It wasn’t hard to pick the lock on the church’s weathered double doors—it was old and just for show, mostly to keep the wind from blowing them apart during storms. A twist with a hairpin, a wrench of the wrist, and the antique lock yielded, clicking open. Jo pulled out the hairpin, stuck it back in her pocket, and stepped into the dark sanctuary.
Even though she knew the dips and hollows of that old floor as well as she knew the mud of the marsh, even though she could have moved down the tiny center aisle with her eyes closed, she walked slowly, first so as not to wake Father Flynn, asleep in the little attached rectory, and second because the white plane of Our Lady’s bare face seemed to float in the dark.
“Hello,” Jo whispered to her, opening the jar of ashes and fishing the paintbrush out of her bag. It pleased Jo that Claire would have to enter St. Agnes again to be married, when Jo knew she hated the place. She hoped the memory of Ethan pained Claire every Sunday from there on out as she knelt next to Whit, but in case it didn’t, Jo had a plan to make it so.
She pried the lid off the can of paint. She’d found it left behind in the new barn by the Weatherly brothers during their renovations. It was grayish and thick, used to seal the trim around the doors, but it would work just fine for her purposes. She dipped the bristles of the brush in the paint, let the excess color drip for a moment, and then brought her hand to the wall.
She worked quickly, without letting herself think, flicking her wrist as lightly as she could, making six hook shapes on the hem of the Virgin’s gown, the lines as sharp and clear as any words Jo could have written. Breathing fast, she stepped away from the wall and studied her handiwork. Would it be enough to make Claire remember? Would she see the barbs and recall the day on the beach when she’d gotten the fishhook stuck in her hand and Jo had pulled it out? It doesn’t pay to be tender when you work in salt, Jo had barked at her, but Claire hadn’t wanted to listen. This time Jo would make her.
She bit her lip and dipped her brush again. She outlined an eye on Our Lady’s open palm, in the same spot where the barb had gone into Claire’s skin. An eye for an eye, Jo thought, tracing the iris, then the lashes. It didn’t matter that Claire was leaving the marsh, Jo wanted her to know. No matter what she did or where she went, Jo’s eyes would always be on her—both of them, the one burned to jelly in the barn and the one still left in her head.
Finally she opened the jar of ashes and scattered them all around the front of the Virgin. When Claire knelt before Our Lady to light her bridal candle, the satin train of her gown would spread around her like lily petals and she would rise with dirty knees, tainted by the marks of fire.
For the remainder of that morning, Jo rattled through the house, sorting through piles of old junk, jangly as an antique telephone. At last Mama had had enough. “Go on,” she snapped, taking a dented oilcan out of Jo’s hands. “Go and see your sister married.”
Jo squeezed her mother’s thin shoulders. “I’ll tell you what she’s wearing,” she said, and Mama nodded.
“I’d like that.”
The wedding had already started by the time Jo snuck up to the blurry arched windows and peeped through one of them. Claire was standing at the altar shrouded in satin and lace, her head bowed. Ever since her engagement to Whit, who was devout, she’d started attending church again, but it was still a shock to see her standing in front of St. Agnes’s little altar, a bride to someone besides Ethan, her mouth forming the words of prayers Jo knew that her sister reviled.
Her school friends Cecilia West and Katy Diamond stood up next to her, beaming in hideous satin dresses, and in the pews were the faces of everyone Jo had ever known: Mr. Upton, Mr. Hopper from the diner, even horrible Agnes Greene, who used to tease Claire about her clothes at school. She was simpering now, impressed by the size of the diamonds on the band sliding onto Claire’s finger. Claire didn’t look exactly radiant. Instead she moved with stiff slowness, as if just standing in St. Agnes was making her blood freeze—and Jo hoped it really was.
Claire didn’t look at Whit when he slipped the jeweled ring on her finger, or when Father Flynn pronounced them man and wife. And when Whit threw back her veil and kissed her, she kept her eyes closed. Jo knew it must have been Ethan’s mouth she was imagining. She saw Claire glance at the newly improved Our Lady once, an expression of worry flashing across her face.
When everything was over, Claire stepped out of the church, pale as when she’d arrived. No one threw rice. None of the guests cheered, and there was no music, just the hard rustle of an Atlantic wind. Before anyone could see her, Jo ducked behind the church and down to Drake’s Beach, where she paced along the water’s edge, remembering the day Whit had found her digging for clams and asked where they came from. Where had all the time gone? Soon she heard footsteps gaining behind her. “Ashes to ashes,” Father Flynn said, falling into a rhythm beside her.
She frowned at him. She didn’t want company. “What?”
“I noticed that your sister ruined her gown,” he said, unruffled as a rogue wave doused the hems of his trousers.
Jo moved out of the way and kicked at the sand. “My sister ruined a lot of things.”
Father Flynn joined her on higher ground. A question hung in his eyes, but he didn’t dare ask it. Instead he folded his hands and sighed. “Just as someone ruined Our Lady this morning.” Jo didn’t say anything, and Father Flynn surprised her by letting the matter drop. He must like Our Lady even less than I do, Jo thought, which was saying a lot. He cleared his throat and slowed his pace to match hers. “Not speaking to your sister won’t change anything—not about the fire and not about her marriage to Whit. Won’t you consider forgiving her?”
Jo squinted out at the waves. Her vision was getting better, but she still had only her left eye to depend on. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not this time. No.”
Father Flynn’s shoulders sagged a little more. He rattled a pair of stones in his pocket, as if they were words he was weighing. “You have been dealt some heavy blows of late,” he said eventually. “I realize that. But try to remember that the arms of God are longer and stronger than you will ever know, even if you can’t always feel them around you.” He reached out and cupped Jo’s chin. So far, of all the people in Prospect, he was the only one who seemed to have no reaction to her scars. Now he looked at her probingly. “I always have you in my heart, Jo. Know that. Don’t be wrathful.”
She bowed her head, feeling a rush of guilt for what she’d done to the Virgin. “Wrath is the only thing I feel anymore,” she confessed.
Father Flynn gave her a gentle pat. “Nevertheless, try not to lose touch with the Lord, however that may be.” He left her to pick her way through the dunes alone, wondering who had the better hold on her—God or the devil—because it felt like one of them was crushing what was left of her in his almighty fist.
After Claire married Whit, Jo’s mother grew thinner and weaker by the day, and Jo knew that the time they had left together was short. After she finished her morning chores in the marsh, she would climb into her mother’s bed and just hold her while she slept, trying to memorize her particular arrangement of muscle and bone.
“It’s not a real ending,” Mama whispered as she grew frailer. “It’s only a readjustment of the soul. Don’t waste your time in grief.” She took a breath and motioned Jo closer. “Promise me you’ll stay in the salt,” she said. “Promise you’ll look after Claire.”
At the mention of Claire, Jo set her jaw. “Whit’s already doing that, Mama,” she said. “You don’t have to worry.”
Her mother stared at her with watery eyes. “Don’t I?” Then she exhaled and fell into a restless sleep.
She died one month later and was buried in the Gillys’ weedy plot at the edge of the town cemetery. No women were ever laid to rest in the marsh—only the unlucky men. Jo tried to honor her mother’s wishes not to grieve, but it was a difficult undertaking. She was alone for the first time in her life, and her mother’s absence was
made all the worse by the fact that her salt apron still hung in the barn, her clothes still hung in her closet, and the mismatch of cups and plates she’d collected over the years still sat in the kitchen cupboard. Every morning when Jo woke up, the silence of the house was almost alive, as if insects had crawled in between the spaces in the walls and were vibrating their thousands of wings. She tended to think about Claire in those moments. Was she feeling the same unease living behind Ida’s walls?
Jo sat down and tried to write a note to Claire, but she couldn’t think of what to say, so in the end she shut the pencil and paper back in the parlor desk. Prospect was small enough, she figured. Claire would hear the news in her own way and make a decision about what to do, though Jo had her suspicions it wouldn’t be much. Once Claire turned her back on something, it was usually final.
When the morning of her mother’s funeral arrived, Jo walked alone out to St. Agnes, presentable enough in a black shirtwaist dress, combed as nice as she could get. She set off for the funeral with a bag of salt in her hand and a sense of resolve in her chest. Claire would be there, she knew, but Jo thought she could face her. Our Lady would back her up with her arsenal of hooks.
Jo had just stepped up the three bowed steps of the church and was about to enter when she saw her sister. She and Whit were kneeling together in his family pew, the red twist of Claire’s hair as bright as a firecracker. On top of Mama’s plain coffin, there was a showy spray of orange lilies, the one flower Jo knew that her mother had always hated but Claire had always loved. Besides Whit and Claire, there were a handful of other mourners: Mr. Upton from the grocery, Mr. Hopper from the diner, and the Friends from the hardware. The Stone brothers and their respective wives. Most of the people Jo sold salt to. Father Flynn spied her hovering in the doorway.
“Jo,” he said, relief on his face, “we’ve been waiting.” At that, Claire and Whit turned as one, her hand cupped in his. It was the first time Jo had seen her sister since before the wedding, and months of marriage seemed to have aged Claire years. She was wearing a crimson lipstick that was too heavy for her thin lips and, Jo was shocked to see, Ida’s pearl, the one Jo had stolen and returned all those years ago.
The air around her thinned, and her vision narrowed to the single pale point of the pearl. How wrong, she thought, that Claire should be the one sitting in that place, next to their mother’s body, next to Whit, while she hung in the doorway like a banished ghost. She glanced again at Our Lady, a phantom herself with her missing face and bald patches rubbed in her skirts, a lady with a heart of stone.
“Aren’t you coming in, child?” Father Flynn asked, his expression patient as ever. Without saying a word to him, and without taking her eyes off Our Lady, Jo slowly marched up the church’s small aisle to the feet of the Virgin and gently laid down her bag of salt. Then she took a place at the end of a pew, across the church from Whit and Claire, and bent her head. All through the short service, Jo could feel Whit’s eyes on her. He was fidgety, tapping the toe of one of his expensive loafers, smoothing his silk tie over and over. And Jo knew why.
He waited until all the mourners had left before he approached her, catching her just as she was bundling up to leave. “When is the will being read?” he asked, skipping any niceties. Jo glanced over to Claire, who was waiting up near the altar, two bright spots of color staining her cheeks. He’s greedier than even I knew, Jo thought. Mama’s not yet in the ground, and here he is busting to take what’s not his.
Jo ran her tongue around her mouth, savoring what she was about to say. She sucked in her stomach. “I wouldn’t get your trousers in a bunch, Whit. Claire got nothing.”
Across the church Claire let out a little gasp, and Whit grabbed Jo by the arm. “What do you mean, nothing? How is that possible? Salt Creek Farm is half hers, damn it!”
Jo regarded him coolly. “It was half hers. But she left. It was her choice. Anyway, it seems like she’s well enough provided for.” Jo took in the gleam of Claire’s new shoes, the twinkle of her diamond wedding rings.
Whit’s face had turned a chalky white. “You Gillys ruin everything,” he spit.
Before he could say anything else, Jo turned and fled, flinging open the church’s doors and hurtling down the lane. Her skin was still stiff and uncomfortable, and it made it difficult to move. She thought of everything she was running from—Claire, Whit, the accusing face of Our Lady and her attendant sorrows—and she knew that if she didn’t get back to the salt, she would dissolve forever, like a spoonful of soda lowered into a kettle of lye.
Whether Jo liked it or not, her future was finally sealed. She’d been given to the marsh, one of a pair, she knew, and it was too late to leave it now, for she owed Salt Creek Farm far more than her living. She owed it her very life.
Chapter Twelve
With Father Flynn’s announcement that Ethan Stone was returning to Prospect and St. Agnes, everything for Claire changed in an instant: the weather, the way she and Whit spoke to each other over the dinner table—or more often didn’t—even her aversion to the salt.
As the December’s Eve bonfire began to approach, the wind combed the town, brittle and hard. It was the kind of weather designed to make people resent all the things they were missing, and Claire was no exception. The cold settled into the unused rooms of Turner House, lurked in the shadowy hallways, and waited to snap at her toes when she poked them out of the covers in the morning. Whit was worried about the heating bill and didn’t like her to turn up the thermostat. Claire started staying in bed longer and longer, watching frost lace the outsides of the windows of her bedroom while she picked through the icy carcass of her past, trying to determine its freezing point, even though she knew it surely had to be the day after the fire in the barn, when Whit Turner found her crying under the pear tree and thought to offer her his handkerchief.
Her mother had been in the hospital with Jo, and Claire had been trusted to be alone. Left to her own devices, she was aimless, disoriented. Wanting company, she drifted into town, then realized she couldn’t be around people after all and so found herself loitering under the pear tree, mourning the loss of Ethan and cursing her bad luck.
She never saw Whit coming. “You look like you need this,” he said, pulling a clean square of white cotton out of his blazer and handing it to her. She knew he must have heard about the fire, because instead of tweaking her hair and calling her silly, he helped her stand up, carefully brushed the dirt off her skirt for her, and then took her for a cup of coffee.
She broached the subject first. “I guess you know what I did,” she said, sniffling, but she discovered that Whit was a man of few words when it came to the vortex of town gossip, maybe because his mother was usually at the core of it.
“I heard,” was all he said, his tone telling her he didn’t wish to discuss it, and that was a comfort to Claire, for neither did she.
It felt strange to sit at the diner counter—a place she’d gone hundreds of times with Ethan—and sip coffee next to Whit. She drank slowly, careful not to drip anything on her blouse, and wondered if rich people had different rules for holding their cups. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Whit, but he held his mug just the same as she did hers. He smiled, running his eyes over her hair, and then dropped them down to her chest and waist. She blushed and twisted on her stool, but it didn’t deter Whit. He kept staring at her. Then he leaned over and motioned for her to do so, too. When he spoke, his breath tickled her ear. “That Ethan Stone is going to wake up one day and be very sorry he left you,” he said.
Claire put down her cup and sniffled. Just the sound of Ethan’s name still made her want to cry all over again, but something told her that if Whit was not a man for gossip, neither was he one for tears. She forced herself to sit up straight and look him in the eye. “How do you know that?”
Whit smiled and covered her hand with his own. “Because I’m going to make him sorry,” he said.
Claire blushed and looked down at their hands joi
ned on the counter, watching Whit watch her. “I have to go,” she whispered. “Thank you very much for the coffee.” And she slid her fingers out from under his, telling herself this was just a onetime date, that he felt sorry for her, that in his eyes she was still a knock-kneed, freckled girl with two loose teeth. She also remembered that he’d once been as sweet on Jo as she’d been on Ethan. She’d just burned her sister’s heart. She didn’t want to break it, too.
And yet when Whit found her the next week while she was picking up groceries, she didn’t say no to the suggestion of a walk. “Come on,” he insisted, taking the basket off her arm. “The sunset is going to be gorgeous.” So she let him lead her out the door of Mr. Upton’s and down Bank Street, and when he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to his side, she didn’t resist. He wasn’t the same as Ethan, but that was good, too. It was nice to be held by someone who wanted her more than she wanted him.
After that they quietly began courting every few days. Whit was the one who suggested that Claire take the stenography course—he even signed her up for it—saying she needed something to focus her attention on while her mother and sister were gone, and he was the one who pointed out that she should wear plainer clothes to better accent her hair and eyes, and who taught her how to nestle a knife and fork together across her plate at a restaurant to signal when she was finished eating.
But he never tried to kiss her, not even once, and for that Claire was half glad and half irritated out of her mind. She wondered if Whit’s restraint was due to his history with Jo but knew she couldn’t ask. Did he care too much or too little about Jo? Claire wondered. She couldn’t tell. Finally she parked those thoughts in a dark corner of her mind. She didn’t like to dwell on what might remain between Whit and Jo. She didn’t like to think about anything to do with Jo at all, as a matter of fact.
The Gilly Salt Sisters Page 19
