Keeper of the Key

by Barbara Christopher

  He didn’t know who Michael was, but he didn’t trust him any more than he trusted himself around Becci. And she’d better not trust either of them.

  BECCI HURRIED Mr. Latham through the rest of the upstairs and started down. What had gotten into Caleb?

  When they reached the ground floor, she saw Caleb standing in the hazy shadows by the front door, studying the parlor as he’d studied each room. In the dining room he’d given an inordinate amount of attention to the corner cabinet’s glass doors. He’d studied the hinges and traced the indented wood. He’d even examined the floor where a deep gouge marred the surface.

  When they stepped into the bedroom she’d felt his anguish as if it had been hers. But for whom, Rebecca, or the small child he spoke about earlier? She shook her head. She had definitely lost her mind if she was buying into Caleb’s delusion that he’d traveled through time.

  “I’ve seen enough, Miss Berclair,” Mr. Latham declared. “If you will allow me to pass . . . .”

  Becci gasped in surprise. She hadn’t realized that she’d stopped in the middle of the flight of stairs to stare at Caleb. When Caleb glanced up at them she saw the pain in his eyes before he managed to push his mask back into place.

  “I’ll leave you to your . . . remodeling,” Mr. Latham said. The way he said the word made it sound dirty, which confused Becci.

  She stepped up beside Caleb.

  Caleb leaned down and whispered, “He’s actually leaving? None too soon if you ask me.”

  “Shush.” Becci turned her attention back to Mr. Latham. “What about—”

  “There’s a lot of work needed to bring the house up to the standards required for a nursery that caters to newborn babies,” Mr. Latham interrupted, “but it’s possible to make it right.” He stepped toward the door then hesitated. “Michael said you planned to sell the antiques to help with your expenses. I’m not an expert, but I don’t think you’ll get a much money.”

  Becci gripped the banister and stared at the man. Had Michael told Mr. Latham everything they’d talked about?

  “Michael mentioned some old journals, too. If they prove authentic, they could be of value to the dealers, even if the antiques aren’t. Especially if they contain rare historical information.”

  Mr. Latham readjusted his tie. “The first step is to get the nursery ready. Of course, the funding will be given out before the end of the month. Most of the applicants had their information to us six months ago, and I’m not sure the company will have time to even process yours. If I were you, I would consider Michael’s offer to sell the house for you instead of applying for the aid. You’ll get a lot more money that way.”

  “I have my reasons for trying, Mr. Latham. Aunt Lilly wants to keep the house in the family if at all possible, even if it’s as a nursery.” And so do I.

  “It is a beautiful place. I’d hate to see it destroyed to make way for an apartment complex or a gas station.”

  Mr. Latham reached for the doorknob. “Good day, Miss Berclair.” He bowed politely then walked out without acknowledging Caleb.

  “Good day, Miss Berclair. Consider selling instead of applying for aid,” Becci snarled, shutting the door and leaning against its center stile. “Why did I listen to Aunt Lilly? Why didn’t I just go ahead and sell like I originally planned? It isn’t going to work. It can’t. I don’t want it to,” she lied.

  Becci handed Caleb the flashlight and caught the end of the braid hanging over her shoulder.

  “What is aid, and what will happen if you don’t get it?” Caleb asked. He didn’t know why she needed this aid but it must be important to cause her to go to such trouble. He flicked the flashlight on and off while he waited for her answer.

  “This particular grant is like a scholarship. Companies like Ascomp give struggling entrepreneurs money to help them get started in a business. This one is for minority ownership.”

  Caleb’s heart did a skittering dance as Becci covered his hand with hers to stop him from flicking the flashlight’s switch. “Since Lilly and I will be co-owners and we’re both female, we qualify. If I don’t get the aid, I’ll sell the property to a commercial developer and rent a place for my nursery somewhere in Memphis.”

  “You’ll receive enough money for that?”

  “Yes. My land extends all the way to one of the busiest street corners in the areas. Ever since the Wal-Mart and those other places went in across the street, all property in this area is hot. Especially mine. I’ve had a dozen offers, all of them outrageously high. Aunt Lilly practically stayed on her knees for a month begging me not to sell. But I’ve got to. Or at least I will if this funding doesn’t comes through.”

  “You can’t sell Rebecca’s house.”

  Becci groaned. She wanted to yell that she owned Berclair Manor, not his long-dead Rebecca. She managed to tamp down her frustration and calmly state, “I don’t have a choice, Mr. Harrison.”

  Caleb watched her when she shoved away from the front door. As she moved, the soft glow of the candle lit room cast a shadow over her face. Concern wrinkled her brow the same as it had Rebecca’s the last time he’d seen her. At that moment he realized Rebecca had known disaster was pending, just as Becci now knew it. But had Rebecca known she was going to die? Is that why she’d asked him to take Luke with him?

  “Why sell now?” Caleb asked, forcing the questions about Rebecca out of his mind. He didn’t have the answers, and he had a more immediate problem. If Becci sold the manor would he ever be able to return to Luke? He’d told Lilly he’d stay as long as he could to help, but he had to get the medallion and try to return to his time as soon as possible. Luke needed him. And he needed Luke. He had to get back to him before Becci did something that could prevent that from happening.

  Caleb again flicked the flashlight on and off as he waited for Becci’s answer. He had to find a way to sneak into Becci’s room and look for the medallion. It wouldn’t be easy. He instinctively knew that if Becci caught him in there, she would never trust him again.

  As he recalled putting the medallion into the dresser, he remembered he’d also put his coin pouch in there with it. Would the coins he’d hidden be enough to save the manor? If so, he could leave them behind for her. But she’d mentioned the orichalc coin, so it might mean that she needed it to save the house. Once he used the medallion to return to his own time, would he be able to send it forward in time to Becci? He was sure that if Rebecca knew Becci needed the medallion to save Berclair Manor, she’d insist he send it forward. But if he did, would anyone purchase a medallion they couldn’t let touch their skin?

  Becci snatched the flashlight away from Caleb, jerking him out of his ruminations.

  “Why sell? I’ve told you why. Because Berclair Manor is a burden.” Becci forced a calmness into her voice that she didn’t feel. “I can’t afford the upkeep or the utilities.”

  “Utilities?”

  As if on cue the lights flickered on. Becci turned and pushed down some funny looking lever, and the lights went out.

  What in the world? Caleb reached over her shoulder and flipped the lever back up. Light immediately flooded the room again. He’d seen the funny looking rectangles beside several of the doors, but he’d had no idea what they were.

  He took the steps two at a time to the middle stair landing and examined the metal and glass contraption attached to the wall. His gaze went from the small globe of light to the lever and back. He ran his hand along the wall on his way back down, then caught the switch and flipped it in rapid succession.

  “Don’t do that,” Becci ordered.

  “What’s it called?”

  “That’s a light, and this is the switch to turn it on and off. That thing over there,” Becci pointed at another rectangular piece close to the floor, “is called an outlet. You plug electrical cords in them to supply power to other things su
ch as floor lamps and appliances that run on electrical energy.”

  “Appliances? Electrical energy?”

  “Yes, appliances—refrigerators, toasters, coffee pots, things that need power. Appliances,” she repeated, “like those in the kitchen, and the lights. That’s where the utilities come in. I run the appliances. The power company supplies the energy. It costs money to run everything. Money I don’t have.”

  “Money? You mean that you have no one to manage your funds? Hasn’t your fiancé taken over running things for you?” He was aghast that she was forced to handle her own money. No wonder she was so upset. How could he help? He wanted to, but he had no right to interfere in her business.

  Becci stared at Caleb in disbelief. His dismayed expression assured her he was serious. What was with this man? He was as old-fashioned and chauvinistic as . . . a man from the era he claimed to be from.

  She should have gotten angry, but she decided it wasn’t worth it, particularly since Michael did handle her finances now. “I handled my own finances until I met Michael. He asked to look everything over to see if he could improve on what I’m doing, but he discovered that I’ve handled everything as efficiently as he could have.”

  “This Michael is your fiancé?” he asked, thinking of Latham’s thoughts. The man had made Michael sound like some kind of scoundrel, but he couldn’t be a scoundrel if he was engaged to Becci, could he?

  Becci nodded. Impulsively, Caleb gave the long braid that hung over her shoulder a tug. He knew he was being too bold and should release her hair immediately. But Becci didn’t object to his forwardness, and he couldn’t bring himself to release the silken tresses. He brushed the end down her jaw the way he would use a paintbrush to put the final strokes on a fragile carved chest and met her gaze head-on. “How long before you and this Michael plan on marrying? Surely he’ll help out until the vows are spoken.” He knew he would if she were his bride-to-be.

  Becci laughed and headed toward the kitchen. As she moved away he let the braid slide through his fingers, shoved his hands in his back pockets and followed her down the hall. What would she have done if he’d brushed his lips to her cheek instead of the end of the braid? Slap him or return the kiss?

  “I wouldn’t ask Michael to pour his money into this money pit. And he is helping me apply for the Ascomp Grant. He knows that only some type of grant will give me the necessary funds to keep the house. Of course, Aunt Lilly would give her life savings, if she had one, to save it. Michael explained to Lilly how the grant works but she—doesn’t trust him.”

  “Do you?”

  “He’s a financial advisor. My financial advisor.”

  “But, do you trust him?”

  “I . . . Yes, I . . . I do trust him.”

  Caleb lifted her chin with one finger. Her words had sounded hesitant, and he wanted to see if that same hesitancy was reflected in her eyes. But his gaze never made it to her eyes. It landed on her beautiful mouth, and he resisted the urge to scrape his callused thumb over her lower lip.

  When her lips parted slightly, as though in anticipation, he cleared his throat and said, “I hope he knows he’s getting a very special woman, Mary Rebecca Berclair.”

  Before she could respond, he reached over her shoulder and lifted his wide-brimmed hat off the hook by the back door. He had to get out of here before he did something ungentlemanly, like kiss another man’s betrothed.

  He shoved the hat low over his eyes. “I’d better clean up the shed if I plan to sleep there tonight.”

  After giving her a two-fingered salute, he picked up his saddlebags from the kitchen counter and walked out.

  Becci pressed her fingertips to her lips. He’d looked as if he’d wanted to kiss her, and, heaven help her, she’d wanted him to do so. What was wrong with her? She was engaged for pity’s sake!

  But the reminder didn’t stop the tingling in her lips. Nor did it stop her from recalling his words. Did he really think she was special?

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON Becci slapped the letters down on the table beside the door and grumbled, “More bills.”

  What had she expected? A check? She needed to figure out which past due bills to pay, but that could wait until closer to payday. She’d promised her aunt that she would look at the dusty journals one more time, and she might as well get it over with. She didn’t know which was worse, reading old family history about delusional gold—no, orichalc—coins that transported a person through time, or fretting over her empty bank account. Both were depressing.

  She picked up the box of old journals and headed for the kitchen. “Well, Mr. Caleb Harrison, let’s see if one of these can tell me a little more about you.”

  She set the box on the kitchen table and stretched. Her back ached, and all she wanted to do was sleep. But she’d promised, and she would keep her word. She pressed one hand to the small of her back and stifled a groan.

  Why had she worked so hard for what would probably end up being nothing? She adjusted the cushion in the cane-bottomed chair and sat down at the kitchen table with the first book.

  According to Aunt Lilly, one of these old, tattered journals had a little of Caleb’s history in it. Of course she had no way of knowing if her Caleb and the man written about were one and the same. She still told herself that time travel was impossible, but as crazy as it seemed, there was a part of her that had begun to believe his story.

  And if his story was true, would he still interest her if she knew more about him? She had enough trouble keeping her mind off the man without reading about him, but read she must. Aunt Lilly would never stop pestering her until she did.

  Becci straightened the book so the light hit it and carefully turned each brittle page. The grandfather clock’s constant ticking set a slow, monotonous pace in the background. She didn’t see anything about Caleb in this journal, so she set it aside, picked up the next one, and laid the first one back in the box.

  This journal revealed more of the same boring monologue as the first. She didn’t care that rain washed out the bridge over the Wolf River or that a late spring freeze had destroyed the newly planted seedlings.

  The second book joined the first. One by one she studied each journal. There was nothing of importance, at least not in her eyes. What had she expected? Maybe a detailed description of the man outside, or an identifying birthmark to give her positive proof that Caleb Harrison was whom he claimed? Or maybe she’d hoped to read about the elusive gold? No, she knew better than that. After all, her mother and father had looked in every conceivable place for the fortune.

  They hadn’t had the journals, but if they couldn’t find the manor’s secret treasure in fifteen years what made her think she could locate it in less than a month? Assuming, of course, that it existed, which she still didn’t believe.

  She flipped open the fourth book, stretched and glanced down at the first page. A sense of awe consumed her. In the corner beside the date, Rebecca had written, “Book One, 1835.”

  January 10, 1835

  Eli called for Saul this afternoon. He’s been sick since Saul and I moved here from Boston. He’s much worse today. As Saul instructed, I wrote Obadiah to tell him of Eli’s worsening condition. I fear Eli will not be here when his son arrives.

  Saul and I told Eli of my condition. We’d hoped the news that he would become a grandfather sometime in June would give him new strength. It didn’t, but we saw the pleasure it brought to him. Eli gave Saul the gold medallion. I’ve never seen Eli without it. Now Saul will be the one responsible for this last remaining piece of Atlantis metal. Orichalc, such an odd metal. Golden, yet not gold. Eli explained that Obadiah had stolen a similar coin from another family, then he lost it in a game of chance. Now the one we have will be theirs as payment for the sins against their family. We, as his kin, have now inherited Obadiah’s sins. Once the rightful family reclaims ownership and und
erstands the aspects of the medallion it will become theirs. Through Obadiah’s disgrace we have lost the right to be keepers. There are no single men or women left in our family except for Christina’s son, and unless the new owner marries into our family the Berclair’s have lost the power forever.

  As far as I know, there are no more pure Atlanteans left, and only a true Atlantean will be able to touch the medallion. We will keep it safe until the proper owner arrives, or until we are instructed to nullify its properties. We cannot leave such power in the hands of uncaring souls for it will destroy them.

  So this is where Aunt Lilly had found the proper name for the golden metal. Becci shut the book. She’d read enough for one evening, and she definitely didn’t need to read about what her namesake had done with the fortune she’d been forced to oversee.

  Besides, Rebecca’s words were written in such a fancy script they were difficult to decipher. Becci cupped her palm to the back of her neck and massaged it. Then she caught the braid and slid her fingers along the woven length. When she reached the brush-like tip, the memory of Caleb painting her cheek with it flashed instantly to mind. What was he doing right now?

  Not that she really cared. She didn’t. She just doubted he was from the past. After all, if he came from Rebecca’s era, he should be brimming with curiosity and bombarding her with questions. But he hadn’t asked about anything. Except when the lights came back on, she amended. And then he only questioned her on the meaning of the words “utilities and appliances.”

  The thought of his reaction to electricity and his stunned expression made her smile. He’d beamed with curiosity, but remained silent. She had to admit his acting abilities surpassed her expectations. Earlier he’d stopped in front of the paintings on the stairwell gallery and waved his hand at Eli, Saul and Obadiah’s portraits. “I know who these three are, but who are the rest?” he had asked. Had he really known her ancestors?

  Becci stood and stretched. Then she rolled her head in a slow circle trying to get relief for the nagging ache between her shoulder blades. With her hands on her hips, she twisted first to one side and then to the other. Finally, she bent forward, touching her toes. She slowly straightened and inhaled, drawing in a deep breath. She loved the smell of wood-smoke.