by Laura Briggs
Something akin to interest dawned in the green gaze that flicked back in her direction. “The wooded cemetery—I saw it once as a child. Back then, the Sanders owned the property; they were from down East, a little aloof and unfriendly. No one went there anymore.”
“Well, it’s public property, now,” Jenna told her, “and the county has given me permission to recover its damaged headstones. Over twenty, so far.”
The woman leaned suddenly forward, clutching at her arm. “Tell me, have you found any Widlows among them?”
Jenna thought of the marble headstones beside the doctor’s grave, one engraved with the sword and shield motif. “There are two Widlows,” she admitted. “One with a military symbol—”
“You’ve found him.” Josephine sucked in a ragged breath, a hand pressing against her mouth. Her eyes grew brighter. “You found Arthur,” she said, voice raspy in her throat.
Jenna’s pen hastily scratched the name alongside her original notes on the headstone. “Mr. Widlow is part of your family tree?” she guessed.
“Arthur Widlow was my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side and the last of the Widlow name in this county. I have his papers, his uniform—where is Arthur’s uniform?” She twisted around to address the nurse, who was looking alarmed by this sudden display of emotion in her employer.
Josephine continued to babble excitedly. “I have copies of his enlistment papers somewhere. There are letters he wrote, as well, from the campsites. And the uniform, of course; we must find the uniform and let you see for yourself…” She gripped her chair, as if planning to rise and perform the task that very instant.
Worried, Jenna touched her hand. “I would love to see Mr. Widlow’s uniform and the other belongings. But for now, why don’t you just tell me about him? Everything you know of him, from the stories in your family and the town. It would be a great help, believe me.”
Josephine began to speak. There was much reverence for Arthur’s war service, the fact he fought in many skirmishes and sustained terrible injury. Such scars were thought to have influenced his support for a county hospital in later years, though he was known as well for having invested in the town’s grist mill.
“He was a farmer,” Josephine said, “farmed his father’s land all his life. But there were dreams from his youth, I think, that made him imagine other possibilities.”
“Do you know anything about his wife? Your great-great grandmother?” Jenna asked, thinking of the matching marble headstone, with its simple engraving of a violet.
“His wife.” The woman across from her blinked, looking confused by the question. “I have heard something of her, some stories, but can’t recall. They knew each other before the war, I believe.”
“Then she was also a native,” Jenna guessed. “Maybe I can trace her story, as well.”
Josephine frowned. “There wer stories of something—a tragedy. An illness.”
“You mean that Mrs. Widlow was ill?” Jenna’s pen grew still with the question.
“No, no.” She shook her head impatiently. “Other people were, all through the town. There were wild stories about it being a punishment for something to do with the war.”
“A curse,” said Jenna, making a connection to the town’s upcoming festival. She was beginning to understand the origins for that commemoration, though its finer details continued to prove elusive.
“That was the old ways, you know—to blame the spirits for trouble in the mortal world. All this time, and still no one can say what truly caused their suffering. It was a mystery, what happened to make the town believe dark forces plagued it.” Josephine recalled only stories of children falling ill, and general misfortunes that were taken as a bad omen. “So much fear,” she said mournfully. “And not enough faith to water it down, I suppose.”
When the clock inside chimed three, the nurse rose and placed a hand on her employer’s shoulder. “Time for your medicine, Mrs. Maudell. Remember what the doctor said—you shouldn’t excite yourself so much.”
“You must come and see me again,” Josephine ordered Jenna. “Come this same time tomorrow. No, the next day—Mollie will need time to find the uniform and other things. They’re to be used for the festival this year, anyway, borrowed by the historical society. See Miss Cade to the door, Mollie.”
The nurse was apologetic for the invalid’s blunt ways. “She used to be real important in the town, heading committees and all. It’s been hard on her adjusting to this condition.”
“Has she been ill very long?” Jenna asked, presuming she referred to something other than age.
“A few years. Tumors, slow growing, but painful at times. The doctor says it may be soon, though.” Her voice caught, betraying a fondness for the town matriarch. “Used to, she could tell you every name in her family tree, and those in her husband’s, too. Lately, though, the illness has taken its toll on her thinking.”
“I’m grateful to her,” said Jenna. “Her stories will help to bring my book alive. People will want to read about this. Believe me.”
Discomfort stole briefly across the other woman’s face. “I’m awful glad you feel that way,” she said, “but don’t expect too much from her. Even on her good days, Mrs. Maudell’s a little careful what she shares about the town. It’s her only real care these days, you know.”
“Of course,” said Jenna. Though she doubted very much that anything would deter Josephine Maudell from helping her learn the truth about the past, especially when her ancestor might turn out to be the hero of the story.
Jenna left her agent a voicemail and two texts before she drove away from the Maudell residence. This was the twist in the story that she felt certain would win over Joyce. A soldier’s romance set against the backdrop of a town consumed by tragedy and fear. Her skin tingled just thinking about it, fingers itching to type the words into the first draft on her laptop.
She pulled into a parking space at the inn, shutting off the car engine in time to remove the ringing cellphone from her purse. Without even glancing at the number, she flipped it open and said, “Joyce, you are gonna love me for this. I mean it; this will blow you away.”
“Guess again,” said the voice on the other end.
Not her agent, but someone decidedly masculine and with a gravelly tone. Young though, she felt certain. Checking the screen, she saw the number was both local and unfamiliar. “Mr. Taggart?” she asked.
“I remembered something,” he explained. “About that gravestone symbol you showed me.”
“That’s great.” She slid from the car seat, its fabric cool from the windows being cracked. “Do you mind if we talk about it in person? I just got back to my room in town, but I can meet you somewhere. Your workshop, even.”
“How about the town square?” he suggested, surprising her with the location mere blocks away.
Jenna hesitated, remembering their awkward exchange the day before. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. Since your work must keep you busy.”
After a short pause he spoke. “It’s not a problem. I can be there if you can.”
“Well, great,” she said, her bag jostling against her side as she moved down the sidewalk. She could wait for him on one of the benches in the square, using the extra time to go over her notes from the Maudell interview.
“Sorry I wasn’t Joyce,” he added, referencing their mix-up.
“Don’t be. It’s better for me if we talk before I speak with my agent again. The more information I have on this project, the more likely it is to get the attention it deserves.”
“Then your agent isn’t a fan of the book?” He sounded confused by the notion, perhaps wondering how the project made it past the idea phase if this was true.
“She isn’t convinced that Sylvan Spring should be a part of it,” Jenna explained. “But I think she will be after today.” Her fingers gave a loving pat to her knapsack as she said this, imagining the new material stowed inside. Tonight she would transfer the not
es to electronic files, along with her initial thoughts and questions.
As she rounded the corner, the town square came into view. There was only one figure seated among its benches—a man whose face was angled towards the ground. Glancing up, he waved a cellphone in greeting.
Jenna’s steps slowed, her eyes widening in disbelief. She lowered her phone. “You already planned to meet me. Before we spoke.”
“That’s true.” A spark of humor surfaced in the blue depths. “Being a headstone carver doesn’t ban me from the land of the living, you know. Though some might argue I’ve got more in common with the other side.”
He’s a little different. The county clerk’s words echoed through her mind, making her wonder how much he knew of the gossip surrounding his habits.
She sat beside him and tucked her cellphone into her bag. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just…you didn’t seem very interested in this project yesterday.”
“That’s partly why I came,” he said. “To apologize for being so short with you. It was rude and unprofessional.” He had taken more care with his appearance this time. Dressed in jeans and a dark blazer, he had exchanged the rag on his hand for a real bandage. He had shaved as well, though he seemed to be one of those men who wore a permanent shadow on their jaw.
“You had the right not to get involved,” she told him. “Besides, I have a habit of expecting everyone to share my passions. It can make me come on too strong, sometimes.”
He said nothing, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench. There was a quiet intensity about him that made her worried of frightening him away. Like a bird perched in a tree, wary of human approach.
She pulled her latest notes from her bag. “I really do appreciate your meeting me here. We could have spoken at your business, though.”
He didn’t answer, but instead retrieved a square of paper from his back pocket. Unfolding it, he revealed another gravestone rubbing of the moon symbol. Except, this one was done in chalk rather than the crayon Jenna preferred to use.
“Where did you get this?” She was breathless as she stared at it. Accepting the page from his hand, she smoothed its creases to study the block lettering from the headstone that spelled out the name L. R. Lesley.
“My wife made it. She, uh, used to visit the family graves at the old Lesley homestead. She took flowers, sometimes. There were two more rubbings like this one—a mother, father, and child.”
She registered his use of past tense, the hitch in his voice. “Your wife—” she began.
“Died,” he answered, quickly. “Two years ago. It was rather sudden.”
Jenna lowered the piece of paper to catch his gaze. She gentled her voice. “I’m sorry.”
He rubbed the bandage on his hand, a habit she had noticed when they first spoke at his shop. Feeling for the ring beneath, she guessed, or else its absence.
“What was she like?” A bold question. It didn’t seem to offend him, though, judging from the way his features softened.
“She was…one of those naturally cheerful people. Kind to everyone, liked by everyone.”
Sympathy coursed through her, along with a sense of admiration for the person described. “She sounds lovely,” Jenna told him. “I think she must have appreciated history to make this stone rubbing. And to take the flowers to those graves.”
“She did.” His gaze shifted to study the shops across the street, eyes heavy with some emotion she couldn’t identify. Grief, bitterness—maybe both. Clearing his throat, he said, “I found something else—or rather, guessed it. The symbol on the gravestones is Celtic.”
She followed his gaze to the festival banner that waved in the wind. The ancient signs did bear a strong resemblance to the ones from the cemetery. Impressed, she asked, “How did you think of it?”
“The newspaper,” he admitted. “There was a picture of school children painting the symbols for the heritage society. The Lesley family immigrated from that part of the world, so it just kind of fell into place.” Cleary, he’d been thinking about this, despite his initial disinterest.
She searched his face for the reason why, finding the same closed expression as before. “Care to walk?” He asked in a causal tone as he rose from the bench.
They passed beneath striped awnings, pausing here and there to study a window display.
The people who walked by would sometimes offer Taggart a brief nod while glancing curiously at Jenna.
Con didn’t seem to notice this, even when a group of kids snickered at them from a patio table by the ice cream shop. Did he always draw this much attention? The town must resent his habits, or else they believed him to have a secret worth hiding in his secluded workshop.
When they reached the jewelry store, the rings Mr. Stroud had mentioned were in the window, their intricate knots fashioned from silver and brass.
She paused to admire them, noticing the similarity between some of these designs and the one from the gravestone rubbings. “So the moon engraving on the stones must have a special meaning,” she said, hands stuffed in the pockets of her suede jacket. “The local funeral director told me the festival is connected to the old beliefs from the mother country. Sort of a cultural tribute to the founding families.”
“I called the society in charge of the festival,” Con told her as they resumed walking. “They told me it was an ancient and fairly famous Pictish symbol—that’s a Celtic tribe, apparently. The symbol’s known as a Crescent V-Rod.”
“V-Rod,” she repeated. “So that is a letter superimposed over the half moon.”
“Yes and no. It’s actually an arrow, bent in the shape of a ‘V’. Or so they said.”
A group of shoppers passed by, forcing Jenna closer to Con. Her hand brushed his arm as she asked, “And the symbol’s meaning? They must have said if it stands for something.”
“There’s a dispute about that. From what I understand, it’s been found on numerous old stones in Scotland and Ireland, graves and other types of monuments. But there’s no definitive source for its meaning.” Somewhat sheepishly, he added, “It’s sometimes viewed as a death symbol.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Since it’s on a headstone.”
They had drifted apart again, the sidewalk empty before them. Jenna frowned, thinking of the questions that still remained. “But why do so many of the stones have the same symbol—but not all of them, for instance? Especially the ones at the Lesley homestead, which aren’t part of the cemetery.”
“I think the Lesley markers were made by a different carver,” Con said. “They were fieldstones, and the carvings were shallower than the rubbings you took from the cemetery. Most likely, it was the work of a friend or family member, rather than a local craftsman. Whoever carved the rest, I mean.”
She paused again, their reflections mirrored in the windows of the Moonspell shop. “Were there dates of death listed for the Lesley graves?”
“I’m afraid not. Just names and the V-Rod.”
In the store’s display window, crystal rocks winked in the afternoon sun. Cards were propped in front of each one, identifying its properties and purpose in swirling letters. Energy conductors to destroy negativity or create harmony in the living space.
They moved on, passing advertisements for special sales at the bookstore and the Potter’s Shed. After cutting some tentative glances in her direction, Con spoke again. “Your necklace—does it have a personal meaning? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“My faith,” she answered, catching the cross-shaped ornament between her fingers. “I’ve been a Christian over half my life. This was a gift from my parents when I finished high school.”
The ghost of a smile tugged his mouth, the first she had really seen from him. “Then we have something in common,” he said. “Or, I should say, something else. Since we both make a living from the past.”
Encouraged by this second glimpse into his personal life, she returned a smile that was warmer and fuller than his. “That’s true.” she admitte
d. “Our jobs are similar. Except that yours is harder and a little more rare. Not just anyone can create something so beautiful.”
The compliment seemed to embarrass him, though. He glanced away from her, seemingly admiring the window display they were passing. “It’s not exactly in demand. Lasers and computers can duplicate an image so perfectly on a headstone that hand carving seems flawed by comparison.”
“But unique,” she said.
“Expensive, too. A few thousand, depending on the detail and type of stone.”
Was he arguing as a way to put more distance between them? Maybe he was uncomfortable when he realized how close he’d come to sharing personal details with a stranger. First about his wife, then his faith, with his work as the tipping point.
Determined to close the gap again, Jenna slowed her steps.
It forced his to do the same, until they stood face to face beneath a sign that creaked in the wind.
“You must know how special the craft is,” she insisted. “Especially as someone who’s fighting to preserve it. What you’re doing is important to so many people, not just historians.”
Some of the tension disappeared from his expression with the words.
She seized the advantage. “Hand carved stones are—well, like a story. The surface is fascinating, but the hidden details are the ones we want to understand. They tell us something about the person who died, as well as the craftsman who made the memorial.”
She was thinking of the slave headstones, with their simple but loving gestures of remembrance. “It’s the only reason I can write this book,” she said. “The stones are the stories—I’m just trying to flesh out the hidden details.”
Agreement crept slowly into his eyes, their gaze meeting hers more deeply than before. “That was…persuasive. Your readers may find themselves drawn to old, crumbling monuments when this is done. Taking pictures of stranger’s graves at their local churchyard.” Teasing seemed as uncharacteristic for the mason as a smile.
