When the Stars Align

by Kathryn Kelly

  “I can commiserate with your father.”

  She smiled, in spite of herself. “So? How do you explain your trick of the light?”

  His expression grew serious. “I don’t think I should.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll think I’m an imbecile.”

  “You’re not an imbecile,” she said.

  He didn’t answer. They watched each other for a few more moments.

  “I have to get back out front,” she said, picking up her mask, and stepping around the desk. He stood between her and the door. “Do you mind?” she asked.

  He moved aside. “Wait. Miss Laflueur.”

  She stopped at the door, turned back, looked questioningly at him.

  “I’m from the future,” he said.

  “Right,” she said and swung around, her skirts swirling around her as she slipped the mask over her eyes and marched back to the room filled with smoke. Forcing a smile on her face, she took her place behind the counter.

  She was quickly swamped with customers ordering drinks. But as she opened bottles, poured liquors, washed glasses, and laughed with customers, her thoughts were focused on Bradley.

  I’m from the future. She was convinced that he wasn’t a ghost. That was a relief. The last thing she needed was to have an infatuation with a ghost.

  But a man from the future? Was that truly any better?

  It would explain his odd clothing. His unusual speech. The way he didn’t seem to belong.

  Because he didn’t.

  He wasn’t from here.

  Here meaning now.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he took a seat at the bar between two other men.

  She had to think more about this and get more information. She knew someone to ask. But in the meantime, she couldn’t remain angry with him. Even now, as he watched her, his eyes had a haunted look.

  Perhaps he had not asked to be here.

  Consumed with compassion for this man who sent her heart into wildly erratic rhythms, she took a glass of whiskey and set it on the counter in front of him.

  The bar – tavern – was packed tonight. And money was changing hands. Apparently the whole membership policy had changed since two nights ago.

  Bradley picked up the shot of whiskey and downed it. There was no way he would have another minute to talk to Camille in private tonight. The place was packed.

  So, he’d traveled all the way back to 1838 just to pay a membership fee that was no longer required.

  And watch the most beautiful girl in the world at work.

  He sighed.

  And knew he would do it all over again.

  How many times could he walk through that door? How many times would he be allowed to walk back and forth through the time portal or whatever it was that allowed him to pass through time?

  Why here? Why now?

  What would happen if he got stuck here?

  As always his thoughts froze on that thought and made a detour. Sure, he’d written a note and left it in his apartment in case he didn’t return.

  But now. Now that he was actually here again, he was struck with the notion that he might never return.

  On a sudden impulse, he pulled out his cell phone. But before he swiped it open, he thought better and, leaving his bar stool, found a private area near the back. With his back to the crowd, he swiped open his phone. He had no signal. His phone looked the same as it did thousands of feet in the air. He had a full charge, though, and quickly pulled up the picture of the street outside.

  The temptation was strong to step through the door to see what would happen. Before he did that, though, he needed more information. He slipped his phone back in his pocket.

  Making his way through the boisterous crowd, he found his barstool had been taken. He was able to angle his way up to the counter where he signaled for Camille.

  She poured a drink and set it in front of him. Before she could walk away, he grabbed her wrist. “Wait,” he said.

  His gesture drew concerned glances from a couple of men. She smiled sweetly and put her other hand over his. “You are welcome, cousin,” she said, brightly.

  “Can I talk to you?” He murmured.

  She nodded and he released her.

  Five minutes later, she snagged his gaze and nodded toward the door leading to the back, where he had found her earlier.

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she asked, when they were alone in the back office.

  “I just needed a moment to talk with you.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’ve got about three minutes before either my father or Billy comes looking for me. I’m not sure which one would be worse for you.”

  He nodded. He would have to be quick then. No beating around the bush.

  “Are you married?”

  “No,” she answered, quickly, scowling at him.

  “Are you single?”

  “Pardon?”

  He shook his head. Wracked his brain for another way to ask. “Are you… spoken for?”

  “You mean am I betrothed?”

  “Yes! Are you betrothed?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  Why was he asking indeed. “I’d like to court you.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Court me?”

  “Yes. You know. Call on you.”

  “Why? What are your intentions?”

  “Intentions?” This was truly like speaking a foreign language. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “No. I’d just like to get to know you better.”

  She scoffed. “Then no. You may not call on me.”

  He was speechless. Was this how a woman of 1838 indicated a lack of interest in a man? “What can I do to… I don’t know. Spend time with you.” Date you.

  “Before you can spend time with me,” she said, “you have to tell me what your intentions are.”

  “How do I know what my intentions are until I’ve spent time with you?”

  “Surely you don’t think I’m simple. A man knows what his intentions are the moment he meets a woman.”

  As bizarre as that sounded to his ears, he knew she was right. He couldn’t name a single man in his social circle who hadn’t known the woman he was going to marry on sight. The guy might not have realized he knew it, but he certainly knew if she was someone he merely wanted to dally with. Women were different. Some fell in love at first sight. Others took time to fall in love.

  Bradley wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Camille Lafleur, but he did know he wanted more than a mere dalliance.

  There were just so many complicating factors. The primary one being a time difference. A time difference of one hundred eighty years.

  He put his palms on his forehead.

  “I have to go,” she said, “before we both get into trouble.” She walked past him, her full skirt brushing up against him.

  “My intentions are honorable,” he said.

  She stopped and turned. Tilted her head to look up at him. They still wore their masks, but he barely even noticed it now.

  Her lips turned into a smile. “Good,” she said and, turning, swept from the room.

  And left him standing there.

  His heart in his throat.

  At least now he knew what to do.

  Chapter Five

  Camille pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and slipped out the back door. With her mother at the plantation and her father still abed after a late night gambling, it was surprisingly easy to move about unnoticed.

  Though the sun had peaked over the horizon, it was difficult to see through the early morning mist drifting off the river. She knew her way well enough, though, to be unhindered.

  She slipped down the street, turned left, and hurried toward the river. As the Saint Louis Cathedral tolled the morning call to prayer from the belltower, she sent up
a silent prayer. Please forgive me Father for I am about to sin.

  Turning down an alleyway, she ignored the shadows moving about in the fog and shored up her courage. She needed information and Madam Laveau was the only one who could give it.

  The answers she sought could not be found in the Cathedral or even in her father’s library.

  Only in the questionable world of shadows. She stood at Madam Laveau’s green door, locked in indecision. She’d been here once before – but it had been years ago – with her brothers. Richard and Samuel had been born less than a year apart. Thick as thieves, they could have been twins. Camille came along one year later – always the younger sister. Her mother liked to say that she got her childbearing over with quickly.

  She could ride a horse as well as either of them and could shoot a gun as well, too. But Camille excelled at math. And once she learned something, she never forgot. She’d been eleven when they had visited Madam Laveau. They wanted to know their fortunes. The fortune-teller had sent them away. She told them to never come back and to forget that she even existed. They must have done so, because they had never spoken of returning.

  Camille, however, never forgot.

  She knocked on the door and held her breath.

  And waited for what seemed like an interminable amount of time. Perhaps she had come too early. Nonetheless, legend said that she only took visitors either at dawn or Midnight by appointment.

  Finally, the door opened and a woman of indiscernible age opened the door and looked her up and down. The woman, also wearing a hood, was dressed in black lace, head to toe.

  Camille exhaled slowly. Despite her reputation, Madam Laveau had an air of kindness.

  “Camille Lafluer,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Camille gasped and took a step back.

  “No need to fear, she continued, “come inside.” She stepped back and held the door wide for Camille to follow.

  Camille stepped through the doorway. The little room had curtains hanging all around all the walls. A small sofa bumped up against one side of the little room. A table stood on the other side. The table was covered with candles of various sizes, their flames casting shadows across the room.

  “Sit,” Madame Laveau said.

  Camille sat on the sofa and the older woman sat next to her.

  “You’re here about your young man,” Madam Laveau stated.

  Camille was stunned. She glanced around the room.

  “I don’t need a crystal ball to see what’s going on.”

  “You can read my mind,” Camille said. This was much, too much, unnerving.

  Madame Laveau smiled to herself. “I’m sorry. I’m frightening you.” She reaching out, placed a hand over Camille’s. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  Camille felt a little jolt shoot between them. Or perhaps she imagined it. “I’m really not sure. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Nonsense. You’re looking for answers and you hoped I could help you.”

  Camille nodded.

  “Tell me about him,” Madame Laveau said.

  Camille inhaled deeply. Steadied herself. She was here. She may as well jump right in. “He told me he’s from the future.”

  “I see.” The older woman did not appear to be surprised. “What else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

  “You don’t know whether or not to believe him.”

  “I just need to know if it’s possible.”

  Madame Laveau squeezed her hand. “Anything is possible. All you have to do is believe.”

  Camille shook her head. “Not true. I used to believe in unicorns, but they’re merely a mythical creature. They don’t exist.”

  “You’re strong-willed, you are.

  Camille lifted her chin and stared into the older woman’s eyes. “I believe in facts and logic,” she said.

  “Then this will be difficult for you. But you’ll get along well with your man from the future.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They, too, put very little stock in things that don’t make sense to them.”

  Camille tore her gaze away, unable to tolerate the unblinking stare any longer.

  “You must have an open mind,” the woman continued.

  “I know what I saw,” Camille blurted.

  “Good.” Madame Laveau studied Camille. Camille held herself still, her gaze straight ahead, refusing to squirm under her perusal. “You’ve seen more than most.”

  Camille turned back to her. “Tell me what you know.”

  “There’s a woman in Natchez. A woman who was spelled by an ancient Druid. The woman is able to move freely about through time. The spell, some say, passed to her grandchildren.”

  “Then it’s possible.”

  “Oh, ma chère, it’s more than possible.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have faith.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “It’s not something you can see.”

  “But I saw it. I saw him disappear.”

  “Then you, my child, should have no questions.”

  “I thought he might be a ghost.”

  Madame Laveau waved her hand in dismissal. “You’re not dealing with ghosts here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What color are his eyes?”

  “Blue.”

  “There,” Madam Laveau said. “He’s not a ghost. Ghosts are transparent. They don’t have eye color. I’ve seen my fair share of them and I’ve even had conversations with a few. But never have I a seen a ghost with eye color. No, ma chère, you spoke with a living, breathing man.”

  “But…”

  “A living breathing man from the future.”

  After Camille put a handful of coins in the woman’s hand, she hastened outside and sucked fresh air into her lungs.

  So it was true. Or at least possible. Bradley may very well be from the future.

  Bradley monitored the gauges on his console as the wheels of the little Cessna airplane touched down on the Natchez-Adams County Airport runway. His grandfather stood leaning against his white Lexus sedan. Bradley smiled. His grandfather was nothing, if not reliable.

  At a bigger airport, there would have been a car available for a quick dash into town, but not here. Besides, his grandfather delighted in picking him up.

  He taxied over and turned off the engine a few yards from his grandfather’s car.

  He gathered up his briefcase and climbed out of the plane.

  “It’s good to see you,” His grandfather, Jonathan, said, pulling him into a hug.

  “You too. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

  They drove into town and parked in front of the Biscuits and Blues restaurant on Main Street. After taking a seat by the window, they ordered shrimp poboys.

  “Something must be on your mind,” Jonathan said, “to fly all the way up here.”

  “It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump,” Bradley said, but a pang of guilt shot through him. It had been at last six months since he’d seen his grandfather.

  After he’d gotten out of the hospital, Bradley had stayed with him for two weeks, taking only a couple of short flights for local customers. He and Jonathan had always been close, but they had bonded during that time while Jonathan recuperated.

  “Maybe on that little Cessna. A bit longer in a car.”

  Bradley nodded. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been good. Still missing the girls.”

  The girls were Vaughn, Bradley’s grandmother who had died nearly two years ago and Erika, Bradley’s sister who had been gone for nearly a year.

  “Yeah,” Bradley said. Bradley gazed around. Took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “You might as well spit it out,” Jonathan said.

  Bradley heaved a sigh. His grandfather was right. If he was going to do this, he needed to get it over with. “You know how we talked and decided that there must somethi
ng about the house that allowed Ericka to… travel?”

  Jonathan nodded. Waited.

  “It might have been the house for her, but it seems there’s more to it.”

  “You?” Jonathan murmured.

  Bradley nodded. “In New Orleans.” He took out his phone and showed his grandfather the photo of the hotel, first without the bar, then with the bar.

  “You went in,” Jonathan said.

  Bradley nodded. “The first time was by accident.”

  “And the next?”

  “The next two were… not exactly by accident, but not exactly explainable either.”

  Jonathan leaned back in his chair, staring into space as he seemed to consider. Then he turned his gaze back to his grandson. “There’s more to it,” he said.

  Bradley swiped to the next image on his phone to the picture of Camille – the one he had zoomed and cropped. Even though he had memorized every curve of her face, his pulse quickened at the sight of her image on his phone as he turned it for Jonathan to see.

  Jonathan took his phone, studied the picture. Reaching over, Bradley swiped to the next picture. The original one showing Camille from a distance in the smoky bar – with other men in the photo.

  Jonathan’s eyes widened as he stared at the image.

  “Watch this,” Bradley said, holding his finger on the image, allowing the image to go live for three seconds.

  Despite the shock on his grandfather’s face, it felt good to share with someone else. Someone else who had an inkling of what he was looking at.

  “Bradley,” Jonathan said, then waiting as the server set their food on the table. After the server walked away, he turned his gaze to his grandson. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “My God, Bradley, do you know what you have here?”

  “I know.” Bradley took his phone, closed it. And took a bite of his sandwich.

  Ignoring his food, Jonathan held out his hand. “Can I see her picture again?”

  “Of course,” Bradley said, pulling the picture of Camille back up.

  “She’s pretty,” Jonathan said. “What’s her name?”

  “Camille Lafleur.”

  “I knew some Lafleurs. What year is it?”

  “1838.”

  Jonathan nodded, handed the phone back, and bit into his sandwich. “You’ll go back,” he said, his voice resigned.