Christopher, Barbara - Keeper of Key.txt
Page 9
in the chest. If you’ll follow me I’ll show it to you. We believe
the same carpenter made all the furniture.”
Becci glanced at Caleb as if waiting for confirmation. He
nodded and swallowed hard. They were going into Luke’s
bedroom. He couldn’t stifle the surge of pain that clawed at his
heart. In another hour, he would be helping Rebecca put Luke
to bed. Provided, of course, he returned in time to save her.
Becci swung around and motioned for Mr. Latham to lead
the way into the room then she inched closer to Caleb.
Caleb closed his eyes. Lord have mercy, didn’t she know
what she was doing to him? She smelled good. Too good. She
stood too close, and he wanted her too much. When he opened
his eyes, he found her staring at him, her lips curling into a
tentative smile.
“Lighten up. I don’t think you have to worry about leaving
us just yet,” she whispered. She lifted her hand, indicating for
him to follow Mr. Latham.
She’d taken his hesitation as fear that he would disappear
when he exited the room. If she really knew his thoughts, it
wouldn’t be Luke’s bedroom she led him to but the front door
he determined, watching her hips sway as he reluctantly trailed
after her.
Big mistake. Becci Berclair definitely existed. The longer
he was around her the more he didn’t want to leave. He had to
get away.
He didn’t want to look at Luke’s tattered bed and know
that he hadn’t been there when Luke had needed him. He had
to find Jacobs, retrieve the medallion from the dresser, and
leave before he started caring too much about Becci, her aunt,
and the problems they faced.
As they reached the door to Luke’s room, he glanced toward
the window. The sun had long since dropped below the horizon.
Jacobs would need another bottle of whiskey before long. They
had to head back to Raleigh before that happened.
“I think I hear Lilly calling me,” Caleb said.
He slapped the light into Becci’s hand and hurried toward
the stairs. He told himself it was the idea of entering Luke’s
bedroom, but he knew better. He could have faced seeing Luke’s
room, but he couldn’t take another minute of Becci’s gentle
touch as she guided the light he held to where Mr. Latham
needed it.
Caleb shook his head, disgusted. Becci had asked him to
help her. How could he? He’d failed his godson. He’d failed
Rebecca. Just as he’d failed everyone who ever touched his
life, even his mother. And if he tried to help Becci, he would
fail her, too.
Maybe he could go back to his time where he belonged
and be the godfather he’d promised to be. For now he had to
concentrate on the unvoiced declaration Mr. Latham had made
because he sensed that there was something wrong about the
man’s visit.
Who was this Michael, and why did he want to know about
the furniture? And why was he interested in the chest?
He didn’t know who Michael was, but he didn’t trust him
any more than he trusted himself around Becci. And she’d better
not trust either of them.
***
Becci hurried Mr. Latham through the rest of the upstairs
and started down. What had gotten into Caleb?
When they reached the ground floor, she saw Caleb
standing in the hazy shadows by the front door, studying the
parlor as he’d studied each room. In the dining room he’d given
an inordinate amount of attention to the corner cabinet’s glass
doors. He’d studied the hinges and traced the indented wood.
He’d even examined the floor where a deep gouge marred the
surface.
When they stepped into the bedroom she’d felt his anguish
as if it had been hers. But for whom, Rebecca, or the small
child he spoke about earlier? She shook her head. She had
definitely lost her mind if she was buying into Caleb’s delusion
that he’d traveled through time.
“I’ve seen enough, Miss Berclair,” Mr. Latham declared.
“If you will allow me to pass....”
Becci gasped in surprise. She hadn’t realized that she’d
stopped in the middle of the flight of stairs to stare at Caleb.
When Caleb glanced up at them she saw the pain in his eyes
before he managed to push his mask back into place.
“I’ll leave you to your...remodeling,” Mr. Latham said. The
way he said the word made it sound dirty, which confused Becci.
She stepped up beside Caleb.
Caleb leaned down and whispered, “He’s actually leaving?
None too soon if you ask me.”
“Shush.” Becci turned her attention back to Mr. Latham.
“What about—”
“There’s a lot of work needed to bring the house up to the
standards required for a nursery that caters to newborn babies,”
Mr. Latham interrupted, “but it’s possible to make it right.”
He stepped toward the door then hesitated. “Michael said you
planned to sell the antiques to help with your expenses. I’m
not an expert, but I don’t think you’ll get a much money.”
Becci gripped the banister and stared at the man. Had
Michael told Mr. Latham everything they’d talked about?
“Michael mentioned some old journals, too. If they prove
authentic, they could be of value to the dealers, even if the
antiques aren’t. Especially if they contain rare historical
information.”
Mr. Latham readjusted his tie. “The first step is to get the
nursery ready. Of course, the funding will be given out before
the end of the month. Most of the applicants had their
information to us six months ago, and I’m not sure the company
will have time to even process yours. If I were you, I would
consider Michael’s offer to sell the house for you instead of
applying for the aid. You’ll get a lot more money that way.”
“I have my reasons for trying, Mr. Latham. Aunt Lilly wants
to keep the house in the family if at all possible, even if it’s as
a nursery.” And so do I.
“It is a beautiful place. I’d hate to see it destroyed to make
way for an apartment complex or a gas station.”
Mr. Latham reached for the doorknob. “Good day, Miss
Berclair.” He bowed politely then walked out without
acknowledging Caleb.
“Good day, Miss Berclair. Consider selling instead of
applying for aid,” Becci snarled, shutting the door and leaning
against its center stile. “Why did I listen to Aunt Lilly? Why
didn’t I just go ahead and sell like I originally planned? It isn’t
going to work. It can’t. I don’t want it to,” she lied.
Becci handed Caleb the flashlight and caught the end of
the braid hanging over her shoulder.
“What is aid, and what will happen if you don’t get it?”
Caleb asked. He didn’t know why she needed this aid but it
must be important to cause her to go to such trouble. He flicked
the flashlight on and off while he waited for her answer.
“This particular grant is li
ke a scholarship. Companies like
Ascomp give struggling entrepreneurs money to help them get
started in a business. This one is for minority ownership.”
Caleb’s heart did a skittering dance as Becci covered his
hand with hers to stop him from flicking the flashlight’s switch.
“Since Lilly and I will be co-owners and we’re both female,
we qualify. If I don’t get the aid, I’ll sell the property to a
commercial developer and rent a place for my nursery
somewhere in Memphis.”
“You’ll receive enough money for that?”
“Yes. My land extends all the way to one of the busiest
street corners in the areas. Ever since the Wal-Mart and those
other places went in across the street, all property in this area
is hot. Especially mine. I’ve had a dozen offers, all of them
outrageously high. Aunt Lilly practically stayed on her knees
for a month begging me not to sell. But I’ve got to. Or at least
I will if this funding doesn’t comes through.”
“You can’t sell Rebecca’s house.”
Becci groaned. She wanted to yell that she owned Berclair
Manor, not his long-dead Rebecca. She managed to tamp down
her frustration and calmly state, “I don’t have a choice, Mr.
Harrison.”
Caleb watched her when she shoved away from the front
door. As she moved, the soft glow of the candle lit room cast a
shadow over her face. Concern wrinkled her brow the same as
it had Rebecca’s the last time he’d seen her. At that moment he
realized Rebecca had known disaster was pending, just as Becci
now knew it. But had Rebecca known she was going to die? Is
that why she’d asked him to take Luke with him?
“Why sell now?” Caleb asked, forcing the questions about
Rebecca out of his mind. He didn’t have the answers, and he
had a more immediate problem. If Becci sold the manor would
he ever be able to return to Luke? He’d told Lilly he’d stay as
long as he could to help, but he had to get the medallion and
try to return to his time as soon as possible. Luke needed him.
And he needed Luke. He had to get back to him before Becci
did something that could prevent that from happening.
Caleb again flicked the flashlight on and off as he waited
for Becci’s answer. He had to find a way to sneak into Becci’s
room and look for the medallion. It wouldn’t be easy. He
instinctively knew that if Becci caught him in there, she would
never trust him again.
As he recalled putting the medallion into the dresser, he
remembered he’d also put his coin pouch in there with it. Would
the coins he’d hidden be enough to save the manor? If so, he
could leave them behind for her. But she’d mentioned the
orichalc coin, so it might mean that she needed it to save the
house. Once he used the medallion to return to his own time,
would he be able to send it forward in time to Becci? He was
sure that if Rebecca knew Becci needed the medallion to save
Berclair Manor, she’d insist he send it forward. But if he did,
would anyone purchase a medallion they couldn’t let touch
their skin?
Becci snatched the flashlight away from Caleb, jerking
him out of his ruminations.
“Why sell? I’ve told you why. Because Berclair Manor is
a burden.” Becci forced a calmness into her voice that she didn’t
feel. “I can’t afford the upkeep or the utilities.”
“Utilities?”
As if on cue the lights flickered on. Becci turned and pushed
down some funny looking lever, and the lights went out.
What in the world? Caleb reached over her shoulder and
flipped the lever back up. Light immediately flooded the room
again. He’d seen the funny looking rectangles beside several
of the doors, but he’d had no idea what they were.
He took the steps two at a time to the middle stair landing
and examined the metal and glass contraption attached to the
wall. His gaze went from the small globe of light to the lever
and back. He ran his hand along the wall on his way back
down, then caught the switch and flipped it in rapid succession.
“Don’t do that,” Becci ordered.
“What’s it called?”
“That’s a light, and this is the switch to turn it on and off.
That thing over there,” Becci pointed at another rectangular
piece close to the floor, “is called an outlet. You plug electrical
cords in them to supply power to other things such as floor
lamps and appliances that run on electrical energy.”
“Appliances? Electrical energy?”
“Yes, appliances—refrigerators, toasters, coffee pots,
things that need power. Appliances,” she repeated, “like those
in the kitchen, and the lights. That’s where the utilities come
in. I run the appliances. The power company supplies the energy.
It costs money to run everything. Money I don’t have.”
“Money? You mean that you have no one to manage your
funds? Hasn’t your fiancé taken over running things for you?”
He was aghast that she was forced to handle her own money.
No wonder she was so upset. How could he help? He wanted
to, but he had no right to interfere in her business.
Becci stared at Caleb in disbelief. His dismayed expression
assured her he was serious. What was with this man? He was
as old-fashioned and chauvinistic as…a man from the era he
claimed to be from.
She should have gotten angry, but she decided it wasn’t
worth it, particularly since Michael did handle her finances
now. “I handled my own finances until I met Michael. He asked
to look everything over to see if he could improve on what I’m
doing, but he discovered that I’ve handled everything as
efficiently as he could have.”
“This Michael is your fiancé?” he asked, thinking of
Latham’s thoughts. The man had made Michael sound like some
kind of scoundrel, but he couldn’t be a scoundrel if he was
engaged to Becci, could he?
Becci nodded. Impulsively, Caleb gave the long braid that
hung over her shoulder a tug. He knew he was being too bold
and should release her hair immediately. But Becci didn’t object
to his forwardness, and he couldn’t bring himself to release
the silken tresses. He brushed the end down her jaw the way he
would use a paintbrush to put the final strokes on a fragile
carved chest and met her gaze head-on. “How long before you
and this Michael plan on marrying? Surely he’ll help out until
the vows are spoken.” He knew he would if she were his bride-
to-be.
Becci laughed and headed toward the kitchen. As she
moved away he let the braid slide through his fingers, shoved
his hands in his back pockets and followed her down the hall.
What would she have done if he’d brushed his lips to her cheek
instead of the end of the braid? Slap him or return the kiss?
“I wouldn’t ask Michael to pour his money into this money
pit. And he is helping me apply for the Ascomp Grant. He
knows tha
t only some type of grant will give me the necessary
funds to keep the house. Of course, Aunt Lilly would give her
life savings, if she had one, to save it. Michael explained to
Lilly how the grant works but she—doesn’t trust him.”
“Do you?”
“He’s a financial advisor. My financial advisor.”
“But, do you trust him?”
“I...Yes, I...I do trust him.”
Caleb lifted her chin with one finger. Her words had
sounded hesitant, and he wanted to see if that same hesitancy
was reflected in her eyes. But his gaze never made it to her
eyes. It landed on her beautiful mouth, and he resisted the urge
to scrape his callused thumb over her lower lip.
When her lips parted slightly, as though in anticipation, he
cleared his throat and said, “I hope he knows he’s getting a
very special woman, Mary Rebecca Berclair.”
Before she could respond, he reached over her shoulder
and lifted his wide-brimmed hat off the hook by the back door.
He had to get out of here before he did something
ungentlemanly, like kiss another man’s betrothed.
He shoved the hat low over his eyes. “I’d better clean up
the shed if I plan to sleep there tonight.”
After giving her a two-fingered salute, he picked up his
saddlebags from the kitchen counter and walked out.
Becci pressed her fingertips to her lips. He’d looked as if
he’d wanted to kiss her, and, heaven help her, she’d wanted
him to do so. What was wrong with her? She was engaged for
pity’s sake!
But the reminder didn’t stop the tingling in her lips. Nor
did it stop her from recalling his words. Did he really think she
was special?
***
The next afternoon Becci slapped the letters down on the
table beside the door and grumbled, “More bills.”
What had she expected? A check? She needed to figure
out which past due bills to pay, but that could wait until closer
to payday. She’d promised her aunt that she would look at the
dusty journals one more time, and she might as well get it over
with. She didn’t know which was worse, reading old family
history about delusional gold—no, orichalc—coins that
transported a person through time, or fretting over her empty
bank account. Both were depressing.