by Beth Trissel
He startled. “What did I say to upset you?”
“Edward spoke those very words to me last night.”
Eric reared back to search her face. Sincerity mingled with the shock in her wide eyes. Whatever she’d experienced was deeply real to her. “Did he also say he was more in love with you by the moment?”
She stared at him mutely.
“Spare a thought for the living, Bailey, and give me a chance.”
Her eyes, her face, her entire being entreated him. “Don’t you see? It’s only because of you that I found him, and him that I found you? You’re connected.”
“But not interchangeable.”
She spoke softly. “No, but did you ever think you were brought here at this particular time and place for a purpose?”
He had, actually, but didn’t know what to say. Before he attempted a reply, footsteps sounded at the top of the steps.
“Need a hand down there, Captain Burke?”
For once Eric didn’t mind Tucker’s intrusion. “If you have one to spare.”
“On each arm.” The steps creaked beneath Tucker’s cowboy boots, and he descended carrying two steaming mugs. Rather than the professorial styled jacket and offensive T-shirt from yesterday, he wore a bulky blue sweater with his jeans.
He offered a mug to Eric who took it gratefully. “Just what I needed. Thanks.”
Bailey shook her head at the extended cup. “Not now.”
Tucker held onto it with a shrug and settled beside Eric on the overturned crates. “Ella tells me you’re ferreting out something from the past? Message in a bottle?”
Eric sipped appreciatively. “Something of the sort.”
Tucker eyed the collection around them with curious animation. “Ancient artifacts. Cool. We played down here as kids. Always smells like apples.” He swept his gaze over the dusky cellar. The single overhead bulb left much of it in shadows. “I always kind of wanted to be an archeologist.”
Eric swallowed. “Think you might have to finish college first for that.”
Tucker made a face. “Heavy.”
“Take hold, settle down, son,” Eric said in his best imitation of his Uncle Bruce, Tucker’s father.
“Can you picture me as a doctor?”
Eric smiled. “With or without your guitar?”
“Either way. Suppose you’re cutting back to that Ivy League law scene soon after Christmas?”
“I’d rather stay here and plant a vineyard, make some really good wine.”
Tucker eyed him with newfound appreciation. “Far out, man. You should. And I’ll play at your wine festivals.”
“I need more money first.”
Tucker set down his mug and waved a hand at the cellar. “Maybe we’ll unearth a treasure. Where haven’t you dug yet?”
“The floor is hard-packed earth, so we doubt Claire buried anything here.”
“Ella told me a little about that chick and Great Uncle Edward. Major bummer them kicking the bucket like that.”
Bailey winced and bent forward, crouched on her makeshift stool, an arm wrapping her middle.
Eric looked at her sharply. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Hurts there on and off this morning.”
“You never said.”
“It’s a little sharper now. Must’ve been something I ate.”
“How? You haven’t eaten almost anything today.”
Tucker studied her with concern. “Go knock back some of that pink tummy stuff. Eric and I can take the cellar apart.”
She smiled faintly. “I’m all right. And don’t let Ella hear you say that.”
“Awww, Ella and I get on.” Tucker stood and strode around like a newly arrived general scoping out the battlefield. “This is like the old days. Remember playing hide and seek down here?”
Eric nodded. “And all over the house.”
Tucker smiled. “Give me a hint, is what we’re looking for bigger than a bread box?”
“Maybe. I assume it’s a package large enough to hold a gift but not too big for Claire to carry down here by herself. And it would have to fit through one of the cellar doors.”
Tucker stopped in his tracks. “Didn’t Ella tell you Claire’s cousin Edwin was staying here then? He might have helped her hide whatever it was.”
Eric clapped a hand to his forehead. “What does it take to get that woman to spill the whole story?”
“Park yourself at the kitchen table, kick back, chow down on cookies and rap.”
“Ella does not rap.”
“No, she’s a real rambling rose—”
Bailey broke in. “Any chance this Edwin is still alive?”
Tucker shook his head. “Ella said he died of influenza soon after visiting Maple Hill before she or anyone else could ask him anything. Man, people dropped like flies back then.” Bailey grimaced, and he hastened to add, “Didn’t mean any disrespect to the dead.”
She spoke though her teeth. “It’s not you. My belly again.”
He frowned at her. “You ought to split and go crash or something.”
Eric agreed. “See what Ella’s got for a stomachache.”
Bailey would have none of it. “Just let me stay a little longer. Tucker may have a fresh perspective. Where would you look?” she asked him.
“Somewhere you two haven’t.”
“That doesn’t leave much,” Eric said.
“Too bad we don’t have floorboards to lift. Awesome to discover a stash somewhere.”
“Apparently Claire didn’t need them.”
Tucker waved aside Eric’s comment as though it interfered with his concentration. “The Great and Powerful Oz is at work.”
Eric smiled wryly. “At last. Wondered when he’d show up.”
Tucker raised a hand for silence. Angling his head to one side as though listening hard, he ran his gaze over the cellar.
For all of Eric’s objections to his cousin’s hippie life style, he’d never thought he was stupid. Tucker always found the best fishing holes as a kid and seemed to have an uncanny sense of things. This Great and Powerful Oz routine he did sometimes worked.
He circled slowly, darting his eyes at every corner, then honed in on the second set of steps leading to the secret passage in the far hall. “Anyone think to look behind them?”
Eric shook his head. “It’s mighty cramped.”
“Yeah, but I remember seeing something hanging back there.”
“When?”
“Years ago. You were it and I was hiding.” Tucker strode over to the steps and peered around at the dark nook beneath them. “Something’s slung on a nail.”
Bailey was intent. “What?”
Tucker disappeared into the narrow space. “Looks like some kind of pouch a soldier would carry papers in.”
“A courier’s pouch?” Eric got to his feet and limped hurriedly across the hard earthen floor.
“Bingo.” Tucker emerged dusty and triumphant from the dim corner with a leather pouch swinging in his hand from the strap.
Eric gave a low whistle. “That must date back to the Civil War or further. It could’ve held documents, maps, letters…”
Tucker seemed impressed. “Awesome, maybe one of our illustrious ancestors was a spy.”
Bailey beckoned from where she sat huddled on her bucket. “Bring it here, please.”
The two lowered themselves beside her on their apple crate seats. Tucker lifted the flap on the front of the pouch and took out the first item. “A bottle of Scotch whiskey.” He held it up to the light. “From 1902.”
“Edward’s favorite,” Bailey said.
Eric and Tucker exchanged glances then Tucker reached back inside the pouch. He solemnly handed Bailey what looked like a Christmas card addressed to Edward. She carefully opened the yellowed envelope and drew out a vintage card printed with bells wreathed in holly, ringing out the timeless message, Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men.
“It would be bells,” she whispered.
E
ric remembered some reference to bells in connection with Edward’s passing, and glimpsed the still-legible copperplate handwriting clearly penned by a woman.
In a husky voice, Bailey read, “Dearest. With all my heart, I pray you are home with me for Christmas, but whenever you receive this, please know that my love is with you always. Raise a glass and drink a toast to us, my darling, and to a bright New Year. I am waiting for you, forever yours, Claire.”
A chill traveled Eric’s spine, and for a long moment no one spoke. Bailey seemed too overcome. Then Tucker quietly said, “There’s more.” He withdrew a leather coin purse and balanced it in his hand. “It’s weighted.”
Tucker poured silver dollars, half dollars, pennies, nickels, and gold pieces into Eric’s cupped palms. He sucked in his breath. “Good heavens. Wonder what all of this is for?”
“Maybe she says.” Tucker fished back in the pouch and retrieved a folded note. He read, “Each of these coins is from a special year. See if you can guess what?”
“I suspect Edward would’ve been better at this than us, but...” Eric turned over a silver dollar and held it out to the light. “1916…the year they were married.” He examined another. “1914, the year Edward graduated law school.” Coins chinked together as he picked through the pile. “Some of these go back to the 1800’s.”
“The years they were born,” Tucker suggested.
“Some are mid-eighteen hundreds.”
Tucker fingered his whiskered chin. “The year their parents were born, or grandparents, maybe. What do you think this collection is worth?”
“A lot more now than it was then. When Claire put this together it was for sentimental reasons and didn’t cost her a fortune, but now…”
“Maybe you can plant that vineyard.”
He nodded bemusedly. “Maybe so. It’s quite a gift.”
A guttural groan escaped Bailey and jerked Eric back to the present. Arms clutching her stomach, she doubled over. The card fluttered from her fingers. “Hurts worse now.”
Eric dropped the coins back into the pouch and set it aside. Grasping her shoulders, he eased her against him before she toppled onto the cold floor. In that instant he knew exactly what was wrong with her. But he must keep his wits about him. All his training came into play now.
“You’ll be all right, sweetheart. Tucker and I will get you to the hospital.” He met his cousin’s frightened gaze. “She has appendicitis and needs surgery as soon as possible.”
“Damn I should have been a med student!” Tucker sprang up distractedly. “What do we do?”
Eric answered calmly. “First things first. Will your van get us through? Does it have enough gas?”
Tucker raked his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, man. Good old moby. Filled her up on my way here.”
“OK. Ask Ella for a blanket and hot water bottle to keep Bailey warm during the ride. Then weight the back of your van with some bags of sand from the garage and throw in a shovel or two in case we have to dig out along the way. Start the engine then come back to help me get Bailey into the van.” Much as it goaded Eric to admit it, he needed Tucker’s help to get her up the stairs.
Thank God for Aunt Meg’s party. He prayed the drive and back roads were clear enough to get through to the highway and that the snow plough would channel a path for them to the hospital in Staunton. And that Bailey would make it that far without her appendix rupturing.
This all had a grim familiarity about it.
****
Bailey blinked heavy eyes. A blur of white tile and white-clad figures took fuzzy shape around her. She smelled an antiseptic odor.
“You’re in recovery, honey.” A nurse held a straw to her lips. “The operation’s over. You did real well.”
“I’ll be all right?”
“Sure will. Have to take it easy for awhile, though.”
Bailey sipped the cold drink, soothing to her dry throat, and tried to remember what happened. Hazy memories returned of that pain-filled journey to the hospital, Eric hugging her against him, every lurch the van made in the snow knifing through her inflamed side. To his credit, Tucker drove skillfully under such hazardous conditions, but what a ride. She’d feared they wouldn’t make it in time. Eric probably had too, but never betrayed his fears, kept insisting they were almost there. It had seemed an eternity, and death an escape from the agony, but it was as if both he and Edward willed her to hold on. At one point, she thought she’d heard Eric pray under his breath, “Please, God, I can’t lose her twice.” But she couldn’t be sure, her cries muffled his plea.
She must have drifted off again, because Edward’s beloved image swam before her. Rather than haggard and lined from illness, his handsome face was smooth and carefree. Light shone from behind him, and he was trying to tell her something, but her foggy mind couldn’t grasp his message. It troubled her not to understand. Later. She’d discover later… For now, reassured that he looked exceedingly well, she fell more soundly asleep.
When she awoke again, Edward—no, Eric’s—dear face took shape above her. It took a few moments for her eyes to focus. She realized he must be sitting in a chair by her bed. Overjoyed to see him, she croaked, “Hey.”
He answered with a glorious smile. “Hey. You sound like a frog, but how do you feel?”
“Sore, but better.”
He smoothed the hair at her forehead. “Merry Christmas.”
“Is it morning already?”
He nodded. “You woke up just enough to sip your drink and then zonked off again.”
“You stayed the night here?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Didn’t the nurses run you off?”
He grinned. “They tried. I hunkered down and held my ground.”
“What about Tucker?”
“He stayed as long as he could before heading back to Maple Hill. They only let family stay the night.”
“Are we related?”
“Sort of. I told them I’m your fiancée.”
Her chest fluttered. “Are you?”
His eyes brimmed with tenderness. “If you’ll have me.”
She lifted her fingers and clasped his hand, started to speak and then was too choked up to utter a coherent syllable.
“I’ll take that as a yes. As soon as we’re out of here, I’ll scour the house for an engagement ring. Got to be one around there somewhere.”
A thought occurred to her. “Speaking of rings, I missed the bells last night.”
“We both did.”
“But I’d wanted to get that gift back up to Edward’s room before then. Do you think he knows we found it?”
Eric smiled. “I suspect he does. Because I do.” He cupped one hand at her cheek. “You gave Edward what he needed to go, and me a reason to stay. You’re the real gift, Bailey.”
****
The book Bailey had last seen in Edward’s lap now lay on his bedside stand in the chilly room. By the cold morning light, she saw that it was open to the poem by Lord Byron he’d recited from and the final phrase underlined, whereas it hadn’t been before. Her eyes filled as she read, “A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!” And in the margin, in a shaky hand, he’d penned, “For you, sweet angel. You’ve given me wings.”
Was that what he’d tried to tell her? She could hardly see to read the rest.
Eric stole up behind her and lightly circled an arm around her tender middle. “Shall I finish it for you?”
She nodded mutely.
He gently turned her toward him, still a little unsteady from her recent surgery. Without glancing at the page, his gaze solely on her, he said, “Do you know where you belong now, my dearest?” And in softest tones, added, “My Bailey, my Claire.”
A thrill rippled through her, and goosebumps scattered her from head to toe. Hardly daring to breathe, she reached out to him. Her heart was too full to allow for speech, but his eyes spoke for them both, and his lips found hers as he caught her in his arms. She was
home to stay.
A word from the author...
Married to my high school sweetheart, I live on a farm in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia surrounded by my children, grandbabies, and assorted animals. An avid gardener, my love of herbs and heirloom plants figures into my work. The rich history of Virginia, the Native Americans, and the people who journeyed here from far beyond her borders are at the heart of my inspiration. In addition to American settings, I also write historical romance set in the British Isles.
Moreover, I’m intrigued by ghost stories, and Virginia has more tales than any other state. I find myself asking if the folk who’ve gone before us are truly gone, or do some still have unfinished business in this realm? And what of the young lovers whose time was tragically cut short, do they somehow find a way? Love conquers all, so I answer ‘yes.’ Equally fascinated with time travel, I write romance with forays into the past in my ‘Somewhere’ series.
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