The Ivory Key

by Rita Clay Estrada

  Then it was back to the John Picard House.

  Her knees knocked as she strode up the long sidewalk to the front door. She gave a silent sigh of relief when she realized the costumed girl who approached her was not the woman who had been there the day before. At least she didn't have to face two problems at once. Dealing with the key was enough for now.

  She trailed through the rooms with the guide, the woman explaining in a singsong voice about the furnishings and the style of living the house had been built for. Hope forced herself not to give the key more than a cursory glance as she wandered from the study to the back bedroom. She nodded her head at the woman's explanations as if everything and nothing interested her, trying hard not to reveal her impatience.

  At the end of the tour, where the donation cup was kept, Hope extracted a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and smiled as she stuffed it in the cup, just deep enough to hold it but not enough to hide the denomination. The girl's eyes widened, as did her smile. “May I wander through by myself for a while? The house is so wonderful, I'd like time to take in everything you ve shown me.”

  “Why certainly. Make yourself at home, only please don’t touch anything. It's all very old and fragile, and some of the vases and dishes have already been glued back together.”

  “I understand. I love old things, too.” Hope said with an impish smile. Armand and ivory keys...

  The guide waved her through. “Then be my guest. Normally I would be leaving in a hour, but I promised to take over one of the other girls' shifts today, so if you have any questions, just let me know.”

  Hope smiled and thanked her, purposely slowing her steps so the eagerness that flowed through her veins wouldn't show. She dallied in the back hall, pretending to study a second coat-rack before making her way into the study. With a glance over her shoulder to ensure that she wasn't being watched, she pulled out the tape measure, and the pen and paper and began doing what she had come for. It took several minutes to line up the measurements, mostly because the key was hanging above Hope's eye level, and it was difficult for her to decide if her eyes could be trusted.

  Voices echoed down the hallway. She quickly hid her tape measure and pad. Then she turned, and with a finger on her chin, she tapped her teeth as she studied the roll-top desk.

  “Oh, are you still here?” the guide asked, apparently having forgotten about her.

  Hope smiled, wishing she could draw breath. “Oh, yes. I was just studying that delightful desk. It's a wonderful piece, don't you think?”

  The young woman nodded her head, then went into her singsong explanation for two elderly women. Hope waited until they wandered into the other room, letting out her breath as they did so. With a dexterity she didn't know she possessed, she flipped out the screw-driver and carefully undid one of the bottom screws that held the frame to the wall. It was hard work, because the screws had obviously been in place a long time.

  By two-thirty that afternoon, she was standing at the front counter of a jewelry store, describing exactly what she wanted.

  The owner scratched his wiry-haired scalp. “This isn't going to be easy, you know.”

  “Whatever it takes, I'll be more than happy to pay handsomely for your time and trouble. I'm sure you'll be able to do it.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be able to do it as soon as I find a piece of ivory that big. Six inches isn't just floating around.”

  “Artists can get hold of it, so I know it's available,” Hope protested. She'd take reticence from him, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. “Unless you'd rather I go to Minneapolis. I'm sure someone there could do it for me in just a few days.”

  He shook his head. “I can do it. I'll just have to send for the ivory.”

  “Then do it by express, please. I need this by next week.” She took out the small screw she had taken from the original. “I also want it mounted in an identical frame, and the four corners must have screw holes this size.”

  “Yes. ma'am,” he said wearily. His day obviously hadn't been the best.

  In her car Hope leaned her head against the steering wheel and gave a huge sigh of relief. Now she could go home to Armand.

  The little motorboat was waiting patiently for her. As she climbed in and started the engine, her eyes searched the island. Somewhere at the top of the hill was Armand. From the other shore, the island appeared to be covered with trees, but she could just barely make out the boulder at the top of the hill. Soon the weather would change from summer to northern Minnesota's short-lived but breathtakingly beautiful autumn. The oak, maple and birch trees would turn vivid reds and yellows and sharp golden browns, then drop their foliage, exposing more of the island's secret hideaways to the naked eye. And she would be gone.

  She couldn't see him along the shoreline. Cutting the engine, she threw the bowline over the piling, snubbed it and jumped out of the boat. One hand shielding her eyes, she looked up the path toward the top of the hill, but she didn't see him until she almost bumped into him. And when she did, her heart plummeted.

  He was standing next to the small pine that marked the limits of his invisible wall. His doleful look stopped her in her tracks before another detail registered on her foggy brain. She could see the shrub he stood before. He was there, but only as a transparency of himself.

  Her eyes glazed with tears. It was true. The closer she got to the key, the more he faded away. Her success was killing him.

  “So you have decided to visit me?” His voice was soft as the breeze, but his tone was harsh and grating.

  She moved toward him, stopping a few feet away. “You obviously know that I found out something. You wouldn't be disappearing in front of my eyes, otherwise.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling his raven hair. She reached out to touch him, her fingers aching to soothe muscles that must have felt cramped. But she dropped her hand.

  “Yes, my Hope. I know,” he said resignedly not noticing her futile gesture.

  They walked the rest of the way to the top of the hill in silence. The end of their time together was near, and neither seemed willing to breach the wall they had erected to cover the pain that was certain to accompany their unbelievable loneliness.

  Hope sat down on the blanket under the towering oak. Taking a breath, she came straight to the point. “I found the key. It's in a museum that used to be John Picard's house. He was the great-grandson of your scout, Jacques Pillon.”

  “I thought you must have.” He continued to stand, his hands on his hips, staring across the water to the forest beyond, his eyes focused on the past. “So he was the one who probably killed me. Strange, but I would not have expected it to be him.” He looked over his shoulder at Hope. “Did you get it?” He wanted to touch her, comfort her, but he did not know how.

  She shook her head. “No. It's attached to the wall, and there are women who guard the place like watchdogs.” She twisted around and located her purse, to get one of the pictures she hadn't given to the jeweler. “I want to be sure this is it.” She held out the photo, silently pleading with him to smile at her and make her load easier to bear.

  He reached for it, but there was no smile. He gave the picture only a cursory glance before nodding his head, “Yes, that is the key.”

  “I thought so.” Her tone was leaden.

  He turned toward her, hands still on his hips, light still seeping through him. Strangely, it gave him a larger aura making him appear even more powerful. “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “We do nothing. I do.” She turned to look at the view, only seeing Armand as she wished to see him: whole, complete and all hers. Slowly she swiveled her head and looked at his face. “I took the measurements and photos to a jeweler. He’ll have a replica, right down to the frame, in about a week. I'll replace the original with a copy and bring the original back here.”

  He frowned. “But you said there were guards.”

  “There are, but I think I've found a way around that. All l can do is try.”


  “And then?” he prompted softly.

  “Then I return here, and we fit the key in the chest. After that...” She shrugged, pretending it was all a matter of course. “We’ll see.”

  The sun rose another notch as Hope stared into the bright day, trying desperately to curb tears that threatened to flow for all the wrong reasons. He wouldn't appreciate them, anyway.

  She gasped as his hand tangled in the back of her hair, gently but firmly turning her to face him. “No, my Hope. That you will not do,” he said softly. “Do you understand?”

  “You're returning,” she whispered, touching his cheek with her hand. He was becoming more solid with every passing moment.

  “Yes,” he answered. “But that was not what I was referring to. You will not do it. Do you understand?”

  She raised her brows, pretending she didn't know what he was talking about. “Do what?”

  “Take your own life.” His answer was soft, but his words hit the air with the power of lit gunpowder.

  She dropped her eyes. Even she had not been able to put the thought into words, but she knew that was what she wanted to do in order to be with him. “Why not?”

  His dark blue eyes turned almost black with the need to make her understand. “Because it is not time for you to die. You have a long life ahead of you, with much in your future to look forward to.” His hand tightened on her neck. “You may not believe me, but I know. I know this as certainly as I know that I love you with all my heart. I know as certainly as I know that your soul and mine will meet again, to conclude what our love has started.”

  The tears she had held at bay finally trickled down her cheeks. “You'll be leaving me, going to Faith, and I'll be left behind. Don't you understand? I love you more than she did! I want to spend my life—or death—with you!”

  “And you will, but not by your own hand, and not until God calls you himself.”

  Anger welled up in her breast. She could barely breathe with the pressure of it. “Faith committed suicide at sixty-two! Do you know why? Because she realized she had made a mistake and wanted to be with you!”

  He smiled sadly, his hand rubbing the curve of her neck again. “Poor Faith. She was not grown enough, not ready for love. Not even at sixty-two.”

  “You pompous ass!” she screamed, pounding his chest with her fists. “She died for you! Her with her childish love! Can I not do as well?”

  He grabbed her fists, holding them to his chest and soothing the backs of her hands with his thumbs. “Yes. You can live, so I can complete my cycle and come back to you,” he said softly. So softly she quieted.

  She released her hand and rubbed at the tears on her cheeks, trying to make sense of his words. “I don't believe you,” she said finally staring at his chest because she was afraid to look into his eyes.

  “I told you once before that I thought your soul was part of Faith's. The part that had to grow as a woman and as a human. I still believe that. I also believe we will meet again, or we would not be going through this time together. We are meant for each other.” He smiled, lifted her chin so she could look at him and know how firm his conviction was. “I must believe that. And so must you.”

  Exhausted by the argument, she managed a wavering smile. “You're crazy. You know that.”

  His thumb wiped away an errant tear. “But I am not alone, Hope.”

  “No. You're not alone.”

  “Then you believe me?”

  “I'm trying...”

  He smiled, and this time his smile broke her heart. She would cradle the picture of it in her memory. It would have to last a long, long time...

  “You will believe. And if you were right, my Hope, and suicide was the answer, would that not mean that Faith would be by my side right now?” He looked around, then brought his sharp gaze back to her. “If so, then where is she?”

  “It didn't work.” Her last hope was gone; she realized the truth of his words.

  “So we will try my way instead, yes? I know it is the right way. I just know.” He pulled her into his arms, turning her around so she could lean her back against his chest, leaving his hands free to cup her breasts as he gave a sigh.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so damn much it hurts.”

  “Then let me mend that hurt, Hope,” His voice was midnight velvet in her ear, causing her breasts to fill with the same wanting his sultry voice had aroused.

  “Yes,” she murmured, flowing into his arms and wrapping her hands behind his head.

  They made love with gentle abandon, then curled into each other's arms. Her lashes fluttered, then opened at last to stare into the indigo depths of his eyes. A different sort of lethargy had captured her body, a full, sated sensation that made her feel as if she had never known such completeness.

  “Lie still, my Hope,” he warned, and she did. He fell lighter than before. Then she realized why. He had exerted all his energy and was fading into the air.

  A rock lodged in her chest. A bitter lump formed in her throat. His slow, devastatingly warm smile melted away the rocks and lumps. Nothing mattered except that he was with her. Now.

  So she pretended everything was all right.

  The days passed too quickly. Armand and Hope never left each other's side for long. The fear that he would disappear completely was never far from her thoughts, no matter how hard she tried not to show it.

  Too soon the time came when she had to return to the jeweler's for the copy of the key. She didn't speak of it; she couldn't. But they both knew.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The jeweler was proud of his work, which was apparent to anyone looking at his smiling face. “Quite remarkable, isn't it?” he asked, holding it up for Hope's approval.

  She studied the framed key, then the picture she had taken of the original. Nodding her head, she agreed. “You've done a wonderful job. It's perfect.”

  The jeweler carefully placed his work of art on the glass case in front of him, a frown creasing his forehead. “You know, one of the girls said she's seen this key somewhere.”

  “I bet she has.” Hope smiled brightly. “The original is in the John Picard House. You see, my ancestor was the sea captain who gave it to Picard's great-grandfather, and since I couldn't have the original, I decided to have a replica made for my mother. She's so interested in the history of our family. It's sort of a birthday gift.” she said, relying on the lie she had already given.

  His frown disappeared. “What a nice thing to do. My mother is into all that family-history stuff, too.” He laughed. “Though why, I'm not sure. We don't have any blue blood running through our veins. Just good old lumberjack stock.”

  Hope relaxed, the adrenaline dissipating as they broached a safer topic. She couldn't imagine how old his mother was, since he looked to be fifty or sixty himself. “Lumberjacks made this part of the world what it is today. That's just as important as our sea captain is to our family.” She reached for her checkbook and wrote out the amount of the bill.

  Fifteen minutes later she left the shop with the framed key under her arm. The jeweler had been a talker, and had posed questions that she'd had to dodge constantly. But now, with the precious item under her arm, she knew it had been worth it not to rush. Rushing would have made her look furtive or guilty and then he might not have believed her explanation at all. He might even have questioned somebody at Picard House….

  She stopped those thoughts, too busy with the next step of the plan to worry about how she had handled the last. Her muscles bunched with tension as she waited for someone to tap her on the shoulder and tell her she was breaking the law.

  Once inside the car, she took the framed key and tucked it into a large canvas shoulder bag she had just purchased in a convenience store. It fit perfectly. Just before going to the jeweler’s, she had returned to the Picard home and loosened the two top screws, removing the second bottom one. Carefully lifting the screw from her coin purse, she tried it in one of the holes. It fit. Her sigh of relief fil
led the small car.

  With nerves strung like tight wire, she pulled into a hamburger stand, ordered a grilled-cheese sandwich and a malt, then sat in the car while she ate it. In another hour, the Picard lady volunteers would change shirts, and another woman would work the late-afternoon period. Then she could stroll in and complete the job. With any luck at all, she'd be back on the island by this evening.

  She had to be. That morning, Armand had been more ghostlike than she had ever imagined ghosts to be. He was an apparition, barely outlined against the blue sky or dark green of the trees. He couldn't disappear before she got back. He couldn't.

  She had a hope, a dream that she had clung to these past several days. Perhaps if she did everything correctly and matched things the way they were supposed to be matched, the grateful fates would allow Armand to remain, whole and free, to live with her.

  It was time. Within minutes she was parked in front of the house, the screwdriver tucked in the back pocket of her jeans, a baggy sweater hiding the bulge it made. She grabbed her camera and the telescoping tripod and walked jauntily to the door. The gaudy canvas bag was heavy, but she acted as if it were the lightest thing on earth.

  Her heart plummeted when she saw that the same stone-faced amazon from the first day was back. But her smile never wavered. “Hi, how are you,” she called cheerily, waving the tripod as if it were a walking stick. “I’m here to take some pictures for one of the locals. He called and made arrangements, I believe.”

  The older woman never cracked a smile. “No one called,” she said, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Which ‘local’ are you supposed to take pictures for?”

  “Jeff Haddington. He wants them as a gift for his mother. Apparently she's into the history of Duluth, and he thought it would be a nice surprise. Besides, he thought his great-grandmother had a mahogany chaise longue just like this one, and knew his mother would appreciate an example of it. The photos are just for his own personal use, you understand. Mr. Haddington was supposed to make that clear to you.” She stressed the name of the man who was becoming a pillar of Duluth society. He might as well serve some useful purpose.