Take Me Back (2 page)

And there are many secrets here. It’s like I could hold them in my hands and sift through them, they’re so palpable.

“What?” I ask, finding Maddie staring at me.

“Nothing.” She shifts to her knees and picks up an ornate silver cup from the trunk. “Look at this. There’s a note inside.” Maddie plucks the folded, aged paper out of the cup before handing it to me.

The thin metal handle is cold. My thumb rests on an engraving that appears to be a small acorn with a smiling face. The body of the small cup is carved with a floral design. “There are letters etched on the side.” I turn the cup toward the light streaming in from the nearest window so I can see it better.

M.E. Border

-From-

E.M.

I reach for the family tree, not recalling the last name Border anywhere on it. “What does the letter say?”

Carefully, Maddie unfolds the brittle page. “It says, ‘My darling Ingrid, your second cousin, Martha Ellen Border, received this cup from her fiancé on her nineteenth birthday, September 8th, 1827. Keep it in good health. Your loving mother.’ ”

I snatch the paper out of her hand. “A letter from Ingrid’s mother. Looks like she was left-handed.”

Maddie gently places her hand on my forearm. “Are you okay? I’ve never seen you like this.”

I shake my head and smile. “I’m fine. Do you mind if I take some of this back to Turtle Tear with me? I’d like to frame some of these letters and photographs and hang them in the guest rooms. Unless you plan on using them here?”

She takes the cup and examines it. “Do you mind if we keep this here? You can take the rest. I think this would be fantastic on the mantel in the great room.”

I fight the urge to grab it back. “Of course! It was here, so this is where it belongs.”

“Ready to go?” you ask, clomping across the hardwood floor in your dusty work boots.

“Ready. We’re taking this with us.” I point to the trunk, and your eyes widen in exasperation.

“We are? Why? You can root through it here until your heart’s content. There won’t be time to do it this week anyway with the anniversary party at the hotel next weekend.”

“I’ll find time,” I say, closing the lid and all of Ingrid’s treasures inside.

You kiss me and shake your head. “You’re the most stubborn women I’ve ever known.”

You sit up on your knees and grasp my thighs, pulling me against you, pushing yourself deeper inside. I ball the sheets in my fists and clench my teeth. My God, I love being with you.

“You’re distracted,” you say, pulling me in against you again, thrusting harder. “Where are you, Rachael?”

I wrap my legs around your waist and reach up for you, but you stay out of reach. “I’m not distracted.”

You thrust, making me gasp and moan. “Oh God, I love it when you’re inside me.”

“Your mind’s racing. Get out of there and into your body with me.” You lean forward, holding yourself over me, and trace the tip of your nose down the bridge of mine. “Let yourself go.”

Your body is as insistent as your words. Your fingers tangle in my hair, holding me still as you rock in and out of me. My legs wrap around yours, and my hips match your rhythm. “Look at me,” you demand. I do and lose myself in the dark depths of your eyes as the fire builds inside me, too hot and explosive to contain. My breath stutters and my legs quake as you push me to the point of combustion.

Then I’m gone. I’m all heat and pinpricks of raw nerves, flushed skin and the wetness of release. Through the rush in my ears, I can hear myself crying out, feel my body still responding to your thrusts, craving and aching for every last pulse wracking my body. My need for you is primal and animalistic. Entirely physical. I’ve escaped my churning thoughts, if only for a few mind-blowing moments.

You kiss me, swallowing my pants for breath, and roll us over. Wrapping your arms around my back, you hold me tight and thrust fast and deep, over and over. My body and mind haze with desire, and I bury my face in your neck, kissing and licking your salty skin. Your hands cup my face, bringing my mouth back to yours. You kiss me deeply, rolling your tongue with mine in a motion that mimics the new pace of your hips grinding against me, hitting the exact spot I need to let go a second time. “Right there.” I grasp your shoulders, digging my fingertips in. “Please. Yes. God…”

The throbbing starts deep inside and spreads like wildfire until I’m jolting and jerking in your arms, whimpering in pleasure again. Your hands spread across my ass cheeks, and you push me down and pull me up, riding you. You groan and throw your head back into the pillow with your own release. “Fuck, Rach.”

I collapse on top of your rising and falling chest and close my eyes. Nothing matters but the feel of your warm skin under my cheek and the sound of your heart pounding in my ear.

*

I wake with a start. A woman’s screaming and crying, yelling at me with tear-streaked cheeks.
Take me back!

I sit up and glance around our bedroom. It was Ingrid. A nightmare.

On my feet, I wrap a soft silk robe around me and pad out of the room. With my mind locked on Ingrid, there’s only one thing to do: go through her chest. You left it downstairs in the lounge.

I stop off in the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine to soothe my rattled nerves. I was so relaxed when I drifted off to sleep, but Ingrid’s heart-wrenching pleas and her dark eyes filled with pain haunt me. It didn’t feel like just a dream. It felt real, like she found her way inside my head and won’t let go until I find a way to bring her back here.

I perch on the edge of the soft brown leather sofa, flip the latch on the trunk lid, push it open, and peer inside. I’m met by the smell of ancient parchment, the soft scent of a lavender sachet, and the hint of tin and ink.

I breathe deeply and hold it inside, letting the aroma fill my head with memories that aren’t mine, but ones I’m desperate to know and keep.

After taking a deep sip of wine, I reach inside and shift the contents, revealing a patchwork quilt on the very bottom. I pull it out and drape it across my lap. The cotton is soft and worn. The quilt wasn’t kept away on a closet shelf. I can tell it was used. It warmed bodies on cold nights, comforted sick children, held elderly as they rocked beside a fireplace.

Taking the photo album with the purple-and-green-velvet-and-mirrored cover out of the chest, I stretch out on the couch with the quilt over me and flip to the first page, where five sets of young Weston eyes peer back at me from the black-and-white photo. Moonlight from the window over my head makes their faces glow phosphorescent on the aging photograph paper, the effect almost spectral.

“What are you doing?”

I jump at the sound of your voice. A loose page in the album falls to the floor. “Couldn’t sleep. Had a nightmare.”

“About?” Your bare feet silently tread across the cool tile over to the couch, and you sit beside me.

“Ingrid.”

You finger the quilt fabric, your face somber, eyes running over the patterns in the material. “I’m worried about you.”

My stomach clenches, but before I can respond, you grasp my arms. “I know you, Rachael. I know how obsessed you can get with this place. I heard it in your voice the first time we spoke, remember? Remember why I took—brought you here? I get it. I really do. But, you might be taking this Ingrid thing a little too much to heart.”

My pride turns to panic. What if I have to hide this from you? I don’t want to even consider keeping secrets from you, disguising my thoughts and feelings. But you can’t take her from me. “I’m fine. Please don’t worry.” I smooth the creases lining your forehead. “You’re right, I do get carried away sometimes when I immerse myself in a project I love.”

You nod, but you don’t look convinced that I really am fine. I never have been able to fool you—why would I be able to now? “Why don’t I look through this with you after the anniversary party is over and the guests have left? There will be time to get lost in the past then, all you want.” You smile and brush my hair back behind my ear, then lean forward to whisper in it. “You know how hot I think you are when your mind starts working and obsessing?” You nip my earlobe. “Your brain turns me on as much as your body.”

Wet kisses trail down my neck, and your fingers quickly untie and discard my robe. I shove your boxer shorts off and toss them aside. We lie on the couch, my body wrapped around yours, covered by an ancient quilt, and just like that—I’m taken by you again.

“Rachael?” Maddie yells from the bottom of the stairs.

I’m in the big bedroom on the second floor studying the hand-drawn map of Turtle Tear hanging on the wall for any clue as to where Ingrid could be buried. I know she’s here. She might have died at the Weston Plantation, but her body is in the ground on this island somewhere. If she wants her spirit brought back, it might help me figure out how if I know where her body is buried. “Up here!” I call.

“What day are the white truffles supposed to come in? Carlos is having fits down here!”

“I am not having fits. I need to finish planning the menu. White truffles are a key ingredient. If I can’t shave them over my pasta dish, we might as well serve SpaghettiOs!”

“Like I said, he’s freaking out down here!”

“Okay!” Shit. I don’t need this right now. I stride out of the room to the top of the stairs. “You will have your white truffles, don’t worry. Put your menu together and I’ll handle everything on your list.”

They’re standing in the entryway below looking up at me. Carlos presses his lips together. “They come from Italy. They needed to be ordered at least a week ago. I added them on the last food list I put together.”

“We’ll have them.” I have bigger concerns than truffles.

He nods and heads back toward the kitchen.

“Beck left to pick up the table linens and buffet equipment. He should be back by four this afternoon.” Maddie twists her hands together.

“I heard the helicopter leave. Is Riley staining the bandstand, and is Jesse stocking the pool bar?”

“Yes. Both are handled.”

“Okay, then stop twisting your fingers.” I start down the stairs, smiling at her. “This job is making you crazy, isn’t it?” She used to be full of fire, now—to use a phrase my mother would say—she’s like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Maddie runs her hands through her hair and leaves them on top of her head. “I’m so stressed. You’ve trusted me with this party, it’s the first one since the hotel has been open. I don’t want to let you and Merrick down. MJ would—”

“MJ would love you if you set fire to this place. And it’s going to be fine. We have four more days. Why don’t you have a drink or go for a swim? Where’s your dad? I bet he’d like to go fishing.”

She lets her hands fall and sighs. “He’s out front with Merrick walking the orchards.”

On the cusp of fall, the key limes are plump with juice and hanging low on the branches. The ground is covered in broken fruit and decaying rinds. It smells like heaven when the wind blows through the trees.

“You know, this place used to be renowned for its key lime pie. Merrick and I searched everywhere for the recipe before the renovations, but none of the cookbooks and recipe cards we found had it.”

Maddie narrows her eyes, then points toward the hallway that leads to the lounge. “You don’t think it would be in Ingrid’s trunk, do you? Or at the Weston Plantation? I’ll call MJ and see if he found any cookbooks there.” She rushes into the kitchen as I make my way down the rest of the stairs, and I hear her on her phone.

Maybe the recipe is in the trunk. There’s only one way to find out. I know there really are a million things to do before our guests arrive, but we have days, and like I told Maddie, everything is fine. Plus, I do want to frame some of the pictures and letters in the chest and hang them in the guest rooms before they arrive. This is all part of running the hotel. I’m allowed to enjoy my work.

I sit beside the steam trunk and take out what appears to be an oversized scrapbook. Loose papers fall out from between the pages, the glue on their backs having lost any hold over time.

One small, rectangular piece is stamped with a circus tent, an elephant, and the words Lopez Travelling Family Circus. Underneath is the date, time, and location: Palmetto Baptist Church, twelve noon, Sunday, April 10, 1892.

Lopez.

Lopez is so familiar.

I dig in the trunk, find the family tree, and there is my answer. Ingrid and Archibald’s oldest daughter, Hattie, married Jorge Lopez.

My insides zing with excitement. Their story is coming together like puzzle pieces—playing through my mind like a movie. Hattie and Jorge must have met when his family was performing their family circus at the church where the Westons were members. Ingrid and Archibald must have taken their family while they were visiting the plantation.

Maddie’s heels click down the hallway. “Joan wants to talk to you.” She holds her cell phone out for me.

Joan
is
always and
will
always be my least favorite person on Earth. The feeling’s mutual. “Hey Joan,” I say into the phone, “what can I do for you?”

“I thought this call was about what I could do for you? Something about a pie recipe?”

“Oh, right. I thought Maddie called MJ about that.”

“He’s in Atlanta. What would be the point in calling him?”

I take a deep breath before I say anything I’ll regret.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I found boxes and boxes of cookbooks along with everything that could possibly furnish a kitchen—pots, pans, dishes, the works—in one of the outbuildings two days ago.”

“What? I was just there yesterday and had no idea you’d found all of that. Did you tell MJ about it?”

“Why would he care about a bunch of kitchen crap? I put it on the list for the tag sale Friday.”

My blood freezes. “Tag sale? What tag sale? What else have you found?”

“Listen, Rachael, this is my project, not yours. Consulting with you isn’t required. Go back to your party planning and leave me alone.”

The phone disconnects.