Jenny’S Destiny

By Jamee Pilant and Kelly Liss

Jenny's DESTINY

Banquet's flight 'neath summer's cloak,

There! Danger waits, he's beauty's host!
"How much Troy?" One statement misunderstood will send a young wife running out of her home on a rain soaked Seattle night, fulfilling a prophecy written hours before and thousands of miles away on an island in the Caribbean.

"I hit the ripe age of twenty-four..." Said through the slow lick of a chocolate and strawberry smudged finger. Even though he knows it is an act purposely done to distract him, Troy cannot take his eyes off that mouth or the long slender index finger.

For Jenny Kendricks it is a brash flirtation out of character initiated to save her friend Chelsea from the man who frightens her. Moods roil and tempers escalate ending with a desperate escape through a rain soaked garden.

One click of a gun in a flash of lightning reveals imminent danger triggering the next two lines of verse.
Four journeys now begin

Born of envy, Bequeathed thru sin.
Destiny will be the invisible force that pulls two lives apart in the attempt to bring two others together. Like a stone cast into a lake, one interaction at a banquet table sends out ripples to affect many lives. Some must learn to love, others the courage to trust, while one must find strength to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524626730

Jamee Pilant

Evelyn Pilant Gaede, who writes under the pseudonym Jamee Pilant, published her first novel, Chelsea's Doom, at the age of forty-nine, in 2004. When she was repeatedly told by those who read the book "I wanted more!" "I did not want the story to end!" "What happened next?" she decided she wanted to know too. And so began the long journey of Jenny's Destiny-fourteen years and one section of the story at a time. In the hope that the lives of the four main characters fulfill the hopes and expectations of those same readers, Evelyn (Jamee) wonders, "How am I going to fill my days?" Fortunately, her daughter, Kelly Ellis Liss, had the answer ready. Start the third book, Shadow's Legacy. Evelyn is retired and lives in Northern Wisconsin with her husband, David, on a lake very much like the one in this story.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It should have been perfect.

A mental whine as Chelsea Laughlin turned the water on for a shower before turning to stare into the mirror across from it waiting for the water to grow warm.

It should have been perfect. She mentally repeated, tears falling down her cheeks, reflected in the mirror with a cascade of conflicting emotions.

After weeks of planning and preparing!

Keep Friday night for me, she had asked, waiting until that last moment between lights out and goodnight to elicit the promise, afraid that if he saw her expression he would guess the news before she was ready to tell him.

A promise he had sealed with a kiss.

Anger flashed through the mirror, quickly smothered by anguish, until that emotion morphed to panic, a physical reaction easy to trace by the quickened pulse at the base of her throat.

I hired caterers. Nothing for you to do but mingle. Quick words used to reassure her when he called that afternoon. But no mention of the promise his announcement had cancelled! No apology!

She would have forced him to admit that he had forgotten if panic hadn’t diverted all thought, all worry to the men who would invade her home that evening.

About thirty, if all bring wives or girlfriends.

A simple phrase with hidden meaning. Wives or girlfriends did not mean extra guests; he was telling her that was the guest list, code for Aliverez mafia, men he had sworn never to communicate or associate with again if only she would marry him!

Second promise broken and obviously forgotten!

He must have heard her gasp and realized she understood because his tone had deepened, one meant to keep her calm, and cooperative. "I hired caterers." A tone that said it was okay to pack a bag and run, to visit her parents in Wyoming if she felt need of escape.

She could have mentioned then, should have mentioned then as way of reply, that someone from Wyoming, late that very morning had dropped in unexpected. Unexpected but very welcome! The first overnight guest in their new house!

But she hadn’t said anything! Had simply stood there with the phone in her hand, mind frozen, fixated on one name certain to be at the top of her husband’s guest list: Troy Davenport.

Chelsea Laughlin closed her eyes to the mirror, hoping instead to focus on Jenny’s vow to stick close that night, to keep the dreaded Troy away from her, or at least to prevent him from catching her alone.

How long before her husband noticed? The query sent a worried glance to her stomach. Would the news please him?

She had no proof. Doc Gresham called that morning to cancel her appointment minutes before she had to leave, postponed it for the following week, leaving five days more to wonder and wait.

No confirmation meant there was no cause to celebrate… right? No reason to be upset… right?

Except… there were signs. Signs she had hoped the doctor would confirm. News she wanted to share!

Like, swollen ankles. Noted with a sigh and disgusted glance at her feet. Or nausea each time she walked past the meat counter at the supermarket. And mushrooms! There was this sudden, irrational craving for the slimy, foul tasting, root fungus that she had never before been able to tolerate.

It surprised him the previous weekend when he took her out for pizza and when it arrived with mushrooms over the whole instead of just half, she did not complain, did not send the pizza back, but instead had devoured every delicious bite.

And still! He never guessed! Hadn’t even wondered!

She heard his step on the stairs and knew she must hurry, yet she delayed, lost in memories of the past two weeks… long, tedious preparations for what should have been a special night.

Weeks she had spent searching cookbooks for recipes of his favorite dishes, with recipes simple enough a beginning cook could understand and navigate, rummaging through stacks of packing crates stored in the garage for the porcelain china received as a wedding gift four years before, and the silver serving-ware meant to go with it, and then, deep into her search, she had even found a silver chalice to chill the champagne.

Hours she had spent learning to lay wood for a fire in the stone fireplace of their living room, standing back to imagine a number of candles scattered throughout that room and the adjoining dining room. Because everything… everything! Had to be perfect!

All ruined with one phone call.

And then…! After his phone call! While she chatted with Jenny over coffee! She heard his car pull into the driveway and rushed to greet him, anxious to show off their first overnight guest in their new house. She had lifted her mouth to be kissed, and waited.

And waited. And waited!

Until… she opened her eyes and caught it… a quick conspirator’s wink shot over her head toward the visitor at the breakfast counter. And then caught the angry scowl Jenny sent back. A scowl easy for Chelsea to read since they’d been close friends since kindergarten.

She had turned an angry back to both of them, threw her wounded gaze out the kitchen window to focus on the colorful flowerbed Mike helped her plant just the weekend before.

He had taken her shopping for those flowers, helped her choose which plants to purchase. They had argued over colors, growing heights, and the care each plant would need to thrive and flourish, but then, after bringing them home he had helped her to plant and water them.

Staring out that window she mentally counted each plant, used that activity to build a silent defense, to smother anger and hide emotional pain.

Twelve Black-eyed-Susans… five holly hocks… seven pansies… Trellis…? A problem never before considered but at that moment, struggling to bury hurt and anger, it became a potential problem carefully noted. The Susans would want to climb.

Until, emotions turbulent, she abruptly turned to attack.

You knew…?

It had come fast, a bitter accusation she now softly repeated through the mirror. You knew…? Knew she was coming…? And you didn’t tell me…? Cold and silent, the mirror refused answer just as her husband had one half-hour ago.

Why have them here?

It had been a swift change of subject, addressing the guest list of his dinner party and the men who would soon invade her home, worries that in that moment buried all joy of Jenny’s surprise visit.

What if the authorities come? What if they are watching? We lose everything! I lose you!

Mike hated confrontation. It caused his jaw to snap shut and his teeth to clench tight, and in this instance erased in one quick moment his kinder mood of exasperated patience.

Troy won’t dare insult you, had been his calm reply.

She hadn’t noticed then. Hadn’t taken time to notice that his tone came kinder than expected.

Or harm you… carefully added, meant to keep her calm and cooperative. Not my wife! Not my home!

She should have heard it, that tone she cherished most, hard and protective, words edged with intent. She should have heard his guarantee to keep her safe.

But she hadn’t noticed, hadn’t heard. Instead, she turned to flee, but stopped at the door near the stairs, turned back to face him, to inflict hurt, just as she had been hurt.

He’d come forward, certain it was over, their argument settled, his lips breaking a smile, one that ordinarily may have turned her heart had there not been overlying emotions of fear... of dread… of frayed nerves.

She had stopped him mid-stride, one hand coming straight up, palm facing out like a stop sign.

No…

A hand that stressed what her voice could barely choke free. You gave to them… what first… was promised to me.

He remembered.

She caught it in the shock of his expression, his instinctive step forward. No…! The hand remained up, refused him freedom to advance. "You have no excuse! There is no excuse!"

Empty words. Spoken this time to a mirror that offered no reply.

She heard the shuffle of hangers in his closet, knew he waited for her to finish so he could shower too.

Should she tell him? She ached to tell him. Promise of a secret kept too many days burned her throat, caused pain deep in her breast. A secret she yearned to reveal.

She heard the doorknob jiggle, frowned at harsh words sent through the door, words that suddenly made a difficult decision seem quite easy.

He wanted this damn party?

Fine! Let him have it. She didn’t have to share this secret! Not with him, not with anyone!

Another irritated growl sent her from mirror to shower, not at all perturbed when water that minutes ago had been steaming hot, now seemed barely warm. Rinsing the shampoo from her hair, the water grew noticeably cool, then frigid cold.

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It was a frown Chelsea caught in Jenny’s expression over her husband’s shoulder, not a scowl. At that moment of husband greeting wife, Jenny had been focused on every subtle nuance of the exchange. So focused, she had swept past one glaring contradiction… the confusion of why?

Why hadn’t Michael Laughlin mentioned her visit to his wife? A visit that he initiated!

Jenny also noted a number of mood swings from Chelsea throughout the afternoon, occurring so often and so quick she wondered if this friend might have become bi-polar. Traceable changes ranging from euphoria to despondency, sometimes fear, that particular emotion easy to identify in the phone call with her husband.

Even before the phone call Jenny noted vivacious chatter that would suddenly disappear, times when Chelsea would grow quiet, somber, pensive, until seconds later, a smile would erupt, both voice and mood reverting to the gay chatterbox Jenny had always known.

Watching the initial greeting between husband and wife, Jenny carefully traced each shift of mood, watched Chelsea turn to stare out the kitchen window, and sensed the start of argument.

Having no wish to become part of that argument, Jenny slipped off her stool at the breakfast counter and after tiptoeing out of the kitchen, climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, grateful that Chelsea had made it a short stop during a rushed tour of her new house.

She had given Jenny just time enough to drop her stuff on the bed, smiled indulgently at the student’s backpack and even made a joke of it, what had always been… and still was… Jenny’s notion of an overnight bag.

As she climbed the stairs to the guestroom Jenny rubbed her temples. The trip from Wyoming had been exhausting with just a few hours sacrificed for sleep at a roadside motel somewhere east of the Washington state line, and unless Chelsea King Laughlin had greatly altered childhood habits, hot water would soon become a much coveted commodity, one that on this day Jenny was not willing to forsake.

The throb of migraine nagged, exacerbated by eight lanes of traffic through downtown Seattle that morning, what had been needless torture and her own fault, missing the exit that would have led directly to the Laughlin’s subdivision.

She needs you, Jenny.

That had been Michael Laughlin, one snowy morning in February, his voice soft but determined, same volume and tone heard moments ago, this time directed at his wife, a tone deliberately calculated, meant to apply pressure without incurring animosity, underlined by an iron will.

Calm words, politely and deliberately phrased. Softly spoken but unrelentingly determined! And in Jenny’s case last February, used to extend an invitation to visit Seattle.

Jenny hated winter. Hated February! Especially in Wyoming where it was the coldest, windiest, snowiest month of all. And on that day, the day of his phone call, a blizzard had raged right outside her dorm window.

The phone had been an unwelcome interruption, one of many irritations and inconveniences that cold snowy day. The first was a request to report early for her shift at the trauma center, they expected to be overwhelmed with emergencies on a stormy Friday night with a full moon. The student body would be restless, drawn outdoors into the elements by sheer excitement of the blizzard.

Her shift at the trauma center approached far too quickly and his call had cut short her last chance to study for the exam on Monday. But the entire semester had been that way, never enough time!

Her attention had wandered that day, divided between the conversation she could not politely end… to the sheets of notes scattered across her desk… information she had toiled all week to memorize. Attention divided between the twelve hour shift that approached far too quickly… against four-foot drifts she must wade through in order to get there.

Time had been her enemy that day. The entire semester! Time! Not Michael Laughlin! She should have put him off, asked him to call another day.

Time! It had chased her through every minute of every day, from class to class, shift to shift, test to test, assignment to assignment. And on that cold day of February with time running desperately short Michael Laughlin monopolized what little she had left.

Desperate to end the call, she told him then, exactly what she had told his wife not many days before. She would visit in June. Maybe July.

After graduation…

She deliberately stressed the last two words in firm display of her own iron will, overriding his request, one that had already been repeated too many times.

I will visit Seattle, she remembered stressing for the third time, eventually. But not before indulging one full week… two weeks… perhaps even three full weeks of solid, uninterrupted sleep!

Didn’t this couple ever communicate?

April… had been his reply, refusing to accept her alternative, reluctantly adding one detail she was certain he meant to omit. "It’s the anniversary…" Three words. Spoken so softly she nearly missed them.

Yet, they settled, and just in time to smother the cruel retort she had meant to send back. He was the one who broke Chelsea King Laughlin! He could damn well be the one to fix her!

A cruel accusation quickly swallowed and never uttered, stopped by one simple word. The anniversary, he said. Not our anniversary. It was a significant and profound difference.

Jenny digested that normally insignificant word as the phone froze to her fingers. He spoke of Chelsea’s abduction. She should have known without being reminded. April!

The last part of high school… four years… no… five… five! years ago this month. In April!

And now it was April and Jenny was there.

In Seattle. In their new home.

The Laughlin guestroom provided her with her own private bath, and to Jenny’s delight three scented candles decorated a narrow shelf near the tub. Chelsea obviously had Jenny in mind when she decorated and remembered her love of late night baths in soft candlelight.

She chose the red one, a cherry blossom scent. After lighting the candle she set it next to the tub along with two migraine tablets and a glass of water before undressing and climbing in, sliding through the warm water until she was chin deep.

She swallowed the pain tablets, folded a damp washcloth over her closed eyes, and then released her senses to the warm water and scented candle.

I’ll fly you out… The voice of Michael Laughlin two months before, softly coaxing, unrelentingly firm. A voice that accepted with no trace of gloating stunned silence as meek surrender, but had quickly inserted one promise. I’ll have you back for class, first thing Monday morning.

I’ll drive. Had been her curt reply, one that surprised herself if not him, so persistent had been the constant worry of school and deadlines, tempted at the very last by the promise of solitude a long drive would grant. A promise so sweet she could not refuse. Hours alone with no interruptions. Nothing but empty miles and freedom. No need to think or analyze.

Don’t let him catch me alone!

That had been Chelsea’s quiet plea as she hung up the call from her husband. No name offered, no real need for her to speak it. Jenny already knew.

Troy Davenport

Heard just one time, somewhere in the long days of Chelsea’s abduction, or those that immediately followed her rescue.

A name that in years since had been the subject of every research paper Jenny was assigned, even when the subject did not directly concern criminal behavior or organized crime. Somehow, Jenny always managed to make it fit, and while organized crime persistently remained the general theme, it was Troy Davenport and Michael Laughlin who remained the root of all information gathered.

The name Davenport had proven a challenge until she realized it concerned a man who lived and worked under a string of aliases: Davis. Davidson. Douglas. Donahue. Donovan. She knew them all and had thoroughly researched each and every one.

Davenport was the most current, a name that seemed to have stuck much longer than any of those that preceded it, but Donovan was her personal favorite.

It was the only alias that properly matched the arrogant stance portrayed in the one and only image she’d ever found of him, an old black and white newspaper photo; grainy, with details so blurred it was difficult to define anything more than stance and character.

A man she was destined to meet that night and just might have the chance to converse with him! She would finally meet this man of mystery, witness the man, the character… the personality behind the name!

A thought that brought her straight up in the tub, headache forgotten, her mind anxiously searching the scant contents of her backpack.

She did grab the black slacks hanging on the closet door… hadn’t she? Bought because they slimmed her hips, drew any curious eye down the long length of leg…?

Didn’t she?

And the blouse with the white lace overlay? She packed that too, hadn’t she…?

CHAPTER 2

Troy Davenport slid across the back seat of his limo while in the same motion he accepted a brandy and soda from his favorite bodyguard. The rich amber told him the drink was strong, obviously intended to ease the dark scowl that ruffled his brow.

After indulging one deep sniff, time that was taken to appreciate the intoxicating odor, he tested a bit on the tip of his tongue, paused the briefest moment, his tongue shocked by the bite of brandy.

Drawing two tight breaths he indulged another swallow, this time relished the burn that spread from throat to stomach. He finished what was left before handing the empty to his body guard for a refill.

The second glass drained much more slowly with Troy resting his tongue and palate between sips. Each time he traced the fiery liquid down his throat, relished the fire when it hit his stomach, a scorching burn that matched the raw anger that consumed him, directed more at himself than Michael Laughlin.

Mike argued against meeting that evening, in fact, had vehemently opposed it, repeatedly suggested an alternate date and time, Monday morning at his office on the Aliverez compound, but Troy had been stubborn, rigid in his insistence the meeting take place that very evening in Laughlin’s home.

Only when the call ended with Troy slamming the receiver into its cradle did he realize it was Friday, his busiest night of the week at the mansion, a realization that instantly smothered all exultation at having won this battle of wills.

Troy accepted his third brandy with a heavy sigh, indulged one deep gulp he hoped would bury… or at least numb… all thought of lost revenue. Thoughts turned to Friday nights past; years of Friday nights, and not one had he ever missed!

This could end as a costly mistake between lost revenue and disgruntled guests, and all his own fault, a consequence of temper. A realization that did nothing to ease his black mood.

He had spent years cultivating his reputation as Portland’s most gracious host of Gentleman’s Watch, an exclusive club for men, those with taste and means, and feared this one night might tarnish an otherwise stellar reputation.

His business model had been simple: court every wallet that entered his establishment, lavish attention on every new visitor, grant access to every whim and desire, and then, after the guest’s departure, invest hours learning all he could of the visitor’s profession, his preferred sport, hobbies, all he could of the man’s interests and passions.

On the second visit Troy would greet the guest by name and personally escort him to a private room, if one had been reserved, and intuitively employ the information he had so laboriously gathered, ensuring the second visit far outshone the first.

A swallow of brandy eased the pain of self-recrimination but did nothing to still the admonishments of an anxious mind. Another gulp finished the drink and the empty goblet was passed to Harley for a refill.

The burn that scorched his throat and stomach felt good, and seemed fitting punishment for witless stupidity. He must slow the pace, having no wish to arrive at the Laughlin home inebriated. After indulging one light taste he set the goblet to rest against his knee and then dropped his head against the back of his seat with hopes of dozing the three hours from Portland to Seattle.

What would the lovely Mrs. Laughlin be like? he wondered. Now, after five years of marriage? The one that slipped away! On the verge of sleep the ghosts of memory met him part way.

Hours, he had spent applying makeup, pulling long blonde tresses to the top of her head to add height. Every line of her body had been meticulously clothed, prepared and pampered with just one purpose in mind… to create an illusion, elicit interest, garner pleas for invitations to a private auction.

Any man lucky enough to catch sight of her could not help but follow the shimmering line of golden lamé all the way down, beginning with barely hidden nipples of her breasts, down shapely legs, all the way to the tips of her golden toes.

The stiletto heels of those gold slippers put unbearable pressure on her ankles… forced her to accept the support of his arm… his strength… just to keep her body balanced. A memory that still haunted… four…? five…? years later.

A private showing carefully staged, admittance granted only by special invitation. He had paraded her past them all, allowed each one a close look but no more, scheduled the auction for the very next evening, one that had promised top bids.

A promise shattered when Mike visited the mansion early the next day. How much is a wife worth, Troy? I’ll match your best offer! Whatever Troy expected to hear it had not been that!

Memory ended with a sudden jolt and squeal of brakes.

The limo was stuck in traffic, buried halfway across a long bridge with no possible escape before the next exit. Word eventually came of an accident two miles up the foggy interstate. Resigned to waiting, Troy drifted into sleep.

How much is a wife worth, Troy? I’ll match your best offer!

Two point six million, came the mumbled reply, and then as sleepy afterthought, Two million… six hundred thousand… and many a night’s sleep.

Five years worth of sleep.

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Jenny was early.

She wanted to be early, to be downstairs with time to snag a quiet corner… one with a good clear view of the front door. If Troy Davenport proved to be one of the guests that evening, she wanted time to study him, to gain a solid impression of him before he caught sight of her.

Because she was trying to fasten her watch as she walked from her bedroom to the stairs she didn’t see Mike coming up as she started down. When they collided she scrambled to catch her watch and her balance.

With a warning to be careful, Mike fastened the watch for her and stepped around her, but two steps later, he paused, stopped her to ask a favor. Watch for the caterers, will you? I can’t stall a shower any longer. There’s a storm rolling in, fog probably held them up.

Jenny nodded, and once downstairs, realized the quiet out of the way corner she had hoped to find did not exist. The house offered open living space with the foyer melting into the living and dining rooms, providing few walls and very few corners.

She had just settled on a spot near the stone fireplace when the caterers arrived. After directing a man in a starched-white caterer’s jacket around the side of the house to the driveway, she quickly moved down the hall to the kitchen, met him at the side door just in time to cringe, watching the catering van backup within an inch of her Nissan.

She waited long minutes for them to unload the van, oversaw moving the dining table from the middle of the room to a spot against a back wall, then did the same with the sofa, chair, coffee and end tables to create floor space.

Mike was just coming down the stairs fastening his cuff links when the first guests arrived. With a toss of his head he sent Jenny a grateful grin. Chelsea will soon be down.

The rooms filled quickly with men arriving in groups of two, three, four, sometimes six or seven; too many bodies that soon crowded the rooms to overflowing.

Jenny was stubborn about keeping her spot at the fireplace where she was not in the way of either guests or caterers but could remain diligent, observing all who came through the front door while at the same time, track Chelsea as she moved among guests, walking often into the kitchen and moments later, coming back out.

Jenny did not personally know Troy Davenport, and was not entirely sure, now the moment was here, that she would recognize him from that one newspaper photo. It had been months since she last glanced at it and the picture hadn’t been that clear to begin with.

She was counting on Chelsea’s reaction his first moment of arrival, certain that just as it had that afternoon, fear would visibly creep through her body to give his identity away.

Keeping a diligent eye on her friend, Jenny noted the manner in which she greeted each new guest, how she exchanged hugs and light kisses with the barest few.

Since coming downstairs Chelsea had been in constant motion but Jenny knew her well enough to read evidence of an argument not yet settled or forgiven. The young wife expended little energy on her husband with nothing but a rare word exchanged, and only when absolutely necessary.

Watching Chelsea greet a man she obviously held some affection for revived memories of a younger Chelsea… high school Chelsea… before abduction.

Memories still raw and poignant after five years, causing tears that were hastily blinked away. This was a version of Chelsea King Laughlin not seen in a very long time. Proof, Jenny hoped, of healthy psychological gain, and that was something to be celebrated, not mourned!

If Troy was to be a guest that night, he was late. Extremely so. It had long crept past the point of accepted manners. Maybe he was not meant to be there at all, except the crowd appeared restless, as if waiting for something, or someone.

When the doorbell chimed Jenny had to crane her neck to see who entered. A young man in jeans and a wide-striped shirt strode through, picking Chelsea up in a big bear hug before setting her back on her feet.

Jenny judged him close to their own age, dressed much like the university crowd would gussy up for the bars on Saturday night, and on this night, he presented a jarring difference from the others in their tailored business suits.

Chelsea grabbed the sleeve of his striped shirt while standing on tip toe to crane her neck, searching over the crowd before pulling him toward Jenny’s private corner.

High school again? thought Jenny, frowning at their progress. I find my own dates now, Chelsea Laughlin! Thank you very much! But it was a robotic, unconscious thought; no longer relevant, absent of power to hurt.

A disdainful glare plainly told them to stop, go away, progress no further. The young man caught that cold glance and pulled back, his gaze locked on Jenny’s expression of obvious distaste.

Chelsea pulled his head down to whisper in his ear. Jenny saw his head shake refusal but Chelsea grabbed his hand and pulled him forward, had obviously told him to ignore the scowl.

She was, after all, the one who taught Jenny that glance of cold disdain. Chelsea knew exactly what it was supposed to mean and how to get around it. Both girls had spent all of one summer practicing that disdainful glare, standing before the full length antique mirror of Jenny’s bedroom. It was meant to be a weapon, used to deflect unwanted attention.

Ironically, it was Jenny, not Chelsea, who perfected it, a fact that on this evening irritated the young hostess. This was a moment Chelsea had yearned for, had waited a very long time for just the right circumstances. Now that she was presented with this rare opportunity she was not going to allow this stubborn friend to spoil it!

Jenny might be difficult… said over her shoulder when Cord paused to allow a caterer to cut between them; but I told you what to do. Simple frontal attack.

She doesn’t want this introduction! She’s… out of my league!

A protest Chelsea ignored, spouting quick introduction before either party could object and then ducking into the kitchen, leaving them alone, either to make it, or not.

Jenny’s attention remained on the front door, allowed no sign she even heard the introduction but was vividly aware of him all the same. She knew every fidget that betrayed him. From the hand that tilted the bottle of beer in his hand to his nervous scan of the room to the scent of his cologne whenever he moved.

She felt smothered. He wouldn’t leave. He just stood there, so close, despite the fact she was deliberately rude, that she allowed him no acknowledgement at all but kept full attention fastened on the front door. She wanted to think of nothing but registering each new face as it crossed that threshold.

She saw the kitchen door swing open, watched Chelsea emerge, stop her husband for a quick conference. She saw Mike frown and Chelsea counter with a shrug before turning an about-face and returning to the kitchen.

A tray of champagne floated by. Jenny snatched a fresh replacement, set her empty in the space left behind.

He was close beside her. She wanted to ditch him but the room was too crowded and left nowhere to go. The soft material of that wide-striped shirt brushed her arm, brought another whiff of his cologne.

She gulped the champagne, traded that glass for another as the tray passed on its way back to the kitchen. Something about the waiter caught her attention. She had let them in. Did not remember anyone with dark rimmed glasses and severe acne… a thought lost before it could fully form.

A hand came down before her eyes to move side to side, up then down. She turned his direction, slipped into place the facade of cold disdain.

What was it Chelsea called him…?

Cort…?

One simple syllable, and yet, she fumbled it. After a swallow of champagne she tried again. Was that your name? Cord…?

It was a cold query meant to make an insult of his name, sent by hard brown eyes that looked past him, through him, beyond him, but never directly at him. To her chagrin Cord returned a confident grin. She felt him staring, taking notes.

The girl was tall, could look directly at him straight into his eyes. She sported a deep tan, was obviously intelligent, a college graduate. And… so far… followed exactly the pattern that Chelsea outlined.

Hurdle one down. Four more to go. A thought meant to bolster confidence. He bent forward to trap her gaze with his, tapped her champagne glass with his bottled beer.

To formalize the occasion, he quipped, glass and bottle touching.

Against her will, her gaze fastened on the brightest pair of purple eyes it had ever been her pleasure to drink from.

A smile played about his lips… second hurdle down. Three to go.

The doorbell clanged. Jenny’s head whipped that direction. A stream of men entered, but still, no adverse reaction from Chelsea.

Men crowded deeper into the front rooms, pushed those behind further back. Jenny stumbled over the low coffee table set out of the way directly behind her. She would have fallen if Cord hadn’t reached out to catch her. Her gaze shot straight toward the foyer, afraid she’d missed something.

Why so damn worried about that door? He betrayed resentment.

Why are your eyes so damn purple? She shot back.

Turgid Purple. His voice came amused as mentally, he marked the third hurdle. Company stock name… Information he offered freely, clearing confusion that clouded her expression.

Contacts? She asked, struggling against an exhausted, over-extended mind.

Simple, wasn’t it? His smile melting to a frown when her attention snapped to the door. Watching for Troy?

She shrugged indifference, never allowed her gaze to stray from the front entrance.

Why?

Chelsea was upset… Words that began as confession, drifted to an aggravated end. How did you know?

Only one not here yet. He reached toward a passing drink tray, handed her a fresh champagne, took her empty to set it in the vacant space. Now you. Truth. All of it.

It must have been the turgid purple of his gaze that confused thought with speech and made her stumble words. Frightened cold… she may bolt…

Colt. He corrected, mentally marking the fourth hurdle.

She stared, confused, unable to trace the last words either of them spoke. Wha… at?

Cord’s mouth offered an honest grin, certain he had just cleared the fifth hurdle… or maybe… four and a half?

Colt. A short explanation that was not enough for an exhausted mind. You said cold.

She drank from his purple eyes, allowed him rapt attention, caught in the voice that worked to explain. You meant colt. Colts bolt. Colds run. And then, the ice maiden crumbled in a fit of giggles.

Cord could not hide the smug grin of a hard fought win. Fifth hurdle firmly secured! And half the time it took the high school jocks Chelsea told him about. It paid to listen. This was the Jenny Kendricks Chelsea assured him he’d discover, if he followed instructions.

The giggles transformed her face, turned the cold statue into a dark haired beauty.

Cord stopped a waiter carrying a full tray of champagne glasses, glanced twice at the off-white uniform… no AZC logo for Aliverez Catering… failed to make the connection… set her empty on the tray as he replaced it with a full one.

Thinking twice, he grabbed a second champagne before the waiter moved out of reach.

I don’t know Troy. Admitted with a blush as she accepted the second champagne glass. Never met him…

He waited, said nothing, more intent on her face, intrigued with patterns of tangled confusion.

Jenny wondered if she made sense, spent a moment silently tracing words already voiced before plunging forward, speaking slowly, purposely. Thought I’d know, using Chelsea’s reaction as a guide…

But Cord’s attention had shifted, caught by a sweep of headlights through the bay window. He’s… here? Jenny paused, nervous as her companion continued to look past her, not sure what held his attention through the window.

Then, as if to assert attitude, Is he really the cold purveyor of women, Satan incarnate, that Chelsea paints him?

Can be… words that signaled an abrupt change of manner. Appears you’re about to find out. That’s his limo. Lifting another Champagne from a tray floating past, Cord grabbed her arm to plow a path through the crowd.

CHAPTER 3

Donovan Plantation, Island of Dominica

Those on the estate called her Tante. Most of the villagers, however, used a respectful Aunt Witch, while those who spoke French made it Tante Sorcière. On this small island of the Caribbean, Tante was the symbol of wisdom and authority, a woman known by all who lived on or anywhere near the island.

For those harboring a guilty conscience the title Aunt Witch held a tinge of condemnation promising swift justice for wicked deeds not yet discovered, punishment to be inflicted by the devil who patiently waited to avenge every transgression.

This promise of retribution for earthly sins caused some to whisper her name, their tones laced with fear, and when it was necessary to seek her help or advice, the guilty would sneak through the rain forest, nervously scanning the path ahead, searching for hungry eyes floating above strong lithesome bodies with padded feet, beasts that were always sensed, but never seen.

There was not one person living on the estate or anywhere around it who could remember a time without Tante. She was born on the Plantation in one of the last remaining cabins still known as the old slave quarters, though all but one were long gone, nothing left of them but the barest trace of broken foundations.

The old woman had brought nearly every villager into this world, and in the course of everyday life had tended far too many on their way out of it. It was Tante people fetched when someone fell ill or a baby needed delivered or there was accident or injury.

It was also Tante the villagers consulted for matters of the heart… be it love or revenge, didn’t matter which… her affinity with the spirit world was open to all, but only at night for those seeking revenge… after the moon no longer lit the sky. Only the hungriest, most malevolent souls braved the dark forest after nightfall.

It was a service Tante offered but only reluctantly provided, forcing each seeker to endure soul baring questions, and then afterward, Tante would darkly warn that interference with the natural world wrought unanticipated consequences.

If the need to infiltrate the dark forest was not deterrent enough, the giant fire pit where they were ordered to stand throughout the consultation often was. Hungry flames would lick the bottom of the kettle, and for the guilty, having to stand and wait as each question was carefully dissected, that fire would become a source of terror.

Each visitor would try to keep a safe distance from the kettle, though, none could tear their eyes away as the old woman carefully measured and added each ingredient to the brew, and each time, a nervous jittery gaze would inevitably fasten on the space above, convinced the wisps of steam were ghostly forms rising from the kettle to meld with the dark night.

Tante would covertly watch every visitor and determine through furtive glances who visited the glade with honest intent and who did not. The guilty would invariably back away from the fire, averting their gaze as each ingredient fell into the brew, believing those wisps of steam were the demons of their nightmares, steam stretching far from the kettle to search the night for guilty souls.

The dance of hungry flames would grow brighter and hotter to drop subtle reminders of hell, and remind those with evil souls that the future awaiting us all holds a guardian who patiently waits for the end of each soul’s journey, and that every mortal, once born, must experience the same inescapable end.

Tante came from a long lineage of village shamans, grandmothers and great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers, some so far back they had lived in the old world called Africa, and each shaman had trained his or her successor.

Tante’s training had begun in her eighth year and robbed her of those last years of childhood freedom. Carefree days suddenly burdened with chores of the forest, learning a job that had come looking for her, teaching skills she did not want and had not asked for.

It began with one night’s dream that turned to nightmare, where disembodied whispers chased her through tangled webs of sleep. When she woke the next morning, screams from the head gardener pulled her outside where everyone on the estate crowded over the body of a nine year old boy, the youngest son of the Donovan family, his lifeless form sprawled on the front lawn.

The only one to show no sign of shock was the little slave girl not yet known as Tante. Her grandmother noted the calm reaction, and always watchful for the next shaman meant to eventually replace her, accepted that stoic calm as sign from the spirit world.

From that day forward Tante spent her days gathering twigs and sticks to feed the insatiable flames beneath the black kettle, collecting endless ingredients needed for her grandmother’s potions… feathers from wild birds, insects, wild plants, leaves, roots and bark from many different trees and bushes, and the one thing she hated most, wild honey.

The same fire she tended now. Same black kettle. Same ingredients to be gathered and then used to concoct the same age-old potions and salves her grandmother once produced.

In her turn Tante had taken time to train a number of apprentices, but sadly, had outlived them all. Not that it mattered. Life on the island had subtly altered in recent years. Tante was fast becoming obsolete.

Distance to obtain medical advice was no longer an obstacle. Modern transportation made it a simple trip by car, up and over the mountain to the new hospital in Guadalupe… a white brick hospital built by the American Red Cross after a devastating hurricane… or an older, smaller facility in St George at the other end of the island, preferring the cold services of a professional whenever a bone needed set or a baby delivered.

White. Sterile. Impersonal. Efficient.

On this dark, April morning of 1986, Tante was nearly blind, living inside a body old age rendered much too thin. But she obeyed the whispers that pulled her out of bed, whispers that had chased her from dream to dream, urging her now to rise before dawn’s first light, not at all sympathetic to the rheumatism that crippled her.

Grudgingly, she moved across the uncarpeted floor to the balcony of her second story bedroom. The first trace of morning was barely visible, not even a decent light, just a streak that hinted of an end to the velvet night, enough to tell her she must hurry.

She carefully descended thirteen steps to the courtyard, counting each one, never trusting her eyesight to tell her when she reached the bottom and always carefully planting both feet on one stair before venturing to the next, and then, when she did reach the bottom, she carefully negotiated a deep fissure in the cement walk before the cobblestone drive.

Cutting across the lawn would shave minutes off her journey but despite the number of intervening years since that night of tragedy so long ago, she persistently shunned that shortcut, certain the boy’s spirit still lingered.

She often sensed him; most times near the kitchen, sometimes the inner courtyard or the hall outside his bedroom. Such a young thing he still seemed, at times hurt and confused, at others, angry, bitter, vengeful.

She trained her eyes south but could not discern the black iron gate, though she knew it wasn’t far, perhaps twenty yards down the stately drive. A large D in the center proclaimed that as the main entrance to the Donovan Plantation, just as it had done for nearly four hundred years.

She meant to follow the driveway only as far as that gate, and then turn her steps west to follow the dirt path along the stone wall that marked the plantation’s southern boundary, eventually would break from that dirt path to thread her way through the broken foundations of the old slave quarters to the only shack that still remained.

It was habit that made Tante keep an open ear for the sound of carriage wheels and the clip clop of horse hooves, though neither had been seen or heard on the main drive for more than three quarters of a century.

Mr. D was the current resident of the once great Donovan Plantation and at one time had considered opening the estate to tourists, taking the advice of an over-eager representative from a renowned cruise line who convinced him the home was rich in cultural history.

As work carried forward it also renewed interest in the plantation’s greatest mystery, the unexplained death of a young boy, arousing public interest and a myriad of questions Mr. Donovan did not want to answer, until finally, he scrapped the idea as suddenly as he first put it to motion.

Curiosity concerning the manor’s cultural history was desired and acceptable. Curiosity of personal family history had quickly become unthinkable.

Rheumatic legs demanded the old woman stop to rest halfway down the drive. She leaned against the trunk of a giant Mahogany tree, one of many that had stood silent sentinel over the long drive for many centuries, majestic trees that had not only weathered the ravages of time and the vagaries of bad weather, but had also survived the unpredictable, often destructive impulses of the men who had lived and died there.

When her frail body garnered strength enough, Tante trudged on, until she finally turned right at the black iron gate. Though nearly blind she walked a sure but slow step down the narrow dirt path, following without error every twist and turn.

Moving past the empty foundations of the old slave quarters she drew comfort from the distant echo of tears and laughter, voices that had once been familiar, still easily recognized. Sounds she had not always sensed, the unearthly presence of friends and family long gone, voices that in recent days had grown stronger, reviving memories never forgotten.

The whispers urged her forward, reminded her there was no time for lost memories on this morning. It was his destiny she must prepare for, his one chance of redemption that remained open.

She had failed him once, on that frightful night of his birth. She must not fail him again! Pas Cette fois! Not this time! Mon garçon… her boy…

It had been a difficult birth after a long tedious labor with one failed attempt to turn the babe in the womb. A delivery that ended in a breach birth. The last minutes had drained Missy of energy and nearly killed the babe. The whispers had urged her to hurry… she must save them both! The babe must draw his first breath before midnight… his future demanded it!

A deadline impossible to meet because of one tiny foot caught in the mother’s rib cage… then one miraculous second when both the mother and the babe stopped struggling.

One important moment when Tante tugged, felt the foot pull free of his mother’s rib. One horrible moment when Missy screamed.

Thirty years almost to the day.

Last chance! The whispers insisted. If she failed him this time she doomed his soul to the underworld. A world that currently nurtured but would soon turn against him to destroy him.

Tante stopped to scan the eastern horizon, nervous at the tinge of color. Daylight was too quickly approaching.

The whispers urged her forward to the last remaining slave hut, now home to a dozen hens and two roosters. Voices that warned of the rotten wooden plank halfway up, warned again to duck her head as she stepped through the door to the henhouse. But the old woman had walked those narrow boards so often and for so long, she knew exactly where to place each step, and exactly when to duck her head.

The dark interior made a blind search for the young cock she needed but she knew where to look, knew which was the favored corner. She wanted the young rooster, rich of blood with healthy comb.

She must carry him alive to the forest clearing before daylight’s first crow… twist his neck… dispatch his soul to the spirit world.

She surprised him in the last moments of sleep, used confusion of slumber to grasp his beak and both legs, tucked him beneath her arm to smother his squawks in the folds of her cotton dress.

His heart beat furiously against her right side as she held him firmly but not unkindly, aware that life must not escape him until all else was prepared.

There had been blood on that night too… night of the boy’s birth… as the babe achieved life’s first breath his beautiful young mother had drawn her very last. One soul newly arrived, the other evaporated on the gasp of a summer’s breeze.

A gentle wind that had brushed Tante’s soul with realization the child would never know his mother, never hear the soft voice meant to be his greatest influence, and one the whispers insisted was sorely needed, what should have been a gentle guide through the boy’s childhood, even through his first adult years.

One breath. One swift instant when Tante failed the spirit world.

Stunned, unaware of the cold breeze flowing through the room, Tante had remained where she stood at the foot of the bed, mesmerized by a steady stream of blood that steadily devoured the mountains and valleys of a wrinkled bed sheet, what had been a dark, urgent message from the spirit world.

With absent mind and eyes focused on the sheet, Tante had blindly handed the babe to his father, Mr. D, who on that night was already an old man, much older than the beautiful young wife who had just slipped through death’s door.

Devastated, the old man refused to accept the babe, had coldly shoved him back to Tante before stalking from the room, never allowing so much as one brief glance toward his dead wife or his new born son.

In the days and years that followed Tante accepted without fuss the important task of raising the boy, thankful to have saved one life, always consciously aware that she alone was to blame for the severed relationship between father and son.

The whispers had warned her to hurry! But Tante failed them all… not just the whispers… but the father, the mother, and the boy.

Now the whispers nagged again, reminded her his hour of destiny quickly approached, and that this time, there would be battle. She must prepare him!

She could not fail him again. Not this time. Not her boy! She must summon strength… strength enough to make it through this day!

He had been a good boy, a pleasant baby and easy to teach, eagerly absorbing each lesson as she presented it, lessons introduced as age and advancement allowed, an education that came to a sudden halt the night his father discovered them in the forest.

Wicked education!

Words angrily proclaimed, denouncing what Mr. D. had not understood but what she knew would eventually become the most important lessons of the boy’s life!

There had been accusations of heresy, his words drowning hers as she begged him to consider what was at stake, to accept a culture he had never tried to understand.

Ignoring her pleas Mr. D pulled the boy up by his collar, threw him across the front of his saddle and galloped away, the hooves of his giant black stallion echoing through the forest.

Tante’s purpose had been honest and true guided by the spirit world. She had done her best by the boy, providing parental comfort when his own father either couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

A responsibility that permanently ended when the six year old boy was snatched away from her the very next morning and sent far away to be raised by strangers, a confused soul that from that day on had been shuffled from one boarding school to another throughout his childhood and adolescence.

He had visited the plantation only one time since that night, and so long ago, it was hard to imagine the boy was now an adult nearing the age of thirty and would no longer resemble the young boy she remembered.

Though Mr. D had successfully separated them it was a shallow victory for his old, cold soul. Distance for the spirit world merely presented an inconvenience, not the insurmountable barrier he had wanted it to be. Lessons meant for the boy could not be denied. Not by miles, not through time.

News had come sparse, even more so once the boy reached maturity, yet somehow, word always reached her.

It arrived the first time through a young man of the village who was attending college in the States and saw her boy at school. Another time it was a young woman, born and raised on the estate. She worked as housekeeper and nanny for an American family and when they vacationed on the island she returned with them, brought Tante a newspaper article with a grainy, black and white photo of her boy.

The article unaccountably disappeared but she had found it, just month before last when she cleaned the front flowerbed for spring planting. Where it had been these past six years she could not say. It was enough just to get it back.

Tante had searched the photo and when she found what she was looking for, frowned at the mold, but smiled relief as she brushed crumbs of moist dirt from the photo and away from the arrogant Donovan brow. She knew the article denounced him as criminal but Tante could not have been prouder had the boy been her own son.

On this April morning, once she reached the forest clearing, Tante stood at the stone altar and with one sharp twist of her left arm and opposite wrist, sent the young cock to the afterlife. The ritual that followed was a quick one: drain the blood, note the direction it flowed, count the puddles it left behind, measure the breadth of each, search for feathers, note which direction each quill landed.

That done, she turned to the great fire pit and bent as low as her fragile body allowed her, determined to fight discomfort to study the ashes from yesterday’s fire. She wanted every clue the spirit world revealed and wondered if every moment she had lived had been for the express purpose of delivering her to this particular place.

If every decision she had ever made, every word she ever spoke had all been said and done with the sole purpose of guiding her to this very moment, when many different lives depended upon her, and her alone.

The Caribbean sun against her back was a warm blanket she found comforting, as if the spirits implored the sun to coax warmth into old bones. Or was it meant to remind her of how quickly time escaped and that the sun had nearly reached its high point?

After the ritual with the rooster she had not rushed the close scrutiny of yesterday’s ashes, but at last the task was done. She forced her body to stand upright, then meticulously gathered the many materials needed to craft human like figures made of sticks.

She sat on a tree stump and set to work, figures that for now were faceless blobs, but in the hours or days to come would slowly take on human features, while the leaves and grass would come to resemble clothes, distinct enough to designate male or female. As she crafted each figure, too often she could sense the age and sex, a sinister sign from the spirit world warning her that time was short.

As each one was done she set it down on the ground beside her to bake in the hot sun. Soon, features would form to reveal mood and character, marking some good, others evil.

It was work she liked to do, so even though it took most of the day the hours passed quickly. When she was done, she gathered up the figures, counting each one as she picked it up, setting each one in the crook of her folded arm.

Seven. But she had made nine!

Swallowing panic, Tante looked again, searched all sides of the stump, certain the heavy shadow of late afternoon caused her to miss two figures.

There should be nine. She made nine! When a second search and even a third failed to find the missing two she sent a swift glance to the left of the stump. The hill of twigs and sticks was gone, just as she remembered.

What happened to the other two?

Fear made old dim eyes search the males and relaxed only after she found him. Her boy. He was safe but the message was clear. Trouble had begun. Two players already down, or soon would be.

Without the missing dolls to resonate mood and motive she could not know if they were friend or foe. Tante studied each of those that remained, carefully separated male from female. Two of the males turned her blood cold. These, she knew, were the enemy!

She picked one of them up, found him to be a withered thing bloated from the hot sun. He was an old man, grossly fat. A man who held power over many others and gloated over it. A man who demanded obedience but garnered no respect. A man from whom evil emanated, evidenced by a pulse running from the stick figure through the fingers of her hand… then her arm… her shoulder…

She set him down; shrugged off the tingles of vibration before picking up another male. This one was physically deformed with one leg shorter than the other, the short leg crooked from the knee down. He would lose an arm in the months ahead. He would suffer a terrifying death with injuries sustained before the final horror meant to end his life.

Tante studied this man, revulsion her predominate reaction. She thought the bad leg was a lifelong affliction and would cause a pronounced limp. This man was not yet fifty but emanated an air of immaturity, his brains addled from drink or narcotics, making him uncouth and unreliable.

"Yes… the old woman thought, setting him next to the old, fat, wrinkled one, deliberately choosing a patch of hard ground over soft tufts of grass where she had set the others. Vous êtes mauvais! You are a crooked one! A crooked, evil soul! But he will know. Mais mon fils, il le saura! My boy will know!"

She counted again. Four male. Three female. She lifted the tallest of the females, thought she appeared a bit darker than the other two. Deeper than suntan but not African. Nothing to hint Hispanic or Asian. Perhaps… a trace of American Indian?

If so, it came through a distant lineage with many other cultures bleeding through. And yet, the high cheekbones? That could be Native American or Russian. The long legs and heavy bust gave proof of either.

The figure warmed to her touch… sunlight warm that shot through Tante’s palm… infused her wrist… traveled to her elbow… caused the old woman a surge of affection, something she had not expected.

Old eyes scrunched to a deep squint, worked for a closer look. Young person, with a hungry soul… searching…

Presented one firm notion she had not expected, one