Following Bliss (The Quest series)

Following Bliss
By Heather Strang

Copyright © 2013 by Heather Strang

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and
incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or persons (living or dead) is entirely
coincidental.

License Notes:
This eFiction is for your personal
enjoyment only. This eFiction may not be re-sold. If you would like to share,
please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this
eFiction and it was not purchased for your personal use, please purchase your
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Cover art by Jim Thomson:
http://jimkirkthomson.com

Visit Heather Strang at:
HeatherStrang.com
to learn more about
her courses, retreats, novels, and healing work. Also, friend her on Facebook
at:
Facebook.com/hkstrang
.

There is no ending to that
which you are.
—Esther Hicks from
February 28, 2013

When all your desires are
distilled; You will cast just two votes: To love more, and be happy.
—Hafiz

For Grandpa Earl.
Who
showed me there is life after death and that it is filled with so much more
love than we can imagine. Thank you for being one of my guides on this path. Who
would have thought, right?! The surprising nature of it all makes it even more
magical. I love you.

A special note to readers:
 
Following Bliss
is infused with healing energy. If you are open to
receiving it, your personal vibration will rise to a higher frequency that is
even more in alignment with who-you-really-are. Enjoy! Much love to you. And
may your life continue to be filled with miracles, blessings, and love.

Acknowledgments

I would be
remiss if I did not thank several individuals for their inspiration and role
they played in allowing this novel to come to life. First, I want to thank John
Veltheim, who is the founder and creator of the BodyTalk system. Although I
have never met John personally, giving and receiving regular BodyTalk has
played a monumental role in my ability to write these novels and birth them
into the world. Because of BodyTalk, I am more of who I really am and only
becoming more so! I love sharing BodyTalk with my private practice clients as I
watch their lives (and books and businesses and love lives and so much more!)
blossom in massive ways. Big thanks to my BodyTalk mentors along the path:
Gilly Adkins, Sid Snider, Jan-Louise Haller, Dr. Laura Stuve, and Dr. Janet
Galipo.

On the technical
side of things, a huge note of appreciation to my kick-ass designer Jim Thomson,
who always leaves my books and website looking amazing. Thank you to my
fabulous beta readers, who tell me what’s what when it comes to my novels.
Nicki, Kaley, and Jacquelyn—I am so grateful for the three of you (for many
reasons, but being my betas is definitely one of them). To my fantastic editor,
Jessie Dowd, even though you are not a bona fide lover of this mystical world I
inhabit, your Pisces moon combined with your keen editor’s eye makes you the
perfect fit for a paranormal romance novel. Thank you!

And to director
Lee Scharfstein of B.Unlimited Productions, who has optioned my first novel,
The
Quest: A Tale of Desire & Magic,
as a film. Your passion for bringing
The
Quest’s
message to the big screen has served as a huge source of
inspiration as I wrote this novel. When my small ego-mind said, “What in the heck
are you doing?!” I remembered that someone, somewhere, may also find
Following
Bliss
to be part of their unfolding as
The Quest
has been for you
and for many others.

Finally, to my girls—Jess,
Shelley, Anaiya, Jacquelyn, and Carin—your love and support have allowed me to be
more fearless in moving forward on this remarkable path I’m on. Thank you for
that gift. I love you! Xo

Prologue

It wasn’t that
long ago that 38-year-old Daniel Tillman believed in love.

Well, if you
consider time a relative concept that is. Eleven years ago, Daniel had known
love. But then she left, taking his heart with her. And now here he was,
broken-hearted and barely knowing what to do with himself. His mind lingered on
thoughts of her, only to be pushed away by the insistence that he was merely a
fool. If only he could do what she had wanted all along, if only he could find
a way to show her how sorry he was and how much he loved her—then he was sure
his life would be better. For now, he was as stuck as stuck could be.

Daniel attempted
to pull himself out of his self-induced haze. He had to find a way to motivate
himself out of stuck-ness and into action.

It’s useless
to think about her now. She’s gone, there’s nothing you can do.

Daniel scolded
himself harshly, crumpling and tossing yet another page of meaningless words
into the trash.

How in the
world am I ever going to become a world famous novelist when I can’t even
finish one single page?

Daniel felt
hopeless. His writing career, much like the rest of his life, was going
nowhere.

Brushing his
hand through his dark brown, stick-straight hair, Daniel sighed loudly, his
usually bright blue eyes a muted hue. There was no one to hear him, of course.
The studio he had been renting out for the past year in Portland, Oregon’s West
Hills—in hopes of writing a great novel—had kept him pretty isolated. He
imagined he liked it better that way, and found himself leaving the studio less
and less, holing up instead to read more Steinbeck, fantasizing about what it
would be like to be known for his words. Along with what it would be like if
she hadn’t left. Of course, he then had to remind himself that she had done the
best she could; he had simply let it all fall apart. Now was his chance to
redeem himself, to regain some of what he lost. But, his efforts seemed to be
in vain.

Focus Daniel.
Stop going over and over what you already know. She’s gone. You’re paying rent
on this place and getting nothing done, and the time is now, or soon you’ll be
out on the street.

Daniel stood up,
grabbed his favorite coffee mug, the one with “I heart Portland” written on it,
and walked into his small kitchenette. Dirty dishes laid in the sink, along
with a half-eaten pizza from Pizzicato on the countertop. With only him living
in the studio, he hadn’t put much effort into decorating. A “Kiss the Cook”
apron hung on a hook, but he rarely took the time to whip up anything more than
soup and salads. And looking down at what he was wearing, Daniel realized his
lack of decoration or effort in his studio also reflected how he was taking
care of himself. He hadn’t bothered putting on more than workout pants and a
white T-shirt, along with his favorite Adidas flip-flops—this had quickly
become his outfit of choice as a writer. At 5’11” and 175 pounds, Daniel could
pull it off. He found regular visits to the Pearl Districts’ LA Fitness helped
work off the frustration and angst he had been feeling (along with giving him a
rock solid six-pack), regularly spending time sitting in the steam room,
imagining the block to writing his great novel being released from his pores.
Daniel sighed again, letting the breath slowly move out of him, while pouring
himself yet another cup of decaf (although he wouldn’t dare admit this to
anyone—Portland was known for its stellar coffee after all), but the caffeine
buzz was too strong for Daniel. It only exacerbated his anxiety and panic about
the life he wanted to create, but seemed incapable of doing anything about. He
took a long, slow sip out of the steaming cup. He was stalling and he knew it.

It was a gray and
cloudy Tuesday in early September. Daniel looked out the window, noticing a
patch of blue sky off in the distance. The weatherman had said the clouds would
burn off and Daniel wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Fall in
Portland was always his favorite time of year, with warm temps, sunny skies and
cool nights. The gray made him want to curl up and sleep, but the sun made him
want to get outside. Neither was helpful for his writing career. And while he
had bits and pieces of his historical novel written, it wasn’t nearly enough to
present at this weekend’s annual Willamette Writers Conference. He didn’t even
have enough to show a literary agent. He had given himself this week as a
deadline, hoping it would summon forth inspiration and a sense of urgency. It
hadn’t.

He took another swig
of his coffee as his mind pondered his remaining options.

Option 1
:
Bail on the conference all together and go back to working in radio.

Daniel laughed
at the thought of this. He had spent 10 years working in morning radio in small-
to mid-sized markets all over the country. It had taken a lot of courage to
leave it last year to pursue his passion as a writer. He had made some cash
here and there writing for publications, but mostly he lived off of the money
he had saved while working in radio—taking every additional gig he could. Truth
be told, he hated those weekend gigs—whether it was a car show, an air show or
a furniture store’s grand opening—but he knew it was all for the greater good
of supporting his career as an author.

It wasn’t that
he hated radio. And he was actually really good at it. His morning show always
became number one in whatever market he worked in, and he usually obtained a
solid following of listeners who would come out to whatever BBQ, grand opening
or public event he was emceeing. He had even done some local dating events and
pseudo-celebrity auctions, getting auctioned off on a “date” for charity one
year.
Boy, was that a disaster,
he thought. The girl had been roughly 100
pounds of pure ditz and seemed more like a stalker than a supportive fan.

Even so, all
those years hadn’t been bad, it was just that his heart and soul wanted more.
He hit a wall and knew if he didn’t make a move soon, he would be 80 years old in
no time and still not living his dream—to be a famous writer like his idol John
Steinbeck. And then any hope of proving himself worthy of her love would be
over.

So, while going
back to radio on the surface seemed like an option, Daniel couldn’t bring
himself to do it—not yet anyway. He still had plenty of money in savings (and
some that was doing quite well in an investment account he had created to grow
his money further). He had made some small steps forward—publication in various
journals, writing some book reviews and even being part of a short story anthology—and
he wasn’t about to give up, no matter how bleak his situation was looking on
that Tuesday morning.

Option 2
:
Scrape together the bits of the book he had and put it together in proposal
form, spending the rest of the week writing up a brilliant marketing plan (of
which he had no idea how to do) and use that to woo the perfect agent for him.
And he was pretty sure he knew who that was, but more obsessing would be done on
that portion of the option later.

Option 3: (
Quite
possibly the least attractive of the options and certainly the most difficult.)
No sleeping, and working round the clock to write a solid three chapters to
present to the agent of his choice—Ms. Kaley Hamilton. She represented some of
the best authors in the historical fiction world and, from what he read about
her, she seemed to have the know-how and gumption to take a struggling, no-name
writer and launch him/her into super-stardom. He had watched it happen with
Garrett Lamphier. Garrett had met Kaley at a writing conference in Hawaii a few
years back, with only a shoddy manuscript in tow. Kaley was so impressed that she
worked tirelessly (as told by
Lit Lovers
magazine, that is) to create an
amazing package that Penguin couldn’t resist.

He had to
impress her.

Damn it. How
in the world am I going to pull this off?

But, he couldn’t
be deterred. This was his life’s work, he was sure of it. He had to find a way
to get it together before meeting Ms. Hamilton that weekend at the conference.
Daniel grabbed his coffee mug, planted it firmly on his antique oak desk (if
antique meant finding it on a street corner on Northeast Broadway with a “free”
sign) and planted himself firmly in his seat. To write, he needed his butt in
the chair and his laptop in front of him. Daniel had been browsing YouTube late
one night when he came across Abraham-Hicks. In it, he had watched countless
videos about the Law of Attraction and creating one’s reality. He figured this
was as good a time as any to apply these principles, especially when he was
clearly at the stage in the process where he needed to take some action to show
the Universe he was serious about all of this. It seemed as though his very
life depended on it.

Just write,
Daniel. You can do this.

And without
warning, his fingers began typing, as though they had known all along what
needed to be done. Daniel took a deep breath and smiled.

# # #

“Excuse me Miss,
Miss—your order is ready.”

The bakery
assistant at New Seasons Market was trying to get the young woman’s attention.

Shelby Hanson
looked up startled, her green eyes wide and brimming with tears, her wavy
blonde hair tousled and messy. Her mind had been anywhere but where she was.
She had been so out of sorts when she got up in the morning from a night of
sleep filled with intense dreams (of which she could not make any sense out of
just yet) that she had simply thrown on a black wrap dress, a scarf and her
rain coat (the gray skies were slightly deceiving, given the forecast for sun
and warm temps) barely taking time to do her hair or put on more than a coat of
mascara and lip gloss. She took the cupcakes from the woman and smiled
apologetically.

“Half a dozen
gluten-free vanilla cupcakes with chocolate ganache frosting and sprinkles, all
ready for you. What’s the special occasion?”

Shelby couldn’t
help but feel grateful to the woman who was bringing her back to the present
moment.

“Oh, just a
surprise for my little sister. She passed a major exam this week and I wanted
to do something special for her. She’s gluten intolerant, so doesn’t have
enough cupcakes in her life.” Shelby giggled slightly.

Her sister Laney
who was 24 to Shelby’s 29 probably couldn’t care less about cupcakes, but
Shelby loved nurturing people with food, so she was always picking up treats
for her. They had three other sisters who lived on the Oregon Coast, but since
they lived so far away, Laney received the majority of Shelby’s need to
nurture. Besides, whatever Laney didn’t eat could go to her housemates. Laney
was an urban hippie, living in a large home with a few other people—Shelby
could never keep track of them—there was always someone moving in or out. In many
ways she admired Laney. She didn’t work at a job, she was finishing her
certification as a Cranial-Sacral practitioner (hence the cupcakes) and
“manifested” money (her words) whenever she needed it. The rest she
traded—sessions for local produce, haircuts, clothes, other healing work, etc. She
was constantly telling Shelby to relax and “go with the flow.”

And as
attractive as “going with the flow” was to Shelby, she didn’t quite have it
down. She worried about money and felt she needed to “do” work in order to
“manifest” it. The thought of waking up every day not knowing where the next dollar
was coming from or how she’d pay rent terrified her. But, not having to deal
with her crazy editor boss to “manifest” that money might be really wonderful,
too. She couldn’t decide the lesser of the two evils.

Shelby worked
for Portland’s premier magazine,
Hello Portland,
and her editor, Dillion
Turkin, was true to stereotypical form. As an assistant staff writer, Shelby
was at Dillon’s mercy. He often sent her on coffee runs and demanded she take
on other menial tasks (one time she even had to fetch toilet paper for the
staff bathrooms!). He never returned her email requests and always made her
wait until the last second before letting her know when her stories would be
featured in the magazine. And he was notorious for asking her two days before
an issue had to go to press for last-minute photos, details and interview
questions. She was constantly on edge, never knowing what he would throw at her.
She felt like he was often working against her. And despite her best
attempts—she had invited him to her birthday party the past two years and he
never so much as even responded to her invites—he seemed to not even know she
existed outside of what she could do for him.

On her way to
pick up Laney’s cupcakes for tonight, Dillion had called her, asking that she
get a few more quotes from her most recent piece about an international flight
attendant who was based in Portland. The issue was set to go to press in two
days and the woman was unavailable traveling—a fact she had shared with Dillion
three weeks ago when she submitted the story, and again the following week when
she asked if he needed anything further. And that’s why she had been so
grateful that the bakery woman’s question had brought her back to the present
moment. She was feeling totally helpless after Dillion’s last request. She had
no idea how she was going to pull it all off and still get to Laney’s
celebration. Shelby was at her breaking point—tumultuous sleep and Dillion’s
most recent pressure-filled demand was pushing her too far.

Working for an
un-organized, passive-aggressive, detached editor only made Shelby want to give
it all up to pursue her true passion—jewelry. Shelby had been making jewelry
ever since she could remember, giving her designs as gifts and fending off
requests from family and friends to make more. Her job at
Hello Portland
was supposed to simply pay the bills while she grew her jewelry business. But,
that never seemed to happen, as the demands of the job and her crazy editor
took up more time than she expected. And when she was free, she was so
exhausted that designing jewelry was the last thing on her mind.