Ghosts of Graveyards Past

by Laura Briggs

  Was that her interest in him—to get his story, the same as the people whose resting place lay beneath their feet? He dropped this notion in favor of studying the yard around him.

  A cursory glance revealed more than half its stones were broken in some way or other. Some were reduced to nothing but fragments buried in the earth; others had split apart with cracks as fine as a spider’s webbing. Only one wrong tap was needed to leave them in a heap, he knew, gauging the damage with a knowledgeable eye.

  He was cleaning the mildew from one of the monuments engraved with the Celtic V-rod, when Jenna came beside him, camera in hand. “Does that say they were a teacher?” she asked. Her hand reached excitedly for the newly polished letters, as she bent closer.

  “Anne Mitchell, School Teacher,” he read from the stone. “Fifty-one years.”

  “Where did I read that name before?” She chewed her bottom lip, mind working to recover the information. “Not the doctor’s journal, but somewhere…oh, right. A girl’s letter to her brother in the Confederate Army. It said she was going to be a teacher if someone named Miss Mitchell decided to retire.”

  “Maybe she didn’t have a choice,” he said, tapping the moon engraving.

  He glanced up from the stone to find her raiding the backpack she’d brought that morning. He was puzzled to see her remove a set of 8x10 mirror tiles and arrange them against some nearby tombstones.

  A little tweaking angled the glass to cast the sunlight against the teacher’s headstone. “Ta-da,” she grinned. “Neat right? Helps the carving stand out for a clear picture of the headstone.”

  “Where’d you pick that up?” He raised his brows at the unconventional method he’d only seen referenced in old genealogy manuals.

  “My college boyfriend, actually.”

  The answer surprised him, as did the flash of jealousy that followed. With no wedding band, he assumed she was single. Which didn’t rule out a serious relationship, or even a fiancé, come to think of it.

  “He must’ve been a history major, too,” Con supposed, picturing a serious type as he spoke, the kind who wore glasses and a loosened necktie. Someone who wowed their colleagues with obscure historical facts collected for their groundbreaking dissertation.

  “Nope.” She smiled, adjusting the camera lens for a closer shot. “Photography student. He worked summers as a cemetery caretaker and thought we should use the grounds as a backdrop for a class project. Probably where I got the idea for this book.”

  “Maybe you should dedicate it to him,” he joked, pushing the subject further than he intended. “Since he inspired you, I mean. Unless you’re not on good terms.”

  “Mm.” A noncommittal sound, as she snapped a photo, then another. “We didn’t really break up, just sort of …petered out. No chemistry, I guess.”

  He waited for her to reference a newer connection, maybe someone from her home city or a fellow writer she considered more than a friend.

  Instead, she let out a gasp as a sudden breeze ruffled her hair and coat, lifting stray locks of gold from her shoulders. Leaves fluttered down to circle her, red and yellow hues she tipped her face back to meet with a smile. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” she called, laughing as a few were caught in her scarf and hair, the camera in her hand neglected for the passing moment.

  Con put the tools aside, dusting his hands against a pair of already faded jeans, a smile cracking his face as he offered, “How about a break?”

  

  “Sweet tea,” Jenna surmised, taking a sip from the tumbler. “Genuine Southern style, too.”

  She pushed aside her notepad and pencil, making room for the craftsman to fill a second glass with the rich brew. Dark liquid splashed over a bed of frozen cubes as he noted, “The syrup can be too much for some people. It took me years to get used to it, but I’m guessing you were raised on it.”

  “I was,” she said, fingers cupping the glass fondly. “My grandmother made a raspberry version sometimes. She made sun tea, as well, but that seems kind of risky these days.”

  “So do a lot of old-fashioned things,” he told her, pulling out the chair across from hers.

  They were seated in the farmhouse’s rustic kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows to show off a pine floor and white, distressed cabinets. A stone hearth pointed to the original owner’s handiwork, but all the modern conveniences were present, too.

  “Do you know which family built this place?” she asked. “You said it belonged to one of the first settlers.” Part of her was thinking of its close proximity to the woods, wondering if the residents were someone she would recognize from her research.

  “The history is kind of sketchy,” he answered. “It changed hands a lot of times, but no one had lived in it for about thirty years. Part of the roof had crashed in, a lot of the floor was rotted—a stray herb garden out back was pretty much the only sign of life.”

  This made her glance to the window, where bundles of rosemary and basil were strung to air dry. “You decided to rescue it,” she guessed. “To repair the damage like the headstones in your mason shop.”

  “Actually,” he said, reaching for his tumbler, “that came later. The first time I saw it…well, I helped break the windows out.”

  Jenna almost choked on her tea. “Excuse me?” she asked, eyes widening as she took in the full meaning of his words.

  “I kind of…fell in with the wrong crowd in high school,” he explained. “Breaking curfew, a little drinking, some vandalism. We even smashed some of the old headstones in the town cemetery.”

  “You’re kidding.” She couldn’t reconcile this image with the craftsman’s serious demeanor. Not when he chiseled stone for a living and handled the ones from the neglected cemetery with such care and precision.

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “It was how I became Mr. Sawyer’s apprentice— reparation for my crimes, except I ended up staying of my free will later on.”

  She forgot her tea, arms folded on the table as she absorbed more details from his unlikely start. The years of training under Mr. Sawyer’s careful eye; the arguments with his parents about a youthful mistake snowballing into a career.

  “They thought I would find something else if I went to college,” he said. “But mostly, I think they were surprised that I ended up staying in Sylvan Spring, while they moved back to Kansas. Ironic, since my dad’s job was the only reason we came here in the first place.”

  “My folks thought I would teach history instead of writing about it,” she recalled. “There were some doubts on their part, but they told me to follow my instincts. Faith was a big part of it, too, since it was something I felt called to do.” A laugh escaped as she added, “The travel part doesn’t sit too well with them, though. I spend more time in motels than the apartment I’m leasing. They’ve lived in the same neighborhood their whole lives, so it’s hard for them to understand.”

  “No other ties to home?” he asked, curiosity buried in the blue stare. “I assumed there must have been someone after the photography major. You know, a more serious connection.”

  After their discussion in the cemetery, it seemed wrong to hold back details of her romantic experiences. Even if there wasn’t much to tell, considering her last relationship had been a long distance one with a documentary writer. That had lasted mere weeks, the same forces that brought them together ultimately making it impossible to find time for each other.

  “I’m not seeing anyone,” she admitted at last. “Relationships are hard to build between the hours of research. Another reason for the family to question what I’m doing, though it’s said with good intentions.”

  He smiled, a half-curve of the mouth that seemed almost boyish. “Your family sounds close,” he said. “My parents appreciate what I do in their own way, but I think it’s hard for them to explain it to others. It can sound kind of morbid telling people your son makes gravestones for a living.”

  “No one who’s seen it could think so.” Warmth had crept into her
voice before she realized it, her admiration for the work extending to its creator. If he guessed her thoughts, the only sign was in the gaze that cut away from hers.

  Con cleared his throat as he changed the subject.

  “To answer your first question, the house is from the 1830s. I wasn’t sure any of it could be salvaged, but the building inspector said the foundation was sound. We ended up replacing the floor and roof, but the layout and stonework are basically the same.”

  Her gaze roamed the small interior, trying to picture how it might have looked back then. No sink or fridge, of course, and no stove, with the hearth used to cook their meals instead. They would have gotten their water from the spring, or maybe a water well, if one was closer.

  It occurred to her that Dr. Moore might have been here, might have shared tea with someone in this same kitchen more than a hundred years ago. A shiver passed through her with the thought, picturing time as a thin veil between her and the room’s former occupants. Not ghosts, but shadows of the past, the kind she could reach out and touch if only the right information could be found.

  A small cough summoned her thoughts back to the present.

  “You look lost.” Con studied her thoughtfully from across the table, ice melting to water in his tea as he moved it aside to rest his arms in its place. “Anything I can help with?”

  She could use a time machine, a portal to the past that opened to the year 1862. Neither was a reasonable request, but she could think of more practical ones. Preserving history was just as important as understanding it, and the wooded cemetery was in limbo until the county decided how to protect it.

  “There is one thing you could do for me,” she told him. “A sort of temporary favor.”

  “Anything,” he said.

  

  The overhead light flickered then came to life, bathing the interior of the masonry shop in a soft glow.

  “Thank you again for doing this,” Jenna said, easing a cardboard box onto the nearest counter. Inside were pieces of the broken tombs they had cleaned and photographed that morning. They had marked their original cemetery spots with corresponding tags, packed the fragments in plastic bags, and then placed them in boxes she’d had in the trunk of her car.

  “I’ll feel safer knowing they’re here—at least until something permanent can be arranged.” She gave the contents a farewell pat, turning to see Con set his container on the floor.

  It was the heavier of the two boxes, the fragments in large chunks that could be reassembled for future display, an event that Jenna didn’t see happening, unless it was supervised by the craftsman himself.

  “Will the county apply for a grant?” He was gazing into the depths of the box, a last look before he taped its lid shut. She detected a trace of discomfort in the words, as if he shared her thoughts on the cemetery’s fate.

  “They might,” she answered. “Of course, that sort of project takes time—and interest from people in the community.”

  She trailed her fingers over dusty countertops, footsteps taking her to a work bench in the far corner. A canvas cloth covered a work-in-progress, making her think of the cross-shaped stone she had seen on her first visit there. On impulse she gave the cloth a tug. It slid soundlessly to the floor, revealing a monument of polished black beneath.

  Ribbon was engraved to loop a pair of hearts together, the first of these bearing the word ‘FOR’ in old-fashioned, block lettering. White pencil marks outlined the second part of the message, ‘ALWAYS’ inside the companion heart.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, blushing as the craftsman came beside her. “I should have asked first.”

  “Like it?” He ran a hand across the surface, brushing aside specks of dust. “It’s for a couple’s monument, World War II era. Their first marker was a wooden one that burned in a wildfire.”

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “Very romantic design.”

  “The family wanted something more elaborate than the original marker. There’ll be more ribbon for the border and some gold leafing to help the lettering stand out.”

  As he spoke, he rolled up his sleeves and reached for a chisel and a small brass-handled mallet that resembled a kind Jenna had seen in sculpting kits. Angling the chisel inside the markings for the letter ‘A’, he brought down the mallet with a sharp ping!

  Quick, firm taps chipped away layers of stone. Jenna thought of a whittler shaping a piece of wood, amazed the substance could be so rough, yet delicate at the same time. Her gaze followed Con’s expert rhythm, the play of muscle beneath his skin as he deepened grooves inside the pencil lines.

  “It looks effortless,” she said, amazed by the fluid motion. “Like the tools are a part of you.”

  He nodded, surprise in the blue eyes. Then, holding out the chisel, he said, “Now, it’s your turn.”

  “Me?” Jenna’s tone was incredulous, as if he were asking her to finish a master’s canvas when she had never dipped a brush in the palette. “I’ll mess it up,” she said.

  “Slate requires more precision than strength to mold.” He waited a breath’s pause before adding, “If you’d like to try, I could show you.”

  The offer was more than a kind gesture, she knew. The artist’s work was more or less an extension of himself, a glimpse to his innermost thoughts and emotions. This was a chance to experience part of his world, a taste of the forgotten craft she had learned to love these past weeks. For this reason, she found herself, asking, “Where do we start?”

  They had barely touched before, mostly accidental brushes while exchanging some object. But Con was all but holding her as they began, arms pressed close to her sides as he guided her hands in place over the stone.

  “You’ve got this,” he promised, his fingers closing over hers to grip the tools carefully in place.

  A tremor passed through her, whether in response to the contact or the challenge of carving, she wasn’t sure. If she turned her head, she would feel the sandpaper of his jaw, his breath soft on her face when he instructed, “Ready—and now.”

  A steady clink of metal was the only sound as they worked the chisel over the stone. Con turned the instruments where they needed to go, his pressure firm but gentle on her fingers.

  “That’s good,” he encouraged. “Stay with the line; it’s your map.”

  She let his touch guide her, vaguely aware of the strength in his build, the smoky scent of aftershave filling her breath. Confusion blended with wonder as she watched the shape taking form beneath the chisel’s tip.

  Briefly, Con relaxed his grip, forcing her to take the lead. A sense of panic was quickly replaced by astonishment for how natural it seemed. The tools did most of the work, shaving layers of stone with almost feather-light taps.

  Stroke by stroke, they filled the pencil outline, until a swirling letter ‘L’ took its place. Dust floated off the surface, bits of stone scattered across the hollowed portion. Their fingers slid apart, the tools falling to the work bench with a soft clink.

  “Well.” Jenna’s laugh was shaky as they pulled away. She avoided his glance, afraid a blush might be on her face. “Thank you,” she managed at last. “I never…that was different than I pictured.” She stroked the newly fashioned letter, as if to check it was real, scarcely believing her hand was responsible for its appearance, despite the very real memory of Con’s instruction. Her skin burned with the thought, her heart pounding despite the distance now between them.

  “That was impressive,” he said, with a nod to the monument. “Beginners usually put too much force in the mallet and bruise the stone. Your pacing was perfect.”

  Did she imagine the catch in his tone? Tension was visible in the hands that gripped the edge of the work bench in front of them. Hands that felt so confident when they held hers just moments before.

  “I should go,” she said, fingers closing around the car keys in her coat pocket. “It’s getting late, and there’s not much else we can do for the cemetery. Not that I expect you to,” she added, rea
lizing how presumptuous that sounded. “You’ve already helped more than enough by storing the broken headstones.” As she spoke, she moved towards the door.

  Con held it open for her, his expression hard to read as he followed her down the gravel drive.

  She had reached the car outside the gate.

  “Wait. Miss Cade—Jenna.” He let the name hang in the air, as if asking permission to use it. When she didn’t object, he continued, “There’s something else you might want to see. The headstones at the Lesley property and another homestead near there. I don’t know if all of them have the Celtic symbol, but it could be worth checking out—for your book, that is.”

  “I can’t ask you to spend more time on this,” she protested. Secretly, she wanted to accept the offer, but not because of anything to do with the impending manuscript. Then again, maybe his reason for making it was the same—less to do with her research than the emotions stirred in their brief carving lesson.

  “What are you doing Thursday?” he asked, naming the day after she would call on Josephine Maudell for the soldier’s letters. “We could meet here early, around eight o’clock. It’s a few miles to cover, so you’d need walking shoes. “

  Breath lodged in her throat along with the answer she ought to give. To see the stones would be nice but hardly necessary when she already had the wooded cemetery to document and so much research left with historical manuscripts.

  Yet she found herself agreeing to the plan as she slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be here,” she told him, seeing the hint of a smile in return before she pulled away from the farmhouse. Her gaze sought his image in the rear view mirror until it vanished with the curve of the road.

  15

  The door opened to Jenna’s second knock, the friendly face of Mrs. Maudell’s caretaker on the other side. “Morning,” the woman smiled, pulling the door open wider. “She’s expecting you—wore out from it, actually.” This was said with a laugh, as she motioned Jenna to follow her up the mahogany staircase.