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Chapters One &Two / When Destinies Meet 1/4/2008 7:34:24 PM
Chapter One
“Hurry, Pamela. You don’t wanna miss your flight.”
“Says who?” was the barely audible retort to the urgent plea that floated up the stairs and through the closed door.
However, the one named Pamela took comfort in the certainty that there wasn’t the slightest possibility that her angry retort had been heard by the caller. And without deigning to offer a reply that could, she moved away from the window to scan the room one last time in an effort to assure herself that everything was neat and orderly and that all her luggage had been removed.
Her eyes failed to register the softly feminine décor of the room that bore little, if any, resemblance to the fashionable young woman standing in its center with the hard, cynical twist to her lips. This space was reminiscent of a younger, more naïve person whom she fought to forget. The bright, cheery quarters were a direct contrast to the person she had become.
She and her mother had decorated it her last year in college. Her mother’s objective had been to persuade her youngest offspring to stay home after graduation. She, on the other hand, had simply relished the challenge of recreating her personal living space. Together they had spent numerous, fun-filled hours choosing the fabric for her curtains and bedspread, and then she had painstakingly painted roses around the edges of both. The border around the room echoed the same graceful pattern.
The deep, rich color of the roses resonated in the fabric of the two overstuffed chairs where she and her twin brother had sat sharing confidences late into the night and making plans for their future. But all that--the youthfully romantic décor, the sharing of confidences, even the paintings on the walls--could have been from another lifetime as far as she was concerned. The delicacy and craftsmanship of the scene were the product of a different era and the work of a person that no longer existed.
“Pamela!” The impatient note in the disembodied voice demanded a response this time that could not be ignored by the other.
“Coming, Mother,” she responded, and while steeling herself for the inevitable, she lifted her three-quarter length coat from the bed and left the room.
The reply that floated down the stairs so lacking in expression made the other want to throw up her hands in disgust, but she didn’t. Instead, she inhaled deeply in an effort to remain calm and prayed for patience. Something her husband would have cautioned her against had he been present, but right now she didn’t care. She just wanted results. The present state of events had existed too long, and the price had almost cost her the lost of her only daughter. Enough was enough! She decided, and only just managing to suppress the urge to vent her frustrations on the expensive vase adorning the table by the ornate, glass doors, Olivia Charles backed away from the stairs.
Something had to be done and soon, the chic, middle-aged woman decided as she pivoted and hurried back the way she had come. The heels of her shoes tapping smartly against the beige and brown marble tile of the foyer and passageway to the kitchen were the only outward signs of her displeasure. The normally unflappable mother of eight was finding it increasingly more difficult to maintain her optimistic outlook. It had survived numerous letdowns and setbacks over the course of her lifetime, but she had always been able to find comfort in faith and family.
Glancing around the huge, country kitchen as she entered it, she found no comfort in its cheery décor on this cold morning in late December. Not even the weak, wintry sunshine filtering through the windows could brighten her mood or chase away the gloom hovering overhead.
From its pristine white walls with their bright, yellow trim to the spotlessly gleaming, copper-bottomed pots dangling from the ceiling directly above the island in the center of the room, right down to the numerous ceramic images of playful, woodland creatures in muted browns and greens darting about it, this room had been designed to sweeten the most acrid of moods. But today none of these special touches was adequate. Not even the festive decorations of the holiday season or echoes of happier times could warm her heart and lift her spirit.
“Good morning, Mother.”
At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Mrs. Charles carefully schooled her features and turned to face the new arrival.
“God morning, Dear,” she replied, pushing her troubling thoughts to the back of her mind. “You look lovely!” she continued in the same vein, determined not to show her frustration.
“Thank you,” her daughter accepted.
The stylish outfit suited her to perfection, but that wasn’t her reason for choosing it. Comfort had been the motivating force behind her selection. She hadn’t so much as spared a thought for the fact that in the coffee brown dress with matching pumps she presented a stunning picture. Nor had she considered the fact that the addition of the three-quarter-length jacket in African print and the sassy little hat of the same bold pattern provided the perfect finishing touches. They were practical accessories and would supply the protection she needed from the chill of the cool morning air.
Giving every appearance of being totally content with the state of events, she advanced further into the room and placed a perfunctory kiss on her mother’s cheek. Once that was done, Pamela moved around her parent to stand near the window and stare out at the familiar countryside with unseeing eyes.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Charles urged, pointing to the table in the breakfast nook just off the kitchen. “I’ll get your breakfast.” The mere prospect of food was almost her undoing.
“Just coffee for me, please.”
So polite. So distant. She may very well have been placing an order in one of the many restaurants she frequented nowadays.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother scoffed. “You’ll have a proper meal,” she added with a self-affirming nod for emphasis.
Groaning inwardly, Pamela searched her mind for a means of declining the meal while at the same time avoiding a confrontation with her parent. She was well aware of what her mother deemed a proper meal. The mere notion was almost her undoing. There was no way she would be able to force it down. Opening her mouth with alacrity to protest, she closed it again just as quickly without uttering one word of contention. No need to waste valuable energy, she decided with a resigned grimace as she recalled the many times their wills had clashed over the years. Mrs. Charles had always come away the victor except for that one fateful summer after she’d graduated from college . . . . Abruptly she reined in her thoughts, and the hint of a smile just beginning to lighten her eyes vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.
At the intrusion of the unwelcome thought, her gaze had grown fixed and hard, wiping out any hint of warmth trying to invade her heart. But just as she had subdued the unwanted memory, she quickly dismissed the anger that accompanied it. Any display of displeasure about past events would be a useless expenditure of energy, and right now energy was too precious a commodity to waste. With a resigned sigh, she left her post in front of the window and settled into a waiting chair as her mother had suggested earlier and ransacked her brain for a safe topic of conversation. When none presented itself, she dismissed the need for conversation and occupied herself with watching her parent bustle about the kitchen instead.
Mrs. Charles was a very attractive woman in her late fifties with neatly cropped, perfectly fluffed, salt and pepper hair. Her makeup, as always, was flawlessly applied, and to her daughter’s way of thinking, her life perfectly fulfilled. Exhaling heavily, she leaned forward, rested her chin in the palms of her hands, and continued her contemplation of her mother. If ever there was an uncomplicated woman, Olivia Charles was it. For her the world was black and white. Everything fit neatly into its own little cubbyhole. She resolutely believed certain principles to be true, and no one could dissuade her or convince her to think otherwise.
The two women had once been quite similar in nature and outlook. But the pain and distrust clearly visible in the haunted depths of the younger woman’s huge, brown eyes had changed that. Over the course of the last few years, family and friends had watched helplessly as these emotions transformed her into the coldly calculating, cynical young woman now seated at the kitchen table. Gone was her carefree and fun loving nature along with her natural zest for living. In their place was an insatiable thirst for success and the power it would bring. To those who loved her, it seemed the more success she achieved the more she craved. It was a never-ending cycle. Power and money had become an intoxicating drug to her, and she was clearly addicted.
At the youthful age of twenty-eight, she had amassed quite a healthy fortune as a perfumer, yet she still wasn’t satisfied but continued her relentless pursuit of material gain. It was this unreasonable preoccupation with wealth that had brought them to this day.
“Here’s your breakfast!” Mrs. Charles exclaimed, triumphantly setting a plate of food before her offspring.
“Mother, I . . . I can’t . . . I’m not hungry,” she managed, forcing the words past the rising nausea in her throat.
The sight of the bacon, eggs and homemade biscuits was too much. Her stomach heaved and somersaulted violently before finally subsiding. Hurriedly she averted her face, but the aroma from the food seemed to fill the room. Extending her hand, she pushed the dish as far from herself as possible.
“You really should try to eat something,” Mrs. Charles pressed.
When all she received for her efforts was stony silence, she accepted defeat.
“At least have some juice,” she coaxed.
“All right,” Pamela conceded, glancing at her watch in agitation.
“Jon will be here soon,” her mother pointed out, correctly interpreting her actions.
“I know.” This time Mrs. Charles’s words had sparked a small show of resentment. It had flashed briefly in her daughter’s eyes before it was quickly masked. But not swiftly enough.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy your vacation, Pamela. We both know you’re in need of a rest. You haven’t had a real vacation since before you . . . well, in ages,” she substituted lamely. But she need not have bothered. A disinterested shrug was all she received for her trouble.
Realizing that gentle concern and calm reasoning were getting her nowhere, Mrs. Charles tried another approach. To her way of thinking any response--even an angry one--was better than the indifference they were all subjected to on a daily basis.
“You act as though we’ve done you an injustice instead of showing natural concern for your well-being. After all,” she reasoned in aggrieved tones, “it was your doctor who said you needed this rest.”
If she had hoped to strike a responsive chord of reason within her daughter, she was destined to be disappointed. All she received for her efforts were obstinate silence and sardonic disdain.
To Pamela’s way of thinking, it was useless to beat the proverbial dead horse. And there wasn’t the remotest doubt in her mind as to the state of this horse’s health. It was well and truly dead. A fact that had become increasingly more evident as she had argued uselessly from her hospital bed, only to find that Dr. Douglas was firm in her diagnosis and the treatment necessary to insure a full recovery.
Unsurprisingly, the entire Charles clan had stood solidly behind her physician. Pamela secretly suspected they had been grateful for the opportunity to pressure her into taking some time off. Her work habits were a continual bone of contention between her family and her. When Jon had added the weight of his voice to that of her doctor, she hadn’t stood a chance. Her family’s solidarity had only been strengthened.
However, Jon, her twin, had not stopped there. He had felt the need to point out that often in the case of stress-related illness, a change of scenery could prove equally as beneficial as drug therapy. Whereas, she may have only held suspicions before, there was no doubting his motivation in mentioning medication. They were all aware of her abhorrence of drugs in any form.
The mere mention of the dreaded prospect had been sufficient to accomplish their objective. She had grudgingly agreed to take a vacation. Only then had she learned that it must be an extended leave of absence without any work involved. Upon hearing this news she had balked, but when she had learned that “extended” meant at least two months away from her beloved company, she had downright refused, only to find herself surrendering under their relentless pressure.
“Pamela . . . ,” Mrs. Charles began tentatively only to stop as her companion rose abruptly. The sound of her chair scraping against the tile of the kitchen floor grated irritatingly on their already frayed nerves.
“Let it rest, Mother. You’ve won,” she sighed in exasperation.
Growing weary of their conversation, she lifted the dish containing her untouched meal and moved to the sink. Unable to conceal her revulsion any longer as the nauseating odor of the food reached her nostrils, she shuddered in disgust as she hurriedly turned on the water.
“I’m leaving in a matter of hours on this vacation of yours,” she pointed out, sparing a grimace of distaste for the contents of her plate before she dumped the lot of it down the drain and turned on the disposal. “No doubt I shall be bored to tears,” she finished, rinsing the plate and placing it on the sideboard to drain. But instead of returning to her mother, she wandered aimlessly about the room.
“First of all, this hasn’t been a contest. So how could we possibly have won anything?” Mrs. Charles reasoned patiently, determined not to lose her temper. Pamela wasn’t herself and could be forgiven for seeing things somewhat jadedly, she excused. “You always did have a knack of blaming others for your mistakes,” she pointed out with a dry wit she’d found useful over the years when dealing with seven sons and one tomboy of a daughter. “Secondly, it’s difficult for me to believe you’ll find Jamaica boring. But even if you do,” she rushed to remind her daughter with an upraised hand, “it was, after all, your choice,” she finished.
With an ironic twist of the lips, she conceded the accuracy of her mother’s words.
“Some choice,” she grimaced, pacing nervously back and forth. “I have all of you urging me to go somewhere, and Uncle Mike’s friend conveniently offering the use of his villa in Montego Bay. If you ask me, it’s all a little too pat to be believable.”
“It wasn’t just Uncle Mike’s friend,” her mother pointed out. “It was McKenna’s father, and she‘s your friend,” her mother corrected. “And just for the record, I don’t think Harold’s heart attack was the least bit convenient. Not for him or his family,” her mother chided gently, chalking up her offspring‘s apparent insensitivity to her recent illness. “Nevertheless,” she continued, disallowing her an opportunity to voice contrition. “You’re going to have a wonderful time. I just know it,” she vowed. “As for your lodgings, you should thank God for Harold Todd’s offer. I shudder to think of the accommodations you would have received had it not been available.”
Pamela’s only response to such sound reasoning was a disgruntled snort as she wondered what her mother would say if she confessed the reason behind her decision. She harbored no overriding desire to visit Jamaica. She had opted to go there because she’d secretly planned to keep in touch with her business via fax and phone, but in this too she was to be thwarted. Shutting out Mrs. Charles’s voice, she indulged in a momentary bout of self-pity. It wasn’t their lives being turned upside down at the whim of another person, she told herself--reaching for anger and finding it just beyond her grasp.
The gentle rise and fall of Mrs. Charles’s voice gradually penetrated the cloud of pity she had enveloped herself in. And even though she had failed to absorb the content of her mother’s monologue, the calm, soothing tones she’d known and trusted all her life finally achieved the desired results. There was no doubt in her mind that her family only wanted what was best for her.
The silent acknowledgment of this truth filled her with remorse, making the apology hovering within flow easily across lips no longer stiff with anger. Ceasing her restless pacing and dropping back into the chair she had vacated moments ago, she proceeded to offer the apology her behavior demanded.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she apologized, lifting one hand in a nervous gesture to smooth an imagined strand of stray hair. “I never meant to lose my temper,” she confessed quietly in direct contrast to her earlier mood, allowing her mother to catch a brief glimpse of the person she sought so desperately to conceal from the world.
“I know,” her mother soothed, lovingly patting the hand resting on the table between them. “But this does prove our point,” she pounced to point out. “You need a rest.”
“I suppose.” With a nod she conceded the accuracy of her mother’s assessment and fell back against her chair. Their brief exchange had required more energy than she cared to admit, leaving her too drained to offer any further rational argument in her defense. But she need not have worried.
“Good morning, Mother!” The new arrival exclaimed exuberantly, completely shattering the early morning calm. His boisterous greeting was accompanied by an equally loud kiss somewhere in the region of their mother’s brow. “Something smells great!” he enthused, inhaling appreciatively as his senses caught a whiff of the smell of the discarded breakfast.
“Hhmp!” his sister grunted in disgust.
To her overwrought nerves, his entrance bore more resemblance to a Saturday night rowdy than the sedate demeanor which should accompany his profession. Lately it seemed to her that his every action was fraught with intense outbursts of energy. An occurrence she tended to find exhausting in and of itself, causing her to question the wisdom in choosing him to see her off today.
“Must you, Jon?” she queried irritably, in no mood for his antics, only to find that her displeasure was wasted upon him. His trained eye had no difficulty picking up neither the deep discoloration around her eyes nor the haunted look in their depths.
“And a top o’ the morning to you, Pammy, my girl,” he greeted, removing his coat and gloves and tossing them onto a waiting chair. His greeting, in an affected Irish brogue, earned him a reluctant smile.
“You’re suffering from strong delusions if you think you’re Irish,” she scoffed in sisterly affection, taking in his cinnamon skin and curly, brown hair. “And stop calling me Pammy,” she ordered. “I hate that name! And you know it!” Her heated response surprised them both. She was always careful to squash any display of emotion.
“Sorry,” he mouthed without an ounce of regret.
Her vehement outburst had left him completely unaffected. He had known he would get a rise out of her with that name. He always had when they were children. Whereas she was adept at keeping others at arm’s length, she always failed with him. He understood how she operated and could maneuver around her barricades with ease.
“No, you aren’t,” she countered, smiling in spite of her frustration. She knew him, too, and wasn’t fooled by his platitudes.
His indifferent shrug at her disclaimer and the unmistakable twinkle in his eyes served as confirmation to her suspicions. He hadn’t even bothered to deny her accusation. Instead he proceeded to launch into his own quagmire of self-pity as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot sitting in the middle of the table.
“Is that miniature mountain in the hallway supposed to be your luggage?” he questioned with a pained expression designed to bring comic relief to the charged atmosphere.
“If you took a moment to consider the length of my stay, you’d realize I’m not bringing an unreasonable amount of luggage with me,” she returned smoothly, giving herself a mental pat on the back for cleverly defending her luggage while at the same time bemoaning her forced leave of absence.
“Oh, for eight weeks in the sun,” he sighed longingly. “You are blessed,” he pointed out, but she wasn’t willing to be appeased so easily.
“So everyone keeps telling me. And it isn’t eight weeks. It’s only five,” she corrected crossly before exclaiming with feigned excitement. Each word dripped with sarcasm, and her eyes turned into two huge orbs as she spoke. “Hey! Call me crazy! But since you all think Jamaica is so great, and I don’t; why don’t you go, and leave me here to defend the old home front?” she suggested with a flourish of her hands for emphasis.
Her sudden inspiration didn’t deceive him, and she knew it. She was very much aware of the unlikelihood of her suggestion being taken seriously. But at this point she was fed up with hearing how fortunate she was to be taking a vacation she neither desired nor, in her estimation, needed. They acted as though they were dealing with a fractious child instead of an adult.
“Okay. If you’re sure,” he began with an uncharacteristic show of diffidence that should have set off warning bells in her head, but it didn’t. Instead she eagerly interrupted.
“Absolutely,” she chimed in. “I’m more than positive.”
“Have it your way,” he shrugged. “But just remember this was your idea. Not mine,” he pointed out, turning to his mother for support. “You’re my witness, Mother,” he said mysteriously before focusing his attention once more upon his bewildered sister. “You’re crazy,” he declared with assumed gravity. “There! I said it, but I must confess I found no pleasure in calling my sister insane,” he assured her with contrived regret as she stared at him, but the sardonic twist to his lips and the twinkle in his eyes were proof positive he had loved doing it.
“What?!” she hissed.
“Well, you did say to call you crazy,” he reminded her, clearly enjoying himself. “Didn’t she, Mother?” Before she could offer a disclaimer to refute his assertion, he sought confirmation from their mother.
“You did, Dear,” Mrs. Charles corroborated with a hidden smile. “You said . . . ”
“I also suggested that all of you should go to Jamaica, but I don’t see anyone rushing off to pack,” she drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The knowledge that the two of them were sharing a joke at her expense did nothing to improve her rancid disposition.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” he agreed readily. Too readily she realized as he moved to the phone mounted on the opposite wall and proceeded to lift the receiver. “I’ll just give Henrietta a call . . . .”
“Don’t you dare!” she ordered, horrified at the mere prospect of contacting her physician. Henrietta Douglas was the last person she wished to see right now. If the truth were to be told, she could live out the remainder of her days quite happily without ever having to lay eyes on that particular person again or anyone else in her profession.
“I thought you could be persuaded to see things our way. I always did think you were a reasonable individual. Quite similar to myself in that regard.” At his reference to the fact that they were twins, he was rewarded with a frustrated smile.
“God forbid!” she scoffed, refusing to let go of her anger so easily. “Obviously you’ve had too much caffeine,” she derided, eyeing his nearly empty mug.
“You may have a point,” he conceded readily, matching her sarcastic tones as he gazed into the offending cup. “However, it may interest you to know that I was on call last night,” he added in defense of his behavior, before downing the last of its contents and placing the mug on the counter. “I came straight here from the hospital.”
“Excuses, excuses, excuses,” she ridiculed. “But don’t worry. You’ll be a real doctor one day,” she added pseudo-sweetly, unable to resist the jeering taunt, although she knew it wouldn’t be without repercussions. But that crack questioning her sanity still smarted.
Offering a philosophical shrug in response to her crushing retort, he turned his attention to their mother. Anyone who didn’t know him might suspect he had allowed her gibe to pass unnoticed. However, she knew better. Her only question was when and in what form retribution would come. She didn’t have long to wonder.
“Where’s Dad?”
His inquiry was innocent enough, she supposed, but she wasn’t fooled.
“I’m not sure,” his mother replied thoughtfully, wondering what he was up to now. “He was bringing down your sister’s bags the last I saw of him. That was about an hour ago. Do you need him?” she queried, unwittingly supplying him with the perfect opening.
“I need help moving my mountain,” he complained playfully, and before his sister could gather her wits to offer a suitable put–down, he performed a courtly bow, retrieved his discarded belongings and withdrew from the room.
“That young man!” His mother chortled happily, gazing after his retreating form. “If I didn’t know better I’d think he’d been switched at birth.”
“I’m glad you know better because I’m not so sure. He’s a ninny. Always has been, and from the looks of things always will be. He can’t possibly be a Charles,” she stated emphatically, disclaiming all familial affiliation. “And just between the two of us,” she declared in a stage whisper. “I’m seriously afraid for his patients.” By now her eyes were dancing merrily, her despised vacation temporarily forgotten.
“I heard that!” he accused, striding back into the room to retrieve one glove which had fallen to the floor. “Be nice,” he ordered with a playful swat of his glove to his twin’s head before leaving again, causing them both to succumb to a brief bout of laughter. She had always found it next to impossible to resist Jon’s special brand of lunacy. Now was no different. In the past, his unusual sense of humor had often gotten the two of them into more trouble than she cared to recall.
His arrival had had a very different affect on Mrs. Charles, however. It had served as a glaring reminder to her of the differences between her two youngest children. They had become completely polarized in demeanor, outlook, and personality.
Growing up, the two of them had been inseparable. Two peas in a pod, she had often teased. But all that had changed. Jon had remained the optimist, easygoing and affable. But Pamela had changed. She had lost faith in God and humanity, always expecting the worst from those outside her circle of family and friends.
This change in her personality had been gradual--so gradual until they had failed to notice until it was too late. She had carefully nurtured and cultivated it over the course of the last six years as a barrier between herself and the world around her.
Mrs. Charles knew exactly what her daughter needed to break down this wall but didn’t quite know how to go about accomplishing it. For her life was simple. Some women were meant to have careers, some families, and some both. Pamela fell into the last category. Her life would never be complete without love. She would never be complete.
Mrs. Charles prided herself on being a good judge of people. With the right man to love who would love her in return, Pamela would be free to live again. Instead of merely existing as she had been these past few years. Steadfastly holding to this conviction, she had discreetly attempted to introduce her daughter to several young men whom she deemed suitable only to have them rejected out of hand, while Pamela continued in her relentless pursuit of riches; a practice that had very nearly proven to be her undoing.
“You need to let go of the past, Pamela,” Mrs. Charles declared, shocking them both with her observation. Not once since her return from France had this subject been broached, but now that it had . . . . “You can’t change it,” she pressed on relentlessly. “Nor can you make it go away by refusing to come to terms with it. Accept it. Mourn it if you must. Be angry at the injustice of it all. Then let it go, and get on with the business of living. Find someone. Fall in love . . .”
Mrs. Charles’s words had tumbled forth in a nervous rush as she sought to circumvent any efforts on her daughter’s part to interrupt before she could finish her thoughts, but she need not have worried. None were made. Initially her advice was greeted with stone, cold silence--the kind that raises the hair on the back of one’s neck. It stretched on for what felt like an eternity to Mrs. Charles, and just when she was about to conclude that she’d only imagined voicing her opinion, Pamela’s reply came, and with it every vestige of doubt Mrs. Charles may have held vanished.
“There is no such thing as love, Mother,” she scoffed with a derisive sniff. “It’s an illusion weak people use because they’re afraid to be alone. I’m neither afraid nor weak.” When Mrs. Charles opened her mouth to contradict her, she rushed into speech again. “I’m not going to discuss this! Not now! Nor at some later date! It is my life, Mother! Something all of you seem determined to forget. And I’ll live it as I see fit! Without any interference from anyone! And if I have to leave Vicksburg to do it, I will!” Her voice trembled toward the end, indicating the level of her emotional struggle.
She wanted to scream and kick at the unwelcome memories her mother’s words had called to the forefront. She wanted to throw a tantrum in much the same way as a two-year-old. She wanted to rant and rave against the injustices she felt life had dealt her, but of course she didn’t. She hadn’t done those things when her heart had been breaking, and she wouldn’t now.
However, none of her internal struggle was visible to a casual observer. Her carefully schooled features didn’t allow it to show, but her mother wasn’t a casual observer. She knew her daughter well, and because she knew her mother equally as well, she knew that this was not the end. Now that the door to the past had been opened, Mrs. Charles would be relentless.
She wouldn’t stop until she had rehashed every painful detail. The certain knowledge of what was to come next was enough to galvanize her into action. Rising hastily, she excused herself on the pretense of going to assist her brother before hurrying from the room. In the early morning stillness, her words to Jon wafted back down the hall to their parent.
“I’ll help,” she offered, entering the vestibule from the direction of the kitchen just as he reentered it from outside, and suiting her actions to her words, she lifted one of the remaining pieces of luggage.
“You don’t have to do that, Sis. I was just teasing. I’ll have this done in no time.”
“Oh, believe me, it’s necessary,” she contradicted with feeling, still seething from her mother’s reference to her need for love and unable to conceal it.
“But . . . ,” he began to reason.
“But nothing,” she bit out, turning the full force of her angry glare on him.
“You’ll need your coat. It’s chilly out,” he conceded, considering it wiser not to offer any further argument.
“No problem.”
Her ready compliance as she hurried to retrieve her coat from the banister where she’d carelessly tossed it earlier took him by surprise. This action alone was sufficient to attest to the extent of her agitation. She was always careful to maintain total control over her life and never readily consented to any suggestion that might be misconstrued as a relinquishing of that control. The numerous battles they’d had trying to get her to take this vacation were a testimony to that.
“Hey, remember all those rides down this baby?” he reminisced.
Lifting her coat from the aforementioned rail, he held it while she slid her arms into its sleeves.
“I remember all those times you got me in trouble,” she sniffed in disdain, determined not to let him get by her defenses this time. She needed her anger. It had been her salvation. It alone had kept her sane.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders as he turned her to face him. His features broke into a broad grin. “You weren’t that good at it. You knocked over plants, broke vases, broke the glass out of the doors to the great room,” he pointed out, casting his gaze toward the unfortunate doors. “Why, I remember once you nearly . . .” Whatever he remembered wasn’t deemed important by her. His open derision proved to be too much. She couldn’t stand his jaded recollection of childhood events. So much for not being drawn into his web--but her honor was at stake.
“Repent,” she demanded, her hands on her hips, the light of battle in her eyes. “You know I was better.”
“In a pig’s eye,” he countered with typical, masculine disdain, clearly affronted by her assessment of their individual abilities.
“You, my dear brother, like most men, have a convenient memory,” she mocked openly. “You only remember what you wish to remember. I could sail down this banister like an Olympic skier and land with a perfect spin,” she touted smugly, slapping her palm against the gleaming wood of the object in question, only narrowly missing the red velvet bow her mother had tied there when they had decorated the house for the holidays. Her actions stirred the fragrance of the fresh holly nestling in the folds of the ribbon and called to mind Christmases past. Just for an instant, life was good, and she was a carefree youth once more.
“You’re serious! Aren’t you?!” he exclaimed, incredulous at what he considered to be her faulty memory. Suddenly this was no longer a ploy to distract her. “You really think you were better?”
“Not think! Know!” she fired back.
The chiming of the grandfather clock in the corner called her back to the present, and the light of battle slowly faded from her eyes. He had done it again.
“It’s getting late,” she pointed out gruffly, latching on to the time as a reason not to pursue this topic further. “And in the grand scheme of life, which of us was better at such childish antics is of no value,” she dismissed, putting an end to their conversation.
Stepping around him she covered the distance to where her luggage stood and grabbed a suitcase. With it firmly in tow, she moved from the foyer into the crisp, early morning air only to find that the weak sunlight filtering through the overcast sky had made little headway in chasing away the cold.
Chapter Two
Over the span of the next few minutes, she concluded that a vacation might not be such a bad idea after all. She could certainly use some time away from her family. She was the youngest of eight siblings, and the sole recipient of the protection of seven overzealous brothers. She knew they had good intentions, but sometimes it could be overpowering. They all tended to want to tell her what to do and how to do it. Their constant interference had been the driving force behind her moving out two years ago only to find herself moving back in temporarily.
One of the conditions behind her discharge from the hospital had been round-the-clock care, and -- if she had found their concern bothersome before, she found if positively stifling now. Since her illness, she was finding it increasingly more difficult to remain civil when dealing with what she viewed as their meddling into her affairs. She recognized their concern and reluctantly conceded that it was not without merit in this instance, but this unhealthy preoccupation of theirs with her life had to stop.
By the time her bags were stored, and she was ready to depart, a small crowd of well-wishers had gathered in the motor court behind her home. With carefully schooled features she bade each one farewell in turn. But her composure nearly failed when it came time to bid her parents farewell. That’s when she caught her glimpse of the two-storied structure which had been home most of her life.
At present it was adorned with countless lights. She was well aware that once dusk fell over the surrounding countryside, they would be illuminated, as would those on the evergreens on either side. Giving the scene a surreal air and creating a fairy-tale like effect. For as long as she could recall, Christmas Holidays had been a time for celebration in her home, and no matter what she had going on or where she was, this season always drew her home. Exhaling slowly and stemming the rising tide of emotions threatening to engulf her, she tore her gaze away and turned her attention to her parents.
“Bye, Mother,” she bade, her voice somewhat wobbly.
“Enjoy yourself,” Mrs. Charles encouraged tearfully, pulling her close. “And don’t forget to phone,” she admonished for what felt like the hundredth time to Pamela’s overwrought nerves.
“I won’t forget, Mother. I promise to call. I’ll even ring this evening.” In her rush to reassure her mother she had inadvertently spoken too hastily and her efforts backfired.
“There’s no comfort in that promise. You know you shouldn’t be working. Dr. Douglas said . . .”
“I know, Mother. We’ve discussed my stay in Atlanta at length. You know I have to do this,” she reasoned with forced patience.
“She’ll be fine, Livvie,” Bishop Charles reassured his wife, dropping a comforting arm around her shoulders.
Up to this point in their conversation, he had stood silently by, making it easy for her to ignore his presence. But his observation made it impossible for her to continue to do so. Her reaction to the sound of his voice, although expected, was nonetheless painful when it came. Tightly compressing her lips, she turned to face him. All semblance of warmth vanished from her expression as she addressed him with a formal, “Good bye, Father.”
“Take care of yourself, Baby Girl,” he urged, embracing her stiffly held form even though he knew she preferred to limit all contact with him.
His reversion to his childhood name for her hadn’t helped matters. The last thing she wanted to be was the naive, young woman he had put on that flight to Chicago right after her graduation.
The rift between the two of them had existed since shortly after that day. He had been patiently waiting for her to come to terms with whatever was bothering her, but she hadn’t, and since her recent illness, he had decided that he couldn’t wait any longer for her to come around. Holding fast to his determination, he steadfastly refused to give in to the many attempts on her part to exclude him from her life.
His concern at this juncture in their relationship was whether or not he had left matters as they were too long. With each passing year, the rift between them had grown deeper and wider. Now there was a great, yawning chasm separating them. The most troubling aspect of the breach was his complete failure to understand the reason behind it. He hadn’t a clue as to its cause. One day she had been his ‘girl’, and the next she was this remote stranger standing before him now. Because the source of the rift remained a mystery to him, the way to bridge that gap eluded him also.
Bishop Edward Charles was a huge, brown bear of a man. His stature and booming voice, coupled with his faith in God, had served him well over the course of his life as father, CEO/owner of several radio stations, and pastor. But now most of these things seemed insufficient, and he found himself in the position of so many whom he had counseled over the years. All he had to rely upon was his faith, and he was finding that standing solely on faith was more than a little frightening.
At this very moment helplessness rested heavily upon him as he stood by doing nothing, and his youngest child slipped further and further beyond his loving grasp. Everyone who knew and loved her had watched in horror as she had become deeper and deeper enmeshed in a bog of bitterness and hatred. The irony of it all was her apparent lack of concern, which was never more apparent than at present.
Refusing to succumb to the guilt the pain in her father’s eyes generated, she climbed gracefully into the passenger seat of her brother’s jeep. She quieted the voice of her conscience and found absolution for her actions by blaming him and his faith for her past gullibility.
Jon had determinedly maintained a stream of small talk during the trip to the airport. His apparent lack of awareness for her wish to remain quiet didn’t deceive her. He knew exactly what he was doing, and so did she. Deciding that her anger would be wasted on him, she limited her responses to monosyllables whenever possible and waited for the journey to be over.
Soon she was seated aboard the huge jet that was to spirit her away, but true to form, she didn’t peer longingly through the window. She didn’t think about the vacation that lie ahead, nor back to her brief stay in the hospital that had preceded this day. Instead she directed her energy and thoughts toward the meeting with new distributors scheduled for that evening. Work was her life!
She resolutely refused to accept that this predilection toward work had nearly cost her that very life. Rather she touted it as the therapy that had kept her sane these last six years. She needed it. Had it not been for work she could not have survived the events that altered the course of her existence. It was her panacea; her cure for all ills. Had been since shortly after her twenty-second birthday.
When her life should have been just beginning--with new and varied vistas opening on her horizon-- her world had been rocked by the betrayal of the man she loved. Her sheltered childhood had not prepared her for his deception. His duplicity had colored her world gray and sent her emotions spiraling into exile.
No one observing her quietly reserved personage could begin to guess at the demons that plagued her. This state of affairs she kept cleverly hidden beneath an aura of cool indifference and self-confidence, but that facade was destined to be shattered. The winds of change blowing her way would not be rerouted. She sat in total ignorance of their approach and the tailspin they were about to cast her life into. Without her knowledge or approval, the course of her life was firmly engrafted in the will of a loving God, and she was powerless to change its path.
She sat quietly. Her gaze focused on the papers before her. Her downward bent head forced her vibrant cloud of hair the color of ravens’ wings forward and obscured much of her facial features. But nothing could conceal her generous curves, nor obscure the vision of satiny, smooth skin the color of brown sugar revealed by the sleeveless dress she wore beneath her discarded jacket.
The picture she presented proved to be irresistible, and the man occupying the seat next to her made several, unsuccessful attempts to gain her attention only to have his efforts thwarted by her apparent absorption in the papers before her.
It had been a banner year for business, she noted smugly. All the long hours of hard work were finally beginning to pay off. Sales had skyrocketed with the production of Delta Passion, her latest fragrance. Three years ago the sales of Mississippi Rain had put her into a new tax bracket. Last year Delta Passion had insured her permanent position there. The fragrance she was currently developing would have to be exceptional to compete with its predecessors she acknowledged with a self-satisfied smile, confident that she could meet the challenge. She had a natural talent for developing fragrances.
The voice of the flight attendant announcing their approach to the Atlanta International Airport interrupted her thoughts, calling her back to the present, and she noted with pleasure how swiftly the time of the flight had passed. Putting away her papers, she proceeded to go about the business of donning her discarded jacket.
The man seated next to her considered this a golden opportunity and seized it to offer his assistance in the hope of striking up a conversation in the process. But, to his chagrin, she thanked him nicely before presenting him with an uncompromising view of her back. Her actions left no room for doubt. She wasn’t interested. Several times she had felt him studying her during the flight, and she wanted to send a clear-cut message.
Dismissing him as insignificant, she peered out the small portal that served as a window, and her lips curved upward. She loved Atlanta--“the city that wouldn’t die.” She had fancifully dubbed it several years ago. Regardless as to what her frame of mind might be, she never failed to be charmed by it. Almost as much as she had been by the South of France, where she had spent a year learning the art of creating tiny bottles of fragrances women were willing to pay a small fortune to obtain.
Much like France, Atlanta held a charm that was all its own. She liked the anonymity the hustle and bustle of the city afforded her. When she was here she could fade into obscurity, almost forgetting the complicated state of affairs that was her life, just as she had in France. There was no one to constantly remind her with prying words or pitying glances. Even now, before her feet touched terra firma, Atlanta was working its magic.
Her animated features presented an enchanting picture. One the man she had rebuffed so soundly found irresistible, and, against his better judgment, he felt compelled to give it one, last try. Nothing ventured. Nothing gained, he reasoned within himself philosophically.
“I gather you love Atlanta too,” he offered by way of an opening.
“Yes,” she returned, the usually harsh lines of her countenance transformed by the remnant of the soft smile still lurking there as she turned to face him.
“So do I,” he confessed, marveling at her beauty. She was even more breathtaking than he had at first surmised. “It’s been my home for the past few years,” he volunteered. “I’m originally from New York, but I’ve grown to love the South.”
Giving him her full attention for the first time, she noticed his features and conceded that he was quite attractive. Very rugged in appearance. Early - to mid-thirties she guessed. Without question a man most women would find attractive.
“Do you live in Atlanta?” he inquired with a winning smile.
“No. I’m from Vicksburg, Mississippi,” she supplied, bracing herself for the usual response, but it never came.
“Nice town. I was there last year visiting friends.”
“Really?” she queried, raising a skeptical brow. As a come on it was original, she had to admit. Nonetheless, it left her cold. The usual disparaging comment would have been preferable.
“Honest.” To validate his claim, his good-natured affirmation was followed by the name of two parks he had visited during his stay.
“Riverfront is my favorite. It offers a wonderful view of the Mississippi,” she began only to have her voice peter out toward the end. “Or it did,” she amended as she realized it had been too long since her last visit for her to offer an informed opinion.
“It still does,” he reassured her. “Maybe I could look you up the next time I’m passing through, and we could visit it together.” Too late she realized her show of friendliness had been misinterpreted.
“That would be nice.” Her noncommittal reply destroyed his hopes with practiced skill.
“It would help if I knew your name,” he persisted, laughing to conceal his discomfort.
“Sorry,” she apologized, giving herself a swift mental kick for her momentary lapse. “I’m Pamela Charles,” she offered albeit reluctantly.
“Delighted to meet you, Miss Charles.” Her acknowledgment of his predictable response was a distant smile.
“I’m Vincent Grey. Are you staying in Atlanta long?”
“No,” she answered succinctly, only to be troubled by her rudeness. “I’m leaving for Jamaica tomorrow,” she added before turning her attention back to the rapidly approaching asphalt of the runway, leaving him with no option this time but to accept her rebuff. However, once the plane had taxied to the gate, she could no longer put off turning to face him. But to her surprise, he offered the briefest of farewells before taking his leave of her.
“Probably has a wife lurking somewhere,” she grumbled under her breath.
Too late she realized that she had voiced her uncharitable thoughts. Glancing hastily around, she gave a heart-felt sigh of relief that no one had heard her ramblings.
“Gotta stop doing that,” she counseled, joining the queue of people exiting the plane. “Mother would say it comes from spending too much time alone,” she admitted before turning her attention to more important matters, the most pressing of which was her need for transportation. Mentally she ticked off the choices available to her. The idea of a rental was discarded almost instantly. The season made the availability of one unlikely. Her recent stint in hospital had thrown things off. Normally Joan would have taken care of such mundane details for her.
Accepting her current predicament with a small grimace of impatience, she located a skycap and proceeded in the direction of the baggage claim area. The decision about a ride would have to wait. With a natural ease and grace that added to the illusion of assurance she deliberately projected, she weaved her way through the festive hubbub of holiday travelers. So adept had she become at projecting this image until, more often than not, she believed in the person others saw.
Moving in and out among the crowd of travelers, she took no notice of the admiring glances sent her way. She lived in her own world, peopled by the fragrances that were her passion. And she wouldn’t have it any other way, she often reassured herself on those evenings when loneliness plagued her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed involuntarily as she collided with what she surmised must be a brick wall or roughly its equivalent.
As her eyes made the long journey upward, she was forced to concede that it wasn’t a wall made of mortar after all. Instead it was one comprised solely of flesh and blood fibers of the masculine variety. As the contents of her hands had scattered upon impact, so did her wits when her gaze met his. Her softly feminine fragrance drifted upward and mingled with his bold, masculine scent, and set up an assault on her senses that left her reeling from the force of her reaction to him.
