continued, “I had it sent to me from my ancestor’s castle in England. It was tough, but I finally won my case in court.”
“You had this pried off a castle wall?” I asked in disbelief.
“It was in the courtyard, actually. When they refused to sell the castle, I insisted on buying the coat of arms. When they refused, I took it up with the law.” He paused. “You know me; I stop at nothing. I always get what I want.”
“These tapestries…the furniture…”
“Most of it comes from England, France and Germany. And one piece comes from Norway.” He pointed to a beautiful drinking horn perhaps once used by Vikings. He continued, “I know how much you love antiques. I thought if you had a special place where you could read or sketch it would make your transition a bit easier.”
I threw my arms around his neck in appreciation of his incredible generosity. “Thank you, Michael. Tha nk you so much. I love my studio.”
He kissed the top of my head and stroked my hair as if I was a child. “You’re welcome, princess.”
Chapter Three
The dr eams began shortly after my release from the hospital. I would wake up in the middle of the night feeling confused. I dreamt of mundane things (mostly of my childhood): my grammar school, my parents when they were younger and little Maddy. Sometimes, the dreams were eerie. The doctors assured me that this was normal and there was no need to worry. They explained how my memory bank was rebooting itself via the subconscious after so many years of dormancy. I found a bit of comfort in this explanation and decided to start a dream journal. Since everything was now written on tablets, it was hard to find an old fashioned leather-bound diary. But I eventually obtained one and placed it by the bed along with a pen.
I had a dream about my father the following night. He picked me up from junior high school in his red truck. During the ride home I whined about a boy in science class who refused to acknowledge my existence despite my crush on him. As my father consoled me, his hands melted into the steering wheel and I began to cry.
I woke up with a start and turned on the light. I felt very alone in the king-size bed. Michael had kindly offered me the master bedroom with en-suite bathroom while he slept just down the hall. He hadn’t visited my bed once since my arrival. I was still in the process of healing both physically and mentally, therefore I understood why he made this arrangement. I picked up my brand new journal and jotted down the details of the dream along with the date. I flipped the book to the beginning and wrote on the inside page: Memory Dreams.
I woke up the next morni ng feeling far from refreshed. I did my rehabilitation exercises, got dressed and went downstairs. I knew that Michael had eaten his breakfast early and had already left the house for an all day conference. I sat down at the dining table.
“Good morning, Mrs. Adams,” said Ju ana, the middle aged live-in housekeeper Michael had hired several years ago.
“Good morning,” I r eplied, helping myself to coffee. Juana set a plate of fresh fruit and wheat toast before me. “Thank you.”
I ate breakfast and then went into my studio. The day was too beautiful to stay inside so I grabbed my sketchpad and a few books and went out into the small Tudor garden- my private garden . A set of lounge chairs and a table with an umbrella had been set up for me on the stone slab. The view was perfection. Birds sang and played in a marble birdbath and bees hummed over fragrant flowers. I had been outside for nearly two hours when Juana came to check on me.
She opened the sliding glass door and poked her head out. “Excuse me, Mrs. Adams, would you like some freshly squeezed orange juice?”
“No, thank you.”
“Just let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Juana went back inside the
“You had this pried off a castle wall?” I asked in disbelief.
“It was in the courtyard, actually. When they refused to sell the castle, I insisted on buying the coat of arms. When they refused, I took it up with the law.” He paused. “You know me; I stop at nothing. I always get what I want.”
“These tapestries…the furniture…”
“Most of it comes from England, France and Germany. And one piece comes from Norway.” He pointed to a beautiful drinking horn perhaps once used by Vikings. He continued, “I know how much you love antiques. I thought if you had a special place where you could read or sketch it would make your transition a bit easier.”
I threw my arms around his neck in appreciation of his incredible generosity. “Thank you, Michael. Tha nk you so much. I love my studio.”
He kissed the top of my head and stroked my hair as if I was a child. “You’re welcome, princess.”
Chapter Three
The dr eams began shortly after my release from the hospital. I would wake up in the middle of the night feeling confused. I dreamt of mundane things (mostly of my childhood): my grammar school, my parents when they were younger and little Maddy. Sometimes, the dreams were eerie. The doctors assured me that this was normal and there was no need to worry. They explained how my memory bank was rebooting itself via the subconscious after so many years of dormancy. I found a bit of comfort in this explanation and decided to start a dream journal. Since everything was now written on tablets, it was hard to find an old fashioned leather-bound diary. But I eventually obtained one and placed it by the bed along with a pen.
I had a dream about my father the following night. He picked me up from junior high school in his red truck. During the ride home I whined about a boy in science class who refused to acknowledge my existence despite my crush on him. As my father consoled me, his hands melted into the steering wheel and I began to cry.
I woke up with a start and turned on the light. I felt very alone in the king-size bed. Michael had kindly offered me the master bedroom with en-suite bathroom while he slept just down the hall. He hadn’t visited my bed once since my arrival. I was still in the process of healing both physically and mentally, therefore I understood why he made this arrangement. I picked up my brand new journal and jotted down the details of the dream along with the date. I flipped the book to the beginning and wrote on the inside page: Memory Dreams.
I woke up the next morni ng feeling far from refreshed. I did my rehabilitation exercises, got dressed and went downstairs. I knew that Michael had eaten his breakfast early and had already left the house for an all day conference. I sat down at the dining table.
“Good morning, Mrs. Adams,” said Ju ana, the middle aged live-in housekeeper Michael had hired several years ago.
“Good morning,” I r eplied, helping myself to coffee. Juana set a plate of fresh fruit and wheat toast before me. “Thank you.”
I ate breakfast and then went into my studio. The day was too beautiful to stay inside so I grabbed my sketchpad and a few books and went out into the small Tudor garden- my private garden . A set of lounge chairs and a table with an umbrella had been set up for me on the stone slab. The view was perfection. Birds sang and played in a marble birdbath and bees hummed over fragrant flowers. I had been outside for nearly two hours when Juana came to check on me.
She opened the sliding glass door and poked her head out. “Excuse me, Mrs. Adams, would you like some freshly squeezed orange juice?”
“No, thank you.”
“Just let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Juana went back inside the
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