Chapter Ten

As he drove up the driveway, Angel Rose by his side, Richie should have been looking forward to exploring the basement. Instead, he felt a sense of foreboding. Something wasn’t right. He glanced to his right, and saw she could feel it too. Her face was ashen, and she had a death grip on the purse strap in her lap. When they rounded the last corner and the house came into view, Richie slammed on the brakes, forcing Angel Rose to relinquish the death grip on her purse to brace herself against the dashboard.

“Son of a bitch,” he swore.

It may just have been a trick of the light, but it looked like the sun was shining directly on the window to the room he could not open. What’s more, there was a figure in the window that quickly disappeared when he peered through the windshield to get a closer look.

“Holy shit – do you see that?” Richie asked Angel Rose. “Someone is in my house.”

He slammed the gearshift into park, and bolted from the car before Angel Rose could answer. Richie was racing up the porch, and bursting through the front door, throwing a “Stay in the truck!” over his shoulder.

“Wait!” she called back, but it was too late.

Richie skidded to a stop in the great room. Nothing looked amiss; everything looked exactly as he had left it. Heart pounding, he bolted up the stairs to the third floor, and stormed up to the door that wouldn’t open. This was where he had seen the figure in the window; he was sure of it. How the hell did someone get into that room before he did? Angel Rose came up the stairs behind him and stopped just out of his reach. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to see who the hell is in there,” he answered, and started pounding on the door when the knob wouldn’t yield. “I saw you in there,” he shouted through the thick oak-paneled door. “Open this door or I’ll break it down!” His chest was heaving, and he was ready to crash through the door when he heard a faint scraping, and felt something hit his boot. He looked down and saw a key lying on the floor.

When Kirstin heard the pounding of feet on the hardwood stairs, she was scared. She could feel his anger – he must have caught a glimpse of her in the window. She’d have to be more careful. Clearly he wasn’t ready. When he pummeled his fists on the door demanding entry, she channeled her energy to the key lying on the floor, and gave it a shove. It slid effortlessly under the door. She heard his muffled curse, and sensed him bending to pick up the key. She also sensed that he was not alone.

Richie swore. “What the fuck game is this?” he yelled, as he bent down to pick up an extraordinary looking key. It was long and slender, with an iron ring on one end and three misshapen teeth on the other. A real old-fashioned skeleton-looking key. He showed it to Angel Rose. “I don’t have a key like this in the jumble Marty gave me,” he said. “And I know there was nothing on the floor here earlier when I tried to get into this room.” He turned the key over a few times in his hands and shouted through the door again. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you’re trespassing, and I won’t have it!” He fit the key in the lock and turned, satisfied at the loud snick of the lock. The knob was all but crushed in his hand, but it turned easily, and Richie flung the door open.

Kirstin watched with a mixture of anticipation and fear as the knob turned, and the door slammed open, bouncing off the adjacent wall, sending a spray of plaster chips to the floor.

Richie barreled through the door and stopped; a strangled gasp slipping through his half-opened mouth. The room looked like it had just been furnished. There wasn’t a mote of dust to be found on any of the surfaces. Richie was almost afraid to step any further into the room. He wasn’t sure he was actually awake. Maybe when he came running up the stairs, he tripped and fell and hit his head, knocking himself out cold. That had to be it. This just couldn’t be happening – the room was immaculate.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” he asked Angel Rose.

“I see a very well put together room,” Ang answered softly. Her eyes were locked on Kirstin, and she refused to step into the room. “I see linen wall paper with a rose pattern, roll-top desk, rocking chair, other furniture – everything looks clean and new.”

“Yeah,” Richie said. “That’s what I see too. What the hell?”

The floral wall coverings were pristine, and when he reached out hesitantly to touch one wall, he was surprised to feel the warmth and texture of the fabric. He saw the fireplace with its grate in place, and not a cobweb in sight. The leather chairs on either side still looked soft and supple.

He took a step further into the room. The floors were solid; no squeaking like in some of the other rooms on the third floor. He turned toward the old-fashioned roll-top desk and frowned. There were papers in the little pigeon holes, and when he moved closer, Richie could see a delicate, feminine script on some of them. He was reaching for one piece of folded parchment when he felt a breeze and turned toward the window.

The sunlight was streaming in, illuminating perfectly a gently-swaying rocking chair. There was no reason for the chair to be rocking at all – the window was closed. Richie’s blood drained from his face, and he stumbled backwards into the hall, bumping into Angel Rose in the doorway and sending them both sprawling against the wall.

He pointed at the rocking chair. “Do you see THAT too?” he asked, his voice trembling. “The chair,” he said, pointing a shaking finger at the seat in question. “It’s moving.” He didn’t even so much as slide his eyes over to Angel Rose. He was too afraid to look away from the chair.

“I do see it,” she said. And so much more. Damn – so much more.

“What does it mean?” he asked. “What is happening?”

Angel Rose didn’t answer, just watched as a woman rocked slowly in her chair. The woman had a hard grip on the ends of the arm rests and Ang thought she appeared to be staring at her. This was the woman from the articles. Her ancestor. Kirstin.

“What is going on here?” Richie persisted. He gulped and finally turned to face Angel Rose. “That’s a ghost, isn’t it?”

All Ang could do was nod.

The scratches on Richie’s arm started to burn a little, and he rubbed absently at them. When he realized what he was doing, he stared down at them. “Is it the woman from my dreams?” he asked. “Is this Kirstin?”

Kirstin made the scratches on his arm. She was his ghost. Richie’s legs gave out, and he slid to the floor. He wasn’t afraid of many things. Not anything he could think of, for that matter, but he was scared now. He didn’t think he was in any real danger, but she did scratch his arm up, and he just really didn’t understand what was going on. That scared the shit out of him more than anything else did. From his spot on the floor, he watched as the rocking chair stopped moving.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “The chair stopped. Does that mean she’s gone?”

Ang swallowed hard and watched the chair start back up again. Her fear was a nearly tactile thing, and Richie scrambled up from the floor to take her hand. “Hey,” he said. “Ang, are you okay?”

Angel Rose nodded, though she couldn’t pull her eyes away from Kirstin, nor could she pull her hand from Richie’s grasp.

Kirstin frowned, and wondered why the woman was staring so intently at her, but was overjoyed that she and the man hadn’t run. She continued rocking slowly, and waited to see what the pair would do next.

Richie and Angel Rose looked petrified, but slowly, cautiously, started to take tentative steps toward the room. As they crossed the threshold, Kirstin slowed her rocking. Richie’s eyes locked on hers, though he couldn’t see her, and his boots made a hollow sound as he crossed the whiskey-colored floors to sit on the couch by the window.

“Are you real?” Richie asked softly.

“Yes,” Kirstin said emphatically, rocking again. She suspected that since Richie couldn’t see her, he couldn’t hear her, but she had talked to him anyway. She thought about making herself seen, since he did apparently see her in the window earlier, but was afraid of sending him running. He seemed to be able to handle the rocking, so that’s all she would do for now.

Her attention turned to the young woman. The pale girl couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from Kirstin. She acted as though...

“Miss, can you hear me?” Angel Rose held perfectly still and tried not to flinch at the sound of Kirstin’s voice. Kirstin sat forward in her chair to squint at Angel Rose.

“Jesus,” Richie said, seeing the chair perch forward on the very edge of its rockers and hover there, and tentatively reached out to touch the back of the chair. Feeling a coldness unlike anything he’d ever felt before, he snatched his hand back and cradled it to his chest. He flexed his fingers and turned his hand over, but saw nothing wrong. He once again reached out, this time to the armrest.

Kirstin closed her eyes, and concentrated. For a minute, Richie felt his palm warm up, and he’d swear he felt silk or satin under his fingertips. Just as quickly as the feeling came, it was gone.

“Jesus,” he said again. “Angel Rose, there is a ghost. It has to be Kirstin, right?” he whispered. “She’s really here,” he said in wonder. “What do I do?”

That was the million dollar question.

“Go,” Angel Rose breathed. Her skin was pasty and clammy, and the room was starting to spin. “Please, let’s go; take me back.”

Richie turned to Ang and gasped at her complexion. “Oh hell, Angel Rose, why didn’t you say – yeah, let’s get you out of here.” He led her back toward the door, though Riche couldn’t help but stare over his shoulder at the rocking chair. When he came to the door, he carefully took the key from the lock and slid it into his back pocket.

“Kirstin,” he whispered. “What happened to you?” Shaking his head, he led Ang out into the hall and closed the door behind them.

Chapter Nine

Angel Rose tried to go back to sleep; tried to recapture the dream so she could figure out why it was important, but she couldn’t. All she could do was recall the heady scent of hundreds of rhododendrons with something else underneath it; something unpleasant and foul.

Sighing, she got out of bed. If she wasn’t going to go back to sleep, she may as well get a jump on the day. She’d at least be able to get through the mail she neglected yesterday. She took a quick shower and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt in deference to the weekend, and wound her hair in to a knot at the nape of her neck. The short drive back across town perked her up somewhat, and she plowed through the pile of post on her desk. When she had everything filed or answered, she checked the time and was dismayed to find it was still early. With nothing pressing demanding her attention, she started to feel the pull of the records upstairs.

“You know you want to help him, so just go do it already,” she said to herself. She grabbed the door pager for just in case and went upstairs to the microfiche room where she began to pull reels from the years relevant to the Maddox mystery. She would print out the articles and add then to his pile.

As she scrolled through the film, scanning articles and pictures, that peculiar itching began at the back of her brain again. When she concentrated on it, flashes from the dream last night came back to her – the lake, the noise in the bushes, the rhododendrons. She stopped and sat back in her chair. Could they be related? Did she have a vision of the past instead of a premonition? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, either. As she blindly printed off page after page of accounts of the Maddox woman’s disappearance, the itch grew a voice, and she heard unintelligible whispers.

Trying to ignore the whispering, Angel Rose straightened the stack of papers that had accumulated next to her terminal. As she placed them back on the desk, a few slipped off the top of the stack and fluttered to the floor.

“Dammit,” she muttered, as she squatted to pick up the errant sheets. “Oh my God,” she squeaked. She felt behind her for her chair and dragged herself up into it. She was staring into her mother’s face. She quickly scanned the caption on the photo. “Kirstin Maddox,” she said.

She reached for her phone and speed-dialed her mother.

“Hello, my darling daughter,” Kelly said. “To what do I owe this pleasure so early on a Saturday morning?”

“Hi Mom. Sorry it’s so early. I’m doing some research for a new homeowner, and came across a picture of a woman that looks just like you.”

“Like me? I’m pretty sure I’ve never been in Mississippi – and I’m sure I’ve never been photographed there.”

“It’s not you-you,” Angel Rose said. “It’s a photo from back in the 1800’s of someone who looks like you. Did you and Joy talk about her family?”

“Of course – you think this may be an ancestor?”

“She has to be. Were there any Maddoxes in Joy’s family tree?”

“Maddox? Let me find Joy’s photo albums. Hang on.”

Angel Rose tapped her fingers nervously on the desk while her mother searched. A buzz at her waist startled her. She glanced at the clock and was surprised to see more than an hour had passed since she sat down at the machine. She hurried to the doorway and called out, “I’ll be right down!” She straightened the papers into a pile so she could give them to Richie.

“It’s just me, Angel Rose,” he called back. “I’ve grabbed the keys; I’m coming up.” His heavy boots thumped quickly up the stairs, and when he came to a halt outside the open door, he leaned on the jamb. “So, couldn’t wait to get to work today?”

Ang smiled. “Something like that. OH, hang on a sec. Yes, mom?” She held up a finger while she listened to her mother’s response. Her smile faltered a little when her mother answered the question at hand. “Well, that explains it. Thanks Mom. Love to Dad, and I’ll see you soon, okay? My client’s here.” She was quiet for a moment more. “Love you too. Bye.” She hung up the phone and smiled at Richie. “Sorry about that. Anyway, I was able to pull a few years’ worth of newspaper articles from fiche. There are articles from the disappearance, I started there, and went backwards to the Maddox wedding. I figure anything before or after that, you could get later if you were so inclined.” She wasn’t going to say anything about Kirstin Maddox being an ancestor. Not yet anyway.

Richie clapped his hands together once, smiling widely. “That’s just great, Angel Rose. Thank you.” He strode into room to help gather the piles of copy paper that sat next to a complicated-looking machine. He started riffling through the sheets. “I’ll start on these; bring ‘em into the other room and get ‘em sorted out.”

“Great,” Angel Rose said, yawning widely. “I’ll go make some more coffee, and will be back up in a little bit.”

Richie didn’t hear her; he was staring, mouth agape, at the paper in his hand. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Something wrong?” Angel Rose asked. She frowned as a knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

He turned the piece of paper toward her, so she could see the photo that had accompanied the article. “This woman. I dreamed of her last night,” Richie said quietly. He almost added “again”, but he wasn’t quite ready to admit that.

“Who is she?” Angel Rose countered. The knot unraveled, letting dread spread through her belly.

“Uh,” Richie said, scanning the article for a name. “This says it’s Kirstin Maddox,” Richie said. His arms dropped to his sides, and he stared off into space.

“You dreamed about her?” Ang answered. “What happened?”

“I was having lunch in the maze by the fountain,” Richie started. A light blush tinged Richie’s cheeks. “With you in fact.”

All the color leeched out of Angel Rose’s face. That’s what happened in HER dream, too. A chill pulsed through her as she realized that her dream wasn’t a premonition, and it wasn’t a remembered past event. What was it then – a shared dream? She couldn’t remember that happening before. But if it was a shared dream, the earlier questions she had about the dream were answered. Richie obviously had some sort of link with Kirstin, and apparently had some link to her – or Kirstin did – that allowed them to share something on a sub-conscious plane. Her head dropped back for a moment, and Ang stared at the ceiling. The possibilities and potential repercussions were giving her a headache.

“We went for a walk, you and me,” Richie continued, not noticing her discomfort, “then all of a sudden, you were gone, and SHE,” he held up the paper again, rattling it loudly, “was there.” He absently began rubbing the marks on his arm while he stared at the picture. “She didn’t say anything, just looked at me like she was lost. I tried to talk to her, but she just shook her head and disappeared. Then I woke up, and I felt all weird inside, and couldn’t go back to sleep.” He clamped his lips closed before he told her the rest of the story of having warm beer for breakfast to try to calm his nerves, grabbing his guitar and suitcase, and spending the wee hours of the morning in his truck wondering whether he should stay or go, all because the house made him uneasy.

“Hmm, maybe you saw a picture of her somewhere else in your pile of stuff and she stuck?” Ang asked softly.

“I guess,” Richie said, “but why did it feel so real? I mean, I could taste the food we were eating. I could smell the flowers.” Angel Rose looked like she was going to answer him and he held up a hand to stop her – he was freaked out enough. “No, no, no; on second thought, I don’t want to know. What do we do now?”

Angel Rose let her cheeks puff out, and forced the puff of breath from them. “Well, let’s get this stuff sorted out, and we can start a timeline. Do you want to start with the most recent stuff or the oldest?” Richie just stood there, staring at the copy of the photo in his hands. Angel Rose crossed to him and put a hand on his arm briefly, and the shock had him looking into her eyes. “Oldest first or newest?” she said again.

“Newest,” Richie said. “Not that the other stuff wouldn’t be interesting, but the mystery really starts with the recent history right?”

“Right,” Angel Rose said. She led Richie down the hall, and waited for him to unlock the door. He did so, though he seemed to have trouble pulling his gaze away from the article in his hand. After a few minutes, he put the printout on the stack of papers from the most recent year, and went on to the next.

Two hours and three pots of coffee later, Angel Rose had helped Richie put together a rough timeline. She had taped butcher paper along one wall, and Richie started from the first pile, calling out events and dates that Ang wrote on the paper. When he got to the stack for 1866, he said, “And here’s an article about the history of the house; it says that it was a stop on the Underground Railroad in ’61.” He looked up and grinned. “I already knew that.”

Angel Rose made a notation on the timeline. “Really? I didn’t think there were many sympathizers in the South.”

Richie smiled. “Marty told me a little about it when we found that door under the cellar stairs.” He started to relate the same story that Marty had told him, but stopped when he saw Ang’s eyes go wide. “What is it?”

“You found a door? You mean to a secret room?” Riche nodded. “That is SO cool.”

“It really is,” Richie agreed. “It’s nothing but a dark hollow, earth floors and walls, but it’s cool.” He flipped through more papers. “I wonder if there’d be more about the railroad in other newspaper stories.”

“There could be,” Angel Rose said. “So the room, where was it exactly?”

Richie smiled at her enthusiasm. “There’s this stairwell leading down to the kitchen in the basement. Under the stairs there’s this wooden door, like for a pantry or storage or something. Inside that little alcove is another little door that led to the hidden room.”

“Wow,” she replied.

Richie pursed his lips for a minute. “Hey, you wanna come see it? It’s not much in and of itself to look at, but it does get you wondering what it must have been like back then.”

Angel Rose didn’t even stop to think about what her curse would pick up in that history-rich space -- she just knew she wanted to see it. “Absolutely; that would be amazing. But let’s finish this timeline first – you’ve only got a couple piles left. Then it’ll be on to the details.”

They made quick work of the rest of the paper, then locked up, and were on their way.

Chapter Eight

Going home for Angel Rose meant a short drive across town. Her street was almost picturesque in its simplicity, with twin rows of colorful, cottage-style houses fronted by white picket fences. The third one on the left was hers, painted a bold red with black trim and shutters. She loved her little cottage-house, and wouldn’t trade it for anything.

She smiled as she walked up the path to the front door. The fuchsia and yellow chrysanthemums were in bloom, their fragrant blossoms waving to her in the slight summer breeze that rippled through them. The trellis of roses under her bay window released their fragrance into the evening, and she stopped for a moment to inhale their bouquet deep into her lungs before fitting her key into the lock. When the door was safely bolted behind her, she stowed her bag in its customary spot under the hall table, and dropped her keys onto its surface.

Kicking off her shoes and listening to the utter quiet of her home, she sighed peacefully. She padded down the short hallway to the kitchen, which was done in blue and white gingham. Light curtains fluttered gently at the window over the sink, and the small table in the corner was set with matching placemats. She pulled a bottle of pinot from the wire rack on the counter and opened it, setting it on the Formica countertop to breathe.

Humming to herself, she set about prepping a short loaf of garlic bread to go with her dinner. As she melted the butter and grated garlic and fresh parmesan into the pan, her thoughts wandered irritatingly back to the Thompson project. “Stop it,” she scolded herself, and poured her first glass of wine before turning her full attention to the pan on the stove.

She used a basting brush to paint the butter mixture onto a loaf of Italian bread which had been sliced lengthwise. When the white surfaces were sufficiently slick, she wrapped the loaf in foil and set it into the oven to heat. She set a pot of water, complete with a drizzle of olive oil, on the back burner to boil. Then she turned to take salad fixings from the fridge. She caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned, there was nothing there – nothing except for long-clawed talons pulling at the carefully constructed wall she’d built in her mind.

“NO,” she said loudly to herself. “Absolutely not. You will stop that right now, Angel Rose Summerlin.” She drained her wine glass and poured a refill; leaving it on the counter while she stepped out onto the back deck. Angel Rose leaned on the railing and looked out over the lush green lawn. A sun-catcher staked in the middle of the yard did its job with help from the slowly setting orb; sending a colorful shower of light over the grass.

She concentrated on the smell of the garlic bread and the colors dancing cross the lawn and was able to push the claws back over the wall. She breathed deeply through her nose, taking in as much air as she could, and held her breath. She closed her eyes and “sipped the air” like swimmers do before long underwater races, taking as many microns of air into her lungs as she could. She sat on the deck, crossing her legs in a classic Lotus position, and concentrated on centering herself.

Slowly, she let out the air. It hissed through her lips, sounding like a slowly leaking balloon. When her lungs were empty, she repeated the process, sipping a little more air this time. By the third time through the exercise, she was thoroughly relaxed, and there was no more scrabbling coming from behind the wall.

She finished her second glass of wine with the dinner she brought to the deck for a little springtime al fresco dining. A radio tuned to a local station played softly in the background while she made quick work of her meal. She thought a third glass of wine while she watched her movie was a great idea. She settled onto the end of her couch, placing her wine glass carefully onto the low table in front of her. She clutched a butter-yellow over-stuffed pillow to her chest, tucked her feet up under her, and settled in.

The movie she had selected from Blockbuster yesterday, turned out to be a terrible selection for tonight – especially given what had happened during the day. Still, the wine was doing its job, and she was lost in the story of Sam Wheat and Molly Jensen, and when the heartstring-tugging pottery wheel scene came on, Angel Rose was chagrinned to find she had tears streaming down her face.

“No more wine,” she told herself, and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. At the end of the movie, she took a light afghan and headed back to the deck to watch the stars.

* * * * *

Richie sat at the diner, enjoying that evening’s “Dinner”. It was meatloaf and mashed potatoes, smothered in the most delicious gravy he’d ever tasted, served along with a deep bowl of string beans. A rib-sticking meal to be sure – comfort food at its finest. As he munched happily through the heaping plates in front of him, Richie thought about what he’d learned about his house today. He had to admit he was excited to be doing some of his own research. He thought he’d be getting some sort of report from the historical society with everything all spelled out, but going through the stacks and pulling the records, then putting them into some semblance of order by himself was exhilarating. Well, not exactly by himself; he did have help from Angel Rose.

Angel Rose.

He’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t attracted to her. When she had taken his arm to examine the scratches, he thought he’d jump right out of his skin. Her touch was electrifying, and he was fairly certain she felt something too. But in the first few hours they’d spent together, she felt like a long-lost friend he was reacquainting himself with rather than a potential romantic interest. Still, she was a beautiful woman, and he remembered the little shock he felt when they first shook hands, and how it was repeated whenever her arm would brush his as they sorted documents side-by-side.

After taking care of the bill, he sweet-talked the waitress into selling him a six-pack to take with him, and headed back to the house. It was a beautiful night, made for sitting under the stars. There was a light breeze, keeping all but the most blood-starved bugs away, and the sky was so clear, so inky black that the stars seemed extra bright. Richie sat on the back porch, beer in hand, leaning against a post. He stared into the vastness of “up there” and took a deep breath. A person could breathe out here.

He went in to fetch his guitar before popping the top off of the second beer. He downed the bottle in four swallows, all but moaning in pleasure as the cold liquid slicked his dry throat. He picked at a tune he’d been toying with, but set himself on autopilot, letting his fingers go where they wanted to without him giving it conscious thought. As he played, the bullfrogs and katydids hushed their own night songs to listen.

The third and fourth beers went down just as easy as the first two, and Richie was relaxed as he let the music take over. He lost all sense of time and space – there was only the music and the way it made him feel. He always thanked his lucky stars for the musical talent he’d been given, and looked up into a blanket of glittery spots, chagrinned to find they swam a little. “Lightweight,” he muttered to himself, chuckling.

He went inside to put his guitar away, and grabbed his bedroll. It was too pretty a night to turn in just yet; he wanted to lie on his back and gaze up at the stars, and ponder his own mortality – or some such shit, he thought.

* * * * *

Angel Rose was surprised to find herself on a thick plaid blanket spread next to a fountain, next to Richie. What the hell?

“And I have no idea if I’ll ever get the fountain working again,” Richie was saying, as he finished the last of his turkey sandwich. “But never say never, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, vaguely. I was just on my deck at night, not here in the day... I must be dreaming. Huh. Why do I know that I’m dreaming?

“Something wrong with your sandwich?” Richie asked. “You’ve only taken a few bites.”

Startled, Angel Rose looked down at her hands, which were inches away from her lap. Clasped in the fingers was a stuffed sandwich in danger of dropping to the ground. Hurriedly, she took a bite. That’s strange, she thought, I can taste the cranberry sauce on the bread. I don’t even like cranberry sauce. “No, nothing’s wrong.” She took another bite for good measure. “It’s delicious. I’m just not all that hungry.” She put the sandwich down on a plate and brushed her hands. “So now what?”

Richie laughed. “Oh, playing coy, are you? You know damned well what.” He closed the distance between them and settled his mouth on hers as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

Angel Rose struggled against the urge to push him away, but this dream started in the middle. Usually when that happened, she knew she had to be alert and try not to lead it or change it; it was her curse in action – if she was having a dream, and aware of it, she was having a premonition. Some of the premonition dreams she’d had in the past helped avoid injuries or heartache – others she’d never figured out. This one, she knew, had to do with Richie and the Thompson estate. In fact, she thought, I could be there now. This could be the center of the maze. Wasn’t there a fountain there? Anyway, pay attention, Angel Rose, she said to herself. And be warned – if Richie has a few beers he’ll probably try to kiss me, she thought, as she tasted the Bud on his breath.

She sighed, which Richie took as a cue to deepen the kiss. But damn, the man does have a way with a kiss, she thought.

“Mmm,” Richie said, breaking the kiss. “Let’s go for a little walk. Will you walk with me, Angel Rose?” He asked.

Dazed from the dream-kiss, Ang nodded, and waited for Richie to stand. He stretched out a hand to help her up, and they walked along the path until they came out of the maze and to the lakeshore. “It’s so pretty here,” Angel Rose said, looking at the way the sun played over the light ripples in the water. Something was familiar about this lake. It HAD to be the Thompson estate. “Where are we again?” Please don’t tell me we’re where I think we are. Please. Why was she so afraid of being here?

A rustling in the bushes had her spinning around. “What was that?” she asked.

“You’re being silly,” he said, laughing. “And you know damned well where you are. But you’re right; it sure is pretty,” Richie agreed. “C’mon, let’s go this way.”

He led them around to the rhododendron bushes, and Ang was suddenly terrified. She didn’t know why, but she did NOT want to follow that path through the beautiful purple blossoms. “Where are we going?” she asked, trying hard to keep the panic out of her voice. NO, no, no, no.

“Just going for a stroll,” Richie answered.

When they stepped onto the path, a foul stench overrode the sweetness of the blooms and roots from the nearby shrubs wound themselves around her ankles, paralyzing her. Oh my GOD!

“Come on, slowpoke,” Richie teased, calling back over his shoulder. “Let’s get it shakin’ bacon.” He frowned when he caught a glimpse of her standing there, unmoving. “Angel Rose? Is everything alright?”

Ang sat up with a start, a scream dying on her lips, and the afghan wrapped around her legs. Shaking, she pushed the hair out of her face and untangled the blanket. Her heart was racing, and a cold sweat covered her body. “Damn,” she said. It was one of THOSE dreams; the ones that wouldn’t let her alone. The ones that were in full-on Technicolor glory complete with sound, taste, and smellivision. “Why is it so damned important that I be at the Thompson estate with that man?”