Roses Collection: Boxed Set

by Freda, Paula

  The Roses Collection — Boxed Set

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright by Dorothy P. Freda

  Pen Names — Paula Freda and Marianne Dora Rose

  © November 21, 2016 by Dorothy P. Freda

  (Pseudonyms — Paula Freda and

  Marianne Dora Rose)

  Exterior and Interior Bookcover photos copyrights

  indicated on copyright notice in each book

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof. This is a work of fiction; names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  With thanks to my Dear Lord Jesus and his Blessed Mother Mary whose strength, guidance, and her Holy Rosary, are my anchor in this troubled world, I dedicate this book to my husband, Domenick, whose love and loyalty over the past 47 years have kept my dreams and view of the romantic alive and vibrant.

  "Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart"

  — Washington Irving"

  The Blue Jay and the Sparrow (Romance on the Continent)

  Driscoll's Lady (East meets West romance)

  Adventure in Panama (Romance in Panama)

  Henderson Sands (Romance in the Mediterranean)

  Beautiful Dreamer (Julie's Story)

  Silvereye's Hummingbird (Carol's Story)

  The Lark and Robin Red (Abby's Story)

  Cinderella Ice (Jessie's Story)

  November 2016 -

  written under Paula Freda's pen name,

  Marianne Dora Rose

  ♥♥

  *****************************

  The Bluejay and the Sparrow

  by Paula Freda

  Copyright © 2005 by Dorothy Paula Freda

  (Pseudonym — Paula 'Freda

  Smashwords Edition

  Bookcover Illustration © 2005 Thomas Mark Freda

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This novella appeared in my novel Roses in the Dark (ISBN 978-1-4523-6176-5) that comprised four interwoven love stories, written by the same author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sparrow thrust from your nest,

  Fluttering, twittering your very best,

  Lonely, helpless, you fear

  What the next moment brings,

  For a blue jay has swooped

  And caught you in its wings.

  Mark's first meeting with this friend's daughter was not to be what he had envisioned — an orphaned, grieving child eager to accept his comfort and protection. Instead, during the entire reading of the will, Cybelle had hardly glanced at him. The ride upstate to his home in the Hudson Valley was proving no better. Cybelle remained silent and continued to stare out the partially opened window of his black Cadillac, her gaze unfocused, not actually seeing the green landscape whizzing by. Mark wondered if she even felt the blustering wind entering through the opening. The jacketed document that was his friend's last will and testament lay discarded on the seat between them. Clutched and crumpled in her right hand was her father's final correspondence with Mark.

  "My friend," the letter read, "I write to ask a special favor of you. It concerns the two persons dearest to me — my wife, Helen, and my daughter, Cybelle, my little fluff of cocoa curls and lacy skirts, as I often refer to her. Of course, she is not so little anymore. Now it's jeans and sneakers, and junior prom. I suppose I must admit to myself that she is almost grown up.

  Mark, I have no basis for it, no apparent reason, but the feeling persists. Call it a preoccupation, a foreboding, even a premonition, but these past few weeks I have felt uneasy — no frightened is a better word, as though life and I were soon to part company. Am I losing my mind?"

  Normally Jacques' letters held happy tidings, or simply dwelled on past times shared. Sometimes he would ask advice or an opinion on some family matter. He was a simple man, with a sensitive nature and a kind heart, a Frenchman by heritage, and a United States Citizen by birth.

  He had married very early, 16, because Cybelle was already on the way. Perhaps that was why Helen was never really there for her daughter, always busy with some charity or career move, making up for the years that should have been hers alone. "Mark," the letter continued, "If anything should happen to me, watch over Helen and Cybelle. My wife and I have no living relatives, and Cybelle is a handful, stubborn, headstrong and impetuous, like a fledgling sparrow eager to try its wings.

  "My friend, in desperation I presume upon your respect and affection. I have contacted my lawyer. I am appointing you Executor of my will, and with Helen, co-guardian of my daughter. Humor me, Mark. Sign the papers and have them notarized as soon as they arrive, and return them to me. If this preoccupation with death is a temporary bout of insanity, then when next we meet I will provide you with the finest bottle of champagne I can afford, and an evening of laughter. If not… remember me with kindness."

  It was signed, "Your devoted friend, Jacques Michel"

  On the Fourth of July, a stray spark from a firework that was set off too close to a cluster of private homes, ignited the roof of his friend's cape cod on Long Island. The resulting fire destroyed the house. Only Cybelle escaped the raging flames. Jacques and Helen did not.

  Mark's discerning blue eyes took in the petite grief-stricken countenance. Less than a week ago, Cybelle's life had been filled with wonderful expectations — friends, high school, sports, junior prom, the promise of college and career. Most important, a father who worshipped her and a mother who admired her. Then in one horrific evening, her whole world was ripped apart, her family, her friends, and the town in which she had been born and reared, everything familiar, stolen from her. And then to be chucked into a stranger's care… Mark eased the car off the Parkway, bringing it to a halt alongside a quaint rustic inn that nestled invitingly midst road and woodland. He turned to Cybelle.

  "Listen, I know there's nothing I can say that will take away the anguish you're feeling right now, except perhaps that time will dull the ache." He recognized well the futility of words during this time. He had suffered losses of his own over the years. "Small comfort," Mark added contritely, "because I can't bring your parents back. But your father left you in my care, and I sincerely do want to help you get on with your life."

  The latter part of his plea struck a chord and Cybelle's glance shot to his. "Life," she laughed, mockingly. Tears welled in her dark sad eyes. She shook her head dolefully and he noted that her hair was indeed cocoa-colored and that it swirled softly when she moved her head.

  "The newspapers called the fireman who saved me a hero. I would rather he had let me die," she sobbed and turned away to nurture her grief.

  For the tenth time that day, Mark wished he had the power to turn back the clock. But it was in his power to give her shelter and sustenance. "How about something to eat?" he asked. She hadn't eaten since her parents' funeral yesterday morning.

  Cybelle eyed him with disdain. He was trying to be nice to her, but she still didn't like him. It was too sudden, cut off from her loved ones and friends. Besides which, she didn't know him, except for the return address on his letters to her father, and the stories her father told about his college days when he had first met Mark. Jacques and Helen had grown up in the same orphanage, and been sweethearts since they could remember. They were only sixteen when Cybelle was born in that same orphanage. Helen would have preferred to postpone the wedding until after she gave birth, but Jacques had insis
ted. He did not want his child to be born out of wedlock. Cybelle suspected that her father had feared Helen might postpone the wedding indefinitely once their child was born.

  As young as he was, he had found work in a fast food restaurant, worked long hours and attended night school. Jacques was smart, conscientious, and determined to provide a good life for his family. He graduated high school with a full scholarship to a highly rated and expensive college in upstate New York. During all this time, Helen worked as a live-in domestic at the orphanage. The nuns who ran the home watched over Cybelle during the day.

  It was in college that he met Mark Carlson. Mark's heritage dated back to the early colonists. The Carlson Mansion on the Hudson had stood for two centuries and its lawns and gardens encompassed a hundred acres.

  The bond of friendship that sprang between Jacques and Mark grew steadily over the next four years. After graduation, Jacques returned to Long Island and became an engineer in Grumman's. Mark returned to his parent's estate and obtained a position as a representative in a plant that investigated inventions for possible purchase by the government.

  Despite the miles between them, the two young men kept their friendship alive through frequent correspondence. However, only once did Mark visit Jacques at his home. Cybelle was eight and at school at the time. She often wondered why he never visited again. She asked her father, but he answered that Mark was a busy man. Now as she followed Mark silently from the car and into the inn, she wondered if her father truly knew Mark well enough to entrust to him his only daughter.

  The hostess, an attractive blonde, escorted them to a table prepared with blue linen and a slender white vase holding a single rose.

  The interior of the restaurant was oak-paneled. A fireplace with a marble mantel decorated one end of the room. An arched opening led to a mirrored tap-room. It was the middle of the afternoon and only a handful of people were dining. The hostess addressed Mark, blatant admiration on her face. "Would you care for a drink before dinner?" Mark nodded. "Scotch on the rocks, please."

  "And the young lady, a soda or a glass of milk?" the hostess suggested.

  "I'll have a Brandy Alexander, if you please."

  "I'm sorry, we don't serve liquor to minors."

  "Cybelle, wouldn't you rather have a soda?" Mark offered, exercising patience. For some reason not quite clear to Cybelle, that very patience grated on her nerves; nerves severely battered by the losses she had suffered. She stood, the feet of her captain's chair scraping the wood floor as she pushed her chair back. "I'm going to the restroom," she snapped.

  "What about your order?" Mark asked, patience thinning. "I'm not hungry," Cybelle said, and left the table, blanking from her mind the sight of intense blue eyes frowning.

  The restrooms were located in the restaurant's vestibule. Examining herself in the mirror over the basin, she was appalled at the sight of her eyes ravaged by crying, and her pallid face. She had been too racked by sorrow to bother with make-up. "Get on with your life," Mark had said. He was right of course, but he wasn't the one dislocated from kin and home. She sighed heavily and decided that a little make-up might help her hide the pain wrenching her soul. A smidgen of lipstick and a dab of face blush, perhaps. Opening her shoulder bag she saw again the crumpled ball of paper that had been her father's final letter to Mark. Unable to resist the urge to examine again this last remaining link to all that she had lost, she reverently smoothed the creases and reread it. Tears brimmed anew, but this time she stoically kept them from falling. Carefully folding the sheet, she replaced it in her bag, forgetting to apply the cosmetics. She stayed in the restroom for a long time, and when she finally emerged, Mark was waiting for her in the vestibule. He didn't say anything, although she could see he was plainly annoyed. He simply took her arm and escorted her out the front door and to the car.

  She wondered if he'd eaten. She ought to apologize for her rudeness, for feeling sorry for herself and showing it. "Did you enjoy your meal?" she asked, and realized how inappropriate and sarcastic the question must sound.

  "Get in the car," Mark told her.

  He's angry, she thought, as she climbed in beside him. Well, I don't care, she fumed rebelliously. She had a right to feel sorry for herself after the nightmare she'd lived through. She settled deter-minedly into the seat, her jaw set grimly. Watching her, Mark grimaced. A handful, stubborn… Jacques had written. Mark revved the engine, almost flooding it. Headstrong and impetuous… In his opinion, his friend had grossly understated.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cybelle woke to a breathtaking view of a russet sunset over broad, deep valleys, and rolling mountains rich with verdant woodland. Flanked by this majesty, flowed the "Lordly Hudson." The enchanting melody issuing from the CD under the dashboard complemented the serene setting.

  They were headed north on a two-way road that paralleled the river. Further on, a suspension bridge spanned the river's width.

  "Where are we?" Cybelle asked, stretching and yawning. "Nearing Bear Mountain Bridge," Mark replied. "We should arrive home in a short while."

  Home ... the word did not equate with the direction in which Mark drove. Home was a hundred miles to the south, in a quaint gray, brown roofed cape cod with a grassy backyard, a front lawn, and rosebushes. Cybelle fought to control the pain, non-physical, yet just as strong, that the memory brought. "Will my parents be there?" she asked, numbly.

  Mark glanced at her and desperately wished he could make Jacques and Helen be there when they arrived. "Cybelle, it won't take the grief away, but for all it's worth, I lost my parents a few years ago. I understand what you're feeling.

  The sentiment was not lost on her, and she looked at Mark, really looked at him for the first time since their meeting. He was tall, of medium frame, and clean-shaven, and he had well sculpted features. He wore his hair short, and its color reminded her of the bark of the old elm tree in her backyard. Thus far, he seemed a kind person. "What's your wife like?" she asked.

  "I'm not married," Mark replied.

  "Do you have any sisters or brothers living at home?"

  "One sister, but she lives in Panama with her husband."

  "You live alone?" she asked, growing apprehensive. Did the courts intend for her to live under his roof alone with him?

  "Don't worry," Mark smiled, reading her thoughts correctly. "My housekeeper and her husband, more family than paid help, have their own wing in the house. I think you'll like Geraldine, even her husband, Harry, gardener and handyman. They're a couple of generations removed from yours, but their daughter, not much older than you, left home rather abruptly a few months ago. They haven't quite adjusted to their loss yet. I think having you there will be good for them as well."

  "I'll try," Cybelle said.

  "Thank you. I promise you'll be comfortable and safe. Jacques was my best friend and I intend to fulfill his last wish. You'll finish your education in the best schools and become the refined lady he wanted you to be."

  The determination in his voice evoked renewed slivers of apprehension and resentment. Mark was still a stranger, despite his long friendship with her father, but he was not her father. She was sixteen and had spent the past five years asserting her independence. Jacques and Helen were slowly letting go, but the tone of Mark's voice as he spoke of his plans for her future held no such promise. "I'm not sure if I care to be a refined lady," Cybelle told him. Mark wasn't sure he'd heard right. He glanced at her sideways. She had large dark eyes and they were glaring at him rebelliously. Yet a moment ago… Mark shook his head, muttering under his breath. This wasn't going to be easy.

  "This isn't going to be easy," Cybelle grumbled as she sat cross-legged in the center of the canopy bed in her new bedroom. Her blue jeans and cotton T-shirt with the logo "Sci-Fi or Bust" contrasted strikingly with the finery surrounding her. Clothes of the finest quality were strewn about her on the white lace-over-silk coverlet and across the thick pink carpet. She had been a resident of the Carlson Mansion for a week and Mark and
the housekeeper weren't through with her yet. The past few days had been the busiest of her life. Between fittings for a wardrobe to accommodate her for dozens of occasions, and studying brochures from the finest schools, she'd hardly had a moment to herself. But today was Sunday, and fortunately for her, on Sundays everyone in the Carlson household slept late. Mass was at two in the afternoon, normally followed by an early, leisurely supper.

  The original mistrust she had felt towards Mark had begun to dissipate. He truly must want to keep his promise to her father. What worried her among all this kindness was the "refined lady" bit.

  A knock sounded at the door. It was the housekeeper reminding her that it was twelve thirty and they would be leaving in an hour for Church. "I'll be ready. Thank you," Cybelle acknowledged. She'd best put away the clothes strewn on her bed. She had spent the morning modeling each garment in front of the mirrored panels of the wall-to-wall closet. She did not want to give Geraldine more work. The housekeeper had enough to do running this two-story mansion. She chose a cottony pink sleeveless shift and held it up against herself. The reflection in the mirror was that of a young girl, barely in transition to adulthood, attractive in a simple sort of way. She used hardly any cosmetics and her hair with its natural curl was that particular shade of cocoa that many women used dye to imitate. But as for the rest? Sophistication — zero, tall — all of five feet, two inches, gracious — about as gracious as a tadpole, voice — pleasant, when she wasn't grumbling. And her tact — the meaning of the word had never quite been clear to her. She peered closer at her reflec-tion. Expensive clothing might enhance her appearance, and lessons in etiquette and finesse add a coat of polish to her manners, but Cybelle was Cybelle, and all the formal education in the world would never alter her basic popcorn character. Late that afternoon Mark introduced her to their dinner guest, Leatrice Meredith. Cybelle had never met anyone like her. She was a beautiful, self-poised woman who exuded charm, elegance and finesse. She wore her chestnut colored hair short and styled to fluff softly over her brow and ears. And even without the spiked heels, she rivaled Mark in height. She had wide-set shoulders and a slender waist accentuated by a tailored pantsuit, the color of ripened apricots. Her eyes were almond-shaped and blue, a light sparkling blue. Her lashes were velvety brown and thick and her nose was just the right width to complement her sensuous mouth. She spoke with a perfectly modulated and lilting voice. Cybelle swallowed nervously as Mark added, "…a very good friend." So this is what he considered a "refined lady." Cybelle gave Leatrice a quick smile and wondered if she could feign a headache and retire to her room. Leatrice's smile was broad and radiant. "Now don't let Mark or this big house frighten you. Under that entire reserved exterior, he's got a heart of gold, and this house has always known abiding love.