Book of Dreams

By WES SNOWDEN

This great full-length book is a collection of eight individual entertaining stores told in fine craftmanship through the Story Teller's Pen. A note of caution. If you're looking for scenes of multiple murders or a series of senseless car crashes, this book is not for you.

On the other hand, if you enjoy reading the kind of story that will leave a satisfying smile on your face, and a warm spot in your heart, you've come to the right place.

Eight short stories, all with interesting characters and intriguing plot lines, await your pleasure. The collection includes----a young woman's life-altering voyage on a magnificent Windjammer to the magical islands of Greece---- a gifted cosmetic surgeon held hostage on his honeymoon by a grieving Mafia chief in exotic Venice----a successful young businessman who will do almost anything to escape terminal boredom-----a frustrated duffer enters a contest that will give him a chance to play in the world-famous Masters golf tournamnent-----a lonely man learns to see through his heart after an experimental eye operation------a London dandy who ends up on a whaling ship off 18th century Nantucket-------a spoiled rich kid experiences life on the other side after a financial catastrophe------a terrified young woman locked inside a Grandfather clock is doomed to drift through time awaiting rescue from a man who is yet to be born and finally, a unique tale of intriguing family conflict over the falling of a two-thousand-year-old redwood tree, complete with a most unusual ending.

Perfect reading length for traveling or while lying by the pool or beach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CORVENT CREATIVE
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393985914

WES SNOWDEN

After a successful career as an international business owner, Wes Snowden now spends his time between Toronto, Vancouver, and Scottsdale, Arizona. As a relatively new author, Wes has written a broad range of  books, all unique in their storyline. Although his writings are enjoyable for all ages, the author enjoys writing kid's stories for grown-ups the best. Wes has just finished four full-length adult novels- White Swan Wishes, Zachary's Gold, One Last Move and The Leprechaun Wars All four will be published by spring of 2020. Reviews and comments always appreciated at: [e-mail]

Book preview

SNOWFALL IN VENICE

CORTINA, ITALY - THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, SOMEWHERE IN THE DOLOMITE MOUNTAINS

The starving man knew he was almost dead. His body knew it, too. Only human resilience kept him moving forward down the mountain slope, plodding knee-deep through the freshly fallen snow. He had made good progress—more than he ever thought possible when he first set out on this futile trek from the lonely cabin high in the woods.

He was almost within sight of the swinging bridge when he finally reached the limit of his endurance. A comfortable bed of soft white snow beckoned him to rest, even if only for a brief respite. He slowly lay on his back, letting the falling snowflakes gently cover him with a thick blanket of white. As the numbness gradually invaded his body, a sense of peacefulness ensued. His last coherent thought before the darkness overtook him:

Forgive me, Father, I meant well, but I know I have done wrong. I may have failed, but at least my sin was only trying to help the less fortunate of your flock.

As the relentless snowfall continued to descend from the heavens the man’s inert form soon became no longer visible to the naked eye. The silence of his snowy grave would not be disturbed for several days. Then one of the mini avalanches so prone to this area would sweep down the mountain-side in the dark of night. It would carry the frozen body of the hermit, in a wave of rolling ice and snow, deep into the lonely canyon that lay waiting for him, far below the old swinging bridge.

NEW YORK CITY-TODAY

I was pissed off.

After a day of working on what I considered to be a medical assembly line, I wearily removed my mask and gown and retreated to the staff room for a welcome coffee and a chat with Gayle Wellington. Gayle was my operating room nurse, general assistant, confidante, best friend, and lover. She was also going to be my bride in five more days.

Gayle, I’m sick and tired of doing the same old stuff, day after day. I’ve done more butt lifts, tummy tucks, nose jobs, and lip enlargements than I can count. Why the hell can’t I just concentrate on what I’m good at?

Gayle moved over to my side and began to give me a badly needed shoulder massage.

Sorry, Mark, you know that’s never going to happen as long as we remain employees of the Kingston Center for Cosmetic Surgery.

I was unhappy, but I knew her evaluation was true. The Kingston Center was the medical equivalent of an old-fashioned sweatshop. Nothing mattered to the owner but increasing the flow of profits.

With some modesty, I can say that some people considered me to be a genius at reconstructive surgery, particularly for kids with severe deformities. I tended to favor children from the less fortunate financial community when I could. I had pioneered some radical new approaches to cleft pallet reconstruction with a great success rate. Some people in New York medical circles considered me a genius. The jealous ones spread the rumor that Doctor Marcus Gunderson was grandstanding by using unorthodox surgical approaches.

Although we had helped numerous low-income families with the new procedure, the truth was Gayle and I were gradually going broke. The owner of the private clinic would only permit us to do charity operations if we reimbursed the Kingston Center the going rate for operating room time out of our own pockets.

I vividly recalled my last heated conversation with Donald Kingston, the sole owner of the Center. Kingston was adamant.

Damn it, Mark, how many times do I have to tell you? This clinic is not a charity operation. I’m only interested in turning a profit. If you want to keep taking on all these poverty cases, be my guest, but only if you keep paying the going rate. If you don't like it, you can get the hell out and start your own business.

At this point, I stalked out of the meeting. No use arguing with a turd with a heart of stone, I mumbled to himself.

Gayle, Kingston refuses to budge, even though he knows we have a backlog of desperate cases. Unfortunately, I’m just about tapped out, so those poor kids will have to wait a little longer. To be frank, at this point, we barely have enough cash on hand to finance our honeymoon trip. Thank God, your old man gave us the first-class airfare as a wedding present.

Gayle nodded, That’s okay, honey. Both of us are badly in need of a break. Let’s get the wedding out of the way and do some skiing. We can take another crack at that cheap S.O.B. Kingston when we get back.

We were both passionate about skiing. We met while waiting for the lifts at the resort town of Whistler, British Columbia, and it was love at first sight. After working together at the surgical center for several months, we decided to get married. I wanted to return to Whistler for our honeymoon, but Gayle had her heart set on spectacular Cortina, Italy. We planned to enjoy two fabulous weeks skiing over Christmas and New Year in Cortina, before returning to the grind in New York.

My aunt told us later that we made a lovely sight when we walked hand in hand into the church. Supposedly I inherited my coloring and physique from some distant Viking ancestor. I’m well over six feet in height, with a muscular build and a slight reddish tinge to my fair hair. Gayle only reached as high as my shoulder, but she is a rare beauty. Her raven dark hair frames a very expressive face, set off by luminescent eyes. It was her spectacular eyes that had first attracted my attention.

Gayle’s mother cried as she watched us exchange our wedding vows in the small candlelit chapel in front of an intimate gathering of friends and family. Most of the guests were also in tears by the end of the ceremony. Gayle was happy, crying tears of joy. I might have had a little moisture flowing myself by the time it ended.

Gayle’s brother, Tom, rented a stretch limo for the occasion. It was already packed with our baggage and ski gear, ready to go. After a sumptuous light meal of cold poached salmon and assorted salads, we bid the guests farewell and headed to the airport for the official start of our honeymoon. Traffic was light for New York, so we made good time.

After clearing airline security, we worked our way through to the Delta first class lounge for a departing drink. I raised my glass and winked at my new bride.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Mark Gunderson. You are one lucky woman.

Gayle shot back, If you keep that up, buster, I’m going to revert to my maiden name.

We both laughed and walked hand in hand to the departure gate. The scheduled Delta flight was being operated by Alitalia Airlines, substituting the big Airbus A330 for Delta’s smaller Boeing 767.

For the first hours, the flight was uneventful. I was enjoying the comfort of my first-class seat to the fullest when the flight attendant approached.

More chilled champagne, Doctor Gunderson?

I checked my watch. Ninety minutes before our scheduled arrival in Venice, Italy. Don’t mind if I do, Maria. My wife will probably join me as well.

The flight attendant smiled at us laughing newlyweds and poured two large glasses of the bubbling concoction.

I raised my glass to Gayle. May the rest of our honeymoon be as pleasant and smooth as this flight, sweetheart. 

The words were barely out of my mouth when the huge aircraft hit a patch of severe turbulence. The seatbelt sign flashed on. Gayle was a nervous flyer, so I reached over to hold her hand when suddenly, without warning, the Airbus A330 began to experience a violent, yawing motion. The wingtips rose and fell in rapid succession before the nose dropped, and the ailing craft started a terrifying, freefall plunge toward the dark, cold ocean below.

For moments that seemed like hours, the Airbus continued its chaotic plunge. Champagne glasses rolled in the aisles. Loose pillows, handbags, and assorted meals flew through the cabin before landing on screaming passengers. It was total bedlam in the air.

Multiple alarms screeched from the cockpit area. My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t believe our married lives were ending before we began. But, then, the aircraft leveled out and began flying smoothly again, almost as if nothing had happened.

The captain breathlessly made an announcement. We have a medical emergency on the flight deck. If there’s a doctor or anyone with any medical training aboard, please push your call button, now.

Maria, the flight attendant, motioned frantically to me. I unbuckled my seatbelt and ran forward. Maria was already unlocking the cockpit door.

Captain Victor Moretti seemed calm and in control, but his complexion was pasty. His voice wavered as he said, My First Officer Gino started choking—he’s unconscious, can you do anything?

My years of emergency room training came into play. I noted Gino’s skin had a bluish tinge with a faint and irregular heartbeat. The man was at the critical stage of oxygen starvation. A few more minutes and the damage would be irreversible. I scanned the cockpit before spotting a cheap Bic ballpoint pen secured to the captain’s clipboard.

I grabbed the pen and removed the internal ink assembly, leaving only a hollow plastic tube. To Captain Moretti’s dismay, I plunged the hollow tube into Gino’s inert throat, just below his Adam’s apple. The quick intake of air through the tube showed me that the emergency tracheotomy was working. 

While I waited for Maria to bring the aircraft first aid kit forward, I asked the captain for more details.

Gino was finishing his meal when we hit the patch of turbulence. I told him many times to never to eat that damned airline beef. He must have swallowed a chunk whole when we hit the rough patch.

What happened then?

He started choking and wildly thrashing around. His foot hit the autopilot control and disengaged the system. When he fell forward on the controls, we went into that deep descent. I was lucky to push him back and regain control when I did.

I opened the first aid kit and found a roll of adhesive tape. I used the tape to secure the makeshift breathing tube in place.

Captain, I’m going to have to remain here with Gino until we land. He needs to get to a hospital.

The pilot called Marco Polo airport control and told them to have an ambulance waiting for their arrival. After the tower gave them priority clearance to land, the captain made a smooth one person landing, aided by all the Airbus’s latest technology.

When the aircraft was secure at the gate, Captain Moretti stood and stretched. The back of his shirt was soaked through with sweat from the stress of the ordeal.

Thanks, Doctor. Not only did you save my first officer, but you also saved my best friend. Gino and I went to grade school together. Don’t tell him I said so, but he would be a hard guy to replace.

The captain picked up the intercom and made an announcement. Ladies and Gentlemen. Sorry for the scare earlier, but we had a medical emergency on the flight deck. Fortunately for us, Doctor Mark Gunderson was on board, and his quick action saved our first officer’s life.

The passengers clapped loud enough for me to hear them through the cockpit doors. I was gratified but also slightly embarrassed.

An airline official helped Gayle and me to proceed quickly through the customs and immigration formalities. She said, Our first officer’s accident could have ended badly without your prompt assistance, Doctor Gundersen. We’re so thankful you were aboard.

After shaking hands, she continued, The airline has arranged for a limousine to take you to your hotel in Cortina at our expense. It’s the least we can do.

With the luggage loaded, we set off for the two-hour ride to Cortina, a picturesque old town, nestled for over a thousand years at the base of the Dolomite Mountains. A peaceful honeymoon was all we had planned—but sometimes fate has other ideas.

CORTINA, ITALY

AS THE LIMO ROUNDED the steep mountain highway curve, Gayle had her first glimpse of the snow-covered, enchanting village of Cortina.

Oh, Mark, it’s just like a winter fairy tale.

On arrival, we entered the ancient hotel through large double doors. The hotel was everything we could have wished for. Built in 1826, it featured large wooden outdoor balconies, hand-carved ceiling beams, and many more artistic features. We were pleased with our choice.

I’m exhausted, Gayle, but I’m still wound up from that flight. How about joining me for a nightcap in the hotel bar? Gayle had finished unpacking, so she nodded.

The lounge was located just off the hotel lobby. It was empty, so we took two comfortable leather seats at the long, hand-polished mahogany bar. Gayle ordered two glasses of the house merlot in her fluent Italian.

Roberto, the bartender, seemed so surprised that Gayle explained. I have always loved everything Italian. I started with immersion classes before going on to advanced studies. Actually, I almost became an interpreter for the U.N. before I decided on nursing as my career choice.

Roberto smiled. Your accent is to perfection, Bella Donna.

After exchanging pleasantries, they switched back to English to include me in the conversation. When Roberto asked about our plans for the next day, I answered. We thought we would have an early breakfast and head right out to the lifts.

Roberto nodded and asked, Are you both good skiers?

I grinned. We manage to keep up with most people.

The bartender thought for a moment. I have an interesting idea for you. Because you are here for the first time, you should do something special always to remember your holiday in Cortina.

What are you suggesting, Roberto?

The manager of the ski shop, Mario Romano, has designed a unique package of back-country ski adventures that all the advanced skiers are raving over. If you would like to talk to him, I will call. Don’t worry, he’ll treat you well—he’s my wife’s brother.

Thanks, Roberto. Please tell Mario we would be happy to meet with him after breakfast tomorrow. We finished the wine and said goodnight.

Mario Romano approached the breakfast table just as we were finishing our second cup of espresso. He introduced himself and joined us for a cup. Mario was a nice-looking middle-aged man with swarthy skin, dark hair, and a friendly smile.

Roberto tells me you maybe have the interest in my special trips?

Mario’s English was passable but not as good as Roberto’s. He talked slower, giving us the details about his best-selling deluxe trip called, The House of the Hermit.

He said, To get there, you must be taking the special snowmobile. All fix for carry your skis and stuff. I gave you the detail map and other things. The map lead you to Hermit’s House.

At this point, much to Mario’s relief, Gayle switched to her fluent Italian. With Gayle translating, I learned that the snowmobile trip would take us up the far side of the mountain to an area of extreme snowfall. Their destination would be at the log cabin nestled in a wonderful area of back-country skiing. This year, about two kilometers north of the cabin, a temporary landing area had been created for a helicopter. Part of the package included helicopter lifts to the top of the runs for a complete afternoon of downhill mountain skiing.

Mario began speaking more rapidly, so Gayle paused before continuing. Mark, he says it’s important that we take some food from the hotel in case we get snowed in. Also, if we get stuck, the cabin is rough but habitable enough to stay overnight if we must.

Oh, boy. Another honeymoon locale.

Gayle grinned. He also says we will have to cross a deep canyon over a narrow suspension bridge. Mario says to cross the bridge with only one person on the snowmobile first because the bridge is so old it will not support too much weight. After that, the other person is to cross on foot.

I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but ask him how much if we decide to go.

Gayle laughed at the look on my face when I heard the quote for the trip. But what the hell, you only get married once. I gulped and agreed with the deal. Mario stood, saying he would have everything ready for a noon departure. He shook hands with me, then said something quietly to Gayle with a smile.

I waited until Mario departed. Gayle, the only two words I caught were a hermit and haunted. Did he say anything else?

Gayle laughed. Mario did say that some of the skiers return from the trip convinced the ghost of the hermit still haunts the old log cabin.

Sounds like marketing bullshit to me.

On our way back to the room, I spotted the bartender Roberto at the elevator, crossing the lobby. I called him over and asked for more details about the ghost of the hermit.

Roberto chuckled. I see Mario’s been at it again. I think he tells that story just as a way to get more tourists out searching for the hermit. The real story is that the cabin was inhabited for about ten years by a mysterious stranger. The man kept to himself and rarely made a trip down to the village. Then, about three years ago, he just vanished from sight. Some skiers swear they can hear him walking around the cabin, but I think it’s just too much vino talking.

I agree, Roberto. I’m not much of a believer in ghosts in the night.

After lunch, we met with Mario to go over the details of the trip. He gave us a hand-written map of directions, and, after making sure we were comfortable with the controls of the snowmobile, waved goodbye and sent us on our way up the mountainside.

The Ski-Doo, Expedition SE 900 ACE, packed with a picnic hamper from the hotel, purred nicely when we finally made the turn onto the trail and started the climb. As we climbed higher, the scenery became more and more spectacular. Sunshine sparkled on boundless fir trees, all draped with a heavy blanket of newly fallen snow. Down below, the village started to resemble a child's collection of toy houses.

The old suspension bridge should be coming up anytime, Gayle said, after double-checking the map.

Sure enough, around the next bend, we drew up to the edge of a narrow but deep canyon. The base of the ancient suspension bridge consisted of a layer of snow-covered wooden slats. The bridge looked barely wider than the width of the snowmobile.

Gayle, this bloody thing doesn’t look safe to me. You stay here. I’ll walk across the bridge to make sure it’s okay for you to cross. I’ll bring the machine over after you reach the other side.

Gayle watched as I tentatively walked across the structure and then returned. Okay, honey, it seems to be okay. Just don’t look down when you cross.

Gayle crossed the deep canyon warily, then she waited on the other side for me and the snowmobile to join her. Mario had told us that the bridge was safe but only for a snowmobile and driver, no passengers. I hoped he was right.

I started to ease across the bridge. The structure creaked and groaned and started to swing slowly from side to side. I was committed, with no room to turn around. I flashed a reassuring grin at Gayle and continued. I tried not to look down at the jagged rocks lying in wait for me below.

It was difficult to keep the snowmobile on track with the clearance only inches on each side. When I finally reached the other end of the bridge, I pretended it was no big deal, but the perspiration was running down my back, and my legs felt shaky.

The snowfall was becoming heavier as we continued our climb. Around an hour's travel from the bridge, the old House of the Hermit finally came into view. It was an ancient structure built from rough, hand-hewed logs. The cracks where the logs joined were filled deeply with moss that had blackened with age.

A stone chimney jutted jauntily out of the steep, snow-covered roof. The glass panels of the small windows were dirty but intact. The rusted hulk of a long-abandoned snowmobile lay on its side by the path to the front door.

I knocked on the front door and said in a mock shaking voice, Any ghosts at home?

Gayle laughed, but I could tell she was uneasy.

Inside the cabin, it was musty but dry. A stack of firewood lay piled haphazardly by the stone fireplace. There was a red switch on the wall marked, GENERATOR. I threw the switch, and after a few coughs and burps, an outside generator started up. The lights came on, and the motor on the old refrigerator began to hum. We checked the interior—no food but numerous bottles of frozen water.

Come on, honey, we came up here to ski. Let's get started.

After we unloaded the food from the snowmobile to keep it safe from the local animal population, we fired up the snowmobile and left for the temporary helicopter landing. The chopper was waiting when we arrived.

The back-country skiing was exhilarating but exhausting. I was becoming concerned as the snowfall was getting heavier by the minute. The helicopter pilot wanted to leave, too. He dropped us off at the temporary landing spot. Our snowmobile was covered with an accumulation of snow and ice, but fortunately, it started on demand.

We should go back to the cabin, Gayle. I think we should plan on staying overnight, too. I’m not a chicken, but I don't feel like tackling that bridge in this heavy snowfall with night coming on fast.

She agreed, and we left for the cabin. It was a welcome sight when our refuge finally appeared through the haze of the heavy snowfall.

LA CASA DELL’EREMITA

IF THE LEGEND IS TRUE, Gayle, it must have been a lonely life for the hermit, living up here in this isolated cabin.

I can’t even imagine it, Mark. I think I’d go crazy.

I paused to put another log on the roaring fire. I guess the real mystery is why anyone would do it. The legend doesn’t give many details, so I can’t even hazard a guess. 

Gayle nodded. She was busy setting up the old wood plank table for our evening meal. The cabin was warming up nicely from the heat rising from the stone fireplace. With the old candle stubs flickering, the room took on an inviting glow.

I arranged the bedding around the fireplace to try and reduce the dampness that had accumulated from the long period of disuse. Gayle laid out the sumptuous spread the hotel had packed for our trip.

Something smells good, honey, and I’m ravenous.

At least wait until I have everything unpacked, Mark. Don’t be a pig.

The hamper contained a large bottle of local merlot and the same size bottle of Chablis. A full loaf of freshly baked, crusty Italian bread nestled in the hamper alongside an ample supply of unsalted butter and Cognac paté. Cold poached Scottish salmon, large marinated shrimps, smoked oysters, assorted cold cuts, and tossed greens completed the spread.

Gayle smiled. I never thought we would be spending our honeymoon in a haunted cabin, but this is great. I couldn’t respond for a moment. My mouth was too full of the delicious food to do so without choking like the poor co-pilot.

We were both tired from our skiing, so Gayle welcomed my suggestion to make it an early night. I turned out the light and joked as we snuggled down in the old, but comfortable, hand-crafted double bed.

Goodnight, Mrs. Gunderson, now get over here. I’ve got a honeymoon gift waiting just for you.

The first response from the darkness was a giggle followed by, Who the hell wants an old, previously used, very tiny, wrinkled up honeymoon present anyway?

I delivered her honeymoon gift despite the jibes, and her laughter soon subsided.

Between the large meal and the heat from the fireplace, I found myself falling quickly into a deep sleep. Then, sometime during the night, I began to have a vivid dream. It was so real, I can still recall every detail.

In my dream, I found myself in the woods outside the cabin. Everything seemed strange because, while the snowfall was heavy, I didn't feel the cold. I was following in the footsteps of an older man, wearing a hooded snowmobile suit of old-fashioned design. The specter turned and beckoned me to follow him. I couldn’t see his face because of the hood.

The man reached the cabin entrance and went in. Again, he beckoned for me to follow him. The inside of the cabin was the same, but it was also vaguely different. The changes were too subtle for me to recognize. The man I was following moved silently to the center of the room. He was standing on an antique woven rug. The rug depicted an alpine winter scene with snow-peaked mountains and numerous skiers.

The man motioned for me to come closer, then he pointed down at the figure of a young female skater, woven into the center panel of the carpet. I tried to speak, but no words would come out of my mouth. The man shook his head, pointed directly down again at the girl, and then simply vanished in a shimmering haze.

I woke with a gasp, sweating heavily. I shook my head to try and clear the dream. I sat there trembling while the early morning light filtered into the room. Because Gayle was still sleeping so soundly, I left the bed quietly. I moved to the window and noticed that heavy snow was still dropping from a leaden sky. The fire had died during the night, and the room was taking on an early morning chill.

I walked over to the wood supply and froze in my tracks when I realized the old rug in front of the fireplace was identical to the carpet in my dream. Even the young female skater was just as I remembered. I shook my head. Obviously, I must have looked at the rug when I was building a fire last night, and that's why I remember the girl.

I sat at the table, trying to make sense of it all. Gayle woke up and joined me. She was troubled by the strange look on my face.

Is something wrong, Mark?

I hesitated. Honey, I had a weird and disturbing dream last night. It’s bothering me. It seemed so damned real that I’m still shaking.

I told her about my dream. When I got to the description of the old man pointing down at the girl in the rug, Gayle said she felt a chill traveling down her spine. We moved over to the rug and took a closer look at the girl on the skates.

We studied the figure from all angles but could find nothing out of the ordinary. We sat in silence for a few minutes until I said, I've got a hunch, Gayle. Let's roll up the rug.

Gayle gave me a hand, and we rolled the old rug. It was heavy and full of dust. It was obvious that it hadn’t been moved in years.

The wooden floor under the carpet was much lighter in color, the result of protection from the effects of sunlight over many years. The flooring consisted of hand-hewn planks about four feet long and ten inches wide. No nails were used in the construction. Instead, the planks were secured in place by two wooden dowels at each end of the board. I studied the flooring intently, but again I was unable to spot anything out of the ordinary.

Gayle was just about to start rolling the rug back when I said, Wait a second, honey, something is different here. This one plank has the grain running in the opposite direction to all the others. I think if we measure it, we might find that this plank lies directly under the skater.

I scoured the cabin for any makeshift tools I could find, but it still took over an hour of hard effort before the plank loosened. Gayle was becoming skeptical.

This is a lot of work for nothing, Mark. It was only a dream. Maybe you shouldn’t have eaten so many smoked oysters last night.

I laughed at the jibe. This sucker will be up in a few more minutes. If it all turns out to be a pipe dream, we can pack up and head back to the hotel.

Finally, the reluctant plank broke loose. I peered down into the darkness but could see nothing.

Gayle was becoming miffed. I told you this was a waste of time, Mark. We could have been out skiing.

I was reluctant to give up. The dream was still too vivid in my mind.

Gayle, light one of the candles for me, please. I want to take one last good look before I put the plank back in place.

The candle she reluctantly gave me threw off a faint light. I held it down the hole where the rays managed to penetrate the gloom just enough for me to make out the shape of an old burlap bag, sitting tantalizingly close, just out of reach on the dirt cellar floor.

Gayle solved the problem when she found an old wire coat hanger in the bedroom closet. She bent it to produce an extension with a hook. I used the hanger and, after a few attempts, managed to snag the burlap bag. I pulled it through the opening in the floor and set it down with a clunk.

I looked at my wife. After my disturbing dream, I’m almost afraid to open it.

The dusty burlap bag was secured so tightly with a knotted string that I had to use a knife to gain access. I reached down into the bag and felt something covered with a silky material. I brought it to the surface and removed the covering.

Gayle gasped at her first sight of the exquisite Murano glass piece. The multi-colored work of delicate art depicted a woman and a girl in an embrace of love.

Mark, this is gorgeous work. It must be worth a fortune. Murano glass is famous, but I’ve never seen anything remotely as beautiful as this.

I didn’t answer her. I was busy retrieving a large brown envelope from the bottom of the bag. Because it was addressed in Italian, I handed it