by Bess McBride
“Well, then I guess we’d better get two, because I have every intention of lying on a sofa myself with a pack of romance novels.”
“Done!” Cynthia murmured, seemingly enthralled as she continued to run her delicate blue-veined hands along the surface.
“So, what’s that you have there?” Laura turned her attention to the photograph on the coffee table. I startled, already on edge about Darius’s picture.
I dropped into the small blue microfiber easy chair opposite the couch and picked the photograph up from the coffee table.
“Well, I was wondering. I didn’t mean to snoop... Okay, I guess I did.” I scrunched my face with a cheesy grin. “Anyway, I didn’t get any further than this photograph that was near the top of the stack. It’s the oddest thing—” I stopped short, unsure of how much I wanted to reveal, unsure if I really had a shred of sanity left.
“What’s that?” Laura held out her hand for the photograph, and I reluctantly handed it over.
“Well, I was wondering if you know who he is. That’s all. Is he a relative?” I sat on the edge of my chair.
Laura peered at the photograph and read the bottom inscription as I had.
“It says Darius Blake Ferguson, 1880, age 28 years.” Laura squinted at the picture. “Hmmm...He looks familiar, but I can’t—” She shook her head and turned to her sister. “Do you know who this is, Cynthia?”
Cynthia, still admiring the feel of the microfiber, brought her attention to the conversation at hand. She accepted the photograph from Laura.
“Oh, yes. I remember him,” she exclaimed.
My heart pounded. She remembered him?
“Well, I remember hearing about him.” Cynthia turned to Laura. “He’s the uncle who built the house. You know...the one who died young. Well, I don’t know if he died exactly. Something happened. And then his brother, our great-grand somebody or another Ferguson, came out from Virginia and took over the house.” She gazed at the photograph once again. “Handsome man, wasn’t he?” She handed the picture back to Laura and returned to appreciating the sofa.
“Oh, that’s right!” Laura looked at the photograph once again. “I remember hearing about him, but I can’t remember how he died either. Wasn’t there some talk? What was it?” she asked herself.
I leaned forward to capture every word, every nuance, every change of expression—while I coveted the photo in Laura’s hands.
“Yes?” I encouraged breathlessly.
Laura shook her head, set the photograph down on the table, and returned her attention to the box.
“I can’t remember. I’m sure it will come to me, probably in the middle of the night. Should we go through these boxes now and see which photos of the house Molly wants to keep? I’m sure she would like to get to bed sometime tonight.”
I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to get any sleep that night. These women quite possibly had the key to the mystery of Darius, and they didn’t understand how desperate I was. Nor did I want them to know of my peculiar obsession with him, but I couldn’t resist another question.
“Do you know if he’s buried in the cemetery?”
“I have no idea,” Laura said as she dug further into the box.
My shoulders slumped, but I gave it one more valiant effort.
“Well, if you do happen to remember anything, I’d love to hear about it. You know. The builder of the house...” I waved an airy hand around the living room, hoping it wasn’t shaking. Of course, Darius had built the house. And that is why I loved it. Had there ever been a doubt?
“Certainly, dear,” Cynthia nodded. “We’ll put our heads together and brainstorm.”
I picked up the photograph, unwilling to leave Darius lying on the table—discarded and alone. As I had left him at the cemetery...or in my dream.
“I know this is a lot to ask—and you know where I live if you want it back, b-but could I have this picture?”
At the startled look on Laura’s face, I rushed on. “It’s just that I feel like... like I know him... just a little,” I said with a lift of my shoulders. “You know, the house.”
Cynthia chuckled.
“You have a crush on him, don’t you...from his photograph? I think we all did as children. It comes back to me now. He was so handsome! Even my mother thought he was quite dashing.”
Laura shook her head. “Did we? I don’t remember that. But yes, you can have the photograph, Molly. We don’t need it, do we, Cynthia? He didn’t have any children who would want it, did he?”
“No, I don’t think he did, but as I said, I don’t remember the whole story. It will come to me—as Laura said—in the middle of the night or some other inconvenient time.”
“Call me if it does,” I urged. I set the photograph down on the glossy black coffee table with reverent care. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sure we can call upon you to provide us a copy should our grandkids or great-grandkids ever desire to pursue their family history. That seems unlikely at this time,” Laura said with a shake of her head. “They’re all pretty young with their lives ahead of them, and completely uninterested in old stuffy photographs...or old stuffy people, for that matter.” She chuckled and poked Cynthia in the side.
“Speak for yourself,” Cynthia giggled. “Florida beaches, here I come!”
We spent the next several hours going through the photographs. There were several shots of the house taken by their parents in the early 1900s with an old Brownie camera, according to the sisters. The children lined up in front of the house in their Sunday best while “Dad” took the photograph. Contrary to what Cynthia had said about poverty, the black and white photograph showed a well-tended house, the paint seamless, the garden lush and full of life. The present day garden was overgrown, but I could see the original landscaping detail in the photo. I asked for that photo, and they gave it to me willingly, having several more of the same photo session.
Laura and Cynthia reminisced while they searched through the boxes, sharing family anecdotes with me. Their stories brought the house to life, infusing it with history and warmth, and I looked up to scan it often with renewed interest and a surge of affection. I kept my ears perked for any further mention of Darius, but his name did not come up again, and I didn’t want to pique their curiosity any further by interrogating them.
Their visit came to an end all too soon.
“Well, we’ve got to get going,” Laura huffed as she bent down to grab one of the boxes.
“I’ll get them.” I jumped up to assist.
“Thank you, dear. That’s very nice of you.” Cynthia threw a last admiring glance at the couch and pulled herself up on her walker.
“Thanks, Molly.” Laura picked up Cynthia’s ubiquitous oversized shiny handbag, which the frail woman could hardly manage with both hands on her walker.
“Listen, Cynthia,” Laura said. “I think we should introduce Molly to a few of the people in town tomorrow. You know—Bob down at the hardware store...and Sally at the grocery store.” She chuckled and turned to me with an apologetic shrug. “Well, we call it a grocery store, but it’s just a little shop. We still have to go into Missouri Valley to get our supplies—just like my parents used to do.”
I paused, box in hand.
“Oh, sure! That sounds great!” I said. I really did need to get to a store.
“Good. We’ll see you in the morning then. About ten? Do you need anything tonight? Can we loan you some food or some coffee?”
I pushed open the door with my hip while I maneuvered the box outside.
“No, I’m good, thanks. I’ve got a few things in the fridge already that I had in a cooler in my car.”
I hoisted the box into the back seat of the town car and returned for the other box while Laura settled Cynthia in. The sun descended below the tree line, and I was about to spend my first night in a strange house in the middle of nowhere. I picked up the second box and treated myself to another quick peek at Darius’s photo on the coffe
e table.
It seemed as if Darius gazed directly at me. And my heart swelled. Allowing myself a moment of uninhibited joy, I gave him a quick wink and hurried out with the other box.
Several hours later, exhausted from searching through boxes to find my bedding, I dropped down on the newly made bed and contemplated the task of bathing. Night had fallen, and the wind had picked up outside, blowing gently through the old window screen and filling the room with a cool breeze—just cool enough for a good night’s sleep, I hoped. The absence of curtains did not bother me unduly as I suspected no one would be able to see me from any particular vantage point—unless they drove up to the cemetery and used binoculars! With that ludicrous image in mind, I grinned, wished them well if they wished to exert such effort, and pushed myself off the bed to head for the bathroom. I’d prevailed upon the inspector to have a water heater put in over the two week period that I’d been gone, and I was anxious to see if it worked. He assured me it had. There were still many, many renovations needed to the house, including replacing many of the pipes.
I grabbed a towel out of one of the unpacked boxes in the bathroom and picked out soap, shampoo and conditioner from my traveling kit. A twist of the knobs on the clawfoot tub, kindly loosened by the inspector, sent warm water flowing into the tub with some clanking and a groan or two from the old pipes. I tossed in some bubble bath to celebrate my first bath in my new/old home. As with most things in the house, the chipped and stained tub would require a facelift, and I was happy to undertake that project.
I wondered at the miracle that Darius had built this house—the house I now owned, though I felt as if I was only borrowing it. He had probably ordered the tub...and hauled it up the stairs, though I couldn’t imagine how. No doubt, he had taken baths in it himself. My face reddened at the thought. I shed my clothes and stepped into the tub, slipping down beneath the bubbles.
Darius’s clawfoot tub. I closed my eyes for a moment and rested my head against the back of the porcelain. Some candles would have been nice, I mused. I’d have to get some the following day at the store.
“Be careful you do not fall asleep in there, Molly, my girl.”
I shrieked at the sound of the male voice behind me and jerked. Slipping further into the tub in a panicked attempt to cover myself, I banged the back of my head on the hard rim.
“Get out! Get out of here! I have a gun!” I screeched as I ignored the pain in my head and rotated onto my knees below the water line to face my attacker.
Darius leaned against the bathroom doorsill, his back to me. He glanced over his shoulder for an instant before averting his face. The adrenaline surging through my body barely allowed me to see that his cheeks were reddened. Before I could yell at him, he raised his hands above his shoulders in mock surrender.
“A gun! Good gravy, Molly! Since when did you own a gun? You hated those things.”
I crouched below the water and covered whatever body parts I could. A sense of the surreal surrounded me once again. I thought I had imagined him. Was I hallucinating...again?
“How did you get in here?” I choked out. “Who are you?”
Darius stole a sideways glance over his shoulder—as if to see that I indeed did not have a gun aimed at him—before turning his face away.
“It is I, Molly. The same man you met two weeks ago. The same man you loved over a hundred years ago.”
“You’re nuts!” I spit out. “You’re not here. I’m just imagining things.” My knees were aching, and I shifted awkwardly in the tub to dive under the water again, keeping my neck twisted to watch him. I couldn’t stay in the bathtub all night. I felt so vulnerable—even if this was a hallucination...or a fantasy.
“So, since you’re not really here, you wouldn’t mind keeping your face turned away, so I can get out of the tub, would you?” My heart pounded, the rhythm matching the pounding in my head from smacking it on the edge of the tub. “Please?” I couldn’t keep the quiver from my voice.
“Certainly. It is not proper for me to be standing here at any rate. I simply came upstairs to see if you were here, and there you were—in my tub—a vision of bubbles and curly brown ringlets.”
I pressed a hand to my damp ponytail. A sudden warmth in the pit of my stomach contradicted the cold grip in my chest.
“Go away,” I pleaded. “I may want to daydream about you, but I don’t know that I want to actually see you. It’s too confusing. You can’t possibly be real. If you’re not a dream, then you’re a gho...” I choked on the word.
“As you wish, Molly. But I can assure you...I am quite real, although you are right. I may very well be a ghost.” He threw another quick glance over his shoulder, and his mouth curved into an embarrassed smile before he moved away.
I watched him disappear and panicked.
“Wait,” I shrieked. “Wait!”
“Yes, dear?” He backed up to the edge of the door again, still keeping his face averted.
“Wait for me downstairs. Don’t go yet. I’ll be right there.”
Darius inclined his head slightly to the side where I saw his profile, and I could have sighed when a single golden-brown curl fell forward in his face.
“Very well. I will be downstairs in the kitchen.”
I waited until I could hear his footsteps descending the stairs and then I jumped out of the tub and grabbed my towel with shaking hands. I scrubbed myself dry with vigor before peeking down the hallway to see that all was clear. With the towel wrapped around me, I tiptoed lightly past the stairs and across the hall to my bedroom.
Easing the door shut, I scrambled onto my knees to rifle through my open suitcase on the floor for a bathrobe. I slipped it on, yanked the sash as tightly as I could and thrust my feet into my slippers. I opened the door and tiptoed out into the hallway again.
Pausing at the top of the stairs to listen for sounds below, it occurred to me that Darius was able to get into the house because I hadn’t bothered to lock the door. A silly mistake for a girl from a big city like Seattle. How could I have fallen for the “innocence” of country charm?
But then again, if he was Darius Blake Ferguson, and it seemed likely he was, this really was his home, and he would know how to get into it anyway. And if he were a ghost, which also seemed likely, keys and locked doors probably weren’t an issue. I swallowed hard and ignored the shiver down my back.
Calling 911 was not an option at the moment. My phone was downstairs in the living room. Should I need to call for help for some reason—though the idea seemed far-fetched at the moment as I couldn’t imagine Darius ever hurting me—I would encounter Darius again long before I could get to the phone. And hadn’t I dreamed him up anyway? What if help came? What if—after listening to my bizarre tale of cemeteries and ghosts—they took me away, ostensibly to keep me from injuring myself or some such thing?
I crept down the stairs, peering over the rail to scan the dining room—empty of furniture since I had none for the space. I looked over the other rail toward the living room. A light shone from the kitchen, and I descended the stairs. I caught sight of my purse on the coffee table and debated whether to grab my phone...just in case. The unmistakable sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing caught my attention, and, anxious to see what was going on in the kitchen, I ignored the phone and turned in the direction of the kitchen. What was the man doing? I peeked around the edge of the doorsill. I smiled to see that Darius stood in front of the refrigerator, pulling the handles on the refrigerator doors, bending down to peer up into the icemaker, poking and prodding its handle.
“It’s an icemaker,” I murmured. If he wasn’t the most adorable thing... He looked like a little boy, albeit a tall one, playing with a machine he’d never seen before.
Darius turned to me with bright interested blue eyes. I had underestimated how gorgeous they really were.
“Indeed? This is truly remarkable. Certainly better than the small wooden icebox which once stood here. And do you still have your ice delivered
from the hardware store? Nesbitt’s Hardware, if I remember correctly.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed outright. Darius turned a startled look on me, and I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle another laugh. When I regained some control, I answered.
“No, we don’t have ice delivered anymore, Darius.” I nodded toward the refrigerator. “The machine makes it—though not at the moment. I’m waiting for the plumber.”
Darius cocked his head and turned back to open the doors once again. He peered in.
“How?” As men have done through time immemorial, Darius pressed and released the button to turn the light off and on.
I watched him with amusement.
“Water is piped in through the back.” I grinned and gave a slight shrug, suddenly wishing I knew more. “Some combination of magic occurs inside the refrigerator involving electricity, and the ice is formed.” I chuckled. “That’s all I know about the mechanics of it.”
“It’s wonderful,” he breathed like a kid in a candy store.
He turned to survey the rest of the kitchen, running his fingers lightly along the edge of the single basin porcelain sink. “This room was meant to be filled with children and laughter, the smell of cooking and good food.” His face darkened for a moment, taking on a distant look as he gazed out the kitchen window. “It did not happen as I dreamed,” he said quietly.
“Darius?” The shadow of regret on his face broke my heart. If I’d had the courage, I would have wrapped my arms around his waist to comfort him. But I couldn’t make myself move.
In response to my voice, he gave himself a slight shake and faced me with a tender smile.
“Please forgive me, Molly. I do not wish to cause you distress. It is foolish to dwell on a past that is gone. This is a joyful time...now that I have seen you again.”
I blushed and lowered my head. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be to him, but I desperately wanted to be her, to bask under the light in his bright eyes.