by Lyla Payne
“It looks like you’re making some good progress in here.” The deep voice startles me out of my loop of self-flagellation.
I look up to find Sean Dennison of Magnolia Plantation and the Land of Perfect Physiques standing in the doorway. He quickly closes the door behind him as any good archivist would, then looks around with raised eyebrows. “She really outfitted this old heap of an outbuilding for you, huh?”
“That she did. It’s a lot easier to organize all this stuff without worrying it’ll disintegrate if I leave it unboxed overnight, I’ll tell you that.”
He’s dressed about the same as he was the first time I met him, in a loose, white linen shirt that flutters in the air-conditioning and a pair of snug-fitting khakis and canvas Sperrys. His gaze is watchful. Curious in a way that puts me on edge, even though it could be easily explained as professional interest.
“Did she send you here to check up on me?” I ask in a tone that hopefully says I’m joking even though I’m pretty much not.
“You know it. Mrs. Drayton is not the kind of boss who leaves things to chance.” He comes closer, peering at the tables I have set up to house different types of files as I sort through the boxes. “You’re moving along faster than expected.”
“Yeah. I took leave from my regular job. I get a little obsessive with stuff like this. I kept thinking, ‘Man, there’s going to be something awesome in the next folder,’ and so on.” I shrug, unable to stop the prideful smile on my lips. “I just love it.”
“Don’t we all. It’s like a drug.” His fingers skim a sheet of paper and he picks it up, manicured eyebrows pinched together. “What’s this? A list of house slaves? I have to tell you, that aspect of Drayton Hall isn’t going to be on Cordelia’s list of things to put on display.”
“No, it was just for me. I…” I stand up, going over and pulling it from him. Excuses stumble through my head, each one lamer than the rest, until I grab on to the best option. “I was going to pitch her an idea about ghost sightings on the property, since people are into that sort of thing and might pay to check it out. Jenna told me what the employees and contractors see and who they think it might be, but she was saying there’s an older, heavyset slave woman that gets seen quite a lot around the house and river. She didn’t know her name so I thought I’d try to track the woman down.” I shrug, laughing as though I’m embarrassed. I kind of am. “No luck so far.”
“That’s easy. You’re talking about Mama Lottie.”
“I’m sorry, who?” I peer down at the list. “I don’t see anyone on this list by that name.”
“Carlotta. Here.” He gets close enough that the spicy scent of his cologne crawls into my nose and dislodges a sneeze. “There. She was a house slave in the early eighteen hundreds, died before the Civil War, when the family abandoned the property.”
“What makes you think it’s her?”
“People have been seeing Mama Lottie out here for years. It’s the fact that she’s often seen pulling up roots by the river or chanting by an invisible fire that makes me think it’s her. She was a well-known voodoo practitioner. ‘Conjure woman,’ some called her.”
“Is there documentation?”
“Sure. The Draytons who were here at the time of her purchase, especially Sarah Parker Drayton, were believers. Not that they would have advertised it back then, but Lottie worked magic over their ailing children and cured Sarah’s arthritis, too, according to her diary.”
“Hmm, I don’t have her diary here.” I look around, as though the documents betrayed me.
“It’s over at Middleton. We have some family archives over there, as you know. Most of the things Mrs. Drayton gave you to sort through are personal correspondence, as I understand.” He nods at my confirmation. “Anyway, they let Lottie do her thing as long as it didn’t interfere with her work. People from all up and down the Ashley River—mostly African Americans, the majority of them slaves—came and went, both legally and illegally, paying for cures and blessings. Sometimes curses.”
“And the Draytons didn’t mind?” It’s hard to believe they’d let one of their slaves earn money like that, especially when it could have been used to buy her freedom.
“Mama Lottie was powerful. Very powerful.” Sean’s eyes scan the room again as he backs up toward the door. “To tell you the truth, I think they were scared of her.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sean’s comments about Mama Lottie, the mysterious ghost that may or may not have tried to save my life by the river the other night, might have been helpful, but they also make it impossible to shake the spooky feeling of being watched as I make my way to my car and out of the parking lot a few hours later. It’s past time for me to be back in Heron Creek since Amelia insisted on hosting all our friends for dinner. In another life, one where we’re both not about to break under tons of stress, I might have accused her of wanting an excuse to invite Dylan to the house. Except she didn’t invite him—only Will and Mel, and Beau. I get the feeling she didn’t really even want to invite Beau, that she wanted to recreate our childhood somehow, even if it’s only for a night.
That thought gives me the willies, too.
I press a few buttons on my phone before pulling onto the highway toward Heron Creek, then hold it to my ear.
“Graciela.”
“Daria,” I respond in kind, infusing my voice with confidence, even though I can’t believe what I’m about to ask her. I’d hoped our first walk together would be our last, after what we’d seen and heard. Well, what I’d seen and she’d heard—or sensed—which is kind of the reason for my call tonight.
“I was hoping you could find time in the next couple of days to come out to Drayton Hall with me. There’s a ghost there. I’ve seen her. She actually saved my life. But I need to talk to her, and that’s something apparently only you can do since I’m, like, faulty or something.”
“You’re not faulty, Graciela. All sensitives are different. I couldn’t see those past scenes at that house, not the way you could.” She waits, maybe for me to respond, then plows ahead. “I guess that means we make a pretty good team.”
I don’t want to think of us being a team but I do need her help to talk to Mama Lottie. “So you’ll do it?”
“As long as you realize that means one day I’m going to ask you to return the favor.”
I cringe, my chest squeezing at the thought of what I saw the other night, how it’s nothing I ever want to see again. She has a point, though. You can’t get something for nothing. “Fine.”
“I’ll check my schedule and text you. Good?”
“Sure.”
We hang up as I pull into Heron Creek, smiling at the familiar faces on the sidewalks—husbands and wives, older people keeping a keen eye on children romping through sprinklers in the early-autumn evening, dogs tugging on leashes as they search for the next worst-smelling thing on the street. No matter what else is going on in my life or how insane things get when I step outside this town, I feel good coming home.
Home. Such a strange concept, in truth, because a place is just a place is just a place. If Grams and Gramps had lived in San Francisco, maybe it would feel like home there. If Amelia had grown up in Minnesota, maybe we’d both be giant hockey fans. Iowa had never felt like home, despite my spending the most time there, and the longer I spend on this earth, the more I think that has to do with my relationship with my mother.
No matter how or why, this place is my home. It’s where I grew up, in the more existential meaning of the term.
The house is busy when I step through the front door, the sight strange but welcome. It’s warm in here because I’m winning the ongoing battle with the thermostat, but no one seems to mind. Mel and Amelia are in the kitchen, rounder, pregnant versions of my best friends, and they’re laughing while they make kabobs, stabbing pieces of chicken, peppers, onions, and mushrooms onto skewers. There’s a pot of potatoes boiling on the stove and bright green asparagus soaking in a bowl. The mood in the kitchen i
nfects me with easy cheer, makes me realize how much I’ve missed spending time with just the girls.
Not the girls. These girls. My girls.
Beau’s and Will’s voices murmur from the deck, where the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid suggest they’re doing the manly thing and watching the grill—or, more likely, avoiding work in the kitchen.
“Hey, y’all,” I say. “What can I do?”
Amelia points toward the pot. “Check those potatoes, will you?”
“Sure.” I grab a fork and start poking. “They’re done. What kind are we making?”
“Crash Hot. They’re the easiest.”
“How was your day, Gracie?” Mel smiles, grabbing a handful of asparagus.
“It was good. I think I’m about done out there. Another week, maybe.”
“That’s faster than you thought,” Amelia comments, a huge smile on her face, too. “I mean, not that I’ve missed you at the library or anything.”
“Right. You love dusting books and dealing with Mrs. Walters all by yourself.” I snort. “I’ll be there tomorrow since it’s story time.”
“Grant’s already reminded me twice,” Mel adds. “He’s been spending so much time with a sitter since Will and I have both been job hunting that I think he just misses his time.” She dumps salt in her hand and sprinkles it on the vegetables. “I start at Harrington’s Thursday.”
“Mel the accountant. I’m going to bring you my taxes.” I bump her hip with mine.
“That’s sure to give me nightmares for a month,” she teases, tossing the vegetables into the olive oil popping on the bottom of Grams’s favorite skillet.
We fix the rest of dinner among comfortable conversation, remembering all the evenings we spent in here with Grams back in the day, until Amelia hands me the last of the kabobs and points me outside. “Here. They’ll be ready for these.”
The plate is heavy, laden with more food than the five of us could possibly eat. I wonder again why my cousin didn’t invite Travis, but decide that it’s none of my business. And besides, it’s kind of nice just us.
The joy on Beau’s face when he sees me step through the threshold onto the deck says that maybe he’s feeling like a bit of an outsider to our little group, but the only way to change that is for him to spend more time with us. He’s got more than a decade of catching up to do. “Hello, gorgeous,” he murmurs, planting a kiss on my forehead and taking the plate from me.
“Are you talking to me or the kabobs?” I joke, happy to see him.
“Hmm. Maybe both.” He winks, turning to the grill.
I smile at Will. “Hey. How’s it going?”
“Really good, actually. Oh, here.” He grabs a plate of cooked kabobs, and I see that some of them are steak. “These are ready.”
“The veggies are about done, too. Are we eating out here?”
“I don’t know,” Will replies with a smirk. “We haven’t been told.”
The bugs will be a nightmare but the heat is finally bearable, and the sunset over the river casts a glow across the yard that’s impossible to resist. “Let’s do.”
Will salutes, setting the meat down on the table. I roll my eyes, giggling at his typical husband shtick but kind of wondering if that’s really how his relationship with Mel is at home. Maybe that’s how it is for everyone. Sometimes I think married men are just better at picking their battles so it’s Yes, dear until an argument comes up that they’re actually passionate about.
Mel, Amelia, and I bring out the tray of Crash Hot potatoes and the platter of asparagus, along with bottles of white wine, a pitcher of sweet tea for the pregnant gals, plates, and salt and pepper shakers. We sit around the table, everyone smiling and relaxed for what feels like the first time in months.
This is what my life in Heron Creek should look like. It’s not exactly what I imagined when I was younger—I never would have guessed that Millie would be the single one, and in those fantasies, I would have been the one next to Will—but it’s working out pretty well.
I cast a glance at Amelia but can’t tell whether she’s faking her laughter. There’s a sparkle in her eyes that’s genuine, though, and a massive wave of warmth for our friends threatens to overtake me. We need to do this more. As children, we were there for one another in a way that’s rare. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to step into those roles as adults, and everyone at this table—even Beau, it turns out—needs a hand here and there.
Finding out about Brick’s depression and suicide attempt, and the forced therapy, causes me to wonder what scars my boyfriend bears from his youth in the Drayton house. It’s hard to believe even one of those children escaped unscathed. I put a hand on his knee under the table and give it a soft squeeze. The look he gives me in response starts a fire in my blood. We’re in such a good place, despite the disagreement the other morning and the fact that we’ve still got more to learn about each other. Just having him at my side makes me feel safe in my own skin.
“So, I have some news,” Will says, wiping his lips with a napkin and tucking it under his plate.
Mel smiles at him with the same kind of comfortable pride Beau just directed at me, and the rest of us stop eating, our attention focused.
“I got the job at the police department. I start Monday after a physical and drug test results.”
“Well, I mean, if you pass,” Amelia teases. “We all know how you are.”
“Right, Little Miss Pothead.”
“Hey!” Amelia laughs, looking imploringly at Beau. “That was just one summer, I swear.”
My boyfriend holds up his hands. “I promise I’m not going to turn you in. Glass houses and all that.”
“Mr. Mayor!” I force a shocked tone into my voice. “I refuse to believe you’ve engaged in anything illegal in your life.”
We’re all laughing, now, trading stories about summers past and all the questionable decisions we’ve made at one time or another. Beau regales us with tales of boys misbehaving abroad, and only Will lacks a good number of shenanigans to share. He’s got the goods on Mel, Millie, and me, though, since he was always the sober one trying to reel the rest of us back in. Or get us home before we barfed in his car.
I’d like to say Poor Will, but every single one of those memories is a good one. For him, too, I think.
We finish up, Beau and me hopping up to clear the dishes since the other ladies are pregnant and Will’s cleaning the grill. There’s a peace to being in the kitchen, scraping plates and putting them in the dishwasher, bumping hips and arms and butts in the smallish kitchen as we search for Tupperware and foil, plastic baggies and dish soap. It’s a feeling that I could crave the rest of my life, except there are always monsters sniffing around the comfort Beau brings to my life. My father. This whole ghost thing. Voodoo curses. Not to mention the question of whether there can be a rest of my life with a motherin-law, brother-in-law, and sister-in-law who really don’t seem to like me. More than that, they are the kind of people I’m not sure I’d want influencing kids of our own.
I shove the concerns away, determined to leave them for another day. Beau and I have only been dating for a few months, but once a person gets past a certain stage of life—like, high school and college—every relationship starts to have that Could it be forever? hovering over it, whether we like it or not. Still, maybe our imaginary kids’ well-being can wait.
Beau’s phone dings. He dries his hands on a towel and digs it out of his pocket while I struggle to dump leftover potatoes into a container without getting pieces all over the floor without much success. Maybe we should get a dog. One that walks itself and doesn’t care if neither of us makes it home on occasion.
So, a robot dog, basically.
I finish up as he’s putting his phone away, the playful, easy tone of the past hour evaporated. Our eyes meet and my heart hitches. My first thought is, What have I done now?
I don’t know what that says about me, or us, but it doesn’t feel good.
“Wha
t?”
“I got an e-mail about your DNA results. I had them contact me directly so it would get done faster—I hope that’s okay.”
I nod. “Yes. Of course.”
“He’s your father…Frank Fournier.”
The confirmation doesn’t seem like news, really; I expected it. The moment he mentioned being able to see things that aren’t there, I knew it was true. My father is alive and he found me somehow, after all these years. Now it’s up to me—to us, I suppose—to figure out what that means.
“Are you okay?” Beau’s voice is soft. He’s in front of me, hands reaching for my hips, breath moving the hair on top of my head.
I put my hands on his chest and look up into his face, wanting to memorize the gentle concern in his hazel eyes. After a moment, I nod again. “I’m okay. It’s crazy to think that a month ago I didn’t have a father and now, I do. I guess I haven’t really decided how to feel about it yet.”
“That’s fair.” He wraps me up in a hug. “Take it from someone who has always had a father: sometimes they’re not all they’re cracked up to be.”
The doorbell rings before his words can press another crack into the foundations underneath us. All the Draytons I’ve met so far want little to nothing to do with me—why would Beau’s father be any different?
“I’ll get it,” I yell toward the deck, pulling away from Beau and standing on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, Gracie Anne. I mean it.”
I know he does, and the truth of the sentiment sinks into my soul, spreading out with a surety that makes me feel taller, my back straighter, the world a little less scary.
The front door is open, only the screen protecting us from the outdoors and any intruders. In this case, it’s separating me from Dylan Travis, a most unexpected guest.
