Not Quite Free

by Lyla Payne

  My skin crawls when I think about Lavinia. How my instincts keep telling me that she doesn’t really want anything other than to cause trouble, and how she hasn’t reappeared since we left the farmhouse last night.

  When she could have sent whatever message she wants to convey through Daria—problem solved—she refused. She seems evil, yes, but also aimless.

  As if she only needs to distract me…or watch me.

  The other thing that confuses me about this entry is that it’s not in chronological order. The other entry Clara sent me from this Carlotta was written after her uncle murdered her mother and kidnapped her little brother.

  The one who could order around ghosts.

  Carlotta hadn’t mentioned his ability then. She had been upset, of course, but the way she kept it out of her journal entry speaks to a secret that has been held long enough to become habit. I don’t think she ever divulged her brother’s hidden ability. I’m not sure what it means, but all of this information has given me an undeniable sense of foreboding.

  As if the past, long ago and recent both, is ever closer to catching up with me.

  That thought isn’t exactly conducive to sleep, so instead of annoying me, the sight of Henry Woodward’s ghost trying to pick up the note from France on my nightstand floods me with relief. I remember the promise I made earlier at the library—to read him his article the next time he showed up.

  If anyone deserves closure it’s Henry; he’s my longest lasting ghost, so far, and he must be more than ready to stop hanging around this house, this town. This plane of existence.

  Perhaps his lost love, Elizabeth Myles, has been waiting on him. Waiting for him to prove his worth, which these articles more than do.

  After all, who knows how it works, the place—or places—after this one?

  “Hi,” I tell Henry, who jumps back from the note like a child afraid his hand is about to get slapped. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.”

  He gives me a look that says he’s not sure whether I’m just giving him shit. Which I suppose is fair, since a good amount of the time I am.

  “Seriously. I got approval for your second article today, so I thought I’d read it to you. What do you think?”

  He nods, sinking down to sit on the floor bedside the bed instead of retreating to his usual corner. I’m happy that he’s chosen to wear his proper British clothing today, but it’s still odd to see him sitting at my feet like a child awaiting story time. I suppose I should be glad that he didn’t climb into bed with me.

  “Okay, here we go.”

  The room gives off a vibe of safety and comfort. The lamp beside the bed is the only glowing light in the room and night has long since fallen outside. My pajamas are soft, Henry is the perfect, silent audience, and there’s something wonderful about reading through my own words without wanting to change many of them.

  Henry listens, rapt, and closes his eyes at some point. The smile on his face is both satisfied and melancholy, which is perhaps the only way to feel while hearing an account of the events—happy and tragic and everywhere in between—of one’s life.

  It takes me the better part of an hour to get through the whole thing, and my throat is dry and scratchy by the time I’m finished. Henry opens his eyes, that same smile still on his face, and mouths the words thank you.

  Tears fill my eyes for the millionth time in the past several weeks, but this time they’re happy.

  “I hope this is what you wanted. Elizabeth and her family must know that you were always good enough for her.”

  He nods, his own gaze moist. Then his expression shifts to something more conflicted as his gaze strays to the letters still on my nightstand.

  “What? You’re worried?”

  He points a finger at me and nods.

  “About me?” Another nod, and my heart squeezes with emotion. “Oh, Henry. If you’re ready to go, please don’t stay because you’re worried about me. You’ve been a savior, honestly. I couldn’t ask you for anything more. You deserve to rest.”

  Henry Woodward, one of the most interesting early American settlers that most people had never heard of before I wrote my articles, stares at me for a long time. I can feel in my gut his concern and his conflicting needs, but the strongest tug is the desire to go. To see Elizabeth, maybe, or simply to lay down his burdens after all these years.

  I can’t say, and probably won’t be able to until I’m in his shoes. Or similar ones.

  “Go,” I tell him. “I can take care of myself.”

  Even though the last look he gives me is dubious, it’s also full of affection. My heart stutters as he turns and walks through the door, disappearing from my room.

  And, I sense, from my life for the very last time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “So what did she say to Daria?” Mel asks the next day at the library, her eyes wide.

  “Don’t you work there?” I tease.

  Mel snorts and little bits of broccoli cheese soup splatter on the high-top library table we’ve commandeered for lunches. “Like she’s awake before lunch.”

  Daria didn’t mention anything about planning to go out after she dropped me off, but it’s a fair assumption that she doesn’t tell me everything. Or even most things.

  “She said Lavinia claims she didn’t push me into the river.” I scrape the tomato soup out of the bottom of my to-go container, wishing more would appear. We have about ten minutes left before the kids arrive for story time, though, so it’s time to clean up and gird our loins.

  Even Amelia showed up with Jack today. I think she’s looking for reasons to get out of the house, but the kids will be glad to see her. So am I.

  “So, if she didn’t push you, who did?”

  “She could be lying. She is evil and all,” I offer half-heartedly, wrinkling the paper that had wrapped my grilled cheese sandwich.

  “Grace doesn’t want to think about who else might have pushed her,” Amelia interrupts, dumping her own trash into the bin and leaning over to grab Jack’s carseat.

  “You can leave him up here while you read if you want,” I offer. He’s sleeping, and I figure she might want twenty minutes without watching over him.

  “Okay, sure. Thanks.” She sets him behind my desk, where the little guy continues to snooze away.

  I don’t have tons of experience with newborns and I keep meaning to ask how long he’s going to continue to sleep, like, eighteen hours a day. Felicia had a decrepit dog once that lived to be like eighteen, and I don’t even think he slept this much.

  “Is Leo bringing Marcella?” my cousin asks, sneaking in the sucker punch as she thumbs through the pile of new children’s books on the cart. She extracts one with a colorful cover that’s titled Edward Gets Messy and raises her eyebrow my direction. “This?”

  “Yeah, they’ll love it.”

  “Why wouldn’t Leo bring Marcella?” Mel asks, still eating. “Ow.”

  “Mary kicking you?” Amelia asks.

  “Kid’s foot is lodged in my ribcage,” Mel replies, pushing on the top of her swollen belly. “I swear it’s going to feel like breathing again for the first time once she gets out.”

  “Leo is avoiding Grace,” Amelia explains, turning the conversation right back to the topic I was hoping to avoid with the change of subject.

  Millie hates when one of the three of us isn’t in on some kind of secret.

  Mel plants an elbow on the table and then drops her chin into her palm, pinning me with a curious, expectant gaze. “Oh?”

  “It’s nothing,” I sigh. The bells over the door jangle and the sounds of little feet and loud voices save me from having to answer, though no way the reprieve will last forever. “I’ll tell you after we get everyone settled.”

  It turns out that I needn’t have worried about Leo bringing Marcie, because Lindsay tows the little girl through the doors just before story time gets underway. She avoids all of us, leaning down to say something to Marcella at the perfect moment to both di
stract the kid and not have to stop to talk. Grant arrives with his grandmother, stopping to give his mother the briefest of hugs before scuttling back to claim his favorite bean-bag chair.

  Amelia raises her eyebrows at me and follows them back to the story area, leaving Mel and me alone. The expectant expression on her face earns her a sigh, but it’s also going to get her answers. As tempting as it is to pretend like it never happened, people are going to notice, and keeping Mel out of the loop is neither practical nor fair.

  “Leo and I had a bit of a falling out,” I admit, slumping back into my chair at the high-top table. Despite my best effort to keep my emotions in check, tears sting my eyes.

  It’s insane that I’ve cried more about this embarrassing disaster than about my breakup with Beau. I suppose when that happened there was the immediate distraction of being arrested, followed by the much more pleasant, if exhausting, one of having Jack and Amelia at home.

  “Over…” Mel’s being as patient as Mel can be, especially considering that she has about fifteen minutes before her own free distraction is over. Then Grant will be back, and he’ll want a snack for the trip back to his grandma’s house, not to mention he’ll surely chatter non-stop about the book, and everything else that’s happened in the past fifteen minutes.

  “You know we were hanging out on Friday night, right?” She nods. I tell myself to stop hedging and buck up. “Well, I had a little too much to drink and kissed him. He wasn’t interested and my reaction was…maybe not the best.”

  Her dark eyes are wide, and she swipes her blond bangs out of her eyes. “So that’s it? You kissed him and he said no, and now you’re not talking to him? Gracie…”

  “It’s not just that, okay? I mean…part of it is my pride, sure. The other part is that he tried to give me some bullshit line about how I’m different or he doesn’t want to screw up our friendship or something, and I got to thinking how we’re not even such good of friends.”

  “How so?” Her tone is even, as if she’s trying her best to withhold judgment. For now.

  “I mean, I tell him pretty much everything—about Beau, about the ghosts, and my other dumb feelings—but he’s a locked box. He never talks about the women he’s dating, or his falling out with his family, or why he’s so content floating between jobs.” My throat throbs with the effort of not crying. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it until now.”

  Mel is silent for a long time. Her expression rearranges into sympathy as she reaches for my hands, covering them with hers and holding on tight. Even if she’s not reprimanding me or giving me her two cents, I know it’s in there. Might as well take all of my licks at once.

  “Amelia thinks I’m not being fair. That being a good friend means giving the other person time to come to you when they’re ready.” I pause. “And she thinks Leo has good reasons for not wanting to cross a line in our friendship.”

  “Gracie…” Mel sighs. “I can see why you feel the way that you do. It’s embarrassing to wonder whether a friend means more to you than you do to them. And hurtful, I imagine, for a guy with Leo’s reputation to decline a makeout session, or the offer of more. But yeah…I think there’s probably more to the situation for him. That maybe you don’t understand.”

  “But I could understand if he would talk to me!”

  “It’s not that easy, you know that. I’m sure this whole thing is killing him, too. You two get each other without trying. You’re like a well-oiled machine. This is just a temporary slip out of sync—I’m sure of it.” She bites her lower lip, glancing toward the children’s area of the library as the sound of happy laughter after fifteen minutes of near-silence warns us that our time together is about to expire. “I do think you should apologize. You and I both know that you probably said some things you shouldn’t have when you were angry.”

  “Probably,” I admit grudgingly, even though if I take an honest look inside myself, I’m not sure that anything I said was wrong, exactly.

  Ill-timed, sure, and phrased and pitched as hurtfully as possible, but not untrue.

  If Leo and I are going to continue our friendship, we’re going to have to have a Come to Jesus. Maybe this whole situation will provide us a way to dig into what’s underlying his discomfort with sharing and let us move forward. If not…

  I swallow a couple of times but fail to soothe the burning in my throat at the thought of what happens if not.

  If Leo’s not willing to open up. If he’s not willing to forgive me for the way I talked to him the other night, or if he thinks I’m ridiculous for trying to kiss him in the first place.

  “It’s going to be okay, Gracie. Leo cares about you—I’m positive about that. He’s the one who has put his own life on the line to help you with your schemes, the one who’s listened to you every step of the way. Crap, he knew you as well as any of us when we were kids even if the two of you claimed to be enemies. Talk to him,” she finishes as Grant and the other kids come barreling toward us.

  Lindsay can’t distract Marcella this time and she flies over to me, leaping with the blind trust only a four-year-old can muster in the expectation I’ll catch her. Which I do, of course, snuggling her close and breathing her in, not even pretending that she’s not a substitute for her uncle in that moment.

  “Hey, Monkey! How was the story?”

  “It was so good. And Miss Amelia says her baby is here! Can I see him?”

  “Sure.” I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm as I lead her behind the desk, where Jack is somehow still asleep through all of the mayhem. “He’s asleep.”

  Her Boone-blue eyes are huge as she squats in front of the carrier. “He’s so cute. Can I touch him?”

  “Very gently,” I tell her. “Miss Amelia likes when he sleeps.”

  She reaches out one finger and trails it down his cheek, which I know from experience feels like silk. He smiles a little in his sleep, and when Marcella turns her face up toward me, her expression is full of wonder. Then she looks behind me at Lindsay, who’s walked up and joined us, and says, “Mommy, can you have a brother for me?”

  “Oh, Lord have mercy. We’ll have to have a long talk about what that would mean.” Lindsay meets my gaze before quickly looking away.

  I’m not sure what that means, other than that nothing has changed as far as Lindsay being her brother’s biggest protector. There’s not a doubt in my mind that she thinks Leo was right to shut down the possibility of hooking up with me.

  But, to her credit, she doesn’t say anything about it. She even looks as if she might feel a bit sorry for me—which would be novel. Maybe it’s impossible to be a woman and not feel some sympathy for another woman when she’s rejected physically.

  It doesn’t happen that often, after all.

  Then they’re both gone. Mel and Amelia and Jack have all gone home, too, and I’m left with nothing to distract me from my afternoon, which feels as if it’s going to stretch out forever.

  When something does come along to distract me, I wish that it hadn’t—because it’s the creepy, enigmatic ghost of Lavinia Fisher.

  She’s waiting for me in the break room when I go to clean out the coffee pot for the day, lingering next to the counter and peering in cabinets like some kind of see-through snoop.

  This time, when her endless black eyes meet mine, there’s a demand in them that makes it clear that there’s no weaseling out of a road trip this time. As long as we steer clear of any frigid bodies of water, I’m in. After all, like Daria said, helping might be the fastest way to get rid of her.

  And I’m all for that.

  Lavinia sits in the front seat and points me out of town, on 17 toward Charleston. I try not to tremble so hard the car pulls off the road, though I do hit a curb hard enough to make me think my car is going to need a re-alignment. With my foot pressing the speed limit we make it there in fifteen minutes instead of twenty, and the minimal traffic on a Tuesday night in January helps, too. Get rid of her, is the only thought in my head.

&
nbsp; For some reason, I’m not surprised when our joyride ends at the locked gates of the Unitarian church graveyard. A breeze, colder and wetter than the one on King Street, wafts through the gates and caresses my cheeks like the touch of one of my ghosts.

  The street isn’t deserted; it’s only a bit after six p.m. and a few shoppers are peering in the windows of stores that are likely about to close. Maybe killing a little time while waiting for their dinner dates or a reservation to come up.

  For her part, Lavinia isn’t as shy as my other ghosts. She’s faded quite a bit, enough that you’d have to squint to see her outline, but she doesn’t leave my side as we make our way through town.

  In the blink of an eye she’s on the other side of the gate, beckoning to me.

  I ignore her for a minute because I can, and because I need to breathe. I take out my phone and send Amelia a text in return to the fifteen she’s sent me, assuring her that I’m fine but not to wait on me for dinner.

  Then I draw in a deep breath of musty air and face Lavinia head on. “I can’t come in there. It’s locked.”

  To prove my point, I wrap a hand around the cold metal and push, only to end up on my face on the muddy pavement on the other side.

  “Ow.”

  If I thought her capable of amusement or other human emotions, I would have sworn the ghost is smirking at me.

  Instead of giving her the satisfaction of a rant, I simply get up and brush off my hands. They’re stinging, and so is my chin and my pride, none of which matters anymore as the gate swings shut behind me. The sound of the latch clicking into place makes me jump.

  Lavinia is definitely smiling now. Baring her teeth, more like.

  Then she turns and walks away, leaving me to scramble after her. Because I sure as heck didn’t drive all the way down here to leave without seeing whatever it is she brought me to see.

  The creepiness factor of the graveyard skyrockets at night. The headstones seem to have no particular order; rather than orderly rows, they’re arranged in clumps under trees and behind what might have been small boundaries at one point. It occurs to me that they’re probably family groupings. There are two sections, one slightly older than the other, and the more ancient one is where she’s headed. In the summer, the wildflowers and grasses obscure many of the stones, but they’re easier to see this deep into the winter. Still, I know from experience that most of them are rubbed so smooth by the elements that I wouldn’t be able to read them.