Prelude

By Cullen McQuitty

Gods grace takes many forms and comes to us in many wayssome easily recognizable, some by means not always readily apparent or comprehensible. For Tracy Carmichael, despondent over being forced into early retirement by a corporate takeover, Divine Grace settled over her with the sudden intrusion into her life of a musically talented, smart aleck, fun-loving, irresistible twelve-year-old boy named Brogan. Abruptly, her existence became filled with complications and circumstances that, to her, were both vexing and exhausting, yet nonetheless always enjoyable. Then, as suddenly as he appeared in her life, Brogan disappeared.

Having become inexplicably dependent upon his presence, Tracy fell into depression and subsequently sought the help of a psychiatrist. Through counseling she was encouraged to try something adventurousto get away; far away from those things that only served to remind her of what had been, for a woman of total dedication to her career, a tragic blow to her self-esteem.

Without faith and morosely despondent, she was hardly prepared for the incredible circumstances that followed next. During a nature-trail photo shoot at a resort in Arizona, she became lost: broke a leg, met a priest, and began a most incredulous journey of renewed interest in life and people. Remarkably, Father Bertelli shared a similar connection with the boy, Brogan.

At first, what she had assumed was simply coincidence was hardly Father Bertellis interpretation. Theirs became a remarkable friendship, leading to a completely newfound life for Tracy.

From her relationship with the mysterious young Brogan, certain music would continue to haunt her, baffle the priest, and subsequently lead to a way of life she never imagined possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490871271

Cullen McQuitty

Before taking early retirement, the author was a design consultant to the exhibition arts: he wrote business theatre scripts for numerous major corporations, and designed exhibits for historical museums, auto shows, conventions and new product announcement shows. He now devotes full time to writing, under the pen name, Cullen McQuitty.

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Copyright © 2015 Cullen McQuitty.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7126-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7128-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7127-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903071

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/07/2015

CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

To

My wife, Judy

for her support, sanity and sufferance

and

Mary Barnes

for her invaluable contribution

Ex Animo

ONE

For three weeks the coastline just north of Bay City, Michigan, benefited from what local residents exuberantly described as unheard of good weather. Not in anyone’s memory had there been days of such perfection, so quite naturally it was the first thing discussed when locals greeted each other or strangers in passing. It was the beginning of April. Noisy gulls filled the sky, as they did most every day, voicing their incessant, raucous screeching while soaring effortlessly above a gentle, rolling surf.

Capricious Lake Huron had, with equal astonishment to all, behaved in concert with the pleasant weather, playing the gentle masseuse along this particular three miles of pristine shoreline, much to the delight of the waterfront residents.

Tracy Carmichael acknowledged the air rats, tossing a look their way, trying not to break stride. Blissful nincompoops! she muttered. Stumbling, she grumbled something profane, recovered, then continued on with rapidly diminishing energy. Another quarter mile. The thought pushed her resolve, her mouth now open wide and sucking air hard and fast.

From behind a sand dune, a white and charcoal waterfront home came into view. Another hundred yards and an exhausted woman of thirty-seven years stopped and dropped to her knees, panting. It’s been way too long, gal, she said under her breath. A solid minute passed. Tracy remained a silent, panting, lonely blob on the expansive but empty sands of Sutter’s Bay, letting her body find the energy, and her mind the will to pull it together in order to negotiate the remaining distance to the glass sliding doors in the lower level of the white and charcoal house.

Lying on the couch in her sunlit living room, Tracy hit dreamland in less than sixty seconds despite the Saturday cartoons doing their best to keep her attention drawn to the television. A week’s worth of old newspapers, along with an assortment of magazines, lay scattered about the floor next to the couch. The jog down the twelve-mile beach was a final attempt to clear the mind, to move on, as they say, putting the final touch on the most exhausting week she had ever known. Physical fatigue was one thing, stress was quite another, and the past week had had its fill of emotional plunges into a depressive state she never imagined possible. She slept deeply—a blessed relief from reality.

The living room, along with a large open kitchen set behind a pass-through, formed the second of three levels in her beachfront home. A set of wide double-glass doors opened onto a wrap-around cedar deck with stairs leading down to the lower level. A single, sliding glass door offered access to the house from the beach. Three bedrooms of considerable size occupied the top floor.

Opposite the couch, an arrangement of audio components, plus a large television screen, made up a small but compelling entertainment area. The predominant visual attraction in the room was the Steinway baby grand piano that sat in one corner, suggesting someone with strong musical inclinations roamed the premises.

She never heard the tap on the front door. Another knock. Louder. No response. The door pushed open slightly. A middle-aged female head appeared.

Tracy?

Still no response. Hey, lady… you in there? Nadine Carter eased into the room. For all of her corporate life, Tracy Carmichael had been the proverbial nose-to-the-grindstone sort and suffered the consequences—in the opinion of most—of never developing what might be called close relationships with employees or with just about anyone else for that matter. Nadine was an exception of sorts. As close to a close friend as one could be to Tracy, she managed to establish a harmonious association through their mutual interest in music, which surfaced and flourished during luncheons in the corporate cafeteria of Donnameir Medical Products. They attended musical events together and occasionally dined at Ghislana’s Restorante, a particular Italian restaurant a few miles away. Nadine was married, which was perfect for Tracy, as this prevented their friendship from becoming too exclusive. Nadine’s husband, Arthur, was a good enough sort. He and Tracy hit it off, and he indulged Nadine her freedom when it came to an occasional girls’ night out sort of thing. While hardly a model marriage, it apparently held up fairly well under the strains of both being employed by the same company, and having not been blessed with the children they had envisioned during their seventeen years together.

Hellooooo… anybody home? called out Nadine. The back of the couch faced the door. She could not see her friend, who, lifting her head to peer over the couch, spotted Nadine silhouetted in the open doorway.

Tracy sighed, Oh, go away. I don’t want any.

Good, you’re home, Nadine said, recoiling slightly as she marched around the couch and looked down at her friend. The sight of a sweat-streaked human with snakes-alive hair, her body encased in a rumpled, soiled T-shirt and jogging shorts was hardly expected.

Holy fright, look at you! Forget to shower, did we?

Go away.

Well, I just wondered what’s up with all the cop cars out front.

With an effort, Tracy sat up and twisted around to peer through the open doorway. What? Cop cars?

April fool’s!

Tracy turned and gave her friend a look. You know, for a thirty-eight-year old woman, you can be a total juvenile. What are you doing here anyway? It’s Saturday, for Pete’s sake.

Nadine shrugged. "It is April, you know. Okay, so I’m a few days late. She brightened. Listen, Arthur and I are heading up north to Traverse Bay… we thought you might want to go along. How ’bout it?"

No way. I’m not feeling all that terrific. You and Arthur do your thing. Have a nice day. Good-bye.

Nadine ambled over to the television and shut it down. Spotting a half-empty large bottle of cola and an empty glass she said, You know this stuff’ll kill ya, right?

Great! Pour me another.

Oh, come on, Tracy, it’s not the end of the world.

Tracy gave her a disgusted look and fell back onto the couch, closing her eyes.

Nadine waited a few seconds, then began to stroll about the room. You know, you’re not the first person to take early retirement.

Without opening her eyes, Tracy grunted. "Take? Did you say take? I didn’t take anything. Did you say retirement? If that’s supposed to be funny I’m not amused."

Nadine stepped in front of the couch. Bending down, she gathered up the pile of newspapers and magazines. Okay, sorry, I don’t mean to make light of it, but you know this sort of thing… hey, it happens all the time. Companies get bought out, restructured. It’s tough, yes, and it affects everybody. She hurried over to the pass-through to lay the bundle of reading material on the countertop. Without looking at Tracy, she said, Besides, you would have retired in a couple of years anyway. Right?

Tracy reacted, A couple of years? I’m thirty-seven years old! She sat up as her friend moved to the sliding glass doors. Nadine paused for a moment, looking outside, studying the beach below. She turned with a smile, took a few steps forward, and inhaled deeply. "Okay, so you got a bit of a jump on the retirement thing, but come on, stop with the self-pity routine. Think of it this way gal: the way it is now, you’ve got all the time in the world to do the things you really want to do. Can you look at it from that angle?"

The only thing I ever felt like doing, besides being a slave to dear ol’ DMP, was writing, and you know what, whatever desire I might have once had for that is now gone.

Oh, Tracy, I’m sure it’ll all come back. You’ll start writing again.

Are you kidding? I don’t think so. Lately, my life has hardly been anything to inspire much in the way of creativity… okay?

Yeah, well—but hey, they did give you a pretty healthy package, right? The company, I mean.

"Oh, right. Like I give a rip about the stupid money. Come on, Nadine, you know me better than that. I enjoy work. It’s all I want to do. It’s all I ever wanted to do. It’s what I live for." She rose up off the couch and moved toward the kitchen, brushing past Nadine, who glanced up at her former coworker as she was used to doing, being only five-four to her friend’s five-eleven. Tracy’s height and no nonsense manner stood her in good stead during the early years, commanding respect while projecting a certain degree of intimidation to both coworkers and superiors.

Not only was this PhD biomedical engineer one smart cookie, as those in upper management were frequently to remark, Tracy also had the looks and the body to both please and worry certain individuals who thought themselves her rivals for attention and commendation. Focused on little else than Donnameir Medical Products, she had little time, nor inclination, for socializing. Work was her joy to the exclusion of what most might deem a normal life away from the job. Into the office early, and one of the last to leave, she was fully focused—some would say inordinately—on her career, an attitude that did not escape the attention of those who roamed the executive floors of DMP.

Donnameir Medical Products was one of the largest producers of medical devices and pharmaceuticals in the world with a physical presence in more than twenty countries. It employed over fifteen-thousand specialists in the medical field: engineers, biologists, research and product development people, lab technicians, packaging engineers, administrators, as well as management, sales, and maintenance personnel.

It was readily apparent to even the most casual worker that this tall brunette of singular purpose was destined to fill a vice-president’s office, and such would have taken place had Tracy not had the misfortune, during the past three years, of being assigned to the team of Jennifer Evans, a leader of considerably less talent and drive. Evans, an acknowledged brownnoser, recognized early on the superior faculties, dedication and attractiveness of her junior team member. Subsequently, she never missed a chance to diminish Tracy in the eyes of those who mattered when it came to handing out recognitions and promotions.

Among her fellow workers, it was Nadine Carter—in many ways Tracy’s opposite in style and demeanor—who eventually managed to break through her resistance to socializing. While working on the same floor, but belonging to different product design teams, the two women found each other during lunch breaks. They shared a few common interests: music and ballet, plus a genuine passion for Italian food. There were times when Tracy and Nadine, along with husband Arthur, would make an evening of palette pampering at Ghislana’s Ristorante.

The Carters’ were big on parties, and Tracy could count on being invited to at least one a month. Nadine could count on Tracy not being interested, most of the time.

From the kitchen of her beachfront home, Tracy continued her venting to Nadine while pulling a coffee cup from a cabinet, then activating her single-cup coffee maker. Why, she asked, "please tell me why, my friend… why couldn’t they cut some deadbeat who’d like nothing better than to sit on his fat duff the rest of his life? And you know we… they, have a few of those types drawing paychecks. So, why, why, why, didn’t they do that… huh?"

Yeah, I know how you feel.

No, you don’t. Need I remind you, friend, that you still have a job, not to mention getting a promotion, no less?

Nadine leaned elbows on the marble counter of the pass through. I’m sorry, Babe. I know it’s been rough on you. I really wish there was something I could do to change things.

Tracy didn’t respond. She waved Nadine off with a dismissive gesture. Her friend shrugged and turned toward the front door. Well, hey, I guess we better be headin’ on up. She paused to glance back over her shoulder. Look, if you’re interested, we’re hosting a barbecue next Saturday. Why don’t you drop over? We’d really like you to come. Try and make it, okay?

You’re kidding, right?

Hey, it might just do you some good. You need to get out of this house once in a while

Yeah, yeah, Dr. Carter’s cure-all, right? Whatever the problem, let’s throw a party.

Nadine opened the front door, stepped through and began to close it, stopped and stuck her head back into the room. Well, it ain’t a bad way to keep your spirits up, ol’ gal. We’ll save you some ribs anyway, just in case you decide to show. She closed the door.

In the kitchen, her coffee brewed, Tracy removed her cup from the machine, and cradling the steaming cup in both hands, moved to the sliding glass doors, elbowed one open, and stepped out onto the deck. Setting the coffee on a small circular table, she plopped herself onto a cushioned, white deck chair.

The sky, which began its day as perfectly clear, was being filled with towering cauliflower clouds, ever changing in shape and size. The tall woman, relaxed in her white deck chair, squinted at the morphing clouds, creating within them a variety of cartoonish distortions: mostly people, along with a wide assortment of creature images that were constantly emerging from her cumulus palette.

Finished with her coffee, Tracy returned to the kitchen, put the empty cup in the sink, and went back into the living room, her eyes roaming the interior as if hoping the walls, furniture, pictures, or knickknacks might reveal some sort of answer to the horrific devastation that had befallen her.

In the middle of the room she paused, as if uncertain what to do next. A framed photograph sitting on the closed piano top caught her eye and drew her to it. The black and white image of Mrs. Kuchinskaya, her former piano teacher, smiled up at her. She lifted the photo, bringing it close to her. This old, signed portrait charged Tracy’s memory bank. She saw herself—eight again—the bright, extremely talented (as Ms. Kuchinskaya often remarked) prodigy with an undeniable musical career ahead of her. Holding the photo, she let herself be drawn into those early childhood years when all was right with the world, and nothing mattered except sitting in front of the keyboard producing music on her beloved piano.

The memories unfolded in a familiar, sequential pattern that always ended the same way: a career-ending accident in the Carmichael kitchen. Grandma’s little helper, too eager to show her ability slicing carrots, cut a tendon in the middle finger of her right hand, which, in spite of surgery, left the young girl with limited flexibility in that particular digit.

Tracy smiled—she’d long ago cried all the tears that could be shed—gently placing her teacher’s photo back on the piano top. Standing, she opened the keyboard cover to trace the opening few bars of a Chopin nocturne. It was a credible effort, considering the limited flexibility of her left middle finger. Ordinarily, her flawed rendition would not have elicited any concern, the years having smoothed away the pain and agony of loss she suffered when the realization of never becoming a concert pianist hit home with full force. But today, these tragic memories coupled with the weight of the recent work-related setback settled heavily on her shoulders. Sobs surfaced from deep within. She bent over the piano to let all the frustration and hurt flow unchecked.

* * * *

The town square was unusually active for no particular reason that Tracy could observe. She sat, relaxing on a park bench, having driven into Linpalling earlier in the day. The weather was ideal. A decent string quartet was doing a creditable job of attracting an audience to a rare, park performance of chamber music.

She arrived at the park around ten that morning, taking Nadine’s advice to get out of the house. It was true, there had been too much brooding about the whole stupid business. It wasn’t the end of the world. Life would go on. Somehow such old platitudes were just that—old. They offered little satisfaction. Was there not some form of activity she could become involved with? Her daily runs along the beach weren’t the answer. Too short. Too exhausting. Too… alone, she whispered to herself. Alone? The word surprised her.

Tracy looked about, stretched lazily, crossed her long legs and shot a glance skyward. Alone? Really? Never thought I’d say something like that!

She wondered if maybe a new car might brighten her life somewhat. She had had her old Jeep for seven years. I’ve had that thing for seven years? Then it is time. She would definitely look into purchasing a new vehicle tomorrow.

After about twenty minutes, Tracy felt the need to put things into motion—get active, do something. She decided to spend the rest of the day driving up the coast, checking out a few unfamiliar places. Free her mind of self-pity and Donnameir Medical Products.

The quartet finished their segment. She stood up, slowly, more with the resolute sluggishness of someone decades older than her thirty-seven years. The day was suddenly anything but encouraging. What appeared to be a storm system was moving in from the west, threatening to bring more gloominess to her already depressed state of mind.

Determined to battle the funk that seemed to permeate her entire being, Tracy drove a few miles, parked the Jeep between a couple of huge boulders, and put together twenty minutes worth of rock climbing. A few more miles of driving brought her to a marina. She always found it delightful to walk among the variety of boats tied within their slips, imagining how thrilling it must be to own one. There was a time she actually went so far as to talk with a marina salesperson. The truth soon became evident; boat ownership was not anything that would fit a workaholic’s lifestyle, forget the ego boost in having others think how cool she was for having this wonderful vessel tied up at the docks. Common sense prevailed. She soon realized the foolishness of spending large amounts of money for something one would have precious little time to enjoy.

A disenchanted Tracy turned around and drove back towards town. She saw a hiking trail, previously unnoticed, and pulled over to check it out. It ran through a lengthy section of a heavily wooded parkway. Ten minutes on the trail produced a small, moving stream where she sat, gathered up a few pebbles, and tossed them into the rapidly moving water.

Later, slowly cruising the main street in town, a bored, despondent Tracy Carmichael was about to call it a day, when the marquee of a movie house attracted her attention. Suddenly, the idea of taking in a movie had some merit. It had been months since the last one. She checked her watch, pulled into a parking space just down the block, parked and walked to the theatre.

It was late afternoon when Tracy exited the theatre. The storm that had threatened earlier had moved on. The sky was clear. So, what to do now? she wondered. Should she head for home, to have some friendly conversation with a bottle of something stronger than cola? She knew there was a liquor store a mile up the street. What was it Arthur was always talking about? Black Bull scotch? Was that it? Hey, she thought, whatever it is that turns people on to the stuff… maybe I’ll give it a try.

Driving into town she found the liquor store and slowed the Jeep. It was then she heard the faint, but unmistakable, sound of a calliope coming from somewhere a bit further up the street. She drove ahead. At the end of town, a carnival had set up in an open field. Carnies were still working to erect a few rides. Tracy rolled her window down. The music of the calliope intensified, now accompanied by the smell of popcorn and hotdogs mixed with shouts of carnival hucksters and crowd noise. Above the rides and tents rose a giant Ferris wheel, not yet ready for customers.

Tracy brought the jeep to a stop in the middle of the street. She watched the action. Studying the Ferris wheel, she smiled. Her eyes glazed over as she made another withdrawal from her memory bank. She was nine, sitting all alone in one of the buckets of a tall Ferris wheel, laughing and thoroughly enjoying the ride. She chuckled softly.

A sheriff’s patrol car pulled alongside. The officer lowered the passenger side window to address Tracy who was unaware of his presence. Ma’am? Tracy was jarred back to reality. She stared at the cop, her mouth hanging open.

I’m afraid you’ll have to move your vehicle, ma’am, he said pleasantly with a mile-wide grin. You’re blocking traffic.

Tracy felt like the proverbial kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Oh, yeah, right, officer. I’m sorry. The carnival… I… I’m sorry. I’ll move.

The officer nodded and pulled away. Tracy put the Jeep into gear and drove on, her face flushed. Another bummer situation. I’m buyin’ that scotch, she said to aloud.

TWO

A few degrees south of sober, Tracy leaned against the railing on the upper deck of her house, watching the sun as it began to dip beneath the horizon. She was transfixed, standing motionless, eyes narrowed, putting a few thoughts together and trying to come to grips with what was not the best of circumstances. One small glass of Black Bull was all this non-drinker was able to down. There were tear paths down both cheeks. She sighed often.

The last curve of the sun disappeared into the flat edge of Lake Huron’s horizon. Darkness brought with it a bit of a chill. As if jolted out of a trance, Tracy stood up, turned and entered the house. In her bedroom, she collapsed into a recliner chair, sobbing until sleep overcame her.

In total darkness she awakened four hours later, glanced at the glowing numerals on her bedside clock and sat for a few moments, not moving. Reaching up she turned on the lamp by her chair. With a purpose, Tracy made her way out of the bedroom and down to the first level.

Opening the lower-level, sliding glass door of her beach house, Tracy stepped out onto the sand. She closed the door behind her, took a deep breath, and walked slowly toward the gentle surf of Lake Huron, glimmering under a partial moon. Walking in pumps through soft sand was not the best way to get from one place to another, but she was in a sort of daze, and did not think to remove her shoes. She paused at the edge of the water to look both ways up and down the darkened beach. There was no indication of life in either direction. Tracy tilted her head back, shutting her eyes as a tear coursed its way down her cheek. She checked a sob, swallowing hard. Opening her eyes, she stepped into the water, hesitated a few seconds then continued on until the water was at her knees.

Hello there! The voice rang out, loud and clear, having the same effect as a pistol shot. Startled, Tracy lost her balance, turning awkwardly in the surf to face the direction of the voice. A young boy stood at the edge of the water. He was quite tall, with deep auburn hair. His voice was that of an adolescent in the early stages of change. We seem to be the only ones on the beach tonight, he said.

That does seem to be the situation. Tracy was transfixed, knee deep in the waters of Lake Huron and not sure what further response should be forthcoming. She squinted in the darkness, trying to make out who this creature might be.

My name is Brogan. The boy took a couple of steps closer. You don’t appear to be fishing.

What?

You don’t have a fishing pole.

That’s because I’m not fishing.

Brogan cocked his head as if in expectation of a more complete answer.

Tracy mumbled under her breath, letting her exasperation show. I’m breaking in a new pair of shoes—okay? She