Chapter 1

Chapter 1

We know the truth, not only by the reason, but also by the heart.

Blaise Pascal (1623-1632)

French mathematician, physicist, inventor, writer and

Catholic theologian

so, what’s your story … Alley

Washington, D.C. . current day

The session began in its usual comfortable sofa kind of way and ended on the wings of a titan grasshopper …

I heard that voice again.

You mean the one that stalks you around three a.m. every Monday morning.

Yep, that’s the one.

Tell me again, what does the voice say to you...

You don’t need to be here any longer.

And, how do you feel after the voice has spoken to you …

“I feel so calm, so relaxed, so at peace after the voice has spoken,” I said in the meditative style of a mindful yoga instructor.

“What do you think it all means?” asked Dr. York.

“It means that I am paying you $200 an hour to unravel this subliminal voicemail,” I answered in a less pensive tone and more in the same commanding voice as my three a.m. Monday morning wake-up nudge.

“Okay, here’s my $200 an hour professional opinion,” said Dr. Sara York, in her own commanding voice. You understand exactly what the voice is telling you. You have known for over a year what the voice is telling you. Are you ready for this mind-bending revelation, Dr. Alley Casey? Are you prepared to hear my absolute brilliant analysis of this voice that speaks to you in the early morning hours? Drum roll and wave the flag of surrender …

You don’t need to be here any longer … not in my elegantly decorated office, not in this city of power and deceit, and certainly not in a job that has your expiration date cast on its proverbial golden watch. It’s time, Alley … You don’t need to be here any longer! Your work is done. Celebrate your successful career. Cheer the professional life you built over the past 40 years. Then, pack your bags and move on with your life … You don’t need to be here any longer, Dr. Alley Casey. By the way, it’s Monday morning, Alley.

“And, I don’t need to be here any longer,” whispered Alley. It’s time, my time.

“Thank you, Dr. York, Sara. Message received and undeniably understood! Thank you, my dearest friend. You are such an incredible gift to me.”

“Speaking of gifts … I have been waiting for the right moment to give you these,” said Sara. “Today is that moment … my bon voyage gifts for you, Alley.”

Sara handed two cards to Alley – one was the business card of a real estate agent in Santa Fe, New Mexico and the other was an American Airlines gift card.  

“You don’t need to be here any longer; you need to follow your grasshopper daydreams to New Mexico, Alley. That’s where you need to be!”

The tears streaming down Alley’s flushed cheeks were not shaped by exhausted despair, but rather the glistening lights of hope and relief. She was finally ready to let go of a life that had served her well and she in turn had served with honor. Now, the perfect time to make way for her freedom voyage in the company of delayed wishes and maybe even … second chances.

“The imagination does travel risky slopes where reason may never tread,” Alley whispered to herself as she strolled through the neat compartments of her very practical mind.

“Alley, please always remember … no matter the path taken, the common bridge of our friendship will be your safety net. Be brave, be adventurous, and stay open to the life intended just for you.”

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The following weeks were frantic as Alley said her goodbyes to colleagues, clients, and friends; maneuvered her way through the world of selling a townhouse; and, stood strong against the horrendous exercise of packing and moving across country. Throughout it all, Alley kept chanting to herself … Go West, Dr. Alley Casey, that’s where you need to be! 
 

The friendly skies were welcoming the rejuvenated life Alley was eager to begin. The time to depart Washington had finally arrived, and the blue birds outside Alley’s, sold in a week, townhouse cheered her on as she got into the waiting Uber on this perfect morning for new beginnings.

Alley’s trip to Reagan National had been uneventful. The airport was the usual fast pace of people on a mission … just another reminder that this town had lost its luster and the highs from inherit chaos were ready to be set free for a different kind of high ... the altitude kind of high of New Mexico.

The attendant announced to all those waiting in the line formed at the American Airlines gate …  flight now boarding … for all in search of new beginnings, Alley thought to herself.

The magic of New Mexico first beamed into Alley’s heart many decades ago when she had studied at St. John’s College in Santa Fe. The desert was a raw beauty like none she had ever seen. The skies were luminous paintings touched by the brush of God’s breath. The air, the incredible refreshing air of renewal, worth every struggle to embrace its glorious energy. New Mexico had always been the spot on her well-being map that forever gave Alley peace and selected fond remembrances. The career that had trapezed her across the landscape of this great nation was never the blanket of comfort that New Mexico seemed to provide in the deepest part of Alley’s soul. Like her first love, New Mexico never really faded from Alley’s heart of yesterday’s evergreen memories.  First love … so enchanting in this beautiful Land of Enchantment … and yet, so mysteriously poignant.

The flight to Santa Fe was the delicious cherry on the dessert of Alley’s new life, but exhaustion was now beginning to mix in with the euphoric aspects of new adventures. Alley was looking forward to putting her head on the soft pillows waiting for her at the B&B, but first she would meet with her fabulous real estate agent, Dianne Weston … new life, new home, new discoveries … rest would take a back seat, at least for now, Alley was on a new mission!

Dianne greeted Alley in the Santa Fe terminal with a bouquet of roses and a huge warm welcome hug. “Welcome, girlfriend. You are home!” glowed Dianne. “Let’s get those bags of yours and go have a nice dinner.”

“You are deemed my adopted mother, Dianne. Just lead the way!”

Dianne knew Santa Fe real estate better than the back of her hand, and she knew the best of the best in builders and architects. What she didn’t know was the blueprint to Alley’s past … only the vague pencil outlines of her present and proposed future were made clear to Dianne. But, the one thing Dianne could always rely on were her trustworthy, stronger than the historic adobe walls of Santa Fe, instincts. She knew they would grant a protective shield on the newness of her relationship with Alley. The fragile real estate of the heart comes at a much higher cost per square inch than a dream-come-true beautiful floorplan … a motto Dianne engraved on every new business venture.

After a good night’s rest, the morning began early for Alley … (cell phone ringtone)

“Good morning, Alley. Ready to check-out a few homes on our list of potentials?” asked a refreshed and energized Dianne.

Absolutely, Dianne … meet you at Java Joe’s Creamery and Coffeehouse in fifteen minutes. Got to have caffeine and an apple empanada to begin this adventure.

“Caffeine is the perfect talisman!” laughed Dianne.

The spec and comparable for each potential home were arduously researched, printed and labeled under the categories of established residential neighborhood, new developments, artist district, and Alley’s Wish List – bound inside a leather notebook with Dianne’s real estate company noted on the front and Alley’s name printed in gold lettering as the client.

“Very impressive, Dianne. Thank you for the professionalism and the attention to details,” said Alley.

“You have done not only your research on properties, but also the inner workings of my mind.”

“We leave no adobe stone unturned to meet the expectations of our clients,” smiled Dianne.

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The quick start out of the real estate gate progressed at more of a dilly-dally pace than the self-assured steps that Dianne was more accustomed to and had anticipate from her talks with Alley. The weeks of house shopping were quickly adding up to a month then another month until the exquisite sunrise over Santa Fe’s Sangre de Cristo Mountains turned to shadows of concern on the grand hunt for Alley’s perfect home.

Each property had positives and negatives that were analyzed until there were no other risk factors to factor, only the internal assessment gage of feel right. That mystical “feel right” factor was still missing, and Alley could not put her analytical finger on the reason.

Dianne was a fabulous agent and could analyze until the desert turned into a graphical display of turquoise dots, but even she was beginning to feel bewildered by the lack of progress.

Finally, Dianne declared at the start of the third month of this dithering and prolonged real estate adventure, “Let’s talk, girlfriend. Heart to heart. Adopted mom to beloved adopted daughter kind of talk.” “Meet at Java Joe’s in the morning at ten bells … sound like a good plan?”

“Yes, the perfect plan. See you at ten o’clock, and thank you, adopted mom.”

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“Okay, Alley … you talk, and I will listen with a loving and attentive ear,” said Dianne.

“You are an incredible real estate agent, Dianne. You have done a spectacular job of preparing all the perfect properties for me to consider, and any one of them would be a dream-come-true home.”

 “Sounds good so far … however, what is the but part of your thoughts, Alley?” “What’s holding you back from committing to one of these beautifully perfect dream-come-true properties?”

“I don’t deserve the beauty of these homes,” Alley blurted out.

Dianne could not register the words Alley had just spoken. “Did you just say you do not deserve their beauty?” asked Dianne.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said, and I can hardly believe I said those words.”

“Why on earth would you think you do not deserve something, much less the acquisition of a beautiful home?”

“Professional success does not always translate into personal success, Dianne. I have had an incredible professional life, but my personal life has skipped a beat or two.”

“I think it is time to peek behind those adobe walls you have built over a lifetime, Dr. Alley Casey,” said Dianne with her assured voice of reason.

“I think it may be time to open the curtains and let the Santa Fe fresh air float through some of those hidden rooms you have preserved, Alley.” “You can’t move forward if your Victrola’s needle is stuck in the deep scratches of yesterday’s memories … you know what I mean, Alley,” reasoned Dianne.

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“The time I spent in New Mexico over five decades ago was out of a Charles Dickens novel,” Alley began …

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I was accepted by St. John’s College here in Santa Fe, and I was floating on a mountain high of great expectations – to continue with the Dickens-esque theme. I loved the freedom of being on my own for the first time, and the liberal arts were my passion. I had prepared for St. John’s program by reading all the Great Books during my junior and senior years of high school, and I was looking forward to the intellectual discussions lead by professors, or I should say “tutors” -- the proper title at St. John’s. Academically, I was confident that St. John’s had met its match in the likes of an Alley Casey. And, my years at St. John’s were heavenly and far exceed my great expectations.

“Sounds like the good side of this Dickens of a story, so far,” said Dianne.

“Yes, it was definitely the best of times,” agreed Alley.

The good times continued with the senior year being the culmination of my academic bliss. The senior essay is the be all and end all to earn a degree from St. John’s. The graduate assistant to my faculty advisor assigned to facilitate the maze of this final juncture of my academic life was Jason Pascal, ancestry of the French mathematician and Catholic theologian, Blaise Pascal.

“Thank you for the sidebar note,” teased Dianne.

“Jason was young, intelligent, creative and just as naïve as I was when it came to passionate entanglements of the heart. He was steeped in Southwest architecture and the application of solar energy dynamics. Not to get too far into the weeds of academia … enough to say, my essay dealt with themes that complemented Jason’s specialty.”

“I think I am getting hints that Jason may have had other specialties, as well,” Dianne said softly.

“Shall I cut to the chase?” asked Alley.

“Yes, please … cut, chop and chase away, Alley.”

I guess one could say my senior year was the first and last chapter of the best of times and the worst of times in my storied life at St. John’s. Jason managed to stimulate my mind and other body parts were taking on a life of their own. We spent every opportunity researching and discussing the intertwine of math, physics, theology and architecture. Field trips galore to historical sites all under the guise of research for my senior essay. Lively debates and many laughs escorted us deep into the nights of coquettish scholarly desires … intelligence and humor, the essential ingredients for an aphrodisiac drink.

“Cheers, and please do continue!” joked Dianne.

“I still remember fifty years later the words Jason spoke one night after we had fabricated an intellectual debate,” reminisced Alley.

Alley, I don’t want to talk about math or physics or architecture, anymore. I just want to hold your hand and to know how it feels with you close beside me. I hope you are not offended ….

Before he could finish his sentence, I reached out to take his hand. “Thank you, Alley,” he said with a slight tremble in his voice.

“Playing in the background of this perfect moment, we heard Jim Morrison singing Hello, I Love You, as if he were our personal guide to the exotic territory that we knew little about … romance.”

“See, I was right … there was a Victrola in your past!” smiled Dianne.

“To continue,” grinned Alley …

Our fingers fit perfectly together, as if puzzle pieces in this attempted game of lovemaking. We gingerly explored the scape of fresh discoveries … the sensual shape of each life flowing vein, our soft delicate skin tinged by growing desire, just the right amount of pressure interlacing the spirit of a first encounter. Heartened by the sweet desert midnight air, we looked not with eyes of anticipation; we chose instead to hold tight the hand of fate, embracing mysteries yet to unfold.

I wanted to do more than hold Jason’s hand. I just wasn’t sure how to move past the hand holding to a place that would turn the page on our fumbling desires. Taking a breath of courage, I managed to say, “Jason, if you don’t want to kiss me, I will completely understand. But, I very much would like to know what it feels like to be kissed … by you.” The page on our budding romance was flipped in that moment. Jason held me in his arms and whispered, “May I kiss you, Alley Casey?”

His kisses were so pure and gentle - each leaving a sweet hint of the honey lavender ice cream we had shared earlier that evening. Our passion spiraling with the midnight glow of this exquisite starlit night. Then, just as quickly as our newfound sensual thirst began to be quenched, everything came to a carnal halt.

“Alley, I need to stop … I can’t risk hurting you … I have got to get away from you, now. This is all my fault … I should have never … Please forgive me, I am so sorry.”

As if a flash of thunder bolt lighting had paved the way, Jason was gone … gone from the place we had begun to explore our lust for what could be; gone from the scholarly walls that had brought us together; and, gone from the fragile beginnings of new love … gone, just as quickly as our untried passion had begun.

I never heard from Jason after that ill-fated night. But I think he was wrong, and I never had the chance to tell him.

“Tell him what, Alley?” asked Dianne.

“I never had the chance to tell Jason that the evening was not his fault – it was mine,” Alley said with the soft voice of wistful regrets.

“The heat of desert love tears our heart with its sweet desire and bitter regret,” sighed Dianne.

“That’s beautiful, Dianne,” muttered Alley. It sounds like you may also know a little about the pain of unrequited love.

“Just a small dose, Alley … just a very small dose.”

Dianne was preparing to guide the conversation to its pinnacle storyline summit … what happened next and who did what … when the coffee shop chatter and a polite interruption took the spotlight.

“Excuse me ladies,” said the barista. “A gentleman requested that I deliver our house specialty to your table … honey lavender ice cream. He also asked that I give this note to you.”

Alley opened the note and read aloud to Dianne …

Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.

Albert Einstein

Please allow me the honor of sharing with you

 this delicious ice cream made of honey lavender.

May we imagine our paths soon crossing and

enjoying the sweet nectar of a formal introduction.

Enchanté,

Étienne