She jumped.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing, Father.” She kept her eyes down. He could too easily see right through her.
“Your young man left?”
Her gaze lifted to his. “You all but told him to go away.”
“I’m sorry, My Pet. I didn’t realize how much it meant to you that he stay.”
“It’s too late now,” she said, feeling the tears well in her eyes.
“Nonsense,” he said. “He’ll be back.”
“I don’t think you understand, Father.” Her chin trembled.
“I saw the way he looked at you. He’ll be back alright. I just hope you want to see him again.”
She wanted him to come back more than anything in the world. But a man who vanished into thin air may have some difficulties doing so.
“David is here,” her father was saying. “Perhaps you need to go upstairs and get some sleep.”
Sleep. That was the last thing she wanted to do. She did, however, need some time to think.
Bradley had been there. He had been real. Her father had spoken to him, too.
And he had touched her.
Bradley Becquerel may be a ghost, but he was real to her.
Bradley tuned out the miserable moans of his passengers and completed his pre-flight checklist. There was nothing fun about a hangover. He’d suffered through one, maybe two, during college and had vowed never again. Two drinks and he was done. He’d read a study that said after one drink people looked more attractive – their skin glowed, then after a couple more, the effect diminished, but others started to look more attractive.
Anyway, today’s task was to get his clients to Houston, then get back to New Orleans. He’d made a reservation at the Place d’Armes for three nights starting tonight. He had to do laundry and repack his suitcase. What did one pack for a trip into the past?
Most would say he had become insane.
But Bradley Becquerel had never been one to conform to conventional standards.
Whether it put him in the insane category or not, he was going to have another go at it.
He’d met Camille Lafluer for a reason. There was no one in his time he’d ever had that kind of attraction to. He’d tried the whole match.com, tinder swipes, speed dating, and other things he couldn’t even remember. He’d gotten a couple of sparks, but nothing worth more than a distant memory.
Perhaps it was something in his genes. Perhaps, he mused he was destined to fall in love with someone from the past.
As he waited for his turn to taxi down the runway, he opened his iPad and began a google search for 1830s currency. He couldn’t just take twenty dollars from his money clip and hand it over to the guy.
After a few tangents, he found a notice posted on a website that the City Bank of New Orleans would consider buying old money. If they bought old money, perhaps they had some to sell. Or at least could point him toward a collector who might be willing to part with some collector’s notes.
He took a deep steading breath as he answered the voice in his ear giving him the all-clear for take-off. Unfortunately, the bank was closed on Sunday, but he would be there at their door first thing in the morning.
It was early-afternoon before he had his passengers dropped off and his plane squared away. He had to reserve a different plane for the return trip because this one was already spoken for starting tomorrow.
He pulled up at his condo and turned off the motor. He’d never really felt at home here. He knew part of it was missing his sister. She’d helped him pick it out, but she hadn’t been around to help him furnish it. He’d brought her furniture here instead.
His return flight was scheduled for seven o’clock, so he had five hours to get everything done and get back to the airport.
After throwing his dirty clothes in the washer, and laying his three nice suits on the bed, he sat down at his desk, pulled out a legal pad, and began writing a letter. It gave him a creepy feeling, but he’d been putting off making out a will, so this served the purpose of spurring him into taking care of that. Or so he tried to convince himself.
His wastebasket was soon overflowing with rejected pages.
Finally, content with his letter, he carefully folded it and placing it in an envelope, laid it in the middle of his desk. He wrote If you can’t find me… across the front. And what he was left with was a terrible sense of guilt. Who would find it? His grandfather? His mother? The police?
I’m sure I’ll be back. I’m just being dramatic.
He checked his watch and tossed his clothes in the dryer. He’d worry about that later. The letter was there… just in case
Taking his phone out of his back pocket, he clicked the home key and gazed at his new wallpaper. Although he hadn’t had phone service in the bar, his camera did work. He’d snapped a picture of Camille while she’d been standing at the counter, pouring a drink for someone else. The image was hazy, from the cigar smoke, but he’d zoomed in enough to have an image of her face.
Her image was burned into his memory, but the picture was a reminder that she was, indeed, real.
He packed enough clothes for a week into his suitcase, even though he only planned to be gone for three days, and put his suitcase in the trunk of his Pathfinder SUV.
He checked his watch again. He had a little time left. He threw everything perishable from his refrigerator and hauled it all out to the trash dump. He went online and paid all his bills for the next month.
By that point, he was running late, but still made it to the airport on time. Not that the plane was going anywhere without him.
Turns out the plane wasn’t going anywhere with him. It needed a part for the engine and would be delayed until morning.
Camille tapped her fingers against the counter and scowled at the door. Marcus would be coming to get her at any moment. The clock would soon be tolling the ten o’clock hour and it wasn’t proper for her to be here into the night hours. Her father was already allowing her to push the limits.
I don’t want you to get the reputation of being a bar maid, he’d told her that morning. Her reputation was the last thing she cared about at the moment, but her father was right, of course. Her father was always right. Almost always.
Bradley wasn’t coming tonight.
Her father had assured her that he would, but there had been no sign of him.
He’d been a fleeting ghost into her life.
Her imagination had been active all day. Perhaps he’d recently been killed and was merely passing through on his way to Heaven. Camille didn’t believe in ghosts, but she didn’t disbelieve in them either. If she determined that Bradley had been a ghost, then she supposed she did believe after all.
She believed in Bradley.
“Miss Camille,” Marcus said, at her elbow.
She nodded. “I’m coming.”
“Are you well, Miss?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know Marcus.”
“You feel ill?”
“Yes,” she said. My heart aches.
“You take care of yourself, Miss.”
Camille picked up her skirts. “Thank you Marcus,” she said, but didn’t bother to look up. She’d run out of fake smiles for the evening.
She went straight upstairs to her room and, after lighting a candle, unbuttoned her bodice, and stepped out of her dress. She put on her nightgown, and went to stand in front of the open window, enjoying the fresh air. She had a perfect view of the street below. She watched a few people walking to and fro. But no sign of Bradley here either.
Her heart heavy, she climbed into bed, and curled beneath the blankets.
Her world had been turned upside down.
By the ghost of a man.
Bradley landed at the New Orleans airport at ten Monday morning. He took a taxi to the French quarter and checked into the Place d’Armes to drop off his luggage. He then set out to the City Bank of New Orleans.
The representative didn’t seem overly s
urprised at his request. He specialized in rare currency. And, even though he didn’t have any 1830’s money in the bank, he made a phone call and set up a meeting with a private collector.
By 2:00, Bradley was the proud owner of one twenty-dollar bill in currency dated 1831 and five other hundred dollar bills dated in the early 1830s – just in case. The money was large – much larger than modern-day money and he found the intricate designs quite pretty. He carefully folded them and shoved them into his pocket, thankful the rare bills hadn’t broken his bank account.
Since he’d missed a night, he was uncertain that the door would even be there again. After his sister told him about her time-travel experience, he’d spent some time researching different theories about it. Of course, the mainstream culture thought it was merely fodder for media and anyone who truly believed would be put in the insane asylum.
But. In the time-travel subculture, there were tons of theories. Involving everything to the clothes a person wore to the movement of the moon.
Obsession. That was the only word he had to describe his need to see Camille again.
He had been staring into her eyes when he had walked through that door. He’d held out his hand to her and she to him. Then one of them had disappeared.
Since the door to the bar was the tangible thing he’d walked through, he could only surmise that it was a portal of some type. He must have been the one to disappear because he’d been the one who walked through the door.
What must she think?
Bradley had the advantage, he thought, due to his sister and the Internet. And even armed with that little bit of information, he was confused and bewildered. She must be ten times so.
He sat in a small café with a view of the Mississippi River, watching the barges traveling back and forth.
Would the door be there tonight?
Along with that question, another stray thought kept swirling in his mind. What if it closed while he was on the other side?
The thought surfaced, then swirled out of sight again.
He couldn’t let his mind go down that path.
Right now, his only focus was on seeing Camille again.
Chapter Four
The next evening, it was with a heavy heart that Camille chose a silver gown for the evening.
She wouldn’t see Bradley again, she told herself for the thousandth time.
He had been nothing more than a fleeting visitor. A lost soul on his way to Heaven.
Camille wasn’t overly religious, but she had a good Catholic foundation. Enough that she believed in the afterlife.
Perhaps even more so now that she had witnessed a strange otherworldly occurrence.
Her ghostly encounter had strong hands and clear blue eyes.
And… different clothing. One night a plain white shirt and the second a more formal coat… and a mask.
The memory of his fingertips against her cheek sent a shiver down her spine. She brushed her hair, leaving it long and softly curled tonight.
Then she tied a matching silver mask over her eyes. Only one more night and she would be free of the mask. But did it matter?
Her heart wasn’t in it tonight. After last night’s disappointment at not seeing Bradley, she would have preferred to curl up with a book and stay to herself.
Alas, she had too much invested in convincing her father that she should be allowed to work behind the bar in the tavern. Lifting her chin, she made her way downstairs and greeted Marcus with a smile.
“Afternoon, Miss,” he said. “There’s a party coming in early tonight after the parade.”
“Parade?” She vaguely remembered reading about a parade in the paper, but hadn’t considered that it might affect their business.
“That’s right. Your father is opening the tavern up to the public.”
“Is that so?” she asked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm from her voice. After all the grief he’d given Bradley over paying his membership fee, now just anyone could come in! Her father would most definitely be hearing about this.
Nonetheless, she barely had time to check her stock before the tourists started pouring in. Juggling the wine orders with the whiskey orders kept her hopping. The customers were a mixture of both men and women tonight – different than the usual all male clientele. Such was the way of Mardi Gras.
It was all about breaking conventions. As long as one wore their mask, she added wryly.
Though her head told her it was fruitless, her heart continued to search for any sign of Bradley.
As a second wave of customers came into the already crowded tavern, David appeared at her elbow and offered to give her a break.
“I would love to take a break,” she said, gladly handing over the responsibility of the work, even if only for a few minutes.
She went to the back office and sat at the desk. The mask she wore tonight was causing her skin to itch, so she reached up and removed it. After dropping the mask on the desk, she ran her hand through her hair, fluffing it up.
One hand tangled in her hair, she began making some notes on a piece of paper. She would have lots to do tomorrow with the cash flow from tonight.
At the sound of footsteps, she looked up expecting to see Marcus coming to bring her back to work.
Instead, she dropped the ink pen on the paper, sending ink all over the paper and desk.
Bradley stood leaning against the door jamb watching her. How long had he been there?
Again, she was struck that his clothes were a little odd, but he smiled at her and her focus moved back to his face.
“Good evening,” he said.
She stood up, shoving her chair back in the process, and, stepping around it, took two steps back, the desk between them.
Concern on his face, he stood up straight, but made no move toward her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened,” she said, but she was. Her heart tripped in her chest, her body tense. Was she afraid because she thought he might be a ghost? Or was she afraid because of the effect he had on her?
“The man up front said I could come back here to pay you,” Bradley said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled note. Moving slowly, he stepped forward to lay it on the center of the desk.
Keeping her eyes glued to his, she stepped back again, but bumped up against the wall.
He moved a step back again and smiled.
She swallowed thickly and took a deep, ragged breath.
Her gaze darted toward her mask. Then back to his eyes. It was odd how she felt exposed without her mask. It wasn’t like she’d ever worn a mask before three days ago.
Perhaps it was the way his eyes seemed to devour her.
Suddenly, he reached up and stripped his own mask from his face.
She gasped.
His smile had turned wolfish again.
Her palms pressed against the smooth wood of the wall behind her. There was no where else to go.
He took a step forward.
She tore her gaze from his. “He’s a ghost,” she said softly.
Bradley froze. Scowled. “Miss Lafleur,” he said. “Look at me.”
She did as he asked, the way he said her name made her toes tingle.
“I’m not a ghost.”
“How do I know?
“Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“No.”
“Have you ever spoken to a ghost?”
She shook her head.
“Then don’t you think it’s likely I’m not a ghost either?”
She shrugged.
“I could just as easily think you’re a ghost.”
“Me?” Her eyes widened. What an odd thing to say. She looked down at herself. Shook her head as she looked back up. Ran a hand along her arms.
“Do you believe that you could touch a ghost?” he persisted.
“No. Ghosts are impalpable.”
He nodded. “We agree on that, then.”
She nodded.
&n
bsp; “Shall we test it?”
“How are we going to do that?” she asked.
“Well… unless we’re both ghosts, which I think is almost impossible, we shouldn’t be able to touch each other.”
Camille supposed that the idea of them both being ghosts was actually a possibility, but highly unlikely. She decided to keep that to herself.
As she considered these possibilities, Marcus came to the door. “Mistress Camille?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Is everything all right?” He asked, looking from one to the other of them.
“Thank you Marcus. Everything is fine.”
Marcus took her at her word and left her there.
“Take my hand,” Bradley said.
She shook her head imperceptibly.
“You know I’m not a ghost,” he said.
She nodded.
“Yet you’re still afraid of me.”
She pushed off the wall and walked toward him, around the desk. She put out her hand and he grabbed hold of it.
He was the antithesis of intangible.
A look of satisfaction crossed his features.
Now what? She pulled back, but he held tight.
“We can agree that neither one of us is a ghost?”
She nodded. “Yes. But...”
“But?”
“You disappeared. I saw you.”
“Yeah,” he said, pressed his free hand against his forehead. “Perhaps it was a trick of the light.”
“No,” she insisted. “I followed you through the door and into the street. You were there. Then you weren’t.”
“You’re right,” he said. “But it’s difficult for me to explain.”
“I’m not a simpleton. It you explain it to me, I’m certain I can understand.”
He seemed to consider. While he was distracted, she jerked her hand from his, picked up his twenty-dollar bill and shoved it in a desk drawer.
She then sat back down in the chair, rested her hands on the desk and beneath her chin, and watched him expectantly.
He hadn’t moved. Rather, he stood scowling at her.
“You’re wearing the same expression my father wore when I asked to accompany my brothers to Texas and when I asked to work in the tavern.”
When the Stars Align Page 4