Authors: L. K. Rigel
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Magical Realism, #Contemporary Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #General Fiction
Kiss Me Hello
Kiss Me Hello
When Sara Blakemore inherits a haunted mansion on the northern California coast, a ghost forces her to confront problems in her marriage she’s long tried to ignore. She must reconsider what she wants and what she deserves. Sara fights to save her marriage—and discovers the real threat may be to her life.
There was a mystical power in the bell...
Sara laughed at herself. A week ago, the only mystical powers in her life were things she read in books. Now she was haunted by a real ghost, a handsome and interesting one at that. A man who was—or had been—thoughtful and kind. This was not good. Every minute she spent thinking about Joss Montague and his finer qualities was time she wasn’t thinking about her husband. Her living, breathing husband.
She took the bell to the barn and hid it at the bottom of the steamer trunk under the fine clothes and pushed the trunk against the wall. As she picked up the saddle to replace it on top of the trunk, she thought heard a sound from overhead, like a snap, but there was nothing in the rafters but a few extra bundles of vine stakes.
She hoisted the saddle on top of the trunk and turned to go. Another noise came from overhead, a creepy sound of metal sliding against metal. She looked up to see a several loose steel stakes shooting out of the rafters—and flying straight toward her...
Kiss Me Hello
Copyright
©
2013 L.K. Rigel
Published by Beastie Press
Cover design by eyemaidthis
Print cover design by TERyvisions
Cover background stock by
wyldraven
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work.
- 10 - Dinner, Dolls, & Dollars
- 18 - The Things We Think We Have
L.K. Rigel
BEASTIE PRESS, U.S.A
From the Journal of Joss MontagueLahaina, island of Maui, Territory of Hawaii December 6, 1941
L
AST NIGHT I WON MY
soul in a game of chance.
At least that’s what the Chinese fellow tried to tell me. He offered up a broken brass bell as collateral when I raised the bet on a pair of jacks. The pot had swelled to almost three hundred dollars, more than enough to haul my trunk down to the port and go home to Olivia.
It didn’t hurt that the two boys had three pretty ladies on their arms.
The Chinese was the only one left in the game. The others—a pineapple plantation overseer and two naval officers over from Pearl Harbor—had folded.
The pot was mine; all I had to do was refuse the bell. No one would think me a bounder. It was broken, even if it was a pretty thing. But I allowed the bet, not because I’m such a great guy, and not because the Chinese was raving on with a sad story about the rape of Nanking, but because the bell was etched with snowdrops and it reminded me of Turtledove Hill.
I promised what gods there be that if I won the pot I’d head home the next day. It was time to face Olivia.
The Chinese had three aces, and he laid them out in gleeful triumph. The poor sucker turned white as a ghost when I turned my three ladies over on the two boys.
“That bell save your soul,” he said, so woeful I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“I can always use a life insurance policy,” I told him as I raked in the pot. “Even if it’s just Oriental superstition.”
“Not save your life. You fool. That bell save your soul one day. You mark my word now.”
I’ve packed the bell at the bottom of my steamer trunk. Whether or not it saves my soul remains to be seen, but it will make for an interesting story in years to come.
He Pushed Her“M
R. ROCHESTER PUSHED BERTHA
Mason, but it wasn’t murder.” The ghostly voice came from Sara Blakemore’s favorite student Mona in the back of the room. “It was temporary insanity.”
Sara laughed with the rest of the class. She was getting a kick out of the lively debate:
The Death of Bertha Mason, Accident—or Murder?
Murder. Blood. Guts. Subjects sure to intrigue youthful passions while—Sara hoped—something of
Jane Eyre’s
devastating social commentary seeped through. That was her theory, anyway, and she was sticking to it.
“It’s stupid.” David rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t the Prometheus guy just divorce the crazy lady in the attic?”
The Prometheus guy.
He meant Michael Fassbender, the actor who played Mr. Rochester in the 2011 movie version and who was also in the movie
Prometheus
.
“The fabulous Mr. Fassbender notwithstanding,” Sara said, “no screenplay out there is entirely faithful to the novel’s narrative structure.” She cast a dubious eye over the class. “If you rely on a DVD to study for the final, I promise you tears when you get back your grade.”
“But it
was
stupid, Ms. Blakemore,” David said. “Why didn’t he just divorce her?”
“He had morals,” Mona said. “In those days people believed in the sanctity of marriage.”
Poor Mona. All year she’d been the object of a brutal custody fight in her parents’ divorce.
There’s a special hell for those who divorce.
Dad’s voice popped into Sara’s brain uninvited.
“But they tricked Rochester into marrying her!” David said.
“Show of hands.” Sara glanced at the clock. She didn’t want to waste precious minutes on how Rochester was tricked into his marriage. “Who thinks he pushed Bertha off the roof during the fire?”
Hands shot up from all the boys plus Mona, all stabbing the air with certainty. In the same instant, a chill crawled over the back of Sara’s neck. She felt dizzy and leaned against her desk for support.
“No?” She raised an eyebrow at the doubting girls, trying to focus on he discussion. “He had motive, and here was his chance. In those days,
until death us do part
was more than morality—it was the law. Divorce was possible, but so expensive only the very rich could afford it.”
Her stomach turned with a twinge of nausea, and for only a second she saw Mr. Rochester—
her
Mr. Rochester—standing in the corner at the back of the room.
“Rochester was rich,” David said. “He could afford it.”
“But Bertha was insane.” Sara blinked, and the vision was gone. “And there’s the rub. An insane person couldn’t be divorced. She didn’t have mental capacity to understand the proceedings so Rochester was stuck with her. The fire at Thornfield Hall offered the perfect opportunity to be rid of the wretch who ruined his life.”
“But Mr. Rochester is the hero,” David said.
“He was going to save her, but something inside him clicked,” Mona said. “Bertha tried to kill him before. She’d try again. No one would know. He pushed her.”
“That’s more believable than the other thing,” David said. “No way Jane Eyre could imagine Mr. Rochester calling her name at the exact moment he’s actually calling her name hundreds of miles away.”
Sara looked at the corner, but there was nothing there. Yet he’d looked so real—and distressed.
“Maybe Jane Eyre didn’t imagine those cries,” she said. “Maybe she actually heard them. Her soul connection to Mr. Rochester and to Thornfield Hall is one of the great stories in fiction.”
Sara understood Jane completely. She felt spiritually connected to a big old gothic house herself. She longed to see Turtledove Hill again, her great aunt’s mansion on the northern California coast. She’d been there once, when she was fourteen, the same age as her students. Only once, but the place had captured her imagination.
Until now she’d forgotten the other thing—or repressed it. She’d caught a glimpse of Aunt Amelia’s lover in the kitchen. He’d reminded fourteen-year-old Sara of the hero in
Jane Eyre
, the book she’d just been reading. He was the same man twenty-eight-year-old Sara had just imagined was standing in the corner of her freshman English classroom.
The so-called bell blasted, as caustic as a penalty buzzer on a game show, and the kids leapt up from the desks with their books and backpacks. “Great discussion today,” Sara said. “I look forward to reading your essays.”
Across the hall another teacher leaned against her door, a dazed look on her face. Her kids poured out of her room into the hall, and she moved mechanically with the flow of students.
Sara caught up with her. “Marie, what is it?”
“Did you check your mail yesterday?” Marie said.
“Dammit,” Sara said under her breath. She’d forgotten yesterday was the 15th.
In the teachers’ room, Marie sank into a chair. “I got my final notice.”
This year everyone in the district with less than five years’ seniority had received Reduction in Forces notices. RIFing season, they called it. Yesterday was the deadline for final layoff letters. Sara poured two cups of coffee and gave one to Marie.
