One Last Time

by Denise Daisy

  His face is close to mine, causing a burning sensation in my belly. We stare at each other, not saying a word. The storm I see raging inside his beautiful gray eyes tells me this is not just some scientific time-travel experiment. No, this is something deeply personal. If eyes are the window to the soul, then I am peering into his, but before I can get a good look at what is truly inside, he closes the curtains, retaining his secrecy. He lets me go and changes the subject. Motioning to the basin on a marble tabletop, he suggests I clean up, and then points to some additional packages in the corner. There, I find several more dresses and accessories.

  I clean up in silence, pouring water into the basin and using the soaps provided on the table. I wish I could wash my hair, but I can’t. Too much hair and too small of a sink. Instead, I tie it down with ribbons, fashioning it in a loose braid that I sweep over to my right, letting it fall past my shoulder. I leave a few loose tendrils framing my face.

  Dabbing some perfume behind my ears and between my breasts, I take a look at the other dresses. They are full skirts like the one I’m wearing. Lying next to them is a corset and a hoop skirt, along with several pairs of panties. He thought of everything, but there is no way in hell I’m wearing a corset. I glance over at Quillan, who has been lying across the bed, staring up at the ceiling, as if he were in deep meditation. He’s not paying attention to me, and as tempting as he is, I still have no desire to strip down in front of him. I take refuge behind a decorative, three-paneled room divider. My dress of choice is a deep burgundy. I chose it because it seems to have less fabric than the others. The neckline is lower and squared off. There are no sleeves, only black mesh gloves that go halfway up my arms. This has to be much cooler than heavy sleeves. Still, there is the problem of those dang shoes.

  I have an idea. I can hide my feet under my hoop skirt and forego the shoes. The dress is so long, I am sure I can get away without wearing any. Nearly knocking over the room divider, I present myself to Quillan. His face softens in agreement. He does a quick change himself, dressing in nice Southern-gentleman attire. He pulls his lovely hair back into a ponytail, and we are off.

  The Faulkner Estate gives me the creeps, no matter what time period I am in. It’s decorated beautifully, though, and I am relieved to know the soiree is taking place outside, so there will be no need to enter the formidable mansion. Dozens of tables sit around the lawn, covered with white linen cloths, decorated with yellow tulips, and laden with food. Pitchers of lemonade and tea are on each table, as well as egg-salad sandwiches, pulled-pork barbecue on home-baked buns, deviled eggs, leafy salads, heavily frosted cakes, and baked pies. Slices of watermelon along with baskets of fresh raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, and strawberries complement the desserts. The only time I’ve seen a spread of this caliber is in the Country Living magazine at my momma’s shop. My mouth waters. I haven’t eaten since the bread and jam in the cave this morning. The pages of delicious food have come to life, and I can’t wait to dig in.

  We stroll past a group of musicians assembled near a weeping willow tree, performing a lively tune on their banjos, violins, and harmonicas. Most of the children are playing tag and chasing each other through the trees while some of the adults are engaged in a competitive game of croquet. Quilts litter the lawn, welcoming those who wish to recline and eat their meal picnic-style. Those who prefer not to sit on the ground have a choice of wicker chairs or wooden rockers.

  I realize the motivation behind the big shindig when a mammoth cake supporting seventeen candles is unveiled. The pretty young woman with fiery-red hair I saw scurry up the staircase in the mansion last night is all smiles as she scoops up a dollop of frosting from the side of the cake and licks it off her finger. Today must be Emily Faulkner’s birthday. I watch her flitter about, laughing and greeting her guests. It’s hard to imagine her hanging herself a month from now. It’s sad really. Suicide is something I’ve never been able to understand. No matter how bad it gets, there’s always hope.

  We load our china plates with food and take a seat on a beautiful quilt under the low hanging branches of an oak. Several women look our way, eyeing Quillan. I’m not surprised. He is a hottie. I scold myself for being attracted to him, too. This is one of those instances where I need to be smart and guard my heart. He’s wealthy and no doubt super intelligent, seeing he understands concepts of time travel. I sigh, defeated. He is definitely out of my league.

  As the afternoon wears on, Quillan suggests we mingle. I oblige, and we stroll along the grassy lawn having meaningless conversation with people we will more than likely never interact with again. I take this entire exercise lightly until Quillan mentions we might be meeting our ancestors. The idea never dawned on me before, so I spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if I might locate my mother’s family.

  It doesn’t take long before we happen upon a group discussing the latest political events. Dread overtakes me when I see Mr. Potbelly and his portly wife standing amongst the small crowd. My eye is on Potbelly, so I don’t pay much attention to the tall gentleman with his back to us.

  “There’s the Negro sympathizer I was telling you about,” Potbelly says with an air of confidence now that his friends surround him. “This young woman thought it would be all right for my Negro to sit on a white person’s bench and drink from her flask.” I can tell Quillan wants to bypass this group. Before we can skirt the issue, the tall gentleman turns around to face me. I gasp. Forget Mr. Potbelly. Smiling at me with his hand extended is the one and only, Mr. Brackett! My knees buckle as I teeter backward toward Quillan. Putting his arm around me and drawing me close, he steadies me. The way he slightly turns me toward him is an indication he doesn’t want me to say anything. Before I can find my voice, Mr. Brackett stifles anything I have to say by lifting my hand to his mouth and kissing it.

  “James Faulkner.” He introduces himself. “Nice to meet you.”

  Chapter 14

  Quillan has got some explaining to do. He doesn’t seem at all surprised that Mr. Brackett and James Faulkner are one and the same. He’s definitely been hiding some valuable information from me, and I intend to get to the bottom of it tonight.

  “My lands, dear, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Elizabeth Faulkner points out, not realizing she just won the grand prize with the observation. Quillan shakes Mr. Faulkner’s hand, a diversion, I’m sure, to keep me from responding to Mrs. Faulkner. “Name’s Quillan Robison. This is my wife, Averie Griffin Robison. She is the granddaughter of Allen T. Griffin. He has sent me down your way to perhaps open a savings and loan right here in town. It’s been a long trip, not to mention we just found out she’s expecting. I’m afraid she’s been a little moody with the heat taking its toll on her fragile condition today.”

  Expecting? Now he’s gone too far. His manipulative lie plays out perfectly before my eyes. Allen T. Griffin must be a well-respected man, because the mention of the name turns the men to putty in Quillan’s hand. Not only that, but everyone seems to view me in a much different light now. Everyone smiles at me since Quillan and I will own the company that will provide them with loans. Once again, the almighty dollar sets the rules of the game.

  “This certainly explains why she attacked me with my own walking stick.” Potbelly is making an attempt at humor, but he doesn’t know I’m better at this game than he is.

  “Well I figured if Congressman Brooks can attack Charles Sumner right there on the senate floor, then it would be okay for me to give it a try.”

  Mr. Faulkner roars with laughter, and the other men follow his lead. Quillan’s eyes smile at me, and I know I did well. Being a history buff has its advantages. I know that little incident happened not long ago, right after Sumner gave a speech blaming the pro-slavery forces for the violence going on in Kansas. I never thought the information would come in handy anywhere but on a test. I am exonerated for my shenanigan in town.

  “Emily dear, why don’t you take Averie down by the river. It’s much c
ooler over there,” Elizabeth Faulkner suggests to her daughter.

  “Yes, Momma.” Emily seems more than eager to whisk me away. If she’s anything like me, she’s ready to escape the political mumbo jumbo. I leave Quillan and follow Emily across the property. It’s an eerie feeling walking alongside this legendary character, so full of life. Her perfect bow lips smile as she acknowledges her admiring guests, wiggling her delicate fingers in the air in a friendly wave. She’s stunning, that’s for sure. It’s obvious she lives a life of privilege. I’ve never seen a girl near my age so perfect and put together. Her ivory skin is flawless. I bet she is meticulous, never exposing it to direct sunlight, unlike the girls back home who spend their entire summer lying out in the sun at the local pool. Even now, she totes a parasol, shading herself from the harsh rays. Her deep red hair heightens her blue-gray eyes as it cascades in curls halfway down her back.

  While I am in awe of her beauty, she turns to me, taking me completely off guard. “You are beautiful. I can see why the men have been stealing glances at you all afternoon.”

  Stunned, I have no idea how to respond to that statement. It doesn’t matter because she rattles on until we arrive at a charming gazebo down by the rushing water.

  “Everybody’s talking about what you did in town this morning. You have a lot of spunk, that’s for sure. I have wanted to hit Mr. Butler over the head with his walking stick many times, but I would never have enough courage to do something like that. I think you must be the bravest girl I’ve ever met. Why, even offering a Negro a seat on a white bench is daring, to say the least.”

  I’m the most courageous person she’s ever met? I want to laugh. Clearly, Miss Emily Faulkner doesn’t know me.

  “And I can tell you’re smart, too.” She continues with her hero worship. “I’ve never heard any of the women talking politics, and you just spouted off something about our congressman and made my daddy laugh. What I’d give to be able to do something like that.”

  Her accolades are making me uncomfortable, so I attempt to defer the honor. “I see the way your father admires you. I am sure you make him laugh all the time.”

  She’s quiet now. Her happy hostess face has transformed to sorrow. We take our rest on a decorative wooden bench that sits in the center of the gazebo. She stares off across the river, her mind drifting away, meditating on a dark secret that torments her. A feeling of gloom invades the balmy summer evening. I witness Emily peeking inside of death’s door. She’s contemplating it, I know. I can sense her despondency—it’s whispering in her ear, filling her mind with lies of hopelessness. I know the gaze. I wore it the day Momma took me and left daddy. I wore it again the afternoon his receptionist turned me away. I sat on the curb outside his office, staring off into space until the sky turned dark. I didn’t see how life would ever get any better for me. My own father refused me, and with that rejection, I couldn’t see myself worth anything, let alone lovable or wanted by anyone. That’s when fear moved in, taking residence, convincing me no one would ever want me, and I would be alone the rest of my life.

  I want to talk with her. I want to tell her she takes her own life a month from now, but as usual, I am afraid. How could she ever believe I am from the future? I fear if I say anything, I will ruin Quillan’s plan, even though he admits he doesn’t really have one. Still, I don’t think blurting out that I am a time traveler would be the best course of action. Again, she interrupts my musings with her sweet Southern accent. “Your husband is dreadfully handsome. I suppose you love him a lot.”

  Now this, I am not sure how to respond to. Yes, he is very hot, but as far as loving him…

  “Yes, I do.” I smile, keeping up the charade.

  “How did you two meet?” she asks, keeping her eyes cast far across the river as if she’s looking for something. Who does she think she’s fooling? She doesn’t care how we met. She’s just making small talk, biding her time. I’ve been treated this way before so I know how it works. It happened a lot back in high school. Someone would sit next to me in the lunchroom just because they didn’t want to be seen as a loner. They would offer idle chitchat but the entire time they looked past me, at the door, waiting for someone better to come along. Then they’d excuse themselves, no matter where I was in my story. I hated it then, and I hate it now.

  “We met at a dinner party.” I keep it as truthful and simple as possible so not to contradict myself later. I don’t know why I’m being cautious, she’s not listening anyway. Since I am playing make-believe, I’d love to embellish the story and come up with some wonderful, romantic, chance meeting. Come to think of it, the way we met was exceptional and a bit romantic. My stomach does that warm burning sensation when I think of Quillan grabbing my hand and pulling me into the passageway. He saved my life. I wonder why since he allowed the other dinner guests to remain behind, sealing their fate.

  “You’re smiling,” she says, and I’m surprised she noticed.

  She pulls her attention from the woods and focuses in on me. “You are in love. That’s nice.”

  My cheeks grow hot. I want to deny her claims, but then it would be odd, so I smile and play along. “Yes, yes I am.”

  “And you’re having a baby.” She continues on, returning her gaze across the water.

  I smile and nod. “That’s what they tell me.”

  She laughs. “You’re funny. I like that.”

  Her eyes widen, and I see anticipation spread across her face. I follow her gaze except I can’t see what excites her. Slightly raising the hem of her dress, she turns to leave. “Will you excuse me a few minutes, Miss Averie? I have a little errand to run. I’ll be back shortly.”

  I nod and watch as she gracefully glides along the grass, making her way down the riverbank. She disappears into the thick trees lining the back of the property. It’s still hot as hell, even in the gazebo. I lift my hem much higher than Miss Emily did and wade out into the water. My feet sink in the soft, cold mud. The water feels like heaven on my ankles. I splash out a bit farther, stepping on smooth stones, the clear, cool water rushing over my feet. What I’d give to strip down right here, dive in, and swim. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to skinny dip. Of course, I’ve always been too afraid of being caught. Instead, I lift my skirt as high as I can and step out a bit deeper, fording the stream one rock at a time. I step into the shade where the big oaks line the bank. The rocks are green, covered with moss. It’s been a long time since I went wading, long enough for me to forget how slick the wet algae can be.

  I slip and plunge into the rushing water. I try to get my footing, but the river is deep and the current swift. I would have a chance of swimming out if I weren’t wearing this ridiculous dress. The weight of the fabric holds me down, pulling me under. I fight the rapids, but the rushing water tosses me like a piece of driftwood, trapping me in a current and floating me farther downstream. My heart thunders against my chest as the river rushes over my face, obstructing my view, filling my mouth and nostrils. I struggle to keep my head above water while trying to grab some of the low tree branches, but the fast flowing stream rips them from my hands.

  My next frantic thought is to somehow remove my damn dress, but it’s impossible with the water tossing me about in such a way, giving me no control. Fear takes over, screaming in my ear that I am drowning. This terror does nothing but weaken me more. I thrash around in the water, fighting against the morbid thought, determined to survive this horrifying ordeal. All I can hear is fear, hissing in my ear, telling me it’s useless. Give up. It mocks my attempts. The property is cursed. Death dwells here. These rivers run with the blood of those who came before me. Life may not trespass, and when it tries, it will be snuffed out.

  My heart thunders above the raging water. I am convinced evil inhabits this house and is what pushed me in, knowing all too well, I am here to help stop Lunar’s death. “No,” I scream, fighting back, not conceding defeat for me or Lunar. My back scrapes up against a jagged boulder th
at tears through my dress and into my skin. Sharp pain radiates through my body as the rock cuts into my flesh. With all the strength I can muster, I grab the rock and cling to it like a life preserver. Water slaps at my face, trying to push me off my life raft, but I hold on tight. I will not let the malevolence wash me away. I’m trembling, exhausted, and not sure how long I can hang on. What I need to do is climb on top of the rock, instead of just clutching it, but unfortunately, I have no strength left. Laying my head against the side of the boulder, I cling to life. It hasn’t been much, I know, but it’s my life, and there is always hope for a better day.

  Something soft and warm wraps around my waist. Before I realize what is happening, my rescuer pulls me off the rock. I struggle, but I hear someone quietly say, “Calm down, I got you.” It’s a man’s voice, but it doesn’t belong to Quillan, so I have no idea who has gently towed me across the water and is now carrying me up onto the grassy bank. It doesn’t matter. Whoever it is saved my life, and I am thankful to be on dry ground. I cough uncontrollably, gagging on river water as I lay in the tall grass. Exhausted, I stare up into the late-afternoon sky and see a blurred silhouette of the one who pulled me out of the river. I turn my head and raise my trembling arm, shielding the orange glow of the setting sun from my eyes. I want to see the face of my rescuer, the one who braved the waters, looked death in the face and said, “You are not taking her today.”

  My eyes adjust. I see a shirtless Lunar Wilson sitting in the tall grass beside me.

  Chapter 15

  I want to sit up and hug Lunar with what strength I have left and thank him profusely, but I am weak. Besides, the weight of my dress holds me down. “Thank you,” I choke out, amidst coughing up river water. He doesn’t say anything, just sits beside me and stares me in the eye. Beads of water roll off his bronzed skin and drip from his long dreadlocks. His features are fierce, and his eyes intimidating. Funny thing is, I am not afraid of him, but then again, why should I be? He risked the current to pull me to safety. His eyes bore into me as if he is trying to decide whether or not rescuing me was a good idea. I can see why Emily is drawn to him. His muscles bulge, sculpting his dark skin. He is in optimum shape, no doubt from hard labor. Mr. Faulkner more than likely abuses him, treats him no better than a workhorse, and overlooks the brilliant mind behind his eyes. I can see it, and I am sure Emily does, too.