By Chance

Chapter 1: Tara-1

Chapter 1:

TaraDecember 15, 2014, Charleston, SC

In South Carolina, Mother Nature overlooked winter and soared full-fledged into spring, blitzing December with unusual warmth and balmy breezes. Along Charleston's Battery Promenade, Palmetto trees sway from coastal winds, and early risers, though stunned, welcome tropical weather as they start their morning ritual.

In the French Quarters, harbor winds whip around Tara McPherson's townhouse and through an open window, banging blinds rowdily across the windowsill. Bolting from sleep, Tara stumbles downstairs in a somnolent trance, closes the window then plods heavy-eyed through the dark, bumping into the hall credenza. “Owww!” She squeals, stoops, and grasps her stubbed toe, sucking air through clenched teeth until the pain subsides.

Slowly, rising from the floor, she shuffles one-sided, eyes down to the top of the stairs, and then abruptly stops when a strange light glimmers above. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she steps onto the landing, glances about the window-less space, circles, and waves her arms about for the source, but finds nothing. Much too tired to solve the baffling light, she shuffles into the bedroom.

“Darn,” She grumbles.

Catching time on the clock, she realizes the alarm will chime in two minutes. Tara sighs and deliberates jumping back in bed. With a deeper sigh, she drags her weary body to the shower; unaware the glow trails behind.

* * *

Thirty-five minutes later, Tara's bedroom appears a hurricane's aftermath. With clothing strewn pell-mell about the room; she searches for a suitable outfit to wear in the unseasonable weather. Fretfully standing undressed in the middle of the room, hair flying in voluminous curls, she sighs and peers toward the large walk-in closet. At the back, she spies her spring wardrobe and ponders two dresses suitable for the temporary warm spell. Improvise; improvise.

Finally, she tugs a simple tan dress around her narrow hips and slips into a pair of suede pumps, wishing she could wear a pair of jeans and T-shirt. Maybe it's time for a new dress code at work—casual dress, jeans and a blouse; no sneakers or flip-flops. “Hmph,” she deliberates with a smirk. However, Southerners prefer formality and she's certain casual attire is unacceptable. Anyway, as Managing Director, I must dress accordingly.

Standing at the vanity mirror, her father and mother's features appear dominant this morning. Never one to wear much makeup, she applies modicum lipstick, blush, and mascara, stares at her massive curls, and toys with the idea a simple ponytail. But instead, she wears it loosely about her shoulders. At first glance, Tara appears a Southern Belle, that is until her northern dialect reveals her native origins. Her nationality isn't always apparent given indistinct facial features. With honey brown skin and wavy chestnut hair, she borders on African, Indian, and Latin-American. She abhors racial labels and will never deny her mother's African American heritage or her father's Irish roots. She realizes the appropriate representation is biracial, but she prefers African-American for the sake of simplicity.

Tara scoffs at laws prohibiting interracial marriages, prevalent in South Carolina before the 1970s. Life is so absurd. If she'd been born in Charleston, the probable outcome would have been imprisonment or worst for her parents. The thought infuriates her; the ignorance makes her boiling mad, but she appreciates what her parents endured to make their lives possible. Although years ago, racial mixing was f*******n; she's certain it was merely concealed in Southern towns like Charleston. Nonetheless, neither race nor anti-miscegenation laws prevented her parents from marrying, but at the cost of uprooting themselves from their beloved Charleston. Moving to New York City, they married in 1975, several years after interracial marriages became legal in South Carolina. The McPherson's made a life in New York, and Tara grew up a city girl, which was probably for the best.

With her father's connections, she entered New York University's Business School and two years later, acquired her Interior Design degree from Parsons School of Art and Design. She recalls Nyla's surprise when she decided to enter business school. “You're just like your dad.” However, Tara suspects she's more like her mom than she lets on. Tara perceives she inherited her business acumen from her father, an astute Corporate Lawyer, but she also inherited her mother's aesthetics for architecture and interior design. Nyla postponed her career to raise her daughter, wanting to give Tara a healthy home environment and the relationship she'd had with her mom. Aware of her mother's decision to abandon a cherished career in Interior Design, she'd often ponder Nyla's success if she hadn't been born. Nevertheless, Nyla always upholds, “Honey, you're my greatest piece of work, and nothing else compares.”

At the age of fourteen, Tara sensed her mom's desire to resume her career. She laughs at her futile attempts to prove her maturity. “Mom, I'm old enough to take care of myself,” hoping to persuade her to restart a stunted career. Finally, when Tara turned sixteen, Nyla took a position as an Assistant Interior Designer with a small design firm where she worked many years before leaving New York City.

Tara's parents loved and missed the South's simple lifestyle and longed to move back. There wasn't a single day she didn't hear about their beloved Charleston. She grew up eating her mother's Southern cooking of butter beans, fried green tomatoes, buttermilk biscuits, bread pudding, pecan, peach, and blackberry pies, and her favorite—blueberry cobbler. Just thinking about her mother's cooking makes her mouth water. It's a wonder I didn't grow up porky, she thinks while glancing in the mirror. Tara's relieved she'd not only inherit her dad's business acumen but also his long, lean figure.

Years later, at twenty-four, Tara made her first trip to South Carolina. A grandfather she'd never met and who had no interest in meeting her was her parent's impetus to move back to Charleston. Her father, James, inherited the entire McPherson estate. There was no inkling of her family's wealth and prestige in Charleston. Because of her grandfather's animosity toward his marriage, dad spoke of him rarely and usually in a disparaging tone.

One poignant morning, her father was hesitant to take a call from his dad. His semblance of defiance swiftly dispersed to uncertainty, reverence, and then tears. “Hi, dad…” His composed voice reverted to an unexpected boyishness. “It's been a long time, but I'm happy to hear your voice.” His powerful figure softened as Tara hid, listening in the hallway. Swiftly, James' pained expression warmed to affection. Never had she heard her father's voice so light. Years of anger vanished with one phone call, a conversation so intimate, Tara felt uncomfortable watching.

That unexpected call settled her parent's decision to return to Charleston. She'd heard James say, “Nyla, the old man must have forgiven me for running away from the family business and marrying you.”

Nyla had summed it up as aging. “Sometimes age and mortality give one a better perception of what's important. James, he never stopped loving you. He just made peace with your decision.”

Tara hated her grandfather's callous disregard of their marriage and will never make peace with his racist thinking. She'd never possessed any interest in visiting the South, given the disdain for racial mixing and her family's ordeal. However, Tara instantly fell in love with Charleston's lifestyle and architecture. When she'd decided to join her parents a year later, her father's name and connections landed her a position with Alcott Home and Design (AHD), where she'd worked her way up to Managing Director.

Tara glances at her image in the mirror. Something's missing … Too much brown. Her skin tone melds with the tan dress, creating one brown monotone silhouette. She glances at the jewelry box on top of the dresser, pondering seldom worn gems it contains. She's never been one to wear much jewelry, sometimes, perhaps simple earrings and a necklace. Inside the silver box, she stares at various rings, pendants, and crystal charms Nyla gave her over the years. The most recent addition to her collection is the blue Lapis-Lazuli stone necklace. She remembers Nyla telling her of the gems unique powers. “The crystals will help develop your intuition.” Tara wore the gift once, and Nyla scoffs whenever she's without it—as if the stones hold some magical power.

The Cabochon Chakra pendant catches her attention. The different abilities of each stone and their vibrant colors always fascinate Tara. Her mother, the guru on crystals and stones, is never without some beautiful crystal necklace or ring. She remembers what Nyla told her about chakras and the seven points in the body circulating energy or prana. But she can't remember the unique abilities of each stone. One day, she thought she'd find time to learn more about crystals and gems, but with her demanding schedule, there's no time. Dangling the necklace mid-air, Tara admires each stone. Well, if Nyla says they will clear my chakras I believe her.

Just as Tara wraps the chakras necklace about her neck, the sacred-seven-stone pendant sparkles brightly in the jewelry box. How could I forget the pendant? The last time she wore it was in New York. The colors always soothed her. She'd memorized each gem—Amethyst, Quartz, Rutile, Goethite, Cacoxenite, Lepidocrocite, and Smokey Quartz Crystal. The pendant was a twenty-fourth birthday present from her father, but she'd immediately recognized Nyla's role. James would never buy her jewelry. Nyla would always affirm, “The stones will help you become who you're meant to be,” words of her all-knowing mother. Has it worked yet? She wonders.

She places the chakra pendant back in the box and replaces it with the sacred-seven pendant. The stones glow radiantly, catching the overhead light. She takes another look in the mirror, touches the stones, and wonders if they indeed hold some magical power. “I hope so. I'll need all the help I can get today.” From the antique dresser's top drawer, she takes a striped indigo and ivory silk scarf, double wraps it around her neck with the pendant dangling at her heart.

Collecting her bags and turning off the foyer light, the mysterious glow appears again, shimmering like an illumined body of water at night. An unusual electrical aura surrounds the space, causing hairs along her arms to prickle. Unnerved, Tara swiftly leaves the foyer and exits the front door. From the porch of her townhouse on Gillon Street, strong harbor winds knock her off balance. Like an accordion, the newspaper whips back and forth at her feet. Picking up the paper, the front page unfolds to Marion and Anson Alcott's picture. Headlines herald:

Real Estate Donated For Medical Research Facility By Alcott Foundation

Hmmm, another philanthropic venture … She's not surprised. The Alcotts are always involved in some major affair. Curiously, Tara glances back at the foyer. Her intuition screams, something's wrong. If she believed in the supernatural, she'd say the townhouse has a visitor this morning. Tara closes the door and hopes the glow is gone when she returns.

Lifting her head toward Charleston's Harbor, a sunrise painting splays spectrum of colors, signaling a glorious December day in the Palmetto State. Savoring the unusually warm breezy autumn day, she decides to walk to the office. Charleston's French Quarters stir with morning noise. But she relishes Charleston's morning calm, a drastic contrast to New York City's rush-hour. Cautiously, Tara passes private homes, wary of cars backing out of side alleys. From horse-drawn carriages, curious tourists spy on Charleston's antebellum architecture.

A few minutes later, on Cordes Street, Tara's heels sink into jagged cobblestones. “Darn, I've forgotten my flats,” she mumbles. Finally, arriving at East Bay Street, she makes her way inside her favorite morning haunt—the Bakehouse Bakery Café. Coffee is Tara's foible. She can't start her day without the bitter aroma brushing her nose, filling her mouth, and jolting her senses awake. She's tried almost every coffeehouse in Charleston, finding the Bakehouse Bakery Café makes the perfect cup of Joe. She considers many customers she's referred to the coffee bar and muses; I could be their marketer as she walks through the door.

“Morning, Tara. Will it be your usual?” The barista asks in a thick Southern drawl.