A Cry at Midnight

  Randi would enjoy watching the happy event. If she were here, they could stand together with Rose at the window. Then they'd have supper together, put the baby to bed, and snuggle together beneath the sheets on his wide mattress. Making love would be sweet, so very sweet, like nothing they'd experienced before. If only he could have her back, he vowed he'd become the kind of man she wanted him to be. The kind of man he'd been raised to become.

  "Can you hear me, Randi?" he whispered, hugging Rose close. "Come back to us. I'll listen to you now. I'll do whatever is necessary to make you happy. Just come home."

  With watery eyes, he watched the sky for some sign. A shooting star, perhaps, or a special cloud. But he saw nothing that showed she'd received his message.

  With a sigh of resignation, he turned away from the window, deposited Rose on the hooked rug once more, then lit a lamp. When a golden glow filled the room, he began searching for the rest of Randi's belongings. Perhaps something she'd left behind would be a key to reaching out to her.

  She'd hidden the "fanny pack" under the bed, so he got on his hands and knees to located the odd pouch. Sure enough, it was there, suspended between the bed slats. He pulled it loose, then sat beside Rose and examined the item closely. He remembered a special closure, once he'd never seen before. She'd called it a zipper, he thought. After fiddling with the small metal clasp for several moments, he managed to separate the edges of the pouch.

  He pulled out a thick, folded leather wallet, knowing this is where Randi would have kept her treasures. He'd never seen a wallet such as this one, with shiny coverings like soft glass that showed the contents. Neatly printed documents with a painting of her that was so clear, so accurate, she appeared to be alive on the paper. With wonder, he carefully removed the item titled, "Tennessee Driver's License."

  "Randi," he whispered. Her smiling face stared back at him, so realistic that he touched her likeness again and again. His heart swelled with relief, because if he didn't have her, at least he had this. When Rose was older, he could show this likeness to her and tell the tale of the governess who had loved her, cared for her, and left her after a few short weeks.

  He replaced the license, then turned to other colorful paintings of people. He supposed these were her family. Parents, looking happy and healthy. A family, probably her brother. A grinning child. What a marvelous time Randi must live in to produce such likenesses which could be carried with a person, pulled out to view and remember. How he would have loved to have the treasures from his family, but the poor leave no grand portraits.

  The sketch she'd made of him faced Rose's likeness in he wallet. She must have put them there just before she left. She wanted them to be a part of her family.

  Jackson went through each item in the wallet, not recognizing some of them, but knowing they were important to Randi. The other things in the pouch were easier to identify. Keys, formed into strange shapes, dangled from some metal ornament called "Elvis."

  Two tubes of face paint rested in the bottom of the pouch. These Randi had used to enhance her eyes and lips. He brought the lip paint to his nose and smelled the fragrance, then touched the smooth texture with his finger. He tasted the substance. The memory of a kiss came flooding back, and he closed his eyes against the pain. This is what she'd tasted like, another way he could remember Randi.

  The sense of loss he felt overwhelmed him as he repacked the pouch and placed it on the table beside the bed. He leaned down and picked up his daughter, hugging her, needing her warmth and affection now more than ever. She yawned, snuggling close under his neck.

  She needed her rest, so he reluctantly left Randi's belongings on the bed and walked up to the nursery.

  "Suzette?" Silence greeted him. The room was dark, the pale curtains billowing in the breeze. He looked in the small bedroom next to the nursery, but it was empty also.

  "I'm not leaving you up here alone," he said to Rose. As he spoke she wet her diaper. Jackson held her away from his body and frowned. "I suppose I'll have to change you, won't I?"

  He lit a candle on the chest beside the window, noticing that the revelry still continued. Suzette was no doubt enjoying the company of her friends, as relieved as everyone else the house had been spared.

  Aided by the candlelight and Rose's sleepy state, Jackson was able to fasten a diaper around her with a minimum amount of difficulty. Proud of his accomplishment, he picked up his daughter again and went downstairs. He turned toward his bedroom, but then changed his mind and headed back to Randi's room.

  "Let's rest here," he said softly. He needed to be close to Randi tonight. Where better to feel her presence than in the bed where she'd slept?

  He blew out the lamp. The fire pit lit the night with a red glow. Taking a last look outside, he was surprised to see Lebeau's tall figure standing at the edge, as though reluctant to approach. They'd talked earlier. Jackson understood that Randi had created a strong impression on Samson Lebeau, who had expressed a growing interest in both the people who worked the halls and fields of Black Willow Grove, and, in a larger way, the future of the South.

  Perhaps his friend had decided to end his long, solitary journey. A good woman would help Lebeau heal from the painful loss of his family. Tonight would be a good opportunity for him to begin looking for someone to spend the rest of his life with. And since they'd signed the papers earlier, Lebeau would be assured the security few freeman could enjoy. He knew that if he found a woman he loved, Jackson would immediately sign her manumission papers.

  Thinking about his friend's love life did little to relieve Jackson's pain over losing Randi. He turned away from the revelry below and pulled the window closed against the night's chill. "Go to sleep now," he whispered to his drowsy daughter.

  A feeling of uneasy resignation weighed him down as he placed Rose on the bed, then lay curled around her small body. He pulled Randi's pillow close, inhaling her scent once again.

  "Come back to me," he prayed as his eyes misted over once again. But the night was silent, and sleep was a long time coming.

  #

  "Mas'r Jackson! Mas'r Jackson!"

  The sound of yelling woke him from sleep. He felt disoriented for a moment, unsure where he was or with whom. Then he remembered; he'd fallen asleep in Randi's bed, snuggled next to Rose. His daughter slept deeply beside him.

  But something was wrong. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the sting of the fire pit outside. Odd that the smell should be so strong inside the house. He'd shut the window against the chill .

  "Mas'r Jackson!"

  He rolled from the bed and walked to the door. "In here," he called out. The sound of footsteps running through the house sent a jolt of fear through his body. Had the levee broken after all? Was the flood upon them once more?

  "Lebeau!" he yelled.

  "Jackson!" He heard his friend's voice in the dark hallway, and soon he was there, breathing hard, a look of alarm evident even in the faint light.

  "What's wrong?"

  "The house is on fire. We can't stop the flames. You've got to get out now!"

  "The house?" Jackson inhaled, knowing that he didn't smell the fire pit, but rather the aged wood, paper, and fabrics in his home.

  "Where did it start?"

  "Upstairs, in the nursery. But we didn't see Miss Rose there. Where is she?"

  "With me, in here." Jackson spun and ran into the room, snatching up his sleeping daughter, then Randi's pouch and drawings. He couldn't carry everything, though, as Rose began to squirm.

  "Take these," he said to Lebeau as he handed him the sketches. "Make sure they stay safe." He kept the pouch with him, unwilling to risk the precious portrait of Randi to anyone else.

  They ran down the steps. Everywhere he looked, servants were carrying out furniture and books, his personal papers and the fine china. The clock in the hall was striking, again and again, as if to sound the death knell. The implication finally hit him; his house was burning down, and there was nothing he could do but salvage his most impo
rtant possessions.

  "Where's Suzette?"

  "Probably working on the dining room. I saw her running in and out there before I came upstairs."

  "Go ahead. Get what you can from the library. You know which papers to get out."

  "I know. I'll take care of it. Go on, find her."

  Jackson ran to the dining room, Rose squirming in his arms. She began to cry, but he didn't see Suzette. The smell of the fire was so much less here. He ran down the hall and outside to front lawn. Pieces of furniture and the muddy ground were covered with dishes, books, and papers. The house staff and even field workers ran past him, carrying out his belongings.

  "Suzette!" he yelled, but he couldn't find the baby's nurse so she could take Rose. She continued to cry as Jackson ran farther away from the house. He turned back and looked, shocked by the sight of yellow flames streaking from the upper floor, out the windows of the nursery, engulfing the cypress shingles of the roof.

  Everything he'd worked for was going up in flames. His beloved plantation, flooded; his beautiful house, gutted by fire. On top of losing Randi . . . He staggered, feeling so desolate and alone that he could go on.

  But then Rose wiggled in his arms, her tears stopped now that she was fully awake and away from the noise and confusion of the house. She looked at the fire, her luminous eyes glowing from the dancing flames.

  As long as his baby was safe, he knew he could go on. The house had been beautiful, but he could rebuild. The fields would be replanted as soon as the water receded. He could go survive this disaster, but he didn't know if he would ever feel the same passion for living since he'd lost Randi. She was his life, far more than this plantation or the beautiful belongings in the house.

  Suddenly, the words of the old crone, years before, came back to haunt him. "Fire will destroy, but if you're honest and true, you'll escape to a new life." She'd been right, he realized with wonder, except he couldn't imagine a new life without Randi.

  He heard the sound of crying, but when he looked at Rose, she was still staring in fascination at the house. Who else was around? He turned a full circle, looking for someone sitting or lying on the ground, but found no one. The sound increased. A strange feeling came over him as he remembered standing outside, very near this spot, with Randi. She'd said she heard Rose crying, even though she'd been upstairs with the window shut.

  The sound increased. Jackson listened carefully, finally realizing that he was hearing Randi's tears. He recognized the sobs from when she'd cried so hard at the levee after telling him about the baby she'd lost. Wherever she was, whatever was happening to her right now, she needed the same comfort.

  "Randi, where are you?" he yelled into the glowing night sky. Sparks and embers drifted high overhead, blocking out the stars. "Randi!"

  "Oh, Jackson," he thought he heard her sob.

  He could stand to watch his house burn, his lands flood, but knowing Randi was some place where he couldn't hold her close and dry her tears caused such gut-wrenching pain that he screamed his frustration aloud.

  Rose became upset, and as he tried to calm her, he realized he held Randi's dearest possessions in his hand. The wallet . . .

  He torn into the fanny pack, opening the wallet and tilting it so the fire illuminated the words and pictures. Carefully, he pulled out the document called a driver's license and stared at the portrait. Randi wasn't smiling any longer. He gently touched the shiny surface and felt a sheen of moisture. Confused, he brought his finger to his lips and tasted the salt of tears.

  "Randi, where are you?" he whispered. "I need to find you, my love. We need each other far more than we need any of our possessions."

  He watched the portrait seem to change before his eyes. No longer crying, she simply looked incredibly sad, and her mouth opened, as though she wanted to speak to him.

  "Randi," he whispered once more.

  A strange feeling of warmth crept over him. Holding Rose tight in his other arm, he looked up from the wallet. The flames, dancing so rapidly just moments ago, seemed to have slowed. Even the servants, who had been dashing about to save his belongings, appeared to be moving through deep mud or water. He saw Lebeau exit the door, then wave slowly at him. Jackson tipped his head to the side, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but then the world blazed in a white light so bright he blinked. He spun around, holding tight to Rose and to Randi's possessions, frightened for both their safety. Then, with a jolt, his backside landed against a hard object.

  Rose stopped crying, probably frightened as much as he. Gradually he began to see again, noticing not the glow of a fire, but the darkness of night. Even the air smelled different, not filled with smoke and embers, but the cool crispness of a spring night.

  As his eyes focused, he began to see objects. In front of him stood an unfamiliar building. His eyes scanned downward, taking in the arched pediment about the door, the narrow columns on either side leading to a small porch.

  And standing on the porch, her mouth gaping open, her fists rubbing her eyes, stood the woman he loved.

  "Randi," he whispered, before the world began to spin and turn once more. He reached out his hand, he heard her answering cry, and then he felt himself sinking into darkness once more.

  #

  Randi had never run so fast in her life. She went from staring in disbelief at the man and baby leaning against her car to running toward them in the matter of a heartbeat. "Jackson," she yelled as she saw him begin to faint.

  She reached him in time to take Rose from his powerful grasp and sink to the pavement with him. Her body kept him from leaning sideways and hitting his head, but she was still worried.

  "Darn time travel aftershocks," she mumbled as she checked Rose for any problems. She looked as though she was sleeping, but then, so did Jackson at the moment. He leaned at an awkward angle against the front tire, his head kept fairly upright by the metal wheel well. She only hoped he didn't stay passed out too long, because she was going to have some explaining to do if Mrs. Williams drove up in a few house to find this in her parking lot.

  "You're worried about Mrs. Williams when you got the man you love right here?" she asked herself incredulously. The realization he was really her finally hit. "You're here," she whispered, holding Rose tight with one hand, reaching out and touching Jackson's face with the other. Warm and alive, he'd found a way to come to her. She leaned close, placing a kiss on his relaxed and unresponsive lips.

  That will change real soon, she vowed.

  He smelled smoky, as though he'd been to a cookout. What had he been doing in the past? And how had he gotten here?

  She eased Rose to a more comfortable position, then decided the baby could rest against her daddy for just a minute while Randi checked them both out. She arranged the baby into the crook of Jackson's arm.

  Running her hands over both of them, she found no problems. Like her, they'd just become faint and disoriented. She'd gone through this twice, and remembered distinctly the awful feeling of weakness passing through time caused. In Jackson's hand, however, she was surprised to find her fanny pack and wallet. He still had a tight grip on the objects, as though he was afraid to lose them. How sweet. He'd been holding her stuff, looking through her photographs.

  "That's what drew you here, isn't it?" she said in wonder. Her driver's license, especially, peeked above the plastic. With a smile, she realized that because of the object that had brought him through time, he'd come not only to her, but to her car.

  She was still smiling when he opened his eyes and blinked up at her. "You're really here?" he asked.

  "No," she said, smoothing her palm over he cheek. You're really here."

  "This is your time?"

  "No, Jackson," she said, leaning down, her eyes filling with tears of joy, "This is our time."

  Epilogue

  Randi closed the text book she'd been reading for the past half hour while Rose napped. College was great, but Randi wished she could study only the courses she wanted. Math was
okay. She'd taken a real interest in history, she thought with a smile, but economics. Uck! She saw no reason why an architect needed to know about supply and demand curves.

  With a sigh, she pushed herself out of the big wing chair that Jackson usually sat in each evening. He still enjoyed sitting by a fire, and she'd been hard-pressed to explain to him how furnaces worked. His first reaction any cool weather was to build a nice roaring fire, she recalled with a smile. Then, of course, he'd wanted to snuggle in front of it. He'd become very attached to a certain quilt that Randi kept draped over the back of the chair, just in case he wanted to "snuggle" right there on the floor.

  A familiar spot of pink caught her eye as she stood by the hearth. The little pink baby doll, never returned to the museum, rested in a special tableau Darla had created from miniature furniture and tiny print fabric. Some day, Randi thought, she'd have a whole dollhouse. Rose would enjoy rearranging the furniture and using her imagination to create a family who lived inside--as long as she didn't go traveling through time!

  Randi walked to one of the windows that looked out over their small front yard, the split rail fence, and gravel road that led across the property to their house on her Uncle Aaron's horse farm. Jackson should be home soon. She had a class that evening, but they always had enough time for a meal together before she drove to Memphis.

  He'd insisted she quit work, not at all comfortable with a wife who made money when he was still struggling to learn the customs and technology of the time. She'd given in after compromising; she'd go to school, he'd work, and they'd both care for Rose.

  For a bona fide Nineteenth Century male chauvinist, Jackson was straightening up just fine, Randi thought affectionately. He retained the traditions most important to him, but had proved very flexible about learning new things. He had yet to take his driver's test, but he would, in time. He considered horses the best old-fashioned mode of transportation, just like he wanted a real fire instead of a modern furnace.