Separate Lives

By Rhonda Strehlow

Auctioneer Honor Horton is able to channel the past lives of her clients. Now working with Dr. Carson Ankerson, she catches glimpses of his past relationship with his best friend’s wife, Rachel.

However, getting entangled in Dr. Ankerson story may pose a threat to Honor’s own future when she finds herself in bed with her client. Is it because of the rift with her boyfriend, Dustin, or is she channeling Rachel? Will Honor and Dustin be able to survive the havoc their indiscretions wreaked on their relationship?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Apr 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781680460704

Rhonda Strehlow

Rhonda Strehlow grew up on a small farm in Northeastern Wisconsin in a large and supportive family. This is her first novel. I will let you in on a secret: this novel was conceived after a single chance encounter with a “Kurt Troy” of her own. The rest, of course, is fiction.

Book preview

Separate Lives

by Rhonda Strehlow

Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

Separate Lives, Copyright 2015 Rhonda Strehlow

ISBN: 978-1-68046-070-4

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Stephanie Flint

Table of Contents

Separate Lives

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

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Mom and Dad, Bob, Valerie, Ellen, Vicki, Marlie and Gail.

Family means everything!

SEPARATE LIVES

by Rhonda Strehlow

Auctioneer Honor Horton is able to channel the past lives of her clients. Now working with Dr. Carson Ankerson, she catches glimpses of his past relationship with his best friend’s wife, Rachel. However, getting entangled in Dr. Ankerson story may pose a threat to Honor’s own future when she finds herself in bed with her client. Is it because of the rift with her boyfriend, Dustin, or is she channeling Rachel? Will Honor and Dustin be able to survive the havoc their indiscretions wreaked on their relationship?

Prologue

Oh, hello, Rachel. The voice drops several decibels, from that of a practiced professional to a warm growl.

You’re leaving, Marty? I hear surprise and something else, hope?

Please calm down. You need to talk to a counselor. Now the voice is authoritative.

I’ve just stepped onto Mr. Ankerson’s lawn and already I’m hearing voices. I lean against a big oak tree to get comfortable for the show. These voices aren’t real—I know that. Well, they’re real but what I heard probably happened a while ago. How long? I don’t know.

Places speak to me. I’ve discovered that I can learn a lot about life from listening to them. Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. This has been happening for years, before I earned my auctioneer’s gavel. Well, now that I think about it, the voices go further back than that. My daddy’s an auctioneer and I’ve been helping him for years. So one day I was cleaning out an old shed on the Lasky farm, making piles of tools so we could sell them in an orderly fashion when I heard a young couple talking quietly and laughing about their day. I’d thought somebody had turned on a radio but as I listened closely, I recognized Mrs. Lasky’s voice.

Now, mind you, Mrs. Lasky is dead—very dead—having passed on a year before her husband. The fact that both Laskys are buried in the family plot is the reason we are auctioning off their farm. Nevertheless, I know what I heard.

But I digress. Let me share what I heard on this chilly fall morning.

What are your plans, Rachel? he asks in a carefully controlled voice.

Please... He starts but then Rachel must’ve interrupted him. I’m sorry that I can’t hear both sides of the conversation.

Have you explored other options? He is quiet a moment then I hear crying.

What do you want from me? I hear in his voice anguish, optimism, and then pain.

I’m sorry that I disappointed you. I hear a click and he says, Again.

The voices fade and I’m standing alone on Dr. Ankerson’s manicured lawn.

Chapter One

It takes me a moment to digest what I’ve just heard. Like most places, this house has witnessed at least one sad story. The scene that plays out today attests to that. I recognize the voice as Carson Ankerson’s because I’ve talked with him several times about his upcoming auction. But who is Rachel? What is her relationship to Carson? For the next week, I’ll be dealing with Carson Ankerson and already I don’t like him. I need the money this auction will bring so I’ll have to adjust my attitude.

Usually as I prepare for my auctions, I feel a sense of excitement; anticipation for what I might unpack. I equate it with archeology—the digging and the discovery. What people save gives me insight into the way they lived. When I pick through the remains of peoples’ lives and I find, for instance, an embroidered and carefully ironed tablecloth I can imagine Christmases filled with turkey, dressing and pecan pies. Or when find a family picture I often make up stories about a strong and loving father and a mother who makes homemade pancakes for their half dozen happy children.

But today is different. There’s an unsettled feeling in my gut. I’m anxious to get to cataloging but reluctant to enter the house. Maybe it’s the overcast skies with their threat of rain. I pull my windbreaker closed and zip it up to my chin.

Shaking my head, I return to the present. The upscale colonial house is better than seven thousand square feet, I guess, and the in-ground pool is visible from here. The blue and pink hydrangeas are gorgeous even as they fade into fall.

Before mounting the wide plank steps flanked by stone pillars I hesitate a minute. The house is open so I slip in. I take in everything, mentally cataloging the interior. The two-story foyer is dominated by a staircase that curves gracefully upward from the right and left. The foyer is softened by a round mahogany table adorned with fresh flowers. A beautiful great room is on my right. Near the door is an eight-foot tall walnut armoire. But it’s the pottery in the curved glass display case that makes me catch my breath. One shelf is all Royal Bayreuth; a stamp box, a milk pitcher, a creamer and a candy dish. The next shelf is all Roseville: a Bushberry pitcher, a pink Thornapple vase planter. My auctioneer mind imagines the bidding on these beautiful pieces.

Ms. Horton, I presume? A regal looking gentleman in his sixties, wearing a practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach his cold brown eyes gets my attention. I’ve been so involved studying the pottery I don’t know how long he’s been watching me.

Yes. I extend my hand. And you must be Carson Ankerson.

Good call since you are standing in my house appraising my pottery. His voice is laced with sarcasm. I take a small step backward.

I was told that it would be okay to catalog your belongings today. If this is not a good time, please let me know.

I’m not quite through yet. I thought I was. Most of my personal things are packed but ... His voice trails off. His eyes go past my head as if he’s seeing some distant memory. Then, he quickly moves to pluck a picture off the wall. He carefully wipes the glass and stares at it for a moment before tucking it beneath his arm.

Excuse me. You were saying?

His actions are so unexpected that I’m momentarily speechless.

I can come back later if it suits you, Mr. Ankerson. Just tell me a time that works for you. There’s a lot of work I can do at the office.

Actually, it’s Dr. Ankerson. His voice is disapproving, as if I should have known this fact. In his voice, the same tone he used with Rachel, controlling and absolute.

Excuse me, Dr. Ankerson, I say coldly. He’s deliberately chosen to point out the chasm between employer and employee.

When I turn to go, he touches my arm. I’m sorry. I’ve lived so long by myself I’ve forgotten how to be civil. My mother often warned me about my behavior.

This time he smiles, a charming smile, but I’m not appeased. I cross my arms and stand quietly facing him. Waiting.

Ms. Horton, may we please start over? My name is Dr. Carson Ankerson, I am or was, actually, a general practitioner at St. Xavier Hospital with a private practice at the Monroe Clinic. I believe that I’m ready as I ever will be for this auction to take place. Would you care to join me for coffee or tea before you begin your ... whatever you were doing?

I’m cataloguing your merchandise. I answer automatically.

If I’m not mistaken, we have a love of pottery in common. His eyes go to the beautiful display case. I’m counting on the commission from this auction to get me through the long Wisconsin winter so I give him my best the-customer-is-always-right smile.

I’ve got hours, actually more like days, of cataloging in front of me but since he is, as he has so aptly pointed out, my employer I follow him quietly into a kitchen, which is bigger than my entire cabin. The marble countertops are cream and gold and the fifteen-foot island is dramatic black granite. He leads me to a breakfast nook furnished with a cherry table and chairs. He pulls out my chair and moves to the glass-fronted refrigerator.

You strike me as a Chai tea drinker, am I right? If not, I have an assortment of regular teas and a pot of coffee always brewing.

I love Chai, I confess. It is my favorite indulgence. Dustin claims I’m addicted to it.

Is he your partner?

Friend, I clarify.

Any person who’s privy to your addictions is a pretty close friend. He turns back to the counter and I watch as he carefully measures the milk, adds the Chai and puts it in a special pot.

I’ll have it frothed together in a few minutes. Would you like whipped cream?

I’d better not. I smile ruefully.

You have nothing to worry about. He studies me for a minute. One tablespoon? Just for looks?

He passes me a mug piled high with whipped cream and I smile my thanks. I lick off the peak and close my eyes to thoroughly enjoy this little respite at the beginning of my day.

He climbs up on the seat opposite of me, cradling a small cup. One expresso a day makes me feel ... He hesitates, and then continues lamely, Invigorated. There’s a lot Dr. Ankerson isn’t saying.

To new beginnings. He raises his paper-thin cup and I carefully touch my mug to his.

Ms. Horton ... he starts.

Please, call me Honor.

Is there a story behind your name? He smiles.

I blush. No one has ever asked me before.

He notices my discomfort and takes a new tact. You have quite a reputation, Honor.

Thank you. I think. I hope it’s for honesty.

That, too. But I was thinking more about your ability to channel life stories.

Places sometimes talk to me, I admit softly. I’ve been ridiculed for my ‘gift’ so I’m reluctant to follow his train of thought.

"When did places start talking to you, Ms. Horton?" There’s skepticism in his voice and I wince.

They’ve been talking to me for a more than half a life time, Dr. Ankerson. My back stiffens.

Do places just whisper in your ear?

It’s more like going to a play, but I can hear their thoughts. I realize how ridiculous this sounds when I say it out loud. I move restlessly in my chair. His scrutiny makes me uncomfortable.

What has this place been saying? His eyes are intent on me. Another time I might have noticed that they are nice eyes, chocolate brown with gold flecks, behind round, steel-rimmed glasses. Now those eyes look anxious or sad or maybe just resigned.

I haven’t been here very long, I say, stalling for time. I’ve not yet processed the encounter I witnessed.

But I saw you from the window and you looked as if you were watching a performance, leaning against Elmer.

Elmer? I’m puzzled. Oh, your old oak tree? How did he come by the name Elmer? I change the subject.

Dr. Ankerson isn’t fooled. My guess is that Dr. Ankerson isn’t often fooled. He gives me a look that tells me we are not done with the subject.

"Elmer was my gardener. He passed away last year. I miss him, but whenever I feel sad, I look at that magnificent tree and send up a silent thank you. Not a prayer, mind you. Elmer would have dismissed that. Just a simple thank you.

Elmer was a cantankerous old man but a brilliant gardener. He worked for me for almost thirty years and until the end, he thought I was some dumbass, over-educated city slicker. He frequently reminded me of his opinion, too. However, Elmer had a good reason to question my competence because the first time we met he told me to have the big oak cut down because it was so ugly and out of proportion to the rest of the property. But I ... just couldn’t. That old tree reminded me of home so, ugly or not, it was here to stay. Eventually, old Elmer and I came to a grudging understanding. And, I always let him cut down the new oak tree wannabes. Anyway, that’s why I call the tree Elmer. Almost to himself he adds. I hope the new people don’t cut it down.

Where are you going to go when you leave here, Dr. Ankerson? I note that he hasn’t asked me to call him Carson.

Back to my home town, ninety miles north of here. I inherited my family’s farm home and for the last twenty years, I’ve rented it out. When Pat and Janel Grosse, my renters, moved out last spring I decided it was time to return home.

Will you continue practicing as a physician? I ask politely, distantly. I’m not over my first impression of Dr. Ankerson yet.

No. I’m going to garden, play cribbage and write.

Are you going to write medical books?

No, he starts and then smiles. He hesitates before going on. I’ve been keeping a journal for more than forty years and want to see if anyone would be interested in reading the musings of an old man.

Would the musings include Rachel? I ask before I can put a filter on my mouth.

So, this place has been talking to you. What else have you heard? His voice is level, but his tone is accusing.

I close my eyes to try to capture the earlier conversation.

Well? he asks impatiently. When I don’t speak immediately he challenges. Was it a conversation about how badly I treated her? How I pushed her away? Broke her heart?

To tell you the truth. I’m surprised to see tears come into his eyes but I continue. It was just a snippet from a time when she needed your support to leave her husband.

We had a number of those conversations. None of them had satisfactory endings as I remember. He stares off into the distance and he is gone for so long I get up from my chair, rinse my cup and leave it in the sink.

Excuse me. I need to get back to work.

She was right, you know, he states harshly. I can be a bastard.

It’s not for me to judge, doctor, I say although I do have an opinion. Based on the way he’s treated me he’s arrogant and overbearing. Still I hope that I’ll get to see more of Carson’s story. These encounters are a surprise for me, since I don’t get to determine the sequence or the completeness of the stories I see. Sometimes they come in fits and starts, small, unrelated pieces. But, often I experience a complete sequence, one act if you will, in the life of a person or a place.

We’re all judged, Honor, if we want to be or not. But often we are hardest on ourselves.

Because there’s nothing left to say I leave to do my cataloguing in the great room. I get lost in the wonder of the beautiful things, dishes, furniture, paintings. In every room I find something for which I have to do a Google search—a first edition medical book in the library; a stunning side table in the great room and a collection of old valentines. Valentines? I ask myself. Dr. Ankerson doesn’t seem like the hearts and flowers type.

My assistants Misty and Tyler show up just after noon. They’ve each taken a half day off from their regular jobs to get this estate ready for Saturday’s auction. Misty is a human resources manager for a dental clinic and Tyler as an I.T. specialist for Riverview County. She and Tyler have been working here for several weeks. I’ve been focusing on a small online auction for seventy-six year old Mrs. Albertina Hutson who’s taking her time selling off merchandise from her antique shop. About every three months, Mrs. Hutson calls me to sell a little more. This is auction number four, costume jewelry and vintage clothing. She still has enough stuff for at least three more auctions.

Misty is a fifty-two year old grandmother who keeps me organized, schmoozes with clients and has a practiced eye for placing the merchandise to their best advantage. She scolds me when I don’t eat and keeps me from double booking auctions. She determines how many ring people I need and then hires them from her large family. For almost ten years, she has been my right hand.

Tyler is a compact twenty nine year old with the energy and the curiosity of a two year old. He never walks if he can trot or run and he’s prone to silly jokes and pranks. For one auction, Tyler showed up in a sparkling green elf suit. Another time as the Man-in-Black, Johnny Cash. He’s a good auctioneer who loves what he does and the crowds love him. He talks so fast that there are times even I can’t follow him.

The three of us comprise the Horton Auction Team.

Misty brings me up to speed. As a team, we talk about the best way to organize the pieces so the collectors aren’t bored and stay for most of the auction while the regular patrons still get plenty of bidding opportunities. Misty has a rough draft of the catalog ready. Tyler has inspected the merchandise and several times announces that it’s spectacular.

Dustin, my on again, off again partner, calls at six to see if we can eat dinner together tonight. I beg off, explaining that I want to get a few more hours of work completed before I make the long trip home. He sighs. Dustin is good at sighing. I sigh too and he just laughs. It looks like we’re on again.

Dustin is an attorney, a blue-eyed blond with a nice body and quick wit. I don’t know why he’s with me. He could have any woman. We met at an auction, not one of mine, but one I was scoping out. He wants to buy, of all things, a lawyer cabinet: three stacked, glass bookshelves. This auction has a beauty. This cabinet is trimmed with oak. I’m admiring its pristine condition when Dustin strolls over. Don’t even think about it. I’m taking this beauty home.

Oh, it wouldn’t go in my log cabin anyway. I blurt out without turning around. When I do, I’m speechless. He’s handsome; the kind of handsome that comes with a swagger. Those kind of men remind me too much of my father so I walk away.

Hey, don’t leave because of me. He walks beside me. I stuff my hands in my jean pockets and walk faster. In that one glance, I know we don’t have anything in common.

I’m going to find a seat before the bidding starts, I toss over my shoulder.

Can we sit together? I don’t know much about auctions but I want that bookcase. You look like you’ve done this before; will you give me some tips? I have a new office that I need to furnish. The rest are going with Danish modern furniture but I’m really drawn to the old stuff. It is the provenance, you know. At least he gets a point for having good taste.

I don’t have to look but I imagine that his chest is puffed out. I feel bile rising in my throat as I picture my handsome auctioneer father strutting among the merchandise, pontificating about the quality or the wood or its ancestry. Most of the time he was making up history as he talked but he’s so charming most people forgot about his assertions and promises. Forgetting his promises is harder to do if you’re his daughter.

I find a good seat, close enough to see the auctioneer and assess the crowd. From where I am seated I can see five dealers and I recognize a dozen wealthy bidders as regular auction attendees. Dustin smiles at the woman next to me, and she moves over making a space right next to me. Oh well, it’s a free world. I turn my concentration back to the auction. Colonel Jesse is a competent auctioneer who’s dealing with some high-end merchandise today. I plan to study his strategy.

By the way, my name’s Dustin Lewis. I’m a lawyer. I work at Stellar Law Office. When I don’t respond he prompts, This is where you supply your name.

I’m interested in the auction, if you don’t mind. Why doesn’t he just get up and move away? He’s still sitting next to me the next time I turn in his direction. I catch him looking lost. Not necessarily the arrogant buffoon I assumed. I’m ashamed of my rudeness. I can hear Grandma Leah chastising me. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. My name is Honor. Do you have a bid card?

He gives me an uncomprehending look.

You need a bid card to purchase anything today. It looks like this. I show him my card with a large number fifty-three on it. "See that wagon parked on the road? Show them your driver’s license and they’ll give you a number. With your bid card you can bid on