She was a woman on whom a man could easily cheat, assured that she would be too dignified to call the matter to his attention.
She swept methodically through the rest of the house to consult with the cleaning crew, examine the linens and reprimand Owen's bookend golden retrievers, who lolled on a Savonnerie carpet and refused to move as much as a tail for Georgina, the gray-haired matron in a fifties housedress who was attempting to vacuum around them.
Today Elisabeth found no comfort in familiar rituals. She probably needed hormones. She definitely needed a drink.
Instead, upstairs in the master suite bath she fished aspirin from a plastic vial and swallowed it without water. In the mirror with a museum-quality gilded frame, she saw an ash-blond, forty-something woman with a serene expression and pale blue eyes that were as untroubled as the May sky.
Behind the eyes was a fishwife clawing her way to freedom.
She washed her hands and automatically massaged lotion over them. At thirty she had been able to pretend that she would age gracefully. She had dieted and exercised, and the flat plane of her abdomen had fueled the lie. But now, at forty-eight, the truth was always in view. Hands with prominent veins, hips that had blossomed to their full genetic potential, feet in shoes that were designed primarily for comfort.
The telephone rang, but she ignored it. It would be Owen's secretary Marsha, checking to see if Elisabeth needed any last- minute assistance before the party. If there were errands, Owen wouldn't do them himself, of course. His staff was motivated to help by personal loyalty and generous salaries. Owen would smile his warmest smile and extend his hands in a little-boy-lost gesture. They would respond with whatever was needed. Scottish salmon from Fraser Morris? Consider it done, Mr. Whitfield. Three bottles of Chateau Haut-Brion? I'll make the calls.
Owen could design and oversee every detail of the construction of award-winning houses or entire developments, but he could not locate a case of Bordeaux if he were standing in a Paris wine cellar. Everyone understood that.
She had understood it once upon a time.
Elisabeth had one blessed hour before she had to reassemble the worst of the florist's masterpieces, an hour before she had to give last-minute instructions to the caterer. She forced everything out of her mind: the fact that she was growing older with nothing substantial to show for it, the fact that she was married to a man who looked at her and didn't see her anymore, the fact that she was giving an intimate dinner party for her closest friends and was no longer looking forward to being with any of them.
The fact that one of her guests might well be sleeping with her husband.
She did what she had been doing for more than a year to forget the shackles that bound her to her outwardly enviable life.
She turned on the television.
On her bed, snuggled against Irish lace pillows, she watched a familiar crystal globe materialize on the screen. Once she had counted the globe's facets by taping the opening of the show, then pausing frame by frame as the globe turned full circle. There were twenty-four, each with a different scene reflected on its surface. She knew each image, although the effect was meant to be subliminal. A soaring eagle, the convertible that had carried Jack and Jackie Kennedy on their final ride together, the mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb, Hopi kachina dancers, Bill and Hillary.
That scene dissolved into the next. A gavel fell against a polished wood surface, once, twice, three times. And before the sound could die away, a man began to speak.
"What you are about to hear is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." Elisabeth mouthed the words in sync with the announcer. As the final truth was uttered, a woman appeared on the screen.
"Hello. This is The Whole Truth, and I'm Gypsy Dugan."
Before she had married Owen, in the days when she was still young and filled with confidence and spirit, Elisabeth had worked in television news, too. She had briefly tasted the joys that Gypsy probably took for granted, and she had relished them.
She didn't know when Gypsy Dugan had become her alter-ego. She didn't know when the sexy news anchor had begun to represent all the things that were missing in her own life. She did know that no one suspected her fascination with the woman or the show, and that she intended to keep it that way.
She was Elisabeth Whitfield, scion of a family as old as the thirteen colonies, wife of the revered Owen Whitfield, mother of a grown, beloved son. She appeared to have everything, but she was only just discovering how little she had settled for.
On the screen Gypsy Dugan shook back her short dark hair. There was nothing warm or sympathetic about her smile. It was as erotic as an X-rated film and every bit as cynical. She was Scarlett O'Hara with a mission. No matter how maudlin the subject matter, how shocking the feature story of the day, her dimples flirted dangerously with her ripe, full lips. She was every man's fantasy and every woman's nightmare. She was Gypsy Dugan.
And she was a living reminder that Elisabeth Whitfield might have been somebody, too, if she had just tried harder.
Also by Emilie Richards
* * *
Mary Kate McKenzie has pledged herself to a life of service, but a knock on the head shatters her rose-colored glasses. She awakens, a stranger in her own mysteriously pregnant body. The starry-eyed young woman, who planned to devote her life to the Eden’s Gate religious community, is now a take-no-prisoners dynamo who avoids sentiment and religion.
Despite this, or because of it, she manages to capture the attention of the wayward teens she works with in the center’s community garden. But when former broadcast journalist Charles Casey arrives to do a newspaper article, his presence begins to unlock memories of someone else’s life. Whose? And who is the father of the baby she carries?
Romantic Times said: "Emilie Richards gives her fans a wonderful companion book to her first reincarnation novel, Once More With Feeling. You will smile and root for the indomitable Mary Kate, as she faces her uncertain voyage of self discovery."
Purchase Twice Upon A Time for your Kindle: bit.ly/TwiceUponRichards
TWICE UPON A TIME: Chapter One
* * *
"Hey man, you got a cigarette?"
Charles Casey got out of his car and faced the boy who had asked the question. The teenager wore a Cavaliers' starter jacket and a sneer, one as well-worn as the other. "Nope," Casey said. "Not even a stub."
The kid shoved his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans in a stance Casey recognized from childhood street corners. "I bet."
"Sorry, but those things can kill you."
"Yeah? Something else'll get me first." The kid spit on the ground before he sauntered off.
Casey watched for a moment before he realized he ought to lock the car. This was rural mid-America, where "delinquent" was a word the gas company stamped on an overdue bill. In the month since he had left the Big Apple, Casey's street smarts had already gotten rusty. "Welcome to Eden's Gate," he said under his breath.
He twisted his key in the lock and started toward the house where the Sisters of Redemption lived and administered the Eden's Gate Ecology Center. It was a hulking Victorian monstrosity--Second Empire, if his memory of old college lectures served him correctly. He didn't have to knock. Two more teenagers, a boy and a girl, came out the side door with a middle-aged woman between them. She smiled and held the door, and Casey entered the house through a warm, fragrant kitchen.
By the time someone showed him to the administrator's study, Casey had already gotten a feel for the house. The rooms were spacious, the furniture simple and comfortable. The atmosphere was serene, with a subtle character all its own.
As he waited for Sarah Bradshaw he went to the window to contemplate the winter-brown landscape stretching beyond the house. Contemplation was becoming Casey's closest friend. Every night when he was supposed to be sleeping, he questioned the events that had brought him so far from his home in New York. Every morning when he thought about the day stretching in front of him, he considered the de
cisions he had made.
In between he had plenty of time to ask himself if he had lost his mind.
"Mr. Casey? I'm sorry I've kept you waiting."
Casey turned to see an attractive woman somewhere in her late forties coming through the open door, her right hand extended. He had prepared himself to discover that the Sisters of Redemption were nothing like the nuns that had taught in the Hell's Kitchen parochial school he had attended as a boy. But Sarah Bradshaw was still a surprise. She was dressed in a dark plum skirt with a blouse of palest lilac, and the colors perfectly complemented her ivory complexion and straight black hair with its wide silver streak.
He shook her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Sister." He paused at her grimace. "I'm sorry. Isn't that correct?"
"We're an informal bunch here. Just call me Sarah."
Casey stepped around a coffee table as she ushered him to a couch that sat at an angle from a massive rosewood desk.
The office had provided a number of clues to the woman, if he had cared to look for them. Despite the carved walnut paneling and twelve foot ceiling with its ornate plaster frieze, the room had a no-nonsense appearance. The paired triple hung windows were unembellished, so that the countryside view seemed to come right into the room. Books and photographs were the only adornments on the shelves, and the desk was uncluttered.
Sarah seated herself beside him, which was another surprise, and fluffed the cushions behind her. "You know, you're an answer to a prayer," she said, as she settled back.
He barely suppressed a snort. "That has to be a first."
"Not a religious man, I take it?"
Since adolescence Casey had been much too busy and much too guilty to risk crossing the threshold of a church. "Not so that anyone would notice."
She lifted a brow. "But raised a Catholic."
His surprise must have been obvious, because she nodded. "I can tell. No one knows what to do in the presence of a nun. Catholics think we're judging them for every sin they've committed, and non-Catholics remember the terrible jokes they've heard. But you definitely look like a man hoping to escape a thousand Hail Marys."
He liked Sarah Bradshaw already. "A thousand might not cover it. Anyway, I'm not here for confession. I want to find out if we can come to an agreement about a feature article for the paper."
"And that's the prayer that was answered," she said, going back to her first statement. "Some decent publicity for Eden's Gate."
"How do you know it'll be decent?"
"Do you mean considering the publicity we've already had? Or your background?"
He whistled softly. "Not pulling any punches, are we?"
"Sorry, but I never seem to have time for tact. Someday I'm going to resurrect my social skills, but for now, I have to cut to the chase. Keeping the center going is a big job."
"Some would say a big, futile job."
"Oh, absolutely. Most of the town of Shandley Falls would say so."
A knock sounded, followed closely by the same woman he'd seen coming out of the house. "I have tea and coffee, Sarah, and some of my shortbread."
"Wonderful." Sarah leaned forward and made a place for the tray on a table between symmetrical stacks of Sierra and Utne Reader. "Marie Bennett, this is Charles Casey."
As he murmured a polite greeting, Marie, a sandy-haired blonde, peered at Casey through thick glasses of a trendy oval design. "Better in person," she said calmly.
"Nicer, too," Sarah agreed.
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Casey." Marie turned her gaze back to Sarah. "If you want anything else, let me know. I'm on patrol this morning."
Sarah glanced at her watch. "Any problems yet?"
"Nothing worth noting."
Casey wondered if Marie meant that there was nothing worth noting in front of him. He listened with interest.
"No more destruction by the pond?" Sarah said.
"Everything looks peaceful. Most of the kids are washing windows in the greenhouse now." The door closed behind Marie, and Sarah bent to peek inside a white china teapot. "Coffee or tea, Mr. Casey?"
"Just Casey, please. And coffee." He didn't pause. "Tell me about the kids."
"During the school year we have a dozen or so teenagers assigned here for weekends by the juvenile court. In the summer they live and work here full-time. But I bet you knew that already." Sarah poured a cup from a taller pot and held it out to him. "I'll bet this coffee beats anything you had when you were working on The Whole Truth."
"The coffee at the paper's not much better." He took the cup and then a sip. "This is excellent."
"Well, we believe in quality." Sarah poured herself tea. "I hope you do, too."
"My reputation has preceded me." He tried not to smile. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed. He had been told by the only woman he'd ever loved that he had the black-hearted grin of a pirate.
"Your reputation would be hard to hide, wouldn't it? Until just a few months ago I could turn on my television five nights a week and watch you making your reputation."
"Or destroying it."
She watched him intently, as if trying to read his thoughts. "It all depends on perspective, doesn't it? You were very good at what you did."
"I don't do it any more. I left The Whole Truth forever."
"And moved well down the career ladder to a weekly paper in Ohio where the most exciting story you'll ever encounter will be the one about this center."
Casey, who didn't want to talk about his reasons for leaving New York, realized they were back at the beginning of their conversation. "Let's talk about that."
She didn't probe any further. "We've had more than our share of bad publicity since our center was established. No, it goes even further back than that. It began when the Sisters of Redemption inherited Eden's Gate. Right from the beginning people in Shandley Falls felt our presence could only detract from progress in the community. I'm not sure what they expected, but they did seem to feel we would change the character of the town, and they were right, of course. Because we have."
He pulled a notebook from the inside pocket of his sports coat. "You've been here one year?"
"One and a half. We spent the first six months assessing the property, improving the buildings and working with the local zoning board, the city council." She shrugged to show that the list went on and on.
She didn't seem at all perturbed by the experience. "And then?"
"We began to put together our programs. We made arrangements to work with the local hospice. We built dormitories and opened our program for juvenile offenders during our first summer. We spent that summer fine tuning it and publicizing our goals. And this year we've doubled the number of teens we're working with."
"As I understand it, that means you've gone from nine kids to eighteen, which is still surprisingly few considering how many troubled kids roam the streets of Ohio. Just from glancing around the estate and the facilities, you appear to have room for many more than that."
"Oh, we do. We hope to have up to sixty kids in the next two years, maybe more after we build new dormitories and renovate the barn as a meeting center."
"Has that program remained small because you're still feeling your way?"
"We've remained small because we haven't yet proven ourselves."
Casey's instincts were still intact, despite his career change. He leaned in for the kill. "In fact, haven't you proven that there are good reasons to be concerned about safety here?"
"I suppose if we were on television, this is where you'd zoom in to find me sweating and shaking."
Casey set down his cup, surprised to see that he'd already finished the contents. "Are you?"
"No." She looked absolutely calm. "We've had our share of trouble at Eden's Gate. That's a matter of record."
He opened the notebook. "Let's see. Last summer while camp was in session you had a fire in the girl's dormitory--"
"Which was immediately extinguished."
He continued. "A boy found with a knife on a field tr
ip to the Cleveland zoo, a girl who accused a male counselor of attempted rape--"
"A charge she dropped immediately because it wasn't true."
"And finally, on a Saturday in December a nearly fatal attack on one of your sisters which resulted in permanent brain damage." He flipped through his notebook until he found a fresh page and pulled out a pen. "Am I wrong?"
"Not about the things that really matter, although some of your assumptions are incorrect." Sarah sipped her tea a moment, then she set down her cup. "First, Mary Kate, the woman who was injured, was--and is--on staff, but she's not one of the sisters."
"Really? I was told the teenagers called her Sister Sunshine."
"Their name. Not ours. Mary Kate had been working with us for some time before she was attacked, but she'd never taken vows. As for the brain damage. . ." Sarah looked up. "Her recovery has been astonishing. There was a time, at the very beginning, when we were told she would never walk, talk, laugh, pray. Her heart stopped on the trip to the hospital."
She shook her head. "It was a very difficult time for all of us. We were advised to put her in a nursing home, but no one was willing. So we undertook her rehabilitation here, following instructions and working with her constantly. No one in the medical community was hopeful, but one day. . ." Her voice trailed off.
"She's better, then?"
"Better?" Her eyes widened. "No, Casey. Nothing that mundane. Quite simply, Mary Kate is a miracle."
Copyright 2017
* * *
Originally published by Silhouette Books in 1993
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Cover by Tina McGee
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