do?”
“Since I may have been seen by one of the hit men driving Costanza over here, I can’t be the one to carry the cash off the boat. Instead, each of you take one bag apiece and go home. Hide the money in your rooms and I’ll pick them up later.”
“That’s it?” Mariano mused.
“Yeah, that’s it. Easy, isn’t it? However, don’t even think about opening up the bags so you won’t be tempted to take any samples. Remember, you work for me now.
“I know exactly how much is in each satchel. I’ve been around these hoods long enough to have learned a few tricks about ways to punish the idiot who dares to cross me.”
Within seconds, the squeaky metal door opened and Tony made his exit.
You can find Grandfathers' Bequest on the following links:
US: http://www.amazon.com/Grandfathers-Bequest-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00M7HP356/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1406605849&sr=1-1&keywords=grandfathers%27+bequest
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Grandfathers-Bequest-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00M7HP356/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1406606198&sr=1-1&keywords=Grandfathers%27+Bequest
Canada: http://www.amazon.ca/Grandfathers-Bequest-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00M7HP356/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1406606346&sr=1-1&keywords=grandfathers%27+bequest
Bloom Forevermore
By E.B. Sullivan
Chapter One
In a space cluttered with discards, a musty scent filled the air. One whiff of the less than fragrant aroma tickled her delicate nose. Dr. Sonia Wyland sneezed four times. Through watery eyes, she peered at steel shelves crowded with a mish-mashed assortment of used kitchen supplies, large tables piled high with tangled bed linens, and a dozen wooden cases stacked with tattered books.
She turned toward the entrance. Through a large tinted window, she stared at the constant flow of city traffic. Reflected sunlight created a streaming-rainbow. Her gaze returned to the interior. In contrast to the volume of swift vehicles, the space seemed stilted and deserted. Overhead fluorescent lights gave it an aura of dullness.
A strong urge to explore led her down a narrow aisle. Her fingers stroked garments that hung on over-stuffed clothes racks. Despite the color-coordinated arrangement of hodgepodge apparel, most of the eclectic items appeared aged, faded, and somewhat untidy.
In the last year, Sonia had changed both her image and environment. She’d replaced worn items with updated ones, redecorated her apartment with modern furniture and accessories, shed her closets of traditional outfits and filled them with contemporary styles.
While the jet plane flew hundreds of miles per hour thousands of miles from home, the bizarre thought of seeking out a second-hand shop had popped into her mind. Compelled to visit an establishment of recycled goods seemed out of character. Yet, upon her arrival on the west coast, Sonia had flung her suitcases into the trunk of a rented car and headed straight to the nearest thrift store.
Could a connection exist between this peculiar notion and the fact that, for the first time, she’d planned to be away for a long period without a precise agenda? Before any trip, she usually researched an area, planed a well-organized, carefully detailed hour-by-hour schedule. A strong work ethic made it imperative for her to utilize time. Even on vacations, she wanted to see and do all things imaginable as efficiently as possible.
Squeezed between a striped-polyester and a cotton-knit, something caught her attention. With a gentle nudge, she pulled the item free, held it out, and smiled. Draped over a wire hanger was a three-quarter length silk dress with thick shoulder pads, a tapered waistline, and a distinctive pattern that reminded Sonia of the 1940s.
She searched for a tag.
“Can I assist you?” a perky salesclerk asked.
“I’m wondering if this is my size.”
“Only one way to find out.” Her arm swept through the air as she signaled Sonia to follow. “I’ll take you to a fitting room.” The woman quickly traversed the entire shop with long strides.
Sonia hurried to keep pace. “That’s kind of you.”
The woman smiled. “I see you like vintage clothing.” She reached back to stroke the soft fabric.
“Well not usually, but this one seems…new.”
They stopped at a tiny cubicle. “Take your time before deciding ‘cause all sales are final.” The woman let a cloth curtain fall in front of Sonia. “While you change I’ll get you a few more things. This dress is one of many an elderly gent donated earlier today.”
At first, Sonia hesitated to disrobe. This silly old thing, she thought, would not be something she would ever wear. Yet the dress beckoned.
Before Sonia zipped up the chosen garment, the friendly clerk knocked on the partition next to the lightweight divider. “Let’s see how you look.”
Without hesitation, one hand drew the material aside while another held several outfits. She placed these on a brass hook and said, “Here let me do that for you.”
With a quick movement, she pulled up the zipper.
Together the two stared into a mirror etched with years of use.
“Wow. It’s as if it were made for you.” The expressive female used her hands, arms, and entire body when she spoke.
“I have to admit you’re right.” Sonia confided, “I’m truly surprised.”
One by one, she tried on the other dresses. Each complimented her form and emphasized her shapely proportions. Last, she stepped into a pale green jumpsuit. Its wide pants accentuated her narrow waist. This unique item shared a common feminine allure with the other garments.
The clerk’s eyes danced with excitement. “I can’t believe how well these clothes flatter you.”
Sonia nodded. “I’ll take them.”
“Of course, you must.”
Sonia chuckled as she realized her compulsion to shop in this odd store, rather than being a waste of time, reaped a definite reward. In general, she became bored while shopping for clothes. Most items, regardless of price, seemed shaped from the same cookie cutter and decorated from identical dye lots. A bit under five-four, she wore a size two. Her long legs ruled out petites. Even in underwear, with a bra size of thirty-two D she’d faced limited choices. These facts made the discoveries she held in her hand remarkable.
The clerk tallied up the tab. “I’d say you got yourself a real bargain.”
“Thanks to you.”
The woman snapped her fingers. “Almost forgot to tell you. The old gent donated another box. ‘Cause it’s loaded with books I didn’t bother to unpack it. As you can see this store is already overflowing with printed matter.” She slipped into the backroom. From there she asked, “Do you want to see it?”
Before Sonia could respond, the woman reappeared. Her right leg pushed a corrugated box. She winked. “One of his tenets, before she ran off to get married, left this stuff in a hidden security cabinet. They’re part of a romantic mystery.”
“You must hear a lot of interesting stories in this line of work.”
“Sure do.” She paraded a proud grin. “Tell you what. Give me another five and the grab-box is yours.”
“That sounds a bit cheap for such a big box.”
“Okay. Make me an offer.”
“How does an extra twenty sound?”
Radiant pink cheeks gave off a glow of approval.
Chapter Two
In her hotel room, Sonia opened her suitcase, but decided to leave it packed. Filled with anticipation she sat next to the box of books she had purchased at the thrift store.
As she examined her recent acquisition, she thought of her general burned out state-of-mind. Beyond a doubt, she was tired of talking to, and talked at by a multitude of students, annoyed with petty college politics, and turned off by a plethora of “loser” type men spouting trite lines. Perhaps this explained why she chose not only to travel alone, but also to isolate herself further with her constant true friends: written words.
A dictionary topped the stack. Under the huge reference guide, rather than an ordinary book, she discovered a burgundy colored photo album. Trimmed with tarnished gold leaf an embossed inscription scribed in calligraphy read: “Our Memories.”
Her fingers did not hesitate to turn the pages of this pictorial history of a married couple. Paying attention to details Sonia noticed that in one respect both husband and wife seemed similar. Neither of them smiled in any of the pictures. This included their wedding portrait.
Blue eyed with wavy blond hair described the groom. While his face appeared unremarkable it changed over time from being round in the older photographs, to having a double chin in the later ones. A receding hairline replaced a thick mane, which once covered his forehead.
Long auburn tresses curled around the face of the bride. In subsequent photographs clothed in freeform styles, she appeared heavyset. A sorrowful expression defined the woman. Sonia lingered at one picture. “Poor thing.” She sighed. “You look depressed.”
An abundance of glossy postcards filled the album. Like a travel brochure, these depicted historical sites from various parts of the globe. No snapshots of children, relatives, or friends were anywhere in the album. As odd, other than their wedding photo, the couple did not appear in any of the pictures together.
On the last of the thick pages, a loose photograph leaned against the back cover. Wearing one of the dresses Sonia purchased at the thrift store the woman with her hair colored black and cropped appeared pounds thinner. She revealed a well-toned curvy figure, an attractive appearance, and a pleasant smile.
A cold current shot through Sonia. Instantaneously it spilled out of her open mouth with a sharp gasp. For a moment, Sonia thought she gazed at a picture of herself. With a loud thud, she closed the book and cast it aside, strolled into the bathroom, flipped on the light switch, and peered into the mirror.
The image before her expressed the fatigue Sonia consciously denied. She assumed her tired bloodshot eyes obscured her vision. A few gulps of water would help hydrate and revive her.
With a hard twist, she turned on the cold-water tap. Tepid liquid trickled onto the stained porcelain sink. While she removed cellophane from a plastic cup, Sonia wondered why anyone would leave such a personal album. Perhaps the owner had merely forgotten it. Didn’t the saleswoman say it was stored in a special cabinet?
With each sip of water, Sonia felt more energized. Within seconds, her head seemed to clear. She decided, first thing in the morning, she would return this box to the friendly salesclerk. Its private contents were none of her business.
For several minutes, she tried to ignore the box, but a strong curiosity overrode any ethical principles.
Before long, her anxious hands dipped into its personal depths and retrieved an unsealed envelope. It contained two wedding rings. Her fingertips twirled the cool circles. She inspected their plainness. Other than the standard 14K markings, no inscriptions appeared in either the larger or the smaller ring.
From across the corridor a door slammed. Startled by the noise Sonia froze. Fixing a stare at the entry, she half expected the female pictured in the album to angrily storm into the room to confiscate her keepsakes.
Sonia shook her head and chuckled at her foolish notion. Reality returned and with it, she resumed her intriguing task.
Wrapped in the folds of crispy tissue paper a white crepe dress with simple lines matched those of the wedding gown in the first photograph. Although never a bride herself, Sonia knew this special garment deserved respectful attention. With a gentle touch, she fluffed up the fancy material. As if made of spun gold, she hung it in the closet with care.
Sonia ignored a hint of guilt and pulled out an unlabeled manila envelope.
It contained a marriage certificate. From it, Sonia learned that Mark Stintly and a Margaret Courtly had married sixteen years earlier. The envelope also contained Mark Stintly’s death certificate. He had died at forty years old of a coronary thrombosis.
Sonia noted his death occurred five months earlier. A combination of surprise and melancholy tugged the walls of her heart.
“Poor Margaret, his death left you alone.”
Dr. Sonia Wyland’s psychological mind deduced, in this mourning period, Margaret would still be traumatized, as well as vulnerable. Her emotional status might explain why Margaret impulsively ran off to remarry.
A final search of the carton revealed a solitary red spiral notebook. Within its cover, the words “My Journal” caused Sonia to close its lid. She pressed the ruby pamphlet to her chest and remained motionless. As much as she wanted to learn more about Margaret, an inner voice reminded Sonia not to intrude on Margaret’s confidential thoughts.
In haste, Sonia cleared the bed, changed into a slightly creased nightshirt, got under the gaily-flowered comforter, and turned off the lights.
Not five minutes later her inquisitiveness won out.
One switch lit the table lamp.
In its soft glow, she began to read the diary.
You’ll find E.B. Sullivan’s Bloom Forevermore on the following links:
US: http://www.amazon.com/Bloom-Forevermore-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00AY50AGA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399068123&sr=1-1&keywords=bloom+forevermore
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bloom-Forevermore-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00AY50AGA/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_2_4QGF
Canada: http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B00AY50AGA/ref=s9_simh_gw_p351_d0_i2?pf_rd_m=A3DWYIK6Y9EEQB&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=00G2YY8JV2E5XFG4XR7F&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1687860482&pf_rd_i=915398
By E.B. Sullivan
Chapter One
In a space cluttered with discards, a musty scent filled the air. One whiff of the less than fragrant aroma tickled her delicate nose. Dr. Sonia Wyland sneezed four times. Through watery eyes, she peered at steel shelves crowded with a mish-mashed assortment of used kitchen supplies, large tables piled high with tangled bed linens, and a dozen wooden cases stacked with tattered books.
She turned toward the entrance. Through a large tinted window, she stared at the constant flow of city traffic. Reflected sunlight created a streaming-rainbow. Her gaze returned to the interior. In contrast to the volume of swift vehicles, the space seemed stilted and deserted. Overhead fluorescent lights gave it an aura of dullness.
A strong urge to explore led her down a narrow aisle. Her fingers stroked garments that hung on over-stuffed clothes racks. Despite the color-coordinated arrangement of hodgepodge apparel, most of the eclectic items appeared aged, faded, and somewhat untidy.
In the last year, Sonia had changed both her image and environment. She’d replaced worn items with updated ones, redecorated her apartment with modern furniture and accessories, shed her closets of traditional outfits and filled them with contemporary styles.
While the jet plane flew hundreds of miles per hour thousands of miles from home, the bizarre thought of seeking out a second-hand shop had popped into her mind. Compelled to visit an establishment of recycled goods seemed out of character. Yet, upon her arrival on the west coast, Sonia had flung her suitcases into the trunk of a rented car and headed straight to the nearest thrift store.
Could a connection exist between this peculiar notion and the fact that, for the first time, she’d planned to be away for a long period without a precise agenda? Before any trip, she usually researched an area, planed a well-organized, carefully detailed hour-by-hour schedule. A strong work ethic made it imperative for her to utilize time. Even on vacations, she wanted to see and do all things imaginable as efficiently as possible.
Squeezed between a striped-polyester and a cotton-knit, something caught her attention. With a gentle nudge, she pulled the item free, held it out, and smiled. Draped over a wire hanger was a three-quarter length silk dress with thick shoulder pads, a tapered waistline, and a distinctive pattern that reminded Sonia of the 1940s.
She searched for a tag.
“Can I assist you?” a perky salesclerk asked.
“I’m wondering if this is my size.”
“Only one way to find out.” Her arm swept through the air as she signaled Sonia to follow. “I’ll take you to a fitting room.” The woman quickly traversed the entire shop with long strides.
Sonia hurried to keep pace. “That’s kind of you.”
The woman smiled. “I see you like vintage clothing.” She reached back to stroke the soft fabric.
“Well not usually, but this one seems…new.”
They stopped at a tiny cubicle. “Take your time before deciding ‘cause all sales are final.” The woman let a cloth curtain fall in front of Sonia. “While you change I’ll get you a few more things. This dress is one of many an elderly gent donated earlier today.”
At first, Sonia hesitated to disrobe. This silly old thing, she thought, would not be something she would ever wear. Yet the dress beckoned.
Before Sonia zipped up the chosen garment, the friendly clerk knocked on the partition next to the lightweight divider. “Let’s see how you look.”
Without hesitation, one hand drew the material aside while another held several outfits. She placed these on a brass hook and said, “Here let me do that for you.”
With a quick movement, she pulled up the zipper.
Together the two stared into a mirror etched with years of use.
“Wow. It’s as if it were made for you.” The expressive female used her hands, arms, and entire body when she spoke.
“I have to admit you’re right.” Sonia confided, “I’m truly surprised.”
One by one, she tried on the other dresses. Each complimented her form and emphasized her shapely proportions. Last, she stepped into a pale green jumpsuit. Its wide pants accentuated her narrow waist. This unique item shared a common feminine allure with the other garments.
The clerk’s eyes danced with excitement. “I can’t believe how well these clothes flatter you.”
Sonia nodded. “I’ll take them.”
“Of course, you must.”
Sonia chuckled as she realized her compulsion to shop in this odd store, rather than being a waste of time, reaped a definite reward. In general, she became bored while shopping for clothes. Most items, regardless of price, seemed shaped from the same cookie cutter and decorated from identical dye lots. A bit under five-four, she wore a size two. Her long legs ruled out petites. Even in underwear, with a bra size of thirty-two D she’d faced limited choices. These facts made the discoveries she held in her hand remarkable.
The clerk tallied up the tab. “I’d say you got yourself a real bargain.”
“Thanks to you.”
The woman snapped her fingers. “Almost forgot to tell you. The old gent donated another box. ‘Cause it’s loaded with books I didn’t bother to unpack it. As you can see this store is already overflowing with printed matter.” She slipped into the backroom. From there she asked, “Do you want to see it?”
Before Sonia could respond, the woman reappeared. Her right leg pushed a corrugated box. She winked. “One of his tenets, before she ran off to get married, left this stuff in a hidden security cabinet. They’re part of a romantic mystery.”
“You must hear a lot of interesting stories in this line of work.”
“Sure do.” She paraded a proud grin. “Tell you what. Give me another five and the grab-box is yours.”
“That sounds a bit cheap for such a big box.”
“Okay. Make me an offer.”
“How does an extra twenty sound?”
Radiant pink cheeks gave off a glow of approval.
Chapter Two
In her hotel room, Sonia opened her suitcase, but decided to leave it packed. Filled with anticipation she sat next to the box of books she had purchased at the thrift store.
As she examined her recent acquisition, she thought of her general burned out state-of-mind. Beyond a doubt, she was tired of talking to, and talked at by a multitude of students, annoyed with petty college politics, and turned off by a plethora of “loser” type men spouting trite lines. Perhaps this explained why she chose not only to travel alone, but also to isolate herself further with her constant true friends: written words.
A dictionary topped the stack. Under the huge reference guide, rather than an ordinary book, she discovered a burgundy colored photo album. Trimmed with tarnished gold leaf an embossed inscription scribed in calligraphy read: “Our Memories.”
Her fingers did not hesitate to turn the pages of this pictorial history of a married couple. Paying attention to details Sonia noticed that in one respect both husband and wife seemed similar. Neither of them smiled in any of the pictures. This included their wedding portrait.
Blue eyed with wavy blond hair described the groom. While his face appeared unremarkable it changed over time from being round in the older photographs, to having a double chin in the later ones. A receding hairline replaced a thick mane, which once covered his forehead.
Long auburn tresses curled around the face of the bride. In subsequent photographs clothed in freeform styles, she appeared heavyset. A sorrowful expression defined the woman. Sonia lingered at one picture. “Poor thing.” She sighed. “You look depressed.”
An abundance of glossy postcards filled the album. Like a travel brochure, these depicted historical sites from various parts of the globe. No snapshots of children, relatives, or friends were anywhere in the album. As odd, other than their wedding photo, the couple did not appear in any of the pictures together.
On the last of the thick pages, a loose photograph leaned against the back cover. Wearing one of the dresses Sonia purchased at the thrift store the woman with her hair colored black and cropped appeared pounds thinner. She revealed a well-toned curvy figure, an attractive appearance, and a pleasant smile.
A cold current shot through Sonia. Instantaneously it spilled out of her open mouth with a sharp gasp. For a moment, Sonia thought she gazed at a picture of herself. With a loud thud, she closed the book and cast it aside, strolled into the bathroom, flipped on the light switch, and peered into the mirror.
The image before her expressed the fatigue Sonia consciously denied. She assumed her tired bloodshot eyes obscured her vision. A few gulps of water would help hydrate and revive her.
With a hard twist, she turned on the cold-water tap. Tepid liquid trickled onto the stained porcelain sink. While she removed cellophane from a plastic cup, Sonia wondered why anyone would leave such a personal album. Perhaps the owner had merely forgotten it. Didn’t the saleswoman say it was stored in a special cabinet?
With each sip of water, Sonia felt more energized. Within seconds, her head seemed to clear. She decided, first thing in the morning, she would return this box to the friendly salesclerk. Its private contents were none of her business.
For several minutes, she tried to ignore the box, but a strong curiosity overrode any ethical principles.
Before long, her anxious hands dipped into its personal depths and retrieved an unsealed envelope. It contained two wedding rings. Her fingertips twirled the cool circles. She inspected their plainness. Other than the standard 14K markings, no inscriptions appeared in either the larger or the smaller ring.
From across the corridor a door slammed. Startled by the noise Sonia froze. Fixing a stare at the entry, she half expected the female pictured in the album to angrily storm into the room to confiscate her keepsakes.
Sonia shook her head and chuckled at her foolish notion. Reality returned and with it, she resumed her intriguing task.
Wrapped in the folds of crispy tissue paper a white crepe dress with simple lines matched those of the wedding gown in the first photograph. Although never a bride herself, Sonia knew this special garment deserved respectful attention. With a gentle touch, she fluffed up the fancy material. As if made of spun gold, she hung it in the closet with care.
Sonia ignored a hint of guilt and pulled out an unlabeled manila envelope.
It contained a marriage certificate. From it, Sonia learned that Mark Stintly and a Margaret Courtly had married sixteen years earlier. The envelope also contained Mark Stintly’s death certificate. He had died at forty years old of a coronary thrombosis.
Sonia noted his death occurred five months earlier. A combination of surprise and melancholy tugged the walls of her heart.
“Poor Margaret, his death left you alone.”
Dr. Sonia Wyland’s psychological mind deduced, in this mourning period, Margaret would still be traumatized, as well as vulnerable. Her emotional status might explain why Margaret impulsively ran off to remarry.
A final search of the carton revealed a solitary red spiral notebook. Within its cover, the words “My Journal” caused Sonia to close its lid. She pressed the ruby pamphlet to her chest and remained motionless. As much as she wanted to learn more about Margaret, an inner voice reminded Sonia not to intrude on Margaret’s confidential thoughts.
In haste, Sonia cleared the bed, changed into a slightly creased nightshirt, got under the gaily-flowered comforter, and turned off the lights.
Not five minutes later her inquisitiveness won out.
One switch lit the table lamp.
In its soft glow, she began to read the diary.
You’ll find E.B. Sullivan’s Bloom Forevermore on the following links:
US: http://www.amazon.com/Bloom-Forevermore-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00AY50AGA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399068123&sr=1-1&keywords=bloom+forevermore
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bloom-Forevermore-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B00AY50AGA/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_2_4QGF
Canada: http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B00AY50AGA/ref=s9_simh_gw_p351_d0_i2?pf_rd_m=A3DWYIK6Y9EEQB&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=00G2YY8JV2E5XFG4XR7F&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1687860482&pf_rd_i=915398
Christmas Guardian Angel
E.B. Sullivan
(In Memory of Steve Bernard Founder of Cape Cod Potato Chips)
Chapter One
Isabella sat at the conference table flipping through a stack of real-estate documents. She was about to purchase her dream house, and felt delighted at the thought of relocating to this quaint town. More accurately, she would be moving to an idyllic property hidden in the nearby forest.
She remembered the first time she visited this area. Her parents had taken her to a cabin in the woods for her thirteenth birthday. It was an awkward stage in her life. Her arms and legs, much longer than her petite body, resembled those of a monkey. She had big feet, oversized hands, braces, and splotchy-skin. Her hair was frizzy and untamable.
Her mother reassured her, “Adolescence will soon pass.”
“But will my ugliness. I try to be positive but it’s hard.”
“You’re lucky to be cute during this transition stage.”
“Mom that’s not true.”
“Have it your way, but remember ugly ducklings turn into beautiful swans.”
During the celebration, Isabella soon forgot about her appearance. In contrast to the city, the air was fresh, the views spectacular, and the wildlife enchanting. The area stimulated her imagination. She sketched illustrations of real and fanciful animals. She hiked for hours, swam in a lake until her lips turned blue, and roasted marshmallows under more stars than she could have ever imagined.
That Sunday, after lunch, she felt disappointed when her parents wanted to leave.
Twenty minutes later, her father stopped the car in front of a metal structure. “We’ve arrived at your last birthday gift.” The surprise turned out to be a tour of a potato chip factory.
A good-looking man greeted her. “Welcome young lady and happy birthday.”
“Our daughter loves potato chips. In fact, we fear she may be addicted to them,” her father said. He chuckled and embraced her.
Isabella felt embarrassed by his words, especially in front of a man who looked like a movie star. He was tall and slim with wavy black hair. His blue eyes twinkled. His voice was deep and soothing.
“Sounds like my kind of gal. Come with me and I’ll give you the royal tour,” he said as he motioned her to follow.
On that hot day, she was dressed in a tank top and shorts. Yet, the handsome stranger didn’t seem to notice her arms and legs dangling from her narrow frame.
At first, she was nervous, but she quickly relaxed.
He made her smile. He made her laugh. Most of all he made the best potato chips she had ever tasted.
A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. She glanced across the table at Harry Sanders, her real-estate agent. He seemed absorbed in an identical set of papers.
“That must be who we’ve been waiting for.” He rose, opened the door, and ushered in another man.
Isabella also rose. She started to walk toward them. After her second step she froze. She was sure the new arrival was the dashing potato chip man.
“Let me introduce you. Ms. Isabella Porte this is Mr. Marc Mora.”
She reached out her hand.
He shook it and held onto it. “Well I’ll be. You’re the birthday girl, Izzie. Am I right?”
“You remember me?”
Marc took a moment to study her.
Under his scrutiny, she wondered why she felt like a self-conscious girl. From the many compliments she received, she knew men considered her attractive. At present, she stood tall in three-inch heels. She was wearing a black suit with a tight skirt skimming the tops of her knees.
“How could I forget those legs?”
The real-estate agent coughed. Perhaps he thought she had previously popped out of a cake at a stag party.
“You won’t believe this, but I had your picture on my office wall for years. You hold the distinction of being the first person to tour my plant. Of course it wasn’t much then. Just a storeroom converted into a kitchen. Although you were only a kid, you were so polite. I can still hear your words, ‘Royal Potato Chips are the best I’ve ever tasted.’”
“I was telling the truth. To this day, they’re my favorite.”
His smile highlighted his dimples.
“Harry if this is your new assistant you’ve made a wise choice.” He glanced around the room. “Where are the buyers? Have they backed out of the deal?”
Harry pointed to Isabella.
Marc frowned. “Are you sure you want to buy what everyone ‘round here refers to as the haunted cottage?”
Her head bobbed up and down. “The moment I saw it I feel in love.” She almost told him, years earlier, she felt the same way about him.
She blinked away that thought and continued, “I pictured the stone façade of your amazing Victorian home trimmed in lavender, green, and burgundy. I envisioned each of the rooms painted vivid colors to match the vintage style. I just hope I can get the redo finished in time for Christmas, because I want to have an open house for the entire town.”
“Since you like people, living in seclusion may prove difficult. It could also be frightening. Perhaps, you should reconsider. I’ll gladly release you from your contract.”
Her head moved from side to side. “Oh, no, I’m certain I want to buy your home.”
“You do understand? The house is on sale in its present condition. As the seller I won’t be responsible for any repairs.”
Harry piped up, “Ms. Porte has signed the disclosure statements and agrees to all your terms.”
“In that case, let’s get this over with Harry. What do I need to sign?”
Want to read more? "Christmas Guardian Angel" is available on Amazon
US http://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Guardian-Angel-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B009ONWL5Q/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_d_4
UK http://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Guardian-Angel-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B009ONWL5Q/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_d_4
Canada http://www.amazon.ca/Christmas-Guardian-Angel-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B009ONWL5Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1397436306&sr=1-1&keywords=christmas+guardian+angel
E.B. Sullivan
(In Memory of Steve Bernard Founder of Cape Cod Potato Chips)
Chapter One
Isabella sat at the conference table flipping through a stack of real-estate documents. She was about to purchase her dream house, and felt delighted at the thought of relocating to this quaint town. More accurately, she would be moving to an idyllic property hidden in the nearby forest.
She remembered the first time she visited this area. Her parents had taken her to a cabin in the woods for her thirteenth birthday. It was an awkward stage in her life. Her arms and legs, much longer than her petite body, resembled those of a monkey. She had big feet, oversized hands, braces, and splotchy-skin. Her hair was frizzy and untamable.
Her mother reassured her, “Adolescence will soon pass.”
“But will my ugliness. I try to be positive but it’s hard.”
“You’re lucky to be cute during this transition stage.”
“Mom that’s not true.”
“Have it your way, but remember ugly ducklings turn into beautiful swans.”
During the celebration, Isabella soon forgot about her appearance. In contrast to the city, the air was fresh, the views spectacular, and the wildlife enchanting. The area stimulated her imagination. She sketched illustrations of real and fanciful animals. She hiked for hours, swam in a lake until her lips turned blue, and roasted marshmallows under more stars than she could have ever imagined.
That Sunday, after lunch, she felt disappointed when her parents wanted to leave.
Twenty minutes later, her father stopped the car in front of a metal structure. “We’ve arrived at your last birthday gift.” The surprise turned out to be a tour of a potato chip factory.
A good-looking man greeted her. “Welcome young lady and happy birthday.”
“Our daughter loves potato chips. In fact, we fear she may be addicted to them,” her father said. He chuckled and embraced her.
Isabella felt embarrassed by his words, especially in front of a man who looked like a movie star. He was tall and slim with wavy black hair. His blue eyes twinkled. His voice was deep and soothing.
“Sounds like my kind of gal. Come with me and I’ll give you the royal tour,” he said as he motioned her to follow.
On that hot day, she was dressed in a tank top and shorts. Yet, the handsome stranger didn’t seem to notice her arms and legs dangling from her narrow frame.
At first, she was nervous, but she quickly relaxed.
He made her smile. He made her laugh. Most of all he made the best potato chips she had ever tasted.
A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. She glanced across the table at Harry Sanders, her real-estate agent. He seemed absorbed in an identical set of papers.
“That must be who we’ve been waiting for.” He rose, opened the door, and ushered in another man.
Isabella also rose. She started to walk toward them. After her second step she froze. She was sure the new arrival was the dashing potato chip man.
“Let me introduce you. Ms. Isabella Porte this is Mr. Marc Mora.”
She reached out her hand.
He shook it and held onto it. “Well I’ll be. You’re the birthday girl, Izzie. Am I right?”
“You remember me?”
Marc took a moment to study her.
Under his scrutiny, she wondered why she felt like a self-conscious girl. From the many compliments she received, she knew men considered her attractive. At present, she stood tall in three-inch heels. She was wearing a black suit with a tight skirt skimming the tops of her knees.
“How could I forget those legs?”
The real-estate agent coughed. Perhaps he thought she had previously popped out of a cake at a stag party.
“You won’t believe this, but I had your picture on my office wall for years. You hold the distinction of being the first person to tour my plant. Of course it wasn’t much then. Just a storeroom converted into a kitchen. Although you were only a kid, you were so polite. I can still hear your words, ‘Royal Potato Chips are the best I’ve ever tasted.’”
“I was telling the truth. To this day, they’re my favorite.”
His smile highlighted his dimples.
“Harry if this is your new assistant you’ve made a wise choice.” He glanced around the room. “Where are the buyers? Have they backed out of the deal?”
Harry pointed to Isabella.
Marc frowned. “Are you sure you want to buy what everyone ‘round here refers to as the haunted cottage?”
Her head bobbed up and down. “The moment I saw it I feel in love.” She almost told him, years earlier, she felt the same way about him.
She blinked away that thought and continued, “I pictured the stone façade of your amazing Victorian home trimmed in lavender, green, and burgundy. I envisioned each of the rooms painted vivid colors to match the vintage style. I just hope I can get the redo finished in time for Christmas, because I want to have an open house for the entire town.”
“Since you like people, living in seclusion may prove difficult. It could also be frightening. Perhaps, you should reconsider. I’ll gladly release you from your contract.”
Her head moved from side to side. “Oh, no, I’m certain I want to buy your home.”
“You do understand? The house is on sale in its present condition. As the seller I won’t be responsible for any repairs.”
Harry piped up, “Ms. Porte has signed the disclosure statements and agrees to all your terms.”
“In that case, let’s get this over with Harry. What do I need to sign?”
Want to read more? "Christmas Guardian Angel" is available on Amazon
US http://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Guardian-Angel-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B009ONWL5Q/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_d_4
UK http://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Guardian-Angel-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B009ONWL5Q/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_d_4
Canada http://www.amazon.ca/Christmas-Guardian-Angel-E-B-Sullivan-ebook/dp/B009ONWL5Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1397436306&sr=1-1&keywords=christmas+guardian+angel
DIFFERENT HEARTS
by E.B. Sullivan
Chapters 1-2
Beginning in 1840 Different Hearts parallels the lives of Sophia and Ezra
Born with limited rights, Sophia struggles against societal norms. Conceived in rape Native American Ezra is an indentured-servant owned until his twenty-fifth birthday.
The two meet and fall passionately in love. However, circumstances, prejudices, and personal guilt forbid their union. In the span of two decades, shared spiritual values transcend time and culture taking Sophia and Ezra on a journey from bondage to freedom.
Click on following link to read PDF:
DIFFERENT HEARTS Chapters 1-2
Add Comment
by E.B. Sullivan
Chapters 1-2
Beginning in 1840 Different Hearts parallels the lives of Sophia and Ezra
Born with limited rights, Sophia struggles against societal norms. Conceived in rape Native American Ezra is an indentured-servant owned until his twenty-fifth birthday.
The two meet and fall passionately in love. However, circumstances, prejudices, and personal guilt forbid their union. In the span of two decades, shared spiritual values transcend time and culture taking Sophia and Ezra on a journey from bondage to freedom.
Click on following link to read PDF:
DIFFERENT HEARTS Chapters 1-2
Add Comment
Spotlighting Crime
by E.B. Sullivan
(A Mystery/ Romance Novella)
Chapter One
Even as a child, I was fascinated by criminals. It probably had something to do with being born in a prison or maybe it had something to do with having a mother who died in one. Then again, growing up in fifteen different foster homes introduced me to a variety of deviant minds.
When one nasty foster parent blurted the truth about how my life began, I tried to deny it. Much later, I needed to know. Did a bit of research and, voila, the facts hit me square in the face.
My mother was serving a ten-year stretch for armed robbery. She and her boyfriend held up a liquor store in Manhattan’s lower east side. Things went sour and her guy blew a hole through the clerk’s left shoulder. Fortunately, the man lived. Still my mom spent the rest of her years in a dingy cell.
My father was a prison guard who got lucky or was a no good SOB who took unfair advantage of the ladies. Since I believed the latter, I never bothered to look him up.
Being overweight made it possible for my mother to conceal her pregnancy. Why she did so, is another question. One I’ll never know the answer to. By the time her cellmate called for help, my mother was already in acute physical distress. She
was hemorrhaging, losing too much blood too fast to survive. She used her last ounces of strength to push. Along with her dying breath, I left her.
My first years were fine. I lived in a Catholic orphanage, lucky to have Sister Mary Beth tuck me in and read to me. From five on, the string of creeps who took money to take care of me and other innocent children ranged from pedophiles to child abusers. My break came when I met Mrs. Shapiro, a social worker. She advised, “If you think someone is scary or if someone threatens you, hits you, or touches your private parts, tell your teacher.” She made me promise. Wanting to be a good girl, I kept my word.
I remember telling my kindergarten teacher Miss Kay, “My new mommy said next time I disobey she’ll press a hot iron on my back.”
Miss Kay bent down and patted my arm. “Dear, you’re fortunate to have someone who really cares for you. It isn’t nice to tell such ugly stories.”
“She doesn’t like me.” I lifted up my shirt revealing three cigarette burns.
Telling the teacher worked. From then on, the hitting, burning, or touching only occurred one time before a social worker placed me in a different home or facility.
Heck, none of those faded nightmares matter anymore. What’s important is my experiences launched me on a different path. Once I was eighteen, I fended for myself. Things have been great ever since. However, if you thought I chose to
champion children who suffer similar fates to mine, you’d be wrong.
I liked to write. In childhood, it was my quiet form of entertainment. Many a time it kept me out of trouble. And, when I was hurting, I would hide out, far from the horrors of the real world, in safe make-believe lands. Thus, I studied
journalism in college. After graduating, I got a job at a small town paper preparing the obits.
One day, while sitting in my office cubicle, I answered an incoming call from a man. “Are you the lady who writes the obituaries?”
“Yes. My name is Allyson Barr. How can I help you?”
“I’d like you to write mine.”
“I don’t understand. I usually write about people who have died.”
“Well, I’ll be dead real soon.”
Wondering if he was suicidal, I paid careful attention.
“I have cancer. Been through treatment and now the end’s near. Before I go, I want to confess a crime I committed forty years ago. It was an unsolved embezzlement case.”
I was intrigued.
After I wrote his story, I knew I had found my niche. Still, it took a while before I could sell my pitch. My research led me to criminals who had completed their sentences. I stuck to thieves who had committed white-collar crimes. I was amazed at their huge egos, wanting to detail the brilliance of their schemes. It didn’t seem to faze them they had been caught, locked up, and lost years of their lives. Most of them didn’t express remorse, feel ashamed, or harbor regrets. Of course, these were the one out of ten willing to spill their guts. The majority refused to speak to me. I tracked the group. A high percentage returned to jail within a few years.
I decided to name my column “Spotlighting Crime” but the editor laughed at the idea.
A few weeks later, the paper was light on news. My editor told me, “I’ll give your lame idea a whirl.”
Next day, I was flooded with emails. Turned out I wasn’t the only one who found crime fascinating. Now I have a weekly syndicated column in scores of newspapers across the country.
Want to read more? “Spotlighting Crime” is available on Amazon
US: http://www.amazon.com/Spotlighting-Crime-ebook/dp/B00E5NBNSG/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_d_1
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spotlighting-Crime-ebook/dp/B00E5NBNSG/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_3_815Z
Canada: http://www.amazon.ca/Spotlighting-Crime-ebook/dp/B00E5NBNSG/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_3_YFED
by E.B. Sullivan
(A Mystery/ Romance Novella)
Chapter One
Even as a child, I was fascinated by criminals. It probably had something to do with being born in a prison or maybe it had something to do with having a mother who died in one. Then again, growing up in fifteen different foster homes introduced me to a variety of deviant minds.
When one nasty foster parent blurted the truth about how my life began, I tried to deny it. Much later, I needed to know. Did a bit of research and, voila, the facts hit me square in the face.
My mother was serving a ten-year stretch for armed robbery. She and her boyfriend held up a liquor store in Manhattan’s lower east side. Things went sour and her guy blew a hole through the clerk’s left shoulder. Fortunately, the man lived. Still my mom spent the rest of her years in a dingy cell.
My father was a prison guard who got lucky or was a no good SOB who took unfair advantage of the ladies. Since I believed the latter, I never bothered to look him up.
Being overweight made it possible for my mother to conceal her pregnancy. Why she did so, is another question. One I’ll never know the answer to. By the time her cellmate called for help, my mother was already in acute physical distress. She
was hemorrhaging, losing too much blood too fast to survive. She used her last ounces of strength to push. Along with her dying breath, I left her.
My first years were fine. I lived in a Catholic orphanage, lucky to have Sister Mary Beth tuck me in and read to me. From five on, the string of creeps who took money to take care of me and other innocent children ranged from pedophiles to child abusers. My break came when I met Mrs. Shapiro, a social worker. She advised, “If you think someone is scary or if someone threatens you, hits you, or touches your private parts, tell your teacher.” She made me promise. Wanting to be a good girl, I kept my word.
I remember telling my kindergarten teacher Miss Kay, “My new mommy said next time I disobey she’ll press a hot iron on my back.”
Miss Kay bent down and patted my arm. “Dear, you’re fortunate to have someone who really cares for you. It isn’t nice to tell such ugly stories.”
“She doesn’t like me.” I lifted up my shirt revealing three cigarette burns.
Telling the teacher worked. From then on, the hitting, burning, or touching only occurred one time before a social worker placed me in a different home or facility.
Heck, none of those faded nightmares matter anymore. What’s important is my experiences launched me on a different path. Once I was eighteen, I fended for myself. Things have been great ever since. However, if you thought I chose to
champion children who suffer similar fates to mine, you’d be wrong.
I liked to write. In childhood, it was my quiet form of entertainment. Many a time it kept me out of trouble. And, when I was hurting, I would hide out, far from the horrors of the real world, in safe make-believe lands. Thus, I studied
journalism in college. After graduating, I got a job at a small town paper preparing the obits.
One day, while sitting in my office cubicle, I answered an incoming call from a man. “Are you the lady who writes the obituaries?”
“Yes. My name is Allyson Barr. How can I help you?”
“I’d like you to write mine.”
“I don’t understand. I usually write about people who have died.”
“Well, I’ll be dead real soon.”
Wondering if he was suicidal, I paid careful attention.
“I have cancer. Been through treatment and now the end’s near. Before I go, I want to confess a crime I committed forty years ago. It was an unsolved embezzlement case.”
I was intrigued.
After I wrote his story, I knew I had found my niche. Still, it took a while before I could sell my pitch. My research led me to criminals who had completed their sentences. I stuck to thieves who had committed white-collar crimes. I was amazed at their huge egos, wanting to detail the brilliance of their schemes. It didn’t seem to faze them they had been caught, locked up, and lost years of their lives. Most of them didn’t express remorse, feel ashamed, or harbor regrets. Of course, these were the one out of ten willing to spill their guts. The majority refused to speak to me. I tracked the group. A high percentage returned to jail within a few years.
I decided to name my column “Spotlighting Crime” but the editor laughed at the idea.
A few weeks later, the paper was light on news. My editor told me, “I’ll give your lame idea a whirl.”
Next day, I was flooded with emails. Turned out I wasn’t the only one who found crime fascinating. Now I have a weekly syndicated column in scores of newspapers across the country.
Want to read more? “Spotlighting Crime” is available on Amazon
US: http://www.amazon.com/Spotlighting-Crime-ebook/dp/B00E5NBNSG/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_d_1
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spotlighting-Crime-ebook/dp/B00E5NBNSG/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_3_815Z
Canada: http://www.amazon.ca/Spotlighting-Crime-ebook/dp/B00E5NBNSG/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_3_YFED
