by Karen White
“Do you know my mother, Mrs. Cudahy?” I asked, trying to find a common thread. “Her name is Nancy Chrisler.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. The person who told me you were coming was my great-grandmother, and she passed on many years ago. She didn’t explain it to me fully, since it didn’t really concern me, but she said you would understand it all eventually.”
Unease brushed the back of my neck, but I was unwilling to leave. The overwhelming feeling of being home surrounded me, and this woman and her house intrigued me.
“How long has your great-grandmother been dead, Mrs. Cudahy?” I asked, trying to figure out how her relative could have known me.
“Oh, since 1935. I remember it well. It was the middle of the Great Depression, and I was nine years old. She died three days after her hundredth birthday.”
“I don’t understand. I wasn’t born until 1985. She couldn’t have known about me.” I looked at Michael as he sprang from his chair and walked quickly over to me.
“I think we need to be going, Laura.” He grasped both of my hands and tried to haul me off the sofa.
I held tightly to his hands, but gave a quick shake of my head.
“No, Michael. Not yet.” His eyes searched my face, and then he let go. He kept his hand resting on my shoulder. I reached for him, my fingers brushing his gold wedding band.
I turned my attention to Mrs. Cudahy. “If you don’t mind, could we see the house now?”
“Of course, dear.” After Michael helped me off the sofa, she slipped her arm through mine.
The house had four large rooms on the first floor and four on the upper floor. A later addition had added a fifth, smaller bedroom upstairs, making for interesting architecture at the back of the house. The rooms had lofty twelve-foot ceilings and were all interconnected within the house. The one exception was a small preacher’s room, with a single entrance from the rear porch. The huge receiving hall ran the entire depth of the house, with large doors in the front and back that could be left open to create a breezeway. A staircase rose from the floor at each end of the hallway, the one in the back less elaborate than the other, and presumably for the use of servants.
“Legend has it that some of General Sherman’s troops garrisoned here in Roswell rode their horses right through this front hall, slashing at everything with their sabers.” Mrs. Cudahy’s arm waved back and forth, slicing the air. “Most of the other houses in the area were heavily looted, but not this one. No one knows for sure how, but somehow the family living here was forewarned and had hidden just about everything of value. Bulloch Hall, down the road, was saved from being torched because both the owner and the Union commander were Masons. However, local historians aren’t sure why this house was left intact.” Mrs. Cudahy paused to run her hands gently over the fine, peeling wallpaper. “They did destroy most of the outbuildings and crops, and confiscated the remaining livestock and slaves. There’s a reason why Sherman’s name isn’t brought up in polite company even today,” she said with a smile.
“I hear Sherman was one for the pretty ladies,” she continued, giggling like a schoolgirl. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all if many of the great houses in Georgia survived Sherman because of the Southern women who personally convinced him to spare their property.” Mrs. Cudahy gave me such a cheeky glance that I giggled, too. I wondered at her story. I had read biographies of Sherman for a paper in my AP history class, and I didn’t recall any wartime dalliances. But that was merely the written record. Word-of-mouth stories doubtlessly would have been more subjective.
Michael and I held hands as she led us through the back door onto the porch. It was deceptively cool out there in the shade with a soft, warm wind caressing our faces. “The house was built around 1840. As you can see, it is situated on a high point to take advantage of the Chattahoochee River breezes.” She caressed the smooth wood of the balustrade, her hands barely marred by time.
“Before the War of Northern Aggression, the property had almost three hundred acres, all planted with cotton, and thirty slaves to work the fields and tend to the house. But that’s all gone now, except for the springhouse and chicken house out back.” Mrs. Cudahy looked at me with a wide grin. “Don’t suppose you’ll be raising chickens, though!” Then, as perfect strangers are wont to do, she patted my swollen belly.
“Looks like y’all have been busy! This house sure misses the sound of babies. It’s been a long time since the pitter-patter of little feet went up and down these floors.” Her voice trailed away as she led us to the master bedroom. I imagined the sound of children’s voices echoing through the rooms. Yes. This is home.
She preceded us through the doorway, and I stood, paralyzed, at the threshold. I knew this room, as if I had awakened in it many times. A magnificent mahogany half tester bed with an elaborately carved pediment hung with heavy draperies dominated one side of the room. A marble-topped dressing table with graceful cabriole legs stood between the two floor-to-ceiling windows. Fancy fretwork topped the mirror above the dressing table. A splendid armoire towered toward the ceiling at one end of the room. I must have seen this room before in a magazine. I felt completely at ease and could imagine myself at the dresser, brushing my hair.
“This furniture has been in my family for more than one hundred and fifty years. All of it was made by Mr. Mallard himself in his shop in New Orleans for this very room. It’s never been moved. Probably too big and heavy to go anywhere else,” Mrs. Cudahy explained as she walked over to the bed and smoothed down the faded yellow bedspread. She looked up at Michael and gave him a wide smile. “Most of my ancestors were conceived on this very bed.”
Michael, who, until that moment, was not known to be a prude, turned bright pink. He quickly looked at me, and I buried my face in his shoulder, struggling not to laugh.
Mrs. Cudahy smiled gently at Michael. “I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you. I used to be a ballet dancer and I’ve traveled and lived in all sorts of strange places. I suppose it’s rubbed off on me a little.” She winked at Michael. “Plus, I’m an old lady. I’m supposed to be a bit batty.”
Michael cleared his throat. “So, this house has been in your family since it was built?”
“Yes, but I’m the last in the line, I’m afraid. My husband and I never had any children. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying.” She grinned mischievously at me, and I grinned back.
As she led us through the house back toward the parlor, I noticed the finely carved moldings, the thick mahogany doors with leaded-glass transoms and heavy brass door fittings. It was all beautiful but very worn. I could tell that a massive renovation would be needed to restore the house to its former splendor. The same feelings of familiarity I had had when standing in the front of the house came over me. I could clearly picture in my head what I would see when we turned each corner and opened every door. It was almost disconcerting, since I was sure I had never been in the house before, but it was also comforting in a way, as if this were a reunion between friends.
Once we were back in the parlor, Mrs. Cudahy refilled our glasses and motioned for us to be seated. Michael sat next to me, holding my hand, his thumb rubbing circles over my knuckles. The nagging questions in my mind wouldn’t go away. “Mrs. Cudahy, I would appreciate it if you could explain further how you knew I would be coming. I’m pretty sure we’re not related, so I can’t understand how any relative of yours would have known about me.”
Mrs. Cudahy stood. “Perhaps if I gave you something, it would explain it better than I can,” she said as she left the room, leaving a scent trail of Tea Rose perfume.
Michael leaned over to me and whispered, “She’s probably going to get a gun or something. We could leave now before she gets back.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “Very funny. Don’t you feel it, though? That feeling of rightness that this is our home?”
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, t
hen smiled and reached for my hands.
“Laura, I certainly hope it’s not your pregnancy hormones talking right now, because if we buy this house, it’s going to be a long-term commitment.”
“I’m not blind to the condition of the house, but I’m going with my sixth sense here. I really want this house. Please trust me—have I ever steered you wrong?” I squeezed his hands, my eyes searching his.
He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again when Mrs. Cudahy returned and handed me an object wrapped in yellowed newspapers. “I hope this explains some of it.”
I gingerly unwrapped the layers of paper. Dust motes rose from the wrinkled bundle and danced in a shaft of light from the parlor window. Inside the layers lay an ornate picture frame. I rubbed the surface with my thumb, attempting to wipe off some of the black tarnish. I peered closely at the picture and my breath caught. It was a sepia-toned likeness of a woman wearing nineteenth-century clothing. Around her neck lay an unusual necklace with what appeared to be an old-fashioned key hanging from a chain. The straight dark hair was swept up off her face and coiled around her head. The large light eyes staring back at me were tilted slightly at the corners, and her nose was a little too pert for conventional beauty. The upturned lips were reminiscent of the Mona Lisa and anything but demure. I had seen this face many times before. I saw it every time I looked in a mirror.
“Where did this come from?” I croaked, unable to find my voice.
Michael leaned over my shoulder. “It’s you, Laura, or someone who looks a hell of a lot like you.” He tried to pry it from me to get a closer look, but I couldn’t let it go.
Mrs. Cudahy moved closer. “It is a remarkable resemblance, but I’m afraid I don’t know her identity. I wish I had something to add, but my great-grandmother told me only that a woman who looked like this would come asking about the house. I didn’t question her very closely, and she died shortly after she gave it to me. She asked only that I save this picture to give to you.” She bent down to pick up the scattered pieces of old newspapers and crumpled them tightly together in a ball.
I turned the frame over in my shaking hand and gently pried off the back. Perhaps something was written on the reverse side. I removed the delicate picture from its frame to examine it more closely, but there were no identifying marks. I studied the key around the woman’s neck, hoping it would offer some clue. I thought it was a strange ornament to be hanging on a necklace, and I wondered about its meaning. But the face of the woman was my own. There were no subtle differences to account for generations of genetic progression. Had I somehow lived before in this house? I had no idea, but the thought did not frighten me. Odder things had been known to happen to people. But still I pressed for some sort of logical answer.
“Mrs. Cudahy, perhaps we’re related. If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow this picture and ask my mother about it. She can trace our family back to the American Revolution, and if there’s a connection, I’m sure she’ll find it.” I knew I was overlooking her great-grandmother’s prediction regarding me, but I had no idea where to look for any answers to that gnawing question. Finding a familial connection would be sufficient explanation for me.
A strong kick from the baby pushed all these thoughts to the back of my mind. I must have gasped, because Michael turned to me and placed his hand over mine on my abdomen. He never tired of feeling our child inside me, and a boyish grin erupted on his face.
“See?” I said, grinning back. “The baby wants this house, too.”
Michael leaned his forehead against mine and let go a deep sigh. “If that child is as stubborn as his or her mother, I know better than to fight you both.”
Mrs. Cudahy stood. “You can keep the picture as long as you like, dear. As for the house, I’ve been waiting a long time to sell it. I can certainly wait a little longer while you two discuss it. You know where to find me.”
We thanked her for her hospitality and walked slowly to the front door. Impulsively, I leaned over and kissed her on her soft cheek. “Thank you, Mrs. Cudahy. You’ll be hearing from us.”
I led Michael out into the front yard and looked up at the house, the shadows of its four columns reaching out like arms to embrace us. I kissed him lightly on the lips. “I love you, Michael Truitt.”
He kissed me back, his mouth warm and soft. “I love you, too.”
A soft river breeze stirred the wilted garden, summoning the scent from the boxwoods and tickling my brain with a remembrance of something I couldn’t quite recall. The child kicked again as the wind jostled the leaves of an old oak tree, sending one spiraling down to me like a distant memory. I clutched it tightly in my palm and then held it up again, watching as the wind carried it away.
CHAPTER ONE
When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Our daughter, Annie, was born exactly two weeks after moving into the house. Although my strange attraction to our new home never faded and questions remained unanswered, I pushed them aside and threw myself into my new role as mother.
An engaging and guileless little girl, Annie had inherited equal parts from each parent. She had bright green eyes and an odd crescent-shaped birthmark on the inside of her forearm from her mother, and fair hair and perfectly shaped ears from her father. But her little personality was all her own. She was everything I could have wanted in a child.
Annie was a gentle baby, which made it easy for us to resume our adult lives when she was still quite young. She went everywhere with us, her fair head poking up over the carrier strapped to one of our backs. We enjoyed being together, our little family.
Annie was only twenty-three months old when we took her to see her first comet atop Moon Mountain. Sky watching was a hobby of mine, introduced to me as a child by my Cherokee grandmother, and I was eager to share it with my daughter. Genetti’s Comet would be sharing the sky with a total lunar eclipse—a rare enough event to warrant mention of it in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Moon Mountain wasn’t really a mountain, but rather a largish hill and the perfect vantage point for celestial happenings. According to my grandmother, who was widely known for her eccentricities, it was a place with strong unknown powers. She called it a sacred place to the Cherokee Indians, who had inhabited this part of the country for centuries.
Michael grumbled only slightly when I roused him that Saturday morning. It was usually his sleeping-in day, but I had made plans for an early start at antique shopping and general family togetherness before the lunar eclipse that night. He leaned over and rubbed his stubbly chin on my bare midriff, where my nightgown had ridden up. Resting his head on my abdomen, he gently traced a circle around my navel with his finger. I ran my hands through the thick mane of his hair and sighed softly. He looked up at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Laura, why don’t we just skip the shooting star and stay in bed all day?” He rose to nuzzle into my neck, sending delicious shivers down my back.
I pressed my head into the pillow and tapped him gently on the head with the flat of my palm. “It’s not a shooting star—it’s a comet and an eclipse. It’ll really be spectacular.”
“Mmmmm,” he mumbled.
I shifted my head, enjoying his attentions to my earlobe. Slowly, he worked the spaghetti straps of my nightgown off my shoulder and moved his mouth lower. I looked down at his dark blond head, and my body flooded with love and desire for this man. I sighed, and our eyes met.
His moist lips formed a slow grin. “I’ve got powerful methods of persuasion, you know.”
I sat up, pulling off my nightgown completely. “Yes, you do. You certainly do.”
We made love slowly, in the comfortable way old lovers do, and then we held each other close, listening to the sounds of morning outside our window.
“Mommy!” came the shout from acros
s the hall.
The sound made me grimace. Reluctantly, I threw off the sheets. “It was nice while it lasted,” I said as I slipped out of bed and into my robe. I leaned down to give Michael a kiss and then hurried to the nursery, where I was being summoned in a tone approaching hysteria.
Annie clutched the top rail of her crib, huge tears of distress running down her cheeks. I tripped over the object of her anguish and bent to pick up her stuffed giraffe from the floor, the apparent victim of a fall through the crib slats. Her chubby arms stretched up to greet me as I approached. I handed her the giraffe and reached for her.
“Hello, morning glory,” I whispered as I picked her up and kissed her baby-fine hair. The mingled scents of baby sweat and shampoo wafted up my nose. “Can Mommy have some good-morning butterflies?”
Annie put her face right up to mine and fluttered her eyelashes, tickling my cheek. She then laid her head on my shoulder, a cue for me to sing and waltz. This had been our morning ritual for as long as we both could remember.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray,” I sang as I twirled my delighted partner, my bare feet padding gently on the hardwood floors of the nursery. “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
As I placed her on the changing table to dress her, Michael came in to give Annie her good-morning kiss. “Maybe we should get your mother to babysit Annie tonight. I mean, she’ll probably sleep through the whole thing, anyway.”
I finished snapping up the bottom of Annie’s one-piece outfit and lifted her. “Oh, Michael—I thought it would be so much fun with the three of us. My dad used to take me when I was her age, and I remember watching the sky with him. It’s such a magical thing.”
