Across the Winds of Time

by Bess McBride

  “Is...is that your stone?” I blurted out.

  “Where? What stone?” His eyes narrowed, and he turned in the direction I pointed. The tombstone I’d touched earlier basked lazily under the sun’s warmth.

  “I couldn’t make out the name. I tried, but the lettering is worn away,” I mumbled. Horror didn’t describe my feelings at the moment. It seemed more like...pain. Pain for his possible death. I wrapped my arms around my chest to distract myself from the ache inside. He stood before me, so tall, so handsome, so...vibrant. This couldn’t be happening, I thought with dread.

  “How old are you?” I remembered the age on the tombstone.

  He turned from contemplation of the stone and faced me, the muscles in his jaw working.

  “If I tell you that I am twenty-eight, will you run screaming from me?”

  I shuddered, though the August wind was warm. And I stood my ground, not because I wasn’t tempted to run screaming to my car, but because his troubled blue eyes begged me to stay.

  “The age on the stone is twenty-eight. Whoever is buried there died when they were twenty-eight.” My voice shook, and I avoided looking into the eyes which pulled at my heart.

  “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course, the age is the same. I do not suppose there is a year of death on the stone...anything that could salvage this day.”

  I shook my head. “No, most of it is worn off. Come see for yourself.” I took a step forward, but his words stopped me.

  “I think not,” he sighed. “I would have you believe that I am here—in this time—in some capacity other than as a dead man.”

  I shivered again. I looked up at him from under my lashes to see dejection and confusion on his face. Once again, I’d taken the twinkle from his beautiful blue eyes.

  “You know? Maybe that’s not your tombstone anyway. Maybe, you did...um...,” I searched for the right words in such an indescribable situation, “...come here some other way. Maybe, you’re not really from the late 1800s.” I warmed to my rationalizations. “What if you... um... were... oh, say... an actor, and you got in some sort of accident and had amnesia?”

  The look he gave me wasn’t exactly withering, but it could have been without the softening effect of his twitching lips. His thick mustache covered most of his upper lip, and I couldn’t tell if he was laughing or not.

  “Just so,” he murmured. “Amnesia...Yes, of course. Except that I have very strong memories of you...of us.”

  “Oh, yes, there’s that,” I mumbled. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the ladies standing near some stones on the other side of the cemetery. The sight of them tugged at the last vestiges of rational thought in my brain.

  I turned back to Darius.

  “I think I should go,” I mumbled. I didn’t want to leave him, but I didn’t think I could stay either. Nothing made sense, and I needed to clear my head. I simply could not think rationally in his intoxicating presence.

  Darius took a step forward, and I retreated.

  “Please do not leave, Molly. Will I see you again? Will you come back?”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. We have to move on. My sister...”

  I looked up into his face, and realized I made a mistake. His eyes, full of a love I had never known, pleaded with me.

  I tore my gaze from his and shook my head.

  “I have to go now. I can’t stay here.”

  Darius grabbed my arm, albeit gently. I looked down at his hand but did not pull away. How do you tear yourself away from someone you desperately want to be with? I looked up at him, knowing that I needed to get away from him...for my own sanity.

  “Molly! I cannot lose you again. Please do not go. Stay with me. How will I find you again?” He searched my face for a moment, then shook his head and gave a short mirthless laugh. “No, that is unfair to you. Forgive me, my love. Of course, you must do as you wish. Will you come back? Will I see you again?” With his free hand, he brushed hair tenderly back from my face.

  “I don’t know,” I answered in a small voice. “None of this makes any sense to me. I have to get out of here and think straight.” I shook my head again, my entire body quivering with tension as I tried to break free... emotionally. I jerked my arm, and he let me go. He locked his hands behind his back in that endearingly vulnerable pose of his.

  “I understand,” Darius murmured. His suddenly controlled face gave no hint of his thoughts. He seemed distant—the stranger that he was.

  “Well, I don’t! This is bizarre. I resisted the urge to stomp my foot again...or dive back into the surreal loving embrace of his strong arms.

  “Goodbye,” I whispered as tears welled in my eyes. I turned and hurried away toward the car, wondering why on earth I felt like I was running headlong into a vast emptiness rather than escaping from a lunatic.

  “Molly,” his voice whispered behind me. It cost me every ounce of strength I had to keep going.

  Chapter Three

  The tears burst forth as I hurried away from the stranger named Darius. It was as if I couldn’t get away from the insanity of the situation fast enough...and yet, I couldn’t seem to bear the thought of walking away from him. The logical part of my brain told me he was a disturbed man who wandered cemeteries in search of lonely women. The emotional part of my brain-some sort of primal instinct—told me that somehow I had loved him all my life...and before. It had to be the dream! The dream I’d had the night before...of the handsome man kneeling by my grave. Had I seen him the day before and not realized it? It had to be the dream.

  With shaking hands, I wiped at my wet face and stumbled on the path. I threw a frenzied glance over my shoulder, terrified that he might be following, but he was nowhere in sight. Where did he go?

  I hurried on toward the car. When I reached it, I saw with despair that I really wasn’t going to be able to get out, as the large black town car blocked my retreat. There seemed to be no way to drive forward or turn around. I could see the ladies further out among the tombstones, but I didn’t think I had the strength to drag myself over and ask them to move their car. I turned to search the cemetery again with blurry eyes, but Darius seemed well and truly gone. What if I never saw him again? What if he’d just been a figment of my lonely imagination?

  And why, oh why, did these ladies have to block my car? I needed to get out of there!

  A sob of frustration forced its way out, and despite my best efforts at self-control, I began to shake and sob. I wrenched the car door open and threw myself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind me. I fumbled with the lock as a wave of grief I could not understand shook me. I wrapped my arms around the steering wheel, dropped my head on my arms and bawled my eyes out for what seemed like hours.

  A gentle tapping on the driver’s side window broke through my wails, and I froze at the sound. Oh, please, no, not Darius! The man had to leave me alone. I really couldn’t take any more. I held my breath and peeked over one arm toward the driver’s side window. A white face surrounded by black filled my window. I shrieked and buried my face in my arms again.

  “Miss. Are you all right? Miss?”

  Several more taps followed. I heard the fairly normal, albeit concerned words, and I uncovered my face to look at the window again. The pale face belonged to that of a very senior lady who wore a black dress and black pillbox hat with a froth of net, reminiscent of Jacqueline Kennedy. An old-fashioned outfit to be sure, but smacking of this century. I loosened my grip on the steering wheel.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  I swiped at my wet face with embarrassment. Next to the woman stood another older female, also in black, though she eschewed a hat over her short silver curls.

  “Is there anything we can do for you, miss?”

  I threw a quick searching look in the direction of the bench under the giant oak tree, but Darius seemed to have vanished. Or maybe I just couldn’t see him anymore. I shivered again, bit back a cry of despair, an
d unrolled the window.

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry.” I forced a watery smile. “I’m just crying. You know how it is.” I attempted a light shrug, but the weight of grief made it difficult.

  The first lady, leaning on the walker, straightened just a bit as if it pained her to bend.

  “Yes, of course, dear. We’ve just been visiting our husbands ourselves. Do you have someone dear here?”

  Her words brought me to the verge of a new round of sobs, and I coughed to stem the imminent flow of tears.

  “No, no. I’m just doing some genealogy research, that’s all.” Feeling somehow trapped in my car, I popped the lock, opened the door and stepped out. Drained of energy, I leaned against the car with self-consciousness as the older women examined me from head to toe...though I sensed more with a sense of concern than judgment. “My sister and I have been visiting cemeteries in the Midwest, looking up some of our ancestors,” I murmured weakly.

  The older women nodded sagely.

  “I see,” said the shorter of the two. “We’ve done that as well, though I’m afraid we didn’t have to look very far. All our ancestors are here.” She gave a throaty chuckle and spread her arms to encompass the cemetery.

  “I’m Cynthia Dawson, and this is my sister, Laura Hale.” The smaller of the two women reached out a white, blue-veined hand which Molly took gently. “Our families have been here for generations. Is there someone we can help you find?”

  I stole another glance over my shoulder toward the bench, but Darius seemed to have vanished. Still, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Was he watching from somewhere? Did he even exist?

  I blinked to stop a new flood of tears.

  “No, not really,” I replied. “I don’t think we have any ancestors here at this cemetery. It’s a beautiful cemetery though. I love the wind here.”

  Cynthia gave a short titter. “Oh yes, the wind. It never stops blowing. I’m glad you like it.”

  “Don’t mind her, Miss...” I supplied my name to Laura. “She’d rather move down to a condo in Florida. Always did like the big city.”

  “I can’t wait,” Cynthia hooted, a twinkle lighting up her otherwise faded blue eyes. “All we have to do is get that museum piece of ours rented or sold, and away we go.”

  I relaxed for the first time in over an hour. The normality of the two women seemed to ground me into some sense of reality. He’d just been a figment of my imagination, hadn’t he?

  I caught Cynthia eyeing me with a speculative gaze.

  “You wouldn’t be looking for a house to buy, would you? An old broken down Victorian house?” A suggestive tilt of one eyebrow and an infectious lift of her lips brought a responding grin from me. Could they be talking about the old Victorian house I’d fallen in love with just this morning? Somehow, that seemed like a lifetime ago. I perked up.

  “As a matter of fact, I did see one in town that caught my eye. Well, actually it’s not that far. Down the road here.”

  “That’s our place!” Cynthia squealed. “It’s been in our family for over a hundred years, but our children have all moved away and none of our other relatives want to buy it. We have no idea what to do with the thing. We haven’t lived in it since we got married. Our parents passed about twenty years ago. Since then, we’ve tried to keep the grass mowed and plumbing running, but the house is getting kind of old and lonely.”

  “So, you liked it, huh?” Laura grinned.

  I saw the gleam in their eyes and warded them off with raised hands. “Now, wait a minute, ladies. I said I liked it, not that I wanted to buy it. I had no idea it was that old. And I don’t even live here in Iowa. What would I do with a house in a strange town where I don’t even live?”

  “You could fix it up and rent it?” Cynthia reached out to pat my arm. “It would give you some extra income.”

  I stared at the women with rounded eyes. “Who would rent a huge house way out here? It’s kind of isolated, isn’t it?” I remembered wondering that very thing when Sara and I first drove through the town yesterday.

  Laura nodded and sighed. “Yup, that’s the problem. We don’t know anyone who wants to live out in the country either. Everyone wants to live in the cities.”

  “Including both of us, I might add, Sis,” Cynthia chimed in. She shifted her large black pocketbook to her other arm while balancing precariously on her walker. “Well, Molly, even if you don’t want to buy the old house, why don’t you come by for a tour? As you say, it’s just down the road...and I can see the gleam in your eye.”

  Anxious to leave the cemetery and avoid the possibility of a reappearance by the strange man named Darius, I willingly agreed. And I did so want to see the inside of the house.

  “I’ve never been inside a Victorian-era home. That sounds wonderful.”

  “Great,” murmured Laura. “Let me back this big car out, because I can see I’ve been blocking you. No wonder you were crying.”

  “Oh, no, I wasn’t crying about that,” I demurred as I climbed back into my car. I watched the older women totter over to the car, Cynthia on her walker with her huge handbag draped over her arm.

  While I waited, I pulled down the rearview mirror and stared at my pale and strained face. My eyes were swollen. What was I doing? Going to look at an old house with two ladies who were obviously bent on talking me into buying it? Near a cemetery that held, at best, a deranged man? At worst...a ghost? At the very worst...a figment of my imagination, a lover from a dream? I slid my gaze in the direction of the swaying oak tree. Or maybe I was the one who was deranged.

  It seemed as if half an hour passed before Laura managed to get the big black town car out of the cemetery, and I worked on my patience while I waited for them. I pulled out behind them with a last glance toward the bench beneath the tree. Nothing. He was gone.

  Less than half a mile down the road, Laura slowed—if that were possible—and turned into the driveway of the house. I followed and pulled in behind them. I edged my smaller car next to Laura’s vehicle, which had stopped just short of the front porch. I climbed out of the car and walked around to the right side of the town car to help Cynthia out while Laura hoisted the walker out of the back seat.

  “Hell, orange kitty,” Cynthia called as the marmalade cat I’d seen earlier jumped on top of the railing of the front porch to greet them. “He’s not our cat. I’m allergic, but he just appeared recently and hangs out around the house all the time. Seems happy enough.”

  I held out my arm while Cynthia leaned on it heavily. As we moved, I eyed the cat whose tail jutted skyward as he began an enthusiastic prance up and down the railing. “He looks healthy. Someone must be feeding him,” I murmured.

  “Oh, we do. Laura and I put some food out for him once a week when we go to the cemetery. I think he gets his water from the pond at the side of the house. We’ll have to get someone to take over for us when we finally do sell the place and move down to Florida.”

  Walker in tow, Laura joined them at the foot of the wooden stairs leading to the front porch. She helped me pull Cynthia up the three wide wooden steps. On closer inspection, the porch was much bigger than I had originally thought. The paint, once white, was indeed cracked and peeling. Laura opened up Cynthia’s walker, and we followed the shuffling Cynthia down the length of the porch to the front door. She braced her hip against the walker while she rummaged about in her handbag for the key.

  “Now, where is that thing? It’s an older key, not hard to find,” Cynthia grumbled.

  “Here, let me,” said Laura. “I don’t know how you find anything in that suitcase of yours.” Laura chuckled as she took the purse from Cynthia and fished out the skeleton key, which appeared to be of brass. I eyed the antique key with admiration bordering on reverence.

  Laura inserted the key in the keyhole of the old varnished oak door. She rattled and shook it until it finally turned.

  “It’s old,” she murmured unnecessarily with a rueful glance in my direction.

 
“I know. That’s what is so great about it,” I breathed.

  “Our parents actually never locked the door when we were young,” Laura said. “There really wasn’t much call to lock things up in those days.”

  “Not like today,” muttered Cynthia as she put her walker in gear and pushed in through the front door. Laura gave way and let her enter, urging me to follow Cynthia in. We paused just inside.

  Sunlight from the open door behind us spilled onto the old oak floors, highlighting the shine where the remnants of a high varnish still remained in a large square pattern in the middle. It seemed obvious a small carpet had covered much of the floor just inside the door, protecting it from wear and tear. We stood just to the right of a steep wooden staircase, which bore remnants of the same highly polished varnish as the floor.

  “That’s the living room off to the right there. The dining room is through there,” Cynthia pointed past the staircase to an open doorway to the far end of short hallway. “And the kitchen is to the right of that. You can get to the kitchen from the dining room, the living room and from another door leading to the porch on the other side of the house.”

  I dropped my jaw at the sight of the massive fireplace on the south wall of the living room. The white paint on the wooden mantel was now grimy and cracked with age, but the hearth still held court over the room.

  “What a huge fireplace! It’s gorgeous.”

  “Kept us warm many a night, I’ll tell you that. There were a couple of blizzards where we all huddled down here together and slept on the floor. Kind of like a family slumber party!” Cynthia crowed.

  “No central heating?” I gulped.

  “Not in those days.” Laura sighed. “I know we should have had some put in over the years, but neither one of us lived here as adults...so it didn’t seem worth the effort. We tried to talk my parents into central heating...but they saw no need for it after so many years of living here.”