The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Well, sir, you just don’t seem the type to make things up. Or lead a lady on.”

  “You believe me. Time travel, Jane’s letter, the whole kit and caboodle.” It is suddenly important to hear her say it plainly.

  Kat’s eyes close for a moment, then open in acquiescence. “Yes, all of it. I believe you.” She is thinking of the bewildered guy sitting on the side of the road dressed in period clothes, his hat thrown to one side and a key that glowed in the beam of a flashlight he wouldn’t let anyone touch.

  She continues, “I feel sort of weird talking about history with you. It’s like preachin’ to the choir, as Uncle Hal would say.”

  “Let’s say I’ve been around the block and back again. I could spend a week telling you about my time in 1863. And I just may, if you’re willing to listen. It took me a long while and a lot of miles to find Jane. When I finally did, it was right after she said ‘I do.’ We had a chance to talk. It was beyond awkward. She could tell I was sick. Within a couple of hours, it was over. You see, Jane had discovered a key. It was the original contents of that box of yours, the combination box in the attic.”

  Bryce feels the key pressing against his ankle, a silent witness to its shattering potential. “The weird symbols mean something, the matching eyes mean something. And—”

  “And your key means something.”

  “Afraid so. It has incredible powers.”

  “The ancient mystique of the Celts. A Celtic key with supernatural powers,” Kat breathes. Her eyes sparkle with excitement. It ignites a longing for romance and adventure. Her life has been sorely mundane until this moment. “I would like to see it.”

  “Hold your horses,” Bryce chuckles. “We’re getting to that. But yeah, it sort of makes sense it’s a Celtic key. Whoever made the box, probably had the key made too. Or vice versa.”

  Kat’s imagination branches in all directions. However, her mind bonds to the most basic of things. This man has met her ancestors. He has met the Captain McIntosh, his wife and her namesake Chloe, and their children — Sea Oaks of 1863. He knows about the Civil War in real life, for Heaven’s sake.

  “Malaria!” Kat’s eyes widen in surprise. “Then you really do have malaria.”

  “No joke.” Bryce feels a heating sensation of the illness, just by talking about it. He braces for another fight against the multiple symptoms of the disease and coughs a couple of times. Uncle Hal’s medicine helps, but it is not a cure.

  “Uncle Hal needs to know.”

  “Oh, he’ll know when those tests come back. Let’s talk more about this later, okay?” Bryce stamps his feet in readiness.

  “Okay. Yet I can’t help but keep thinking what should we do about all this?”

  “I’m thinking on that too. For now, though, just show me what you’ve got.”

  Bryce gets the front door for Kat. The palm of his hand lightly brushes the middle of her lower back when he guides her ahead of him, “Ladies first.”

  This sends a ripple of pleasure over Kat’s skin. Men are supposed to get the door, she scolds, trying to stifle her warm-fuzzy feelings over such a small thing. She blames her shiver on being damp from the rain.

  “I don’t know where you young people have been traipsin’, but you better not bring a speck of that sand and mud into this house,” a woman’s voice booms from above.

  They both recognize it instantly. Kat and Bryce drop their gazes in unison to their shoes.

  “Caught in the act,” Kat shrugs an apology, “Do you mind?” She looks in the direction of the staircase and sings out, “We’re taking our shoes off now, Auntie.” She tilts to Bryce, “Believe it or not, a lot of our touring guests do the same out of respect when it’s particularly bad outside.”

  “Not a problem.” Bryce jumps to do Aunt Gracie’s bidding, staying on a temporary scrap of carpet that is laid during inclement weather. “I’ll need to be careful,” he says more to himself.

  Gracie makes a show at the top of the stairs.

  “We think Auntie has the radar of a bat,” Kat says. “She can sense the leggy tapping of a palmetto bug crawling along the wall a room away.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Gracie shoves a white dust rag in her apron pocket and leans against the finely crafted mahogany banister. Distracted by the sudden vibration of her phone, she begins typing a response to a text message.

  “See, I told you,” Kat giggles. She tears off a sheet of brown packing paper from a roll that is to one side of a substantial hall tree in the corner and spreads it on the floor. She drops her shoes on top.

  “Is that old family Bible still on display, Auntie?” Kat’s voice echoes in the stillness of the house.

  Bryce sits down on a wooden bench to remove his boots. Before he can proceed, he needs to move his Celtic key safely to his pocket. It is wrapped in the green square of rosebud fabric from Sophie Downing’s shawl. He must take care it does not accidentally come in contact with his skin.

  Kat watches him intently and crosses her arms, “The Celtic k—”

  “Shhh, not now,” Bryce murmurs. He can tell Kat is having a hard time containing her curiosity.

  “What are you two chicks up to?” With a lightness, Gracie glides down the stairs toward the bottom landing. Her full hoop skirt swings back and forth like an oversize bell as she goes.

  Gracie doesn’t usually take to men in Kat’s life and she is especially disgruntled since the last one practically ripped the poor dear’s heart in two. This time, though, it is different. There is something about this new man of hers that can only be described as old-fashioned. She likes the fact he is as Southern as sweet tea, and not too big for his britches. He is the complete opposite of Kat’s Yankee ex-husband.

  Gracie favors the rugged types, anyway. Mr. McKenzie looks like he has just come off a hard ride. He is bronzed, strong, but not overly muscular, and a good height. His hair has been bleached and tousled by sun and wind. They look good together.

  “I was just giving Mr. McKenzie a history lesson on the McIntoshes,” Kat explains. “I told him about the Bible with all the handwritten entries.”

  She turns to Bryce, “I’ll take your hat, sir,” she winks and hangs it on one of the hooks for that purpose. There is a strong sense of where his hat has been. She neatly places Bryce’s boots next to her shoes. “These boots look like they have walked a thousand miles. You’ve even patched a hole.” She brushes her hands together to signify she is done and get a bit of grit from her fingers.

  “You have no idea,” Bryce stands in his stocking feet, tucking his hands in his back jeans pockets. He wiggles his toes and notices the small hole where his big toe has started to poke through on one foot.

  “I have lots of questions,” Kat reminds with a secretive smile.

  “The Bible is still in the glass cabinet, I think,” Gracie interrupts. “I worry about the ultraviolet rays from the windows when it sits too long.” Gracie grabs up her rag again and gives it a good shake, fanning her hand at the small puff of dust. “You two chicks get on with it. I still have a few things to do before the day is done.”

  “Thank you, Auntie. You do way too much round here.”

  “It’s a labor of love, dear. A labor of love.”

  “Well, Mr. McKenzie, let’s head back to the study, shall we?”

  Bryce follows Kat down the wide hallway, familiar with the way.

  “It’s in the cabinet over there.” Kat crosses the room. She wipes a smudge off the glass and peers in. “Mercy, it’s gone.”

  “What do you mean?” Bryce looks down at the frayed edges of an open Bible with a faded purple ribbon at the center.

  “This is Uncle Hal’s great- great- grandpa’s pocket Bible. Hmm,” Kat taps her chin, “Miz Jenkins must have already moved it to storage. Those two, she and my Aunt are forever changing things. It keeps the place interesting for our repeat visitors.”

  Kat’s phone trumpets a notice and she reaches into her shoulder bag for it. She switches the alarm off. “W
here does the time go? I need to get Wyatt from school. He will be excited about our weekend. He loves spending time here — we all do. It’s a mini-vacation from the rat race.”

  Bryce looks around as if he is uncertain what to do.

  Again, Kat acts without thinking, “It might be boring, but would you like to come along?” Her eyes are temporarily averted by her forwardness.

  “Sure,” Bryce speaks up. He bends slightly to draw Kat’s stare away from the window. “No really, why not?” Where else can he go? He is a man with no past, a key, and a roll of worthless Confederate bills in his pocket. Oh, that’s right, and one Lincoln penny.

  Chapter 55

  RIGHT FRIENDLY BUNCH

  The local McIntosh County Elementary School is small, but well appointed. Kat asks Bryce to wait in the car while she runs in to get her son.

  “I’ll just be a minute. Use my phone if you like.” Kat places her phone on the lid of the console. The red suburban is massive compared to her shorter stature. She always has to use the running board on the driver’s side to climb out.

  During the wait, Bryce calls a few additional phone numbers for the hell of it — the second-floor nurses station at University Health Center and Doctor Holbrook’s office at the University of Georgia. The brief inquiries further confirm he is in virtual limbo, a non-entity, a phantom with no past. No one has heard of Bryce McKenzie from Vidalia, Georgia, who is studying medicine and working his ass off at the hospital in Athens.

  “Well, that’s that,” he grumbles in frustration. He reaches into his pocket for the roll of bills. Money is the next momentous problem he must face.

  “What to do about cash,” Bryce ponders. He puts the Confederate notes up to his nose for some reason. “Crap,” he frowns at the smell of ink, dirt and sweat. There is maybe even a hint of shoe polish from Mr. Bagger’s shop. The shoemaker fixed the hole in his boot as good as new.

  A peeling school bell that can wake the dead and the clamor of youth interrupt Bryce’s thoughts. Drivers of a half-dozen yellow school buses stand just outside their open doors to monitor student-passengers who quickly line up to board.

  Wyatt runs with the speed of a missile to Bryce’s passenger window. Excitedly, he taps a greeting on the glass and gives a snaggletooth grin. Before Bryce can do anything, Kat’s son opens the back door and scrambles into the seat behind him. Wyatt noisily drops his backpack with a heavy thump, that Bryce can feel in the floorboard, and snaps on his seat belt.

  “Maman said you are staying at the Old Homestead a few days,” Wyatt exclaims in a rush of energy. His tone is very grown-up.

  “She did, did she?” Bryce counters, watching Kat get situated behind the wheel. She pitches her purse into the large console between them.

  “Well, where else will you stay?” Kat looks over and shrugs. Her round cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. “We McIntoshes are a right friendly bunch, aren’t we Wyatt? Besides, there are plenty of empty rooms this time of year. In fact, we have the whole place to ourselves.”

  “I’m glad you are staying with us,” Wyatt adds solemnly. Picking up the tablet computer in the seat next to him, he plugs his earbuds into his ears.

  “That’s rare,” Kat points out. Her son has been leery of strangers, mostly men, lately. She thinks it might be because he is afraid of having his father replaced and that is understandable. Starting the suburban, Kat pulls behind a bunch of other vehicles trying to funnel their way out a single, gated exit.

  Wyatt pulls out his earbuds, “I got in trouble today, Maman.”

  “You did?” Kat is surprised her son would bring this up in public. “Don’t you want to talk about it later?”

  “No, Mr. McKenzie likes kids,” Wyatt announces with certainty.

  “Well, yes, I’m sure he does,” Kat smiles and catches Bryce’s shrug in her peripheral vision.

  “I fell asleep in Mr. Nelson’s music class. He sent me to the office, but they didn’t make a big deal out of it. They sent a note home. It’s in my backpack.”

  “Oh, honey, I am so sorry. Didn’t you sleep well last night?” Kat has received occasional notes from her son’s teachers about his conduct. Wyatt can be a handful like all boys his age, but his change in behavior is a concern. For now, Kat hopes it will pass. She doesn’t have the heart to discipline him.

  There is a lull in the exchange. Wyatt has already found something interesting on the screen of his device. He puts his earbuds back into his ears.

  Kat looks over at Bryce who is looking straight ahead and trying to act impartial.

  “He has trouble sleeping sometimes,” she worries. “The counselor said his nightmares will run their course, but it is always the same dream and more vivid and frequent, it seems.” She peers into the rearview mirror to make sure Wyatt is preoccupied.

  She guesses out loud, “He will nod off before we get to Sea Oaks. He sometimes does that when he has had an unusually restless night.”

  “Kids go through phases,” Bryce suggests, not wanting to intrude.

  “The divorce has been tough on him. He deserves better,” Kat keeps her voice low and clears the lump in her throat. Last weekend, Wyatt talked more about the dreams he’s been having. She carefully recalls aspects of the troubling exchange with her son.

  “I am not afraid to die,” Wyatt’s young face was lined with gravity when he spoke. He had come into the kitchen while she was enjoying her morning coffee to start her day. Her mind was on an early appointment with a client to show the Elm Street house.

  “You're too young to be talking about dying, sweetie,” Kat responded gently and smoothed her son’s shock of hair back from his forehead. She gave him a big hug and promptly tried to change the subject. “Do you want a blueberry muffin? Lacy baked them last night. Maman has to work today, but you don’t need to get up so early. It’s Saturday. Kids are supposed to sleep in, you know.”

  When Wyatt propped his arms on the counter, hunching his shoulders in a gesture that looked so much like his father, her heart lurched, “Honey, I am running late as usual. Can’t you tell me later? We all have bad dreams sometimes.”

  “No, it’s important,” Wyatt said, not budging. His serious eyes searched her face for reassurance. “I dreamed I went to school and there was no school there. It was just a big open field. Everything was gone. I think our house too. Something black and scary came down over me. It is hard to say what it was like, Maman, but I think I died.”

  Remembering the intensity on his little face, Kat is seized again by panic. Common sense tells her it can be any number of things. It is more about transition, what is going on in Wyatt’s waking life. She is trying to place when the nightmares started.

  Bryce looks over at Kat who is unusually quiet. She looks like she is studying mighty hard on something. Her typically sunny expression has darkened, as if she is upset.

  “What exactly is he dreaming about,” Bryce softly interrupts.

  “Death,” Kat blurts in a nervous whisper, checking the rearview mirror.

  Wyatt is engrossed in a popular game app and oblivious to their conversation. He is tilting his head back and forth and his fingers are moving a mile a minute killing imaginary monsters with his light-saber. Perhaps he is too young and impressionable to be playing such things.

  “Wow, that’s pretty serious for a kid.” Bryce turns slightly in his seat and adjusts his posture to open and interested.

  “Tell me about it.” Kat makes a left turn that will take them to the country road and ultimately Sea Oaks. “It worries me,” she says, glad to have someone to talk to. She refuses to tell her mother about it. Wyatt hasn’t mentioned it either. They both probably feel MiMi has enough on her plate. Kat’s divorce has been difficult for all of them.

  “Will Aunt Gracie be there?” Wyatt suddenly breaks in, talking over the noise of his game and making both Kat and Bryce jump in their seats.

  Kat brightens automatically, “Yes, she said we’ll have chicken and dumplings tonight for supper. Wha
t do you think?”

  “Yum. I’m hungry.”

  “What growing young man isn’t?” Kat smiles into the rearview mirror and Wyatt smiles back. He looks tired, poor little guy. She glances at Bryce to say maybe they should talk about this later when her phone goes off.

  “Uncle Hal,” Kat confirms, seeing his picture on the screen. At the first opportunity, she pulls safely off the road and shuts her car off. Reading her uncle’s text message, she turns to Bryce, “The test results are back. He wants to see us directly. We need to turn around.”

  “Oh boy,” Bryce says dryly, readjusting his seat belt and twisting to face forward again.

  Kat nods her head, “Oh boy, is right.”

  Chapter 56

  HISTORY BUFF’S DREAM

  Boston in the mid-1800s is a melting pot of men and women from many parts of the world. Large numbers from Germany, France, Spain and Ireland fill the ranks of factory workers, craftsmen and unskilled laborers. Families with their own cultures, traditions and architectural style homes are as diverse as the incoming population.

  Mr. Paddy, a second-generation immigrant in a nation of immigrants, successfully hustles Jane from the boat with their trunks to an awaiting open carriage. He apologizes for the bad choice of transportation, as the weather has turned downright cold. A blustery breeze coming off the bay from the northeast pricks like a thousand needles on the skin.

  Pressing back into her seat, Jane hugs herself for warmth. She hopes her wool paletot will be heavy enough for the onset of a Boston winter. Before they left Edenton, she bought a heavy scarf she saw in a shop window with part of the money Matt gave her. Her currency is a concern, but Mr. Paddy assures it is enough to last a while. He understands the banking system and various forms of money that flood both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. A gust of wind catches her bonnet that is keeping her ears from freezing. The last thing she needs is an earache.

  Conversely, her general health during the change in seasons has been excellent. In her future life she had been more prone to common colds that went around the architectural firm where she worked. So far, her modern-day army of antibodies is doing a great job in defending her — knock on wood.