The Matthews Family is mentioned in reference to the show 'Boy Meets
World.' Do not own that show either.
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December 21, 2005, 1130 PM, the Apartment of Richie Ryan, Paris, France
It was only after the evening meal, that while Richie and Asher were readying for bed, did Asher notice the flat package on the right bedside table. Richie was still in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, to rid the leftover garlic scent from the pasta sauce of dinner, and Asher, sitting cross-legged on the bed, turned the package over in her hands. She recognized the handwriting on the front. No doubt. It had been Samuel Clarke, who had left it. At the bar, she noted, glancing at the address.
"Package came?" she asked, once Richie exited the bathroom, coming to crawl underneath the sheets.
"I guess," he shrugged. Apparently, Clarke stopped by while I was here, over lunch. Had left before I returned, but left that."
"Not remotely curious as to what it might contain?" Richie only shrugged again. "Well, I am," she exclaimed, her voice only slightly louder than she meant it to be. She ripped the envelope open with a clean stroke, shaking the contents onto the bed. A small silver object bounced on the folds of the red woolen blanket before it came to a rest. Richie did not recognize the curseword, which escaped from Asher's lips, but from the sound of it, thought it to be German.
"Everything ok, Asher?" he asked, sitting in the bed, with the blanket still wrapped around his legs and knees. He wore only blue and white striped pajama bottoms, with his chest and arms bare. But Asher said nothing, as she was reading the enclosed letter. "Asher?" he repeated.
Asher shushed him, more of a hand gesture than a word. " 'I know it is silly of me to write you in this fashion, my little one, but Ashley, no matter the boundaries, which separate us, I am still your father, and I like the comfort writing you brings to me. I am growing old, my little one, older since I lost you and your mother, and it comforts me to think maybe you read these words I burn to the page.
'Samuel Clarke has been a dear friend to both me, and to Lauren and Zachary these past years. Twice now, he has passed through, leaving with objects I had hoped one day I could give to you myself. I do not know what to think of these actions of his. Is he more delusional than I, or does he know something I do not?
'I had set this aside for you just after we returned to the States. Your mother had thought after all your rebellion and behavior, I should not give this to you, but I always knew I would. You loved that house more than Lauren and Zachary did, more than your mother and I did. It was your house in a way it was never ours, my little one. I had hoped one day to see my grandchildren in that house, and while I do have grandchildren now, never will they see the house we left behind. Like and with so many memories.
'Take care, my little one. Wherever you may now be, either alive or dead. I know what Sam has taken with him, and I can only hope that if and when he gives it to you, he gives you my letter too. Know that I am thinking of you, Ashley. I love you. Papa.' "
"Who is Ashley?" Richie asked, once Asher folded the letter, dropping it into her lap. He had read the words over her shoulder, and was confused.
"Me," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was given the name Ashley Violet Jacobson. After, I died, working first for the Matthews family, then returning to school, I knew to keep hidden in the woodwork, I would need to change my name. So I did. To Asher V. Jacobs."
"No wonder you despise nicknames," laughed Richie, but he cut the laughter short. "You already changed your name once."
"Several Immortals do. Maybe not you nor Mac, but I suspect Adam must have changed his name at least a half dozen times."
"Oh?"
"I am not stupid, Richie Ryan. Adam is Immortal, whether he or anyone else admits to it."
"Weren't you worried of who would recognize you? I had got the impression you had not transferred schools after your first death."
"Because I did not transfer schools. UCLA was large. I was able to avoid those I knew before. I had always been somewhat of a loner, I just became more of one after."
Richie leaned to place a kiss of comfort softly on her lips. "Does anyone know?"
"You. Sam knows too. I had written him while still in Philadelphia."
Richie frowned, but it did make sense. When Sam had been in Paris last April, he had never once hesitated calling a certain strawberry-blonde haired, blue-eyed girl 'Asher Jacobs' in conversation, whether directly with her or with someone else. He sighed, only to kiss her again. "So, what of this other gift your father sent through Sam Clarke?"
"A key," she answered softly. "To the house we own in Switzerland. It is the house I grew up in, the house I rebelled for when we moved to the States." She turned to Richie, her eyes bright. "Oh, let us visit it, Richie, please. Just for a few days?" she pleaded.
"But if others saw you?"
"No. We only had one main key. Lauren and Zachary, my older brother and sister, promised to never step foot in the house again. Neither will my mother, though for different reasons, as will my father."
"I had planned to take you to Italy," protested Richie. "To show you Rome, Venice, Florence."
"We could still go. Just call this an extended rest stop," she grinned suddenly. "Besides, I could teach you some of the language. You make speak flawless French, Spanish and English, but your Italian does leave something to be desired."
"Just as," his voice low, "you speak flawless French, German, Italian and English, but your Spanish leaves something to desire?"
"Kind of, yes," she responded, returning the grin. "Please? This will be good for me, Richie." Her voice was soft and serious again.
"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. Allow me to lay my final ghosts to rest."
Richie sighed, leaning back against the bed headboard. He glanced again to the letter Asher held in her hands, to the key still nestled among the blanket folds, lit in the half-light of lamp. He could not help but think there was some sort of trap to this. He trusted Asher's judgment, and he trusted the intentions of her still-grieving father, but he did not trust the judgment nor the intentions of Samuel Clarke. He sighed again, casting his glance now to Asher. She looked so hopeful.
"All right, all right," he finally spoke, "we can visit Switzerland, but if anything out of the ordinary presents itself, we leave immediately."
"Deal," agreed Asher, smiling broadly, leaning over to seal her words with a kiss.
"Hey, Ash," he asked, after she too had snuggled under the covers and between the crook of his arm and chest, thankful he could not see the death stare he was probably receiving for having called her a nickname. The light was off, the key and letter tucked safely inside the bedside table drawer. "Could I call you Ashley?"
"Only if you have displaced the value of your head," she answered. "Ashley Jacobson *is* dead. I am no longer she."
Richie chuckled softly in the dark from her first comment, but then, he drew her closer to him, kissed the top of her head, soon both falling asleep.
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December 21, 2005, 1130 PM, the Apartment of Richie Ryan, Paris, France
It was only after the evening meal, that while Richie and Asher were readying for bed, did Asher notice the flat package on the right bedside table. Richie was still in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, to rid the leftover garlic scent from the pasta sauce of dinner, and Asher, sitting cross-legged on the bed, turned the package over in her hands. She recognized the handwriting on the front. No doubt. It had been Samuel Clarke, who had left it. At the bar, she noted, glancing at the address.
"Package came?" she asked, once Richie exited the bathroom, coming to crawl underneath the sheets.
"I guess," he shrugged. Apparently, Clarke stopped by while I was here, over lunch. Had left before I returned, but left that."
"Not remotely curious as to what it might contain?" Richie only shrugged again. "Well, I am," she exclaimed, her voice only slightly louder than she meant it to be. She ripped the envelope open with a clean stroke, shaking the contents onto the bed. A small silver object bounced on the folds of the red woolen blanket before it came to a rest. Richie did not recognize the curseword, which escaped from Asher's lips, but from the sound of it, thought it to be German.
"Everything ok, Asher?" he asked, sitting in the bed, with the blanket still wrapped around his legs and knees. He wore only blue and white striped pajama bottoms, with his chest and arms bare. But Asher said nothing, as she was reading the enclosed letter. "Asher?" he repeated.
Asher shushed him, more of a hand gesture than a word. " 'I know it is silly of me to write you in this fashion, my little one, but Ashley, no matter the boundaries, which separate us, I am still your father, and I like the comfort writing you brings to me. I am growing old, my little one, older since I lost you and your mother, and it comforts me to think maybe you read these words I burn to the page.
'Samuel Clarke has been a dear friend to both me, and to Lauren and Zachary these past years. Twice now, he has passed through, leaving with objects I had hoped one day I could give to you myself. I do not know what to think of these actions of his. Is he more delusional than I, or does he know something I do not?
'I had set this aside for you just after we returned to the States. Your mother had thought after all your rebellion and behavior, I should not give this to you, but I always knew I would. You loved that house more than Lauren and Zachary did, more than your mother and I did. It was your house in a way it was never ours, my little one. I had hoped one day to see my grandchildren in that house, and while I do have grandchildren now, never will they see the house we left behind. Like and with so many memories.
'Take care, my little one. Wherever you may now be, either alive or dead. I know what Sam has taken with him, and I can only hope that if and when he gives it to you, he gives you my letter too. Know that I am thinking of you, Ashley. I love you. Papa.' "
"Who is Ashley?" Richie asked, once Asher folded the letter, dropping it into her lap. He had read the words over her shoulder, and was confused.
"Me," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was given the name Ashley Violet Jacobson. After, I died, working first for the Matthews family, then returning to school, I knew to keep hidden in the woodwork, I would need to change my name. So I did. To Asher V. Jacobs."
"No wonder you despise nicknames," laughed Richie, but he cut the laughter short. "You already changed your name once."
"Several Immortals do. Maybe not you nor Mac, but I suspect Adam must have changed his name at least a half dozen times."
"Oh?"
"I am not stupid, Richie Ryan. Adam is Immortal, whether he or anyone else admits to it."
"Weren't you worried of who would recognize you? I had got the impression you had not transferred schools after your first death."
"Because I did not transfer schools. UCLA was large. I was able to avoid those I knew before. I had always been somewhat of a loner, I just became more of one after."
Richie leaned to place a kiss of comfort softly on her lips. "Does anyone know?"
"You. Sam knows too. I had written him while still in Philadelphia."
Richie frowned, but it did make sense. When Sam had been in Paris last April, he had never once hesitated calling a certain strawberry-blonde haired, blue-eyed girl 'Asher Jacobs' in conversation, whether directly with her or with someone else. He sighed, only to kiss her again. "So, what of this other gift your father sent through Sam Clarke?"
"A key," she answered softly. "To the house we own in Switzerland. It is the house I grew up in, the house I rebelled for when we moved to the States." She turned to Richie, her eyes bright. "Oh, let us visit it, Richie, please. Just for a few days?" she pleaded.
"But if others saw you?"
"No. We only had one main key. Lauren and Zachary, my older brother and sister, promised to never step foot in the house again. Neither will my mother, though for different reasons, as will my father."
"I had planned to take you to Italy," protested Richie. "To show you Rome, Venice, Florence."
"We could still go. Just call this an extended rest stop," she grinned suddenly. "Besides, I could teach you some of the language. You make speak flawless French, Spanish and English, but your Italian does leave something to be desired."
"Just as," his voice low, "you speak flawless French, German, Italian and English, but your Spanish leaves something to desire?"
"Kind of, yes," she responded, returning the grin. "Please? This will be good for me, Richie." Her voice was soft and serious again.
"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. Allow me to lay my final ghosts to rest."
Richie sighed, leaning back against the bed headboard. He glanced again to the letter Asher held in her hands, to the key still nestled among the blanket folds, lit in the half-light of lamp. He could not help but think there was some sort of trap to this. He trusted Asher's judgment, and he trusted the intentions of her still-grieving father, but he did not trust the judgment nor the intentions of Samuel Clarke. He sighed again, casting his glance now to Asher. She looked so hopeful.
"All right, all right," he finally spoke, "we can visit Switzerland, but if anything out of the ordinary presents itself, we leave immediately."
"Deal," agreed Asher, smiling broadly, leaning over to seal her words with a kiss.
"Hey, Ash," he asked, after she too had snuggled under the covers and between the crook of his arm and chest, thankful he could not see the death stare he was probably receiving for having called her a nickname. The light was off, the key and letter tucked safely inside the bedside table drawer. "Could I call you Ashley?"
"Only if you have displaced the value of your head," she answered. "Ashley Jacobson *is* dead. I am no longer she."
Richie chuckled softly in the dark from her first comment, but then, he drew her closer to him, kissed the top of her head, soon both falling asleep.