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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: Does anyone ever read these things? I mean, if nobody has sued me yet I doubt they ever will. But just to be on the safe side, none of these characters are mine. I "borrowed" them all. I didn't make a dime so no one gets royalties.
After the game, the king and the pawn go into the same box. (Italian saying)
The King and the Pawn
Lost and Found
By Phenyx
The slim brunette stepped gracefully from the car, her incredibly high- heeled shoes clicked on the cement with the confidence of familiarity. Her fashionably tailored back suit was crisp and unwrinkled after her brief time in the driver's seat.
She was a stunning woman, beautiful in a regal manner. Her flawless appearance and confident poise spoke of wealth and power. Her gray eyes were hard, often flashing in anger. As a result, she radiated a demeanor of frosty coolness. She worked hard to keep that icy barrier between her and the rest of the world. It was an emotional barricade that Miss Parker had spent a lifetime building.
Today, on this bright Sunday morning, Miss Parker's stoicism was even more pronounced. The deep sorrow she always felt on this day manifested itself to society as an even harder personality. Only a small handful of people knew Miss Parker well enough to understand the vulnerability that hid beneath her tough exterior.
It was April thirteenth. The anniversary of the day that Miss Parker had, for all intensive purposes, lost her mother so many years ago. She had been only a girl when she had first stood at the side of her mother's grave to grieve. It was an annual pilgrimage that Miss Parker dutifully continued to perform.
On this anniversary in years passed, Miss Parker had spent long hours in the cemetery, finding a measure of peace as she felt her mother's presence. But this year had been different. Standing before the headstone, engraved this year with two names, Miss Parker had found no solace.
Walking up the walkway to the front door, Miss Parker sighed as she returned home less than an hour after leaving. She stepped across the threshold and tossed her keys onto the nearby table. For several minutes, she stood there, staring forlornly at the room. It was still early, barely nine o'clock in the morning.
"What the hell am I supposed to do now?" She grumbled to herself.
Miss Parker's busy schedule rarely left her with free time. She purposely had nothing planned for today, intending to spend the majority of this Sunday at the cemetery. But this year, Miss Parker had been unable to feel her mother's presence. Standing before the cold stone engraved with her mother's and father's names had seemed so futile. It was a hollow gesture, for both graves were empty.
Miss Parker had grown up believing that her mother shot herself in an elevator at The Centre, the malicious corporation run by the Parker family. The truth about her mother's murder had been revealed to her several months ago. The man Miss Parker would always think of as her father had jumped to his death from an airplane last autumn while Miss Parker watched. She had been unable to locate either body.
The irony of the empty tombs had been too much for Miss Parker to bear. Vacant graves, empty promises, deceitful lies and unending pain were the legacy Miss Parker had inherited. The Centre, and all its woes, was all Miss Parker had left. Her twin brother, a lunatic called Lyle, was too vile a creature for Miss Parker to claim as her own.
The Centre had been built by Miss Parker's great grandfather, an evil man who had murdered his wife and children in Scotland before immigrating to the United States. The powerful corporation that he had created was just as corrupt and horrific as its originator. Human beings were tortured and used for experimentation in the lower levels of the facility. Children were bought, stolen or bred and then treated like guinea pigs in an attempt to make a profit.
For most of her life, Miss Parker had only been aware of the most insignificant of The Centre's atrocities. It wasn't until a few years ago that she had begun to open her eyes to the truly repulsive acts that had been occurring around her. She had been blissfully ignorant of The Centre's activities and her father's lies until Jarod had begun to show them to her.
Jarod had been one of The Centre's best and brightest inmates. He'd been brought to The Centre as a small boy, barely two years out of diapers. The child had been stolen from his bed and isolated at The Centre in order to exploit his incredible mind. Imprisoned in a dark series of rooms, he had been trained to become a pretender, someone who could be anyone, anything he wanted. Jarod had learned quickly and excelled.
For more than thirty years, Jarod had lived in the dark confines of The Centre's underground laboratories. He was told when to eat and to sleep. Jarod's every move was documented. He'd been submitted to the cruelest of tortures and emotionally flogged for decades. And yet one day, he had simply vanished from his cell. Jarod had run away from The Centre and, ever since, it had been Miss Parker's job to bring him back.
The two of them had been friends as children, two lonely waifs searching desperately for the affection they each craved. For several years they had found a forbidden companionship as they played together among the shadows. Miss Parker had eventually been sent to Europe to complete her education at a posh boarding school and the friendship had ended.
But now, as adults, Jarod clung stubbornly to the idea that their friendship meant something. While Miss Parker and her team chased Jarod around the globe, he insisted upon leaving her a trail so that she could follow him. In the six years since he had escaped, an odd sense of dependence had built up between them. Jarod worked diligently to uncover the secret of his true identity and he shared that information with Miss Parker. They had even learned that they shared a half-brother named Ethan.
Over the past few years, Jarod and Miss Parker had learned to trust one another in a way they could trust no one else.
For the most part, Miss Parker found the pretender incredibly annoying. He invariably called at the oddest times and foisted unwanted information on her. The lies that they had uncovered together had been numerous. But deep in the hidden recesses of her soul, Miss Parker knew that her friendship with Jarod had never really died. She depended on him at an emotional level that was far stronger than she cared to admit.
Glaring at the phone, Miss Parker willed it to ring. She wanted to hear Jarod's voice. He would find some way to ease her troubled mind. She knew he would call at some point. He always did on this day of the year.
Sighing dejectedly, Miss Parker gracefully stepped out of her shoes and headed toward her bedroom to change. It took only a few minutes to return the sleek black suit to her closet and don blue jeans and a simple cotton shirt. Leaving her feet bare, Miss Parker wandered aimlessly into the kitchen and poured herself the last cup of coffee from the carafe on the counter.
After reheating the brew in the microwave, Miss Parker took her mug and returned to the livingroom. With a shrug, she took her briefcase and curled up on the couch to complete some paperwork.
Just as she was about to begin, Miss Parker shook her head in determination. Slamming a folder back into her case she grumbled to herself, "No." she hissed to the empty room. "I will not treat this like any other Sunday."
Hopping up from her seat Miss Parker folded her arms across her chest angrily and began to pace. She had always needed to feel close to her mother on this day of the year. She needed to wallow in the memories of a kind and gentle woman who had loved her so completely. Having recently learned that her mother had not died on this particular day made no difference to Miss Parker. In her mind, April thirteenth would always mark that loss in her life.
Chewing anxiously at her bottom lip, Miss Parker tried to think of some way to find that lost connection with her mother. Sudden inspiration sent her to the bookshelf where Miss Parker found an old family album. Sitting in an easy chair, Miss Parker flipped pages like an automaton. The flat glossy images seemed as false and empty as the barren graves at the cemetery.
Tossing the album onto the table, Miss Parker frowned. She stuffed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans in irritation. The fingertips of her right hand struck a hard thin object. Pulling the bit of metal from her pocket, the stunned woman stared in wonder at the key she now held in the palm of her hand.
Miss Parker hadn't realized that she was carrying this particular key. But concentrating on the object now, she recognized the fact that it had been in her pocket for several days. She had automatically transferred the key from one article of apparel to another without thought.
With the key in one hand, Miss Parker padded through the house to the dining room. She spent several long minutes frowning intently at the pale wooden door with the lock that would match this key.
Thomas Gates, dead for nearly three years now, had placed this door in the wall. The wall had once blocked off the next room, a studio where, as a child, Miss Parker had spent many hours with her mother. Thomas had been doing some repairs in the house and had discovered the hidden room.
Gentle soul that he was, Thomas had not been put off by Miss Parker's violent reaction to the room. Rather than replace the wall as she had demanded, he had put up the door. After much debate, Tommy had led a tearful Parker into the room one night.
The experience had been a heart wrenching one for Miss Parker. Thomas had managed to get passed many of Parker's emotional defenses. But ultimately, she had been frightened by the intensity of her feelings. A deeply suppressed need to be comforted and protected had surged through her.
In a reflexive act of self-defense, Miss Parker had shied away from such weakness. She had altered the comforting embrace with the handyman into a deeply passionate kiss. Rather than reveal the hidden vulnerability of her personality, Parker had turned the moment into a sexual encounter. She and Tommy had made love for the first time in the darkened studio.
Miss Parker hadn't set foot in the room since.
She supposed that Tommy's death should have been one more reason to stay away from her mother's studio. But Miss Parker had finally learned to accept Tommy's fate. She had loved the dark haired handy man deeply. He had made her realize how hard her heart had become over the years and had helped her to soften it. Parker would never forget him, but she had learned to let him go.
She'd never let go of her mother.
Desperate to find the solace of her mother's spirit, Miss Parker slid the key into the lock and opened the door.
Sunshine filled the room, shooting beams of light through thick layers of floating dust. A huge bay window was centered in the far wall. The cushioned seat at the base of the window had paled over the years, bleached by the sun. An easel stood sentinel in one corner, as though waiting patiently for its artist to return. The rest of the room was empty.
The bare walls were dotted with lonely nails and squares of color a single shade darker that the rest of the wall, evidence of the paintings that had once hung there.
Miss Parker silently crossed the room and sat gingerly on the window seat. She opened window using the crank at her side in an attempt to air out the stuffy dustiness. The view outside the window was still glorious. Her well- paid gardener had earned his keep. Smiling gently to herself, Parker remembered the many times she had sat in this very spot while her mother painted.
She had loved to watch the blank canvasses turn into colorful works of art. Though Miss Parker would later learn that her mother's talent was amateurish at best, as a child she'd believed her mother to be an incredible artist.
Parker frowned at the empty room for a moment as she tried to remember where all the paintings had gone. Another door caught Parker's eye. Located to the left of the one Parker had just come through, this door was narrower than most and the panel was dark with age.
Parker stood and clasped the knob in one hand. When it opened effortlessly, she was mildly surprised. She had expected the door to be locked. Sitting on the floor of the closet, stacked carefully against the wall, were dozens of canvasses.
Grinning like a child who has just found a treasure, Miss Parker pulled out one of the paintings and held it in the sunlight. It was a still life image of a vase full of flowers. The edges of the painting were thick with dust but the colors were still vibrant and alive.
Setting the first painting against the wall, Miss Parker retrieved another from the closet. This one had a wooden frame, evidently having once earned the right to be displayed. The garden scene Parker had just witnessed through the window had been duplicated in this picture.
Miss Parker spent the next hour looking through the many paintings her mother had created over the years. Her clothes were dirty and her bare feet were dusty when she came across a painting she remembered.
Parker's eyes welled with tears and she laughed sadly as she gazed at it. This particular picture had hung beside the window seat for as long as Parker could remember. Her mother had painted this shortly after her daughter's birth. Her mother had often told Parker stories about this picture, but Parker's favorite story had always been about why her mother had painted it.
"I was so eager to meet you, darling." Her mother would say. "There were so many stories that I wanted to share with you. I painted this so that I could remember the best of them."
The painting was a conglomeration of fairy tale creatures. Somewhat cartoonish in nature, the canvass was filled with colorful characters dancing in a playground surrounded by an enchanted forest. The forest was obviously magical because the trees all had smiling faces and twinkling eyes.
In the center of the painting, a man-sized frog dressed in royal clothing and a crown, kicked huge webbed feet in the air as he twirled. To his left, a cat stood on its hind legs playing a violin. A pair of cuddly brown bears sat on a blanket beside a picnic basket while a third smaller bear played nearby on a merry-go-round. Riding in circles with the baby bear were three pigs and several odd looking little dwarves.
A mother duck waddled across the foreground with a trail of ducklings following her webbed prints in the grass. At the end of this train was a large black gosling looking decidedly out of place amongst the smaller ducks. To the far right was a nervous looking little chicken hiding under an umbrella. Coming down the slide was a boy made of gingerbread and a rabbit wearing blue trousers and a jacket.
Flying across the sky was an elfish-like boy in green chasing his shadow. A cow was jumping over a grinning moon. Below that, there were three goats munching on green grass and a turtle wearing a racing cap.
The only human characters in the scene were two dark haired children, a boy and a girl, riding the see-saw with gleeful smiles on their cherubic faces.
Miss Parker sat down in the window seat and reveled in the storybook portrait. Each character brought renewed memories of her mother's lilting voice and bedtime fairy tales. Abruptly deciding to place the painting back on the wall, Parker turned the frame around to check for a wire to hang it from.
As she turned the object over in her hands, a gentle clacking sound came from within the frame. Startled for a moment, Parker tipped the painting to the opposite side. Again she heard the soft whisper of something shifting from inside the frame.
Loathe to harm this precious item in any way, Parker shifted the entire thing in her hands one more time in an attempt to identify the noise. Laying the frame face down on her lap, Parker examined the brown paper backing that had been attached to the canvass. Finally deciding that any damage to the frame could be repaired, Parker carefully peeled up one corner of the paper. Holding the opening with her fingers, she tilted the painting again.
A small square object, about three inches across, slid passed Parker's fingertips and fluttered to the floor at her feet. Setting the painting aside, Parker reached down and picked the object up with trembling fingers.
It was a black and white photograph. The image was of two toddlers sitting in the same window seat Parker currently occupied. The first child was a baby girl in a flowered dress. She sat, grinning mischievously, with a small sock in one hand. Her little feet were both bare.
The second child was a dark-haired boy wearing overalls and a striped shirt. Several months older than the girl, the pudgy, padded look to his clothes indicated that he was still in diapers. Parker guessed that he was no more than eighteen months old.
The boy was crouched on his haunches, bent over in a contortionist fashion that only toddlers can manage. He also had a small sock in his hands. Frowning with intense concentration, his little tongue sticking out at the effort, the boy was trying to place the sock on his companion's tiny foot.
Feeling as though she was moving in slow motion, Parker flipped the photograph over and found her mother's distinctive handwriting on the back.
"Jarod helps us dress for our birthday party - 01/04/61" the inscription said.
Dazed at her monumental discovery, Parker stared in awe at the image in her hands. Time slipped away from her as she gazed in wonder at the two bright- eyed, happy children.
The sound of a phone ringing from the other room finally snapped Miss Parker out of her trance.
Dashing out of the studio with the photograph still in her hand, Parker ran to the phone. She had no idea how long it had been ringing when she grabbed it up and whispered breathlessly, "Jarod?"
"That's a dangerous way to answer your phone, Parker." A deep throaty voice purred. "What if it had been your brother calling instead of me?"
"Jarod." Parker sighed.
Seeming to sense some of her distress, Jarod asked, "What's wrong?"
Closing her eyes, Parker tried to calm her racing thoughts enough to be coherent. "Oh my God." She said, her voice wavering. "Jarod, you are not going to believe what I just found."
--
After the game, the king and the pawn go into the same box. (Italian saying)
The King and the Pawn
Lost and Found
By Phenyx
The slim brunette stepped gracefully from the car, her incredibly high- heeled shoes clicked on the cement with the confidence of familiarity. Her fashionably tailored back suit was crisp and unwrinkled after her brief time in the driver's seat.
She was a stunning woman, beautiful in a regal manner. Her flawless appearance and confident poise spoke of wealth and power. Her gray eyes were hard, often flashing in anger. As a result, she radiated a demeanor of frosty coolness. She worked hard to keep that icy barrier between her and the rest of the world. It was an emotional barricade that Miss Parker had spent a lifetime building.
Today, on this bright Sunday morning, Miss Parker's stoicism was even more pronounced. The deep sorrow she always felt on this day manifested itself to society as an even harder personality. Only a small handful of people knew Miss Parker well enough to understand the vulnerability that hid beneath her tough exterior.
It was April thirteenth. The anniversary of the day that Miss Parker had, for all intensive purposes, lost her mother so many years ago. She had been only a girl when she had first stood at the side of her mother's grave to grieve. It was an annual pilgrimage that Miss Parker dutifully continued to perform.
On this anniversary in years passed, Miss Parker had spent long hours in the cemetery, finding a measure of peace as she felt her mother's presence. But this year had been different. Standing before the headstone, engraved this year with two names, Miss Parker had found no solace.
Walking up the walkway to the front door, Miss Parker sighed as she returned home less than an hour after leaving. She stepped across the threshold and tossed her keys onto the nearby table. For several minutes, she stood there, staring forlornly at the room. It was still early, barely nine o'clock in the morning.
"What the hell am I supposed to do now?" She grumbled to herself.
Miss Parker's busy schedule rarely left her with free time. She purposely had nothing planned for today, intending to spend the majority of this Sunday at the cemetery. But this year, Miss Parker had been unable to feel her mother's presence. Standing before the cold stone engraved with her mother's and father's names had seemed so futile. It was a hollow gesture, for both graves were empty.
Miss Parker had grown up believing that her mother shot herself in an elevator at The Centre, the malicious corporation run by the Parker family. The truth about her mother's murder had been revealed to her several months ago. The man Miss Parker would always think of as her father had jumped to his death from an airplane last autumn while Miss Parker watched. She had been unable to locate either body.
The irony of the empty tombs had been too much for Miss Parker to bear. Vacant graves, empty promises, deceitful lies and unending pain were the legacy Miss Parker had inherited. The Centre, and all its woes, was all Miss Parker had left. Her twin brother, a lunatic called Lyle, was too vile a creature for Miss Parker to claim as her own.
The Centre had been built by Miss Parker's great grandfather, an evil man who had murdered his wife and children in Scotland before immigrating to the United States. The powerful corporation that he had created was just as corrupt and horrific as its originator. Human beings were tortured and used for experimentation in the lower levels of the facility. Children were bought, stolen or bred and then treated like guinea pigs in an attempt to make a profit.
For most of her life, Miss Parker had only been aware of the most insignificant of The Centre's atrocities. It wasn't until a few years ago that she had begun to open her eyes to the truly repulsive acts that had been occurring around her. She had been blissfully ignorant of The Centre's activities and her father's lies until Jarod had begun to show them to her.
Jarod had been one of The Centre's best and brightest inmates. He'd been brought to The Centre as a small boy, barely two years out of diapers. The child had been stolen from his bed and isolated at The Centre in order to exploit his incredible mind. Imprisoned in a dark series of rooms, he had been trained to become a pretender, someone who could be anyone, anything he wanted. Jarod had learned quickly and excelled.
For more than thirty years, Jarod had lived in the dark confines of The Centre's underground laboratories. He was told when to eat and to sleep. Jarod's every move was documented. He'd been submitted to the cruelest of tortures and emotionally flogged for decades. And yet one day, he had simply vanished from his cell. Jarod had run away from The Centre and, ever since, it had been Miss Parker's job to bring him back.
The two of them had been friends as children, two lonely waifs searching desperately for the affection they each craved. For several years they had found a forbidden companionship as they played together among the shadows. Miss Parker had eventually been sent to Europe to complete her education at a posh boarding school and the friendship had ended.
But now, as adults, Jarod clung stubbornly to the idea that their friendship meant something. While Miss Parker and her team chased Jarod around the globe, he insisted upon leaving her a trail so that she could follow him. In the six years since he had escaped, an odd sense of dependence had built up between them. Jarod worked diligently to uncover the secret of his true identity and he shared that information with Miss Parker. They had even learned that they shared a half-brother named Ethan.
Over the past few years, Jarod and Miss Parker had learned to trust one another in a way they could trust no one else.
For the most part, Miss Parker found the pretender incredibly annoying. He invariably called at the oddest times and foisted unwanted information on her. The lies that they had uncovered together had been numerous. But deep in the hidden recesses of her soul, Miss Parker knew that her friendship with Jarod had never really died. She depended on him at an emotional level that was far stronger than she cared to admit.
Glaring at the phone, Miss Parker willed it to ring. She wanted to hear Jarod's voice. He would find some way to ease her troubled mind. She knew he would call at some point. He always did on this day of the year.
Sighing dejectedly, Miss Parker gracefully stepped out of her shoes and headed toward her bedroom to change. It took only a few minutes to return the sleek black suit to her closet and don blue jeans and a simple cotton shirt. Leaving her feet bare, Miss Parker wandered aimlessly into the kitchen and poured herself the last cup of coffee from the carafe on the counter.
After reheating the brew in the microwave, Miss Parker took her mug and returned to the livingroom. With a shrug, she took her briefcase and curled up on the couch to complete some paperwork.
Just as she was about to begin, Miss Parker shook her head in determination. Slamming a folder back into her case she grumbled to herself, "No." she hissed to the empty room. "I will not treat this like any other Sunday."
Hopping up from her seat Miss Parker folded her arms across her chest angrily and began to pace. She had always needed to feel close to her mother on this day of the year. She needed to wallow in the memories of a kind and gentle woman who had loved her so completely. Having recently learned that her mother had not died on this particular day made no difference to Miss Parker. In her mind, April thirteenth would always mark that loss in her life.
Chewing anxiously at her bottom lip, Miss Parker tried to think of some way to find that lost connection with her mother. Sudden inspiration sent her to the bookshelf where Miss Parker found an old family album. Sitting in an easy chair, Miss Parker flipped pages like an automaton. The flat glossy images seemed as false and empty as the barren graves at the cemetery.
Tossing the album onto the table, Miss Parker frowned. She stuffed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans in irritation. The fingertips of her right hand struck a hard thin object. Pulling the bit of metal from her pocket, the stunned woman stared in wonder at the key she now held in the palm of her hand.
Miss Parker hadn't realized that she was carrying this particular key. But concentrating on the object now, she recognized the fact that it had been in her pocket for several days. She had automatically transferred the key from one article of apparel to another without thought.
With the key in one hand, Miss Parker padded through the house to the dining room. She spent several long minutes frowning intently at the pale wooden door with the lock that would match this key.
Thomas Gates, dead for nearly three years now, had placed this door in the wall. The wall had once blocked off the next room, a studio where, as a child, Miss Parker had spent many hours with her mother. Thomas had been doing some repairs in the house and had discovered the hidden room.
Gentle soul that he was, Thomas had not been put off by Miss Parker's violent reaction to the room. Rather than replace the wall as she had demanded, he had put up the door. After much debate, Tommy had led a tearful Parker into the room one night.
The experience had been a heart wrenching one for Miss Parker. Thomas had managed to get passed many of Parker's emotional defenses. But ultimately, she had been frightened by the intensity of her feelings. A deeply suppressed need to be comforted and protected had surged through her.
In a reflexive act of self-defense, Miss Parker had shied away from such weakness. She had altered the comforting embrace with the handyman into a deeply passionate kiss. Rather than reveal the hidden vulnerability of her personality, Parker had turned the moment into a sexual encounter. She and Tommy had made love for the first time in the darkened studio.
Miss Parker hadn't set foot in the room since.
She supposed that Tommy's death should have been one more reason to stay away from her mother's studio. But Miss Parker had finally learned to accept Tommy's fate. She had loved the dark haired handy man deeply. He had made her realize how hard her heart had become over the years and had helped her to soften it. Parker would never forget him, but she had learned to let him go.
She'd never let go of her mother.
Desperate to find the solace of her mother's spirit, Miss Parker slid the key into the lock and opened the door.
Sunshine filled the room, shooting beams of light through thick layers of floating dust. A huge bay window was centered in the far wall. The cushioned seat at the base of the window had paled over the years, bleached by the sun. An easel stood sentinel in one corner, as though waiting patiently for its artist to return. The rest of the room was empty.
The bare walls were dotted with lonely nails and squares of color a single shade darker that the rest of the wall, evidence of the paintings that had once hung there.
Miss Parker silently crossed the room and sat gingerly on the window seat. She opened window using the crank at her side in an attempt to air out the stuffy dustiness. The view outside the window was still glorious. Her well- paid gardener had earned his keep. Smiling gently to herself, Parker remembered the many times she had sat in this very spot while her mother painted.
She had loved to watch the blank canvasses turn into colorful works of art. Though Miss Parker would later learn that her mother's talent was amateurish at best, as a child she'd believed her mother to be an incredible artist.
Parker frowned at the empty room for a moment as she tried to remember where all the paintings had gone. Another door caught Parker's eye. Located to the left of the one Parker had just come through, this door was narrower than most and the panel was dark with age.
Parker stood and clasped the knob in one hand. When it opened effortlessly, she was mildly surprised. She had expected the door to be locked. Sitting on the floor of the closet, stacked carefully against the wall, were dozens of canvasses.
Grinning like a child who has just found a treasure, Miss Parker pulled out one of the paintings and held it in the sunlight. It was a still life image of a vase full of flowers. The edges of the painting were thick with dust but the colors were still vibrant and alive.
Setting the first painting against the wall, Miss Parker retrieved another from the closet. This one had a wooden frame, evidently having once earned the right to be displayed. The garden scene Parker had just witnessed through the window had been duplicated in this picture.
Miss Parker spent the next hour looking through the many paintings her mother had created over the years. Her clothes were dirty and her bare feet were dusty when she came across a painting she remembered.
Parker's eyes welled with tears and she laughed sadly as she gazed at it. This particular picture had hung beside the window seat for as long as Parker could remember. Her mother had painted this shortly after her daughter's birth. Her mother had often told Parker stories about this picture, but Parker's favorite story had always been about why her mother had painted it.
"I was so eager to meet you, darling." Her mother would say. "There were so many stories that I wanted to share with you. I painted this so that I could remember the best of them."
The painting was a conglomeration of fairy tale creatures. Somewhat cartoonish in nature, the canvass was filled with colorful characters dancing in a playground surrounded by an enchanted forest. The forest was obviously magical because the trees all had smiling faces and twinkling eyes.
In the center of the painting, a man-sized frog dressed in royal clothing and a crown, kicked huge webbed feet in the air as he twirled. To his left, a cat stood on its hind legs playing a violin. A pair of cuddly brown bears sat on a blanket beside a picnic basket while a third smaller bear played nearby on a merry-go-round. Riding in circles with the baby bear were three pigs and several odd looking little dwarves.
A mother duck waddled across the foreground with a trail of ducklings following her webbed prints in the grass. At the end of this train was a large black gosling looking decidedly out of place amongst the smaller ducks. To the far right was a nervous looking little chicken hiding under an umbrella. Coming down the slide was a boy made of gingerbread and a rabbit wearing blue trousers and a jacket.
Flying across the sky was an elfish-like boy in green chasing his shadow. A cow was jumping over a grinning moon. Below that, there were three goats munching on green grass and a turtle wearing a racing cap.
The only human characters in the scene were two dark haired children, a boy and a girl, riding the see-saw with gleeful smiles on their cherubic faces.
Miss Parker sat down in the window seat and reveled in the storybook portrait. Each character brought renewed memories of her mother's lilting voice and bedtime fairy tales. Abruptly deciding to place the painting back on the wall, Parker turned the frame around to check for a wire to hang it from.
As she turned the object over in her hands, a gentle clacking sound came from within the frame. Startled for a moment, Parker tipped the painting to the opposite side. Again she heard the soft whisper of something shifting from inside the frame.
Loathe to harm this precious item in any way, Parker shifted the entire thing in her hands one more time in an attempt to identify the noise. Laying the frame face down on her lap, Parker examined the brown paper backing that had been attached to the canvass. Finally deciding that any damage to the frame could be repaired, Parker carefully peeled up one corner of the paper. Holding the opening with her fingers, she tilted the painting again.
A small square object, about three inches across, slid passed Parker's fingertips and fluttered to the floor at her feet. Setting the painting aside, Parker reached down and picked the object up with trembling fingers.
It was a black and white photograph. The image was of two toddlers sitting in the same window seat Parker currently occupied. The first child was a baby girl in a flowered dress. She sat, grinning mischievously, with a small sock in one hand. Her little feet were both bare.
The second child was a dark-haired boy wearing overalls and a striped shirt. Several months older than the girl, the pudgy, padded look to his clothes indicated that he was still in diapers. Parker guessed that he was no more than eighteen months old.
The boy was crouched on his haunches, bent over in a contortionist fashion that only toddlers can manage. He also had a small sock in his hands. Frowning with intense concentration, his little tongue sticking out at the effort, the boy was trying to place the sock on his companion's tiny foot.
Feeling as though she was moving in slow motion, Parker flipped the photograph over and found her mother's distinctive handwriting on the back.
"Jarod helps us dress for our birthday party - 01/04/61" the inscription said.
Dazed at her monumental discovery, Parker stared in awe at the image in her hands. Time slipped away from her as she gazed in wonder at the two bright- eyed, happy children.
The sound of a phone ringing from the other room finally snapped Miss Parker out of her trance.
Dashing out of the studio with the photograph still in her hand, Parker ran to the phone. She had no idea how long it had been ringing when she grabbed it up and whispered breathlessly, "Jarod?"
"That's a dangerous way to answer your phone, Parker." A deep throaty voice purred. "What if it had been your brother calling instead of me?"
"Jarod." Parker sighed.
Seeming to sense some of her distress, Jarod asked, "What's wrong?"
Closing her eyes, Parker tried to calm her racing thoughts enough to be coherent. "Oh my God." She said, her voice wavering. "Jarod, you are not going to believe what I just found."
--
