Chapter Two
O! Call back yesterday,
bid time return.
—William Shakespeare
Guatemala, 1997
THE PAST WAS alive. It panted in great hot exhalations of humid air, rumbled from the very heart of the jungle like the growl of some vast prehistorical beast. More alive than any sculpture or stele or chunk of pottery could ever make it.
It was real, and it was dangerously compelling. In this place you could lose your soul.
Mac stood in the clearing and turned in a slow circle, absorbing the ancient, potent power of the temples that rose on every side. Beyond the ruins of Tikal lay the jungle, a dense wall of brilliant green that hid a thousand other wonders. And, for the first time in her life, she wasn’t only seeing it in a book.
You were right, Homer. She crouched on the plaza’s neatly trimmed grass and looked up and up until she felt almost dizzy. I think I’m beginning to understand what it means to be a Sinclair.
Enough of a Sinclair to be inspired by the magnificence of the monuments an ancient civilization had abandoned so long ago; enough of the adventurer to be grateful she’d come, however crazy the motive.
Absently she reached for the leather thong around her neck, as she’d done so often since she’d boarded the plane in San Francisco. The pendant was her tangible link with Homer; here it almost made her feel as if she’d come to a familiar place rather than one she’d seen only in photographs.
Homer had been gone for over six months, and toward the end he’d been too weak to remind her of her promise to him. Toward the end he’d been content just to have her beside the hospital bed, to have her hold his hand and ease his passage.
But she knew he hadn’t forgotten.
Mac swallowed back the lump in her throat. All her links to Homer had dissolved, one by one. The Victorian on Grove Street, far too big for one woman and in need of major repair, had long since been sold. The artifacts that had filled every dusty room had been donated to museums or universities—all but a few minor keepsakes.
And the pendant. The symbol of a curse Mac simply couldn’t buy.
She let the stone chip fall back against her shirt and brushed off her khakis. It hadn’t been so difficult to come here in the end. Not too much left to tie her to the life she was used to. No one to take care of in the mornings and evenings after work. No vast hulk of a house to try to keep in reasonable order, only a studio apartment in Berkeley. No responsibilities other than her job at the museum. Nothing to stand in the way of a promise.
So here she was, surrounded by a past that refused to die. She glanced skyward. “I hope you’re watching, Homer. I’m beginning to wonder if you sent me on a wild-goose chase just to make me spread my wings.”
A hint of warm breeze stirred the ends of her bangs under Homer’s battered San Francisco Giants baseball cap. She could almost feel Homer with her now; she’d have given a lot to see his expression. Would he be laughing at the grand, final joke he’d played on her?
But he’d been right about her. She’d known it as soon as she’d stepped off the plane in Belize. She’d known it on the short flight to Flores and on the bus to the ruins. She knew it now, surrounded by the magnificent bones of history.
The past was alive. And so was she—more alive than she’d felt since childhood…
Hold it, Mac, she chided herself. Keep your feet on the ground. She stood and stamped her boot for emphasis. Thinking like that came dangerously close to self-pity. She didn’t regret a single moment with Homer. She’d have him back in a second if she could, uncharacteristic superstition and all.
But she couldn’t have him back, and no one could ever replace him. Her social life hadn’t exactly blossomed since she’d found herself with evenings and weekends free. Freedom wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And when the first pain of grief was past, it had been so easy to slip into the old routine. Spend as much time as possible at the museum, come back to the small Berkeley apartment, pop something in the microwave, read dusty old history books until bedtime.