The Ivory Key

by Rita Clay Estrada

  “No,” she snapped. “I hate to burst your bubble, buster, but I'm not your 'chérie'. I am who I say I am, and this is almost the I990s. The state is called Minnesota and is part of the United States of America. You are dead, and I am not.” She hesitated. The confusion on his face was obvious. He thought she had gone mad. “In your time, whenever it was, no woman would take off all her clothes and run about in the rain. In my time, it is possible.”

  He put a hand to his brow. “Mon Dieu, chérie. We are not in the future. This is the year 1762. Has that bump affected your memory? Perhaps it is worse than I first believed.” Once more he tried to gather her into his aims, but she resisted again.

  “No!” she shouted. “You don't understand! I'm the one who belongs here, not you! This is my time, not yours!” He continued to hold on to her arms, dragging her inexorably against his broad chest. Frantically she glanced around, searching for a weapon, any weapon she could use against him. Suddenly she stopped struggling and he stopped pulling, watching her carefully, warily. Her thoughts buzzed. What weapons do you use against a ghost? Her cross?

  As if in slow motion, her hand rose to locate the chain at her neck. It was still there, the gold cross suspended from it. Armand followed her hand with his eyes, his sturdy grip loosening a bit to permit her slow movement. Their eyes locked, brown eyes staring into blue.

  Then she remembered. Crosses were useful only against vampires, not ghosts. Her mind began whirling once more. “I'll prove it to you,” she whispered.

  “How?”

  “Let me get my running suit.”

  “Running suit? What is this . . . running suit?”

  “That's the clothing I was wearing when I was coming up the hill. It was soaking wet and heavy, so I took it off, but it shouldn't be more than thirty feet from here.”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then apparently decided to humor her. “I will go with you.”

  Another lightning bolt crackled across the sky as he stood up. The rain suddenly turned to a light, misty drizzle. He reached down and clasped her hands to help her stand. For the tiniest moment she was desperate to pry her hands from his; his grip was too sure, too frightening. He was also much too male, and that reminded her of the days and nights in Central America. Intense fear, and a bad bump on the head, had made her queasy. The mixture was far too volatile for her to cope with readily. But before she could protest, he released her hands and was at her side, a deepening frown silently questioning her next move.

  She wrapped his coat more tightly around her and walked along the path that led down the hill. After sloping downward, the path leveled off for about ten feet, creating a small plateau. Her running-suit top was lying there in the mud, its brilliant blue turned to a rusty brown from soil and rain.

  She picked it up, wringing it out as best she could, stalling for time. But when she turned to go back up the hill, she found him right behind her.

  He stood quietly, hands braced on his hips, one leg splayed out as he adjusted his balance on the slanting hill. He looked so rugged. His wet shirt clung, outlining every muscle. His dark gold pants were nearly as tight as a woman's hose, and they disappeared into the shiny black calf-hugging Hessian boots just below his knees. Without his elegant gold braided jacket he looked more like a pirate than an officer of the French army. He was also looking very angry and a touch confused.

  “All right, my Faith. What is it about this filthy lump of material that will prove your delusions are correct?”

  “This,” She held out the front of the jacket.

  He bent his head, staring intently. His long, elegant fingers probed the fabric, rubbing the damp velour sensually.

  Hope shook the material. “Not the fabric, the zipper.”

  “The what?”

  He was humoring her again, even though they both knew he wasn't understanding half the words she used.

  “The zipper,” she explained patiently. “The fastening that closes this garment was invented m the early twentieth century and is used on almost all clothing now.” She gathered the bottom edges of the jacket and fastened them together, then lifted the tab and pulled. “See?”

  He took the garment from her hands, studying it closely before trying the zipper himself. Without looking at her, he tried it several times, muttering under his breath. He spoke absently, as if she were there only to answer his questions. “Did the French invent this?”

  “Good grief,” she groaned. “I don't know, and that's not important! The point is that it was invented after you were gone!”

  As if insulted, he stiffened, his blue eyes focusing on her. “The French have long been the leaders of fashion. We are very proud of that, and so should you be, my Faith, if you are to become French.”

  She smiled sweetly, although her eyes shot sparks of gold fire at him. “I'm not going to be. And my name is Hope.”

  For the first time, she could see that he was beginning to doubt his own convictions. Not that everything she had said made sense to him, but at least some of it seemed to be getting through. Suddenly she remembered her original reason for coming up the hill.

  “Oh! Come here!” she exclaimed, forgetting to hold the uniform coat together as she grabbed his hand and began running up the hill, dragging him behind her. “I’ll show you!”

  There it was. The photograph she had dropped in the moss at the base of the rock was soggy and muddy, but it could still be used to prove the difference between his time and hers. “See? This is what I came up here for! I took this yesterday along with some others. It's of you!” Her hands shook as she wiped them on his jacket and handed him the photo.

  His dark blue eyes clouded as he studied the photo. Cautiously he looked at the back of the flimsy paper, then at the front again. Suddenly he froze, his gaze seeking out the smoky figures that she had first seen. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. “What is this called?”

  “A photograph.”

  “And how do you make it?”

  “I aim my camera and click open the lens. The camera holds the image of whatever I shoot on something called film, which absorbs the light and leaves an image.” She explained the process, even though she knew he didn't really understand. “How long does that take?”

  She realized he couldn’t possibly absorb all that she was saying. How could he when he didn't even know what a camera was? “About a second or two to take the picture, then another hour to develop it.”

  His eyes narrowed, burning her with blue flame. “Are you making a fool of me? Is this a joke?”

  Slowly she shook her head. She could understand his reluctance to believe. Wouldn't she feel the same way if she were in his shoes? “No. This is what I do for a living.”

  “Mon Dieu,” he whispered. He leaned against the rock and stared at the evidence in his hands. “This is not seventeen and sixty-two.”

  “No.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Her toes curled into the wet moss.

  He looked at her, his eyes filled with despair. “And even though you are her image, you are not my Faith.”

  “No,” she whispered, somehow wishing that she were, wishing she could erase the awful hurt in his eyes.

  “And yet I am alive.”

  Hope didn't answer. She didn't know what to say.

  But he persisted. “Feel me! Feel my heart! Am I alive to you? Do I not breathe the air you breathe, touch the things you touch?” He grabbed her hand and thrust it to his chest. His heartbeat was strong and sturdy.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was abating, leaving behind a dreary, overcast day. Even the drizzle had stopped.

  “I see you. I feel you. But I don’t know if you're alive or not.” Her eyes pleaded for him to understand her confusion, but he was too immersed in his own misery to help her. She sighed, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “Come back to the house with me. We'll talk this over while I get warm.”

  He stared at the photograph in his hand, then nodded his head. “Oui
, we will do that.”

  Her bare feet dragged through the soaked moss and wet leaves as she led the way toward the path. She knew he was following behind her because she could feel his presence, just as she had as a child, and as she had lately. It was a strong, gentle presence that seemed to care for her.

  They edged carefully down the hill, Hope leading their parade of two toward the bottom of the hill, and the house. Just before she reached level ground, she heard his curse and spun around to see him standing stock-still, hands held in front of him, palms toward her.

  “What's the matter?” She walked back two steps until she was within touching distance of him.

  “I cannot go farther.” His voice was dark with surprise and frustration. He moved his palms in the air as if he was banging against something. His actions reminded Hope of a mime she had once seen in New York. He had pretended there was a wall of glass between him and the audience. Only Armand was no mime. . . .

  Reaching out tentatively, she touched the front of his shirt. The barrier disappeared. “Come, hold my hand.”

  He tried, but couldn't reach it until he had stepped back a pace.

  “Now try,” she coaxed, trying to remain calm even though her mind was whirling. What in hell was happening?

  He stepped forward, only to be stopped again. His dark blue eyes shot sparks of frustration, and Hope swore there were tears filming his eyes. Then he closed them and lifted his face to the heavens, breathing deeply. When he opened them again, he was staring at her, his eyes once more revealing total desolation. “I am dead.” It was no longer a question. It was the answer.

  “Try again.”

  He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “It will not work. I am dead, and I am nothing more than a haunting. I must stay here. I know that now.”

  “No!” she cried, tugging on his hand. She wanted him with her in the house. She wanted him by her side. But it was no use. The invisible wall was still there, and he was caught on the other side.

  Tears of frustration ran down her cheeks, mingling with the dampness on her skin. She bowed her head, not even trying to hide her own emotions.

  He pulled her hand as he took several steps backward, drawing her into the warm comfort of his arms. “Never mind, chérie, I should have known. Even the countryside looks different, now that I study it carefully.” He pressed the side of her face against his shirt, and she could hear the steady pounding of his heart. “Truly, I think I did know this thing, but I did not want to admit it.”

  She sniffled. “Why?”

  “Because I thought you were my Faith, and God was sweet and merciful enough to return you to me.”

  “What happens now?” She leaned away, embarrassed at her lack of restraint. If she was decadent enough to run around naked, she should be worldly-wise enough to handle meeting a gentlemanly ghost!

  He gave a small sad smile and a wry Gallic shrug. “Who knows, chérie? Perhaps I will be here like this for all of eternity. Mayhap I will disappear again tonight and yet find my Faith waiting for me.”

  “But why are you here? There must be a reason. There's always a reason!”

  “Oh? And how many ghosts have you known?” He smoothed back her hair, cradling her face gently in his large, strong hands.

  “None,” she finally admitted.

  “Not even one or two?”

  She couldn't help the smile that dimpled her cheeks. “No.”

  He responded by allowing the twinkle in his blue eyes to warm her. “Then I am the first?”

  “Yes,” she said, chuckling. This was so damn funny, it was ludicrous! Here she was, stark naked under an old French army jacket, and talking to a ghost!

  “Alors. We are even. You are the first person I have spoken to since I have been a ghost.”

  Her brows shot up. “How do you know?” she asked. “I mean, if you didn't realize you were a ghost until a few minutes ago, how could you know to whom you've talked over the centuries?”

  Amusement still sparkled in his eyes. “I just know. That is all I would have remembered, just as I am beginning to remember other things.” He stared over her shoulder across the water toward the distant shore-line.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I did not know for sure whether or not my Faith would defy her father and come to me. I was certain of my love, but I was not sure of hers.”

  He must feel such pain from waiting and not knowing if his patience had been in vain, Hope thought. So many questions popped into her head, questions to which there were no answers. But somehow she would get answers, she was sure. “Armand, stay on the hill. I'm going to clean up and get dressed. Then I'll fix a meal and bring it out to eat with you.”

  His eyes focused on hers once more bringing them both back to the present, and she felt a velvet arrow of warmth plummet toward her stomach. “Good,” he said. “Because I am starved!”

  “I don't know, but I'm sure all the etiquette books state that ghosts aren't supposed to get hungry.”

  “Well, this one is,” he said with certainty.

  She grinned cheekily as she turned and strolled, with increasing purposefulness, the rest of the way to the house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Her smile faded quickly to a frown when Hope closed the door behind her. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the cool wood and listened to the silence of the house. Okay, she was crazy. Central America had driven her over the brink, and Armand's presence was a delayed reaction to the mental strain. She had become too relaxed, too casual about her recovery, and her mind was beginning to play devious little tricks on her.

  Her eyes popped open. No. He had been real. As real as she was. She tiptoed to the window over the sink and stared out toward the base of the hill. He was gone.

  She'd been right the first time. She was crazy. Her heart beat in double time. Now she was frightened of herself.

  Had that whole scene—Armand, the thunderstorm, his inability to leave the hill—had it all been imaginary? Had she wanted so badly to believe that there were good men to contrast with the beasts who had been her captors these past months? Could it have been her mind's way of finding some semblance of sanity in this insane world?

  Hope slumped into a wooden chair at the kitchen table. Resting her head on her arms, she closed her eyes. She rubbed her cheek against the coarse fabric of Armand's coat and smelled rain, damp earth and his own indefinable scent.

  Suddenly her head shot up. She had his jacket! Maybe he was a ghost, but she hadn't dreamed him up! She slipped the coat off and studied it more carefully. Even as she was staring at it, it began to age, tiny threads dissolving and tattering, its color fading from bright gold to a dingy peach brown. Once-shiny silver-and-gold braiding on the shoulders and sleeves tarnished to a dirty gray. She smoothed her hand along a sleeve as it transformed slowly to a shabby rag before her eyes. Tears filmed her vision, and she lifted the jacket to her nose again. His scent was still there. Through the tears came her smile.

  Clutching the jacket to her breast, she ran upstairs. She turned on the bathtub taps, then grabbed a pair of jeans and a dark brown sweater from her bedroom.

  Carefully placing the jacket on the small counter next to the sink so she could keep an eye on it, she stepped into the steaming bath.

  As she sank into the water, it dawned on her that she felt warm for the first time since she had pulled away from the soldier's—Armand's—strong arms. That thought sent a shiver down her spine. She sunk lower into the water, tipped her head back and washed her hair.

  Okay, big girl. Now what?

  Faith. A young woman who couldn't choose between her father and her lover. Apparently she hadn't had the courage to buck her father to be with the man she loved. Hadn't she realized that what her soldier felt for her was more than most women ever glimpsed in an entire lifetime?

  Hope shook her head. Here she was, getting all wrapped up in a romantic love story when it had no bearing on her. In fact his damn story was more than two hundred y
ears old!

  She shivered again and climbed out of the tub, wrapping a large blue bath sheet around herself. It took her less than five minutes to dress, but it was twenty minutes before her thick mane of hair was dry. Then another ten minutes to find something she could put together that resembled a picnic. Her menu included a $3.99 California Chablis, four peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches on whole wheat, and some carrot and celery sticks, along with a plastic tub of onion dip.

  Grinning, she looked over the items spread out on the wooden kitchen table. She hoped he wasn't a French-food gourmet; if he was, she was in serious trouble. Creams and sauces were definitely not her thing. Besides, they were fattening.

  What was she thinking of? Since Central America, her jeans hung loose on her hips. Perhaps she should attempt to eat some fattening foods. Heaven knew, she could use the extra weight.

  Throwing her goodies into a grocery bag along with some plastic glasses, she searched around for a tablecloth. Then she remembered and raced upstairs, not bothering to catch her breath as she ran to the old trunk in the spare bedroom. Dragging the stuff out to litter the floor, she finally found what she was looking for: a plastic-lined sheet her mother had bought and never used. It was clean, scented by the wild lilies of the valley her mother used to pick and dry. Perfect.

  In another five minutes she was packed and out the door, walking briskly toward the path to the top of the hill.

  Would he still be there, or had he disappeared as quickly as he had come? Questions multiplied and grew. For every answer, another million questions sprouted in her mind.

  She climbed the hill slowly, beginning to believe that she would be picnicking by herself. He would be gone, and she'd be alone on the hill, just as she had been before.