Shadow Play_A Dark Fantasy Novel Read online

  Shadow Play is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Susan Strecker

  Cover design by The Cover Quill

  Copyright © 2018 Jill Ramsower

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  A Note to the Reader

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For my husband Jason and my three amazing children Tyler, Kamryn, and Landon. It's not easy when Mom comes home from work and goes straight to the computer—thank you for your patience, your understanding, and all of your encouragement while I chased my dream.

  1

  “Rebecca, order's up!” Joe hollered from the kitchen behind me.

  I flashed my gritted teeth in a look that was probably more creepy carnie than patient waitress, as my customer changed his mind for the third time. I wanted to scream at him that it was lunch, not solving the national debt. I had started my day by opening a letter from my landlord announcing a rent increase and things had only gotten worse from there. I dropped my phone on the way to work and shattered the screen, and as if that hadn’t been enough, I was currently in the middle of waiting tables during a particularly busy lunch rush.

  “What did you say the special was?” the overweight man with grease stains on his shirt asked casually, oblivious to my rising frustration.

  “Meatloaf—how about I check back with you in just a minute?” I started to step toward the next table where a customer sat with an empty glass and had been eyeing me for nearly ten minutes.

  “No, no, I've got it. How about the Ruben, I'll have that with some fries. Do you guys have Coke, cause I hate that RC Cola, just not the same.”

  “Pepsi, actually.”

  “Ugh, why's it so hard to get a Coke in this damn city? Just bring me a water.”

  I gave him a grimace and hurried to the thirsty man at table five, got the ticket for table two, and ran back to the kitchen to get the order Joe had signaled was ready.

  “The fuck, Rebecca, food's getting cold,” Joe grumbled under his breath.

  He was a third-generation Italian whose father had started the small diner twenty years earlier. He had a strong New York accent and a receding hairline but was otherwise not totally unattractive and more importantly, he was decent to the waitresses. Days like these, though, we all got short tempered.

  “I know Joe, doing my best.” I loaded up a tray and carried it to table seven where two older couples sat with matching scowls. After I set each of their plates on the table, the man sitting closest to the window shook his head.

  “I knew it, this is cold. Feel it, it's cold now.” He fingered the pile of vegetables and picked up the chicken breast, waving it around in the air like silly putty in a child's hand. If it wasn't cold before, it certainly would be now.

  I visualized taking his full glass of ice water and slowly pouring it over his balding head. I couldn’t follow through, but the thought was enough to bring a smile to my face. “I'm very sorry, let me send that back for you.”

  “Don't just heat it up, it'll get rubbery,” he added as his companions dug into the food on their plates.

  “Yes sir, I'll have a fresh plate prepared right away.” I took the offending dish back to Joe and explained the problem before racing back out to clean up a now empty table two.

  Just looking at the booth weighed me down. Crayon markings on the table, food covering every square inch in sight, and a suspicious puddle on one of the benches. And for my troubles, a $1.50 tip.

  A dollar fifty—who does that?

  That's no way to treat another human being.

  My despair morphed into anger. I took out my frustrations on the formica table and cushioned benches as I threw dishes into a tub and wiped down every surface, including the puddle with the tell-tale ammonia scent of urine.

  I couldn't keep doing this. I had been in the city for two years and I was getting nowhere—every day ate away more of my soul. At some point I wouldn't recognize the girl I was anymore.

  Doing my best not to scowl or snap at my customers, I finished out my shift. What I had wanted to do was take off my apron and walk out the door without looking back. For months I had thought more and more about my lack of progress finding a job using my art history degree. My attempts to make best of my situation were soured by feelings of failure and unmet potential. I had an incessant itch to make a change in my life and that impulse could no longer be ignored.

  When people told me that I should have known better than to get a liberal arts degree, I always insisted that the arts were my passion. The joy I got in my studies outweighed my worry of finding a job after college. I was confident that if I gave my job search enough time, and was open minded about an entry level position, I would work my way up to becoming a museum curator or similar position in administration. What kind of museum I worked for was, for the most part, irrelevant. I wanted to be a part of the cultural world around me.

  After my shift, I sat in the back office to wait for Joe. The office was grungy, smelled of grease, and was crowded with supply boxes and random crap that had been set down and forgotten. I perched myself on the only chair not stacked with papers and wondered why I had not forced myself to do this a long time ago. When Joe finally walked in, I felt empowered and confident that I was making the right decision.

  “Hey Becca, what're you doing in here?” Joe sat back in his scarred leather desk chair and sorted stacks of papers.

  “Joe, I'm giving my notice. It's time for me do something else.” Despite knowing I was doing the right thing, my voice came out soft because there was a part of me that felt bad for leaving.

  He stopped what he was doing and let out a sigh. “Yeah, I knew this day would come. You're better than this place, Bec. Go get a job with that fancy degree of yours.”

  I gave Joe a warm smile. I should have known he’d be supportive. I had been working for him long enough to know he’d want the best for me. “Thanks, Joe. I'll give you two weeks, I'm not going to leave you hanging.”

  “Good to know, now get outta here, and good luck on the job hunt.”

  I gave him one more grin and left the diner with my head held high and determined to find a job that would be fulfilling. Branching out my search beyond New York would open up a myriad of options and I was confident I would find success. Not only that, but for months I had found myself searching travel websites for deals and daydreaming about exploring new cities. I felt an inexplicable pull to pack my things and go, and it was growing stronger every day.

  Normally on my walk home I would have taken my time and enjoyed the unseasonably warm weather, but the adrenaline brought on by quitting
my job without a new position lined up kept my steps quick and my mind racing. Making sure to avoid Angry Arnold, the homeless guy who lived outside my building, I ran upstairs to my third-floor apartment and booted up my laptop.

  I may have been open to all types of museums, but that didn't mean I wanted to be stuck working in the American Windmill Museum back near my West Texas hometown. Not to say it didn’t have its place, but a job there would likely involve more dusting than negotiating the acquisition of new exhibits. I wanted to work in a dynamic museum that updated displays regularly and engaged the community. While New York City wasn’t the only American city rich with museums, if I was going to make a move, I was going abroad. As my best friend Ashley would say, go big or go home.

  I had spent my childhood traveling and it felt normal to pack up and relocate to cities where I didn't speak the language and knew no one but my parents. My mother was an artist who found inspiration in new cultures and my father was a writer who could work from anywhere. Growing up, every penny we had went into traveling. I spent Easter in Beijing and summer in the Alps, with only as much time as necessary back in Lubbock to regroup and save enough money to hit the road again.

  My mom’s mantra was 'a life lived in fear is a life half lived.' I may not have agreed with all her philosophies, but that one resonated with me on a deep level. I couldn’t miss out on life just because I was scared.

  I searched the internet for job listings in international museums, intending to focus my search in Italy for its rich history in art and culture. Despite those intentions, I found myself scouring listings for Irish job ads. When I discovered the assistant curator posting for the Ulster Museum in Belfast, my eyes locked on the laptop screen and my pulse pounded in my ears. The job was well above my qualifications and I had no idea what on earth made me think I had any business applying, but my gut told me to give it a try.

  I wrote down all the contact information for that position and information on several other jobs in various locations. By the time I had gathered a list of prospects, the museums in Europe were closed so my phone inquiries had to wait until the following morning.

  When the front door was flung open and my smiling best friend and roommate, Ashley, walked into the apartment, I panicked.

  Ash and I met when we were placed as potluck roommates by the university, but we quickly settled into an easy friendship. If I was sad, she was there with cookies to wallow with me. If I was overwhelmed, she was the first to ask what she could do to help. If I had great news, she was the first person I wanted to tell. I shared everything with her, including my wardrobe. However, my seemingly sudden career change felt like a betrayal. As much as I wanted to share it with her, I was heartbroken at the idea of leaving her and couldn't force the words past my lips.

  “Whatcha up to?” she asked midway into changing into our standard evening loungewear leggings and a t-shirt. I could hear myself giving her the scoop on how I'd quit my job and was looking for work overseas, but instead I clammed up.

  “Not much, just checking email and putzing on the internet.”

  “You know what night it is!” she called out in a sing-song voice.

  “You know I do!” I forced energy into my voice and dedicated myself to having a great evening with my best friend. We were junkies for reality dance and singing competitions, and fortunately for us, there were plenty to choose from. “You have a good day at work?”

  “Not bad, finished up a mystery novel that has some real potential.”

  Ash was an English Lit major and had the good fortune of landing an entry-level position at a New York publishing house just before we graduated, her first foray into the working world. We had thrown all our worldly possessions into a U-Haul and made the drive to the Big Apple. Both of us grew up in small towns, and despite all my travels, I had never actually lived long-term in a big city. We wanted to experience the diversity and lifestyle that came hand-in-hand with being a New Yorker. I wanted to get lost in the halls at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, meet people from all over the world, see Broadway productions and try new, exotic foods. Unfortunately, all those things required money and slaving at the diner hardly paid for my rent, let alone dinner and a show.

  “You know mysteries are my fave, you'll have to let me know when it's through edits so I can check it out.”

  “Will do. We have any food?” she asked while rummaging through the fridge. Ash was not a cook so it was generally up to me to provide meals.

  “There's some lunch meat, think that's about it. Grab that and some cheese and we can eat while we watch.” We spent the rest of the evening curled up on our small sofa watching TV and swooning over our favorite stars.

  The following morning, the first call I made was to the Ulster Museum. By some stroke of luck, Fergus Campbell, the head curator, answered the phone. His Scottish brogue was enthralling and I had to listen carefully to understand him over the phone. His flare for the dramatic became evident as he waxed poetically about Americans and their penchant for small dogs and healthy appetites. Our conversation flowed naturally as we discussed my background and the city of Belfast. Eventually we came around to the position posting.

  “Och lass, I know it's not standard procedure to hire someone without meeting face-to-face, but I think you'd be a great fit here. This job requires more than book smarts, you have to be able to work with people too. Life's a balance and I can tell you are good with people.”

  “All of my traveling has made me comfortable with all types of people and situations.” I didn’t want to overdo it but I knew that I needed to sell myself.

  “Tell me, what was your favorite place that you've been to?”

  “Definitely Florence. We spent a summer there when I was a teenager and I loved every minute of it. The art, the people, and oh my goodness the food was to die for.” I closed my eyes remembering the amazing couple of months we had spent in a small villa on the outskirts of town. My mom painted and my dad wrote, leaving me free to explore the town, including one of the boys who had lived nearby. Giovanni Lorenzo had been a year older than me, lanky with dark hair and eyes, and oozing classic Italian charm.

  “You forgot something though, those Italian men—nothing like them in the world.” His voice had lowered and I could tell there was a story behind his words. I wagered that Fergus had enjoyed his time in Italy about as much as I had.

  “Absolutely, they know how to charm, for sure.”

  “Och, nothing like the brutes here. You’d think they were raised by goats, you would. Not to discourage you from coming, I’m sure there must be a decent one out there somewhere.”

  “Does that mean you want me to come for an interview?” I bit my lip.

  “Lass, I’ve been around enough years to know when I like a person. Email over your resume and references and as long as all that lines up, you've got the job.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m certain as Sunday. You get those documents to me and if all looks good, how quickly could you get over here?”

  Like Cinderella twirling in a luxurious gown gifted by her fairy godmother, I could hardly believe my luck. Stuttering, I tried to think of how much time I would need. “Would two weeks be too much? I think I could get my affairs in order here and get myself packed in that time.”

  “Perfect, send over your information and I'll be in touch. Lass, it’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

  “You too, Fergus, thank you so much and I’ll get those documents to you right away.”

  As soon as we hung up, I emailed everything to Fergus including an updated cover letter —it was important that he knew I could perform the academic requirements of the job as well as the public relations.

  By the end of the day, he had emailed back informing me that I had the job.

  Sometimes you just know that things were meant to be, and that’s exactly how this felt. I had found the genie in the lamp and was getting my wish granted. I wouldn’t find out until sometime later that the ge
nie himself had put his lamp on my doorstep and my wish was not without strings.

  A dozen different tasks filled my mind, but before I could get bogged down in all the things I would need to do before I left, I called my parents. They happened to be on one of their rare stints at home. My mom was thrilled not only for me but also to have a reason to take a trip to Ireland. She went on and on about the magical two weeks we spent there when I was about three years old.

  While I didn’t remember the trip per se, the notion was vaguely familiar, like a niggling in my mind. It was hard to say if I remembered it because it had been talked about later or from pictures in one of my mom’s albums, but I could definitely sense a recollection at her mention of the trip.

  I assured her that I would love for them to visit but only after I had a chance to settle in. When Ash and I moved to New York, my parents met us in the city and helped outfit our apartment. Whether they were helping me unpack, meeting a new boyfriend for the first time, or helping me choose my degree path, I always had my parents' support.

  Telling Ashley was going to be a lot harder. We were partners in our New York adventure and had an excruciatingly tiny efficiency apartment together where we were cramped but happy. She was loving her job and while she had started as an assistant editor who worked in the shadow of a senior editor, since then she had been promoted twice in the last two years and was now on the cusp of being named a senior editor herself.

  That day I worked the dinner shift and wasn't home until late in the evening. While I loved to cook, my evening shifts left little time to prepare a meal so I would bring home food from the diner. After my shift I grabbed Ashley's favorite, lasagna with garlic bread, before heading home in the cool November air. Each step closer to our building and closer to Ash, my stomach clenched achingly tighter.

  As soon as I opened the door Ash was there to scoop the sack of food into her arms. “Oh, Becca," she moaned as she walked to the couch, which was actually more of a loveseat. She took a long sniff of the air. “Lasagna, you know how I feel about lasagna.”