Rose for Rose: Book Two in the Angels' Mirror Series (24 page)

It had to be something like that.

“I know, I know… closest to my age now that I’ve transported and am stuck with… I mean I’m stuck in the here and now. I mean…. Oh, never mind,” the girl replied. “I better go. We have more things to do before I have to leave. I want to go say goodbye to the Iglesiases. I don’t know who I’ll miss more… them, or all you guys.”

Edward could hear a choking in the girl’s voice, and wondered if she was crying, or still trying to hold back the tears. “Alright then,” he said, then frowned as he realized she’d already hung up in the space it took him to formulate his words.

With a sigh, he stopped to swipe a hand across his face. He had to get himself in check so he could call the Henleighs and update them, too.

It took a couple of minutes before he was composed enough to make the call. Finally, he dialed and Ronin answered. “Hi, Edward, who you callin’ for,” the young man said as soon as he answered.

“Either of your parents will do, but I think your mother might be the better of the two for this conversation,” he replied.

As Ronin traipsed through the house to search for his mother, the other guests in the waiting room stopped talking and began to gather their things. By the time Tom said “hello,” they were gone.

“Edward? Hello there. Sorry, but Tawny’s at work. She had to switch days with someone, so she’s at
Sue’s Beauty Parlor
,” the man informed him. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I just wanted to tell you guys Me’chelle’s gone into labor. We’re at the hospital, and they’ve admitted her. And Cherish and some of the other babies from the nursery were running temperatures, so we’re hoping none of them are sick.”

The words were more of a blurt than anything else. As much as Edward like Tom, he wasn’t always sure how to talk with him.

Perhaps because he was so much more down to earth and creative than most other men he knew, but still had a scatter-braininess about him, at times, too; Edward knew the man could be trusted, without a doubt, to pray.

“I can call and tell Tawny for you, if you want, or I can give you the number. I’ve got it here… somewhere,” his friend replied. “Hey, Ronin! Go find your mother’s work number in the kitchen. I think it should be under one of them magnets,” he finished, speaking instead to his son.

“I actually have to get back in and check on the boys. I left them with Jason, Me’chelle, and Charlie in the room back there,” Edward said.

“Alright. So I’ll call her. She should be having a break soon, so I’ll call then. Do you know what room number ya’ll are in?”

He had forgotten to look!

His cheeks flushed red even though nobody was there, anymore. “I’ll call you back later on and give it to you. I didn’t happen to see. I just followed the nurse,” he said, trying to laugh off his faux pas.

“No problem. So, talk to you then,” Tom said, then hung up.

With a heavy sigh, Edward finally took a seat and tried to calm his nerves before trying to find the right room.

Thirty Five

Saint-Germain-en-Laye, France… August 18, 1695

James sighed as he wandered the grounds of the château compound, his mind reeling with a myriad of thoughts.

Mary’s words still rang in his head.
Sire… my husband… I just wanted to do what was right by your son. After all, we’ve hurt him enough, and this one thing might well help him live a better life in that future he’s in now. It’s almost as though… as though he lives in a parallel universe and the mirror is the key to the other worlds around us. Maybe, just maybe, it’s topped with an angel for a reason.

The words had been nothing but gibberish.

How could she have done this? Staked a claim in Edward’s future by telling him about his ancestry? Not that of his father, but of his mother.

The mother he himself had chosen to share as little as possible about.

Mary may be my wife, but she had absolutely no right to do that! Not that it can be changed now. What am I going to do, ask Sir Gaspar to seek out a secret compartment and destroy a letter written to a son that spoke of the twenty-first century as though it were today?

To do that would to be to publicly admit to infidelity, at least as far as when he’d been engaged to his first wife. There would be serious repercussions from that alone, let alone the stuff about the future!

Now was hardly the time or place to go talking to Sir Gaspar Delacroix Aiton about the mirror, his son, or this letter business.

It would just cause more trouble for everybody.

But what if the man – or someone else – found it before Edward did? And what if Edward never found it, and it passed him by, only to be found by someone in his new future, or even never found? Then it would all be a waste, and if anyone else saw it, it would ruin his reputation for the rest of eternity.

Not that it was stellar right now, anyway.

James found himself standing in front of the chapel, but couldn’t make himself go inside. Instead, he ran his hand along the nearby boxwoods and prayed there.

“Mary, you humble mother of God, I salute you. Hear my prayer, and pass it on to your holy Son, Jesus. Intercede for me, O Mary, for I have done great wrong,” he began, tears filling his eyes. “I…”

All of a sudden, it felt as though someone were watching him. His attention shifting from prayer, he looked about him to see who it might be.

A handful of Jacobites were milling about the gardens, but he didn’t see anyone in particular watching him. Maybe he was just being paranoid in his guilt.

“I… I’ve done wrong, Mother Mary. And I need Your Son’s help. You told people to do as He said, and people trusted Him, and obeyed you, Mary. I know you must still have a good influence on Him now, in heaven,” he began again. “So I ask you to… to have Him watch over my son; watch over Edward; poor Edward, who we’ve already buried and who I sometimes wish really were dead since that would make things easier to bear than this… separation from him. I don’t know if he ever knew I loved him, Mary. I don’t know if….”

Tears streamed down his cheeks and intermingled in his beard. He felt them trickle underneath the collar of his shirt, and still he didn’t try to wipe them away. He knew now why he had not entered the chapel in so long: his guilt had eaten away at him, and he hadn’t repented of his actions.

Burying his beloved son was the last thing he should have done. Erasing his memory was something that he couldn’t change, but it was finished. People hardly mentioned Edward anymore, aside from a few family members, and even that was few and far between now

Other than Mary, Louis, and Françoise, of course.

It was
they
who kept his memory alive still; not himself. And as the boy’s father, why did he think he could get away with refusing to believe… for so long, refusing to believe Edward might truly be alive?

But was he?

Was the surgery he’d gone through a success, or had his son died ahead of him, while still being so far behind him in time?

For a moment, he wished he hadn’t switched to Catholicism. Had he remained with his former beliefs, then he’d still be King, maybe; and if he was still King, then maybe Mary wouldn’t have gone looking for that antique mirror, because they wouldn’t have been in France. And then Edward would still be at his side, fighting the good fight, even to the death.

He sighed.

That sure was a lot of maybes.

Why continue to torture himself with the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ if they couldn’t do anything for anybody anymore?

Finally covering his face a moment, James wiped the palms of his hands on it, then scrubbed for a few moments to try to clear his mind and heart of all that had haunted him day and night since his son had disappeared.

So many of his children… most of them… had preceded him in death, and he prayed Edward hadn’t joined them….

Not that he’d ever know.

The chaplain stood at the door listening to the former king’s sobbing. Every few moments, he peered out at him to gauge his emotions.

What had happened that would cause James so much grief he would keep away from the church, and from chapel during the week? Did this have anything to do with the new woman at the château, or was it something else?

No, it couldn’t be,
he thought. James was acting like this since before Miss Roisin had come to town.

So what was it?

What was the secret of the King?

Was there anything he, himself, could do to help alleviate James’ pain and feelings of guilt?

The chaplain knew grief, guilt, and pain when he saw it… especially when it was someone he had come to know.

But what was it that caused the king a level of grief that would allow him to cry in public, where anyone might see him, instead of in private, at the chapel.

With a shrug of the shoulders, the chaplain turned back to cleaning the pews, trying not to think too much about the potential consequences to James’ life if something terrible had happened again.

After all,
he thought.
It’s bad enough that his children keep dying, and his wife and her new friend are here at chapel so much. That must be hard on him… feeling alone with so many people around to keep him company and to support him; or at least support what he stands for.

The dust from the back few pews astonished him as he did his best to keep from sneezing.

If only there were a better way; if only they had the… what?

Knowledge?

Peace?

Well, in any case, whatever it took to keep the room from collecting dust, where it was marring the beauty of the room.

He began thinking about what he knew the problem might be, and eventually just tried to shrug it off. Whatever King James’ needs were, he knew he couldn’t really do anything to save him from his thought life. Whatever the man may be tortured with was now something he and God would have to do together, on their own, perhaps with others, but together, nonetheless.

As the chaplain finished dusting the final pew, he sneezed anyway. Quickly walking over to the main doors, near where King James had been only a few minutes before, he swept them open and breathed in some fresh air.

Maybe if he propped them open, he could get rid of the musty smell that had been accumulating.

Thirty Six

Portland, Oregon… August 19, 2002

As Arthur pulled into the driveway, he noticed lights on in the kitchen.

What was happening? Dabney and Ken weren’t supposed to be back until later in the evening, were they? He rushed up the steps.

So helps me, if dey found dem… dem… dem tarts, I’ll… well, I’ll…I gotta do somethin’, and sho ’nuf quick!

No, he couldn’t think like that. What reason would they have to go into the basement?

But then, as he reached the door, he thought of the mirrors, and the clocks. They were Ken’s for his antiques business.

“Hey, man, who be there,” he called as he opened the door. “What gives?”

Soon, he heard Uncle Dabney from upstairs. “We gots back early, hear, Boy,” the man said, beginning to come down the stairs. “You gots a problem with us bein’ in our own home?”

Arthur guessed Dabney’s been in his room, since there wasn’t much else up there.

It wasn’t as though the man would be reading any of the hundreds of books his wife had left when she’d died. He hated reading… but insisted on keeping all her books up there in the extra space. Some nonsense about “feelin’ closer to her” that way…

Ken came into the room from the back of the house. “What kind of welcome is that, Young Man? This
is
our home, you know, and we told you it was possible we’d be back from conference early.”

The man’s grammar irritated Arthur.

Why did it have to show the deficiencies in his own; in Dabney’s? And the man’s voice itself! So much smoother; no rough edges. It wasn’t deep, but it wasn’t quite high, either.

It just… was.

And it just plain gave him the willies. In some ways, it almost reminded him of Mark Jeffries’.

“Hey there, Boy,” his uncle said again, giving him a hug. “Not quite the welcome I done ‘spected, but I guess we’ll take it. Thanks fo’ watchin’ the house fo’ us while we was gone.”

He said “gone” as though there were a “w” in it: it had always irritated Arthur, this weird adding of w sounds, but who was he to continually try to correct him?

He was just thankful that there were no signs the men had been to the basement – at least from their demeanors.

The men weren’t upset with him, just a little irritated at his response to their early arrival. He breathed a sigh of relief, and sat down on the dilapidated burgundy and white striped living room couch.

From there, he hoped they couldn’t hear the women if they tried to yell, but he’d done all he could to make sure they didn’t have energy for anything like that.

And that blasted Andrea with her baby… how come she still hadn’t…?

No. can’t be thinkin’ ‘bout that junk just now
, he told himself chidingly.
If I get too occ’pied wit my thoughts, they’ll know somthin’s up and begin to aks questins.

The men sat down on the couch across from him and started telling him about their conference.
Odd dat ol’ Dabney’d be inter’sted in antiques afta all these years. Mebbe a‘cause he be one now, too,
he told himself as he half-listened.

The thought brought a smile to his face as he continued to pretend he cared.

After about ten minutes, Arthur excused himself.

“Tired,” he said. “You’s probly tired, too, I ‘magine,” he finished, standing and stretching as though he had suddenly thought of rest.

“Well, Boy, then gets some sleep. See you in the mornin’, then. We c’ fill you in at breakfast. Ain’t no rush. You’ve heard a lot o’ it already. Wasn’t much we couldn’t fill you in on quick-like,” his uncle said, standing as well. “Actu’lly, I’s a little hungry. Might go make me a sammich or somethin’.”

With a start, Arthur moved to stop him. “Nah, ya don’ need t’ go ‘bout doin’ dat. I make somethin’ fer ya and fer Ken, too, iffen he be hungry,” he said quickly. “There’s stuff fo’ turkey on rye. I know ya likes turkey on rye, Uncle Dabney. So, Ken… whaddaya say?”

“Well, Arthur. I don’t process rye too well. If there were perhaps some gluten-free bread left in the freezer, like I usually keep, then that’d do just fine. And I don’t want any mustard on it. Just turkey and whatever kind of cheese is still good in the refrigerator, heated for a minute and a half in the microwave,” the man replied, combing a hand through his hair as he, too stood.

“I can do dat, yeah. You’s two jus’ relax; stay here, an’ I’ll be back a’fore ya knows it,” he replied and rushed toward the kitchen.

The sooner he got these sandwiches made, and the men had eaten them, the better. He’d take their plates back into the kitchen, then head downstairs to check on his prey.
Er, women,
he amended.
Can’t go thinkin’ of dem as prey,
he thought, scolding himself.
I start thinkin’ that way when they around, there’s bound to be somethin’ showin’ on my face.

He went about his task as quickly as he was able, rummaging through both the fridge and freezer until all the ingredients were found, and thanked God he kept a clean kitchen. The dishes were already washed that morning, so there wouldn’t be the added time of having to find something clean and wash it.

He grabbed a couple plates from the cabinet, a knife from the butcher block, and sliced the turkey as thin as he was able. Then, he sliced some Brie and camembert to add to Ken’s sandwich and some Brie for his uncle before hurriedly tossing one plate after the other into the microwave to heat them.

Once they were both finished, Arthur reached for a couple of the cheap napkins Dabney always kept in a pile on the table and rushed back into the living room to hand off the sandwiches.

As usual, the heat from the plates bit into his fingers, as he’d used the napkins as a kind of buffer.

Mebbe iffen I don’ act panic and rush while I wait fo’ dem dere plates,
he thought,
dey won’ suspec there be anythin’ wrong goin’ on. ‘Cause I sure’s don’ need no mo’ drama dan I done gots.

He smiled, more to himself than to Dabney or Ken.

So, tink, Arthur, tink… tink ‘bout somethin’ complete differnt, ‘cause dat Ken sho can pick up on da scent o’ anythin’ not quite right
, he told himself as he watched the men eat. With a shake of his head, he tried to focus his attentions elsewhere.

Well, I ain’t heared from Mark in… how long it been? Well, a few days, a’least. Thought he was gonna meet me fo’ lunch today, but… well, maybe I should call him up an’ see what’s up wit dat, but…
.
Nah, no need tonight
, he told himself
. I worry about dat t’morrow after I take care of bui-ness. Gotta tink o’ somethin’ else… can’t get no sour looks on ma face.

Arthur concentrated and finally, his mind settled on trying to figure out what he’d do once he no longer had his basement problem anymore. Somethin’ to do once he didn’t have an Andrea problem, or a Rosemary problem, either.

Mebbe I jus’ hit da beach fo’ a week or two, or somethin’
, he thought.
Can’t hurt none to do dat, and gets me gone from here fo’ a min’te.

His mother owed him that much… shouldn’t she let him spend some time at Grandfather Arthur’s old beach house in Garibaldi?

That was it….

Since he couldn’t leave the state, he could at least… loaf a bit.

He smiled and tried to ignore the chewing sounds Ken was making.

“Whatcha standin’ here for, Boy,” his uncle asked him. “Thought you was tired and off t’bed.”

“Figure I jus’ wait fo’ you plates. Kitchen’s cold, Unc, so what’s good if you go in there? ‘Sides, I don’t mind so much. I just did them dishes this mornin’ and figure I’ll do these so they still all clean ‘fore I head to bed.”

Cold?

Why had he said it was cold?

It was the middle of August, for goodness sakes.

“Whatever are you talking about,” Ken asked. “I was in there ten minutes before you walked in the door, and I was roasting like a pig as much in there as in here, or more. You hiding something, Arthur?”

The man set his plate down, the sandwich mostly eaten. He could have been finished in less than half a minute if Arthur hadn’t put his foot in his mouth.

“Hidin’ somethin’? He bes’ not be hidin’ nothin’ in
my
house, that’s fo’ sure,” Uncle Dabney nearly yelled as he slammed his plate down.

The crust skittered to the floor, but none of them moved to pick it up.

After a quick step backward, Arthur moved toward the men. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, fast as a river coursing downstream. His heart beat in triple time for a few moments as he tried to calm himself.

“A’course not. It’s jus’ not as hot here as it was where I been most of the las’ few years, and sos… sos, I jus’ been cold in dere,” he said, trying to keep calm. “Dat’s all.”

If they knew what he had hidden in the basement, he’d be back in prison quicker than a jackrabbit crossing the road in the heat of the day.

“Boy, you
hidin’
somethin’,” his uncle asked again. “Dis be the last time I’ll ask ya, and den, iffen I need to, I’ll search this who’ place to figure out what it be if you still don’ sound convincin’ t’ me.”

What did he mean, he’d search the place? Arthur sensed his throat tighten and his heart beat even more rapidly. What was he gonna do? Would he have to…?

What would he do?

With a few deep breaths to calm himself, Arthur finally spoke. “Now, Uncle Dabney, you know me better’n dat, dontcha? Dat I woun’t do nothin’ to disrespectcha in your own crib like dat? Come on, now! You mus’ be jokin’.”

He turned next to Ken, “And you? What’s the big idea, tryin’ to get Dabney, here, thinkin’ badly ‘bout me? Jus’ a’cause I done mess up in ma past don’ mean I’s doin’ it in my present or plan to in da future. A‘sides, you know Mo’ton ain’t here and he’s what done got me into that mess befo’hand, messin’ wit the woman I was seein’ and you know it, dontchu? Dat man got a voice so big you c’ hear him mile away,” he said, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little with some humor.

“Well, what I do know, Young Man,” Ken replied as Uncle Dabney remained speechless, observing him, “is that Morton doesn’t have to be in this house for you to do something off the wall. I mean no disrespect to either of you, but you just aren’t someone I trust to stay straight.”

The man paused to finish his sandwich before continuing.

“And what’s more, we haven’ heard you say a single thing about that nice Andrea since we got back; three week ago, it be “Andrea this, Andrea that, so wonnerful o’ her ta do this and that fo’ me, I think I love her, ‘gain.” You member all that? The words you’re no longer spouting?”

“Hey, yeah,” Dabney piped in. “And ‘sides, I wonnered what you want wif her, anyhows since she who you say before cheated on you wif Mo’ton. What gives wif dat, anyhows, Arthur? And so one min’te you be spoutin’ her att’butes and we take off a few days, come back, you sayin’ nothin’ ‘bout her. It be like… she jus’ never was in yo life t’ b’gin wif, and dat don’ make no sense t’ me a’tall.”

Stunned a moment that they were so close to the truth, Arthur took the plates in his hands and held them in front of him.

They weren’t a shield, but he felt a little better; a little more protected.

“Listen, I don’ need t’ tell yous two whatever move I make in life be. I might be here ‘cause you pitied me at Mama’s, Unca Dabney, but what rights you and Ken gots to buttin’ inta my bui-ness? Huh?” He paused a moment for breath before continuing. “A’sides, a guy can break up wit a gal, can’t he, wit’out nob’dy gettin’ on his case? I’m actin’ odd mebbe a’cause I miss her. Ever think on dat?”

Dabney walked up to him, his face raised high to see into his eyes.

Arthur hated when that happened. The man always could tell when he was lying. Even as a young kid.

The older man put his hands on his shoulders as usual, and pulled him down, just a little. Arthur bent his knees to be closer to face to face with him, and tried not to cringe.

“Arthur, much as I wanna believe you, Boy, nothin’ doin’. I didn’t question you when you kept goin’ on about dat gal, and I wanted to believe yas, I did, but nothin’ doin’…. I know you hidin’ somethin’ and I need you t’ be out by Wensday mo’nin’. Gonna have to go back to you Mama’s or find a shelter by then. Ten o’clock Wensday, I need the key in my hand. And don’t be makin’ no mo keys, ‘cause we be watchin’ this house. We get the one back from that frien’ of yours, too. That way he can’t let you back in here, neither.”

The man had to be daft.

He had to be!

Ain’t know way I gonna be able t’ get them women outa here by then. What’ma gonna do?

And then, he got an idea.

“Fine, Unc… you trust me so little, ain’t gonna argue wit yous two. I know I done nothin’ wrong, and I think you knows it, too. Ya want me gone… I go. Thought ‘bout some time at the beach house, anyways, since I can’t get t’ stay in another state unless I file petition wit ma PO, I can’t just up an’ move. Even now,” Arthur replied with a smirk, “ya gots t’ get permissi’n from her t’ kick me out, like when ya done let me move in. So’s it can’t be no Wensday mo’nin’ ‘cause it take at least three days a‘fore she do anythin’ fo’ anyone.”