Man of Her Dreams Debra Webb (top 100 books to read txt) 📖

Darby wondered as she rode, the wind wafting her hair over her shoulders, if that’s what made her feel so at home in New Orleans. The sense of history, of old souls hanging about. Some might find that odd, eerie even, but not Darby. She liked the feeling of being close to such a colorful and varied past.

There was no place in America like New Orleans.

When she’d been a teenager she’d sneaked into Lafayette Cemetery with some of her friends. The others had gotten spooked and ran for their lives, but she’d been enthralled with the City of the Dead. It had seemed mystical, healing. She hadn’t felt the least bit frightened. Maybe because she understood the ambience there. She sensed the energy left behind by those who’d come before her. It wasn’t good or evil spirits, as her friends had assumed. No ghosts. Just the essence left behind by all those souls who’d once walked this same earth. People had nothing to fear from the dead; it was the living who committed crimes.

Clairvoyance was vastly misunderstood, to Darby’s way of thinking. Though she hadn’t precisely studied it and definitely hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, she understood her particular talent. Perhaps it was different for others. She possessed no ability to speak with the dead or even the living, other than by the usual means. She merely felt things on a much more heightened level than other humans. Sometimes she wondered if she actually was…human. The dreams she experienced at times reminded her of things that she’d seen in the movies. She wondered on those occasions just what they had done to her at that place…Center.

She shook off the silly notion. Yes, she was human. Her personal physician would vouch for that. Though she’d never been sick, she had had the required physicals throughout her life. When she thought about it, the idea that she’d never had the first virus or typical childhood illness could be seen as odd. Dr. Tygart simply chalked it up to good genes.

The memory of the one accident she’d had as a kid followed on the heels of that. She’d broken her arm falling from a tree. It had hurt for a day or two. Dr. Tygart had been amazed at how quickly she healed. Practically overnight. Again, he’d raved about how lucky she was to have inherited such excellent genetic traits.

She’d read about genetic manipulation, had heard about designer babies. Who hadn’t? But she was twenty-six years old. Scientists hadn’t had the technology to do such things that many years ago.

Frowning, Darby dismissed that line of thinking as well. Obsessing about her murky past was not the kind of distraction she’d had in mind this morning when she’d taken this longer route.

Directing her attention back to the lovely historic homes, she admired the craftsmanship and felt blessed that those with the money and wherewithal had chosen to maintain the beauty of the Old South. She’d even thought at one time of going into the antiques business with her mother. But after the accident, she just hadn’t been able to bring herself to set foot back in that shop. Nor had she been able to sell it. So she leased the elegant Jackson Square shop and someone else made his living in antiques there. She’d closed up the big old house outside of town, promising herself she’d move there one day and have a large enough family to fill it. Every summer, she spent a couple of weeks in her parents’ home, airing the place out and removing a year’s worth of dust.

Even after five long years, she could still feel their presence there. Too strongly. Unlike the cemeteries, where the lingering essence of so many pressed in around her without disturbing her, this was different. It was deeply personal, more than she could bear. Maybe in time.

Darby stopped for a coffee and beignet. The powdered sugar melted in her mouth; the beignet tasted so good she had to lick her fingers. Feeling energized by the caffeine and sugar fix, she covered the rest of the journey in record time. The usual fortune-tellers, street charlatans and tourists had already gotten thick on the sidewalk.

She parked her bike and merged with a group of children to climb the massive stone steps to the school’s front entrance. A smile moved across her face and she realized then and there that going back on the medication had been the right thing to do. She loved her work, loved her life; she didn’t need the unnatural interference of the dreams. It would serve no purpose, since she had never once been able to harness the power she possessed and focus it precisely enough to make any sense of what she experienced.

Her so-called “gift” was useless.

Had she had any real talent, she might have prevented her parents from taking that weekend trip that took their lives. An unexpected college project was all that had prevented her from boarding that fishing boat with them. What good was a gift if you couldn’t help those you cared about?

The moment Darby entered the school’s enormous main hall, a heavy weight settled upon her like a casket covered with shovelful after shovelful of graveyard dirt. Sadness. Desperation. Or a combination of the two. The halls and rooms were oddly quiet. Even the children seemed to rush to their rooms as if they’d felt the same dark weight as she.

Headmaster Theodore Yeager waited at her classroom door. Uneasiness crept up her spine, slowing her step as she neared him. Why would he be waiting at her door? Had a parent complained about her work? That didn’t seem likely. She had a great relationship with all her parents. The children loved her. In the four years that she had worked here, she’d never had a single complaint.

“Good morning, Mr. Yeager. Is everything all right?” She studied his somber expression and even before he spoke, she knew the news was bad. Very bad.

“Ms. Shepard, let’s