Emily's Song
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Christine Marciniak
Emily’s Song
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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He looked really familiar, but she didn’t remember seeing him at the wedding. She knew she’d seen that face, and she knew that if there were enough light to see the color of his eyes, they would be gray.
She knew who he was.
“You’re Samuel Marshall.”
“Yes,” he said, as if that should be obvious to anyone.
“And this is your house.”
And he died in the Civil War.
And she hadn’t been able to find any light switches.
That was impossible. She had to be dreaming. Or still drunk. Or something.
No. This was a dream. That was the only logical conclusion.
Ha, did that mean that Samuel Marshall was the man of her dreams? Figures it would be someone dead for a hundred and sixty years.
Praise for Christine Marciniak
“From the moment Emily falls into the pond, I could not put this book down. Packed full with suspense, danger, and romance, EMILY’S SONG stayed with me long after I finished the last page.”
~award-winning author P. J. Hoover
Emily’s Song
by
Christine Marciniak
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Emily’s Song
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Christine Marciniak
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First American Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2021-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2022-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Tricia,
because she never stopped
believing in this story,
or me
Chapter One
Emily
Happily-ever-afters don’t happen at someone else’s wedding. Emily Parks knew this and had no expectations. Well, not many. If she could meet someone who would sweep her off her feet, that would be great. In the meantime, she was maid-of-honor and determined to enjoy herself.
If only the music wasn’t quite so loud. The bass vibrated through her bones as she danced with one of the groomsmen. The loud music was the only fault she could find, though. Dayna and Johnson really couldn’t have picked a more beautiful place for their reception. The nineteenth-century mansion-turned-inn had been restored to its full pre-Civil War glory. The ballroom had polished wood floors and crystal chandeliers and ornate French doors leading out to the veranda and gardens. Other than the blaring music, it was like stepping back in time. Upstairs, where the bridal party had rooms for the night, there were even canopy beds. Could life get better?
One song segued into another, and she gave a wave to her dancing partner and headed back to her table, where her drink awaited. She took a sip.
“Bet you can’t wait ’til it’s your turn,” Dayna’s mother said, practically having to shout the words to be heard.
Emily forced a smile and nodded. She drained her glass, then pointed toward the bar to indicate she was going to get another drink.
Even over by the bar it was hard to hear herself think. She waited for the tuxedo-clad bartender to mix a highball for the groom’s grandfather.
“Whiskey sour,” she said when he turned to her.
The bartender refilled her glass, and she stuck a dollar in the tip jar.
“You’re next, eh?” the groom’s grandfather said and moved on, not waiting for a response.
Emily took her glass and emptied it in a couple of swallows.
She put it back on the bar.
“Again, please.”
“Another already?” the bartender asked.
“I’ve invented a drinking game,” she told him. “Anytime someone tells me I’m next, or any variation thereof, such as, when are you going to get a boyfriend and settle down, I drain my glass.”
The bartender mixed her drink and gave her a wink.
“You in need of a boyfriend, sweetie?”
She rolled her eyes and took a huge swallow. It burned her throat and made her eyes water. Or maybe that was the annoyance at it being rubbed in her face, yet again, that she didn’t have a significant other.
“I’ll let you know.”
Out on the dance floor, Dayna and Johnson moved together like they were made for each other. Maybe they were. From the moment they started dating in high school, they had eyes for no one else. They even had a couple name: DayJon. Dayna always joked that it sounded like a good name for their first son. Every time Emily was in a relationship, she’d realize that although she was having fun, it wasn’t at all like what Dayna and Johnson had. She wanted what they had. She’d never even had a couple name.
She sipped her drink. Slugging back that last glass might not have been the best idea. The edges of her vision were starting to get a little wobbly. The room was too loud and too hot and too everything.
The lobby brought some relief. She sat down on an ornate blue velvet sofa. Her feet ached. That was the problem with wearing new shoes to a wedding. Not that she had much choice. These were the ones Dayna had picked out. They’d been dyed to match the pale yellow gowns. Yellow was totally not her color, but since most of the bridesmaids were Dayna’s cousins, they had the darker skin that offset the yellow beautifully. Emily more or less faded away. It didn’t matter though. No one was looking at her anyway; it was Dayna’s day.
Huge portraits lined the wall. A nice touch that made the historic inn seem even more like a home. The one directly opposite her was of a handsome young man with wavy dark hair, neatly-trimmed mustache, and piercing gr
ay eyes.
“You like that painting?”
The owner of the inn, an older, professionally-dressed woman stood next to her.
“I do.” She couldn’t take her gaze from it. Especially the eyes, they simply gripped her. “Do you know who it is?”
“Samuel Marshall.” She touched the frame lightly, almost caressing it like one might a loved one. “This used to be his house. He died in the Civil War.”
“He was cute.” Too bad he died in the war. Of course, the war was over one hundred and fifty years ago, he’d be dead by now either way.
“He was a poet.”
Emily studied the painting with renewed interest. Old-time poets always seemed so romantic. Modern poets were a little too into navel-gazing for her tastes.
“Did he write anything I might have heard of?” She’d read plenty of poems, but his name wasn’t familiar.
“I have a copy of his most famous one here.” She opened a drawer in a side table, pulled out a postcard with a multi-stanzaed poem printed on the front and handed it to Emily.
“It’s called Emily’s Song?” she asked, bemused. “I’m Emily.”
The woman lowered her glasses and studied her for a moment. “You are, aren’t you. Then this was written for you.” She gently patted her shoulder and moved on.
She settled back to read the poem. If she had not been drinking quite so many whiskey sours, she might have gotten more out of it, but as it was she found it charming and sweet.
Emily’s Song
A sprite from the land of Faerie
Bewitching me with a glance
She touched my hand and stole my heart
Our meeting: more than happenstance
Bewitching me with a glance
Her laughter was like bells in the wind
Our meeting: more than happenstance
I knew I had to have her; if only for a while.
Her laughter was like bells in the wind
As we danced the Zingirella for the ball
I knew I had to have her; if only for a while
For when I was with her time stood still
As we danced the Zingirella for the ball
The waterfalls played the only music we needed
For when I was with her time stood still
My sprite would be my bride
The waterfalls played the only music we needed
She touched my hand and stole my heart
My sprite would be my bride
Emily you have my love forever.
Sweet and depressing. Even in poems other people were falling in love and getting married.
Dayna and one of her cousins came through the ballroom door in a burst of laughter.
“Emily! What are you doing out here?” Dayna asked. “This is my wedding you should be having a good time!”
“I’m having a great time,” she insisted, shoving the poem back in the drawer. “I just needed to rest my feet, and my ears.”
Dayna dropped onto the sofa next to her. “I’m sorry Brian brought a date. I figured the best man and maid-of-honor would keep each other company. But when he asked Johnson if he could bring someone, we couldn’t exactly say no.”
“Oh please.” She waved the apology away. “I really didn’t expect to have things be so easy that I’d fall in love with Johnson’s co-worker anyway. And I’m having fun. But what about you, are you having fun? Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”
“Everything and more!” She looked up at her cousin, waiting patiently. “Alexis, you can go back in. Emily will help me with my dress.”
“I’m on potty duty?”
“Yes, because I know you’ll do anything for me.”
“Are you going to expect me to be in the delivery room when you and Johnson have your first child?”
“You can cut the cord.”
Dayna stood and grabbed Emily by the hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come, help your dearest and oldest friend go to the bathroom without destroying her dress.”
In the special bridal bathroom, with its gilt mirrors and cushioned seats and lots of room around the toilet for people who need assistance with voluminous dresses, she held the dress out of the way while Dayna struggled with her pantyhose.
“How did those ladies ever go to the bathroom in a hoop skirt, that’s what I’d like to know,” she said. “And in an outhouse yet? There are some things that make me very glad I live in the twenty-first century.”
“Internet,” Emily said, looking discreetly away.
“And phones. Can you imagine not having phones? Not even landlines. How absolutely primitive.”
Dayna finished going to the bathroom, and between the two of them, they got her clothes all situated again. Dayna inspected herself in the mirror. “Of course, in the age of hoop skirts, I don’t suppose my ancestors were wearing fancy clothes.”
Emily wished she didn’t look so washed out and pale next to Dayna.
“Mine were struggling in the potato famine.”
“Yeah.” Dayna applied lipstick. “Totally the same.”
“I know it’s not.” Nothing compared to what the slaves went through.
Dayna pushed her lipstick back into her clutch and patted her on the arm. “It’s okay, sweetie, not everyone can have a backstory as tragic as mine. You make do with what you have.”
She laughed and picked her glass up from the marble counter. “I suppose no matter how you slice it, neither of us would be too happy in the nineteenth century.”
“You got that right,” Dayna said. “They had nice houses, though.”
Johnson stood in front of the painting of Samuel Marshall, tapping one foot, while pushing up the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket and shirt to check his watch.
“Couldn’t live without her?” Emily gave him a light punch to the arm.
He flashed her his irrepressible grin. “You know it.” With one arm, he pulled Dayna close. “We need to find someone for you, Em. Sorry it didn’t work out with Brian.”
She drained the rest of the whiskey sour.
Dayna stared at her, one eyebrow raised.
“Drinking game.” She held her empty glass high. “Every time someone suggests I should get married or comments on my single state, I drain the glass.”
“Find a safer game.” Johnson took the glass from her.
“Which means you think people are going to keep saying stuff.”
“Of course they are,” Dayna said, snuggling close to Johnson. “It’s a wedding. Matchmaking is on people’s minds.”
“And you are gorgeous and apparently determined to stay ridiculously single,” Johnson said putting his other arm around Emily’s shoulders, engulfing her.
“I haven’t found the right guy. You and Dayna are so lucky.” Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes. She blinked to banish them. A wedding was no time for tears.
“We are,” Dayna agreed. “That doesn’t mean you won’t be as lucky.”
“Come, dance with me, Emily,” Johnson said. “Let all the other guys see what they’ve been missing.”
“Thanks, but no. You dance with Dayna. I’m going to step outside and get some fresh air.” She disengaged from Johnson’s comforting arm. All those whiskey sours had been a particularly bad idea. She went through the ballroom and out the open French doors to the veranda where people milled about, engaged in quiet conversation.
The full moon was startlingly bright and huge, bathing the entire area with its glow. It was almost magical. She wandered away from the building, enjoying the cool air on her face. Moonlight reflected off a fish pond, creating an unworldly effect. The moon seemed to fill the pond. Bubble-blowing fish stopped it from being completely mirror-like.
Her reflection, warped by the ripples, mesmerized her as she sat on the low wall surrounding the pond. Is this how we see other people, she wondered, hampered by ripples and darkness and magic?
She should definitely not have had so much to drink. The drinking game had been a bad idea.
>
She trailed her fingers in the water, and the moonlight caught the ring on her right hand and made it glow. The ring, gold and silver intertwined, was given to her by her parents on her twenty-first birthday. Her mother, who dabbled in new-age stuff, told her that gold represented the sun and silver represented the moon, and between them she had the power of the world at her fingertips. Good in theory.
Her dad simply told her the ring was beautiful, just like she was.
She brushed the ring against her lips.
Good old Dad. He was the only person who never got on her case about still being single. Even with all the planning for Dayna’s wedding, he never said anything. He was probably glad no one was asking him to open his wallet quite yet, but still, she appreciated his restraint.
A mist rose around her, and the chill in the air raised goosebumps on her arms. She should go back inside, rejoin the party. She didn’t want Dayna to think she wasn’t having a good time at her wedding. She was having a good time. The music was great, if maybe a little loud. The food had been top notch. The setting was unbearably romantic. And it was the wedding of two of her best friends in the whole world. It would be even better if there was someone to gaze lovingly into her eyes and whisper sweet nothings to her in the moonlight.
Fine, she’d admit it. She was lonely.
It wasn’t the fault of the wedding though.
She shivered and wished she’d brought a wrap out with her.
The mist grew, emanating from the pond. It was all-encompassing, enveloping her, obliterating the light of the moon.
The fog filled her eyes so she could see nothing, her ears, so she could hear nothing, her mouth, silencing her. It filled her soul. She wanted to get up to go back inside now, but the fog held her pinned in place.
The world around her disappeared, the only thing solid was the ledge she sat on. Then the ledge crumbled from under her, and she tumbled into the fish pond.
The water engulfed her, waking her out of her stupor and shocking her system into stone cold soberness. She floundered to the surface to find that the fog had disappeared.
Perhaps she had dreamed it all. Or not, dreamed, exactly, but it had been a result of one too many whiskey sours.
Emily, her dress a sodden mess, her carefully styled hair soaked, climbed out of the pond. That was an interesting turn of events. She laughed as she tried to wring out her dress. Dayna and Johnson would say only she could manage to fall in a fish pond at their wedding. And look at that, they’d be right.