The Memory Box
Part 2: Christmas Past, Christmas Future
by NoCleverSig
Copyright 2011
Christmas Eve, 2011
Helen Magnus sat on her closet floor, memory box in her lap, see-sawing a vile of sand between her thumb and forefinger. The tiny, white grains drifted to and fro, tossed back and forth by the unseen, unfathomable force of gravity. A sudden chill swept over her, and she shivered, breaking the tide of memory that had engulfed her.
She shook her head, irritated at her gloom, and returned the bottle to its container, preparing to put the keepsakes back in her trunk, when she hesitated. She looked down, fingering the white lace heart, now yellowed with age, and walked out of the closet container in hand.
Tucking her lavender satin nightgown under her legs and burrowing deep under her covers, Magnus propped her back up with pillows and reopened the box. The light from her bedside lamp cast a soft, pale glow on her face as she withdrew, one by one, the memories of her love affair with John Druitt. She'd forgotten how much she'd kept. Letters, sonnets, a valentine, her ring, and pressed flowers from the picnic they'd taken at Oxford. It was on that day that she'd given her virginity. The moment she'd committed her life to Druitt, body and soul. She closed her eyes at that memory, steeling herself against the onslaught of conflicting emotions it released, and found her fingers once again wrapped around the tiny vile of sand.
Christmas 1887
"Better?" John teased as Helen gazed in wonder at the warm, turquoise sea.
She turned and smiled up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on tiptoes in the bright, white sand to kiss him.
"Much. Oh, John!" she shook her head in disbelief.
"Merry Christmas, Helen."
She smiled at him again, her eyes shining, then leaned in and kissed him once more, the taste of eggnog and sherry still sweet on his lips.
Since his ability to teleport had manifested, John and taken her around the world, but this place was new. She was sure she'd never been here, wherever here was…
"Where are we?" she asked, looking around.
"Guess," he said, wrapping his arms around her to shelter her from the strong, ocean breeze.
Helen took in her surroundings. She and John stood on a white sand beach, the grains so fine they looked like powder. Beyond was a turquoise sea, the sun warm overhead. It was too bright and too hot to be north, and the coastline too smooth to be Italy or Greece.
She twisted her neck to look behind them. There were palm trees with coconuts and dense forests of tropical plants and mangroves. There was also a small shelter about 100 feet away but no sign of anyone else besides themselves standing on the beach.
"The Caribbean? Somewhere near Central or South America perhaps?"
John tightened his embrace, leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
"It's one of the reasons I love you so. You are brilliant as well as beautiful."
"So I'm right?" she asked playfully, looking up at him.
"Of course. We're on a small island off the coast of Mexico just below the Yucatan."
Helen eyed the hut that stood oddly out of place in the distance, the only hint of humanity within eyesight.
"And we are…"
"Alone," he completed her thought.
She looked up at him.
"The beach, the shelter, is ours. To spend the day in. Perhaps the night," he trailed off, his eyes skimming over her body, sending a warmth through her core that felt like molten copper and had nothing to do with the glaring sun above.
"But what about James?" she asked shakily. "He'll wonder where we've gone as will his guests."
John grinned. "James is well aware of my plans. He helped, and he's prepared to make excuses on our behalf. Nikola and Nigel will, no doubt, surmise the truth, but only them." He uncurled his arms from her waist, grabbed her hands, and tugged her toward the hut. "Come! I want you to see it!"
She couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. He was like a boy with a new Christmas toy, eager to show to his friends. She hoped to always see him this way, smiling, full of joy.
They made their way through the soft sand to the small round shelter, pulled back the cloth cover that served as a door, and stepped inside. Helen blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. A hemp rug covered the floor. Atop it was a raised pallet with white, cotton covers and pillows. Beside it was a short, low table, which held a woven basket filled with fruit. In the corner was a large cargo box. On the wall hung a pair of white, linen robes. There was no other furniture. No windows, although she saw slats on the sides of the structure for ventilation.
John looked at her eagerly, his eyes wide. "Do you like it? It's just for us, for our holiday. Look…" he went on before she could reply. He took off his coat and hung it on a hook on the wall, his long legs taking three strides to reach the box in the corner. He knelt down and opened it.
"I brought water, soap, towels, wine…" he continued, digging through it. "Everything that I could think of to make us comfortable."
Realization dawned as Helen looked around. He'd been planning this for some time. Built it and brought everything for this one day together.
"You did all this for me?" she asked, her voice low.
He paused and looked up at her, his brow perspiring from the heat.
"Well, James helped a bit. Do you like it?" His voice bore the faintest hint of uncertainty.
Helen nodded her head, the enormity of his present making her momentarily breathless.
"It's…wonderful," she finally managed. "I don't know what else to say, John. I can't think of a greater gift. Thank you."
He beamed at her, obviously touched by her words, stood up and walked over to her, holding her gently by the elbows.
"I wanted to give you something special. Something you'd remember forever."
She looked around the hut, the pallet of sheets and pillows dominating the small space. A small golden conch shell was the only decoration.
"You succeeded," she assured him, placing her hands on his chest and leaning up to kiss him.
The air between them stilled. The moist, tropical heat bore down overhead. The smell of sea and salt air filled her nostrils. The vibrations of the surf rumbled in her ears.
"I want you, Helen," John finally spoke, his fingers anxiously caressing her skin. "As my wife, my soul mate."
"You already have me," she answered him, her hands edging up to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, the dim light glinting off the ring on her hand. She slipped his vest off his shoulders and went to hang it on the wall with his coat. When she turned around, he was unhooking the buttons on his shirt. The way his eyes locked on hers made her heart quicken.
"Let me help you," she murmured, trying to catch her breath. He dropped his hands to his side, defenseless. Her fingers worked their way down his chest, skimming over his flesh, playing with the hairs on his chest.
When she reached the last button, she felt him set his hands on her hips and pull her gently toward him. His face bent low against her cheek.
"I love you, Helen," he whispered into her ear, his hands tightening their grasp, his lips brushing against her face. "With all my heart."
She closed her eyes, fingers hovering on the edges of his trousers. This feeling of wanting, of desire so fierce she couldn't think clearly, unhinged her. Of all the lessons her father had taught her, discipline and self control were among his most precious. With John, she had always lacked such control. It'd been this way since the day she realized that she loved him. She felt like a cart, pushed off the top of a hill, careening wildly downward, forever on the verge of crashing.
"John," she started, looking up at him, but he silenced her with a kiss, his hands skimming up her back, feverishly working to undo the buttons of her dress. His mouth was warm and sweet and faintly salty. His hands made their way up her spine, loosening the fastenings one by one. When he'd finished, she wriggled out of her gown, letting it fall to the floor, uncaring of whether it became soiled, thinking of nothing but the feel of his lips against hers.
Layer by layer he undid her and she him, until they stood naked before each other. He eased her down onto the pallet, covering them up with the light cotton sheet, and then slid his hand between her thighs. They'd been apart for days, kissing one another for what felt like hours; her body was more than ready for him. He eased himself up to mount her when she pushed him onto his back and straddled his chest. He laughed, smiling up at her.
"Miss Magnus? Is there something you want?"
She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
"You, Mr. Druitt. And I shall have you."
Helen lifted her hips and slid herself down on top of John, slowly taking in his depth and breadth, both of them gasping in ectasy at the sensation of flesh against flesh. He closed his eyes and put his hands on her hips, easing her back and forth as she rode him.
Their rhythm established, Helen sat up, hands on John's chest, her eyes closed at the building pleasure. John's hands moved to her breasts, squeezing them, and then holding the weight of them in his hands, his face contorted from the effort to keep from coming too quickly. Helen saw his struggle and paused, bending down to kiss him, her tongue darting into his mouth, gliding over his teeth, her own body beginning to shake with need.
When she couldn't stand the stillness any longer, she tore free of his lips and tried to sit back up, to concentrate on the mounting pleasure growing inside her, but John wouldn't allow it. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back down, his mouth hungrily seeking her breasts, locking his lips onto her firm mounds, sucking her pink nipples, first one then the other.
The sensation of John's mouth on her breasts, his manhood straining inside of her, the waves cascading against the sand, the beads of sweat trickling down her neck overwhelmed her. With a final, violent thrust she came on top of him, crying out in pleasure, her muscles clenching around his solid flesh. He followed her fast, moaning loudly and tightening his hold on her hips as he poured himself into her, body and soul.
She collapsed on top of him, their bodies sticky with sweat and sex, her head against his chest, the sound of John's beating heart and the waves hitting the shore lulling them both into a deep slumber.
Later, Helen awoke, sore, sleepy, and ravenous with hunger. She had moved from John's chest to his side, her arm resting on top of his torso, her leg draped over his long limbs. His hand lay gently atop hers, his knee bent between her thighs.
This was how it was going to be with them, she thought. Forever in love, always together. She'd continue her father's work, and he would be by her side. They'd have children, gobs of them. Daughters with yellow hair and tall, lanky sons with brown and satiny voices like their father's. They'd name them Gregory and James. Her daughter she'd call Patricia, after her mother, although the thought of that suddenly pierced her heart.
"What are you thinking about?" John mumbled his voice rough from sleep.
She smiled into his side. "Nothing. Everything. And you?"
He chuckled. "The same."
A comfortable silence settled between them.
"Do you think it will always be this way? With us?" she asked quietly.
John thought a moment. "I hope to provide you something better than a hut," he teased.
She tickled him in the side, and he laughed. "I'm serious."
He paused and tightened his grip on her hand. "I can't imagine any other way, can you?"
"No," Helen answered, shaking her head. "I cannot."
They spent the rest of the day together, washing themselves off in the sea, making love in the surf, eating, drinking, and planning their lives. They returned the next morning to London, vowing to come back to their beach. It would be their holiday place, special only to them.
They never did.
Magnus quietly closed the wooden box and set it down on her night stand. A part of her wanted desperately to cry at the memories she'd unearthed. Another, stronger part wouldn't allow it. She'd shed enough tears for John Druitt through the years, and she had vowed long ago she would shed no more. Not for him, not for any lover.
With a deep, cleansing sigh, Helen rolled over and shut off the light. She turned onto her side, adjusting her pillows, grabbing and holding one in her arms, and pressing it against her stomach.
"Where are you, John?" she thought absently. If he was dead, wouldn't she know it? Or was that just a romantic notion?
She fell asleep, her body swaying to the rhythm of the waves.
The smell of Earl Grey Tea and bacon greeted Magnus when she awoke. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and looked sleepily at the clock. It was 9:15. She couldn't recall the last time she'd slept so late. When she'd finally fallen asleep last night she must have done so soundly.
She slipped out of bed, put on her robe, and looked out the window. The sky was cloudy and grey. A thin mist hovered over the water. On the edge of her window, which was fogged from the heat, lay a thin layer of white. She rubbed her eyes harder; not trusting her vision, but when she opened them again the whiteness remained. It covered her windowsill, blanketed the grounds of the Sanctuary, and swirled through the air outside her home.
Christmas snow! Dear God!
Magnus put her hands to her mouth and laughed, feeling suddenly like a little girl. Whatever melancholy that had washed over her last night was suddenly gone. She felt happy, excited, and best of all, at peace.
A quiet knock sounded on her door, and she turned to see Biggie walk in, a cup of tea in hand.
"Just the ticket!" she said, her voice full of cheer taking the cup and saucer from him.
"Someone woke up on the right side of the bed," he grunted.
"Indeed someone did," she replied, the smile bright on her face. "Have you seen the snow?" she asked, nodding toward the window.
"Mmm-hmm. Some of us have been up for a while."
Magnus grinned into her tea, breathing in the warm air and fragrant aroma before closing her eyes and taking a sip.
"Ah," she said. "Pure heaven!"
"Glad you like it. You'll like breakfast even more if you can find time to join us. Better hurry up, though. Henry is drinking up the mimosas. Says he's eating for two."
Magnus' eyes went wide. Biggie's Famous Christmas Mimosas! How could she forget!
"Give me seven minutes!" she said, quickly setting the tea down on her night stand and rushing toward her restroom. Biggie laughed and made his way out, happy that whatever demons that plagued her had been washed away by the Christmas snow.
Five minutes later Magnus emerged, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, a touch of make up on. She went to her closet and put on a red sweater and jeans before slipping her feet into a pair of wicked good slippers. She crossed to her bedside to pick up her tea, when she noticed the memory box. This time, instead of sadness, she smiled. The box held only sweet memories of a young girl and a young man terribly in love. She picked it up to put it away when she noticed the lid askew. Something was sticking out, preventing it from closing. She opened it up to fix it when her heart stopped. A bright golden conch shell, its small spirals sticking out, sat squarely in the center of the box, preventing it from closing. It hadn't been there last night, she was sure of it. It had never been there. John had left it in the hut on the beach, and they had never gone back.
The hair on the back of her neck bristled and she swung around, sure she'd find John Druitt standing behind her. But there was nothing, only the silent showering of snow in the window beyond.
Magnus swallowed hard, set the box back down, and shakily grabbed her tea. There was a logical explanation. Perhaps she'd had the shell all along and simply forgotten? Maybe she'd dropped it last night and Biggie had picked it up?
She'd think about it later.
Outside, in a shimmer of light, a dark figured vanished. The ivy leaves that tumbled over the wall trembled from the frigid air and falling snow that swirled in the now empty yard.
END
