THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

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.

"He's handsome, isn't he?" A woman comments, walking up behind me.

"Yes, yes he is," I say, still gazing at the picture.

"He's a son a mother would be proud of," she says again, and the oddness of her statement pulls my gaze away from Quillan and to the woman. She's beautiful, somewhere around my mother's age. She's smiling at me in a curious way, as if she knows something I don't. She seems awfully familiar and, all of a sudden, I think I might be meeting one of Quillan's ancestors. She does look a lot like Emily.

"Are you a Faulkner?" I ask.

She smiles and tilts her head. "Why Miss Averie, I do believe you must be clairvoyant or something."

My knees buckle, and I cover my mouth with my hand. "Emily?"

"There was a lot of clean-up to do after the night the Georgia men tried to rob us. Lunar found this on one of the men before they buried him."

Taking my hand, she places the locket inside. Balling it inside my fist, I squeeze it tight, hold it against my chest, and cry. My precious locket.

"Do you remember the night you talked to Daddy out by the pond? The night he decided to let me be with Lunar?"

I nod my head, too overwhelmed to speak. "Well I overheard you and Mike in the garden talking about traveling back to the future. I was eavesdropping when you ran out, nearly knocking me over. I heard everything you said. Granted, I didn't understand it all, but I never forgot it, especially after the three of you disappeared so mysteriously. Later, I found a letter you wrote to Quillan. It was lying on the floor inside of Daddy's study near the man you shot. I read your letter over and over and finally figured it out."

She smiles and takes my free hand, the one that isn't gripped around my treasure.

"You saved my life, Averie. I never got the chance to thank you, so I found a way to come here tonight and tell you."

She takes a few steps down the hall and stops at a painting I have yet to see. Smiling, she pulls on the frame and opens it just big enough to slip inside. "You know, it's a funny thing about shooting stars, Miss Averie. If your heart is in the right place when you do your wishing, they tend to come true. Just so you know, you weren't the only one who made a wish that night. You have five minutes before the star burns out." With those cryptic words, she disappears behind the painting into another passage.

I don't need five minutes. Without a second thought, I enter the corridor, closing the past behind me. It's pitch dark, but I've never seen more clearly in my entire life. Kicking off my shoes, I break into a full run, my heart racing along with me as I come to the end of the tunnel. Stepping into the tall grass, I see the silver glow of the moon reflecting off the pond, illuminating the deep gray eyes of the man standing in the garden waiting for me.

He smiles. "Welcome home, Miss Averie."

"All I'm saying is simply this, that all life is interrelated, that somehow we're caught in an inescapable network of mutuality tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. We are not makers of history; rather we are made by history."

- Martin Luther King