Awaken, Shadows of a Forgotten Past

by Marcia Maidana

  Awaken

  Shadows of a Forgotten Past

  Marcia Maidana

  AWAKEN: SHADOWS OF A FORGOTTEN PAST

  Copyright © 2017 by Marcia Smith

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should go to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

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  First Printing: 2017

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  ISBN: 978-1-68046-494-8

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  Satin Romance

  An Imprint of Melange Books, LLC

  White Bear Lake, MN 55110

  www.satinromance.com

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  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Published in the United States of America.

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  Cover Design by Fantasia Frog Designs

  For my grandmother, Lola,

  who taught me to be strong and to believe in myself.

  Life is not what it seems…

  It’s just an illusion, a mirror image of the past and the future…

  That’s what I came to comprehend the night that I was…awakened

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Thank You For Reading

  Satin Romance Mailing List

  About the Author

  Also by Marcia Maidana

  Also Available

  1

  ~ Obscure Reality ~

  Geneva, Western New York, 1936

  A crust of three-day-old bread and watered down milk is hardly a meal to stoke the flames of courage, and standing on the wide steps of Oak’s Place in the drizzly rain, I needed every spark of spirit I could gather. Usually, a rather gothic door knocker baring its teeth at me would not have me in goose bumps. Nor would capricious weather, not to mention applying for a position of employment, even at a house whose mysterious owner was keeping a storm of gossip rioting around town. But hunger has a way of wearing down even the bravest heart.

  Maybe I owed my unease to the stories circulating about this place. The red brick walls and high chimneys of Oak’s Place estate, neatly surrounded by acres of woodland, spoke of better days now long past. The house seemed to have taken a certain decline in its character, perhaps patterned after its new owner. Last summer the estate had fallen into the hands of a retired British general. Who was he? Why had he selected this isolated part of the world to retire to? No one knew. No one had ever seen “the Shadow,” as he was called.

  Naturally, that just gave my imagination free reign. Although Granny—Sister Dolores to the rest of the world—disapproved, I often tuned into the Detective Story Hour after supper, and it was all too easy to picture the new owner of Oak’s Place as a silent yet fierce vigilante. Maybe it was a childish game to play but understandable when I had spent the last nineteen years fully loved and cared for by my adopted granny, who was a saint at heart but who also made sure that my life was as boring and dull as only a nun could. Whatever he was, I had to square up my shoulders and face it now. The fact that Oak’s Place—or any other place—would have a job to offer was rare, and one that a woman could do—a miracle in itself.

  I took a deep breath and let the humid air fill my lungs, regaining focus. I reached for the lion knocker and tapped on the door.

  Almost instantly, a gray-haired woman with cat-like eyes stared at me from the other side of the open door. “Good morning,” I said. “I telephoned about the ad in the paper.”

  “Yes, of course.” She gestured for me to step inside. The first thing I noticed was the thick silence of the house. The square foyer was devoid of any furniture. It was a bleak room unencumbered by emotion, as if not wanting to be bothered with visitors. “I am the housekeeper, Mrs. White,” she said in a sharp British accent. She seemed vaguely familiar. I wondered where I had seen her before.

  “Florence Contini. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I handed her my resume, noting her unstable hands as she took it. Mrs. White stared at the paper for a long while. Her eyes became confused—distant.

  “You are too late, too late indeed,” Mrs. White softly murmured.

  “Late? I’m sorry, the lady on the phone said I could come by anytime this morning. I drove here as soon as we hung up…” I hesitated, hoping she would say something encouraging. Had someone beat me to the job? Impossible—my friend Jim had shown me the ad before distributing the papers to town, and I had rushed to make sure I was the first in line to apply.

  “You can leave your resume. I’ll make sure to speak with Mr. Sterling about it.” I stared at Mrs. White blankly, feeling a desperate need to find the right words. Not to beg, but to convince her I was the right person for the position.

  “What is the matter, Deborah?” a low voice came from the dark hall. A moment later, a man joined us in the foyer. He was a good foot taller than me, with olive complexion and dark eyes that left me disquieted. He inched closer, the three of us forming a triangle. An unexpected feeling of insecurity invaded me, and I took a step back towards the door.

  “Mr. Vines! What the devil are you doing, creeping around the house?” hissed Mrs. White in a loud tone, contradicting the image of cool self-control she projected.

  “Me? Creeping around?” Mr. Vines let out a sarcastic laugh. “No one knows the art of creeping around more than you, Deborah. I’m just making sure you’re not causing this young lady any trouble.”

  “Trouble? For goodness’ sake, Mr. Vines, watch your tongue.” His presence seemed to have altered Mrs. White. “This is Miss Florence Contini.”

  For a moment, Mr. Vines contemplated me with such intensity that I was almost convinced our paths had crossed before and somehow, he knew me all too well. “Oh, indeed. Florence Contini, it is.” His heavy British accent was filled with certainty. “I’m Mr. Vines, the chauffeur. I hope you’ve come to stay this time.” He stretched out his hand to meet mine. Without thinking, I shook his hand, but at his touch, an unpleasant sensation shivered through me.

  “Nice to meet you,” I lied, liberating my hand from his firm grip, and trying to make sense of the strange feeling. One thing I knew for sure—I hoped I’d never be touched by him again. Come to stay this time? His words resounded in my mind;
perhaps it was his unusual way of communicating that unsettled me.

  Mrs. White was swift to say, “Actually, she was just leaving.”

  “She can’t leave. Mr. Sterling asked me to show Miss Contini to his office.”

  “Did he now?” Mrs. White appeared startled by Mr. Vines’s comment, and I had the distinct impression that she had to summon a great deal of restraint not to argue with him. She returned the resume to me and signaled towards the first room off the foyer. “Wait here, please.”

  Mrs. White and Mr. Vines disappeared down the hall. I stared after them acknowledging to myself how masterfully they had managed to keep courtesy to its minimal requirements.

  The waiting room was spacious and lit only by a single lamp sitting on the desk. There were some landscape paintings hanging on the walls, an armoire, and a slim side table. I had never seen pieces so old and unique. A comfortable-looking armchair was situated by the side table, and I sat down to wait, continuing to examine the room as I did.

  Sharply contrasting with the elegant decor, the shadows in the room lent it a vaguely sinister quality. From the ceiling hung an enormous chandelier, guarding everything with constant vigilance. I wished it would magically turn on and chase away the darkness in the corners—although the light switch stared back at me from the side wall, I felt reluctant to leave the security of my seat.

  Sitting in that lovely but rather oppressive room, I mused over the turn of events that had led me to this point, at which I was practically begging for employment at a dark mansion. I couldn’t deny that I felt a twinge of guilt for judging Mr. Sterling without just cause. Just because all sorts of lurid speculation ran rampant in town, it gave me no right to participate in unfounded gossip. Perhaps the dislike people had towards Mr. Sterling might be a result of prejudice—he was a foreigner—and jealousy—he was very rich. Most likely it was the latter reason.

  Sadly, I understood their feelings. It was easy to feel resentment when our nation was experiencing the worst period of poverty in its history and life was harder than we had ever known. The sudden fall of the stock market and its chaotic impact was still a hard reality for people to accept. Among them was Granny—her soup kitchen, the school for girls, the sisters, the trips, all gone.

  When Granny had used the same teabag two days in a row and breakfast was an egg shared between us with the last of the day-old bread, I had made up my mind. I would jump at the first opportunity of employment that came my way without hesitation—even without Granny’s approval. Yet, when I read this morning’s ad I wrestled with the idea, but my strong will prevailed and wild rumors or not, I was going to apply for the help wanted position at Oak’s Place. Besides, I rationalized that it was perfect for me; I could manage the role of secretary fairly well.

  Turning in for bed the night before, I had no inkling of the surprises the new day would bring. Now that I was actually here inside the Shadow’s house, I thought back over the events of the morning. Since before dawn, I had tossed and turned on my bed, trying to forget the troubles that haunted not only me, but also the entire nation. When sunlight invaded my room, determined to start a new day, I heard the bell on Jim’s bicycle ringing persistently from the grounds below.

  I stole a glance at the clock sitting on the night table by my bed, threw my covers off and ran to the balcony right outside my room.

  Every day, Jim delivered the morning paper to the monastery. We were stop number five on his ever-shrinking route, yet judging by the early hour, I was sure that today we were stop number one, and that could only mean good news for me.

  “Stop making a racket, I’m not deaf!” I reprimanded, looking down at him from the balcony.

  “Good morning to you too,” Jim mocked, sounding the bell a few more times. “I can’t believe you were still asleep…so late.”

  “Late? It’s only a few minutes past six!” I shivered a little in the crisp morning air.

  “Late indeed. I’ve been up since four,” he boasted.

  “Lucky you,” I teased.

  “Lucky indeed,” he replied in a softer tone, and as he observed me, his gaze suddenly grew with a warmth that I did not welcome.

  Looking down at my long, thin nightgown, I felt disappointed at myself. How could I have been so careless to come out here without my robe? “I’ll be right down,” I said. Swiftly returning to my room, I grabbed my robe before heading downstairs.

  Jim hadn’t bothered to park his bike—it just laid on the ground as he waited, paper in hand.

  “Oh Jim, you found one!” I exclaimed.

  He nodded. “Here—look!” he pointed to a small ad at the bottom of the short-classified column. “This is really good, Florence,” he stammered in excitement.

  I read the ad and was stunned—was it a joke?

  Jim must have sensed my hesitation. “Come on, Florence, you’ll get it for sure,” he encouraged.

  “Really Jim? You can’t be serious.” Yes, it was true that I had made up my mind to take on the first thing that came my way, but I had never imagined that it would be this.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “This is the perfect opportunity. Think about it—no one will try to get it—it is all yours.” His excitement did not convince me.

  “Perhaps no one else will, but that’s not good, is it?”

  “Better than nothing. Besides, you can’t really believe everything people say.”

  “No, but you can’t deny that this contradicts the infamy of Oak’s Place.”

  “This is different. I doubt they’ll throw you out when you show up, you know…” He paused before continuing, “They are advertising a job. It’s not like you will be offering them unsolicited help.” Taking the paper from me, Jim quickly flipped it to the front page. “Look at this and then tell me that you’ll let a little gossip stop you.” He pointed to the article beneath the headlines.

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  Ships are silently waiting in harbors for better days while their hulls are rotting. Freight-trains and passenger-carts are empty. Millions of people are unemployed…millions beg for food as businesses are at a standstill…two to three hundred-thousand young boys are drifting aimlessly along the highways…

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  I shook my head to dispel my uneasiness. “I suppose I have nothing to lose—I hope.”

  “It’s a great opportunity. Just give it a try.” Before I knew it, Jim kissed my cheek and mounted his bike. “Good luck! I have to go.”

  The whoosh of the wind rushing past the window brought me back to my present situation. Here I was, daring to dream that I’d get a job, yet worrying that even if I was the only person to apply, they would think I was inexperienced. I had to make a great first impression on Mr. Sterling; perhaps he would pity how young I was and give me an opportunity.

  The sound of shoes thumping against the stone floor brought me to my feet. Mrs. White came through the door. “Follow me, if you please.”

  We traveled down a wide hall dimly lit by sconces on the walls and came to a halt at the very last door. Before knocking, Mrs. White ran her fingers over her black, well-pressed dress, to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles. Instinctively, I looked down at my own worn blue blouse and skirt, feeling too plainly dressed.

  A deep voice sounded in reply to her knock, “Come in.”

  Mrs. White opened the door and introduced me.

  “Miss Contini, sir.” I hesitated in the doorway until Mrs. White said, “Go on.”

  As I crossed the threshold, time seemed to stop for just a moment, and nothing around me felt real. Although I possessed a vivid imagination and loved to escape in a well-told story or an afternoon at the cinema, I was equally grounded in reality. Hard times have a way of doing that to a person. So, I was surprised at the strong presentiment which filled me; I was suddenly convinced those few uncertain steps would become the most significant ones I would ever take. Mrs. White retreated to the hallway, shutting the door behind me.

  Mr. Sterli
ng stood motionless, looking out the back window of his office. I noticed the dim light spilling through the open curtains, the walls dressed in carved wood panels, a brown sofa facing the brick fireplace, a pile of books rising from the floor next to a small corner table, a large desk accompanied by two chairs on the visitors’ side, and a leather chair directly opposing—all of these things I perceived in a single flash, before my attention returned to the stillness of the man by the window.

  I wondered if I was supposed to say something. I looked past the tall figure with broad shoulders and thick black hair, through the glass into the yard, catching sight of what clearly was the center of his attention; a statue of a woman embracing a child. The statue looked radiant, as if it had some life vibrating in it.

  Mr. Sterling turned to face me. “Good morning, Miss Contini.” He was backlit by the light at the window, his face still in shadow, but I was pleasantly surprised at his subtle British accent.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  He walked across the room towards me, and my heart seemed to stop for a moment once I could see him clearly. Mr. Sterling wasn’t young, but he wasn’t as old as I’d imagined either. He looked to be in his mid-forties, and he had the fine features of one who had been extremely handsome in his youth and was so still. That sense of foreboding that had washed over me earlier came rushing back with renewed intensity. Somewhere, sometime, I had seen those deep blue eyes, the dark eyebrows and eyelashes, his fair skin, his dominant, almost intimidating presence, although I knew that was impossible. Since Mr. Sterling had moved to Oak’s Place, I had not once seen him, only imagined him while I listened in amusement to the local gossip.