The Ivory Key

by Rita Clay Estrada

  “Then I will wait and try to hold on to my patience,” he said in a hollow voice.

  “Wait?” She turned to him once more. Her eyes revealed her sorrow. His form and features were still present, but the substance of him was dim.

  He nodded. “Wait,” he confirmed, giving his familiar shrug. “Where can I go?”

  “Wherever you're going now!” she exclaimed, rising to her hands and knees to scuttle closer to him.

  “I am going nowhere. I am still here,” he said slowly, as if the answer were being whispered in his ear. “I cannot leave yet. I must find the answers before l go.”

  “Are you crazy?” she screamed, more frustrated than she had ever been before. “You're getting ready to disappear right before my very eyes, and we're still pretending there's going to be a tomorrow!”

  “Because there will be. Especially for you.”

  She halted, stunned by his calm words. He was right. Whether he stayed around so she could see him or disappeared so she couldn't, he still wouldn't be at rest. Only she could help him find that rest. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes searching his, only to see infinity.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, finally understanding what he was saying.

  “Faith.” He hesitated. “Hope...whatever your name is…you were meant to be here for me.”

  Her sense of identity came back to life for a single, fleeting moment. “No.” She shook her head sharply, then stared down, only to look up again. “I'm supposed to be me, not Faith. But I don't know anymore.” She covered her face with her hands, finally allowing the wave of confusion and remorse to wash over her.

  Why was she being tested with this man?

  The pretense of sleep wasn't even worth the effort. They sat quietly, talking the night away. Hope began spilling out the fears she had experienced in Central America. “It's really odd,” she mused, “but it now seems as if it all happened to someone else. My health is back, my energy is back. Even my thoughts don't return to that time. When I first came back here, it was all I could think of.”

  “I know that feeling. It is one I have experienced after a battle. But then time heals wounds that you never believed would be possible to mend.”

  “Is that what happened between you and Faith, Armand? Has time healed that wound?”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps time found another way to bridge the gap.”

  Silence echoed between them, and Hope once more stared out at the darkness.

  “Hope.” Armand's voice broke through the silence, and she turned her head.

  “You're returning!” Her eyes widened. He still looked a bit hazy, but not as much as before.

  He smiled. “So it would seem.” His voice had regained its wonderful, husky timbre.

  She smiled back, all her being concentrated on him.

  Her loving expression compelled him to raise his hand and sift his fingers through her hair. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured.

  “So are you,” she answered simply. How could she be coy with a ghost? “Armand? Please hold me. Just… hold me.” Suddenly she was frightened by the changes in her thoughts and attitudes, and the need to be comforted was overwhelming.

  Muscular arms, more tangible now, enclosed her as he turned her around to sit between his bent legs. Hair-roughened forearms circled her waist, his hands resting just below her breasts. His chin touched the top of her head when he pulled her back against his strong chest. She felt contentment.

  Dawn lightened the horizon, tinting the trees black, then brown, then shades of pink. They sat peacefully sharing one of God's miracles.

  “You love this country.”

  “Yes,” she said sleepily.

  “You love me.”

  “I don't know you.” That was a lie, and she knew it. She covered her mouth as she yawned.

  “Yes, you do,” he said autocratically. “You love me.”

  “Don't be so bossy. I'll let you know when I feel love,” she murmured grouchily, shifting her weight and snuggling into his now-tangible form. She wriggled her bottom to get closer to him, loving the feel of his lean legs and strong thighs.

  His chuckle was low and very, very sexy. “No, you will not, my little one. You will keep it a secret for as long as you can.”

  She briefly considered arguing, but her lids fluttered closed and she fell asleep, her head against his hard chest.

  Armand leaned back against the rough trunk of the tree and closed his eyes. He, too, was sleepy, although he wasn't certain why. Hadn't he been sleeping more than two hundred years?

  Outside the Duluth post office, Hope stood on the sidewalk checking her mail. The first letter was from her boss.

  Joe Bannon’s odd scrawl informed her point-blank that she was not to return to work for at least three months, no matter how much of a ‘stink she put up’. Apparently he had handwritten the note so his secretary wouldn't see it, which was thoughtful. There was no sense in letting the world know her boss considered that she wasn't up to par. So much for the good news.

  The other letter was from her father, and was as warm as the man could be. He was concerned and thought she needed someone to talk to. He felt responsible for what had happened in Central America. If she wouldn't get ‘qualified help’, perhaps she would be willing to discuss her ‘problems’ with him. It was signed, as usual, Frank.

  Problems! Her father didn't know what problems were, until he met a ghost and tried to put him back to rest! Central America was all behind her now. She had more important things to worry about than bad memories.

  Hope jammed the letters, along with some bills, into her purse, and began walking toward the main business district, her spirits high. The library was bound to have some answers.

  What research she had done before had usually been connected with contemporary politics or a country's history. Such material was kept in separate files and so was easily accessible. But looking for the biographies of people long gone from areas that, at best, had been sparsely populated was new to her. Luckily the local-history section had enough information to get her started. The librarian also told her of the Minnesota Historical Society, an organization that tried to keep records on everyone and anything involved with the state's beginnings. Here she found the caretaker very helpful.

  “This should interest you, dear,” the older woman twittered as she sat Hope in front of a screen, “The original ledgers are too brittle to be used, but they're all stored on microfilm. I'll thread this through to start it. You just push this button when you need a copy of whatever you see. It's very simple,” she assured Hope, poking her glasses back onto her nose with her index finger.

  “What am I looking at?” Hope asked as she scanned the spidery handwriting on the screen in front of her.

  “This is the only American copy of the fur-trading records of the fort at Grand Portage that I know of. Grand Portage was first settled in 1660 by men from Duluth, to be used as a trading post for the Indians. These records were sent to businessmen here during the seventeen hundreds. They shouldn't have been, because all records belonged to the North West Fur Company. But mistakes happen, and now we benefit from them.”

  “Thank you,” Hope said, already reading the screen. She refused to admit that the bubble of anticipation sitting in her stomach might not have grounds to be there. She would find something useful. She just knew it.

  Six hours later, she finally walked out into the sunshine, her eyes burning. What had she expected? That the puzzle would solve itself by leading her immediately to some miraculous answer? Yes! Damn it!

  The information was sparse at best. The handwriting was a challenge to read, and almost everything the librarian had dragged out was useless to her quest. The few letters the library had on file had nothing to do with trappers, or the fur business, or even with the French and Indian War. They were personal letters a logger had written to his bride in Boston. Interesting, but not useful.

  She had found the names of the three men who had killed Armand, though, which
was better than nothing. The dates on which they were paid for furs proved they had returned to the fort after killing Armand. She'd also found out that the fort and trading post at Grand Portage was still there, now a national museum.

  All day long she had been worried about Armand. Although by dawn he had been completely solid again, she wondered if he would be there when she returned. He might have disappeared completely, this time never to return. After reading the inconclusive information she had found on ghosts, she wasn't sure. A feeling of urgency rushed through her to settle in the pit of her stomach, forcing her steps faster and faster, until she was almost running through the streets. She had to find answers, fast.

  She spent the night in a small hotel on the edge of the city, requesting an early wake-up call. By seven o'clock the next morning she was on her way up the highway, hopefully heading toward the answers she needed.

  It was noon by the time she left her car and walked across the parking lot used for the visitors to the Grand Portage Fort and Trading Post. Her hands were clenched at her sides. Armand might once have walked over this very spot. He might have strolled toward that large oak tree with his murderers as they made the deal that would take him overland to see his brother. He might have walked through the wide entrance....

  She turned toward the information area. A National Park Service ranger stood behind one of the counters, and her hands itched with the need to touch just a few of the relics displayed in the glass cases.

  “May I help you?”

  She smiled, excitement glowing in her eyes. “Yes. Can you tell me something about the fort and trading post?”

  He handed her a brochure, interest apparent in his glance. “Certainly. There were ten to twelve forts on this location, built between 1660 and 1803. The one you see here now was modeled after the 1803 fort.”

  Disappointment hit the pit of her stomach like a rock. “It's not the same as the one built in 1762?”

  “No. ma'am.” He shook his head regretfully.

  “Are there any other fort sites up here?” She wasn't going to give up so easily. She couldn't afford to.

  “No, ma’am. All the forts were built on top of each other. We're one of the top five richest national sites as far as archeology, but we haven't dug down that far. There's not enough money in the budget —”

  Her eyes lit up again. “Records? Are there any records from that time period?”

  “Let's see. That was when Duluth set up this post to trade with the Indians. Those records would be in Winnipeg, Paris or London, where they were sent to the North West Fur Company headquarters.”

  “Do you know how I'd go about getting copies of them?” Hope kept forging ahead. There had to be a way to get more substantial information!

  “No, but we have a wonderful library if you'd care to browse. None of the books can be checked out, but you are allowed to make copies.”

  “But how does anyone do research on this subject?” she finally asked in exasperation. “I'm trying to trace a family that was here. The relatives of a French soldier. Where do I start?”

  He shook his head. “As I said, most of that information belongs to Canada or Europe. When the boundary lines were drawn, they got all the good stuff. We just got the land. But then—” he shrugged “— the companies who ran the forts were foreign, so I guess it was only fair.”

  She couldn't have been more discouraged. She was looking for a needle in a haystack, when all the needles were European-made. “Thank you, anyway,” she said, turning toward the section labeled library.

  “Wait. There is one more place you could try,” he called. Hope turned, her eyes showing doubt. “There's an old man in Duluth, Professor Richards. He used to come up here all the time researching. If I remember right, he's even seen some of the records in London and Paris. He might be able to help you.”

  She walked slowly toward him, her expression turning from a frown into a smile. “Do you know how to locate him? Would you have his address?”

  “I might. Hold on and let me ask one of the gals in the office. She used to help him out with some typing.”

  Hope tapped her nails impatiently against the counter as she waited for the young ranger to return. It wasn't much, but it was the only lead she had. In fact, it might be her only hope for success, if today was any measure of her sleuthing abilities.

  Within five minutes the young man was back, a small slip of notepaper in his hand. “Here it is. Carol says that she still corresponds with him occasionally, and that he'd be the most likely person to help you.”

  She shook his hand heartily. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I really appreciate this. Thank you.” Then she backed out of the room. Smiling widely, she entered the library.

  An hour later, notes in hand, Hope practically ran to her car. In Grand Marias she pulled into a small motel and gift shop, bought some paper and envelopes, and wrote a quick note to Professor Richards. Buying a stamp, she mailed the note immediately, praying he would answer his correspondence as soon as he received it.

  It was late afternoon when she arrived back at the boat. She started the outboard and moved away from the dock, her eyes restlessly scanning the shore of her island.

  The unbearable tension that had gripped her all day slipped away like a silvery fish in deep water. There he was, standing tall and handsome, just where he had been before. She brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, reveling in the sight of him. Her heart kept on thumping sighs of contentment.

  “What happened? Is everything all right?” he asked as she eased the bow onto the shore. He reached down to tie the anchor line to a small tree stump.

  “I’m fine.” she said breathlessly. Suddenly her blood turned to ice. She'd been so busy getting back to Armand that she hadn't heard another boat approach. Armand held out his hand to help her over the side. “Armand, run!” she urged in a stage whisper as she turned to see an outboard poke around the next point. It was one of her neighbors, a man who owned a small summer cottage on the edge of the lake.

  “Don't worry,” he said calmly. “He can't see me.”

  “How do you know?” she whispered out of the side of her mouth, waving toward her visitor.

  Armand kept her hand in his, steadying her as she placed one foot on shore while the other one was still in the boat. “Because he couldn't see me earlier this morning when he came by and I waved.” Armand chuckled.

  “Hi there, Mr. Shute. How's the fishing?”

  He held up a string of fish. “Just great. Some of the best trout I've caught in years,” he said, frowning at her a bit and staring at her oddly. “Are you doin' okay, little lady?”

  “Who, me? Just fine. Why?” She tried to look surprised, but she was almost unable to answer the old man. Armand was kissing her wrist, his tongue gently tracing the path of her veins.

  “Just wondering,” the older man said. “You look kinda like one of them garden statues, standing there like that.” His words were a bit garbled by the wad of tobacco in his cheek.

  Her body stiffened, and she slowly swiveled her head toward Armand. If she had been unable to see him, her hand would have appeared to be in the air, palm outstretched and curved up like a Balinese dancer's. All her weight was on the foot on the ground, while the toes of her other root were just barely resting on the floor of the boat. Armand was responsible for her balance.

  She smiled. “Like it? It's a new yoga position. I'm just practicing.” She tried to yank her hand out of his, but Armand, grinning broadly now, would not let go of her.

  “Yoga, my dear?” Armand admonished her softly. “Whatever that is, I am hurt. I thought I had caught you in my loving grasp.”

  “Yoga, eh?” the old man said in a tone akin to awe as he stared at her with his head cocked to one side and watched her hand gyrating erratically in the air. “Well now, ain't that somethin'.”

  “Yes, yoga,” she snapped at Armand. “And it has nothing to do with your grasp.” She gave another tug, still trying to wrest h
er hand out of his.

  “My grasp?” the old man repeated, staring down at his hands, then back at her.

  “Yes. No!” She jerked her hand again. “I mean, it's just a new position.”

  “Well okay then.” Mr. Shute turned away, revving his motor. “If you need any help, jest holler,” he shouted over his shoulder, obviously convinced that she was a bit tetched in the head.

  Hope watched him carefully turn his boat around and head for his own small cove, knowing she had probably just made a fool of herself. No ‘probably’ about it. She had made a fool of herself.

  “How much of this yoga do you think he knows?” Armand asked softly, laughter tingeing his voice.

  “Not much, I hope,” she answered testily, ready to turn on him for his part in the farce that had just been performed.

  Armand's brows lifted quizzically. “But he offered to help you with it.”

  That did it. She laughed. She laughed so hard that she fell into his arms, and tears flooded her cheeks. Slowly they sank to the ground, holding each other as all the tensions of the past week ebbed away. The feelings of contentment that flowed between them were almost visible.

  They finally got to their feet and started up the hill. Every few steps Armand would glance over his shoulder at her, his dark eyes sending messages that felt like electrical currents running down her back.

  By the time they reached the hilltop, the sun had begun its late-afternoon crayon coloring of their world. Armand held her in his arms as she leaned her head against the strength of his chest. “It is time for you to go home and get into bed,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. “You need a hot bath and a good night's rest after all your work. We will talk in the morning, my Hope.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured, too tired even to form words.

  “So, go,” he ordered, taking her by the shoulders and pointing her toward the farmhouse. “I will walk you half the way.”

  “Only half?” she teased.