 
The House on Coquille Hill

By

Jenny Lee Osko

Smashwords Edition

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Published by

Jenny Lee Osko on Smashwords

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The House on Coquille Hill

Copyright © 2013 by Jenny Lee Osko

The House on Coquille Hill

By

Jenny Lee Osko

Chapter One

Angie paced as she waited for her husband to return home from his business trip. He was already twelve hours late. He had never been this late without calling to let her know if he would be delayed. Never. Twenty-seven years of marriage to a thoughtful, considerate and reliable spouse had made Angie a nervous wreck as she wrung her hands and waited five more minutes, for the fifteenth time.

It was Christmas Eve and the kids would be arriving early the next day with gifts, grandchildren, and holiday joy.

"Where are you, Bill", Angie asked her absent husband. She tried his cell number again. Again, it rang six times and the voice mailbox played the recording: "Hi, this is Bill. Sorry I missed your call. Leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as possible." After the beep, Angie left her third and final message.

"Bill, honey, I don't know why you aren't calling but I'm getting really worried." She paused for a long moment. She wiped her sweaty palms on her slacks and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "Please be okay." She choked. Angie paced her pristine home. Everything was in ready tidiness, decorated for the perfect Christmas Day. It was very rare that Bill and all of the children and their families could commit to being in town on any given holiday. As a successful sales representative for a major drug company, Bill was often away while Angie celebrated with their kids but without him.

Angie passed by the mirror in the entryway near the front door and noticed how haggard she looked. Her green eyes had dark circles beneath them and worry lines made her look older than her 52 years. The night seemed to last too long.

* * *

Bill and Angie Davis's three grown children arrived with their spouses, four grandchildren and armloads of gifts. The holiday joy fizzled when they discovered that Bill Davis had not arrived home the night before and had not left a message. The entire family wandered around the house trying to figure out what they could do. They could not report him missing until nine p.m.

Dinner was quiet and uncelebrated. Opening gifts did not have the holiday cheer that always created Christmas precious memories for Angie. She was not angry with Bill. She knew there had to be something very wrong for him to be missing.

At 7:15, the phone rang and Angie startled. Her son, David, got to the phone first. He listened for a few minutes, gave the address of his mother's house and hung up. He sat down on the sofa next to Angie. She sensed bad news and began to cry.

"Mom, Mom," David tried to soothe her. "I don't' know what happened yet. An officer will be here in a few minutes. All he said was that there was an accident and he needed to verify your address to come talk to us."

"I know it's bad, David. I have known since last night."

The adults sat quietly waiting while the kids played with their new toys. After a very long 15 minutes, the doorbell rang. Angie hesitated then walked slowly to the door, David by her side. Officer Eric Rutland introduced himself and his partner, Joanne Dietrich, then proceeded to explain a bizarre set of circumstances that had the highway patrol confused as to how to proceed.

"First, I need to know the relationship of Mr. William Davis to you, ma'am." he said to Angie.

"He's my husband," she said, confusion showing in her face.

The two officers looked at each other with bewildered expressions. Officer Rutland asked Angie to have a seat next to her son. "Mrs. Davis," he began, looking into her eyes, "I regret to inform you that Mr. Davis was involved in a fatal car accident at about eight forty five last night." He waited for the family to take in the shocking news and to comfort each other. It was several minutes before the family was able to hear the rest of the information. Both officers waited solemnly and with patience.

"Mrs. Davis," Rutland cleared his throat. "I'm not sure how to tell you this, but, uhhhm," he was reluctant for only a brief second, but it seemed to add hours to Mr. Davis's dread. "He was traveling with a woman whose ID confirms that she is Mrs. Linda Davis, and she also claims to be his wife." The room fell silent but for the sounds of a fussy child. Confusion and doubt showed on every face.

Chapter Two

Angie had always wanted to see the Oregon coast but never had the opportunity when Bill had time off. Their vacations were usually to see relatives to whom they owed visits or amusement parks with the kids. Now that Bill was gone, she had a little time and some insurance money to figure out how she was going to get on with her life. The highway along the coast was magnificent, but it would be dark by the time she got to Coos Bay, her destination for a long stay. As the beautiful scenery and quaint towns passed by, she thought about the unimaginable events of the last few months. Bill's funeral took place on the Saturday following the accident, six days after he died. The other woman, who claimed to be his wife, showed up with her two children: a seventeen-year-old son and a daughter, fifteen. Several other people she had never seen before were also there. She did not know if they were work friends, or more relatives that she did not share with Bill. Angie had never before felt the emotions that swallowed her up. They so adversely affected her that her stomach churned, her head pounded and at one point, she nearly fainted. Her son and daughters were there to hold her up, both emotionally and physically. They too, were traumatized and troubled by the knowledge that their father had been living a double life. They were nonplussed by the fact that they had two half-siblings that they knew nothing about.

Hundreds of sweet memories had rushed through Angie's mind. In the early years, Bill was at the birth of every baby; their baptisms, many school plays and doctor's appointments. Her mind's eye saw herself touching his clean-shaven face and he telling her that she was the best thing that ever happened to him. She realized that as the years passed, he missed more and more family events. When she looked over at the other Mrs. Davis, the good memories seemed to rush quickly away. How could you do this to us, Bill, she fumed. The lump in her throat seemed to swell and nearly choke her.

When the service ended, Angie stood and allowed her son to help her to the limousine. She could not recall a single word of it. She felt achy and old and moved slowly.

It was not until later that she had remembered that Linda Davis had met her at the door. She wore a cast on her right arm and scratches on her face that were not be hidden with make-up. "Angie?" she had said. "I'm Linda." Angie had felt red-hot anger begin to surge and Linda recognized it. "Please, Angie, I didn't know either," she rushed to say before Angie could hurry away. "I had no idea!"

"How could you not know," she had turned back around and demanded, her normally soft voice unkind, almost hateful.

"Did you know?" Linda had returned. Both women stood staring at each other, both shaking at the emotional overload they each bore.

"I'm sorry", Angie had said shaking her head and moved toward the parking lot.

"I am too," Linda had weakly offered in return.

Angie's thoughts returned to the coast and its picturesque scenery. Just what I need to begin again, Angie thought. She had a list of tasks she meant to conquer as she made her way back to "normal." She needed to find a comfortable "nest" in which to surround herself. She needed to find a therapist she could count on to lead her back to that thing she called normal. But most of all, she knew she needed to find the Angie that was so lost.

She realized that she had been in a brokenhearted haze, wandering about her silent house looking for purpose. She had put so much Angie into taking care of Bill and the kids and then the grandchildren, that somewhere along the way she seemed to have lost herself. As a result, she started seeing a therapist who had suggested she begin a quest to find the Angie she had once known and loved. She had started her plan a few weeks after the funeral. Bill had provided a 100,000-dollar policy for each wife. When the check arrived, she set her plans into action. She had reservations at a relatively inexpensive motel in Coos Bay, an appointment with Abigail Petersen, real estate manager, for the following morning, another with Stephanie Holland, psychotherapist, and enough Pepsi to keep her going for a month. Her luggage included art materials; something she loved as a young woman and suspected she still did; a laptop computer so she could keep track of her thoughts through journaling, and two exercise DVDs to assist her new "get healthy" plan. She never thought she was fat, but her doctor seemed to disagree. He told her that a loss of 30 pounds would benefit her greatly. She would have to think about that for a while.

She was getting very close to Coos Bay, but the sunset was so riveting that she had to pull over to watch. There was a chill in the air and a strong breeze so she put on her jacket and leaned on the hood of the car to keep warm. The sky was a burning glow of orange and pink with resisting stripes of blue. She could see the battle of night and day, tugging at each other above the oceans' mocking reflection. It only took a few minutes for night to silently conquer.

Chapter Three

Angie had slept soundly and woke to the sound of her own snoring and a very dry mouth. Before showering, she peeked out the window to see what Coos Bay looked like in the glorious light of day. It was raining. In addition, it was foggy. "Hmmm," she hummed aloud, daring the weather to ruin the first day of her new life. She took a swig of the flat Pepsi on her nightstand and stepped into the shower.

She chose one of the new outfits she had bought for her new beginning: a pair of beige slacks, brown ankle boots and a chocolate brown sweater. It was a nice compliment to her slightly graying red hair. She added a string of bright blue beads and matching earrings to brighten up her eyes. Several people had commented that she resembled Princess Diana, especially when her hair was cut short.

Abigail Petersen was on the phone when Angie arrived. She had to wait almost twenty minutes before she was finished with her call. She introduced herself as Abby and asked Angie what she was looking for in a dwelling. Angie took a deep breath, gave her nutshell version of her life as of Christmas Eve, and described what she needed in living accommodations.

Abigail closed her mouth and lowered her eyebrows back into place. "Holy, cow Angie," she said. "That could be a Hallmark movie!" She pulled up a webpage on her computer and angled the screen so that Angie could see it. They looked at photos and descriptions of several condominiums, beach houses, and resort lodgings. All were beautiful and comfortable looking but very expensive.

"I want to stay at least two months, maybe more. I don't think I can go above $700 a month." Angie knew it was cheap for a vacation, but she needed an affordable place to live, she was not really on a vacation.

"We can look at some homes, but most have one-year leases and very few come furnished," Abby told her.

"I can rent a few things, "Angie said hopefully. "I won't need much."

They looked at another site full of houses for rent or lease but found very little that fit Angie's needs. Abby tapped her pen on the desk blotter making a cluster of black dots. She typed something into the computer and turned toward Angie. Looking a little doubtful, she said. "I might be able to get you an old but quirky house on a hill, real cheap." The photo was of a very old, gray Victorian house that needed lots of TLC and paint. It had a high-pitched roof and a large front porch. Some of the gingerbread was missing but it was quirky.

Angie looked at the photo for a long time. Abby clicked on an arrow and three more photos showed the living room with old and worn, but beautiful furniture. The kitchen was very primitive but in good shape, and a photo of a bedroom that was sparse but inviting. "I have to tell you, Angie, that there was a death in the house, but it was over a hundred years ago."

Angie's eyes opened wide. "How old is the house?" she asked.

"A hundred and five, I think."

Angie was intrigued. "Can we go see it?"

"Sure!" Abby said cheerfully. "Give me a few to make a call." Angie took the few minutes to use the ladies room and then help herself to the free coffee and donuts. As she was debating a second donut, Abby finished her phone call and announced that she could show her the house right then, if she was ready. Angie was ready.

* * *

The house was very cold but the heater worked fine. There was also a fireplace and a huge pile of logs outside the house. The kitchen had been remodeled in the late 1930's but was, except for some dust clean and functional. The cupboards contained minimal dishes and cooking tools, but more than adequate for one person.

"I'm afraid the only bathroom is on the second floor," Abby said, "and there is no shower. Did I tell you it's only five hundred?" The two women climbed the creaky staircase to the second story. They started at the bathroom, since it was the nearest room, just right of the landing. The entire room except the ceiling was tiled with small white honeycomb shaped tiles. The toilet had the early gravity type tanks and the bathtub was a beautiful, four footed, antique. Nothing was pristine, she could see, but it was absolutely Victorian "quirky." There were three bedrooms but all were simply furnished. Each did have one unique piece of furniture or quality that made it special. The first had a four-poster bed, scratched with wear but still beautiful. There was no dresser but a large closet with several shelves. A second, a very small room, had a plain bed with no head or footboard and a beautiful antique dresser that matched the four-post bed in the other room, a faded floral wool rug, striking at one time. The third, bedroom was wallpapered in a beautiful Victorian design of lilacs and stephanotis flowers. It had delicate lace curtains on a bay window that looked out to sea; a second window viewed the houses at the bottom of the hill. The floor was old worn wood, aged hard but still lovely. A braided lavender and green throw rug lay on the floor next to the bed.

"This is it,' Angie said. "I found my nest."

Chapter Four

Angie had two days before she met with her new therapist so she spent most of the time fixing up her nest. After a thorough evaluation, she made a list and headed for the nearest department store in Coos Bay. She picked up honey colored bath towels and a matching bath matt, two sets of bed linens; one set in lavender and one in plumb to co-ordinate nicely with the lilac wallpaper, and a striped bed cover to compliment it all. Passing through the gardening section, Angie found a beautiful wind chime that sounded lovelier than it looked. She could not resist. She also treated herself to a Victorian style teapot and tea service for two. Who knows, she thought, I could make a friend or two.

The house was too quiet so she kept her laptop playing music most of the time. She moved the antique dresser into the "lilac room," as she had decided to call it, but moving the four-poster bed was far too much of a chore to tackle on her own.

The day before her appointment with Stephanie Holland, Angie felt anxious and apprehensive. She distracted herself with housekeeping and music. She transformed the kitchen from a dusty antique into a cozy vintage delight. Deep in a low cupboard, she found a box containing a partial set of drinking glasses. Once scrubbed, they sparkled like large pink diamonds. She placed them in a windowsill so the sun would glisten through them. In a small pantry, she found a box of old linens, slightly stained but still beautiful. A tablecloth of some type of lace, maybe Cluny, transformed the old ruin of a table into a charming piece of furniture. She did have to hide a yellow stain with a light blue scarf she had brought. "It looks better on you than me," she told the table. Angie noticed a ceiling hook over the kitchen sink. She hung the wind chime there until she could buy a hook for the porch.

Later in the afternoon, Angie found several partially full cans of outdoor house paints. Some were still useful. Two were off-whites and one was half-full of a gray-blue color that was labeled "Confederate gray." She mixed the two off whites and set them on the front porch. For two hours, she swept cobwebs and layers of dirt from the peeling porch posts and the old dusty gingerbread. As she balanced with one foot on a milk crate and the other on a tiny stool, Angie hummed a tune she had been listening to earlier that day. Suddenly someone behind her cleared his throat and said, "Lady from Empanada?" Angie startled, wobbled but kept her balance. She stepped down from her perch and turned to face a man close to her own age. The first thing she noticed was his intensely blue eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump," he apologized.

"Ipanema," Angie said. And it's girl from Ipanema," she said then smiled. An empanada is a Mexican dessert, quite tasty." She held her hand out to the stranger. He was not tall but taller than she by a few inches, stocky, with shoulder-length graying hair pulled back into a masculine ponytail, and those soft, friendly blue eyes. He had a strong jaw and a tattoo on his right forearm. He was nothing like Bill, she noticed, almost the opposite.

"Well, girl from Ipanema, I'm Wes from Coquille, he said, taking her hand and showing a devilish twinkle in his eye."

"I am Angie from Spokane," she returned the warm smile. "You live in the neighborhood?" she asked.

"Yeah, actually," he responded, pointing to his left. "Mine is the little white house across that road. The white one, facing this way. "When all those ugly vines bloom, it is quite a nice fence of roses. There was a slightly awkward silence. "I saw a light in the window last night and wondered if someone was living here or if it was just a ghost." I take a walk through this property every evening around dusk. I'll stay out while you're here, I wouldn't want to impose."

"Oh, well, that's ok," she shrugged, "but I thought the property was enclosed with a wrought iron fence."

"Yeah, it is, but there are two places that are damaged enough to get through."

"I'm just leasing for awhile." Angie told him. She told him the nutshell version of her husband's death and her need to get away and think about things. She left out the part about the second family.

"Oh good," he nodded, "you're not a ghost."

Angie smiled. She liked this neighbor, Wes.

Wes turned to leave and paused. "So you're ok with me walking through here every day around sunset?"

"Yeah, I'm okay with that."

"Right now sunset starts about six." He paused, looked into Angie's eyes, smiled, and walked on.

Chapter Five

Angie could tell that she was going to like Stephanie Holland. She was a decade or so younger than Angie, but seemed understood her well. She was sympathetic but not too surprised by Angie's experience and seemed well prepared to help Angie with her to recovery plan. She wanted to see Angie twice a week, since she may be leaving in only 8 or so weeks and wanted to have enough input to be effectual. Angie made standing appointments for Tuesdays and Thursdays at 11 a.m. She planned to give "homework" at every appointment and if Angie was serious, she expected her to follow through.

Stephanie listened very attentively for the first hour and already had a homework assignment that Angie agreed could be quite helpful. "Here's what I want you to do," she told Angie. Every time you have a strong emotional feeling while thinking about Bill, I want you to stop what you are doing and write a letter to Bill. Tell him about that emotion and only that one emotion. Write them on paper, each one separate but keep them together."

"Are we going to burn them in a cleansing ceremony, later?" Angie asked, with only slight malice in her tone.

"Maybe," Stephanie responded, "if we need to. Don't make this too hard and don't sweat the small stuff."

"What about name calling?" Angie asked. "I have a friend that said name-calling will build more anger and hate."

Stephanie bobbed her head thoughtfully, "If you think you need to, but think about why you feel the desire to use nasty names." ?"

"Oh, I have a few reasons for a few names." Angie was feeling a little indignant, but justified.

"Do you hate Bill or do you hate what he did? Angie sat silently. "Think about it."

* * *

Angie avoided thinking about Bill for the rest of the day. She did not know if she felt unprepared to write her first letter to Bill or perhaps she was afraid. She headed to the department store to pick up some paintbrushes, a notepad and a manila envelope to keep the letters in. The writing pad that she overly carefully chose was a sage colored paper with a dainty spray of rosebuds across the top. She realized she was probably "sweating the small stuff", but this was her tragedy and she would deal with it in her own way.

At 5:45, Wes tromped through the leafy path toward the front porch where Angie was brushing the posts with the off-white paints she had mixed.

"You sure are putting a lot of work into a short-term stay," he told her. Angie looked toward the friendly voice.

"Well," she answered. "I have strange and unusual reasons to make this place cozy."

"Isn't 'strange' and 'unusual' redundant?" he asked.

"Not in my case."

Wes looked a bit puzzled but waited for Angie to explain. "In my case," she went on to say, "strange' might refer to what I do. 'Unusual' might mean when, as in not 'usually,' but now."

"Hmmm," Wes hummed, pretending to almost understand. "Care to expound?" he urged, "unless you feel I'm being nosey."

"Maybe next time," she declined, "after you have told me a thing or two about your life."

"Ahhh, I see. Okay, umm, my name is Wesley Winters. I grew up here in Coquille, moved away long enough to wreck my marriage and moved back to take care of my dad who fell down and paralyzed himself, almost a year ago. I used to be a barber but am unemployed while I care for Dad. I have a twenty two year old daughter and a three year old granddaughter who live in Arizona and a cat named Piss n' vinegar."

Angie stopped painting and laughed at Wes's discourse. "Not Puss in Boots?"

"Nah, that's too common a name for a cat. I wanted something different."

"Okay," Angie said as she unknowingly smeared a drop of white paint across her forehead, "How about you come over for dinner on Saturday evening and I will give you more 'dirt' on my strange and unusual presence in Coquille." Wes silently laughed at Angie in her oblivious state of decor.

"I will be counting the minutes." Wes said softly. "Now, I will get out of your lovely hair and see you again, soon."

Angie sat on the milk crate and watched as Wes made his way down the hill toward the white house surrounded by thorny vines and a few new leaves. She wondered if she were going to be here when they bloomed. He crossed the street as the porch light went on. When he entered the house, he was swallowed up by a warm yellow glow.

After a sandwich and lemonade and a long soak in a hot bath, Angie retired to the lilac room for some much needed sleep. As she peeled back the plumb-colored sheets, she heard the sound of shattering glass in the kitchen. She strained to listen but her pounding heart was too loud. After a few minutes with no other sounds she decided to brave the fear and see what had broken.

Looking at the floor, she saw nothing broken. It took her a few moments to notice the pink glass shards in the sink. One of the delicate antique glasses had fallen from the sill and shattered in the sink. Now, there were only six.

"Oh, how sad," she said, truly disappointed. "And strange." She knew she had set them all back far enough to be safe on the sill. She decided to leave the mess for morning. She was too drowsy to be messing with glass at that moment. Besides, she was barefoot and there could be small shards on the floor.

* * *

Morning came too quickly but Angie was up early. She had to get to the grocery store to buy a few things for her dinner on Saturday. What he heck was I thinking, she thought, inviting a man over for dinner. "He's only a neighbor," she said aloud. "He's not a date." She made her way carefully across the kitchen floor, looking for pink glass shards on the floor. There was none. She grabbed a dishcloth and went to the sink. She was astonished to find that every tiny shard of the glass had been brushed into a neat pile in the corner of the basin. I know I did not do that, she thought. As she looked around the kitchen, a tingle crept up her spine.

Chapter Six

When Angie was finished cleaning and painting, the porch was beautiful. Too bad it is too chilly to lounge on, she thought. Maybe in a few weeks. By 10 a.m. it was raining. She had a feeling it would be doing that a lot in the next few weeks. She moped around the house most of Friday, looking for something interesting to do. She tried sketching but it had been so long and she could find no motivation beyond the presence of materials to get her creative juices flowing. The drawing on the paper looked like a matted tangle of hair, rather than the pathway in the woods she had hoped it would look like. Next, she tried playing her exercise DVD to get other juices flowing. That only made her tired. A wet stroll on the beach was out of the question. Looking around the kitchen, she tried to find enough ingredients to make something tasty. She would have to make another trip to the market for that, but she was not feeling up to going out in the cold.

Angie tried for an hour to relax and take a short nap. She just lay on her cozy bed staring at the lilacs on the wall. I could never get tired of those, she believed. She thought about her home in Washington. Her bed had the old brown and orange spread on it. The one she and Bill had slept under for at leas eight years. A rush of anger flowed through her. She did not want to sleep in that bed again. More anger pumped into her until her heart actually ached. Instead of pushing it away, she allowed herself to feel it; to experience and concentrate on what exactly was causing such anger. Was it his betrayal, she wondered. Inadequacy? Maybe she was not enough for him. Although she did not feel like doing it, she knew it was time to write her first letter to Bill.

Angie gently touched the pink rosebuds at the top of her letter pad. She thought about Bill but suddenly she was no longer angry. She was sad and confused and did not know what to write or think, so she laid her head on her pillow and cried.

She must have cried herself to sleep, because she woke suddenly to the sound of faint footsteps on the porch, outside under her bedroom. She got up and looked outside, but saw no one. The sun was nearly gone so she assumed it was Wes. Her eyes were red and a little puffy, so she hoped he had not knocked, but had gone on home. She waited a few minutes, but heard no more sounds. She saw the letter pad on the bed and realized she had failed her first assignment.

Later, downstairs, she went into the kitchen to make herself a simple meal. She was still feeling a little lazy so she just made a ham and cheese sandwich. She took her plate into the living room or "sitting room" as Abby had called it, and sat down on the old antique sofa. It was so dusty she could see puffs of dirt floating in the air around her. "Gross," she said aloud and moved back into the kitchen to eat. She decided to ask Wes if she could borrow his vacuum. "Good idea", she told herself. Just having a task to look forward to gave her a burst of energy. After she cleaned up her dinner dishes, she went upstairs to get the letter paper and concentrate on writing Bill a letter. She knew it would not be easy to get started but she did not know it would actually be hard. As she picked up the pad, she heard a noise come from another room. She froze and listened. She tried to identify the sound. It was like a thump or a thud-something falling on a floor or a sound like a door shutting, maybe. She grabbed the pad and pen and hurried downstairs. Just before she sat down to write, she looked out the window. On the porch, she saw a large potted plant with a pink ribbon wrapped around it. It must have been Wes, she knew. It must have been fun hauling that heavy pot up the hill, Angie thought and smiled. She brought the pot into the house and set it under the window by the front door.

"Dear Bill," she wrote.

"I need to write this letter to tell you how much I hurt over what you have done. No, she thought, that's weak and lame. She crossed it out and started again.

Bill,

As I think about the things you did to our family that resulted in so much pain and suffering... "No, no, no, write about the one emotion." Angie reminded herself. "I am feeling angry. I need to concentrate on anger and what exactly is making me angry." She looked at the potted plant by the door. Such a sweet gesture. Angie acknowledged. She could not remember ever having anyone ever do that before.

"Bill,

I am having a hard time finding the words to tell you how much my heartaches. I loved you and was faithful to you for 27 years. You have always made me happy, even the hard times when I was sad or disappointed, I never really felt angry or resentful towards you. Since your death I have had many days when anger has twisted all the good things I have ever thought about you into a hateful desire to shut you out of my heart forever. I wonder every day, why you lived a secret life of betrayal. Were you not as happy as you seemed? Did I not make you happy? You always seemed contented, like you were pleased with the life we had. I wish you were here so I could ask you why. Why, Bill? Why wasn't I enough?"

Chapter Seven

Angie checked the white pages of the local phonebook and found two listings for Winters; W. Winters and P. W. Winters. Both had the same number. The woman who answered sounded tired and impatient.

"Hi," Angie said. "My name is Angie; I live on the hill just across from your house?

"Oh yeah, you're up on Coquille Hill. Wes told me ha had a new friend up there. I was jest hopin' it wasn't one o' his ghosts."

"Nope, I'm not a ghost, I'm real."

"Wes went over to Coos Bay to pick up a few things. He should be back any minute."

"The reason I am calling is that, well, I could really use a vacuum cleaner for a couple hours. This place is quite dusty."

"Yeah it gets pretty bad, specially' after a windstorm. Blows the paint right off the houses."

"Yeah, I tried to sit on the couch last night and got caught up in a dust storm."

"Haha! That sounds about right. I'll have Wes bring the vacuum over when he comes over for dinner.

"Thank you Mrs. Winters, I appreciate that."

* * *

The thumping on the porch and firm nock at the front door announced that Wes had arrived. Angie opened the door to see Wes standing with both hands behind his back, pretending to block a large upright vacuum cleaner. "Which hand," he asked, with a Cheshire grin.

Angie grinned and said, "I can clearly see the vacuum."

Wes continued his grin. "Go ahead, pick a hand."

"Ok, uhhh, the left." Wes shuffled his hands behind his back and brought the vacuum around his right side and a small bouquet of daisies from the left.

"Oh Wes," Angie chuckled, you are sweet." Angie led him into the kitchen where savory smells filled the air. Angie had made a shrimp dish with a creamy butter sauce, poured over rice and sprinkled with Italian cheeses. It was a delicious and filling meal. When they had finished, Angie removed a container from the refrigerator and placed it in the microwave. When it beeped, she pulled out a bowl of golden pillow shaped treats. "I made a batch of something special!"

She placed two pillows on a dessert plate. "Apple empanadas!"

"Ahhh, Angie, how very impressive," he said as he tasted the sweet, warm dessert. "My new favorite." They talked about Coquille and its touristy charm. He seemed to know every nook and cranny of the quaint small town. Angie was having a wonderful visit and hardly thought of her inner turmoil. Then, Wes hinted at future dates. "When the sun makes its appearance, we can take a nice relaxing walk on the beach. It can be quite romantic."

Suddenly it hit Angie. Wes was thinking or hoping that their relationship might turn to something deeper than a passing friendship! She liked Wes, a lot, but a romantic relationship was completely out of the question. She had been in love with one man for nearly 30 years and suddenly he was not only gone from her life, but he left in a very unfavorable light. She had never more than looked at another man in a passionate way and could not fathom doing so with Wes. Not now, anyway. If she ever were to want romance again, she felt it was critical she recover from her emotional trauma first. Not knowing how to broach the subject, Angie gathered the dishes and asked Wes if he would like to help her with the sofa dust. "Then we can sit comfortably and talk." They took their coffee into the front room. She avoided conversation as she readied the vacuum cleaner. When Wes started to speak, Angie flipped the on switch, creating too much noise to hear him.

As they ran the vacuum brush along the arm of the sofa, the fabric actually changed color. The background went from a brownish gray, to off white. Angie sneezed several times. "I'd bet real money that this sofa used to have a white background," Angie said when they turned off the vacuum cleaner.

"You'd win that bet," Wes said. "When it was upstairs in the master bedroom, it was white."

"This sofa fit in that room?" she asked, pointing to the room above her head.

"Oh, that's not the master bedroom. It's at the back of the house."

"You mean that locked closet door in the middle of the hall? She asked.

"That's not a closet. It's the back half of the house." Angie's eyebrows rose. "Yeah," Wes added, "it's a huge bed room."

"You know a lot about this house, don't you?

"Yeah," Wes went on. "When I was a kid, one of the original branches of the Sandmier family moved in for awhile. One of the boys was a couple years older than me. I heard a lot of bizarre stories from Walter."

"Why is that half of the house locked up?" Angie asked.

"Well, he said, could be lots of reasons." Wes went on to tell the ghostly stories.

"Shortly after the house was built, the Sandmier family moved in. The Captain- who owned a fishing fleet, Mrs. Sandmier and a 4-year-old son named Stanly. Mrs. Sandmier was expecting a baby but while the Captain was out to sea she had a miscarriage and lost the baby; a girl, I think." Angie listened, fascinated. "Mrs. Sandmier was so broken hearted that she neglected to keep an eye on Stanley who, while exploring the attic, found the door to the widows walk. It was not locked, so he ventured out and, fell. He did not fall far, but he hit his head and had a severe injury. The nanny saw him fall and was sent to get the doctor. Stanly was treated but he died three or four days later. The Captain returned to two graves and a wife who was barely coherent. She was found hanging in the attic a few months later, wearing her wedding dress. At least that's how I heard it."

"So who is the ghost that supposedly haunts the place, the mother or a child?"

"I have only heard people mention an adult female, mostly making noises, but Walter said he saw a kid sitting on the floor in one of the smaller bed rooms."

Angie thought of the odd sounds she had experienced. "What kind of noises?" she queried.

"Mostly just doors slamming, things falling. Walter told me he heard whispering at night and someone crying, but, because he was a pathological liar and I knew it, I never believed him much." Angie decided she would keep her hauntings a secret for now. She urged Wes to continue. He told her of the incident that resulted in Walter's family moving away.

"I was in about second grade," he went on." Walter was about fourth. One of the older boys had told him that a chest of pirate treasure was buried along with Stanley, placed under his casket. So one Saturday Walter asked me to come over and help him dig for treasure. I was just a dumb second grader, what did I know?" Wes looked into his coffee and saw dust floating in it so he set the cup back down without drinking it. Angie was too interested in the story to notice.

"We had a garden spade and a large serving spoon so we dug for a couple hours but only got about two and a half feet down. I went home for lunch and had to do a few chores. When I went back, Walter had found a shovel and made it almost to the coffin. His mom, who was a nervous sort, came out to check on him and found him standing in the grave with only his head above ground. A lady that was visiting freaked out and called the police. After that all the graves in the Sandmier family plot were moved to the city cemetery on Cowry Hill and the family was gone within a couple weeks. Maybe that was her last straw. The headstones are still in the little family plot about 50 or 60 yards up the hill," Wes said pointing in the direction of the kitchen.

"Wow what an amazing story!" You could write a book about that!"

Wes laughed. "Nah, writing's not my thing. I am glad it made you smile though." He leaned in a little, closing the gap between Angie and himself. Angie felt adrenaline rushing to her toes. She jumped up and reached for his cup.

"Oh yuck," she crinkled her nose, "you have dust floating in your cup." She retreated into the kitchen to buy herself a moment to think. She tapped her forehead, think, think, think, she said to herself. She wanted to tell Wes how she felt about her romantic disinterest, but it did not know if it was necessary. Maybe if they did not meet for a few days, he might get the hint.

Wes appeared in the kitchen. He could sense she was having some kind of issue but clueless of what it might be. "I probably should be getting home now. It's about time to help dad get into bed." Relief rushed through Angie. She hoped it did not show.

"Oh, Wes, thank you so much for coming to dinner, I had a wonderful visit. And umm, the vacuum, she stammered a little. "May I use it for one more day?"

"Of course," he told her. "Use it for as long as you like," he added, "let me know when you are done and I'll run up and get it."

"Yeah, uh, Wes I have several appointments for the next few days," she half-lied-and hated doing it-but went on. "Can we maybe pray for sun and go for a walk on the beach, maybe Wednesday?"

With just a hint of disappointment, Wes nodded and said, "Wednesday it is."

Chapter Eight

Angie got up early Sunday morning to hike up the hill to see the Sandmier family plot.

Wes's story was so intriguing that she had a hard time falling asleep. She thought about the locked master bedroom door, the grave digging story and the poor Sandmier woman. She also contemplated the fact that she believed that Wes had a crush on her.

Wes having romantic feelings for her would be a real distraction from Angie's plan. Angie developing romantic feelings for Wes would bring a crashing halt to her whole recovery plan-at least for now. She knew she would need to tell Stephanie about Wes. She would not be pleased, but Angie did not want to throw Wes's friendship out the window. He seemed to be having such a positive effect on her. Maybe she was good for him too, she considered.

Angie dressed for a wet, muddy hike but was surprised at the ease of the walk. A narrow path had been carved into the hill a very long time ago. Along the way, large stones had been half buried to help keep the hill from sliding down and numerous bushes had been added for a colorful touch. Angie could see the signs of spring flowers beginning to make their way to the surface. She recognized tulip and daffodil shoots. She could not yet identify some.

At the top of the rise, she came to a leveled area surrounded by a black iron fence with a small gate on one side. A large oak tree loomed large but sparse over the plots. In summer, it would provide heavy shade. From there Angie could see down the hill and across the road to Wes's house. He was outside in front of the fence, trimming the overgrown rose bushes. She smiled and returned her focus on the graves.

Seven tombstones lay nicely spaced and all facing toward the ocean. Angie stepped past the gate and into the family plot. Although she knew the graves were empty, she sensed a family presence. She read each stone in turn: Josephine Sandmier; August 19, 1905 - August 19, 1905; Stanley Walter Sandmier May 12 1901 - August 25 1905; Elizabeth Ann Stewart Sandmier November 6 1881 - November 6 1905. Angie noticed the close proximity of death dates. "Oh that is creepy," Angie said aloud. The other names were family who had died years later: Sophia Reynolds Sandmier, July 7 1886 - Feb 12 1922 Roger William Sandmier, May 9 1906 -Aug 11 1915, Patricia Sandmier, Oct 6 1909-Oct 9 1909 (infant) and Captain William Graham Sandmier Apr 3 1864-Dec 20 1941.

Angie wondered about the sad trials this family endured. She thought of Bill. Her Bill. William Anthony Davis, beloved father and husband, born September 7th 1955, died Christmas Eve with another wife by his side. A huge lump formed in Angie's throat. Her heart ached. She felt emotions building as tears began to form. She slogged down the hill and to the house to write a letter to Bill.

Chapter Nine

Angie spent the remainder of Sunday cleaning, reading, and listening to soft rock music-especially the tunes from the happier times in her life. After going over the sofa with the vacuum one last time, she tackled a matching loveseat and an armchair that was in a state of dustiness worse than the sofa had been. As she was shoving the tube into the creases below the chair seat, Angie heart the clanking sound of a metallic object trying to make its way up the tube. She pulled the hose out and shut off the vacuum. An old-fashioned skeleton key fell from the hose to the rug. Immediately she thought of what Wes had told her about the locked door in the upstairs hall. The room was locked and not intended to be part of the house leased to vacationers so she felt it would be wrong to try the key in the door. Instead, she tied a bit of a hair ribbon to it and hung it on a nail that she had seen in a wall near the front door.

She tried not to think about Wes and concentrated on thoughts and emotions connected to Bill. It was not as easy as she had hoped it would be. The rosebud letter pad sat in front of her for at least thirty minutes before she decided to allow herself to think about Wes. "Go ahead, Angie," she told herself, "indulge!"

She made a list of positive things that popped into her head and scratched them onto the paper: funny, kind, thoughtful, interesting, handsome, and unusual. She looked at the list. She had known many men with these qualities over the years. She had not been romantically attracted any of them. And as sweet as she thought Wes was, she told herself that she probably felt the same way about him. She knew she needed to say something the next time they spoke.

Dinner was just a can of vegetable soup and a couple of left over empanadas. When she finished, she decided to try her sketchpad again. She scribbled and scratched and eventually the mood and a subject latched on. She was pleased with the drawing of the cemetery path on the hill. She added spring flowers and leaves to the shrubs, bringing life to the winter scene. She carried the sketch around the room holding it to the wall, trying to find the perfect spot for it. When she got to the front door, she noticed that the skeleton key she had hung on the nail earlier, was gone. She checked the floor below the door and nearby window. It was nowhere to be found. She checked to make sure she had not left the door unlocked. It was secure. How strange, she thought. She checked under the furniture to make sure it had not fallen and bounced under. The key seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

Angie looked at the clock and decided to go to bed. It was not very late, but she was drowsy. Everything in the kitchen was put away so Angie popped the last empanada into her mouth and headed upstairs. Just before she entered her bedroom, she glanced back at the locked master bedroom door. As she did so, she noticed a shiny metal object on the floor, just in front of the door. Turning around to see what it was she thought she heard a single knock on the locked door. She paused and listened, questioning her hearing and her imagination. Her heart rate quickened. As she moved a little closer, she could see the pink hair ribbon that she had tied to the key. Moving very slowly, she reached the key and picked it up. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the door and whispered. "If you think I'm going to unlock this door, you're crazy." She heard a thud inside the room, like an object hitting the floor. Angie beat a hasty retreat to the lilac room and shut the door. She set the key on a lamp table. Her spine tingled and adrenaline woke her up. She stood by her door, waiting, listening for more sounds. Angie began pacing the room, wondering what she should do. She went to the window and looked at Wes's house. It was raining hard gain, the water distorting her view. She thought of calling him. If I call him, she reasoned, what could he do, hold my hand? As she watched the raindrops hit the glass, she noticed an unusual pattern forming. On it the letters: H-e-l appeared written in the condensation on the glass. As she stared, the letter p was immerged to form the word "help". Angie bolted backwards from the window to the middle of the room. She stood, shaking uncontrollably with both arms wrapped around her. Her mind racing, she felt she needed to do something. I'm not calling Wes, she thought, there is nothing he can do. "I'm not going to a hotel," she told herself and whoever else might be listening. "I'm not running away scared," she said a little louder. It took several minutes to calm her shaking body and take control of her imagination.

Thinking about the message, Angie wondered if she needed to be afraid. Help, she read again. Someone in need of my help would probably not want to harm me, Angie reasoned. I am the idiot who was intrigued by a haunted house.

She linked together everything she had learned about the house and its previous inhabitants and it seemed to her that perhaps someone genuinely needed her help. Angie took a deep breath and picked up the key. She opened her bedroom door and stood looking toward the locked door on the other side of the hall. Another deep breath and she stepped cautiously toward the locked door. Her heart began to quicken its rhythm. A drop of sweat rolled down her temple. Her breathing shallow and quick, she stood at the door for a moment trying to decide whether to try the key or wait until morning. Daylight might be a better time to confer with ghosts, she thought. Again, she remembered the message. Angie took a deep breath and held it. This is crazy she thought as she turned the key and heard it click.

Angie slowly pushed the door open. The room was pitch black except where the hall light cast a bright rectangular beam onto the floor. She felt around for the light switch and found an old-fashioned button switch. She tried both the top and bottom buttons, but neither produced light. Angie quickly hurried down the stairs trying not to trip in her haste. She went to the kitchen and grabbed the flashlight from the pantry shelf. Her knees were attempting to give out, but she pushed on. Ascending the staircase was almost painful.

Shining the light into the dark room, Angie saw what looked like an attic filled with old unwanted junk. There were numerous boxes, trunks, old broken furniture, and an old dresser that could never be fixed. There were broken toys, shoes without mates, dusty old coats, and stacks of long forgotten books. Knowing she would not be able to maneuver the treasures in the dark, Angie spoke into the room. "Incase someone is listening, I can't see well, but I will return in the morning." She was not sure, but she thought for a moment that she heard the soft tinkling of her wind chimes in the kitchen.

Except for the rain, the remainder of the night was quiet. Still, Angie's sleep was fitful.

Chapter Ten

Angie was up with the first sign of light. She found her flashlight and headed toward the room filled with junk. To her, this was the ultimate treasure hunt. Too bad it is not my treasure, she wished. She opened the door and stepped as close to the middle of the room as she could get. Boxes, furniture and a huge steamer trunk were in her way. "Where do I begin," she said in a whisper. She moved the steamer trunk to a less cluttered corner of the room. The dust was swirling through the sun's beams as she shuffled boxes around. She squeezed between antiques and junk to get to the window. Angie pulled the curtains apart to let in more light. In a few minutes, she had light and a nice central space to sit and sort through boxes. Half-way through a box of broken dishes and torn clothes, she decided to make use of Wes's vacuum while she still had it. She also needed a Pepsi. She was downstairs for just a few minutes and made her way back upstairs, anxious to return to the hunt. As she stepped into the room, the sunlight shone on the spot where she had been sitting. The area was again heavily covered in dust and in the center she saw that an arrow had been drawn, pointing in the direction of the closet. A shiver shot down her spine. Creepy, she thought, but followed the arrow.

Angie grabbed the flashlight and gingerly stepped over items to get to the closet door. "I just know you're gonna be locked," she said as she turned the knob. It was not. The closet was packed with more stuff, mostly boxes. She shined the flashlight on the tower of boxes wondering where to start. She chose the easiest one to reach and brought it to her sitting spot. The arrow was still there. Before vacuuming, she went to the lilac room and grabbed her camera. She thought it might be a good idea to have photos, just in case. Of what, she was not sure.

Angie took several pictures of the cluttered room, including the arrow in the dust. Once again, she was going through boxes. She decided to collect all of the unbroken, useful items in a box separate from the trash. After six boxes, she had gathered two tarnished, silver picture frames, a vase with only a tiny chip in the rim, a dirty pair of antique ladies gloves and a decaying photo album. The album was a loss, black crumbling paper and photo corners spilling out, but it was half-full of photos that Angie thought were from around the turn of the century, maybe to 1920. This could prove very interesting, she thought.

Angie felt her stomach growl, begging for food. She checked her watch and was surprised to find that she had been treasure hunting for three hours. She took the box of antiques downstairs to clean up as she fixed a bite to eat. She made a quick lunch of grilled ham and cheese and potato tots. I really need to start eating better, she reminded herself again. She carefully cleaned the vase and set it on the table. It was beautiful white porcelain with red, orange and pink roses. It reminded her of one her grandmother used to keep on the entryway table. Angie remembered herself as a little girl, standing on the tips of her toes, trying to smell the perfume of the lilac branches hanging from the vase.

Angie wiped the dust from the silver frames but the tarnish would have to be dealt with later. The ladies' gloves were in the sink soaking in soapy water.

Back to the treasure trove, Angie told herself as she climbed the staircase. She went to the closet and pulled out three more boxes. As she turned to set the third box in her small clearing, a box slid from its' stack and landed behind Angie. She had the feeling she should look through that one first.

The box was filled with books, letters and loose papers. The papers were mainly old business receipts and order forms from a fishery in Coos Bay. They were dated from the early nineteen hundreds. The books were financial logs and business related texts. One book stood out from the rest. It was a plain gray and blue cover that had been torn from a book entitled, Modern Fishing Industry. Inside was a diary that had been glued by the spine to the cover. It was written in what looked like a nervous feminine hand. Angie set it aside and made a point to read it when she was done with her treasure sifting. She also set the letters aside with the diary.

Three more boxes were old business and mariner books. One trunk caught Angie's eyes. It was a wooden box that had a fold of soft white but dusty cloth hanging out and crushed by the closed lid. She lifted the rusty lock plate hinge and lifted the heavy lid. Inside she found a beautiful white wedding gown that had been moth-eaten over the years. As she lifted it, she could see that it was a very fine quality, magnificent at one time, piece of wedding finery. Didn't Wes say that the Sandmier woman was found hanging in the attic wearing her wedding dress, Angie thought. Looking at the dress brought a rush of memories of her own beautiful wedding day. It had been a perfect day. A lump formed in her throat and a wave of emotion tried to choke her. She was in no mood to write a letter to Bill right now, but she took a deep breath and concentrated on her feelings. She would write later. She crushed the dress to her bosom and cried into the soft white gown.

Chapter Eleven

Angie settled into the plumb colored sheets, opened the old makeshift diary, and read.

"Because of the strange goings-on and my suspicions, I need to make a secret record that will not be found by William or the nanny, Sophie. I made this book so that it could be hidden where nobody would likely find it- in plain sight, on the bookshelves in Williams Library.

William goes to sea frequently and often for extended lengths of time, so when I told him that I miss him dreadfully, he mistook it for sad longing and reprimanded me for complaining. He told me that he would be hiring a nanny to help me with Stanley since the new baby would be taking much of my attention. I tried to convince him that it was not necessary but he insisted. Two weeks later, just before he was to sail again, he brought Sophie to work for us. She was quiet and attentive but cold and unfriendly. William told me to give her a little time to settle in. The night before he was to leave, he excused himself from our bedroom to talk to Sophie about her duties while he was away. I was appalled that he closed our door behind him and that he went to her room in his nightclothes. I could hear them talking in the hall then her door closing. I expected his return momentarily but he was gone for nearly an hour. I fumed the entire time and resolved to address him on it. Finally when he returned he avoided my conversation and only wanted to get to sleep. The only thing he would say is that he had explained her duties.

"A few days after William left, I became violently sick. I had lost much of my bodily fluids and became quite dehydrated. Doctor Morris was called to our house. He said that he feared I might lose the baby. He was correct. Three days later, our baby girl was stillborn. I named her Josephine, after my father Joseph Phineas. I was extremely distraught at the loss of my beautiful daughter. She was far too small to survive this world. Her entire body would fit inside my hand. It tears up my soul to write of it. I had Sophie arrange to have a family grave fenced in on the hill above the house. I began to regain my strength quickly so on the fourth day after her death, I was able to climb the path to watch her burial. I visited her every day for almost a week. Then on Sunday as we returned from church, I climbed the path and Sophie took Stanley to change clothes. As I sat next to her grave, I heard an unusual sound come from below me, down the hill. It sounded like Sophie yelling. I hurried down the hill to house. I heard commotion from upstairs so I rushed up the stairs. Nobody was on the second floor! At that moment, Sophie came running from the attic door. She said that Stanly had fallen from the balcony to the ground. We rushed downstairs and to the seaside of the house where we found my dear little boy unconscious. The fall was not far, but he had an enormous lump on his head where he had hit it. Sophie said she did not see what he hit but that he seemed to 'bounce' off something.

"Dr. Morris was again summoned to our home. With a tear in his eye, he told me that we could do nothing but wait and pray. I stayed by Stanley's bed for three days. He only woke twice to ask where Papa was. He never cried once. On the third day after the fall, he passed. Part of me died with him."

Angie laid the diary on her lap and leaned her head against the headboard. She sighed and wondered at the tragedy of which she was reading. That poor woman, she thought, how could she stand so much pain? Angie got up to stretch her legs and back. She used the bathroom and went downstairs to get a soda. She returned to finish the diary. There were only a few pages left.

"I spent four days in my bed crying. Sophie brought me tea and soup but I took little. Finally, when I was able to gather my thoughts and courage I dressed and went downstairs to talk with Sophie about Stanley's burial and related arrangements. Sophie told me that she had taken care of everything and that Stanley had been buried the day before! I was in such shock and so angry that I wanted to attack her. She had taken away my chance to say goodbye to my little son! I ran with all the strength I had left, to the top of the cemetery path, and there next to Josephine was a second little grave and a stone with Stanley's name engraved on it. I cried for a long while. My next memory was waking in my bed a few days later. I began to watch Sophie very carefully. Her every move, her every word became suspicious to me. Finally, I asked her why Stanly was on the balcony. She told me that she had taken him there to see if Papa's boat was coming in. I asked her why she would do that if she knew William was not due for another week. She smiled and said she was just boosting his anticipation.

"The next day I called on the sheriff's office and asked that he look into the accident. He came by the following day and said he was suspicious of the loose railing, but there was no real proof that it had been tampered with. I knew that it had. It was solid every time I had been up there. I had spent many hours during the summer watching for Williams' steamboat to return up the river from the bay where he moored the fishing boats.

"I worried about how I was going to tell William of the tragic events that had taken place while he was at sea. How could I find any words tot tell him that he had lost both of his children within two weeks time? It turned out that I did not need to tell him. After his ships docked and before he journeyed home on the steamer, he had stopped at the pub he visits after every voyage. As he was drinking, someone gave him the horrible news. He returned home in a fury, bursting through the front door and climbing the staircase like a demon. I had gotten up from my bed to go to him but he rushed into the room and shoved me back onto the bed. He slapped me several times and my ears could only hear some of what he bellowed at me. I only remember hearing things like: irresponsible, unworthy, misfit, and whore. When he was finished pummeling me he went to Sophie's room. The door slammed shut and there were only the sounds of his sobs for a long while. I had never before heard him cry. And, I have still not seen it. A few hours later William returned to our room and he slept until the next afternoon. I offered to escort him to visit the graves but he asked that I stay behind. He returned with eyes red. I wanted to cry with him but he avoided me for several days.

Several weeks passed. There was no peace but there was quiet. I grieved every moment. Several nights I woke to find William missing from our room. The night before he left for his spring voyage, he forced himself on me. My sweetheart had lost his tenderness and had become brutal. For a long time I thought it was because of our loss but I think now there is more.

William had been gone for nearly a month when I discovered that I was again expecting. This time I felt no joy or anticipation, only fear.

One day, Sophie took the horse and cart and went into town to shop for the weekly kitchen needs. I noticed her bedroom door was ajar. It had been a long time since I had seen the beautiful lilac flowered paper so I entered to see it. At the time I had ordered the paperhangers to hang 'lilac' paper, I meant the color lilac. When I saw the flower pattern that they had mistakenly hung, I was delighted at the mistake and often sat in solace in the lilac room until it was taken over by Sophie. It had been my wish to see my daughters enjoy the lilac room.

I know that I cannot and will not live under these circumstances. Tonight I will relieve Sophie of her position and tomorrow I will seek an attorney for divorce from William. I am now in my bedroom. I hear noises coming from the attic above me. It is likely Sophie going through my things. It would not surprise me to find that she has stolen from me. I have hidden a few of my most treasured things where nobody will find them lest they dig a hole in the cellar floor. She has taken everything I truly care about."

That is where the diary ended.

"Holy Hell," Angie said aloud. "She killed you and your children. You poor pitiful soul."

Chapter Twelve

Angie's appointment with Stephanie Holland went well. She was not concerned that Angie had not written numerous letters to Bill. She was glad that she had written any at all.

"Many clients have a hard time writing the letters," she told Angie. "I never expect it, I just hope for it." She also told Angie that she could see by the contents of the letters that she was concentrating on the right things.

Angie smiled. "You expected to see some name calling?" Stephanie smiled but said nothing.

Stephanie also gave Angie her next assignment. "Along with continuing the letter writing, I want you to use the internet to do a little research on some of the common emotions you may be feeling while grieving." She handed Angie a list of websites she could look at. "These are just suggestions. You can find thousands of other sites if you want to."

After her appointment, Angie took a drive south along the coast. The rain had finally stopped and the sun was drying up the roads. The sky had been washed clean and was an intense blue. The little tufts of new growth appeared to have been painted in just the right places, thicker in some areas and sparse along the jagged rocks and cliffs. She had never traveled that road before. She probably never would again. But, right then, she thought, it was like driving through a landscape masterpiece.

Okay, she braced herself and squeezed the steering wheel. Time to think about Wes. "I like Wes," she said aloud. "I like him a lot. I do not love him and doubt I ever will." She maneuvered the car around a sharp curve and caught sight of the beautiful ocean view. The indescribable smell of the ocean was strong enough to evoke memories of seaside trips with Bill. She realized it would take time to forgive and "get over" her husband. "Was," she reminded herself. "Bill was my husband. Okay Bill," she said with conviction and purpose, "let's talk." As she pulled the car onto a wide space along the cliffs, she added; "I'll talk, you listen."

She stepped out of the car and moved near the edge of the cliff. A gentle breeze tossed about dust and old dead leaves, some lifted up and lunged over the cliff and into the sea. She could hear the persistent rhythm of the tide crashing into the cliffs. It buoyed her confidence and spirit.

"Bill," Angie said, almost shouting. "Why?" A lump immediately formed in her throat and she swallowed hard. "Why did you do this to me? You cheated. You lied. You betrayed me." She saw a tear fall from her cheek and land at her feet. Sad, she thought. "I'm sad," she shouted. "I'm hurting, Bill! I am suffering, and it is your fault! You did this to me! More tears fell to meet the first. "You did this to us!" Angie dropped to her knees, sobbing. "How could you do this to us? I loved you." "I hate you, Bill! I hate you!" Tears traveled down both cheeks. "I love you. And I miss you," she blustered, "But right now, I'm angry and I hate you!" She lifted her chin and filled her lungs with the salty sea air. Somehow, she felt relief.

Chapter Thirteen

When Angie heard the sound of snapping twigs underfoot, she knew it was Wes. She felt anticipation and trepidation, equally. She turned and watched as he approached. He had on a flannel blue and green shirt, jeans, and carried a walking stick. He is very handsome in a 'mountain man' sort of way, she thought, smiling. Not a bit like Bill. Bill was very business-like. When he left for his trips, he always had on a suit and tie. Angie realized that when Bill arrived at the other Mrs. Davis' home, he was likely wearing what he had on when he left her, and visa -versa; he came home wearing what he had put on at her house. The rush of anger and pain was as quick as adrenaline, shooting through her body in an instant. Poor Wes, she thought, He does not deserve a woman who cannot focus on him without comparing notes and is constantly lamenting a loss he knows little about.

Angie sat down on the top step of the porch. "I like your flannel shirt," she told Wes. "It reminds me of my dad. He used to wear them camping when I was a kid." Wes took a seat next to her.

"You look pretty nice yourself," he replied. "But there is nothin' on you that remind me of my mother." Angie smiled.

"It's nice weather today," he added. "You up for a stroll? The beach should be nice."

"Sure," Angie responded, "but let's visit for a few minutes first. I have a few things I'd like to tell you about."

Wes raised his eyebrows. "That sounds ominous."

"I know, but it's not really."

"That's a relief," he said wiping his forehead, "but why do I not believe you?"

"C'mon," Angie nodded toward the house. "I'll make lunch while we talk." They went into the kitchen where Angie put together a meal of tuna sandwiches and fresh fruit. As they entered the kitchen, Angie's cell phone rang. She spoke for a few moments and hung up. "Sorry, that was my daughter. She is going to send me an E-mail in a few minutes."

She began to tell the story of her husband's car accident that caused his death.

"Angie," Wes interrupted, "you already told me about that and I really have no problem with anything you said. "I swear."

"There's more, Wes," she looked into his eyes. She could see he was struggling with discomfort.

Angie told him of how she discovered the other Mrs. Davis and her two teenage children. Her voice trembled and an occasional tear attempted trailing down her cheek. She told of how angry she was when they showed up at Bill's funeral. Wes could see a range of emotions on her face and he realized she was not ready for a new relationship with anyone right now and for him to push it would be a mistake.

He stood and stepped near her. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her for several moments. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. She sobbed into his flannel-covered chest.

"Thank you," she said. She looked into his soft blue eyes. "Now, do you see why I am not ready or able to begin a relationship," she asked. "I'm just a little too screwed up."

"You are not screwed up," he said, with a little smile. "But, yes, I do understand. You have been going through some rough shit."

"Piles of it!" Angie took a deep breath and smiled. At that moment, there was a thumping sound from upstairs.

"What the heck..." Wes said looking at the ceiling.

"Oh, Wes!" Angie perked up. "My ghost! I have to tell you about her!"

"Her?" Wes looked surprised. "You've had a she-ghost encounter?"

"Have I ever!" Angie took Wes's hand and pulled him toward the staircase. "Follow me!"

They got to the lilac bedroom where Angie kept the tattered diary. She showed Wes the passages where Mrs. Sandmier described her ordeals with the nursemaid, Sophie and the deaths of her children. Wes was astonished. It seemed that perhaps the rumors and stories he had heard growing up just might be true.

Angie unlocked the master bedroom and showed Wes the items she had salvaged. He touched the rim of the vase. "I've seen this before," he told Angie. It was on a table in the living room when Walter lived here."

"I'm thinking of contacting the real estate manager to let her know about the treasures hiding in this house."

"Yeah, that's good idea," Wes said looking around. "There's probably a lot of valuable old stuff in here."

"Maybe later you can help me sift through things. That is, if you are interested? It might just feel like cleaning to you..." Angie asked.

"No, I would like that, Wes replied. "Sounds like a treasure hunt to me."

Chapter Fourteen

Angie's stroll on the beach with Wes was peaceful and calming. Angie talked a little more about her emotions dealing with Bill's secret life. Wes listened attentively but said little. The sky began its evening transformation into dusk as the sun sank toward the horizon. The white puffs and strands of cloud transformed to glowing pink and orange cotton candy. The cooling breeze brought a shiver as Angie rubbed warmth into her arms. Wes wished he had brought a jacket to wrap around Angie.

"You certainly are a Godsend," she told Wes. "I can feel relief, just talking this out."

"Anytime," he answered. "I really mean that."

Angie filled her lungs with sea air and sighed. "How about a treasure hunt," she asked Wes. "I'm feeling like digging for hidden surprises."

"I can't think of anything more appealing."

* * *

Wes parked his car at the bottom of Coquille Hill in front of his house. They made the five-minute hike up the path. The sun was gone and only a hint of light remained in the western sky. As they approached, Angie noticed a light glowing from the lilac room window.

"What the heck..." she said softly.

"What's wrong?" Wes asked frowning and looking toward the house.

"There's a light on in the house."

"It's flickering, like a candle. Did you leave a candle burning," he asked.

"Of course not," Angie answered, a little annoyed. She hurried up the porch steps and unlocked the door. Wes followed her into the house.

I don't even have matches to light the darn things." Angie flew up the stairs with Wes was at her heels.

"Angie, be careful," he urged. "There could be a fire starting."

Angie flung the bedroom door open and stopped suddenly. On the dresser in sat a lavender candle she had picked up in town the day before. Its quivering glow revealed a handprint in the dust on the surface of the dresser.

"Oh my..." she whispered. "It's Elizabeth."

"It looks like you may have just pressed your hand into the dust and left a print," Wes tried to reason.

"Wes. I don't let that much dust accumulate, anywhere, usually. And look at the candle- it has barely warmed the wax. It's only been burning for a few minutes."

Wes just stared.

"There must still be something she wants me to find," she told Wes. He looked doubtful. "Wes," she said with authority. "I'm not nuts." Her hands went to her hips as she addressed him. "You can help me or not, but she is real and wants something."

"No, no, don't' misunderstand me, Angie. I do not think you are crazy. I just don't like the idea of messing with ghosts. I believe they are real, but..." Wes shivered as he spoke.

"You're afraid of ghosts!" Angie said, pointing at Wes, then laughed.

"I'm not afraid, I just, well, respect them." Angie giggled and danced as she teased Wes. Suddenly something dropped that caused a loud thud in the master bedroom. Angie froze and directed a respectful "Sorry, Elizabeth" into the air. She blew out the candle and led the way to the master bedroom.

The next couple of hours Angie and Wes spent going through boxes and bags of old, mostly useless, junk. Several broken wooden toys would have had some value if they could have been reassembled, but pieces were split and some were missing. Wes found a beautifully hand carved wooden horse that unpainted and polished, exposed a rich design of twisted wood grain. The rocker was badly split but the horse itself was intact.

"I could probably fix this," he told Angie, "but it's not mine. It could detract from whatever value it may have."

"It's still nice enough to keep in the 'treasure' pile," she said. "It looks like a treasure to me." She turned it over in her hands, admiring the expert workmanship. "Hey, look," she said, showing the underside to Wes, "it's got a name on it."

"Stanley Stewart." Wes read aloud. "Was that the boy's name?"

"No," Angie responded. "I mean, yes, his name was Stanley, but Stewart is, I mean, was Elizabeth's maiden name. Maybe this toy was made by an uncle."

"Or grandpa."

"No, his name started with a J." Angie thought for a moment. "Joseph," she said. "Yes, Joseph Phineas."

"How did you remember a name like that?"

"I don't know," Angie said, "It is a little different."

By the time they were done, Angie and Wes had found several interesting but tattered items. In addition to the toy horse, there was a box of china that held several unbroken pieces, a lace table cover, a family photo album from the early nineteen-sixties, and a black jewelry box with colorful abalone pieces inlaid on the lid. The design was a Japanese garden with bamboo and cherry trees.

With the exception of the wooden toy horse, Angie placed the new treasures with the ones she had salvaged earlier. She set the horse on her dresser next to the lavender candle. The candle showed no trace of having burned. Angie was not alarmed or surprised.

Chapter Fifteen

Angie's Thursday appointment with Stephanie was more of a ghost story than a therapy session. She told the therapist of the journal and the haunting events at the house. Angie wanted to see what Stephanie's view of Elizabeth might be. She also wanted to validate her experiences.

"So, I'm not crazy," Angie said to Stephanie.

"No, I don't think so," she said with a grin. "I do wonder though, if some of the haunting incidences might be coincidence. For example, is it possible that you may have been deep in thought and wrote 'help' on the window and only realized it when your thoughts came back to the present?"

"Well, no," Angie said thoughtfully. The letters h, e and l were on the pane before I reached it and I watched as the p was forming, right before my eyes. Besides, I don't zone out like that."

Stephanie thought for a moment and excused herself. She went to her desk, picked up her cell phone and searched the contacts list. "I know very little about these kinds of 'sightings' and would never even try to convince you that you did not see what you have shared today. But, I have a friend that calls herself a 'spiritualist, slash, psychic'. She sometimes talks about people whom have passed." Stephanie wrote the woman's name and number on the back of one of her business cards. "Myra talks to 'ghosts.' I sometimes think she's a bit quirky, but sometimes, I wonder..." Stephanie handed the card to Angie. "I do trust her, though. She seems to know her stuff."

Angie stood to leave. "Hold on, Angie," the therapist stopped her. You have ten minutes remaining. Let's talk a few about Bill."

The Bill talk was brief with little emotion. Stephanie reminded her client that she was in Coos Bay and in her office for the next few weeks for a specific purpose.

"My job is to direct your therapy to an eventual 'recovery,' or at least get you on your way. As exciting as your life seems to be right now, I have to say, it might be too easy for you to forget about Bill until you get home and his memory causes your sorrow to resurface."

Angie nodded her head. "You're right. I need to focus on Bill and my emotions." Angie looked at Stephanie. "Maybe I'm cured?"

Stephanie laughed. "Then I'm a genius," she said. "Seriously, Angie, after what you have been through, you will need lots of time for emotional recovery. Twenty seven years is a long time to love someone and then loose them suddenly, especially under the circumstances that you did."

"I know," Angie said, nodding.

"You need to grieve. You need to cry when it hurts. Be angry. Be hurt. Process it and you will eventually put it behind you." Stephanie stood to show Angie to the door. "Now, your time is up."

* * *

After Angie called Myra Rossi and made an appointment for two days out, she stopped at the local market to pick up a few groceries. There was only a small food store in Coquille and the prices were often much higher than she was willing to pay, even on "vacation". As she was leaving the store, she noticed the newspaper stand in front. The front page announced that there would be a founder's day parade and celebration in a local park. Tourists were urged to visit the local museum and learn about the history of Coos Bay. Angie bought a paper and headed back to Coquille. While she drove, a plan for the rest of the day formed in her head. I need to spend time dealing with Bill. She thought about the newspaper headline and the founder's day celebration. Certainly, there would be mention of Coquille's history at the museum too, she thought. Captain Sandmier seemed to be an important man the area. His Fishery was in Coos Bay. Maybe some interesting facts are waiting to be discovered.

By the time she got home, her plan was set. First, she would read the paper. Next, fix dinner; spaghetti and garlic bread. She would then take a nice long, hot soak in the tub. Then, therapy. Probably. Maybe. I'll see how it goes.

* * *

When Angie arrived home, Wes was sitting on the porch steps with a pizza next to him. I guess my dinner plans have changed, she realized. At least it's Italian.

"I brought a pizza," Wes welcomed her.

"Is there garlic bread too?"

"No, just pepperoni and olives."

"What's the celebration?"

"Oh, my doctor E-mailed me a new diet, so this is my last hurrah before..."

"E-mail!" Angie almost shouted. "I'll be right back she called out as she ran up the stairs. In a few moments, she returned with her laptop. "Sorry, I forgot to read the letter that the other Mrs. Davis sent me."

Wes readied the pizza while Angie found the message and read the letter.

Dear Angie

I hope you don't mind that I am writing. I just want you to know that whatever thoughts you are having and emotions you are feeling, I too am experiencing. I know your heart must be as broken as mine. I heard about how you found out about the accident. I was in the hospital with a broken arm and a concussion when an officer went to my home to tell my two children. My seventeen-year-old son told me about you and your kids. When I woke the next morning, I thought it had been a bad dream.

Whatever negative you feel toward Bill, please remember all the good things you had with him. He was a good father, and a kind and caring human being. Don't let the negative things keep you from forgiving him and putting this all behind you. I hope you can find peace.

Linda

Angie put her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. "Read it." She told Wes. He did.

"I'm sorry, Angie," he said. "Do you want me to go home?

"No, I want to eat half your of pizza."

"You can have the whole pizza, if you want to be alone."

"No, really, I'd rather you stay awhile. My therapist says I need to 'process' this stuff." Angie was peeling pieces of pepperoni off her slice of pizza.

"How do you 'process' it?"

"Cry, talk and complain..." Angie looked up from her pizza at Wes. "To people who care enough about me to endure it."

"Okay, he said. Complain."

"Really?" Angie asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sure," Wes answered. "Anything to help."

"Fine. I hate pepperoni."

"I will never order it again. See, problem solved." They both smiled.

"You know you ruined my plans for this evening, Angie told Wes."

"I'm sorry; I did not know you had any plans."

"Yeah, I was going to read the paper, make spaghetti and garlic bread, soak in a hot bath and mourn my husband."

"Well, you ate pizza, you don't like, read an unexpected letter that made you mourn your husband. Now all you need is to soak your head and your evening should be a total waste." Angie looked at Wes and smiled.

"Will you be my best friend?" Angie asked Wes.

"For as long as you like." He said.

Chapter Sixteen

Angie soaked in a hot bath for an hour until her toes and fingers had wrinkled to a prune-like texture. She was in no hurry to get to bed or do anything else for that matter. As she dried off, she felt quite chilled. Probably because the water was so hot, she thought. She dressed and left the bathroom. As she walked near the master bedroom door, the temperature seemed to drop even more. She shivered and put on a pair of thick, fuzzy socks.

Angie was tired but not sleepy so she pulled Elizabeth's diary from the bedside table drawer. She realized she had not yet read the letters that she had found in her treasure hunt. She settled into the bed and opened the first one.

Dear Elizabeth

Your last letter has me very concerned. I now realize that pressing you to marry Captain Sandmier was perhaps a mistake on my part. He seemed to have such a genuine admiration for you and I thought his work ethic and position might benefit you in a positive way. I fear now that he had fooled us both. From what you have written about the nanny, Sophie, I truly am fearful for your son. She should not be allowed to tend him. Please consider relieving her of her duties. Better still, Elizabeth, come home and bring Stanley. Stay with us where it will always be safe. I will anxiously await word that you will come. We all love you dearly. Kiss Stanley's cheeks for me.

Love, Mother

Angie folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope. So, she thought, the Captain might be involved...

Angie opened the next envelop and pulled out a very decorative stationary, one that a woman would send. The front of the envelope was too faded and stained to read the writing, but it appeared to have only a name and no address.

My Darling

Every day that you are away my heart longs for your return. I look forward to the time when you and I live alone in your beautiful home on the hill.

I have thought much about what you have asked me to do to make these dreams come true. I have taken steps, but it is not an easy task. There have been complications. But do not grow angry, in time it will all come to pass.

Elizabeth has come down ill as you would probably expect, but she is in deep mourning and will not take any food or drink, making my task difficult.

She made me call on Dr. Morrison yesterday but I was afraid he might...

The letter ended unfinished. "Whoah." Angie was stunned. She jumped out of bed and paced the lilac room. "Nanny poisoned Elizabeth! That must be why she lost Josephine!" Angie wanted to tell someone. She thought of Wes. He would want to know. She checked her clock: eleven forty-five. Dang! She paced some more. I need a snack! Angie ran downstairs to calm herself with food; something she knew was a bad idea. Cant' help it this time, she told herself. This is big! In the kitchen, she searched the fridge for something tasty. An apple? No. Carrot sticks? Too healthy. She opened the freezer. "Yes!" She reached for the frozen candy bar that she had put there that afternoon. "Yes, yes, yes!" She tore off the wrapper. "You are so bad, Angie." She said aloud. "Yeah, yeah," she answered herself with a mouthful of nougat and nuts. "Sue me." She hurried upstairs to read the rest of the letters.

The third letter was addressed to Sophie Reynolds at the Sandmier home.

Dearest Sophie

My thoughts have been on you for the most part of the week. I miss the time I spend in your presence and hope you long for me too. My business here is nearly done and I will be returning to you in a few days. Seattle is a dreadful place. I doubt I will entangle myself with the business of transporting lumber. I think I will continue in fishing. I am anxious to be on my way. Do not be surprised if I arrive before this letter does.

I wonder often if you were able to attend to the task that I asked of you. It would be a great disappointment to return and find things have not changed. Be gentle with Stanley.

My deepest regards, your Captain

Small bits of half-frozen chocolate crumbs fell unnoticed onto the sheets as Angie nibbled and read. The next letter looked as if it had been crumpled a long time ago.

William

I am afraid that my attempt to discuss matters with you last night went terribly wrong. Perhaps I was so upset that I could not make myself clear. I was not trying to accuse you of any mistreatment or neglect. I only wish to make clear the thoughts and feelings each of us has for the other. There are times that seem you have changed your focus and goals. I only wish to do what I can to please you and hope for the same from you.

As far as our discussion on Sophie, I only wish to say that although she does well in her domestic duties, she is not a good fit for Stanley and me. Perhaps if I could interview candidates that are more suited to Stanley's and my needs?

I know that when the new baby arrives I will be tending to most of the nurturing, but honestly, William, I cannot even imagine Sophie helping with a newborn.

Please let us put last evening behind us and let us try again.

All my love, darling,

Liza

Angie shook her head. Queen of denial, she thought.

The last letter was the saddest of all. One small part of the flap was stuck firmly, signifying that the letter had never been opened, but that over time the glue had dried and the flap had come loose.

My dearest Stanley and Josephine

I have failed you as a nurturing mother. I have allowed a demon into our lives to separate us forever and rend all our hearts in pieces. My dear little angels, please forgive me for being weak. Forgive me for losing you. I never dreamed our time together would be so short. I thought I would have a lifetime to teach you all the good things in life, but it was I who learned the hardest lesson of all, that sometimes if we are not diligent, evil can consume us. I promise that when we are together again I will never let anyone between us. I will teach you of love and kindness, of joy and happiness. You have already learned of pain and suffering. There will be no more of those. Wait for me. I will be there soon.

Your mother

Angie placed the letters back into the diary and returned it to the drawer. She settled into the warm sheets and cried herself to sleep.

Chapter Seventeen

In the morning, Angie made the short hike to the top of Coquille hill. She wanted to visit the empty graves of the broken family. Since her first visit, flowers had bloomed along the path. Daffodils, crocuses and tulips were fighting for space along the cliff's edge, some spilling over the side. The iron fence surrounding the family plot was dotted with deep purple iris and bushes of bleeding hearts.

Angie passed through the creaky gate and sat in front of Elizabeth's headstone. She pulled a dandelion from the warm soft dirt.

"Elizabeth," Angie greeted her aloud. "I hope you don't mind, but I read your journal and the letters I found. You went through such a horrific experience and my heart aches for you." A lump began to form in her throat. Tears traveled the familiar trail they had recently set.

"I know what I have gone through recently is nothing in comparison, but it hurts too. We both had terrible husbands who used us unfairly." She wiped her runny nose on a sleeve and wished she had brought a tissue. "They cheated on us, had other women's children and kept secrets. Tears continued to flow as she tried to find comfort in giving comfort. "You seem to have been a wonderful mother and I am sure your children loved you and never doubted your love." She thought about her own children, and Linda's. For a moment, she felt sorry for Linda too. Angie knew Linda, the other Mrs. Davis, was truthful when she said she did not know Bill's secrets. It did not hurt as much as the many other times she remembered. Her life and her emotions were beginning to recover, she thought. She held her head in her hands and rested her elbows on her knees.

She sat for several minutes thinking of the sad situation that she and Linda both had gone through.

Suddenly, Angie realized she was no longer angry with Linda. She had no reason to be. Linda and Angie were experiencing the same heartbreak, at the hands of the same man. Linda might even be crying right at this moment, just as I am.

When the tears slowed, Angie began telling the story of her tragic marriage to the ghost, Elizabeth. Normally, she would feel silly, talking to nobody, but because of the last few weeks she felt she had really experienced Elizabeth's spirit. She believed Elizabeth was real.

"Both our husband's were named William." She told her ghost friend. "I called mine Bill. Did you have a pet name too? She told her of the accident and the discovery of Bill's second family. Your husband had a second family too. You can easily understand what I've gone through." After awhile, Angie was all cried out. The tears had dried and she was thirsty and tired.

On the way back to the house, Angie picked several irises and a few sprays of bleeding hearts. In the kitchen, she filled the antique vase with water and carefully arranged the flowers. She tipped one tiny bleeding heart with her index finger to an angle that caught the light. Very appropriate, she thought.

Angie went upstairs to wash the salty tears from her face. When she finished patting herself dry, she looked into the mirror over the sink. In the fog on the glass, she made out the words, "Will." Her William's pet name, Angie thought.

Two hours later Angie woke to the creaking sounds of the porch wood, then nothing. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, went down stairs, and opened the front door. A potted tulip acted as a paperweight atop an envelope. She knew it was from Wes. She opened the note as she placed the pot in the windowsill.

A beautiful seascape on the cover, inside, a touching message:

Angie,

I saw you this morning on top of the hill. I was going to shout hello to see if my voice could carry that far but you had your head in your hands and seemed to be crying. I watched for a while but you didn't move. I knew you were struggling and probably thinking of Bill and likely the Sandmier woman too. My heart ached watching you. I hope your sorrow has passed so I can feel better too.

Wes

Angie's heart and face warmed. She felt what must have been a tug at her heartstrings. Many times she had heard the phrase, but never until that moment had she understood it. She hurried back outside to see if she could catch Wes. He was halfway down the hill so she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted his name. Wes turned to see her she waving him back. As he neared her, she leaned into him for a hug.

Wes waited as she cried a little. His heart melted as he felt her warmth and scent. He kept his feelings silent, knowing she wanted nothing more than comfort.

Angie pulled back enough to look into Wes's eyes, her hands still around his neck and shoulders. He looked into her eyes too, hoping she could read them. They shined of adoration that he wished she could see.

"I'm sorry," she said to Wes. "I'm such a blithering baby."

Wes shook his head. "You are no such thing," he told her softly. "You are strong and brave and self-assured. You are sweet and kind and I am sure you were a wonderful wife..."

Angie's eyebrows rose as she tried to protest. Wes put his finger to her mouth and stopped her challenge. You are a beautiful woman inside and out. You make my heart warm and alive, something I haven't felt in years..."

"But Wes, "Angie read his eyes clearly, "I'm not ready for anything that even resembles a serious relationship."

"Why?" He demanded gently.

Still looking into his eyes, feeling the attraction and tenderness, she saw the blue become deeper and the hint of moisture increase. She sensed the emotion welling in his heart. Angie whispered, "I'm sorry," and pulled from his embrace and hurried to the house.

She wanted to cry again. This time for a very different reason. She hurried upstairs to peer through the only window that would give her a view of the Winter's house at the bottom of the hill. In a few minutes she saw Wes appear on the path, head down, nearing the bottom. He stopped and turned to look back. The rush of emotion nearly choked Angie and the knowledge formed clearly in her brain; I just might love him.

Chapter Nineteen

As Angie drove to her appointment with Stephanie, she thought about what Myra Rossi had said just a few minutes earlier. The office was decorated in an unusual and severely eclectic taste. Angie could tell that everything in the room was hand picked and personal. There was no waiting room and only a restroom beyond the bead curtain at the back wall. Angie's first impression was "hippie," but as she looked around at the art pieces she adjusted that impression to "spirit hippie." In the center, a nearly round sofa designed to accommodate two or several comfortably. Many styles of suns, moons and stars filled the room. Vertical blinds on the windows were framed with layers of sheer, multi-colored fabrics. The entire rainbow was represented. Several framed art pieces depicted the spiritual but not necessarily religious aspect of life. One surreal painting looked to Angie like a pair of human shaped clouds spinning in a dance-like motion entwining each other in the midnight blue sky, nothing around them but the stars.

"Many people have come to me with ghost tales," Myra Rossi told Angie. "Many people believe they have had encounters with those who have passed to a 'beyond'. I believe I have had several experiences, some brief, with little meaning, some profound and life altering. My job is to help you decide for yourself if what you have experienced is real or perhaps an unusual effect of recent jumbled emotions."

Angie took several minutes to describe her encounters with Elizabeth. She gave precise detail of the journal, the letters and the noises she had heard. She answered Myra's questions regarding her husband's death and told of her thoughts and emotions involved with discovering her husbands' other family.

"I cannot tell you that I am certain that you are communicating with a soul who has passed, but I feel you are actually experiencing and not imagining what you are going through. If I had the same encounters, I would count them as a series of real exchange."

"So," Angie breathed a sigh, "you don't think I am crazy?"

Myra laughed. "No, I have seen crazy, and you are not it. But," she added, "I am not saying that your experiences are not affected by or not enhanced by your raw emotions. Emotions can play nasty little tricks on our psyches'."

"I know I have been an emotional mess, lately." Angie said. She went on to tell Myra about meeting Wes and her emotional changes in her feelings about him.

"Angie," Myra said softly but confidently. "Sometimes our head gets in the way of our hearts. "Just because you are in a fluctuating emotional state, does not mean you cannot see and feel the reality of new emotions, like love. Do not let fear, a negative emotion, chase away something as positive as love, especially if it something you want in your life." She pointed a multi-ringed finger at Angie's chest. "Search deep inside your head and heart. Let them debate but don't let them battle."

Angie had many new things she needed to debate between her heart and her head. She pulled into the parking lot and chose a space in the shade. Suddenly a thought hit her and she was flushed with embarrassment. Wes may only have a crush on me. He may only want sex! "Geeze!" she said aloud. "I am such an idiot!" Nobody had ever said a word about a future and here I am worried about marriage. "What a dope!" Mixed with her self-humiliation was a hint of disappointment and sadness.

"What the Hell is wrong with me," Angie asked Stephanie after her twenty-minute disclosure on her myriad of emotions and the confusion that seemed to come with it.

"Okay, Angie. Calm down. Nothing is wrong with you. What you are going through is perfectly normal.

"But I'm a basket case!"

"No, you are doing the things that are helping you process your pain caused by emotional trauma." Stephanie pointed out that Angie's reactions to her "homework" assignments are bringing emotion to the surface where she can examine and experience them. "That is how you process. Remember about fifteen minutes ago when you said that 'it didn't hurt as much as it used to?" Angie nodded. "You are doing a remarkable job! Keep doing it."

For the rest of the session they talked about Wes and the new emotions he seemed to inspire. She also mentioned her wave of embarrassment when she realized she might be assuming something that is not actually happening.

Just before Angie was ready to leave, Stephanie gave her the next homework assignment. "I have only one simple assignment for you this time," she said, smiling. "And that is to give in to the impulse, should it arise, to kiss Wes."

Angie's eyebrows shot up and her face flushed red. "What!" she asked confused.

"It's just a kiss," she answered. "But it may tell you volumes, either way."

Chapter Twenty

Angie had barely slept all night. When she got up she showered and dressed quickly, secretly hoping Wes would appear at the door. After breakfast she tried passing time by cleaning the house. After everything had been scrubbed, wiped, dusted and sprayed, she looked out the window at Wes's tiny white house at the bottom of the hill. It looked lonely with nobody puttering in the yard or pruning rose bushes. She saw that many buds had bloomed since she had last looked. Hundreds of pink and red blossoms dotted the bushes that lined the fence. She watched for several minutes, willing Wes to come through the door.

Angie sighed deeply and went to Elizabeth's room. Although she had uncovered an electric socket and brought in a lamp, the room still seemed dark and gloomy. She thought of how much fun she and Wes had while treasure hunting. She wished five o'clock would get here so she could talk to Wes. She pulled her cell phone from her pants pocket and checked the time. It was eleven forty five. She rolled her eyes. "Five more hours!"

Lunch was grilled turkey and cheddar with avocado. When she had cleaned up the tiny kitchen mess, Angie put on a CD and listened to music while she tried to draw. She found it difficult to concentrate and ended up tossing the drawings in the trash. The music put her in a sad nostalgic mood, causing memories of Bill to flood her circuits. Since she was not in the mood to think about Bill, she loaded a newer CD that one of her daughters had gotten her for her birthday in March. It had been an attempt to help her mom adapt to her changing life. "It's contemporary, Mom," she had said, "but its good stuff that I really think you will appreciate." Her daughter knew her well, she realized. The music hit home in her damaged heart telling the stories of love, loss, and the heartache that she was experiencing. Same stories-new tunes.

Dinner was a warmed up can of stew. Angie ate on the front porch, acting as casual as she could with her eyes glued to the path. She pulled out her cell. "Five-fifteen!" She moaned.

"Are you late for something?" She heard Wes ask. She looked up and felt her face flush.

"Uhh no," she gulped. "I was uhh talking to myself."

"Would you rather talk to someone else?"

"Uhh, you mean you?"

"Uhhhh," he said, mimicking her nervousness. "Yes, me! Or I could leave..." he said turning back to the path.

"No!" Angie nearly shouted. "I mean no," she adjusted her tone. "Sit down." She said, patting the porch next to her. She was glad Wes could not read her thoughts. She felt like she was scheming on him. A wave of guilt swirled in her mind. She smiled at Wes.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

Angie felt stupid. "Just a little stressed." Several seconds passed silently.

"Do you want me to leave?' You seem like maybe you don't want company."

"No, really," she responded, "I promise."

"So, whadja' do all day?" Wes asked Angie.

"Ahh, just cleaned the house, mostly. Ate lunch. Ate dinner."

"That sounds exciting." A long pause made Wes a little uncomfortable. He still thought Angie was acting a little odd. "Are you sure you are okay?" He asked again.

Angie realized her thoughts were affecting her behavior. She was thinking like a junior-high school kid and it showed.

"I'm sorry Wes. Something my therapist said has me edgy and feeling uncomfortable." She shifted on the porch.

"You better be careful moving like that on this porch. You'll get splinters."

When their laughter quieted, Angie leaned close to Wes and put her head on his shoulder. His arm automatically wrapped around her. They sat on the hundred year-old porch for a long time, quietly watching the sunset. No words were spoken. None were needed. Both were thinking only about the way they were feeling.

Chapter Twenty-one

Going to sleep took hours. Angie thought about her sunset on the porch. Although neither of the two spoke, fireworks were going off in each of their hearts. Angie had mixed emotions. She was happy to have such incredible feelings toward Wes. She did not remember such intense feelings with Bill. She loved him but it was very different.

Wes's heart was full too, but he was also miserable that Angie did not reciprocate his feelings. If she could only feel the same towards me, he thought, the world would be perfect. But, he knew, love cannot be forced.

When the sun had dipped into the water and fizzled. Wes pressed his lips to Angie's forehead, took in the aroma of orange scented shampoo and kissed it gently. She looked into his eyes, hoping the moment had come. "It could tell volumes, either way," echoed in her brain.

Wes stood and said, "Well, I better be going. Dad will need me early tonight." Angie's heart sank a little. "Oh and by the way, I will be going out of town for a few days. Dad needs me to take him to a specialist in Salem." Angie's heart sank even more. "If you need anything, call and I will get a friend to help."

"Oh, do you have to go already?" she asked. "I have soda in the fridge a diet one if you want."

"Thanks Angie, but I have to get up by five if I want to get Dad ready in time to get there before his appointment. It's a three hour drive and his appointment is at nine thirty."

"Okay," Angie shrugged. "Let me know when you get home. Maybe we can go to that museum you were telling me about." Wes looked into Angie's eyes, hoping to find a sign of real interest. He saw something new but did not dare push her.

"I'll either be home late tomorrow night or lunchtime on Wednesday." After another brief look into her eyes, he turned and headed down the hill.

God, he has beautiful eyes, Angie thought, watching him walk away. Nice butt too.

* * *

Tuesday seemed to be the longest day of her life. Angie tried to keep busy but her thoughts kept drifting to Wes. She tried forcing her thoughts to Bill. Something not so deep inside her was trying to push her to an emotional cure but Angie knew it could not be sped-up with wishful thinking. She knew her time was getting shorter, only five more weeks of her recovery trip remained on her calendar. She sensed a pressure building and a worry begin to grow to a slight panic. Questions began to fill her minutes and hours. What am I going to do? What should I do? What if I make a terrible mistake? Either way, Wes might be the perfect match for me, or not. Angie needed a Pepsi. And a Snickers bar.

After a huge salad and a candy bar, Angie soaked in a hot bubble bath and thought about her deceased husband. She did not hurt nearly as much as she did when she had arrived in Coos Bay, only seven short weeks ago. She had read and re-read the other Mrs. Davis' letter and had accepted the fact that maybe the other woman was right. Bill had made a huge and hurtful choice, but he was a good man, good father. He was not Superman and he was wrong to keep such secrets. He was human and he made his choices.

Angie added more hot water as the tub cooled. She thought about Wes. A warmness filled her that was not caused by the water. She closed her eyes and smiled as she visualized his bright baby blues. She saw his smile and his frown and loved them both. Angie was sure that the next time she saw Wes they would be sharing that telling kiss.

Angie froze for a moment. What if he's a lousy kisser, she thought. What if he thinks I'm a lousy kisser? "Oh geeze!" she said aloud. "I gotta find something to do." The rest of the day Angie spent cleaning the bathroom and attempting to sketch a little. She did not like her first few attempts, but once she decided to draw something for Wes, her skills began to emerge. An hour later, she had a rather well done rendering of the little graveyard on the hill. This will look quite fine in a rustic frame, Angie thought, quite fine indeed.

Angie's cell phone chirped at 9:45 that night. Mrs. Winter's, Wes's mother was on the other end. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Angie," her voice sounded nervous. "But my husband and Wesley were in a car accident and I could use your help."

Angie stiffened as adrenaline shot to her fingers and toes. Her hand squeezed the cell phone.

"Oh m, my, Mrs. Winters," Angie stammered. "What happened? Are they okay? Where are they?" She could feel her pulse quicken and her knees going weak.

"They are okay but they are pretty banged up. Both are being held over night but are expected to be released from the hospital in the morning. The van is not drivable and I have to bring them home in the morning."

"Oh Mrs. Winters, I would be happy to help. Just tell me when and I will be ready."

Chapter Twenty-two

If the drive were for any other purpose, it would certainly have been enjoyable. The weather was warm and slightly breezy and the route was a stunning scenic tour. Angie listened to Mrs. Winters prattle on for a while until she fell asleep. She did not seem worried or troubled about the accident. The doctor had called earlier and assured the woman that her husband and son were doing well. Mr. Winters had whiplash and an elbow fracture. Wes had a broken nose and a laceration on to his forehead. Both men had bruises but they would be well very soon. Apparently, a semi hauling hay had lost its load and a plume of hay obstructed the view of the entire four-lane highway. Numerous blinded drivers had slammed on their brakes. Eleven cars were involved, two people died. Wes was rear ended but only slightly injured.

"Wes was one of the last few cars to get hit," Mrs. Winters had told Angie. "If he were closer to the hay truck, he mighta been a lot worse off."

Angie turned on her CD player and listened to a mix her daughter had burned for her- 80's favorites, mostly. It was hard not to hum along, but she did not want to disturb Mrs. Winters. She was a very pleasant woman, but she seemed slightly possessive. That could be problematic, Angie thought. When she woke with a snort, Angie smiled and turned the music down. Mrs. Winters began to talk about Wes's character. It was clear she thought him a prince. Somehow, she managed to twist the conversation to Angie's single-hood. "So, Wes tells me you are single but hasn't said much more about it.

"I'm a widow," was all Angie offered.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She fidgeted in her seat for a moment. "Wes was divorced after his wife took the kids to visit her mother and decided not to come back. Not an inkling, just up and left. Broke that boy's heart. I never want to see that happen again." Angie could smell the scent of manipulation in the air.

"Wes has kids?" Angie asked. "I thought he told me had a daughter."

"Well yes, he has one biological daughter, but he treated his three step-daughters as if they was his own. He loved those girls and she just snatched them away. His daughter Amy is from his first marriage. It was a teen-age thing. It only lasted three years."

"So he was married twice," she said more as a statement than a question.

"Well technically it was only once. He and Sandra were never married but lived on the Reservation together. He was married to Beth for about seven years." Mrs. Winters looked out her window at the farmland. "Never an inkling," she said quietly.

Although a little uncomfortable, the time passed quickly and the two women arrived in Salem by 11:15. Wes had arranged the rental of a van with wheelchair accessibility and a driver. Angie greeted Wes with a hug. "You scared the devil out of me." She told him.

"Yeah, well it scared more than the devil out of me," he responded. Wes had a short string of stitches on his forehead and smiled with a puffy lip and swollen nose. "Do I look more like Jimmy Durante or Mel Brooks?" He asked her. Angie smiled.

"W. C. Fields," she answered.

Wes rode home with Angie but slept most of the way. He was black and blue and puffy to the point that he was hard to recognize. He smelled of blood and rubbing alcohol. His mouth gaped and he snored, but Angie did not mind. He was safe and judging by her gut-wrenching reaction to his accident, she knew her feelings were deep and genuine. Needing a way to distract her thoughts, she turned the CD player up and sang along to the B-52s. Life, she thought was getting very interesting.

Chapter Twenty-three

Angie woke to a wall of fog. The view from every window was completely white. She could not see Wes's house nor could she glimpse the tree in the little graveyard. "Well, I guess gardening is out of the question." she mumbled to herself. She headed down stairs but was blocked halfway down by a pocket of icy cold air. As she stood frozen, she felt an overwhelming despair engulf her. She knew it was Elizabeth and she understood the sadness was from her heart. "Okay, Elizabeth, I feel you here." Angie stepped gingerly down the steps. "What are you trying to tell me?" As suddenly as it engulfed her, the coldness was gone.

Angie made her way to the kitchen to make a cup of cocoa and a bowl of oatmeal. The kitchen was unusually dark, even for a foggy morning. She gathered ingredients and placed them on the counter by the sink. Missing the sugar bowl, she looked around the area where it was supposed to be but could not find it. She flipped the light switch on but no light appeared. "Fabulous," she groaned. Just then, she noticed the sugar bowl on the table and reached for it. It was lying on its side with most of the sugar spilled onto the table. She could see that the stream of sugar had been disturbed, but could not make out the shapes.

Angie moved to the drawer next to the sink and fished out a small candle and a box of matches. She set the candle next to the sugar spill and lit the wick. In the candle's glow, she could see that the word "lost" had been carved into the sparkle of the sugar crystals. "I know, Elizabeth," she said softly. "I am sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help you. But you are a hundred years behind me and an otherworld away." The flame of the candle flickered and went out. Angie bent to re light it and felt the cold breeze that had extinguished it. She lit the candle again and saw that a new word had been written in the sugar spill. "Tell," it said. "Tell," Angie whispered. "You want affirmation, to be validated," she nodded and understood. "I get it." She told Elizabeth.

Because of the power outage, instead of cocoa and oatmeal, Angie settled for a Pepsi and a few boiled eggs she had in the fridge. "Not a great combination," she said, washing dry egg yolk down with a swig of soda.

Angie called Wes to see how he was feeling and to see if he or his family needed anything. "I'm a lot achier than I was yesterday, but the pain killers are keeping me happy." Angie told Wes about the message in the sugar and wondered what he thought about it. "How come you were lighting candles?" he asked. "Our power is on."

"My kitchen light was out, Wes, stick to the subject, you know this place is haunted. Lights go off, chimes ring indoors, things go thump in the night."

"Okay, okay," he tried to focus. "The subject is ghosts. And your ghost wants justice." He told her that writing Elizabeth's story and submitting it to the local paper might make an interesting human-interest piece. "Ghosts are people too," he chuckled. Angie tried not to be annoyed at Wes's state of giddy incoherence, but understood.

"I'm not a very good writer," she told him but I have enough information to provide to someone who is." Wes was encouraging but too drugged to be of real help. He did say he had a friend who lived next door to a journalist-he thought. "Call me again when I remember," he told her. She laughed at his confusion.

"How about you call me when you remember?"

"Haha," he laughed. "That sounds even better." As they said their good-byes, Angie said she would call again later. "My pleasure," Wes slurred a bit, "Love you, Angie." The phone went quiet.

"I love you too, Wes. I think."

* * *

The afternoon remained gloomy even though the fog had thinned. The air was heavy with drizzle and a wind had started to blow. Angie checked the weather site on her laptop to find that the forecast was wind and heavy rain by midnight. Angie had found that the power was not out after all, or at least it was on again. She gathered the journal pages and letters and spread them at the kitchen table. While she worked making an outline of her experiences with her ghost, she also baked a large batch of chocolate chip cookies for Wes and his parents. After eating a few, she shrugged on a jacket and headed down the hill to deliver a plate to the Winters family. She wanted to get back before the rain started.

Wes was sleeping on the couch while his mother watched Wheel of Fortune while she waited for The Price is Right to come on. Mr. Winters was nowhere to be seen. Angie offered the plate to Mrs. Winters. "Call me Joy," she told Angie as she chewed a mouth full of cookie. "These are wonderful!" Angie sat in a small chair near the couch, hoping Wes would wake to say "hi" but he continued to snore. "Don't count on Wes to wake up." Joy told Angie. "He had to take an extra pain pill and I think he's out for the night." Angie looked at Wes's face, still bruised and only a little less puffy. The circles under his eyes had darkened. She wanted so much to lean over and kiss his cheek but Joy was too much an obstacle. Instead, she stood and told Mrs. Winters to enjoy the cookies and have Wes call her the next day.

As she climbed the hill toward the house, she looked at the attic window. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a face looking out through the glass. It was not Elizabeth. It looked like a little boy.

Chapter Twenty-four

Tuesday's appointment with Stephanie was mostly spent talking about Wes. Stephanie had to remind Angie of the original purpose for the marathon therapy timetable. "I think you are being very conscientious about your new relationship with Wes but you might be pushing your Bill-connected emotions to a place where you don't feel them right now."

"So are you saying that getting involved with Wes will keep me from my recovery from Bill's crappy choices?" Angie sounded a little defensive to Stephanie.

"Not exactly." Stephanie's response was quick to correct. "It may just take you longer and may possibly have an affect on your new relationships. You may one day be dealing with an old issue and Wes may feel the intrusion." Stephanie spun her office style chair to a large file drawer and fished through the folders until she found the object of her search. "Hopefully, Wes is the listening ear you need and will have no problem being a sounding board from time to time." She handed Angie several papers stapled together. "This is a list of topics and exercises that will lead to productive discussions regarding emotional roadblocks."

"So having Wes work with me on these will..." Angie looked confused and concerned. "... do what for us? Or should I wait ten years before considering looking around?"

"Okay," Stephanie held her hand up. "Let's back up a step. This is not an assignment that will insure a healthy outcome. It is simply a suggestion to help guide communication should you need it. Read it and decide if it is relevant to you or not." Some new partners may care enough to listen to your heartaches. Some may wish they never heard the name Bill." Angie to let her concern go like a deflating balloon.

* * *

Angie stopped off to check on Wes and leave a bag of several empanadas for him. The bag had been rolled shut and a pink ribbon tied it to keep it that way. They talked for a few minutes about nothing of importance. Wes was not nearly as drugged as the last two times she stopped by. Although he seemed glad to see her, he said very little. After a few minutes, he stood and escorted Angie to the door. He opened the door and walked Angie outside and up to the rose bushes along the fence. The strong scent of the flowers brought to mind a distant memory. Bill had given roses regularly, usually when he was unable to be home for an important occasion.

"I'm not trying to get rid of you," he told Angie. "I just wanted a little privacy. My mom has bigger ears that you might think." Angie smiled. "I hope I haven't made a complete fool of myself," he said. I act a little dopey when I take pain killers, uhh, I have a vague recollection of saying stupid things recently, but uhh..."

"Don't worry," Angie said, rescuing him from his own embarrassment. "It wasn't all that dumb." She tipped her head sideways a bit. "But," she added, "Do you really wear women's underwear?"

"What?" Wes exclaimed, perplexed.

Angie laughed. "Come for a visit when you are feeling up to it."

"I'll be there tonight. Usual time."

* * *

When Angie was satisfied with her outline of personal haunting experiences, she began to make a timeline of Elizabeth's problems with the nanny. She noticed something in the diary she had not remembered reading before. Almost at the end, Elizabeth mentions hiding some of her dearest treasures by burying them in the cellar floor. Adrenaline flashed to her fingers and toes. Goose bumps covered her arms and legs.

Angie checked her cell phone. It was almost five. Wes would be here any moment. She needed to ask him about a cellar. There were no stairs inside the house that led down to a basement or cellar. Maybe it is a cellar that goes under from the outside. She had not noticed anything that looked cellar-like. The next five minutes seemed to last hours long. She walked around the house but found nothing but an old wooden door near the corner behind where the kitchen was situated. It had been bolted shut many years before. If a cellar entrance had been there, all evidence near the ground had been worn away. Angie checked the time. It was five minutes past five. She went back to sit on the porch and wait for Wes. After another ten minutes, she was relieved to see him heading up the path. "I was afraid you were not coming," she greeted him, smiling.

"I almost didn't," he huffed. "My muscles are punishing me badly." Angie took him by the arm and helped him up the steps and into the house.

"Sit down, here." She directed him to the sofa and headed to the kitchen. "I have some ice cold lemonade." In a moment she was back, sitting beside him. Once he was comfortable, she proceeded to ask him what he might remember about a cellar. He looked puzzled. "In the diary, Elizabeth mentions the cellar." She explained finding the old door at the back of the house. Wes frowned as he thought.

"I don't remember any cellar," he said. "I'm sure Walter and I would have been all over and inside of that," he added. They sipped lemonade and talked a little longer. Wes suggested they look at the door Angie had mentioned.

"Hmmm." Wes said as he studied the door. "I would be willing to bet this was a cellar entrance at one time. It hasn't been used in a very long time, though."

"What do you think about opening it and maybe digging a little hole or two?" Angie asked. Wes raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"You are a real trouble maker aren't you?" Angie gave Wes her best puppy-dog eyes.

"Please, please, please," she muttered, then gave a cheesy smile.

Because of Wes's aches and pains it took nearly an hour to hike back down the hill and gather the necessary tools to carefully remove the door without damaging it further. Angie followed along, eagerly helping but trying not to push too much. Soon they were ready to dismantle the door to what Angie anticipated was a cellar full of answers.

Chapter Twenty-five

Angie and Wes stood looking into a gaping black hole that reeked of mildew and rotten wood. Cobwebs hung like shredded lace wafting in a slow breeze. For a moment, Angie had second thoughts about intruding on the aging space.

That moment passed when Wes stepped down the splintered steps into the tiny dungeon like space. "Anybody home?" He asked the muggy space. Angie gingerly stepped down avoiding touching everything.

"This is creepy," her voice wavered. "Not liking this," she added, batting at a strip of web trying to touch her face.

"Don't worry Angie; there is nothing in here that can harm you." Wes looked around for any tool or object that might help them unearth a hidden treasure of sorts. Bits of old decayed wood, too brittle to dig with were scattered about. A piece of rusty pipe only scratched at the surface. "This dirt is pretty hard-packed. "Do you have a shovel around here?" Wes asked.

"Not that I have noticed." Angie shrugged. There is a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer." Wes shook his head.

"I have an idea," Wes said, as he tried to leap up the steps before Angie could protest. Angie shivered at the thought of being left alone. In a few minutes, a smiling Wes returned with a flashlight, a large kitchen knife and a large rock. Angie raised her brows.

"This is for you," he said, handing Angie the flashlight." He groaned as he crouched down near the center of the room and used the rock to drive the knife into the dirt floor. When it went in about 10 inches without resistance, he moved to another spot a few inches away. He went on that way for several minutes until the floor was half covered in gashes. Angie was beginning to get discouraged when Wes tapped the knife and heard a metallic tink sound. She held her breath as he made several cuts around the area. "Sorry about the knife," he said as he pried the dirt away from the metal object.

"Not a big deal," she responded, "It's just a ninety-nine cent store item." Soon Wes uncovered a small tin box with broken hinges and most of the turquoise paint rusted away. He turned it over to Angie who handled it as if it were a priceless relic. She removed the lid to find three items, buried in dirt: a tarnished silver locket, a dusty gold wedding ring and a nearly disintegrated photo of a baby boy. The detail on the metal items was not obvious but Angie could distinguish a delicate design under the grime. The photo was nearly destroyed.

Wes filled the hole and re-attached the door to the house while Angie took the jewelry into the house to clean them. Once cleaned, Angie was able to open the locket and found a tiny photo of a little blond boy and one of a man with a beard and a captain's hat. Both pictures were damaged but discernable. The wedding ring was a gold ornate band of floral filigree and dotted with numerous diamonds. She carefully placed the photo in a plastic bag to try to preserve it.

When Wes came back into the house he found Angie sitting at the kitchen table. She was holding the wedding ring and looking forlorn. He sat in the chair nearest her. "You look sad," he told her. "Are you thinking of Bill?" Angie looked up as Wes and smiled a dismal smile.

"Just for a moment," she said. "I was wondering what kind of Hell Elizabeth was living through to drive her to bury her wedding ring and a photo of her child in a dank gloomy cellar. Nothing I have gone through has been as horrible as her suffering."

Wes looked unhappy. "It's just another kind of suffering." He covered her hands with his. Angie looked into Wes's eyes. The look turned to a long, soft stare. Finally, he realized Angie was in a deep involved moment. He was not sure if it involved him or another memory of her past. He wanted, with all his heart for it to be about him, but doubted it was so. "You want to be alone?" He asked Angie, chasing the romantic feelings away. For a second she was annoyed but then realized she was not being fair. He still was unaware of her changing feelings. At least he seemed oblivious. Maybe it was time to shrug her fears and let Wes into her heart.

"You want to go for a walk on the beach tomorrow?" She asked. "We could watch another sunset." Wes melted into her smile. "I hear Wednesday sunsets are particularly romantic, she teased." Wes' spirits were instantly lifted.

Chapter Twenty-six

After Wes had gone home, Angie gathered every treasure she had found in both the master bedroom and those from the cellar floor. She photographed them and downloaded them to her laptop. Man, she thought to herself, this computer technology is amazing. She thought about the fact that before Bill died, she had never even tried to surf the internet. Nevertheless, with the help of her daughter and two of her teen-age grand children, she had become quite computer adept in the past 6 months. When she finished, she called Wes and asked for the name of his friend that lived next door a journalist.

"I think the journalist is Bethany Brown at the Coos Bay Planet." He took a few minutes to double check and gave Angie the phone number for Ms. Brown's office. "Uhh, Angie," he added with just a hint of hesitance, "We still on for that romantic-Wednesday-sunset-walk-on-the-beach?"

Absolutely," she told him. "I cannot wait."

Angie called Bethany Brown and described the treasures, letters and diary that she had found. Ms. Brown was intrigued and invited Angie to bring her notes and one of the items to show her. Before she left for the appointment, she called Abigail Peterson, the real estate woman who had found her the house on Coquille Hill. She told her of the things she had discovered and asked for the owner's contact information. Abby told her she would call and ask permission to give out the number. Within the hour, the owner called to hear Angie's story. She sounded delighted about the treasure but wanted to approve any article that is written, before it is published. Angie promised she would co-operate and keep her informed.

When Angie had finished showing Bethany the photos of the treasures, Bethany then scanned the letters and several of the paragraphs from the diary, she leaned back in her char and gushed.

This is fascinating!" Bethany spoke with pure delight. "It will make a wonderful human interest piece with a definite historic tone." She seemed to talk with record speed. "We may have to take care, stepping around any obvious accusations, but we can surely support this with plenty of quotes and a little research." Angie sat smiling and nodding. She had left out all of the haunting experiences with Elizabeth. She did not want Bethany or the citizens of Coos Bay to think she was a nut. "You have done a wonderful job collecting these items," Bethany went on, "...and organizing the information..." Bethany had to pause for a deep breath. "...you have dates, photos, Angie, I'm so excited!"

Angie seemed to run out of steam before Bethany did. What energy! Angie thought. I hope this is what Elizabeth wants.

* * *

Wes showed up at 4:45, more than an hour before the sun was scheduled to set. He was filled with hope and doubt. All his fingers were crossed and wishes made. This is so ridiculous, he thought. I hope she isn't playing some stupid hard-to-get-game. I'm a nice guy. He thought, I'm not some weird creep who wants to steal her money or take advantage or..., he huffed a little. "I'm a damned good catch," he said aloud, and knocked soundly on Angie's door.

He heard a muffled, "Come in!" from the other side of the door. As he walked in, he found Angie filling a small box with food items. "I figured you haven't eaten yet so I put together some roast beef sandwiches and goodies for us to much on as we watch the sunset. Wes watched as she moved quickly to get things ready. It surprised him at how rapidly his feelings for Angie were intensifying. He had toyed considered ending his visits just to limit the pain he felt when he reminded himself that Angie was not ready or willing to connect. But, he felt, every moment lost would be his misfortune.

The couple hiked down the hill to Wes's car and rode to the local beach, engaging in very little conversation. Each, unknowingly, thinking of their feelings for the other. After parking, they gathered the picnic box and headed for the sand. Stripes of orange were already beginning to appear in the crisp blue sky.

"I talked to Bethany Brown about our treasures," Angie said, handing a sandwich to Wes.

"Did she seem interested?" He asked.

"Oh she is definitely interested." Angie went on to tell of the journalist's excitement. "She sounded like she had the story of the year plopped right in her lap." Wes nodded as he chewed. "I just hope it is what Elizabeth wants."

Wes swallowed his last bite of sandwich. "Elizabeth is going to miss you when you go, he said." Angie had a moment of disorientation. She had almost forgotten she had another life to return to. She thought about her empty home full of memories of Bill.

At that moment, Angie felt like a stubborn child. I don't want to go home, she thought. But I guess I have to. To Wes she said, sadly, "I will miss her too."

While Angie cleaned up the foodstuff, Wes pushed sand around in dips and mounds, making a comfortable sand sofa over which Angie spread the blanket. They sat semi-reclined and watched an unseen hand paint the ski a stunning palate of orange, lavender and rose. A few clouds blocked out part of the sun, but bright, sharp beams cut their way to the ocean's surface. A breeze cooled the air enough to chill Angie. Wes instinctively put his arm around her shoulder. The splendor of sunset kept the two captivated. They watched long after the sun had dipped below the water until the stars began to appear. Both had their thoughts on kisses. Wes wondering if he should, Angie wondering if he would, when Wes abruptly broke the peaceful contemplation.

"Uh-oh," he said in the dark.

"Angie struggled to see him. "What's wrong," she asked.

"I forgot to bring a flashlight. There are no lights near this beach. This aught to be interesting." They both laughed at the oversight. The moon had not yet risen so the darkness was quite an obstruction. It took nearly a half hour to stumble back to Wes's car, holding each other's arms bumping into one another and laughing along the way.

At the car, they stood looking at each other by the car's dome light. Angie smiled and looked down at her awkward hands, trying to find something for them to do. Wes lifted her chin when, at that moment, Angie's phone rang the tune, of The Girl from Impanema. "Haha," Wes laughed. "The Lady from Empanada." Angie looked at the phone to see who was interrupting such a blissful moment. It was Bethany Brown.

"Hi Angie, she said in a breathless gush of words. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I have been working on your story since the minute you left yesterday. I did some research-not much to find there but birth and death records-found a few photos and sat at the pc till my butt spread two sizes. I just got off the phone with the house owner. I read her the story and she said it was fine. My editor okayed it for the morning paper!"

"That's fantastic," Angie said. "Can you E-mail me a copy?"

"Oh, Angie I am so sorry my editor won't allow it. At least not till its in print. If you can't wait, I can send it after 3-ish tomorrow morning."

"Oh, no, that's okay. I will get up early to go get a paper, no problem. Thanks."

Wes walked Angie up the dark path to the house. When they got to the porch steps, Angie turned to Wes. "You want to come over for breakfast, Wes?" After I run to town to get the paper, I can cook something extra special."

"I'll bring the paper straight from the driveway. Or the bushes. Or the roof."

Angie grinned, tapped her palms together in tiny little claps. "It's a date!" Angie said with great anticipation in her voice. "As soon as it hits the pavement."

"Is there anything else I can bring?" Wes asked.

"Just your adorable self." Angie leaned up close, kissed Wes on the cheek and hurried into the house."

Wes made his way down the hill and across the street to his rose covered fence. He bent down and breathed in deeply, the scent of happiness.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Wes appeared on Angie's porch at 6:15. He saw that the kitchen light was on and knew Angie was anxiously waiting for him, or at least the Coos Bay Planet. He tapped lightly and heard Angie's eager reply: "Get your butt in here!"

"Wow," he said, chuckling. "I feel so welcome." He stepped into the kitchen where he found enough food for the Navy. "Ahh, Angie, I did tell you I started a diet a couple weeks ago. This might just wipe it out."

Angie, standing at the stove, flipping pancakes, looked back at the counter covered with muffins, brownies, bacon, hash browns, freshly scrambled eggs and a plate of empanadas. "Impanemas," he said with delight.

"Yeah, I had a hard time sleeping." Angie loaded a plate with pancakes, eggs and hash browns. She set it on the table with the bacon and a pitcher of orange juice. "Dig in," she told Wes. He immediately obeyed. She reached for the paper at Wes's elbow. He snatched it up before she could get it.

"Not till breakfast is done."

"What is this Christmas morning? No opening presents till everyone is awake and fed?"

"You know what Carly says about anticipation," Wes teased.

"What, that It's making me wait?"

"'Yeah, and, 'cause these are the good old days.'" Angie could see sad mischief in his eyes. She smiled and tilted her head.

"Okay, Wes," she said putting food on her plate. "Just for you, but eat fast." They made small talk for a while, until Wes wondered aloud when Angie was planning to go back home. She had been in Coquille for over six weeks and he knew it would likely be too soon.

"I'm not really sure," she told Wes. "I have been trying not to think about it. I guess I should evaluate my recovery plan." Wes half-smiled. "Yeah, I know how dumb that sounds." She admitted. "I really do think I'm doing very well. Much better than I thought I would be at this point but, I think I have Elizabeth and you to thank for that." She paused, looking into Wes's eyes. "Especially you."

Wes picked up the Coos Bay Planet and removed the rubber band. He unfolded to the front page and just below the center was the heading of Bethany's story. Angie read over his shoulder.

A Century of Waiting

In 1903, a beautiful Victorian home was built on a hill in Coquille and readied for the arrival of a new family. Captain and Mrs. Sandmier, their young son Stanly, and soon to arrive baby girl, made themselves at home. Public records show that in 1905, three separate deaths occurred within weeks of each other at that very home. A four-year old boy plummets to an early demise. In her grief, a mother looses a baby girl to stillbirth and then her own life is ended at the end of a rope in the rafters of her attic. It appears that one tragedy sadly lead to another, then an unfathomable need to take her own life seemed the only end to the young mother's pain.

The public was shocked at the story that headlined the daily paper. MOTHER DIES OF SORROW. Many townspeople grieved at the tragic fates. Surely, some wondered how a mother could be so selfish and weak-minded.

One hundred and ten years later, a diary was discovered that gives reason to believe that the tragedies that family endured were more than unfortunate happenstance or lack of responsibility. A diary of the distraught mother, Elizabeth Stewart Sandmier, was discovered recently in boxes of her useless possessions from long ago. In her own writing, Elizabeth describes the details of the misery and fear in which she was living just before her death. She wrote of the suspicion that the nanny had poisoned her and that, she believed, was what caused the stillbirth of her baby girl. She described the unusual explanation of the nanny's reasoning for taking her son to the rooftop where he had fallen. She stated that she had discovered a letter that the nanny had planted that disclosed that she, Sophia Stewart, was with child, the captain's child. The angry and distraught mother also wrote of hearing the nanny moving furniture around in the attic on the night before her death date of suicide by hanging.

Upon further searches of census, vital, and other public records, it was discovered that the woman believed to be Nanny Sophie eventually married Elizabeth's widower husband, Captain William Sandmier, shortly after her death. She appears as "wife" on the 1920 census in Coquille as Sophia Sandmier. Could Sophia Reynolds Sandmier have been a cold-blooded, calculating murderess? Could the captain have been in on the alleged murders? Why not? Until a court finds her guilty, it is only speculation.

What happened to Elizabeth was beyond tragic. Not only did she suffer the ultimate loss at the hand of another, she took the alleged killer's guilt, as her own, to her grave and held it for over a century. Perhaps one day soon, Elizabeth Stewart Sandmier will win the justice she deserves.

What do you think?

To reply to this article, go to 21centpblc.outcry.org

When Wes finished the article, he folded the paper and looked up at Angie. She had tears falling down her cheeks and a wide grin spread across her face. Wes laughed. "You think Elizabeth approves?" He asked. Nodding, Angie began crying in earnest. Wes stood and pulled Angie into his arms and held her as she sobbed. He knew she was thinking of the little lost family; finally found. But he also knew Angie, too, had bits of her broken past rising to the surface. When she calmed, Wes held up her chin as he had the night before on the beach. He looked at her red eyes and runny nose and said softly, "You are so beautiful." Angie knew this was the moment. She would know, either way.

The kiss was not only the kind that made one yearn for another, relish the sensation or even to stop time. It was warm and soft, full of tenderness, hope, and a sense of careful bonding. There was no youthful lust or hormonal urgency, just two ordinary people who thought of the other as extraordinary, uncommonly exceptional and as someone they would enjoy being with for a very long time. As Angie looked into Wes's eyes, she saw that the brightness had returned.

As they kissed again, there was a tinkling sound as the chimes hanging in the kitchen window rang a soft melodic message.

