She died two days later. I went into a numb state. My grandmother Greta and Great-Aunt Addie had been notified, but no one had arrived yet. My friend Leslie picked me up from the hospital and took me home to Gigi’s. I cried for hours, and I just couldn’t sleep. Every time I tried, I had a horrible nightmare.
I was tired, too tired to concentrate on firing my engine back up and yet too restless to continue watching the TV program I’d switched on. Leslie stayed with me all evening, attempting to comfort me. She finally put me to bed in Gigi’s room, where I insisted on sleeping alone, and she retired to the guest room.
I slept for a bit, but it was hard to ignore the scent of her ghost that hung in the air. On impulse, I walked to her closet and pulled her fur coat out. I wrapped it tightly around me. From behind closed eyelids, I could picture her ensconced in the bed the first night I came to live with her. Her room reminded me of a pillow—so peaceful with all its soft greys and muted creams. At the far end were two banks of diamond-paned bay windows, half-veiled by gold-and-cream brocade shades and valances. The windows looked out over the dark, still lake. Chairs and loveseats were arrangement in front of the windows. Against another wall was a large fireplace; across from that was a king-size bed with a large trunk at the end of it. She’d been wearing a sage green peignoir, reclining against a mountain of satiny pearl pillows. There was a tea tray on one side of her, and she had been engrossed in a book. I had been terribly homesick and lost without my mother’s embrace. As I walked in, she had turned to face me. A bright smile lit her tired face.
“Sophia, darling. What’s the matter? I thought I tucked you into bed an hour ago.” Her words rang in my ears as if she’d just spoken them yesterday. She’d held out her arms for me to come to her. Of course, I climbed on top of the giant bed, and she enveloped me in her arms, bending to kiss my cheek. Gigi’s hair had still been that incredible shade of fiery copper; her eyes—always her best feature—were wide and green and striking. Her skin and nails were meticulously cared for. She smelled and even sounded like my mother, so I curled in.
I could feel her ghostly arms snuggled around me now.
“Do you remember the story I told you when you were little?”
“Which one?” I remembered asking.
“The one about the magical stone that controls time.”
“Of course. I remember every story you tell me.”
“There’ll come a time you won’t.”
I shook my head.
“Yes, dear, but it will be all right. I don’t remember everything my Oma told me. I wish I did.”
“I’ll never forget,” I insisted.
She’d smiled at that.
“You do have a much better memory than me. What if I told you the magic was real?”
I’d thought about this for only a moment and blurted, “I’d ask if I could use it to go back and save Mama.”
I could still picture Gigi. She’d swallowed hard.
“If you could . . . I’d ask you to save mine too.”
Wiping away a tear, I opened my eyes. That was the night she’d given me her rosewood box. I’d forgotten all about what she said. What else had I forgotten?
I touched the satin of her favourite nightgown to my face, gently caressing, pretending I was still with her in that moment, lying against her in bed. Much like the room, the gown still smelled sweet, like her. Despite my thoughts, I wandered to the bed and drifted into that same horrible dream.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Breathless and chilled with sweat, huddled under the blankets, I was convinced someone stood over my bed. Images of a young girl with long, dark, straight hair haunted me. She had beckoned to me from underwater, but I couldn’t reach her. A shadow had stood smoking a pipe at the shore. It felt like he’d followed me out of the nightmare. I sniffed the air; the smell of stale tobacco was gone. With one hand trembling, I fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, upset the nightmare had returned.
It was almost noon when I finally gave up and crawled out of bed. I felt exhausted. Normally, my dreams faded when I woke, but this one never did. I had endured it for years, along with a few others, each dream more vivid than the last.
Where was Leslie? I struggled to catch my breath. I bit back tears as I pulled on my sweater and jeans, thinking of Gigi and the first time I’d had the nightmare. I’d woken, screaming, but Gigi had gathered me up in her arms, crooning in a calm, quiet voice that everything would be okay. And it had been okay for long periods of time. Unfortunately, every now and then the nightmares would seep in, like a thief in the night, usually when I was tense, exhausted or vulnerable. I was most definitely tense and vulnerable now. Losing Gigi, watching her fight for every last breath, had been agonizing.
I checked the guest bedroom, but Leslie wasn’t there. The bed was made. It seemed odd that she hadn’t been in to check on me. Especially because I’d had to convince her to leave me alone in the first place. I stepped into the kitchen and was immediately handed a steamy mug.
“Would ya look at those circles under your eyes? Girl, grab me some tea bags. We’ll fix you right up,” Greta bellowed.
“Thank you, but I really don’t care how I look right now.”
I took a sip from my mug and almost spit it back out.
“What the hell is this?”
“That’s a Mississippi Mudslide with a little coffee, of course.”
“Is there alcohol in this?”
Greta looked affronted. “Of course there is. It’s mostly alcohol.”
I sighed, realizing she’d missed the point, and took another large sip.
“Have you eaten?” I said, looking around the empty kitchen.
“No. I was waiting on you.”
I pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Have you heard from Aunt Addie?”
“Yes, she’ll be here tomorrow… unfortunately,” Greta said as she resumed filing her nails.
“What? You don’t like Aunt Addie?” Either, I thought to myself.
“No, Addie’s fine. She’s a big drunk—and I should know.” She laughed.
Greta looked small and stylish as she helped me cook. I use the word helped loosely, because all Greta did was file and polish her nails and whine about mosquitoes. I don’t think she had ever made a meal in her life.
She removed a decorative silver and black case from her purse, opened the lid and glanced inside. There were three joints left, and one of them was broken. She put one in her mouth and lit a match, touching the yellow flame to the tip. She inhaled deeply before holding it out to me. I kept looking at it, like a hungry jaguar eyeing something warm and meaty.
“You gonna take it, darlin’, or not?”
I shook my head after a moment of indecision, my eyes lingering on the joint. “I’d better not. I haven’t touched it in two months.”
She shrugged and took another haul. “I quit twenty years ago. Luckily, I have a very loose definition of the word quit.” She exhaled a steady stream of grey smoke. “So what in the hell were you doing last night, anyway?” She looked like a ballerina with her silver-knotted blonde hair, but she talked like a trucker.
“What do you mean?” I asked, perplexed by this complicated woman.
“Well, I peeked in on ya around ten when I got here. You were sleeping sound as a baby with a clean bottom. And then I woke to this godawful screaming around three. I can only assume it was you, since I sent your friend home when I got here. I was gonna come and check on ya, but I didn’t want to be nosey.”
“You sent Leslie home? I thought she just left me.” I stared accusingly. Then, suddenly, I caved. I snatched the joint from her hand and inhaled deeply. She watched me exhale with obvious interest, green eyes round and mischievous.
“What?” she twanged, waving her hands dismissively. “She had to work today, and I’m sure she got a better night’s sleep in he
r own comfy bed, unlike me, who woke to a screaming banshee. So what in the hell happened? Did you stub your toe or somethin’?
“I’m sorry. I’m having trouble understanding you.”
“Oh, is it the accent?”
“No, it’s not the accent.” You’re from Canada, not Texas, you prissy bitch. “I’m having trouble understanding the fact that you heard me crying and you didn’t come to console me.”
The cottage went quiet, and I could hear the ticking of the clock. I closed my eyes for a minute, thinking of this past week, and I let the exhaustion wash over me. I sighed, thinking how strange it was that I had descended from her. It was even stranger that this vain yet exotic creature had been born of Gigi’s warm heart.
“Well, I just figured we barely know each other. I didn’t want to be rude if you were just havin’ a moment. I mean, we all miss Mama.” She caressed her temples as if I annoyed her. Right, that’s why you hung around, I thought.
“So what was the matter?” she asked, a little more sympathy in her voice this time.
“I must have been having another nightmare.” I sat down quietly across from her in a kitchen chair and bowed my head in prayer. Something Gigi and I always did.
“That makes sense. My therapist says dreaming is a coping mechanism. It’s probably protecting you from the pain of Mama’s death.”
“Actually it’s a recurring dream,” I said, handing her back the joint.
“Do you have them often?” she asked, a little more interested.
“Yes, for as long as I can remember.”
“What are they about?”
“It’s all kind of a blur. It usually involves murder, jewels and this one crazy maniac who’s hell-bent on slaughtering anyone who gets in his way. Sometimes there’s a cop, and he’s strangling this girl. Other times I arrive too late and only find the body.”
I didn’t bother telling her it felt like somebody was watching me, like some sort of presence peering in, intruding, as if through a crystal ball.
“Sounds charmin’, darlin’. Maybe you should cut out the vampire shows right before bedtime—or you could take up your dear old granny’s bad habits.” She took another pull on the joint before crushing it out. “I normally sleep like I got run over by a Mack truck.” She smirked, and I laughed in spite of myself.
“Hey, Greta, this is going to sound strange but…” I bit my lip to try to keep the words trapped in my mouth but they escaped, regardless. “Did Gigi ever talk to you about her family? I mean, did they have odd talents or gifts.”
Her brow furrowed. “As in magic?”
A glimmer of hope. Perhaps Gigi had told Greta something more. “Yes—sort of.”
“No. I mean, I think perhaps one of Mama’s great-aunts claimed to be a clairvoyant, but she was probably just crazy like the rest of us.”
I masked my disappointment.
“However, I do remember Daddy telling my cousin Juliet and I something about a magical amethyst of Mama’s that we were never to touch. I think he said it was magical, or that someone had trapped a curse inside it, or something. I don’t know, maybe Juliet and I just embellished that part afterward. I think we called it the Purple Delhi Sapphire—or maybe that’s what Daddy called it. I don’t know why we would have called it a sapphire if it was an amethyst, but you know—kids will be kids. Anyway, he told us never to speak of it to Mother; it upset her.”
“Who cursed it? Did he say there was a way to break it?” Perhaps she knew the key to ending all of this, so I could go back to my normal life.
“I don’t remember. It was just a bunch of hocus pocus anyway. He was probably just teasing us or entertaining us on a rainy day. Magic doesn’t really exist.”
The look on her face told me different, and I got the distinct feeling that she knew more than she let on, but I decided not to push. I had Grampa Jackson’s files from the secret cubby—maybe that’s why he’d hidden them.
Two days after the funeral, I reluctantly loaded my suitcase and backpack into my Jag. Slamming the trunk, I stood, drinking in the peaceful view of the dock against the backdrop of the lake and surrounding woods. I wish I could stay here, I thought for the hundredth time. I took one last second to appreciate the hushed descent of pine needles against the sunny blue sky. After triple-checking that I’d locked the cottage, I slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. I rolled down my window and inhaled the crisp, pine-scented country air deeply. I hated to leave all this beauty to go back to the stress and tedium of reality.
I pulled into a drive-thru to grab a coffee and decided to give Les a call. In addition to working part-time at the local library with me, she was also employed at one of the largest reference libraries downtown, and she moonlighted at a rare book store. She was officially the best researcher I knew. Of course, attaining her help would mean taking her into my confidence, but truthfully it would be nice to bounce the situation off someone else, someone I trusted.
“Hey, Les. Have you heard of the Purple Delhi Sapphire or the Temple of Indra?”
“You’re sounding chipper. You doin’ all right?”
“Yeah, it comes and goes.”
“Sorry I didn’t say ’bye before I left. Greta insisted I not disturb you—and she promised to take care of you. Did she?”
“Don’t even get me started on her. But yes, I was fine. So—have you heard of the sapphire or the temple?”
“Not off the top of my head.”
“Could you run a check on it for me?”
“Do you need it now?”
“Yes, it’s important.”
“Okay, I’m typing as we speak. Let’s see… My first hit is pulling up an article on Nadir Shah, who invaded Delhi in 1738. He was after the emperor’s jewel, which he believed would help him take control of the empire.”
“I know that part. I was hoping you’d find more recent history on it. Like how it got from there to Monaco to Ireland and then to my family.”
“Your family? You own this?”
“So it seems. I’m trying to understand if it’s legit, so I need to trace it.”
“I’ll work on it, but no promises on today ’cause I’m working on a project for the mayor. Oh, I gotta go, Sophia. I’ll call you back after lunch. The boss just walked in.”
I heard a click and the line went dead.
I set my phone down, and it dinged. Picking it back up, I realized it was a text from Cullen.
How ya doin?
I’d spoken to him right before Gigi’s funeral. Everything was such a blur then, I couldn’t remember much of the conversation, except I remembered he’d been sweet, offering to come and stay with me for a few days.
Doing all right. Finally heading back home. Reality settling in, I wrote back.
Ready for another vacation? Ireland’s calling . . .
I started to type, Yeah right. I wish. Then I thought about it and erased what I’d typed.
Maybe Cullen was on to something. Gigi said the stone came from Ireland. Perhaps I should go back to Ireland and find that curator.
The thought filled my drive, and before I knew it, I was home. And just in time. The sky was really starting to darken, like it was going to open up and pour. Home sweet home, I thought, stepping inside the main floor of the Victorian I rented. It wasn’t overly large but it was big enough for me, and it had personality. I had spent much of my savings furnishing it with beautiful antique pieces. My favourite room was the living room, which doubled as an office. It was beige, with beautiful crown moulding and white French doors leading out to the terrace and pool area. The fireside was huge and covered in unique gold carving. I’d filled the room with oversized mirrors and sexy black and gold furniture, reminiscent of 1930s Hollywood. My desk sat in the corner, but I often worked with my laptop on the couch so I could be closer to the fireplace. I did so next.
; The first hint of nightfall filtered in through the billowing sheers. Overhead, the chandelier tinkled musically in a gust of the storm’s breath, throwing eerie shadows across the room. I closed the terrace door I’d left open for the cat; she didn’t seem interested in coming in, so she could fend for herself. She was sort of a community cat. She always came home eventually, and my neighbours took her in and fed her like she was their own.
I curled up in the corner of the sofa, exhausted from packing up Gigi’s stuff, as well as dealing with the children—the children being Greta and Great-Aunt Addie and her brood. They were like vultures, ripping things apart and fighting over stupid brooches and armoires. I’d had a feeling they were looking for the gem set.
I turned on the television to try to clear my mind of the cobwebs threatening to invade. More vampires. I laughed, thinking of Greta. Maybe I did watch too many scary shows, or maybe I just needed to smoke a fatty.
Dead still, he watched the house, well hidden by the oak tree in the back. Stiff, he shifted, growing irritated. He was weary of chasing her around. “Where is it? Show me!” a voice inside him cried out. The sound of his own voice startled him, and he realized in a panic that he was out of control, that he had actually spoken aloud.
Just break in. Force her to hand it over . . .
Dumb move, he told himself.
Patience was key. After all, it had called to him across time; surely he was meant to have it this time.
The Temple of Indra’s Jewel: Page 9