Ancient Inheritance. Rita Vetere
as long as Catherine could remember, whenever she felt troubled or unsure, she found if she became quiet and stilled her thoughts, sooner or later, a tiny voice would pipe up, guiding her, telling her what to do. In adulthood, she came to think of the voice within as her ‘higher self’—at least that’s what most people called it. Granddad had always told her the voice belonged to her Guardian Angel, and she should always pay attention to it. She always had. Yet, here she was with the most important decision in her life so far looming before her, and the little voice she had come to rely upon would not speak to her. She kept waiting, hoping for affirmation, but the voice had so far remained stubbornly silent on the subject of Matthew.
So, I’m supposed to turn him away because the voice won’t talk to me? And yet she trusted the voice. It had never let her down before.
I’ll ask him to come with me on the weekend when I go home, to meet Granddad. Then I’ll decide.
Even as she determined this, she listened inside herself for confirmation but, once again, the voice responded with silence.
* * * *
“I’ll have the shrimp stir fry please, to go,” she told the clerk at the take-out counter of Ho Min’s, where she stopped in to pick up dinner on the walk home from work. After paying, she stepped out onto the busy Soho street, carrying her take-out bag. She moved with natural feline grace, weaving her way among the pedestrians, unconscious of the stares she garnered from the men who passed her. The oversized black leather jacket and snug-fitting low-rider jeans she wore emphasized her slender, petite form, giving her a waif-like appearance. At intervals, she brushed aside the long bangs of her otherwise short black hair.
At the intersection of Grand and Wooster, she turned right and headed for her apartment, a classic five-story stone and cast iron building that had originally been a warehouse, and converted to lofts in the sixties.
“Hi, Jimmy.” She flashed the concierge a smile as she entered the backlit foyer of her building.
“Evening, Miss Caldwell. All done for the day?”
“Uh-huh. Finished up early. Have a good night,” she said on her way to the keyed elevator.
It was a short ride to the top floor, and when the doors opened, she stepped off the lift directly into the high-ceilinged, enormous open space of her apartment. The long wall facing her was made up entirely of leaded windows that ran almost from floor to ceiling. The spectacular view still awed her.
Cat always felt a secret pleasure when the elevator doors closed behind her, as if she were entering a private sanctuary; a peaceful place surrounded by feverish activity. Her home was a fortress, impenetrable.
She would never have been able to afford such a place on her own, real estate in Soho being what it was. The apartment, in fact, had been a gift from her grandfather. Eleven years ago, when she approached him about moving to New York from Louisiana, telling him her heart was set on living in the Big Apple, not only had Granddad acquiesced, he had presented her with a set of keys. He owned a large apartment there, he told her, an investment facilitated years ago through his old war-buddy Joe, who had worked as a real estate agent in New York. She would be comfortable there, he said, and it was close to NYU, where she would be working towards a fine arts degree. The news had come as a thrilling surprise, and when she first saw the place on her arrival in the city, she could barely contain her excitement at having such a magnificent place to call her own.
She kicked off her boots and walked the length of the open living area toward the bedroom, dropping the bag of take-out on the kitchen counter in passing.
She got out of her clothes and slipped into a soft terry robe. Back in the kitchen, she decanted a generous amount of Pinot Grigio into a long-stemmed glass and carried it with her to the Zen-like atmosphere of her bathroom, where she drew water for a bath in the rectangular soaking tub. The scent of lavender filled the room as she stepped into the deep tub and ensconced herself in the silky water. This after-work ritual was her way of putting the day behind her.
Afterwards, she heated up her take-out dinner in the microwave and brought it with her to the low, rectangular modern couch. Famished, she dug into the food, balancing the plate on her lap as she ate. By the time she was done, she still had not decided what her answer would be if Matthew popped the question tomorrow.
“Give it a rest,” she muttered to herself. “He hasn’t even asked yet.” She picked up the remote control and flicked on the television. The national weather forecast came on. A smiling woman with impossibly long eyelashes spoke with false solemnity: “…severe storm warnings in effect for parts of the southern states. Louisiana and Missouri looking to be hardest hit by the heavy line of thunderstorms moving across the region.”
Catherine frowned, thinking of Granddad. He was all the family she had left and was getting on in years. She hated the idea of him alone in the old house back home with bad weather approaching. The bayou region of Louisiana where she’d grown up was isolated, no one around for miles.
The news of impending bad weather made her uneasy, and she picked up the phone to dial his number. Catherine exhaled in relief when he answered after the third ring, not even aware she’d been holding her breath.
“Hi, Granddad, it’s Cat. I heard on the news you might be getting some weather and just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Hello, sweet pea. Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry. They’re calling for thunderstorms, but nothing too serious from what I can tell. How have you been? Are you planning to visit soon for your birthday?”
The booming sound of thunder traveled through the phone line from half-way across the country, followed by static. “Yes, I—”
The line went dead. “Hello? Granddad?” She redialed the number and heard the blat-blat-blat that signaled a disruption in service. Storm must have knocked the power out.
Disappointed, she hung up, consoling herself with the fact that, even though he was old and arthritic, Granddad was the smartest man she knew and could take care of himself better than most people half his age. Perhaps Evangeline had decided to stay over with him. The old Creole woman who had helped raise Catherine took good care of her grandfather.
The thought did nothing to dispel her apprehension; the disquieting feeling remained. She would have to wait. Hopefully, phone service would be restored soon.
Chapter 2
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana – Present Day
Alan Fairfield, seated in his favorite reading chair in the library of the old, plantation style house, looked out the window at the menacing storm. Lightning flashed nearby, blurred by sheets of heavy rain, and followed immediately by a crash of thunder that shook the house. He replaced the receiver, his connection with his granddaughter lost. The power was out.
Scudding, black clouds extinguished the remaining daylight, and Alan got up from his chair, intending to light the candles he kept handy on the mantle. He tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his joints as he made his way to the marble fireplace. “Guess I should be thankful I can move at all at my age,” he muttered to himself. Wish I’d taken Evangeline up on her offer to stay over. A wave of loneliness washed over him.
After lighting the candles, he picked up the framed black-and-white photo of his wife, Kate, from the mantle, the one he had taken of her at the lake the summer before he enlisted, in 1942. He’d captured her sitting on a sandy beach, her slim legs tucked off to one side. Long waves of raven-black hair cascaded around her bare shoulders while the lake shimmered behind her. He thought, as he always did when he studied it, that she looked like a mysterious mermaid washed up to shore by the ocean. It was this snapshot of her he had carried with him into battle every day in Germany during World War II. The picture, creased and folded now, remained his favorite. He ran his finger across her image and placed it back on the mantle, next to the other two.
One of the remaining photos was of him and his old army buddy Joe, taken on V-Day. What an odd-looking pair we made back then. The thought brought forth a