Words stuck in her throat, the grief incredible as every part of her reacted with denial. Dazed, she realized the doctor still stood there. There were more words, but they made no sense to her. Were Jilly’s babies also gone? More pain filtered through, uncertainty stabbing like shards of glass. She was afraid to ask, yet the words poured from her throat. "Jilly’s babies -- how are the babies?" Not another tragedy, another child lost. . .a person could bear only so much loss in a lifetime.
He hesitated. "An emergency C-section was performed and the babies are in a special ICU since they’re premature. We’ve been trying to contact the father. It helps if we have both parents’ medical history in case of an emergency."
Sara tried to focus. "I left a message for Lucas, but they weren't -- that is, they were separated. Are the babies in trouble?"
"We're being cautious," he said. "Premature infants can experience any number of problems, which we’ll address if they arise. Would you like to see them?"
"The babies?" She hunched her shoulders, rubbing her forehead. "No. I-I --" Sara tried to think. Jilly was gone. Her babies fought for their lives, they at least had a chance. A sudden, urgent need gripped her. "Yes." She had to see for herself they were okay. Surely she could handle that much. She had to be there for Jilly’s babies.
"I’ll send for someone to take you upstairs. Again, I’m sorry, Ms. Holmes."
Through blurred vision Sara watched him open the door, look back at her, then walk away. She tried to gather her thoughts, walked slowly back out into the main waiting room. The others in the room looked at her with sympathy, but it didn’t touch Sara. Jilly’s last letter had been artfully vague, but she’d expected a normal, uneventful birth for her twins and she’d urged Sara to come home. . .again.
Sara looked at her hands, vaguely noted the half-moon crescents where her nails had dug into her palms. What would happen to the babies? Jilly and Lucas had been on the verge of divorce and Jilly had always said Lucas had an incredibly busy work schedule.
Jilly was gone. As teenagers, they’d been the best of friends and as close as sisters. She felt so empty, yet a hard ache pulled at her insides. This was a nightmare. How could Jilly be gone just like that. . .she’d never had a chance to say goodbye.
"Ms. Holmes? Dr. Myers asked me to take you upstairs."
Sara looked at the young woman who’d come to stand beside her and she nodded, making some kind of response, she supposed, because the woman indicated she should follow. Almost in a daze, Sara followed her to the elevators. Thoughts crowded her brain as she tried to think clearly. She kept seeing Jilly’s smiling face, the devilment that was always in her eyes. As kids, she’d been game for anything.
As they walked down a long corridor Sara clenched her cold hands.
Lucas should be here. She’d left a frantic message with his brother Mark, but she hadn’t been able to tell him anything except that Jilly had been involved in a car accident. Sara closed her eyes tightly, squeezing back the tears, the harsh strangling in her throat.
They stopped in the hallway and the woman indicated the wall on their left. "This is a special nursery where they monitor the babies continuously. I’ll go speak with the nurse in charge so she can give you any information they have so far." The woman touched her arm. "Will you be all right?"
"Of course. Thank you."
When she left Sara braced herself, slowly faced the glass panel set in the wall. The room beyond the glass held a frightening abundance of equipment.
She pressed her fist to her mouth, biting back any sound. Jilly’s babies lay in separate incubators, tiny, dark-haired little human beings. Needing something to lean on, Sara pressed her palms against the cool glass and blinked rapidly, her knees trembling. The babies wore only a diaper, their frail arms and legs sprawled on the white material laden with tubes and wires. So many lights and monitors. . .Sara wanted to crawl into a corner somewhere and avoid all of this. It was worse than she’d expected. Why had she come up here? There was nothing she could do, it was up to the doctors. . ..
The babies remained unmoving, and if it weren’t for the flashing digital lights, she might think they were lifeless. Just like Jilly. Sara leaned her head back against the glass. Jilly had emailed her an ultrasound picture of the twins. Sara recalled the dart of envy tinged with resentment she’d felt, that it was Jilly who was pregnant and not her. Jilly was having the babies Sara could never have. Guilt wrenched Sara as those thoughts slipped in. She’d had her chance three years ago and she’d let it slip away from her. How could she be envious of Jilly, who had stood by her all through the cancer treatment and recovery? When it came to her life or that of her unborn child's, she'd chosen her own. Sara shook her head, knowing that such guilt was irrational.
"Sara."
She jerked away from the glass and turned, saw the man moving toward her in the hallway. She drew hardly a breath as she watched Lucas, and how could she not? She'd never said he wasn't drop dead handsome, those gray eyes intent as he drew closer. Slung over one shoulder was a dark brown canvas duster and she could see the spatter of rain on the material. Dark hair swept back and parted off center, skin touched by the sun and shoulders wide enough to cry on. Lucas. He had come. His lean countenance was the only familiar face in this heart-wrenching place and maybe that’s why she felt a rush of relief. Quickly, she searched his eyes, wondering how much he already knew.
His glance moved past her and she knew the exact instant he saw the babies. There suddenly appeared a deep welling of emotion in his eyes. Sara had thought Lucas cold. Seeing the unguarded emotion on his lean face, she knew that this man’s heart bled for his babies lying so still in the next room. And she wondered how did he feel about his wife? Did he weep inside for her also?
He breathed quickly, almost like he’d run to get here. He stood stiff, lines of strain etched in his face and the muscles worked in his jaw as his glance collided with hers. "Jillian is gone," he said flatly, and that was all, and he turned from her, gave her his profile as he again studied the babies behind the glass. She saw his jaw flexing, the Adam's apple moving as if he were trying to contain emotion. Sara knew after today, she would never think of this man as lacking feelings.
Lucas met her eyes. Sara’s soft heart split and her eyes filled with tears she couldn’t hold back. She shook her head and it seemed natural to move forward as his arms opened to enfold her, offering a quiet, unquestioning comfort.
Once Upon a Remembrance Time travel
Chapter One
Hawks Den, Virginia
In the half light before dawn, Pierce Morgan drove toward Hawk’s Den. He had driven all night to get here, hardly understanding the urgency that gripped him. Pierce stopped his truck and stared at the once majestic plantation house Hawk’s Den. Forlornly, the old home he grew up in sat before him, paint faded and worn. The house was shuttered and still as light began to break, the wrap-around veranda partially concealed by a tangle of brilliant-hued azaleas.
He strode across the stone-lined path to the house, taking the shallow porch steps three at a time. The ornate entry door lay at a drunken angle and he shoved it aside as if it weighed little. Stepping inside, he paused as the stench of stale air bore down upon him.
Arrows of light peered through the closed shutters, but Pierce knew where to find the staircase to the second floor. Quickly, he climbed the stairs, his flashlight beam bouncing across the walls.
On the second floor numerous doors lined a wide, oak-beamed hallway. He walked to the last doorway and entered the chamber. Water-stained wainscoting and pieces of tin ceiling littered the floor. Furniture had been stacked willy-nilly in a corner, once prized oak and cherry pieces, now likewise stained by weather and neglect.
Shoved against the far wall was an enormous oak bed. Pierce walked through strewn feather ticking, then knelt beside a small bedside table. His fingertips tingled as he turned the table upside down. Immediately, he saw the book lodged in the drawer track. Feeling almost lightheaded, h
e pried it loose and slowly sank down against the wall.
The book’s leather cover was frayed and worn, held together by a gold mesh strap and clasp. Pierce undid the clasp and very carefully opened the journal.
He flipped the pages to the first handwritten entry, the tightness in his chest almost unbearable. 1878, April 2, I fear I shall never live to see land again . . ..
Sweat beaded on his forehead. The journal confirmed that three months lost had not been a wild dream. He had loved a woman back in time, 1894, and somehow he had to find her again.
Isabeau.
Hawks Den Plantation, Five Years Later
Isabeau Remington stared in awe at the tall oak trees lining either side of the narrow dirt road to Hawk’s Den, as she drove under their extended branches. The dark skies had followed her all the way from New York, the heavens erupting from time to time with thunder and incredible flashes of lightning.
She shifted restlessly in her small compact car, her legs feeling cramped after the long drive. The serpentine drive took one last curve and finally a house came into view just as raindrops began to fall. Her friend and boss Leif Ericsson’s van pulled up beside her as she parked. Fascinated, she stared at the beautiful two-story house. She had read about some of the restored plantations near the James River, but she had never imagined the reality would be so breathtaking. The house had been painted a soft gray and the wrap-around verandah made her think of lazy summer nights spent drinking tea and eating pecan pie, the scent of azaleas a delicious extra to any evening. Even from inside her car, Isabeau swore she could smell their scent.
A tap at her window made her jump. Leif’s blue eyes peered in at her. Rain was already starting to drip through his long blond hair and onto his grey T-shirt. Quickly, she let the window down a crack and immediately the rain spattered inside.
"I’m going in," he said. "Hurry up."
"I'm coming. The house is just gorgeous, isn’t it?"
Isabeau closed the window and exited her car, quickly opening the hatchback to retrieve her pull along case. She hurried across the stone walk to the house. The rain pelted them in earnest. She had a brief glimpse of wisteria climbing along one side of the house, further adding to the old-world charm. White painted balconies on the second floor graced tall, multi-paned windows with indigo blue shutters fastened on either side.
Flower gardens ran alongside the house, sculpted hedges and rows of tulips now bowing under the pressure of the rain. Time seemed suspended here, giving rise to a fanciful notion she’d stepped into an earlier time.
She felt almost breathless with anticipation. The house seemed at once unknown and yet somehow, dearly familiar -- how intriguing!
Leif lifted the polished brass knocker on the massive, ornately carved door, the sound echoing as they huddled together under the small overhang. He shivered in his lightweight T-shirt, pulling her a bit closer as he tried to shelter her from the rain.
The door opened almost immediately. A woman, somewhere in her sixties, greeted them with a pleasant smile and urged them in with a sweep of her arm. Wearing a knee-length pale linen dress, her greying blonde hair was short and fashionably styled. Isabeau noticed her eyes, so dark they appeared almost black.
"Hello," Leif said, "you must be Mrs. Cummins. Leif Ericsson. We spoke on the phone last week. This is my assistant Isabeau Remington."
The woman nodded and smiled, quickly closing the door behind them. "Yes, hello Mr. Ericsson -- Ms. Remington. How lovely to meet both of you. My, what a miserable day you’ve arrived on." Mrs. Cummins stepped back further as they entered the cool, marble-floored foyer. "My husband John will see to your bags so please leave them here in the hall."
Isabeau shook the damp hair out of her face and positioned her case behind her. "Thank you."
Together, they moved into the entryway. Isabeau looked around the hallway's high decorative ceilings and deeply embossed wallpaper. A beautifully refinished grandfather clock chimed out the hour three times. "The house is beautiful. The restoration must have taken some time."
"Almost three years, Miss and it’s nearly the same as it was a century ago. Pierce is very proud of it. He did most of it himself."
"We appreciate him allowing us to photograph the house and grounds," Leif said. "I know it's a wonderful honor that he's chosen our company."
"Yes, and we’re anxious to meet him," Isabeau said. "The renovation of this house has fascinated both of us," she added. "I saw the before pictures."
Mrs. Cummins closed the door and turned toward them with a smile. "Yes, this is the first time he’s allowed anyone to photograph it. Now if you’ll come with me, I can show you to your rooms." From the large entryway with its decoratively carved and fixed columns, Mrs. Cummins led the way up a curved staircase with a gleaming wood rail to the second floor and down a wide, carpeted hallway. "Mr. Pierce said you were to have free rein of the house while you’re here."
Although Isabeau knew she included both of them in the invitation, the older woman's gaze rested on her.
"Great." Leif looked well-satisfied. "When he sees the article we’re doing on him, he won’t be sorry."
Isabeau again experienced a surprising familiarity with her surroundings. "Déjà vu."
Mrs. Cummins gave her a curious glance.
"Don’t mind me," Isabeau said, "I’m feeling a bit silly and tired from the drive. We appreciate the extra work involved in having guests, so we’ll be as unobtrusive as possible."
Mrs. Cummins laughed softly, kindly. "No trouble at all. We always have rooms ready for guests. Pierce enjoys entertaining," she added, pushing open a tall wooden door to their right. "And he set aside some wonderful historic memorabilia for you to reference and work with if you choose. They're in the library in the roll top desk."
"Really?" Leif inquired. "I’m intrigued."
"Yes, he's put out some family albums and historical papers in the library for you also to peruse at your leisure. I expect you'll also find the old shipping records and there are various shipping paraphernalia stored in the sheds out back. I expect him back sometime tonight or tomorrow."
Mrs. Cummins stood back from the doorway. "Isabeau, Pierce said this was to be your room."
Isabeau stepped into the room, her feet sinking into the plush pale grey carpet. Her gaze roamed curiously over rich wood floors, antique furnishings and the bedroom’s subtle blending of blue, rose and vintage white. Lightly varnished wainscoting ran halfway up the walls, and a faint swirling pattern of cream-colored flowers ran rampant on the walls to the ceiling. "It takes my breath away -- it’s very beautiful."
And familiar, but she didn’t say that. They were going to think she was off her rocker if she told them everything looked like memories from an old dream. She was even starting to creep herself out a bit.
The bed was huge, old, upraised on a matching oak dais, a centerpiece for the entire room.
"If you’d like to get out of those damp clothes and take a hot bath, the bathroom with small dressing room is through that door." Mrs. Cummins indicated a second door. "There is a warming rack and a thermostat control on the wall and you will find towels, soaps and toiletries in the closet. Pierce had a nice selection of vegan soaps brought in, specifically lemongrass and lavender."
Isabeau didn't hide her astonishment. "I -- I love lemongrass."
"Yes Miss." Mrs. Cummins smiled.
"But how would he know?" She laughed and shook her head. "Silly question, he must do that for each of his guests. I'm sure there is a selection for any taste."
"Of course."
Nevertheless, Isabeau was touched by Pierce's thoughtful gesture. She found the room an absolute delight.
The older woman turned. "Mr. Ericsson –"
"Please call me Leif." His easy grin encompassed the older woman and Isabeau.
Mrs. Cummins nodded. "Leif, your room is down the hall."
Leif gave Isabeau a quick nod. "I’ll catch up with you later."
The shutters
outside Isabeau’s window banged as a fresh gust of wind hit the house. The storm outside seemed to be whipping into a real fury.
As Leif went with Mrs. Cummins Isabeau closed the door and moved across the room to the one large window that looked out over the yard below. Getting her bearings, she knew it must face the renowned back gardens that in turn led to the river. However, with the lash of the rain across the glass, it was impossible to see much outside.
She turned back to the room, lifting her arms to push the hair off her forehead. Heaving a contented sigh, she explored the room which was assigned to her for the next week or so. Someone had taken great care in creating a comfortable haven. Cherished antiques were polished to a high gloss, and the bric-a-brac figure of a man and a woman on the oak bureau also spoke of an earlier time.
Fresh cut purple Irises were arranged in a blue stenciled vase, residing on a small table with a rocking chair on one side and a low chaise on the other. Delicately embroidered pillows filled the seats, their colors in blue and gold.
On the wall above the bed she admired a beautifully done painting of a flowering garden with the river beyond. She could only wonder if it was Hawks Den gardens. She moved closer to the painting and could see the initials PM had been signed in the corner. Could it be that Pierce Morgan had painted the lovely scene? Was he a talented artist as well as a much sought after attorney?
Soulmates Through Time Excerpt
Book 2, Women of Strength time travel trilogy
Chapter One
Prologue ~ 1807
Aleanna knew she was dying. There was no sense railing against it, in truth she had lost much of the will to fight with the death of her love.
Mandine's thin boned hand pressed the scented cloth gently across her fevered brow, then continued soothingly along her jaw.
Aleanna's rich brown hair splayed against stark white pillows in a luxuriant, waving mass, framing once radiantly alive features. The eyes were now dull, stripped of the spirit of life, the complexion pale and waxen.
Deception Page 8
