by Lyla Payne
“Well, it was pretty rough.” My lips turn up in an honest-to-goodness smile. “I hope that wasn’t your business card. I’d hate to have to report the mayor for purchasing alcohol on the clock.”
It’s gut instinct, my desire to remind him that I am the kind of girl who takes low-paying library jobs and drinks in the middle of the day. It’s okay that he’s going to walk away. Nice or not, I want him to walk away.
I pick up the food, and we both stand, making our way to the front of the restaurant. His hand rests gently on the small of my back, warming my blood, and the hostess shoots daggers my direction. It takes all my willpower not to stick my tongue out at her, but I can’t resist giving her a thousand-watt smile as we pass.
The sticky breeze makes breathing a chore but relieves the chill from the air-conditioning inside the Wreck. I’ve never been a fan, and after living in Iowa during the winter, I prefer the heat to the cold any day of the week. “Thanks for lunch, Mr. Mayor.”
“Of course. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He pauses, making no comment on my continued refusal to call him by his first name. Point for me.
“And Graciela?” His dimples crease his cheeks and kick at my knees until they turn to jelly. Saucy, presumptuous dimples.
“Yes?”
“It’s very nice to meet you.”
He climbs into a town car idling at the curb. I stand there, my sour expression reflected in the tinted window, trying to decide whether I’m annoyed or relieved he didn’t offer me a ride. My pissy mug disappears little by little as he rolls down the window, and I swipe sweaty strands of hair out of my face.
The bright natural light shades his eyes mostly green, and they’re alight with devilish glee. “I’d offer you a ride, but you’ve made it clear that spending even this much time with me has been a hardship. You’ve endured my torturous company and incessant questions with such grace that I’m sure the hike back to the library is something of a gift.”
With that, he motions to his driver. They pull away from the curb, leaving me speechless, every sassy response stuck between my brain and my lips. Out of practice, is what I am. Of course he waits until we’re alone on the street, out of the sight of chesty hostesses and other doting constituents before showing his ass. Typical. He’s definitely a Drayton.
The walk back to my car is less than a mile, but it’s hotter than blue blazes. Heat shimmers in waves off the sidewalks and street. The breeze dries up the farther my stroll takes me from the waterfront, and by the time the library comes into view there’s a fair amount of sweat dripping between my boobs. It’ll be interesting to see whether or not the fact that I could wring a day’s worth of sweat out of my clothes will be the incentive that pushes me over the laundry hump.
My stomach twists at the sight of my car, and the memory of this morning’s scare, but no one’s in the backseat. My windshield wipers trap a little yellow piece of paper, though, which I tug free with a sigh. A damn ticket. Maybe I should have been nicer to Handsome Mayor. Getting out of tickets and possibly some future drunk-and-disorderly arrests might be a reason to let him flirt with me.
C’est la vie. That ship sailed.
The note crinkles as though it’s written on old parchment instead of paper. I turn the car on and roll down the windows before taking a look, bracing myself for a fine I don’t want to pay.
Instead, there are just three words, written in thick, dark lines with a calligraphy pen.
Be Ye Warned.
The threat—warning, whatever—freezes my muscles in the blink of an eye. It stops my blood, my heart, my lungs. It’s so juvenile, so vague, that it has to be a joke, and yet it freaks me out. The people wandering on the streets, some heading home from the market, others going back to work after a lunch break, combine with the bright sunlight to ease my fear. Heron Creek isn’t scary. My mother, my grandparents, all of my friends’ parents let us roam unsupervised for hours—often overnight—without worrying for our safety.
It’s the woman from this morning, still festering in the back of my mind, who is sawing away at my nerves. And now this.
I stare down at the note, putting on my archivist eye. The parchment looks authentic, but it could be faked. Between the parchment and the handwriting, it looks like it could be from a couple of kids playing pirate games. That it’s a joke on the new girl in town seems as likely as an honest threat.
Why would anyone threaten me? I haven’t left the house in the two weeks I’ve been back, and the only people who remember me are Will and Mel. And Mrs. Walters, but no way she’d waste time writing notes. She tells everyone what she thinks of them right to their face.
I toss the scrap of parchment into my purse, then put the car into first gear and merge onto the street. As hard as I try, it’s impossible to stop myself from checking the backseat a second time, just to be sure it’s empty. There’s no one back there, of course, but as the library slides past, the woman, Mrs. LaBadie, watches me through the plate glass windows on the front, her lips pulled down into a frown.
Chapter Five
The sound of the doorbell wakes me from some kind of dream, and based on the fact that my chest is heaving like a varmint racing from a coonhound, it included either sex or running. It’s hard to say which would be less likely given my current state of affairs. A draw, maybe.
My mouth tastes like acid and feet, and there’s no way my hair isn’t a mess, but Gramps isn’t going to get the door. He can’t hear it, for one thing, and for another, he won’t go through the trouble of getting up out of his chair now that I’m here to do the walking things.
It’s probably Mrs. Walters or Mrs. Freedman, neither of whom seem convinced of my ability to care for Gramps without their eyes over my shoulder. They both drop by on a daily basis, sometimes with food, other times with pitchers of tea or, in Mrs. Freedman’s case, the latest romance novel. It’s good that they’ve been watching out for him, but it rankles my pride that they continue to check in so often. This is my time with my grandfather, and Mrs. Walters only comes by so she can spy.
I’m ready to tell her off, protests and indignant rhetoric forming a disorderly line, when I swing open the door. They dissolve, frightened away by the sight of Mayor Beau on the porch holding a six-pack of beer. My prepared expression of annoyance shifts, and by the lines that crinkle around his eyes, it’s closer to dumbfounded. Emphasis on the dumb.
“What are you doing here?”
“Charming. Is that how they answer the door in Iowa?”
My sputtering attempt to shift from shock to smart-ass fails miserably, and when I realize that I’m wearing the exact same clothes as the last time he saw me—with additional wrinkles—the hot flood of embarrassment doesn’t help. The thought of what my bed hair and smeared makeup must look like makes me want to run, but instead I jut out my chin. I don’t care what Mayor Beau or anyone else thinks. I came back to Heron Creek to wallow, and nosy neighbors and handsome mayors aren’t going to stop me.
“How do you know I’m from Iowa? I never told you that.”
“I’m the mayor.”
“Is mayor interchangeable for stalker here, because— Hey!”
Mayor Beau steps over the threshold and past me without an invitation, disappearing into the living room. He shouts a greeting at Gramps, who hollers back at him with a familiarity that suggests he spends more than a little time here. I don’t have much choice but to shut the front door before every mosquito in the county shows up for a feast, then head back upstairs. The realization that the mayor spent his afternoon either thinking or asking about me tingles under my skin, and I change clothes and run a brush through my hair, forgetting already that I’m not supposed to care what he thinks. I do draw the line at fresh makeup but concede to wiping the smudges of mascara from under my eyes before heading back downstairs.
The cutoffs and University of Iowa T-shirt I change into are comfortable, so it’s not as though I’m trying to look nice. Especially since, like the rest of my clothes, t
hey’ve been crumpled in trash bags. There’s probably no coming back from being the girl who didn’t bother to change clothes before sleeping away the afternoon, but the last thing I need is someone else who doesn’t think I’m fit to be the one caring for Gramps.
The Braves game gets underway on the television, the announcers pontificating on the day’s matchup with the Nationals loud enough that the closest neighbor, three lots away, can probably hear. Mayor Beau sinks into the couch, one arm slung up on the back of the cushions and an ankle crossed over a knee. Companionable silence hangs between them, a reminder that they’ve done this before, and that Beau showing up tonight may not be about running into me.
Neither of them has noticed my presence in the threshold, behind them and off to the side, and the moment of invisibility affords me the time to study the mayor. He traded his impeccable suit for a pair of worn jeans and a crisp pink polo, and wears each with equal comfort. The perfectly combed hair from this morning is softer, with a slight curl around the collar of his shirt that makes me think he showered before stopping by—he probably did something insane, such as exercising after work.
I enter the room with as much dignity as possible and offer them both a drink. Beau asks for a beer, ignoring my raised eyebrows. I fetch two, popping the tops in the kitchen, and grab a grape soda for Gramps. The only place to sit is on the other end of the couch, which sets the tips of my nerves to a slight hum. Which is stupid. I’m twenty-five years old, and I lost my virginity nearly ten years ago. Why am I freaking out about sitting next to him on the couch?
Sitting next to him does not, in fact, lead to him ripping my clothes off and doing me right then and there. Or vice versa.
Beau gives me a sideways grin that makes me wonder if he’s some kind of mind reader, then shifts so he can talk to Gramps. “Martin, I bet it’s nice to have your granddaughter here.”
Gramps nods, breaking into a familiar, goofy grin that goes straight to my heart. “Yup. She’s gorgeous, ain’t she, Mayor?”
“Gramps, please.” Heat burns up my neck and nests in my cheeks.
“She most definitely is, Martin. Ran into your Graciela in town today and the whole experience knocked me right on my rear end.” He tosses me a wink, which I catch without meaning to, like an unwilling single gal forced onto the dance floor for the bouquet toss at a wedding.
I give him a look that leaves no doubt that his attempt at humor is not appreciated, then roll my eyes at Gramps. “He’s exaggerating.”
“He’s a slippery one, Gracie-baby. You know how politicians are.” Gramps takes a sip of his soda and coughs for a solid minute. Concern tenses the muscles between my shoulders, and Beau sits up straighter next to me, but the fit passes, leaving watery eyes in its wake. They warn us to keep our mouths shut. “Did you tell the mayor here about your scare this morning?”
It’s a way to shift the focus, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to throttle him. If Mayor Beau didn’t question my sanity after lunch today, admitting that I see people that aren’t there will seal the deal. His eyes, though, reflect nothing but interest and mild concern—the second of which might be residual after Gramps’s little coughing fit. The golden brown that rings his irises reaches farther into the blue tonight, and my heart flips like a pancake on the griddle.
My laugh sounds forced, even to me. “It was nothing. Just my mind playing tricks.”
“Don’t listen to her. Found her sitting on the floor in the entryway, gasping for breath like a ninety-year-old woman running a marathon.”
“Gramps, cripes. Can’t anything stay between us?”
“Not when it makes for an amusing story, nope.”
I sigh. Amelia and I, along with our friends, learned the art of grace under embarrassment at Gramps’s hands. It made me into a woman almost impossible to offend or shame, which typically makes me thankful. Right now, a break would be welcome.
Suck it up, Gracie. “I thought I saw someone in the backseat of my car this morning, so I ran back into the house. End of story.”
“Dropped her purse on the lawn and left the keys in the car, mind you.”
Gramps winks at my sour expression, his humor as endearing as ever. Beau looks charmed, for some reason, either by Gramps—like everyone—or by the story. Likely the former.
“Sorry I’m not up on the proper procedure for handling a smelly homeless person in the backseat of my car. Cripenanny, Gramps. I’ll do better next time.” I brush my bangs out of my eyes, thinking again that I needed to make an appointment with Glinda. “Anyway, she was gone when I went back outside. Or, more likely, was never there to begin with.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to bring up the nighttime visits and the note from earlier today. If nothing else, maybe it’ll give the police somewhere to start when they find my body tied to a broken grave in the local cemetery. I don’t say anything, though, because one admission of hallucinations is more than enough for today.
“What did the woman look like?” Beau seems to think there’s nothing odd about this conversation.
“I didn’t stick around to get a good look. She definitely smelled like unwashed body and kind of…briny.” The same word that stuck in my brain this morning rolls off my tongue. There just isn’t a better one.
“Briny?”
“You know, like an old, wet boat, or nets and rigging. Lobster traps. Salty and halfway rotten.”
“I know what it means.” He looks thoughtful, except for the mischievous twinkle in his eye, which makes me twitch. “You don’t remember anything about her appearance?”
I close my eyes and conjure the brief glimpse before my feet hit the bricks. Along with the rest of me. “Red hair, but she wore some kind of leather hat. I really don’t recall anything about her face, other than she seemed pale.”
Gramps and Beau stare at me with twin expressions of mirth.
“What?”
The mayor swallows his amusement first, settling back into the couch and extending his arm again until his fingers almost brush my shoulder. I lean away and cross my arms, sure whatever coming is going to test my ability to withstand humiliation for the tenth time today. Also sure that nothing good will come from his touching me.
“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize her, since you claim to have grown up here in Heron Creek.”
“You know her? Is she dangerous?”
“Yes, very. Killed, like, a hundred people or something.”
Gramps coughs again, but this time it sounds suspiciously like a covered chuckle. The words coming out of Beau’s mouth turn my blood cold, but the tickle of a smile on the corners of his lips doesn’t match.
“Seriously?” I squeak in a voice that’s unfamiliar but appropriate in the face of almost dying twelve hours ago. Gramps puts a hand to his face, but as big as it is, it can’t hide his smile. I stand up, facing them both with my hands on my hips. “Okay, funny men. What am I missing?”
“Now, don’t panic, Graciela.” Mayor Beau scoots to the edge of the sofa, rearranging his face into a serious expression that doesn’t sit well on him at all. “The woman’s name is Anne. Anne Bonny. Do you know her?”
My shoulders relax, but my irritation spikes. “Very funny, Mr. Mayor. It might be a little hard for her to have been in my car this morning, given that she’s been dead two hundred years.”
“Closer to two-fifty, depending on which version of history you like best.”
It’s self-preservation, my instinct to pretend as though I don’t understand the implication that her ghost has visited me. In Heron Creek, seeing Anne Bonny has always been something crazy folks claim. For the rest of us, she’s a fun urban legend, something that makes our little town unique. As kids we looked for her at night, in the graveyard and in the corners of our closets and under the bed, but never saw a thing.
“Okay, I’ll bite. I’ve heard the stories, but when did she start asking people for rides? What does she want?” It’s a question that’s never entered my mind before—to
ask why Anne Bonny haunts Heron Creek.
As a kid, the possibility of seeing a ghost was all that mattered. Now that we’re discussing it as if it’s normal to accept the premise that dead pirates wander the town streets, the foundations of the story hold intrigue.
“What Anne wants and why she’s still with us have always been mysteries. No one knows what became of her, of course, since she officially disappeared from prison after Mary Read’s death.” He shrugs, wiggling his eyebrows my direction. “Maybe she likes you. I could see that.”
“You don’t know me very well.”
“Never heard of her climbing in cars, though,” he continues, determined to like me, apparently. “Most people claim to see her wandering around the library or the docks, a sad look on her face. Sometimes they see her closer to Charleston, on her father’s land. She’s harmless, Graciela. I wouldn’t worry.”
Except she’s not haunting him, and there’s more to worry about than whether or not the dead can pose a threat to the living. Seeing her at all makes me sick to my stomach, makes me wonder if I left more than my future plans and my dignity behind in Iowa City. The thought sparks the slightest flicker of something inside me, and I know that I don’t want to be like this—listless, lost, without hope—forever.
“Gracie-baby, I forgot to tell you your Aunt Karen called. Amelia went to the doctor today and everything’s going fine. She’s about thirteen weeks along now and feeling fine.”
“You answered the phone?”
“Nope. She left a message.”
“Hmm.” The legend of Anne Bonny has taken root, driving out the concerns of real life, and the archivist struggling to surface from underneath the depressed, budding alcoholic can’t stop asking questions. I turn back to Beau, hungry for details. “I knew Anne and Calico Jack pirated around here, but I didn’t realize she grew up in the area. For some reason I thought she was European.”
“You’re not wrong. Her father, William Cormac, left Ireland in disgrace with the servant who was Anne’s mother. His wife never forgave him, but he did fine here in the States.”
