Jewels of the Crown

By Sonya Hastings

This novel, although fiction, is based on a true story. The story is one of prodigies, of magic, of truth and righteousness and last but not least, of love; for every answer to every question lives inside of love.
The Jewel of the Crown is one of three novels- a trilogy. The sequel that will follow is the novel- The War of Holy Hell, which will pick up where this novel leaves off.
The story of the Jewels of the Crown in genre is considered a paranormal love story, however has a strong Christian undertone. My novel dictates a story of good verses evil; for one cannot believe in one and not the other, as they both equally exist.
If you are a Christian who believes in your God and in your Lord Jesus Christ, this novel will lighten your heart, renew your faith and bring you hope. If you are a non-believer, I challenge you to read this novel anyway and with an open mind and think outside the box. Ask yourself, could there be a chance that I am wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669820932

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I have finished packing everything and am ready for my big move tomorrow. It is still hard for me to believe that I have sold the family farm and would soon be leaving Tucson forever.

However, while anxiously awaiting my arrival in Manhattan, Grandma has taken it upon herself to contact my childhood friends Cindy and Mitt. They are equally excited about my decision to make a permanent move to New York and have been blowing up my phone since hearing the news.

I am happy with moving to New York and being close to Grandma and my friends, but I feel uneasy about all the attention. After all, I’ve been alone on the farm since my parents died two years ago, with only the occasional company of the farm’s groundsman, Bob, and his wife, Ginger.

I have always been extremely close to my grandma Katherine, whose name we share. I have visited her every summer since I was ten. Up until now, the summer visits have seemed to suffice everyone, including me. No one ever entertained the idea of me selling the family farm and moving to the big city of New York.

However, nothing stays the same, and things are altogether different now. Grandma’s pancreatic cancer is no longer in remission and is back with a vengeance. I know in my heart of hearts that, for me, there is no other choice but to go and care for her. After all, it is painfully obvious that our days together are numbered and slim at best. Not to mention, she is the only family I have left in this world, besides, perhaps, Cindy and Mitt.

Cindy and Mitt have been the closest I’ve ever had to siblings. In 1998, I met them during my first summer visiting my grandparents. My grandpa, Clarence Cotton, a.k.a. Church, was still alive at that time. Retired at an early age, he occupied his mind and time at the local Catholic parish doing whatever he could, hence obtaining the nickname Church. His passion was his teaching. He taught thirty-five years before he got lung cancer, which resulted in his retirement. Grandpa never went back to teaching professionally. However, after his cancer went into remission, he led the church’s children who wished to obtain their sacraments.

It was at one of those classes where I met Cindy and Mitt. We bonded like the Three Musketeers and have made it a point to get together almost every summer since then. So it would be safe to say they are like family.

With his smashing good looks, dark hair, olive complexion, and green eyes, Mitt is right for the taking. He and I have shared a crush on one another since we were kids. However, it just seems too odd, him being like a brother and all, to ever seriously date him. Besides, I have always lived half a country away, only seeing him and Cindy on the occasional summer visits and a few holidays in between.

Cindy has been pleading with me to live with her for quite some time. She is single, childless, and alone, with plenty of room in her home for guests. However, I know me, and that arrangement would never work out, as I need my own space. Besides, I want to be as close to my grandma as much as possible. After all, that is the whole reason behind my doing any of this.

Being a ghostwriter doesn’t come with too many demands, which is why I’m so fond of it, but one does have timelines and deadlines to meet. Tamara, the author for whom I write, has done well with me, this being our fourth novel together. The first three novels were very profitable, and this one is expected to be also.

The one thing that truly worries me about the move to New York is the loss of peace. The farm is so quiet and with no one but me living here. I’m just not sure how I will handle it all, I suppose. Here on the farm, I have always had the time and the solitude necessary to write and allow my mind to create. So I wonder how I will do in the big city and pray it doesn’t eat me alive.

The phone rings.

Hello.

It is Grandma.

Hello, dear, how are things coming along?

Grandma, bless her heart, has called every day since I told her about my decision to move to New York and be with her. Every day, she asks the same questions and makes the same statements. In knowing her character, this behavior makes me cringe at the severity of her condition and disease.

Everything is perfect, Grandma, I say, trying my best to hide the reservations I am beginning to feel about the move.

Oh, that is great! I can’t wait to see you again and hug you tight!

I can’t wait to see you too, Grandma. It has been almost a year since we saw each other last.

Yes, I know. It has been ten months, three days, and eighteen hours, Grandma scoffs back at me.

Well, now we won’t ever have to be apart again, I say, giggling a little under my breath at her report of time. I find it quite humorous how she could not remember some things, but others were right on target.

I am so excited, Katy, and your friends are too. They said, once you get settled in, we are going to have a welcoming party for you.

Oh, yeah? . . . But you know how I despise parties.

You mean, ‘Oh, yes?’ She scolds at my word choices.

Grandma had been an English teacher and had taught the fifth grade her entire career.

Grandma continues. Yes, dear, I remember, but sometimes we have to let people do good things for us because it makes them feel good, she explains in her loving way.

Yes, ma’am, I know . . . you are right, I say, sighing.

Of course I am, dear, Grandma acknowledges.

So, what time will you be arriving?

It is apparent Grandma has lost her ability to remember details, which is out of character for her. She has been someone who never missed a birthday or any occasion for that matter and someone who has never been in the habit of using a planner. Yet my grandma could occupy information in her brain like no other; even useless information found a place to nest itself.

My plane arrives at three tomorrow afternoon, I remind her.

Oh, yes, that is right, and Cindy and Mitt are picking you up from the airport?

Yes, they promised they would be there.

OK, well, I guess everything is in order. I just wanted to double-check and make sure.

Thank you, Grandma. All bases are covered.

She loves that catchy phrase and any other that refers to baseball. Grandma is a faithful Yankees fan. It is one of the many things I am looking forward to sharing with her.

All right, sweetheart. Have a nice flight, and I will see you tomorrow.

I will, and yes! You will!

I love you, Katy.

I love you too, Grandma, and I hang up the phone.

For the rest of the day and evening, I have taken the time to walk around the old farm. There are so many memories here. I look around and can remember the past years as if they were yesterday.

Fixing my eyes on Father’s old jeep and tractor in the barn, now covered with cobwebs and dust, I remember the day he brought that tractor home. That same day, he began painting the doors to read Cotton to the second power. Of course, it had a ring to it. After all, our last name is Cotton, and our family farmed cotton, so it made sense. But most of all, I remember the long rides I used to take with my dad on that old tractor and the long conversations he and I used to share.

Next to the barn, there’s a vast paloverde tree. It was my favorite place on the farm. It shaded me in the summer from the hot sun, and in the cold months, it broke the wind’s chill. Hanging from it is the tree swing my dad put up for me.

I sit in the old swing and take another good look around. I couldn’t help but be a little sad. After all, I am leaving and will never see this place again. I will never see the old tractor, ride in the farm’s jeep, sit under my favorite tree, or swing again in the swing my daddy made for me.

Seeing that old jeep brings a haunting memory to mind. One evening just before dark, our dog began barking at something down by the creek. So Mom, Dad, and I piled in the old jeep and went to check it out. With our flashlight in hand, the three of us got out of the jeep and began scouting the area. Finally, Mom yelled, Look, right here! There are footprints in the sand.

Dad rushed over to see, losing his footing on the slippery mud, and stumbled; grabbing ahold of Mom, they both landed in the creek. Covered from head to toe in mud, I laughed as they tried to find each other and the edge of the stream to climb out. Although the creek was only a few inches deep, it was slippery. I continued to watch and laugh as Mom and Dad fumbled around with their flashlights in hand, yelling at me, Stop laughing at us and give us a hand!

I reached for Dad’s hand and tugged at it, while Mom held on to his shirt, and the two finally found their way out. We all took a moment and laughed the situation away. Suddenly then we heard something in the brush nearby. With our flashlights still in hand, we shone it in the direction the noise appeared to come from, and there stood a tall man. It was too dark to make out his face, but I could see his frame was tall and thin. I hurried over in his direction, but suddenly the man disappeared.

Mom and Dad called out to me, Katy, come back here and get back in the jeep. Let us get back to the house and call the sheriff, and so I did.

Immediately upon arriving home, Dad called the sheriff, and he arrived at our home within about half an hour. I insisted on going along down to the creek to take another look. The sheriff and Dad ordered me to stay in the jeep as they searched for the mysterious stranger. They looked for over an hour for the tall, thin man, to no avail. Finally, the three of us returned to the farmhouse, and the sheriff told us to give him a callback if I saw the man again, and he left. Mom and Dad questioned me throughout the evening about what I saw, as they did not see him but only the footsteps. The three of us wondered who he was, why only I saw him, and why he was down by the creek.

I retired to my room and continued my contemplation of the stranger. I could see his image in my mind as I drifted off to sleep. An innate feeling came over me, and somehow, I knew he was there for a purpose. In my slumber that eve, I visioned his face. It was a kind face, and it gave me peace. When I awoke, I just knew somehow I would see him again. Every day since, I have ritually searched for the man at the creek, yearning to see him again. Now that I am moving from the farm, I feel saddened, as I can’t help but feel that I am leaving him behind.

As an old Ford has made its way down the dirt road to the house, it breaks my silence. It is Bob and Ginger. They have come to help load the moving van so that it could be on its way.

I plan to meet up with the moving van shortly after I arrive in New York tomorrow to get settled in right away. The way I have figured, if the moving van leaves soon on a sixteen-hour trip to Manhattan, then it should arrive just before my flight lands in New York City tomorrow afternoon.

I have lived in this big house for so long that moving into Grandma’s small Manhattan home is causing me anxiety. After all, I am only halfway through writing the novel, with a deadline to meet in six months. So you see, it is imperative that I get moved out, moved in, and settled in to get back to my writing.

Ginger waves at me as she gets closer. She has always greeted me with the utmost affection and her husband, Bob, has always been kind to me but just not as affectingly as his sweet wife.

Although we didn’t pay her, Ginger would always work with her husband. She says it is because she hadn’t anything better to do. The couple never had any children of their own. Our family heard it was because of Bob’s war wound, but I can’t be sure. No matter, they were always a true pleasure and dedicated themselves to each other and our family farm. They lived thirty miles away but were never late or missed a day of work. Rain or shine, they were here; sick or healthy, they were here. She didn’t get paid, but Ginger always made herself useful. If she wasn’t helping her husband on the farm, she was always lending a hand to my mother in the house and, to my surprise, was good with my science homework.

Hello, Ms. Katy, Ginger says as she gets out of the truck and runs toward me.

I am truly going to miss you! she says, throwing her arms around me, hugging me.

I know, and I am going to miss you both so very much. I don’t know how I will do without you.

Well, I know that this place will never be the same without you, she says, her eyes beginning to tear.

Well, she is still going to be here if we don’t get her things on this van! Bob yells out, trying to avoid the mushy stuff and doing his best to detour us from doing the same.

I am grateful he switched directions as I am not fond of the mushy stuff either. I am not a cold or chalice person, but I don’t do well with emotions, whether mine or someone else’s. Some argue that I am emotionally closed off, but those who know me best know better. I am very reserved when it comes to my emotions, at least publicly. I mean, to write well, one must tap into their feelings. Sometimes I think I avoid feeling, not because I am heartless but rather because I am afraid—afraid of how I may behave or what I might say.

Ginger and I make our way over to the moving van to meet up with Bob.

I was wondering, would the two of you join me for dinner? I ask, hoping they would say yes. But, for once in my life, I don’t feel up to being alone.

Bob looks at Ginger and Ginger at Bob, and then they both look back at me. I think they could see it in my eyes.

Of course, Katy, we would love to stay for dinner, Bob replies with a smile.

Yes, thanks for having us, Ginger chimes in.

I sigh with relief.

Wonderful. We can grill out back and roast marshmallows, I say excitedly, the child in me coming out to save the day from the gloom and despair of saying goodbye.

Bob has made a bonfire, with the moving van loaded and the steaks on the grill. After eating, we gather around its warmth, sharing stories of old and roasting marshmallows.

We have laughed, cried, and broke bread, and before I knew it, the time has passed; Ginger and Bob are gone. The two of them would stay with the new owners and return to the farm, but not I.

I walk around one last time, trying to absorb everything around me. I want to take this place with me, but it has to stay, and I have to go. It is time to close this chapter of my life and move on. Yet I know that a piece of my soul will remain here on the farm and in this old house. I know that I will never forget this place and what it has meant to me with no uncertainty.

CHAPTER TWO

The plane touches down at a quarter after two in the afternoon at the JFK International Airport. My stomach is in knots over the anxiety of flying. Also, the excitement of seeing Cindy and Mitt is overwhelming. I haven’t seen them in so long, and I have missed them.

As I make my way down the sky bridge and into the terminal, I look for Cindy and Mitt but don’t see them. I am not worried, though; neither is known for their punctuality. I gather my baggage and have a seat in the lobby. The airport is very noisy, with crowds of people from wall to wall. I hope Cindy and Mitt would find me for the masses, so I stand up next to my luggage. Then suddenly, to my surprise, there they are standing before me. Mitt picks me up, twirls me around, and then puts me back on my feet in front of Cindy. She looks shocked to see me as if my arrival has come as a big surprise to her. She smiles, gives me a sweet hug, and then just stares at me.

I can’t believe you are here, she finally says to me through teary eyes.

You’re telling me, I agree, beginning to cry because she is.

I didn’t think you would do it—move here, I mean, Cindy admits.

What, are you kidding me?

How long has it been now? Mitt interrupts, grabbing my bags as we begin making our way to the taxi line.

Well, let’s see . . ., I say, thinking. I believe the last time I saw the two of you was at my parents’ funeral two years ago.

Wow. Really? Only two years? Mitt questions. It seems like it has been a decade. He reaches over, kisses my forehead, and flashes me a quick smile before hurrying off to flag down a cab.

Mitt, by nature, is a compassionate person, but there seems to be something more heartfelt in his words and actions; I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

When we arrive at my grandma’s, things look about the same as when I last saw them. However, the flowerpots my grandpa made for her are eerily empty of the beautiful flowers that usually occupy them. And Grandma would have never allowed those weeds to overtake the area around the front porch. All painful reminders of why I am here.

As I open the door, I have to catch my breath. What is that smell? I wonder to myself. It smells like death, and it is truly unbearable. Cindy and Mitt have brought my things inside, and it is evident by the look on their faces that they, too, smell the awful odor. However, they remain polite and don’t let on. I am pretty sure they understand the severity of Grandma’s situation. Poor Grandma, so very sick and full of pride, has been living here alone, far too long.

I quickly gather my wits. My eyes scan the room in search of my dear grandmother. But, unfortunately, I don’t see her.

I call to her, Grandma, I’m here! Grandma?

She screams at the sound of my voice. Katy, you are finally here! she yells out, coming around the corner, her wheelchair on two wheels.

I run toward her and grab her up in my arms. My precious grandma, at last! I love her so much. She has been alone in New York, while I have been alone in Arizona. I ask myself why that happened and why it took a disease to bring us together. I remind myself that I made the right decision to move here.

Grandma hugs me as tightly as she possibly could. Her strength has diminished. She looks so frail, so helpless, and so old. It has only been about a year since I had last seen her, but she looks like she has aged a full ten years. It scares me.

Katy, sweetheart, I had Mitt and Cindy clean the basement apartment for you.

Thank you, Grandma. Thank you so much for having me, I say in an attempt to make her feel as if she is doing me a favor.

God bless you, Katy Kitten, she says endearingly. Katy Kitten is her pet name for me.

Oh, Grandma, you are so sweet! I love you so much!

I love you too, Kitten.

Grandma looks over at Cindy and Mitt, still standing in the doorway. Now, don’t act like a stranger. Come sit down, she insists.

Cindy and Mitt take turns giving Grandma a hug and kiss and then make themselves comfortable on the sofa.

Katy, would you do your old grandma a favor and open the champagne? It is all ready and sitting behind you there on the counter.

Oh, yes, of course, I say, eagerly making my way to the chilled bottle. I fill the four glasses that Grandma has sat there and hand them out.

Here is to Katy, Grandma say, holding her glass up.

Here’s to her and her new life in New York!

We all put our glasses together and toast to the new. My face smiles, but my insides churn. What have I done? Am I really up to taking on this new role as caretaker? Lord, please help me, I think, as I down my glass of bubbly and help myself to another.

Grandma thanks Cindy and Mitt many times, forgetting she has already done so. Cindy and Mitt, of course, play along on their best behavior. After all, my grandma has known them all their lives, and they know her. Truth be known, they probably love her as much as I do.

With Cindy and Mitt now gone and Grandma in bed for the night, I take a good look around. The place is in shambles, and that smell is overwhelming. My gosh, I couldn’t imagine anything smelling that bad. I start searching the house, trying to find the culprit, but to no avail. Finally, I get tired and go down to the basement and call it a night. Tomorrow is another day!

I rise early the following day because I find it hard to continue sleeping. I guess I am a bit homesick. It is not like Grandma’s home is strange to me, but it has been a while. Besides, I have never known this place as it is at this moment. Grandma’s home has always felt cozy and smelled of fresh baked goods. I know I had best get up and face the day, so I get dressed and walk up to the basement door. I pause and then say a small prayer, asking the Lord to help me find the strength needed to face the challenges that await me on the other side of the door.

It is now five thirty in the morning, and I start the coffee machine. While the coffee brews,