Page 61 of A Ghost of a Chance

She took their hands. Heaven at last. It had only taken a little faith and a lot of love to find it.

They passed through the waiting area toward a large wide archway. Through it lay a garden, lush and brilliant with colors Osanne had never before seen. Music resonated in the shimmering air. Bright birds and butterflies flitted amid blooms, foliage, and trees. Clear, iridescent water tumbled from fountains. People, all young and healthy and smiling, strolled together arm in arm. All wore glimmering white robes. Paradise.

No hunger, want, need. No poor. No illness or injury. No loneliness. Memories of that part of mortality—even mortality itself—faded the way dreams disappeared upon waking.

Absolute happiness enfolded her, along with a longing to join this place.

Everyone walked in pairs. Couples. All happy. All in love. Sometimes they joined other couples in a wide circle of friendship and acceptance. Everyone had a match.

Where was her match?

Rafe’s face flashed into her memory. Memories of him rushed to her; the agony in his eyes as he let her go, sacrifices he had made for her, his healing smile, comfort and love in his arms, the sense of wholeness in his presence. Their joy. Their love. That had been its own kind of paradise.

In the archway, her parents waited. “Osanne?”

She stopped short. “I want to go back.”

“Are you sure?” Papa asked. “Many troubles await you.”

“Rafe is there. He is the love of my life. Where he is, a little piece of Heaven is there.”

Mama smiled. “You are choosing love.” She smiled at Papa. “I knew she would.”

Papa sighed. “I suspected she would when I saw how much that young man loves her.” He winked at Osanne. “He made quite an impassioned plea to me to give you another chance.”

“You?” Osanne said. “You are the Angel of Death?”

“There is no Angel of Death. Everyone who dies is greeted by someone they loved in life who escorts them to the next life. To Heaven. The person who dies only has to have the faith and courage to walk into the light to find his or her escort.”

Mama touched her hair. “Go to him, Sweeting. This will all still be here at the end of your life, and you will be together here.”

Barely able to contain her excitement, Osanne embraced her parents, bade them farewell, and turned back. As she rushed to the end of the corridor pulsing with swirling color, an archway opened up. It revealed a barren hilltop under the first light of sunrise. In a circle of stones, sat Rafe and Peter.

Clutching a blanket around his shoulders, Rafe slumped over his knees. Nearby, wearing a vicar’s cassock, Peter sat next to him.

Rafe had waited for her as he always did.

Osanne stepped through the archway to earth and to life. The world exploded in color and sound and sensation.

Her dancing slippers touched the dried grass, the pressure of the earth pushing against her feet. Her body had weight to it. Heavy, even. The fabric of her silk gown brushed her skin. A chill wind blew through her cloak and rustled the skirts of her ballgown. Trees in a variety of green and brown hues murmured in the breeze against an azure sky streaked with lavender, pink, apricot, gold. Deeply, she inhaled cool damp air, filling her lungs. The earthy smells of bark, decaying leaves, and moist plants tickled her nostrils, her tongue. Osanne had all but forgotten the sensory details of mortal life.

Rafe sat slumped, a forlorn figure wrapped in a cloak of grief. He clutched a blanket as red as poppies, sharply contrasting with the yellowed grass. Early sunlight lit his dark hair, giving it a faintly red-brown tinge.

Softly, she called, “Rafe.” The sound of her own voice startled her.

He straightened. Stared. Blinked. Bright eyes the color of an autumn sky before sunset focused on her. A thrill of excitement danced down her backbone and quivered in her stomach.

He whispered, “Osanne.”

She smiled. “You always came back for me. It is only right that I come back for you.”

He leaped to his feet and rushed to her but skidded to a stop mere inches away. “You are here? Real?”

Smiling more broadly, she nodded. A lock of blond hair brushed against her cheek. “I am here. Real.”

He reached a trembling hand toward her. She held up her hand. Their palms touched. His warmth and the texture of his skin seeped into her flesh. His fingers folded over, intertwining with hers. Solid. Warm. Alive.

“I feel you,” she breathed.