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Overview
Elizabeth Hamilton’s dream of being a prima ballerina in New York has finally come true. Her whole career is at her feet, and nothing will get in her way. She is in love with her completely organized and focused life and doesn’t think she has room—or the need—for anything more.
In contrast, Michael Ryan’s dreams have thus far eluded him, and a lifetime of poor decision-making has taken its toll. He did not grow up in a loving environment and has never allowed himself the luxury of dreaming about a better life. His is a life of chaos, danger, and uncertainty, with little room for hope.
When Elizabeth finds Michael injured on the roadside and takes him to\ the cottage, it changes Elizabeth’s world. How can a prima ballerina find space in her heart for a rough-and-tumble biker with a dark past and even more insidious secrets? But despite her seemingly perfect life, Elizabeth’s past has returned to envelop her. Can she ever know happiness again?
Michael must find the strength and courage to leave his past behind now that Elizabeth has shown him how loved he can truly be. When both their pasts threaten their future, they must rise above everything and anything to fight for their love. Will fate bring Elizabeth and Michael together, or will it lead them to new and different paths?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781733336796 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Goldtouch Press, LLC |
| Publication date: | 08/05/2019 |
| Pages: | 226 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.52(d) |
About the Author
After twenty-four years teaching English, business, and physical education at Toronto's Notre Dame High School, where she also served as a guidance counselor and coach, she retired. She and her husband, Pat, of forty years have two adult children, Gil and Kate. This is her debut novel, and she is currently at work on her second novel, titled Haunted Castle.
Read an Excerpt
The Cottage
By Donna Vamplew
iUniverse
Copyright © 2013 Donna VamplewAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-0719-7
CHAPTER 1
May 3, 2004
Elizabeth knew her understudy could take her place and perform beautifully.
There is no need to feel guilty; no one is indispensable. That's what she had to keep telling herself as she drove toward the old cottage. No phones, no TV, no computers — silence! That's what she needed. Silence. Her mind needed it, and her body needed it.
When she was almost at the turnoff to the cottage, she saw a lot of motorcycles on the shoulder. She thought she had come upon an accident. She soon saw that, instead, it looked like some kind of confrontation. The idea of a group of motorcycle gang members realizing that she had come upon their "business" petrified her, especially with all the blood she saw on the side of the road. As she hurried by, she noticed that one man was getting beat up. A few men were holding him, and a few men were hitting him.
None of your business. Keep going! Go to the cottage.
It had been a long time since she'd experienced the serenity and security of the old cottage. She desperately needed her grandmother's cottage at this point in her life. Her grandmother was no longer living, and she missed their special bond and relationship. Her grandmother would know exactly what to say to make her feel better; she always knew when she was troubled or sad. She missed her so much. She was hoping that the cottage itself would fill in for her grandmother and offer her the solace that she desperately needed right now.
Peace and quiet ... no rehearsals, no performances, no pain, no sorrow, no stress!
Her mother and grandmother had sacrificed everything for her dance lessons. Her grandmother was her cook, her chauffeur, her cheerleader, and her most precious promoter. Working countless hours had enabled Monique, Elizabeth's mother, to finance the lessons. She had carried their dreams with her over the years, and she was tired. She was tired of having the weight of performances on her shoulders. She was tired of always being the reliable and fully controlled prima ballerina. She needed a rest and a change of pace.
Elizabeth stared straight ahead so they wouldn't think she had seen anything and then sped away from the scene. She had driven for ten minutes when she saw a number of headlights coming up behind her. Her heart raced wildly. She thought for sure that the motorcycle gang members decided to remove any witnesses to their altercation. She increased her speed slightly. Her hands were trembling, and she was watching in the mirror as they quickly approached.
Much to her surprise, the motorcycles started passing her. She slowed a little to let the whole bunch of them pass. They did. They swerved around her car and kept on going down the road. She didn't know what to do. "Shit," she said. "Shit, shit." She knew that she could not keep going and ignore what she had seen. She did not want to stop, but she couldn't help herself.
I'm the one in the theatre always saying to myself, "Don't go back," and, "Don't go down the basement!" The killer is waiting for you! How stupid can you be? Why am I driving back? Away from the cottage where there is no one and only peace? I should have my head examined! I'll just drive by and take a peek, and then I'll be satisfied and on my way. Okay ... it was close to here. I don't see anything. Oh there — there's a motorcycle on its side! It's only a motorcycle. They must've had the man on the back of one of those bikes that passed me. Okay, now you're satisfied ... turn around and get on with it. Conscience appeased. Deep breath and turn the wheel. It's really late now.
"Shit."
Was that a hand? No ... keep driving! Why did I pull over? My caution lights are flashing in my head! I'm sitting in the theatre thinking, Don't go there; the killer is waiting.
Having pulled over onto the shoulder, she continued looking in her rearview mirror. She reluctantly opened her door and started running back to the spot where she had seen a group of motorcyclists beating up a man. She saw a hand lying on the ground.
Oh Shit! It was a hand! Oh God! It's the man.
The man was twisted, with torn clothes, and lay on the ground in an unnatural position.
So much blood!
She had to check to see if he was alive. She couldn't turn her back on an injured person. If something as terrible as this happened to her, she certainly wouldn't want someone to just pass her by. She was sure the man was dead and hesitated on checking his pulse. The fear of returning motorcycles was making her think a mile a minute. But she couldn't turn around without checking. She had come this far and decided to continue.
Okay, I'll check his pulse, and if he's dead, I'll call the police and leave an anonymous message. There's nothing I can do for him ... it's a motorcycle gang thing!
She didn't actually believe that; she was trying to convince herself to mind her own business and leave the man alone. She bent over and put her hand around his wrist. There was a pulse. He was still alive. Now she had to decide what to do. If she left him and called the police anonymously, she might not get any more involved. But what if he stopped breathing while she went to the cottage? There would be no one around to help him. She did know first aid and CPR. Her mother had insisted on her getting certified so that she could be prepared in case of an emergency. Her mother had been right. But if she stayed, her involvement might get back to the motorcycle gang, and she might be in danger. What should she do? She knew the second she had seen his hand that she could not leave this man alone in the dark on the side of a road. That's not the way she was raised; you helped people to the best of your ability. You did not abandon someone in their hour of need.
Shit!
Elizabeth did not realize that Michael was aware of someone touching him and leaning over him. He couldn't see because his eyes were swollen shut, but he could feel a soft hand wrapping itself around his wrist, even though the pain removed the softness of the touch. He couldn't think straight. All he felt was pain and the hand on his wrist. His instincts took over. He grabbed it.
Elizabeth jumped and screamed. "Jesus! Oh, my God!"
It felt like her heart was going to jump out of her throat. She stood staring at the body. His right hand had just grabbed hers and now lay across his shoulder. She was breathing hard and fast.
Shit! What do I do now?
"I have to do something," she said.
Her first-aid skills kicked in. As the instructor had told all the students, she had to reassure the injured party. She decided to reassure the man and tell him that she was going for help, that she was going to call the police and emergency assistance. She would cover him to keep him warm and then make her calls.
She knelt down on the ground and spoke softly into his ear.
"Hello, please don't grab me. I'm here to help you. You're really hurt. You shouldn't move. I'm going to get a blanket, and I'll call for help, and someone will come take care of you. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to make sure that someone comes to help."
"No," whispered the man.
What was that? What did he say? Shit!
Elizabeth's brain was working a million miles per second. She couldn't believe that he had been able to talk.
Michael could not let her call the cops; too many questions to answer and too much attention. He had to convince this person not to call for help and to help him get away. I have to get the hell out of here, he thought. If they come back and find out I'm alive, they'll finish me off for sure. And they'll kill her too.
He knew all too well that the person, most likely a woman from the voice, would also be in danger. They would not want to leave any loose ends. They never left loose ends. They figured for sure that he would die on the side of the road. They both had to get out of there and fast. He had to convince her to get out and to take him with her. He had to muster up the strength to speak again. Every little movement caused a great deal of pain.
"No, please. No, please," Michael said with a gasp.
Elizabeth could not believe that he didn't want her to call for help.
"I'm sorry, sir. You're really hurt badly. You're bleeding everywhere, and I'm afraid that those people are going to come back and find me here and find you here. I have to get help. You might die if I don't get you some help!"
"No help! No help!" Michael could barely get the words out.
What do you mean — no help? Are you crazy!
"Sir, you really need help! I'm going to call the police, and everything will be okay. The more time we take here, the worse it is for you."
"No police. They'll kill me and you!"
She knew he was going to say that even before she heard it. She had a strange feeling that the motorcycle gang would come back to make sure they had killed him.
"Help me up!" said Michael.
Elizabeth ran back to her car and grabbed a blanket out of the trunk. She put the blanket down on the ground and rolled Michael's bruised body onto it. He moaned. She knew it was causing him a great deal of pain, but it was the only way she could think of to get him into her car. She couldn't believe what she was doing. This was not typical first-aid procedure. She had always followed procedures. She was doing something completely foreign to her, but she felt that it was right. "Follow your heart," her grandmother used to say. Well, it may have felt right, but she knew that there was danger involved. She dragged the blanket and Michael back to her car.
"I don't know how you made it to my car! Please don't move too much. You're causing more bleeding! Oh God! Let's get you down in the backseat."
Elizabeth was lean and long, but she was very strong. Michael could not help her at all. He was in so much pain that he had given into it and given into her.
He moaned when she lay him down. The pain went through his back like a knife. Had there been a knife? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter now. He was at the mercy of this woman. He knew he had to keep still or he'd bleed out. The backseat felt good. The blanket felt good. He felt his body go off to sleep.
"Hello, are you okay? Are you comfortable?" Elizabeth asked in a panic.
She realized that he was now unconscious. She hoped she had not done anything wrong. She checked his pulse. She thanked God that there was still a pulse, but it was very slow. This bruised man had lost a lot of blood. She had to get away from the scene as fast as possible. Just as she was getting into her car, her eyes caught something shining in the moonlight. It was the chrome on the motorcycle! She started thinking quickly again. She decided that the motorcycle had to be moved or covered up or both. People, or maybe the police, seeing it lying on its side, would stop to see if there was anyone hurt. They would start looking for the driver, and then they would see the blood. Then they would start an investigation. Her car might leave some kind of sign that she was involved. She had to make sure there was no way to trace anything back to her.
She ran back to the motorcycle. It took all her strength to get it up on its wheels and push it. She pushed it down the embankment and let it crash again. She covered it with as many branches as she could. She did a thorough job. Kicking her feet around the dirt to spread it out and cover up the blood took precious time. But she thought it was well worth it. She couldn't believe that she was doing this, any of it! But she was trusting her heart and not listening to her brain. She knew she might regret this decision, but she followed through, as usual.
My heart cannot beat any faster than it's beating now. I have performed the longest dance and never had so much trouble breathing! These stupid branches are scratching my hands and arms everywhere. Shut up and hurry up before someone comes!
From the road, you couldn't see the motorcycle.
Maybe I'll come back in the daylight to check if you can see it. Get the hell out!
She turned her head and saw a landmark. Lightning tree! There was a tree that had been struck by lightning on the other side of the road. It was a tall white birch tree, and it had been split in two. That became her landmark for where she had covered the motorcycle.
She finished kicking the dirt to cover the blood and her tire tracks. She had seen those CSI shows on TV.
They can find you through your tire tracks! Oh yeah, now I'm a forensic expert!
When she got to her car, her heart was racing. She was used to tension and anxiety. Her brain was functioning at lightning speed now — just the way she liked it. She pushed the odometer on her car so that she could know the distance from the cottage to the spot for her return inspection. She figured that she would have to come back for some reason or another. She shook her head. There were no sounds from the backseat. She hoped he would still be alive by the time they arrived at the cottage.
CHAPTER 2May 3, 2004
Michael Ryan. That was the name on the driver's license she found in the pocket of his jeans. His wallet had been soaked in blood, so she rinsed everything off and laid it out to dry. At least she knew his name.
Can someone stay asleep for one week and still recover?
It had been a long week for Elizabeth. She had not thought of herself once. She had not enjoyed the tranquility of her grandmother's old cottage — the silence, the sound of water lapping onto the shore, the sound of crickets and frogs. She was focused on Michael Ryan. He had not woken up since she pulled him out of her car and dragged him into the cottage on a blanket. She didn't know what to do; she just did what her heart told her.
Elizabeth, for some reason not even logical to her, had decided to help this injured man. She made up her mind to believe that he was unjustifiably beaten up. She had sensed that this was not a fair encounter; so many men against one human being. Had it been a fair fight, one man would have been fighting one man. She was always a supporter of the underdog, and Michael Ryan seemed to be the underdog. She did as he had asked. She did not contact the police, which maybe she should have. But she followed her instinct and decided to support Michael Ryan.
She had driven west into a little town and stocked up on first-aid supplies and food. She had been trickling water in his mouth in hopes of keeping him alive. She dropped Pedialyte into his mouth to replace the electrolyte loss. He, most likely, should have been hospitalized, but Elizabeth was afraid that the men who had beaten him up would be able to track him down. So she decided to do it on her own and prayed that she had made the right decision.
She had removed all his clothes and washed his entire body, marveling at his muscular built. He had a trim, fit physique. There were many scars though — and now many wounds to heal. So many bruises! They had beaten almost every inch of his body. It was swollen and every color of the rainbow. She had washed his face and shaven off his beard. Keeping the wounds disinfected was her number-one concern. He had a nice face with a strong jaw line. She couldn't see his eyes because they were still swollen shut.
Elizabeth treated her unfortunate stranger with dignity and care. She knew to move his body as little as possible to lessen further injury, especially his eyes. Elizabeth bathed his eyes with water and applied cold compresses to help reduce the swelling. Gentle and caring strokes were her plan. She had suffered many injuries while dancing and had learned how to treat bruising, abrasions, and muscle damage. Patience and sensitive care was needed. And that is what Elizabeth was ready to give. Worry plagued her.
Would he be able to see?
She washed all of his clothes, but the stains would not come out. So she burned them all. When she had gone into town, she had bought a shirt and a pair of pants, some socks, and a pair of boxer shorts. She smiled when she bought those because she didn't know if he was a briefs man or a boxer shorts man. He hadn't been wearing any underwear! She thought he would look great in boxer shorts, so boxer shorts it was.
July 2004
That's all she put on him, so that his wounds would heal. Six weeks had passed. It was July, and it was hot, so boxer shorts and thin gauze was all that covered his beaten body. He was in her grandmother's bed, and she slept on the floor in case he woke up in the middle of the night.
She had done that as a child. Snuck downstairs into her grandmother's bedroom with her blanket and curled up on the floor, afraid of the lightning and thunder outside, feeling secure beside her Gram. That was a great feeling. She had not had that feeling of security since they had stopped coming to the cottage so many years ago. She longed for that. She did feel secure that Michael was being looked after by her grandmother's spirit. He was in her bedroom and enveloped by her arms in her bed. Elizabeth was resolute that he would recover.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Cottage by Donna Vamplew. Copyright © 2013 Donna Vamplew. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
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