Across the Winds of Time (3 page)

Sara shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. You know what I will do though? I’m going to call Debbie and see if we can meet today. I told you about her, remember? We went to school together. She lives here in Council Bluffs. I was going to find time to see her anyway. She said to call her anytime.” Sara picked up her cell phone to dial. “If she’s free, this will work out great!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. That had gone well. And if Debbie would pick Sara up, I could take the rental car. I waited while Sara made her call. Luckily, Debbie was available, and Sara made arrangements with her for an early lunch and a day of sight seeing.

“So, I can take the car, right?” I asked when she hung up the phone. The words “ungrateful” and “disloyal” popped into my head as I contemplated abandoning my sister this way.

“Sure. Debbie is picking me up.” She dropped her phone on the bed, gave me a “don’t worry” grin and rose to walk into the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water.

I grabbed my purse and the keys to the car and headed to the door where I paused...with a continuing edge of guilt over my self-absorbed interruption of our plans.

“You’re sure this is all right?” I asked.

Sara stepped out of the bathroom with a face towel pressed against her wet pink cheeks.

“Well, I think it’s pretty strange, but I’ll be fine today, if that’s what you’re asking. Lilium seems a long way to go without any real plan in mind, especially since we were just there yesterday and apparently don’t have any relatives buried there.”

“I know,” I sighed, always susceptible to the voice of reason but unable to understand how practical people thought. “I’m not too sure why I’m going either.”

Hearing the wavering doubt in my voice and fearing Sara’s common sense might sway me from my as yet undetermined goal in Lilium, I squared my shoulders, did my best to ignore Sara’s questioning look and sailed past her out the door with an airy wave. Why, this was nothing more than an off-schedule repeat genealogical exploration, I told myself. Nothing more.

“Be back later,” I breezed. “Have a good time with Debbie.”

Forty-five minutes later, I left the exhilarating speed of the interstate and slowed down to twenty-five miles an hour as I entered tiny Lilium. Destination near at hand, I finally relaxed from what had suddenly turned into a pell-mell return run toward Lilium. I studied the houses as I drove along Main Street where a line of majestic oaks draped gracefully over the road to create a leafy canopy of shade. The massive trees had overgrown their original plantings, dwarfing many of the older houses along the street. Sara and I really hadn’t seen much of the town the day before as we’d been focused on finding the cemetery.

I turned right to head for the cemetery on the outskirts of town. The small grouping of houses of the town thinned out. Approximately a mile down the road, a flash of color on the left caught my eye, and I tapped on the brakes to slow the car. An old, decrepit and seemingly abandoned Victorian house peeked out of the thick line of trees, its faded colors of pale turquoise and salmon pink begging a bystander to admire its once fine beauty.

With a glance in the rearview mirror to see if I was holding up traffic—an unlikely event on this quiet road—I put the car in motion again, eased it over to the edge of the dirt road and came to a stop.

The house absolutely begged me to take its picture. And who was I to resist such a request? I loved Victorian houses anyway. There were so many beautiful specimens in the Pacific Northwest, and I never tired of looking at them. With a grin, I grabbed my pocket-sized digital camera from my handbag and climbed out of the car. I leaned against the closed door and took several shots from the opposite side of the road to encompass as much of the oddly appealing house as possible.

Though my view of the surrounding property was partially obscured by the thickness of the massive oak trees in the front yard, I could see the property appeared large—perhaps five acres or so. However, I was no expert at judging acreage given my current apartment lifestyle in the city.

I snapped a few quick photos before lowering the camera to examine the house in depth, as if something might prevent me from securing its likeness and immortalizing it in a photograph—something avoidable like the camera battery dying or something bizarre like darkness suddenly descending. I wasn’t quite sure what I was thinking. I only knew an avid desire to get some quick pictures before the magic of the house disappeared, though I really had no idea what that meant.

Satisfied with several quick shots from across the street and anxious for a better look at the house, I pocketed the camera in my jeans and crossed the quiet road.

An old, rusted, wrought iron fence surrounded the property, though sections of it appeared in danger of toppling over. The gray and weathered railing surrounding the front porch must have once been a thing of beauty. Some of the dainty and elegant scrollwork reminiscent of other Victorian homes I had seen remained intact, and I sighed at its delicate beauty.

A brisk breeze lifted my bangs from my forehead. Ah, the wind. So, it wasn’t just limited to the cemetery. What a wonderful life the owners of this house must have once had, swinging on the porch or rocking in a chair as the steady breeze kept pesky bugs from landing long enough to become a nuisance.

I walked along the edge of the fencing and turned into what was probably a driveway though it had never been paved as far as I could tell. Grass covered what could have once been a gravel surface. I could see ruts where cars—or wagons—might have once parked. I paused midway up the drive to study my surroundings.

The house was set back fifty yards from the road and presided over several acres of overgrown grass. The rutted drive led to a small garage at the side of the house, which I suspected had probably been added after the house was built. The house looked too old to have come with a garage.

A marmalade cat lazed about on the grass of the drive. I noticed a rusted for sale sign on the front lawn. A fixer upper opportunity without a doubt, I mused. The sign wasn’t really in the best location. It should have been posted on the street so passersby could see it readily. As with the house, the front lawn-overgrown and unkempt as it seemed to be-was hardly visible from the street given the wide trunks of the trees and dense cover of leaves.

I returned my attention to the cat.

“Hi, kitty. Do you live here?”

Kitty licked one paw and proceeded to clean its face, apparently taking no notice of me.

I turned to study the house again. Did someone live here? It appeared to be abandoned and looked as if it hadn’t been lived in for some time. Surely, that was a several-year accumulation of oak leaves from the surrounding trees on the front porch steps, I thought. Though perhaps not. The monumental trees promised to bring some owner the unmitigated joy—or horror—of raking leaves for weeks during the fall season.

The turquoise and pink pastel paint on the outer walls of the house was weathered and faded, and the white trim around the windows and on the porch cracked and peeled away from the wood underneath. I cocked my head to the side and contemplated a new color scheme. A soft gray for the walls and a fresh coat of white paint on all the trim seemed a better fit. Many of the Victorian houses in Seattle were colorfully decorated in pastel schemes, but this house seemed too...dignified...for anything so fanciful. It wanted a soft neutral color to show off its classic lines—much like a handsome man knew when neutral-colored clothing accented the firm lines of his jaw or the broad set of his shoulders.

What the—? I blinked and raised my hands to my cheeks where a flash of heat spread across my face. Where had that come from? The face of the man from my dreams tantalized me for a moment—the firm lines of his jaw and the broad set of his shoulders. My heart skipped several beats. He certainly looked like he could have lived in a house like this. I imagined us on the porch, hand in hand, on a loveseat...

I grinned foolishly and glanced at my watch. It was already 11 a.m. If I was going to wander through that entire cemetery again in a quest to make sense of my inexplicable attachment to it, I’d better get moving.

I hated to leave the once lovely house, and I promised myself I would take another peek at it on my way out of town—a guarantee that made it easier for me to cross the street once again and return to my car. I finished the short drive to the cemetery, noting with surprise that the Victorian house was much closer to the cemetery than I’d realized. I pulled in under the black iron arched gate and brought the car to a stop under a tree. Probably once designed for horses and buggies, there was really no parking lot in the older cemetery.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, the wind greeted me, and I welcomed the fresh breeze on my face. I tucked the camera back into my jeans pocket and trudged up the gentle slope to the top of the hill...where I remembered the late afternoon sunlight playing on a stone the day before. I wanted a picture of it. If only I could remember which one it was.

What would I do if I found it? Take a picture and then what? Was I expecting to recognize the name? Was that the reason I’d felt this strong compulsion to return to the cemetery?

I twisted my lips into a wry grin and shook my head. Who knew? Sometimes, I was just too fanciful to suit even myself. No doubt I was just under the spell of too much ancestral gravesite hunting. All the family names and relationships were overlapping each other.

I reached the top of the hill and made my way to the edge of the cemetery—my favorite spot—where the wind had seemingly whispered my name. It blew as it had the previous day—and probably as it had for hundreds of years—creating the luscious loess hills of fertile soil along the Missouri Valley.

I scanned the stones in the surrounding area—some of chiseled gray granite, some in a lovely rose granite, while others seemed to be made of a soft white material such as sandstone. It was one of those that brought me to a standstill. The tombstone was about three feet high, as bright white as the day it was carved out in a quarry somewhere. To my bemusement, it actually seemed to glow brighter as sunlight beamed directly down on it.

The inscription was difficult to read, and heedless of grass stains to my blue jeans, I knelt to examine it more closely. With tender fingers, I reached out to trace the lettering. I caught my breath at the unexpected warmth of the stone, so unlike other cold headstones we had examined over the past week. It seemed to hold the sun’s heat as if its porous nature acted as a sponge.

I flattened my hand across the stone to better absorb the warmth, to draw from the imagined energy reverberating from it. I pulled back to study the inscription once again.

***** ******, aged 28 ****, 2 mos, 4 ****

My age! I reared back for a moment and checked the date on my watch. I swallowed hard as I realized that I was, in fact, born 28 years, 2 months and 4 days ago. We shared the same birthday...my new friend and I! Though I suspected years apart. The stone was not new. Time and weather had worn the carving smooth, and I couldn’t make out the letters of the name, nor could I see any dates. I sat back on my heels, longing to know the name of my “twin.” Was he a man? A woman? How had he or she died? Twenty eight was far too young to die. I made a mental note to see my doctor when I got back to Seattle for a physical.

I resisted the urge to give the stone a sisterly hug of compassion and instead, pulled out my camera.

I positioned the camera and took several close-up photos of the tombstone. When I viewed them on the camera, they seemed overexposed, and I tried taking them again—this time at a different angle. Another check revealed that the shots continued to come out too bright, and the inscription—worn away as it was on the weathered sandstone—simply could not be read. Now what, I wondered?

I wished I had paper and thick crayon for an etching, but neither Sara nor I had had the foresight to come prepared with such equipment.

I straightened and backed up to adjust the camera in the hope I could bring the lettering of the stone into some relief in the photo. Still no success. The sun shone too brightly on the stone at this time of day to get a good shot.

“Molly...”

I froze. The breeze blew in from the valley below, but I knew this voice wasn’t a trick of the wind. And Sara wasn’t with me this time. My heart pounded in my chest as I twisted around to survey the deserted cemetery. I was alone, and someone spoke my name.

Instinctively, I took a step backward, though I wasn’t sure which direction the voice had come from.

“Who’s here?” I called out. “Is someone here?” I scanned the cemetery once more. Nothing moved but the rippling leaves of the sun-dappled trees.

“Molly.”

I clutched the camera to my chest, genuine fear setting in now. My heart seemed to have jumped into my throat, pounding even louder if that were possible.

“Who is it?” I screeched. “This is nuts. Sara, if that’s you, I swear...”

I took a hasty step in the direction of the car, but a movement underneath one of the massive oak trees caught my eye. A figure stood there, in the shadow beneath the canopy of the tree.

“Who are you? Did you call me? What do you want?” I tried to speak in a calm voice, but anxiety continued to bring a shrill note to my words. I resumed backing away toward the direction of the car.

“Molly, wait!”

I froze in place for a moment. It was definitely a man under the tree though I couldn’t see his face...and he knew my name.

“Do I know you?” I called in an unsteady voice. It seemed, though, as if my words were taken by the wind. Who was this man? And how did he know my name?

He moved away from the tree with a tentative step. His clothing was formal—a dark suit and white shirt—as if he had just been to a funeral. I hadn’t remembered seeing a canopy for a funeral on the grounds, but I wasn’t about to take my eyes off the stranger for one instant to confirm that suspicion.

I thought I saw a flash of white teeth from under his dark mustache, but he was still some distance away. Golden highlights in his chestnut hair caught the sunlight, and my mouth dropped open. He was undoubtedly one of the most handsome men I had ever seen in my life. My stomach rolled over at the sight of him, though not exclusively with admiration of his good looks. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and I put my hand to my mouth as if to hold back the morning’s breakfast...if I’d had any.