Rebecca's Gift - The Complete Series

By Elle Dawson and Leslie Johnson

One fateful day. One horrific act. A life lived in fear and regret.

Beautiful and wealthy, Rebecca has the perfect life. She’s happy. Hopeful. Until the wolf comes knocking at her door.

Now the pawn in a rich man's game, she’s a prisoner in her lavish home. Inside those icy walls lurk dark secrets. Insidious transgressions. An existence rife with treachery and blackmail and danger.

Although she plays her role to perfection, she walks the thin line of her husband’s rule. When a stroke of luck opens the door to freedom, can she find the strength to step through? And is it too much to hope for love to be waiting on the other side?

*Rebecca's Gift is dark and delves into the rawness of life at its worst. If you are sensitive to violence, be warned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atrevida Publishing
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386643678

Book preview

Eighteen Years Before

Young Rebecca

You’d think that the worse day of your life would at least look a little bit different. Perhaps have an underlying odor, or maybe the color of the sky would be a tiny bit off. The worse day should crackle with static electricity or have the theme song from The Twilight Zone playing softly in the background. The hairs on the back of your neck should absolutely stand up. A voice you don’t recognize should whisper in your ear.

Or something.

But I guess it doesn’t happen that way. At least it didn’t happen that way with me.

My worse day, up to that point at least, actually started off looking pretty wonderful. My parents were out of town and my brother was gone for the day. I had the entire house to myself and had just finished lounging by the pool. I had changed into dry clothes, baked a pizza to bubbly perfection, and poured a diet soda with all the extra ice I wanted. My thumb was dancing on the remote control, trying to find something interesting to watch, when…

Ding dong

My worse day smelled like pepperoni. It looked as bright as a summer day should. A balmy breeze blended with the sun’s warmth making the temperature just right. It was perfect until...

Ding dong

I really wasn’t going to answer. I was going to stay curled up on the couch. I was going to take another bite of pizza and continue to flip through channels to my heart’s content. After all, it was probably some salesperson anyway, or a delivery boy. No one I would know or want to. I absolutely, positively wasn’t going to open that door.

Ding dong

It was my mother’s voice that changed my mind. Don’t ever open the door to strangers. As clearly as if she had been sitting beside me, I could hear her say those words. And it wasn’t just that. I could hear the tone of her voice, see the stance of her body, the way she pressed her lips together while shaking a finger in front of my nose. Forever warning me. Forever admonishing me. Forever nagging me on how to behave.

In an act of fifteen-year-old rebellion, I stood and walked quickly to the door.

Look ma, no hands. I mocked her internal warning, jazz hands leading the way. I didn’t even look out the peephole or glance out the side window. Heck, I was almost sixteen and I could answer a damn door if I wanted to.

Shouldn’t bad guys look like strangers?

Just Richard

Rebecca

My phone pings and I pick it up, noticing a Google Alert notification has been sent. For years now, I’ve set alerts to keep up with… people. I hesitate to use the word family, as I’m an orphan in the broadest sense of the word. I don’t know why I keep it up, what pushes me to still care. In some ways, I seem to still enjoy hurting myself as it’s a stab in the heart each time I read one of the headlines. I guess it’s just my way of staying close, of pretending to still be a part of their lives even though I’m far away. Distant. Gone.

I shiver as I read the headline: Business Tycoon Dies after Extended Illness

A part of me expects my father’s name to be listed, and I hold my breath to read further. Instead, it’s him. Richard. My entire body begins to shake as I read the name. Repressed memories jolt through me with such intensity that I almost drop the phone. I clutch it tighter and scroll down the page, reading on.

San Diego – Multibillionaire Richard Edward Shultz has died following an extended battle against cancer. He was discovered by hotel staff in the luxurious penthouse of the West Bridges Resort, where he lived the past several years. He was 71 years old.

The article goes on and on. His rags to riches story, the companies he owned, and the charitable gifts he made over the years. It gushes about this man I hate, the one who took my childhood and ripped me from my home.

Tears fall onto the screen and I angrily wipe them away. I’m glad he’s dead. Maybe now the memories that haunt my sleep can burn in hell with him too.

The memories that still haunt me now…

It wasn’t a stranger at the door that bright summer day so long ago. It was him, Richard, my dad’s business partner, impatiently looking at his watch.

Short and slightly overweight, Richard Edward Shultz—better known as Dick Ed to me and my brother—is wearing a navy three-piece suit, the same attire I’d seen him in hundreds of times. I’d never known his exact age, but he looks older than my dad by at least ten years. Balding on top, his gray and black hair swirls around his head in a really awful comb-over. I hide my smirk, something I have to do every time I see him.

Hi Mr. Shultz, I said politely. Daddy isn’t here.

He stepped through the door before saying, That’s too bad. I was hoping to catch him for a few minutes. Do you know where he is and when he’ll be back?

I briefly wondered why Richard didn’t know where Daddy was, or why he didn’t call first. I don’t remember him ever just dropping by like that.

He’s in L.A. for the night. I think he said he’ll be back around nine tomorrow.

Oh, that’s right, he said. With your mom. He paused before adding, Where’s your brother?

He’s out with his girlfriend. They’ll be back in a little while.

He nodded and looked around before asking, Aren’t you afraid to be alone?

I frowned. No, I’m not scared. I lifted my chin, feeling offended. I knew I didn’t look fifteen, but I was certainly old enough to take care of myself. I supposed it didn’t help that I was wearing little girl clothes, pink cotton shorts and a white t-shirt I’d pulled on for comfort. Or that my blonde hair was in pigtails, still wet from my swim. I pulled my shoulders back, thrusting my breasts out to prove a point. Ha... I have boobs, I silently communicated and immediately folded my arms across them as Richard’s eyes gazed down at my torso.

That hadn’t gone the way I planned it.

Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? His question was paired with a lift of his eyebrow, a silent chiding that I hadn’t welcomed him properly. My shoulders slumped and my grown-up-ness disappears as I hide my grumble of disappointment. I won’t be getting rid of him as easily as I had thought. Plus, my pizza will be cold, my drink watered down. His raised eyebrow and narrowed eyes pulled my attention back to this reality. I was stuck with Dick Ed, at least for a little while.

Uh, sorry, I said, closing the door behind him before leading him to the sitting room. Please, have a seat. What would you like to drink?

Scotch. He drew out the word, making it two syllables instead of one.

I swallowed and wiped my hands down the side of my shorts. For some reason, they were perspiring profusely and I could imagine the wet trail they left behind on the thin cotton material.

Scotch? Doesn’t he know I’m not allowed to touch the liquor cabinet; that Daddy marked the bottle with a permanent marker to make sure no one… namely me… gets into the liquor? The asshole was going to get me in trouble for sure. And he knew it.

Little girls who drink do other things, Daddy would say, I’m protecting you from temptation.

I… well… I stuttered, unsure how to finish the sentence. I’m torn between wanting to be an adult and dread of my mother’s lectures. But she’d want me to be considerate of our guest’s needs, right? If Richard told her I was a bad hostess, there’d be hell to pay for that too. Probably another six months of Ms. Manners School for Girls, weekly training on how to behave properly in society.

I groan.

For god’s sake, Rebecca. Are you going to get me a drink or not? His voice rises sharply and I’m pulled out of my indecision, startled by his elevated voice. Richard has always been sort of smarmy, but he’s never yelled at me before, or seemed angry at all. In fact, he’s always been strictly business, nice in a fake sort of way. He glared at me, wooly eyebrows lowered over eyes that were dark as night.

I walked to the built-in bar, opened the door, and examined the contents, finding the bottle of scotch to the left. My hands shook a bit as I poured, trying to recall how many fingers is the correct amount for this drink. I’d seen it being served enough, why couldn’t I remember?

I’ve got to get it right, my mind chides me. I’ll look like an idiotic baby if I don’t even know how to pour a drink.

More, he said. I’d been concentrating so hard on getting the amount exactly correct that I didn’t hear him approach. His hands closed over mine, tilting the bottle again, not stopping until the amber liquid is close to overflowing.

Always more, Rebecca. His smile was small and tight, his eyes staring into mine, his hands still covering my own. They felt wet and cool, as if a dead fish was touching my skin.

Unease prickled through me and my breathing stops when his thumbs begin to rub across my knuckles. I pulled my hands away so quickly that I forgot I was holding a bottle. It crashed to the granite counter top before tottering onto its side. Thankfully, the thick glass doesn’t break, but the strong smelling liquid pours everywhere and I snatched the bottle up quickly, suddenly grateful to have something to do. I grab towels to mop up the spill, muttering, I’m so silly. So sorry. Totally my fault.

Clammy hands covered mine again, stopping them from working on the spill. I stared down at the mess, embarrassed. I’m also suddenly grateful to have the bar top between us. And something else, a feeling I couldn’t quite place. I was beginning to have trouble breathing; my heart beat was a living thing in my throat… something wasn’t right.

Look what you’ve done, Rebecca, his voice was like ice, slicing through the flurry of thoughts that were parading through my mind.

Gathering my courage, I looked up with my best whatever look, which my mom says is disrespectful. It must be because his eyes narrow further, his lips set in a thin line. My courage fled and I glanced back down at the mess.

Ho.Ly.Shit.

I tried not to laugh as I see the wet spot grow across the crotch of his pants, slowly trailing down his leg. But I couldn’t help the giggle that burst from me, followed by a snickering, I’m so sorry, Mr. Shultz. I offered him a towel to wipe himself off, my shoulders shaking in an attempt to control my laughter.

You think this is funny, you little bitch, he sneered at me, surprising me into silence. He threw the towel back at me, hitting me in the face. You made the mess, you clean it up.

The laughter was gone. I shook my head, holding the towel out to him again. The look on his face was forbidding, dangerous and I felt a tiny jolt of fear. I clenched my teeth together after realizing they are beginning to chatter.

Rebecca, he said my name sternly. You made a mess, you must clean it up. Now.

I was being silly, I thought. Stupid even. I really did make the mess and it really was my responsibility to clean it up. I’d dry him off and he’d go away, simple as that. It really was the polite thing to do.

Politeness has been drilled into me since I was tiny. My first manners class was at the age of four. I remember a handful of preschoolers and me sitting at a table learning the correct way to eat. One must always be a lady, sit up straight, and do as you’re told. The teacher even had us sing a little song:

Mind your manners

Mind your manners

Everyday

Everyday

People will be looking, people will be watching

Know the way

Know the way

But no one was looking this time, no one was watching right now. Except him. And the way he looked at me burned my skin. My teeth began to chatter again.

Re-becc-a. The way he says my name reminds me of Daddy, drawing out the letters. And I remember this is Richard, my dad’s business partner. Surely I was just being idiotic. I really should be cleaning up the mess, let him drink his drink and go.

Rebecca. His face was filled with authority, his voice deeper and forbidding.

It’s just Richard.

It’s just Richard.

As I walked around the bar to face him, those words repeat inside my head.

It’s just Richard.

Short, balding Richard. I really was just being a foolish little girl.

By the time I’m in front of him, I knew better. The wetness of the scotch isn’t the only thing that had expanded. The front of his trousers had expanded too, tenting outward in what I know is an erection. I’d never seen one in person, but the girls in my school talked about it often enough. I’d even seen pictures of a penis, and a man and a woman having sex, as well as a woman taking a man’s erection into her mouth.

Giggling in the girl’s bathroom, pouring over the pictures of the magazine that Monica Colbach smuggled in, I remember how my stomach clenched when the page turned and a man had his tongue… there. The woman’s head was thrown back, her nipples were hard, and her hands were grasping the sheets. All the giggles had stopped, none of us were breathing as we all stared at the picture. The bell had rung, breaking our daze and Monica had stuffed the magazine into the bottom of her bag.

I shake my head. Why was I thinking of that? Sex?

This is just Richard, I repeat.

Another ping of my phone snaps me from the day-mare and I glance down to see another Google Alert with the same report. I silence my phone, knowing this headline story will be covered by every news outlet across the globe. The alerts will, most likely, last for the next few days.

Just Richard my ass, I say to myself. It was just Richard who changed everything, just Richard who took away my childhood. Stripped away everything I knew, everything I was.

I lie back on the sofa, exhausted from my thoughts, even as new ones come forth unbidden.

Richard stripping out of his wet pants and underwear on that fateful day, insisting it was the only way in which to dry them thoroughly.

Richard… grabbing my fifteen-year-old hand, forcing it around his erection, telling me to shut up as I began to cry.

Richard… telling me I was being a very good girl, being the perfect hostess just before he licked the side of my face.

Richard… wrapping his hand around one of my pigtails and forcing me to my knees.

Richard… sticking his penis against my lips, slapping me when I clenched them tighter together.

Richard... forcing my head back, leaning down to within inches of my face and whispering, Do as you’re told or I’ll kill you. And I’ll kill your entire family, do you hear? I can, no one will ever know it was me. Do you believe it? His smile was evil when I nodded.

Richard... forcing his penis into my mouth, gagging me with his thrusts.

Richard... telling me to take off my clothes, chasing me when I ran, slamming me into the door as I struggle to pull it open.

Richard... pulling me by my hair into my parent’s bedroom, forcing me onto their bed, one hand over my mouth to muffle the screams.

Richard... forcing my shorts down with first his hand and then his knee, saying Fight, I like it better that way.

Richard... laughing when I go totally still.

Richard... forcing me off the bed and onto the floor after making me admit to being a virgin.

Richard... shoving inside me, breaking me apart, his grunts ringing in my ears. The final groan is loud and I can’t breathe after his weight collapses onto me, pressing me harder into the wood floor.

Richard... dead. Good.

Burn in hell, Dick Ed, I say.

Smile Pretty

Rebecca

The ringing of the doorbell startles me from the memories of my lost childhood. I’ve repressed them for so long, refused to think about them for years. The freshness of those thoughts have left me feeling weak and bruised.

Glancing at the clock, I see it’s almost two in the afternoon, I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. I hear Nancy, one of the housekeepers, open the door and low voices exchanging pleasantries. A baby’s sweet coos echo to me and I know it’s my friend Kate, perfectly on time for Stella Elizabeth’s six-month portraits.

I race to the powder room and splash cool water on my face, erasing the trace of tears that have forged a trail down my cheeks. I straighten my clothes, a long, dark blue maxi dress and make sure the cuffs of my silver bracelets are in place. Taking a deep breath, I pull myself together to greet Kate and her sweet baby girl.

Baby girl.

My heart strings tug each time I see little Stella. Such a happy baby, with dark curls, deep blue eyes and skin as pale as porcelain. Snow White, I want to call her, and have already decided that her nine-month-old pictures should have a snow theme. That will be in November, close enough to winter for the theme to be appropriate. I can already see it clearly in my mind.

Kate gives me a one armed hug, managing it somehow with baby on hip and two huge bags slung over her shoulders. I hug her back awkwardly, patting her back as if I’m trying to burp her and giving a little air kiss on her cheek. Damn, I’m such a jerk, socially stupid as my husband would say.

Here, let me help, I offer as I start pulling bags from her shoulders. It’s a struggle as they must weigh at least twenty-five pounds each.

Ahhh, thank you, she groans in relief and then shrugs her shoulders to work out the knots. Stella just sits there eying me curiously, big blue eyes taking me in.

I smile at the baby and she smiles back, a big gummy grin exposing two tiny white nubs. She’s getting teeth, I exclaim and smile bigger so that Stella will show them again.

I know, I can’t believe how fast she’s growing and how quickly time is passing away. It feels like yesterday we were here for her three-month pictures, now suddenly another three months have passed.

I nod, time has really flown, like it’s on warp speed most days. It’s really good to see both of you again. Ready to get started?

Without waiting for a reply, I turn and head toward my studio. Are the stairs still okay, or would you prefer the elevator this time? Miss Stella looks like a handful.

The stairs are fine. I need the workout actually. I’m still trying to get the last ten pounds of baby weight off before I start showing again.

I stop so suddenly that she nearly runs me over. One of the diaper bags falls off my shoulder, catching my elbow and nearly totters me sideways with its weight.

Showing? Showing… like in having another baby showing? I ask, my eyes feeling as wide as saucers.

She laughs. Yes, can you believe it? Ethan and I wanted to have another quickly but didn’t think it would happen so fast. I’m not getting any younger, ya know.

I look down at her belly, which still looks flat to me. How far along are you?

Just turned twelve weeks; past the danger point they say. So you are officially the first person outside our family to know. She waggles her eyebrows up and down and I can’t help but laugh at her funny expression.

Although I suck at doing math in my head, I try to calculate her due date, guessing she will be due very close to Stella’s first birthday.

What’s your due date? I ask, giving up on mental arithmetic.

Want to take a guess? She smirks as she asks the question.

No way. Valentine’s Day?

Yep. Stella’s birthday. It would be amazing if the new one was born on the day Stella turns one.

You. Are. Nuts. I say, but lean forward to give her another awkward, shoulder patting half hug. But I’m so happy for you.

Thanks, we’re pretty happy too.

We’ll need to schedule maternity pictures for you this time. My gift.

Rebecca, she admonished. You’ve already gifted too much as it is. A full year of baby pictures for Stella was more than generous. You can’t do that again.

I give her a ‘just watch me’ face and then rearrange the heavy bags to better distribute their weight. I continue down the hallway to the downstairs steps before saying, Maybe we really should take the elevator.

She laughs, hitches Stella higher on her hip and starts down the steps like a trooper. I sigh, adjust the mountain of bags cutting in my shoulder and just follow her down to the lower level to my studio.

How’s Amy? I ask, thinking of a mutual friend whose young daughter passed away at Christmas time. I should have checked on her myself… but… My voice trails off and Kate glances at me with sympathy. She has no idea I’ve been forbidden to contact Amy, my punishment for spending too much time helping out during that horrible time.

She’s doing okay; about what you’d expect under the circumstances I guess. Renee has gotten her out of the house a few times. I had lunch with her last week. I’ve not been a very good friend with this one taking up so much of every waking hour. She kisses Stella on the head and holds her so close that the little girl squeals her disapproval.

Would you do me a favor? I ask and get an, of course in response. I take a deep breath.

I took so many pictures of the funeral. The flowers, the guests. I thought that one day Amy might like to have them, so I created a memory book for her but I don’t know when… if ever… I should give it to her.

I glance at Kate, to see her reaction before continuing. She has a happy/sad face, and I’m encouraged to go on. I also took a flower from each of the arrangements and pressed them into a collage. I’ve framed it, thinking she might want it someday too.

I flashback to that night in the funeral home. I’d been given permission to photograph Lilly in her casket. I don’t remember why I’d felt it so important to do so at the time. But it had seemed so urgent, so absolutely necessary. I’d photographed details… her small hands grasped together, the details of the coffin, the small curl that lay against the satin pillow.

I remember sitting on the floor and sobbing like a child, unable to imagine losing a baby the way Amy and Reed had. I had lost one, but it was my own doing, my own fault. I had made the choice and handed her off for adoption as if she was nothing more than a second-hand coat to keep someone else warm. I had no right to mourn her as I did, but I