The Gift of the Twin Houses Read online

  Copyrighted Material

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2009, 2012, 2015 V. & D. Povall

  All rights reserved.

  Publisher: Dragonfly Media

  ISBN (paperback): 9781642374933

  eISBN: 9781642374667

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015912035

  DragonflyMedia, Oceanside, CA.

  Writing never happens in a vacuum. Many are those who help in different ways.

  Thanks:

  To our daughter Chelsea for always being there to read, listen, advise, and encourage, and for her unwavering love.

  To Mike Sirota, who first guided our fledgling steps and told us we were on the right path.

  Special thanks are due to:

  Dr. Judy LaBounty for lending her invaluable expertise, and to her husband Dr. Hugh LaBounty for his undying support. You both kept us smiling through it all.

  You are the best friends anyone could ask for.

  We love you.

  Dedicated to:

  Alvaro, Isabel, and Pauline

  Contents

  Chapter 1 The House

  Chapter 2 The Attic

  Chapter 3 Louise Whitman 1830

  Chapter 4 Three Sisters 1880

  Chapter 5 Jeremy 1891

  Chapter 6 Conrad

  Chapter 7 The Birthday

  Chapter 8 Thanksgiving

  Chapter 9 Momma and Pa

  Chapter 10 The Grandparents

  Chapter 11 Christopher 1881 First Family Tree - Residents of the Twin Houses

  Chapter 12 Leonard 1850 Second Fmily Tree - Residents of the Twin Houses

  Chapter 13 Nana

  Chapter 14 The Christmas Tree

  Chapter 14 Alyana

  Chapter 16 The Courtship

  Chapter 17 Ethan Third Family Tree - Residents of the Twin Houses

  Chapter 18 Heather Lewis 1915-1940

  Chapter 19 The Bond Fourth Family Tree – Residents of the Twin Houses

  Chapter 20 Slippery Road

  Chapter 21 The Twin House

  Chapter 22 Sarah

  Chapter 23 Generations

  Chapter 24 The Truth

  Chapter 25 Lineage Fifth Family Tree - Residents of the Twin Houses

  Chapter 26 The Intruder Sixth Family Tree - Residents of the Twin Houses

  Chapter 27 Heritage

  Chapter 28 Visitors

  Chapter 29 The Meeting

  Chapter 30 The Commission

  Chapter 31 Angela Completed Family Tree of the Residents of the Twin Houses

  BonusSarah’s Recipes

  V. &. D. Povall

  Chapter 1

  The House

  Not since the age of six had I permitted this cursed psychic gift of mine to emerge. Now, fifty years later, it had erupted without warning and shoved me into an adventure I didn’t want.

  Dammit.

  A sudden urge had propelled me out of my comfort zone. Unable to control it, I left my home in Pasadena at dawn and flew to Seattle. Upon arrival, I rented a Jeep at the airport. Uncharacteristic behavior on all counts for the “practical and levelheaded” Sarah Salas people knew me to be. Never before had I set out on a spontaneous journey without precise plans and reservations, let alone rented such an intrepid car. Yet, notwithstanding my aversion to this escapade, I now drove along a two-lane road through the Northwestern Cascades to an unknown destination. Something had called me to this part of the world, and I’d answered without question, without expectations, and obviously without reason.

  I left the airport and drove north through Seattle without stopping. Whatever brought me to the Northwest intended for me to reach a destination other than the Emerald City.

  Could it be someone in need? I’ve obviously opened a door to my soul that should’ve remained locked. I can’t ignore it.

  I traveled through Bellevue and Kirkland, and on instinct I veered east toward Monroe. Shortly after, I found myself driving along a marvelous two-lane road, twisting northeast through the Cascades in an emotional state that fluctuated between excitement and reluctance.

  Damn this curse I was born with.

  I’d been trained to bury it from the moment our dear neighbors and friends had dubbed me “spooky.” That happened the day this ability of mine scandalized everyone at my best friend Lindsay’s seventh birthday party, when I blurted out the horror she’d suffered at the hands of her uncle. I didn’t know what it meant, but her rape, once confirmed, sealed my fate. “Sarah the witch” became my tag, and I lost all my friends. I’d just turned six.

  As a child, I somehow saw and felt things no one else did, from the image of a house in flames the day before it burned down, to a neighbor in the arms of a woman not his wife, to the whereabouts of a lost puppy. Sometimes I knew things before they happened; other times I saw what a person had done or intended to do. Not always, and never intentionally.

  The impressions just appeared in my mind, so naturally I chatted about them or simply retold them. After all, why not? Didn’t everyone sense these things just as I did?

  Not quite, as I learned on that fateful day. The fallout from my indiscretion pinpointed just how unusual I was. So, upon my demise as a “normal” child, my family escaped. We moved to a different neighborhood, closer to my father’s office, in the heart of Boston, and there were stern admonitions from my parents that I learn to keep this antenna of mine well under wraps. Disavowed, not welcomed at all, I buried it. Without it I’d be safe from ridicule, my family wouldn’t be detested, and no one would be hurt. In time, the practical and intellectual pursuits instilled by my parents replaced it. No allowances were made in the prohibition of this so-called gift of mine. Eventually, it simply went underground and vanished. I buried myself in my studies, my career, and of course, my devotion to my students. Teaching them to overcome their disabilities, regardless of the impairments they’d been born with or acquired later in life, simply absorbed me.

  But now my own impairment had resurfaced, and it demanded attention.

  “Why not?” I blurted out. “At this point in my life, what’s the harm in allowing this irksome talent to pop up now and then? I’m retired, I’m alone, and I’m ready to enjoy the fruits of my labor. So there!” My voice pierced the silence in the car, startling me.

  “Oh dear.” I laughed. “How can my own voice scare me? That’s just plain dumb, Sarah. Get a grip.”

  I opened the car windows, letting in some fresh air to clear my head. A hint of confidence settled in—just enough to allow me to give my full attention to the beauty that surrounded me.

  Before I knew it, the Cascades worked their magic and brought about the sudden realization that I’d found the place where I belonged. I can’t explain how I knew; I just did. Although this was my first visit to the Northwest, it seemed familiar somehow, soothing as a distant and peaceful memory.

  A memory without an actual recollection... remarkable... there must be someone here that—

  “Stop it, Sarah! Get ahold of yourself... .But why? I like the sensation. It feels good.. .peaceful.” Somehow voicing these thoughts allowed me to relax and welcome the sense of harmony that this new sensation brought with it.

  Without a doubt, my antenna had resurfaced, and having taken full command, it was the reason I found myself on this two-lane road without any discernable purpose other than the internal certainty that I had to be here. No point in denying it any longer. And yet, these vibrations didn’t feel the same as in my childhood.. .not at all as I remembered. These were different. They didn’t appear to be tuned into the
future or the recent past. They pointed elsewhere, as if picking up tonalities deep within that connected me to something—or someone—in this part of the world. Even though I didn’t know a soul here, I felt at ease. Reassured.

  The breathtaking splendor of bright-blue skies, the sharp intensity of the fall colors scattered amid the emerald evergreens, and the deep, sapphire and jade waters of the nearby rivers permeated my senses. With the worries and doubts that now rattled through my head, I could’ve gone right back to Pasadena, but the intoxicating power of the Cascades seduced me into continuing this journey.

  After a short break for gas and essentials in Leavenworth, I drove straight through Chelan. The road now led me to a contrasting landscape of desert peaks and roadside lakes, apple orchards showered by refreshing misters, and grapevines encased in protective nets. The eastern Cascades also offered a striking mixture of desert plant life and occasional cultivated oases punctuated by a smattering of evergreens.

  “Where am I going?” I wondered aloud.

  I found no answer, but I felt an overwhelming sense that I was headed in the right direction.

  “OK. Whatever or whomever you are, it is clear that I’m going in the right direction.”

  Moments later, I veered off onto Highway 153, and soon the waters of the Methow River that flanked the road appeased my spirit.

  “I must be getting closer.”

  An hour later I arrived in the quaint western-style town of Winthrop, nestled amid the mountains, and stopped. I didn’t know why I stopped there, either. I simply decided to do so. Obviously this was where I needed to be.

  I found a nice little motel, checked into a cozy room, and had a quick bite to eat in a picturesque restaurant nearby. With my strength renewed, I strolled around the town and let the fresh air of an early fall invigorate me.

  With newfound bravura and an unsolicited nudge from my untamed sixth sense, I decided to explore the surrounding area and got back in the car. I headed out of town as the afternoon shadows lengthened. My rented Jeep handled the narrow roads well, and the more I drove through the Cascades, the more daring I became.

  All of a sudden, an irresistible force took hold of me, and I veered off onto a narrow dirt road.

  “Oh God. This is it. Isn’t it?”

  No sooner had I crossed the line of trees that flanked the road than I realized I’d entered private property. Yet I didn’t stop and turn back. I stayed the course. The dirt road crossed a beautiful valley, at the end of which sat a quaint two-story house framed by a stand of towering pine trees. The house looked as handsome as the photographs I had just seen in the airline magazine, in an article that described the Queen Anne styles of architecture typical of the nineteenth century. It was unlike any of the cabins and farmhouses I’d seen so far. This house, however, didn’t appear to be lavishly decorated. Although imposing, it showed restraint in its embellishments. I wondered how such an exquisite structure came to be in the middle of a forest deep in the North Cascades.

  The house enthralled me. Bewitched by its beauty and serenity, I stepped out of the Jeep and ambled toward it. It sat at the end of a valley that may have been used for pasture or cropland at one time, encircled by magnificent woodlands with panoramic views of the Cascades. It was perfectly maintained, proud in its old age, and superbly restored.

  Overwhelmed with curiosity, and propelled by an uncontrollable need to be there, I climbed the steps to the porch. I needed to know more about this house, about its inhabitants, about its history, and about how it came to be in this valley. Pushed by this insatiable desire for answers and an attraction impossible to resist, I pressed forward and was about to ring the bell. It was then that I noticed a small handwritten note on the front door with a phone number. Without a moment’s hesitation, I got my cell phone and dialed.

  “Conrad Thompson,” a man’s voice answered.

  “Hello, Mr. Thompson, sorry to disturb you on a Sunday. My name is Sarah Salas, and I’m standing on the porch of a fine-looking house in the middle of a lovely valley. The front door has a small for-sale note on the door with this phone number. Is it still available?”

  “Sure. Want to see the inside?”

  My heart jumped with joy at the possibility of going inside the house. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would.”

  “No trouble at all. Be there in less than five minutes.”

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I heard a faint creak, as if the house felt as happy as I did.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Sarah.

  I smiled and shook my head to stop these foolish impressions, then strolled along the porch that bordered the entire house. I made my way around it and peeked inside the windows here and there, but couldn’t make out the interior. The perfection of the molding and how beautifully constructed the house appeared to be charmed me. My heart pounded, my ears rang, and a feeling of excitement crept through my veins.

  “Hello, Sarah Salas.”

  Mr. Thompson stood by the front door as I came back around the corner.

  “Hello, Mr. Thompson.”

  Tall, with green eyes, and black hair with some distinguished gray on the sides, he didn’t look like a typical real-estate agent at all. More like your friendly family doctor.

  He shook my hand and smiled. “Call me Conrad, please.”

  He had rugged, warm hands, a nice smile, and appeared very much at ease.

  Conrad produced a key from his pocket and opened the front door. “Come right in.”

  The moment I stepped in, I heard the house creak and crack with delight again. My heart leaped in rhythm—a silent greeting.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Conrad said.

  “Beautiful,” I whispered.

  Conrad turned toward me, and an unexpected warmth permeated my body. His eyes brightened and his cheeks reddened a bit before he led the way deeper into the house.

  I followed, uncertain as to what had just transpired between us.

  The house, though small, felt quite spacious, with well-appointed interior rooms, pine flooring, wood paneling, and lovely Queen Anne windows. All of a sudden, sunshine flooded the entry hall. I looked up, searching for the source of light, but all I saw were the wood beams of the high ceiling.

  “The setting sun dropped under the clouds,” Conrad explained. “I’m afraid that today it’ll be a short appearance. It took its time showing up.”

  “But the house lit up.”

  “Indeed, it has a good location and enough windows to capture it all. Come, this is the living room.”

  I followed him into a lovely room with an inviting fireplace. A spacious bay window faced the valley and, along with the side windows, invited the sparkling sunshine to flood every corner. “It’s like stepping into one of the rooms at Versailles,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Boy, Versailles. Tall order for such a small house.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound so grandiose. It’s the use of light.”

  “Grandiose.. .that’s a big word.”

  “I don’t mean to sound so erudite.. .oh.. .sorry, here I go again.” I must’ve blushed something awful, because he burst out laughing.

  “No need to apologize. I like it. Fits your look—elegant but approachable, good looking yet not standoffish. Very nice all around.”

  I turned purple because he laughed again and changed the topic.

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but the porch lights are originals and quite unique.”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I’ll take a look when I go out,” I managed to say, still in shock from the compliment he’d just paid me. Considering that I didn’t think myself good-looking whatsoever, let alone elegant, his simple, kind words took me by surprise.

  “Right through there is the dining room and the kitchen,” he said. “Upstairs are three bedrooms and two full bathrooms. You go mosey around the house, and I’ll wait for you out front. By the time you’re done, it’ll be dusk, so I’ll turn the porch lights on and you’ll
get to see them in all their finery. Oh, by the way, the third floor has a landing and an attic.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. A sudden tightness in my throat and stomach had materialized with the word attic, and for the first time, a sense of foreboding came over me. “Attic,” I whispered in spite of myself. “I’m here.”

  As soon as the front door closed, I willed my self-composure to return. I shook my head to banish the conflicting thoughts and emotions of fear and attraction that the attic had provoked, and resumed my exploration of the house.

  Adjacent to the living room, the dining room displayed gorgeous wood paneling and windows. In the kitchen, I noticed that the owners had embraced the home’s nineteenth-century architecture while also adding modern amenities. It was a true paradise for someone who enjoyed cooking.

  The staircase and banisters were also made of beautifully carved wood in perfect condition. The three bedrooms on the second floor were small but ideally situated to make use of the natural light and capture breathtaking views of the Cascades. Whoever had built this place did it with great love for both the house and its surroundings.

  The master bedroom was slightly bigger than the other two, and I walked over to the window to admire the sunset. I reached out to touch both edges of the window and heard myself sigh. A moment later I heard another sigh behind me. I turned toward the door expecting to see Conrad standing there, but I was alone.

  Peculiar.

  I came down the stairs, allowing my fingers to softly caress the banister, and I heard the curiously familiar creaks and cracks of the house again. I smiled.

  I joined Conrad outside and noticed how the tint coming from the porch lights enhanced the orange hues of sundown. Unable to contain my admiration, I blurted out, “Wow.. .original Tiffany? How have they held up all these years?

  “Spectacular, aren’t they? They’re not as old as the house, and were probably installed many years after it was built. I venture to guess it was after electricity came this way. Originals, nonetheless.”