Timeless

by Alexandra Monir

  “Anything.”

  “Will you find a way to get this song out in the world—and ‘Bring the Colors Back’ too—in your own time?”

  “Me?” Michele let out a surprised laugh. “But I’m no singer, and I know nothing about the music industry.”

  “You could find a singer to perform the songs, just as you would find another pianist, since I won’t be there. I know you can think of a way. And it could be the start of your career as a lyricist,” Philip said.

  “But that wouldn’t be fair,” Michele said uncomfortably. “Even if I was by some chance able to get the songs released, why should I get the credit as a songwriter when you’re not there to get any recognition? I don’t like it. If anything, you should publish the sheet music now, in your time. Then maybe your mom and uncle would understand about your music—”

  “No,” Philip said firmly. “I want these songs to live on in the future—when I can’t. I want to know that I’m somehow … with you there.”

  For a moment Michele was too overcome with emotion to speak. “Okay,” she whispered.

  Philip reached over to ruffle her hair. “I love you, you know.”

  “I love you too.” Michele leaned her head on his shoulder as he returned to playing the songs and transcribing them on sheet music. His face was filled with focus, as though he was convinced that the key to their staying together through time could be found in their songs.

  As the first break of daylight streamed through the windows, Michele said reluctantly, “I should probably get back.”

  “Oh, God, I completely lost track of the time,” Philip said guiltily.

  “It’s okay. I loved every minute.” Michele smiled.

  “Let me walk you home.” Philip stood up, offering his arm.

  “To 2010?” Michele laughed.

  “I wish. But at least as far as the Windsor Mansion.” Philip handed her their sheet music. “You’ll be back soon?”

  “Of course I will,” Michele promised.

  It was the night before the class trip to Newport, and as Michele packed her weekender, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, which flashed with a picture of Kristen. Michele bit her lip guiltily as she realized how many days it had been since she’d spoken to her best friends. She quickly picked up the phone.

  “Hey, girl!” she answered. “I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long—”

  “Michele! Where have you been, girl? Amanda’s here too.”

  “Omigod, I can’t believe we actually got you live!” Amanda piped up. “What is going on over there? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I am. Actually, I’m doing … pretty well, believe it or not. But I really miss you guys. I’m so sorry I’ve been MIA,” Michele said. “There’s just been so much going on here—”

  “You met a guy,” Kristen declared.

  Michele’s mouth fell open and she couldn’t help laughing. How was it that obvious? “Why would you say that?” Michele asked, trying to sound innocent.

  “Don’t try to hide it. We know you practically as well as we know ourselves,” Kristen warned.

  “Plus it’s kind of blatant. You disappear for days and now you’re sounding all spacey and abnormally happy,” Amanda pointed out. “What I just don’t understand is why you wouldn’t tell us! Helloooo, that’s what best friends are for.”

  “I know,” Michele conceded. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s just that it’s all a little … uncertain and I didn’t want to jinx anything.”

  “You’re super into him, aren’t you?” Amanda guessed gleefully. “I mean, you sure didn’t waste any time telling us when you started crushing on Jason. This guy must be special.”

  “He is,” Michele admitted, smiling. If only she could tell them how special.

  “Okay, details, please. Can we check him out on Facebook?” Kristen asked eagerly.

  “Uh, no.” Michele laughed. “He’s not into that stuff. He’s not on Twitter either.”

  “Wow,” Kristen said, marveling. “Very mysterious and old-fashioned of him.”

  “Well, anyway, I’ll tell you guys more later if—if anything happens,” Michele said hurriedly, anxious to change the subject before she revealed too much. “What’s the latest with you two? I want to hear everything.”

  Twenty minutes later, after she’d finished catching up with the girls, it occurred to Michele that her grandparents probably expected her to say goodbye to them that night, since she’d be leaving for the trip early in the morning. She hadn’t heard them come upstairs yet, so she headed downstairs to find them. She spotted Annaleigh on the mezzanine.

  “Hey, do you know where my grandparents are?” she asked.

  “Yes, they had tea sent to them in the library fifteen minutes ago, so they’re probably still there,” Annaleigh replied.

  “Thanks.” Michele headed down the stairs and into the library. She found the room empty, but two half-full teacups rested on one of the reading tables, beside an open book. Michele figured her grandparents had probably just stepped out for a second, and she sat at the table to wait for them. She glanced at the book and saw that it was an old photo album. She peered at the photo the album was opened to—and her jaw dropped in shock.

  The faded black-and-white photo showed an attractive man in a stiff Victorian suit, his wavy hair parted in the middle, his dark eyes looking away from the camera. He seemed somehow known to her, like an old acquaintance she hadn’t seen in ages. But it was his name that surprised her. The photo caption read IRVING HENRY, Attorney at Law. 1900.

  “Irving Henry,” she whispered. The attorney who had worked for Philip’s father … Her own father’s name backward. What was this photo doing in a Windsor album?

  “Michele!”

  She looked up at Dorothy’s sharply calling her name. Her grandparents had just returned, and they looked strangely discomfited by the sight of her. Michele was too preoccupied with the photo to bother being polite, and she blurted out, “Who is this? He looks familiar, and his name …”

  “He’s nobody important,” Walter said, a little too quickly. “Just an attorney who worked for my family in the previous century.”

  Michele stared at them. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said slowly. “He’s not nobody, or you wouldn’t be looking at his picture.”

  “Dear, your grandfather was simply showing me one of the old family photo albums,” Dorothy said with a stilted laugh. “Mr. Henry was a loyal family employee. That’s the only reason he’s in the album. This is the only picture of him in the whole book. There’s nothing to know about him.”

  Michele stood up, unable to contain her frustration. “Why are you two so secretive all the time? I know you’re hiding something from me. I can tell, I’m not stupid.”

  “That’s enough, Michele. You’re being impertinent,” Walter said sternly. “We aren’t hiding anything. I’m sorry if it’s disappointing for you to hear, but there’s nothing more to the story.”

  Michele sighed. She could tell she wasn’t getting anywhere with them—and she had to admit she was beginning to wonder if her time traveling was hurting her ability to discern the difference between reality and fantasy.

  “Okay. Sorry,” she said grudgingly. “Anyway, I just came to say bye. The Newport trip is tomorrow.”

  Walter gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “Have a good time.”

  “Good night, dear. Be safe,” Dorothy added.

  “Thanks. Good night.” Before leaving the room, Michele was compelled to turn around for one more glance at the photo of Irving Henry. And as she did so, she could have sworn she felt the skeleton key pulse against her neck.

  Michele settled into a window seat on the train in the row behind Caissie and Aaron. She was just about to slip on her headphones when she heard a voice beside her. “Is this seat taken?”

  Michele looked up. It was Ben Archer, flashing her his dimpled grin. She’d been looking forward to some time alone to think, but she knew she couldn’t s
ay no. “Go ahead,” she replied, giving him a friendly smile.

  As Ben settled into the seat next to her, Michele could hear Caissie start whispering to Aaron in the row ahead. She had obviously noticed the Ben development, and Michele seriously hoped she wouldn’t make too big a deal out of it. A moment later the train left Penn Station, heading for Rhode Island.

  “Ever been to Newport?” Ben asked conversationally.

  “Nope. You?”

  “Yeah. A family wedding was there a few years back,” he answered.

  Michele nodded. “Cool.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence and then Ben said, “So how’s New York treating you so far? It must be pretty sweet living in the Windsor Mansion. I remember passing by that place so many times as a kid, thinking how awesome it must be.”

  “It is pretty amazing,” Michele agreed. “But what I love about it isn’t so much the fancy stuff; it’s all the history.”

  “Yeah? Then you’re going to love Newport,” Ben told her. He glanced at the iPod and headphones in her lap. “What are you listening to these days?”

  “Honestly, a bit of everything. I’m obsessed with almost all genres of music.” Michele grinned. “Right now I’m alternating between Thom Yorke’s solo record and some vintage Nina Simone.”

  “Nice. Let me hear some of that Thom Yorke.” Ben playfully took her headphones from her.

  “Sure. Let me just cue up a track.”

  While he listened to the song on her iPod, Michele leaned back in her seat, glancing out the window. As the suburban towns whizzed by, she felt her eyelids growing heavy. She leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes for a moment and letting herself daydream about Philip.…

  She felt a hand gently shake her arm. Philip, Michele thought happily, lifting her arms toward him. But as she opened her eyes, to her mortification she saw that it was Ben. She quickly pretended to be stretching her arms, her face burning. “Did I fall asleep?” she asked groggily.

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “We’re actually here, in Rhode Island.”

  “Are you serious? I slept the whole way?”

  “Guess you really needed the rest,” Ben said with a chuckle.

  “Sorry I wasn’t much company,” Michele replied sheepishly.

  “It’s okay. You looked … cute. Sleeping,” Ben said, looking a little shy.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Michele glanced down, her face turning redder. She had a feeling she needed to discourage Ben—but how?

  “Kingston, Rhode Island!” the conductor called out.

  “That’s us, everyone,” Mr. Lewis called, standing up to address his class.

  Michele, Ben, and the other students stood and gathered their luggage, preparing to disembark. Mr. Lewis had explained that there was no direct train to Newport, so a shuttle bus was picking them up from the train station and taking them to the island.

  Michele discreetly moved away from Ben at the train station and caught up with Caissie and Aaron, sharing a row on the bus with them. As they drove into Newport at sundown, she smiled at Rhode Island’s foliage, unlike anything she had seen in New York or back home in L.A. They drove under canopies of trees, with lush meadows on either side of the road. When they hit the coast, with its spectacular ocean views, Michele squeezed Cassie’s arm, enthralled. Plunging cliffs set the stage for a dramatic expanse of shimmery blue water, dotted with boats and lighthouses.

  Downtown Newport was like a historical timepiece, with nearly every building dating back to the eighteenth century. Mr. Lewis pointed out the sights to the class as they passed: “There’s Trinity Church on the right, where George Washington and Queen Elizabeth worshipped.… And look, over here is the first incorporated library in the U.S., Redwood Library, from 1747! … White Horse Tavern is on your left, the oldest tavern in the nation, dating all the way back to the 1600s.”

  Then they turned onto Bellevue Avenue, and the sights changed dramatically. Colonial structures gave way to block upon block of massive palatial villas and mansions, just like the Windsor Mansion and the other old Fifth Avenue mansions Michele had seen.

  “Here are the famous Newport cottages, which we’ll be visiting tomorrow and Sunday,” Mr. Lewis announced. “Starting in the late 1800s, Newport became the summer destination for high society, and all the top families owned homes here to vacation and entertain.”

  “Wait—cottages?” Aaron blurted out in disbelief.

  “Yes, that has always been the term for summer homes in Newport,” Mr. Lewis said with a smile. “Even the Vanderbilts’ house, The Breakers, is called a cottage—and it’s four stories high, with more than seventy rooms. Most of the famous families that had homes here, like the Astors and Vanderbilts, are no longer with us, so the Preservation Society of Newport County has preserved their homes and turned them into museums. That’s how schools like ours can experience what life was like in those days.”

  Caissie and Michele exchanged grins. Little did Mr. Lewis know, Michele didn’t need a museum tour to experience life in the past.

  “Are we going to see the Walker family’s cottage?” Michele asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Mr. Lewis answered. “Tomorrow morning.”

  Michele bit back a smile, not wanting to draw attention to herself—but she felt her spirits lift. She might not be able to see Philip that weekend, but she knew she would feel close to him as she wandered through his summer home.

  Soon they reached the Hotel Viking, a stately brick boutique hotel at the top of what Mr. Lewis called Historic Hill. A plaque by the front doors read A HISTORIC HOTEL OF AMERICA. ESTABLISHED 1926.

  The class followed Mr. Lewis into the hotel lobby and waited while he signed in and collected everyone’s room keys. When he returned to the class and handed out room assignments, Michele breathed a sigh of relief at being paired with Caissie and not one of the Four Hundred snobs.

  After dropping off their bags and settling into their rooms, the class gathered at the hotel restaurant, One Bellevue, for dinner. As Michele, Caissie, and Aaron gathered around a table for three, they couldn’t help noticing Olivia Livingston giving Michele a disappointed look.

  “Well, looks like someone still doesn’t approve of a Windsor choosing her friends outside of the Social Register,” Caissie said dryly.

  “That girl has serious issues,” Michele said, rolling her eyes. “Aaron, who’s your hotel roomie?”

  “I’m in with one of the Fakin’ Jamaicans,” he replied. “So far I’ve already been treated to some dancehall reggae, and I have a feeling I’m in for a whole lot more.”

  “Promise me you’ll get through the weekend without developing a Rasta accent?” Caissie said.

  “I think I can manage that.” Aaron playfully tweaked Caissie’s nose, and she blushed and quickly buried her head in her menu. Michele stifled a giggle. Those two so wanted each other.

  The next morning, a tourist trolley transported the class to their first tour of the day at the Walker’s Newport mansion. Michele felt light-headed from the dizzying combination of nerves and excitement as the trolley drew closer and closer, finally slowing in front of an entrance gate from which a flag waved and a large sign read PALAIS DE LA MER, BUILT FOR THE WALKER FAMILY OF NEW YORK, 1901. DAILY TOURS 9 A.M.–6 P.M. Behind the gate loomed a sprawling white stone structure. Caissie squeezed Michele’s hand as the trolley pulled through the gate and into the driveway.

  Mr. Lewis led the class through the arched French doors into the house, where they were instructed to wait in the entrance vestibule for the next tour, which was starting in five minutes. Michele was oblivious to the light chatter of her classmates as she eagerly looked around, imagining Philip bursting in through the front doors on a summer day or climbing the winding staircase up to his room.

  The guide soon arrived, a Newport native in her sixties named Judy. As she led them through the social rooms on the main floor, she explained the Walker family history.

  “This home originally belonged to M
r. Warren H. Walker of New York, who shared it with his wife, Paulette, and their son, Philip,” she began.

  At the mention of Philip’s name, Michele stopped in her tracks, her heart about to burst. She realized that it was the first time anyone in her modern life had ever acknowledged Philip’s existence, and it gave her an incredible feeling. Even when she had his jacket around her shoulders and his music in her head, it was sometimes hard to fully believe that he was real when she was firmly entrenched in 2010 soil. And now here was a tour guide telling them the story of the boy she loved and his family. Smiling to herself, Michele caught up to Caissie as they followed Judy and the class into the next room.

  “Warren Walker’s grandfather had established the family as a real estate giant back in the seventeen hundreds. After Warren’s father died, he inherited the business and it grew even more successful under his leadership. Meanwhile, Paulette was an aristocrat of French origin, and since American high society worshipped the traditions, styles, and manners of the French, Paulette was one of the most popular hostesses of her day. And of course the son, Philip, attracted considerable attention, with his fine pedigree and even finer looks.”

  Caissie raised an eyebrow at Michele, who couldn’t help grinning proudly.

  Judy led the group upstairs to view the family and guest bedrooms on the second floor. Olivia and her friends oohed and aahed loudly over the period decor in Philip’s parents’ room, with the delicate antique furniture from the era of Louis XV and framed black-and-white family photographs above a striking gilded fireplace.

  “Sadly, Warren Walker died of a stroke in 1908, at the early age of forty-seven. Upon his death, his younger brother, Harold, was appointed head of the Walker family and business, and he soon moved in with Paulette and Philip,” Judy said. Michele thought of Philip’s brutish uncle and shuddered.

  At last, they arrived at Philip’s bedroom door. Michele’s heart lifted when she saw the engraved P.J.W. on his door. It was the strangest feeling to be this close to his life and yet a hundred years removed.