Finding Katy – Chapter Six

A little more than a week after Dawn and I visited the gallery, I got a call from Sally.  She excitedly asked “how quickly can you get up here?”

I was caught by surprise and it took me a few seconds to get my wits about me long enough to say “I can walk up there in about fifteen minutes.” Almost commandingly, Sally said “drive.”  I asked her if she had gotten robbed or if had there been a fire or my fondest wish, if had she found the artist.

“Just get up here,” she said.  I grabbed my car keys and headed up the street.  I was so nervous, excited, worried and a little hopeful that when I got to the gallery, I didn’t even remember how I got there.

I walked in and Sally grabbed my arm.  “Come here,” she said.  We walked to the area where Katy’s paintings were.  A gentleman was standing there and she introduced us.  “What’s going on?” I asked.

She said “this gentleman was looking at The Journey Of Life and when I was lowering the shades, he yelled ‘hold it…hold it…hold it’.”

She leaned over and whispered “I thought maybe he was having a stroke or something so I ran over to see about him.”

He said “look.  You can see just the faintest difference in the colors here and I think I can see a word.  I noticed it when the sun hit it in a certain way.”

Sally said “he asked me if I had a black light, which of course I did, so we lowered all the shades, turned off the lights and shined the black light on the paintings.”

She smiled and said “and there it was…on all of them.  A word.  She said “it was in a foreign language and I didn’t know what it meant, but he did.”

The gentleman scratched his head and said it was a strange word to be on paintings and it really didn’t make any sense to him.

When he told me what the word meant, I understood why it was there and I immediately knew that my suspicions had been right all along.  There was no doubt that all of those pieces had been painted by Katy.

I believed that Miss Mabel somehow had a hand in this particular gentleman showing up on this particular day, at this particular time, looking at this particular painting.  Again, I wrestled with the idea of telling Sally that I knew who the artist was but I think Katy’s intent was to have a certain je ne sais quoi attached to her paintings and I would not take that away from her.

I would like to say that once again, paintings mysteriously began to arrive at the gallery.  I would like to say that I was eventually able to purchase one of her masterpieces.  I would like to say that I found her and discovered that she had finally found peace and happiness.  I would like to say all of those things but I can’t.

I have no idea what happened to Katy.  She just might be on that island as I hoped, or she might be resting in the cemetery near Miss Mabel, having been reduced to nothing more than a forgotten, nameless number.

I did know one thing.  I had been witness to extraordinary work, the likes of which I was sure I would never see again.  Katy had touched me in a way that no other had or ever would.  As long as I lived, she would not be forgotten.

Some of the notes she left had almost ripped my heart out but the paintings she left made it sing with joy.

I think we all want to leave a mark and whether or not she realized it, she had done just that.  She left a mark on many lives…Miss Mabel’s, mine, Samwell’s, Dawn’s, Sally’s and every person who gazed in awe at her exquisite work.

I think about the word she hid in all of her paintings.  The brutality of her father’s words had never stopped ringing in her ears and the wounds left by those words had never healed.

I kept repeating the word and I will never forget the gentleman at the gallery cavalierly saying.  “The word is WORTLOS.  It’s German.”

“Translated, it means…worthless.”

 

Das Ende.

 

Finding Katy – Chapter Four

Two years had passed.  Katy was still haunting me and often visited my dreams.  I would see her standing in front of the house or kneeling beside Miss Mabel’s grave.  Every time I called to her, she disappeared just as I awakened.

I was getting along with my life but I wasn’t really living.  I was sleep walking.  I went through all the motions of daily chores and at the end of the day, I still talked to Katy’s bear.  I hadn’t kept my promise to myself or to Miss Mabel and I finally admitted that I was a miserable failure.

I started walking uptown just to get out of the house.  All of the major department stores that used to grace the landscape had given way to craft shops and specialty stores.  Vendors were selling everything from Voodoo dolls to herb gardens.

For some reason, I happened to walk down a side street paved with bricks. “How charming is this?” I thought.  I could imagine horse-drawn carriages traveling from one end to the other, delivering ladies of yore to the local dressmaker for a new frock.

A one time shoe repair shop had been replaced by an art gallery.  I admit that I didn’t know the difference between Manet, Monet or Tippy-Tippy-Day-Day.  I also admit that I had never appreciated the kind of avant-garde abstract art being displayed in the store front window, but for some reason I went inside.

There were partitions, posed to resemble walls of rooms.  There were paintings by local artists as well as reproductions of famous works.  Portraits of someone with both eyes on the same side of their face had always disturbed me and were, I thought, perfect means of evoking nightmares.  I gravitated toward the realistic ones.  The ones like Katy painted.

One in particular caught my eye.  The painting was of a female’s age progression.  I asked the curator, who had introduced herself as Sally, who the artist was and she said that she didn’t know because they didn’t get any paperwork nor could they find a signature.  “There’s only the year,” she said.  “2016.  We titled this one: The Journey Of Life.”

It was at that very instant, I started to believe that Miss Mabel had guided me to that gallery.  I also believed that not only was I was looking at Katy’s work…I believed I was looking at Katy.  The curator said that she believed all the works in this particular “room” were painted by the same person.

I was sure they had all been painted by the same person.  I was sure they had all been painted by Katy but I didn’t say anything.

I asked her if I could buy one.  She said “we get a lot of offers for this particular artist’s work but they aren’t for sale because we don’t know who they belong to.”  Looking at “The Journey Of Life,” she said “one person offered us a sizable sum for this one but we had to refuse.”

I understood why they made an offer and so did she.  She looked at it and said, “have you ever seen such detail?  Look at the progression of the hair color.  It looks like this artist painted every individual hair on every individual head and it gives you the sense that if a cool breeze blew by…the hair would start flowing.  Look at the faces.  The faces show every line and wrinkle that tell the story of this woman’s life.  I’ve never seen work like this before and I have studied art for almost twenty years.”

She stepped back and said “you can see how time touched this person…but look at the eyes.  They eyes never change.  There’s such a deep sadness in the eyes.”

I asked her how she came to have them.  She said “every so often, we would get a painting delivered.  There was never a return address and as I said, they were never signed.  Then, two years ago we stopped getting them.”

I asked her if she knew why and she said “maybe they died, or moved away but we’ve been here for over ten years and we had been getting them since we first opened.  It’s a shame, really.  Such a fine artist and I don’t think anybody will ever know who they were.”

 

To be continued____________________

Dear God – Chapter Two

My next challenge was the dining room.  As I stood in the middle of that big, empty room, I was suddenly taken back to the days of a simpler time.  A time before computers and cell phones and video games.  A time when families sat down together at dinnertime and talked about their day.

A wonderful round oak dining table with lions’ paw feet was one of the pieces left behind that I kept.  A good polishing was all it needed to be a warm, inviting place to, as my grandmother called it…”sup.”

A wood-burning stove was sitting in front of the fireplace on a bed of slate.  I wondered how many times the family had dined while being warmed by a fire in that unique stove.  A flu cover was still hanging on the wall and I took it down to clean it.  It was made of plaster and a paperclip had been embedded for hanging.  On the front, a set of smiling cherubs floated on billowy clouds, and looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

As I was sweeping, I noticed something under the stove.  When I picked it up, I saw that it was a Bible.  My first thought was that I wished I could return it to the previous owner but I didn’t know who they were. I sat down for a minute to take a look.  It was a Scofield Reference Bible.  I had never heard of that.  I always thought a Bible was just a Bible.

Inside the pages, I found numerous pieces of paper.  One was the church budget for the year 1994.  There was an article from “The Work Of The Holy Spirit” titled “Being Faithful.”  Somebody had written on the top of the page, Monday 12th, 1989.

An interesting one was a small piece of paper dated 9-9-84.  It was hand written and said, “Funeral Home Is Expensive.”

There was a tattered bookmark that said “Capricorn.”  I knew that Jesus was a Capricorn but I was fairly certain that this was not His bible.  The owners’ name had been imprinted on the front in gold letters but was so badly worn, the only thing I could make out was that he was apparently a “Jr.”

I was completely enthralled.  There was mostly scripture references but one thing caught my eye.  Somebody (perhaps the owner of the Bible) had a sense of humor.

There were jokes about old folks.  They were funny and a few of them were a bit risqué.  I had spent what seemed like hours going through the Bible and decided that I could finish at the end of the day while I was resting.  All together, there were 38 pieces of paper tucked inside the pages.  Before putting it down, for some reason I looked inside the cover and found another folded note.

It said:  “I bought this Bible for my daddy when I was 13 years old.  I saved my lunch money and took neighbors’ mail to the post office for 10¢.  It took a long time to save up the money but I don’t think it meant that much to him.”

I went from “aw, how sweet” to “oh, how sad.”  It wasn’t signed or dated and I have no idea who wrote it.

I busied myself cleaning, taking down ceiling panels and carrying loads of rubbish to the curb.  As I was inspecting the mantel in the dining room, I found another folded piece of paper stuck behind it.  This was becoming almost like a scavenger hunt to me.  I was excited as I opened the note and started reading.

It said, “Dear God.  Please don’t let Granny die.”  It was dated 1959.

“Somebody loved their grandmother,” I thought.  I knew the feeling.  I loved mine, too.

I was truly enjoying the notes I was finding, and I was absolutely mesmerized, but one question lingered.  Were these notes written by a little girl or a little boy?  The dates were on them but I had no idea how old the child was.

I was nearing completion of the dining room and as with the living room, there was an element of sadness, coupled with the feeling of accomplishment.  The last task was cleaning the windows and as I was spraying them with Windex, I noticed a small piece of paper hiding behind the casing.

I pried it out with a small screwdriver, sat down and carefully opened it.  It said, “Dear God.  I didn’t mean to be bad.  Could you please make me a better little girl?”  It was dated 1957.

I jumped up and cheered to the point of embarrassment.  The mystery was solved.  The notes had been written by a little girl.  She had obviously done something wrong, at least in her eyes.  I couldn’t help but smile, wondering what she had done to make herself feel that she was so bad, she needed God’s help.

Weeks later, the dining room was finally finished, so I decided to work on the upstairs bedroom that I had claimed for my own.  I had previously noticed a small room, in the very back of the house that appeared to be unfinished.  It may have been an afterthought of whoever built the house or maybe it was just an incomplete addition and my focus was temporarily diverted to that little room.

It only had baseboards along two walls and the one small window seemed out of place.  The rest of the house had grand windows that were 10 feet tall, and this one couldn’t have been more than two feet by two feet.

The walls had been partially painted a dull blue color.  I didn’t think it could have been a bedroom, but if it was, it could have only supported a twin bed and even that would have take up most of the space.  Whatever its purpose, I would take as much care with it as I would take with all the other rooms.

My thoughts were to turn it into a library of sorts, putting shelves along the walls and maybe a comfy chair and lamp in the corner.  I started removing the baseboards.  They proved to be formidable foes, but I finally succeeded in getting the first one to yield.  When it surrendered its grip, a note fell to the floor.

I sat down and opened it.  “Dear God,” it said.  “I hate you.”  The date was 1964.

The notes had just spanned eight years and I wondered why she now hated God.  I felt so sad for her, but like threatening to run away from home; haven’t we all at some time, been a little pissed at God?

The other baseboards hid nothing but screws, a bit of plaster and a few broken fingernails.

As I worked in the bedroom, I was disappointed when I found no notes behind window casing or baseboards, or mantles, but the closet hid a secret staircase into the attic.  I had always been an adventurer and this was going to be fun. 

If there was an old abandoned building on the side of the road, I would stop and wander through, although with a little trepidation and the fear of the possibility of being arrested for trespassing.  I once found an old yellow Tupperware bowl, complete with the lid, and I still have it. 

I wondered what secrets lay hidden in the attic.  Maybe another Tupperware bowl.  Maybe nothing.  Either way, I was ready to play Sherlock Holmes. 

 

 

To be continued__________________

The Entertainer Blogger Award

 

 

Many thanks to Tenacity T. for the nomination. (tenacitydotcom.wordpress.com)

The Rules:

1.  Thank the person who nominated you.

2.  Add these rules to your blog.

3.  Answer all the questions asked.

4.  Display a picture of the award.

5.  Nominate up to 12 other bloggers who are funny, inspiring and most of all, entertaining.

Question Asked:

1.  Why did you start to blog?

I have tried to answer this question a few times.  I used to say I started blogging for mental salvation and also at the behest of my youngest daughter who said “don’t sit around and think about what dad did to you, write about it.”  I think now, I started blogging because I decided to stop lying for, covering up for, making excuses for and defending a lying, cheating, worthless maggot.

2.  What is your favorite book?

I have answered this question as well and the answer is always the same.  I don’t have a favorite book because I don’t read books.  I do have a book though, so I guess it would be my favorite.  It is the family bible that belonged to my grandparents.  Alas, the family history pages are blank and how I wish they had been filled in.

3.  What do you dislike the most?

I would say a lack of honor.  That encompasses a wide range of human behavior.  I despise people who have no honor.  I loathe them and I resent their very existence.

4.  What is your favorite food at the mall?

I don’t go to the mall anymore and haven’t in many, many years.  When I did go, my favorite food was a Cinnabon with an extra cup of icing, accompanied by a cup of coffee from Barnies’.

5.  What is your favorite pastime?

I could say writing is my favorite pastime but I detest it.  I really don’t have a favorite pastime.  Maybe breathing?

I nominate everybody who wants to participate.

 

 

The Angel Maker – Chapter Thirteen

Mr. Stark was trying hard to get back into Emberlyns’ good graces.  Every morning, he came into her room and gave her a rose.  She always smiled and thanked him, making sure she played the part of the forgiving, good wife.

Deep down, she was outraged.  Was that rose supposed to heal what he had done to her?  Was that rose supposed to make her forget?  He never failed to offer a rose but he always failed to offer an apology.  He always failed to offer any expression of regret or remorse.

In her mind, he had taken her childs’ life and she intended to take his.

Two weeks later, Mr. Stark was dead, which takes us back to the beginning of the story.

Emberlyn won the battle with Mr. Starks’ children.  Being his wife and therefore, legally the next of kin bears weight under the law.  Suspicions and accusations aren’t a legitimate reason for an autopsy, coupled with virtually no evidence of foul play.  Her wishes to have him cremated were carried out and an elaborate service was planned.  People from near and far attended and expressions of surprise and great sorrow were evident.  Also evident was the absence of his children.

When Mr. Starks’ will was executed, everyone was stunned when it was revealed that he left his entire fortune to Emberlyn.  His children had no chance of contesting, as Mr. Stark had specifically excluded them and left no question about his intentions.  Everything, the mansion in Chestnut Hill, the house in Marthas’ Vineyard and all his holdings were now hers.

She played the perfect grieving widow.  I came to realize that it was pretentious sadness and I knew in my gut that she had murdered Mr. Stark. I just didn’t know how.

I could have tried to push for an analysis of his remains but like I said, there was no proof of foul play.  The coroner had pronounced death due to a heart attack.  His age and propensity to eat a diet rich in red meat and deep-fried foods were certainly contributing factors.

Emberlyn had never told but one person about the fall and how it happened.  That person was Helga.  I had secretly corralled her one day and she reluctantly gave me the details with only one condition.  The condition was that I promise I would never tell Mrs. Stark.  I kept that promise…for a while.

During my last meeting with Mrs. Stark and despite my better judgment, in my mind I was still playing mental videos of us together.  I kept having to remind myself that I was talking to a murderess but I found that I was sympathetic.

Sometimes, existential despair is an understandably powerful motive.  Not a justifiable motive of course, but understandable.

I broke my promise to Helga and told Mrs. Stark that I knew about the baby. She had no reaction, not even surprise.  I looked at her and said “revenge is sweet.  Not legal but sweet and I understand how difficult it must have been.”

She cut cold, fiery eyes toward me and said “do you?  Do you really?”

I felt like a crumb and made my apologies because she was right.  I had no idea how difficult it must have been.

There was a brief silence and I found my mind wandering again, thinking “who wouldn’t want to have a child with this stunning woman?”  I quickly regained my senses and remembered why I was there.  I asked her point blank:

“How did you do it?”

She surprised me when she calmly and without hesitation, said “succinylcholine.”  I knew about that drug.  It was called the perfect murder weapon.  It is almost immediately broken down by the body and leaves no trace.  Modern day techniques can now analyze the enzymes which break it down but with no reason to look for that anomaly, it is indeed the perfect murder weapon.

I asked how she got it.  The only thing she would say was that she had acquired it when she was in the hospital.

“How did you give it to him?” I asked.

“I put some of my sleeping pills in his drink and waited until he fell asleep.” she said.  “I raised his arm and injected him where it wouldn’t be detectable and then I watched him take his last breath.”

She had an almost satisfied look on her face when she said “then I put a rose in his hand.  Somehow, it seemed appropriate.”

She had just admitted to murdering her husband.  I knew that it would be impossible to prove, even with an admission.  The effects of the drug were long since gone and she would most likely not admit guilt to anyone else.

Did I really want her to be punished for killing the man she believed was unrepentantly responsible for the death of her unborn child?  Would it be worth thousands of taxpayers’ dollars and hours and hours of my time to try a case that I knew beyond a reasonable doubt I would not win?  Should I let her get away with murder?  If I did, I would be guilty of obstruction of justice and I had sworn to uphold the law.  Could I live with that?  Those were the questions that I could only answer after searching my conscience.

*************************

Five years later.

While waiting for a confidential informant, I happened to look into a window.  It was a new art gallery that had just opened in an area that was undergoing gentrification.  I had arrived early so I decided to walk in, for no other reason than to escape the chilly weather.

I wasn’t the least bit interested in art.  I didn’t understand some of it and admit that I had little appreciation for most of it.  Scanning the room as if I was a seasoned collector, my focus became fixed on someone in the corner.

My heart skipped a beat when I realized that it was Emberlyn Stark.

Her eyes met mine.

I nodded.

She smiled.

 

Amaiera.

The Angel Maker – Chapter Twelve

A year had gone by and Emberlyn had transformed the house into a grandiose spectacle fit for a king and his queen.  She and Mr. Stark had settled into a life of entertaining celebrities and uppity-ups and being the envy of even their own peers.

She hadn’t been feeling well and under the guise of going shopping, stopped by Dr. Giles’ office.  After an examination, he smiled when he told her there was a reason that she didn’t feel well.

She could hardly contain her excitement as she drove home.  A special dinner was in order she thought, so she asked the cook to prepare Mr. Starks’ favorite meal.

That afternoon, she put on a dress that had always been one of his favorites.  He called it her Sexy Sally dress.  When she walked out of the dressing room, he smiled and said “hmm.  Do we want a new Mercedes?” She smiled and said “no, I wanted to look special for you tonight.”

“But you always look special to me,” he said.  When they got to the top of the grand staircase, she stopped and said  “I have a surprise for you and I hope you’re going to be pleased.”

He smiled and said “I believe I can smell Crown Roast and that’s always a pleasant surprise.”  She said “no.  Well yes, you smell Crown Roast but that’s not the surprise.”

“Well, it must be something special because you have on your Sexy Sally dress,” he said with a wink.  “What ever is it?”

She looked at him and said “we’re going to have a baby.”

For an instant, he stood in stunned silence.  Then in a rage, he raised his arms and screamed “I told you I didn’t want any more children.”  He frightened Emberlyn and when she recoiled, she took a fatal step backward and tumbled down the stairs.

The next morning, she awoke in the hospital.  She urgently rang for the nurse and with desperation in her voice, said “my baby?”  The nurse shook her head and said “no child.  There is no baby anymore.”  Emberlyn asked her to leave the room and began to cry uncontrollably.

Doctor Giles came in later and asked Emberlyn if she could tell him what happened.  She lied when she said “I just lost my balance and fell down the stairs.  I must have had a snootful.”  He looked at her and said “okay, but why did the toxicology report show no alcohol in your system?”  Emberlyn looked down and said “I don’t know but that’s what happened.”

She had bruises and scrapes consistent with a fall but Dr. Giles heard what he thought was a combination of anger and fear in her voice and wasn’t convinced that she just lost her balance.  She would physically recover because she was young and healthy but he wasn’t sure about her mental recovery.  It was clearly evident that she was emotionally destroyed by the loss of her child and he thought her not yet strong enough to hear that there would never be another.

That afternoon, Mr. Stark came to see her and asked how she was feeling. He said nothing about their baby.  When he handed her a rose, she unsuccessfully tried to hide her umbrage and he saw it but ignored it.  He said “when you get home, we’re going to take a trip and you’ll forget all about this unfortunate mishap.”

“This unfortunate mishap?” she said.  She began to cry and said “that’s what you think this was?  An unfortunate mishap?”  He tried to console her but it did no good.  She became hysterical and screamed for him to leave. When the nurse came running into the room, she saw that Emberlyn was emotionally distraught and needed a sedative.  She told Mr. Stark that she believed it was best if he left.

Dr. Giles let her go home the next day and not making eye contact, gave strict instructions that she was to do nothing but rest.  Emberlyn could read Dr. Giles’ face and asked him what he wasn’t telling her.

Reluctantly, he told her that she had suffered too much internal damage to ever carry another child.  He was surprised by her reaction when she smiled and said “thank you doctor.  Is that all?”

Mr. Stark had hired a private nurse and when Emberlyn got home, she requested that her things be moved into another bedroom.

She demurely told Mr. Stark to try to understand that she needed time to heal.  What she didn’t tell him was that he was never going to touch her again.

 

To be continued__________

The Angel Maker – Chapter Eleven

The instant that Emberlyn accepted Mr. Starks’ proposal, he asked her to remove the wedding band she still wore.  “That life is over,” he said.  “Your new life with me is just beginning.  I’m not asking you to dispose of it because I know how much he meant to you but I am asking that you put it away.”

The future was knocking on her door and she knew that she had to leave the past behind.  Later that night, she slowly took off the band and said a final silent goodbye to Fez.  As she put it in a small box, a tear fell.

Mr. Stark announced his retirement and during his over the top send-off party, made another announcement.  He and Emberlyn were getting married.  Jaws dropped and discreet glances were cast but there had been speculation for quite a while that something was going on between them.

A beautiful young girl with virtually no experience had been hired on the spot by the boss himself.  The catty women in the office had always joked that she was providing a tad bit more than just speedy typing but in reality, or “Realty,” she had caught the big fish.

They had a small ceremony with only a few of Mr. Starks’ closest friends as witnesses.  He had asked his children to attend but they refused and were blatantly offensive when giving their reasoning, not to mention showing their outrage when he refused to make her sign a prenuptial agreement.

Emberlyn was no stranger to the effects of May-December romances so their behavior was no surprise.

Marthas’ Vineyard was where they would honeymoon.  Unbeknownst to Emberlyn, Mr. Stark had a grand house, located not far from the famous Kennedy compound.  Even though she had never been fond of water, she was mesmerized by the beauty she saw as they flew over the island in Mr. Starks’ private plane.

He showed his knowledge of the islands’ history when he said “not many modern-day folks know this but for almost two centuries, hereditary deafness was prevalent on the island.  It was due to a recessive genetic mutation, traced back to Kent County, England.  Marthas’ Vineyard Sign Language as it was called, was used by both the hearing and the deaf.  The last person who was born deaf, died in 1952 and with that, so did for the most part, the use of sign language.”

Properly impressed, Emberlyn asked how he knew this.  “I like knowledge,” he said, “and I like to know the history of things I hold dear.”  He knew Emberlyns’ history.  She had told him that she was the bastard child of a prostitute.  She had been worried that it might alter his perception of her but when she told him, he laughed and said “and you think I didn’t know that?  Everyone has at least one skeleton in their closet, including me.”

Just as they were about to land, he turned to her and said “what would you like for a wedding present? Anything your heart desires, will be yours.”

Emberlyn looked at him, smiled and said, “I’d like to have a child.”

His demeanor immediately changed.  He said “I already have children.”

“You do, yes” she said.  “But I don’t.”

He angrily said “that was not part of our bargain.”

“Our bargain?” she asked.  “We have a bargain?  That’s what you call our marriage?”

“Calm down.  You know that’s not what I meant,” he said.  “I thought you would understand that I have already raised a family and I don’t want to raise another one.”

Emberlyn was disappointed but said nothing more.  She was sure she could change his mind.  It would just take a little time.

Later that evening as they dined, Mr. Stark apologized for snapping at her.  “You just completely took me by surprise,” he said.  “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“But you’ll think about it?” asked Emberlyn.

“I didn’t say that,” he said.  “Let’s not ruin dinner and let’s not ruin our honeymoon by talking about this right now.”

Emberlyn capitulated and later admitted to herself that the rest of their time together on the island was glorious but she wanted to get back “home.”  She wanted to put her own personal touch on the house so that it would feel more like hers.  Mr. Stark had already told her that she could decorate as she wished and spare no expense.  The only thing he asked was that his library remain unchanged.

When they returned home, Emberlyn furiously began re-decorating.  She wanted the rooms to be exquisite.  She decorated one of the bedrooms in shabby chic, complete with distressed white furniture and soft, pastel fabrics.  That room was her favorite.

The bedroom that she would share with Mr. Stark was more cosmopolitan inspired.  Clean lines, muted colors and very elegant with little to no fru fru. She didn’t particularly like that style because it looked too sterile but she did it to please him.

 

To be continued_______________

 

 

The Angel Maker – Chapter Ten

The next day, Emberlyn took Mr. Healys’ advice and went to Stark Realty. She timidly walked in and said “My name is Emberlyn Zabinsky.  I understand that Mr. Stark is looking for a secretary.”

The receptionist, with a sort of haughty attitude asked “and what kind of experience do you have?”  Before Emberlyn could answer, Mr. Stark walked out of his office and asked “who’s this?”

The receptionist said “Mr. Stark, Ms. Zabinsky is here to apply for the secretary job.”  Mr. Stark looked at Emberyn and without hesitation said “come on in.”

Inside of a minute, Emberlyn had not only gotten her foot in the door, she had gotten her entire self into the office of the big man himself.  Coleman Stark.

She was hired on the spot.  It was a given that she was soon to be virtually homeless and she explained her situation to Mr. Stark.  He immediately offered to let her stay in one of several condos, used for his numerous out of town visitors.

On the way back to what used to be her home, she couldn’t help but think about the twists and turns her young life had taken.  She had suffered immeasurable grief but there always seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel.

She was starting to believe in the old adage “every time a door closes, a window opens.”  Twice she had lived like a queen and in the blink of an eye been stripped of her sovereignty only to find another crown waiting.

She decided not to wait for the sale of her former home and immediately moved into the condo.  She wasn’t mean-spirited by any stretch of the imagination but now the “show ready” task would be up to somebody else. After all, she had no stake in the house and hadn’t signed an agreement stating that she would remain until it sold.

After she settled into her new condo, she began her new job.  Mr. Stark wasn’t demanding and was an easy man to work for.  At this point in his life he had made his mark, amassed a fortune and was more or less a figurehead but he was still a prominent leader in the community.

He began to ask Emberlyn to accompany him to various functions and she soon became a fixture in his life.  Just as she had done with Fez, she expertly headed charitable events and became adept at hosting celebratory parties for “million dollar sellers.”  She was a perfect companion and drew high praise from Mr. Starks’ constituents.

Her beauty was not lost on him.  She would be the ideal trophy wife and from the first day she walked into his office, he knew that was exactly what she was going to be.  He would have to give her time to adjust to the loss of her late husband and he knew exactly how to play the sympathetic partner.

After a year, Mr. Stark introduced Emberlyn to his grown children.  To say that they had been unpleasant would be generous.  They made it clear up front, that they thought she was nothing more than an opportunistic trollop.  Their treatment of her angered Mr. Stark and caused a rift between them but he was the patriarch of the family and let them know that their malicious opinions were unwelcome.

Another year went by and Mr. Stark considered that to be an appropriate length of mourning, so he asked Emberlyn to marry him.  Her first reaction was to say “I will never marry again.  I don’t seem to have much luck in that area” but she held her tongue.

Mr. Stark was good to her, treated her with respect and showered her with attention.  He beamed with pride when she was on his arm and included her in every aspect of his life.  Now, he was offering her yet another crown and nobody wore them better.

She was fond of him and could see a possible future but she still silently grieved for Fez.  She had loved Mr. Carrington in her own special way but she knew that nobody would ever be able to hold a candle to Mr. Frederick Eugene Zabinsky.

She also knew that he would have wanted her to find someone who could make her happy.  Believing that Mr. Stark could do that, she accepted his proposal.

 

To be continued_____________

 

 

 

 

The Angel Maker- Chapter Nine

Fez had suffered a massive heart attack.  When the paramedics arrived, they told Emberlyn there was nothing she or anybody else could have done.  Like Mr. Carrington, Fez was now with the angels.

She was not quite twenty-three and once again, a widow.

Getting help from George, Fez’s accountant, she started planning for his funeral.  George had a copy of Fez’s will and hesitantly told Emberlyn that his previous will had never been amended, despite numerous pleas.

“Next week,” was what Fez always said when George mentioned it.  “I’m going to make sure everything is taken care of.  There’s time.”

But time ran out for Fez.  Everything he owned would go to his former wife. His office building, his home and all of his assets would go to her. Emberlyn would be left with only the expense account that he had set up for her.

She wasn’t thinking about that, though.  She was thinking about what kind of burial this wonderful man should have.  George told her that Fez had secured two plots many years ago and the tombstone was already in place. It had his name and the name of his former wife.  Below theirs’ was his beloved daughters’ name.

She asked George whether she should have the tombstone removed and replaced.  “There’s no question that his former wife would most likely not want her final resting place to be beside a man to whom she was no longer married, don’t you suppose?” she asked.

George reminded her that she would not have a say about decisions, up to and including where and how he was buried because not only had Fez never changed his will…he had never changed his medical proxy.  “His former wife can do whatever she wishes.  She might opt to sell the plots, have the tombstone removed and have Fez cremated,” he said.

It was clear that Emberlyn could do nothing but what she could do was contact his former wife to let her know that Fez had died.  At some point she of course, would be reached to receive her inheritance but Emberlyn thought she might want to pay her respects at his service.

Emberlyn made the decision to call his former wife.  A few days later, she and her husband flew into town.  She was cordial but not overly friendly to Emberlyn and made her intentions clear.  Everything would be sold and converted to cash.

That of course would leave Emberlyn homeless, just as she had been when Mr. Carrington died.  Although it was agreed that she could occupy the house until it was sold in exchange for making sure it was show ready, it was implied that she should secure another residence as soon as possible. Accomplishing that was a dim prospect, due to her lack of funds, but Fez’s former wife seemed unsympathetic.

George suggested that she try to find a job.  The only job experience that Emberlyn ever had was as an exotic dancer.  There was every possibility that Mr. Richards would give her a job but dancing for a living was what she had tried to escape and she wasn’t sure she wanted to put herself back into that world.

The next day, the doorbell rang.  Emberlyn answered and a man introduced himself as Dan Healy.  “Mrs. Zabinsky?” he asked.  Emberlyn was somewhat taken aback and said “yes.  Can I help you?”  He said “you called yesterday about having your property appraised but I must say, you sounded much older on the phone.”  Emberlyn said “I believe it was the former Mrs. Zabinsky who called.”

Healy, a little embarrassed, said “beg your pardon, ma’am.  Should I wait and talk to her?”

“No,” Emberlyn said.  “I will be happy to show you around.”  As they walked from room to room, she started thinking.  “I could do this.  Answer a call, meet someone at a house, look around, get them to sign on the dotted line and then collect a big paycheck.  How difficult could that be?”

Not knowing just how the business worked and the education that was required, she casually asked the agent if they needed any help.

“As it happens,” the agent said “the old man is looking for a secretary.” Emberlyn said “oh, I don’t have any skills in that field.”  The agent looked at her and said “I wouldn’t worry too much about that.  He just mainly wants somebody to answer the phone, remind him of appointments and…”
“And what?” asked Emberlyn.  “Look pretty,” he said with a laugh.  “You should call and ask for an interview.”

“Okay,” Emberlyn said.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t catch the agency you are with.”

Healy handed her his business card and said, “Stark Realty.”

 

To be continued_______________

 

Happy Birthday To Me

I went to get a birthday gift
Especially for me.
But couldn’t find a goddamn thing
So I just let it be.

I really don’t need anything
My house is full of stuff.
So why would I want something else
I truly have enough.

I won’t buy love or happiness
Although I know it’s done.
I won’t write checks for company
Or pay for some tramps’ fun.

One more year has come and gone
And it’s just like before.
Get up, get dressed and wonder why
I bother anymore.

It’s just another day for me
It’s been that way for years.
It’ll come and go like Mothers’ Day
No card…no call…no cheers.

Again I’ll tell myself the truth
And once again I’ll see.
It does no good to grieve for things
That aren’t and will not be.

But Michael’s in the bedroom
And Wentworth’s in the den.
And like I said “what we all need
Is our own mannequin!

I gave to me the bestest gift
Although it will be late.
I bought the latest season of
You guessed it…prison break!

On June the twenty-seventh
I’ll get my DVD.
In perfect cadence I will sing
Happy day to me!