Stranger in the Mirror [Shades of Heaven] (Soul Change Novel)

by Tina Wainscott

  What others are saying about

  STRANGER IN THE MIRROR

  Tina has unforgettable female protagonists and action-packed, almost haunting plotlines. – Janet Evanovich New York Times bestselling author

  Magical! Tina Wainscott pens a marvelous tale that will capture your imagination! As entertaining as [Until I Die Again]! For readers who wondered what happened to Hallie DiBarto, this story will answer all your questions! Once again, Tina Wainscott takes us to heaven and back! What a delightful journey! Contemporary romance with a fascinating twist! Romantic and charming! Kristina Wright – Copyright © 1994-97 Literary Times, Inc. All rights reserved – From Literary Times

  Tina Wainscott is a promising author with her star on the rise. [STRANGER IN THE MIRROR] is a touching and memorable tale of second chances and the love and courage it takes to accept them. –Jill Smith, RT Bookreviews

  STRANGER IN THE MIRROR

  by

  Jaime Rush/Tina Wainscott

  (originally published as Shades of Heaven in 1995 under Tina Wainscott, from St. Martin’s Press)

  Copyright © 1995 Tina Wainscott

  For more information, sneak peeks, and contests, go to www.jaimerush.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or redistributed. If you would like to share this book, please purchase additional copies for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to Billy Dean, country music singer, for inspiring me as Jesse came to life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to Tammy Walp for help in reading and editing and converting,

  and to Linnea Sinclair for the awesome cover!

  PROLOGUE

  The carat diamond on her wedding set sparkled as Hallie DiBarto ran her fingers across the black velvet surface of the sofa. Not the appropriate distraction to avoid her husband Jamie’s eyes, she realized, and shifted her vision to her silk stockings. She deserved the bitterness those blue depths radiated at her. But if she didn’t go through with this, who knew what Mick would do to her. Or to Jamie.

  “I want a divorce,” she said softly, her words absent of emotion. She would have to put more meaning into them to convince him. If only her migraine would subside enough for her to summon her acting skills.

  As it turned out, she didn’t need to.

  “Absolutely,” he told her.

  That word sent a chilled rush to her bones in spite of the warm California sun pouring through the windows.

  Her voice quivered. “Just like that?”

  Jamie sighed, running a hand through his blond hair in frustration. It was a gesture she had seen many times, had caused many times, if she was honest with herself.

  “What do you want me to do, Hallie, drop down on my knees and beg you to stay, to stop seeing that maniac? No, I’m done. Done with you, this marriage, and the farce it’s become.”

  Pain shot through her skull like an iron lance. She’d had horrible headaches all her life, but this sense of fear enveloping her was new, the pain sharper. She dropped her head into her hands, and her thoughts scattered like ants on a trampled hill. Jamie’s words were unintelligible, as if spoken through layers of gauze. Her body convulsed under tremors of cold, and she slid onto the tile floor, unable to stop herself from falling.

  “Make it stop. Make it stop!” she cried out through a fog of pain.

  The touch of Jamie’s hand, tight on her arm, seemed to tingle, then disappear. She tried to move her hand, her arm. In sheer horror, she realized she could not. Black dots clouded her vision, and she heard her heartbeat slowing to nothing as the darkness closed in. She heard a whistling sound, like a faraway train. As the pain lessened, she welcomed the dark cloud of death as it took her away. Anything to make the pain go away.

  CHAPTER 1

  Hallie DiBarto had come back from the brink of death a changed woman. That in itself was not unusual. Coming back in a different body was.

  And not just a different body, but a different life. Someone else’s life. Marti, they kept calling her. Who was Marti? Hallie felt the surge of panic that enveloped her every time she realized that she was Marti. Before she’d had a chance to ask where Jamie was, or tell them they’d made a mistake in her identity, she realized something was terribly wrong.

  She glanced down again at short fingers and stubby nails, at the body of a stranger. She took a deep breath, willing away the panic. How had she ended up in Chattaloo, Florida? In this bruised and aching body? She remembered dying as if it were years ago, remembered jagged pieces of a life in California. During her stay in the hospital, those memories melded together to form a past that did not coincide with what she’d found here.

  She had never before been to Florida, been a brunette, or been short. She had never seen the tall man who helped her out of the wheelchair after they went through the hospital doors, watching her with a worried expression. The man who claimed to be her husband, Jesse.

  Jesse’s thick, brown hair lifted in the fat breeze as they bid the doctor farewell and walked into humid sunshine. He was twenty-five years old; she’d seen his date of birth on a form. He studied her openly, and for that she could not blame him. After all, he’d been told that his wife had been assaulted, nearly raped, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since the attack. She didn’t know how the man with those dark green eyes would take her crazy story: that a tall, blue-eyed, blonde stranger lived inside his wife’s petite body. Hallie had to cling to the only truth she knew: that woman still existed.

  For now, playing the part of silent trauma served her best. She looked to the cloud-riddled sky. God, I know I’ve made mistakes. Okay, I was awful, hating myself and taking it out on the people closest to me. Looking back, I see how much anger I held inside me. Lord knows—okay, You know I haven’t prayed often. But I guess you gave me this second chance—or is it punishment? I’m not sure yet. Give me a sign, God. Tell me what to do.

  It was not God who spoke, but Jesse.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, softer than she thought a man of his size could speak. He held out a hand to her. “But let me help you.”

  A sign? His hand remained in mid-air, unwavering as she contemplated. Then, very slowly, she reached a thin arm toward him. Somewhere deep inside her, down where she still existed, a small coal of warmth sparked to life as his fingers wrapped solidly around her own.

  “The truck’s parked over there.”

  She nodded, maintaining the silence that had seen her through the ordeal of being questioned by Deputy Thomas, the doctor, and Jesse. It bought her time, if nothing else. She stuck her finger in her mouth to nervously chew on a nail, but found with dismay she had none to chew. Jesse helped her climb into a dusty, red pickup truck.

  “Marti, if you want to talk about”—he glanced uneasily at her, then looked ahead—“what happened, I’m here. Dr. Toby said not to press you, and I won’t.” He reached over and grazed a spot on her cheek where she knew a violet bruise blossomed. “I want to make it better, but I don’t know how. Tell me.”

  Give me back my body and my life! she wanted to scream out but clamped her lips shut instead. Keeping the panic from her eyes was harder than keeping her mouth shut. Could he see the confusion she saw whenever she looked in the mirror?

  Jesse sighed as he turned back to the steering wheel and started the engine.

  After spending most of her life nestled b
etween the Pacific Ocean and the mountains of Southern California, the small town of Chattaloo seemed flat, boring. She picked at the lace on her jean shorts. A thin scar edged along the top of one knobby knee. How had that gotten there? She loosened the scarf Jesse had bought to hide the bruises around her neck. The sight of them had aroused a queer sense of fear in her, even though she had not suffered the attack herself.

  Trying not to look overly interested, she pulled the worn-out wallet from the vinyl purse lying next to her. Not leather or alligator, but vinyl. Even when she was dirt poor, she at least owned leather. Maybe from the thrift store, but still. One library card and a driver’s license. The brunette gave the camera a forced smile. Next to the photo read, “Marti Jeane May.” Marti was twenty-three years old, four years younger than Hallie. Marti had an identity, a life, a husband. Now Hallie had those, and she didn’t want them.

  “Is anything missing?” Jesse asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  A strangled laugh escaped, which she disguised as a sob. Only her life and identity! At his concerned look, she shook her head, keeping her silence.

  The orange groves flanking the two-lane highway grew gradually into downtown Chattaloo. Tiny frame houses were snuggled under oak trees, kids raced each other on bicycles, and groups of teenagers gathered around trucks and Jeeps. Normal life, going on as if the strangest thing in the world hadn’t just happened to her.

  Jesse turned onto a dirt road. Distant barking materialized into one of the ugliest dogs she had ever seen, speckled, stocky, and, worse yet, large. It ran alongside the truck as they passed under a canopy of oak trees to a house in the middle of the hammock. Its tail was wagging, so that meant it wouldn’t eat her … she hoped.

  The dog jumped all over Jesse when he got out of the truck, but he didn’t seem to mind the grubby paws. He opened the passenger door and held out his hand, but she didn’t move. The dog looked hungrily up at her, flinging its tail, heck, its whole rear end, from side to side.

  “What’s wrong?” He followed her stare to the dog. “You’re not afraid of ole’ Bumpus, are you? You’ve been living with him for two weeks.”

  She opened her mouth to say something then caught herself. Yes, she was afraid of ole’ Bumpus, but that ugly dog was the least of her problems. Bumpus cocked his head, his wrinkled brow looking thoughtful as he waited for some acknowledgement. Jesse whistled, then gestured. Bumpus moved to where he pointed and sat down with a whine.

  “He’s concerned about you, is all.”

  She took Jesse’s outstretched hand and climbed down. He led her up the stone walkway to the small gray house washed pink by the dying sunlight. Bumpus followed, his tail wagging wildly as he sniffed around her ankles. She moved away, but he followed, trying to jump up in front of her.

  “Bumpus, what’s your problem?” Jesse turned to her. “Maybe he knows you’re hurting.”

  Maybe he does, she thought, eyeing him. And maybe he knows I’m not Marti.

  Inside, the house looked larger than it seemed from the exterior. A ceiling fan whirred, barely moving the wilted leaves of an ivy plant sitting on a small table. Marti obviously hadn’t had much of a chance to feminize the place, and a brief glance at Jesse left Hallie no doubt as to where the bride’s time had been going. He was a kicker, as she used to call the good-looking ones. In a country sort of way.

  The lumpy, blue plaid couch reminded her how little sleep she had gotten last night. Jesse was watching her, perhaps thinking she might faint, cry, or worse. She tried to put herself in his place.

  His wife is almost raped and nearly strangled. When she wakes at the hospital, she is so traumatized, she appears not to recognize either him or the doctor. And she has not spoken a word since. He might reasonably expect her to fling herself out the nearest window.

  “You look tired,” he said.

  Again, he held out that large, strong hand of his. She only hesitated a moment before reaching out and letting him lead her somewhere where she could hopefully let sleep wrap her in the comfort of familiarity. Would she dream Hallie dreams or Marti dreams? What a disturbing thought.

  He led her to a room that held a king-size bed, one long dresser, and not much else. She sat on the edge of the bed while he dug through a crammed drawer and pulled out a long nightgown splattered with blue flowers. She hadn’t worn a nightgown like that since she was five years old, though she hid her expression of disgust and took it from him.

  He stood by the door, shifting from one foot to the other. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch tonight?”

  Her jumbled mind put together what he meant. Well, of course, if he and Marti were married, they slept in that king-sized bed together. The thought of his body lying next to her … whoa, an unsettling idea. She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded.

  There was a strange light in his eyes, deep and protective. “If you need anything, anything at all, let me know.” He didn’t leave. “I know you’re not in a talkative mood, but why haven’t you asked about the baby? Even Dr. Toby expected you’d be worried.”

  She could only give him a blank expression. Was there a baby in the house?

  His shoulders drooped, and he stepped closer. “Don’t you even remember that you’re pregnant?”

  She slid off the edge and fell into a heap on the dark green carpet. “P-pregnant?” she croaked out, then realized she’d broken her silence.

  Jesse pulled her to her feet and helped her back on the bed. His green eyes held a mixture of confusion and surprise. He still gripped her hands in his, kneeling in front of her.

  “Thank God you can still talk.” He gently touched the bruises that ringed her neck, causing an aching tingle. “Dr. Toby was concerned that your vocal cords were damaged.” He removed his hand and looked intently at her. “Did you really forget about the baby?”

  Her stomach flip-flopped as she tried her best to compose herself. Could he tell that her hands were shaking within the confines of his grasp? She took a deep breath, hoping for some divine intervention in the form of a real good reason his revelation had shocked her into talking. Damn, but this complicated matters, even more than they were.

  “The past is… muddled right now,” she whispered in a hoarse, strange voice. Her hand slipped from his and touched her nearly flat stomach. “Are you sure?”

  “You’re only two months pregnant. Didn’t the doc tell you that the baby was all right?”

  She shrugged. “She might have, I don’t know. My head was spinning most of the time.” She covered her mouth. “Oh gawd, I’m pregnant.”

  “Maybe I’d better call Dr.—”

  “No,” she blurted out. “I—I’ll be fine. Really. Just give me some time.”

  “Time,” he repeated with a nod. “All right, but this not remembering stuff is scary, Marti. Maybe your brain was deprived of oxygen for too long.”

  “My brain is fine.” It was, wasn’t it? She did some math problems in her head. Remembered a joke about a priest and a frog in a bar, her first kiss in third grade. Her self-absorbed mother. She shuddered. She’d sure like to forget that woman.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” He’d been watching her ruminations, no doubt.

  No, not okay. She nodded, then walked into the adjacent bathroom so he wouldn’t see the panic in her eyes. Her heart sank when she saw the stranger in the mirror. She had looked at her reflection a hundred times in the last day and a half. The swelling was going down, making the purple bruises look more pronounced. One bruise, or mark, really, appeared different from the others. It looked like a sideways “V” with two small marks below it. A sharp object had broken the skin.

  Oh, how I wish this were all a nightmare, and if I screamed, I would wake up in my bedroom with pounding heart and realize it was all over. Then I’d only have to worry about the obsessive, crazy Mick. But it’s not a nightmare, is it? She’d pinched herself so many times red marks lined her arm.

  She had to remember a life she had not participated in. Or run like he
ll from this place. But run where? Home to her husband, Jamie, and tell him that she had somehow ended up in the body of another woman, a pregnant woman?

  She thought of her real husband back in her real life. It had been two months since then for him, during which she had lived in some abyss. She couldn’t dare to hope that he missed her, nor could she dare blame him if he didn’t.

  Jesse flipped on the television and settled onto the couch. The room was dark except for the bluish glow from the set. Two weeks ago, he had married a woman he hardly knew because she had manipulated him into getting her pregnant.

  He couldn’t deny the protective instincts this attack on her aroused, but he didn’t much like them. Could she have staged the whole thing to elicit sympathy from him? He shook his head. No, she wasn’t gutsy enough to pull off something like that.

  Through the night, he kept shifting, twisting, sighing deeply every time he realized he wasn’t asleep. It didn’t take much to put him on alert, even the sound of quiet footsteps walking past him and the snick of the front door. Had he really heard Marti go outside alone, after what she’d been through?

  Swinging to an upright position, he eyed the digital clock: 5:49. He located his jeans and slid into them as he walked toward the window. He spotted her silhouette on one of the swings that hung from the large oak tree out front.

  She was slumped over, using her toe in the dirt to move slowly back and forth. He watched her for a while, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be overpowered and attacked in such a vicious way. He couldn’t. What he really wanted to do was find the son-of-a-bitch and rip him apart. His hand clenched with the need for that, the fury.

  He glanced at the clock again: 6:10. He wasn’t going to let her wallow in self-doubt or whatever else she was dealing with any longer. He walked out into the damp, foggy morning.