Opening her eyes, she focused and hummed the short arpeggio that would open the protection her sister had placed on this special place. That done, she stepped forward and quickly pressed a sequence of small rectangular pegs in the wood trim around the edge of the bookcase before stepping back.
A hidden doorway opened to an empty room. Empty?
She stared in disbelief. The shelves behind the panel were empty, the notebooks gone. How? How had anyone entered their home unnoticed, snuck past wards set to protect against even the worst of them.
Who had done this? Why? To keep one song from being played?
The other pieces in the collection were transcribed and scored. Copies had been stored in the vaults of different banks around the world.
This piece had been the last, the collection’s pièce de résistance.
Why?
She crossed her office and returned to the music room where she found Nora sitting at the piano, staring at the score.
The girl looked up. “This makes me angry.”
“That someone would ruin the score on purpose?”
Nora shook her head. “Well yes, that too, but it’s the notes. They made me angry when I tried to play them, and again when you played them on the piano.”
Tracy nodded. “I had the same feeling. This piece should make you feel euphoric; almost as if you could fly or sing with the angels.”
A thought stopped her. No, she realized with a clarity that made her reel for the shock of discovery. It could make you sing better than the angels. It could, in fact, make angels cry.
Another sudden thought came unbidden. Could euphoria kill angels? Had her sister known that this song was a declaration of war against them?
Something in that thought brought back a different set of memories. They were memories of a flight through dark woods, of living in fear, and of being taken, by them. Tracy knew that only an angel could have done the impossible. Hadn’t they done so when they helped her and Nora after Elaine’s senseless death?
As she recalled how the angels protected them, another memory surfaced; the feeling of euphoria that had gone through her when the two year old girl child had begun singing in pure, natural tones. Tracy’s sister had listened to the notes and then played them on the venerable violin.
As long suppressed memories played in her mind, she felt magic quickening in her blood and bone. She reached out and took her niece’s hand. The angel’s magic that had protected them from remembering what they were and what had happened was being banished. Protected by angels? Not likely.
They had killed her sister to prevent the music from being played. Tracy had changed the score around Nora’s startling notes to keep the secret from them. But they had killed the wrong ones, and in doing so had left behind the seeds of their own destruction.
She reached for her pencil and the score.
Nora smiled, then sang loudly and clearly those perfect whole tones.
For her sister and all the other “fae” that had been murdered by the winged devils, there would be a reckoning.
It would be a song to remember.
MINNIE ESTELLE MILLER
Minnie Estelle Miller presently resides in Chicago, Illinois, USA. She retired in 1999 from her last full time job with the Office of the Mayor of San Francisco, California as special assistant to his press secretary. For forty years, home was anywhere she hung her hat: London, Paris, Jamaica and many cities in the United States.
She started writing seriously in 1995. CATHARSIS was her first book and THE SEDUCTION OF MR. BRADLEY her second. WHISPERS FROM THE MIRROR, LUCIEN: PRINCE OF DARKNESS and BLUE LADY RISING are pending manuscripts.
R ECONSTRUCTING EMILY. Emily Kincaid, a feisty, energetic senior, wants to go back to work. She has been out of the work force for five years. Nothing in her work history equals the world she steps into—TV Station Six, Chicago. The place is life in perpetual motion. She reasons that the work will come easy with a little practice. She is somewhat right; however, she has no way of knowing the embarrassing situations that will accompany the tiny paycheck. Emily is also confronted with an unexpected happening that she can barely believe.
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Reconstructing Emily
Minnie Estelle Miller
Copyright © Minnie Estelle Miller 2009 Emily joined the crowd of businesspeople walking down the long corridor to their various offices. She was lost in private thought, heard her mother say, “You can do this, Baby.” She had searched her closet and found a black business suit and white shirt enclosed in a clothing bag. She even found a pair of high heel shoes she hadn’t worn in years.
The nervous woman entered the television studio’s secured area. She thought, We’ve been through this many times over the years and can handle it as well. Shoulders back, head high and show that warm smile. Still, her nerves had been in a bunch since learning she had been hired, even though in a permanent part-time position. It was a miracle that a woman sixty-seven-years-old was even considered for a job anywhere other than McDonald’s selling burgers or demonstrating food products in a supermarket. When she entered the lobby, her senses were besieged with ten-foot-tall pictures in glowing color of anchors, shows and promotions, which streamed the history of TV Station Six, Chicago.
Okay! This is it, girlfriend. Your first step into TV kingdom. Smile, you are on camera. She walked up to the ornate security desk. “Good morning. My name is Emily Kincaid, a new employee.”
A woman dressed in a uniform blue suit and a serious facial expression said, “Yes Ma’am. We know.”
‘Ma’am?’ She chided herself. Stop it, girlfriend, don’t go there. You can’t escape aging.
“Mitzy here,” the desk person said motioning to a short, round woman, “will take you inside and show you to your desk.” Mitzy smiled and shook her hand.
The security person escorted her to doors of glass encased in high-gloss silver frames and instructed her to punch in her computer code to open the door to the inner sanctum—only employees and security knew their code. The new employee had to prove that she indeed had an assigned code.
Emily stepped through the double doors into the world of cameras, lights, hundreds of computers and busy staff in five-bysix foot cubicles. Privacy was only for the titled. And their offices were just a few feet larger, but their reward was windows to the outside world. The station buzzed with live monitors and telephones—life in perpetual motion.
Oh, my! Technology beyond my understanding, that’s for sure. And these people have various titles and assignments I’ll have to learn. Momma, tell me again I’ll be all right. Dead or alive, Emily knew she would need all the help she could get.
Before she could finish her thoughts, Mitzi had stopped at her workspace and waited for her to settle down. Emily stared at the remarkable phenomenon, could think of nothing in her work history that equaled this. Mitzi smiled understanding her excitement, wished her luck and moved on to her other duties.
“Now what? What do I do now? Slow down girlfriend. Need a pen and paper and check out the phone lines on the directory. Ohmygod, five lines! I have to answer all five lines! Stop talking to yourself. People will think you’re a nutty old woman.”
In reality, there were only four that required her immediate attention; the fifth was a personal line for her and desk-partner Dorothy Ross. Emily wrote down the main and extension numbers, knowing it would take forever to memorize them. This aging brain hasn’t been active in five years, she thought. And where’s the staff directory? There must be one around here somewhere. And what’s all this stuff? she thought, fumbling through the workbaskets on the desk. Emily took time to determine the priorities for the responsibilities of the desk she was to command. Order was very important; it kept her balanced and her mind fro
m wondering all over the place. First, she had to figure out the phone situation because its constant ringing was about to drive her to the lady’s restroom screaming. She thought, It would be a calamity for an employee to be in the restroom screaming and waving her new wig around. For sure, it would make the six o’clock news.
Dorothy Ross, hired in the same capacity, worked the second half of the day. She was three years younger and about the same height and size as Emily. The two women had met during indoctrination and were walked through all floors occupied by TV Station Six, Chicago. They agreed on the shifts with Emily taking the early morning. They at least knew what each other looked like. That was all. The rest was yet to come.
Supervisor Sylvia St. John appeared shortly to give Emily additional information about her responsibilities. She would have to repeat this later when Dorothy arrived. She said, “Marlin, when he returns from vacation Monday, will log the both of you into the confidential computer system and teach you how to search the news. The majority of your calls will be questions about broadcasts and some...ur...unpleasant comments you’ll learn to handle with respect to the caller. Get the idea?”
“I think so. You mean some folks will curse and scream?” “Well, it won’t be directed at you personally, but yes they want to drop their anger or disapproval of a story on someone and you being the first available ear will be the recipient.”
Emily didn’t say it aloud but gave a long, silent hum.
St. John continued. “The reporters and anchors will not answer your phone lines. They have their own private numbers. You are Audience Services. The reason we hired you and Dorothy is that you are mature individuals and know how to handle most situations.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “You mean there’s no receptionist?”
“That’s correct,” St. John said with a precise stare.
A light went off in Emily’s head. Now I get it. Let the older people handle the time consuming, unnecessary stuff. It keeps the viewers satisfied that they’re able to talk to a real person and complain. Not to mention that our salary won’t bust the budget. Seniors are happy to get out of the house, I am. There’s no one at home--no husband, haven’t seen him since our divorce ten years ago, no children or pets. What the hell! I’m grateful for the supplemental income.
From her desk, Emily saw eyes darting back and forth, but none resting on her for long. They were about their business, yet she thought, News people automatically react to change. It was their business. Maybe they’re wondering if I’ll return on Monday? I’m sure they know the havoc that goes on at this desk. After a couple of days chasing phone calls, she knew the answer. Hell, they’re glad I’m here so they can ignore these damn phones that ring like neverending hiccups.
When Marlin Martin walked into the studio the following Monday, Emily didn’t know his face or office—she had only been on the job two days, not even enough time to win friends and influence people. Marlin went to his office and put away his coat, checked his voice mail and came straight to Emily’s desk. She had received no warnings about Mr. Martin, but understood from her supervisor that he was responsible for hiring and training many of the support staff, but not her and Dorothy. They were hired under a different budget and answered only to Sylvia St. John, whose office was on the fourth floor.
On their first meeting, Emily and Marlin flew into each other. He was winning. The man was over six feet tall with seniority. She was new and five-feet-two. There was more to come. Marlin approached her nearing the end of her duty. “You are Emily Kincaid, I presume.” He spoke looking down on her as she sat in a too small secretarial chair.
“And you must be Marlin Martin, the one who will teach us the station computer system, I presume.” She thought, Back at ya, Mister! I can give as well as you. She stood and gave him her hand. His handshake was so limp she only just felt it. Several staff watched the introduction with curiosity. They knew Martin well—he was not an easy person to abide.
“We’ll get together first thing tomorrow. When does your day start?”
“I’m here at a quarter to eight and done by one.” She replied promptly and gazed into his eyes as best as a short person could.
“I’m in at nine. Have your desk-partner here also. I’ll see you then.” Martin walked away without further conversation or even a nasty goodbye. All Emily could say was “Huh!” She prepared to give her seat over to Dorothy Ross, due at one.
The desk-partners talked and Emily filled her in on the events of the day.
Dorothy asked, “Well, how did it go?”
“Meaning?”
“Your training session with Marlin,” she said, a bit confused at the older woman’s attitude.
“Ha, we never got around to it. Mr. Martin is a trip and I’m trying to keep my cool. Good luck with your first meeting. I’m outta here.” She grabbed her purse, looked back at Marlin’s office and glimpsed his face half exposed behind the computer monitor. “Yeah,” she whispered, “I’ll be back, Mister,” and left for home.
Tuesday morning, true to his word, Marlin Martin arrived at nine. He swung the door wide and strolled in wearing a fulllength black leather coat that flapped with each step, and a matching baseball cap. He bowed his head to those close enough to greet him, except Emily and Dorothy. St. John agreed that they be trained together to reduce Mr. Martin’s time away from his work.
Emily turned to Dorothy and said, “Okay, so I get that he’s important and cool, which, I suppose could translate into handsome. But the man needs an attitude adjustment.” Dorothy shrugged but made no comment. She wasn’t sure what had transpired between the two while she wasn’t in the office. And they were co-workers not friends.
Marlin was not a young man, nor old. You couldn’t tell his age looking at his tight body and bald head. But he obviously wasn’t receiving retirement benefits as Emily was, not at the salary whispered by jealous staff.
St. John had told the ladies that if Marlin didn’t get back to them soon to seek him out in office number eight. Emily took the initiative. She peeked into the office and there sat Mr. Martin. So, that’s what he does. Hides behind his computer telling folks he’s programming special programs. Oh well, here we go again. Just calm down, girlfriend this is a job, you receive a real paycheck. Just do it!
Emily eased up to his desk. He acted as if his monitor had his full attention. But she knew better. He couldn’t help but see her standing, waiting for recognition even though the monitor was between them. She was wider and taller and he was taller, even while seated.
For a moment, she was silent out of respect for his territory and surveyed the surroundings. His amenities were a step above the regular office furniture and the computer looked to be the newest model. Shelves stretched the entire length of one wall and held a photograph of a young couple and another of Marlin and a man with authority written across his face. They both wore expensive-looking casual clothes. The background was green grass leading her to conclude that it was some sort of country club. Awards for something or other were positioned with pride on the shelves. She looked at his picture and then at him. She knew the man was no slouch; his taste was obvious. He was well acclimated to his space. Emily could almost hear his unspoken words. “This is my space, tread with care.”
Coming back to why she was there and getting a bit pissed that he was ignoring her, she thought, Mama always said my mouth overloaded my butt. Gotta be on my best behavior, but he’s trying me. She spoke. “Mr. Martin.”
“Yes,” he responded curtly, eyes still locked on the computer monitor.
“I’m Emily. I work the Audience Services desk.”
“I heard,” he said still gazing into his monitor.
“Sylvia St. John instructed us to have your national program installed on our computer.” She waited again.
“Sorry, was in the middle of a formula and couldn’t stop.” Then he gazed at her. “I assume you’ve been cleared by security.” He spoke with a raised eyebrow that further annoyed Emily.
>
Now that’s a phony apology if I’ve ever heard one. What the hell is his problem? Why else would I be here? “Yes, I’ve been cleared,” she flung back.
Marlin jumped up from his desk so fast it frightened her. She backed up. He rounded his desk, rushed by her and went straight to her cubical. When she caught up with his long legs, he was sitting at her computer, working his long fingers over the keyboard. And Dorothy stood beside him looking lost. Emily retrieved two chairs from empty cubicles and created a circle around the man.
The lessons began on an uncomfortable note. It was obvious that he didn’t want to grant them time to learn because he moved through the instructions too fast for new students. He set both up with passwords and directions on how to find archived news stories. Most of their phone calls were questions about past broadcasts. They had to be able to answer them as fast as feasible and move on to the next caller. After an hour and nearing lunchtime, Emily thanked the man with as much patience as she could muster. He left.
Dorothy was confused again, this time by his attitude toward Emily. “What’s going on between you two?” she asked Emily as both prepared to leave the office. They had been told to sit through the session together and leave at mid-day.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t done anything or said anything derogatory to him. I don’t know what his problem is, nor if he even has a problem. Maybe he doesn’t like teaching new employees. Who the hell knows?”
Just when Emily thought she had avoided any more confrontations with Mr. Martin, he was back, aloof and unsympathetic. “What’re you doing?” he asked in a rough voice.
“Printing my document.” She was trying to print an eight-byfourteen spread sheet. She gazed at him with indignation and thought, Is he questioning my abilities? I’ve worked in offices and used equipment for years. I know what I’m doing. I will not be pushed around by anyone.
“You’re locking up the printer. Other people have documents in the Queue more urgent than yours. Cancel your document and clear this printer.” He turned and walked back to his office.
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