by Regan Forest
“Oh, God,” she muttered. “I’m being pulled back! I’m wanted because no one belongs there but me. No wonder I’m not happy in New York.”
After her shower, it wasn’t her reflection that looked back from the misted mirror. Instead she saw the front parlor where Iris had been standing in the dream. Ellen felt energy drawing her into the mirror and a second later she was there in the parlor looking through the bay window at the rooftops of the town below. There were new drapes and a polished desk holding drawings of her fashion designs. On one side a gold brocade curtain hung on a round platform—a fitting room. Through an arch were cutting tables and two new sewing machines. A shock of excitement shot through her. Was it a dream? A creation of her conscious mind? Whatever it was, Ellen welcomed it with a wild yelp as the best idea she had ever had.
Didn’t all the big-name designers work for themselves? How many designers lived and worked in a mansion?
Her heart pounded. Cody had tried to tell her that making a place for oneself is better than looking for a place to fit—and waiting for someone else to give you the breaks! He had done it—taken control, made his own opportunity. So could she! She could return a success, too. She could return to a mansion that was rightfully hers.
* * *
WHEN JENNIFER WAS ready to leave for the subway that morning, Ellen waved her on. “I’ll be late,” she said, fumbling with the telephone. “Something has come up.”
Her roommate eyed her with curiosity, but asked nothing, only shrugged and buttoned her coat as she hurried out the door.
Denver information supplied her with a telephone number for Mountain Properties—the name she had seen countless times on the weathered sign outside the mansion. She got a recorded message. Damn. It was only six-thirty in the Denver area. She dialed Cody’s number and received no answer. Why wouldn’t he be there this time of day? Unless he had slept elsewhere. The thought sent a chill through her that quickly changed to heat. And fear.
An hour later someone at the radio station answered. “He’s in Denver at a conference,” the man said. “We expect him back on Monday. Do you want to leave a message?”
“No, I’ll call back.” Cody had mentioned that conference in his letter.
Eventually a live voice answered at Mountain Properties. Ellen summoned up her most powerful voice. “I’m inquiring about the Whitfield house in Shadow Valley—the one that has been for sale for three years. I understand the most recent buyer canceled because of unpleasant phenomena inside the house. I know someone who might be willing to take it off your hands for a small down payment.”
She was, of course, talking about her life savings, minus plane tickets, padded with money earned in New York, added to the surprise thirty-five thousand dollars cash she got for Gramps’s house because of Cody’s Pebble Street project.
The realtor hesitated. Ellen could hear papers shuffling in the background. “Our contract with the owner will expire in two days. We don’t plan to renew it.”
“You sound discouraged. About that house, I couldn’t blame you.”
“It’s been nothing but a headache,” the agent admitted. “We’ve had to tell people about the...odd goings-on there but none have been prepared to deal with them.”
Ellen wondered if her head was going to burst with excitement. In two days, she thought, a new realtor would be representing Carolyn—one not clued in on how haunted the mansion was, and that realtor would be harder to deal with. So she must act immediately. “We’ll need to move fast, then, if you want to earn your commission,” she said.
The agent’s voice picked up energy. “Do you want to look at the property?”
“I know the house.” The vision came in full color before her. A magnificent office in a mansion...a mansion! The mansion of her dreams! Hired seamstresses—two or three—and buyers from all parts of the state... Ellen cleared her throat to prevent her voice from shaking. “Twenty thousand down and a guarantee not to rescind the agreement. The owner carries the loan at nine percent for thirty years with option to pay off the mortgage at any time and I move in immediately. This is my final offer.”
“I think the owner will accept it,” the agent replied with unsuppressed glee. “Now. Are you in Denver?”
“No, but I will be in a few hours. I’m calling from New York City. Can you have the papers drawn up right away?”
“Yes. Did you say New York?”
“I’ll fax my signed offer immediately, along with the exact time I can be in your office tomorrow, after I’ve checked airline schedules. My name is Ellen Montrose.”
The rightful heir to Whitfield. She had known she belonged there, even as a kid. Part of her had always known.
* * *
THE BUS RIDE FROM DENVER to Shadow Valley seemed to last forever. Sitting at the window, holding the box with Iris’s wedding dress on her lap so it wouldn’t be crushed in her suitcase, Ellen looked out at the snow-capped mountains. Fall foliage had been pinched away by frost, and a hint of winter was in the air. It had been summer when she left—only last summer. It seemed so long ago.
And yet New York already seemed so far away and so long ago. Ellen had given Jennifer her share of an extra month’s rent and an invitation to visit Colorado.
Exhilaration built as the bus brought her closer to home. Her vision of the parlor transformed into her place of business was becoming more vivid as she filled in details—wallpaper, an antique love seat, a silver tea set for serving tea to her clients....
Cody was right—conquering was better than running!
Maybe it was fortunate that she couldn’t reach him before she left New York. Better to do this on her own. And it would be a thrill to surprise him. Surprise was hardly the word; he would be astounded. And yet...hadn’t he called her home in his dream?
* * *
THE SKY WAS WINTER GRAY, like his mood. Driving home from Denver along the solitary road, Cody couldn’t get the dream out of his head. Ellen’s face had brightened when she saw him. Sparkles from somewhere—perhaps the chandelier—shone in her soft blue eyes. She had reached back—tried to reach him, tried to touch him. For the two days since, he had been unable to shake off the intensity of that fleeting moment. She had tried to reach him.
She belonged with him. The ghost of her ancestor knew she belonged in the mansion that should be hers. Iris had been successful in preventing the sale of her house. With all the horror stories circulating, any offer would be snapped up by the Meullar heir.
Any offer! Cody’s foot pressed harder on the gas pedal, and his hands gripped the steering wheel. Why the devil hadn’t he thought of it before?
He had seen in his dreams the way the house should be. He had even thought his dreams predicted the future. If he were to buy the house, would Ellen come back? He tried to evaluate possibilities. If she didn’t, he’d be stuck with an enormous dwelling inhabited by an angry ghost.
Still, a lot of prestige was involved. Whoever lived there would be considered Shadow Valley’s nobility. No one else in town knew why the previous buyer had backed out, and he, as city manager, had been careful to keep the reason from getting around, because it would discourage other bidders. As far as the town knew, the buyer simply hadn’t been able to afford the stately old mansion.
The truth was, even he might be able to afford it. As he drove, Cody began to work the idea over in his mind.
* * *
SHE FELT THE palpitations of her own heart, coming faster and harder as the road became familiar. She had taken a seat behind the driver because she didn’t intend to ride all the way into town. She would tell him where to stop.
As the bus rounded a steep slope, she saw it. High and proud on its hilltop, sunlight reflecting in sparks from the glass of its windows was the house of her childhood dreams. The house of her lover’s dreams. The house of her future dreams. The house of her destiny.
The bus came to a stop in front of the gate. As soon as it had pulled away, Ellen set down her things by the side of
the road to button her coat against the early-winter chill. She rested her hand for a moment on the leaning, faded For Sale sign. It gave under her weight as if it had no further reason to stand. With a thrill and a little prayer of thanks, she let it fall facedown in the tall, dry grass. In minutes Ellen was walking up the weed-grown path to the front door—suitcase in one hand, the wedding dress in the other, and two sets of keys in her purse. She was home.
In the front parlor, she ran a finger through the dust of the sill and looked out to the town below. “All right, I’m home,” she said to the ghost who was somewhere near. Sun was streaming in through the bay window of the room that would be her place of business in her mansion. By doing much of the work herself, she could afford to renovate the lower rooms first. It was a little scary thinking about the mortgage payments, but the demand for her clothes had already been established before she left. It would work. Cody had once said Shadow Valley now belonged to him. “It can be mine, too,” she said aloud, almost singing. “It can be ours!”
* * *
CODY SLOWED HIS CAR to pull off in front of the mansion. The phone number of the Denver realtor would be on the For Sale sign. To his shock, the sign wasn’t there. How could it not be? He’d seen it on his way out of town last Thursday. Had some buyer materialized over the weekend? During the drive he had convinced himself he had to have Whitfield mansion.
Maybe the sign just fell or some kids pushed it down. Cody parked in front of the gate and got out, intending to look for the sign. But his attention was drawn to the house instead. The front door was standing open.
In all the years he’d known the mansion, never had he seen the door open. Someone was here, and that someone more than likely was the latest buyer. He had to know.
Cody started up the steep path. Halfway up, he saw a silhouette appear on the front porch—a slim woman whose body language reminded him of Ellen. Hell, every pretty woman made him think of Ellen. The figure stood quite still, watching him climb toward the house. Then suddenly, the woman held out her arms.
His last dream flashed in front of him—her reaching to him.... Ellen?
“Ellen?” He started to run.
She didn’t move, but stood steadfast and triumphant in the doorway of the house, arms outstretched.
“Ellen!” He stumbled forward, his heart in his throat, nearly tripping on the rough path that suddenly seemed to get longer and steeper with each step he took.
Then, at last, he was within the shadow of her smile. With a new surge of energy, he bolted up the steps and into her waiting arms.
For a full minute they held each other in the sound of winter wind in the high eaves and the open door scraping on its hinges.
Ellen breathed, “I am home, my darling.”
He stepped back to look at her, holding tightly to her shoulders, afraid to let go. “Ellen? Is this...is this another dream?”
Her laughter came like a song. “Yes! Oh, yes! One to last a lifetime!” She took his hands in hers and gazed into his eyes, which were bluer than she had ever seen them, even against the backdrop of the graying winter sky. “Oh, my love...” she whispered. “Welcome to my dream!”
Epilogue
ON DECEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH Ellen walked into the room she still called “the parlor” carrying the treasured box tied with blue ribbon. It was early morning; her seamstress wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. So there was time.
She glanced around the room as she always did, admiring the reality of it, the beauty of it. Her place of business, already gaining a reputation that reached far beyond the confines of Colorado. In the bay window sat a Christmas tree decorated in pink-and-silver balls and ribbons. A welcoming wreath was on the door.
She passed through an archway that led to the adjoining room, where she set the box down, carefully lifted out Iris’s wedding gown, and spread it lovingly over the broad worktable. Its fabric was almost perfectly preserved and spotlessly clean, the linen lace formed in paisley-like designs unlike any she had ever seen. She guessed that the material—possibly the finished dress—had been imported from Ireland. It was as lovely as a gown she could design herself, elegant in its classic simplicity. The waist looked quite small...but then, so was hers.
With gentle reverence, Ellen stepped out of her velveteen robe and into a gown that had not been worn in a hundred years. It clung to her body possessively.
She turned to the three-way mirror and drew an astonished breath. Never had she looked more beautiful.
A movement in the shadows caught her eye. “Iris!” Ellen exclaimed. “It’s a magical dress!”
The ghostly form fluttered and moved nearer.
“Then you approve of my wearing it! I knew you would.”
“I also approve of your wearing it,” Cody said from the doorway.
She turned. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in! Cody, don’t look!”
He turned his back to her. “Honey, I already have looked. My heart is thundering at the sight. Why did you tell me you hadn’t even begun designing your dress?”
“I haven’t. This is Iris’s. I hadn’t even thought...until early this morning. I think she put the idea in my head. No, don’t! Don’t turn around.”
“Why not?”
“Tradition, silly. Iris and I have just decided this is the one I’m going to wear.”
Cody let out a whoop. “All right. That means we don’t have to wait. We can do it today.”
Ellen slowly, reluctantly, slipped out of the gown and drew on her robe. “Right.”
“Honey, I’m serious. You have your dress, what more do we need?”
She laughed. “A preacher. Flowers. Champagne. Invitations. You can turn around now.”
He did, scratching his head. “What invitations?”
She stared at him. “The invitations I assume you want to send out to the citizens of Shadow Valley.”
“Me? Why would I want to share the most important day of my life with them?”
Ellen’s eyes widened in surprise. Then she drew in a breath of delight. “And why would I?”
He grinned. “The tables have turned, my sweet. Cream rises to the top.”
“And then everybody wants a taste of it.” She giggled. “The so-called aristocrats of Shadow Valley will be devastated if they’re not invited.”
“They’ll get over it. We’ll have a reception sometime later. If we feel like it. If not, we won’t.” He took her hand. “This wedding is ours, my love. We have to please only ourselves.”
She hugged him tightly and nodded, her excitement mounting. “Tomorrow’s Christmas!”
* * *
CANDLES FLICKERED in the living room. Colored Christmas lights were strung along the staircase. Cody, dressed in his tuxedo, with Jeff Calhoun at his side and the minister behind him, waited impatiently, standing on one foot and then the other, during a piano rendition of “The Rose” by the artist-musician who had purchased Ellen’s house on Pebble Street.
When the music changed to Rachmaninoff’s Pagonini Rhapsody, Meredith walked proudly down the stairway wearing a red formal gown from Ellen’s private collection, and carrying red roses.
Cody’s eyes fixed on his bride as she appeared at the first landing of the stairs, white roses in her hands, a vision of beauty. She floated down to the sweet strains of the music, colored lights reflected on her gown. Ellen’s eyes fixed on his, and she smiled through her misty veil.
Am I dreaming? he wondered. Or is life more dazzling than a dream?
From his stance beside the makeshift altar of candles and flowers, Cody focused on Ellen’s smile. Nothing else was real. He felt his feet move, as if propelled by an unseen force, toward the bottom of the stairs, where he waited until his bride could reach his extended hand.
Ellen smiled down at him, remembering the first time his hand had moved toward her on this very stairway—the dream before destiny brought them together.
The Christmas lights blinked wildly at the instant their hands clasped. All
the candles began to wave and flicker as if a breeze were passing through; and on the breeze the subtle scent of iris blossoms mixed with lilacs—their wedding gift from her.
Walking hand in hand those few final steps into their future, Ellen seized a long-allusive truth: The ghost had lured a ragged, barefoot child with dreams of splendor, knowing that when dreams are blessed in the spirit world, everything is possible.
“Everything is possible,” Cody said, his thoughts receiving hers again. “Welcome home, my darling.”
ISBN: 978-1-4592-8624-5
The Man from Shadow Valley
Copyright © 1995 by Regan Forest
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