The day my husband Bob was killed in a motorcycle accident, I was warned in a dream that he would die. Just the night before, he had described the kind of avant-garde funeral he envisioned for himself.

Ghostly activities increased after Bob's ashes were scattered over the Pacific Ocean. The next day I was involved in a collision in the same spot Bob had crashed his chopper. Acquainted with witchcraft from childhood, I accepted the spiritual intervention and believed my dead husband was trying to make contact with me.

My best friend, a young Hollywood starlet, insisted she could hasten my grieving process. She telephoned a very famous movie star and arranged to give him to me as a "gift." Eventually in a desperate search to fill the void of widowhood, my life was touched by that star and other Hollywood celebrities and rock stars.

In my twenties, extremely naïve and formerly sheltered from the world, I struggled to handle the waves of responsibility heaped upon me. I tried to hold up under the mounting pressure as I was thrust into the position of operating three businesses. I couldn't keep my attention focused on anything, and I found it almost impossible to be able to spell more than a one syllable word.