Consumed by Fire: The Chronicles of Ana Michaels

By M.F. Pennington-Waseem

Winter covers Eventide, a tiny hamlet nestled on the New England coast where pristine beauty masks a moral cancer seething beneath the surface. Like many old towns, Eventide is steeped in secrets and hypocrisy, and into this maelstrom Ana Michaels arrives. Born out of time, rejected maternally, and adored by her father, all is lost after a car crash takes the lives of their parents, and Ana and sister Sarah are left to their paternal grandmother.

The last link in a genetic chain of events, the affection-starved and withdrawn Ana becomes dominated by fate and family. Only after years of passivity does she finally rebel, and flee to forge a life of her own.

Summoned by news of her grandmothers imminent death, Doctor Ana Michaels, a successful psychiatrist, returns home only to find herself on a collision course that radically alters her life and those around her. Sisters Ana and Sarah share a psychiatric practice, and despite warnings from violent patients and grisly murders paralyzing the community, Anas headstrong independence places her directly in the path of peril.

Darkness overtakes Ana after sexual assault by a trusted mentor leaves her pregnant and alone to face the consequences. As her familys facade is stripped away, Ana becomes entrenched in the murky past of a town that buries its secrets. A series of devastating discoveries unearth underground genetic breeding in Eventide -- and even more staggering truths she wished had remained buried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469131061

M.F. Pennington-Waseem

Marianne Pennington-Waseem, R.N. received her BS from Sacred Heart University, Fairfield, CT; attended Saint Vincent’s School of Nursing Registered Nurse Program, Bridgeport, CT; and a MS Degree in Biology and Clinical Nutrition from the University of Bridgeport. For over twenty years her distinguished career in nursing has provided unique insight in the field of psychiatry. Currently she lives in Connecticut and works for the Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services (DMHAS); Whiting Forensic Division of Connecticut Valley Hospital (WFI) and Connecticut Valley Hospital (CVH).

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Stephen Salvatore DiNapoli sat alone in his impressive Georgian mausoleum. It no longer held any pleasure for him. Having sprung from common clay, he had spent his adult life burying painful childhood memories. Determined to end this joyless existence, he had attempted to create the perfect mate from a young girl without a conscience. Instead of attaining marital bliss, he had succeeded in unleashing an antisocial personality upon himself and society. His marriage was a facade and a mockery of his earlier dreams. He had deceived himself into believing that she could love him. His relentless drive for wealth and power had first attracted her, then ceased to hold her.

Now, as he listened to the rain pounding against the window panes, Stephen DiNapoli felt old. Like the beast in the Beaumont fairy tale, he was painfully aware of his defects: his stubby, square-fingered hands, so unlike the delicate, long tapered ones that other concert pianists possessed. Stephen DiNapoli knew that his stooped posture caused him to appear shorter than his six-foot frame, and an abundant graying beard could not compensate for his receding hairline. There was little that was desirable about Stephen DiNapoli. As he watched the falling rain, he wondered what his wife was doing and with whom.

CHAPTER ONE

And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eye, and a tree to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat.

—Genesis 3:6

Along the old serpentine shore road many miles from Boston lay the ancient town of Eventide. Settled in 1639 by a puritanical sect, its bloodstained history bore witness of unbridled cruelty of later generations. An ancient burial ground recorded in stone the devastation wrought by a mysterious plague during the early weeks of May 1641, resulting in the deaths of the village’s first families, whose decayed flesh had long since returned to the red clay earth.

Against a bleak, gray November sky, the stark white steeple of the First Congregational Church kept its lonely vigil over the tiny seaport of two thousand. Sandwiched between the rotting remains of two gracious cities, Eventide still saw itself as a beacon of light in a dark and evil world. Although a modern town, Eventide had more in common with the past than with the present. Its citizens secretly clung to the old ways, while giving lip service to new ideas.

In the early months of 1901, a small band of English immigrants made Eventide their home. Gertrude and Joseph Michaels were numbered among the new families striving to blend into a tightly interwoven village society.

Gertrude, a tall, sturdy woman with chestnut hair and hawkish brown eyes, was undaunted by the cold reception of her neighbors. Possessed of an iron will, she persevered until she amassed great wealth and prestige. While more vacillating in disposition, Joseph was equally ambitious, so the two worked well together. Their ruthlessness won them admiration and acceptance of Eventide’s most influential families.

The pinnacle of their conquests was the marriage of their only child, Robert Andrew Michaels, into the oldest, richest, and most eccentric family in Eventide. Although none dared openly object to the union, many feared the consequences of such an alliance.

Elizabeth Frances Crewell was the glittering gem in the crown of the Crewell family tree. With flowing rivulets of golden hair, milky white skin, vermilion lips, and vivid emerald green eyes, she collected hearts like an archaeologist collects artifacts. Her ability to mesmerize those around her made her a phenomenon within the familial infrastructure.

Even Pastor Robert Michaels found himself drawn to her. A quiet, scholarly man, so vastly different from his ambitious parents, he was caught off guard by the attention lavished on him by Ms. Crewell and her mother. After a mere six-month courtship, they were married in the old white church, forever altering the Michaels’ social status in a town where money was synonymous with power.

The eager young couple quickly started a family of their own against parental advice. Oddly enough, old Jacob Crewell became their staunchest ally, the sole dissenter to their marriage. When he refused to attend the wedding ceremony, a disgruntled Mrs. Crewell convinced a distant cousin to give the bride away, an ominous sign to the superstitious inhabitants of Eventide.

It wasn’t until the birth of the first child that the townspeople breathed a sigh of relief. With Jacob Crewell’s apparent seal of approval, fears died down. He seemed genuinely pleased with the arrival of his new grandson. He even began a generous trust fund for the boy.

John Mark was an intelligent, quick-witted lad with dark, wavy hair and piercing black eyes. His wiry build enabled him to run long distances without tiring, leaving his competition in the dust. His love of nature compelled him to spend his free time out of doors and he had little patience for book learning.

Robert Andrew, born a year and a half later, although dark like his brother, shared his father’s love of classical literature. His only outdoor passion was ice skating. While his elder brother would run, even in the cold New England wintertime, Robert preferred skating whenever he could find a frozen pond or river.

Jonathan David was born during the spring of 1948, with a mass of chestnut curls and brown eyes like his paternal grandmother. His explosive temper sent shock waves throughout the family. Only level-headed Robert could reason with him when he became enraged over some real or imagined slight.

Sarah Leah, the princess, was born in the autumn of 1953. She was a strong-willed, determined child, the perfect image of her father. Flashing black eyes, poker-straight raven-colored locks, and olive skin gave her a solemn yet handsome appearance. Assertive by nature, she alone controlled her destiny.

All in all, they were a happy, if unusual, family until John Mark’s thirteenth birthday, when he developed viral encephalitis. Within days of the diagnosis, he was dead, following a spiral of endless seizure activity. A stunned community came to pay their final respects to the pastor’s eldest boy. Although they kept their thoughts to themselves, a few of the villagers suspected that the child’s death was suspicious.

On December 24, 1956, while skating at Robert’s favorite spot, Jonathan fell through the ice. When Robert heard his younger brother’s panicked screams, he rushed to his aid without thinking. He never noticed that the Danger—Thin Ice sign had disappeared. Although the townspeople spent most of their Christmas holiday searching for the two unfortunate boys, the partially frozen bodies were not recovered until the spring thaw, several miles downstream, by a local constable checking out an anonymous tip.

The loss tore at the fabric of the little town. Although everyone was sympathetic to Robert and his daughter, many blamed Elizabeth for the untimely deaths of her three sons. Treated like a pariah by her own neighbors, people she had known all her life, she became increasingly despondent, all but abandoning her little girl. In an act of desperation, Robert sent his wife to live with her parents for a time. Her protestations fell on deaf ears as he carried her inside the house of her youth.

How she pleaded with Robert to take her home, becoming hysterical until Jacob entered the front parlor. With one look from the old man, she became calm, like a condemned criminal facing execution.

Against his better judgment, Robert left his darling in the care of her austere father. When Elizabeth returned to her husband months later, she was completely altered by her experience.

Barely home, in a matter of hours, she gave birth to a tiny baby girl. There was no time to go to the hospital. Fortunately, the local doctor lived next door. The birth was not a happy occasion or an easy delivery. Elizabeth wept at the sight of the frail creature, turning away, refusing to hold her. At first, Robert attributed his wife’s reaction to some birth trauma, but her attitude didn’t lessen as the weeks passed. Eventually, Robert hired a nanny with the orders that his daughter was never to be left alone with her mother.

Ana Elizabeth was born on the eleventh day of January in 1958, at home, at the height of a winter storm. With a mass of golden curls and intense green-gray eyes, she was a pretty child. Although she had the porcelain complexion of the Crewells, she resembled no living family member of either clan.

Premature and sickly during her first two years of life, Ana was the apple of her father’s eye and a festering wound in the heart of her mother. Her father encouraged her in spiritual things to offset the lack of a mother’s love, and not one minute of that time was wasted. She blossomed like a tender plant under his loving influence.

Although volatile when pressured, Ana was usually reserved and serious, having a faithful tender heart toward the things of God. She loved to pore over the pages of her picture Bible. In the evening she would sit with her father and listen to him recount the exploits of David, Moses, and Jesus. It never occurred to her not to believe in God and his Son Jesus.

Her favorite hiding place was the old children’s chapel in the church annex. It was her prayer closet. From the time she learned to walk, she could be found wedged behind the linen-clothed altar, with her cheek resting against the cold plaster wall. Here she would discuss everything with God. He was her best friend, and she loved to entertain him with little hymns she made up. He was always first. No one else could compete for her affections, except perhaps for her dad. She adored him.

Ana would often forget the time and fall asleep in the little chapel. In the morning, she would awaken in her own bed, never realizing that her father had put her there.

Her uniqueness was a source of joy to her father. He was frequently called upon to defend her when relatives complained of her peculiar ways. Her most vicious critic was her mother, a fact that deeply disturbed Robert. Even with the presence of a nanny, he feared for his daughter’s safety.

When the nanny handed in her resignation and abandoned the troubled household, she left behind an exhausted man and a tiny golden-haired toddler. Since her busy father alone lavished attention on her, Ana spent most of her waking hours by herself, while her older sister was pampered and spoiled by a mother Ana scarcely knew.

On October 31, 1962, Elizabeth and Robert went to a pastors’ meeting in Warwick, Rhode Island. Because it was an all-day affair, they left their young daughter in Gertrude Michaels’ capable hands. The weather worsened steadily throughout the course of the day. Just after sunset, the winds picked up, scattering the fallen leaves, and it began to drizzle. It is going to be a miserable Halloween, Elizabeth remarked as they sped along the familiar stretch of roadway. Robert looked at her curiously, momentarily distracted by her comment. They didn’t celebrate Halloween; in fact, they rarely celebrated anything since that fateful Christmas. That thought ran through his mind as a sudden downpour obscured his vision. They never saw the tree until it was too late. In a moment of time, they crossed the junction of life and death in a fiery little box.

There was little left to bury. The blackened remains of the preacher and his wife had to be peeled out of the leather seats. The ancient oak bled from a gaping wound in its side; at least, it was still alive. The funeral was a greater tragedy than any that anyone could remember. Two closed caskets draped in black crepe sat at the front of the sanctuary, a grim reminder of death’s proximity to life. Many of the townspeople and not a few curiosity seekers came to the service and had to stand outside in pouring rain that had not ceased since the accident.

Gertrude Michaels and her two little granddaughters sat in the first row nearest the altar, while Mary Crewell, Elizabeth’s mother, sat alone opposite them in the family seat. Behind her, in rows as far back as one cared to look, sat the remnants of the entire Crewell clan, some of whom had only just arrived from Europe. Only Jacob was missing from the entourage.

Jacob Crewell walked in just as the eulogy was about to be given by one of Robert’s closest friends. None of the villagers had expected his entrance. A hissing sound ran through the crowd as he strode to the front and took his place beside his hideous little wife. A tall, elegantly dressed stranger sat directly behind him, some distant cousin from another area of the world, whose eyes never left the little golden-haired girl seated at Gertrude Michaels’ right hand.

The rest of the funeral might have gone smoothly had it not been for the uproar that occurred at the grave site, when grave diggers refused to bury Elizabeth’s coffin. The Crewell clan howled that arrangements should have been made that the body of Elizabeth Crewell be interred with the rest of her family and not with the common dead. After nearly a two-hour delay, the bodies were buried—separately, miles away from one another while two very little children witnessed the event. When it was over, the two families went their own ways to grieve for their dead without a word of comfort for each other.

Orphaned, the two tiny girls became the sole responsibility of their widowed paternal grandmother, Gertrude Michaels—a woman of means, money, and power. Since none of their other relations lifted a finger to help her or the children, Gertrude Michaels decided to raise them alone without interference from anyone.

Gertrude Michaels’ sprawling white Victorian summer home had a wraparound porch and a large cylindrical turret that overlooked the sea. The house was huge, with three full floors and servants’ quarters on the fourth level. Its characteristic gingerbread molding gave the house a fairy-tale appearance, but no fairy godmother waved it into existence. That house had been obtained by years of sweat and blood.

Joseph and Gertrude had shocked the inhabitants of Eventide when they dared to purchase the estate from a distant relative of one Josiah Crewell. Joseph’s fatal fall from a ladder while replacing a broken window in the turret had frightened the townspeople. Now, years later, the same house had become home to two devastated children, and the whole community waited to see what would happen next.

For weeks, a tot with golden curls could be seen sitting on the gray veranda steps, waiting for a father’s return. No amount of coaxing or threatening could force her to leave her post while the sun lingered above the western horizon. Sobbing could be heard at night coming from her room on the second floor, as the cold north wind carried the mournful cry of a child’s broken heart out to sea.

Eventually, Ana recovered from the loss of her father and resumed her talks with God. In the privacy of her bedroom, she would spend time with her best friend, confiding in him. Every morning she would read a passage from her father’s Bible. Like Daniel, she prayed three times a day, even at school, although it was against the law. As the years passed, she kept up that practice without missing a single day. She never forgot the one friend who always had time for her.

As Sarah and her younger sister grew older, they changed into articulate, intelligent, handsome women. While both excelled in their studies at school, Ana had a unique gift—a beautiful, rich, resonant singing voice. Their grandmother recognized the potential in Ana and commissioned a local music instructor to train the girl’s voice.

In order to please her grandmother, Ana suffered insults and criticisms from the instructor without a complaint. However, the day she graduated from secondary school, she vowed never to endure such abuse again. When a full scholarship to Juilliard was offered, she rejected it, setting her sights on medical school, like her sister before her. Although heartbroken by Ana’s choice, Gertrude Michaels said nothing to either grandchild.

Only in the hours immediately prior to her death, at the age of ninety-five, did she express her disappointment about Ana’s abandonment of her vocal training. She spoke her feelings to Sarah, her favorite confidante. Sarah, distressed by her grandmother’s confession, promised not to permit her sister to bury her talent. Sarah, alone, was present when the old woman took her last breath.

Ana was away at school when the telegram arrived. Upon receipt of her sister’s message, Ana left the university. Having completed her certifications in psychiatry, she packed her bags, jumped into the MGB, and raced home.

Her grandmother had been dead for over an hour. Running upstairs, she was met by Sarah, who blurted out the news. Pale and shaken, Ana pushed Sarah out of the way and hurried into her grandmother’s room. The cool, mottled hands bore no hint of life. The familiar blue-gray curls framed a chalky white face with colorless lips and partially closed eyes. Gingerly, she shut them completely while fighting back a faint feeling of nausea. Even the Battenburg lace quilt seemed to mock her loss, as it lay there covering the remains of what had once been a gracious lady. The old woman had died at the turning of the tide.

Gertrude Michaels, fair and generous in death as in life, had bequeathed the house and all its furnishings as well as a healthy trust fund to her youngest granddaughter. She and Sarah had discussed the terms at length prior to her death. The house had been Sarah’s idea. Sarah’s portion consisted of an immense stock portfolio and cash—lots of it. Gertrude Frances Cooksey Michaels always won, no matter what opposition came against her.

Staring blindly out the window, her hair fluttering in the breeze, Ana remembered her grandmother with tear-filled eyes. She had wasted so many years arguing with the old woman, yet she couldn’t recall when she had last told her grandmother that she loved her. Now it was too late.

Lost in her thoughts, Ana jumped at the light touch of Sarah’s hand on her shoulder.

Ana, I tried to reach you in time, but there was no answer, Sarah explained, repeatedly clearing her throat. It was a nervous habit that had worsened in recent years.

You don’t understand, Ana whispered. I never told her how much I loved her. Heaving a great sigh, she was aware of heaviness in her chest, as though she’d been hit by some invisible force. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she walked from the room.

Sarah followed her downstairs, trying to comfort her. Ana, she knew how you felt about her. She was very proud of your accomplishments.

Really? I didn’t think that she thought very much of me one way or another. We were always disagreeing on something. Sarah, you understood her so much better, Ana replied, brushing away a tear. I just frustrated her.

Well, you were so different from other children. So strange. I guess only Daddy ever really knew you.

Strange you should mention him. I hardly remember what he looked like. I was so little when he died. Ana shut her eyes trying to visualize a face from the past. She shook her head. The image wouldn’t come, but she could almost hear the deep richness of his voice. It haunted her even now as she stood on the landing, the floral Tiffany window painting her pallid complexion with pink, purple, and yellow shadows.

Come downstairs and I’ll make some tea, Sarah shouted from the first floor. The funeral director will be here in a few minutes.

The medical examiner was already here? Ana asked, having joined Sarah in the foyer. Glancing down at the wide board oak flooring, she noted the frayed edges of the Oriental runner.

You’ve been in the city too long. Why on earth would we need a medical examiner? She wasn’t murdered. Honestly, Ana, I don’t know where you get some of your ideas, Sarah replied, stopping dead in mid-stride. Ana, where are your things? Are they still in the car?

They’re in the trunk, she answered quietly, still puzzling over the condition of the carpet.

Ana, have you heard anything I’ve said?

I’m sorry, Sarah. I was thinking about something else. What did you say?

I was concerned about your luggage, she reiterated, a grating nasal quality present in her inflection. Are your bags still in the car?

Oh, yes, they are. I suppose I’d better bring them in. Ana scurried out the front door without a word.

Wait a minute, I’ll help you, Sarah yelled, running down the steps and across the lawn in pursuit of her younger sister, the skirt of her brown cotton print frock billowing in the breeze while her jet black hair streamed out behind her like thick dark ribbons.

Ana looked up from the open trunk and studied her sister’s appearance. She’d forgotten how sleek and radiant Sarah was, like a doe in the wood. She looked barely twenty-five, certainly no older. Ana pulled the suitcases from the trunk as Sarah watched, arms folded across her chest. A few minutes later, they dragged her bags up the front steps and into the house, beginning their life together again for the first time.

The following months, as Ana became part of her sister’s thriving psychiatric practice, were frantic. Sarah’s private practice had long since become too cumbersome for one, and she had been relieved and pleasantly surprised when Ana announced that she would be staying.

The old summer home was readied, revamped, and enlarged to include office space. The large second-floor turret became Ana’s bedroom. From her window she could watch the waves crashing on the rocky shore. The front parlor looked the same as it always had, with the addition of an ebony Steinway now seated by the bay window.

A local young woman, a Maria Delroi, was hired as a housekeeper, and Maria’s cousin came twice a week to clean. A dour, pudgy full-time cook was hired for Sarah’s peace of mind. After all, someone had to look after Ana. The painfully thin young doctor obviously didn’t take care of herself. Sarah had carefully screened each applicant herself until she was quite certain that her little sister would be in safe hands.

While Ana had been busy at medical school, Sarah had married a handsome young pastor who had started a new Bible study in a storefront in the center of town. Peter Church was a strong, gentle, godly man who had accepted the challenge of starting a full gospel church in the superstitious old town. His belief in the Bible as the infallible Word of God was his standard by which he conducted his life before the whole community, and the citizens of Eventide watched everything he did.

The church grew quickly. Even Sarah had been intrigued by the doctrines of the fledgling church and by the preacher. Before long, even she believed. As Sarah became more involved, her modest conduct and steadfast commitment to the things of God won Peter’s heart. Eight months later, they were married.

Six years had passed and finally Ana had come home. Peter was thankful for her return, believing it to be an answer to a prayer. With a decreased work schedule, Sarah had more time to be with her husband and three children.

Ana was overjoyed at finally finding a group of people who believed as she did. It was only natural for her to become part of the flourishing congregation. Schooled in Bible doctrine by her father, she was content with her new life. At home, she spent time in prayer and scripture study. Life was nearly ideal for the young doctor. She felt safe at last.

Each Saturday evening, she would discuss biblical issues with Peter and Sarah during supper. Afterward, Peter would excuse himself and hide in the den to finish his teaching for Sunday morning, while Ana and her sister would talk or play a game with the children. Ana and Sarah had grown close since Ana’s return, so those times were precious.

Six months passed before Sarah dared to speak of the matter that weighed so heavily on her grandmother’s heart. It grieved Sarah to watch her sister become so wrapped up in work and church functions. Ana had no other outlets, no marital prospects, and she would be thirty-one the following January.

An old family friend, actually Ana’s fifth-grade sweetheart, Dr. Michael Disraeli, had shown some interest, but Ana had turned him down. She was indifferent to suitors and became infuriated if Sarah tried to make suggestions. Now as they sat together, Sarah cleared her throat nervously. Ana looked up from her reading with a frown.

Sarah, are you all right? she asked, putting down a cardiac journal.

Yes, I’m fine, dear, she replied. Sighing, she paused before daring to continue. Ana?

Yes, Sarah? she asked quietly. What’s on your mind?

Ana, why don’t you do anything for yourself? Sarah blurted out as she pushed herself forward on her chair.

What are you talking about? I do plenty of things.

Oh, really? Name one thing that you do for yourself, Sarah challenged, squinting with those eagle eyes of hers, ready to pounce on Ana’s answer the moment it flew out of her mouth.

Well, I teach classes on Wednesday evening, and I’m involved with the choral group—

All you do is work and help out at the church, Sarah interrupted. Don’t you ever get lonely?

Sarah, I don’t want to argue. You’re beginning to sound like Gran. Please leave me alone. I’m happy as I am. Ana sighed, trying to keep calm.

Ana, I’m not just talking about marriage, Sarah replied as she stood up. You need to get a life of your own. You don’t have one, and obviously, you haven’t noticed that fact.

Ana gestured with her hand. Okay, what’s really bothering you? Ana demanded, her face suffused with blood as she twisted a lock of hair at the base of her neck.

Why don’t you do something creative for a change? she challenged. You have a great voice. Why not do something with it? Sarah’s face had reddened with emotion as she spoke. You could train it, you know.

Is that what this is all about? You and that teacher of yours? Ana stormed as she stood up, stamping her foot. I don’t need any lessons, thank you.

Just come to one lesson. That’s all I’m asking, Sarah pleaded. If you don’t like it, I promise that I won’t bother you again.

I’ve already explained to you that I don’t want any lessons, and I don’t want to meet your teacher was her response. Do I make myself clear?

Ana’s golden shoulder-length curls quivered as she bit her lower lip in rage. It was the same look that she’d often given Gran. Sarah found it frightening when her sister carried on this way. But you haven’t even met him, Sarah exclaimed. How can you make a value judgment on someone you don’t know?

If he teaches voice, I know enough, she snarled. Ana paced back and forth sickened by her sister’s analysis. Sarah, they’re all alike. Besides, I think that you’re a bit obsessed with this man, and I’m not certain it has anything to do with his vocal techniques.

Ana Elizabeth, how dare you say such a thing! Sarah yelled. I’m a happily married woman and a Christian—

What’s going on in here? Peter interrupted bursting onto the scene, disturbed by the raised voices. It’s eleven o’clock at night. Keep it down. The children are asleep. He stopped, distressed by Ana’s appearance. Ana, you seem positively beside yourself.

I’m sorry, Peter, Ana apologized. Sarah and I got into a disagreement.

After listening to the subject of their argument Peter sat down, his forehead wrinkled in thought. Perhaps Sarah has a point. I don’t think it would do any harm for you to…

Maybe you’re right, she agreed. As she watched her sister’s face brighten, she knew that she had lost this fight. Perhaps I was too hasty. Okay, Sarah, when do you want me to go?

How about my next lesson? Sarah suggested. I’ll let you know the time.

But if I don’t like him, I’m not going back, understand? I’m not fifteen anymore, and you’re not Grandmother.

Yes, of course, Sarah replied sweetly, having gotten her own way again. Gertrude would have been proud of her. After all, Sarah’s personality was just like her late grandmother. Ana hadn’t stood a chance. She was far too much like her father. Ana, you won’t regret your decision. He’s really very good. Isn’t Dr. DiNapoli a good music teacher, dear?

He does seem to be quite capable, Peter agreed. We’ve used his services, as choral director, at church a few times. He has a rather strong personality though.

Why do you let Sarah go to him if you don’t like him? Ana asked.

Because I love and trust my beautiful wife. And because he so desperately needs us. Once you’ve met him, I think that you’ll understand more clearly. Kissing Ana’s cheek, he added, It’s getting late. We have to be at church at seven thirty in the morning. If you don’t want to drive home, you know where the guest bedroom is. Otherwise I’ll walk you to the door.

Okay, I can take a hint, she replied as she got her coat. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Peter, Sarah. A few moments later, she closed the front door, got into her MG, and drove home.

Sunday flew by as Ana performed a myriad of duties and collapsed on her bed at the end of the day. As she lay there, the phone rang. It was her sister.

Ana, my lesson’s at two thirty tomorrow. I wanted to let you know so you’ll be ready on time. It’ll make a good impression. Good night, dear.

Ana never got a chance to respond before the receiver resumed its dial tone. Shaking her head, she changed into her nightclothes and got into bed. A few minutes later, Ana shut off the lamp and nestled down under the covers.

All Monday morning, Ana avoided her elder sister. Fervently hoping that Sarah had forgotten about her promise to be ready at two thirty, Ana hid in the office as long as she dared. As the great hall clock struck the hour of two, Ana cringed. Immediately there came an all-too-familiar knock at the door, and Sarah peeked in to remind her sister of the time.

Ready to leave? Sarah asked as she breezed in, still smiling a toothy grin.

Couldn’t I come with you next time? Ana begged. I have all this paperwork to do today.

Now, Sissy, you know that’s not true. Those reports aren’t due until next month.

Quickly conceding, Ana tied her sweater around her waist as they walked to Sarah’s jeep. Driving along the shore road, neither of them spoke. Ana sulked in the passenger seat while Sarah concentrated on driving. Periodically, Sarah would glance at her sister’s face. Ana sat and stared straight ahead. It wasn’t until they reached Dr. Stephen S. DiNapoli’s winding driveway that the silence was broken.

Ana, are you angry with me?

Yes, I am was her reply. I feel like I’ve been coerced into coming here. I didn’t want to do this, and I still don’t. But you have to have your own way, so here I am. Why can’t you leave me alone?

Ana, I know you’ll like him. Just be patient, dear. Try to keep your temper, she advised as they stopped in front of the house and got out. I love you, Sissy. Glancing at her watch, Sarah continued, We’ve got to get going or we’ll be late.

Running to keep up, Ana barely noticed the massive Georgian architecture before her. An ornate oak door creaked open before they could knock. A servant escorted them up the long winding staircase to the second floor. As they hurried along, Ana surveyed her surroundings.

Well, how do you like the house? Sarah whispered in her sister’s ear.

Sarah, it’s a bit ostentatious, don’t you think? Where’d he get the money for all this? Rob a bank? Don’t tell me he got this on a professor’s salary.

Ana, really! Sarah exclaimed, her cheeks becoming a vivid red. If you must know, he inherited a large sum of money from his father’s family. Apparently he was the only heir. And he made quite a tidy sum doing the concert circuit. She stopped to check her makeup in the mirror outside the studio door. Now please tell me what you think about the place.

Do you want my honest opinion? It’s hideous. This man has more money than brains or taste.

Oh, Ana, you really are impossible. We should never have allowed you to go away to school. You picked up too many questionable habits there. Crestfallen by her sister’s sarcastic answer, Sarah had little time to expound as they were shown into the studio. I just hope the servant wasn’t listening.

The studio itself was a huge box-shaped room with a vaulted ceiling and intricate moldings. The woodwork was carved oak and the walls a stark white. At one end of the room stood a Steinway grand piano, dwarfed by the sheer dimensions of the suite. Two large windows with forest green jabot valances provided the only splash of color. Ana sank into the cushion of an Art Deco couch, while Sarah walked over to the figure seated behind the piano. A rich, resonant male voice greeted her as she stood in her place. After a moment, they began.

Time flew by as Sarah performed her exercises, while Ana sat silently evaluating his pedagogy. As she listened attentively, she could hear his encouraging words. The voice was warm, sincere, not at all like the man who had insulted and abused her so long ago. Ana found herself drawn by the soothing, dark, rich tones of that voice. It reminded her of another voice that she often heard in her dreams. She was deeply moved in spite of herself.

Then her bubble burst before she even dared to schedule a lesson. During the last few minutes of Sarah’s lesson, a young woman entered through a side door, interrupting the flow of the lesson. Although Ana couldn’t hear what was said, she felt a sudden change in the atmosphere. It had grown strangely cold and unpleasant.

Even after the woman’s departure, the doctor’s tone remained distant and strained. It was like the home that had been