My Impossible Love

By Vibert Miller

Jason Pomeroy is deeply in love but he has a problem. The beautiful lady of his dreams, Angelina Maxwell, is a ghost who died more than a hundred years ago. Angelina loves him but must forever remain just a vision, and their love unfulfilled, unless she can find a way to become human again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vibert Miller
• Release date: Jan 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224792184

Vibert Miller

Vibert Miller is the author of fourteen books, msot of them romantic thrillers with a touch of paranormal and science fiction. He lives in the Pioneer Valley of Western Masssachussetts.

Book preview

Chapter One

Ipulled up to the front entrance of the stately Maxwell Inn in the small town of Maxwell.  I pushed the button to release the lid of the trunk and almost immediately there were two attendants with me. One took my bags and the other took my car to the parking garage. I stood for a moment staring up at the building and observed it was exactly as the brochure pictured it. The inn hosted an annual writers retreat but it was the first time I visited, partly because it was the first time I considered myself a writer and partly because it was the first time I could afford it. The publication of my new book afforded me that.

According to the brochure, the inn was almost as old as the town that grew up around it. They were both named after Douglas Maxwell who, as the story went, gave up his business interests in New York and headed west. He was a part of a huge migration west and he soon discovered all these people needed a place to rest on their way to make their fortune. Maxwell stopped traveling, secured a piece of land and put up a small hotel. Eventually, that hotel started growing and other people started to put down roots and build homes. Before Maxwell realized what was happening, a community had grown up around him and since he was the one who started the whole thing they named it Maxwell. He, in turn, named his hotel the Maxwell Inn. All of that happened one hundred and fifty  years ago and the inn flourished and was handed down from generation to generation.

I entered a large reception room where a long counter manned by several attendants checked people in as they arrived. There was a large sign pointing to an area where attendants to the retreat signed in and were given badges and schedules of the events.

When I checked in I looked around for my bags and I could not locate them. The receptionist caught me looking around and anticipated my question.

If you’re looking for your luggage, she said, they’re already in your room. She handed me a key with my room number on it. She said all this with a friendly smile, so I returned her smile.

The hotel was a four story affair and my room was on the second floor with a balcony overlooking a park. In the distance I could see a stream with rushing water. I was later to learn that the park and stream were part of Maxwell Inn’s property.

The retreat’s schedule called for a meet and greet early that evening accompanied by a late dinner. From all the badges I was seeing it looked as if the hotel was taken over by writers and want -to-be writers. There were agents and publishers there too and those were the people I was mostly interested in. I wanted to meet fellow writers too but my focus for the weekend was to get to know agents and publishers. I had one book out and it was doing well but I intended to have my name on many more.

The meet and greet was held in a large ballroom that was at the end of a long corridor both walls of which were adorned with paintings and photographs of Maxwells, starting with Douglas on down to the present CEO of the corporation that owned the hotel. They were mostly older men but one painting drew my attention. It was that of a beautiful young woman in her early twenties. It caught my attention because it seemed out of place among the older gentlemen. On the frame at the bottom the name Angelina Maxwell was inscribed. If I were pushed to describe the painting I would have said it had an ethereal quality to it.

The retreat was at sold out capacity mostly with writers but there were enough publishers and agents to make me think it was worth my investment. We were going to be there for a week so I decided it was best to pace myself. After dinner we gathered in the ballroom to chat and formed into groups of like-minded people. There were six of us, all new writers, all reaching for the stars.

I fell asleep thinking that I had made the right decision to send in my payment. I was brought awake by the sounds of music that seemed to be coming from outside my window. My watch showed two o’clock. Who would be playing music at that time of morning? I was angry to be awakened but the music was somehow soothing. It sounded like a flute playing music that was otherworldly. Whoever it was had a mastery of the instrument that was unbelievable. I walked out to the balcony to find the musician but there was no one there. The music stopped when I got to the balcony with the last notes floating away.

At breakfast the next morning I mentioned the music but no one had heard it.

Come on Jack, I said, your room is right next to mine. You didn’t hear it?

Sorry, Jase, he said, I didn’t. And I’m a light sleeper. The slightest sound wakes me. What did it sound like?

It was someone playing a flute. I did not recognize the melody but it was really beautiful. Very light and atmospheric.

I turned to other people at the table but they hadn’t heard it either. I was asked if it were possible I was dreaming. It was possible but not probable. I knew what I heard and it had awakened me.

I flagged down a staff member and asked if anybody had complained about being awakened by music at two o’clock in the morning. The man stopped in his tracks and stared at me. He was carrying a sheaf of papers which dropped to the floor. His eyes were the size of saucers. This reaction confused me and more so when he said,  can you please wait here? I’ll be right back.  To say I was puzzled would have been an understatement. Within a few minutes the manager approached me.

Mr. Pomeroy, he said, I have been told you heard music at an early hour this morning.

I did,