by Karen White
Ignoring my chipped and chewed fingernail, I used my finger to slide down the list of tiny print to see whether there might be anything of interest. About three-quarters of the way down the page, I stopped to read a chapter title: “The Ghosts of St. Simons Island.” I wasn’t really interested in ghosts, having never had a reason to have an interest, yet Adrienne’s words about Matthew seeing ghosts when he looked at her stumbled across my memory. Running my thumb over the bottom corners of the pages, I flipped through quickly until I reached the indicated page, then slid the book open with my finger.
The chapter was filled with pen-and-ink sketches of the lighthouse and Fort Frederica, as well as a black-and-white photograph from the thirties of a portion of Dunbar Creek, known as Ebo Landing. From Tish and my reading I had already become familiar with these ghost stories, stories of the spectral British soldiers at the old fort, and of the proud Ebo slaves who’d drowned themselves, preferring loss of life over loss of liberty, and whose chants could still be heard in the marsh on quiet nights. There was also the more recent addition of the ghost of a slain lighthouse keeper from the late eighteen hundreds, whose footsteps could still be heard climbing the metal spiral staircase as if he were performing his nightly routine more than one hundred years after his death.
I skimmed the stories slowly, wondering whether the telling of these tales had altered with age, feeling slightly disappointed when I read nothing I hadn’t heard before. But when I reached the last page of the chapter, I stopped. At the top half of the page was a sketch of a woman in early nineteenth-century dress standing on a nighttime beach, the moon an orb of light above her. The outline of a three-masted ship with full sails was visible in the far distance out on the water, yet nearby but behind her was the distinct shadow of a man facing another direction, as if he couldn’t see her. The woman leaned forward toward the ocean as if she were searching for something. Or someone. I let out a gasp of air, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
“Are you all right?”
I held up the page to Tish. “Does she look like anybody you’ve seen before?”
She glanced at it for a moment, her gaze immediately returning to linger a little longer before she returned her attention to the road. “It’s her—the woman in the portrait Adrienne had hidden behind the sketch of the house.”
I nodded, unable to lift my gaze from the book. “I thought so, too, although I can’t go home and check, because the prints are still at the frame shop. They’ve been ready for over a week and I just haven’t had a chance to go pick them up.”
Tish shot another glance in my direction but didn’t comment on my reasons for the delay. Or my reasons for framing them. And I was glad, since I wasn’t sure of the answers myself.
“What does the book say about her?” Tish asked.
Frowning, I quickly slid my gaze down the paragraphs I’d already read, feeling frustrated when I realized the only commentary on the sketch was the caption beneath it. Out loud, I read, “‘The spirit of a man thought to be St. Simons planter Geoffrey Frazier searches for his faithless wife after she fled with her British lover following the retreat of the Royal Marines from St. Simons on March first, 1815.’”
I looked up at Tish. “That’s the same story you told me. Does anybody know any more to the story?”
She shrugged. “It’s been so long, I guess it’s just become a legend about people who lived here a long time ago. From what Adrienne told me, they never really knew what happened to her, only that she disappeared. It could be fact, or it could be rumor that she had a lover and left with him. There’s no way to know for sure, although it would certainly explain her disappearance.”
My finger traced the outline of the man’s shadow, and I wished I could shine a light on his face, imagining I already knew what he looked like. “I saw Geoffrey’s grave at Christ Church. That was the year he died, too—1815. I remembered wondering why there was no grave for his wife, or any mention of her on his tombstone or on their children’s.”
“That could be because there’s truth to the rumor, and she was not only unfaithful to her husband, but to her country, too. That would have made people want to forget her name as quickly as possible.”
“I wonder if Adrienne discovered more.”
Tish sent me a knowing glance as she slid into the parking lot of what looked to be a bait shop and put the car in park. “I’m going inside to get us some water bottles—I want you drinking a lot to stay hydrated. If you wanted to make a phone call, now would be a good time.” She left the car, then pulled open the glass door of the shop, bells ringing to announce her presence before she disappeared inside.
I pulled out my phone and hit the memory button for Matthew’s cell. He answered on the second ring.
“Hey,” he said, the sound of his voice calling to mind warm nights and soft skin and the scent of moonflowers.
“Hey, yourself,” I said. “Am I getting you at a bad time?”
“You can call me anytime, Ava. You know that.”
“I know. I just don’t want to interrupt you in the middle of a session.”
“That’s the only time I forward my calls to my secretary, Betsy, and if you need to speak with me right away, she knows to come get me.”
I smiled into the phone. “That makes me feel important.”
“Because you are.” His mouth sounded very close to the phone, and I imagined I could feel his breath on my cheek.
I glanced at the darkened glass of the shop door and wondered whether Tish was waiting for me to hang up the phone before she came out. “Tish and I stopped at a garage sale this morning and I found an old history book that mentions your ancestor Geoffrey Frazier. His supposed ghost, actually. It doesn’t really give any specific details about who he was or even his wife’s name.” I hurried on, not wanting Matthew to stop me. “And there’s no mention of her on his tombstone or on his children’s, like she’d been erased. Tish said that Adrienne kept all of her research in a briefcase, and I’d really like to see what she discovered.” I closed my eyes, ashamed at how easily the lie had sprung to my lips. “I was hoping you knew where it was.”
I knew Matthew was there, listening, because I could hear him breathing. But he didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, he said, “I’d forgotten about it, actually. I haven’t thought about it—or seen it—in four years.”
I was surprised at the disappointment I felt. “Oh, well. That’s a shame.” I glanced over at the door and watched as a man with a gray beard and a fishing cap stepped through it, the door jangling shut behind him. I thought about Adrienne’s wedding ring, almost hearing the sound it had made as it rotated in circles on the table until John had stilled it. Just as quickly I made the decision that now wasn’t the time or place to mention it to Matthew. Instead, I said, “I took your advice and invited my parents and Mimi for Christmas. I didn’t get a firm commitment from Mama, but I think if we work on Daddy and Mimi we’ll get them here.”
I heard his smile, but his voice sounded tight. “I’m glad. Look, Betsy just gave me the signal to let me know my next appointment is here, so I have to say good-bye. I should be home by six. I love you.”
“Great. I love you, too,” I said. “I’m trying a new recipe tonight that Tish tells me you love…” I began before I realized he’d already hung up.
Tish didn’t say anything when she got back in the car and handed me two large bottles of water. As she drove, I kept going over the phone conversation, wondering at what point Matthew’s tone had changed, and why the old restlessness had taken hold of me again.
I looked down at the book splayed open in my lap and smoothed my palms against the sketch of the nameless woman. “He doesn’t know anything about the briefcase,” I said, deliberately not mentioning the ring.
“Not to worry,” Tish said. “All the information is out there—we just need to find it.” She pulled off the road onto a dirt drive that ended abruptly in a small clearing. She handed me an expensive-looking came
ra. “I’ve got it set on automatic, so all you have to do is point and shoot, just like I showed you. I have to make two deliveries and then I’ll be right back—thirty minutes tops.” She reached behind her again and grabbed the same yellow pad of paper and the box of pencils I had used before. “If you see anything out of the ordinary—anything that looks like it wasn’t made by nature—take a picture of it and mark its location on the map you’re going to draw, starting with this little clearing. I think this is where the old kitchen house of the Smith Plantation used to be, so any bones you find around here are probably just animal bones, but let’s not assume anything yet. There are a lot of Smiths missing from the Christ Church cemetery, so they have to be somewhere.”
I wanted to ask her about any Smith family records that might still exist, but wasn’t in the mood to hear again about the Civil War occupation by the “damn Yankees” and their thieving, burning ways. “All right,” I said, stepping out of the car with the camera and sketching materials.
“Don’t forget these,” she added, shoving both water bottles at me.
I saluted her with the bottles, then watched her drive away. I pulled out a pencil from the box, then placed everything else, except for the yellow pad, on the ground next to me before straightening to survey the area.
The inland forest was dense here, the trees less than one hundred years old. According to Tish, this middle section of the island had once been cotton fields and was one of the last large areas to be farmed. Now it was filled with live oaks and pines mixed with pignut hickory, laurel oaks, and sweet gum trees. I recognized many of them now, thanks to my long bike rides with Matthew. The sweet gums had become my favorites because of the spiky balls that fell from the tall branches and cluttered lawns and drives like childhood memories, each easily overlooked until they eclipsed the landscape.
The music of the inner island buzzed and hummed with unseen wildlife as I stepped forward out of the clearing and into the shade of a sweet gum. I picked up my pencil to begin drawing, but paused, sniffing the air. Ashes. The smell was strong, as if the fire had been a recent one, yet the trees were green and tall, with no sign of fire damage.
I tried to draw, but the smell of ashes proved to be too distracting; the more I ignored it, the more it seemed to hang in the air. Figuring I had time before Tish returned, I put down the pad and pencil, then headed in the opposite direction of the site of the old plantation house where Tish had indicated I begin my search. Instead I followed the smell of ashes, my feet compelled to move as if by some unseen force. Even if Tish had been there calling me back, I don’t know whether I would have been able to stop.
There was a wide path between the trees, making me think it had once been well traveled, but not in recent years, judging from adolescent saplings that blocked the way in parts. I followed it for a short distance, the smell of ashes growing stronger, the trees thinning even more, until I reached another, larger clearing and stopped.
The ruins of a small house sat in the middle, its roof and front porch collapsed, the remains blackened by fire and charred bricks from the chimney still scattered in the yard. But surrounding the ruin—rising from the earth like a brilliant-plumed phoenix—grew the most beautiful flower garden of every color and variety, of every scent and height. Anemones huddled next to lady’s mantle, while tall ginger lilies floated above Sun Flare roses. Weeds and grasses were kept back with a precise line delineating garden from overgrown forest. The garden itself was part wild, yet part tamed, part cultivated, part accident. It was a dream of sight, a reality unrealized by most gardeners because of its sheer unwillingness to follow rules or expectations. It was the garden I’d always wanted to plant but had never allowed myself to.
I wondered whom the garden belonged to, and where the gardener lived, as the house was uninhabitable. Forcing my gaze away from the sea of color, I began to walk the perimeter of the property, looking not only for clues to who owned the property, but also for anything that might be of interest to Tish and our project, so she’d forgive me for not following the script.
Turning east, I walked slowly through thicker foliage, looking at the ground for bricks or stones or any indication that the garden was man-made and hadn’t been spontaneously created. Leaves rustled and crunched as an animal smell permeated the air directly behind me. I spun as something low and dark darted through the foliage unseen. Startled, I stepped back, my terror intensified, because whatever it was that had scurried past me remained invisible yet nearby. A stronger scent of ashes and animal musk descended on me as a cold sweat erupted on my forehead. Panicking, I spun around, suddenly disoriented and forgetting what direction I’d come from or where I’d been heading. I began to run, my sneakers slipping on slick leaves and moist earth untouched by the sun under the canopy of trees.
I heard the sound of something running nearby, and I turned my head without stopping, looking forward just in time to avoid colliding with an oak tree. I quickly jumped to the side, my foot slipping on soil and leaves, my body twisting to try to regain my balance. I felt my foot twist before the pain in my ankle reached my brain, my fingers scrambling for purchase as I slid into some sort of gully. I skidded to a sudden stop, my mouth full of dirt and forest debris, my hand throbbing from hitting something hard and immovable.
The pain seemed to paint everything with a red tint, stealing even my voice as it swept up my body. I couldn’t move, and I definitely couldn’t stand, and through the haze of pain the fear grew like a fire fed by wind.
I lay on my side, my eyes clenched shut, trying to breathe through the pain so I wouldn’t pass out from lack of oxygen. My hand continued to throb where it lay against the source of its injury, and when I looked down I saw a corner of a half-buried flat slab of stone protruding from the dark earth.
The rustle of leaves and the slow and steady sound of footsteps approaching turned my fear to terror. I tried to stay as still as possible, debating with myself whether I should shout for help, unsure how much time had passed, and whether Tish would even be back already to hear me.
I stared up through the trees at the small section of visible sky that seemed even bluer than I remembered, and I had a flash of memory of eyes of that same hue, and an inexplicably deep and penetrating sadness briefly replaced the pain in my ankle and centered instead in my chest, where my heart beat. Somebody began whistling, the melody seeming out of place yet oddly familiar. The whistling grew louder, the lyrics eluding me as the footsteps grew nearer. A long shadow fell on me as I continued to stare upward at the remarkable blue sky and wondered whether I was hallucinating.
The face that appeared above me was vaguely familiar, but none of the names that floated in my brain seemed to fit. Spots danced across my eyes as the man crouched down and reached for me. I stretched my arms toward him and whispered the name that seemed to form so easily on my lips: “Geoffrey.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ava
ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA
JUNE 2011
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself lying on the rear bench seat of a pickup truck, my head elevated on something soft, and my leg propped up and stabilized between plastic bags of topsoil. An earthy smell permeated the inside of the cab, but it wasn’t an unpleasant one. It reminded me of my mother and her large hands as she turned the soil with her bare fingers. In my half-awake state I saw her sifting through the dirt, showing me how the healthy soil lived beneath the dead and dried surface, and how sometimes you needed to dig to find it.
I came fully awake as the waves of pain throbbed up from my ankle, and I thought I was going to throw up. I clenched my eyes shut until the feeling went away.
“You just lie still, Miss Ava. I’m driving you to the hospital in Brunswick right now.”
Despite the pain, I managed to prop myself up on my elbow, the memory of calling out a name I’d never spoken before and of being lifted off the ground toward a blue, blue sky crowding my thoughts. “Jimmy?” I pressed my head back against the r
olled jacket pillow, trying to swallow down the nausea and pain. I remembered seeing flowers, and walking through the woods, and hearing something running toward me and then me falling. And I remembered hearing a familiar tune whistled by unseen lips. “How did you find me?” I managed through gritted teeth.
“That’s my house.”
I recalled the burned-out shell of a house and the heavy scent of ashes. “You live there?” I asked, surprised.
“No, Miss Ava. The house is all burned up—didn’t you see? But I used to live there when I was little, and I still own it. Land prices aren’t going anywhere but up around here.” The way he jumbled his words and mispronounced others made me take a moment to translate what he was saying. And that was when I realized that I shouldn’t underestimate Jimmy Scott.
I remembered what Tish had told me about the fire that had killed Jimmy’s family when he was a teenager. I blinked in confusion. “But the garden…” I couldn’t finish as a wave of pain consumed me, and I moaned to keep myself from screaming.
“It was my mama’s garden, so I like to keep it up for her.” He glanced at me over the back of the seat. “Does it hurt?”
I nodded, afraid to open my mouth, and resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“Don’t worry; we’re almost there.”
I propped myself up again in a sudden panic. “You need to call Tish and tell her where I am. She’ll be worried when she doesn’t find me.”
“Don’t you worry, Miss Ava. She’s right behind me. She saw me as I was leaving, and I told her what happened, so she said for me to hurry and that she’d follow.”
I gritted my teeth as he took a sharp turn and then the truck shuddered to a stop. The rear door behind my head flew open and I looked up at Tish.
