—F. Scott Fitzgerald
It was a 1930’s craftsman cottage, sun-dappled and cheery. I had been looking for something with character and this was it—located near the bluffs with nearly an acre of land and a sweeping view of the lake.
Writers need seclusion and this gem offered the best of both worlds—enough land to ensure privacy and a quick commute to downtown whenever I felt nostalgic for the bustle of the city.
Sam Wright, my literary agent, took it as a good sign I was ready to settle down, but I was just thirty-three, still looking for my life mate, and on this sunny day in late June I was just happy to be alive.
I was exploring my new digs and making mental notes of what needed repairing and what could be put off to next year. I figured you have to live a year in a house to learn what works and what doesn’t, and right now I was dubious about the flower gardens—I preferred bushes and shrubs, particularly the type that changed color in fall and that could be maintained without a great deal of fuss.
I hate fuss, especially anything high maintenance. The beautiful pink climbing roses, all dewy and fragrant, seemed far too demanding and would certainly require a lot of pruning, dusting and fertilizing.
I stood back and stared at the delicate petals and buds, admiring the intricate folds of silken beauty. I inhaled the strong tea rose fragrance. A little occasional maintenance might seem a small price to pay for such loveliness.
And it was then I saw her—a faint image of a lovely blonde-haired woman standing beside the roses as if posing to have her picture taken. She was smiling, her eyes crinkling a little, as she stared into the bright sunlight.
Her image rippled and shimmered like heat waves rising and I was immediately struck by her transparency—she was faint and ethereal as a mist that seemed to fade into and merge with the background.
I held my breath afraid the slightest movement or breeze might destroy the filmy apparition.
She seemed to float like a soap bubble, glistening, fragile and fascinating. Her shaky solitary essence wavered like a watery reflection, at the mercy of the slightest draft of air.
At that moment, the sun slid behind a cloud and she vanished. I stood frozen to the spot, waiting for the sun to reappear, and it eventually did but with a different intensity of light. The peculiar conditions that created the apparition had dissipated and the image had dissolved.
I realized I was trembling and sat down on the low stone retaining wall at the edge of the garden. I felt weak and faint and it took a long time for the warmth of the sun to restore me.
The experience was subtle, but unsettling—nothing much had changed, other than the quality of the light. Everything else remained the same—the scent of roses – the dewy coolness of the garden – and the soft mellow tones of sunlight.
I watched dark shadowy fingers of poplars stretching across the lawn – the broad leaves and dark shadows of the grape arbor – an owl perched on the fence – the curving path hiding its secret behind forsythia bushes.
All the garden elements were clearly defined—but what was undefined was the memory of that translucent or barely visible shape that shook me with its intimacy—a glimpse of a person so real she took my breath away.
I sensed this was the beginning of a mystery—how it would end, I had no idea.
Thank you!
Delegate Tokens and HP to Fallen Angels to earn weekly rewards!
Delegate | Join to the guildThis post has been supported by @fallen.angels guild!
Thank you!