Wishes & Tears (23 page)

Doctor Forrester ambled in, holding a wooden box under his arm. He removed his bowler hat, flinging it on the coat stand. He was about to turn into the library when he saw her.

“Faith?”

She walked down the few remaining steps and met him in the foyer. In the glow of candlelight, his face looked drawn and weary. His shoulders were hunched, his head low. He was working too hard again.

“What are you doing up at such an ungodly hour?” he asked.

“I’m worried about you.”

“No need.” He wasn’t used to anyone worrying about him. It had been so long since anyone really cared, except for Bridget who, at times, was like a mother hen. He looked down at Faith, the golden glow of candlelight washing over her. She looked like an angel standing there, his guardian angel.

“Have you had any supper?” she asked.

“No.”

“I’m sure there are leftovers in the fridge.”

He arched his brows. “What?”

“Oh, remaining food from supper in the icebox,” she translated.

“It’s been a difficult day. I’m not hungry. Thank you for being concerned.” He yawned.

“I care about you.”

“Thank you, Faith.” He turned toward the library.

Faith rushed in ahead to light the kerosene reading lamp. As he followed her in, their shadows danced on the illuminated cherry paneling. He set down the box on his desk.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” she said, turning to leave.

“Don’t go,” he urged.

She turned to face him. He pointed to his leather swivel chair and she sat.

“The contents of this box concern you more than me. As a matter of fact, I have no idea what’s inside. I was ordered to give the box to you,” he explained tapping the lid on the box.

“Me? Why? Who is it from?”

“Mrs. Fanny Jamison.”

“I hardly know her.”

“Apparently, she felt it was important that you have it.”

“After seeing what’s inside, I’ll have to thank her.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Why?” She had a sudden sinking feeling.

“Fanny Jamison died this evening.” He choked on the words. The old woman had meant more to him than he realized. Through the years, he had dealt with her various maladies, contrived and real, and a fond affection had grown toward the eccentric dowager. Losing her was like losing a grandmother.

She drew her hands to her face. “Oh, no.” Looking up at him, she asked, “You were there?”

He nodded, drawing a deep breath.

“Before she lapsed into her final rest, she begged me to give you the box. She said that only you would understand.”

“I’m really quite confused.”

“Perhaps you should open the box. I’m as curious as you.”

The doctor picked up the polished pine box and set it on Faith’s lap. The size and weight of a shoebox, it had a sliding lid. Doctor Forrester leaned on his desk looking down on her.

With some hesitation, she slid open the lid. Eerie chills ran up and down her spine and neck. Knowing that Mrs. Jamison had just died hadn’t made the task any easier.

Removing the lid and setting it on the floor, she looked inside. A variety of trinkets, rolled papers and a rolled magazine filled the box.

She stuck her hand inside and pulled out a silver coin. Placing it in her palm, she analyzed it. The recollection made her gasp aloud.

“What is it?” the Doctor asked, squinting for a closer look.

“It’s a Bicentennial quarter.” She couldn’t believe her eyes. How did Mrs. Jamison get it?

“A what?”

“A special quarter minted for the U.S. Bicentennial in 1976. They were very common.”

With curiosity getting the best of her, she reached in for another object. She withdrew a baseball card.

“I’ll be darned,” she commented at the sight of a mint Joe DiMaggio collector’s card. “This would be worth a fortune.”

“What is it?”

She showed the doctor but he didn’t understand.

After removing the magazine from the box, she unrolled it. PEOPLE. The cover featured Prince Charles’ and Diana’s lavish wedding.

“I can’t believe it.” She was trembling from touching the reminders of her past life. How did Mrs. Jamison get her hands on these things, she wondered?

From the box, she withdrew a plastic American Express credit card. The expiration date was in 1982. The name: Fanella Parker Jamison.

“Oh no! Fanny Jamison was a time traveler. She was just like me. She knew. She somehow knew that we had the experience in common. Why didn’t she tell me when she was alive? I would have loved to have discussed it with her.”

She turned to look up at the doctor. “You know what this means? I’m not the only person to travel through time. There are others. I’m not some oddball crazy person.”

Doctor Forrester looked over the contents of the box. He could offer no explanation. The experience was much like the time when Faith unzipped her strange backpack and revealed its contents. This was another unexplainable Pandora’s box. The discovery caused more confusion in his mind, more evidence to support Faith’s journey through time.

“There are others like me.” The discovery made Faith more at ease with her situation. Others made the journey before her. There were others whose destiny had propelled them back in time, too.

While the city surrounding her rose from the ashes, Faith began her destined life. Under the rose-entwined arbor at 92 Sacramento Street, she pledged her love and her life to Doctor Ian Forrester.

He stood beside her resplendent in a charcoal frock coat, a stiff collar and a blush rose pinned on his lapel. His face was serene and voice confident as he recited his vows “to love and cherish” her through all the days of his life and beyond. Faith looped one hand through his arm while the other clutched a bouquet of two dozen blush roses, ivy, and myrtle. The oversized bouquet bobbed up and down mirroring the jitters she felt. Though she looked like a bride in her ivory taffeta and appliquéd lace gown, she couldn’t believe that she was getting married. Married. Married again.

When she wed Brad, the ceremony was held in an overflowing cathedral with Mendelssohn, Ave Maria, and a Unity candle. Her gown of billowing satin with train and tulle veil required two attendants. She had bridesmaids, groomsmen, confetti, and a horse-drawn carriage. Her father walked her down the aisle and her mother had cried.

A lump formed in her throat. At this simple garden ceremony, there was no one to walk her down the non-existent aisle, no bridesmaids or groomsmen, no organ music, and no one to cry. There was no Clarice and Reggie to share this special moment.

She cast a glance toward Bridget who stood nearby gloating and to Andrew who stood next to his father like a page. In his hands was a velvet pillow supporting two simple gold wedding bands. As the sun’s rays illuminated them, the rings shone like magic, as if sprinkled with fairy dust.

The robed minister called her name and Faith looked up. Her eyes caught those of Ian’s. Gold specks flickered in his dark eyes as they peered down into hers, deep into her soul. He touched her in places no other man dared to go.

“Repeat after me,” the minister began, reciting vows from his prayer book.

After drawing a deep breath of the floral-scented air, Faith said the words binding her heart and soul to Doctor Ian Forrester. This time she knew what marriage and commitment were about. She didn’t require all the pomp and pageantry to give herself to Ian. Beneath the floral marriage bell, laden arbor, and under the eyes of God she pledged herself to Doctor Ian Forrester.

This time it was forever.

The wedding breakfast was as traditional as the vows. Bridget prepared the multi-course meal befitting the occasion. The damask covered dining room table was set with the best gold-trimmed china, cut crystal, and sterling. Consommé was ladled from a sterling tureen. Roasted capons with the trimmings provided the main course followed by fresh fruit, bon bons, and tea. A local baker had been commissioned to create the centerpiece, a multi-tiered confection of a wedding cake with almond icing, trimmed with ivory and blush roses.

A photographer had been hired to document the proceedings and to take formal wedding portraits. The acrid scent of flash powder made Faith long for part of modern technology. Nothing modern, though, could compensate for the joy she felt. This was how love was supposed to be. She had to go back through time to experience it.

Faith was glad that she and the doctor had chosen to forgo the public formality of betrothal parties, engraved invitations, guest lists, and receptions. The intimate, family gathering was a more personal statement of their love and the life they would share together.

After tucking Andrew in bed, together, Faith took Ian’s hand, interlocking her fingers in his. She led him down the hall to her favorite, familiar bedroom. They passed the stairway leading up to her attic servant’s room and entered the guest bedroom, closing the door behind.

The familiar carved mantel, rosewood wardrobe, commode, wicker chair, and white enamel iron and brass bed greeted them, awash in moonlight. To Faith, they were like old friends. The bed was where she had awakened into this strange new world. She felt it only fitting that she and Ian would begin their life together in the bed where she had awakened to her future.

Faith turned to Ian, stretching up into him as he bent into her, hips connecting, in an intimate embrace. She reached up, caressing his chiseled face with her hand. Tracing a line from his high cheekbones to his solid square jaw, she pondered his lips. As his eyes melted into hers, like hot chocolate, she pulled his head near hers. He kissed her upper lip first to tease. Tender kisses moved from her face, neck, eyes to gently brush her mouth and pull at her lips. As she opened her mouth slightly, he took her whole mouth with his flooding her with passionate kisses, his tongue flicking and thrusting. Her eyes closed to savor the moment. Her shoulders softened under his spell as his caressing fingers played with her hair and tingled against her neck. He pulled out the decorative tortoiseshell comb restraining her hair and tossed it on the floor. Releasing her hair in waves of brown, he buried his head in her hair, nibbling at her ear and neck, his breath hot against her flesh.

His hands slid down to the back of her gown, pulling at the seed pearl buttons holding it together. The gown had been almost impossible to secure with Bridget’s adept fingers. Faith knew that Ian was struggling. She reached back to help. He drew her hand away. In one sharp movement, the buttons popped as the back of the dress tore open. His caressing hands slid the lace fabric off her shoulders, freeing her arms. He pulled the gown off her hips, letting it flow to the floor in a heap.

She stood in her Wonderbra, pantyhose, and thong panty.

“Oh, my,” he murmured, his face blossoming red as his eyes followed her every move.

Faith was certain he never expected to see such a sight on his wedding night. Women of his era wore corsets and wool hose. The body wasn’t something one willingly showed off. Sex was more of an obligation than an entertainment. Knowing how risqué she must appear, she struck a provocative pose. Arching her back to push out her heaving chest, she placed one foot on the chair and proceeded to slide down her pantyhose, one shapely leg at a time. His eyes grew wide and he stroked beads of perspiration forming on his brow. Tossing the hose on the floor, she sat on the bed, beckoning him with her finger.

He came to her, sitting next to her on the bed. He unbuttoned his frock coat, loosening his necktie and collar. She reached out to help ease him out of the coat, collar, and tie. Jersey knit clung to the curves of his firm chest, neck, and arms. Her fingers caressed his broad chest through the fabric. Reaching up to undo the pearl buttons at his neck, she thrust her hand in the opening, twisting the fine dark hair hidden beneath.

He grasped her fingers, withdrawing them from his shirt’s opening. Reaching into his pants, he pulled out the undershirt and yanked it over his head onto the floor.

Faith placed her hands on his bare chest, caressing the taut flesh and silky hair. Her fingers circled each nipple until hard and moved down to the waistband of his pants. With trembling fingers, she undid each button, brushing against the obvious erection covered by jersey drawers. As she touched the pearl buttons, longing to touch his hard flesh, he grabbed her hand. Snickering, he stood to remove his pants and long drawers.

He stood there in all his naked glory watching her as she fidgeted on the bed. In the glow of moonlight, he looked like a Greek statue poised for battle. He went to the bed, leaned over and pushed her into the downy mattress. She lay still as he hovered over her, barely touching.

“It takes two to play this game, Faith,” he said. A wicked grin creased his face.

Resting his weight on his elbows, he reached down and kissed her. Forceful kisses gnawed at her lips. Kisses traced a line from her lips to her neck down to the fleshy mounds of her chest. Eyeing the leopard print Wonderbra, he hesitated.

“Everything about you is so different,” he whispered as his fingers toyed with the silken padded fabric. Grazing her body with his eyes, he traced a line with his fingers from her bra, over her stomach, down to the silky thong panties. She shivered at his intimate touch. He slipped his hand beneath the fabric. Burying his fingers in the curly brown muff, he caressed her, slithering his fingers in her moisture.

Splaying apart her legs, Faith felt like a wanton hussy. She couldn’t pretend to be a coy, blushing bride on her wedding night as was expected in the era. She was who she was. Ian seemed to understand it. At least he knew what to do. What he was doing with his gentle fingers was driving her mad. She was hot and flush and tingly. As he positioned himself over her, she touched him. She caressed the tip of his penis, slithering down to stroke the underside and squeeze the base. As he rested on his elbows, she helped ease him into her, filling her. She realized how much she had missed having a man.

Their eyes met with the trust and care only lovers could share. He lowered his head to kiss her as his body began to arch in rhythm with hers. The connection of flesh, the musky scent of damp skin, sharing the same air and space, was complete. He placed his hands on her rounded buttocks, pulling her weight up and down. Up and down. A lover’s lullaby. The tension built up until breathing ceased, muscles became rigid, and both simultaneously reached a convulsive, explosive orgasm. Faith arched her back, her face contorted in pleasurable pain. She tingled from her head down to her toes.