Wishes & Tears (13 page)

She leaned over and set the photograph on the nightstand, face-down, and turned out the light. The whole scenario seemed like some warped dream or fairy tale. Falling in love with the doctor, marrying him, having sex with him, bearing his child seemed ridiculous. When she left she was merely Andrew’s nanny, and even that role was tenuous. The doctor was arrogant and had shown minimal interest in her. He was about to fire her for mental instability. She wasn’t even his friend yet alone the love of his life.

Closing her eyes, she thought of him. Doctor Ian Forrester seemed more like a creation from Emily Brontë in his handsome, dark, brooding way. His towering height and lean dashing form cut quite a figure. He exuded that subtle, natural sexuality that most women found attractive. Unlike Brad, he wasn’t the yuppie type. He was a real man. For that she was grateful. Thoughts of how he would perform in bed invaded her mind. His hands were soft, his fingers slender and gentle. His lips were full, his body well-proportioned. She squirmed under the covers. This was getting out of hand.

If the opportunity to begin a new life were possible, if Doctor Forrester would fall in love with and marry her, would she take a chance and go back? How could she go back? What risks were involved? The chance of winning the lottery was probably better than the odds of her returning to 1906 San Francisco.

She pieced together the events leading to her original time travel episode. Every little detail. From the automobile careening off the cliff to her surfacing in the cold, placid waters of the bay came back. An idea struck so suddenly it was like a light bulb flashing on in her mind.

“That’s it!” she screamed. “There’s only one way I can go back.”

She smiled while she lay in the dark formulating her plan. The plan would call for recreating the same scene as the last time. It would call for a red Jaguar automobile, the cliffside parking space overlooking the bay, a clear starry night, and would have to take place at the exact month, day, and time. There would be no guarantee of success, she realized. Failure would mean certain death.

“For all intents and purposes, I’m dead anyway.” She sighed.

She would have one year to get her present affairs in order and to plan for the riskiest journey of her life. Much work needed to be done, so many loose ends to tie up. Her life in 2006 would have to be closed out completely.

Faith couldn’t explain the urgency she felt but the idea seemed so right. Nothing had ever seemed so right in her life, as if some invisible force was leading her on this journey.

In one year, she intended to be back in the San Francisco of 1906.

Faith counted the days while closing out her life in 2006. The Forrester family photograph and thoughts of Andrew heightened her anticipation of beginning a new life in 1906. She kept her final plan a secret, as secure as the sterling in Doctor Forrester’s parlor safe. Even Clarice’s questions and concerns failed to deter her. Faith would fulfill what she perceived as her destiny regardless of the consequences.

Bradley Clark Donahue III was to be released from jail and exonerated from the charge of attempted murder against his wife. The evidence of clutch tampering could not be linked to him. Without Faith’s testimony and the fact that he had taken out a million-dollar life insurance policy, with a double-indemnity clause, for himself as well, he could no longer be held. As for his mob connections, they could not be proven. Sergeant Schmidt couldn’t understand Faith’s change of heart and willingness to set Brad free.

“Thanks, Faith,” Brad said, tapping her on the shoulder as she walked from the civic center.

Faith stopped walking and turned to meet his gaze.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked.

“I don’t want to hold grudges. Even you’re entitled to a life,” she answered without emotion.

“So, I guess the next time we’ll meet is in divorce court?”

“Not necessarily.”

Brad stepped back, startled. “What? What are you saying?”

“I’m not contesting the divorce,” she said, her gaze unwavering. He was squirming in his Gucci loafers.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Yo!” Brad took another step back. “What’s going on? I don’t get it. Where’s the catch?”

“No catch.” She sighed. There was a time when she would have had him nailed in court, his name and reputation dragged in the mud, and his pockets and bank accounts emptied. It’s what he deserved for using her and deceiving her. Where she was going, though, his alimony payments couldn’t be mailed.

“What is it you want?” he asked, raking his hair back with his fingers.

“The house on Sacramento Street, for starters.”

“The house, huh?”

“Yes. I don’t want your little Twinkie living in my house.”

He scoffed. “That house is too old for Pam’s taste anyway.”

“I know. She’s still into Barbie’s Dream Home.”

“Faith?” He stepped forward, pointing a finger at her with a scowl on his face.

She stood firm, maintaining her steady gaze. “I also want one million cash.”

“You want what?”

“Come off it, Brad. We both know you’re worth well over four million dollars.”

“I — ”

“I’ll have my attorney contact yours about setting up an appointment to get the paperwork finalized,” Faith said, turning her back to him and walking forward.

“Faith?” he called.

She stopped and pivoted to face him.

“What do you plan on doing with your life?”

Did he really care?

She smiled. “I plan on going back to a simpler place and time.”

“I … I want you to know that I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t rig your car and, well, with Pam, things just happened.” He shrugged his shoulders. For a brief moment he looked like the college preppie she met and fell in love with. Appearances were deceiving with Brad. One look in his eyes revealed a hardened soul. If only she had looked deeper into his eyes when she was young. Too old too soon, too smart too late, her mother used to say.

“You were never honest with me,” she said.

“No. I wasn’t honest. I was afraid.”

“Not of me, but of losing all your money, your lifestyle, right Brad?”

He flinched. “Divorces can get nasty.”

“I’m saving you that.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Maybe one day you will.”

• • •

They met with their attorneys, worked out a settlement, and dissolved their marriage. Faith’s attorney couldn’t understand her resolve in not contesting the divorce and fighting for alimony. Where she was going she didn’t need much. For a woman who had grown accustomed to luxury and modern convenience, she realized that the most important things in life could not be bought or invented. A faithful and loving husband, children, true friends, health, a happy home, and a long life were more important than microwaves and Jaguars.

The house at 92 Sacramento Street was titled to Faith free and clear and one million dollars placed in her savings account. Brad practically danced on air, whistling, as he left the attorney’s office. Faith smirked. She wasn’t completely done with him yet. First things first.

Faith’s first goal was to transform her elegant Victorian home into an historical masterpiece. She hired a renowned restoration architect and, together with an interior designer, they outlined a design scheme for the home. Relying on memory, Faith’s goal was to return the house to its original 1906 grandeur.

All contemporary accoutrements, from the laminate kitchen cabinets to the tinted china bathroom fixtures were ripped out. Wooden floors were sanded and refinished, molding stripped and stained, windows and doors replaced to reflect a turn-of-the-century mood.

Faith scrounged antique shops, auction houses, catalogues, and showrooms, selecting period-appropriate wall coverings, rugs, furniture, and accessories to reflect the time period. Gas lamp fixtures were hung, draperies created, rugs, furniture, and plants placed.

Months passed before she was able to walk through the result. Faith basked in the transformation. Parquet floors glistened, scattered with Persian and Tabriz rugs. Worn leather scented the library, lemon wax the parlor. The restoration was complete down to the marble-topped parlor safe in the corner of the dining room. She half-expected Andrew to come bounding in at any moment.

The first night she slept in the restored bedroom, she felt a sense of renewal and contentment. There was comfort in the flannel granny gown and the downy feather bed. In the moonlight, she scanned the outline of the baked-on enamel iron footboard, the towering rosewood wardrobe, and the commode complete with porcelain toilet set. Her house had become a home. Memories of her awakening in the same room in 1906 flooded her mind. Pleasant memories. Soon, if all her plans worked, she would be back there, back in time. She knew where she belonged.

• • •

Three more days. Everything was on schedule. Faith dressed accordingly for her noon appointment. The prim powder blue Chanel suit was appropriate for a meeting with the stoic San Francisco Historic Preservation Society. They were in for quite a surprise.

“So,” Faith announced at the meeting, “I am donating my restored home, one of the few original survivors of the 1906 earthquake and fire, to your historic preservation society. It is my desire that this home serve as a museum and a reminder of simpler times now past. The home is the legacy of Doctor Ian Forrester, who lovingly built it and resided within it. I want future generations to treasure this fine example of Victorian architecture. To secure its future, I have established The Forrester Trust to finance maintenance and future repairs.”

The board gasped, taken aback by Faith’s generous offer. Most homeowners chose profit over generosity. Fine historical properties were rare and commanded high prices in a competitive market like San Francisco. Pacific Heights had some of the most expensive and priceless real estate in the city. Donated homes were scarce and usually came from eccentric dowagers not pert young women.

“Are you certain?” the board president asked, peering over the reading glasses perched on her nose.

“Yes,” Faith replied with a contented grin, more certain of her decision than those seated at the conference table realized. She was preserving her past for the future.

After the meeting, her attorney met with theirs to process the paperwork and finalize the deal. When the deal was complete, her attorney drew her aside.

Cyrus Jones was one of the sharpest legal minds in San Francisco. Towering and hulky in stature, he cut quite a dramatic presence in the courtroom. Only his Coke-bottle reading glasses hinted at the brains behind the brawn. Faith trusted him implicitly. Not only was he Clarice’s big brother, but he also was a man of integrity and honesty.

“Faith, what’s going on?” he asked in his soft, self-assured voice. “I don’t get it. You sell yourself short to Brad and now you donate your home and the remainder of your settlement.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.”

“Clarice said you resigned from the school. Where are you going to live? What are you going to live on? We’re worried about you.”

“I have a plan. Trust me,” she said with a firm voice.

“I want to. I really do. I’ve known you for years. You’ve always been so rational, until now.”

“I’ve never been so confident, so free. I’ve been given a new lease on life.”

Bradley Clark Donahue III always parked his shiny red Jaguar in the same reserved parking space in the parking garage next to his Van Ness Avenue office building. The car was his pride and joy, a sign of his success and an extension of his ego. Faith knew this. She also knew that it was identical to the car she had owned, the one that ended up in San Francisco Bay. She had a set of keys to Brad’s beloved car, since she always kept an extra set of his in case of emergency, and conveniently neglected to return the keys upon finalization of their divorce. The car was an important part of her plan.

Tuesday evening was Brad’s late work night. Faith knew that Brad was a stickler for routine and a man of habit, a time management guru. The timing couldn’t have been much better.

Faith rode the trolley to a stop near Brad’s parking garage. Entering the garage’s elevator, she pushed a button for the second level. A nervous exhilaration swept over her as she exited the elevator. His car was easy to spot with its glistening candy apple red finish. She removed her set of keys from her shirt pocket and beeped off the car alarm with the key chain. Grateful that it was still programmed the same way, she walked up to the sleek car, unlocked the car door, tossed her duffle bag and backpack in the back seat, and slid into the supple leather driver’s seat. As she placed the key in the ignition she smiled. The car was identical to hers down to the color-coordinated coffee cup on the dash. Brad’s creed of “two of everything” was paying off. Even his Pam gave him twins, identical boys, recently. Faith sighed. After overcoming this hurdle, she was confident of the success of her evening’s plan.

She checked her wristwatch. In an hour she was meeting Clarice at the cliff side restaurant, the same place they met that fateful night when she became a time traveler.

After taking a deep breath, she released the clutch and shifted in reverse. The car was a smooth piece of precision engineering. Too bad it was going to end up on the bottom of the bay.

Before meeting Clarice, Faith stopped by the house at 92 Sacramento Street for a last look. Withdrawing the brass key from under the front door mat, she entered her home for the last time in 2007. The next time she hoped to enter the home would be 100 years in the past. She walked through the parquet foyer and up the stairs, stroking the smooth sloping curves of the mahogany banister. She closed her eyes for a moment wondering if she was crazy or, indeed, the recipient of a special miracle. Tonight she would find out.

After touring her home, room by room, she walked to the front door. Satisfied that it was in caring hands, a part of history to be preserved and treasured, she exited through the front door and locked the brass latch for a final time. She was closing the door on her past. Closing the door on one life.