The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  “Are you still having nightmares?” Cyrano asked.

  “Interesting that you should ask. No. I haven’t had one nightmare about Mata Hari or my past life since I returned. I sleep soundly, better than I ever have before.”

  Cyrano raised his wine glass and they touched. “Then perhaps it was all for the best, Trace. Perhaps it was a good thing.”

  Trace paused to consider his words. “I still have flashbacks sometimes, and there are times I can look at a person and see who they were in their past life. Like, for instance, the director of Daydreams. A few weeks ago, I saw that, in a past life, he had been a she. That was startling.”

  Cyrano’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  Trace continued. “But in the last few days, I’ve noticed that I don’t see these things quite so clearly anymore. They’re getting fuzzy and out of focus.”

  “Is that a good thing?” Cyrano asked.

  “Yes, it’s a good thing. I don’t want to know about the past anymore. I’m very happy now, with you in my life, and with my new show. I’m happy being here and now. I don’t care who I was, or what I did, or who anybody was. That part of my life is over.”

  Cyrano raised his wine glass. “Then let’s toast to the here and now.”

  And they did.

  Daydreams was in rehearsal for seven weeks and opened on March 22nd, to excellent reviews. Although Trace was the second lead, she received a glowing review from the New York Times.

  Trace Rutland, as Emmeline Jones, was dramatically entertaining, funny and fetching in her 19th-century emerald gown, and proud head piled high with artistic blonde corkscrew curls that bounced about her face. Even in the comic scenes, Ms. Rutland sang with depth and color, and her voice, rich, like a full-bodied wine, easily reached the far corners of the theatre. Her dancing was fluid, graceful and exotic, and as she weaves webs of subtle seduction around her feckless lover, William Wells, the audience is also caught and captivated by her ineffable allure and charm, as noted by the standing ovation Ms. Rutland received at curtain call.

  The night of the opening, Cyrano threw a lavish party for Trace and the entire cast, and it was one of the most memorable nights of Trace’s life, filled with dancing, singing, Champagne and good friends.

  During the following weeks, Trace fell into her old disciplined life of performing eight shows a week and spending Mondays, the one night the theatre was dark, sequestered in her apartment, sleeping and resting her voice. Despite Cyrano’s invitation to live in his Park Avenue condo, Trace had decided to remain in her West Side one-bedroom apartment. She felt more at home there.

  On a warm, sun-drenched Monday during the second week in May, New York was bursting with color and new life. Trace felt the call of the day, and she escaped her sun-starved apartment to bathe in glorious sunshine. She ambled along the carriage path in Riverside Park, taking in the riot of colors and breathing in the scented island gardens, watching the dog walkers, the lovers and the joggers.

  Plugged into earphones, and tuned to her favorite playlist, she wandered, listening to a combination of old rock and current Indy selections. She had no destination in mind, and that was part of the joy—doing nothing, with no appointments to keep. Before her, lay a dazzling spring day, opening in bouquets of yellow, white and red.

  She was listening to The Shins’ song Name for You, feeling the soft spring air, feeling light and happy, and touched by spring fever.

  It was after she’d shut her eyes that it happened. She was strolling, bopping, and singing, weaving about in a little improvised dance.

  The sudden impact to her left shoulder stunned her. Her eyes shot open as she back-pedaled, arms wheeling, body struggling for balance. She tumbled backward, landing on her ass, earbuds jerked from her ears, cell phone flying.

  Disoriented and startled, she stared dumbly, taking in a sharp inbreath. A guy cut into her vision, standing there, staring down at her with worried interest.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching for her. “Are you all right? Can I help you up?”

  Trace struggled to catch her breath. He’d punched the wind from her lungs. “Why did you run into me?”

  “I’m sorry…I’m really sorry about that.”

  Trace took in his blue and white jogging shorts and blue T-shirt. His hair was cut short, but stylishly spiked into a peak. He was nice looking enough. Well, no, that wasn't exactly right. He was actually very good looking. Thick hair, blue eyes, good shoulders, flat stomach. He held a cell phone and dangling earbuds.

  “Did you hurt anything? Are you okay?” he asked.

  Trace sighed, rubbed her scratch-up elbow and glanced around. Five people were hovering about, looking on with interest.

  “I’m okay,” Trace said. “You scared the life out of me, running into me like that.”

  She turned, stretched an arm and reached for her cell phone.

  She frowned at the cracked cell screen. She’d just had it replaced.

  He extended a hand, she grabbed hold of it, and he pulled her to her feet. She brushed herself off, still noticeably upset at the damaged cell phone screen.

  “… And I just had that fixed.”

  He noticed. “I’m sorry. I can pay to fix it. No problem. Happy to do that.”

  She shook her head. She heaved out a sigh. “No, forget it. It’s not that important.”

  “I had just closed my eyes for a minute,” he said, guiltily. “I was listening to some music. I didn’t know anyone else was close.”

  “Well I was close,” Trace said, not mentioning to him that her eyes were also closed. “I mean, you shouldn’t close your eyes when you’re jogging.”

  He looked contrite. “No, of course not. I am truly sorry.”

  Trace looked him over again, with increasing interest. He was very attractive, at least four inches taller than she, and his eyes held a particular kind of fascination that seemed to draw her in. They were pools of blue, and in the clear morning sun, she saw gold in the irises. Yes, they were appealing and captivating. He was appealing and captivating, and it was Spring, and she’d only been on one date since she’d returned from 1917, and that was more of a friendship date than an actual “date-date.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  Trace softened. “Yeah, sure. I’m okay. I may never walk again, but other than that I’m okay.”

  He grinned, a shy grin that Trace found quite charming.

  She thought, how could a guy who is so hot-looking be so shy? Trace warmed to him.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

  “Oh… Well, just my shoulder, a little. It’s okay. I mean, I’m a man, you know. I can take it,” he said, with a playful wink.

  The curious little crowd shrank away, leaving Trace and the guy alone.

  He glanced about, shifting nervously from his left foot to his right. “Okay, well, if you’re okay, I guess I’ll see you around then.”

  “See me is definitely the right word,” Trace said, lightly. “Make sure you keep those eyes open and you do see me.”

  He laughed. “Yeah… Okay. Will do.”

  And then he was off. Trace placed her hands on her hips, turning in disappointment to watch his sexy jogging figure retreat into the dazzling light of day.

  “You could have given me your name,” she mumbled, rubbing her sore elbow.

  A week later, on Monday morning, Trace was asleep on the couch, a book cracked open on her chest, a half-drunk cup of coffee on the floor beside her, and an intoxicating breeze billowing across her face from an open window.

  The “Ding Dong” from her doorbell jerked her awake and she sat up, squinting a look toward the door.

  “Yes,” she said, in a scratchy voice. “Yeah… Who is it?”

  Another ring. Trace pushed up, wiggled her toes into slippers, shuffled over to the door and peered through the peephole, fish-eye lens. Her neck stiffened in recognition. She jerked back with surprise, then grinned with sudden pleasure.


  Fumbling with the door chain lock, Trace finally opened the door. Standing before her was the same good-looking guy who had slammed into her only a week ago in Riverside Park.

  He stiffened in surprise. “Oh. It’s you...?”

  “Yeah… Me. Is that okay?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  “And there you are, again. Thank God you’re not jogging,” Trace said, with a little flirtatious grin. “I’d have to duck, or run, or something.”

  He blushed. “Yeah… Again, sorry about that.”

  Trace nodded toward the Macy’s package he held.

  “Is that a peace offering present for me?”

  “Oh, no… Well, actually, no. I live upstairs, in apartment 42. You’re in 22. The delivery guy mistakenly left it by my door.”

  “You live upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come I’ve never seen you? I’ve been living here for two years.”

  “I only moved in about three weeks ago. By the way, I hope you’re okay… I mean about the other day. Any bruises?”

  Trace sharpened her eyes on him. Yes, she liked what she saw. She liked it very much: clean jaw, spiked black hair, dancing blue eyes, and a killer shy smile that she suspected he used effectively as seduction. She didn't really believe he was all that shy. She thought that this hot guy knew how to disarm and seduce, and she liked it. She liked his supposed technique, and she decided to use a bit of her own technique.

  “I do have some bruises, actually. Want to see?”

  The shy grin faded into a mischievous smile that nearly melted her. “Maybe I could make them better.”

  She presented a coy smile. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, a personal trainer. Personal, being the catchword.”

  Trace lifted an impressed eyebrow. No wonder he was in such good shape. She imagined hard, rippling muscles under that blue cotton shirt.

  “Personal, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “East Side clients?”

  “Some…”

  “Movie stars?”

  “Only one.”

  “Would I know him, her?”

  “Her. Yep. What do you do?”

  “Actress. Dancer.”

  “Starving?”

  “Not for a while. I eat rather well. I’m actually gaining weight and, incidentally, I was considering looking around for a personal trainer.”

  His right eyebrow arched. He shrugged his right shoulder. “Well, it must be fate then. I mean, here we are meeting again, and I am, as it turns out, a personal trainer.”

  “Is that package heavy?” Trace asked, pointing.

  “No. Would you like me to bring it inside?”

  She stood aside. “Why not?”

  Inside, he set the box down on the kitchen counter, while casting his eyes around her apartment, nodding in approval. “Nice. I like the layout. A one bedroom?”

  “Yep. Yours?”

  “Yeah… Same kind of layout, but I see you have that bay window and window seat. Mine doesn’t have that. Good storage?”

  “Not bad,” Trace said. “I’ve added some closet space in the hallway over there.”

  Trace felt instantly comfortable with this guy. He had an easy, approachable energy that was disarming. She loved his unstated humor.

  “Should we give names?” she asked.

  “Blake Farrington.”

  Trace bobbed her eyebrows. “Impressive. Regal sounding, Farrington. I bet you have a flashy middle name too.”

  “I wouldn’t call it flashy. Kind of ordinary.”

  “I’ll be the judge…”

  “It’s Edward. Blake Edward Farrington.”

  Trace’s eyes widened. “Edward? Your middle name is Edward?”

  “Yes. Yes, and I know my entire name sounds aloof and arrogant but, then, my grandfather was a barrister, that is, a lawyer, in England. Anyway, what’s your name?”

  Trace was lost in a thought. “Trace Rutland.”

  “I detect the hint of a southern accent.”

  “Lexington, Kentucky. And where are you from?”

  “Born and raised in West Hartford, Connecticut. Points of interest—the Mark Twain House, and yes, I’ve been in the house several times. There is also the Talcott Mountain State Park, a nature sanctuary with beautiful panoramic views.”

  “Sounds like a lovely place to grow up.”

  “What is Trace short for, Tracey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, Trace, would you like to take a little walk with me and my dog? Maybe we could find an outside café somewhere and have lunch. It’s a perfect day for it.”

  Trace, smiled, folding her arms. “Yes… I would love to take a walk and meet your dog. What’s his or her name?”

  “It’s a he… His name is Ricky-Ticky.”

  Trace froze, her thoughts racing, circling, remembering. “What?” she said, in a startled whisper.

  “What…what?”

  “What did you say your dog’s name was?”

  Blake saw her face fall into sudden alarm. “Not was. Is. His name is Ricky-Ticky.”

  Trace turned from him, eyes searching the air, remembering, recalling an old letter.

  “Who names a dog Ricky-Ticky?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Trace shut her eyes, willing the old letter to bubble up from the depths of memory—the letter she’d received from Edward, back in 1916. Yes, he’d written about a dog—a dog that had become their unit’s mascot. She’d read that letter so many times she’d memorized it. Even though her psychic powers had faded, Edward’s letter was still there, branded in her brain. She recalled a part of it—the part about the dog.

  On a positive note, we have a mascot—a black and white mutt dog that wandered onto the field the other day. I’ve named him Ricky-Ticky, after an English flyer, Rick Thackery, who was shot down and killed about two weeks ago.

  “Is something wrong?” Blake asked.

  Trace opened her eyes, staring at him hard, peering down into the depths of his very soul. Didn’t she know this man?

  When she spoke, her voice was hushed, body still. “No, nothing’s wrong. Your dog’s name… It’s not a normal dog’s name, is it? I mean, it’s unusual. Where did you get that name? The name Ricky-Ticky?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw the dog, I mean he’s just a black and white mutt I found at an animal shelter downtown. I don’t know, I looked at him and the name just came tumbling out of my mouth. Is there a problem with it?”

  Trace stared. She couldn’t pull her eyes from Blake. “How old are you, Blake?”

  He was a bit taken aback by her sudden serious questions. “How old? Thirty-two.”

  “Do you fly? Do you have a pilot’s license?”

  “Trace… what is this? No, I’m not a pilot. I don’t like to fly. In fact, I avoid it at all costs. It just makes me kind of nauseous to even think about it. I know it sounds a little crazy, but whenever I have to fly, I always think there’s some airplane up there, hiding in the clouds, out to get me. I prefer driving or taking boats or trains. What is all this?”

  Trace’s eyes glazed over—became distant, roaming the scenes of the past, seeing 1916 Paris, smelling the fresh bread wafting out from the bakeries; strolling past the crowded cafes; sipping tea with Edward in the Tea Room at the Hotel de Ville.

  When her eyes finally cleared, she gazed up at Blake, and her features slowly brightened. She took a few steps toward him, her eyes exploring his, as she worked to pierce the screen of the present and see into the past as she had successfully done with Cyrano—to peer deep into the waters of Blake’s past life. But she saw nothing. She couldn’t break through, even though she sensed a connection. A recognition. A reconnection.

  Trace lifted her shoulders and slowly let them settle, as she exhaled an easy breath.

  When she spoke, her voice was calm and even. “Blake…I would love to take that walk and have lunch. Yes, I’d like that very
much. And I’m very excited to meet Ricky-Ticky. I’ve heard about him, you know. A long time ago, I read all about him in a letter.”

  EPILOGUE

  Sixteen Months Later

  When Natalie Mary Farrington was placed into Trace’s arms, she cried. Blake and Cyrano were standing on either side of Trace’s hospital bed, gazing down with tender expressions.

  Trace kissed her newly born baby daughter on the forehead and cheeks, whispering words of love. Natalie’s pinched eyes struggled to focus, as she made fussy little sounds.

  “Welcome to the world, little punkin. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Trace said.

  “She looks like you,” Blake said.

  Trace glanced up. “Do you think so?”

  Cyrano spoke up. “Yes… Blake’s right. She has your forehead and your mouth, Trace. No doubt about that.”

  Trace took her daughter’s little hand and stroked it with a thumb, staring lovingly, as she reviewed the past, hectic months. She and Blake had fallen in love so easily and so fast. To her, it was as if they’d picked up where they’d left off back in 1916, and after a few weeks of dating, Blake had simply said, “I feel like I’ve known you before. Do you feel the same way?”

  Trace had not told him about her time travel experiences. All that would come later, or maybe not at all. Time, as they say, would tell.

  On December 15th, Trace and Blake were married at the Romanesque Episcopal Church in Lenox, Massachusetts, Cyrano’s church, where over two hundred guests attended. Cyrano worked tirelessly with Trace to ensure that every detail was taken care of, pestering the florists, the minister, the organist and the caterers.

  As a result, Trace and Blake drifted through their magical wedding day with kisses and laughter.

  The reception was held some miles away at a grand ballroom, where Trace and Blake sipped Champagne and danced the night away to the big band sounds of the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s.

  They honeymooned for three weeks, in Rome, Venice and the Amalfi Coast, spending Christmas in Venice. After they returned to New York, Trace began rehearsals for a new musical, and Blake received a lucrative opportunity to work at an exclusive East Side Spa.

  Cyrano insisted that they live in his Park Avenue condo, and they agreed only if he'd accept the same amount of rent they were paying for their two Upper West Side apartments.