Driving her car up the coast, Connie felt good about this group coming to stay in her beautiful villa. She had nothing more than a good vibe from Debra's e-mails, but she just felt it...and her gut instincts were never far off-base. Debra--the apparent spokesperson for this vacationing group of eight, gave her much information through their correspondence. All eight were recent graduates and professionals from the Philly area, and close friends looking for some R & R. Good, Connie thought. There would be intelligent people on her property. She hated putting her vacation home in the hands of moronic revelers who were too stupid to understand her place was not a hotel, but a work of art and a home. What a relief!
She was right. The split-level modern Spanish villa had so much more to offer than just a place to crash. Connie designed every inch of the interior with the artistically thoughtful touches that came from being both an art dealer and artist, afforded her. Some of the paintings, drawings and sculptures in the house were her personal works. Yes, the villa was a vacation home and a renter for profit, but to Connie, it was a pure labor of love and passion. The location and design of the house convinced her it was a sacred and mystical place—hallowed ground. So she preferred people with potential sensibility and appreciation for such a place. These eight fit the mold. She could feel it. That was perfect.
The drive up the Northern California coast was one of the most breathtaking sights in the world. The Pacific Ocean to the left dazzled and shimmered unbelievably close to the highway. The sky above was perfectly clear and blue. And the sun radiated everything in pleasant warmth, including Connie inside of her green Audi. There was no need for the air-conditioner inside the car; Connie preferred the ocean breeze blowing through cracked car windows whenever the temperature made it appropriate. It was a perfect day in every way. The comfort in Connie's limbs gave her a surety. The road was smooth on this stretch of the highway, yet the car began to vibrate slightly. Most drivers might have missed the movement, but the unusual movement did not pass the attention of Constance Jocelyn Meyer. Everything was connected, she knew. All around her, the gentle vibration seem to spread from the steering wheel to the doors until the whole interior was consumed with it. Nothing was wrong with her car—of that she was certain. Connie began to smile knowingly. It was with her again—calling to her. "It" was the force that told her to buy the land and house from the previous owner twelve years ago. He was a vapid man with awful taste in interior design and a poorer sense of what he owned. Connie met his asking price and sweetened the deal for his quick departure. The land was hungry for her, and she for it. They were meant to be one because twelve years ago, it called out to her body for the first time just as it was doing right now.
