“Oh God!” he cried. “Nurse, she’s awake!” The man ran to the door and screamed at the top of his lungs. “Come, she opened her eyes.” He returned to her bedside and grabbed her hand again.
“Oh, thank the Lord! Oh, my darling, you have come back to me. Oh, God! Oh God, it’s a miracle. The doctors said you would never regain consciousness but I have been here daily and ordered you to open your eyes. I knew you would.”
His mouth was thin with a cynical twist to it. He gripped her hand firmly and she had the wildest urge to pull away. Someone came in and said, “Mr. Steinberger, you must let the doctor examine her. Please, stand back.”
The orders came from an elderly nurse and Trista didn’t miss the muscle in the man’s jaw jump and his square jaw tense visibly telling her that he did not take lightly to being ordered, but he did as he was asked. Before she could say anything she was the center of attention. She felt as if she were a guinea pig when an oriental man looked into her eyes with a light, making them tear.
“Hmmm,” he said and placed a stethoscope on her chest and said, “hmmm.” He turned her head feeling her skull, repeating, “hmmm.” After more poking and probing and many more voiced, “hmmm’s,” he gave the nurse instruction on how she should be cared for and left. All Trista wanted was to be left alone, but that was not to happen, the young man came back to her side.
“Oh sweetheart, I have been out of my mind with worry. But now that your awake the doctor said that it will take time before you can walk again. Just think Mara, you’ll be able to walk down the isle when we get married.”
Married? Oh, no that will not do at all. I do not want to marry this stranger.
Hey, that’s not your only problem, her conscience reminded her.
What did he say about walking? Dream Weaver, I am going to kill you! What the hell did you do to me now, you put me into a cripple and chained me to a stranger. Good looking, but I do not love this man! I knew I should not have trusted you!
Well, she was not a quitter, not her; she’d walk and find Brock again She knew where he was, and when she returned to her house, Dream Weaver better not be there!
Trista wanted to say something but her mouth was dry and she had no idea what to say anyway to this Mr. Steinberger. She could see he had money by the way he was dressed. His dark hair was trimmed neatly, his nails well manicured and he reeked of money. If nothing else, the diamond in his earlobe would have said it all. He also had the look of a man who got his way because an air of command exuded from him. She wondered what kind of woman Mara was. Well what did that matter? If she was someone he controlled, he was in for a big surprise when she began to feel herself again. But to her regret, it took a month of rehab for her to be able to walk again. And she was right about the man Mara was engaged to. He pampered her but also sought to control her. As the weeks went by Trista learned that Wayne Steinberger was a lawyer. He and Mara had been engaged for five years, he had planned the most elaborate wedding and they were to honeymoon in France.
Apparently, they were supposed to wed a week before she had been in a car accident and when she questioned him about it he shrugged it off as if it was nothing. All he said was that he was driving and it was the other driver‘s fault.
She thought it strange that no family or friends came with him to visit and when she mentioned that, he claimed that his parents were in England and his friends were all lawyers, like himself and were very busy. By the time she was able to leave the hospital, she had grown to dislike Wayne and she didn’t trust him. Trista felt something was not right about the accident and she began to feel really sorry for the real Mara. When she was ready to leave, he drove her to a beautiful house by the ocean and showed her to a private bed room.
“I’ll leave you to your privacy, darling. I will not make love to you until you feel up to it.” He lifted the corner of his mouth, what she believed was an effort to smile and winked. She returned a smile, but it did not come from her heart.
“Thank you,” she whispered, relieved that she didn’t have to fight off his advances. She had to rest and plan her escape. And that would not be easy since she did not know how to drive a car. And his house was far from a populated area. Once again she found that fate was not going to be kind to her.
She also discovered that when Wayne left for work the next day, and days after, his friend, Tony stayed in the house. The man was all brawn and no brains. He was a fitness freak and worked out in Wayne’s gym. This big jerk had muscle over muscles and she knew there was no way in hell she could escape. Yes, she thought escape was the proper word because she was definitely being held hostage here.
One morning she had had enough of Wayne’s chauvinistic attitude and said, “Wayne, please, I need to go out. Get some fresh air.” Her jailer threw down his napkin annoyed, for what, she had no idea. Did he begrudge her fresh air?
“Sweetheart, our wedding is in a few weeks and you need your rest. Besides, your bridal gown is arriving today and you have lost some weight. We need Ms. Bettie to take it in for you. Now be a good girl and listen to me.” A chill hung on the edge of his words.
Is he kidding? Trista stood. “Look, I’m not some little mouse you can order around! I will not marry an arrogant fool who thinks he can pull strings as if I am a brainless puppet.”
The look on the man’s face was priceless and she would have laughed but he stared at her, quick anger filled his eyes and she backed away. He rounded the table and back handed her; the sting brought tears to her eyes. She touched her burning cheek and her anger became a scalding fury.
But she wasn’t given a chance to voice what she really thought of the bastard. The man had the balls to hug her and say, “I know you seem to be different since the accident my love, so I’ll forgive your foolish words. But know this, you are mine and we will be married next Saturday. Now, be a good girl and go to your room until Ms. Bettie arrives. Tony will be here soon.” He kissed her brow as if she had been just a naughty child, and walk to the door to let the big jerk in.
Trista paced her room. If that son-of-a-bitch thinks she’ll…Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Mara,” the big jerk called. “The woman is here with your bridal gown.”
“I’ll be right down,” she answered.
Ms. Bettie was a pleasant middle aged woman who didn’t say much, but she enjoyed the seamstress’s company just the same. She wondered if she could trust the woman to help her.
“I am sorry about your accident,” said the woman as she tucked in the gown’s waist, and pinned the fabric.
“Thank you. I don’t recall much. Do you know what happened,” she probed. Maybe she could get some information.
“Sorry, miss but all I know was what I read in the papers. I’m sure Mr. Steinberger told you everything.”
Trista sighed. Well it was worth trying.
That night, Wayne didn’t come home for supper and she ate alone. He had Chinese food delivered for her and she was glad to dine by herself. Well, not all alone. Mr. Muscles sat in the next room looking at that contraption called TV. In the short time she had been here, she had learned a lot about the modern world. She didn’t like it one iota. She decided to do some snooping and went through Mara’s dresser drawers. The young woman owned beautiful but very skimpy undergarment. The bottom drawer seemed to be stuck and she gave it a big tug. It fell out and she discovered a small book must have jammed it because it was lying on the rug beside the dresser. Picking it up she knew exactly what it was. A diary.
She sat on the bed and luckily it was not locked. Licking her lips, she felt a little nervous, unsure if she wanted to read Mara’s thoughts. But her curiosity won over her uneasiness. Mara wrote how she and Wayne met and how happy she was for the first few years. Then the writing became unsteady and Trista could see the smudges she knew all to well were from tears.
Wayne had changed, he’s become very possessive. I no longer have any friends, and I’ve become a prisoner. He drinks more th
an usual and losses his temper over simple things.
Mara’s last entry was what Trista believed was on the night of the accident.
I am afraid to go out with him. But he insists that the party is important for his career. He will drink and drive home drunk again. I fear for my life.
Trista closed the book. There was no doubt in her mind that Wayne was inebriated and caused the accident. He was a lawyer. She’d bet he bought his way out of this with money and friends.
Chapter Fifteen
Trista had no other option but to trust Ms. Bettie. The next morning Mr. Muscles was as usual in the gym listening to the awful sound he called music. God, what happened to good old fashion melodies? When the door bell rang and the woman arrived shortly after Wayne left, she was glad now for the loud music because he didn’t hear the bell and Trista let the seamstress in. Before the woman had a chance to say anything about the gown, she pulled her aside and quickly said, “Please, I need your help. I need to talk before that jerk comes in.”
Ms. Bettie remained absolutely motionless for a moment before she looked around appearing very apprehensive. Trista knew she probably was frightened also. Did that bastard threaten everyone?
“Please, I fear for my life if you do not help me.” She watched Ms. Bettie’s eyes widen with concern. The woman regarded her with a speculative gaze and this gave her some hope. “Wayne Steinberger did this to me.” She touched the bruise on her cheek. “He keeps me here as a prisoner and he was drunk the night of the accident.”
“Oh, my, I’m sorry, but what can I do?”
Ms. Bettie began to visibly tremble with fear and Trista helped her to a chair.
“I know you fear him too, Ms. Bettie, I just do not know why.”
The seamstress let out a heart-wrenching breath, and replied, her voice filled with anguish. “My son is in jail for possession. He said if I help you, he’ll see that my Bobby will have an unfortunate accident.” Her gaze was clouded with tears. “I didn’t understand his threat at the time, but I do now.”
Trista sat, feeling as if her hopes just burst like a balloon.
She swallowed the despair in her throat and said, “If I can figure out a way to escape and not get you involved, would you help?” She watched the seamstress shudder and draw in a sharp breath, her expression was grim.
“I cannot help my Bobby he was always a troubled kid. Although, I love him, he is in jail though his own fault. I will help you.”
Trista let out a pent up breath and hugged the woman. “I think I have an idea how we can get away with my escape. When you come tomorrow, bring a bottle of sleeping capsules with you.”
“I do not see how---?”
“The less you know the better,” she said. “Now let’s have my fitting.”
It was mid-afternoon the next day by the time Trista was able to make her escape. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses and put her hair up, stuffing it into a baseball cap. She wore a polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Thank goodness, all went as she had planned. She spiked Mr. Muscles Gatorade with enough sleeping powder from the caplets to knock out a rhino. Ms. Bettie agreed to feign sleep so Wayne would think she had been drugged also. She prayed that the woman wouldn’t feel that bastard’s wrath when he discovered she was gone. She also lucked out when a tuck driver gave her ride into town. Once there, hoping to hitch another ride, she approached a little old lady telling the grey haired woman that her purse had been stolen and she had no way of getting home.
“Oh, my Lord. Land sakes, child.” The elderly lady peered over her granny glasses. “Oh, is that you? Mara? Well… I’ll be. I haven’t seen you in ages. Are you all right? I heard you were in an accident. Oh, my child, I thought my old eyes were deceiving me when you came up to me.”
Trista didn’t know what to say, but she wasn’t given a chance to speak anyway.
“Oh, how terrible. You say your purse was snatched? Well, come I’ll drive you home.”
Oh, no. That wouldn’t do. “Thank you, um...but I was on my way to visit a friend out of town. Could you be so kind as to drive me there, she doesn’t live far. Take the main road and leave me off where I tell you. My friend’s house is in a wooded area, off a dirt road. I would be so obliged.”
“Well, all right dear. Come, my car is right over there.”
Gratefully, the old lady did all the talking and when Trista left the vehicle she still had no idea who the grey headed woman was.
Chapter Sixteen
Trista had mixed emotions about seeing her house for the first time through different eyes; living eyes of a woman whose face was still difficult to look at. The shade of her eyes was still blue, as her own, but darker-almost the color of a plum. She was a brunette now, with a hint of henna in the sunlight. That much of a transition was easier to take, but it was her features that she had a hard time adjusting to. Trista found that she couldn’t complain that Dream Weaver put her into the body of a beautiful young woman.
As she walked closer, it struck her that she wasn’t the only thing that had changed; her house also had a new face. It took her a moment to recall that she no longer owned that house. A man had bought it, the man who had come with Brock. She felt momentary panic as she thought that they might have finished all the renovations? Fear was eating at her from the inside.
Oh, please still be working there.
As she walked up the repaired steps, she heard music and her heart skipped with renewed hope. With a shaking fist, she knocked on the door. Fidgeting from one foot to another, she waited. When the door finally opened she recognized the man who was with Brock. He drew in his brows.
“Hello, can I help you?”
Trista cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m looking for Brock Werner.”
The man seemed to lose some of his tan. That was not a good sign, she thought.
“I’m sorry, miss but Brock died a few weeks ago. Miss, you’re not going to faint? Here,” he grabbed her and pulled her inside. He escorted her to the living room, onto a big new couch. “Sit, here. Don’t go away I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Died? No, he cannot be dead!
Her stomach felt queasy, the nap of her neck was hot and the room shifted. She sucked in a deep breath as she tried to talk herself out of losing consciousness. Placing her head between her knees, she repeatedly sucked in air until she saw the man’s legs standing before her.
“Here,” he handed her the glass and she gulped down the cool liquid.
“What happened?” was all she could say when she was able to speak.
“Sorry, miss. All I know is that he suffered from headaches and one morning when I went to wake him, he was gone. The doctor’s said it was a blood clot in his brain. I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad news. Are you a friend?”
“I loved him,” she whispered without realizing she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
The man took her cold hand. “Sorry, he never mentioned you, err, Miss.”
“Trista Walton,” she rasped. “This was once my home.” Again she spoke without thinking.
“I’m Drew and I was led to believe that this house had been vacant for a long time. But the name Walton sounds familiar. You were a distant relative, I have to assume.”
“Yes, I was.” But the house was never vacant. She left that thought unsaid and she was grateful he didn’t say anything more about the place, but asked, “Do you want to rest before you leave?”
“I have no place to go. I ran away from a man who held me captive. I was hoping that Brock could help me.”
It was silent for a few minutes before Drew offered. “Trista, there are many rooms here, as you probably know, and I’m leaving on a trip for a few weeks. I would consider it a favor if you stayed here and house-sat for me while I am gone.”
She nodded. Her old house was once again her refuge from the outside. And she was once more a captive within these walls until she could figure out what to do.
Chapter Seventeen
The first indication that som
eone besides Drew was in the house was a familiar smell of roses. Brock went down stairs to see his friend sitting with a beautiful woman. She was a stranger to him, yet there was something about her; she radiated a vitality that drew him to her. The sound of her voice affected him deeply. Although, he had not heard it before, it seemed to bring some of his senses to life, if that were possible for a dead person.
To say he was shocked to discover that he had died in the same house he had fallen in love with a spirit would be the understatement of the century. No, millennium. No, scratch that… eternity. And this time he knew for sure that he was dead.
He knew because he saw his friend weep and the medics carry out his lifeless body. Well, at least he was ahead of the game this time. It didn’t take much practice to handle objects before breaking a few of Drew’s possessions. The poor man, he couldn’t figure out why his things were crashing in the middle of the night, and Brock couldn’t keep from laughing. If only he could make Drew see him as he had seen Trista.
Maybe it was just as well. He didn’t want to be the cause of giving his friend a heart attack by appearing. Besides, that was another trick he hadn’t mastered yet. He was able to walk through walls but what was the use of all this when he was stuck here. Now he knew how the woman spirit had felt. And that was another thing, where was Trista? After hours of searching the house, he came to the conclusion that in his coma, he had probably conjured up the spirit.
Hearing Drew suggest that the woman stay here while he was out of town, drew him from his thoughts. His friend was now the sole owner of his construction empire, and he knew the business was in good hands. He had left Drew his house and a large sum of money, the rest went to charities, so Brock was happy that he had seen to his affairs. He should go, not feeling right about eavesdropping, but no one knew that he was there so what was the harm?
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