Immortals- The Complete Real Illusions Series

by Tanya R. Taylor

  "I always wanted to be an artist," Greg revealed. "This here's my favorite." He pointed to a portrait of two little blond boys building sand-castles on the beach.

  "How adorable," Solange said. "I can see why you wanted to be an artist. You're an excellent judge of art."

  "Thank you." He looked at her. "I really appreciate that."

  While on a brief tour of the house, Solange was relieved to discover that it had two bedrooms, despite the fact that there was only one bathroom to share. Greg didn't claim to have lived in a mansion, she reminded herself. And furthermore, it was much better than the cottage she used to live in.

  A short while later, they returned to the living room and quietly sat down facing each other.

  "I want you to know that I appreciate you helping me out like this," Solange said softly, head slightly hung.

  "Oh, it's nothing," Greg humbly remarked.

  "Yes, it is. I'm a complete stranger to you. You owe me nothing." She looked him dead in the eyes.

  "You have to give yourself some credit too, Liza. It takes a whole lot of guts on your part to trust someone you don't even know. A lot of creeps are out there up to no good and to come here like this, it just takes a lot of guts."

  "You seem to be a very trustworthy person, Greg. If it were someone else, I'm sure I would have never even gotten into the car."

  Greg smiled and for a brief while, silence ensued.

  "I know we got off to a crazy start earlier when you tried to make conversation," Solange broke the silence. "I'm sorry about that."

  "Don't worry about it," Greg quickly returned. "It's water under the bridge."

  "No, no! I want to talk now. I think you have a right to know who it is you have under your roof. It's only fair." Solange sighed deeply. "I lived in Milan. I was an only child. My parents died in a plane crash five years ago."

  "Greg leaned forward. "I'm terribly sorry to hear that. It must have been really rough for you."

  "It was, but I learned to manage. We were always poor, so there really wasn't much for me to get adjusted to besides their profound absence, of course. I came to America to make a better life for myself."

  "I see." Greg thought for a moment, then said, "This might sound like a stupid question Liza, but are you married or were you ever?"

  "No," Solange immediately returned. "What about you?"

  "I haven't been so fortunate yet. Maybe one day, though."

  Solange noticed a spark in Greg's eye as he looked at her. "Tell me a little about yourself, Greg."

  "Well, I've had a pretty boring life," he started. "Like you, I was an only child. My folks and I moved here from Colorado about thirty years ago and when they died, a year apart from each other, my second cousin, Miriam who lives in Aspen, took me in. I was a teenager then. Miriam had her own place and I stayed there with her for a couple of years. Later on, I moved back here and worked as a trucker for the Rhodahead Company. When I got tired of that, I got me that cab out there and here I am."

  "How old are you?" Solange asked.

  "How old are you?" Greg smiled.

  "I asked you first."

  "How old do I look?"

  Solange paused for a moment, then looked him in the eyes and said, "Fifty-four."

  Greg laughed loudly, accepting it for the joke he thought it was. He instantly admired her sense of humor. "All right. I'm forty-five," he confessed. "Now, how old are you?"

  "Take a guess."

  "Twenty-eight?"

  Solange smiled. "You hit the nail right on the head!"

  "You mean… I'm right?" Greg was surprised.

  "Yes. You're right. January 4th, 1984," she affirmed. Solange had lied to him about everything, refusing to reveal anything about herself that could eventually harm her. She was in survival mode and not even an inch of trust in the kind stranger was going to change that.

  After a while, she retired to her bedroom. Two twin beds sat near the large double window and a mahogany bureau and nightstand on each side of them. The white curtains were adorned with little blue swans and the same painting as the one in the living room with two little boys making sand-castles on the beach hung on the wall between both beds. Greg must really love this painting, Solange thought.

  Tired and yawning, she climbed into the bed on the left and quickly fell asleep.

  * 2 *

  Trent Matheson commenced his week-long vacation the following day. For the most part, he sat alone in the quiet house, ate, watched television, and stared at the wall awaiting another ghostly visitation. During his anxious vigil, he could not help but feel empty and lonely inside as if his life amounted to nothing more than a colorless jigsaw puzzle. There was no one he could confide in; no one he could trust with his deepest emotions. As time dragged on, frustration bitterly overwhelmed him: He had to go out, do something, give himself a rest from the humdrum mansion and catch some fresh air.

  The zoo was not a place Trent often visited, yet, that morning, he found himself there among an assortment of animals and people from all walks of life. Watching the animals didn't bother him until his mind began to wander off again... until the dreadful thoughts flashed back into his head.

  Feeling the pressure gradually escalate, Trent stopped and took a seat on the nearest bench. As people passed by, he envied them - all of them.

  "Sir, would you like a bite of my cotton-candy?" A freckled-faced, little boy offered as he held his mother's hand.

  "No, thanks, son. I'll have mine later." Trent managed a grateful smile.

  The child continued on, looking back a few times to see if the stranger's dreary mood had changed, but it had not. Soon the radiant sky turned dismal and grey, and Trent decided to continue his stroll through the zoo as quickly as possible before the rain started. Then an awful feeling gripped him. There was a clash of metal and he quickly turned to see what it was. A rabbit was repeatedly ramming itself into the steel cage as Trent stood there watching it.

  Trent knelt down, watched it a while longer, then attempted to slide his hand between the steel bars of the cage in order to grasp it. The rabbit immediately backed away, crouched itself into the farthest corner and stared at him with its natural green eyes.

  As the voices of a man and a boy approached, Trent quickly slid his hand out of the cage. As he walked away, he looked back at the caged rabbit and saw the emerging look of peace gradually overwhelming it. The rabbit was the last animal he saw at the zoo that day and the last one he ever cared to see.

  Before leaving home, he thought that a little fresh air was what he needed, but as he drove back, he realized that it had done him more harm than good. The instrumental music flowing through the car speakers was beginning to irritate him, so he ejected the cd and switched over to the news.

  As the rain started to fall, he rolled up the windows and on turning the curb, spotted a teenage girl walking hurriedly on the side of the road. He glanced through the rear-view mirror, hoping that another car was right behind him. However, there wasn't one and a prick of his conscience compelled him to pull over even though he was in absolutely no mood for company.

  Just past the curb, he slowed down, then stopped the car. Rolling down his window, he said, "Hey, hop in."

  The girl with bright, hazel eyes and brown hair studied him for a moment, then peered inside the car. Trent pushed the unlock button as if it were his last invitation and on that cue, the girl darted around to the passenger side and got in.

  "Thanks a lot, sir. I really appreciate the ride," she said.

  "Where are you headed?" Trent asked.

  "Templeton. Just a few miles ahead to your left."

  "Templeton? I've never heard of it around these parts before. Is it a town?"

  "Actually, it's a small, religious community. No one ever moves away. You'll see the sign as you approach," she replied. "Hey, I'm dripping wet. Mind if I change my blouse for a dry one?"

  Trent noticed a red backpack the girl had dumped onto the floor at her feet when she first entere
d. It was obviously stacked to the zipper. "Sure, go ahead. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold." Making sure not to peep as the girl lifted off her blouse, Trent said in an effort to break a rather awkward moment, "I'm sorry … I didn't get your name."

  "Diana Flint. What's yours?"

  "Trent. Trent Matheson. So, Diana … you usually change your clothes in front of strangers like that?"

  "Only when need be." She pulled the new blouse over her head. "Besides, I'm sure you've seen your own sister's titties before; haven't you, Mister Matheson?"

  "I don't have any sisters," he replied coldly.

  "Well, I bet you've seen a dozen naked women just the same."

  "This might sound rather weird to you, Diana, but I don't spend a lot of time looking at naked women."

  He was approaching a sign, but could barely read it through the wet, foggy windshield.

  "Here it is!" She pointed. "Over to the left. Pull into the yard and stop by the grey trailer straight ahead."

  Trent made a left turn and headed through the narrow, rocky road, fearful that he might catch a flat right there in the rain.

  "Thanks, Mister Matheson. I'm really grateful for the lift," she said as the car came to a halt.

  "It's nothing. Maybe one day you'll be able to do me a favor," he replied.

  As Diana disappeared into the rusty, grey trailer at the end of the yard, it almost seemed to Trent as if she was never there in his car dripping wet all over the seat. He reached over and felt the seat, but was shocked to discover that it wasn't damp at all. There was no time to think, however. He had to get home out of the rain. He reversed the car out of the yard and continued his journey along the thoroughfare.

  Having briefly acquainted himself with the high-spirited Diana made Trent realize that he needed to connect one of the important pieces to the puzzle of his life. He had all the money and power he ever wanted; all the respect and admiration that goes along with it, but there was just one thing missing - someone he could truly love and share his life with.

  For months, he had pressured himself into avoiding the truth: The fact that he truly cared for Tina Sheffield. The first thing he noticed the day she had walked into his office was how attractive she was, but over the next couple of years, he had fallen in love with her kind and compassionate personality. He always knew she could compliment him in ways no one else could. He knew what he must do, but still wasn't sure that he was actually prepared to do it.

  At home, he undressed and stretched out on the couch. With arms tucked behind his head, drowsiness eventually subdued him and he fell fast asleep.

  * 3 *

  Shortly after six o'clock, Greg sauntered into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed with ruffled hair. With one eye slightly open, the first thing he noticed was a pair of blue slippers, long, slender legs, then a yellow flannel skirt, then a lighter yellow blouse, then a smiling face that seemed celestial.

  "Good morning!" Solange cheerfully greeted him. "Breakfast is ready."

  "Breakfast, for me?" Greg was clearly surprised.

  "I thought you might like eggs since you have a refrigerator full of them." She smiled.

  He chuckled, brushing his limp hair back with one hand while pulling out a chair with the other.

  "Go ahead. Make yourself comfortable," Solange insisted as if she were the host and Greg was the guest.

  Greg sat with pleasure. "You're really something, Liza. It feels kind of strange though - not having to fix my own breakfast this morning."

  "Well get used to it, my friend. As long as I'm here, your slaving days are over."

  Solange dished up a plate of food for him and another for herself. She sat at the table, quietly uttered a short prayer for both of them, then dug in. As the spoon touched her lips, she felt Greg's intense stare.

  Greg cleared his throat. "Liza, I don't want you to feel like you're obligated to do this for me. I didn't bring you here to be my servant or maid, or whatever you wanna call it; I did it for you as a favor and as a favor only," he reminded her.

  How sincere a story his eyes seemed to tell. In Solange's mind, they were too beautiful to tell a lie. "I don't mind. Really, I don't. I like to do things that make me feel appreciated, that's all."

  "You're sure about that?" Greg probed.

  "Sure; I'm sure. Now eat up before your food gets cold."

  Before leaving for work, Greg leaned in and kissed Solange on the forehead. She took it as nothing more than a 'thank-you' gesture for her kindness.

  "I expect you home for lunch," she said as he was leaving. "It will be ready around one."

  Already, she sounded like the typical housewife, yet was nothing more than a stranger in a stranger's house. She had slept comfortably the night before despite the possibility that back home, she might be wanted for the murder of Ferdinand Marquis.

  * 4 *

  "So how's vacation going, buddy?" Peter was calling from his office.

  "Swell, partner." Trent sat up on the couch, rubbing his eye. "How's work?"

  "This may surprise you, but we're actually functioning around here without you," Peter replied. "By the way, how are the books coming along? Reading lots of them?"

  Trent sighed. "Maybe if I was, I wouldn't be feeling so depressed right now."

  "Relax, buddy. You need the rest, remember?"

  "Yeah, but I think I might be getting more than I can handle here."

  "Well, in that case, I have the perfect remedy for all your boredom issues. Stacey and I are throwing a party next month on the tenth. Come along and bring a date for once, bud."

  "Party eh? Sure. Will do," Trent replied unenthusiastically.

  After speaking with Peter, he strolled into the living room, stood by the open window and just stared out into the distance. Reminiscing on how different his life was before his grandfather died made him even more dejected. Foster had been his inspiration - the fuel that kept him going in a world that seemed to be spinning out of control. His mentor, his confident, his inspiration was gone — the only one privy to his dark, disturbing secret. After years of battling lung cancer, Foster died away from the house he loved — the house that seemed to have a mind of its own.

  Trent remembered that fateful day. As the elderly man of great wealth and influence in his community took his last few breaths, Trent noticed how the color on his face had turned unusually dark and how suddenly he shot up in bed as if he had seen a ghost. Then on his very last gasp, he fell backwards onto the bed again — dead. Trent had always wondered about that episode, but now recalling what the apparition in the Archives had revealed, he was convinced that Foster had, in fact, seen a ghost — a vile, malevolent force.

  To clear his head, Trent went outside and sauntered into the woods behind the mansion— something he had done for years. There was something about the woods that spoke volumes about his life and his past, and Trent felt totally comfortable whether he strolled it night or day. It was like his home away from home, but at the same time held an air of mystery that he could not quite comprehend. During the walk, he contemplated his life and tried to figure out what he really wanted out of it in the midst of all its perplexities.

  Later that evening, he lay in bed just staring at the telephone. Then finally, he placed it next to his pillow and after lifting the handset, slowly punched in the seven digits which to him meant pride or shame — nothing more, nothing less. His toughest plight would be what he would say after the initial, hello.

  On the third ring she answered. Trent's heart almost melted from the sound of her voice. He had a sudden urge to hang up and forget the whole thing, but something inside kept him on the line and prompted him to reply.

  "Hello... is this... Tina?" he asked hesitantly.

  "Yes. Who is this?"

  Trent cleared his voice. "It's Trent."

  "Trent who?"

  "Trent Matheson. I hope I'm not disturbing you," he quickly replied, earnestly wishing that he hadn't called.

  "Oh, no!" Tina assured him. "I just never though
t of you as Trent before. I mean, I'm so used to addressing you as Mister Matheson that I almost forgot you had a first name."

  "It's okay. I'm sure I'm the last person you ever expected to call your home."

  "Hmm, you're right about that."

  Trent took a deep breath, then exhaled. "Tina, I hope I don't sound too bold here, but Peter and Stacey are having a party next month and I was wondering if you'd like to join me. But if you can't make it, I'll understand."

  Without hesitation, Tina replied, "Sure, I'd love to go. I presume this is one of Mister Darcy's private affairs?"

  "I suppose so. He had one last year and that was classified a private affair, but no worries; you'll be with me."

  Amazingly, the shyness had left him and he felt like a self-assured man again instead of a bashful teenager. Soon he and Tina were chatting the night away like two very curious adolescents. Although Trent felt that he had done one of the most difficult things of his life, he was definitely glad that he had taken the leap - though totally unaware of how he would land.

  * 5 *

  After skimming through the classifieds section of the newspaper for job postings, throughout the day, Solange looked for things to do around the house. She washed the dishes they used that morning, polished the furniture, swept the already tidy floor, and washed a few pieces of clothing she had found in the hamper. It was obvious to her that Greg managed well on his own.

  While hanging the clothes out back to dry, she heard a shuffle in the bushes that seemed to have come from somewhere along the left side of the house. She dropped the towel in the basket and straightened up slowly. Deciding to have a look, she expected anything but good. By no means had she forgotten her misfortune back in France and was prepared to take no chances.

  She approached the side of the house and peered at the bushes, as if the intensity of her stare would force the suspected intruder out. Yet, no one appeared. Surmising then that there was nothing to be concerned about, she returned to the clothes-line and resumed her self-appointed chore. On looking up again, her eyes beheld a little girl with dingy brown hair and ragged clothing standing at the back gate. She looked no older than thirteen years old.