Catherine’s Story: A Novel

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Story

A Novel

KATHY ALMEIDA

Books by Kathy Almeida

Novels

Sunny’s Story

Sunny’s Story 2

And Then There Was Rain

Charity Noelle

Inspirational

It’s All About Attitude, Loving and Living Well

with Autism, co-authored with Gayle Nobel

Copyright © 2021 Kathy Almeida.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

844-682-1282

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover Photo by Thinkstock

Author Photo by Frank Almeida, Michael Almeida

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6766-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6765-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-6767-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021907810

Balboa Press rev. date:  04/29/2021

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

She was a breath in the sky,

A whisper in the wind

She came to us but for a moment,

But her spirit lives on

In our hearts and in our souls

Forever…….

This one is for you, our angel in heaven,

Micaela Grace

I wasn’t supposed to end up dead. But here I am.

It all started the day that I met him. I was drawn in by his good looks and mysterious ways. And sex. Yes, sex. He was hot and I admit, my carnal nature took over and I went with the ride. His ride. He was scary too. If I had a second chance, I’d pay more attention to that.

I don’t suppose I get a second chance?" I asked no one in particular. So far, I had not experienced or seen anyone since … you know … dead.

I must be, because I can’t move my hands, feet or even see my body. There is just this cloud that seems to surround me. I keep waving my hand, the hand I can’t see or feel, hoping to clear it away but so far, it is a wasted effort.

I figure I am no longer breathing or living because you know, I’m not. Crazy, huh? I wish I could undo it. The last thing I remember was being stuffed in the trunk, after being knifed.

He was not a nice guy and in hindsight I wish I had not been drawn in by his good looks…or the other thing…that hold he seemed to have put over me, like unseen puppet strings controlled by the puppet master.

I missed the red flags that were blatantly waving in my face– blindness caused by my hunger to feed my carnal appetite, until it was too late. The knowledge he offered had me begging for more, electrifying every nerve in my body. I have no idea where that might be now since I have no sense of a body. But I already told you that.

So yes, I gave into temptation and silenced the blaring warning signals, until it was too late.

Silly me. I can see my grandfather’s look of disapproval. It would probably be more a look of horror at the trouble I’d gotten myself into. And Luke…I am so sorry. I hope that one day, you’ll be able to forgive me.

If I had it to do all over again … well, I guess repeating myself wouldn’t change a damn thing. And just for the record, being knifed, is not fun. Seeing my blood spill to the ground, painting it red, then covering the bottom of a trunk, nope definitely not a good thing.

And to think … I’d just found the treasure and understood what it meant, along with the responsibility of protecting it from those whose only desire was to covet it.

Like the one who put me here.

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Catherine

"C atherine? Are you there?"

Coming, Aunt Helen, I said, wiping the dust off my jeans, standing and hitting my head on the attic beam. Shit!

I took the steps two at a time, landing on the second floor with a loud thump of my boots.

Oh, my Lord, you ’bout scared the pee out of me, said Aunt Helen, coming out of her bedroom.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to, I said, going up to her and kissing her on the cheek.

What have you been up to? Back in the attic again, I see, she said, heading downstairs with me right behind her.

I keep looking for that letter you told me about, I said.

The one from John, our distant relative? she asked, wiping away a cobweb from my jet-black hair, inherited from the Italian on my mother’s side and Native American Indian way back on my father’s side.

Yes.

So, how’s that going?

Well, so far I’ve found a lot of clothes from way back, love letters, trunks filled with lots of odds and ends, but no letter from John.

My aunt laughed. You’re determined, I’ll give you that. But like I’ve told you, I think you’re wasting your time. We don’t even know for sure that the letter exists.

But you told me there was and that he wrote of a buried treasure, I said, following her into the kitchen.

My dear niece, your imagination carries you away to a fantasy land. I never said there was a buried treasure.

Aw, but you did Auntie, and I love you for it. Because now when I find it, you and I will never have to worry about money, or losing the farm, ever again.

I’m sorry that I’ve let you down, Chip, as well. It just wasn’t in me to keep the horse farm going. And my pottery business, although good, isn’t bringing in the kind of money to carry us over, Aunt Helen said with a frown.

Nor does my furniture business, I said. Refinishing old pieces just doesn’t bring in the kind of cash we need either. At least not yet. And just so you know, you could never let me down, never in a hundred thousand years. Looks like we’ll just have to figure out another way, that’s all. And besides, I love you. Where would I be if my grandparents and you hadn’t taken me in when my parents died?

Oh, my dear sweet girl, your parents, God rest their souls, loved you dearly. They should have never taken that boat out in that kind of weather. What they were thinking is beyond me. But never mind that now, the past is behind us, we need to let it go and keep our eyes focused on the road ahead of us. Which brings me back to you and that damn letter.

But Auntie, that letter is important. If I can find it and the treasure, we’ll be sitting good. And it’ll give me more time, to build my own business.

Don’t worry, we’ll find a way. I promise. Speaking of hungry, I’m starving! Let’s make lunch. We’re on our own today, Hilda’s gone into town. How does our version of a BLT sound? I’ve got this tomato from the garden, some lettuce from the market and the French bread from Sarah’s bakery. If you slice the tomato, I’ll cut the bread.

Okay, I said, following her into the kitchen. I looked out the window onto the fields that went on like an emerald ocean. Big one hundred-year-old oak trees, planted by my great -great- grandfather, dotted the landscape, with their long branches extending way up into the cerulean sky. Without a cloud in sight, the gentle breezes rustled through the magnificent oaks suggesting through the haze of heat that hovered over the land, the need for a rain shower.

I love our home. I will not let it go without a fight, I said.

Me too, my aunt replied.

How long have you lived here? I asked, knowing full well, that this home had been in my family for several generations and that she’d lived here most of her life.

All of my life, she said. Well, with the exception of …

Auntie, how come you never remarried? I asked, slicing the tomato thin, spreading seeds and juice onto the cutting board and my hands. I licked my fingers.

As you well know, I loved Philippe with all of my heart, but I could not forgive him for what he did, nor trust another.

But he didn’t mean…

Catherine, I don’t want to talk about it. Come, let’s eat on the deck and then I need to get back to work. Those dishes won’t wait. And I could use your help in delivering them.

Okay, I answered feeling a little put off. Normally we could talk about anything, but not that. A closed door.

We ate lunch and left soon after to deliver the dishes my aunt had made for a client who lived in Newberry, a forty-five-minute ride from our house. It was a great order, fifty dishes. My aunt had been working on this order for over a month. The client planned to use them for her daughter’s bridal shower. The dishes were beautiful. White square dinnerware with a painted soft blue trim.

I hope Alice likes the dishes.

She’s going to love them.

I glanced at my aunt as I drove north on the interstate. She was a beautiful woman. At almost fifty she looked like she was still in her twenties. Her blond straight short hair tinged with grey, accented her pretty face. Her lips, nose, high cheek bones were all classic beauty but the thing that stood out on her, besides her smile, was her blue eyes. They were the color of turquoise. She could have easily been a model, but she wasn’t interested in anything like that.

After delivering the dishes we stopped at a café’ in the small town of Micanopy.

We enjoyed our coffees while sitting outside the café under tall cypress trees that probably could tell a story or two about the old historic town.

You have any more orders? I asked my aunt.

She laughed. Does a bear squat in the woods? But I’m not complaining. I love the work and the income. It’s a great feeling to be paid for doing something you love to do.

Yes, I said, thinking again about the future of our farm.

After coffee we drove back to the farm, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

My aunt and I live in a two-story colonial home with a huge attic. It is in the middle of horse country, just outside of Ocala, Florida. I moved there to live with my grandparents and aunt soon after my parents were killed in a tragic accident on Lake Kerr when I was only five.

I was told that my mother was an only child of parents who should have divorced but stayed together anyway. My mother, who was from a little town just north of High Springs, left home as soon as she was old enough. She went to Ocala, to get away from them and the hate that filled their home; never looking back. She rented a studio apartment with the money she’d saved over the years and then found a job at the local newspaper, the Ocala Star Banner. She met my dad the day he came to the newspaper to place an ad. They went out that very night and were inseparable from that day forward. Three months later they were married and bought a small place in Fellowship, so they could be close to the farm.

My Dad worked with my grandfather. My grandparents had a big enough house for them to all live on the farm, but my parents wanted their independence and privacy. I don’t think my mother ever told her parents about Dad. She was stubborn or so I’m told. She even had her future father-in-law walk her down the aisle the day of their wedding instead of her own father. And I don’t think she ever forgave her parents, which is too bad, because it would have been nice to meet them. Maybe one day I will.

I drove up the mile drive and parked my truck in front of the house on the circular drive.

Aunt Helen, I’m going to check on Lucy, I said, exiting the truck.

Okay, I’ll be in my studio. Time to get to work on the next order, she said with a smile. Thanks for your help today.

No problem, I said. I headed to the barn, where Lucy was patiently waiting for me in her stall.

Sorry girl, I got a little detained, I said, walking up to her, stroking her beautiful golden mane and amber brown back. Do you know how beautiful you are? I asked her.

In response she nibbled at my hand, then started nosing into my jean’s pocket looking for the sugar cube I always kept for her. After her treat, I took the brush from the hook on the wall and started brushing her.

My grandfather had given her to me when I turned 16. He said he’d rather see me riding a horse than boys. My grandfather was direct like that. He also said he did not want me out driving on the road, like all the other crazy teenagers. Not too long after that, he gave in to all my begging, whining, and pleading for a car. I wished he’d waited.

He bought me a Ford Mustang convertible- my dream car. She was beautiful, red body with black interior and a convertible top. I couldn’t wait to show my friends. I convinced my grandfather to let me drive with the top down, promising to only drive on the backroads, no major highways. The only major highway near us was the interstate and I did not want to give my grandfather a heart attack the first time I took her out for a ride. So, I promised him, back roads only.

But I got a little carried away, showing off for my two friends-Becki and Nancy, who rode with me. I took a curve way too fast, lost control of the car, ending up in a ditch. The front end of the car looked like discarded aluminum foil, all crunched up and ready to be tossed. There were so many dents and scratches along the sides and back end, that the car looked like it had gone through a sawmill.

Back wheels spinning as the car lay front end dug in the dirt, my friends and I climbed out. Shaken, but unhurt, we waited for help to arrive. I was terrified of calling my grandfather; I knew his disappointment in me would crush me. But when he saw me, instead of scolding me or giving me that look I’d seen one too many times, he took me to his chest and held me tight. I held on to him, sobbing, saying repeatedly, I’m so sorry, Chip. Please forgive me.

For the next year, I depended on my grandparents to get me everywhere. I was too afraid to drive. When I wanted some independence, I would take Lucy out for long runs on our property.

For my seventeenth birthday, Chip bought me another vehicle. He said, Just like falling off a horse, you have to get back in the saddle. No more hiding, it was time for me to face my fear.

This time instead of a sports car, I got a Ford-150 pickup. Chip said that he wanted something strong and steadfast for me. He let me pick out the color. I chose red, like my Mustang had been, bright and my favorite color.

Sixteen years later, I was still driving her. She ran just as Chip had predicted, strong and steadfast. And her color red, still shown bright, that is, when I remembered to wax her.

My grandparents were basically the only parents I’d ever known, since I was so young when my parents died.

Bossie was my grandfather’s nickname for my grandmother. He loved to tease her unmercifully, but I knew how much he loved her. I’d see him sneak up behind her, smack her playfully on the butt, and she’d smack his hand, just before he planted a big kiss on her lips. Yes, they loved each other very much. My grandfather went by the name Chip, short for John James (yea, I have no idea how that came about) and he insisted that I call him that as well. His nickname for me was Sweetheart. To this day I can still hear him say it.

On my first day of school in the first grade, when Mrs. Buchanan asked us to say our names, I answered, ‘Sweetheart.’ I can still hear the laughter coming from the other kids. What did I know? Later that day in tears, wrapped in the safety of my grandmother’s arms, she said, comforting me, You pay no mind now young’ un, you are a sweetheart and to us you always will be, but from here on out at school and to the world, you tell them your name is Catherine James, and you say it with pride. You hear me girl?

Yes, ma’am, I’d blubbered.

Chip said I was his favorite grandchild and he’d give me the world if he could. I’d remind him that I was his only grandchild and he only gave me the ‘world’ after he was sure I’d earned it. Well, except when it came to my vehicles. He was tough but he taught me the way of life was to be strong, independent, and secure, knowing that I could do whatever I wanted to if I kept the belief in myself that I could, and I was willing to work for it. Of course, with God’s help.

We were a devout Christian family. Every Sunday we went to church, a nondenominational church just down the road from us, on a small country road. Bossie and Chip made sure that I dressed my best for God’s house, wearing a dress, stockings, and a hat, even in the middle of summertime. The church was air-conditioned but packed in a lot of people, and on more than one occasion the air went out, leaving me fanning myself with the hymnal and getting sharp looks from Bossie, while Chip elbowed me with a smile, catching the glare of Bossie in the process.

Bossie kept telling me to call her Grandma, but eventually she gave in and allowed me to call her Bossie, too.

My Aunt Helen earned her Bachelor of Arts degree at the University of Florida. She loved making things with her hands, and her passion was pottery. Chip insisted that she learn the business, taking courses in finances and what not, so that one day she could take over running the farm.

Aunt Helen had other ideas. As soon as she graduated from college, she left home with the money she’d gotten from graduation gifts and savings, to travel the world, learning as much as she could about how other artists lived and created. She’d decided a long time ago that she wanted nothing to do with marriage or having children. She was way too independent for any of that.

But then one summer day in a small town on the coast of France she met Philippe and fell head over heels in love with him. They eloped after dating only four short weeks. (It seemed that not only my parents, but my aunt as well had short courtships.) That infuriated both my grandparents, especially Chip. Even though he loved me and made over me, I knew that Helen was the apple of his eye and he still had high hopes for her to take over the family business when he retired (even though she’d been in Europe traipsing around for over a decade). And he’d wanted to give her the biggest wedding ever seen this side of the Mississippi.

But the marriage was for real and it wasn’t long after that Helen announced that she was pregnant. She was still in Europe and my grandparents wondered if Helen had any intention of ever coming back home.

She sent pictures of herself and Philippe over the course of months. Aunt Helen looked radiant and beautiful; pregnancy became her. My grandparents wanted to make a trip overseas to visit, especially when it came time for their second grandchild to be born. But for one reason or another, things kept coming up and it didn’t work out.

And then came the devasting news. Helen’s friend, Chris, whom she’d met while in Paris, called to say that Helen and Philippe had been in a terrible car accident, this right before their baby was due to be born. Philippe often drank and, on this day, he consumed way too much, causing him to plow head on into an oncoming truck. The man driving the truck survived with minor injuries. Philippe was not so lucky. He died instantly and my aunt was critically injured. And she lost the baby. A baby girl.

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Catherine

M   y grandparents were devastated. First, they’d lost their only son and now this happened to their baby girl. It seemed there may have been some sort of curse put on my grandparents’ children. Not that I believe in any of that, but there was a lot of talk amongst the hired help, which at that time, there were many, help that is.

Growing up and living out in the country like we did, often the only friends I had (when I wasn’t in school) were the people who worked for my grandparents. In fact, Rusty-my grandfather’s foreman and his wife Hilda-our cook and housekeeper were like my second parents and often took care of me and our farm when my grandparents were out of town on horse business.

Not that I needed that kind of looking after anymore, since I