Traces

by Betty Bolte

  Nodding still, Meg relaxed back in her chair. “When I think of the prospect of losing Sean, I imagine an immense black hole I’m falling into, and a huge knot forms in my throat so large I fear I’ll choke on it. I cannot fathom my Sean dying, of him not being with me. I am truly sorry for your Willy.”

  “When I was young and built that silly dollhouse, I wanted nothing more than to have a large family to fill these rooms with laughter. Willy was the foundation of my dream coming true.” Meredith scanned the kitchen, letting her gaze touch on the familiar stove, the tiled table, and the landscape pictures on the walls. A small aerial photo of Twin Oaks caught her eye, patchwork fields surrounding the large brick-and-stone building. A house, though not a home any longer. “Now I can’t stomach the idea of living here without him.”

  “Meredith, your husband would never have wanted you to live in the past. He’d want you to find the strength to move on. Such strength comes from your family, and of course, from the land, Twin Oaks.”

  Meredith turned to look out the window at the gravestones visible through the wrought-iron fence surrounding the cemetery. Willy lay buried in a cemetery outside of Baltimore. She visited him frequently when she was home and not traveling on assignment, taking a single yellow rose to place on his grave. She couldn’t stay here when he waited for her in Maryland. The graves here held the bodies of people she did not know, would never know, in fact. But they were her family, so maybe she should spend some time learning who they were.

  “Do you know who all is buried out there?” She waved toward the cemetery.

  “O’Connells and others stretching back two hundred years.” Meg stared out the window for a long moment. “Those who have lived and loved Twin Oaks as much as you and your family.”

  “It’s so interesting to contemplate the many lives of people who lived here and cherished each moment only to end up below the ground.” Meredith glanced at Meg and then stared out the window. “What does it all mean in the end?”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Meg said.

  “We each do our best with what we have but never know if it’s the right thing.” She’d phoned the architecture appraiser, but he couldn’t fit her in until next week. When he showed up, followed by the heavy equipment operator, Meredith had no illusions that Meg would approve, any more than Grandma. She’d be letting her ancestors down, no doubt. “All the striving and trying and failing and trying again while we live, and then after we die…” A cloud shaded the sunshine, chilling her so she wrapped her arms around herself. “We disappear from sight except for a piece of stone aboveground. Do you suppose it matters, once you’ve passed, where your body lies in order to be happy?”

  “No, it’s the soul that’s important, not the human form.” Meg folded her arms and considered Meredith. “Though perhaps where your body lies determines how your soul reacts to the act of dying. More importantly, the timing and manner in which a person dies probably affects how peacefully they rest. I do believe those who die before their time are restless souls looking for answers.”

  “Restless? You believe in ghosts?” Meredith sighed, unfolded her arms, and fiddled with the salt shaker. Her Willy had died saving her life, an honorable death in his eyes. “Willy is buried in Baltimore. I know he’s happy there since he’s close to our home.”

  “I and Sean have made plans to be buried in Lynchburg when our time comes.” Meg smiled wryly. “We’ve always enjoyed some Jack Daniels in the evening.”

  Meredith grinned and thumped the shaker onto the table before linking her fingers together. “You’ve thought ahead, I see.”

  “Do we really know what happens once we die?” Meg shivered and then laughed, the sound echoing in the room. “Ooh, someone must have walked across my grave. What maudlin talk for a pretty spring day.”

  The bright sun was blocked as a large cloud drifted over the house. Meredith looked outside, aware the white gazebo shaded also, its black iron trim in stark relief among the surrounding trees. Her grandmother had loved to sit on one of the Adirondack chairs in the shade and tell Meredith and Paulette about the fairies and their many antics. Unlike the happy and carefree fairies of many tales, Irish fairies tended to play tricks and wreak vengeance for perceived wrongs. While Meredith never wanted to confront angry fairies, she had to admit their dealings made for entertaining stories. Sunlight splashed down on the gazebo and surrounding yard, highlighting the tulips and daffodils nestled around the exterior and along the sidewalks.

  “Let’s take a walk up to the fairy tree and clear our heads. I haven’t thought about the little tree in decades.” Meredith stood and pushed in her chair before following Meg through the screened door. “This has to be a short jaunt, though. I’ve work to do.”

  Being outside in the sunshine improved her spirits, a burden lifting from her shoulders. The house itself weighed upon her. She breathed in the sweet scent of the azaleas and the tang of the magnolias while the sun warmed her arms. They moseyed across the gravel driveway to the flagstone path. A low stone wall separated the wide drive from the shady yet welcoming formal garden.

  “My Sean has spent most of his time tending to these plants,” Meg said, ambling along the large flat stones forming the winding path through the array of plants. “He loves working with the flowers, coaxing them to bloom and smell so sweet.”

  The neatly arranged flowers and blooming bushes reached for the spring sunshine. Tall trees stretched out to provide intervals of dense shade. She didn’t know much about plants, not like Willy had. He’d have been exclaiming over a rare flower or special shrub. A shudder of grief washed through her. Willy would have loved this place. His knowledge of landscape architecture would have sprung to the fore as he looked at each little green being and commented upon its uses and benefits. How the dying of the blossoms fertilized the future growth of the plant, the circle of life within the plant kingdom.

  “Willy loved horticulture,” Meredith said, pacing beside Meg. “He and Sean would have gotten along fine.”

  “I’m sure they would’ve.” Meg nodded and strolled on down the path. She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “My Sean adores his plants.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, drinking in the surrounding sights and scents. Meredith considered asking Sean to design the garden park she envisioned replacing the imposing house. She nearly queried Meg as to whether he’d be interested, only Meredith wasn’t yet ready to share her shocking vision. They emerged out the back side of the garden, through a low, wood gate leading to an immense grassy meadow. Wildflowers dotted the field. She could identify wild daisies and Queen Anne’s lace among the pinks, whites, yellows, and purples sprinkled before her. They paused to appreciate the view. She shaded her eyes with a hand and scanned the field, noting the trees along the fence line in the distance. The fairy tree stood defiantly in the middle of the expanse.

  “Your Grandma loved to come out here,” Meg said, “until her legs wouldn’t carry her this far.”

  Did Meg have to mention her grandmother at that exact moment? The stories surrounding the counterfeit fairy tree had been a part of Meredith’s childhood as much as Humpty Dumpty and Ichabod Crane. Myths and legends that her grandmother loved to tell her. Way back when Meredith was a kid and bedtime stories were still important. Staying with Grandma for the summer months meant she and her sister heard many wonderful tales of adventure, ghosts, and myths about Ireland.

  Meredith had let the memories of those stories fade as she grew older and more distant to this little piece of the world. Until this moment she had not considered them, not for a second. She’d moved away and moved on, reaching for her future and relinquishing the past. Only to be dragged back to the very roots she’d tried to dig up and throw away, like some Irishman bent on removing a fairy tree only to find himself and his family cursed by the angry fairies.

  Willy’s love of horticulture had spurred her decision to turn the old building into a park filled with living plants. Had her own ancestral ti
es to the land also informed the choice? Sitting on her postage-stamp balcony, she’d stared out over the Inner Harbor, envisioning not the Chesapeake but a flower-lined path winding through a park-like setting. Memorial signs would indicate specific bushes or trees planted in memory of a loved one. Benches would be tucked into shady nooks where visitors could rest and enjoy the serenity of the park. The fairy tree would remain safe in its meadow, set apart from the formal garden paths.

  “Did Grandma come here often?” Meredith walked into the field, avoiding the tiny wildflowers as best she could. She liked the way they graced the vista with their specks of color.

  “Weekly at least.” Meg paced beside her. “Until a few months before she died.”

  “Do you think she knew something was wrong?” Meredith asked. “I knew a lady once whose personality drastically changed in the weeks before she died, as though her body tried to relay the reality of her disease. Did Grandma act different in any way?”

  “Not really. She did change her will about nine months before she died.” Meg shook her head. “She didn’t say anything about not feeling right, if so.”

  “Max said she died without warning, sitting in her favorite chair.” White petals lay scattered about the tree trunk like pearls escaped from a necklace. “I hope it was painless as well.”

  “She looked like she’d dozed off, so I hope she felt nothing.”

  Meredith picked up a satiny petal and rubbed it between her fingers and then let it drift back to Earth. “Did you find her?”

  Meg’s eyes grew misty as she considered Meredith. “Yes.”

  “I’m glad it was you who did.” Meredith inexplicably wanted to hug Meg but hesitated. She wasn’t a hugger and hadn’t been for years. So why did she want to hug this woman? She resisted the urge as long as she could. Compelled by something she didn’t understand, she drew the older woman into her arms and gave her a brief squeeze. Meg’s lips curved into a half smile as she moved away.

  Meredith crossed her arms, feeling foolish mixed with a new sense of calm. That hug hadn’t been solely for Meg’s benefit, apparently. Maybe hugs were underappreciated. At least by her.

  “I’m sorry you had to find her, but am glad at the same time.” Meredith unfolded her arms and stuck her hands in her back pockets. “You were more than a housekeeper to her, I know.”

  “Over the years we became pretty good friends.” Meg wrapped her arms around her waist. “She was good to me.”

  Meredith reached out to squeeze Meg’s arm but stopped her impulse and shoved her hand back into her pocket. “I’m sorry I lost touch with her.”

  “She talked about you often. Followed your career through the articles in the magazines and sometimes the newspaper.”

  Grandma must have read the interviews over the years after Meredith had started her career as an architect. The trade magazines had taken an interest in her daring designs as well as the conservative mansions she’d created. News of the random shooting that devastated her life had made a ripple in the papers, though thankfully one quickly forgotten by the press. That kind of publicity ranked right up there with a root canal. Then after she recovered from her physical wound, she’d changed her focus from creating buildings to destroying them. As a woman in a male-dominated profession, interest in her work hounded her in every town she conducted a demolition. Though the act of tearing down unwanted buildings to make way for a new one seemed to help, her emotional wound still had not healed.

  “I didn’t know she read the trades.” She prayed her grandmother understood her need to start afresh. To tear down the pain and build calm acceptance of her life. To create a space in which peace and serenity abounded. Meredith started strolling back toward the gate. It was past time to put her plan into action.

  “She knew all about your work to restore the nineteenth-century schoolhouse in Virginia as well as the upgrade to the Georgia plantation on the coast.” Meg kept pace with her as they meandered across the grassy field. “She subscribed to anything related to architecture, in particular historical renovation and preservation. That’s how she came across Max’s name and his dedication to historical preservation of local buildings. She had a dream of renovating Twin Oaks to its original appearance. She expected you’d manage the effort too.”

  Meredith didn’t slow her progress, but her heart sank. “She did?”

  “She left you this beautiful property to maintain and preserve,” Meg said. “You have the right skills to make her dream a reality.”

  Don’t tell me that. Please. Don’t. She kept walking, reaching the break in the stone wall. Thoughts of her grandmother’s expectations and hopes collided with her grief and anger. Those emotions were the only ones she would permit herself to feel. She’d killed the other emotions within her, buried them so deep she feared they were untouchable. Guilt wiggled into her heart as she contemplated the clash between her grandmother’s hopes and her own plans.

  Off to the side she saw the wrought-iron fence framing the cemetery. Speaking of burials. She changed direction and skirted the garden.

  “What’s the matter?” Meg hurried to catch up. “Where’re you going?”

  “I want to see who exactly is buried on this property.” She’d not move the cemetery. Let them rest in peace, whoever they may be.

  “Your ancestors, of course.”

  Meredith reached the iron gate with its intricate latch, deftly squealing it open. Gracious. “Like fingernails on a chalkboard. I need to put some WD-40 on the hinges.”

  Meg chuckled as she rested her hands on the fence. “Not too many visitors come out here.”

  “True. After you.” Meredith held the gate open, waiting. A flicker of uncertainty danced across Meg’s features, suggesting a level of unease in the woman. “You’re not coming in?”

  Meg shook her head. “Nothing’s changed in here since we buried your grandmother over there.” She gestured to the left.

  Her Grandma. Here. Meredith followed her motion, spotting the raw earth mounded underneath an immense maple tree in the far corner of the fenced area. A white marble headstone gleamed in the shadows. How had such a glaring detail slip her notice? Meredith drew in a deep breath and let it out to the count of five.

  She picked her way through the graveyard, careful to walk around the graves themselves like her mother had taught her when she was a child. She paused to read the headstones, noting they did indeed date back to before the Civil War. Most contained names of unknown people, presumably to be found somewhere on her family tree. Then she saw it. David Joseph O’Connell. Grandpa Joe. Born 1843. Died 1917. He was seventy-four when he died. She hoped he had a good life. A marble footstone marked the end of a space beside him.

  “Is that an empty gravesite?” Meredith pointed to the area beside Grandpa Joe’s grave. “Why does it have a footstone but not a headstone? Was someone supposed to be buried there?”

  Meg leaned on the fence, peering at the spot. “Oh, yes. Your grandma said Joe wanted his sister Grace buried there if she ever came home. But she had disappeared while he was away fighting. Your grandma told me Joe tried to find her. Wrote to everyone he knew. He apparently never gave up hope she’d come home.”

  “I wonder whatever happened to her.” Meredith glanced at the grassy space, and then back to Meg. “Where did she go?”

  “That’s the mystery,” Meg said. “Nobody knows for sure. Though, according to his letters, her twin sister, Edith, seemed to think she ran off with a Union officer. But why would Joe’s sister be a Union sympathizer while he’s off fighting with the Confederates?”

  A shiver began in her lower back and worked its way through her until she shuddered. She folded her arms to still the tremor. “The war separated many families, pitching brother against brother, father against son. Why not brother against sister?”

  Meg shook her head. “Your grandma didn’t think so, based on what Joe wrote in his journal. He seemed to feel something bad had happened to her.”

  Another shiver s
hook Meredith as a chilly breeze wafted by, carrying a hint of sweetness. She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself to try to still the tremors. The fact that her relatives were buried on the property did not change her plans to demolish the house, but the fact of her ancestors’ presence coupled with the trunk of genealogical research piqued her curiosity. She certainly wouldn’t allow herself to act on an emotional level. Well, not an uncontrolled emotional level anyway. She stared at her grandmother’s headstone, her thoughts awhirl. First she needed to know more about who had lived here, including more about what her own grandmother had learned through her research. Deep inside she needed to better understand what she planned to destroy. That wasn’t emotional, that was logical. Honestly. She turned and made her way back to where Meg waited.

  Meredith swung the gate closed behind her and started for the house. The calls would have to wait for a bit. “Time to explore the trunk’s contents in more detail.”

  * * * *

  Long shadows draped across the trunk situated next to her grandmother’s chair in the airy sewing room. Thank goodness Sean had handled the heavy lifting. Having a man around had its pluses after all. Meredith held the first of many leather-bound journals in her lap. The binding warmed her hands, but she figured it to be an illusion born by the sense of invasion she also experienced as she contemplated reading Great-great-great-grandfather Joe’s thoughts and sensibilities. Would he have minded? She shook her head and opened the cover. He’d never know, so what did it matter?

  Joe had returned after the war and immediately began a new journal. He had neatly written in the first page about choosing to document his life after the war, after peace had settled over Tennessee. The precise script called to mind her grandmother’s handwriting. The art of cursive penmanship was losing prominence in Meredith’s day-to-day world, what with most communication being by phone and typing on a keyboard. Back in Grandpa Joe’s day, the quality of a person’s penmanship distinguished them as educated and refined. Good thing she didn’t have to compete on that level with her own scrawl. She read on.