Lost in the Mist

by Wanda C. Keesey

  * * *

  Wings ePress, Inc

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Wanda C. Keesey

  First published in 2008, 2008

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  What They Are Saying About

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-eight

  Meet W. C. Keesey

  * * * *

  Lost In The Mist

  The door was different than she remembered. Connie expected to see the scarred wood planking still serving as a weather and security barrier. Instead it was replaced with a modern hollow steel door, designed to look like the original, but they had forgotten the miniball holes and the scars left by cannon ball fragments. The porch too, was a new addition, replacing the short brick path leading from the wood sidewalk to the entrance. And of course, the wood was now concrete.

  The door swung open as Connie reached for the ornate doorknocker.

  "...a few more things.” A dark figure backed through the door, his attention on someone in the interior. He turned short of making contact with Connie, filling the doorway. “Well, hello."

  He's so tall! Connie smiled up at the man, at five-eleven not something she was often able to do. And handsome, too. Quickly she took in the tousled dark hair, streaked with sun bleached strands, surrounding his rugged good looks, the heavy brows shading hazel eyes, not too straight nose, square clean shaved jaw, and the wide mouth, smiling down at her. His skin was tanned an even bronze, not the splotchy pattern her own took on after hours in the sun.

  "Hello, I'm looking for the Fraisers.” Connie watched the smile crinkle the corners of his eyes. He had to be at least six-four.

  "You've found them.” The man's deep mellow voice vibrated the air.

  "I'm Connie Hart, Mr. Fraiser.” Her disappointment surprised her. “I have a reservation. Your wife and I talked about an article I'm writing."

  "Welcome, Connie Hart.” His hand swallowed Connie's in a warm grip. “I'm Brian Eckart. Betty's inside. I'm a guest."

  A flood of relief threatened to embarrass her as Connie smiled. So he wasn't Carl Fraiser.

  What They Are Saying About

  Lost In The Mist

  "A fun read with romantic possibilities blended with visits with a woman from the past as two lives run parallel to each other. The settings are like open doors that offer the reader a look at times past and how the present has changed them."

  —Anne K. Edwards

  Hannah Clare Mystery Series

  "In Lost in the Mist, W. C. Keesey has done a masterful job in her description of the grueling anguish of America's Civil War. Against this tragic backdrop, she has blended past and present to create a story that will intrigue fans of time travel, romance and mystery."

  —Donna H. Parker,

  Donovan's Dream

  donnaparker.w4aw.org

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Wings

  Lost In The Mist

  by

  W. C. Keesey

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Paranormal Romance Novel

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Elizabeth Struble

  Copy Edited by: Shonna Brannon

  Senior Editor: Elizabeth Struble

  Managing Editor: Shonna Brannon

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Richard Stroud

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  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 permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2008 by W. C. Keesey

  ISBN 978-1-59705-327-3

  Published In the United States Of America

  May 2008

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Dedication

  My Bob. Without who's encouragement and help, this book would still be a dream.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Acknowledgments

  To all my critique partners, a special thanks for helping with this book, especially Mary Emmons who was with me from the beginning. And to all those who helped with the historic facts, Daniel Nettling, my Civil War source, to Connie and Jack Lee, for character inspiration, John (my re-enactment source) and Terry Hoover for the initial idea and so many interesting talks and information, and the Fredericksburg Park Service for the time they spent answering my questions and allowing me access to documents, maps and books. A heart felt thanks for the folks at Wings ePress, especially Lorraine for giving me this chance, Lizzie for her edits and kind words, and Richard for the great cover art. Thank you all. Without support, there is no bridge.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  One

  Why does it always rain at funerals? Or does it? Connie tried to remember if it rained the day her father was buried, or her grandmother. Aunt Dee died in February and it snowed during the graveside service. Did that count?

  Maybe it just seems like it always rains because death is sad for those left behind. The people who attend make their own rain with the tears they shed. Tears of sadness and loneliness. Tears of fear, too, she thought, fear of the future without this person. And fearful of the reminder that everyone must die.

  She was alone under the dark canopy, but it didn't matter. Now that the service was over, Connie wanted to be alone. She wanted to leave the small gathering of her mother's friends and few remaining relatives and be alone with her memories and grief. She was thankful there wouldn't be a wake.

  It had been a small funeral. Her mother had planned everything, right down to the music. She hadn't wanted an open coffin. “You know what they always say,” she told Connie. “'Doesn't she look good? Just like she's going to get up and say it's all a joke.’ Well, Connie, I don't think a dead person looks good. I think they look dead and I don't want my friends to remember me dead."r />
  Elizabeth Hart suffered for six months as she fought the disease that took her life. Ovarian cancer had been found during a routine physical and just a short, agonizing half year later, she was gone.

  "Is there someone to drive you home, Ms. Hart?” The funeral director's assistant was close enough for Connie to smell his breath mint. She had to look down to meet his eyes.

  "I'll be fine, Mr. Klahr. If you'll take me back to the funeral home, I'll get my car,” she said, accepting his assistance over the uneven ground to the limo that waited in the narrow cemetery lane.

  Connie endured the ride in silence, watching the blur of houses and plant life. She wanted to lash out at someone for bringing this pain into her life. She wanted to blame someone, to hurt them the way she was hurt. For twenty-seven years she'd had her mother beside her, ready to wipe the tears and fix the hurts. But there was no way to stop these tears or to fix this pain.

  A man was waiting on the porch when the limo stopped beside the stately “Bassett's Funeral Home". Connie remembered seeing him at the service and wondered how he knew her mother.

  Connie thanked Mr. Klahr and headed toward her car balancing her umbrella and, digging for the keys in her small purse.

  "Ms. Hart?” The man descended the steps and walked toward Connie.

  "I am. But I don't believe I know you,” Connie said as she found the key ring and gave it a tug. Her change purse fell to the ground. Frustration threatened to overwhelm her. Angry with her clumsiness she stooped to retrieve the leather case, dropping her umbrella.

  "Please, Ms. Hart. Allow me.” The man handed her his own oversized black canopy.

  Connie watched as he brushed off her change purse and shook her blue umbrella before closing it and fastening the strap. He was middle aged, maybe a little younger than her mother. He was clean shaven and not unattractive. He wore a plaid beret, dark brown trench coat and rubber covers over his shoes. Gray hair showed at his temples. He was nearly as tall as Connie.

  Taking his umbrella with one hand, he handed Connie her possessions and walked with her to her car.

  "My name is Arthur Fitch. I was your mother's attorney."

  I didn't know Mom had an attorney. Connie unlocked the car door and waited.

  "We were friends, too. I promised Liz ... She didn't want you to..."

  No one called my mother “Liz". No one but my father. Connie stopped listening. I have to get away from here. I have to think. She looked at the lawyer, briefly wondering what relationship her mother had with him, but not really caring.

  "I can stop by your office next week if that's convenient.” She turned toward her car, and unlocked the door.

  The lawyer hesitated. “Your mother wanted you to be comfortable. She said you didn't like stuffy offices. If you're free now I can follow you to your apartment. I have everything in my car. I know it's difficult, but your mother wanted you to have some things."

  With a sigh, Connie turned back to face the lawyer. Her mother was right. She hated being pinned down by appointments. It was a chore for her to make her annual physical.

  "It's all right. I live in Harrisburg, on Second Street. The address is—"

  "I know the address. I'll meet you there.” He reached past Connie opening her car door.

  She slid into the seat, threw her purse on the passenger side of the Honda, and tossed the wet umbrella on the floor. “Okay,” Connie said. “I have to make a quick stop first, but I won't be long."

  The engine started the instant she turned the key. The “door open” reminder beeped. She glanced at the attorney with what she hoped was a friendly smile. He closed the door with a slam that made Connie cringe. Without looking back she pointed the car and headed for the exit.

  * * * *

  A silver Cadillac was parked in one of the two spaces marked for apartment “4C,” her apartment. Mr. Fitch sat behind the wheel holding an open folder and apparently reading the papers from it. The motor was still running.

  Connie pulled her tan Prelude in beside the Caddie and cut the engine. She didn't want to get out of the car.

  Her hand still held the car key in the ignition. There's nothing to stop me. I can drive as far as my money would take me. I can leave this behind. Phillip's deceit ... Now Mom. Tears filled her eyes and started to track down her cheeks. Taking a tissue from her purse she wiped her face and blew her nose. A dull headache pressed behind her eyes.

  A soft tap sounded on the car window.

  Connie looked up to see Mr. Fitch bent over and watching her. Quickly she closed her purse and retrieved her umbrella. As she pushed the door open, she hit the lock button.

  "Sorry, Mr. Fitch. I hope you haven't been waiting long. I had to stop at the store for a few things.” As she talked, Connie put the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and popped the button on her Totes umbrella while she moved to the trunk.

  "Can I help with those?” The attorney asked, indicating the plastic bags in the trunk.

  "I can manage, thanks.” Connie caught the handles of the bags and lifted them from the trunk. When they reached the main entrance, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. She led the way to the only elevator. Pushing the button she waited for the doors to open.

  "Sorry, I don't usually bother with this thing. It's so slow, but...” Connie said.

  "Why don't I take some of your bags and we can go up the stairs.” Mr. Fitch held out his hand.

  "It will be faster ... are you sure you don't mind? I really hate to ask you to..."

  "You didn't ask. Please."

  Connie gave him two of the bags and went to the fire stairs. She didn't mind climbing the steps to the fourth floor, and it was good exercise, but today the dull concrete steps seemed to go on forever.

  The lawyer behind her was an anchor, dragging her down, a reminder that her mother was gone. She wanted to turn and yell at him to “go away” to “leave me alone,” but instead she pulled her keys from her pocket and opened the two locks.

  "Come in, Mr. Fitch, and make yourself comfortable. I'm going to heat some water for tea. Would you like some? I have instant coffee too, if you prefer.” She stepped into the small kitchen area to the right of the door. “You can hang your coat and hat on the coat tree. I won't be long."

  "Coffee sounds good.” He followed her into the kitchenette and put the bags on the counter before hanging up his coat. He returned and gathered Connie's coat, hat and umbrella.

  Connie watched him as she started the water. He wore a gray pinstriped suit under the coat. His neatly groomed hair was dark except for the splash of gray at his temples that she had noticed earlier.

  She put her purchases away and arranged some homemade cookies on a plate. “Would you like milk or sugar, Mr. Fitch?” she asked.

  "Neither, thank you."

  She carried the cookies and a bowl of mixed nuts to the sitting area, leaving the cups on the counter. The attorney was sitting on the sofa, his unopened briefcase and a plastic bag sat on the floor next to him.

  He could be a thief casing my apartment, so he can come back when I'm at work and rob me blind. What a laugh. I don't have anything worth stealing.

  "Help yourself, Mr. Fitch. The water will be ready in a few minutes. Do you mind if I change? I won't be long."

  Why am I asking a total stranger if he minds what I do in my own apartment? Connie didn't wait for his answer, but headed for her bedroom.

  "Of course not. The cookies are great. Did you make them?"

  Stopping at the short hallway, Connie turned. “Yes, thank you. I'm glad you're enjoying them."

  God I sound like such an idiot. She continued to her bedroom and resisted slamming the door shut behind her.

  Connie pulled a warm navy blue sweat suit out of her dresser. All the time knowing her mom would have a fit if she saw her wearing sweats when she had company. But he'd invited himself, and she didn't feel like being the perfect hostess.

  * * * *

  Arthur Fitch was sorting through some papers
, his case open on the sofa, revealing more papers and folders. The plastic bag was folded and placed under a scarred wooden box on the coffee table. Steam rose from his cup. He looked up as Connie went to the kitchenette.

  "I helped myself to the water. I turned the burner down, but it should still be hot."

  Connie didn't respond. She poured water over a tea bag and spooned sugar into the steaming brew. Opening an overhead cabinet she took down a bottle of generic pain pills and shook out two. She used a glass of tap water to wash them down before carrying her cup to the recliner.

  "It's been a difficult day, Mr. Fitch. Will this take long?” Connie put the spent tea bag on the nearly empty cookie plate.

  "No. I just have a few things to go over with you concerning your mother's property and there are some papers for you to read and sign. If you're ready we can get started and I can be out of your hair in no time.” He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  "Okay, get it over with.” Connie put her cup down and reached for the papers. “Why was it that this couldn't wait till next week?"

  "There are some things that your mother wanted you to have right away. She thought they would help you—comfort you after she was gone.

  "Of course everything goes to you as her only child. She made some stipulation as to some special pieces of furniture and jewelry, but the rest is yours.

  "The top paper you're holding is the will. The next page is a list of the bequests that I mentioned. Next is for the disposal of Liz's ... your mother's condominium. She wanted me to handle the sale, unless of course you want to keep it, in that case I'll handle the transfer of ownership. But Li ... Mrs. Hart left me with the impression that you didn't particularly like her condo."

  "No, I don't. It's too big for one person. But I'm not sure ... can I keep these papers to read and sign later, Mr. Fitch? I really can't concentrate right now and I don't want to do something I'll regret later.” Connie couldn't focus on the words or their meaning. “I'm afraid this is a wasted stop for you."

  "Ms. Hart, I know how hard this is for you. I tried to tell Liz that it wasn't a good idea, but she insisted.