Twice Upon a Soul

by Deborah R Stigall

  Twice Upon a Soul

  Deborah Stigall

  Smashwords Edition

  COPYRIGHT 2006 © by DEBORAH R. STIGALL

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 978-1-4357-1480-9

  Discover other titles by Deborah Stigall at Smashwords.com:

  Seven Moons Back to the Highlands

  A Heartbeat Back to the Highlands

  Awakening Her Soul to Destiny

  Chapter One

  Deep green eyes narrowing to a critical squint, Taylor gingerly dabbed at the corner of the canvas with the stiff-bristled brush. Removing the thick layer of oxidation and debris clinging to the ancient masterpiece required precise and delicate strokes...strokes honed by years of experience and a bottomless well of determination. Adjusting the magnification on her headset, she held her breath as she carefully revealed a tiny portion of landscape previously hidden by layers of sludge-colored filth. Completing the restoration with one final stroke, Taylor nodded in satisfaction at the successful cleansing of the painting. Removing the lighted headset and stretching her work-stiffened neck, she rinsed the slurry from her brush. Pinching the bristles to a suitable point, she twirled the handle expertly between her fingertips and placed it alongside the other brushes and picks littering her worktable.

  Stepping back from the easel, Taylor studied the results of her efforts with a keen and critical eye. She’d been restoring works of art since her sophomore year at college. There she had methodically earned the respect and admiration of the faculty of the university, as well as a reputation as one of the best restorative artists with surrounding museums and galleries.

  Taylor had successfully carved a niche for herself in the world of fine art by developing a now patented formula for not only cleaning and rejuvenating aging oil paintings, but one that also strengthened and protected the deteriorating canvas beneath. Taylor loved the timeworn paintings, was mesmerized by the idea of what the artist might have been thinking and feeling as he created the masterpiece lying beneath her hands. She wanted to do everything possible to ensure the aging works survived to be enjoyed by future generations.

  Arms crossed loosely over her chest, Taylor paced back and forth in front of the easel. The colors…the direction of the brush-strokes…the lights and the shadows…everything must be exactly as the artist had intended. Taylor could almost feel herself stepping into the portrait, as she tried imagining what the creator was thinking at the time the color had been plied to the canvas. Taylor always felt she had an unerring sense of what the artist might have been feeling…almost as though she were able to journey back in time to consult them personally on the matter.

  Upon graduation from college, she had received numerous offers for employment across the United States as well as overseas. However, since her mother was in such poor health, Taylor preferred remaining in Kentucky where she could personally supervise her mother’s daily care. She finally established her home base in Louisville, alternately using the nearby universities and the Regent Oaks Art Museum for referrals for restorative projects. Even though Louisville wasn’t exactly the hub of the world of fine art, invitations from other museums and galleries all over the country still found their way to her, requesting her opinion on preserving and restoring various works and creations.

  At the echo of approaching footsteps on the polished tile floors, Taylor glanced up expectantly from the canvas. She didn’t really have to bother looking to identify the approaching visitor. She’d recognize the familiar clomp and drag of Robert’s favorite pair of work boots anywhere. Shaking her head in amusement, she moved slightly to one side of the canvas…peering down her nose at Robert with a mock disapproving glare.

  “Robert…how many times do I have to tell you…pick up your feet!” Taylor scolded good-naturedly, as though speaking to a favorite child. Hands to her hips, she tapped one foot impatiently against the floor.

  Grinning, as he unloaded the cart full of supplies onto the workroom shelves, Robert just winked at Taylor through his wire-rimmed spectacles. Slightly on the eccentric side, Robert not only kept the museum immaculately clean, but he also had a flare for sculpting huge metal creations, contributing several of his best pieces to the museum’s modest collection. Rumor had it that he’d sold a few of his larger works for a tidy sum, donating everything to the upkeep and continuing expansion of the gallery. Robert was not only chief janitor and handyman, but also beloved benefactor…the museum and all it’s works were Robert’s chosen calling.

  Digging deeply into the pocket of his coveralls, Robert fished out several crumpled pieces of notepaper, handing the wadded handful reluctantly over to Taylor. “Oh….I almost forgot,” he said with an apologetic shrug, “Mrs. Ames asked me to be sure and give these to you.”

  Arching her brow as she picked through the balled up notes, “When exactly did she give these to you, Robert?” Taylor asked wryly. An accomplished metal sculptor and talented fixit man, Robert was not known for his reliability when it came to passing along messages.

  “Uhhh…today, I think,” Robert replied, screwing up his face as he searched his memory in vain. “You’d better check the dates, though,” he finished with a shy smile as he shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “But there’s nothin’ in there about your Mama,” he added, shaking his head seriously. “I’d never mess up somethin’ as important as that, Taylor.”

  Before Taylor’s mother had become bedridden with her failing health, she had sent many a care package of cookies, breads, and treats to the odd little old man working at the museum. Robert was a great deal like a stray puppy…once you fed him; he was loyal to you forever.

  Taylor smiled her thanks at Robert, as she began smoothing out the messages. Adjusting the light on her worktable, she ran her finger along the lines of script, attempting to decipher Mrs. Ames’ flowery scrawl. Taking her smile as a dismissal, Robert turned back to his cart and his tuneless humming, clumping his way out to the next storage room, his steps and monotonous song echoing down the hall.

  With a grin, Taylor shook her head at Robert’s noisy exit. Turning her attention back to the crumpled papers littering her desk, she wrinkled her nose in disgust at the pile of notes silently demanding her attention. Propping her chin in one hand, Taylor idly sorted through the papers, pausing on the one labeled, “From Chandler”.

  Mrs. Ames always boldly printed the name of the individual leaving the message on top of the pink notes, helping Taylor to prioritize her messages without having to digest the entire contents of each memo. Mrs. Ames was a godsend when it came to organizing Taylor’s schedule and the details of all of her calls.

  Noting the date and time beneath Chandler’s name, Taylor sighed in resignation at the remainder of the message, “Got to work late…Try to get together tomorrow…Don’t bother returning call, won’t be near the phone...cell phone is dead again too.”

  Taylor had been seeing Chandler for a little over three years; the two of them relaxing into a more or less comfortable relationship, uneventfully rolling along between their busy schedules. Their friends often teased them about acting like an old married couple…asking them when they had tied the knot, and why hadn’t they invited anyone to the wedding? Taylor and Chandler would just laugh nervously at the good-natured ribbing, quickly switching to a different subject. Each of them silently wished their friends would stop haranguing them and steer clear of this sensitive issue that was growing into an insurmountable barrier between them.

  Chandler had been pressing Taylor for the p
ast year to nail down a wedding date. A successful real estate broker in his early thirties, he was ready to settle down with a wife and set to work on expanding the family tree. The oldest child in a long string of seven children, Chandler Donnelly looked forward to fathering a large brood of his own. He longed to walk into the two story Victorian home he was restoring, and have his own children come streaming down the curving staircase welcoming their daddy home. The fact that Taylor had also managed to keep him at a safe physical distance during their relationship….finally blurting out to him that contrary to current public opinion….she preferred to remain a virgin until her wedding night….only made him more anxious to possess her completely. The thought of being the first man to lay claim to the petite curvaceous Taylor was bringing him to the limits of his patience.

  The more Chandler urged though…the more distant Taylor became. Remaining a virgin wasn’t just a matter of a moral decision for Taylor. Deep down….she was terrified of intimacy. Taylor was an only child, who had been old enough to watch her own mother struggle through the tragedy of four miscarriages but young enough to be terrified at the helplessness of her parents over the circumstances ripping their family apart. The thought of attempting to have children frightened her, even though she had been assured by her doctor several times that from all appearances, she should have no problem bearing children. Taylor still couldn’t quite shake the memories of her mother’s suffering, along with the tearful scenes between her parents after each calamity struck.

  The tragedies had created a gaping rift between her parents; each of them lashing out at the other from wounds that refused to heal. Taylor would never forget the day she came home from school finding the ambulance and police cars in front of her house. Lights flashing…her mother sobbing in pain, her grandmother had rushed to shoo her into the ancient Cadillac, attempting to shield her from the chaos within her cozy home.

  Trapped in a pit of depression he couldn’t seem to escape, her father had finally snapped…first shooting her mother then turning the pistol on himself. Eyes blinded with tears and alcohol, he’d merely wounded her mother with a glancing shot, but his aim had been perfect when he’d pulled the trigger with the barrel of the gun pointed at his own breaking heart.

  Afterwards, Taylor and her mother had lived with her grandparents until her mother was stable enough to start rebuilding their shattered lives. Securing a modest little house in a quiet neighborhood, Taylor’s mother worked long hours as a seamstress, mending and sewing at home in order to be there whenever her daughter needed her. Never complaining…always finding little ways to make her daughter feel special, Constance McKenna had raised her daughter alone, as well as put her through college before her fragile body finally collapsed. Constance McKenna was the strongest woman Taylor had ever known.

  Awakened from her reverie by the irritating beep of her wristwatch, Taylor ran one hand through her thick blonde hair as she quickly shuffled through the remaining messages. Deciding the rest of the notes could wait until tomorrow, Taylor smoothed the crumpled sheets into an orderly pile and speared them onto the awaiting message spike mounted next to the phone. Glancing around the room one last time to ensure she’d left nothing amiss, Taylor quickly latched the door. As soon as soon as she’d turned her key in the lock, the jangling phone echoed through the sealed off room. Her key still in the doorknob, Taylor rested her forehead against the door, debating whether to answer the phone or not. Mrs. Ames had left hours ago, so whoever was calling would definitely be trying to contact Taylor.

  Her first instinct was to ignore the ringing beast within her workroom, but her conscience gently prodded her...”What if something has happened to Mama?” Groaning in defeat, Taylor shouldered open the door. Scooping up the receiver, she neatly silenced the creature on the fifth ring. “Regent Oaks Museum….Taylor McKenna,” she clipped in a less then enthusiastic tone.

  “Well! It’s about time you picked up that phone,” a chirpy voice scolded in Taylor’s ear. “I knew you’d answer…even though you had already locked the door!” The triumphant voice crowed on the other end of the line, effervescent with smug satisfaction.

  “Hello Mattie,” Taylor groaned, rolling her eyes in disbelief. Her roommate during her college years and her faithful friend for life, Matilda Esmeralda Sebastian was the quirky interjection of insanity into Taylor’s otherwise orderly life. Somewhat psychic and definitely different, Mattie dabbled in Wicca, New Age practices, pagan rituals and any other escape from the established norm that happened to strike her fancy. Taylor had never quite been able to decide if Mattie pursued these interests because they really intrigued her…or if it was merely because she knew it drove her parents crazy.

  Extremely wealthy and very aware of social status, Mattie’s parents had often begged Taylor to try and convince their daughter into settling upon an acceptable lifestyle. Taylor always reassured them, sensibly reasoning that surely their daughter would outgrow her quirky ways; although at the age of twenty-seven, Taylor doubted very much if Mattie would ever change.

  Cradling the phone on one shoulder, Taylor grinned to herself as she leaned against the doorway with a sigh. Waiting for Mattie’s next sentence, Taylor knew from past experience it would be anything but mundane.

  “You know, Taylor…” Mattie began, “You’re wasting entirely too much energy on these negative activities.” As Taylor shifted the phone to the other shoulder, Mattie continued her good-natured lecture, her excited voice buzzing into Taylor’s ear. “You have a lovely aura but if you insist upon pelting it with negative thoughts….well, you’re going to become quite ill.”

  “So, what exactly are you suggesting…Mattie?” Taylor asked, gently attempting to steer her friend to the somewhat elusive point.

  “That you come by tonight for a reading!” Mattie bubbled happily, “I just got my new scrying mirror and I’d love for you to join me in my first session.”

  “You just got your new what?” Taylor repeated to the breathless voice gurgling in her ear.

  “My scrying mirror…it focuses my powers of divination,” Mattie explained, breathless with excitement. “Wouldn’t you like to see what the future holds for you?”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Taylor closed her eyes with a weary sigh. Impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other, “Mattie….it’s been a really long day..” Taylor began, stumbling for an excuse.

  “Oh come on!” Mattie interrupted, “I know you’re not seeing Chandler tonight and your Mama is doing fine…I visited her myself just this very morning.”

  “You went by to see Mama?” Taylor interrupted. Her voice dropped to a sad whisper at the memory of her frail mother lying motionless and unresponsive in the sterile room of the nursing home.

  “Yes…you know, Taylor…she’s not in there.” Mattie’s voice grew quiet with seriousness. Although she was an oddity in most social circles, Mattie was a sensitive and caring soul. Very attuned to her friend’s innermost feelings, Mattie supported Taylor any way she possibly could.

  “I know…Mattie,” Taylor said softly, “But you’re the only one who seems to understand.” Taylor spent hours sitting by her mother’s side, holding her hand and relating events of each day to the vacant eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Taylor visited her mother faithfully each day, always hoping to walk into the room and find her mother’s spirit restored to the catatonic shell lying motionless in the bed. Physically depleted, her body’s resources used up in the battle against repeated heart attacks and kidney failure, Constance McKenna’s body somehow continued to function with the assistance of dialysis and massive amounts of drugs. However, Contance’s mind had finally escaped her pain ravaged body months ago, leaving the physical shell to last as long as it liked under the hands of modern medicine. Taylor felt sure her mother’s spirit was gone, hopefully on to somewhere much more pleasant. But she couldn’t bring herself to abandon the frail body that had once harbored the brightness of her mother’s soul.

  “T
aylor…so, you’ll come by then?” Mattie repeated, in a gently wheedling tone. “I know you don’t place much stock in these things but you know you’ll enjoy yourself once you get over here.” Once Mattie set her mind to a course of action, nothing could veer her from her from it.

  “Okay, okay….I’ll come by on my way home,” Taylor finally acquiesced, knowing full well that Mattie would never settle for anything less. “How ‘bout if I pick up a pizza or something?” she offered, warming to the idea of spending an entertaining evening with her rather erratic friend.

  “Veggie pizza only…” Mattie instructed seriously, “You know that meat interferes with my reception.”

  Suppressing a laugh at this latest revelation, Taylor politely cleared her throat, “Uhhmm, right…veggie pizza it is. I’ll be over as soon as I lock up here and pick up the pizza. Okay?”

  “Excellent!” Mattie crowed, “Oh Taylor! One more thing…come in without knocking, remove your shoes, and inhale the incense to clear your mind before you enter the room. Also, you simply must unwind your hair and let it hang naturally to your waist. There must be no restrictions….either physical or mental. You mustn’t allow any negativity to follow you or interfere with your spirit.”

  “Whatever you say…Mattie,” Taylor agreed with a wry smile into the receiver. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  ~*~

  Precariously balancing the pizza on one arm, Taylor forced open the sticking front door to Mattie’s house with the other. Arching a sardonic eye at the gaudy stained glass sign hanging in the front window, Taylor wondered where Mattie had managed to find a fortune teller’s sign so elaborately done. The floors to the ancient house groaned in protest under Taylor’s feet as she shed her shoes in the entryway. Padding down the hallway in her sock feet, Taylor suddenly stopped, soberly reminding herself to “clear her negative vibrations” before continuing any further into the house. Reaching to the back of her neck, she worked the hair clasp free of her honey colored hair, the freed tresses immediately falling heavily to just above her waist. Barely five foot four inches, her petite frame and pale delicate features were almost over-whelmed by the wild golden mane. She inhaled the aroma of the heavy incense, wrinkling her nose at the sticky sweet essence pervading her nostrils. She knew very well Mattie would ask if she’d remembered to follow her instructions, and somehow would be able to pick up on it if Taylor had failed to do so.