One Last Time (23 page)

I look out the cupola window. The gun blast has drawn the attention of Seedy and two men who have Quillan and Mike at gunpoint, distracting the men long enough for the boys to fight back. Lunar is alive, sitting on horseback with a noose around his neck. The horse bucks with the commotion and gallops off, hanging Lunar. Somewhere in the darkness, I hear Emily scream. Sticking my head out of the broken window, I see her hanging off a balcony railing directly below the cupola. My heart skyrockets. She’s alive. Dropping the pistol, I climb through the hole in the window and fall to my knees as I lean out over the railing. I reach for her and grab both her wrists.

“Averie, I can’t hold on.” She apologizes, saying her good-bye with fearful eyes.

“I can.” I tighten my grip. “Use your legs!”

“I can’t!” she cries. “I don’t know how.”

“Swing them up, Emily,” I beg her. “Like when you were little on your swing in the garden. You pumped them to go higher. Pump now. Please…for Quillan.”

I’m not sure if she heard my last remark, but she starts swinging her legs and after a few tries, she places her feet on the base of the railing. I pull her wrists, but she trips over the hem of her damn dress and falls, nearly yanking me off with her.

“It’s all right,” I coax. “Do it again.”

“I can’t!” she cries again. “It will never work.”

“Yes, it will!” I scream back this time. No more coddling. “You’ve been given a second chance at life, now take it!”

She does, and this time it works. With every bit of strength I have in my body, I pull her up. She falls into my arms and sobs. “What would I ever do without you, Miss Averie?”

Lying on the balcony, we fearfully take a peek below. Three men lie on the ground dead. Lunar is holding his throat and looking up toward the cupola. Mike and Quillan are beaten and bloody, but standing.

The old grandfather clock begins striking twelve. Quillan hears it and points down, telling me to run toward the passage. Leaving Emily, I scrape against the rough shards of glass as I climb back through the window and into the cupola.

Two bongs. I head for the spiral stairs.

Three bongs. I make it down the stairs and sprint down the hallway.

Four bongs. I make it to the third-floor stairs.

Five bongs. I’m on the second floor and I run to the master staircase.

Six bongs and I am dashing downstairs like Cinderella leaving the ball.

Seven bongs. The front door flies open and Quillan runs inside, extending his hand to me with Mike in pursuit.

Eight bongs. Quillan and I clasp hands and begin running to the dining room.

Nine bongs. He looks at me and smiles, his eyes filling with tears.

Ten bongs. We burst into the dining room just as the candles go out. Instead of heinous screams, we hear hysterical laughter from the overintoxicated guests.

Eleven bongs and Quillan pushes the glowing pocket watch on the painting and drags me inside.

Twelve bongs. His hand disappears from mine.

The tunnel is dark, and without Quillan to guide me, I hunker down and crawl, using my outstretched hands as eyes. I swallow back my tears and call out just to make sure. “Quillan?”

“I think he’s gone, Ave,” Mike says from behind me.

Taking my hand, he helps me stand. We grope our way through the darkness until we reach the secret door to the carriage house. I can hear the rain even before Mike pushes the door open. It’s storming, just as it was the night we time traveled. Sighing, I step into the downpour, my soul crying along with the night sky. Keeping his hand in mine, Mike walks me across the property to the front of the estate.

The plantation home is lit, nearly every window aglow. A paved circle drive leads to the front and a uniformed parking attendant stands at the valet kiosk, ready to serve the next guest. Twinkle lights that decorate the trees illuminate the hanging moss. A beautiful hand-painted sign planted along with the landscaping reads
Railroad Inn.
I begin to cry.

“Come on.” Mike puts his arm around me. “Let’s go to Dairy Queen. I’ll buy you a Coke before you go home.” I shake my head and sniff. Can life ever be the same?

Everyone stares at us when we walk inside the eatery. They did on the bus, too, but I don’t care. So what if we’re both dirty, wearing Southern belle and gentleman attire, and have blood splattered across our clothes. Right now, I’m super depressed and don’t give a shit.

I wait at the booth while Mike pays for our drinks. He had his wallet in his pocket the night he went through time, so he kept it with him, making sure he had it for the transfer back. He’s anal like that, but I’m glad he is, cause a big ole burnin’ Coca-Cola is gonna hit the spot right now.

I take a huge swallow and my nose burns, but it feels good. Mike laughs and asks me if I want something to eat, but I refuse. My stomach can’t take anything right now.

“You know, Ave”—he leans across the table like he has top-secret information— “things may be different now that we altered the past.”

“No kidding,” I say, referring to the difference in the Faulkner mansion.

“It could be exciting. Maybe your life has changed, too. You never know.” He slurps his drink up through the straw and shrugs. I contemplate the possibility he could be right.

Mike calls a cab from the Dairy Queen, sweet-talking the cashier into letting him use her cell phone, promising to put his number in her contact list. I give the driver my address, all the while secretly hoping I live somewhere else now that we’ve changed the past. It’s nearly one-thirty in the morning when the taxi pulls in front of my apartment complex. Mike asks him to hang close for a minute, explaining we aren’t sure if we came to the right place.

Everything appears to be the same as I make my way down the twisting sidewalks that lead deeper inside the complex. Reaching my building, I look upstairs. It’s dark, but the porch light is on. I turned it on before I left, but it means nothing. A lot of people leave their porch lights on all night.

Mike follows me up the wooden steps. I stop at apartment 249. Taking a deep breath, I hesitate, afraid to knock.

“Come on, Ave.” Mike turns my chin to face him. “The way I see it there are two outcomes here. Number one, a stranger could answer, which means you don’t live here anymore. So there’s a big chance your life got better when we fixed the past.” His eyes dance at the telling, wanting me to pick door number one and win his prize. “Or number two.” He wrinkles his nose, distorting his enthusiastic expression, but he keeps up his encouraging spirit. “It’s still your place, so really you haven’t lost anything.”

He’s trying to be nice, but I want to push him backward down the steps. Haven’t lost anything? My God, I’ve just lost everything.

“What about scenario number three?” I bite my lip to keep it from quivering like a little lost child. “What if I knock and Momma answers. That could happen, too, you know.”

He runs his hands through his messy hair and gives me a slight nod, but I know he doesn’t believe it’s possible.

Taking a deep breath, I knock.

Nothing.
I knock again. Still nothing. My neighbor opens her door and peers outside. “Oh, hi, hon.” She recognizes me. “Lock yourself out again?” Defeated, I nod my head. “Yes, sorry.”

“No problem.” She’s eager to help. “I’ll get your spare. After all, it’s why you gave me one.”

“I’m sorry, Ave,” Mike says as Tabitha disappears inside her apartment.

“Heard from your mom?” Tabitha asks as she unlocks my door.

“Not yet.” I force a smile. “Thanks for letting me in. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she assures me. “I was watching the movie,
The Time Traveler’s Wife
. It’s so depressing, glad you interrupted me.”

I nod and close the door. Everything’s the same as I left it. Everything that is except an envelope lying on the floor, as if it had been slipped under the door. I tear it open.

We regret to inform you that Mrs. Cindy Cooke…

I drop the paper and cry.

Mike refuses to go home. He insists on staying the night. In a way, I want to be alone, but on the other hand, I am glad he is here.

He takes the couch. Skipping my room, I crawl into Momma’s bed. I can smell her within the sheets, so I cuddle up with her favorite pillow and hope I will dream of Quillan. It’s been a hundred and fifty years since he was born. He’s dead now, and I’m wondering if he ever made it out to the pond, and if he ever dreamed of me like he promised. I’m sad I never got my beautiful locket back. I drift off to sleep, remembering the day at the beach and how he looked when he gave it to me.

Mike’s up with the sun and is climbing on the bed, waking me up. He has a smile on his face that stretches from ear to ear. “Wake up, Ave! You’re never gonna believe this!” He slaps his forehead and laughs. “Hell, I can’t even believe it.”

“What?” I rub my eyes, depressed that he woke me already. I didn’t intend on facing today until noon or after.

“Guess who the owner of the Railroad Inn is?” He sits there all toothy, looking as cheesy as ever.

“I have no idea, and I don’t feel like guessing, so just tell me.”

“Me!” he announces with his arms stretched out and his hands turned up. “I mean my mother does, but it’s ours. Can you believe it?”

“That’s great.” Right now, I’m as jealous as hell. How come his cushy life got even better and mine got worse? What law of the universe did I ever break?

“How’d you find that out?” I ask, not really caring but acting like I do.

“I called Mom, and she asked if I was bringing you to the dinner there tonight. We talked, and it all spilled out.”

“Oh, Mike.” I grimace, pushing the hair out of my face. “I don’t feel like working a meal tonight. Not there. You understand, don’t you?”

“You’re not working it. You’re one of the invited guests, and guess what the occasion is?” He’s still toothy, so I give a wild guess. “You’re celebrating ’cause you won the lottery?”

“No, Ave.” He laughs. “It’s my mom’s engagement party. She’s getting married, and you have to come because you’re one of her bridesmaids.”

“I am?”

“Yep.”

“Mike,” I protest. “As honoring as it is, I can’t go back this soon. It hurts, you know.”

He stares at me, and I realize he doesn’t know. “Ave, it will be good for you, a closure of sorts. You can go and hear the history and find out what kind of life he ended up living.”

I hit him with a pillow. “Find out who Quillan married and how many kids they had? Good idea, Mike.”

“I think when you see him as an ancestral portrait, and realize he’s gone, you will be able to get on with your life. Please, Averie. It will make you realize what good you did and how you were able to help him. It will bring closure.”

I sigh, blowing the air out of my mouth long and hard so he gets the point. “All right, I’ll go.”

“Great.” He beams. “I’ll pick you up at eight.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves. I swear he’s walking on air. I sit on the bed, in the same spot, for nearly another hour before getting up. I’m numb and the last thing I want to do is go back to the Faulkner Estate, but Mike’s right. I desperately need to move on.

The valet opens my door, and I step onto the driveway. Mike is quick, tossing the guy the keys to his Porsche and making his way around the car to me.

“You ready?” he asks.

The lump is back, but I’m good at swallowing. I smile and nod my head as we ascend the steps leading up to the veranda. I walk inside and hold my breath. I can still remember the way Quillan looked when he took my hand at the base of the stairs. It may have been over a hundred years ago, but to me, it was last night, and I am not sure I can handle this right now.

The front room is full of people milling about, texting, talking on their cells, reading the paper, chatting with friends, and checking in at the concierge’s desk. Everyone is enjoying the luxury of this grand hotel with no awareness of the people who once lived here.

“I’m richer than ever,” Mike tells me as we walk through the lobby. “If you like, I can make the old pretense come true and send you to Cornell. You can study hotel management and work with me. I’d put you in charge of this one since it has a special meaning to you.”

I smile, but before I can answer, one of the hotel workers summons him, needing his assistance. Mike’s a busy guy now with power and prestige, so I stand there alone as he’s whisked away.

I walk through the lobby and into the hallway. A woman wearing a black skirt and a hotel polo is chatting with some of the guests, giving a tour and a brief history of the place. Eager to hear what she is saying, I fall in line.

“As you can see by some of the earlier paintings, the Faulkner plantation was one of the few in these parts who built suitable quarters for the slaves. It’s even rumored James Faulkner actually compensated his workers, starting small accounts for them and giving them the dividends once they attained their freedom.” I smile and look at the painting, knowing full well it’s the blueprints Lunar drew up.

“This ancestral portrait is of James Faulkner’s only daughter Emily. She married one of the plantation slaves and went on to have five children. Four boys and a girl. Quillan, James Jr., John, Michael, and Averie Hope.”

I do that laugh-and-cry-at-the-same-time thing when the guide reads the names. I absolutely adore the name Averie Hope. I step in front of the painting and cry some more. Quillan looks to be about twelve years old. He’s sitting next to Emily with perfect posture. Lunar stands behind him with one hand proudly on his shoulder. The other kids are gathered around, as well, with little Averie Hope on Emily’s lap.

The guide moves the guests down the hall toward the dining room, but I hang behind to look at more paintings. There’s one of James and Elizabeth, a single portrait of Emily, and then my heart nearly stops when I see one of Quillan. He’s identical to how he was when I was with him. I want to pull the canvas from the wall and make a run for it, but I am sure it’s alarmed and I’d end up with security pouncing on me before the night is out. Maybe I’ll just ask Mike if I can have it.