The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red Read Online Free PDF Page A

Not perfume, thank God, but a
    woman’s imagination can paint many a dif?cult picture, can it
    not? I love my husband, Ellen. He is not perfect. Neither am I.
    Neither is John Rimbauer. I’m certain of it. But these are challenging
    times. We live in a challenging part of the country—some
    still refer to it as the frontier. Can you imagine? I trust my husband’s
    love, even if at times I question his actions. Never to his
    face. Never aloud. A woman’s heart is much stronger than a
    man’s. They are weak creatures, dear. Weak, and often far more
    insecure than they present on the outside. Trust your love, child.
    The rest will follow.”
    “What is it you’ve heard?” I asked.
    “Are you listening?”
    “Yes, and I appreciate your sound advice more than I can tell
    you. But I simply must know what is being said behind my back,
    behind the back of my future husband, or am I to be the laughingstock?”
    “There are women who can see the past, and some even the
    future. Have you ever consulted such a medium, my child?”
    “A séance?”
    “They take all forms.”
    I felt ?ushed with excitement. “Have you ever consulted such a
    person?”
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    “Oh, I do so regularly. Not always with my husband’s knowledge,
    you understand. So you see two can play at this game of
    carefully guarded secrets. I am trusting you not to betray our
    friendship and share any of this with John Rimbauer.”
    “Of course not.” I felt giddy. A medium. I’d read news
    reports, but I had never met anyone who had actually attended
    such a séance. “What can I expect from such an experience?”
    “Remarkable. Profound. Transcendental. You have never
    experienced anything quite like it. For all my heightened anticipation
    of the union of a husband and wife, I must admit to you
    now, dear friend, that I ?nd a séance quite a good deal more
    stimulating.” She showed her teeth when she laughed. She had
    gold work throughout. She appreciated her little joke more than I
    did, implying that I would be let down by the culmination of my
    forthcoming marriage, the anticipated union of which, only here
    in your pages, can I admit my honest excitement.
    “Is it true the mediums can see to the other side?”
    “I do not know what to believe, but I imagine they can, yes.
    That is, I have experienced such a connection myself, during a
    séance, and I must confess . . .”
    I found her timidity provocative. She teased me with her
    reluctance to divulge all, begging my curiosity. I gripped my
    teacup with both hands and caught myself leaning into her every
    breath, wanting more. “Yes?”
    “I think it far wiser for you to make your own estimations,
    dear friend. My experience . . . Well, you see . . . That is, I
    believe each of us . . . either the connection with the other world
    is there or not. And for me it was . . . is . . . and as to whether it
    might be for you.”
    “But I know it is,” I said, clearly startling her. “My prayers are
    answered, you see.”
    “Yes, well . . . prayers . . . There is more to the netherworld,
    dear friend, than one can possibly imagine. And it would be
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    improper and wrong of me to imply it all has to do with angels
    and prayer. Some of what is revealed is most unpleasant. Not at
    all the stuff of prayers.” She placed down her own cup and craned
    forward. When she spoke, it was less a voice than a cold wind. Less
    a woman than a presence. The curtains behind me ruf?ed as if
    that window were open, which it was not. The crystal of the chandelier
    tinkled. I swear the temperature of the room dropped a
    dozen or more degrees. I could see her breath as she spoke.
    “Many of the dead are still living. Whether you believe this or
    not, that is not my concern.” She waved her long ?ngers dismissively.
    She looked pale, almost gray. “One does not attempt to
    make contact with the other side without a certain . . . shall we
    say . . . personal investment.” A wry smile. She was consumed. I
    shuddered