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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
1972, Ravenspond, Canada. At only 15 years old, Bessie has to endure the worst experience imaginable: the sudden loss of her best friend Ash and her boyfriend Jason in a tragic accident.
Worst of all, Bessie feels responsible for the tragedy. How is she supposed to go on living with all this grief and guilt? At times, she thinks it would be better if she didn't.
But somehow, with the help of Angel Mel, her loving family, and unexpected new friendships, she is able to find her inner strength... And she discovers that even after all the rain, there will be sunshine.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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SURVIVING BESSIE
THE BESSIE SERIES
BOOK II
JODY OVEREND
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Ravenspond 1972
2. Ravenspond
3. Heaven
4. Ravenspond
5. Heaven
6. Ravenspond
7. England 1723
8. England 1724
9. England 1725
10. England 1727
11. England 1773
12. Heaven
13. Ravenspond
14. Ravenspond
15. Ravenspond
16. Heaven
17. Ravenspond
18. Heaven
19. Ravenspond
20. Ravenspond
21. Heaven
22. Heaven
23. Ravenspond
24. Heaven
25. Dixtowe
26. Ravenspond
27. Heaven
28. Heaven
29. Greece 479 BC
30. Greece 475 BC
31. Greece 453 BC
32. Heaven
33. Ravenspond
34. Ravenspond
35. Ravenspond
36. Heaven
37. Ravenspond
38. Heaven
39. Ravenspond
40. Heaven
41. Ravenspond
42. Ravenspond
43. Heaven
44. Ravenspond
45. Heaven
46. Ravenspond
47. Heaven
48. Ravenspond
49. Ravenspond
50. Ravenspond
51. Paris, France 1838
52. Paris, France 1842
53. Paris, France 1844
54. Wales 1848
55. Paris, France 1848
56. Paris, France 1898
57. Heaven
58. Heaven
59. Ravenspond
60. Heaven
61. Ravenspond
62. Ravenspond
63. Heaven
64. Ravenspond
65. Ravenspond
66. Heaven
67. Ravenspond
68. Heaven
69. Ravenspond
70. Ravenspond
71. Manila 1973
72. Ravenspond
73. Manila
74. Heaven
75. Ravenspond
76. Heaven
77. Inside the Negative Portal
78. Heaven
79. Inside the Negative Portal
80. Manila
81. Inside the Negative Portal
82. Heaven
83. Ravenspond
84. Ravenspond
85. Ravenspond
86. Ravenspond
87. Ravenspond
88. Heaven
89. New York City 1920
90. New York City 1936
91. Portugal 1946
92. Portugal 1946
93. New York City 1954
94. Heaven
95. Calgary, Alberta
96. Calgary, Alberta
97. Calgary, Alberta
98. Ravenspond
99. Ravenspond
100. Ravenspond
101. Ravenspond
102. Ravenspond
103. Ravenspond
104. Heaven
105. Ravenspond
106. Ravenspond
107. Heaven
108. Heaven
109. Heaven
110. Heaven
111. Earth Portal
112. Ravenspond
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2023 Jody Overend
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter
Published 2023 by Next Chapter
Edited by Tyler Colins
Cover art by Lordan June Pinote
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
For Charlie, until we meet again.
My anchor, now and always.
PROLOGUE
RAVENSPOND, ONTARIO 2015
A year has passed since those initial revelations of my Great Aunt Bessie. Once again, on my birthday, this one being my sixteenth, I sit in her garden. My ears are glued to her wild tales of how she traveled to another dimension back in 1972 with her best friend Ash, tried on body images of the famously deceased, and met up with her late relatives, among other jaw-dropping adventures.
Grantie, as I affectionately call her, sips her glass of white wine, no ice, with a tabby cat at her feet. As always, she wears her gaudy 4-leaf clover brooch. Today, it’s attached to her faded Joni Mitchell T-shirt. She believes the jewelry is magical and travels through time and space.
I ask her why she doesn’t want to share her stories with her sons and grandkids. And she tells me that they have heard bits and pieces, and frankly, they think she’s a little nutsy. “They just roll their eyes at me. Besides, they’ve all gone fishing for salmon off the coast of British Columbia with Papa.” She grins. “So, like last summer, I’ll share my stories with you.”
Grantie takes a long sip and leans back. “The late sixties and early seventies were a fantastic time to be young,” she tells me, not for the first time. “No cell phones, no 24-hour news, no social media to torment the vulnerable. We lived as carefree as butterflies, flitting from experience to experience. Ash and I were the closest of friends from the time we were toddlers. And then I met Jason, Jason Wallet, when I was eight years old on the skating rink, and he became my companion, my brother, my teacher, and then my first love.” She giggles. “He was determined we would marry and live on the parcel of land his Uncle Peter had left him; and build a house for us down on the old road out of town.”
Grantie sips her wine, leaning forward to look me in the eye. “But I was only fifteen, restless, and full of curiosity about the world. And it was full-blown summer with all that sunshine beaming down, and my head full of mischief.” She grins. “So, Ash and I, we took off on a hitchhiking trip right across Canada. Everybody was doing that in those days. Nobody worried about a thing. We got all the way to Thunder Bay, across Manitoba and Saskatchewan, and over the border into the foothills of Alberta when disaster struck. And my world as I knew it ended. Ash was dead. Jason was dead. And I, somehow survived, although I often wished I hadn’t.”
I get up to give her a hug, wishing I could take all her pain away.
“No need to fuss. It’s a long time ago now. I’ve learned to live with it. You have no choice, really. You either learn to live with your grief and regrets, or you die.” She sips her wine. “As you can see, I eventually chose to live.”
Grantie jumps up to run into her cottage, returning with a photograph, and handing it to me. It’s of three fresh-faced teenagers, leaning against a fence: a tall lanky fellow with strange, sticking-up sandy hair, a lean and long-legged copper-skinned beauty, and a redheaded girl with freckles and a wide grin.
“Jason, Ash, and you,” I say. “Way back when.”
Grantie wipes a tear from her eyes. “Okay, so did you bring your pen and notepad? Years from now, when I give you the word, maybe you’ll publish my stories.”
She touches her 4-leaf clover brooch, which she always does when the pain returns. As she once told me, grief softens over time, but it never leaves you. Threads of it weave themselves into the intricate fabric that becomes the rest of your life.
RAVENSPOND 1972
Bessie lies under the sheet warm in the claustrophobic humidity of late July, willing her eyes to close and shut out the nightmare her world has become. In the darkness, her thoughts unbidden drift back to that afternoon somewhere out west when she and Ash had taken a ride with a handsome stranger who looked just like the movie star Zac Frontenac ….
Wrists scream from tethers binding them to chairs, while silent mouths struggle under duct tape. Bessie and Ash can barely turn their heads enough to see each other; their eyes are black with fear. Holding the knife dangling from his right hand, Harry returns to his chair, facing them from inches away.
“Now, ladies,” he begins conversationally. “We can do this the easy way. Or the hard way.” He runs the tip of the knife under Bessie’s chin, then Ash’s. They struggle in vain to avoid the sharp metal. “So, which of you is going to prove your love for me first?” His eyes are glass. He calmly flicks the blade from one nose to the other. In his singsong voice, he whispers, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catch a girlie by her toe. If she hollers …” He stops to giggle. “Well, you can’t holler with that tape on there.” His breath reeks of whiskey and cigarettes.
Suddenly, in her struggle to free herself, Bessie’s head jerks forward. The knife gleams as it moves like lightening in his hand to strike her just above her left eye. “Don’t ever do that again.” His voice is freezer cold. “Or you’ll really tick me off.”
Bitter cries burst from Bessie’s chest, shattering her whole being. Her eyes pop open. Her hand flies to the still aching wound above her left eyebrow in the shape of a bird. Glancing around, she finally realizes she is safe in her own bed at home. She sobs heavily before, mercifully, a sort of calm descends. Breathing deeply, she feels her limbs collapse.
“Bessie, honey, you alright?” Her mother’s voice outside her bedroom door trembles with anxiety. Heather knocks gently but knows her daughter is desperate to be left alone.
A puppy yelps and scratches at the door. The voice of Bessie’s father whispers, “What are we going to do?”
Inside the bedroom, Bessie’s fingers linger on her forehead. She stares at the ceiling. Eventually, the footfalls disappear down the upstairs hallway. Reaching under her pillow, she pulls out a crumpled photo. Staring at the images, she wills them to step off the paper and into her room.
Ash in platform sandals, a cerise mini skirt and sparkly top, beams at the camera. Her coppery complexion is surrounded in a mess of dark curls as she leans against a farm fence; multiple bracelets encircle her wrists. In the middle, Jason grins shyly with his arm around Bessie on the other side of him. They were at his farm just last spring to see the newborn lambs. Jason’s father Brian took the photograph.
Bessie’s fingers run over the images. Ash, her very best friend since she can remember. And Jason, her buddy from the age of eight until they became more than that. Now, both of them are deceased, thanks to Bessie’s catastrophic idea of hitchhiking to Vancouver … what, a month ago? Two months? A year? A week? She can’t remember. Grief tightens the vice on her heart and squeezes.
The puppy outside the door whimpers and scratches a paw, over and over. Slowly, Bessie sighs and swings her legs onto the floor, padding over to let her in.
Miss Marple – for that’s the name given to the rescued pup by her sister Leila – snuggles into her armpit and falls asleep. Despite her mood, Bessie smiles and strokes the silky fur. With the photo still clutched in her fingers, mercifully she slips into a light slumber.
Unbeknownst to her, a shadowy male figure watches from the foot of her bed. A glittery aura surrounds his chunky torso that more than fills a garish Hawaiian shirt. “Oh, my funny little mushroom,” he murmurs. “I wish I could take your pain away.”
RAVENSPOND
Bessie picks at her breakfast. Nothing appeals to her, not even her favorite blueberry pancakes; her mother is busy making a second batch of them at the stove.
“You might want to take a shower,” Art comments, wrinkling his nose, looking across the table at his older daughter. Her hair has remained uncombed for days now; food sticks to her housecoat. He glances at Leila, looking for inspiration and continues, “Your Uncle John in Ireland – do you remember I told you about them in the hospital? Well, he and his crazy wife Maureen have these twins now. And you won’t believe this part. They remind them of your Grandpa Will and Grandma Millie. Isn’t that the nuttiest thing?”
Bessie’s eyes widen. Her back snaps straight. “What?” she yells. “Grandma and Grandpa?” She doesn’t remember much from the time in the hospital but something about this tale is making her burst at the seams. “They’re back?”
Delighted that he’s finally gotten a rise out of her, Art barrels on. “No, they’re not Will and Millie, of course. That’s impossible. They’re Sylvia and Padraic. They’re just … reminiscent, I guess you’d say.” He jumps up from the table and runs to the living room. “Want to see some pictures?”
Bessie sputters, “That’s totally possible. They’ve reincarnated. I saw them leave from Heaven Interportal Airport.”
Art hesitates in the doorway, photos in hand, sharing a look with Heather at the stove. “Bessie, when did you start believing in reincarnation? We never …” His voice trails off.
“You … you saw them, dear?” Her mother can’t keep the worry out of her voice. “You mean, you dreamed about them? When … when you were in the coma?”
Her daughter stares at her blank-eyed. “I don’t know how I know. I just know.”
Stunned, her father hands Bessie the snapshots. Two pink-cheeked infants smile out of a double baby buggy. One, the girl, has strawberry curls; the boy’s straight hair is dark. “May I keep these?” Bessie looks down at the next one. The babies are propped up against their smiling daddy on a rug outside in a yard. In the next one, the little boy, Padraic, in powder-blue shorts and a white T-shirt with a bowtie painted on it, and Sylvia, in a too-big-for-her floral dress, are holding hands. Two adults, all gussied up, crouch down on their knees behind them.
“Maureen says they were off to a friend’s wedding. Cute as bugs, aren’t they?” Heather gushes.
Bessie’s eyes burn into the photos. “Where do they live?”
Her mother, setting down a plate of pancakes, answers with a smile, “In a village just outside Shannon.”
Leila, absorbed in her novel until now, pipes up, adjusting her glasses. “And you’ll like this part, Bess. They live next door to the very same farm that Grandma and Grandpa used to own before they immigrated. John and Maureen bought it so they could see the old property.”
Someone knocks quietly on the screen door. A male voice asks politely, “May I come in?”
“Eric.” Art yanks the door open. A tall blonde man, immaculate in jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, enters. “Come in, sit yourself down.”
The man does as Art suggests while he makes the introductions.
“Bessie, this is Eric Pederssen, the—”
“I know who you are,” Bessie says under her breath. “You’re the lead detective when we were found in the creek bed.”
The adults look at each other before Eric answers, “Yes, I am. How are you feeling?”
“I wish I was dead.” Bessie jumps up and stumbles from the room.
“Thank you,” Eric murmurs while Heather sets down a coffee for him. He stares at the doorway where Bessie disappeared. “The Crown Prosecutor insists we have her positively identify the abductor before we can press charges.” His long fingers drum the table lightly. “I am very aware this will be traumatic for her. Let me know when you feel she is strong enough to handle it. No big rush. Let him rot in jail.”
“I … I don’t think she is emotionally able to …” Heather’s features betray her stress. “All she can talk about is Ash and Jason and how she—”
“Perhaps in a week or so,” Art jumps in, patting his wife’s hand. “We’ll sound her out and get back to you; how’s that?”
Bessie’s voice smacks the air from the doorway. “Terrance Blacksmith,” she spits out. “Or should I call him Harry Mercer? Let’s do it right away. I’m ready.”
HEAVEN
A long and lean girl with coppery skin leans down to adjust the strap of her tangerine platform shoe. Her dark curls swing forward, obscuring her features. “Damn,” she declares, “I’ve lost one of my rhinestones. Merde.” The air is balmy with a light breeze. Crows, perched exactly six inches apart, hold a meeting on a branch of a nearby oak tree. Parrots fly overhead in formation, their feathers neon-yellow in the sunlight. Except for the fact that she casts no shadow, the girl looks like any other teenager on Earth.
“Merde means ‘poo’ in French. Do you know that?” A Latino lad, stocky and handsome in his crisp white shirt, tan slacks, and black loafers, smiles at her adoringly.
“I thought it meant weird.” She shakes her curls.
“Never mind, Ashley. One day, I will replace those rhinestones with diamonds.”
She loves that he calls her that – Ashley. She loves everything about him actually. “Thank you, Miguelito. When we reincarnate, I’m going to hold you to that.”
“As long as you hold me, I will always be happy.”
She stands up, taller than him, and winds her arms around his neck. “I will be a famous actress, like Annette Funicello.”
“And I will be your manager, protecting you from all harm.”
“And we will live in the Hollywood Hills with a big pool and a tennis court.”
He kisses her lightly. “You don’t even like sports.”
“The tennis courts will be for our guests. I will keep my figure by doing yoga and stuff like that.”
“You are perfect the way you are.”
Her smile fades. She turns away, mumbling, “Wonder how Bessie’s doing? I miss her so much. And we’re banned from the Telescope until further notice.”
A chipmunk sits up, looking at them intently before turning its attention to a sunflower seed.
They begin to stroll in the late afternoon sunshine along the road. An occasional vehicle passes them with no sound or exhaust as they run on universal energy in Heaven. At the edge of the nearby woods, a tall, skinny youth leans against a tree. His clothing is disheveled. One leg is bent back at the knee and pressed against the bark. Tears trickle from his haunted eyes and roll down his cheeks. His pale hair sticks up in all directions.
Ash turns to Miguelito, her features bleak. “Poor Jason. He misses Bessie so much. What will happen to him?”
“There you are.” A petite woman in a black business suit appears out of thin air beside them on the gravel. The sparkly aura that surrounds her identifies her as an angel. “You two have an important meeting tomorrow morning at eight a.m. sharp at Angel Court. Don’t be late.” She grins in a smile-that-is-not-a-smile way of hers. “Or all hell will break loose.”
“But Angel Rachel, we’ve been going to Reincarnation School every day!” Ash’s expression betrays her horror at the very thought of being in Angel Court again. And no small wonder. The last time she appeared, the judge – as that is the role of Angel Rachel – threatened to send her and Bessie back to the Stone Age for a do-over.
As the angel takes flight, Ash’s eyes grow even larger as she grasps Miguelito’s hand. “Merde. What’s she got in mind for us this time?”
RAVENSPOND
“That’s him.” Bessie’s eyes flash volcanic ash. She glares through the two-way window. “Harry. Terry. Whatever the hell his real name is. Number three from the left.”
Terrance Blacksmith lounges in a tight, white T-shirt and black jeans, his sulky features ugly in his pretty-boy face. He stands with four similarly dressed youths. He has been transported from Calgary for this morning’s line-up.
Suddenly, Bessie is swept right back, sitting in his dusty red truck riding beside him, in the foothills of Alberta. Ash sits by the window. The mid July air is sticky hot …
The pickup cruises along a winding dirt road, heading up a hillside. In the driver’s seat, the guy who looks like the movie star Zac Frontenac, drives with one hand, smoking a smelly French cigarette with the other. His car keys display a pair of dice on a small chain.
“Harry, where are we going, anyways?” Bessie’s voice trembles slightly. “Thought we were heading right to the bus station?”
“Oh, it’s such a nice day, don’t you want to see the countryside a bit before you go? Besides, I checked the schedule. Your bus doesn’t leave for another few hours.”
Ash speaks while looking at her friend. “You checked that before we left the diner?”
“Well, yeah, course I did. Didn’t want you to miss your big important trip, did I?”
Bessie lets out a long breath. “So, this is on the way?”
Harry takes his eyes from the road to smile enigmatically at his passengers. “We’re almost there.” Without warning, he turns sharply onto a rough dirt road. Hardly a road, it’s more like a trail.
In the darkened room in the police station, Bessie jumps up to pound on the glass before Detective Pederssen can stop her. She shouts, “Why isn’t he dead instead of them?”
“We’ve got him, Bessie,” Eric says quietly.
“It’s all my fault.” She sobs, collapsing into his chest. “Everything is my fault.”
HEAVEN
“Well? How do I look?” Ash stands before the free-standing mirror in the small cottage Fiona Dodd lives in. Fiona, Bessie’s deceased aunt, inherited the dwelling from her mother Millie and father Will after they decided to try their hand at another lifetime. A big orange cat lounges on the sofa, stretching out one paw at a time, pulling at bits of fur between her claws. Snoozing beside her is a golden retriever, a ratty mouse toy nearby.
Fizz, as she is often known, resembles her sister, Bessie’s mother Heather, only in a brassy, over-the-top way. “You look like you’re going to court for the crime of the century. Loosen up a bit, girl.”
Ash’s tight curls are yanked back into a knot. Her face is makeup free. Her feet display ballet flats. “I don’t get it. What did we do wrong? We’ve been behaving like little angels! We just want to reincarnate as soon as possible and get on with our next lives.”
“When have you ever not worn your girly shoes?” Fizz shakes her head. “Here.” She chuckles as she hands Ash her sparkly, lime platforms. “Or you’ll be punished for a crime of fashion. Get it? Crime of fashion?”
“Got it, bossy boots.” Ash takes the pins out of her hair and shakes her head vigorously. “And you’re right. I don’t think I can even talk without my mascara. Innocent or guilty.”
Fizz presses down the silky material on her own polka-dot dress. “We’d better get going. Don’t want to tick off Miss Prissy Pot.”
“Angel Prissy Pot,” Ash corrects her with a snicker. “Let’s get this over with.”
Moments later, they stroll uphill along the country road outside the cottage. Peach the cat and Mouser the dog sit, watching them go from the doorway. Miguelito meets them at the top of the hill and together they make their way to Angel Court.
“Ready?” Ash gives him a small kiss. “Whatever they do to us, we will always stay true to each other.”
“I am yours forever,” Miguelito responds with a kiss of his own. “They can’t stop us no matter what they do.”
Inside, the courtroom is surprisingly empty. The spectator benches are bare. Judge Angel Rachel is not even in her black robe; rather, she sports her regular tailored business suit. Her trusty sidekick, Angel Boyd, as usual, is close by her side.
“This can’t be good,” Ash whispers to Miguelito. “Not good at all.”
“Follow me,” the judge instructs the two young people. To Fiona she says, “You wait out here.”
Fizz reluctantly finds a seat.
They take a quick walk down a darkened hallway before Angel Boyd opens a heavy door, with a formal, “After you.” Angel Rachel enters, followed by Miguelito and Ash.
The room is luxurious with dark woods and rich burgundy fabrics. On a bench perches a short, tubby angel with long brown hair bushing out from the sides of his bald head. Black-rimmed glasses perch on his nubby nose.
“Angel Rocco, what are you doing here?” Ash jumps back in fear, remembering that fateful day at the Seventh Seal Flight Academy. She and Bessie had to attach fake wings and fly like mad bees high in the sky while they vainly pushed buttons attached to their harnesses to control their flight. All the codes were backwards, like red for go, green for stop. And then there was the sadistic yellow one: the panic button. They zoomed around in the sky, up, down, and sideways, witlessly punching buttons to no avail while Angels Mel, Rocco, and Rachel roared with laughter below.
The judge grins at Ash and her companion who are squeezing each other’s hands for support. “So, you want to speed up your reincarnation process? Angel Rocco is here to help.” She walks over to her cohort to share some private words before she heads to the door. “I repeat, are you two ready to proceed with the next step of your goal to reincarnate?”
They stare at her in sheer panic. Miguelito has evidently heard the tale of Angel Rocco.
“Humph,” she remarks to her fellow angel. “Teenagers.”
“Pay attention. Rocco is speaking,” the dwarf-like angel barks.
Ash and Miguelito stand stiffly in the private chambers, staring at him wide-eyed.
“And Rocco don’t like to be ignored.”
“Sorry about that.” Miguelito finds his voice. “We’re listening.”
The angel’s grin is more of a grimace. “So, before you take on living new lives and making all kinds of new mistakes, which you both will, you gotta revisit some of your past ones. Your old scenes of crimes. Got it?”
The teenagers gawk at him. “Got it,” Ash finally says. “I think.”
“Okay,” the angel continues. “So, me and Angel Rachel, we have decided which ones we think you oughta relive.”
“I just have a question about—”
With a shock, Ash realizes their feet have lifted off the floor; she and Miguelito are air-borne! Glancing up, she sees there is no ceiling anymore, only blue sky. Looking downward, Ash sees Angels Rachel and Rocco snickering in the doorway.
“Toodle-oo,” Angel Rachel trills. “Happy trails!” She waves at the two teens flying upwards. “Have a nice trip!” Giggling, she and her cohort disappear from sight.
Ash and Miguelito hold hands as long as they can, calling each other’s names in vain before they are pulled apart by forces they cannot control. They vanish from sight in separate directions.
RAVENSPOND
“Edith Van Heflin, the woman who gave you a ride from the Sun Dial Motel and who tried to sell you and Ash as prostitutes has been arrested and charged.” Detective Pederssen’s voice is quiet in the police station interrogation room.
Bessie and her parents are seated along with the Chief of Detectives, Leonora Cavish, who is busy tucking strands of her flaxen bob behind her ear. Bessie’s mother gasps audibly.
Eric continues, “With accessory to homicide in the disappearance of two cold case teenage runaways. Without your collaboration, Bessie, their families would never be finding peace.”
“Tell that to Jason and Ash’s parents.” She will not be comforted.
“About the red truck,” Eric starts again.
“The truck I caused to go over the cliff because I panicked when I saw that deer and grabbed the wheel.” Bessie’s voice trembles. “I wish I was dead instead of them. I should be dead.”
“No, darling, no!” Heather cannot bear it. She jumps up to run around the table and wrap herself around her daughter’s seated figure. “Please, honey, no.”
Eric shares a look with Leonora, her hair framing her high Scottish cheekbones. He can see hollows under her eyes from lack of sleep. “Forensics have gone over the vehicle with a fine-toothed comb and discovered …” He waits for everyone to calm down.
“Discovered what?” Bessie’s father blurts out. “What, Eric?”
“The steering column was connected to the wheel by a thread. Any slight tapping on the wheel itself could have caused it to spin out of control.”
“You mean,” says Art firmly. “Bessie wasn’t responsible for the accident.”
Eric looks across at the young girl until she lifts her head. “It could have happened anytime, Bessie. Anytime.”
“You’re just saying that,” she spits out.
“I never just say anything,” Eric replies, staring her down.
“I still grabbed the wheel.” Bessie glares back.
“It was a reflex action. If the truck had been in good working condition, Jason would not have lost control by you grabbing onto it. He was much stronger than you and used to driving trucks. This is not my opinion. This is the opinion of our Ontario Provincial Forensic Department.”
The detective and the young girl continue to stare into each other’s eyes until Leonora speaks up, “Well then, we’ll be in touch.”
The police officers get up from the table. “Stay here as long as you like.”
Bessie puts her head down and begins to weep. “It’s still all my fault.”
Art looks over at Heather and whispers, “What are we going to do?”
Heather wipes a tear from her eye with her constant handkerchief these days. “I don’t know, I just don’t know.” Taking a deep breath, she adds, “But Leila says she has an idea for us.”
ENGLAND 1723
After flying through the open ceiling of Angel Rachel’s office and across the sky, and losing contact with Miguelito, Ash finds herself floating down, down, down. With a soft thud, her feet hit hard earth. Her eyes dart around; she is all alone. No Miguelito, no Angel Rachel, no Angel Rocco anywhere.
She looks at her body to see she is wearing a full-length maroon dress in some strange heavy material. Her feet are encased in narrow, laced-up, black boots. She lifts one arm to discover long, puffy sleeves edged in lace. Her hands are wearing exquisite gloves. She examines them while realizing something weighs on her head. Reaching up one glove, she touches some sort of wide-brimmed hat that is tied under her chin with a satin ribbon.
The air is chilly and brisk. Mature trees line the drive that stretches some distance. Leaves are tinged with gold and red. It must be autumn, wherever this is. Glancing around her environment, she spies a massive square stone building about two hundred feet along a pathway. By the grand circular entrance, a carriage drawn by two horses seems to be awaiting its passengers.
“Come along, Caroline,” an older feminine voice shouts in a warbling British accent. “I fear we are late already.”
With a shock, Ash realizes the woman is talking to her! She is reliving a previous incarnation as someone named Caroline!
“Really, my dear, you can be so exasperating,” the woman whines, turning away to be handed into the carriage by a young man decked out in pantaloons, jacket, and vest.
Ash begins to step tentatively towards them, in awe of the building topped with turrets in each corner with little curved walkways on the third floor. A dog, some sort of hound, runs out to greet her, tearing around and around her feet.
As she nears the carriage, the young man gives her a slight smile. She returns it as he assists her in. “Milady,” he murmurs under his breath.
Once inside and the door closed, her companion complains, “You must do something about your tardiness. We mustn’t keep Lord Simpson waiting every time he invites us over for tea.”
“Indeed,” Ash-Caroline feels herself saying. “My apologies, Aunt Margaret.”
“Humph.” Margaret takes out an elaborate handkerchief. “I shouldn’t wonder if we are not on his list next time. If he wasn’t so taken with you and determined to make you his bride, I am very certain we would not receive a future invitation.”
With a jolt, the carriage takes off. Ash-Caroline is thrown backwards, wide-eyed. Staring out the window, she sees a country lane surrounded in rolling hills and forest. She turns to face her relative.
Aunt Margaret remarks, “And pinch your cheeks, my dear. You are entirely too pale.”
Ash-Caroline pulls off a glove and discovers with a shock that her skin is as white as ivory. She reaches up to squeeze her cheeks as instructed. As they continue their drive in silence, her Ash personality seems to fade away. She is comfortably Lady Caroline, remembering a privileged childhood. Her parents were drowned in a boating accident abroad. Soon afterwards, a stern but loving paternal aunt came to live with her on her father’s estate when she was just seven years old. The current year is 1723 and they live some sixty miles outside London.
The carriage turns onto a long driveway. Stately pines immaculately line the path. At the far end several other carriages are dispersing elegantly attired passengers in a circular entranceway where a doorman is assisting. Two large stone lions crouch on pedestals on each side of the main entrance.
Soon, it is the turn of the Ladies Caroline and Margaret. Their door opens. A white-haired man attends to their needs. Her aunt descends first, before rushing over to greet a woman friend. Caroline steps down. Glancing around, she sees a young man and knows his name – William.
Her heart begins to pound with a wild intensity. When their eyes meet, energy pulsates in waves between them. With a shock, Caroline knows she is in love with him, deeply and passionately, and has been for some time. As she stares into his watery blue eyes, another man approaches her, about ten years older. Although he resembles William, he is taller, leaner, and with a stern cast to his features.
“Lord Simpson,” she says as he bends to take her hand and kiss it gently.
“To you, I am always Colin, Lady Caroline,” he murmurs with a smile. “Fetching as always, my dear.” Ignoring his brother, Colin tucks her arm in his, leading her inside. Sneaking a look back, she sees William staring at them, his face blank with misery. He turns away.
“Leave that nonsense behind you,” hisses Aunt Margaret, who is suddenly beside her. “Your betrothal is being announced next Sunday.” With that, the trio enters the building.
But I love William to the core of my being!
ENGLAND 1724
Months have passed. In the chilly dressing room, her aunt gives Caroline a hug while they stare into the long mirror. Margaret adjusts the tiara on her niece’s hair, which is braided and pulled back into a low chignon. “There. That looks better, my dear.” The older woman fluffs out the intricate veil. “That is the very same one your grandmother and your mother wore on their wedding days.” She kisses Caroline’s cheek before leaving. “And I am so very grateful you are saving your father’s estate. And my home.”
Caroline stares at her image encased in ivory velvet, puffed at the shoulders, tight along her lower arms, ending in a V shape on the tops of her hands. Lace edges the soft fabric shaped around her bosom before it falls in folds to her ankles. Around her neck nestles a single strand of pearls, given to her by her groom the night before. The longer she stares, the fainter her image becomes until it is just a blur of white cloud. Oh, how I wish I could disappear within it.
Too soon, Caroline stands in front of Father Bryan in the elegant Simpson chapel beside the tall and imposing Lord Colin. White candles decorate the altar and the recessed stained-glass windows. Bouquets of cream roses and lilies, imported from the south of France for the occasion, sit regally at the foot of the cross. Their guests number less than twenty on this November evening. Rain pelts the tin roof.
At the very back, William Simpson stands stiffly in his suit, hat in hand. She can feel his misery boring through the back of her head while she recites her vows in a mumbled monotone.
When they have been pronounced man and wife, the new Lady Simpson’s first instinct is to spin around. Her beloved William has vanished.
ENGLAND 1725
Caroline, in her dressing gown, stares out her bedroom window at the wintry scene, an infant asleep in her arms. The pines are leaden with snow. Two dogs chase each other, circling the carriage where a groomsman attends to the horses, readying them for an outing. He shouts something at the dogs, which she can’t hear, while the hounds tear off into the woods.
Inside her rooms, her elderly lady’s maid is setting out a pot of tea and fresh scones on a nearby table along with a letter that has arrived with the evening post. “Will that be all for now, milady?” she asks quietly.
Caroline nods without speaking. As soon as the maid is gone, tears pour freely down her cheeks and onto the child’s blanket. “Oh, my poor, sweet Rosamond. My lovely Rosy Posy. I’m sorry I’m so sad. You are my only joy. Someone to share this dreadful life with now that Aunt Margaret has perished from pneumonia. And William has gone on a ship to ports unknown.”
She fingers the delicate pendant hidden under her nightgown. It is a small gold chain with two entwined ruby hearts, a gift from William when they were hiding in their secret place in the forest when they were still young and innocent. And the weight of the world had not yet descended on them.
Idly, she looks at the letter. Who would send her a message from the New World? Her heart jumps when she recognizes the handwriting as William’s! Tearing it open with trembling fingers, she reads that he is returning on the first ship he can find passage on. He cannot live a life without her.
Caroline squeezes the letter against her chest as if to merge it with her heart. “William is coming back to me! He’s coming home!” She dances around the room like a young girl, her happiness spilling over.
The baby in the crib opens her eyes and gurgles. She rushes over to pick her up, snuggling her against her chest. Outside the window, the dreary winter scene seems to transform into one of beauty. The clouds part slightly to allow a shaft of glorious sunlight to hug the snow-laden firs before it disappears again. All is warm and loving in Caroline’s world. And she has the most incredible news to share with him! She giggles, rubbing her cheek into her baby’s soft hair.
She can barely wait to tell her dearest William the most exquisite of secrets, the loveliest one of all. One that only she knows. Not even her Aunt Margaret was aware of it.
Her precious Rosamond is William’s child.
ENGLAND 1727
Two long years have passed since she received a letter from her beloved William, telling her life wasn’t worth living without her. He would come home to be by her side, find work in the village nearby, regardless of the consequences. “When will my William return, I wonder?” she murmurs. “It should be any time now. Can’t wait to tell him about our daughter, Rosamond.”
The night air is soft and pungent with the coming spring. Lord Simpson is in London where he usually is, enjoying the company of some dance hall girl. Lady Caroline stares out her window in the early hours, sleepless and restless as she often is. She can only see the barest fringe of snow left on the ground. A scattering of bright purple and yellow crocuses, lavender hyacinths, and snow drops brave the chilly air in the garden alongside the drive. In the maple tree, still barren of leaves, a lone crow keeps an eye on the dogs as they wander back and forth, sniffing the ground.
Suddenly, while she gazes out at the night scene, she notices something odd. A person has appeared in the far end of the yard. The dogs rush over to the figure. Instead of barking, they sit on either side of him, silent, as if they know him.
Through the windowpane, she sees … no, that’s not possible … I must be dreaming.
William walks towards her, staring up at her the entire time. He is very thin and pale, dressed in rough clothing and dripping with water. His features are etched with pain. He extends his arms in front of him, palms up. As he gets closer, she can see in his fingers he holds his chain with entwined hearts, exactly like the one she wears! He had gotten one for each of them when they were young.
She reaches up and touches the one around her own neck, staring at it. Looking back outside, she sees William is almost underneath the gaslight. With a gasp, Caroline realizes he has no shadow.
She stares glued to the window; he seems to become more transparent. She screams, “No! No! William! Wait! Wait for me!” She grabs her shawl in preparation for running outside. But as she glances back out the window, his image fades until he is gone.
ENGLAND 1773
Many decades have passed. A lifetime, in fact. Lady Caroline stares out at the night from her chair by the window in her rooms. A shawl keeps off the November chill. It’s a full moon, she realizes, and smiles. Leaves are drifting from the maples and oaks, one by one, dancing in the still air before they settle on the ground. Her hair is white now, her body frail. Even though her face is lined, there is a serenity about her.
On a side table sit three ornate frames. One holds a painting of a lovely young woman with a child on her lap and one standing: her and William’s daughter Rosamond with her two children. Another is one of a man who looks very much like the late Colin Simpson, posing stiffly with several dogs at his feet: her son, Trevor, the current lord of the manor. And the third, a pencil drawing of her beloved William with his brother, for propriety’s sake, so that members of the household cannot misconstrue the reason she treasures the likeness.
Lady Caroline picks them up one at a time, holding them to her old eyes before she sets them back down. She is calm and composed as the clock strikes four a.m. Around her neck nestles the small gold chain with the two entwined hearts William had given her in their youth, identical to the one he was holding when she last saw his spirit outside all those years ago.
Lifting the hearts into her arthritic fingers, she presses the worn surfaces in small rhythmic circles as she has done every evening since that night. She glances around to make sure she is alone; her lady’s maid has a habit of checking in on her at odd hours. She gets up to look out her window at the cold night sky. Slowly, slowly the image of William appears on the walk. As he did the first time, he holds a gold chain and hearts in his extended fingers.
He calls to her, “Caroline,” in a voice only she can hear. “I am always with you, my love.”
“You’ve been with me all these years, forever at my side,” she whispers back.
“And now it’s time,” he says softly.
“Yes, it’s time.” She kisses the hearts and lays the chain back around her neck. She sits down in her chair, her eyes close. She feels herself lifting out of her body through the chakra on the crown of her head. A magnificent white light surrounds her spirit. She rises higher and higher. William appears at her side, full height, taking her hand and leading her gently away. An angel floats nearby.
Just before she disappears into the light, she turns for a moment to glance down at the body of an old woman crumpled into her chair.
HEAVEN
Lady Caroline feels her feet drifting down into a room with no ceiling. She lands softly on polished hardwood.
“Welcome back,” cracks a raucous Bronx accent. “Have a nice trip?”
“How dare you presume to address me so openly,” she hisses. Spinning around, she stares at the gnome-like figure. “Angel Rocco!” With a shock she realizes she is wearing sky-high platforms and her skin is copper. When she raises her arms, she jingles a dozen bracelets.
“So, who were you expecting? Fred Astaire?”
“Where is William?” she huffs. “I demand to see him forthwith.”
“Here I am, Lady Caroline.” His voice is full of love.
She spins around to discover to her stunned amazement – Miguelito!
“It was you! You were William all along!” Ash cannot contain her enthusiasm.
“And Lady Caroline, you were always my true love Ashley.”
