My Books.
Dear readers, below, are the summaries and first chapters of each book
of the Heart/Mind/Soul trilogy.
The Heart of a Lynx
Summary
A letter is written, a secret revealed and kept, not without perilous consequences.
Tess Parker is a childless woman contacted by a girl claiming to be her daughter.
What happens when Tess invites this unknown into her life? This story is a psychological drama of twists and “sliding doors” dealing with betrayal and heartache, affairs and incest; a story addressing issues of adoption, abortion, and the ability and inability to forgive; a story about the forever haunting challenge to learn from one’s mistakes; a story about everyday decisions that dramatically ambush people’s lives.
Edorsements:
“The Heart of a Lynx” is as much about the human experience of relationships as it is the richness of an artistic life. Trisha St. Andrews blankets the story beneath the tender heart of the heroine, Tess, whose authenticity never falters, not even after the guise of the lynx is revealed. “The Heart of a Lynx” is a carefully crafted symphony of artful, and at times, poetic storytelling, fragile family dynamics and the unnerving complexity of the human condition…Lisa Hogue, editor
Decisions of compassion are not always what they seem. In many cases they arise out of personal needs or fulfilling life passions that are out of reach. “The Heart of a Lynx” is a compelling story of a woman who believes she is acting compassionately by opening her heart and home to another person. She feels she can protect the family and support the girl by keeping the girl’s identity a secret. But rather than protecting past indiscretions, the decision backfires and tragically alters the lives of the ones she loves most. In the process, her real motives are tested, disputed and exhumed for the reader to decide. I could not put the book down. Its a real, definitive page turner.It begs for a sequel…Ann Svensson
This is a great debut novel. It weaves several story lines and intrigues as we get deeper and more involved in the lives of the various characters. Not wanting to put a spoiler-alert into a review, the ending is very dramatic and not at all expected…Barry Crowther,author
Chapter One:
“If only I hadn’t opened the letter.”
Tess exhaled an anxious breath as she spoke out loud and finished her walk through the park. On any other day, she felt alive when she walked. She felt momentum, direction, and purpose when she walked. But on this April morning, she only felt her heart pounding. Puddles of early morning rain splattered the hem of her coat and myriad trails of shoe prints, puppy paws, and bicycle tires stretched out before her, leading to destinations unknown. What would happen, she thought, if she followed another set of prints, another path? Another set of problems? It wouldn’t solve anything. She knew that. All people drag around their own complications, perhaps even their own “letter.” She needed to go home and reread it.
In a matter of weeks, the world would look so different. Blankets of snow would melt, exposing tiny blades of grass. Poppies, hyacinth, and daffodils, promising to bloom. Winter air would heat to a simmer, and other people’s children would decorate sidewalks with pink and blue chalk. Honking Canada geese would disappear and yellow warblers would migrate from the south on a still breezy night. Oh, if only human life were so effortless and predictable.
She rang her doorbell to hear the chimes; a daily ritual reminding her of a Parisian chapel she’d once visited which appealed to her sense of reverence. The aroma of bran muffins and raspberry jam lingered in the kitchen. Swathed in Southwestern pastels and inhabited by porcelain coyotes, her home had recently had a facelift. Costuming rooms was like changing clothes to Tess. She felt as comfortable with Corinthian columns as Mexican pavers. She felt sorry for people who lived with the same décor year after year. Change equaled interesting.
The telephone rang. She dodged past the clay cacti and plucked the phone before the answering machine activated.
“Hello.”
“Hi there, you sound out of breath.” It was Troy, her younger, but self-proclaimed “wiser” brother. “I’ll be passing through town on Thursday night. Can I entice you and hubby with an invitation to dinner? You choose the restaurant. My treat.”
“You’re on. I’ll make reservations at Emilio’s. But just for two. Rennie’s out of town until Friday. Call me when you get in.”
“Fabuloso, mia sorella. Arrivederci.”
Since his trip to Italy, Troy practiced his “Beginning Italian” with anyone who’d listen. If his audience was indulgent, he’d accent his English with Italian inflections which was either amusing or ridiculous. Tess was pleased that he was coming to town. She’d hint at the contents of the letter and read his reaction.
She approached her antique desk and withdrew the silk-brocaded oval box Rennie had bought her at the festival in Andorra the previous September. Since then it had assumed its post as Guardian of Correspondence. She ceremoniously opened Pandora’s Box, took out the letter and placed it on the square, glass coffee table. She stalled, staring at it long and hard as if she were about to tempt fate. She needed Mozart. She needed the Mozart Clarinet Quintet in A. She’d read somewhere that Pablo Casals listened to it every day because it mystically relieved the pain of his arthritis. Perhaps it would anesthetize her edge. She turned on the CD power button and poured a glass of chilled pinot grigio. Mozart and Dionysus, harmonious companions.
She picked up the letter, her hand shaking. The envelope was addressed to:
T. Monson
1320 Brookside Circle
Swannsong, Mississippi
She still used her maiden name Monson but only professionally. The letter written in blue ink and perfect penmanship had been forwarded from her former address.
Dear Ms. Monson,
If this reaches you, please read it when you’re alone. My name is Cristin Shanihan. I’m twenty years old. My parents recently died in an auto accident. I was their only child. Our home will have to be sold so I’ve been sorting, storing, throwing, and giving away its contents. It’s been an enormous, painful, and tedious job. Until last week.
I came across a locked drawer in my father’s desk. After an exhaustive and futile search to find the key, I broke into the drawer with an axe. Inside were legal documents, insurance papers, a marriage certificate, and some love letters from my father to my mother. But then I found a document of adoption, my adoption. My parents never told me that I was adopted so you can imagine my surprise. I wouldn’t have loved them less if they had. I would have loved them more for choosing me.
Tess laid the letter on the sofa and tasted, savored, her wine. She closed her eyes, firmly ran her tongue over her lower lip and gnawed on the inside of her cheek, in rhythm to the pulse of Mozart. I could tear it up, she thought. Pretend it never existed. But just as she continued reading it the first time, she proceeded once again.
Needless to say, my life went into overdrive. I ripped through every drawer, every diary entry, and every personal paper I could find. When I was no longer expecting to discover any clues, I found the letter you wrote to my parents shortly after I was born. It was a beautiful letter and I understand you must have had valid reasons for giving me away. I forgive you. The only thing that matters now is that we meet. I’m your daughter and I want to know you. I won’t cause you any trouble and I don’t expect you to take me in. If you have other children and a husband, I’d love to meet them. Or if I shouldn’t, that’s okay. But please contact me. You’re not listed in the telephone directory in Swannsong.
If there was ever a time in my life that I needed you, Mother, it’s now. I miss my adoptive parents so much. I don’t want to go through life unconnected. Please write to me at the return address on this envelope.
Your daughter, Cristin
Tess slumped into the folds of the sofa. First of all, the child wasn’t hers. Not having a baby had been the most profound sadness of her life. She knew she would’ve been a wonderful mother but her maternal feelings had been lavished on nieces and nephews, other people’s children. She’d been cheated. Her chest tightened, her throat closed. She wasn’t obsessed with her misfortune. Preoccupied was a kinder word.
What to do. Her first inclination was to write to the girl and tell her she was mistaken. But the return address in Mississippi was specific and disturbing, leading her to question if anything at all unusual had occurred twenty years ago. She pulled out a photo album marked “1977” from the bookcase. Standard shots, mostly nature photos, her trip to Montana, pictures of Katie. Hmm, pictures of Katie. Her older sister Katie had briefly visited after separating from her husband Stefan. She’d left her family for five months while she “found herself.” Was it possible that Katie had delivered a baby girl between her stopover in Mississippi and her return to Boston months later? Would Stefan or the children have known about it? Probably not. But why wouldn’t Katie have confided in her? Aware that she was jumping to conclusions, she searched for other possibilities, but came up short. If Katie had given birth to a child during that time, chances were that Troy and their younger sister Tia didn’t know anything about it. Katie was close to Mum so Mum would have known. But Mum had died a year ago.
And now Katie was in an alcohol rehab center and far too fragile to handle Tess’s questions. Whom could she ask? Who would possibly have the answer? Katie’s best friend, Sondra … decent, kind, trustworthy Sondra. Tess remembered sitting for hours with Katie and Sondra, playing a game called “On My Honor.” Sondra always lost because she didn’t know how to bluff. Sondra was the key.
But first she needed to think it through before involving Sondra. Why had the letter been mailed to her former address, to T. Monson? Katie’s legal name was Katrina but her family had called her Trina in her childhood so perhaps she’d assumed her childhood nickname for the purpose of anonymity. It was a long shot. If she contacted the girl, she couldn’t involve anyone else. And she didn’t dare acknowledge a blood relationship, even if there was one. Perhaps she’d explain that the correspondence had mistakenly reached her, that she couldn’t possibly be her mother but would like to help her. That, at least, would safely open the door.
And what would Rennie say? She hadn’t mustered the courage to discuss the letter with him because it didn’t seem like an appropriate topic for a long distance conversation. More to the point, her intuition told her he wouldn’t understand. Until she at least knew all of the facts, she wouldn’t mention it.
Fact: if Cristin came to Minneapolis, Tess would have a daughter in her life, blood or no blood. Fact: if Cristin turned out to be her niece, even if she did meet Katie, it was unlikely that identities would ever be discovered in casual conversation. Fact: she needed to verify the truth through Sondra. Fact: she’d come up with a plan and would write to Cristin before Rennie returned on Friday.
She opened the doors to the balcony. The piney, robust evening air flooded the living room as if a dam of cool wind had broken and spilled. She walked outside to discover that hours had passed. The sun had set and Orion the Hunter guarded the horizon with masculine dominance. For half of the year, Orion was her secret love—huge, strong and watching over her.
~ ~ ~
Morning was Tess’s toughest time. If she lay in bed, immobilizing demons descended. They lined up to take their turns. Her first intruder was Disappointment: why hadn’t she the discipline to lose the ten pounds she’d recently gained? She’d fast. No moderation. Deprivation was the solution. Then the ugly head of Frustration: her novel in process didn’t have that magic quality that transfixed publishers and transformed readers and she knew it. The most recent newcomer to the morning, Anguish: how could she benevolently manipulate a situation without anyone’s knowledge? No one would approve. No one would support her decision even though it appeared to be harmless. She jumped out of bed to plunge into the day, leaving the restless shores of early morning behind.
The aroma of brewed Colombian coffee beans soon filled the house. She poured herself a cup and headed for the verandah overlooking their backyard. Birds flew among the conifers and deciduous giants. Soft furry creatures scurried across the flower bordered pathway that led to the swing Rennie had built for her birthday. The garden was magic, a labor of love. The perennials in shades of purples, blues, and pinks. She and Ren had designed their yard as if planning the layout of the Tuileries. But nature had gifted the colors, textures, shapes, and sweet, sweet smells. A perfect co-creation.
Sitting in the sycamore tree, no more than forty feet away, sat a rough-winged hawk. It stared at Tess as if it knew her thoughts, and she stared back at its piercing, yellow-eyed scrutiny. What was this magnificent bird doing in her backyard? Only a few hawks were indigenous to the area, and she knew the rough-winged hawk wasn’t one of them. In her childhood, for hours upon end, Katie, Mum, and Tess had played with Native American medicine cards which taught the meanings of animals appearing in one’s life. The hawk symbolized vision and observance, circling from above to gain perspective. For moments, Tess and Mr. Perspective glared at each other. Until the phone rang.
“Tess, it’s Tia. I hope it isn’t too early. It’s night time here and I’m at Cafe Etiénne with Yves and Yvette. I miss you, Tess. I wish you were here.”
Her little sister Tia, attending the University of Grenoble as a graduate student in International Business, was inebriated.
“It’s 11 a.m. and I’m communing with a hawk in the back yard.”
“Oh, Tess, you live the life I long to live. Do you miss me?”
“Of course, little one. When are you coming home?”
“Not ’til January. I want to fly directly to Minneapolis to see you and Ren. I want to take long walks in crunchy snow and make angels in your backyard and spy on the snowy owl in your oak tree and gaze at Sagittarius and Orion and the guys. Remember those times, Tess?”
“Honey, they were great times. We’ll share them again. Did you say your friends were named Yves and Yvette? Are they twins?”
“No, pretty weird though, huh?”
“Listen, sweetheart, you just stay well and come home safely to us, okay?”
“Okay, sis. Je t’aime. Au-revoir. Bye.”
First the hawk, then Tia. Tess felt doubly blessed. Triply blessed, for she’d had a reprieve from fixating on the letter. She reheated her coffee and returned to the verandah to find that the hawk had flown away.
The Mind of a Spider
Summary
This suspenseful sequel to The Heart of a Lynx demands the answers to two questions … where is she? and what will happen to her?
In a game of wits, passionate, injured women unite to bring down a psychopathic narcissist … but first, they must find her.
The frustration of the hunt and exhilaration of the run; the rage of the betrayed and mania of the betrayer color the language, the story, and the human questions that arise from both obsession and madness. When does pursuit of justice become revenge? When does protecting the living trump honoring the dead? At what point, at what cost, does one let go?
From the Editors:
The lives of a family of impassioned, imperfect women are turned upside down, as they join forces to bring a killer to justice in The Mind of a Spider. Trisha St. Andrews is a masterful storyteller who takes her readers on an exciting journey through stunning international venues. She interweaves the lives of these characters in a story filled with deception, intrigue, and unexpected twists, even as she explores the depths of human emotion and depravity. This page-turner will leave you wanting more! – Karen Feher, editor
In the second book in the Heart of a Lynx series, The Mind of a Spider, Trisha St. Andrews continues the suspenseful story of deceit, opportunity, the consequences of keeping family secrets, and the hunt for justice. The sequel takes us through the hills of Italy, the city streets of Vancouver, and the pathologies and motivations of a woman who manages to stay one step ahead of her adversaries.—Lisa Hogue, editor
Chapter One:
Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist.
Children already know that dragons exist.
Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed.
—G.K. Chesterton
“She’s alive. I know it,” she cried as she slammed her hand on the granite countertop.
Trina Shanihan McClaren stood in her country kitchen in Lincoln, Nebraska. Her bare feet clawed the cold, ceramic-tiled floor as the heater hissed through the ventilator, unnerving her with an associative vision of an escaped snake residing in her kitchen wall. She stared out the window, focusing only on the daunting task before her.
She needed help—from all of them. She needed the strength of passionate, injured women with a common mission. Strength in numbers, strength in purpose. But without Tess’s support, engaging Tess’s two sisters in this quest for justice was next to impossible. Tess was the key, the trigger point, the catalyst to set justice in motion. Justice. That straight-forward, honorable word that implies moral rightness. That respectable, civilized concept that at times is fringed with revenge. Trina’s instinct for reprisal would be masked in conversation as justice, simply justice.
In an hour the sun would shine its solar spotlight and set ablaze the red sugar maple outside her kitchen window. Soon the children would be up. It was time to reign in her fury and compartmentalize it in a box marked OPEN LATER. Upstairs in a Town and Country bedroom, surrounded by stuffed animals and storybooks, her children, Cristin and Elizabeth, slept beneath a fairy-tale mobile and a ceiling covered with glow-in-the-dark stars that glimmered like luminaries softening the darkness, and lighting the way to a faraway land. They were untroubled and unmarked by life’s brutal twists from which Trina had protected them … so far. When Trina and her little sister Cristin were their ages, they’d lived a carefree life at a time when no one locked the doors to their homes or cars, and yards weren’t enclosed with block walls to keep strangers out; a time when security systems were only installed in businesses in edgy neighborhoods; and a time when everyone knew their neighbors. But try as she had, she couldn’t replicate her early childhood for her daughters. The world was more sophisticated, complicated … scarier.
She was relieved that her husband Bryan was gone for a few days because she needed time to think. Bryan, a freelance nature writer, was fly-fishing in Montana, experiencing the Gallatin River that he had so loved as a kid. His favorite book, Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It, had been a constant source of reference throughout their nine-year marriage. At her prompting, he’d left for a week to visit Montana, to recapture his childhood memories and to witness its supernal beauty as an adult with a keen eye, keen ear, and keen pen. He was “haunted by waters.” How many times had she heard that phrase? Every time he said it, she’d think, I’m haunted by fire.
She tacitly vowed that when Bryan returned, she would tell him that she’d contacted Tess. He wouldn’t be pleased.
Her focus broke when she heard the girls’ footsteps above her, scampering in their room. As if by rote, with one hand she opened the refrigerator to survey the sandwich choices for their lunches, and with the other, she turned on the television to Fox News where the female broadcasters all seemed to be attorneys who stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog.. The latter observation was not her own, but Bryan’s, who commonly remarked, “Where do they find these women?”
“Mommy, can I wear my green dress to school today?” Cristin, with her golden ringlets unbridled by hairclips, stood in the doorway.
Trina walked to her daughter and nuzzled her face in Cristin’s hair to smell the residual scent of strawberry shampoo used at bath time the night before; in Trina’s mind, the smell of a clean child ranked right up there with hearing a baby giggle.
“No, honey. Uniforms every day, remember?”
“Ohhhhh,” she groaned.
“Cristin, please help your sister get dressed. Breakfast is ready and we have to leave in twenty minutes. We have blueberries this morning,” she said with an intentionally tempting voice.
She and Bryan had switched the girls out of a public school to a private religious school over the summer. Not that they were particularly religious but the violence in the public schools across the country was so frightening, they decided a private school was safer. Actually, she decided and Bryan acquiesced. He lived by the axiom “you can either be right or you can be happy,” which when shared with other couples in a social situation, guaranteed raucous laughter from the men, and smiling approval from the women. In this instance, Trina was unyielding about the private versus public school dilemma. So he’d let it be. Amen.
After breakfast, Trina supervised the gathering of backpacks and distributing of lunchboxes, then ushered the girls into the family SUV and secured their seatbelts. It was then that she noticed the morning. Sunny, with autumn pollen sprinkling the air like pixie dust, minus the magic. Elizabeth sneezed, a reminder to Trina to talk to their pediatrician about her daughter’s allergies which always worsened in the spring and fall. Add it to the list. The newly-lacquered asphalt on the street in front of their home would soon lose its odor and luster with time and wear, and be saturated with the moisture of snow, creating new potholes, just in time for more maintenance the following summer. Some things were predictable. Some things were not.
The girls’ chattering in the back seat reminded her of how she and her sister had shared everything … before her sister Cristin’s death ten years ago. Trina and Bryan had agreed to name their first-born daughter in memory of her sister, so they spoke Cristin’s name every day, a constant reminder of the cherished life that had been cut short.
“Mommy, we’re here. Cristin, will you take off my seatbelt?” Elizabeth asked in her tiny, little-girl voice.
Trina parked the car, opened the door closest to the curb, helped the girls exit onto the sidewalk, and kissed each of them on the tops of their heads, sneaking sniffs of their shampoo one more time. She watched Cristin hold her younger sister’s hand, reminding her of how close she and her own sister had been. The playground monitor acknowledged the changing of the guard by waving to Trina who alertly stood at the curb. One can’t be too vigilant.
When she arrived home, she poured herself a cup of coffee, sniffing its fresh-roasted aroma. She sat down in her winterized porch with the screened windows open so she could feel the breeze while she reflected on the facts that compelled her to make the call to Tess. She stared into space, focusing on nothing except her usual suspects of thoughts as if they were in a police lineup. She needed to identify her next move, and be one moment closer to a restful night’s sleep, and be one moment farther from the racing heartbeat that recently dominated her days.
Let’s go through this again like I’m telling my story to a detective, she thought to herself as she ceremoniously placed her coffee cup on the glass-top table.
Three years ago, I read a book called Gone, written by a woman named Tess Monson Parker, Monson being the last name of my biological mother whom I’d never identified or contacted. I am adopted. You can imagine my surprise when I recognized a character named Cristin Shanihan, which could not have been coincidental, as it was my sister’s name. I flew to Minneapolis to meet the author. After sharing the coincidences between her story and my life, she confirmed what I suspected, that her character was someone I had known who had used information from my past to connect with Tess, and more invasively, had used my sister Cristin’s past to start a new life.
Cristin died in a fire at the home of Hunter Cross, a girl from our high school. Hunter’s parents also died in the fire. It had bothered me for years that after the accident, Hunter had abruptly left town. No one else had given it a second thought but an inexplicable intuition nagged at me for years that Hunter knew how that fire had started. I just couldn’t figure out how she had been involved … or why … until that day in Minnesota. It became insidiously evident. Hunter Cross killed my sister, and her parents, stole my sister’s identity and began a new life. On top of this shocking discovery, I learned that Tess was my biological aunt … which until that time, neither of us knew. Her sister Katie was my birth mother who had put me up for adoption as an infant. My having read Tess’s book only because her maiden name was Monson led me to my biological family.
Tess appeared shocked to meet me, her niece, for the first time, and then learn that the woman Tess knew as Cristin Shanihan who had lived in her home, was not only a fraud, but may have been a murderer. The only saving grace that day was learning that Hunter Cross was dead, killed in a plane crash. So the case was closed and for the first time in years, I slept through the night, no longer stalked by nightmares.
Trina stopped to take a sip of coffee and chewed the taste until it only lingered on her breath; then continued her telling of the facts as she knew them.
Before I met Tess, I believed that the only possibility of finding Hunter was to recognize her artwork, published in an art magazine or hanging in a gallery. Hunter used to talk about how she wanted to be a famous artist, and during high school art classes, I’d witnessed her Munchian “Scream” style of painting which was disturbing. Disturbing because it was grotesque and dark, but uniquely recognizable. For years, I subscribed to art publications, in search of her demonic style as a lead to tracking her down to prove or disprove my theory, but when I heard she was dead, I quit looking for her paintings.
But over time I’d developed a penchant for art and hadn’t unsubscribed from my magazines. Then one day, unsuspecting and off-guard, I noticed a published painting that indicated she might not have died after all. I felt a sharp quickening of panic slice my gut. I slid off the edge of my chair onto the hard floor, boneless, mindless.
Trina shivered and breathed rapidly, as she did every time she thought of that moment. And as usual, she momentarily couldn’t connect the dots to her next thought.
But then it became clear what to do … tell Tess. Yes, that was the right thing to do, the first step. I sent Tess the publication and have now given her enough time to digest its implications. If Hunter Cross is alive, we need to hunt her down.
It was now time to make the call.
Trina summoned her courage, her heart pounding. The subject was too sensitive to leave as a message. She held her breath as she dialed, hoping that Tess would answer the call. The phone rang three times before Tess picked up her receiver.
“Hello. This is Tess.”
“Yes, Tess? This is Trina, Trina McClaren. Did you receive the package I sent to you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you talk right now?”
“No.”
“I’m going to give you my cell phone number and need you to call me when it’s convenient. Soon. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes.” With the cell number received, Tess hung up the phone.
Trina quickly inhaled and exhaled a number of times, as if finishing a Pilates workout. She refilled her coffee mug and sat back down in her porch to revisit related conversations that she’d collected in her mental vault.
Having replayed it so many times in her mind, she recalled an interchange with her high school counselor like it had taken place yesterday. He’d responded like a typical school counselor not wanting to get involved … certainly not taking her seriously.
He’d said, “Trina, when people suffer a loss of this magnitude, it’s natural to look for someone to blame. Lashing out to find an explanation, a scapegoat, a tangible reason for a tragedy so sudden is normal. But what you’re telling me doesn’t make any sense. Hunter has been an excellent student, well-liked, with no indication of aberrant or violent behavior. I think you need to let go of this hysterical notion you’ve conjured. And I suggest you don’t talk to the students about this. It would only be unsettling, and colossally unfair to Hunter’s reputation, were she to return.”
Blah, blah, blah. He wouldn’t even consider that Hunter might have been guilty of a crime. Trina had wanted to scream, but composed herself to maintain the illusion of stability. But at that point, her internal grief and frustration had metastasized to anger. That’s when she’d gone to her parents. Unwilling to even consider that there had been foul play, they’d asked that she not mention her “insane suspicions” again. So she kept her theories to herself and buried them in the basement of her subconscious, somewhere deep and inaccessible … or so she thought. From time to time, they’d creep up the stairs and knock on the door of her mind, forcing her to open it just a crack to hear them present their doubts. Where had Hunter gone without a trace?Why hadn’t Hunter ever contacted the family of the girl who had died in the fire with her parents?Why would Hunter Cross murder her sister? What had she to gain? Those were the haunting questions. Despite the fact that there was no evidence, the tormenting uncertainties corroded Trina’s spirit like salt water on iron.
But now there was an explanation. Cristin’s identity was the prize, the motivation for a murder that had been adeptly masked as an accident. Trina was certain of it.
When she’d shared her thoughts with Bryan, he’d asked her to “let sleeping dogs lie,” his exact words.
“Maybe Hunter’s painting was discovered and published by someone who passed it off as her own for financial gain,” he’d suggested.
“Maybe,” she’d said, “but how will I know if I don’t try to find her? I hope it is a crook or a plagiarist on the other end. I truly do. That would put my mind to rest, knowing that she did die in that plane crash.”
Trina precisely recalled his response as if it had been directly recorded on her brain’s hard drive. “And if you don’t find a plagiarist and do find Hunter, what then?” he’d continued. “Didn’t you tell me that this woman from your past almost single-handedly destroyed the family in Minnesota? I don’t like seeing you consumed by conjecture, Trina. Even if you’re right, the potential consequences could irreparably damage someone. Call me paranoid, but I think it’s a bad idea.”
He may be right, she acquiesced. Paranoid or prophetic, Bryan had spoken his peace and she had taken note.
She walked to the porch window, absorbing the smell of a wood-burning fireplace that traveled on the breeze from a neighbor’s home. The familiar scent uprooted a memory.
One summer years ago, her parents had rented a lake cabin for a week, a log cabin surrounded by Norway and white pines, birch, spruce, and butternut trees, as high as one could see. She and her sister listened to the sounds of boats and loons and voices talking on the other side of the lake, words traveling across the water like skipping stones. The sisters quietly swung in the hammock, not talking, but listening, trying to decipher the faraway conversations as if they were spies, decoding an important secret. When the voices faded, they giggled and swung higher, trying to turn each other out of the hammock. In the morning, they ran down to the dock and watched the minnows, wishing they had a fishing pole to catch a sunfish and surprise their parents. In the evenings, they slipped off to the pond behind the cabin where lily pads served as jumping stations for the frogs that lived among the reeds and cattails. At night, when they sat around the campfire, they sang songs learned at church camp and took turns telling scary stories. Cristin always told stories about monsters as she’d been an imaginative child, and more fearful than Trina, but that’s what made her stories so thrilling. The scent of burning pine and eucalyptus logs teased their senses, saturated their clothes and hair, and embedded Trina’s senses with a love for her sister. Anytime she smelled a fire burning, she could almost feel her sister’s leg pressing against her own as they sat on the campsite log together.
Returning to the present, Trina breathed a whiff of burning wood through the sieve of her porch screen and whispered, “Don’t worry, sweet sister. The time has come to find the monster. There will be justice.”
Acknowledgements:
A special thanks to Karen Feher and Lisa Hogue for their editing expertise; to Amber Norrgard for formatting my manuscript; and to the artistic talent of JT Lindroos who designed my cover. I’m grateful for the professional advice of Barry Crowther, Bob Saadai, Lynn Goodlad Reiss, Frank Emma, Dede Soto, Karen Twichel, Shannon Ingram, Steve Concialdi, and John Haradon.
Thank you to those whose genuine encouragement has truly touched my heart … Beverly Wallace, Heidi Wiessner, Liz Weatherhead, Sandy Hames, Donna Moore, Krystal Partridge, Kele Thompson, Suzanne Becker, Joan Halvajian, Terese Walton, Tracey Reimann, Ann Svensson, Carmen Heston, Pam Crowley, David Sheehan, Yasmin Parva, my husband Rich, and so many others to whom I apologize for not mentioning.
Thank you for your support. The greatest compliment to me would be for you to visit my Amazon.com page to write a short review.
The Soul of an Owl
Summary
A letter from a deceased murderer asks only one thing of her son-that in her name, he execute coldblooded revenge upon the family she herself has haunted. But the letter ends up in someone else’s hands. Hands that ache to hold him. Hands that would do anything for him. Even if that means fulfilling a dead killer’s only request. Do the sins of the mother become the destiny of the son? How does one know if perceived redemption is not disguised retribution? A story of unrequited love that triangulates with forbidden love. Can love survive the intersection of nobility and madness? The Soul of an Owl is the breakneck third and final installment of Trisha St. Andrews’ Heart/Mind/Soul trilogy that observes love, passion, revenge, abandonment, family and longing, to weave a tale of chances taken and regrets that never die.
Reviews:
Wow…what a read! After reading the first two books of this Trilogy, The Heart of a Lynx and The Mind of a Spider, I couldn’t see how there could be a third…where would Trisha take us?! Well, my curiosity was more than satisfied. This author has a wonderful way of creating unanticipated twists and turns while beautifully describing every detail. The characters are well developed and the settings are palpable. It is clearly evident that she has done her research on every aspect of the book. As with the other 2 in this trilogy, this book is a real page turner…enjoy the journey! By Donna on May 22, 2018
Unexpected twists and turns, with emotions ranging on so many levels, the Soul of an Owl is the climactic conclusion of a most dramatic trilogy capturing my heart, mind, and soul. Trisha St. Andrews weaved this story together in ways beyond my imagination. I fell in love with the characters and felt like I knew them personally and deeply. This grand finale kept me enthralled throughout, making me laugh, cry, and gasp in fear and disbelief.By crojas on May 17, 2018
Read it in 3 days! Great book, make sure to read the first 2 first. Mrs. Andrews has a great imagination, I couldn’t put the book down. By jasmine on May 23, 2018
Although this is the 3rd book of a trilogy, The Soul of an Owl stands on its own because of the author’s clever and concealed review of the first 2 books. Through the introduction of a psychiatrist consultation with the main character Luca, the past is brought forward and sets the stage and environment for OWL. It is a separate story of weird events, deaths, lessons and wisdom. The author cleverly drops clues of what’s to come. Some hints are obvious, most are hidden.The OWL is about hurt and abandonment interspersed with incredible love, loyalty and devotion between the characters. Some characters clearly wear a white hat, some a black and others a mixed and confusing hat due to a lack of information.Enveloping the story is a thread of passion for birds, music, dreams, the paranormal and basic philosophy that is jarringly applicable to our current times in America. Although the comments in italics or parenthesis within the paragraphs are totally appropriate and emphasize the point- at times, these felt like they are an unnecessary nudge of wisdom. This book is more than a story of intrigue. It is a creative thesis of the unusual mixed with real life and real environs. Anybody who likes mystery and beautiful writing will love this book. I did!! The twists, turns and clever clues drive the reader forward with a compelling need to get to the unfolding resolutions and conclusions in the final chapters, yet leaving space for open ended questions. Each disappearance and murder carries its own story and characters. All are interwoven with sage wisdom and vision, much like the owl.Joan Halvajian. May 2018
Soul of an Owl is a wonderful ending to a fantastic trilogy. Trisha St Andrews has once again written an engaging story. I have been waiting for this book since I finished Mind of a Spider. Ms. St. Andrews didn’t disappoint from the beginning to the end. She held me spellbound. Her knowledge of the physical setting and culture of the places she carries us to are extraordinary. This with her incite to the characters she created and developed made it hard for me to put the book down. Can’t wait for what she creates next.
Love the story development. Hated that it ended.By katharine newman on May 16, 2018
“The Soul of an Owl” is filled with suspense and is absolutely mesmerizing!!! Trisha St. Andrews’ third and final book in this trilogy is the perfect culmination to the first two novels, “The Heart of a Lynx” and “The Mind of a Spider” (must read books!). Trisha knows how to keep her readers immersed in her stories with descriptive writing and unexpected character and plot twists! Best novel I have ever read! By Jane G.on May 16, 2018
Andrews has become my favorite author. Her writing and descriptive ability is amazingTrisha St. Andrews has become my favorite author. Her writing and descriptive ability is amazing. “The Soul of an Owl” grips you from the beginning and doesn’t let go. The characters and twists of this dynamic tale mesmerized me. Beginning each chapter with a poignant quote kept me intrigued to see what came next. Once I began this book, I wished my daily duties in life would cease so I could continue reading non-stop. Thank you, Trisha St. Andrews, for letting my mind winder with you through this fantastic journey. It was the perfect conclusion for the trilogy, although I was sad to see it end. I anxiously await your next adventure!By Brookhaven Jackie on May 16, 2018
St Andrews is a master storyteller and The Soul of an Owl is her best work yet She did it again! St Andrews is a master storyteller and The Soul of an Owl is her best work yet. The final novel of this trilogy delivers unexpected outcomes that kept me turning page after page! The characters we have known over a twenty year span have grown and St Andrews writing has grown with them. My book club has been patiently waiting for St Andrews’ third book and they are going to be thrilled! Fascinating conclusion to this captivating trilogy. Get your copy and start reading!By Liz Weatherhead on May 16, 2018
Soul Suspense! I love Trisha St Andrews’ writing! This 3rd of her Mind, Heart, Soul trilogy was suspenseful and then I caught a tear in my eye. Enjoyed the quotes setting the tone at the beginning of each chapter. (Not so much Kanye’s though. LOL!) Looking forward to her next novel indeed. By Brigitte A.on May 16, 2018
Chapter One:
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”- Lewis Carroll
Excerpt from psychiatric consultation: April 6, 2016
“What is your earliest recollection?”
Luca stared at her as if she’d asked him if he were a crocodile. He lowered his smoldering deep-brown Italian eyes, and squinted in forced concentration, attempting to access the early childhood he’d somehow carelessly erased. His lips tightened and his mouth downturned into a scowl that resisted responding, as if it was none of her business.
But Luca Gherardini, age seventeen, preparing to graduate from the Swiss Conservatory for Boys in Lucerne, was most definitely her business. Luca, heir to the Gherardini fortune, would be entitled to his legacy and estate within the year, and his emotional stability and state of mind needed to be determined before that portentous day arrived. His future depended on it and he knew it. Her professional integrity depended on it and she knew it.
She persisted. “Let’s try it again, Luca. Close your eyes. Relax. There’s no time pressure. Your earliest memory.”
Luca closed his eyes.
“The sound of a bird … an owl.”
She leaned forward.
“Good. How about a face, a voice, a smell?”
His eyes opened, fixed on nothing in particular.
“Jasmine,” he whispered. “The scent of jasmine.”
Greta Landis tried not to reveal her gratification. He’d cooperated and accessed two memories, after how many attempts? Was he being honest or manipulating her? She took a deep breath and pursued the train of thought.
“Jasmine … perhaps outside your nursery window?” She paused. “Your mother’s cologne?”
“How should I know?” Luca answered abruptly, leaving the zone. “They dumped me here when I was three years old. You know that. I don’t remember my mother. You know that too. You’ve read my files. You know everything about me. Why does this matter? Tell me why I’m here. It’s a waste of time. I’m not going to remember anything else.”
“You remembered the sound of an owl and the scent of jasmine, Luca.”
Luca shrugged his shoulders and glared at her.
“So? I remembered a bird and a flower. What’s the point?”
“Let’s take another approach. Tell me about your friends… say, Damien Scardina or Gabriel Germond.”
Luca’s right leg pumped against the floor as he stared at the psychiatrist without blinking.
“They’re friends, that’s all. What’s there to tell? Damien is unpredictable, which I like. He’s funny, sometimes outrageous, thinks outside the box, very smart. He likes word games, rhymes, and he quotes Bible verses but I can’t hold that against him. His mother is uber-religious. Gabriel’s a contrarian, a philosopher, and I like that because he keeps me on my toes. A straight shooter. They’re both important to me because I trust them. They didn’t choose to be my friends because I’m going to be very rich someday. Our fathers were friends so we share a history. May I go now?”
“Not quite yet.”
Luca sighed and started beating drum rhythms on his legs.
“Let’s examine one other thing you said earlier, Luca. You used the words ‘dumped here.’ Tell me what that means.”
Greta saw anger, a reptilian coldness in his eyes. A shiver of fear tremored in her chest and through her upper extremities. Had she reason to fear him? Maybe she was just sensing his frustration and annoyance. She should have been be able to read him better. She was educated and paid to read students like Luca.
He stopped his drum cadence with a final slap to his knees. With both hands, he forked his fingers through his thick dark hair.
“All right. If I need to say it again, I will. I have suffered from a rejection originating in my early childhood. I was abandoned by my mother and dropped here by my half-brother, which translates as being abandoned twice by the age of three. Because I had no family, I didn’t have a sense of worth, and my grief and rage caused me to act inappropriately in my formative years. But I have come to terms with my issues. I have matured, moved on. I am not a danger or a threat to anyone. I just want to get on with my life.”
He had delivered his perfunctory statement as if he were a prisoner making a case for parole, and in a sense he was.
“May I go now?” he asked.
“Yes. Our hour is over,” she responded.
She watched the tall, handsome, smart, about-to-be wealthy young man walk to the door without so much as a good-bye or thank you, and she shivered once again.
Excerpt from psychiatric consultation: April 12, 2016
Emily Walker surveyed the psychiatrist’s office. Wall-to-wall bookcases, filled with psychiatry journals and leather-bound tomes, lined the room’s perimeter. If Emily, a professor of American literature, was at all intimidated, her equanimity didn’t give her away.
“Professor Walker, I am currently serving as Luca Gherardini’s psychiatrist. As you are well aware, Luca’s past behavioral problems have been a concern to the staff and administration of this institution. May I be direct?”
“Please,” Professor Walker said. She crossed her shapely legs, rested her arms on the chair, simultaneously raised her chin and eyebrows, and leaned back with relaxed dignity.
“According to my file, the incident dating back to 2010 regarding the death of Luca’s classmate was never ruled a murder, although suspicions ran rampant at the time that Luca was involved in the tragedy. It is my responsibility to determine whether or not Luca is of sound mind. Professor, you have apparently been a stabilizing force in his life, and according to other staff members, possibly a mother substitute for him. I admit that in the past few years, I’ve not been aware of any behavioral aberrations and find him to be a well-adjusted young man, despite his resistance to continuing sessions with me. However, as you are also aware, he is about to graduate, and on this eighteenth birthday, he will inherit a staggering fortune. I have been asked by a regent of our institution, who will remain unnamed, to observe Luca through counseling, and determine his stability and character.” Greta paused.
“And how might I help you? And please call me Emily.”
“All right. Emily … do you believe Luca Gherardini is a danger to anyone? And, do you believe he will be able to deal responsibly and maturely with the fortune he is about to inherit?”
Emily clasped her long-fingered hands together and placed them on the desk that separated them like a river in a canyon.
“As you know, Luca was abandoned when he was too young to remember. In some ways, this is a blessing. Had he been ripped from loving parents in a traumatic memory, he would have suffered more severely. Nevertheless, and I don’t mean to depreciate the ordeal of his abandonment, but I don’t believe that he came to understand his ‘situation’ until years later. He watched other boys leave school during the summer and winter holidays because they had families who wanted them. It was painful. It was his seclusion during the holidays that magnified his aloneness and eventually his feelings of rejection and abandonment. This recognition of his plight shattered him, leaving him isolated and wounded. When the intensity of his shame internalized, we all witnessed his behavioral rage-when he was seven to nine years old, around the time of that terrible hanging of the younger classmate. Keep in mind, he was never charged as the perpetrator of that death.”
Without blinking her glacier blue eyes, Greta interrupted. “Do you honestly think that that young boy killed himself?”
“It was ruled a suicide.”
“Do you believe that?”
Emily’s back stiffened as she leaned forward. “No, I believe it was an accident. But to the point, Luca Gherardini was not involved. I was there at the juvenile hearing. He is innocent.”
“But indulge me, if you will. How can hanging by a belt in a closet be accidental?” asked Greta. She placed her hands in a prayer position, with her elbows resting on the desk, and brought her fingertips to her lips.
“I am not at liberty to talk about this,” continued the professor, “but Luca Gherardini was not involved.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You’re going to have to take my word for it. You’re asking me what I believe to be true; and that is, it would be irresponsible and outrageous to condemn a person for something of which he was accused and then acquitted of doing.”
“Fair enough. Please tell me about his reconciling his past abandonment.”
“Well, we both know that abandonment can lead to a lone-wolf syndrome, a solitary inability to connect to others due to lingering grief.”
Greta nodded.
“Luca is well liked by his classmates and has a strong relationship with Gabriel Germond who graduated two years ago and their mutual friend Damian Scardina who has just graduated. They’re a virtual triumvirate and everyone knows this.”
“I am aware.”
“I admit there was a time when he was disconnected from others. But those feelings of despair and hopelessness dissipated, and I believe he has overcome his sorrow to build a good life. He’s smart, you know.”
“Is he smart enough to mask his real feelings in order to escape judgment or possibly the withholding of his inheritance?”
Emily pushed a stack of books to the side of the desk to make clear the path of communication between them. Slowly and deliberately, enunciating each word as if she might never use them again, she spoke.
“Luca has been on an amazing journey from rejection to acceptance. He’s realized that his situation says more about the adults in his early life than about him. I have never given birth to a child, but I have listened to Luca and counseled him like a son. I have watched his transformation from an injured animal to a self-reliant young adult. Please don’t stand in his way.”
“Thank you, Emily. You’ve been most helpful. I’ve heard all I need to hear. I appreciate your coming.”
Emily stood up rigidly, nodded, offered her hand in a polite handshake, and reverted back to a more formal, less friendly tone.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Landis.”
Excerpt from psychiatric consultation: April 21, 2016
“Regent Germond, thank you for coming. I appreciate your making the appointment so promptly,” Greta said. She watched him cross the room with a slight but obvious limp. He was a barrel-chested man whose upper body appeared stronger than his lower extremities. His most outstanding feature was a large head with bushy eyebrows.
As she motioned him to a chair, he acknowledged her with a faint smile of crooked teeth.
“Thank you,” he said. He took a seat on the opposite side of her massive Cocobolo desk.
“As you know, we are here to discuss our student Luca Gherardini,” she continued. “Since joining the staff here at SCB, I have had numerous meetings with Luca, as well as having recently conferred with his professor, Emily Walker. Despite the concerns I have over this student’s past behavior, I must admit we’re referencing past behavior. I would appreciate it if you would voice your concerns and shed some light on the letter you sent me last week.”
Clement Germond smoothed his goatee with his left hand a number of times, as if counting his points to be addressed. After all, he was an attorney.
“Although I needn’t say this, anything we discuss remains in this office. Understood, Dr. Landis?”
“Greta.” She nodded.
“I prefer keeping this professional, Dr. Landis. I have been anxious about this young man on a number of levels for almost a decade. As you know, the misdeeds and atypical behavior in his formative years were most distressing to the staff, parents, students, and administrators of this institution. Secondly, during his middle and later years with us, I have been troubled with my own son’s close association with Luca, although my open discourse with and confidence in my son’s judgment has somewhat mitigated that concern. But thirdly, and the specifics of this I cannot legally discuss with you, I have found myself the executor of the Gherardini estate. Luca’s eighteenth birthday is approaching, and as I explained to you in my letter, it is my legal obligation to handle his sizable trust fund and estate in a responsible and equitable manner.”
Clement cleared his throat as if either coughing to get closer to his next sentence or swallowing what he couldn’t tell her.
“Let me say that there are pieces of the puzzle that haven’t fit together as I would have hoped. This is not just a legal issue. It is, as you might surmise, an ethical issue as well. Dr. Landis, do you think that Luca Gherardini is a danger to anyone?”
The fingers of her right hand tapped the desk top as if playing a drum cadence, as she looked down at her file. She then looked at Clement for a few seconds before speaking.
“No, I find no reason to be concerned about his current state of mind, other than his impatience with me, digging into his past for resolution. I frankly find myself asking, what needs to be resolved? He has not been the focus of any disturbances for years, Regent Germond. I mean … what are we looking for?”
“This is highly confidential. There is an indication that his deceased mother was a psychopath. His early behavior led us to believe that perhaps his predisposition, whether maniacal or chemical, might have been hereditary. That, coupled with the issues of having been rejected as a young child, added a risk that may have contributed to an instability that borders on dangerous. Nature and nurture are in question. A double whammy, so to speak. I need to determine whether or not he should have a guardian or conservatorship in place, despite his coming of age. You are the psychiatrist on staff. I’m hoping for your unequivocal opinion, one way or the other.”
Greta inhaled a breath fringed with nervousness, detecting a faint whiff of cigar smoke that perhaps Clement had brought with him. She stared at the man before her whose brow was furrowed like two caterpillars trying to connect.
“Then, I must say that I think your young man has made the journey from desperation to equilibrium. I find no psychological reason to withhold his inheritance from him.”
Clement sighed. “That’s all I need to know. I thank you for your time.”
He stood, shook her hand, and let himself out. The breeze from her open window slammed the door behind him, like an exclamation point.
She walked to the window to close it and froze like a statue while she watched Clement Germond get into his car and drive away. As he disappeared from her sight, she reflected on the power of her opinion and the finality of her decision. In the distance, she heard a siren. Someone was in trouble.
She shivered, just as she had in Luca’s presence. Emily Walker’s implication that Luca had traveled from the shores of rejection to the mainland of recovery surfaced. Greta hoped that her perception of future redemption was not a disguise for future retribution.
Dr. Greta Landis had given her opinion, and she had better be right.