The Opal Legacy Part 4

October came and Lesley lay on the beach with the mid-morning sun warm on her face, her eyes closed as she listened to the beat of the waves against the breakwater. Five days had pa.s.sed since she had seen Jon. She hummed a melody, a song from long ago, but could not recall the words. She dozed, awakened, closed her eyes again, the surf rumbling, its sound repeated over and over and...

Listen to the ocean, her grandmother had said. Lesley held the chambered nautilus to her ear and heard the steady roar from within. For years and years, the old woman had told her, this sh.e.l.l lay beneath the sea and the sun and the moon created great tides on the oceans of the earth, and even today the echo of these waves is inside the sh.e.l.l, even here, hundreds of miles from the sea.

They were sitting on the settee in her grandmother's parlor, a special Sunday room whose shades were drawn the other six days of the week, a dark and musty room of tall gla.s.s-doored bookcases, polished mahogany tables, and throw rugs on top of a worn, rose-patterned carpet, a room of treasures, and secrets, and tales of long ago.

"Tell me a story," Lesley said, and her grandmother placed the sh.e.l.l carefully on the table beside them and closed her eyes. While Lesley waited, she watched the dust motes dance in the light from the window.

"There was once a Scottish chieftain," her grandmother began, the burr still in her voice after these many years. She knew so many stories. Lesley rode with knights through dark woods, danced at costume b.a.l.l.s until the stroke of midnight, looked on with awe while Moses visited plagues on the land of Egypt. Her grandmother led her into the magic land of Cinderella, Snow White, and Rumpelstiltskin; of Mary, Queen of Scots; of Robert Bruce; and even Rip Van Winkle; though the old woman sniffed at most of the local Catskill legends.

These were stories for Sunday afternoons or midweek picnics in the summerhouse. The others, the stories Lesley loved best, the dark and terrible tales, were saved for sullen winter days when snow whispered on the windowpanes or for summer evenings when thunderheads piled up over the mountains and jagged streaks of lightning flashed from sky to earth.

"Lesley, come with me," the old woman would say and, with a fearful joy, Lesley would climb the narrow stairs to her grandmother's room; a room, she thought, from another time, with its gilt-edged mirrors, the bed with the high bra.s.s frame, and the scent of lavender all about. She watched her grandmother lift the top of the cedar chest, remove the jewel box and, with an ornate black key, unlock it.

"If you are very careful," she told Lesley, "you may hold the opal." The old woman settled in her favorite chair, a rocker with k.n.o.bbed arms; Lesley sat on the floor at her feet, the gem warm in her hands. She stared at the stone, half as large as her palm, fascinated by the flow of color and the fire sparkling deep within.

"'The opal contains the gifts of the most precious stones,'" her grandmother quoted, "'s.h.i.+ning together in incredible union.' A Roman wrote that almost two thousand years ago."

"Will you tell me the story of the king?" Lesley asked.

"Ah, Lesley, you like the sad tales best, don't you?" The old woman shook her head. "Your mother never liked the old stories," she said, and Lesley sensed that in her grandmother's mind this dislike was in some way related to her mother's early death. Lesley nestled closer against the old woman's legs.

"There was once a prince," her grandmother began, "who loved a commoner, a girl who was very beautiful and also very proud. When his father died, the prince, the only son, became king. He was still young and he listened to the counsel of the men of his father's court and married a princess of the royal blood. The girl who had loved him sent the new king a wedding present, an opal set in a ring of gold. The people of the kingdom were amazed at the opal's unearthly loveliness and sought to discover the source of the gem but they could not, nor has anyone to this day.

"The king gave the opal to his wife and, in a few months she sickened and died. The stone next went to the king's grandmother who died a year later, but this was not remarkable for she was by then an old woman. Then the king made a gift of the opal ring to his sister, who also died. By now the king's counselors were alarmed and they chose three of their number and sent them to the king to tell him the opal was cursed and was the cause of the deaths. The king laughed and called them superst.i.tious, for the king believed in science and scoffed at magic.

"'I'll prove the stone is powerless,' he told the three counselors and the next day when they saw the king the ring was on his finger. They shook their heads and muttered among themselves but they were afraid to speak out again. Within months the color faded from the king's cheeks and he fell ill. The best doctors in the kingdom were summoned yet with all their knowledge they couldn't diagnose his illness and in a short time the king died."

"And what was the king's name?" Lesley asked, following a ritual she and her grandmother had established long before.

"Alfonso XII, King of Spain."

"And how old was he when he died?"

"He died in 1885 at the age of twenty-seven."

Lesley sat without speaking, staring into the s.h.i.+mmering depths of the stone in her hand. "Tell me about Hermione," she said at last.

"Lady Hermione was never seen in public without an opal in her hair. The gem sparkled when she was happy, flamed red or green when she was angry or jealous, lost its l.u.s.ter when she was tired.

"Hermione feared the opal might be ruined if touched by water, for opals are sensitive to heat and moisture. Because of her fear, Hermione's rivals accused her of being a witch and, although her husband scoffed at the idea, he finally allowed holy water to be sprinkled on his wife's forehead as a precaution. A drop fell on the opal and the gem shot forth one brilliant flash, like a falling star, and in an instant was as dull as a pebble. Hermione fell to the chapel door, dead."

Lesley s.h.i.+vered. "Is that story true?" she asked.

"It's only a tale and may or may not be true."

"Tell me about your opal, the Campbell opal."

"Not my opal, Lesley, ours, for one day it will be yours." The old woman rocked back and forth. "The first written record of the gem, or so my mother told me, was made in the eighteenth century in Rumania, though legend has it that the opal was discovered in Mexico centuries ago. In Rumania, a n.o.ble family owned the opal, pa.s.sing it from generation to generation until it finally came into the possession of a count, an evil man who had four wives, each of whom died within a year of her marriage. Under suspicion in his own country, the count journeyed to England where he gave the opal to his cousin, a Scot living in London. A few months later, home in Rumania, the count was murdered."

"Did he die because the opal had protected him?"

"As I've told you, Lesley, the opal has a different meaning for each of us; we have to discover its secret for ourselves. This I do know: each of the possessors of this stone has lived an extraordinary life, has been different from his fellows, sometimes for good, sometimes for evil. The virtues and vices of the possessors seemed to be accentuated. One was an advisor to two kings of England. Another was hanged after he attempted to tunnel beneath the Houses of Parliament to plant explosives."

"And you, Grandma? Haven't you had the opal since you were young?"

"Ever since I was seventeen."

"Yet you've always lived in Catskill, haven't you, since you came from Scotland?"

"I've lived here for sixty years."

"But you said-"

The old woman smiled and stilled her rocker with her foot. "Listen," she said softly. The house was quiet. "The thunderstorm's over, it's time for you to go to bed." She placed the opal in the jewel box, returned the box to the chest.

Once in bed, Lesley pulled the covers up around her neck. Her grandmother leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You were born in October," the old woman said, "the first Campbell in many generations to be born in the stone's own month. I learned a poem from my mother- October's child is born for woe, And life's vicissitudes must know; But lay an opal on her breast, And hope will lull those woes to rest.

"Then my mother would shake her head. 'There's more to it than that,' she'd say. 'October's child must love and be loved in return before she can find happiness.'"

"And will I be happy?"

"I pray you will, Lesley, I pray you will."

And her grandmother eased the door shut leaving Lesley listening to the distant rumble of the thunder in the mountains...

A fly buzzed, circling her head, and Lesley opened her eyes and saw the beach and the sand, heard the waves. The sun was high, telling her she must go back to her apartment. That night she lay in bed, the opal in her hand, and all at once the song came back, the song she had hummed on the beach earlier in the day, and now she remembered the words and she sang them softly, "Moonlight and roses." She thought of her grandmother and her stories, of the opal's dark and troubled history, and after a time she drowsed and her mind closed and there was nothing, only the peace, and then she was alone in the mist on a bluff over a lake, the cold wind off the water making her draw the hood tighter about her head. Waves slammed against the rocks below.

Jon came to stand behind her and she knew he was in danger, though not from her. "Come to the house with me, Lesley," he said. She faced into the wind, her back to him. "Lesley, please," he said. She felt his hand on her arm but she hardened her heart against him, shook free, and walked a few paces nearer to the cliff. "Lesley, I need you," he said, his voice pleading with her. She stepped farther away, perilously near the cliff edge, so close she could see spray leap up toward her.

She turned. Jon was gone. She saw a man's figure striding through the mist, climbing toward the highest promontory. She sobbed and with a cry ran after him, clambering over rocks with the wind cutting her face and mist whirling about her. She called Jon's name but her voice was lost in the crash of the waves.

A quaking began deep within the earth and the ground trembled beneath her feet. She stopped, fearful. In front of her she saw a boulder next to a wind-bent chokecherry tree, then the tree and the boulder slid from sight. She stared into the chasm at her feet but could not see the lake because of the mist, looked across the chasm but could not see Jon. Running forward, she skirted the edge of the slide, found the promontory deserted. She screamed into the wind and then woke, moaning, her heart pounding, fear rising to her throat.

Lesley turned on the lamp next to her bed. The opal, dull and lifeless, lay on the quilt. She reached for the phone and with an unsteady hand dialed Jon's number. His voice came at last, sounding sleepy and puzzled.

"I miss you," she said.

"Lesley? Are you all right?"

"I love you," she told him.

Chapter Six.

"Are you sure you don't mind stopping at Karen's party before we eat?" Lesley asked Jon. It was two days later and they were driving west on Highway 8 through Mission Valley.

"No, not if that's what you want to do. We can't stay long, though, I've made a dinner reservation."

"Where are we going?"

"The Black Dragon," Jon said. "You did say you liked Chinese food, didn't you?"

"Yes, it's one of my favorite foods. Karen lives on the next block; we turn left at the corner." They parked along the street and walked to the new condominium. When they entered the downstairs living area the rooms were already crowded.

"Would you like a gla.s.s of punch?" Jon asked. Lesley nodded. More people were coming in while early arrivals crowded around a buffet table, spearing food with toothpicks, or stood in small groups, talking. She recognized several other nurses from the hospital but Lesley had never seen most of the guests before. She watched Jon make his way to the punch bowl, then look back at her over the intervening heads, forming the word empty with his lips.

She smiled at him and for an instant the room receded, the murmur of voices faded, and there was only Jon and her. What would I do without him? she wondered. I'll die if he ever leaves me. A wave of panic swept through her and she closed her eyes.

A woman's laugh broke the spell. She saw Jon gesturing as he talked to a young man while he waited for the punch bowl to be refilled, yet she knew he was reserved, a quiet, private person.

She suddenly realized that before she knew Jon, when she dated, she had usually been part of a group of two, three, or four couples. Jon and she were, on the other hand, almost always alone. He didn't shun the few friends she had made during her three months in San Diego, but neither did he ask to meet them. He seemed interested in her and her alone. Attentive, he brought her books he knew she'd like, complimented her on the different ways she'd fixed her hair, noticed her new dress or the perfume she'd worn just for him. She was flattered, yet, at times, uneasy without quite knowing why.

"Where did you find him?"

Karen stood beside her, an auburn-haired young woman a few years older than Lesley, a green sheath fitting snugly on her striking figure. The dissolution of Karen's marriage, Lesley knew, had been final for six months now.

"I met him at the university in La Jolla," Lesley answered.

"Is he one of the professors?"

"No, he was there on business. Something to do with kelp."

"Isn't he a little, well, mature for you, Lesley?"

"I used to think about his age but I don't any more."

Jon threaded his way back to her with a punch gla.s.s in each hand. "Your drink, Lesley," he said.

The stereo began to play a sentimental song from the forties. "Come with me," Karen said, taking Jon's arm. "The hostess always has the first dance." Jon looked questioningly at Lesley.

"I don't mind," she said. He handed her his gla.s.s to hold.

"That's Karen for you." Barbara Nichols, one of the p.m. nurses, stopped beside Lesley on her way to the punch bowl. "She always manages to latch onto the best-looking man around."

Lesley's eyes followed Jon and Karen as they danced slow and close together. What is he really like? she wondered. She wanted to look away from the two dancers but found she could not. She felt like hurling the punch at Karen; no, at both of them. Instead, she drank it, gulping down the fruit juice so hurriedly tears came to her eyes. What if he sees me watching him? she wondered. What will he think?

What does he think of me as it is? She felt Jon needed her and he said he cared for her, and evidently he liked to be with her, for he repeatedly sought her out, yet he knew she wanted security, a long-term relations.h.i.+p. Yes, and marriage eventually. He never mentioned marriage. He did tell her about his work, which, she gathered, was mainly the overseeing of family investments, and he talked of growing up at Iron Ridge. He had never again referred to his wife. Once in a great while he drank too much and when he did he drew in upon himself, becoming morose, and then nothing she could do would bring him out of his depression.

"I'm returning him safe and sound."

Lesley looked up to find Karen holding Jon's arm. "When is our dinner reservation?" Lesley asked him.

"Eight thirty. We've got plenty of time."

"Ah, here comes Bob," Karen said, looking toward the door. "So glad you could come, Lesley."

"Your friend's a vivacious woman," Jon said after Karen had left.

"I could tell you liked her." Lesley couldn't keep the coolness from her voice.

"Your gla.s.s is empty. Do you want more punch?"

"No; I'd like to go now." He shrugged and placed her shawl across her shoulders. She walked from under his hands and, without waiting for him, opened the front door.

In the foyer of the restaurant a Chinese waitress smiled up at Jon. "Mr. Hollister? This way please." As she led them across the room her legs flashed through the slit in her gown. She removed the Reserved card from their table and they sat down.

"Lesley," he said, "I didn't mean to upset you at the party."

She bit her lip. "I'm being foolish. I don't know what came over me. I never acted that way before."

"It's a compliment." He put his hand over hers. "You have no reason to be jealous."

"I know I don't." Am I really so sure? she asked herself.

The waitress lit the candle on their table. Lesley turned the candle's red chimney so she could see all of the fire-breathing dragon painted on its side. They ordered almond chicken, fried shrimp, sweet-and-sour pork, barbecued spareribs, and chow mein.

"I know so little about you," she said as she poured tea into their cups.

"What would you like to know?"

"You've never told me what happened to your wife."

He frowned, putting his elbows on the table and staring into the teacup in his hands. She didn't think he was going to answer.

"A storm was coming up," he said finally, "and she took out the boat, the outboard; I'll never know why. I wasn't at Iron Ridge that day, I was in Chicago. 'Never go on the lake alone,' I'd told her. 'It's too dangerous.' When the park rangers saw her pa.s.s the point five miles north of Iron Ridge the wind had already risen and the lake was choppy. I don't think she even noticed. 'If I get back,' she probably told herself, 'that's all right, and if I don't, that's all right, too.' She didn't care anymore."

"I can't imagine not caring about living."

"Mary hated Iron Ridge, thought the house itself was malevolent. Evil, she called it. I laughed at her, at least at first, and then I didn't laugh but by that time it was too late. Mary's body didn't wash ash.o.r.e for three days. I had to identify her."

"How horrible."

"She died ten years ago. I'm over her death now, as much as I'll ever be. I've never gone back to Iron Ridge. I will, though, and soon. The time has come to lay those ghosts to rest."

"I'm glad you told me. I know how difficult it must be for you to talk about her."

He took her hand in his. "You're good for me," he told her. With his other hand he raised his teacup. I'm forgetting," he said. "To our anniversary."

"How long has it been?"

"Two months today."