Bridge to the Past

Prologue

I sometimes wonder whether Katherine's coin would have gone to someone else had our school chosen a different day for a field trip to Fort Ross.

I remember that January day being cold and drizzly. White cotton mist clung to the red cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, where seagulls dipped and soared and disappeared into the blurred horizon. Wind howled up the cove and lashed across the bluff where we huddled over our lunches. It swept sand into our eyes and stung our lips with salt and eventually drove us into the shelter of a modest souvenir shop. A little bell jangled as we piled through the doorway into welcome warmth, announcing ourselves with adolescent giggles and the shrill self-important chatter of sixth-grade girls.

I hesitated just inside the door while my classmates streamed around me and funneled into the narrow aisles. I watched them, backpacks bobbing and heads conspiratorially close as they moved away from me. I doubt they paid any attention to the recorded music meant to create a soothing ambiance: a native flute cascading through silvery notes, a hand drum pulsing softly. Aromatherapy-scented clouds drifted and mingled with the ocean fog we brought in on our jackets.

I struck off for the furthest corner of the shop—a loner as always. I liked being alone, or at least that was my act. I knew my grandmother's wealth and notoriety set me apart from the other Academy girls, and that was fine with me. I didn't care about their silly parties or their sleepovers. I didn't need a best friend to sit with at lunch. I ignored the fact that there was something about me, something that the other girls sensed and instinctively shunned, but like I said, that was my act. I prided myself on my independence.

I reached a colorful display of Native American basketry and began an exaggerated study—aware of the whispers and guffaws behind me. I blinked hard and stuck out my chin, trying to remember how excited I was to visit Fort Ross. I loved history, and the fort—now an historic park—was the site of the first Russian settlement on the California coast, about ninety miles north of San Francisco. I forced myself to focus on the display baskets. They were intricately woven and quite beautiful, the larger ones frilled with feathers and seashells. I reached out a fingertip, and the silky feathers bowed to my touch and sprang back, tripping my imagination.

I saw black-haired women sitting in the deep shade of redwood trees, choosing feathers to decorate their baskets while they laughed and gossiped together. Young girls were wedged between their mothers and grandmothers and aunts, watching the women's hands and learning their craft, listening to their stories—

Hairs pricked up on the nape of my neck as I suddenly felt I was being watched. I jerked my head around. My classmates were intent upon a postcard kiosk and paying no attention to me. Shivering, I pulled my jacket closer and moved along the aisle, trailing a hand over glossy covers of coffee table books about Russian and California histories. I opened a few to old drawings of Fort Ross and the coastline cliffs just after the Russians had settled the area. One picture in particular caught my attention: a child playing with her doll on a rough covered porch. I imagined her mother just inside the open door, arms dusty with flour up to her elbows as she punched down bread dough and called to the girl to stay on the porch and to keep her dress clean, for heaven's sake—

This time my entire body jerked around. My gaze flew to a colorful display of Native American blankets draping the back wall of the shop. A life-size wooden statue filled the corner behind an old-style brass cash register and glass display case. The statue's body was draped in blanket material like the wall behind it, its face chiseled into rough features that looked uncannily human.

Intrigued, I took a step closer and froze. Eyes like twin black currants gleamed at me. The statue came to life as the colorful drape moved and an arm lifted. A finger like a gnarled tree root pointed at me and crooked.

The native flute seemed suddenly loud as my classmates broke off their chatter to stare. With a grunt, the statue heaved herself off her stool and lumbered to the far end of the glass case. Like a sleepwalker compelled to obey, I approached her.

She slid open the case and selected a copper coin the size of a half-dollar. She laid it on the glass in front of me.

You buy. Her voice was dry and cracked, like the weathered crevices pinching her face. One day, it changes your future. She inched the coin forward with her tree-root finger and watched me.

The coin wasn't currency but a commemorative piece of some kind. A flag was etched into the gleaming copper and writing too strange to decipher at a glance.

I swallowed and looked up. The woman's eyes seemed to have no pupils—only inky depths that I feared could suck the thoughts right out of my brain if I kept staring. I swallowed again.

How much? I whispered.

She shrugged and regarded me without expression. I fumbled through my backpack for crumpled bills and piled all my money on the counter: forty-three dollars and eleven cents. I pushed the money toward her, reddening as the other girls snickered and whispered behind their hands.

The old woman nodded, and her eyes disappeared briefly into the folds of her face. She sighed and laid the coin on my open palm.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday, she said. They are all the same.

I stared at her, but she didn't look at me. Instead, she scooped up my money and sidled over to the cash register.

* * *

During the long bus ride back to San Francisco, my hand stole repeatedly into my pocket to rub the coin as if it were Aladdin's lamp. I refused to let the other girls hold it. By the time I got home, I had decided to keep the coin and its promise of magic a secret from my mother and my grandmother. I climbed into bed that night still clutching it and fell asleep with my thumb circling its rim, feeling automatically for a curious nick cut deep and worn smooth over time.

It was the cold, silent hour before dawn when something woke me. A descending moon poured a dazzling stream of silver through my window, making me squint as I opened my eyes. The silver pooled beside my bed, and in the center of the pool, not three feet away from me, stood a girl watching me.

She was small and slight, close to my own age, with a curtain of dark hair spilling down her back. Her eyes were intent on me, gleaming black in the moonlight. I stared back at her in mute astonishment, more fascinated than afraid.

I tried to sit up but found my arms and legs manacled by the paralysis that comes with sleep. As I struggled to free myself, the girl's image quivered and began to separate, like ripples in a reflecting pool. In another instant, she had dissolved. I was staring at my bedroom wall through an empty shower of moonbeams.

Part One

WINTER

Victoria

Chapter One

My grandmother kept a silver dollar in her jewelry chest. Sometimes she'd let me hold it while she told me the story of how the coin had changed her destiny. A rich lady had come into her parents' bakery one day to order a wedding cake for her daughter. My grandmother had waited on well-to-do patrons before, but she'd never seen anyone as fine as this woman. She could recall with detail the woman's unspoiled white gloves, the dainty scallop of lace trim on her hat, and the blue and gold threads embroidered on her tiny black velvet purse. While my grandmother stood, struck dumb with awe, the woman opened her purse and pulled out the silver dollar.

For your dowry, my dear. She pressed the coin into my grandmother's hand and winked as if they shared a secret. I hope someday you'll make your mother as happy as my daughter has made me.

It was the first money my grandmother had been allowed to keep for herself. She told me the sheer weight of the silver on her palm had made her hungry for more. That single coin, she claimed, coupled with the vision of that fine woman, had started her on a path of destiny and the ultimate building up of the Prescott retail empire.

Brought up as I was on the story of my grandmother's silver dollar, having held it in my hand and witnessed her success, I couldn't be blamed for believing that the strange souvenir coin from Fort Ross could alter my future as well. From the day the old woman sold me the coin, for ten long years, I carried it with me everywhere. In my purse or in my pocket, the coin found its way into my hand as easily as a key slipping into its lock. I came to depend on the smooth feel of its copper under my thumb, on the calming effect of its embossed flag and letters. The perfect circle of its rim, save for the odd nick, reassured me of an enchanted future I spent long hours imagining.

Perhaps it was the sheer intensity of my longing for a different life that imbued the coin with its special power. In any case, when that day finally arrived for the old shop woman's prediction to come true, I would fail to recognize it. I would rub the piece out of idle habit and make my wish carelessly, angrily, never dreaming that the coin was ready at last to work its magic.

* * *

That day in early March dawned gray and cold. I awoke in a sheen of sweat, struggling up from the depths of a recurring nightmare I'd had since childhood. The child's voice still whispered in my head as I opened my eyes and realized I was alone in the bed. The bathroom door stood open; the rooms were silent. Ryan was either having his coffee or had already left for work.

I turned my gaze to the window where a gloomy San Francisco fog pressed against the glass, sheeting it with a fine crystalline veil. I shivered and burrowed deeper into the warm sheets, but the grim daylight followed me. Eventually, resentfully, I threw back the covers.

I encountered Ryan perched on a kitchen barstool, reading the newspaper and downing a mug of coffee. His alert, groomed appearance and his pleasant Good morning, Vicki earned an unintelligible grunt from me. I fixed myself a cup of tea and sat hunched on the stool beside him, scowling into the fragrant steam rising in curls from my cup. He cast me a long look and put his paper aside.

Pushing off the barstool, he crossed the kitchen and tipped the coffee pot into his mug. He kept his eyes on his task and spoke with tired patience that annoyed me further: If you hate your job so much, Vicki, why don't you just quit?

I looked up at this replay of an old conversation. Ryan leaned against the counter—his long legs crossed at the ankle, his head tilted thoughtfully to one side. His well-shaped mouth dipped slightly in a frown.

Eleanor doesn't own you, he continued. You have the right to leave Prescott's any time you want. He raised his mug but kept his eyes on me as he took a sip.

Excuses rose to my lips like soda bubbles. I can't quit, Ryan. Eleanor would be so hurt. He raised an eyebrow, and I stuck out my chin. Okay, I owe her. She gave Mother and me a home when we had nowhere else to go. She gave us a place in her company—

Made slaves of you! Ryan spat the words. "When she isn't ignoring your mother, she's belittling her. And don't tell me she was doing you a favor by turning you into a fashion model. At twelve years old! For her precious department store. Eleanor's bottom line is always whatever is best for Prescott's."

I know, but—

She uses you like she uses everybody. And she's so vain, she won't even let you call her Grandmother! Ryan wagged a finger at me. Don't mistake her interest in you for any kind of love, Vicki. Eleanor Prescott isn't capable of the feeling.

His brutal honesty stung. Without thinking, I snapped back, So now you're an expert on love? Trust me, Ryan, you wouldn't know love if it snuck up and bit you on that well-shaped behind your lady clients admire so much!

The harsh words shocked even me. The surprise in Ryan's eyes darkened quickly into anger.

That's not fair. His voice was cold. He stared hard at me, and I looked away, down at my cup. Just what am I supposed to do, Vicki? You hardly let me touch you anymore. Then, agitated, Why did you marry me if I'm so repulsive to you? Can you answer me that?

There was hurt beneath his anger. I couldn't look at him. Ashamed, confused by my own anger, I thrust myself off the stool and shoved open the sliding glass door to our balcony. Fog slipped around me, hiding me like a magician's cloak as I stumbled across to the railing and clung to it, grateful for the shock of cold, damp iron against my hot palms.

A few minutes later the front door slammed, rattling the sliding glass pane behind me. I stared into the eerie blindness of the mist and wondered, not for the first time, why I didn't love my husband.

Ryan Ashton was probably the most attractive man I had ever met, with wavy hair the color of summer honey and hazel eyes warm and intelligent. His long limbs and slender build might appear too lean if not for the sculpted muscles achieved as much through the fortune of heredity as through disciplined physical effort. His body in motion called to mind the prowling restlessness of a jungle cat—graceful and sensual, primed for quick action.

He had a tiny white scar in his left eyebrow, which he was in the habit of raising when curious or skeptical, and a smile that could stop my heart. That perfect mouth leaned toward stubbornness, but could speak with charm enough to soften the flintiest of souls—even Eleanor's. His social ease at thirty-two contrasted with my painful shyness at twenty-two and undeniably attracted me to him. Within the confident circle that Ryan created for us, I felt, if not exactly loved, at least safe.

Despite his social competence, however, Ryan remained an intensely private man. Ten months of marriage had convinced me that I might never know him completely. Moreover, I knew I remained as much a mystery to him as he was to me. In that tragic sense, our marriage was a perfect match.

I rubbed away useless tears and looked down. Fog hid the street below and the surrounding buildings that normally anchored our apartment in place. I felt eerily adrift, alone on my tiny island of gray cement and black iron railing. Muffled city noises floated around me like the phantom murmurings of a ghost ship. An errant breeze ruffled my hair and brushed my cheek like a gull's wing.

I shivered and pulled up the collar of my robe. Thrusting my hands deep into my pockets, I encountered the familiar shape of the old souvenir coin. Instinctively, possessively, my fingers curled around it.

Obeying ten years of habit, my thumb began to circle the coin's rim while emotions gathered like a storm in my chest. Dark words whispered in my head of secrets and longings and a bitter ache I couldn't name. My fist tightened around the coin until my nails dug painful half-moons into my palm. The fog pressed against my face, blind and weeping, and suddenly I cried out, "I wish I were anybody but Victoria Reeves-Ashton! Please, God, just let me wake up some morning a completely different person!"

The impersonal mist swallowed my cry. On a defeated little sob, I swung around and slumped against the railing. The glass door caught my reflection and threw back the familiar image of a young woman, tall and slender, with a luxuriant mane of blond hair she'd inherited from the Rhineholdt side of the family. Her eyes were a stunning emerald green—Eleanor's eyes. The woman in the glass was an icon for Eleanor Prescott's department store chain. People knew her as Victoria the Beautiful. Victoria the Successful. Victoria the Fortunate.

I knew her as Victoria the Caged. Victoria the Timid. Victoria the Incomplete.

The woman in the glass watched me with sorrowful eyes. I looked away from her pain and released the coin, letting it drop to the bottom of my pocket. I rubbed my palm where my nails had scored the skin.

Still avoiding the woman's eyes, I walked past her into the empty silence of our apartment and slid the door shut.

* * *

Our weekend excursion to Rosswood was decided with astonishing speed.

Ryan came home that evening full of energy and waving a colorful brochure. Rosswood Estate, he said. A family-owned vineyard two hours north of here, in Sonoma County. We're considering a resort project on a site nearby. Larry wants me to check it out. He opened the brochure to show me a pretty Victorian house. He offered us the weekend escape package at this Summerwood Cottage bed-and-breakfast. Interested?

It may have been the word escape that sold me on the idea. Or perhaps the coin was already working its magic. For whatever reason, I agreed to the impromptu trip with a ready enthusiasm that surprised us both.

The following evening I carried my suitcase into the corridor and watched Ryan lock the front door of our apartment. We took the elevator down to the parking garage, stowed our luggage and coats in the Jaguar's trunk, and within minutes were nosing into the writhing snakes of Friday night traffic headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into the gathering darkness of the North Bay hills.

* * *

We stopped for dinner in Petaluma, at a restaurant just off Highway 101. Branigan's Steak House was cozy and rustic, with lacquered wood tables and red-leather menus boasting the best steaks in Sonoma County. A waitress with fringed white boots and a cowboy hat perched above improbable platinum curls took our order for two steak platters. She gave me a smile and Ryan a longer one, letting her eyes travel down to his waist before she turned away.

Unaffected, Ryan pulled the Rosswood brochure from his pocket and flipped it to the back panel. He tapped his finger on a little map.

Rossport, he said. That's the nearest town, looks like two miles from the estate. Built in the mid-1850s on a tributary of the Russian River. I'll want to get a look at that. Plus, I'm anxious to walk the site. He tore off a wedge of warm bread and applied butter in a single, careful stroke. I want to get a feel for the terrain, you know? Give the design a chance to come alive on its own. He popped the bread into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

I dropped my napkin onto my lap and smoothed it with my hands. It's your trademark approach, Ryan, that makes your designs so good and you the best architect Larry has. Ryan's scarred eyebrow lifted faintly at the compliment. I reached for the bread. 'Let the land speak, and it will present you with the key to itself.'

At hearing his own words, Ryan stopped chewing and stared at me.

Here you go, folks.

The waitress shoved sizzling platters beneath our noses. She positioned Ryan's with such care, I suspected that another couple would be getting their platters somewhat later than they should.

Anything else I can get for you two? I looked up, but her eyes were all for Ryan.

He treated her to a heart-stopping smile. No, thanks, Marsha. I think we're good.

I glanced at him in surprise. Then I noticed her name printed on a plastic bar pinned to her blouse. She planted her hands on her hips and beamed a long-toothed grin at Ryan.

I'll just bet you are, sugar, she purred. My eyes widened, and she winked at me. Enjoy yourselves. She turned with a toss of her platinum curls and sauntered back to the kitchen.

Ryan reached for the pepper and tapped it briskly over his steak. You know, Vicki, he said conversationally, you're welcome to come to the site with me, although I think you'd be bored. It could take hours.

I twisted my water glass on the shiny tabletop. That's okay. I brought along my sketchpad. You know, just in case… I trailed off with an embarrassed shrug.

Ryan set down the pepper and waited. I sipped my water.

You're good, Vicki. You could be better if you'd ignore your grandmother and start trusting your own instincts. Ryan picked up his fork, frowning. Eleanor isn't God Almighty. And she sure doesn't know anything about art. Besides, I think she's just piqued because you won't learn the retail business from her. His tone gentled. Don't let her discourage you. It's your own voice you should be listening to.

Ryan made it sound so simple, as if Eleanor were the problem. As far back as I could remember, though, I'd had trouble bringing my paintings to life. Although technically correct, my artwork showed little imagination. Whenever I lifted my brush to the canvas, I found myself back in the seventh grade with Sister Annette chirping over my shoulder, "Good, Victoria, but too tentative. Too weak. You must believe in your subject if you expect others to see what you see!"

Sister Annette might disagree, but I preferred control to creativity. Obeying the rules kept you a lot safer than wandering off on your own