I asked my real estate agent, Stella, to Fed Ex me a copy of the original blueprints of my house.

I know I’ll have to repay the favor by some kind of romantic tryst, but it’ll be worth it.

I have to find out if I was hallucinating during one of my boozy benders or if I really did cross over some invisible barrier and discover a virtual wing of my house.

If the latter is true, then Jessica Skye, a Thirties silver screen goddess and former owner of this house is alive and well and whiling away afternoons in a sunlit garden somewhere on the grounds of my estate.

Precisely at three, the doorbell rings and by the time I manage to answer, I see a white courier truck pulling away.

A huge manila envelope is left. I tear it open and scan the original house plans. Sure enough, there once was a tower with a turret room and to that part of the blueprint Stella has attached a sticky note:

Hmm, after a failed romance in 1938, seems Jessica erased parts of her house that reminded her of bad parts of her life—a tennis court and a wing of her manse. Weird, huh?

The confirmation of what I experienced roars through my brain—I was there!

I begin to shake and suddenly feel weak. I stagger back into the house and manage to collapse onto the loveseat facing the fireplace.

Jessica’s huge eyes stare down at me from the portrait. They harbor the same dark surprise as when she looked up at me from the garden.

I fill a huge wine glass with Shiraz from the decanter on the coffee table—I down it and pour another. I don’t stop until the room begins to dim and fills with swarms of dark motes—black suns—as if my sight is stained with after-images from her eyes.

Next thing I’m aware of is awakening the next morning fully clothed and curled up on the loveseat. My cell on the coffee table is vibrating and buzzing. I pick up to Stella’s bright voice.

“Good morning, Leon—hope you made coffee.”

“Huh? Where are you?”

“Outside your front door, Silly. Open up and let me in.”

I groan inwardly and force myself to roll off the loveseat and stumble to unlock the front door.

A manicured red talon is hovering over the doorbell button as I swing open the door.

“Don’t ring that!” I plead.

“You look wasted,” she chides, an amused smirk on her face. “Really Leon, I thought you only allowed yourself an occasional glass of wine. I hope you haven’t reached your quota for the week. Friday’s coming, you know.”

I wince at the thought. I stand swaying in the middle of the room waiting for the dizziness to subside.

She tsks tsks at the circles under my eyes.

“Yeah, well I better make coffee,” she sings breezily, on her way to the kitchen. She calls back over her shoulder, “Where do you keep your aspirin?”

“There’s Tylenol in the cupboard above the coffee maker—Extra-strength.”

She comes back into the front room with the pill bottle and a glass of water. “Here—better make it a double.”

I groan at the boozy allusion, but swallow the caplets dutifully while she surveys the room.

“Looks like you had a party. Was Maya over?”

I shake my head.

“You shouldn’t drink alone, Leon.”

“I wasn’t alone, I counter, managing a lop-sided grin.

She arches an eyebrow and I tilt the water tumbler in mock toast to Jessica’s portrait on the wall.

“Beautiful company,” she deadpans, “Too bad she’s dead.”

The words strike me like a blow and I actually reel under their force. Stella ‘s arm darts out and steadies me.

“Whoa! You better sit down, Lothario—you’re still hung over. I’ll get those coffees—and make yours black.”

Once again, a wave of doubt overwhelms me.

Maybe Elias, my shrink, is right—my out of control drinking has impaired my brain and I’m inventing my own reality.

But another part of me is saying that even if that is true, I prefer the excitement of a dream with Jessica rather than the drab everyday life around me.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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