She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't.
“How a child of mine could be so stubborn!” Her father had his arms crossed sternly over his chest. His brown eyes blazed with anger and frustration.
Calmly Hope took another sip of her morning coffee. “I don't know one other person on this earth who could match you for stubbornness. Just look at the genes. They'll tell the story every time.”
“Don't you get smart with me, young lady. I'm still your father!”
“Nobody's denying that.” She reached for the jar of fresh plum jam he'd brought and began spreading some on her whole-wheat toast. “But you're not my guardian. I'm staying until the hearing begins.”
Frank's eyes narrowed, but his voice softened. “Please travel with me. I came up here because I wanted to get to know you better—something we would have done years ago if it weren't for that stupid Langston pride of ours.” Hesitantly, he touched her hand.
Though he was clearly reaching out to her as he never had before, she couldn't respond—at least, not as he wanted her to. Armand was in the way, and Hope could not do to him what Faith had done. Hope refused to choose her father over Armand. “I can't. Not right now, at least. Please give me more time.”
He stiffened first, then slumped. The hand that had touched hers fell into his lap. “You won't make yes an answer, no matter what I say, will you?”
She shook her head slowly. “I'm sorry, but I can't. Give me two weeks. Just two weeks, and then I'll go to Washington.”
“One. You’ll need one more to get ready for the committee.”
“Two,” she repeated. “Your staff is competent, and I won't have much to say to the committee, anyway.”
His eyes gleamed ruefully. “Honey, you bargain like a seasoned political pro.” There was a hint ol admiration in his eyes. “Perhaps you missed your calling.”
She grinned. “No way. I couldn't stand the constant pressure. I'm fine where I am.”
Frank sighed. “All right. Two weeks. And then you'll fly to Washington. Agreed.” He hesitated a moment before glancing at her shyly. “Do you think you could stay a little while and visit with me after the meeting?”
“I'd love to. Thanks,” she said, meaning more, much more.
“You're very welcome,” he answered, then looked away. For the life of him, he couldn't recall the last time he had felt tears in his eyes.
The rest of the day was spent leisurely. They walked the shoreline of the island, talking about his doubts concerning her mother's career, and Hope was amazed to find out how proud he had been of her accomplishments. She had never realized how jealous he had become of her consuming passion for computers.
That afternoon she walked her father to the dock, her arm in his as they ambled toward the boat. “You've grown into quite a young lady, Hope. I'm very proud of you.”
His words had been years in coming, but she blushed anyway. “Thank you for noticing.”
“Oh, I've noticed before,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I just never had the opportunity to say it until now.”
“Opportunity?”
“All right,” he admitted, sighing. “I guess I was too embarrassed to say anything because when you were near I was so busy trying to make up for my absences in your life that I played parent to the hilt. But I love you very much. Even if I don't always show it the way I should.”
She squeezed his arm affectionately “I know, Frank,” she said quietly. “I feel the same.”
He stopped and faced her; her hand still rested on his forearm. “Then will you do me a big favor?”
She nodded, eyes widening as she wondered what she could possibly do for her father. Certainly he wouldn't ask her to leave the island early again!
“Would you consider calling me Dad?” he asked, a faint pink glow tingeing his cheeks.
Unable to get a sound past the giant lump in her throat, Hope threw her arms around her father's neck and hugged him fiercely.
“I take it that means yes?” he asked, pulling back and letting her see his tears.
“Yes, Dad,” she said softly, the lump in her throat still there.
He kissed her cheeks. “Thanks, honey,” he said, just as choked up as she. “I'd better get going or I'll miss my flight. But I'll see you in two weeks. Right?”
Her agreement was another hug. And then he was gone, but the closeness she had shared with him for the first time in many years remained, wrapping her securely and feeling very much like contentment. It was a start...
Hope bent a blade of grass under Armand's nose. He was lying on the sheet, arms under his head and his eyes closed. A smile seemed to be etched permanently on his lips, curling them ever so slightly at the corners. He looked like a small boy who had just gotten away with stealing some juicy, fresh autumn apples. What he'd actually done was down two dozen oatmeal-and-raisin cookies.
“I have to go back to Duluth, you know,” she said softly.
“I know. I can feel it.”
She stared at him, startled. “What do you mean?”
He smiled, opening his eyes to look directly at her with love shining from them like the sun. “I have given this some thought, chérie, and the only way I can explain it to you is that the closer you get to the answer, the weaker l feel.”
“Weak?” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. Her heart stopped, her breath jammed in her throat.
Armand sat up, his leg brushing hers. “I should not have told you.”
She cleared her throat. “I need to know these things.” She stared at the curve of his jaw, longing to reach out and stroke the raspy whiskers. “When did this begin?”
“The day you returned from your last trip.”
“I see. And when were you going to tell me?”
He tipped her chin up, his thumb gently caressing her parted lips. “You have had company since you returned, and I have not seen much of you.”
His hand retreated, and she felt cold. She stared out across the brilliant blue lake. Tears which had no business being in her eyes threatened to fall. He touched her thigh, softly stroking the denim. “Hope. Look at me,” he commanded.
Her eyes darted to his face, then to the tanned hand touching her leg.
“Because I need to know what has happened in my past and find some answers that will resolve this puzzle does not mean that I want to leave you, my sweet.”
“Are you sure?”
He inclined his head. “I am sure. And what if I had wanted to be a part of Faith's life, what difference would that make? I am here. With you. I wish I could stay, but we both know better.” His eyes showed his sorrow. “But if there is a way, I will find you again. I swear it.”
She flew into his arms, tears streaming silently down her cheeks and onto his bare chest. It wasn't fair that she should love him, then lose him!
But right now he was here with her, and all she could do was make the best of it. All the lonely tomorrows would arrive soon enough.
CHAPTER TEN
The professor was at his desk, shuffling the papers strewn all over its large walnut surface. “I know it's here, my dear... ah, here it is.” He glanced up, his eyes dancing with delight. That he thought her questions about the first settlers were more fun than a jigsaw puzzle was obvious. “You’ll never guess what I found.”
She smiled, but her heart began its erratic thumping again. His discovery was an item he thought would interest her. “I can't imagine. What is it?”
“Bella Haddington called me and told me that you had stopped by. She also mentioned that she had suggested you visit some of the historic homes in the area.” He peered over his glasses. “Did you?”
“Well, no. Not yet,” she apologized. “I was planning to do that on this trip, although I'm not sure what good it would do. They were all built a century after the traders that I was studying lived.”
He leaned back, satisfied. “Forgive me, young lady, but most people would think that. However, Bella gave me food for thoug
ht, and I began a little investigation of my own. One of the homes, the Picard home, just might belong to the great-grandson of one of the men you're looking for.” He glanced at his notes. “The gentleman called Jacques Pillon. Many names changed in those times, because there were so many nationalities and each one had a different pronunciation and spelling.
“Occasionally a man would change his name to that of a distant, more wealthy branch of his family, as if by association, he, too, would become more wealthy or gain more influence over his own life and those around him. Especially then, when grand names and ties to the old country were such a status symbol. According to my notes, Pillon disappeared just before Picard came into his own business. Because of this, I believe they are the same man.”
It took a few minutes for that information to sift through her brain. She stared at the older man, her mind stalled in first gear. Suddenly she stood, a bright smile on her lips. “The Picard House? Here in Duluth?”
He held out a slip of paper, and she reached for it with shaky fingers. “Yes. Here's the address. I wish you luck in your search. Meanwhile, if I find any other information, I'll forward it to your post-office box immediately.”
Hope edged toward the door, almost too anxious to leave and see for herself. “You're sure?”
He bent his head to peer at her again. “I'm not sure. But if you want to be certain, going to the house might help.”
Hope walked back and held out her hand, shaking his with a tight grip. “Thank you. Professor Richards. Thank you so very much. You've been terrific, Just terrific.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, looking at her as if she might be coming down with some mysterious ailment. “I wish everyone were as eager to find out more about their ancestors.”
Hope laughed delightedly and the professor took a step back, “Ancestors, yes. Oh, yes.” Then she was gone, skipping down the steps and into her car.
She revved the engine, and with one more wave toward the professor's window, she was off. Suddenly she laughed again. The professor had been at the window rubbing the hand she had shaken. It would probably be a while before he had full use of it.
It took her an hour to find the right street, and by that time her enthusiasm had waned considerably. It was probably another dead-end. After all, what did it matter that the house might belong to Pillon's ancestor? It was still a hundred years too late to be of any good to Armand.
The area had mansions sprouting on every corner. Sitting majestically among the older mansions, where millionaires had lived when the iron mines had created kings and money had flowed as abundantly as the water in Lake Superior, sat the Picard house.
A large wooden sign stood on the front lawn, proclaiming the John Picard Home, Hours from 11 to 5, Tuesday through Sunday, Closed on Monday. Not bad for a ragtag frontier scout's great-grandson. A glance at her watch told her it was half an hour before closing.
She tried the doorknob. The heavy oak door swung back easily on well-oiled hinges, revealing a bright entryway and a white vase with fresh flowers whose aroma almost overpowered her.
“Hello?” she called, but no one answered. “And a hearty welcome to you, too,” she muttered to herself as she stepped over the threshold. Brochures about the house and a guest sign-in book lay on either side of the funereal floral arrangement. She picked up a brochure, and stuck her head inside the living room, just to the right of the foyer.
Occupying one side of the room was a Queen Anne table with a small grouping of chairs around it, as if it was a games table. A Victorian couch in petit point of reds and blues faced the fireplace. Two ottomans, also Queen Anne, perched between the couch and an over-stuffed chair.
Several other chairs were positioned around the room, and there were Victorian lamps with fringed shades on the small tables. The furnishings were certainly more recent than the earliest residents of the house.
The next room was set up as a bedroom with a ladder-high four-poster bed taking up much of the space. There was also an ornately carved wardrobe, and a smaller chest with a pitcher-and-bowl lavatory on top.
She left the room, her heels tapping slightly on the patined wood floor. Next door was a study in which a huge wooden roll top desk was the main attraction, with its pigeonholes empty except for a few brochures like the one Hope was holding. Against the wall was a—Hope finally glanced at the brochure—chaise longue made entirely of cigar-box mahogany. A rare treasure, indeed, and one that John Picard probably never owned.
She sighed. The exuberance she had felt since her talk with the professor seemed to drain from her slowly, leaving the hollow emptiness of disappointment behind.
As she turned to leave, her eye was caught by a framed shadow box on the side wall. Her heart began beating rapidly. Her breath stopped for a second. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her. She blinked.
The carved frame was dark wood, while the shadow box itself was lined in leaf-green velvet, the front made of grass. In the exact center of the box, on the green velvet, lay a large—at least six inches long—intricately carved ivory key with a brass thread twisted around the stem to strengthen it. Under the frame was a small rectangular brass plaque that said the key had been given to John Picard’s great-grandfather in the mid-1700s by a sea captain.
“My God, it really does exist,” she breathed, her eyes glued to the key that Armand had spoken of so often. It was real.
She reached up, her fingers stroking the glass that blocked her from the object she hadn't really believed she would ever find.
A voice from behind her interrupted her reverie. “I'm sorry, but I didn't know anyone was here.” Hope jerked back her hand as if it had been burned by the glass and turned to stare at the tall Victorian-costumed woman standing in the door. A smile touched the woman's lips, but her eyes were wary, carefully appraising the young woman who had been so brazen as to touch the antiques under her care.
“I called out, but no one answered.” Hope tried to smile, but her lips wouldn't move.
The woman paused, looking pointedly at her watch. “Yes, well. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow. We're getting ready to close right now.”
“Please, not yet!” Hope cried, suddenly galvanized into action. “I'll only be a moment. Please let me stay, I have to… oh, please, just give me a moment!” she cried as she sped down the hallway and out the door to her car. She fumbled with her keys, dropping them once before she unlocked the trunk and grabbed her camera. Then she was running back up the steps and into the study again, out of breath, but with such a brilliant gleam in her eyes that it seemed to startle the woman.
“Just let me get a picture and I'll go quietly. I promise,” she said breathlessly, while the woman carefully worked her way backward out of the study and into the hall. Hope knew she had to be acting like a crazy woman, but she'd been doing that ever since she'd met Armand.
“Im sorry, but I'm afraid—” the costumed woman began, but Hope interrupted.
“I know it seems crazy to you, but you see, my ancestor is the sea captain who gave John Picard that key and I've traveled a long way just to see it. It will only take a minute to get a picture, then I’ll go. I promise,” Hope lied. But then someone else's lie had been put on a brass plaque under the key. What was the difference between their lie and hers?
The guide relaxed visibly in the face of Hope's stuttering lie. “Oh, well, in that case…” she began, but Hope ignored her as she set her camera and began shooting. She took fifteen or twenty shots before the woman finally began clearing her throat, implying that now her patience was really at an end.
Hope didn't remember getting back to the main street of the town, but the next thing she saw was a kiosk with a sign that proclaimed in large red letters that they would have pictures developed in one day or the cost of developing was free.
A plan was forming in her mind. She was acting more on instinct than logic, but she was going with it anyway. Logic be damned. She gave the film to the young man in the booth and received
her receipt, then drove back to the hotel.
The key existed. It had been right under her nose all the time. Now all she had to do was steal it.
No, that wouldn't work. It was encased in what appeared to be a sealed shadow box, attached to the wall with four small brass screws. If she took it, the theft would be noticed right away and she'd be the first suspect, especially since she had just claimed the key as belonging to her family.
And she’d have to do it during the daytime, when the house was open. She had noticed that the windows had burglar alarms, which meant that as far as her bumbling theft was concerned, breaking and entering was out of the question.
Another idea hit. She'd exchange the key with one just like it. She didn't know how yet—she hadn't worked out the details. But that would work.
She wished Armand was with her so she could share the news with him. At word of this discovery, he'd probably fade even faster.
She slumped forward, feeling more frustrated than before. The buoyancy she had felt earlier ebbed to a new low. Again, intuition told her that with the discovery of the key came the loss of the man she loved almost more than life itself. She needed time to adjust, to think, to work out a course of action. She needed time to cry.
The next morning she bathed and dressed quickly. During the night she had formed a more concrete plan than that of the day before, and now it was time to implement it.
She drove to the photo store and picked up her film. There were fourteen usable shots in all, each capturing the key at a different angle. It really was a fine work of art. Armand must have paid a small fortune, even in his day, to have such a beautiful key crafted. First, she needed its exact measurements.
It took another hour for her to find a hardware store and complete her shopping. She bought a steel tape measure because it wouldn't stretch; she had to be sure of the measurements of the carved grooves, or cuts, on the blade of the key. She also found a screwdriver that looked as if it would fit the screws and still be small enough to hide in the palm of her hand.
The Ivory Key Page 15