Atocha Farewell

By Janet Vittorio Corica

“Atocha Farewell” is a book about two lovers, who
have a destiny, and a bond, unknown even to them
until an accident sends the heroine, a very successful romance writer into a coma.
Her fate with the handsome stranger is cast when he hypnotizes her, at the request of one of her friends, in an attempt to rid her of haunting, recurring dreams, which plague her and have become more and more intense, to the point where she willingly seeks help from him.
After her first session is over, an accident occurs and she is comatose. The handsome stranger makes trips to the hospital, where he eventually meets the heroine’s older brother and other family members.
When she’s better, she again seeks the handsome
stranger’s help.
What is the secret bond that ties them both to the Atocha that sank in 1622?
Discover the answer within the pages of Atocha Fare-
well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Vittorio Corica
• Release date: Feb 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465711427

Janet Vittorio Corica

The author is a former Radio/TV Writer/ Producer/on air personality editor, TV model, and poet. She’s currently working on a super hero story set in Duluth, MN her hometown. All her books will be in e-book and paperback. She has two other soon-to-be released books with a partner. She holds a degree in Psychology/Counseling and has extensive graduate work in the same field. Married, she lives with her husband in MN.

Book preview

DEDICATION PAGE

Some things are meant to be, and so it was with Atocha Farewell.

JC Penney’s roving jewelry show brings great thanks to JC Penney, itself, without whose show Atocha Farewell would never have been written.

Thanks to my husband, Mike Corica, for his willingness to see the excitement in seeking out the adventure in looking at Mel Fisher’s conquest of sunken treasure.

A special thanks also to my Medicine Man for his generous sharing of his medical knowledge, as I wrote Atocha Farewell.

And thanks to Mel for his love and recovery of buried silver, gold and jewels.

Thanks, too, to the brave men who sailed the Atocha. Still my prayers go forth when I wear the piece of jewelry made from the Atocha’s recovered silver bars.

PREFACE

The writing of Atocha Farewell was not just written on a whim.

After my husband and I each purchased a piece of Atocha jewelry, in the sixties or seventies, I felt such a pull to the Atocha each time I wore my precious reproduction, which was made from actual silver recovered from the ship.

As I held the reproduced coin in my hand and prayed for the souls of the men of the Atocha, it was as if they were telling me, Write my story.

I wrote this in 2002, before Pirates of the Caribbean, but chose not to market it until now.

So to all lovers of tall ships, sail with me!

And, to the family of the sailors of the Atocha, I hope I have written a story you’ll enjoy.

Also, to Mel Fisher, who so courageously recovered the silver that comprises our two coins, I salute you. You had a dream, and your dream spilled over into the hearts of our two Atocha Farewell lovers.

ATOCHA FAREWELL

By Janet Vittorio Corica

Smashwords Edition

Copyright December 9th, 2002 by Janet Vittorio Corica

Chapter One

Belle Torio sat at the computer crafting her story. Her faithful collie, Beauty, sat close at her side. Every so often, Belle would reach down and run her hands through Beauty’s soft, white chest fur, and Beauty would roll over, curl her front paws forward, as if to say, This is wonderful, and sometimes, Belle felt that she could see the slightest smile form across her dog’s lips.

Belle, a petite woman, with long, flowing blonde hair, elongated blue eyes, with hooded lids that hinted of her European ancestors, felt that the need to write seemed to overwhelm her. She could think of nothing else but the need to use composing as a catharsis for the nagging need which welled within her.

Her novel was a salute to the past, to the sea, to the courageous men who sailed her sometimes capricious, sometimes perilous waves. But always, there was the haunting feeling that there was a tug to the unknown, a pull to crisp, salty air, and to the men who had worked tireless hours on ships that owed their allegiance to Philip IV, King of Spain.

Her interest had been piqued during a shopping trip with her husband, when a touring jewelry show had been advertised with the compelling, spellbinding news that there would be a showing of Atocha jewelry, the sailing ship, which had sunk off the coast of Florida in a gigantic storm in August of 1622.

Widowed now, Belle thought back to happier times, when the two of them had gone to the traveling jewelry show, in hopes of purchasing something from the shipwreck of long ago. She had chosen a replica of a lover’s coin, fashioned from silver bullion, which the well-known Mel Fisher, treasure hunter, had snatched from the ocean’s depth, along with emeralds, gold bullion and other ancient treasures. Belle’s coin resembled a heart. It was cast from an original pieces of eight, one that some sailor had probably carved on with his knife, until it was heart-shaped, and which he would then offer to his lover.

Original markings were stamped into the piece. A cross dominated the center. And four different markings filled each square formed by the cross. A gold bezel was attached to the coin. Belle liked this because it meant she could wear both gold and silver jewelry with it. It soon became her favorite adornment and she fingered it, held it, and, each time she wore it, she stood silent and offered a prayer for the men who had lost their lives aboard the Atocha. Her mind fashioned a myriad of scenes of the ship, the men who might have sailed her on and both calm and stormy seas. Sometimes she tried to picture additional scenes, trying to bring herself back in time, through concentration, but that which she would want to capture and frame forever in her memories eluded her and she agonized that somehow she must have known that ship before.

For years, Belle was haunted by recurring dreams, dreams which were so realistic in their parade before her sleeping mind that she sometimes awakened and found herself with one clenched fist and one hand that seemed to reach skyward towards her beloved God!

Upon awakening, Belle would bolt upright, gasp for breath and feel a puzzling feeling that she was unable to articulate to family, friends or her doctor. On such occasions, she felt spent, restless, and at odds with her surroundings. Modern conveniences, even the telephone, seemed to give her a feeling of detachment, as though she had no real need for them, that they belonged in the past, to some faraway time, faraway place, and that this forceful sensitivity to times, long erased in the span of history, were inconsistent with her joy at the time she spent at her computer expressing emotions, which her editor approved and encouraged.

Deep in thought, the insistent ringing of the telephone jarred her back into the present. She reached for it and in so doing, knocked over a coffee cup onto her freshly printed pages.

Hello, she said, in an exasperated tone of voice.

Hi Belle, it’s Mama. Did I catch you at a bad time? Belle’s mother’s voice calmed her inner fury, as it could always do, and she altered her tone considerably.

"No, Mama, it’s just that I was deep in thought and as I reached for the phone, I knocked my coffee cup over onto some pages that I had just printed. I’m sorry if I seemed to bark. I was more disgusted with myself than anything else for being so careless. I should have looked at the Caller ID and then I would have known it was you and I could have called you back after I had cleaned up the mess I just made for myself. Let me call you back after I rescue some sopping pages before they stick together. I just like to be able to read from a hard copy rather than read my work from the computer. I spend enough time at the computer as it is. After I get things wiped up, I’ll call you right back. I could use a break and it’s always nice to sit and talk with you.

I’ll pour myself some fresh coffee too so we can have a coffee break as we chat. I’m going to be munching on one of those marvelous biscotti you sent over, too."

Ok honey, bye bye, her mother answered, and as Belle listened to the phone click, she quickly ran to the kitchen for some paper towels.

After she had cleaned up her spilled coffee and deposited the wet paper towels into the waste can, she poured herself another steaming cup of the brown beverage and dialed her mother’s number.

Hi, Mama, she said. Sorry about earlier but I was so deep in thought that I wasn’t watching what I was doing, so I knocked over the coffee cup. I just wanted to rescue those papers and wipe off and salvage what I could. How are you and Pa? she inquired.

I’m fine, sweetheart, and so is your father, her mother offered, but I think you need to get out more. You’ve had a lot of successful books published. Surely your editor can wait a few more days while you take a little time for yourself. You need to relax away from the computer more.

Mama, I’ve worked long enough in the publishing field for you to know that when there’s a deadline, there’s a deadline, her daughter answered. Besides, Cassie and I have planned a wonderful outing a month from now, she explained, referring to her friend of many years, Cassie Bentley.

Well, that may help a month from now but, can you make it for supper tonight? I’ve made your father’s favorite lasagna and we’re having an Italian salad with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, my homemade Italian bread and for dessert, we’re keeping it simple, fresh smoked provolone slices with some Bosc pears. Of course, there’ll be cappuccino. Your father bought a new espresso machine and he’s anxious to try it out. He wants to make caffe de amore, with fresh whipped cream on top, some shaved chocolate, and a stemmed, maraschino cherry. He got the idea from Vittorio’s, you know, that little coffee house down by the lake that we love so much?

It’s a deal, Mama, Belle said excitedly, that is if you might happen to tempt me with one of your wonderful chocolate biscotti, the kind you sent me the other day? Have any left? I’m salivating already at the thought.

I’ll tell your father to get the espresso machine ready and to make sure the new espresso cups he bought are washed and ready. He can’t wait to see your reaction to his cappuccino. You know how it is when it comes to anything pertaining to Italian food. He gets so excited and loves puttering in the kitchen. And when you’re here, he likes it best of all, she smiled into the phone.

All right Mom, see you at 5, returned Belle.

That determined, Belle went back to her writing. Suddenly, she felt the need to do some more research so she saved the page she had just written to a jump drive and logged onto the Internet. Using a search engine, Belle typed in old shipwrecks. As she perused the variety of information before her, Padre Island Shipwrecks of 1554, Spanish archival documents, Spanish main treasure hunting website, dive for old Spanish bottles and more, her attention was inexplicably drawn to a particular one. But it was written in Spanish and Belle’s command of the Spanish language was very limited. Having taken it in college, it was more or less an eclectic choice to fill in her general knowledge choices but not something she took as seriously as her journalism classes. Belle clicked out of the Spanish language website and again sought other means of getting the information, which not only would fill out her story in a most pleasing manner but somehow seemed to fill a need that lay deep with her, in an abyss that even she had not fully explored and which she did not completely understand.

Her mind focused on one intriguing informational stop, that which told about an Old Spanish galleon, an armored ship, which boasted 20 bronzed cannons and was geared for speed so that she could guard the rear of the rather clumsy merchant ships, which belonged to the Tierra Firme Fleet, based in Spain. Fueled by the fervor of the discoveries Columbus had made, Spanish explorers now set out in quest of new horizons to conquer, in the hope that they could bring riches such as Columbus had brought back with his Treasure of the Indies. This treasure consisted of volumes of gold, silver and jewels, such as emeralds, which fed the appetites for riches by pirates, who sailed the trade paths, hoping for a chance to conquer, pillage and loot the fleets. Belle read and added to her story and then looked at her watch. She had just an hour to shower, change and make the drive to her parents’ old, gray Victorian house. And she wanted to leave herself enough time to stop at the local supermarket to see if she could find a pomegranate to bring.

After a refreshing shower and a dusting with her favorite bath powder, Belle dressed and surveyed herself in the mirror. Her petite frame echoed of her heritage, curvaceous, yet slim. After a quick turn to view her reflection, satisfied that she looked presentable yet comfortable, she hurried downstairs and out to her car. Beauty followed close at her heels, her luxurious chest fur swinging from side to side, in the manner of a pendulum.

It was Christmas time and, outside, the town was beginning to come alive with hints of the season. Driving through her local business district, Belle eyed the garlands, which decorated storefronts, and she reveled in their splendor. Hundreds of small lights twinkled, and their movement under a slight breeze added to their enchantment. Christmas was always her favorite season and now she caught her breath and sat in quiet wonderment at the activity in the parking lot of the supermarket, as people, dressed in warm coats, jackets and winter outerwear, including bright, sometimes patterned scarves and gloves, made their way to and from the brightly lit parking lot. People exchanged friendly hellos as they ventured to and from the store. Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays were shouted across the frosty lot. Winter’s condensation hung in the air as people spoke, like white cotton candy. Smiles were energetic and enthusiastic as people scurried on their way, and Belle enjoyed watching her hometown inhabitants as they went about their nightly business. She patted Beauty on the head, assured her that she’d be right back and locked the car door for security for both herself and Beauty. She didn’t want anyone stealing her precious dog. Life would be so empty without her, something she didn’t really want to admit to herself and certainly not to her family.

Once inside, Belle strode to the produce counter, her eyes searching for the prized piece of crimson fruit, which to her family meant Christmas. It wasn’t a fancy thing, but there was something relaxing about sitting around a kitchen table and sucking on the seeds of a pomegranate. It was an Old World fruit, one that had been enjoyed by many Europeans since the 14th century and somehow that primal connection to a past life appealed to Belle and made her feel part of a larger family, one she thought of as sturdy, resourceful, and part of a larger plan.

Having found her ideal pomegranate, she paid for it and hurried back to her car. Switching to the news, she was pleased to hear her local radio station playing Christmas carols and she joined in singing as she drove.

At her parents’ home, Belle parked in the long driveway and looked towards the large porch, which circled three sides of the house. She exited the car and opened the back door and smiled as Beauty bounded out of the car and up the front steps of the Torio house. Her father had done his usual Christmas decorating, which included a wreath at the front door. A round structure, it stretched from the threshold to the fluted, white lintel. Christmas pine boughs formed the base and large, shiny, red Christmas ornaments were placed appealingly around the circular frame. A huge, red satin bow adorned its top. One needed to step over a bottom frame at the threshold to enter the front door and Belle, as she stepped over it, always felt as if she were entering Santa’s home, as surely Santa didn’t have a wreath any more spectacular than this one! Inside the house, she called to her mother. Mama? I’m here! And I brought Beauty, too. Hope it’s ok.

She put her knee forward to gently push Beauty against the front door frame so that she could catch her and wipe her paws before they entered the decorated foyer. Jo Torio greeted her daughter with arms outstretched.

Hi, sweetheart, she exclaimed excitedly, as she pulled her daughter close and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Hi, Mama, she answered. Where’s Pa? I brought a pomegranate so we can sit and enjoy it after supper, she smiled.

Oh, good. Her mother’s face reflected her own warmth. You know how Pa is about pomegranates, makes him feel part of Sicily yet, she explained.

I know, Mama. There’s something about it that spells Christmas and Old World to me, too.

Belle held out the bag which contained the precious fruit and handed it to her mother.

Hi, honey, she heard her father say. Let me guess. You stopped and bought a pomegranate for us to enjoy? His face broke into a smile.

Oh, I knew it! I can’t fool you, Pa, Belle teased.

Supper will be ready in about ten minutes, honey. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and just plop your feet up on a footstool. We can visit while I finish the salad.

Belle followed her mother down the hall, breathing deeply as she walked. She had walked this hall so many times as a child. It was nice to know that some things don’t change. The large Victorian structure, with its huge kitchen, had always been the focal point of the house. It was a place where her brothers and sisters had gathered to cook, to eat, and to socialize. The room, with its white lace curtains, blue wallpaper with tiny pink roses and a border that traced around the room right above a white, fluted chair rail was a perfect backdrop for the long, white farm table, which seated ten comfortably and extended for larger family gatherings.

Belle glanced around the room happily, knowing that in just three short weeks, her siblings would be joining her for a day and evening of merriment as the Torio family celebrated the day and evening with love, subtle manifestations of their faith in decorations, and gaiety, as they feasted on rigatoni and meatballs, Italian salad, with black olives, slivers of parmesan cheese, and olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing. For dessert, they would enjoy cuitte date, an Italian fig cookie, the recipe having been handed down to Jo Torio’s mother so many years ago by her own mother.

The thought of such a family gathering gave her a feeling of mellowed happiness, and she crossed the room and settled into her favorite chair and stretched out one leg to pull a heart-shaped footstool towards her. She uttered a sigh of contentment as she watched her mother busying herself with last minute touches.

Mama, can I help? I should have thought to ask," she said, and she rose to her feet and washed her hands in the butler’s pantry.

And, by the way, where’s Pa?

Her mother laughed and whispered, He’s down in the basement making espresso. He’s trying out the new espresso machine. He wanted it to be just right when he makes the caffe de amore, her eyes twinkled mischievously.

Don’t tell him I told you.

As Belle surveyed the table, she asked where the customary black olives were.

Oh, we’re out, her mother answered. I didn’t think you’d mind going without just this once. I knew you had a long day and I didn’t want to ask you to stop on the way. A concerned frown creased her brow.

"Well, I’ll tell you what, Mama, your supermarket is just a half block from here. I’ll just scoot over there and get some. You get the olive oil and oregano ready and I’ll be right back," she emphasized as she headed for her coat.

Jo knew there was no convincing Belle to stay, so she gave her a worried smile and said, Drive safely, honey.

I shall, Mama, she said. And with that, Belle was out the door and bounded down the three wide steps that led from the porch.

In moments, she was driving into the parking lot and was soon going to the condiment aisle. She quickly spotted the olives, grabbed a jar, and turned back in the direction from which she had come.

As she whirled around, she held the olives in her outstretched hand to study the label.

She had barely taken a step when the olive bottle was dislodged from her hand, as she collided with a stranger, and the olive bottle fell to the floor with a sickening splatter.

She looked up to see a tall man standing before her. He touched her arm and exclaimed, Oh, I am so sorry. I was in a hurry and you seemed to be headed in the other direction. I didn’t expect that abrupt turn. You should have put out a hand signal, he said as he stood smiling down at her.

She looked up into the largest brown eyes she had seen in a long time. They were fringed with thick, black lashes that curled upwards and they reflected the most bemused sparkle. Belle could feel the shades of red creeping up from her neck and across her cheeks. His gaze was unnerving, as he was such a handsome man. His dark complexion offset his wavy, black hair. Slender of build, and well dressed in a tan, cashmere overcoat, he wore a silk patterned, blue scarf, fringed at the ends, a blue paisley tie, and blue suit and shiny brown shoes.

As Belle looked into his eyes, she could have sworn that she felt herself, what was it her mother would have called it, swoon? She tottered ever so slightly, and she hoped the handsome young man hadn’t noticed. How embarrassing. How utterly embarrassing! She sent a silent prayer upwards. Dear God, don’t let me faint, and she reached for the nearest shelf to steady herself.

Are you all right? Did I hurt you? His eyes relayed his worry.

Oh, no, I’m fine. I have to get going, she said as she fluffed her hair. My mother and father are waiting for me to bring these back, and she pointed to the olive shelf.

Scooping another bottle from the shelf, she added, Supper is waiting, and she quickly gathered her composure, skirted around him and left.

Back in her car, Belle looked into the rearview mirror. Her cheeks were still hot from the unexpected encounter, and she wondered why she felt so uneasy at the attention from the handsome stranger. He was polite and apologetic. What more did she expect? She started the car and drove a bit carelessly out of the parking lot. Belle scolded herself for not being more careful. She knew her mother and father were waiting for her and now, especially now, with the holidays before her and the promise of seeing her brothers and sisters at her parents’ house, she felt a bit guilty for not being more cautious.

In a few minutes, she again drove into the long driveway and mounted the steps of the old Victorian house. As she stepped into the foyer, she was greeted by her father.

They went to the kitchen where Belle quickly washed the brine from the black olives, added the oil and oregano and helped her mother bring the finished food to the table.

Soon, the three of them were enjoying a wonderful meal. Subsequently, Jo asked if she had any trouble finding the olives. Belle’s face flushed and she told them both about the unexpected collision with the tall, dark stranger.

Was he married? his mother queried, ever the matchmaker.

Oh, Mama, she blushed, I didn’t notice. Inwardly, she wished she had taken the time to see whether or not the man wore a wedding ring. Well, now she’d never know. That was the end of that, and she turned her attention back to the warmth and camaraderie of her parents and the evening at hand. Belle savored the meal and gushed compliments to her mother, which Jo readily accepted. And soon it was time for after-dinner coffee.

While her mother cleared the table, her father gathered three espresso cups and set them carefully on the table. The cup itself was white. A band of green and red decorated the top. Farther down, a flag of Italy on one side and the shape of Italy, done in green, white and red on the other gave a festive, Italian flair to the cups.

I just wanted you to see them before I make you the most wonderful espresso you’ve ever tasted.

His lips formed a proud smile as he retrieved one of the espresso cups from in front of her and carried it to the espresso machine. The hissing of the espresso maker soon filled the air and Belle, and her mother turned their attention to the wonderful beverage that was in the making. One by one, Antonio filled the cups with rich espresso, a layer of frothed milk, each topped with freshly whipped cream, chocolate shavings, and a stemmed maraschino cherry. Smiling, he placed one before Belle and another before his wife. He set the other where he was to again sit, smiled contently and asked, What do you think?

As they all dipped chocolate, nut-filled biscotti into the tiny cups, Belle remarked,