Samantha's Secret: Book 3 (The Elvis Angel Series)

Chapter Two

                                 CHAPTER TWO

              The sun peeked out from behind a patch of gray clouds, dispersing warmth across a lush country side below.  As the wind gusted, plump white clouds rebound off one another in a marvelously choreographed dance, parting just enough to reveal a crystal blue sky.  Acre after acre of gentle rolling green hills glistened under the sun's rays.  And a heavy but sweet smell of rose blossoms lingered in the breeze. Mother Nature favors England on this morning, and the land seems to blush like a debutant on the way to her first formal ball.

              As the temperature rises, it fashions a mist typical of this wet land, a fog so thick it nearly qualifies as a life form. The vapors drift like an ominous character from a Charles Dickens novel, floating languidly along a dry-stacked stone fence that dated back to the 1800's.  It crept across the expansive front lawn, up the cement staircase, and paused at the front door of one very lavish English estate. There, it lingers until the wind gusts, sending the fog to hover over the living room window. 

            The sound of children laughing echoes from the manor's long marble hallways. The family that lives inside this great house–that looks more like a castle than a home– hasn't lived in England long.  Hailing originally from the US of A, they are not royalty, exactly, but at least one member of their family is called "The King." And when one comes from royalty of any kind, privacy is best measured by either land or a very immense body of water.  They desired both for the youngest members of their family—two adorable twin girls--and moved to England, the country of bona fide Kings and Queens, hoping to find peace.

              On this morning, like most mornings, the toddlers were up early.  In their excitement, they had dressed themselves, each donning an outfit reflective of their personalities. While one dressed herself in a frilly yellow Easter gown, complete with white patent leather buckle shoes and hat—the other sister, the more adventurous of the two, slipped on a pair of red and white checkered shorts and a pink collared shirt.  And as only a child can do, topped the outfit off with a pair of black rain boots and then proceeded to strut about confident and proud.

              When their mother caught sight of the two, she had to bite back her laughter as they called out to her in unison.  "Can we go mum, pa-wheeze," they begged, their little accents already ringing with an aristocratic tone.

               The girls hadn't seen a dry English morning in weeks, and they bounced in place, very anxious, and far too excited to stay inside.  And because their mother rarely denied them anything, she set to bundling them up, despite collective complaints about the covering of their carefully put-together outfits.  She nodded, agreeing, but explained this wasn't sunny California–this was England. In England, they must wear jackets. The girls moaned, but a moment later, raced out of the house and immediately began a game of chase. They shot across the veranda in steps far steadier then most children their age.

            As the girls circled an expansive terrace, both giggling and carrying on, their mother admired them with great pride from the kitchen window.  She was a slight woman with shoulder-length hair the color of dark caramel and blonde highlights that framed her teardrop face, drawing ones attention to her chiseled cheek bones which were set high like a Greek goddess.  She had an almost mythical and faintly masculine look, but with the delicate beauty one would expect from royalty.  As she prepared the girls breakfast, she watched with great amusement as they purposely ran through every puddle they could find. A contentment glinted in their mother's blue-grey eyes and she couldn't remember a time when she'd felt happier, safe, and most importantly, free.

                                                ***

             Sitting on a porch swing wide enough for three, Elvis watched his granddaughters closely. When they raced past him, he instantly extended his hand, ready to stop any accidental fall. And once all was clear, he relaxed, involuntarily inhaling that sweet smell of youth that trailed behind them. 

              When he could, he spent every morning admiring them.  He was fascinated by the sight of his spirit thriving inside each of their tiny personalities.  He appreciated their strength as well as relished in their tenderness.  Inwardly, he thanked God for the ability to share in these precious moments, as he'd missed so many with his own daughter. These were extra special, like making up for lost time.

            Had someone told him thirty-five years ago that he’d one day have four grandchildren; he would have laughed out loud.  Though he had wanted many children of his own, he hadn't given grandchildren much thought. 

            Clearly, God had his own plan, he thought, and it didn't include old age.

            Granted, he had not lived a long life but he had watched all his grandchildren grow.  He enjoyed seeing both his parents reflected in their delicate features like the softest of shadows. They were part of him, and them, and they were beautiful.  He was so very proud. 

             Stretching out his long legs, he let his knees fall wide apart until he was sitting in a comfortable slouch that only a man can get away with.  Time was something he normally didn't concern himself with; however, today was different. Today, he had somewhere to be—or more correctly, someone to check in on.  That someone was Samantha Bennett; the forever stubborn and very beautiful mortal he'd been protecting since her late teens. Though, recently, his services had become more vital than ever, he took his duties seriously, no matter the level of importance.  It didn't matter if he was walking the eighteen-year-old Sam home after a football game, crying because some boy had broken her heart—or if he was beating Steve, the stalker boyfriend, within an inch of his life for daring to lay a hand on her. He took every situation as it came, and over the years, he'd grown to love her.

              Looking down to his watch, he frowned. Who would have thought such time restraints would exist in the afterlife?  He pondered that for a moment and then sighed.  He'd have to answer for being tardy yet again, he thought, grumbling. But not too loudly, as God was always listening. 

             Then, as he reluctantly turned to leave, that special girl—his little girl—emerged from the house.  When he saw her, his breath caught inside his chest.  He loved her so much. He loved to observe her while she was busy being Mom and he believed she had a special gift.  She was tender when she needed to be and stern when necessary.

          She wasn’t a push over like her old man, he thought, watching as she snatched both of her girls by the arm and marched them back into the house.  It was raining now, and apparently, she'd been calling, but even he hadn't heard. 

         When the door to the stately manor opened, the two little girls hit the kitchen tile at dead run, but their mother hesitated. She stood half in and half out, as if something had puzzled her.  What could it be?  Elvis wondered and then he saw her look to the ground, watched as her eyebrows drew together in thought. For a moment, her expression was intense. Her concentration hardened her features but did not diminish her beauty.  Then her face softened and a hauntingly familiar smile returned.

          He knew—she knew. 

          “I love you, daddy.” Her words were but a whisper but he heard them clearly, as if she'd been standing next to him.

          "I love you more, baby," he replied softly. "Always and forever."