Dreaming of a Hero (Heroes Series Book 2)

by Lyssa Layne

  Madame Zina quickly re-stacked the other cards and placed the deck before Cherie. “Cut the deck.”

  She was sure her heart was pounding loud enough to be heard over the screams and mechanical whirring outside. Cherie did as she was asked. She watched, spellbound, as Madame Zina proceeded to lay out the cards one by one in what she called a traditional Celtic cross, face up.

  Madame glanced from one to the other, each card bringing a different expression to her face, which only increased Cherie's curiosity.

  Touching the first card, Madame Zina began interpreting the images. “This one represents you. I see you are a very good and kind woman.”

  Cherie nodded.

  Tapping another, she continued, “Your life has been one of great mystery, pain, and confusion.”

  At first, Cherie had thought the medium's Romanian accent quaint; now the sound caused an eerie feeling to claw through her…and a sense of foreboding. Her entire body shook as a chill seeped through her veins.

  Definitely, it was time to cut the loss of twenty bucks she'd paid and run like hell was nipping at her heels. Cherie began to get out of the chair.

  “Now, about these three men,” Madame Zina said.

  Well, maybe one more minute wouldn't hurt. Cherie sank back down.

  Madame Zina's eyes continued to scan the cards as she went on. “One man you will not meet.” She scowled and tapped the card with a gnarled finger.

  Cherie's gaze passed over the card Madame Zina touched. Even upside down, she recognized the death card. Her eyes flew up to the old woman's face as an image crossed her mind. The vision was that of an older gentleman, but she didn't recognize him. Despite the hot summer day, Cherie felt goose bumps explode on her arms at the mere thought of him.

  “That's the…ah…the death card, isn't it?”

  Madame Zina patted the top of Cherie's hand. “Do not worry, my child. The death card does not always signify the death of a person, but rather the ending of a way of life or a way of thinking. I believe that change has already happened.” The look the woman gave her made her feel as if words were written on her face. What did she find in the shadows under Cherie's exhausted, aching eyes?

  Cherie nodded slowly in affirmation. “My parents recently passed aw—” she whispered.

  Madame Zina's hand strayed back to the same card, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “All your problems began with this man's interference. He is no longer a threat to you, but there is much you will learn about his deceit.”

  When Madame Zina raised her face, the lone tear trickling down the old woman’s cheek, startling Cherie.

  Cherie tried to decipher whom the old woman meant. As far as she knew, there was no one interfering in her life, man or woman. Tension built in her shoulders as Madame Zina continued. Cherie sighed and rolled her shoulders. How much longer could this last?

  Madame Zina tapped two more cards, “The other two men will be the most important in your life.” She touched the card of a lone male holding a lamp. “One will solve the mysteries of your life.” Then, a with a fingertip on the card diagonal to it, she added, “The other will offer you love.”

  Cherie blushed as Madame Zina's finger hovered over the naked lovers. For the first time since the reading began, Madame Zina smiled. The simple curling of her lips lit her entire being. Cherie concluded that when the woman wasn't trying to be dramatic, she revealed a heart-warming quality about her. Like her own Grandma Michaels.

  Cherie lost her smile as two more images flickered in her mind. One of a dark haired man, the other was blonde. The images disappeared as quickly as they came and Cherie couldn’t help but wonder if she'd merely been reacting to the stress she was feeling.

  Madame Zina scanned the entire layout before frowning. She pushed the deck away and again took Cherie's hand. “My dear,” she said softly, “When you leave here you must be brave. The coming days will be very difficult for you. You must have faith and find hope, for you are destiny's child.”

  Still holding her hand, Madame Zina stood and drew Cherie from her chair, pulling her toward a huge chest tucked in the corner of the tent.

  Cherie heard the tinkling of bells from Zina's anklet and the soft rustle of fabric as it danced around the old woman's legs.

  Madame Zina released Cherie's hand then lifted the purple, billowy gown that floated like a cloud around her, and she knelt by the trunk and pushed open the creaking lid.

  Cherie watched her pull something from the small tray, but couldn't see what it was as Zina gently closed the heavy lid. What other treasures lay hidden inside the ornate chest?

  Madame Zina struggled to stand. Instinctively, Cherie moved to her side, guiding her up. It amazed Cherie that such a small, natural gesture could put a warm glow in Madame Zina's eyes. When they stood to face each other, Madame Zina took the still hidden item in her hands. Closing her eyes, she spoke in a language Cherie didn't recognize.

  Respectfully, she waited until Madame Zina finished what seemed like a prayer. She opened her eyes and stepped closer to Cherie and extended her hand. In her palm lay an Amethyst amulet held on a black satin cord. “Wear this for good luck and may God go with you on this arduous journey.” Madame Zina draped the necklace around Cherie's neck, then hugged her and kissed both cheeks.

  Automatically, Cherie curled her fingers around the metal and stone. It was cool against her heated skin.

  “Something deep down tells me you will need this protection someday soon.” In a swirl of flowing fabric, Madame Zina disappeared behind the partition.

  Cherie nodded woodenly then inspected the amulet. A sigh escaped her lips as she considered this to be the most bizarre moment in her twenty-four years. All that was missing was a poof of smoke for effect, and this would have been a truly Gothic moment.

  “Cherie—you in there?”

  Startled out of her reverie Cherie jumped and spun around at the rustle of the tent flap and her best friend's voice. Cherie swore, “Jee-zus, Mary, and Joseph, Trish! You scared the living hell out of—”

  “Whew—Cher—what was that all about?” Trish interrupted. “I figured she'd be looking down a lot, so I listened in and kept peeking into the tent the whole time she talked. That was flippin' spooky if you ask me.”

  Cherie nodded in silent agreement, recalling Madame Zina's parting words. Destiny’s child? What did it all mean?

  What a crock. Surely the old woman was using melodrama as a tool. No way could the medium predict the future. All carnivals had fortunetellers. They were for fun and show and all about drawing people in. They weren’t for real.

  Cherie couldn't decide. And she wasn't sure she really wanted to know what all this had to do with her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day…

  Saturday morning dawned over the city of Auburn, California in a thick haze of fog and a heavy mist of rain. Cherie opened the curtain to look out the front window and couldn’t even see the sidewalk in front of the house. She rubbed her arms, shivering head to toe. The cold that shrouded her was bone deep, even cycling the heater, twice, failed to warm the interior of her parent’s house. If she could do anything, she’d go back to bed and stay there until this nightmare was over.

  Instead, Cherie made her way into the kitchen and filled the water reservoir then added coffee to the basket and hit the start button on the pot. Cherie continued to open up the house, letting light in.

  Trish padded to the refrigerator and opened the door. “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry; I’ll just have coffee.”

  “I’ll make my Kahlua French Toast, the one I told you about. You just sit and talk to me while I make it.” Trish said. Then while she was slicing up a loaf of day old bread she turned the topic to the day before and their visit to the county fair. “What do you think Madame Zina meant when she said there were three men in your life?”

  Cherie lifted the lid on the carousel cookie jar to peeked inside. There were two Peanut Butt
er cookies left and crumbs littered the bottom of the container. She snatched up the cookies and handed it to Trish while she ate the other. “I have no idea, but the weird thing was as she pointed to each card a mental picture of three different men popped into my head. It was scary, but no way was I going to admit it in front of the fortune teller.”

  Trish stopped mid egg crack. “Why didn’t you tell me that yesterday?”

  “I was already spooked enough without talking about it further.” She took a bite of the cookie realizing it was the last peanut butter cookie her mother ever made. No more cookies, no more candy, cakes, or sweets.

  “You gotta admit Madame Zina and that get-up she wore was spectacular, and between her accent and how spooky she pulled off your reading, she even had me looking for clues.

  “She sure scared me. I never wanted to run so fast in my life.” While Cherie thought the Fortune Teller's words were amusing, she didn’t take her predictions seriously.

  “You were ready to run until she dared to mention the three men. You sure planted your ass fast enough.”

  “Hush. I’m surprised you didn’t rush in when she brought it up,” Cherie accused.

  “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.”

  “What’s on the agenda for today?” Trish asked. “I only have a few more days, and I want to help you get a lot accomplished, so you don’t have to do it alone.”

  “Thank you. I couldn’t do this alone.”

  “Are you kidding, I was as close to your parents as you were.”

  “I know, but, well—” Hearing her friend say ‘were,’ as in past tense, admitting she’d never see her parents again was more than she could handle. “Oh Trish, what am I going to do?”

  Trish wrapped her in a hug, crooning to her when there was a knock at the door.

  Cherie wiped her eyes then blew her nose on the way to answering the door. A tall blonde man stood on the other side.

  Cherie swallowed hard as she stared at the man standing at her door. She'd seen him before. Where? She hunched her shoulders against an early morning chill wondering what the guy is selling, desperate to send him on his way.

  “Cherie Michaels?” His voice was calm, his gaze steady.

  Cherie eyed the man. Surely he could see the suspicion on her face. She did the head-to-toe once-over. Not bad looking. He was tall, with thick blonde hair that almost touched his collar, clean-shaven, in a dark blue suit. Okay, he didn't exactly look like a salesman. He looked like...FBI? Cherie shook the thought out of her mind then caught the espresso-colored eyes of the man and shivered as a feeling of familiarity washed over her.

  “Yes, I’m Cherie Michaels, may I help you?” She hoped her tone sounded as cold as she intended. “If you're selling something—”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Ms. Michaels, my name is Mark Elliott, and I'm here to notify you that your presence is requested at the reading of a will.” He handed her an envelope.

  “Normally you'd have been sent a registered letter, but under the circumstances, I was asked to deliver this documentation in person. You'll find the details enclosed.” He offered her a business card as he continued, “Here's Mr. Jason Stafford's business card. If you could be at his office by one o'clock this Thursday, it would be most appreciated.”

  She frowned at the offending piece of paper with its elegant embossed printing and golden eagle logo. The mere mention of her parents’ will was more then she could bear to think about this morning.

  “I've put my name and number on the back of Jason's card, in case you have any questions.”

  She sighed in resignation. “Thank you, Mr. Elliott, that's fine. I'll be there.” Her shoulders sagged with the weight of her worst nightmare turned into reality as she accepted the card and envelope.

  He gave a quick nod, then retraced his footsteps back to the black Lincoln parked at the curb. Cherie closed the door and leaned back against it. She squeezed her eyes shut and suddenly one of the faces from her vision in Madame Zina's tent flashed before her. Her eyes popped open. There was a great deal of similarity in the facial features of Mr. Elliott and her vision. She rolled her eyes. Nah—couldn't be. Her imagination was in overdrive.

  “Hey, Cher—who was at the door?” Trish bounced in from the kitchen, two mugs of hot tea in her hands.

  She smiled at the best friend she'd had since second grade. “Just someone about my parent's will.” Tears trickled from Cherie's eyes.

  Trish set the mugs on the coffee table and embraced her. When she stepped away, Trish swept a stray strand from in front of her eyes. Cherie appreciated the mother hen attitude, wanting to protect her chick.

  “Ah, Honey, I know you miss them terribly, but you have to be brave so you can get on with your life. They wouldn't want you bawling like this all the time. I mean, come on, I know your dad would be the first to say, 'Buck up, Cupcake, the sun is shining, and the birds are singing, what's there to be sad about?’ ”

  Her friend's attempted imitation of her father's deep baritone voice had Cherie laughing through her tears. Trish's words were exactly what her father would have said.

  “I know, but it's just so hard to believe they're gone, that I'll never see them again.”

  “I know, but at least you know from the CHP report, that they didn't suffer.” Trish picked up the cups and handed one to Cherie.

  “But what am I going to do without them? How many kids did we grow up with that didn't get along with their parents? That wasn't the case with me. I loved them, and what's more, I really liked them.” She took a small sip of honey sweetened peach tea.

  “Hey, you don't have to convince me, why do you think I spent more time at your house than mine? Your parents were the cool ones. Remember, I'm the original green-eyed monster here. I've always been jealous of the relationship you had with your folks.”

  Trish looped her arm through Cherie's and dragged her back into the kitchen where her friend had finished the French toast. “Come on, let's clean-up this mess, then we'll tackle your parent’s closet. Afterward, why don't we head to the movie? You know, sort of break up the painful moments?”

  “Sure,” she said then turned to her friend. “Have I told you how much I appreciate you spending your vacation here to help me? Even if you are a green-eyed, bottle blonde, you're still the best friend I could have asked for.”

  “Yeah, you told me, but go ahead and say it again. You're good for my low self-esteem. And by the way, I'm not a bottle blonde. They're called highlights. So what if I like lots of them.” Trish added as she flicked her hair away from her face.

  “You? With low self-esteem? My sweet as—Aunt Fannie.”

  “Oh nice save. I can just hear your mother now, 'Cherie, how many times do I have to tell you a nice young lady never uses profanity’,” Trish was great at mimicking her mother and father.

  “No kidding, she tells me—told me at least once a week. Heck, sometimes I'd cuss just to rile her. Guess I won't be doing that anymore?”

  The sadness of the memories made both girls quiet. Trish broke the silence with a suggestion. “I could always call you up once a week and rag on you if that would make you feel better?”

  Cherie wanted to laugh, but her heart just wasn't in it.

  A short time later, after they finished breakfast, Cherie walked into her father's den and put the envelope in the top drawer of his desk for safe-keeping then followed Trish upstairs to start cleaning out her parents’ room. She surveyed the area with its light blue walls and royal blue and cream accents, their favorite colors. Hard to believe it had already been a little over two weeks since their accident.

  The girls packed all of Nicholas and Carol Michaels' clothing, coats, and shoes then dropped the boxes at the local church for their twice-yearly bazaar. There were a few things Cherie couldn't bear to part with. Her dad's favorite wool sweater, a couple of pairs of old high heels she'd played with as a child, and a few other items that held special memories for her. Memories she never wanted to forget.
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  Once the clothes were disposed of, the only thing left to do was go over her parents’ will with the lawyer.

  As Nick and Carol's only child it would be a mere formality before everything was legally turned over to her. She sighed. Destiny's Child, indeed.

  ##

  Cherie arrived at the lawyer's office ten minutes early feeling as somber as the black dress she wore. The same one she’d worn to her parents’ funeral three weeks earlier.

  With any luck, today would be the last of the harsh moments before closure began and the dress could be retired. Cherie couldn't wait. It was one dress she never wanted to wear again.

  She announced her arrival to the receptionist then took a seat in the outer office.

  No sooner had she sat down when the exterior door opened, and an older woman entered on the arm of a tall, dark-haired man. She heard the receptionist greet the man, referring to him as Mr. Stafford and the woman as Mrs. Alexander. Just before Mr. Stafford closed the door to his office, the receptionist remembered to tell him his one o'clock was here.

  Cherie noticed the man look back at her. His gaze was fixed on her. When his eyes opened wide as if he recognized her, she expected him to speak up.

  She frowned. The color of his eyes seemed vaguely familiar, but she was certain she'd never seen him before. She fidgeted under the intense scrutiny of his stare. He squinted at her as if trying to verify what he was seeing as if he was questioning his own eyes. As if he was hoping to find something in them, but what?

  He turned to the receptionist, “When Mr. Elliott arrives, send him directly in. We'll need a few minutes to confer before we start.”

  Hesitantly, he moved toward the door then took one last glance at her, before disappearing into his office.

  Strange—why did he appear so interested in her? The room didn’t seem to fit him. It was dark tones, dark wood trim, dark carpet, and reminded her of something that would be more her grandparent’s style, old and out-of-date. She shrugged it off and flipped through a magazine while she waited.