PROLOGUE
The fire was reduced to a few burning coals, its glow still reflecting off the black marble hearth. As the sound of the late winter rains intensified, Bernadette pulled the burgundy throw that lay carelessly across her legs up around her body, her left hand maintaining its grip on the book she had just finished reading. It was a novel that revealed a secret ancient truth that had been cleverly veiled in Leonardo DaVincis works of art. The book had been on the New York Times bestseller list for months, but Bernadette resisted reading it until now. She knew the real story published years ago in the research book Holy Blood, Holy Grail. Why read a watered-down version? Although she had to admit, it was a clever idea, and a fleeting pang of jealousy that she hadnt come up with it herself reminded her she was still unpublished.
The troubling sound of a limb as it scraped against the house momentarily distracted her. She shivered from the bone-chilling temperatures brought on by the fury of the gusting winds as they tore maliciously across the landscape. Would there be no end to this storm? In the closing darkness she could still make out a gnarled, old oak, stoically braving the elements. A lone raven perched at the top - a solitary lookout on the mast of a ship being tossed by a tempestuous sea. The California foothills that normally offered a palatable winter had unleashed one of the worst in recent memory.
Bernadettes thoughts were drawn back to the DaVinci book lying in her lap. It told quite a story, but most readers, in her opinion, were missing the point. In a burst of frustration, she pushed her short dark curls away from her face. Why dont they get it? Then laughing out loud. Did she get it? She had been studying the Holy Grail for years and she still had as many questions as she did answers. Although recently, she had begun to suspect that the Holy Grail was only the tip of the iceberg and the real story went much deeper.
Her hand brushed across the book in her lap. It had exposed information to the general public that was explosive, causing turbulent waves to stir the ranks of Christian circles, but it was nothing new to her. She had unearthed the same information on her own.
So why did she feel this strong compulsion to make contact with the author?
The answer came as quickly as the question was formulated in her mind. Perhaps he knew more than he revealed in his book.
With a fierce determination, Bernadette clutched the novel resting in her lap. She had to find a way to meet the now famous author, so she could talk to him and see what else he knew. Opening the back cover, she studied his picture with a grave intensity as if trying to read his mind, or more importantly his soul. Samuel Sinclair. Why did his name ring a bell? Dressed in impeccably casual attire, he had the look of an Ivy League professor. The picture appeared a bit too staged for her tastes, but his eyes held her interest. Curious blue eyes, that seemed to look beyond the surface. The cover didnt say much, only that he lived in Massachusetts. That lonely sentence gave her encouragement. She had been born and raised in Connecticut, and although life had propelled her to California, there was something deep inside of her that still felt a strong kinship to New England.
A spark burst from the burning coals and her attention was drawn back to the fireplace and her fathers picture that sat center-stage on the mantel. Without warning, the last images of his life flashed in her mind. He was laying in a hospital bed dying. She was alone at his bedside, standing vigil. His face pale as the January snow clinging to the trees outside the window. She tried to warm his cold hand held tight in both of hers. Unexpectedly, he opened his eyes and motioned for her to lean closer. Through lips that were parched, he struggled with each word. His voice barely audible.
Wall safe . . .marble box . . .read letters . . . But before he could finish, he released a momentous rasping sound and heaved his last sigh.
Bernadette cried for days, the dark circles under her eyes revealing the depth of her loss. Memories of their life together haunted her. As a young girl sitting on his knee while he read to her after work, the smell of the factory still clinging to his rough clothing; their hikes in nature where he taught her to recognize the tracks of the wild creatures and respect for their habits; days spent at the ocean searching for shells as the waves washed teasingly over their feet; his infectious laughter and abounding enthusiasm. Her world would never be the same without him.
It was nearly a week before Bernadette remembered her fathers last words. Wall safe. . .marble box. . .read letters. . . How could she have forgotten?
The next morning she quickly showered and anxiously drove the short distance to her fathers place. It was difficult stepping into his house again. It was a modest house, much like the man who occupied it. The stillness without his booming voice was uncomfortable. It was a voice that reflected the passion he felt for life. Overwhelmed by her loss, Bernadette sank into an old easy chair. It was dark green, faded, worn at the arms. This is where her father would sit in the evening watching the discovery channel or reading the National Geographic magazines he cherished. So many memories!
Eventually she would have to dispose of his things, but not yet. She would face that obstacle later. Blowing the dust off a picture, she fingered it affectionately. Daddy in his funny cap and brown work clothes. She was young, seven or eight, a kitten held tightly in her arms, her curly head nestled against her fathers shoulder. Their bond had always been strong. They shared everything, or so she thought. But a hidden wall safe with letters did her father have a dark secret?
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