Townsend Roses
Four o’clock. I had an hour before the first wave of Jersey commuters hit the Sea Streak landing. Enough time to dig through the boxes of “whatever” I’d purchased Saturday in Middletowne for $400. No one, including the auctioneer, had a clue as to what Miss Bessie Williams had stuffed inside them eighty years ago. I hoped for treasure, but feared I’d find trash.
I shut the front door of Legends, then headed to the storeroom where I’d stacked the boxes from the estate sale. I ripped open carton number one, then sighed with pleasure when I saw the first piece of a set of very old, very exquisite china.
Cream-colored, with one perfectly formed red rose in the center. The rose was so sharply defined I expected the tiny thorns to prick my finger.
I gently placed the cup down on a quilt, then began lifting out the rest of the china. I was soon surrounded by cream and roses. Not a chip or a scratch marred the surface of any piece. Even the teapot was unstained.
Obviously, Miss Bessie Williams had never used these dishes. For a moment I imagined keeping them for myself. Serving tea to someone who appreciated the beauty of this china. Someone who appreciated fine conversation. Someone who appreciated me.
I sighed and let the vision evaporate. I sell antiques. I don’t own them. “Holly, you dimwit. You can’t keep them. This china is your ticket to putting Legends into the black.” I grinned. “One buyer will do it. Yes!”
I held a plate up to the light, then nearly dropped it. Someone was reflected in the dish. Great. I’d left my baseball bat under the front counter. Next to the cell phone.
“Who’s there? Didn’t you read the ‘Closed ‘til five’ sign?”
The reflection became a shadow. Male. If he’d seen that sign, he’d ignored it. Rude or illiterate. Take your pick.
He murmured what sounded like, “I have found her.”
He was dressed in knee breeches and boots. A white linen shirt opened at the throat. His hair was long and tied back into a ponytail. Damn.
I turned, faced him, and sniped, “You’re one of those actors shooting that Colonial movie on the pier, right? Let’s see. Samuel Adams? Patrick Henry? Ben Franklin! Nah. Too much hair and no glasses. Whatever. Not to be nasty, but I’m closed ‘til five.”
His next step took him under the light. I finally saw his face. Firm chin, straight nose, warm blue eyes the color of a midnight sky. I gazed at him, finding it hard to breathe. I knew my face was turning redder than my hair.
He stared at me, then gestured toward the china and whispered, “Townsend Roses.”
“What?”
“The set is called Townsend Roses. Do you like them?”
An actor who knew about china patterns and wanted to discuss his knowledge? Interesting. He could stay.
I wondered, suddenly, crazily, if he enjoyed tea.
I smiled. “I love them. It’s funny. I’ve studied every book about antiques. I’ve visited exhibits and auctions, but seen a pattern this beautiful. It’s unequaled. But how do you know about this set? Are you related to Miss Bessie? You want them back? You think I cheated you?”
He shook his head.
I sighed. “Who are you? If you’re here to cause trouble, I really don’t need more. I’ve had enough for this lifetime. My parents are dead. I owe every creditor in Jersey. A year ago, I dated a creep who mistook me for a punching bag. I wised up, slugged him, filed charges, then left town. That reminds me, I’ve got a baseball bat and I’m not afraid to swing it.”
Good Lord. Where had that come from? I’d just spilled my guts to a stranger while simultaneously threatening him with bodily harm.
“You are too gentle and kind a lady to use that weapon.” He frowned. “I am truly sorry that your life has been filled with such grief. Such a wrong should be set right. But I also see that you think I am a thief here to rob you of your treasure? The only treasure I seek is your attention. Will you give it?”
“Oh. Sure.” Why not? I could listen, or do my Sammy Sosa imitation with the bat. I preferred listening. He’d said little, yet already the sound of his voice was like a caress.
He abruptly asked, “What are those bronze items on your desk?”
“The ugly bunnies squeezing my books?”
He laughed. “Bookends! Of course. But perhaps they represent canines, rather than hares?”
“I got them at a yard sale for fifty cents. They seem comfortable back here. But I always thought they were rabbits. Dogs, huh?”
His tone grew wistful. “I once owned a pair of collies. They were beautiful, intelligent creatures. I retain great affection for them.”
“I love dogs, too. I want to adopt a couple from the local pound soon.”
He seemed confused. “Pound?”
“Shelter? As in strays and puppies? Where’ve you been hiding, anyway? Gilligan’s Island?”
“I do not know this place.”
“Forget it. You wanted my attention? It’s yours.”
For a moment we stayed silent, staring into one another’s eyes. Finally, he spoke.
“I made the Townsend Roses as a gift for my mother.”
I rolled my eyes. “That makes no sense. This china sitting here on the floor?”
“Yes. I named the set after my mother’s family. Townsend. I am a Ballantyne. Edwin Ballantyne.”
“Holly Harrison. Owner of Legends. New owner of the very antique Townsend Roses. And a woman extremely curious as to how you can claim you crafted china that is over two centuries old.”
He closed his eyes. “What year is this?”
“Two-thousand four.” I exhaled. “Nuts. I just got it. The Sting. You’re going to tell me you time-traveled here. From Colonial America? Right? Super.”
I suddenly, stupidly, felt like crying. “Is this some dumb reality show? Where actors dress in funky costumes, pop in on shop owners and make them look like bozos? Where’s the camera?”
He seemed confused. “I apologize, for I do not understand what you are saying.” He brightened. “Please, you must tell me. Is time travel now possible? That is indeed a marvel of advanced invention!”
I groaned. “Enough. Why don’t you just go back to your buddies on the set and tell them what a kick it was making a fool of me.”
“I beg your forgiveness if I have offended you. That is not my intention.”
“What are your intentions, Mr. Ballantyne?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, and a myriad of possible intentions, all of them deliciously romantic, and most extremely wicked, flooded my brain.
He smiled. “Honorable, Miss Harrison. Though they may sound like lunacy. I fear you will not believe me, yet I somehow know that your heart, your soul will listen.”
“Mr. Ballantyne? Just get on with whatever B.S. you’re selling before I throw the bookends at you.”
“B. S.?”
“Skip it. Talk. Tell me all about making dishware in the Eighteenth Century.”
He pointed to the teapot and a look of sadness crossed his face. “That was my favorite piece. It still is. Miss Harrison, I lived in Middletowne until I was thirty. We were wealthy. I had no need to work a trade. You will think this fantastic, but I made The Townsend Roses in 1750 as a gift for my mother.”
I wanted very much to believe him. But he’d nailed it. “Fantastic.”
“Mr. Ballantyne. Edwin. What you’re telling me - it’s impossible.”
“I must beg a favor from you. Would you please look inside the kettle?”
“What?”
He motioned to the teapot. I stuck my hand inside. I retrieved, then unrolled, a scrap of parchment and read aloud one ink-stained sentence of poetry.
“Only after the last petal falls, shall love live.”
“Sweet. What’s it mean?”
The bell jangled from inside Legends. Damn.
“Oh, nuts! It’s five. Time to reopen. I’m sorry.”
“Miss Harrison, wait! Please.”
I paused. “I do need to go. Unlike you, I have to earn a living.”
He quickly stated, “I beg you, please, listen. If the Townsend Roses are not shattered within the next twenty-four hours, I will vanish until the next owner claims them.”
I stopped. “What?”
“I carry a curse. A curse born of hate that can only be remedied through love.” He lowered his volume. “Your love, Miss Holly. As soon as I met you, I knew if I couldn’t stay with you, it would not matter if I vanished forever.”
I closed my eyes, wondering whether to call a cop, a shrink, a shaman - or all three. When I opened them, Edwin Ballantyne had disappeared. The window was locked, the exit from the storeroom was closed and bolted from inside. It was mid-July, yet I shivered and felt cold.
I stayed busy with customers for four hours. I’d been keeping Legends open until 10:30, but this night I closed at nine, then padlocked the front door.
I headed toward the guesthouse I rented at the bottom of the scenic drive in Atlantic Highlands but didn’t stop. I kept walking until I reached the top of the road where tourists gaze in awe at the breathtaking view of Manhattan. I sat staring at the tall buildings across the Bay. I left when I began envisioning a Manhattan straight out of the Eighteenth Century and dreaming of a man crafting a set of rose patterned dishes.
I opened Legends at ten the next morning. I should have been grateful for the non-stop stream of customers. Instead I was irritated. I hadn’t had a chance to check the storeroom all day. To check the china. To look for Edwin Ballantyne.
Four o’clock. I locked the front door, flipped the sign to read “Closed 'til 5”, then headed back to the storage area.
No one was there. I was absurdly disappointed. What had I expected? That Edwin would be sitting between a platter and a gravy bowl, stirring tea into an exquisite saucer, reciting poetry and waiting for me to dispel his curse?
“Talk about lunatics! Just jump in and join the Thorazine and straight-jacket crowd, Holly Harrison.”
“I do not wish you to join any crowd, Miss Harrison, which sounds so unpleasant.”
I whirled around.
“Jeez! Edwin! How did you get in? I padlocked that door.”
For a moment we simply stood and smiled at each other. It didn’t matter how he’d gotten in. He was here.
“Miss Harrison, we were interrupted last evening. I must tell you now. Before the clock reaches the hour of five.”
Uh oh. We’d hauled in the old “Before the clock hits the hour of . . .” bit.
“Fine. Go ahead. Regale me.”
“Thank you. I shall endeavor to be brief. Miss Holly, I am -I was - a wealthy man, with a large inheritance. A man preparing to choose a bride with whom to share that wealth.” He smiled, unexpectedly, and I felt a flush warm my whole body. “The list of eligible maidens included Miss Sarah Devere.”
“Sarah Devere. Nice name. Sorry, go on.”
“Sadly, Miss Devere was not a nice woman. She was greedy, unkind, possessed a shrill voice, a shrewish attitude, and a mother much displeased that I had not asked for Miss Sarah’s hand. I made the mistake of telling Mrs. Devere that I had not yet chosen a lady for my wife.” He grinned. “I perhaps let my distaste overtake my manners. I informed Mrs. Devere that her daughter needed lessons in comportment and the art of speaking, since her voice imitated the sea gulls coming to shore in search of bait. I then expressed sympathy for the bait.”
I laughed. It was a good tale so far, even if the characters had been dead since the American Revolution.
He continued. “Mrs. Devere claimed that I would eternally regret shaming her daughter. I ignored her vile threats until she paid me a visit, bringing with her the ancient crone who lived near Marlpit Hall.”
“Oh, boy. I see this one coming a mile away. The Great Curse. Call the National Enquirer now. Oops, sorry. Please, continue. I’m truly enchanted.” I paused. “But then, so are you, right?”
He stared at the floor, then sighed. “I know this must sound absurd. Curses? The stuff of childish nightmares. Yet my own nightmare has lasted more than two centuries if the date you told me is correct.”
“Check the calendar if you don’t believe me.”
“I take you at your word.” He smiled. “Miss Holly, please consider taking me at mine.”
When he smiled like that I considered taking his word, his body, and his heart all on a long cruise around the world. I never knew the formal use of my name would make me want to feel the user’s lips on mine, feel his hands roaming through hair, feel. . .
I inhaled. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“The crone handed me that parchment. She told me that I would vanish, and materialize only when the Townsend Roses appear. If a lady loved me enough to destroy the Townsend Roses the curse would end. Only when the last dish was shattered would I come back to life – and to love.”
For a fairy tale, I thought it was pretty good. Original. I didn’t remember anything even in the Brothers Grimm repertoire that mentioned smashing china services to dispel curses.
“How many times have you, uh, come back?”
“Three. I last appeared when Miss Williams received the Townsend Roses in 1910.”
“Bessie?”
“Yes. Elizabeth Williams.” He paused. “She declined to destroy the china. She wanted wealth and she did not believe.”
“Yo! Hold up there. What does wanting wealth have to do with this?”
“If the china remains unbroken, I disappear. But the owner gains riches.”
When I spoke again, my words surprised me. “Did you love her?”
“Who?”
“Bessie. Elizabeth Williams.”
“No. I was relieved that I would not be spending my life with Bess Williams.”
“Did she love you?”
“I think not. She claimed to, in the brief day we spent together. But, as you see, the china remains intact. I have no notion of what her true feelings were.”
“And mine?” Damn. I hadn’t meant to ask that.
His voice was soft, low, innocently seductive. “You know the answer.”
I did. I walked over to him and touched his arm. I screamed when my hand dove clear through.
“Oh my God! You are a ghost! You’re not real! Or I’m hallucinating!”
I stared at him, desperate to touch his flesh, and terrified that I’d lost my sanity. I’d envisioned the perfect, yet unattainable, man.
He stared into my eyes. “I have less than an hour left. And if you believe nothing else I have said, know this. If I had been given a choice as to who would receive the Townsend Roses, I would have chosen no one else but you. I love your wit and sweetness and willingness to listen and the way your eyes show me your every thought and feeling. I love you.”
The doorbell jangled. I glanced toward the store’s entrance and shouted, “Closed!”
When I turned back around, Edwin had vanished.
I looked at the clock on my desk. Ten minutes until five.
The parchment lay next to the clock.
“Only after the last petal falls, shall love live.”
I heard Edwin’s voice saying, “I love you.” I had no time to decide whether I’d been dreaming. No time to assess whether his fable was true. No time to consider the risk I was about to take.
I picked up the gravy bowl, then threw it against the wall. The soup tureen and the plate followed. I grabbed pieces and threw them like some manic baseball pitcher. The teapot was the last to go. The clock chimed five. I stood amidst the wreckage waiting for Edwin to magically appear.
All stayed quiet. My clever ghost was probably down at Highlands bar hoisting a brew, regaling his fellow actors with how he’d hoodwinked an antiques dealer into destroying her life.
I locked up. I walked home. And I cried.
I was back at Legends at eight the next morning wondering how I’d pay next months rent. I didn’t even have the $400 I’d spent on Miss Bessie’s china.
The bell jangled. Too early for customers. I opened the door anyway, then stared into blue eyes the color of a midnight sky.
“Edwin? You’re here!”
He grinned. “In the flesh.”
He leaned down. His lips met mine. Finally I could feel his warmth and his solid presence. We kissed and held each other until I worried the locals would stamp “Adult Entertainment Only” over Legends’ window.
When we drew apart, I exhaled, “Guess we’d better check the damage in the back. How do I explain two hundred shattered dishes to the insurance company?”
“Holly, trust me. You won’t have to.”
We walked to the storeroom. Every piece of Townsend Roses china sat neatly on the quilt. Undamaged.
I fell back into Edwin’s arms. “I don’t understand! I smashed them.”
“I couldn’t tell you. It was your choice. Love or wealth. You had to love me enough to be willing to destroy the Townsend Roses.” Edwin picked up the teapot and added, smiling, “Now I can finally hold this – and you. Tea for breakfast?”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Sorry. The witch claimed if I loved and was loved, the broken pieces would become whole again. Amazing, but true.”
We made tea, poured it into undamaged cups, then sat on the quilt, surrounded by the rest of the china.
I grinned. “I never imagined when I named this place Legends, I’d be living one.”
Edwin winked. “A toast? To the witch.”
“Wait. To Bessie.”
Edwin nodded. “To us.”
I smiled. “To legends that come true.”
We raised our cups and the roses touched.
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