Her first surprise came when she opened her eyes to bright sunlight already filling the small room. She’d had no dreams and felt relatively rested. The second surprise was Sam’s firm hand keeping her anchored to him on the edge of the small double bed, saving her from tumbling out while he lay sprawled in the center.
After all, it was considerate of him to make sure she stayed there instead of falling out and landing on her head. When she tried to wiggle her way out, he tightened his hold, pulling her back against him, and she realized then that not all of him was asleep.
“Sam, time to get up. I’m hungry.”
He answered her with merely a grunt and slid his hand up to cover her breast. Then he lifted her leg and showed her how awake he was. “Me too, so you can lie here while I feed my hunger.”
Later, as they shared a shower and then dressed with easy intimacy, she had a vision of how it could be with them. Easy mornings spent loving and cuddling together could easily slip into routine, but one built on commitment. Something cracked inside of her heart, as if that dream was something she’d never deemed herself worthy of.
“I’ve got to go out. I’ll be gone a couple hours, so bolt the door behind me. Don’t let anyone in, and don’t go out.” He pulled her from those fairytale thoughts, dropping a fast kiss on her brooding lips before walking out of the bedroom.
“Sam, I tried to get in the attic last night when you were out, but the door’s locked. Do you think you could open it before you go?”
He paused and faced her as if contemplating what to say. Did he expect her to sit quietly and do nothing while he was gone? She reached up to touch the tiny nick on his chin from shaving that morning, but he grabbed her hand when he noticed the scabbed-over puncture.
“What did you do to your hand?”
“I tried to pick the lock on the attic door and cut myself.”
“What the hell did you use, a knife?”
“No, I found a chicken skewer in the drawer and I tried to pick the lock. But it wouldn’t work.”
His mouth fell open.
“Well, you made it look really easy,” she said.
“There’s antiseptic in the kitchen.” The old wood floor squeaked when he stomped to the kitchen and yanked open the cupboard door, taking out a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “Use it, Marcie, or I’ll do it for you. The last thing we need right now is to be red flagged while sitting in an emergency room because you’ve got an infection.”
She viewed the bottle as poison, already feeling the ripe sting even before she poured it over the wound. “Fine, but what about the door? Can you open it? Please.”
“Why do you want to go up there? It’s dusty, dirty, and filled with a bunch of old junk.”
“Please, Sam. There’s something about the attic, call it intuition, but I can’t shake this voice, like an angel telling me there’s something up there I’m supposed to see.” She closed her eyes. “You think I’m nuts, don’t you?” She opened her eyes to a man who wasn’t watching her with horror but was intrigued. She stumbled a bit. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
He raised his eyebrows. “No, but if your angels are guiding you to some buried treasure stashed up there, remember, it’s mine.”
She laughed when a bit of lightness filled her heart and pranced behind him up the steep steps. This time she watched closely while he bent with a pick he pulled from his brown leather wallet. She breathed in a distinct piney scent from his soap, which overpowered the musty shirt. He smelled good—really good—and that was a very real problem, which distracted her. She licked her lips and drew his eyes to her.
“Watch yourself, girl, or you’ll be in heaps of trouble before I go.” Then the door was pushed open. Light streamed in from the small corner window. Dust and cobwebs lingered over boxes and old furniture piled up in the cramped eight-by-ten space.
Sam went in first. “Stay there until I know this old floor’s safe to walk on. I don’t remember when I last came up here, if ever.”
He shoved boxes over and appeared to study the old plank floor while he ran a hand over the buckled hardwood by the only corner window.
“What’re you looking for?”
“Rot, cracked boards where the floor’s not stable.”
“Sam, where did all this stuff come from?”
“It’s always been here. This was my granddaddy’s place. He willed it to me. It’s been in the family for generations. I guess he liked to save things. I didn’t know him. A lawyer found me. Apparently, my real daddy died before I was born. Joseph Carre, who I thought was my daddy, turned out to be just a stepfather. Always wondered why he hated me.” He moved toward her but remained distant with a vague light in his eyes. Must be a lot on his mind. He stopped and lifted her chin with his finger.
“Happy hunting, and remember to keep the door locked.”
She cut him off before he could finish. “Don’t answer the door, do not go outside for any reason, stay in the house like a good little girl and make no noise.”
Sam looked skyward, as if searching for help, from some unseen force, and then squeezed past her. “Marcie, get down here and lock the door behind me. Then clean your hand before you start rummaging through junk.”
Oops, I guess he’s punchy, too. Instead of arguing, she followed him down and bolted the door. She listened to his tires grind in the dirt as he pulled away. Peace washed over her. Just being here with him had changed things between them. They were closer. She couldn’t explain why.
Marcie wandered to the sink and eyed the bottle of peroxide. She had promised, so she didn’t think it to death. She unscrewed the white cap, held her hand over the sink, and dumped a small amount of fizzy liquid over the wound. She shook off the miserable sting before putting away the bottle and racing upstairs.
Dusty cardboard boxes and wooden crates were stacked against the wall. Some were labeled, others left bare. Old furniture was mixed among the boxes, stacked and draped with yellow, dusty sheets. Marcie batted at the cobwebs.
She breathed in dust and coughed before making her way over to the small corner window. She turned a rusty old latch and tried to lift, but the window was stuck. She had to make a choice; put up with the stuffy air or abandon the search.
Marcie moved closer to the door. At least it wasn’t as bad there. The first box had the name Benjamin Reynolds written in thick black ink on the side. Intrigued, she opened it. Inside were stacks of old photos, a football jersey, and an old high school yearbook from 1960. At the bottom of the box was a yellowed newspaper clipping of a tragic accident. A front-page photo featured both the dark-haired man who had driven the car in her dream and the same cliff on the mountainside. A crushing energy tightened in her stomach and spiraled like a funnel cloud. She had read the news story depicting an overtired driver losing control and driving off a cliff, leaving behind his young bride. A friend of Benjamin Reynolds’ had been quoted in the story: Ben was struggling with some personal issues and had come to him for support. He said he tried to help, that Ben felt overwhelmed by his new responsibilities. The friend, Joseph Carre, was photographed escorting Benjamin’s young wife to the funeral. This man and woman were the same two who had been in her dream, standing at a roadside grave marker. This was plain weird. This was Sam’s real father, but what she picked up in her gut when she looked at the clipping was a terrible feeling that the crash was no accident. Sam’s real daddy had gone off that road, and she suspected Joseph Carre was responsible.
She repacked the box and moved on to the next carton, clearing space as she re-stacked the boxes she’d rummaged in against the wall behind her. By the time Marcie had rifled through a dozen boxes filled with junk and trinkets, she was bored and considered packing it in. She pushed a heavy box against the wall but soon discovered it hid an old wooden chest. “Now, how did I miss you?”
Something about the chest drove the beat of her heart up. Without warning, something rustled. Her stomach bottomed out, and she instantly flattened her hand over her chest. “Pr
obably a damn rodent. Just breathe.” Marcie trembled while looking around in the shadows, willing the noise to happen again while at the same time fearing that it would.
Marcie tried to lift the lid, but it was stuck. She had to get down on her knees and lean in. It creaked when it finally gave. Small boxes, paper bags, and tons of old photos filled this deep chest, but it was no fun looking at a stranger’s photos, so she continued digging until she touched a bulky tissue-wrapped package. Marcie carefully pulled back the crisp tissue to find an old creamy lace wedding gown. Under the dress were cream-colored leather boots with a slight heel and a hook and eye closure. They were nice but had to have been uncomfortable.
She reached to the bottom and touched a rectangular parcel. Lifting the package, Marcie was mesmerized by the curved handwriting on the old brown paper until she saw the name: Mrs. Jerome Standford. “Holy shit,” she whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
“Who’s there?” she called, jumping as a warm tingle shot so hard and fast up her spine that, for a moment, she thought it’d blow off the top of her head. Beads of sweat popped out above her brow. The air chilled, and for some inexplicable reason she’d swear that time appeared to shift and merge; there was no here, now, or yesterday. A broad sense of something else or some deep presence pressed up her spine. Her first instinct prompted her to hide, which spurred this unknown terror. She swallowed hard and then peeked around the stack of boxes where she hid. “Hello, anyone there?” Nothing moved. “Well, did you expect a ghost to answer? Forget that thought.” She waved her hand in the air to swoosh those words away.
Truth was, she was damn scared, and in order to ease the fear, she crouched down, squeezing in between the box and chest, wrapping her arms around her knees. She started to examine the paper-wrapped bundle, turning it over and then removing the knotted string. Breathe in, blow out. She tried to still the shaking in her hands. “So my dream’s real, and Jerome’s dead, and he’s in my dreams—this is crazy.” She turned over the package. “This is something addressed to Jerome’s wife. How can this be possible?”
She wanted to analyze and reason but stopped herself. “Don’t try to figure it out. Jerome, is there some hidden message here for me?” She looked up as if waiting for his golden image to appear. But she was grateful when he didn’t. She opened the paper package; several letters fell into her lap, tied together with a delicate pink satin ribbon, faded and worn from time. Each letter was addressed to Mrs. Jerome Standford, Grand Isle. She sighed before carefully opening the first letter.
October 12, 1814
My Darling Isabel,
I love you and can’t wait to be home with you. I am so happy about the babe and promise to be home long before he’s born. I cannot tell you where we are, but Master Jean gathered many fine staples for our friends and those in need. They will not eliminate the hardship, but it will be enough to see us through.
We were greeted by his old friend, the colonel. Master Jean has warned me to watch him and his crew when they come about. Although friends he calls them, he also does not trust them.
The colonel has mentioned many a time that he would sell his mother’s soul for a plantation like Jean’s. He’s in it for the money, not to help others. He continues to feed Jean information on where enemy cargo ships are expected to be. It seems almost too good to be true. The man makes me uneasy. But I promise, love, this will be the last time. This run will set our future, and today, I’ll tell Master Jean. I promise to be with you when you have the babe. I miss you and dream of you each night.
Your loving husband, Jerome
Marcie read it again and studied his words. Where he was, it was another lifetime. Why had this name appeared to her? She lifted up the paper package when a folded picture slipped out from behind. The bold inscription on the back read: Jerome and Isabel, our blessed day.
Marcie studied the man and the woman in the timeless, austere pose. The resemblance to the golden-haired man in her dream that night under the glowing light was astounding. As she looked closer, so was the resemblance to Sam. Jerome’s hair was long and tied back in this photo, but the features of his face, jaw, and broad forehead were unmistakable. He was dressed as a gentleman in a tuxedo jacket, riding breeches and hessians. Isabel’s face in the photo was faded, as if it had been gripped between someone’s fingers repeatedly. She wore an antique lace wedding gown. Jerome’s hand rested upon her shoulder, a familiar pose for that period in time.
“How’d you get buried way back there?” Sam said.
Marcie’s stomach dropped when his growling voice rushed her headfirst back to the present. She placed her hand over her chest to calm the wild beating. “Jeez, Sam, you scared me. Didn’t your mama ever teach you not to sneak up on a lady?”
The way he smiled made it seem as if he’d figured things out. “But you forget that in cop school, that’s exactly what they teach us. So how’d you get in there, sugar?”
“I just kept moving boxes until I was here. Sam, wait until you see what I found. Come here.”
Sam shuffled boxes and crouched to where she sat cross-legged on the floor. Marcie handed him the picture.
“Turn it over. See the name?”
Sam frowned. “It’s an old picture. Where’d you find it? Cool.” He handed it back with absolutely no interest.
“Sam, read this” She held up the packet of letters. Sam took all the letters, including the one she had read.
His lips moved as he whispered over each word. “Wow, interesting history.” Sam handed the letter back.
“Who do these letters belong to?”
Sam walked toward the stairs. “I don’t know for sure, probably some distant relative. I didn’t know my granddaddy, so all this is a mystery. But as a former detective, don’t people usually stash all their old family photos and trinkets in the attic?”
“Good investigating, Sam. Do you mind if I keep these letters to read?”
“No, go ahead. I bought you some clothes and picked up lunch. I’m hungry, so let’s eat.” Sam extended his hand and helped Marcie up. “So did you discover any treasures in all your digging up here?”
Marcie appreciated his broad shoulders, all of him, really, while he moved ahead of her down the stairs. She clutched the packet of letters as if a window from another time had burst open and handed them to her. “Sometimes treasures come in a way we least expect,” she answered.
After lunch while Sam spoke on the phone, first with Jesse and then Diane; Marcie hefted out the letters and curled up in an old easy chair in the sitting room, a tiny alcove off the kitchen. She opened the next letter, wondering why Jerome wanted her to see these. What was he trying to tell her?
December 5, 1814
My Darling,
Navigating the waters of Barataria Bay, we expected to be home some time ago. Please don’t lose faith. We ran into some trouble. There was a supply ship waiting where we were told, but they were prepared for us, and out of nowhere, the Spanish fleet joined them, coming down hard upon us. It was a bloody fight. We were betrayed. There’s a traitor among us. Master Jean has assembled a small team to discover who it is. He’ll be dealt with harshly. We lost many good men in the fight, and the ship sustained some damage, but we narrowly escaped. We have to lie low for a while and have stashed ourselves in Master Jean’s stronghold. I expect this letter to find you safely. I do not know when it will reach you but have given it to a kind captain of a local supply ship. I pray every day I will be home with you, my loving wife, before the babe comes. Keep safe, be strong, and keep loving thoughts of me as I dream of holding you once again in my arms.
Your loving husband, Jerome
Marcie’s heart felt heavy with Jerome’s despair and his desire to be with the woman he loved. She glanced at Sam while he paced through the kitchen and bedroom, talking on his cell phone. Marcie sighed. She opened the next letter, dated several months later.
February 27, 1815
My dearest love, please do not forget me. I d
ream about you every night and long to hold you in my arms. The pain and emptiness I feel at this moment tears my heart out. I’m in the brig and have been wrongly convicted of treason. Evidence was planted in my bunk, letters to the Spanish, describing in detail our holds and the location of Jean’s stronghold. My dear friend has turned his back on me, and his look of contempt for me is damning for this perceived betrayal. I swear to you, my love, I did not do this. I’m trying not to lose faith, but I fear that by day’s end, I’ll be dead. There’s still a traitor on board. I do not know who it is. Somehow, I suspect the colonel’s connected. My love, tell our babe every day how his papa loved him. I do not even know if it’s a boy or girl. My greatest fear is never holding my child. Keep safe, my love, and know my last thoughts were always of you.
I will love you always. Jerome
The words blurred. Marcie’s chest burned from the unspeakable torment that Jerome must have felt in having his life and love wrenched away.
A soft touch on her shoulder nearly sent her through the roof. She allowed Sam to pull her into his arms.
“What happened? I heard you crying.”
Marcie shook her head, the emptiness of a lost love embedded like a solid rock deep inside her. “They killed him. He was set up.”
“Who killed him? What are you talking about? Who was killed?” He sat her down and knelt beside her. Marcie sniffled while he held her hands.
“There, in the letter.” She pulled her hand from his and picked the letter up from the rickety paint-splattered side table.
Sam took it from her, his face a mirage of questions “Oh… okay.” He put the letter down and wandered away with only a vague flicker of interest. “What happened in that letter was over one hundred and fifty years ago. A tragedy, sure, but nothing I can fix or do anything about. Besides, we need to go.” He tossed her a plastic bag.
“What’s this?”
“Your new clothes. We leave in fifteen minutes.”
Danger Deception Devotion The Firsts Page 80
