by Tyra Lynn
Table of Contents
INCEPTO
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CAESUM
INCEPTO
All my possessions for a moment of time.
Queen Elizabeth I
1558-1603
PREFACE
“If today were all I’m to ever have, it’s more than I deserve,” he whispered. “More than I should have had.”
This moment of joy was worth all the moments of sadness that would surely come. I would remember him this time. This one moment is what I would hold on to—in my memory, in my dreams, in my heart.
“Succumb tempor adiuvat.” He said quietly, almost to himself.
“What does that mean?”
“Who yields to time finds time on his side—loosely translated.”
“You’ll come back?” I asked.
“Pro te, milies aeterno.” He placed my hand on his heart.
“And that means?”
“For you, a thousand times eternity.”
CHAPTER I
The past is never dead. It’s not even past.
—William Faulkner
Time—infinity served in finite portions.
You think you’ll have as much as you need, right up ‘til the moment it runs out. I thought I understood that better than most. But just like everyone else, the instant it’s gone, I wonder where it all went. How did it just slip away…
As I helped my dad unload the last of the cardboard boxes to take inside the store, I couldn’t help thinking I had only one week left of summer. One week, and I’d done nothing but work. One week until my last year of high school. I shuddered at the thought.
“That’s the last one, sweetie,” said Dad as we carefully sat the box next to the others on the dirty back counter. “You going through these, or should I?”
I waved my hand in front of my face, fending off the dust and the musty scent rising from the boxes full of my dad’s latest treasures. “I got it,” I half choked through the motes, “you said you wanted to go grocery shopping anyway, and you know how I hate that.” I wrinkled my nose and smiled. “Just come pick me up when you’re done.”
Dad eyeballed the boxes for a few moments. I knew it was hard for him to walk away, but I gave him an encouraging smile. He let out a long sigh, tipped an invisible hat toward me, and backed out the door. Good job, Dad, I thought to myself.
We weren’t open on Sundays and since it was Sunday evening, I had the entire store to myself. I also had the new ‘treasures’ all to myself, and that’s what really interested me. I let my eyes wander over the contents of the six cardboard boxes trying to decide which one to attack first.
Two of the boxes had contents wrapped in tattered old newspapers and covered in mouse droppings. I knew from experience those things had probably been put away the longest. I bet the people these came from had no idea what was even inside. I’d never understood how someone could just get rid of boxes of things without knowing what those things were.
I glanced at my watch, mentally pictured the grocery list I’d seen Dad write this morning, and calculated how long I had. I should have plenty of time, but I knew I at least had to trash all the junk before he returned. Anything that didn’t go on the shelves in the store ended up in our house—even mouse-poop covered newspapers, if they were old enough. Guess the poop boxes were first, then.
“Gross,” I mumbled, then dug in with my bare hands.
The first thing I unwrapped was a beautiful pair of candlesticks. Nice. Late 1800’s, and well cared for. The last place they’d sat was on a beautiful carved oak mantle, on top of crocheted doilies. That was all I got from them, and I wondered briefly if the doilies might be in one of the boxes.
The next thing I unwrapped was the base of an old oil lamp. I watched behind my eyes as it cast flickering shadows on paneled walls while its previous owner glided down the stairs at…. one gong…. two gongs…. three gongs. I wondered why she was up at three a.m. Had she heard some noise? Was she sneaking to the kitchen for a snack? It was all speculation because I got no more from it.
The next piece was small, but I knew what it was from the feel and I liked it already. A perfume bottle. More specifically, an atomizer. I ripped off the paper to get my bare fingers on it, then squeezed the bulb.
I saw her face at once—her delicate features, her hair pulled up in an elegant coiffure and held there by two pearl combs. I watched her bend her slender ivory neck, first to one side, then the other, as she gently squeezed the bulb I held between my fingers. I could just about smell the scent, but not quite. She was much younger here than when she’d carried that lamp down the stairs.
In the mirror before her, I caught sight of a shadowy figure moving slowly, almost dancing toward her. He was humming something, but I couldn’t hear it well. Tall, dark, and handsome I bet, judging by the smile that crossed her face. I smiled too. Before I could confirm my guess, however, it was over. I sat the bottle on the table. Rats!
I made a mental note. I had recently started paying more attention, and it seemed I might be right—older objects, longer glimpses. Cool.
‘Glimpses’ are what I’d begun to call them several years ago. ‘Visions’ just sounded too voo-doo hoo-doo-ish. I don’t remember ever not having them, and it was always random, not something I could control at all. Most objects gave me nothing, some objects gave me a glimpse or two, and once in a while an object would give me glimpses almost every time I touched it. That last kind was rare, though.
I decided to test the atomizer. I did that now and then if I saw a glimpse that interested me more than most. My glimpses were kind of like picking up a book and starting to read somewhere in the middle—but the pages before and after were blank. Ah-nnoying!
I squeezed the bulb one more time and saw a handsome face with dark, wavy hair. His brown eyes met mine momentarily, unseeing, then he bent down to that ivory white neck, kissed it, and was gone. Now that was satisfying.
I squeezed it again, just for good measure, but got nothing. I bid the beautiful couple in the perfume bottle a fond farewell and dug back into the box. I wondered if I might find something of his somewhere in the boxes, but I never did. Oh well.
The rest of the stuff went quickly. There were a few glimpses here and there, but no more of the stunning duo. There were several nice things for the store shelves, a few things I stashed to take to Goodwill later, and numerous things that I buried under the trash in the dumpster, so they wouldn’t end up at my house. Dad was getting much, much better… but still.
I started cleaning and polishing the ‘keepers,’ lost in thoughts of the handsome man and the beautiful woman when I recognized the sound of Dad’s car pulling into the lot. I heard the door creak open, followed by Dad’s familiar heavy footsteps coming up behind me. He was a poor sneaker, and I already knew what he was about to do.
“Boo!” he yelled as he grabbed my shoulders.
“Dad, I don’t jump. Besides, I heard you coming from a m
ile away.” I shrugged out of his grasp and set down the piece I’d been cleaning.
“What if I was a bad guy? You never even looked up. You should at least look up and make sure it’s really me, tough girl.” He smiled, but looked a little serious. “What if I was a bad guy, hmm?”
“Dad, what if you snuck up on me sometime, and I jumped and broke the most valuable antique we ever had in the store, hmm?” I gave him my best ‘yeah, I gotcha!’ look.
He chuckled, shook his head, and then shrugged. “I’m not worried, you said you don’t jump.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little. “I hope you got all the shopping done. I’m hungry, and I’m dirty,” I flicked a piece of mouse poop off my shirt for emphasis, “and I’m ready to go. I’ll tell you what I found while we drive.”
He glanced around the room. I knew he was considering the size and number of boxes and weighing that against what few things he could see on the counter. To his credit, he didn’t say a word as he turned toward the door and held it open for me. Good job, Dad. Good job.
Once outside, I climbed into the passenger seat of the 1978 Ford station wagon that my dad refused to part with. It was the first car he and Mom had bought together after they got married. It had those cheesy fake wooden panels on the outside, and the interior was burgundy, or at least it used to be. My dad took care of it like it was a second child. Any time I made fun of it, or winced at being seen in it, he would snort and say ‘Sweetheart, this car is a classic!’
I didn’t know if it would’ve been better, or worse, to have told him the truth. I wasn’t as embarrassed by the car as I was by its contents. It was perpetually filled with junk.
For all the care he took with the motor, the body, and the front seats, everything from the back seat on was a pile of mayhem. Boxes, newspapers, old clothes, and who knows what else, were stacked to the very top. He didn’t even know what was in it anymore, but he would turn pale and mumble every time I offered to help him clean it out, so I stopped offering.
Since it was only a short distance from our store to our house, I started listing the things that I’d found today. He seemed pleased, but I could tell he was still wondering how so little came out of so many boxes. I don’t think he quite bought my ‘most of it was nasty paper, Dad’ argument, but he didn’t press me on it. He was improving, and that gave me hope that one day we might have a normal house again, before I moved out.
We pulled into the driveway and I glanced at our house. Anyone passing by would have thought it was beautiful. It was a beautiful house, a majestic Queen Anne Victorian with immaculate paint, a manicured lawn, and ancient trees. Maybe not ancient, but they were very old and they were huge. The wrought iron fence that surrounded our lot looked more gothic, but not at all out of place.
The house was three stories tall and my room was on the top floor. I looked up at my open window, and the lace curtains billowing in the breeze. One great thing about being on the top floor of a Victorian house—you never had to lock your windows.
“I’ll cook, you clean up,” my dad said as I opened the car door and slid out of my seat.
“Deal!” I unlocked the back door and propped it open so Dad could carry in the groceries.
Now this is where the perfect picture started to change. The kitchen was fine, neat and tidy, a place for everything, and everything in its place. Going into the formal dining was another matter entirely. As I exited through the tall kitchen doorway, I felt my body ‘squinch up.’ That’s what I called it, because that’s what it felt like. The room was almost full, floor to vaulted ceiling, with box after box after box. What was in them all, one could only guess.
I navigated through to the next room, one of the living areas. There was a beautiful 1850’s mahogany sofa, a matching fainting couch, and a pair of Meeks Stanton Hall armchairs buried somewhere in here. I remember how beautiful this room was when my mother was still alive. In the corner, I could just see the top of one of her favorite tiffany lamps, surrounded by the clutter that had become our lives over the last four years.
I continued until I reached the stairs, then I was home free. I dashed up them as fast as I could, all the way to the third floor. Mom had remodeled all the upper rooms five years ago. She’d said it was going to be her ‘sanctuary.”.
There was a nice guest room, now mine, with a small but adequate bath across the hall. There was also a sitting room I had turned into a library. That was where I did my homework, and where I loved to read. The top floor was all mine, and Mom would be proud of how I took care of it.
As I entered my bedroom, I took in a deep breath of fresh evening air. I opened my small purse and pulled out the perfume atomizer. I sat it on the chest of drawers beside my window, next to a dozen others, and squeezed the bulb once. Nothing. Just as I expected, but not as I had hoped. “Oh well,” I sighed to the quiet room, and went to take my bath.
Monday mornings were always fun and hectic at the store during the summer tourist season. Just far enough off the beaten path between Branson and Springfield, Era had remained a small town, nestled among rolling Missouri hills and flat pastureland. Dad’s little antique store, ‘Timeless Treasures,’ was well known by those in ‘the trade,’ and other dealers would travel from miles away on a weekly basis to buy and to barter. Besides antiques, locals would often place homemade items in the store on consignment. We never made the big bucks, but always turned a tidy profit anyway.
As we arrived this morning, an unfamiliar old truck—with an unfamiliar driver standing beside it—was backed into a side parking space. It was loaded down with extremely dirty furniture, antiques of course. Even through the layers of dust and who knows what else, the distinct pattern of flame mahogany was visible on the Victorian china closet that caught my interest first.
Dad got out before me, approached the driver, and they shook hands. As they spoke and looked over the contents of the truck bed, I went in the side door and prepared to open for business. I started in the back room, then to the office, and then the front area, flipping on lights along the way.
As I was unlocking the front door, I peeked through the glass, saw a huge grin on my dad’s face, and knew they had struck some sort of deal. I flipped on the “Open” sign and started to turn when I heard Dad’s booming voice call from outside.
“Jessie! Jessie! Come give us a hand!”
I swung the door open and approached the truck, which now had its tailgate down. Beautiful furniture I thought as I let my eyes wander, mentally cataloging. Flame mahogany China cabinet, 1800’s. Louis the XVI tric-trac table, probably late 1700’s. Another Louis the XVI item, a panetiere of burled walnut, 1700’s as well. No wonder Dad was smiling so big, these people had excellent taste, except for the selling all of it part.
“Mr. Patel, this is my little girl, Jessamine.” I scowled at Dad. He knew I hated when he used that name, and I hated when he called me his little girl. I was seventeen, practically an adult! “She likes to be called Jessie. I can’t convince her that Jessie sounds like a boy’s name,” he nudged me with an elbow, “or maybe I have convinced her and that’s why she likes it.”
“Nice to meet you, Jessie,” said Mr. Patel, extending a slender hand.
“You, too,” I took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
There was small talk as we unloaded the truck. The men got all the furniture and I carried the boxes. I learned that Mr. Patel was the newest science teacher at the high school. He seemed very nice, but his wife sounded a bit eccentric.
They had purchased Miller House a few blocks away from us, and I silently cringed while he described what his wife had been doing to the inside. Why did people buy old houses—Miller house was as least one hundred and ten years old—and then destroy the very thing that makes them special and unique? I didn’t think I would like her very much.
After Mr. Patel left, I decided to get busy cleaning up the furniture. I pulled out the Howards clean-a-finish and put myself to work on the china closet. I had to get all the
dust and grime off to assess the condition of the finish.
Mr. Patel had said the furniture came with the house when he bought it from old Mr. Ferguson. After Mrs. Ferguson died, he didn’t go out much anymore. A couple of times the neighbors had the police go check on him because they hadn’t seen him in so long, and they were afraid to go check themselves. He was always fine.
I inspected the finish where I’d been cleaning and so far, so good. I placed my hand on the beautiful reddish wood. I’d intended to slide my palm along it to see how smooth it felt, but my hand froze when I got the glimpse.
Mrs. Ferguson was placing a beautiful plate inside, stepping back to see how it looked before reaching for the next one. She looked so young and vibrant, so alive. Nothing like the last time I saw her, sitting quietly in the car with a vacant stare. Alzheimer’s was a horrible thing.
As I continued cleaning, I let my thoughts drift, and I wondered what Julie was doing today. She was spending the summer in Houston with her dad. She was my best friend, and I’d missed her. At least she would be back any day. My only other real friend was Katie, and who knew where she was right now. Her parents changed plans more than the wind changed directions, as Dad would say.
I thought back to when I said goodbye to Julie two weeks after school ended. I rode with her and her aunt to the airport and we talked non-stop all the way. When I hugged her goodbye, I had to force myself to let go. An entire summer without Julie? Nightmare. We promised to talk at least once a week until she came back, and we had kept our promise all summer long.
I knew everything about Julie, and she knew everything about me. Well, almost everything. I’d never been able to bring myself to tell her about the glimpses. I was afraid of two things: that she wouldn’t believe me and think I was crazy, or she would believe me and think I was crazy. Either way, I didn’t like the outcome, and I wasn’t going to take any chances, not with the best friend I’d ever had.
I heard the bell on the front door, followed by Mrs. Henderson’s breathless greeting to my dad. She always sounded like she’d just finished running a marathon and every few words were interrupted by a slight gasp, or at least a noisy breath. It was hard not to let my distaste show whenever I was the one forced to speak with her.
