Ines Garcia

Story Statement: Teresa must learn to move on with her life as she deals with a recently uncovered childhood trauma and struggles with alcoholism while running a bed and breakfast in a haunted mansion whose ghost wants revenge. Antagonist: After her lover shot and killed her husband and she drove him away through pride and anger, Cheralena’s illegitimate daughter Marina committed suicide. Cheralena was left to live out the rest of her life secluded and bitter in the mansion that was given to her by her gangster husband, whom she never loved but only married for wealth and social status. Now, the daughter of her ex-lover has taken all that was rightfully hers, and Cheralena wants revenge. She can’t let that woman steal her house, her gold, and her dead daughters' love. So, she comes back to haunt Teresa and vows to destroy her. Breakout Title: “Breaking Free” “The Ghost of Cheralena” “Saving Teresa” (the first book in this series was entitled “Saving Marina”) Comps: “Her Fearful Symmetry” by Audrey Niffenegger “The Prince of Tides” by Pat Conroy Hook Line: Teresa must conquer her demons and learn to forgive in order to survive the evil forces around her while running a Bed and Breakfast in a haunted mansion whose ghost wants her dead. Inner Conflict: Teresa is struggling to come to terms with the recently uncovered trauma of her childhood. She is resentful and in great emotional pain and is working hard to numb her emotions with alcohol and denial. The death of her best friend and mother figure puts her over the edge. The ghost of Cheralena represents her destructive thoughts. A Scene from the Book: (Inner Conflict) Prologue “We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a remarkable woman, the godmother of El Cid, Agnus Delacroix….” My mind drifts. We couldn’t find her birthdate. How can she be dead with no headstone and no birthdate? The preacher is talking about the meaning of her name and about life in the hereafter, and all I can think of is: “Agnus Delacroix, lamb of God, who was never born and will never die.” He goes on, “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want….” But I do want, and I do fear evil. I’m standing here in the valley of death; there is no goodness, and there is no mercy. The sky is weeping gently as I make my way past the other mourners toward the gates of the old cemetery. I walk past my father's grave and brush my fingers lightly over the top of his headstone. I swore I wasn’t going to cry, but just the act of touching my father's headstone opens the floodgates, and I can taste my tears mixing with the now pouring rain. There’s a storm brewing off the coast; I can feel it. I contemplate going out onto the pier. What a fitting way to go, following my sister into the deep waters, but I’m not that brave, so, instead, I make my way down the familiar tree-lined street to “Casa Marina,” the palm fronds whipping in the wind, throwing shadows under the streetlights in the early dawn. “Agnus Delacroix, lamb of God, who was never born and will never die,” keeps echoing through my head. I enter through the kitchen door, past Agnus’ room, and up the back steps. I walk past my bedroom and up the spiral ship’s stairs to my office. I grab a bottle from the side cabinet and sit down at my desk. I take a long swallow and wait for the panic to dissipate as the brandy courses through my bloodstream. Then I open the bottom desk drawer. Cheralena is standing there out on the widow’s walk, just outside the French doors. She’s watching me, her long grey hair whipping in the wind. A bolt of lightning shoots across the sky, and I can see her clearly now through the rain. I take the revolver out of the drawer and turn it around in my hands; the pearl handle feels cool and smooth. “Go ahead, pull the trigger,” she whispers in my head. I cock the gun. Secondary Conflict: Teresa’s husband, Michael, is fed up with her behavior and the dismissive way she is treating him, but she is so caught up in her own drama she doesn’t care. In fact, she is beginning to feel annoyed and resentful of him, and she pushes him away. A Scene from the Book: (Secondary Conflict) “I’m thinking of building a gift shop off the dining room, where the old speakeasy used to stand, you know, Cheralena’s parlor.” We’re sitting upstairs in the observation room, having our nightly glass of brandy. Funny how that’s become a habit so quickly. Michael leaves for New York tomorrow. “Are you out of your mind?” He looks at me as if I have two heads. I purposely waited until his last night because I knew he wasn’t going to like the idea, and I didn’t want to be fighting in front of everybody. This will give him time to think about it. “It could be an extra source of income, and anyway, Agnus needs a place to put her stuff.” “Absolutely not.” “Why not?” I knew he would be against the idea, but he has no right to tell me no. I’m not asking permission; he’s not my father. “We can’t afford it, Teresa. And what is this thing you have with Agnus, anyway? Agnus needs this, and Agnus needs that. I’m getting tired of you putting Agnus’ needs ahead of ours.” “Ahead of yours, you mean,” I whisper under my breath, but he hears me. “Yes, ok, fine, ahead of mine. And what’s wrong with that anyway? I am your husband.” “Oh my God, you’re jealous of Agnus.” “I am not. I’m just sick of her, that’s all. I want my wife back.” Oh, God, here we go again. He keeps saying he wants his wife back. I don’t even know what he’s talking about. Does he want that little girl he married all those years ago? For God’s sake, I was a child back then. I am who I am. Maybe he thought I was somebody else. Maybe I was somebody else once, but that was a long time ago. I’ve changed since I bought this house, I admit it, but I’ve changed for the better in my opinion. I have never been truer to myself than I am right now, and if Michael doesn’t like the woman I’ve become, well, he can just go to hell. “Well, maybe you should stick around for more than two weeks at a time then.” “We agreed on this, Teresa. We agreed I would come for two weeks for the grand opening and then go back to the city. I need to get back to the office. There’re a million things waiting for me there.” “Like giving your notice? The notice you have no intention of giving?” “That’s not true, and you know it. I’m going to quit; I am. I just need to button up a few things and wait for the time to be right.” “The time will never be right, Michael, not for you. Let’s face it, you hate it here, and you hate the idea of quitting your fancy, high-paying job in New York City and moving down to Florida to become a maintenance man.” I wonder why, every time I drink this brandy, I don’t like him anymore. It’s not just the drinking; I’ve had other alcoholic drinks, in fact, many cocktails or glasses of wine, and I still love my husband. But every time I put this brandy, Cheralena’s brandy, up to my lips… Oh, well, whatever, I can’t wait to see him go. “I forbid it – I absolutely forbid it, Teresa. Do you hear?” “Go to hell,” I say as I storm out of the room, clanking all the way down the metal spiral stairs to our bedroom. That night, I have the strangest dream. I’m way out in the middle of the ocean, and I am drowning. There is no land to be seen, and I am all alone except for two birds flying overhead. One is a seagull, and the other a black crow. I’m panicking and screaming, and my hands are flailing around over my head. “Help me – I’m drowning,” I yell, but there is nobody there, just the two birds circling over my head, watching me. The rough ocean is thrashing all around me, and I am struggling to keep my head above the water. Suddenly, the birds start to fight each other. The seagull is much smaller than the crow, but it is faster and smarter, and it dodges the crow's constant attacks. Then the crow swoops down and starts attacking me. It’s biting my face and hands and trying to push me under. Suddenly, the crow grows bigger and bigger until it is the size of a person, then it turns into a person, and she is trying to kill me. “You were having nightmares again last night,” Michael says. The sun’s rays are just starting to slant into the bedroom windows, and the sky is hot pink. “Was I? I don’t remember,” I lie. “You were rolling around yelling “stop, stop,” You don’t remember?” “No,” I lie again. “Are you ok? I worry about you, Teresa.” “I’m fine. It was just a dream, Michael.” I slip out of bed and go to the shower. The hot, steamy water feels good on my skin. Who was that woman? She was trying to kill me, I know that. But who was she? I knew who she was in the dream, but I can’t remember her face now. And who was the seagull trying to protect me? I know this dream means something. I’ve had premonitions in the form of dreams before, and I know this is a warning. But what is it trying to tell me? I still can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong, standing in the parking lot, waving goodbye as Michael rolls the rental car around the corner and out of sight. I remember when I used to drive him to the airport. We would hug and kiss and promise to call. None of that anymore, just a wave goodbye. My head is pounding from the brandy last night and I’m already feeling tired, even though it’s still early morning. I walk through the back door and into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of coffee, and plop down in one of the chairs at the long table. Agnus must be at the beach. She goes every Saturday without fail and has been, she says, ever since she was a little girl growing up in the islands. She brings a large conch shell that she keeps in the garden and fills it with fruit, some mangoes, and a banana – an offering to her mother goddess. Suddenly, she glides into the kitchen as if I conjured her up just by thinking about her. She has that power. Today, she is wearing white gauze pants and a t-shirt, her hair piled up on top of her head in a colorful turban, and her blue and clear crystal beads around her neck. Agnus, my rock, my savior, my counselor, what would I do without her? I am not worthy of her. She glances at me sideways, sitting with an ice pack on my face. “Maybe we should put Cheralena’s brandy away for a while now,” is all she says. I nod, putting the ice pack down on the table. Then I burst into tears. Setting: The historical neighborhood of El Cid in West Palm Beach, Florida, sits right across the Intracoastal from the island of Palm Beach. The land was once a pineapple plantation, which was later parceled out and developed during the land rush at the turn of the century. It’s a lush, tropical neighborhood named after the famous Spanish hero Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, also known as el Cid, with street names such as Granada, Barcelona, Valencia, and Cordova. Today, it is one of the most affluent neighborhoods west of Palm Beach, lined with historic mansions, all designed in some version of the Mediterranean Revival architecture of the 1920s. “Casa Marina” sits on four lots across the street from the Intracoastal between Granada and Valencia Roads. Built in the Mediterranean Seaside style, it looks like it belongs on the “Cliff Walk” in Newport, Rhode Island, with a wide veranda wrapping around the front and south side and a “Widow’s Walk” wrapping around the third-story lookout room. The house is filled with secrets left by the Gangster who built it for his wife, Cheralena. It was recently renovated (in the first book) by Teresa and is being run as a Bed and Breakfast. The first floor consists of a great room with wrap-around windows and sheer curtains blowing in the soft breeze, a painted ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers, and a grand marble staircase leading up to the ten en-suite guestrooms on the second floor. The remainder of the first floor consists of a grand dining room, a large kitchen, a small office and a powder room, and a soon-to-be gift shop, which was once a hidden room used as a speakeasy during prohibition but was burned to the ground (in the first book) by Teresa and the ghost of Marina. Just behind the powder room sits a back stair that leads to the oversized master bedroom on the second floor and a spiral metal ship’s stair that leads to the third-floor lookout room, with the “widow’s walk” outside and a view to the island of Palm Beach and the sea beyond. Across the street sits the pier where Marina jumped to her death (in the first book). Some scenes take place in an old cemetery down the street from the mansion, where Teresa’s estranged father is buried. Others take place in well-known South Florida landmarks such as the Ann Norton Sculpture Garden on Barcelona Road, famous for Ms. Norton’s “Easter Island” like sculptures, as well as its beautiful landscape architecture. Others take place in Venice, Italy, where Teresa goes to escape Cheralena (and her feelings). Still others take place on the beach, especially during sunrise, portraying both Teresa’s and Agnus’ hopes and spirituality. There are also several dream scenes in the story where Agnus speaks to Teresa from the other side, giving her guidance and support. The weather in South Florida can be volatile and plays a big part in the story, symbolizing Teresa’s emotions throughout the book. ASSIGNMENTS.docx

OPENING PAGES: Introduces the antagonist, the setting and tone, gives some history about the first book in this series, and foreshadows the primary and secondary conflict. PROLOGUE “We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a remarkable woman, the godmother of El Cid. Agnus Delacroix, lamb of God, who was never born and will never die.” It’s a cold, windy day as I make my way past the other mourners toward the gates of the old cemetery. The sky is weeping gently. I walk past my father's grave and brush my fingers lightly over the top of his headstone. I swore I wasn’t going to cry, but just the act of touching my father's headstone opens the floodgates, and I can taste my tears mixing with the now pouring rain. There’s a storm brewing off the coast; I can feel it. I contemplate going out onto the pier. What a fitting way to go, following my sister into the deep waters, but instead, I make my way down the tree-lined street to my house, the palm fronds whipping in the wind, throwing shadows in the lightning. “Agnus Delacroix, lamb of God, who was never born and will never die,” echoing through my head. I enter through the kitchen door, past Agnus’ room, and up the back steps. I walk past my bedroom and up the spiral ship’s stairs to my office. I sit down at my desk and open the bottom drawer. I can see the old lady standing there on the widow’s walk, just outside the French doors, watching me, her long grey hair whipping in the wind. A bolt of lightning shoots across the sky, and I can see her clearly now through the rain. I take the revolver out of the drawer and turn it around in my lap; the pearl handle feels cool and smooth in my hands. “Go ahead, pull the trigger,” she whispers in my head. I cock the gun. OPENING DAY I can’t do this. What was I thinking, trying to do this with no prior knowledge and no experience? I checked myself out of the looney bin just yesterday and opened this bed and breakfast today. I’m way over my head here, and I don’t see how I’ll ever stop myself from drowning. I’m hiding in the back office on the excuse I needed to change out of my high-heeled pumps, which was not really a lie. It’s only eleven o'clock, and my feet are already killing me. Luna, our new house cat, jumps up and sits on my lap and starts to complain; she hasn’t had her breakfast yet, so I slip on my flats, nudge her off my lap, and go into the kitchen to get her food. “There, at least, there’s one happy customer.” I think to myself as I put the bowl of Fancy Feast, Salmon and Shrimp down on her mat. She likes it when I stroke her gently while she’s eating, so I take another minute to comply. Carly’s at the front podium fielding questions about the local attractions and showing people how to check in remotely, while Michael’s running around with his head cut off, doing who knows what, but with that calm demeanor of his. Thank God for Michael. What other husband would take two weeks off of his high-paying job as an executive lead architect in a famous New York City firm to come down to Florida and work for his wife as a maintenance man/busboy for no pay? And speaking of pay, I haven’t had time to so much as glance at the books. I don’t even know if this scheme is going to break us or what. I didn’t even write out a business plan. I know nothing about running a bed and breakfast – I’m an interior designer. Just because I can decorate the place doesn’t mean I know how to run it. I’m going to need to find some help and fast. Carly leaves for Boston on Sunday. She has to get back to college and her life, and I can’t blame her. Michael leaves in two weeks to go back to New York and give his notice at work, that is, unless he changes his mind after today. Our first day open, and I already have misgivings about whether or not this is going to work or even how it’s going to work. I take one more glance at a contented Luna, now stretched out on her back on the kitchen floor, before I go back into the lions' den. Luna was a gift from Lucy, one of a litter of 15 cats. She’s only been here a few days, and already she’s at home, who wouldn’t be? She’s the queen of the house. I envy Luna. “Agnus,” I say out loud to nobody. I must call Agnus; she’ll know where to find some help. She’s finally using the iPhone I gave her; she even knows how to text. She must be 110 years old, and she never ceases to amaze me. That woman will probably live forever; at least, I know she’ll outlive me. “Excuse me,” someone says as I walk over to the podium outside the dining room, which serves as a front desk as well as a hostess stand. “Is that the ghost of Marina?” I had that picture of Marina that Agnus gave me framed and hung it on the wall behind the podium with the name “Casa Marina” in brass letters just below it. “Yes, that’s Marina.” I simply say with a smile. I’m ambivalent talking about Marina and the house being haunted. It’s too soon. And anyway, I’m sure Marina is gone to a better place now, and that she won’t be coming back to haunt us anymore. I’m going to miss her terribly, but I know it’s for the best. “Can you tell me where the Norton Museum is?” She asks. I walk over to the rack, hanging on the wall by the powder room and select a few different leaflets advertising some of the nearby attractions. Suddenly, a cold chill runs up my spine – something’s wrong; I chase it out of my mind. “Here you are,” I say, handing her the one for the Norton Museum. “It’s a few blocks away, but certainly walking distance. Here’s the map on the back, and here’s Casa Marina. You might also want to visit the Anne Norton Sculpture Gardens on the way back. It’s such a beautiful place and a lovely day to stroll around on the grounds.” “Thank you,” she says, as someone else asks, “Where are the bicycles?” And now they are all shouting questions at me. “What time is breakfast tomorrow?" “When can we go fishing?” “I can’t get my room key to work.” God, help me. I think about texting Agnus and asking her to get Lucy and come over here right away. It’s eleven thirty, and there's a long line of guests trying to check-in. Michael’s running up and down the stairs with the luggage, and Carly is still playing “computer instructor” with her iPad, showing them how to check in by themselves. The POS system was probably the best investment we made; at least, we thought so at the time. If only our guests were young enough and computer savvy enough to know how to use it. Again, my mind goes back to the expense account and balancing the ledger. I’m afraid we’ll never see a profit from this crazy dream of mine. There’s that feeling again – something’s not right. “Where’s the grave?” someone asks. “Did you really try to burn the house down?” another voice from the crowd. “Were you really in the nut house?” “It’s ok, Mom,” Carly whispers in my ear as she gently touches my arm and nods to the back room. “I got this.” I walk away, ignoring the crowd and the questions. I know I’ll have to deal with this at some point, but not just now. I’m not ready. I don’t even know how to process all that’s happened since I bought this house and moved down here last year, let alone explain it to strangers. I hear Carly making up some story about rumors and publicity as I run for my hiding place to text Agnus. Just then, before I even get my phone out of my pocket, she walks in through the kitchen door. “Oh, my God, Nissy, how did you know? I’m in so much trouble.” I break down, sobbing in her arms. Agnus is a tall, thin, beautiful black woman with a perfect complexion and warm eyes. I don’t know when I started calling her Nissy, Marina’s nickname for her, but it just feels right to do so, and I know she doesn’t mind. I suspect she even likes it. “There, there, now, baby child.” She says in her island drawl, as she smooths out my hair as if I were a child. She’s very old, but one wouldn’t know it by looking at her. I remember the first time I ever saw her. I was struck by her beauty as if I were looking at a masterpiece painted by some famous artist. But it was more than that. I instantly had the feeling I had known her in some past life. She’s my rock, my counselor, the mother I never had. Today, she’s wearing a bright fuchsia jumpsuit with bell-bottomed legs, sporting wide black embroidered hems and white go-go boots. Her fine-toned arms are bare in the sleeveless top, and she has on her signature gold hoops, big enough to just touch her collarbone. Her hair is up in a simple bun on top of her head, which makes her look like a ballerina on stilts. “What seems to be the problem, baby child?” “I, I can’t do this,” I sob. I’m in way over my head, and I don’t know what I’m doing.” “Of course you do, my dear. You can do this; you just need a little help, that’s all.” I’m full-on crying now as we stand, embracing in the kitchen. “There, there, baby child. You just leave it to your Nissy; I’ll take care of everything. We’ll get you some proper help and then everything will be ok, you’ll see.” With that, she leads me into the back office and sits me down at the desk chair. I start to calm down, the tears subsiding, as she strolls – no – glides out into the hall and makes her way to the front of the house. Suddenly, there's a knock on the back door. I open it to see a delivery man with a hand truck and several boxes. “Delivery,” he says. “Delivery?” I ask. “I didn’t order anything.” At least I don’t remember ordering anything; that is, we’ve received all our orders in preparation for the opening. But he’s not listening to me as he hands me a clipboard and says, “Sign here, please. Where can I put these?” “What are they, exactly?" I ask. Just then, Michael walks up behind me and looks at the boxes. He takes the clipboard from me and says to the man, “Right in here,” as he points to the kitchen. “What is all this?” I ask. Michael is reading the paperwork and the letter attached to it. “It’s brandy. House brandy, Cheralena’s house brandy, to be exact.” He opens the top box and pulls out a bottle of the old house brandy. “Wow, twelve cases of it.” “But I don’t understand. Where did it come from?” “This letter is from the church. You know, the people we originally bought the house from. It seems Cheralena was using the basement of the church for storage. They’re sending it back to us, the rightful owners. Since we bought the estate, the brandy is ours. What luck – huh?” Michael seems pleased, but I don’t have a good feeling about this. I thought I saw the last of that brandy when Marina and I used it to burn our father’s letters and almost burned the house down. “I don’t understand,” I say again to no one in particular. There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach. “Good luck, lady.” The delivery guy says as he turns and walks back to his truck, and drives away.