Across the Winds of Time (10 page)

I forced myself to relax my aching jaw and take a deep breath. I reached for the photograph again with loving hands. I peered at it closely. Faded gray ink marked the bottom border in a delicate cursive script.

“Darius Blake Ferguson, 1880, age 28 yrs.” I mouthed his name once again. “Darius Blake Ferguson.”

I turned the picture over and studied his face once again—the dashing waves of hair that spread out from his forehead, the sparkle in his light-colored eyes which were blue in my dream, the soft lines of his lower lip visible below his dark mustache. A feeling of peace swept through me, warming the core of my being and spreading throughout my limbs. I pressed the photograph to my chest for a moment before compulsively staring at it once again. Whatever supernatural phenomenon led me to meet Darius in the cemetery, or whatever force had brought him into my dreams, I promised myself I would never run from him again...if only I had the chance to see him one more time, ghost or dream lover.

He existed. He had been real. He had lived...and died. I raised the photograph to my lips. And I loved him. I knew that as certainly as I knew I would return to the cemetery every day until I found him again...as certainly as I knew I would do everything in my power to see him again in my dreams.

The unmistakable sound of a car in the drive brought me to my feet. I set the photograph down on the high-gloss black coffee table and hurried to the door, anxious to ask Cynthia and Laura about Darius. Was he a relative of theirs?

“Hello, dear. Thank you,” Cynthia murmured as I rushed down the steps to help her from the car.

“Did you happen to find those boxes? Boy, I hope they’re here, or we’re in for it with the grandkids—when they get old enough to care.” Laura preceded us and threw a grin over her shoulder as she carried Cynthia’s walker up the porch stairs.

“I did. They were in the attic—right where you said. I brought them downstairs.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Laura murmured. She took Cynthia’s arm in one hand and held the walker in the other while I pushed open the door. “I could have brought them down. Were they heavy? I don’t even remember; it’s been so long since we saw them.”

“No, that’s fine. There they are.” I practically danced with an overwhelming sense of anticipation. “I hope you don’t mind, but I peeked in one of them.”

“Not at all, dear. In fact, I wonder if we shouldn’t leave a few of them here, Laura. Some of the ones of the house? I think there were some around the turn of the century, weren’t there?”

I caught my breath and did my best to keep my hopeful look toward Laura just short of begging.

“Sure, we can do that. Why not? It’s your house now, Molly, and all houses come with history.”

I grabbed the taller woman for an exuberant hug.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” I said with a broad smile. Laura’s eyebrows shot up at my enthusiasm, but she patted my arm kindly. Cynthia beamed in return.

“Well, of course, dear. We’re delighted to share the history of the house with you.”

“Please sit down,” I said with some shortness of breath as I wondered if I dared ask for the picture of Darius. It was a portrait, not a picture of the house, and I had no idea how they would react when I asked for it.

“The refrigerator is in place and humming away,” I rattled nervously, “but I still haven’t been to the store—not that I know where it is, so I can’t offer you anything.”

I winced as I watched the sisters pause to regard my out-of-place ultramodern sofa with raised eyebrows, before Laura lowered Cynthia onto the sofa.

“That’s perfectly understandable. We just finished dinner at any rate,” Laura said as she took a seat beside Cynthia who ran her left hand along the fabric of the angular armrest.

“My dear, this sofa is luxurious!” Cynthia cooed. “I’ve seen them in magazines, but I never imagined! Sister, we have to get one of these for our place in Florida. I could stretch out on it all day long.” Cynthia eyed the extensive length of the couch—one of only two pieces of seating furniture that would fit in my small Seattle apartment living room.

“Well, then I guess we’d better get two, because I have every intention of lying on a sofa myself with a pack of romance novels.”

“Done!” Cynthia murmured, seemingly enthralled as she continued to run her delicate blue-veined hands along the surface.

“So, what’s that you have there?” Laura turned her attention to the photograph on the coffee table. I startled, already on edge about Darius’s picture.

I dropped into the small blue microfiber easy chair opposite the couch and picked the photograph up from the coffee table.

“Well, I was wondering. I didn’t mean to snoop... Okay, I guess I did.” I scrunched my face with a cheesy grin. “Anyway, I didn’t get any further than this photograph that was near the top of the stack. It’s the oddest thing—” I stopped short, unsure of how much I wanted to reveal, unsure if I really had a shred of sanity left.

“What’s that?” Laura held out her hand for the photograph, and I reluctantly handed it over.

“Well, I was wondering if you know who he is. That’s all. Is he a relative?” I sat on the edge of my chair.

Laura peered at the photograph and read the bottom inscription as I had.

“It says Darius Blake Ferguson, 1880, age 28 years.” Laura squinted at the picture. “Hmmm...He looks familiar, but I can’t—” She shook her head and turned to her sister. “Do you know who this is, Cynthia?”

Cynthia, still admiring the feel of the microfiber, brought her attention to the conversation at hand. She accepted the photograph from Laura.

“Oh, yes. I remember him,” she exclaimed.

My heart pounded. She
remembered him?

“Well, I remember hearing about him.” Cynthia turned to Laura. “He’s the uncle who built the house. You know...the one who died young. Well, I don’t know if he died exactly. Something happened. And then his brother, our great-grand somebody or another Ferguson, came out from Virginia and took over the house.” She gazed at the photograph once again. “Handsome man, wasn’t he?” She handed the picture back to Laura and returned to appreciating the sofa.

“Oh, that’s right!” Laura looked at the photograph once again. “I remember hearing about him, but I can’t remember how he died either. Wasn’t there some talk? What was it?” she asked herself.

I leaned forward to capture every word, every nuance, every change of expression—while I coveted the photo in Laura’s hands.

“Yes?” I encouraged breathlessly.

Laura shook her head, set the photograph down on the table, and returned her attention to the box.

“I can’t remember. I’m sure it will come to me, probably in the middle of the night. Should we go through these boxes now and see which photos of the house Molly wants to keep? I’m sure she would like to get to bed sometime tonight.”

I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to get any sleep that night. These women quite possibly had the key to the mystery of Darius, and they didn’t understand how desperate I was. Nor did I want them to know of my peculiar obsession with him, but I couldn’t resist another question.

“Do you know if he’s buried in the cemetery?”

“I have no idea,” Laura said as she dug further into the box.

My shoulders slumped, but I gave it one more valiant effort.

“Well, if you do happen to remember anything, I’d love to hear about it. You know. The builder of the house...” I waved an airy hand around the living room, hoping it wasn’t shaking. Of course, Darius had built the house. And that is why I loved it. Had there ever been a doubt?

“Certainly, dear,” Cynthia nodded. “We’ll put our heads together and brainstorm.”

I picked up the photograph, unwilling to leave Darius lying on the table—discarded and alone. As I had left him at the cemetery...or in my dream.

“I know this is a lot to ask—and you know where I live if you want it back, b-but could I have this picture?”

At the startled look on Laura’s face, I rushed on. “It’s just that I feel like... like I know him... just a little,” I said with a lift of my shoulders. “You know, the house.”

Cynthia chuckled.

“You have a crush on him, don’t you...from his photograph? I think we all did as children. It comes back to me now. He was so handsome! Even my mother thought he was quite dashing.”

Laura shook her head. “Did we? I don’t remember that. But yes, you can have the photograph, Molly. We don’t need it, do we, Cynthia? He didn’t have any children who would want it, did he?”

“No, I don’t think he did, but as I said, I don’t remember the whole story. It will come to me—as Laura said—in the middle of the night or some other inconvenient time.”

“Call me if it does,” I urged. I set the photograph down on the glossy black coffee table with reverent care. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sure we can call upon you to provide us a copy should our grandkids or great-grandkids ever desire to pursue their family history. That seems unlikely at this time,” Laura said with a shake of her head. “They’re all pretty young with their lives ahead of them, and completely uninterested in old stuffy photographs...or old stuffy people, for that matter.” She chuckled and poked Cynthia in the side.

“Speak for yourself,” Cynthia giggled. “Florida beaches, here I come!”

We spent the next several hours going through the photographs. There were several shots of the house taken by their parents in the early 1900s with an old Brownie camera, according to the sisters. The children lined up in front of the house in their Sunday best while “Dad” took the photograph. Contrary to what Cynthia had said about poverty, the black and white photograph showed a well-tended house, the paint seamless, the garden lush and full of life. The present day garden was overgrown, but I could see the original landscaping detail in the photo. I asked for that photo, and they gave it to me willingly, having several more of the same photo session.

Laura and Cynthia reminisced while they searched through the boxes, sharing family anecdotes with me. Their stories brought the house to life, infusing it with history and warmth, and I looked up to scan it often with renewed interest and a surge of affection. I kept my ears perked for any further mention of Darius, but his name did not come up again, and I didn’t want to pique their curiosity any further by interrogating them.

Their visit came to an end all too soon.

“Well, we’ve got to get going,” Laura huffed as she bent down to grab one of the boxes.

“I’ll get them.” I jumped up to assist.

“Thank you, dear. That’s very nice of you.” Cynthia threw a last admiring glance at the couch and pulled herself up on her walker.

“Thanks, Molly.” Laura picked up Cynthia’s ubiquitous oversized shiny handbag, which the frail woman could hardly manage with both hands on her walker.

“Listen, Cynthia,” Laura said. “I think we should introduce Molly to a few of the people in town tomorrow. You know—Bob down at the hardware store...and Sally at the grocery store.” She chuckled and turned to me with an apologetic shrug. “Well, we call it a grocery store, but it’s just a little shop. We still have to go into Missouri Valley to get our supplies—just like my parents used to do.”

I paused, box in hand.

“Oh, sure! That sounds great!” I said. I really did need to get to a store.

“Good. We’ll see you in the morning then. About ten? Do you need anything tonight? Can we loan you some food or some coffee?”

I pushed open the door with my hip while I maneuvered the box outside.

“No, I’m good, thanks. I’ve got a few things in the fridge already that I had in a cooler in my car.”

I hoisted the box into the back seat of the town car and returned for the other box while Laura settled Cynthia in. The sun descended below the tree line, and I was about to spend my first night in a strange house in the middle of nowhere. I picked up the second box and treated myself to another quick peek at Darius’s photo on the coffee table.

It seemed as if Darius gazed directly at me. And my heart swelled. Allowing myself a moment of uninhibited joy, I gave him a quick wink and hurried out with the other box.

Several hours later, exhausted from searching through boxes to find my bedding, I dropped down on the newly made bed and contemplated the task of bathing. Night had fallen, and the wind had picked up outside, blowing gently through the old window screen and filling the room with a cool breeze—just cool enough for a good night’s sleep, I hoped. The absence of curtains did not bother me unduly as I suspected no one would be able to see me from any particular vantage point—unless they drove up to the cemetery and used binoculars! With that ludicrous image in mind, I grinned, wished them well if they wished to exert such effort, and pushed myself off the bed to head for the bathroom. I’d prevailed upon the inspector to have a water heater put in over the two week period that I’d been gone, and I was anxious to see if it worked. He assured me it had. There were still many, many renovations needed to the house, including replacing many of the pipes.

I grabbed a towel out of one of the unpacked boxes in the bathroom and picked out soap, shampoo and conditioner from my traveling kit. A twist of the knobs on the clawfoot tub, kindly loosened by the inspector, sent warm water flowing into the tub with some clanking and a groan or two from the old pipes. I tossed in some bubble bath to celebrate my first bath in my new/old home. As with most things in the house, the chipped and stained tub would require a facelift, and I was happy to undertake that project.

I wondered at the miracle that Darius had built this house—the house I now owned, though I felt as if I was only borrowing it. He had probably ordered the tub...and hauled it up the stairs, though I couldn’t imagine how. No doubt, he had taken baths in it himself. My face reddened at the thought. I shed my clothes and stepped into the tub, slipping down beneath the bubbles.

Darius’s clawfoot tub. I closed my eyes for a moment and rested my head against the back of the porcelain. Some candles would have been nice, I mused. I’d have to get some the following day at the store.

“Be careful you do not fall asleep in there, Molly, my girl.”