The Penthouse Treasure - James Gerard (self help books to read .TXT) 📗

it in here?”

 

“Never mind that,” the voice screamed from the other end of the phone, “what else do you see?”

 

Charisse suddenly noticed a photograph hanging on the wall just behind the rack. She stared at what looked like two women seated amongst a crowd and believed that she had seen the photograph before but could not remember where or when. Going around the coat rack for a close up look at the images she whispered, “It can’t be.” Numbed by disbelief eyes became fixed on the familiar faces.

 

“Charisse,” the voice screamed. “What else do you see?”

 

The phone slipped out of the hand and fell to the ground. “It’s the picture of my mom…the one Aunt Anna gave—”

 

“Charisse! Charisse! What’s happening? Charisse!”

 

As if in a dream she could not make sense of the many foggy images hanging on walls. She looked to a framed photograph of her mother and Aunt Anna at her fifth grade school play and gasped in disbelief, “Oh my god, it’s my mom holding…holding me with…my dad standing right beside—”

 

Tear swollen eyes looked around. As if still dreaming the strangest dream she had ever dreamt everything on the walls and on the floor seemed so strange she could not make sense of it all, yet reality was beginning to creep in.

 

At the sight of a box marked “B-day C Charisse” she fell on her knees and through much trembling managed to open the box and remove a card from one the envelopes stamped “Return to Sender” in handwriting she recognized as Aunt Anna’s.

 

Tears streamed down the cheeks as the card read, “Happy Birthday my precious little girl. Here are five big hugs and five big kisses from your daddy that loves and misses you so much.”

 

“I don’t understand,” sobbed Charisse.

 

Sifting through another box marked “B-day Presents Charisse” were many small items wrapped in colorful wrapping paper. She took hold of one and tore it open and rubbed the pink stuffed bunny against a cheek then cradled the warm and furry present to her chest.

 

She aimlessly roamed through room after room seeing the photographs of her at various stages of life. Lots of images of birthday parties, of her posed in front of the house while Christmas lights twinkled behind, romping about with her classmates on the playground during recess, dressed in goofy turkey costumes or old-fashioned pilgrim clothing or wearing feathered bands about the head in many a Thanksgiving celebration, and lots of photographs with Aunt Anna clothes shopping and being dropped off and picked up at school, with her at the dentist’s office, and doctor’s office.

 

Charisse’s smile quivered at the few photographs that included her mother when she felt well enough to join the festivities at picnics and theme parks and vacations. Photographs of the high school graduation ceremonies and graduation ceremonies from Stanford and just about any and everyplace she had ever been in life hung above bicycles with pink baskets and streamers, bright shiny scooters and a red wagon and big stuffed animals and dolls and computers and laptop computers and CD players and MP3 players and boxes marked “Birthday Clothing” and “Christmas Clothing” and “Letters to Charisse.”

 

Through the flow of tears and whimpering Charisse wondered why Aunt Anna could have kept all this away from her, the truth that Connelly through all those years never stopped thinking about or loving his daughter. That the heartache and hurt and pain experienced could have easily been avoided if she had only known that Connelly never stopped being a father to his daughter.

 

“Finally,” a voice said from behind, “the final piece of my treasure is here—my precious daughter Charisse.”

 

“You were there all this time weren’t you?” Charisse cried.

 

“Of course I was. As soon as I opened the door...as soon as I opened the door it took all the strength I had in the world not to reach out and hug my little girl, all the strength in the world and then some to hold back my tears of joy.”

 

“I came here,” Charisse sobbed, “to hurt—”

 

“Yeah I know. I talked with Anna; she let me know.”

 

“Why did Aunt Anna lie about you?”

 

“Something happened to your mother,” Connelly whispered to her as he knelt down next to her, “after she gave birth to you. I could tell you what the doctors said but then again you knew she wasn’t well. All I know is Simone simply couldn’t have me around. It only made her condition worse.”

 

Charisse cried, “But how could you have divorced her? How could you have just left her…left me?”

 

“We never divorced Charisse. And I did write her often through the years sweetie.”

 

“Then where are the returned letters?” cried Charisse.

 

“Anna has them. She read them to my wife. And I know you never knew but I did see and talk to her on occasions and you didn’t know I was in the room when she passed.”

 

“But why?” Charisse shouted. “Why did you have to wait until mom died?”

 

Connelly wrapped his arms around her and whispered, “I really can’t explain it but if we had a father-daughter relationship and she found out it would have made things that much worse.”

 

“Yeah,” she whispered, “I actually understand that.” Charisse quickly jumped to her feet and said, “Oh no, I did a terrible thing! The photographs I emailed to the magazine, I replaced them—”

 

“I know,” Connelly laughed. He reached around to a back pocket, “Look, here’s the edition that’s coming out tomorrow.”

 

Charisse read the caption on the cover, “A Winter’s Fury Overcome by the Innocence of Spring.”

 

She looked at the cover photo and chuckled, “A picture of me modeling one of Christophe’s dresses.” She turned and looked into her father’s eyes. “You were there taking the photos weren’t you?”

 

Connelly smiled. “I was.”

 

“And how did you stop the magazine from publishing the other photos?”

 

“Charisse, I, along with David, own the magazine. Nothing gets done without our approval. Oh, and by the way, Grandma says Hi, wishes that you go back for a long, long visit.”

 

Charisse ran into Connelly’s open arms and cried, “Will you go with me Dad?”

 

“Of course I will; I’ve always gone everywhere you have gone my precious treasure of a daughter.”

Imprint

Text: James Gerard Burch
Images: Right to use purchased from konradbak-Fotolia.com
Editing: James Gerard Burch
Publication Date: 09-18-2015

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Dedicated to all of us who are looking for, found, or hoping to find our treasure.