Once Upon Another Time

“I don't often use the word
"captivating" in describing a book, but today, I will.”

~Book Applause

“Totally absorbing feel-good book. Once
you start you have to keep reading this enthralling book…”

~Geoffrey West, Journalist
& Author of Jack Lockwood Mysteries

“Left me wanting more! This novel is
undoubtedly an enjoyable gentle romantic comedy with its quirky portrait of
delightfully imperfect Aubrey.”

~Alizaren

F
or my brother Paul who lives among the angels—I
will one day see you again.

A
nd to my husband Tom for all his love,
encouragement, and support.

A
cknowledgments

My appreciation and
thank you to Lynda Miller for her wonderful editing skills and to designer
extraordinaire, Sallie Scharding for the beautiful book cover.

D
eath
is not the end, but only the beginning.

The butterfly is symbolic of many
things, depending upon what part of the world you live in.  Some cultures associated
it with a miracle of transformation and resurrection, a change in one’s life.  In
early Christianity, the butterfly was a symbol of the soul.  In Japan, a
butterfly is seen as the personification of a person's soul whether they are
living, dying, or already dead.  One Japanese superstition says that if a
butterfly enters your guestroom and perches behind the bamboo screen, the
person whom you most love is coming to see you.

The butterfly best represents the
story you are about to read. 

See character bios at
www.rosarymcquestion.com

Two, one
thousand, three, one thousand, four, one thousand…

I paced around the
coffee table counting in my head, hoping that breathing into the small paper lunch
bag would clear my mind and stop my panic attack.  But one noisy thought kept drowning
out even the swishy rustling of my taffeta cocktail dress, telling me I wasn’t stable
enough to go out on a date.  Not stable was putting it mildly.  The mere
thought that the ghost of my dead husband was haunting me made my breaths come
out faster, and the bag I was breathing into become soggier.  It was absurd on
so many different levels--one being I didn’t believe in ghosts.  

Someone like me, a
hardworking lawyer, a well-respected figure in the local community, and a
sensible, caring mother to a six-year-old son didn’t dabble in such ridiculous
notions.  In my line of work, I dealt with hardcore facts and solid evidence.  Yet,
I was conflicted.  An invisible presence wasn’t something I’d ever
contemplated, but I couldn’t ignore the peculiar things that had happened around
the house. 

Case-in-point--my
house is a nineteen thirties English Tudor, so it’s common to hear creaks and
groans from the floors and beams.  However, one night three weeks ago, while in
my study researching a pending lawsuit case, the house was quiet as a tomb.  It
was as if it had taken a deep breath and held it, while an odd feeling that I wasn’t
alone had sent a shiver running through my body.  The only light in the dark
room was coming from the glow of my computer screen.  A glance over my shoulder
showed nothing other than the faint outline of the hand-carved marble
fireplace.  I turned slowly in the direction of the French doors, fearing
someone was outside in my garden, perhaps with his face up to the glass staring
in on me.  But all I saw was the moon glowing through the wavy Victorian water
glass like golden waves. 

As soon as I turned
back to face my computer, a scent similar to the acidic sweet tartness of freshly
squeezed limes and tangerines swirled in the air.  The scent was reminiscent of
men’s cologne, the same cologne my husband, Matt, used to wear.  All at once, my
mind traveled back to the day he died.  My heart beat wildly, and I became all
thumbs while fumbling to switch on the desk lamp.  

The fragrance was
fading and at the same time, something I can’t explain had called to my
subconscious.  My eyes were drawn to the built-in bookcase on the opposite side
of the room, and to a photograph of Matt taken one week before his death.  The
shutter on the camera had caught the sparkle in his amber-colored eyes, as he
looked up from checking the shackles and pins that fastened the rigging to the
hull on our sailboat.  A thatch of windblown sandy colored hair, streaked
blonde from that hot summer spent on the water, had blown across his forehead. 

Eerily, it felt as
if the photograph was speaking to me in some type of enigmatic communication
when on the back of my neck I felt moist, warm breath.  A voice whispered in my
ear, “Aubrey, find me.” 

A tiny
high-pitched scream managed to eke past my paralyzed vocal cords.  My heart
pounded.  Not only had an invisible presence spoken to me, but I recognized the
voice.  A vacuumed draft whooshed through the room and sucked the sheer drapery
against the screen on the open window--as if something had escaped outside into
the salty night air.

 My brain stumbled
as my body bolted toward the window.  The full golden moon spread its glow
clear across the dark waters of Fogland Beach.  A white illuminated image hovered
at the water's edge.  It looked like the outline of a man, perhaps my neighbor
with a flashlight, is what came to mind.  But when it streaked up toward the
sky like a comet, I was pretty sure it wasn’t the guy next door. 

As I stood in
shock, drowning in a sea of air, I suddenly caught my breath and blurted out, “Was
that Matt’s ghost?”  Why I had said it, I don’t know, because believing in
ghosts would have been like believing in Leprechauns and a pot of gold at the
end of a rainbow.  However, there was no mistaking Matt’s voice.

That night, three
weeks ago, was the beginning of everything.  At whim, my heirloom music box, a
gift from my deceased grandmother that had not worked in years, started pinging
out the melody of “Moon River.”  Mysterious wind chimes would wake me in the
night, and Matt’s whispering plea for me to find him seemed to echo from every room
in the house.  Then there was my newly minted, freakish ability to hear what
people were thinking, which added to my worry that I was schizophrenic.  With voices
inhabiting my head like annoying little gremlins, I could only guess that
witches and monkeys flying on broomsticks would be next.  

So, there you have
it.  I wasn’t in the right frame of mind nor was I looking forward to spending
the evening with a blind date set up by my best friend, Laura Wentworth. 

Seven, one
thousand, eight, one thousand, nine, one thousand...

The paper bag
billowed and collapsed like a living lung, until finally with much frustration
I twisted the head on the bag and popped it.  Not only did I feel as if I was
going completely insane, but going on blind dates has always been a waste of
time.  Yet, Laura always thought she knew best when it came to my non-existent
love life, and therefore I’d always given in to her. 

Think
, I
told myself, while trying to come up with an excuse for canceling the date, when
a great breath of draft passed through the high-ceilinged great room.  My heart
began to race.  A light citrusy scent sprinkled the air, when all at once the wail
of Westminster chimes rang out in a loud, crystal clear, exceedingly musical
tone. 

I spun around to
face the glass-domed anniversary clock, my heart beating with the speed of a
hummingbird’s wings.  I fixated on the clock’s rotating crystal pendulum, and thought
back to the day Matt bought the broken clock.  It was at an estate sale a
couple months before he died.  He’d never got around to fixing it.  I couldn’t
bear to have the clock live on when my husband never had the chance to hear the
beauty of its chime, and therefore never had it repaired.  But there it was,
chiming as if it’d just awakened from a deep slumber. 

The heels of my
stilettos barely made a sound on the hardwood floor, as I slowly walked toward
the clock sitting on the fireplace mantel.  At the strike of the seventh chime,
I lightly touched my trembling fingertips to the glass dome.  And then I saw him. 
He was standing to the side of the fireplace, not four feet from me and somehow
everything seemed flawlessly clear and fantastically real.  A rushing sense of
release shot through me, as if some inner catch sprung open to loosen my fear. 
The same anticipatory spasm of joy I felt when our son, Nicholas, was born was
what I felt at that very moment I saw Matt’s spirit.