The Treasure Box (8 page)

Vita turned off the water, toweled herself dry, and stood naked and chilled on the cold tile floor while she ran the hair dryer. The mirror was fogged with steam; she turned the dryer toward the glass and watched as her face appeared in an ever-widening circle surrounded by mist. Red-rimmed eyes set deep over high cheekbones. Wet, dark hair lying in disarray across her bare shoulders. For the first time in years, she saw herself as a portrait of weakness, of vulnerability.

Vita abandoned the dryer, went into the bedroom, and began opening drawers. Within five minutes she was dressed—black slacks, a matching turtleneck, a gray cable-knit cardigan. She brushed back her still-damp hair and fastened it with a rubber band at the nape of her neck, then glanced in the mirror over the dresser. Her face seemed to float above the high turtleneck, a white oval disconnected from the rest of her body. She gave a grunt of disapproval, made the bed with a few expert strokes, and went downstairs.

Vita was at the kitchen table when she heard the Seth Thomas on the living room mantel strike one deep bong. She glanced at the clock on the stove. It was twelve-thirty, and she was still sitting here, pushing around the remains of her scrambled eggs and fiddling with a cup of lukewarm coffee.

She was already nearly a week behind schedule on the Alaska project, but it seemed like a Herculean effort just to get up and walk into her office, much less do any real work. She took one last gulp of the coffee and grimaced as it went down cold.

Stalling wasn't going to help, and it wasn't her style, anyway.

Writers had a reputation for sheer genius when it came to procrastination, but Vita had never counted herself among them. She was the one who always finished
before
the deadline. The practice made editors deliriously happy—they were so easily pleased—and kept work coming her way at a steady pace.

Exhaling determination on a sigh, Vita heaved herself to her feet and went to the sink. She scraped the remains into the garbage can, put her plate in the soapy dishwater, and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. Then she gathered together all her resolve and made her way through the living room onto the sun porch.

The computer sat there, dark and silent, mocking her. The moment of truth. Time to find out whether the Treasure Box program had irreparably damaged her hard drive, or whether it had been a benign virus that, once gone, would let her access her working files.

She opened the top drawer of her desk and riffled through a stack of business cards until she found the one she wanted: Bits 'n Bytes, on Hendersonville Road. Home of Sandy the computer genius. “Don't go anywhere,” she said to the card as she wedged it under the corner of the telephone. “If this doesn't work, I may be needing you.”

She pressed the power button, then went back to her desk and picked up the folder marked
Alaska
. Behind her, she heard the computer booting up, but she kept her back turned while she flipped through the material. “I've got enough to begin writing,” she muttered to herself. “Anything else I need, I can track down on the Internet.”

When she heard the music that marked the opening of Windows, Vita swiveled back around toward the computer. There was her desktop, displaying the familiar wallpaper scene of the Blue Ridge Mountains, surrounded by program icons.

Vita stifled a rush of disappointment and tried to force herself to feel relieved. She had been right. The Treasure Box program— or virus, or whatever it was—had vanished. It was time to forget about Sophie and get back to work.

Biting her lower lip, she rolled her mouse over the word processing icon and clicked.

The screen flashed, and a low chuckle emanated from the computer speakers.
“Not today,”
the voice whispered.
“There are portals yet to open.”

The star-studded home page appeared on the monitor, with its tiny brass keyhole sparkling at the center. Vita gnawed at the inside of her cheek. Someone was playing games with her. She had put her feelings aside and convinced herself that she really did want to get back to work, and now this. A virus with an attitude.

“OK, OK,” she muttered. “Let's just get this over with, all right?” She rolled her mouse over the keyhole, revealed the key, and inserted it into the lock. The invisible door in the sky swung open, just as it had when Vita had first entered Jacob Stillwater's workshop, and the same bright light blinded her.

But the scene that appeared on the screen was not Jacob's shop, or his house, or even the big oak tree where Sophie and Rachel had played. It was a village green surrounding a large, splashing fountain. For a split second the sound of the water brought back an image of little Sophie being carried down the rapids, and Vita felt a fist squeeze her lungs, cutting off her breathing.

But there was no river. No white water. No danger.

Just a placid village square, occupied by a young couple sitting together on a park bench, holding hands.

Vita looked closely at them. The man was handsome—impeccably dressed with sandy hair, a broad forehead, and a strong jaw line with a deep cleft at the chin. She didn't recognize him, but there was something familiar about the woman. She was pleasant-looking, though not striking, with long brown hair pulled back from her face and deep blue eyes. Around her neck, a sparkling silver oval caught the sunlight and reflected it back like a beacon.

Rachel Woodlea. All grown up, and with a beau of her very own.

“Oh, Derrick, it's beautiful!” Rachel fingered the locket. Her voice still bore a shy, whispery quality, as it had when she was a little girl. She lowered her eyes and ducked her head. “What a special gift.”

“I searched everywhere to find one like your grandmother's, the one you gave to your little friend so long ago. What was her name? Sonya?”

“Sophie. I've told you a dozen times. Sophie.”

Derrick shrugged. “Well, now you have a better one to replace it.” He leaned his head down and peered into her eyes. “Happy birthday, dearest Rachel. Now, no more gloomy memories about Sonya. Your twentieth birthday is a day for celebration.”

“I remember Sophie's last birthday,” Rachel mused. “We had a wonderful party, and—”

“None of that.” Derrick held up a warning finger. “You have to learn to let the past stay buried, Rachel. Think about the present, and about the future.
Our
future. The future with you as my wife. Mrs. Derrick Knight.”

Rachel shook herself and forced a smile. “Yes. Our future.”

“How long do you think we'll have to wait?” Derrick gave her an intense look, as if probing into the depths of her soul.

“Three months, maybe four. By early summer, at the latest.

I've been saving every shilling I can manage from my work at the tavern. Sometimes the fellows even tip me, especially when they win at the gambling tables, or when they're a bit too much in their cups.” She shuddered. “It's horrid, Derrick. The noise, the smoke, the drunken brawls. Last week a married man twice my age tried to force me into the back room—”

“Just a little while longer,” he interrupted. “I've been hoarding my pay, too, and pretty soon we'll be able to book passage on a ship and sail away to America.” He raised an eyebrow and winked rakishly at her. “How much do you have?”

“Almost two hundred pounds, I think. I gave a bit to Mam to buy some things for Colin.”

Derrick frowned. “Colin's your baby brother, not your son.

It's not your responsibility to clothe him.”

“He needed shoes and books for school, Derrick. He's shot up like a weed in the past few months and has outgrown every stitch he owns.”

“All right, all right. Just don't get too generous. You'd give away your last pair of bloomers if you thought some other girl needed them.”

Rachel blushed at the mention of her undergarments. “I would not, Derrick. Besides, that money's hidden safe away, locked in my Treasure Box—the one Sophie gave me before she died. I keep it out of sight under a loose floorboard in the barn.”

“Good. The more we save, the sooner we'll be on our way to America in proper style.” He rose to his feet. “I must go. I have work to do.”

Rachel stood and pressed her lips to his cheek. “All right, then. Will I see you later tonight?”

“Don't I always come to the tavern at closing time and walk you home? Until later, my love.” He kissed her hand and made his way across the green. Rachel watched him go and smiled.

Vita sat back and sighed. Rachel, the sweet, faithful child, had grown up into a sweet, faithful woman. She was working hard at a job she abhorred so that she and her fiancé could make passage to America. Little Rachel, engaged—and to a very handsome fellow.

There was something about Derrick that bothered Vita, but she couldn't quite put her finger on anything specific. It was probably just her own prejudices. Ever since Gordon, she'd had difficulty trusting men. She had little use for the entire gender, the way most of them swaggered around shot full of testosterone, preening themselves like enormous peacocks, and then congratulating themselves on their sensitivity when they remembered to use the word “woman” instead of “girl.”

But this wasn't about Vita. It was about Rachel. And Derrick Knight might not be so bad. He seemed to adore Rachel—buying her gifts, planning for their future together. Perhaps he was a bit full of himself, but weren't they all?

Not all
. Not Jacob Stillwater. Vita wondered briefly how he was getting along in the ten years since his beloved Sophie died.

Now
there
was a man Vita could approve of—compassionate, kindhearted, hardworking, creative. If this Derrick fellow turned out to be anything at all like Jacob, Rachel Woodlea would have a very happy life.

And if anyone deserved a happy life, Rachel did.

8
DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE

T
he afternoon brought rain—a downpour, splashing through the emerging leaf cover and rolling off the eaves of the roof in a solid sheet. The kind of rain that made Vita want to crawl under the covers and take a long nap—except that she had already slept half the day away.

She had brought a tuna sandwich and a glass of iced tea into the office with her, and ate a late lunch in front of the computer. But so far nothing had reappeared since the scene with Rachel and her fiancé.

Twice Vita had picked up the phone to call Bits 'n Bytes, and twice she had hung up on the first ring. She couldn't explain it, even to herself. Why was she so reluctant to have her hard drive reformatted and get back to her normal work schedule? What was she waiting for?

Vita didn't know. But still she waited. She spent the time—the better part of an hour—flipping idly through her file on Alaska.

Both Norwegian and Princess had good cruise packages, but Norwegian made a double loop through the Inside Passage, both beginning and ending at Vancouver. For a traveler who had roundtrip airfare to consider, Norwegian's itinerary was more convenient and less expensive than ending in Anchorage or Seward.

She gazed at the brightly-colored cruise brochures and could almost hear the waves lapping at the sides of the ship. It took a minute or two for Vita's mind to register that she wasn't just imagining the sound. But it wasn't waves; it was more like running water, like the rain cascading off the roof into little pools at the edge of the house. Vita listened intently, then shook her head. No. Rain didn't make that whooshing, rippling noise. This was the sound of laughing, leaping waters. A river running down stream over rocks.

She swiveled around in her chair and stared at the computer monitor. Its flat black surface was fading, and from the speakers she could hear the sounds more clearly now. When the scene materialized, Vita knew exactly what she was seeing.

The river in the woods where Sophie had nearly drowned.

Rachel sat on the bank, her long skirts gathered around her ankles. She tossed a small stick into the water; it circled for a minute in the still, deep pool, then surrendered to the current and floated downstream on the rapids.

Above Rachel and to the right, a fallen tree extended far out over the water. Cathleen had taunted her sister and Sophie from the horizontal trunk of that very same tree before dropping Sophie's Treasure Box into the river. Rachel threw another stick into the stream. This time Vita saw not a small twig, but a terrified little girl, caught in the undertow and carried down the rapids.

She didn't know how Rachel could stand to be here, at the very spot where her best friend had been lost to her. But then Rachel had endured ten years coming to grips with Sophie's death; Vita had only faced it for the first time yesterday. Maybe time did heal such a wound, or at least scabbed over the infection so that you didn't think about it so much.

A noise behind Rachel startled her—footsteps approaching through the woods. She turned toward the noise, and Vita could see that she had been crying. So much for the “time healing wounds” theory. Rachel still missed Sophie desperately; Vita could see it in her red-rimmed eyes, feel it in the heaviness of her limbs.

The footsteps grew closer, and a second woman appeared. Ten years older, thinner, more stooped than before, but still recognizable. Rose Woodlea. Rachel's mother.

“Care for a bit of company?” she asked, sitting down on the bank beside her daughter.

Rachel forced a smile. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Where do you always go when you need to think?” Mam waved a hand in the direction of the river. “Is she here?”

“Sophie?” Rachel nodded. “I don't see her, of course, but she's here.”

“People say you never get over losing your first love,” Mam said quietly. “I suppose that holds for a best friend, too.”

Rachel turned and looked at her. “What about you?”

“My first love, or my best friend?” She offered a pale imitation of a smile.