The Time Collector

by Gwendolyn Womack

  Roan took both of Melicent’s hands and rubbed them between his, the friction of his gloved fingers hot on her skin. “Melicent, listen to me. You’ve had a shock. I’m going to show you a finger position to help calm you. It’s called a mudra.”

  Melicent shook her head, unable to make sense of what he was talking about.

  He took both of her hands and molded them together. Then he joined the tips of her little finger and ring finger and pointed everything to the floor. Both his hands controlled hers as he sculpted them into the intricate hand position.

  “Focus on the feeling of energy flowing out of your body, through your hands and to the floor.” His voice sounded sure. She didn’t question what he was telling her to do. His hands became anchors around hers, rebuilding the floor she was standing on.

  Her breathing began to slow and she could feel her pulse calming as he kept talking.

  “Focus on your hands and your breath. That’s it. In and out … breathe in and out.” He stood with her, continuing to cup her hands and adopting the same stance until they were breathing in unison.

  Through his breath and body, she could feel him giving her his strength. A powerful bond had been forged between them and she began to understand why he was helping her. She was starting out on a path, one that he was far, far ahead of her on, but they both shared the same ability, and he understood its dimensions and pitfalls.

  Within minutes she could feel her equilibrium returning. She opened her eyes to find Roan watching her. He lifted a hand and trailed his fingers down the side of her face.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She looked down at her hands, still keeping them locked. “What is this?” She raised her arms and studied how each of her fingers were connected. It’d actually helped.

  “The Shakti mudra. Think of it like meditative yoga for the hands. Shatki is the essence of power gesture. You use it when you need to rebalance your energy quickly.”

  She nodded, even though she secretly hoped she’d never need to use it again. She looked down at the pipe lying innocently on the table. “What was it I saw?”

  “December 29, 1890. The massacre at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Many of the things here belong to the Lakota Sioux who died that day.”

  Melicent wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. She looked down at the tables, at the children’s toys, unable to hide her repulsion. “Why are you collecting such things?”

  He glanced back at her with surprise. “I’m not. I’m returning them. These are heirlooms that belong to the descendants of those who survived.” Roan stared at the tables, an intense light entering his eyes.

  “But the memories they hold…” Who would want them? was the question she wanted to ask but didn’t.

  Roan picked up the pipe Melicent had touched. “This medicine pipe has been passed down by the Lakota for generations and holds infinite stories. The tragedy at Wounded Knee is only one imprint. Your mind went to the most violent one—and the last. But this pipe has celebrated the sacredness of every day and every life on earth for hundreds of years. It holds the Lakota’s history and is much too important to stay lost.”

  He held it out to her, explaining its design. “The four ribbons represent the four corners of the Universe. The eagle feather tells us the four are truly one—one spirit, the Great Spirit—and our thoughts should soar higher than an eagle. And these twelve feathers,” he said as he moved his hand across the line of dangling feathers underneath, creating a rippling effect, “are the cycles of the twelve moons.” He looked down at the pipe. Melicent could tell he’d seen every memory it held.

  Then he said something in Lakota.

  Goose bumps rose on her arms. He had spoken the words that were embedded in the pipe. “What does that mean?” she whispered.

  “Only the hands of the good shall take care of it and the bad shall never see it.” Roan sat the pipe gently back down on the table.

  For a moment she couldn’t say anything. The weight of the room was pressing on her. She wanted to leave, but couldn’t, trying to understand. She turned to him. “So you’ve been finding these lost heirlooms of the Lakota?”

  “I work in groups, periods of time in history, geographical location. There are other collections at the warehouse. Holly’s focusing on returning these right now, so we moved the Lakota artifacts over here.” He led her out of the room and closed the door.

  Melicent frowned, realizing, “So this is the Heirloom Foundation, the nonprofit organization that returns lost heirlooms to people?”

  His eyebrows rose. “You know about the foundation?”

  “I looked up West, Inc. and it’s linked to Holly’s name.” She signaled to the closed door. “So this is the other half of your business?”

  He nodded. “I try to give back in small ways. I can’t just make money off of what I do.”

  A flush of shame hit her. She’d never once considered using her gift to help others. Granted, she was nowhere near Roan’s level of expertise, plus he’d been finding relics his whole life. But suddenly she felt embarrassed—by everything—by her assumptions of him in the beginning, how she’d judged him for leading a life of wealth and privilege. He was a lone psychometrist willing to face the darkness to help lost treasures find their way home. The poignancy swallowed up her heart. Roan was unlike anyone she’d ever met.

  * * *

  After they left the back room, Roan finished the introductions between Melicent and Holly. Melicent didn’t know what to make of Roan’s partner. Holly Beauchêne wasn’t the warmest person, and Melicent had a hard time seeing past the facade. Holly was too polished, too poised—too Southern. Not a speck of makeup was out of line, not a hair out of place. A woman who used that much hairspray must have issues.

  What in the world did Holly and Roan have in common? A love for antiques?

  Melicent wasn’t sure if she could like her, but right now she was too dazed to worry about it. Roan whisked her and Parker back into the car. Soon they were dining at a restaurant in the French Quarter, under vaulted ceilings and slow-turning ceiling fans, and looking at the picturesque view of Royal Street from the patio doors. Thankfully the traumatic memories from the heirlooms had begun to recede into the back of her mind.

  Roan recommended they all order the restaurant’s signature gumbo. Melicent smiled vacantly during the waitress’s culinary trivia talk about how “in New Orleans the Holy Trinity is two parts onion, one part celery, one part bell pepper, and garlic is ‘the Pope.’” Melicent must have tourist written all over her face.

  After the waitress left she asked Roan, “So does your psychometrist friend in London help you with the foundation?”

  Roan shook his head. “Stuart and I met through my mother. We’re rock climbing buddies.”

  Parker jumped into the conversation. “No way! That’s so cool. You rock climb?”

  “I like to boulder,” Roan said.

  “Wicked.” Parker was impressed. “That’s where you don’t use ropes, right?”

  Melicent looked at Roan, wide-eyed. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Roan shrugged. “On certain ascents. But I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”

  “Where do you climb?” Parker looked utterly fascinated. Roan was quickly becoming his new favorite person.

  “All over. Stuart and I meet several times a year and take turns picking the spot … trying to one-up each other on finding the hardest climb. We were supposed to meet in Texas and he didn’t show.”

  Melicent could see his worry. She hoped his friend was all right. “We want to go to London with you.”

  “We do?” Parker turned to her in shock.

  Melicent shot him a look that told him to keep quiet. “I want to know what’s going on with this psychometrist group. I can’t just sit and wait in a hotel room.”

  “You’re not going.” Roan shook his head.

  “I am going,” she said adamantly. Roan leaned back in his
chair, crossing his arms.

  Parker chimed in, “I don’t want to go either.”

  Melicent turned to Parker in surprise. “Why don’t you want to go to London?”

  Parker shrugged, looking weary. “I just want to stay at the hotel and sleep.”

  Melicent’s heart sank. She understood why he wanted to be alone. They were both processing losing the house in their own way. But the thought of staying cooped up in a hotel room while Roan tried to figure out who had destroyed her house was downright torturous to her. She needed to go. That Parker didn’t want to was a complication. “You can’t stay at the hotel by yourself,” she said as the waitress came and delivered their gumbos. “You have to come with me.”

  Roan reiterated, “You’re not going.”

  Parker ignored him. Her brother knew her well and could tell she was dead set on going. Parker pointed out, “Two or three days at a hotel is nothing compared to summer camp, and I’ve been doing that for years. Please? I promise I’ll stay put.”

  Melicent mulled over the idea. Parker had been doing summer camp for years and had been left alone at the house for a weekend too. She knew he’d be okay. The unspoken question was, No running away?

  She searched his eyes. “You promise? You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

  Parker nodded. “Can I do pay-per-view while you’re gone?”

  “Oh my gosh, people, you’re not coming with me!” Roan erupted. The frustration in his voice was comical.

  “Yes I am,” she threw back, ignoring the sound of Parker snickering into his gumbo.

  “You’re not going,” Roan said for the fourth time. “Am I talking to a wall?”

  “Why are you being so stubborn?”

  “Why are you?”

  She tried to make him see reason. “I’ll just get my own plane ticket and meet you over there.”

  They stared at each other, at an impasse. Melicent had to admit, she was enjoying the argument. It was waking her back up, making her feel alive again. Their mental tug-of-war felt primal, like a circling dance.

  She spelled it out clearly for him. “This is my life. I need to be in control of it. To do that I have to find out what is going on. I need to go with you. I refuse to stay here and be babysat.” By Holly, she wanted to add but didn’t. Roan’s business partner hadn’t seemed too thrilled by the idea either.

  Roan let out a pained sigh and ate his gumbo. Melicent watched him, noting his gloves were still on. He must never take them off.

  Ignoring her food, she waited for him to look up at her. She’d eat when she won the argument. The fierce determination in her stare communicated without words, I’m going and there’s no stopping me. To drive it home she sat up straighter and flicked her hair behind her in defiance. His eyes flashed in response and she knew she’d won.

  “Your gumbo’s getting cold,” he said, then he added, “And it’s freezing over there. You’ll need a winter coat.”

  Melicent nodded, triumphant, and looked down at the decadent bowl filled with seafood, okra, and a perfect scoop of rice in the center of a thick, dark roux. She should have been ravenous but instead her stomach was a jumble of nerves.

  Tomorrow she was going to London.

  21. THE DOLL

  THE NEXT MORNING ROAN SAT behind the wheel of his car and watched Melicent leave the hotel lobby with a small overnight bag. She had a bright purple winter parka in her hands and a long muffler. He was pleased to note she’d bought a pair of winter boots.

  She walked in front of his car, fully aware he was watching her, and flicked her hair back behind her shoulders in that alluring way of hers.

  Roan mumbled to himself, “This was a bad idea.” He couldn’t believe he’d let her talk him into coming. She was a complete distraction. He’d never been so hyperaware of someone before. It’d be so much simpler if she had stayed at the hotel while he focused on finding Stuart.

  When she got in the car there was a moment of silence, then he asked, “Are you sure Parker will be okay on his own?” Roan had no problem if she wanted to change her mind about going. Then maybe he could sleep on the nine-hour flight to Heathrow.

  “It’s only a few days. And he wants some alone time. I’m going.” She stared at him, determined.

  Roan’s eyes traveled over her face. She looked just like she had in his favorite imprint, framed by the sunlight. His resistance was starting to melt. Right now he wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss her. Instead he put the car into drive with a sigh and drove them to the airport.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” she said. “It was a sweet gesture, but…” But odd, is what she was getting at. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to.” He hesitated, abashed at having to explain. “They read the room better than anything.”

  “What do you mean, read the room?”

  “Flowers are the most sensitive imprint holders. The imprint’s gone when they die, but while they’re alive they pick up everything around them.”

  “So you’re spying on me with flowers?” she asked with an incredulous voice.

  “God, no.” He choked out a laugh. “I’m not spying on you.” He may have replayed the imprint of her making the snow globe countless times in his head, but that was one imprint. “I’m not planning to touch the flowers unless I have to. It’s for peace of mind. What if something happened to you two at the hotel while I’m not there? How would I know or be able to find you?”

  She didn’t respond and he glanced over to gauge her expression. Her eyes were bright with emotion. It was the last thing he was expecting.

  “Jesus, Melicent. I’m sorry.”

  “No.” She stopped him. “It’s just … thank you. For caring. I haven’t been able to think straight since the fire,” she confessed. “I’m sorry if I overreact or jump to the wrong conclusion.” She rubbed her forehead.

  Roan glanced over at her again. She looked more tired than she let on. “Have you gotten any more news about the house?”

  “No.” She shook her head and he watched a shadow fall on her face. “I checked in with the investigators this morning. They have nothing.”

  Roan’s thoughts returned to the man in the hoodie. Why had he done it? How was he involved with the ooparts? He hoped London offered answers.

  They finished the rest of the drive to Lakefront Airport in silence. They checked in and were escorted to the plane, a Gulfstream GIII that sat eight. When they got on board, Melicent took the second seat on the right. The configuration was a single row on each side of a center aisle. Roan took the seat across from hers.

  The pilot stuck his head out of the cockpit to greet them and said they’d be taking off shortly. The galley was fully stocked and they were welcome to help themselves.

  “And we have your special request,” the pilot said, winking, and went back up front.

  Melicent turned to Roan with questioning eyes. “What special request?”

  Roan went over to the little galley. “Even though we’re about to fly out, you can’t come to New Orleans without having Café Du Monde in the morning.” He poured them each a coffee and brought over a cardboard box. Inside were decadent-looking pastry puffs, shaped like squares and liberally dusted with powdered sugar.

  “The beignet,” he said, offering her one.

  Melicent looked touched by the gesture. The expression on her face made him glad he’d made the request. He watched her savor the rich chicory coffee and French doughnut. She put away not two but three of the squares along with two cups of coffee. They were well in the air and at cruising altitude when she finally leaned back, done with breakfast. “Thank you. That was so delicious.”

  There was a lull of comfortable silence. For a moment their worries on the ground were at bay.

  “You know—I have a question,” she said. He looked at her expectantly and waited as she tried to find the words. “Who helped you? When I touched the pipe, you helped me come back. Who helped you, when the same thing happened the first time
?”

  Roan thought back to the first time an imprint had swallowed him up whole. He’d been twelve. Through the years he’d tried to block the whole experience from his mind, but when he thought on it, it still felt like yesterday. “My mom. I touched the wrong thing and she found me.”

  His mother had found him unconscious, unable to speak or move. She and his father rushed him to the hospital. The doctors couldn’t find the cause and thought it was a seizure, but his mother knew he had touched something so horrible it had shut his body down. She searched his room until she found the object.

  “What was it?” Melicent whispered.

  Roan barely heard the question, lost in the memory. “A doll I found at a flea market. It was beaded, made of hide, from the Old West … or so I thought.” He smiled bitterly. “I’d started wearing gloves the previous year and preferred to read imprints in private away from people. I took it home and that night I got it out in my room.”

  He swallowed, unsure if he could describe what had happened. He’d never tried before. “Up until then it was more like a game to me, peering into the past like a spy through a window. I would go looking for old, unusual things at flea markets with my dad. He was always on the hunt for treasure and had grand schemes to open up a family business.”

  “West, Inc.,” she said.

  Roan looked at her and gave a faint nod. “But this was different. This doll held so much despair it choked me.” He shook his head, trying to brush past the worst of it. “That night I was delirious, trapped in the imprint, talking in my sleep. My mom thought it was a bad nightmare, but then I went into a coma for three days. I was in the hospital. My father stayed by my bedside while my mother went to the library to figure out what the doll was. She was able to trace it based on my sleep talking. She wanted to find its history so she could explain it to me and bring me back.”

  “What was it?” Melicent hesitated. “The doll?”

  “The doll had belonged to a girl named Henney,” he said. His voice still caught when he said her name even after all these years. “Her mother had made it for her. Henney was a girl brought by ship to New Orleans in 1800. She was from a small village in Africa. Captured by slavers and thrown on a boat with strangers for seventy days. She used to dream of dying in her sleep.” His eyes met hers. “My mother spent days researching the U.S. Customs slave manifest historical records, trying to find her. Henney was separated from her family, sold to a plantation.” Decades later, Roan could feel the same feeling of bleakness well up inside him, threatening to take over. He could never forget Henney. He brought his hands into a soothing Yoni mudra, joining his thumbs and index fingers to redirect his energy.