The Time Collector

by Gwendolyn Womack

  Now it was almost eight o’clock in the evening and time to close, but at least the display was done. A collection of lanterns hung from the ceiling like its own little galaxy.

  Melicent stood on the ladder and stretched to hang the last one as the door jingled.

  She turned around at the sound and her smile faltered when Roan West walked in.

  Seeing him again literally threw her off balance—she wobbled and slipped.

  His hands shot out and grabbed her by the waist to keep her from falling. “Easy there.”

  She let out a strangled yelp and gripped the top of the ladder with one arm, trying not to crush the lantern.

  “Let me,” he offered, and took the lantern from her so she could climb down.

  A jumble of thoughts hit her at once: he was back, his hands were on her waist—and his eyes were just as mesmeric as she remembered.

  “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” she stammered. That was twice now that she’d done something clumsy in front of him. She put on her brightest smile, inwardly cringing at how fake it must look. “Welcome back to The Trove!” She sounded like Tish. “How can I help you?” she asked politely, hoping he couldn’t tell from her face that she’d been Googling him.

  With a faint smile Roan turned to the window display. “These are quite beautiful.”

  “Thank you. They’re from Nepal,” she said, and then ran out of words.

  Roan pulled off the glove from his right hand, all the while still holding the lantern she’d almost crushed. He placed his hand on the paper and waited.

  Melicent stood watching him, unsure of what he was doing. It looked like he was listening to a heartbeat.

  Should she say anything? Tell him the price?

  His eyes were staring off into the distance with an unfocused look for a full minute.

  “Dolma Ling,” he finally said.

  “What?”

  “These weren’t made in Nepal. They were made at the Dolma Ling Nunnery and Institute at Dharamsala.”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “In the Kangra Valley in northern India, by a Tibetan nun named Yangchen Metok.” He gestured to the wall of lanterns she’d just spent hours hanging.

  Melicent gaped at him. Yes. Yes, she knew that name. It’d been in her mind all day. But this was crazy. How did he?

  Then he stunned her by saying more. “She arrived at Dolma Ling nineteen years ago, after a twenty-eight-day trek over the Himalayas. When she got there, she couldn’t read or write. Now she is one of the elders helping the younger women.” He sounded so sure of the facts, like a narrator at a museum exhibit. “She makes these lanterns in her spare time, often reciting prayers while she works.” His gaze was hypnotic as he held her eyes and challenged her to disagree with him.

  All the air had been let out of her lungs. She couldn’t catch her breath because she knew everything he’d said was true.

  How did he know about the lanterns? Tish didn’t even know they were from Dolma Ling, and she was the one who’d bought them.

  Dumbfounded, she watched him reach up and hang the last lantern on its hook. He turned to her. His eyes softened at the confusion on her face and he asked, “Can we go sit somewhere and talk? Maybe next door?”

  There was a wine bar next door with an open patio. Feeling dazed, her eyes went to the clock. It was after eight—they were now closed. She had a sinking feeling this little stunt he’d pulled with the lanterns was only the beginning. Roan West had plenty more to say.

  * * *

  They each ordered a Pinot Noir and took their glasses to a table outside. Melicent noticed he had his gloves back on. She had so many questions but didn’t know where to start. She couldn’t wrap her head around what was happening. Not only had he come back, he shared her ability.

  He searched her eyes. “We should probably start by introducing ourselves.” Then he said, “Melicent Tilpin.”

  Her name was the last thing she expected to hear from his mouth. “How do you know my name?”

  “From the Antiques Roadshow video on YouTube. ‘Psychometrist finds million-dollar watch with the power of her hands,’” he recited the caption. “Have you seen it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. He had seen the Antiques Roadshow video. “When—when did you?”

  “Before I came here.”

  “Came here now or came here the last time?”

  “The last time.”

  “From where?” She crossed her arms. Somehow this had turned into an interrogation.

  “New Orleans.”

  Her face burned. So West, Inc. and RW Antiques in New Orleans were tied to him. He was a collector. She tried to quickly put the pieces together. “Were you trying to get involved with the watch transaction? Be like a middle man or something? Because I already sold it.”

  Roan shook his head. “No. I wanted to meet you.”

  “You’re saying you came from New Orleans to meet me?”

  “Yes.”

  That simple confession made her heart jump. He came all the way to L.A. to meet her? The warmth in his eyes made her feel like they were suddenly on a date.

  She reached for her wine and almost spilled it. Roan’s hand snaked out and caught the glass as it wobbled. She gritted her teeth in annoyance. She’d been clumsy all her life, but her penchant for spilling things was rising exponentially around him.

  He surprised her by saying, “I bet you were left-handed as a child and your teacher made you switch to your right.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Am I right?” His eyes searched her face with a faint smile.

  Melicent didn’t know what to say because the crazy thing was she had been left-handed in preschool, and in kindergarten her teacher had coaxed her into changing hands.

  But how did Roan West know that?

  “Your hands are at war with themselves.” Roan swirled his wine while he studied her hands. “Your natural dominant hand is your left, but you were taught not to trust that instinct, so you use your right. It’s the same with psychometry. It’s best to read an imprint with your nondominant hand, your receptive hand. The problem is you don’t know which hand that is anymore. I’m guessing you can’t quite control how and when you get an imprint.”

  “Is that why you wear gloves? You’re a psychometrist?” While they’d been sitting there she couldn’t stop staring at his hands. “You get information from touching things?”

  “So do you.” He tipped his glass to her.

  She found herself confessing. “Not very well. It’s random. Sometimes it’s like soft static, sometimes I get clear images and a string of thoughts.” Roan West had gotten way more information from those lanterns than she had. It was obvious he was much more trained. The man wore gloves for Christ’s sake because he was so good. The whole situation was mind-boggling.

  She clarified, “So you saw the YouTube video and came out to meet me. And yet, you didn’t say anything about any of this last time?” He hadn’t even muttered a hello. He’d only bought all her snow globes.

  Suddenly a realization dawned. He had bought her artwork knowing it was hers.

  “Did you buy my work to read the impressions like you did with the lanterns?” she asked him, incredulous, already knowing the answer. Now it all made sense, and her anger sparked. “That’s what ‘psychometrists’ do, right? Read objects?”

  The look in his eyes became guarded.

  She leaned forward. “Did you spy on me?”

  “I didn’t spy on you. I only read one.”

  “You read one?” She gaped at him.

  “The one I picked up in front of you at the store. I haven’t touched any of the others—I promise. They’re still in the boxes.”

  “What did you see? In the one you touched?” She held her breath.

  “Your mother.” Roan’s voice softened. “She told you there’d be no more treatments. You moved back home that week, breaking up with your boyfriend to do it. The snow globe was something you worked on late
at night.”

  Melicent’s heart grew hollow. He had gotten all of that from touching her work? Tears pooled in her eyes. Never had she felt so infringed on before.

  “How dare you,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry.” He looked like he meant it. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  She shook her head, unable to process that he’d seen intimate details of her life. That’s what he’d been doing when he’d held the globe in the store and she’d sat there watching him.

  She stood up, overcome with emotion.

  “Wait.” He reached out and grabbed her hand to keep her from leaving. “I know you’re upset. I understand and I am sorry. I’m telling you this so you’ll believe me. Please, I really do need to talk to you about something important. It’s why I flew back.”

  The feeling of his hand in hers was like a magnetic pull, a not entirely comfortable one. She tugged her hand away and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms and legs defensively. She actually did want to hear whatever he had to say.

  “Go on,” she dared him. “I’m listening.”

  12. THE WINEGLASS

  ROAN WAS TRYING HARD to do damage control. When he shared that he’d read the imprint in the snow globe, Melicent had transformed into a vengeful sprite straight out of a Tolkien novel, an enraged Lady of the Golden Wood ready to make him pay for his trespass. For a moment she had looked ready to throw her drink in his face.

  Her artwork had been for sale, he wanted to remind her, and sitting out there in the open for anyone to touch. How could he have known it held such private memories? He hadn’t even shared all of the intimate details he’d learned from touching it: When Melicent’s mother became ill, Melicent moved out of her apartment in Culver City, at the same time ending the two-year relationship she’d had with her boyfriend, Walt. Roan had learned all he needed to know about her bozo ex. Walt was a pastry chef and the guitarist for an up-and-coming local band, a man-boy, full of energy and drive and wonder, a real Peter Pan. Melicent and Walt never fought, were never annoyed with each other, their lives had blended harmoniously—until her mother got sick. Roan had seen their relationship’s demise play out. Walt didn’t know how to deal with Melicent’s tears or depression, and her life was suddenly “bringing him down.” Terminal cancer was a definite downer. He said she had changed.

  It was a rude awakening for Melicent to learn how shallow their relationship was. When she was packing to leave, Walt made her reopen all the boxes to make sure she wasn’t sneaking off with one of his prized books or overpriced kitchen appliances. His pettiness and insecurities were embedded within his things, and she assured him she didn’t want anything of his. In her heart she didn’t want him. All she wanted was for her mother to get well.

  Melicent’s mother put on a brave face as she underwent a valiant battle against the cancer, but in the end it was a battle she lost. Melicent finished the globe Roan had held during the most difficult moments of her mother’s passing, in the pockets of time between the tears.

  It’d been wrong for him to touch it, but he hadn’t known when he’d picked it up how personal the memories would be. He understood why she wanted to sell it, because somewhere in the recesses of her subconscious she wanted to let the pain go. Memories lived in possessions, but most people didn’t realize just how much. Melicent never expected anyone to recognize the pain within her work. How could she, when she didn’t herself? Roan had not only exposed her wounds, he had exposed her, holding up a mirror with his words.

  Things were getting off to a bad start.

  He tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to infringe, I promise. I came here to tell you there’s a group of psychometrists who share the same abilities.”

  “You’re kidding.” Her brow furrowed. “People like us?”

  The us made him pause. He studied her face, wishing he didn’t find her so compelling. His fascination with her was complicating matters.

  He shook his head. “A group of archaeologists and an historian.” A dead historian, he could have said, but refrained. “I’m not a part of their group, but my friend is, and he’s missing.” He watched her eyes widen in shock as he tried to explain. “They’ve been researching rare artifacts only psychometrists can identify, and someone might be trying to interfere with their work. I came here to tell you that anyone labeled as a psychometrist could be at risk. If I’ve seen that YouTube video of you, then they could have too. I wanted to warn you.”

  Melicent didn’t say anything for a long moment. She looked terrified. He regretted having to alarm her like this, but she needed to be aware of what was happening.

  When she spoke he could detect the shakiness in her voice. “You flew all the way from New Orleans to warn me about what’s been happening to this group of psychometrists?”

  “If these people who are going after my friend’s group think you’re a psychometrist, they may come after you, too. I can’t have that on my conscience.” He waited for her to ask him something else, anything. Instead she sipped her wine, lost in thought. It made him question her, “Has anything out of the ordinary happened since the video came out?”

  “You mean besides selling a watch for almost two million dollars and ending up in the L.A. Times?” She finished her wine, looking anxious to leave. “Thank you for letting me know. Really. I’m sure everything will be fine.” She licked her lips, nervous, and gathered her things. “Sorry, but I have to dash.”

  What he’d said had struck a chord. He could tell. She was already afraid.

  “Listen.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I know you don’t know me, and I know this all sounds crazy, but that pocket watch got you on YouTube. You don’t know who could’ve seen it.”

  “You did.” She tried to joke but failed. They stared at each other for a suspended moment.

  “Take my card.” He held it out. “If anything happens, please call me, day or night. I’m going to be in town a few more days. I’d like to talk again before I leave.”

  She took it, trying to downplay his warning. “And do you plan to read the rest of my artwork and let me know what other private moments you can see?” Her eyes flashed with anger again. He still wasn’t forgiven for reading the imprints. “Or maybe there’s something else you’d like to buy? Like three dozen lanterns from Dolma Ling?” She tossed her hair back with a defiant flick.

  Roan let out a surprised laugh. “I won’t read the others.” He met her eyes. “And I’ll think about the lanterns.”

  “Goodbye, Roan West.” She said his name pointedly even though he’d never said it. She must have remembered it from the store. Her eyes trailed over his face, his gloved hands, and then landed on the wineglasses. She raised her gaze back to him. “Thanks for the wine. Don’t touch my glass when I’m gone.” She gave him a sharp look and walked away.

  Roan laughed to himself, feeling firmly put in his place. “I won’t!” he called out, watching her leave.

  Maybe he would go buy all thirty-six Dolma Ling lanterns. The look on Melicent’s face would be worth it.

  He stared at her wineglass across the table—and dammit if she hadn’t known how tempted he was to take off his glove and touch the stem to see what she’d been thinking. He hadn’t touched a woman’s wineglass in years, and although the temptation was strong, he would never go back on a self-made promise.

  When Roan had first started seriously dating in his early twenties, he used to reach over and touch his date’s wineglass all the time to read her mood and gather what information he could to improve his chances of having a good evening. But his wineglass reconnaissance always backfired on him, because most of the time the imprints he picked up from the glass had nothing to do with him or what he and his date were talking about.… The woman had broken up with her boyfriend and was looking for an escape, another was obsessing about how many calories were in her Merlot, another kept wondering what Roan and her future children would look like, another was in a deep depression, hated her life, and thought Roan
was boring as hell.

  Roan had run the gamut of emotions and judgments to the point that he debated whether he should stop dating altogether. He’d complained to Holly about the wineglass imprint fiascos, and she’d chastised him for spying on “those poor unsuspecting women.” She said it served him right. He would never find anyone by using his gift in such a devious manner. Her reprimand stung, but she was right, and Roan never touched a woman’s wineglass again.

  The women he’d dated never knew about his ability, and he preferred to keep it that way. It was usually easier if he took off his gloves when he was with them and tried to tune out the sea of imprints surrounding him. The problems always arose when he’d have to touch something of hers and then he’d get caught with a thought or a feeling he’d rather not know—and God forbid if he held her hand. A hand-to-hand connection with a person always gave him the most powerful read of someone’s thoughts and feelings.

  The one time he’d wanted to reveal his ability had been a disaster. He thought Gianna might have been the one to start a lasting relationship with; at least he’d been ready to try. She’d even moved into his place, slowly at first—a toothbrush, a change of clothes, then a drawer full of clothes, then half of the closet was hers—until all of her things had migrated and they were talking about whether it would make sense for her to sublet her apartment.

  When Roan finally told her that he was a psychometrist, he’d made the mistake of holding her hand when he did, feeling all of her confusion, judgment, and distrust—and then deceit when she tried not to let those feelings show on her face. The hurt hit him harder than he expected, and he ended the relationship.

  The breakup hadn’t been pretty. He let Gianna take all of the furniture when she moved out, even though most of it was his. He didn’t want to revisit any of the memories embedded there.

  He bought all new furniture and over time emotionally recovered. That’d been almost two years ago. Gianna was the last woman he’d taken his gloves off for, and he’d never allowed anyone to get close since.