“The house originally had three gardens: a rose garden, an extensive herb garden and of course the massive Moonlight Garden. The latter had been a wedding gift from Christine Beaumont to Jeremiah Cottonwood, but it later became a major attraction. Countless parties were held there, and it was the talk of the county. It was a large garden, which featured a maze, at least nine statues and copious amounts of white flowers that shone in the moonlight. Unfortunately some of the varieties aren’t even available anymore.”
I knew most of what he was telling me, but I let him tell me what he knew. Recreating the Moonlight Garden had been TD’s special project. From the beginning of our partnership, he had taken a keen interest in making it come back to life. Since it was such a unique feature, it would be a standout addition to his resume. Only a handful of qualified contractors could say they had rebuilt a “moonlight” garden. This would be a nice addition to TD’s already impressive list of accolades. Before I ever had a dream about Seven Sisters or the people who lived there, I had never heard of “moonlight” gardens, but now I found the idea fascinating. Still, I couldn’t tell TD about my nocturnal experiences. I let him explain the concept, with some careful nudging.
“How does a ‘moonlight garden’ actually work? I mean, does that mean it could only be used during certain times of the month, when the moon was up?”
“Essentially, yes, but life was different then—very much dictated by the phases of the moon.”
“What do you mean?” I asked between bites. The wrap was delicious, and I ate it with abandon.
“Well, the people needed to know when the tide would come in, being so close to the Mobile River, and they would want to know the most fortuitous times for planting and harvesting. All those things are determined by the moon. It made sense to consult the lunar calendar for special parties too. Many a tale has been told about the debauchery that occurred on those moonlit nights behind Seven Sisters.” I gave him an unbelieving look, and he grinned. “I’m not kidding! Not to mention that this family, at least on the Beaumont side, had ties to France where these types of gardens were the settings for secret society rituals. To have a garden was a luxury; to have a moonlight garden…that definitely gave you bragging rights. From the historical record here, the Cottonwoods and the Beaumonts had plenty to brag about.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Those paint colors can attest to that. Only the wealthiest Mobilians had painted walls. The velvet curtains with the gold thread are another clue that they were ridiculously wealthy.” TD’s puzzlement reminded me to keep my inside information to myself. “Something I read. Anyway, it sure wasn’t about simplicity. The Cottonwoods were very concerned about displaying their wealth and influence.” I let him eat some more before I asked him another question. It was warm by the window, but I loved the Alabama sunshine. Strangely enough, being in Mobile felt like home—like I belonged here. Maybe it was just me being sentimental.
He gestured a bit with his sandwich. “You know we won’t get the bright solar light, more a kind of white glow from the moon, with those mirrors. Like the original designer, I plan on placing the mirrors in the garden to discreetly bounce the light around. For instance, the mirrored panels I ordered will go in the largest fountain, the Atlas fountain. Instead of lying flat, the mirrors rest against marble wedges hidden in the pool. These wedges prop the mirror up to a 30-degree angle so it catches the light and throws it back. When it is done correctly, it will look like the fountain and the garden are glowing.”
“Wow! That sounds incredible!” I was genuinely impressed with his ingenuity. TD knew his stuff—that was for sure!
“It is the easiest thing in the world to shove some solar lights into the ground and install some lamps in a garden, but I find what the designer—Chaveux—did was simply amazing. Now, of course we can have those gas lamps if you want them, hidden discreetly in the greenery if you like…”
“No way. I like your idea. Hey! You know what? We should celebrate when you complete the project! Let’s do that. I wonder if my calendar has the lunar cycle on it.” I dug in my purse for my mini-calendar; I had not brought my day planner with me.
“Really, could we? That would be great. Let’s see, it’s going to take me…” TD stared off, probably counting days, trying to figure out when he’d be through. “Okay, I have repair work on half a dozen statues, replacing the fountain at the Atlas location, and then laying the white stone for the walkways…I’m thinking I could be done in two weeks. When is the next full moon?”
“That works out great! The next full moon is August 8th. We’ll have some cocktails and enjoy the Moonlight Garden, but let’s keep it small—just the team and some of the guys who helped you.”
TD gave me a smirk. “So no Historical Society folks, then?”
“Please don’t make me comment on that.” I shoved the calendar back into my purse and cleaned up my mess. I’d eaten the whole wrap, and now I felt fat. Thank goodness I was wearing a dress.
My lunch partner chuckled. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. She’s not his type.”
I felt my face warm. “Who? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on. I’m not blind, you know. Everyone knows Ashland likes you. He doesn’t make it a secret—I don’t know why you’re trying to.”
“I’m not! … What do you mean?”
“Do you want to keep what’s happening between you and Ashland a secret for some reason? Maybe you don’t like him as much as he likes you?”
“TD, I don’t think I should be talking about this because he is my boss. But no, that’s not true. I do like him just as much.”
He smiled and sighed. “I knew it. An old country boy like me never had a chance, did I?”
“Stop that!” I shot him a look of exasperation.
“I’m just kidding, CJ—lighten up. I’m in love with my work, and that’s all I want right now.”
“I’m glad you are—I couldn’t imagine restoring Seven Sisters without you. Let’s get back to work. You’ve got just a few weeks left and I have to go make sure Detra Ann hasn’t talked Ashland into hosting a Christmas ball.”
Chapter 4
I must have jinxed myself extolling the virtues of my eggbeater car because at the end of the day, it wouldn’t turn over at all. Turn the key, click. Turn the key, click. I laid my head on the steering wheel and halfheartedly prayed before I tried it again. Turn the key, click.
Everyone else had gone. Ashland had left as I pulled up with TD after lunch, but there was no sign of his friend Detra Ann. He had given both TD and me a nod, and that was it. What’s wrong with him? I bet our painting date is off too. TD had just glanced at me and shrugged.
For the rest of the afternoon, I had focused on computer work. I was behind on emails—that had been Mia’s job, and now I had dozens of inquiries to follow up with. When it got to be 5:30 and neither Ashland nor TD had shown up, I assumed we weren’t painting and headed out to my car. What was Ashland’s problem? Surely he didn’t think that TD and I had something going. What kind of girl did he think I was? Oh, to hell with him. I can’t think about that right now.
I had planned to go by the grocery store to stock my mini-fridge and then go home and dive into Calpurnia’s journals, but that wasn’t going to happen without a car. I sat in my dead car, swearing softly under my breath. I looked up at the house and thought about going inside and calling someone, but who? Ashland left without saying goodbye and blew off our painting date, and TD had made it clear that he was exhausted. The only other person I might call would be Bette, but I was too tired to chat with her. I liked her a great deal, but she definitely had the gift for gab. My inner voice told me to walk away, go home—now. I listened.
The weatherman had finally got one right—the dry ground appeared as if an invisible painter were carefully sprinkling drops of liquid on a blank canvas. I wrapped my raincoat around me. Bette once told me that if you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a minute—it w
ill change. She was right. It was warm and balmy earlier and now cold rain had come through to cool everything down, at least for a few minutes. There was nothing I could do but walk home in the rain. I wished I’d thought to bring an umbrella.
As I walked, I remembered what TD and I had talked about on the way home from lunch. “TD, I want to ask you a question,” I’d said. “But don’t freak out on me. I promise I’m not crazy.”
“Color me intrigued.” He had grinned as he turned on to Royal Street; he wanted to show me more of the city. “Shoot, I won’t judge—promise!”
“Do you think the house is haunted? Is Seven Sisters haunted? Have you heard anything, or maybe felt something?”
I thought he’d give me his typical chuckle or his deep, throaty laugh, but there was nothing. He was so quiet. “TD, did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you. I’m just thinking.”
“Oh, okay.” So I waited.
About five minutes later, he spoke. “Yes, I think it is haunted, but probably not the way you might think. I believe it’s just packed full of mysteries, mysteries it wants to tell. But so far, we haven’t been smart enough to figure them out. I think it is haunted by the sadness of a family who never knew what happened to their daughter; I think it is haunted by the hopelessness of the slaves who lived there, for surely that must have been what they felt. I think it is haunted by the emotions of those who lived there, but do I think ghosts are haunting this place? No, I don’t. I’ve never seen anything that couldn’t be explained some kind of way.”
It was my turn to be thoughtful. I had no idea TD was such a deep thinker. “What about the furniture being moved around? Nobody confessed to doing that—and there’s another thing…”
His warm brown eyes were fixed on me. “Yes? Did you see something in the house, Carrie Jo?”
“No, not exactly but the night that Ashland and I found Mia and her friends upstairs, we heard something—and later I felt something. I do think that someone is there.”
He didn’t laugh at me, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. “As far as the furniture goes, are you sure those kids weren’t playing a joke or something? Anyone could have done that.”
“Yes, but I was on the other side of the door when the furniture was being moved. I could hear it scraping, and the door wouldn’t open,” I said in a furious, desperate whisper. “When it finally opened, all the furniture had been moved, and there were scrape marks on the floor. You saw them yourself. How do you explain that?”
“Well, for starters, you don’t know what you were hearing since the door wouldn’t open. Secondly, have you checked the room for a hidden door or a false wall? I mean, the place is full of them. It’s possible that we missed one.”
I felt a little relieved. “Yes, that’s possible. It’s better than the alternative.”
“What would that be?”
“That an unhappy ghost didn’t like the way the furniture was arranged in her room.” We stared at one another, wide-eyed, and then TD laughed.
“You historians—such imaginations. Well, if you do find any unhappy ghosts, ask them if they know where the missing statues are—I’m pretty pissed that someone would steal them.” The subject had changed and I pretended to listen, but I couldn’t help but think about Calpurnia being unhappy with the furniture arrangement.
Calpurnia! Is it you? Where did you go? Where are you now? Let me know somehow! She stayed on my mind as I walked home, leaving my broken old car behind. I definitely had to buy a new one. I’ll have to make the time, I suppose.
The grey sky above me grew darker, and lightning flashed in the distance. Not a great time to go for a walk, but in a weird way I liked it. My hands ran along the fleur spires of a decorative gate in front of a friendly-looking Victorian. I bet that house had a story or two to tell. A territorial Yorkie barked at me across the green lawn, and I waved my fingers at him. The smell of camellias filled the air, and a pre-storm breeze shook the white petals off the overgrown bush, sending a shower of silken petals onto my path. I stopped to pick one up. Enjoying the sweet scent, I rubbed it between my fingers to stir up more of the perfume. Suddenly, an aggressive breeze tried to lift my skirt, but I held it down as best I could. I crossed the street carefully; the rain was really coming down now. It didn’t take long for the streets to fill up from the sudden downpour. Try as I might, I couldn’t avoid stepping into pools of cold, clear rainwater. With every step, I felt colder, stiffer. I could feel my headache returning and I was ready to get home. Just one more block now.
I walked past St. Ignatius, the big Catholic church. I wasn’t a Catholic myself, but I loved looking at their statues, especially the faces. It always intrigued me how artists could capture and recreate the faces that they “saw” in their minds. I secretly wondered if maybe they weren’t just “dream catchers” of a sort, zipping through time to see the faces of dead saints, then zipping back to the present to give us a glimpse. I could certainly have done that, if I’d been any good at drawing or sculpting or painting. I wasn’t.
Last block! The rain slid down the collar of my raincoat and down my back. I shivered and flipped the collar up tighter. It did little good. I rubbed water from my face, and my hair hung around me in heavy tendrils, all the curls made straight by the driving rain. Finally, I saw my apartment, the desk lamp shining through the flimsy curtain. I climbed the steps and reached in my pocket for the key. “Oh, hell!” I’d left my house key in my car. Why hadn’t I put it on my key ring? I stood staring at the door. I halfheartedly turned the knob just to be sure it was locked—it was. I had two choices, walk back to the car or ask Bette to open it for me. I hated to bother her, but I could see the light on in her kitchen.
I carefully walked down the steps, cold and shivering. I knocked on her door, and she opened it in less than a minute. “Goodness gracious, come on.”
I shook my head. “I’m soaked and I don’t want to get water all over the linoleum. I need a favor. I left my house key at Seven Sisters. Could I borrow yours, or could you open my door?”
“Sure I will. Let me grab my umbrella. I’ll go with you. I don’t mind you taking the key, but I need to talk to you anyway.” She scrambled off and came back smiling through her perfectly applied bright orange lipstick. She held a huge umbrella, big enough for two. She dangled the key and said, “I’ve got you covered.” We stepped outside; it was a driving rain now, falling so hard that you couldn’t talk over it. It was kind of silly for me to get under an umbrella now, because to say that I was drenched was an understatement, but she insisted. We walked up the steps together, and she opened the door for me. Without waiting to be asked, she went to the bathroom and grabbed an armload of towels. I took off my jacket and accepted one. I wrapped it around my hair and pulled off my raincoat. Suddenly, I sneezed loudly and repeatedly.
“Oh, that’s not good. Sounds like you might have a cold coming on. Why don’t you hop into a warm shower and let me bring you a pot of soup up. Do you like tomato or chicken noodle?”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” I said, pulling off my soaked wedges, feeling cold and uncomfortable—and very tired.
“I insist. I’ll be back in about 30 minutes with something delicious.”
She left, and I stumbled to the shower, stripping off my wet, clingy clothing as I went. Bette must have forgotten that she had something to tell me. Oh well, I can ask her when she gets back. I caught a look at myself in the mirror—boy, I looked terrible. No wonder she wanted to make me some soup. I climbed in the hot shower and let the water do the work. I glanced down at my ankle; the bruises were nearly gone now, the fading evidence of a dream encounter. I shuddered, remembering Jeremiah Cottonwood’s cruel belt striking my skin—Calpurnia’s skin. I’d never experienced a transfer like that. I hoped that wasn’t a new, permanent development. What would happen if I witnessed something worse? I refused to think about it, but my mind stayed on Callie. I planned on digging into those journals that night. I had found a few more
in that dusty old box and planned on reading them all as soon as possible. I lathered up and rinsed, taking my time and enjoying the steam. I felt almost normal, except for what was obviously a cold. I heard the door slam and hollered out, “Is that you, Bette? I’m almost done.”
I turned off the water and slung the shower curtain back all the way. I stood peering through the steam. I didn’t hear Bette, so I called out again, stepping onto the plush bathroom rug and closing the door partially. “Bette?” I wrapped a towel around my body and stopped. Nobody answered. Even though it was damp, the hair on the back of my neck began to rise; I could sense the shifting of the air, and the inexplicable feeling that I wasn’t alone overwhelmed me. I reached for another towel and patted my hair with it, trying to behave as naturally as I could.
“Bette?” I called a little more softly, stepping out of the bathroom into my bedroom/living room. Nobody was there, no one I could see with my naked eye, but I knew someone had been in the room. My desk drawers were open and the papers disorganized. Instinctively, I reached for the first thing I could: my hairbrush. Smart, CJ. What are you going to do? Brush them to death? I held it like it was a deadly weapon. I saw a shadow on my doorstep and swung the door open with a “ha!” only to find a startled Bette grappling with an oversized umbrella and a crock of steamy soup.
“Oh my word, are you okay? Can you grab this crock? Be careful, it’s hot—use the handles. Boy, she left out of here fast. Did you two have an argument or something?”
I took the crock and set it down on a nearby table. “Did you see who it was?” My eyes must have been as big as goose eggs.
The Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection Page 14
