Angels of Belle Meade

by Lindsey Iler

  I glance at the house through the rearview mirror. My mother is creeping around the side, heading toward the back shed. Her purse is strung over her shoulder, but what stands out is the book in her hand.

  “Where do you suppose mom is going?” I ask Sarah Beth.

  Unlike me, she pays attention to the ins and outs of everyone under our roof. She’s the reason I know about Harold and Anita’s affair. The butler and the chef, what a romance no one saw coming. I take the distance-is-best approach.

  She stretches to see over the high seat back. “She’s been going out there every now and then. I tried to follow her last week, but she shooed me away.” With a dismissive shrug of her shoulder, she focuses her attention on the radio settings.

  “Hmm . . .” I say to myself, focusing on the road into town.

  Belle Meade isn’t big by any means. Most days it seems like we’ve been plucked from a different time and placed randomly on the map. Our town is antiquated and polished, unlike the rest of the outside world where mess and chaos seem to rule. There’s this feeling in the air, I’ve been aware of since I was young. The first time I left the city limits, I remember a weight being lifted off my shoulders. Breaths came easier, and I no longer felt as if I was being suffocated.

  The streets are quiet for a Saturday morning. The shop owners place their signs and clean the leaves off the sidewalks in front of their boutiques. Mr. Reynolds waves as we pass. He’s owned the bookstore all my life. I remember, as a young girl, going into his shop and perusing the shelves. There has always been magic within the walls.

  “He’s strange,” Sarah Beth whispers.

  “Mr. Reynolds?” I question. “He’s old. Doesn’t make him strange.”

  “The other day I was poking around the shelves, and I stumbled upon a super old book. It had this beautiful gold vine across the front. I took it up to the front to buy it, and he snatched it out of my hands before I could even get to the register,” she huffs, reminiscing the day. “Told me it wasn’t for sale, and that I needed to keep my nose out of where it doesn’t belong, and to quit snooping around.”

  “You’re kidding, right? That doesn’t sound anything like him. He’s a sweet man.” I glance at her sideways, baffled by her confession.

  “Well, it happened. Ask Cynthia. She was with me. It was just strange, and I haven’t gone in there since.” Sarah Beth clutches her arms over her chest, clearly shaken from the day.

  “Probably for the best,” I answer as I pull into the Kingsley’s mile-long driveway lined with a stone half-wall.

  Like most homes in our charming little town, theirs is massive beyond normal proportions. Keeping up with the Joneses isn’t a saying in Belle Meade; it’s a required lifestyle. Every house is larger. Every car is more expensive.

  The driveway is packed with large SUVs and cars along both sides, making it difficult to park. I find a spot next to Mrs. Kingsley’s Audi and take extra care not to assault her paint job when I open the door. I’ve seen the wrath she can bestow on the unlucky who make the mistake and cross her. She’s tender toward me though, and I’ve never quite understood how I’ve earned her affection.

  “You coming?” Sarah Beth waves me forward.

  “Yeah, I should probably check on Amilee. She left with Dylan last night.”

  “He’s a douche.” Sarah Beth grins, knowing very well she shouldn’t be saying something like that.

  “They all are, but let’s watch our language.” I pull her close to my side and ring the doorbell. It chimes in the house, echoing off the marble floors.

  “Our mother does lines of coke for breakfast. I think I can say a few choice words.” She stares up at me, her eyebrow perked, offering a challenge she’s certain she’ll win.

  “You’ve got me there, sister.” I smile at her just as the door swings open. Amilee reaches forward, wrapping her boney fingers around my forearm and pulling me inside. My body jerks away from Sarah. “Hello to you, too, Amilee.”

  “I don’t have time for pleasantries, Lennox,” she says, clear disdain behind her words. She turns to my little sister. “Cynthia’s up in her room. Run along.”

  “Do you have to be so rude to her?” I question as Amilee pulls me up the grand staircase and into her bedroom. The door slams loudly behind me.

  “Who cares.” She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “I think I’m in love.”

  “With Dylan?” My brow furrows.

  “No, with Channing Tatum.” She clicks her tongue. “Yes, with Dylan.” She falls back onto her bed with a blissful sigh.

  “I take it things went well after you dropped me off,” I state the obvious, sitting across from her at her writing table.

  A black pen draws my attention. I pull a piece of paper from a short stack and begin to write while I listen to her gush over last night’s events. I barely pay any attention to what my hand is creating.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Amilee’s voice breaks me from my daydream.

  “Yes, sorry.” I shake my head to clear the fog from my mind.

  “What is that?” She points to the paper as she comes to stand behind my chair.

  “Death is easy. Death in spite. You will learn this all tonight,” I whisper the words I wrote.

  My attention shifts to my hands, and I drop the pen as if it burns my flesh.

  “You okay?” Amilee’s worry causes me to stand abruptly.

  “Yeah . . .” I take a step before turning to face her. “I just forgot I have to run to the store for my mother.” Lie.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re as pale as a ghost.”

  “Sure. I’ll call you later.”

  I hustle down the steps and out the front door, needing a lungful of fresh air. Wiggling my fingers, they suddenly feel foreign. Why would I write that? I’ve never read those words in my life.

  The drive through the neighborhoods surrounding mine are quiet. Families play in their yards. Mr. Denkler mows his lawn for the fifth time this week. When I pass through Main Street, Mr. Reynolds is cleaning the new sign he had installed last week. The steering wheel turns before I even know what I’m doing. I park out front and wave to him as I pass into the bookstore.

  My fingers graze the spines lining the shelves. A habit, if you will. Some are new and unblemished, while the majority bear evidence of others’ inspection. I like to think of them as well loved. Someone has lived in these pages, devouring the wisdom the book has to offer.

  “Can I help you find anything, Lennox?” Mr. Reynold’s presence surprises me, and I jump. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, sweet girl. You seemed to be on a mission.”

  “Actually, you may be able to help me.” I dig the piece of paper from my pocket. “You don’t happen to know if this is from anything, do you?”

  Mr. Reynolds skims the paper and his eyebrows perk up for a split second. Hmm, he’s caught off guard.

  “Have you tried a Google search?”

  “Do you know what it is? I figured if it were from a book, you’d know which one.”

  “I have no idea,” he mumbles under his breath, giving me his back. “I need to grab, um, to grab something. Please leave cash on the counter if you purchase anything.” He absently waves over his shoulder as he takes the stairs two at a time. Impressive for an older man.

  I walk the few aisles but find nothing to help me crack the mystery of the elusive words. Behind the counter are several shelves filled with dusty, old books. I check over my shoulder repeatedly as I sneak behind the register and shuffle the books around. A gold detail catches my eye, and I pull the book from its hiding spot. Once it’s in my hands, a thrill fills my heart and I open the cover to peek inside.

  “This must be the book Sarah Beth was talking about,” I say to myself.

  The binding is dusty, and the ink is faded. With gentle fingers, I brush through the pages, never truly stopping on any specific part. Just as I flip the last one, my fingers are captured, and Mr. Reynolds jerks the book from
my grasp.

  He’s fast, but not fast enough that I don’t get a peek at the words engraved into the thick backing.

  “This isn’t for sale. It would be best if you left,” he sneers.

  “I didn’t mean to snoop. This book caught my eye,” I apologize.

  “Seems to be a trend with you Callahan sisters lately.” His hand rests on my shoulder, and he shows me to the exit. “I’m closing.”

  “I’m really sorry, again.” I smile as he slams the door on me.

  But I’m not sorry. Something strange is happening. Mr. Reynolds claims to not know those words, but that’s a lie. They are burned into the back of that beautiful, old book.

  The question is, why did he lie, and more importantly, what do the words mean?

  Chapter Three

  Lennox

  Our mother’s absence is the best birthday present she’s ever given me. It’s also a good reason to make ice cream sundaes and watch movies on the living room floor with Sarah Beth. We giggle and eat until our stomachs ache, something our mother would never let us do if she was here.

  Around nine-thirty, Sarah Beth’s eyelids begin to droop, so we call it a night. After I tuck her in, I head to my room to get ready for bed. The piece of paper on my pillow surprises me. Across the front, scrolled in beautiful calligraphy, is my name, encompassed by a beautiful gold vine. Inside, its message is blunt and clear. Whoever left it didn’t have any intention of listening to me argue.

  Tonight. 10 P.M.. A car will come for you.

  The hands on my watch seem to move in slow motion. Excitement rolls through me to see what waits for me tonight. No one does anything to surprise me. Maybe this year will be different.

  I rush to my closet, slip on my black leather pants and a plain white tank top, and layer several chunky silver necklaces. As I apply my eyeliner, the doorbell rings. My pinkies run under my bottom lashes to smooth out any excess concealer.

  “Miss Callahan,” Anita calls from the main floor.

  “Yes.” I slide my heels on and rush down the stairs.

  “Ooo, you are gorgeous. Going somewhere?” She tucks the dish towel under her arm. Her kindness has no end, and I’m baffled she’s kept her sweet personality working for my family for as long as she has.

  “I’m not sure exactly. I got a little note saying a car would be here to pick me up.” I check my hair in the foyer mirror. “You wouldn’t happen to know about anything, would you? It is my birthday, after all.”

  “I’m unaware of anything, Miss Callahan. I’ll keep an eye out for Sarah Beth, though.” Her soft smile puts me at ease. Sarah Beth’s wellbeing is never in question with any of the staff.

  “Thank you.” I kiss her cheek and walk out the front door.

  A dark car idles in the driveway. A man in a well-tailored suit stands beside the driver’s door. He turns, opening the back door and motioning me inside. He avoids any eye contact, but somehow still has a certain confidence that brings on an unease I’m not familiar with. I’m hard to intimidate. Years of practice fending off my mother will do that.

  “Miss,” he says, then shuts the door behind me, gets behind the wheel, and pulls out of the driveway.

  “You don’t happen to know where we’re going?” I ask, while admiring the interior of the car and the soft-as-suede, black leather seats, and tinted windows. Whoever sent the car has spared no expense.

  “Yes, ma’am, but I can’t tell you.” He takes a right toward the middle of town.

  Everyone has their own set of secrets within the walls of Belle Meade. We ignore them, avoiding any true connection out of fear of seeing the darkness their souls hold. Other times, we can see them being slowly crushed, and still, we do nothing. It’s far more important to hide our own mysteries than guide someone else out of their own turmoil.

  “It’s a surprise then?” I goad him, hoping he’ll slip. He plays right into my hand and peeks into the rearview mirror, giving himself away. His lies pile up. “What’s your name?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he answers. With a shake of his head, he puts me in my place. It truly is none of my business, and he believes that.

  “Of course, it does.” I smirk when he slips up again, catching my stare in the mirror. “You see, I’m an eighteen-year-old girl who, stupidly enough, got into a vehicle with a stranger. A strange man at that. The least you can do is tell me your name. You could be a murderer for all I know.”

  “You’re nineteen, Miss, and your fear is misplaced. If anyone should be afraid of his company, it is me, Miss Callahan. Now, stop asking questions you don’t need the answers to.” The car jerks to a halt, and he pops the gear shift into Park. “We’re here.”

  “Here?” I whisper, staring at the strange building.

  The old church has been a museum for as long as I’ve known. The Archives of Belle Meade holds the town’s history and is filled with boring facts and items from the ancestors who lived here before us.

  “I’m going in there?” I jerk my head at the tall, Transylvania-looking house. He nods. “Man of few words, huh?”

  His answer comes in a casual shrug. Perhaps he has nothing to give, or he’s like the rest of us, hiding others’ secrets.

  I pull out my phone and snap a photo of him as I get out of the vehicle. “You know, just in case I go missing. I sent it to my best friends. They’ll find you.”

  “Have a nice night, Miss Callahan, and Happy Birthday.” He slips back behind the wheel. The window rolls down, exposing his bright smile. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “This better be the best damn surprise birthday party,” I mutter as I walk down the pathway to the door. I pull the old brass door handle and slip inside to darkness.

  A low hum of whispers is almost covered by my heels clacking down the black and white tiled hallway. A sliver of light bleeds from beneath the door, and I jerk it open to find an empty room. In search of whomever I heard just seconds before, I spin a full circle, only to find myself alone.

  “Okay, don’t freak out,” I say. “You aren’t going to be murdered on your nineteenth birthday. No, you are not.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  The deep male voice startles me, and I search to find the source. Tall and handsome with the darkest brown eyes, he wears a sharp tuxedo with black pants and a maroon jacket matching my lipstick.

  “Who’s we?” I draw in a sharp breath. The hair on the back of my neck rises like the sun every morning, slowly but obvious.

  “All of us.” He gestures to the space behind me, and though I swear it was empty seconds before, I find a room full of people.

  My mother graces the middle of the small crowd, her hands on her hips. My father wraps a protective arm around her waist, running his hands over the brown leather skirt she wears. They are the perfect picture of power, and they’re fully aware. Surrounding them are Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley, Mr. and Mrs. Saville, and Mr. Reynolds who is gripping the gold leaf book in his hands. Behind them is a group I don’t know. A pair of dark, haunting eyes along the wall catches my full attention. He lowers his head, unbuttoning his jacket.

  “What exactly is going on? Mother?” I question, glancing around for any sort of answers or a clue as to why everyone is looking at me with expectations. “Who are all these people?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says, shifting to whisper something in Mrs. Kingsley’s ear.

  “What a lame surprise birthday party.” Amilee enters with quite the boom, Emerson on her tail. Their sudden presence disrupts the tension in the room, and for a single second, my breaths come easier.

  “Seriously, you all could have at least invited our friends,” Emerson adds, smirking as she tosses her sequined clutch to the floor beside her.

  Instead of reading the room, Amilee and Emerson are joking around about a party that is never going to happen. How do they not feel the undeniable energy coursing through everyone? Instead, they throw underhanded jabs as if the birthday cake is minutes away from being ro
lled through one of these doors.

  “No offense, Mr. Reynolds,” Emerson says.

  “None taken.” He waves off Emerson’s apology. “Shall we get started?”

  The book in his hand is opened, and he stands before us. Is this some weird Belle Meade initiation or something? Clearly, our families have forgotten our generation doesn’t exactly enjoy formalities.

  “Is someone going to explain what the hell is going on?” I blurt. A rage I don’t quite recognize begins to boil just under my skin. Who are all these people?

  “Get started on what?” Amilee asks, reiterating my exact thoughts. Her stare narrows, and her brows pinch together. It’s about damn time she clues into the energy in the room.

  “Have you girls ever noticed there’s no law enforcement in Belle Meade?” my father asks, dusting off the nonexistent grime on his lapels.

  “My parents have always said it’s because our city limits are patrolled by Nashville’s police department,” Emerson answers, glaring in her mother’s direction. “That’s not the truth, is it?” Her chin dips close to her chest.

  Welcome to the club of lying parents, Emerson. Your life isn’t as perfect as you’ve always believed. However will you survive?

  “We’ve kept the truth from you girls to keep you safe. Allow you a chance to be”—Mrs. Saville takes a deep breath—“young, but your time has run out.”

  Our time has run out?

  What does that mean? Whatever happened to “your possibilities are endless” and that other crap parents are supposed to spew to their children?

  “Are we dying or something?” Amilee pinches her fists into her hips and rolls her eyes as if she’s tired of their bullshit. She doesn’t see their faces though. She thinks this is a joke, but it’s clear, it isn’t.

  “Not exactly.” My mother links her arm through my father’s, pretending to be a happily married couple. Just beneath the surface of her smile, a deadly smirk begins to creep out to prove my suspicions right. She’s never done anything without a purpose before, and tonight is no different. We’ve been corralled here like sheep. “A lot is going to change, though. From this night forward, you no longer belong to yourself. You serve this community.”