Chasing the Wind

Chapter 1 introduces the protagonist, Emma St. Claire, and the troubling dreams and premonitions that torture her for almost two years before she resolves them.

Website:  http://www.chasingthewind.info/

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

“We shall be changed”

-1 Corinthians 15:51

 

 

“No, Philip! No, Baby. Please don’t cry.” 

Emma’s nightmare jerked her out of a sound sleep. Beads of sweat dripped off her forehead, her blue silk nightgown undulating with the vigorous beat of her heart.

“No, Baby, please don’t cry,” she called out, the troubling dream of her economics teacher, the handsome Philip Byrd, flashing through her mind again.

Mr. Byrd was kneeling in a muddy field; it was night; a looming shadow hung over him. He looked at his hands and cried.

Emma’s body heaved in great sobs but she stifled the troubling emotion so as not to disturb the slumber­ing hulk next to her. Lying back on the pillow, she rolled over to look at the clock.

Two-thirty. God, two-thirty. Please let me get some sleep. I’m so tired.

Jim let out a long, rumbling snore and Emma poked him gently with a finger. He mum­bled in his sleep and turned over, oblivious to his wife’s distress.

Emma tossed and turned until five a.m. when she was finally rescued by sleep. She had thirty minutes of blessed peace before the alarm clock rudely awakened her. Reluctantly opening her eyes, she stretched and yawned.

“Come on, Honey. Time to rise and shine!”

The tall redhead was usually cheerful. This morn­ing her pleasant­ries felt and sounded contrived. Emma was morose about dropping Mr. Byrd’s eco­nomics class but she assumed it was her only way out of the troubling nightmares about her teacher.

Jim’s business is a mess; I’ll have to work all weekend to get ready for taxes. The last thing I need is nightmares about a teacher.

Emma rose slowly from the king-size brass bed and shuffled toward the spacious bathroom she shared with her hus­band of twenty-two years. Jim was already dressed and passed her in the alcove between the closet and dressing room.

“Breakfast in thirty minutes, Baby,” he said, patting her on the fanny. Jim’s fat feet fell silently on plush carpet as he ambled through the bedroom and went downstairs to cook their morning meal.

Alone in their suite, Emma searched her mind for answers to puzzling questions about the teacher while brushing her teeth and washing her face. Staring into the mirror, she talked to the brown-eyed, fair skinned forty-two year old woman who gazed back at her.

I’ve never had such feelings.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"all those weird dreams and nightmares. If I’m away from Mr. Byrd, they’ll go away. I’ll be better off if I drop that class and never see him again.

Jim called her to breakfast. Emma put finishing touches on her makeup, highlighting cheekbones with rosy blush and coating eyelashes with rich, brown mascara. Emma was sensitive about her freckles and paid particular attention to her appearance. Her eyes were her best feature and she played them up, carefully defining brows and applying soft brown eye shadow. She outlined the heart-shaped lips of her small mouth with a russet colored lip pencil, filled in with matching lipstick, and patted powder on her little pug nose. Looking much younger than her years, Emma forced a smile at the face in the mirror while fussing with her thick mane of short, reddish blond curls.

Emma pulled pantyhose up each long leg and slipped a robe over her slender five foot seven inch frame before joining her husband and son at the breakfast table. The bacon was crisp and Jim’s pan­cakes were yummy.

“Pancakes are delicious, honey” she said, sipping a cup of perfectly brewed coffee. Jim’s such a good cook, Emma said to herself, remembering the first breakfast her husband made many years before. She was working until two and three every morn­ing on the bookkeeping and inventory for his auto parts business and only had a few hours sleep before going to her full-time day job. After several months of this grueling rou­tine, Jim volunteered to cook breakfast to let Emma could sleep an extra thirty minutes. He was useless when it came to accounting, the routine worked well and he had been cooking breakfast ever since.

Jim should be a house-husband.

At six feet two and weighing over two hundred and thirty pounds, he was an imposing figure. His short, dark auburn hair was always neat, even when the rest of his appear­ance was disheveled, which was most of the time. His dark brown eyes were framed with thick glasses that corrected his poor vision. Tanned, freckled skin reflected the out-door work he preferred. Jim’s casual attitude and often-outlandish sense of humor did not lend themselves to the corporate America image Emma envisioned for him when they married.  

She finished eating and ran upstairs to dress. Emma wanted to be on the road before seven o’clock to get a jump on the frantic Atlanta traffic. After the usual I love yous and good-byes, she put a bowl of milk in the garage for the cats and reminded Jim to fill the feeder in the dog pen before driving J.D. to school. Stopping briefly at the door to her mother’s apartment, Emma called, “Good morning, Bee.” Mrs. Browning was still in bed and returned her daughter’s greeting. “I’ll be in late tonight, Emma. Going to an opening at the High.”

“Okay, Mama, have a good time and enjoy the exhibition,” Emma answered, wishing she had time to go to gala openings of art exhibitions. Emma and her twin sister Rachel practically lived the first twenty years of their lives at the High Museum in mid-town Atlanta, and Emma missed those social events after her marriage to Jim. Although he was intelligent, he had not been raised with the fine arts and related activities. He had never been to the opening of an art exhibition and didn’t know the difference between a Beethoven symphony and Mozart concerto.

Emma left the house and was serenaded with the morning recital of barking dogs and crowing roosters.

“Hush, pups,” she called out. The dogs stopped barking when they recog­nized her voice and a rooster let loose with another splendid crow to welcome the new morning.

To her delight, Emma arrived at her office in Chamblee at seven-thirty; the perimeter highway traffic was lighter than usual and she made the twenty-five mile trip from Stone Mountain in forty minutes. She hung her coat in her bath­room and went to the kitchen to get coffee. At her desk Emma turned the page on the calendar. In the upper corner was a picture of a little bird and the quote for the day, “Change can begin with one person and one thought.”

Emma was startled by the words. The night before she was standing in the cold February weather with Mr. Byrd, a light drizzle of rain falling on them while he told her, “Every one reaches a point in life where they must make some changes.” The draw­ing of the little bird and Philip’s words echoed in her mind.

That’s strange.

She tore the page into little pieces and threw it away.

Good bye, Mr. Byrd. Please don’t bother me anymore.

“I knew I shouldn’t have taken that class. My feelings told me that I would regret it. Why didn’t I listen to myself?” she mumbled.

Emma felt the new and strange emotions evoked by the teacher welling up again; she took out her journal and started writing. The first time she saw Mr. Byrd, four weeks ear­lier, she knew he would be an important person in her life. Why? In what way? Why did her silent voice tell her he was special, that she should protect him? From what? In spite of her life-long experiences with premonitions and foreboding dreams, she never had an episode such as this.

Philip Byrd had character­istics Emma admired in a man"he was tall and princely; his gray-blue eyes were deep set and penetrat­ing. His black hair was thinning on the crown, exhibiting to Emma a sign of maturity and wisdom. His body was strong and athletic without being muscle-bound and watching his gestures she could sense strength in his hands. He had a brilliant mind and quick wit. His voice was deep and sonorous; when he talked she hung on every word. He was the epitome of manliness in every way except one"he easily blushed.

Although Emma admired Mr. Byrd, her attrac­tion wasn’t physical. His honesty and mental attitude were appealing and she felt he would never tell a lie. Like her mother, Mr. Byrd was honest to the core"unlike Emma’s husband and his mother, whose lives were made up of pretense and deception. She longed for an open, can­did, platonic relation­ship with him. He was special for some reason and Emma did not know what it was. In her dreams she saw him beside the aura of a woman and it was obvious they were in love. Was she his wife or girlfriend or someone from his past? 

If I was infatuated with him, wouldn’t I feel jealous of that woman? I care for her; he loves her; he’s happy with her. They belong together but I don’t know why. I do feel wonderful though when he smiles at me. I feel his happiness. I also feel such a terrible sadness. Why? Where does it come from?

A deep shiver shook her body.

Emma’s strange feelings for Mr. Byrd intensified dur­ing the first few weeks of winter quarter and she wondered if the unusual emotions were mutual. Emma’s sense of humor and interest in a wide variety of subjects made her popular with classmates and the teacher did seem to pay attention to her. Several students thought she was a teacher’s pet because Emma was about the same age as the profes­sor.

“When we walk to the parking lot after class we always chat for a few minutes,” she wrote in her journal. “We talk about truth and honesty and how much lies hurt. He must have a family even though he won’t talk about them; it seems to be a painful subject.

“I wonder if he can tell what I’m thinking; I always know what he’s going to say. I feel safe with him; I trust him. When I told him last night I had to drop his course, he was kind and understanding; he seemed to be sorry I would not be there any longer. He said we all get to a point where we have to make changes; I wonder what kind of changes he has made.

“I feel sadness around him. When he looks at me, though, he smiles from the bottom of his soul. I hope he believed me when I told him I have an ulcer and my doctor ordered me to drop some activities. I’m glad I had the ulcer to use as an excuse. I know why I dropped the class. Being with him is too painful; I can’t bear that grief. God, what’s happening to me? In my forty-two years I’ve never felt this way!”

Emma was thankful the phones weren’t busy while she wrote in her journal. She went to the kitchen for coffee, picked up her economics book and leafed through it while thinking about school and completing her accounting degree. When she started reading her mind wan­dered off; unable to concentrate, she returned to her journaling, recording her first encounter with Philip Byrd.

He ran into the classroom the opening night of winter quarter and slammed his book down on the desk. Emma was absorbed in the first chapter of the text book and did not stop reading to acknowledge his presence. She ignored him a few moments longer until she felt a stare and looked up into the most intriguing eyes she had ever seen. In that moment, Emma saw a vision that gave her a foreboding premonition.

He’s special"protect him.

The words were spoken by a small woman with short gray hair and a sweet, very wrinkled face. Rimless glasses sat on her short, pointed nose and a depression era dress and shawl covered her frail body. She peered at the teacher over the top of her spectacles and held her arms out in front of Mr. Byrd as if to shield him from some sort of danger.

Emma’s special feelings, her label for mystifying dreams and visions, were always about someone she knew or loved. She was stunned. She did not know this man and she had no idea who the little woman was. She was scared; very, very scared.

What’s happening to me?

She blinked her eyes to erase the vision. The little woman was still there, repeating her foreboding message. Looking down at her desk, Emma opened and closed her eyes. “Go away!” she demanded under her breath.

In a commanding voice, the teacher said, “My name is Philip Byrd. I’ll be teaching this course.”

He asked the students to introduce themselves. “Tell us something about yourself and why you’re in school.”

The class was a cross-section of America; there was a bril­liant young man from Viet Nam who wanted to be an electrical engineer; a late-twenties lady who was a crime photographer for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation; the middle-age man who was a ceramics engineer; several college kids who were taking the class because it was required for their degrees. And there was Emma, the brown-eyed, middle-aged secretary.

When her turn came Emma told them she was a mother of two; her daugh­ter was a sophomore at Georgia Tech and her son a freshman in high school.

“My name is Emma St. Claire. I’m a secretary. I’ve been in construction for seven­teen years and done some contracting on my own; even built my own home. I was journalism major in college many years ago, I’m a Red Cross volunteer and,” she happily stated, “I’m an identical twin!”

Emma also told her classmates she had been in college off and on for many years and decided she would never finish.

“Only fools complete their education"wise men never do. I hope someday to be very wise.”

Her comment generated chuckles from classmates who must have been wondering why someone her age would be in college. The teacher made pleasant comments about each person’s remarks. He showed a genuine knowledge of photography and asked the GBI lady several technical questions. Each student received a few minutes of the Prof’s undivided attention. Emma was one of the last to speak. When she finished she was disap­pointed not to receive the same courtesy. She thought her com­ments were clearly as perti­nent as the others and was hurt to be passed over.

In retaliation she blurted out, “We told you about us. Now we want to know something about you. What are your qualifications to teach?”

Mr. Byrd glared at her. He couldn’t ignore Emma’s question and was annoyed he should have to answer to a student"even if she was close to his age.

“I have an engineering degree and received my master’s in economics. I’ve worked at Atlantic Air Lines for ten years and I’ve been teaching forever,” he said, glaring at Emma conde­scend­ingly as if to say, “Does that qualify me to teach you?”

He hastily changed the subject and started his introductory remarks. “When was the Declaration of Independence signed?”

One loud mouth yelled out, “July Fourth, 1776.”

Emma knew that was not the right answer to the question and kept her mouth shut.

“July Fourth was the day the Declaration was posted. It was signed on August second.”

He went on to tell them that things are not always what they seem; that truth is often obscured; that you have to search your entire life for Truth"and the way to Truth is education.

“If you are not in this class to learn for the sake of learning, you don’t have any business being here.”

Now I know why he ignored my remarks about educa­tion and wisdom"I stole his thunder. Score one for the student.

The remaining class time he lectured them about hon­esty, truth and open-minded­ness; and economics.

Economics? This guy should be teaching philosophy.

Class ended too soon for Emma; she was spellbound by the economics teacher. Younger students left but Emma lingered behind to bundle up for the twenty-degree weather on the cold January night. She put on her boots, heavy fur-lined leather coat and fur hat. Likewise, the teacher stood in a far corner, putting on his overcoat, hat and scarf.

How cute he looks.

Emma felt motherly as if watching her small son. While trying to ignore her maternal feelings for him an unex­plained shiver ran down her spine. Her body trembled; she was freezing cold.

Such a handsome boy. And smart.

Emma wanted to put her arms around him, give him a hug and tell him she was proud of him, the way she would display her affection for J.D.

How did he grow up so fast?

She stared intently at him, feeling he was only a toddler; she wanted to pick him up and cradle him in her arms. Emma shivered again while trying to shake off the bizarre emotions.

“I bet he has never told a lie,” she mumbled, remember­ing the hurt from her husband’s most recent bout of decep­tion.

“I’m looking forward to this class,” Emma finally said to him. “I don’t know any­thing about economics"this will be a chal­lenge.”

“I’ve been studying economics for years and I’m still learning.”

They left the classroom together. Emma’s heart was pound­ing like a hammer and the sensation alarmed her.

What is this man doing to me? Why do I feel this way? I have a dreadful feeling some­thing bad is going to happen.

“I guess you’re parked in the student parking lot, aren’t you?” he asked, implying that she shouldn’t be walking with him.

“No.” She was half embarrassed and half delighted to have an excuse to walk and talk with him. “I have a permit for the teacher’s lot; have a little neuritis in my leg"can’t tolerate too much cold. I got these boots in Germany,” she prattled on, “and get them out every winter. Don’t know what I’d do without them. We don’t make them the same way in this country and they would never last eighteen years the way these have. There ought to be some sort of economics lesson in that, don’t you think?”

He grinned at her and chuckled.  

“I think you’re going to do okay in my class.”

He turned toward his car; Emma was alone in the dark.

She climbed into her cherry red Chevy pickup truck, thankful for the time to be alone. Still puzzled by her maternal and protective feelings for a grown man who was a complete stranger, Emma was relieved when the road to home appeared and she turned off the freeway. A mile from her house she steered the truck onto a rock and gravel trail. The old road was in bad condition from winter weather and a storm the week before had been its undoing.

Reaching the driveway her truck started up the slight incline toward Fairfield, the grand home she and her family designed and built. Most of the lights were out but the rambling cedar house was clearly visible in the moonlight. Remnants of frozen rain were sprinkled on drooping junipers that lined the sidewalk to the porch, and lights in the break­fast room shone through the wide kitchen window. It was warm and inviting.

Emma thought about Mr. Byrd.

What kind of home does he have? Does a beautiful wife welcome him home? He’s special; he should have a beautiful woman on his arm.

Even though Emma’s love for Jim had been tarnished by his years of habitual lying and his over-bearing, interfering mother, she was pleased to be greeted by someone who loved her.

“How was your class?” Jim asked when she opened the back door off the garage. Because the garage was full of Jim’s junk and possibilities Emma left her truck outside. For years Emma silently endured Jim’s mess"every wrecked car he was going to rebuild and sell; every motor to be over­hauled; every transmission to be repaired. None of the possi­bilities ever became realities; Jim’s business debts soared and Emma became the person she dreaded most, a working mother.

“Class was wonderful. We have a terrific teacher this quar­ter.”

Emma wished that Jim would teach as they had planned; she put him through his last two years of college and a year of grad­uate school and his refusal to work in education was a bitter disap­point­ment.

Jim kissed her softly on the lips and Emma hugged her hus­band while he ran his rough hand down her backside.

Good old Jim. Always ready to jump in the hay and have a romp.

“Why don’t you pour us a glass of wine?” she suggested.

Emma stuck her head in the door of Bee’s studio apartment to check on her mother. “Whatcha up to now?” Emma asked. Bee was sitting at her drawing board, working on a botanical drawing. “This is for the Chattahoochee Nature Center,” she said, without taking her eyes away from her work. Knowing that Bee did not tolerate interruptions while she was working, Emma silently slipped back out the door. Emma’s mother had a distinguished career as a medical and scientific illustrator for the C.D.C. and her work impacted the lives of millions of people. With Bee’s drawings, doctors in remote villages in the far reaches of the globe were able to make diagnoses of diseases and prescribe treatments and she was recognized as an expert on many parasitic afflictions.

After her retirement, Bee devoted herself to ecological and nature groups and did art work for their publications for free. As the sole support of her three children, Bee had been a tireless, high-energy person, self-sufficient and self-motivated. Now she was enjoying life with travel and friends, church and civic organizations.

Emma breezed through the kitchen and huge family room and walked down the long hall to J.D.’s room. His crutches were lying on the floor and he was propped up in bed with his leg in a full-length splint.

“How’s your knee feeling tonight ‘Punkin?” she asked. J.D. had a serious case of Osgood-Schlatter disease and the painful disorder frequently required the use of leg splints to hold his knee in place while the broken and chipped bone fragments healed. He had been in and out of knee braces and splints since he was ten, and always handled the painful disability without complaint.

“Okay, I guess,” he mumbled.

She kissed her fifteen-year-old son on the cheek, brushing aside the swatch of curly red hair that hung on his forehead. He was already as tall as Jim and sporting activities gave him a defined musculature. Like his dad, he wore glasses but J.D. had beautiful, piercing blue eyes. His voice was deep yet quiet and in spite of his size, he was gentle, thoughtful and almost too sensitive. Emma’s son was a mascu­line edition of her first born, a tall, slender, pretty redhead­ed daughter.

Slowly climbing the wide staircase to the master suite, Emma studied each spindle, each put in place by the hands of her family during the two years it took them to build the impressive home. At the top landing she paused before entering her retreat. Thick moss green carpet invited her to dig her toes into its plush pile. Sitting on the white sofa she unzipped her boots and leaned back, massaging her feet while gazing at portraits of her beautiful children.

In spite of warm clothes, Emma’s leg ached. Hobbling to the bathroom she turned on the tub faucets and started to undress. Easing her tired body into the swir­ling Jacuzzi bubbles, Emma was soon mesmer­ized. Submerged to her chin, she thought about her reactions to the strange man.

Why do I feel this way? What am I supposed to protect him from? Why?

She thought she had achieved most of her life’s goals; her children were nearly grown and their home was built. She was looking forward to having grandchildren some day. Now, for some reason, she was being drawn to a man she didn’t even know and felt there was something important she had to do.

What? What am I supposed to do?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Jim presenting her with a glass of wine. He undressed and slipped into the tub although he had showered earlier in the evening. Jim St. Claire never passed up the opportunity to rub his naked body next to Emma’s in the Jacuzzi.

 

***

“Emma. Emma, you out there?”

Her boss was calling again and Emma realized she had been totally absorbed in thoughts of Philip Byrd and every­thing that happened the day of her fateful meeting with him.  She had written five pages.

I’ve got to get myself together.

She put her journal aside and rushed into Joe’s office.

“Yes, Joe?”

Joe was seated at the imposing partner’s desk in front of five tall windows in his handsome office. Afternoon sun filtered through sheer curtains and accentuated Joe’s rich, brown hair. His almost leathery skin was deeply tanned, even in winter months, and his average build, five foot eleven inch body was clothed with a wine-colored turtleneck shirt beneath an expensive argyle sweater. Even when dressed casually, he was elegant. Joe was nine years older than Emma and if asked to describe him, she would say he was cute. He had a square face with a turned-up nose, full lips and half-rimless glasses brought attention to his hazel eyes.

“Didn’t you say you were putting on a pot of coffee? I could use a shot!”

“Of course. Sorry it slipped my mind.”

Emma went to the kitchen to put on the afternoon coffee"her duty since Joe made the morning coffee. Emma thought about her good fortune in landing a job with Joe. The atmosphere at home was frequent­ly unpleas­ant, at best, and Emma’s job was a breath of clean, fresh air on a hot, smother­ing polluted summer day. The coffee fin­ished perking and Emma poured a mug for Joe and a cup for herself. When she set it on his desk, he asked her how school was going.

She started slowly, “My ulcer is acting up again and my doctor said to slow down.” She chuck­led, “I figured it would be better to drop school than to quit my job.”

“That’s for damn sure. Guess you do stay pretty busy, don’t you, what with J.D.’s football and soccer and PTA and those other clubs you belong to.”

Emma heard the bell on the door and looked around to see Jim entering the office. She tried to greet him warmly although she was irritated he interrupted her conversation with Joe. Jim didn’t keep regular business hours and frequently dropped in on Emma to handle personal business, much to her cha­grin.

“Whatcha need?” she whispered.

“We’re going to put a second mortgage on the house,” he said in a demanding voice, “you have to sign these papers.”

He handed her a legal file folder full of mortgage deeds and loan commit­ments, legal descriptions and sundry pertinent papers. Emma was leafing through the file when the special feeling spoke to her: Don’t sign these; we will lose every­thing.

“I can’t sign these, Jim.”

“What do you mean? My attorney approved them and the bank is waiting on them right now. Hurry up, would you. I need to get out there.”

“I told you I can’t sign them,” she retorted, trying to keep her voice down.

“Why not?” Jim asked angrily.

“My feelings say we’ll lose everything if I sign these papers.”

“Oh, you and those feelings of yours. You’re always con­juring up things. Why don’t you ever think positive?”

“I do think positive, Jim. I also have to listen to my inner self. Right now it’s telling me not to sign these stu­pid papers.”

“Stupid? Is that what you call my business? It will be stupid for us not to take some money out of the house and use it. We have too much equity in it. Besides, my busi­ness needs some cash,” Jim said pathetically with a change of tone. “If you don’t sign these, I’ll lose my company. That’s what your silly feelings should be telling you, ‘cause that’s the truth.” He was almost begging her now. “Please, Emma, this will be the last time. I promise.”

Every time Jim manipulated their finances to draw out cash he promised it would be the last time. Emma’s inner voice told her that this really would be the last time.

We’ll lose everything.

She sat at her desk and reviewed the documents. Everything appeared to be in order for a second mortgage on their home. If for some reason Jim couldn’t pay off the forty thousand dollars when it was due in twelve months, the bank prom­ised to roll it into their first mortgage and give them a new loan. Emma did some calculations, including her income and rent from another house. Even with no money from Jim, the income ratio for the new mortgage was acceptable to her and the house was increasing in value yearly.

“Okay,” she relented, “this is absolutely the last time, Jim. I don’t know why you don’t go to your mother for this. She’s the one who wanted you to build houses to begin with. It was never my idea.”

Emma signed the papers and went to the supply room to Xerox them for her personal files before returning them to Jim. She kissed her husband on the cheek.

“Be careful out there.”

Jim smiled adoringly at his wife.

“You won’t be sorry.”

Emma watched him drive away in his old pick-up truck.

Yes, I will; we’ll lose everything.

Larry, Emma’s other boss, came in and handed her an envelope with information and forms on a new subcontractor.

“Emma, please open a new vendor file on this fellow. You’ll have to send him our standard letter requesting his insurance certificate and employer identification number. Don’t forget to enclose some of our subcontractor draw forms and the usual stuff.”

“Okay.”

Glad to have some work to keep her busy, Emma opened the envelope and pulled out the subcontract agreement. Her knees went limp and she sank into her chair when she read the name: Byrd Landscaping Service. Emma moaned.

Not again. What the hell is going on?

One of the awful nightmares about Philip Byrd came flooding into her mind. He was kneeling in a muddy field at night and was holding an object; Emma could not make out what it was. She thought he was planting something. Then he looked up and started crying. The bad dream always awa­kened Emma and sent shivers up and down her spine.

Such things don’t happen.

She booted up her computer, ran forms for Byrd Landscap­ing, typed a letter and took it to Larry for his signature.

“Will you have more mail today? This is my Red Cross night and I need to get my uniform on and freshen up before I leave.”

“That’s fine, go ahead.” He handed her the signed letter.

While she powdered her nose and brushed her teeth, Emma pon­dered again the day’s distressing events.

My special feelings are getting the best of me. I’ll have to try harder to ignore them.

Emma changed into her Red Cross uniform, gathered the mail and left. When she steered her truck into the hospital parking lot Emma realized she had made the entire trip in a fog, with no memory of the twenty-mile drive.

Got to get myself together; people are depending on me. Philip Byrd will have to protect himself. Once and forever and ever, good-bye, Mr. Byrd!

She slammed the heavy truck door.

Scurrying up the emergency door entrance ramp, Emma waved to the cheerful security guard and her friend on the desk.

“Busy tonight?”

“No, not too bad,” the elderly lady answered. “I think CCU got a new admis­sion from us, though. I sent the paperwork to the front desk; it should be on the census when you bring it up.”

“Okay. I’ll check for a new admission. Have a quiet eve­ning.”

“Thanks. See ya at the cafeteria.”

Emma thought momentarily how nice it would be to sit down and have a pleasant meal with her fellow volunteers and friends on the admissions staff. She reached the Intensive Care Unit, put her coat and purse in the locker room and brought up the patient census on the computer. She wrote patients’ names in the Red Cross visitation book and crossed the hall to CCU where she repeated the process, chatting happily with nurses while the printer put out a new census. Emma yanked it off and turned to the desk to enter names in the book.

Not again, no, no, not again.

“You okay, Emma?” one of the nurses asked.

“It’s nothing.”

Emma tried to brush off the surreal feelings. The name of the new patient in CCU, in bed number one, was Mr. William Byrd. Emma had a strange pain in her chest as another vision of the little gray haired lady flashed through her mind; and a very strong chill shook her body.

Author's Note

Synopsis


Emma St. Clair, an attractive red-headed twin, businesswoman, student, wife and mother of two, is tormented by recurring nightmares of her economics professor, Phillip Byrd. Emma has had episodes of extra sensory perception since childhood but her husband, Jim, does not believe in e.s.p. and calls her a witch whenever she has “a special feeling” about something.

Emma drops the class, hoping to rid herself of the nightmares, the visions of an old woman telling her “to protect him, he’s special,” the cold chills that shake her body whenever she is near Mr. Byrd, and her overwhelming maternal feelings for him.

Emma loves her job as a construction secretary and is annoyed when Jim shows up at her office with mortgage papers to sign. Jim is a home builder and needs more money for his floundering business. As he pleads with her to put a second mortgage on their dream home situated in the middle of seven and a half acres near Stone Mountain, Georgia, Emma’s “silent voice” tells her that if she signs the papers, “she will lose everything.”

Emma calls her twin, Rachel, for advice and comfort about the still occurring nightmares of Mr. Byrd and the feeling that “she will lose everything.” Rachel is Emma’s one ally and confident as she winds her way through the throes of losing everything and protecting Mr. Byrd from an unknown peril.
Down the road from Emma’s beautiful home, DeKalb County has decided to develop a landfill and garbage transfer station. Fearing the worst kind of pollution, Emma spearheads an environmental drive to save her home and neighborhood. In the meantime, Jim has become critically ill, his business failing, and Emma becomes the victim of fraud and extortion by Jim’s banker.

In the midst of landfill fights, corrupt bankers, and debilitating nightmares that cause deep depression and weight loss, Emma plans a lavish wedding for her daughter, Allison. After losing everything, Emma, Jim and their son, J.D., move into Jim’s parent’s house next door, the elderly St. Claire’s leaving the neighborhood to get away from the landfill.

After two years of nightmares, near paralysis of her arms, and falling into suicidal despair, Emma’s e.s.p. leads her to a parapsychologist.

To find out what happens to Emma and Mr. Byrd, order your copy of Chasing the Wind at Amazon.com.

Epilogue:

In 1992, Emma has a vision of a blast rocking the City of Atlanta during the 1996 Olympics.

In the summer of 2001, Emma told her friends and family that a disaster would befall New York City.

Reviews

[Nathan]

Lovely story. Mostly the writers like me get divert from the actual theme of the story n then start rewriting it from the start but you just do here a very excellent job cus neither you get diverted from the concept nor you jumped from here to there writing this marvelous story. I really like reading this beautiful chapter.

Keep writing!

[Margery Phelps]

Thank you, Nathan, for your encouraging words. I do plan to keep on writing and hope to produce two more books and make this a trilogy.

[A. Amos]

I really like the flow and your story telling is simply spectacular!

[Margery Phelps]

Thank you for your kind words -- and even more for taking the time to read it.

[A. Amos]

Your writing is eloquent and marvelous, you're most welcome