Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  Gramps is alone in the living room, staring at the television with his headphones on and shivering under his fleece blanket. It’s ninety degrees outside at 10:00 a.m., and the house feels like a sauna, but I tug the blanket closer to his chin and plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “Morning, Gracie-baby.”

  “Where’s Aunt Karen?”

  “Ran out to the store. Don’t know what for, got enough food in the kitchen to feed the whole town.” He grins, but it takes effort. “Not much like how our fishing days used to start, but it’ll have to do.”

  I flop on the couch, loving the smell of summer in the room. “I know. I didn’t have to wake up before the sun, and no one pulled me out of bed by my big toe.” Even in my teens, I hadn’t minded getting up early. Amelia never wanted to go fishing, so I’d have Gramps to myself the whole morning. We never talked much as the sun rose over the horizon, painting the river with pinks and purples, then oranges and reds, his pole in the water, my nose in a book. We’d just been. Together.

  “You know people have commented on how one of my toes is too long. I blame you.”

  He shrugs. “Feet are feet. Be glad yours work.”

  We pass the rest of the time quietly, him napping and me back on the laptop, trying to track down the best person to ask for help regarding local ancestry. I end up with two possible names, one at Clemson and the other at UNC Wilmington. I shoot them each an e-mail and close my computer the same moment the doorbell rings, startling Gramps awake.

  It’s Will, with the Smart car. Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally arrive right behind him, and the men wrestle Gramps into the front seat of the car then start down toward the dock. There’s a path that runs out the last twenty feet or so, but they’ll take good care of him.

  Aunt Karen helps me gather the food, and when the Smart car returns bearing just Will, we load it up with casserole dishes and sandwiches and coolers filled with desserts and drinks. Sunlight winks through the gently swaying fronds of the palmettos and magnolias, the live oaks draped with their Spanish moss until it skips and dances along the wooded ground like fairies. It’s hot but there’s a breeze, and the bumpy path down to the river smells like moss and salt water.

  It takes us a few minutes to get everything unloaded and down the twenty-foot ramp to the open, square wooden platform that we call the dock. Melanie and Grant are here, and so is Beau, and with all of the hands the food’s set up on the long picnic table, and a canopy set up to shade Gramps and Aunt Karen, in no time at all.

  “You look beautiful, Graciela.”

  Beau leans over and kisses my temple as we’re unloading the last cooler from the Smart car. No one is around to see, and for more than a couple of seconds I struggle against the desire to drag him into the bushes.

  “Thank you.”

  “How’s Gramps today?”

  “He seems good this morning.” I grab the handle on one side, and Beau snags the other. “Oh! I’m not having much luck with the whole genealogy research thing, but I did find a couple of local college professors who might be willing to help out, or at least point me in the right direction.”

  “I imagine dangling the journal in front of their noses and offering to give them a piece of the discovery pie will help grease the wheels.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I emailed them. We’ll see what they say.”

  The chatter on the dock, punctuated by splashes into the water by Grant, who is a thin, pale wisp in his swim trunks and water wings, does its best to fill the empty caverns inside me. Even Aunt Karen seems content and, except for near-constant bitching about the heat, even manages a few chuckles while discussing child rearing with Mel. I’ll have to remember to thank my old friend for taking one for the team.

  Beau sits beside me, his long legs tan beneath his shorts and his bare feet driving me to distraction. Will goes back and forth between joking around with Gramps and playing with Grant in and around the water, while Uncle Wally tries his best to convince the fish they’d like to gobble his lure despite the melee.

  Gramps surveys us—what’s left of his family, for all intents and purposes, save Amelia—wearing a tired, satisfied smile. He drops down a hand, a wrinkled, age-spotted remnant of the strong paw that used to grab my knee under the dining room table during prayers, pinching hard to see if I could hold back my squeals until Grams finished pontificating. I capture it and give it a squeeze. He squeezes back.

  “Good day, girl. That death nurse makes some excellent fried chicken.”

  My lips twitch despite the horrible backbone of his statement. “She doesn’t like when you call her that.”

  “Why do you think I do it?”

  Beau chuckles next to me, vibrating the dock under my legs. It’s getting hotter by the minute, and the sweat shining on Gramps’s brow means we’ve got to end this little party sooner than later, even if his being warm seems preferable to watching him shiver in the house.

  I don’t want to be the one to call it, though, because the end of today feels like the end of everything. Nothing to look forward to, only the expectation of looming loss to fill the hours. Beau’s hand covers mine on the warm wooden slats, Will turns around to smile at Gramps, Grant runs over to see the little sunfish Uncle Wally has managed to snag, and I take it in, letting the moment paint broad strokes of beauty in my memory.

  Then Aunt Karen does my dirty work, which doesn’t make me feel grownup but does grow my affection for her more than it has since she bought me an American Girl doll that matched Amelia’s in the fourth grade.

  We pack it in and haul back to the house, Will and Mel helping Gramps inside and then saying good-bye, Grant snoring and tossed over his daddy’s shoulder. For the first time, looking at them, I know for a fact that what they have is not what I want—at least not right now. I thought I did, or I’d let myself believe it when I’d gotten so obsessed with David, but a desire for adventure, for a different kind of experience, is the reason I left Will behind in the first place.

  I wouldn’t be happy married with a little boy, every day of my life mapped out for me, a copy of the one that came before it. The living-in-Heron-Creek part feels right, because it’s starting to seem as though places are places—each is the same, if you call it home. There are adventures waiting for me here, if I count Anne, and the archives, and getting to know Mayor Beau.

  I sneak a sidelong glance at him as we sit on the front porch swing. He’s a little older than me, closer to thirty than twenty, and has never been married. That I know of, anyway. Add that to the list of questions to ask next time I get him alone. If we’re talking.

  The point demanding attention is that it’s possible he’s looking for someone to settle down with—to give him the home and the marriage and the babies. It might change the way he thinks about me, or make him less interested in coming around, if he knows I’m not ready for any of that.

  Then again, I told him I’m not ready for a relationship. One would think a lifetime commitment would fall under the purview of “relationship.” He catches me watching him and smiles, but it’s a small one that says the same feeling I’ve had all day—that we’re here to say good-bye. I’m overthinking things, as usual. He knows I’m a hot mess who’s only in Heron Creek because she was running from her old life. One that goes chasing after dead people, gets caught in storms, and every other example of immaturity I’ve displayed in the past month.

  We haven’t even made out. The marriage discussion can wait.

  And it’s not that I never want those kinds of things. It’s just that the thought of giving myself away, after almost losing it to David, after working so hard to get back—even just this far—to good, makes my legs tingle with the desire to take off running.

  He kisses me lightly on the lips, lingering long enough for me to taste sunshine and syrup, long enough to promise the desire for more remains, and takes his leave.

  Then everyone’s gone, and Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally are in their room. It’s Gramps and me in the living room, the way the
day began, with him snoring and me reading. And even though I know this moment can’t last, isn’t meant to tarry, I dig in, determined to hold on for as long as the world will let me.

  It’s early again, just before dawn, but my eyes are stubborn and open. I’m thinking about Anne, about the e-mail the UNC Wilmington professor returned a few days ago offering to look into eighteenth-century records regarding Mary Read to see if there are any aunts or uncles mentioned anywhere. He hasn’t written again, but he didn’t sound as though it was the dumbest request he’d ever gotten, either.

  His specialty is maritime history local to the British Navy, which turns out to be where Mary got her start, so if anyone can get their hands on great primary-source material, he’s the guy.

  I feel privileged by Anne Bonny’s trust, in some ways. She led me to that diary. Me, after two hundred years. Despite my complaints to Beau that I don’t have the time to deal with her drama and mine, too, a sense of responsibility has wormed its way inside me. It glows, insisting on not being forgotten, but because of Gramps, the mystery remains relegated to the backseat of my life. Which is, of course, where Anne and I first met.

  As though she hears my thoughts, the ghostly figure climbs over my open windowsill and takes a seat, dirty boots resting on the arm of a wingback chair. The moonlight illuminates the lines on her face, carved by years or grief, more likely both. She’s beautiful by anyone’s standards, a woman who could have fit into Charleston society despite the circumstances of her birth, should she have wanted that life. But her rough personality shows in the set of her jaw, the tightness of her gait, and the way she holds her shoulders back as though she’s ready for a fight. Anne Bonny has zero reputation for being soft or pliant, and the ghostly version of her has never been any different. There’s a wildness about her that’s fused with her essence that could never have blended in or been smoothed over, no matter how hard she tried.

  The circumstances of her life have turned over and over in my mind during my recent bevy of sleepless hours, and I’ve considered what it means to embrace who we truly are, even when other people don’t like it. Don’t understand it. To do what our hearts desire, even when it’s not what the world expects—that maybe the mistake most people make is thinking that our lives are made to please anyone other than ourselves.

  What a pickle she’d been in, all those years ago. With the exception of the few short months she spent at sea with Jack, she never knew happiness, had never been able to lay down the fight, to let her true self rule on a daily basis. First it had been her father trapping her, and then James Bonny. Later, Joseph Burleigh. Even her son, though clearly one of the greatest loves of her life, had forced her to live a life she hated. She loved him because she recognized that, much like her, he was a victim of his circumstances more than anything.

  It makes me sure that, at least for now, my feeling that I need time alone should be honored.

  Anne’s ghost watches me while all these thoughts and more swirl through my overwrought brain, her typical, heartbreaking expression still able to sucker punch me.

  “I haven’t forgotten you, Anne. I promise.”

  I wouldn’t promise her lightly, and the slight upturn of her lips says she knows it. Then she sits up abruptly, cocks an ear toward the door, and dissolves before my eyes. The sound of footsteps at this hour can only mean one thing, and every single cell in my body blackens with dread.

  “Come in,” I croak in answer to the light knock at my door.

  The whites of Lynette’s eyes shine in the filmy light streaming through my windows. Even in the dark they look sad, and the words that drip from her lips like tears don’t come as a surprise. “Miss Graciela, you’d better come on down. He’s not going to make it until morning.”

  “I’ll be right there.” I lick my lips, mouth too dry. “Have you woken my aunt?”

  “Not yet. I’m headed to their room now. Unless you’d like me to wait.”

  Aunt Karen and I are splitting the cost of the at-home care, so maybe it’s not fair that Lynette’s asking, or giving me the ability to keep daughter from father, but I don’t think she’d offer if ten extra minutes meant Aunt Karen wouldn’t get some time, too.

  “Maybe just wait ten or fifteen minutes? I’d like to have some time alone with him, if it’s okay.”

  She nods and turns away, leaving me to appreciate again her ability to read people. I take a deep breath, then another, and close my eyes, taking a moment to wrap my heart up in that stretchy kind of stuff that’s holding my ankle together at the moment. It’s flesh colored, so Gramps won’t be able to see it. I’ve never done this before—been there to say good-bye—but blubbering all over him can’t be the best use of the gift.

  There’s time for that later. For this morning, I’ll smile even though it hurts.

  I swing my bare legs from underneath the piles of quilted comfort, take the time to put on a bra under my sleep shorts and tank top, and grab a long-sleeved house sweater, along with Anne’s journal, before padding down the hall. She didn’t say whether or not Gramps is awake. If he’s sleeping, I’m going to need something to occupy my hands and mind.

  My grandparents’ room has changed so much from the space lingering in my past. The light beside the hospital bed, which we swapped for their old queen-size when we brought Gramps home—is on its lowest setting, casting a golden ring in a four-foot arc. It smells like a hospital in here, too, with the odor of antiseptic and disease smothering the more familiar scent of my grandmother’s floral perfume, the salty reek of Gramps’s fishing clothes festering in the hamper. It’s been a long time since this room smelled of either of those things, but it doesn’t stop my brain from expecting them, from being offended by what it finds in their place.

  Gramps’s withered arms tremble at his sides. He opens his eyes as I pile extra blankets on top of him, but it takes several seconds for him to recognize me through the pain, and worse than that is the heartbreaking fear casting shadows in the hollows of his face. It scares me, but before I can open my mouth to call for Lynette, recognition switches on in his gaze.

  A million thoughts try to form into words, into something that might help, but nothing is good enough for my gramps. It’s been too long since I’ve believed in God with any real conviction. I’m the wrong person to go to for reassurances about how everything will be fine, because it feels like empty promises.

  I wrap my hands around one of his and hold on tight, my heart aching at my total failure to be a good person in this moment. He moves, with effort, and reaches his other hand around to cup my face. The gesture is familiar, and time-tested, and comforts me. The muscles in his face relax a smidge, as though it comforts him, too.

  They scare me, his fear and his pain, and the fact that he doesn’t have much strength left.

  I swallow hard, reach down inside myself, and come up with little wisps of bravery. Light, nearly insubstantial, like feathers. Cupped in my mind’s palm, they seem pathetic. They’ll have to do. “How’s your faith?”

  “It’s all I have now, Gracie-baby. I’m counting on it.”

  “You’ve always seen a better person inside me than I’ve seen in myself, Gramps. Treated me like I’m something special. I wouldn’t be half as good without you.” I take another breath, hoping that he can’t hear how it shakes. “I’m going to miss you so much, Gramps, but I know you’re ready. We’ll all be okay.”

  “I know you will, darling. You’ll always find your way. It’s never been the same path as everyone else’s.” He swallows, wincing, and squeezes my hand harder. “Don’t give up on your cousin. She needs you, whether she’ll ever say it out loud or not.”

  “Okay, Gramps.” The mention of Amelia makes it hard to breathe. I’m so angry at her for not being here, but looking at our grandfather, it’s clear he’s already forgiven her. It might take some time for me to do the same, but for him, anything.

  For her, anything. Bottom line.

  “Is Karen coming down?”

&nb
sp; “Yes, she should be here soon. Do you want me to go get her?” I start to stand up, worried my selfishness is going to cost my aunt her good-bye, but he hangs on to my hand and shakes his head.

  “No, I want to tell you something. You can’t think I’m talking crazy because I’m dying, either.”

  “I’ve never thought you talked crazy, Gramps.” The protest that he’s not dying withers on my tongue. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, a comment that’s made me smile since I’ve been back but now seems kind of macabre.

  “It’s about your ghost.”

  “Anne Bonny?”

  He nods and struggles to catch his breath for a moment, a weak cough rattling his chest. It sounds as though his ribs are clacking together. “She still bothering you?”

  I nod, feeling silly all over again. Trust me to pick up a damn ghost when all I wanted was solitude and a proper drinking problem.

  “Thought so. Should have said something when you first brought it up, but you were in bad shape, drinking yourself to sleep at night and stinking up the house with your moods. Not that you didn’t deserve at least a little bit of wallowing, after losing your momma and your grams, then David treating you like that. But you always did have trouble knowing when to quit.”

  It makes me smile, the way he doesn’t admit to being aware of what a mess I’d been when I’d first come back to town until he’s sure it’s in the past. Or he’s run out of time. “Should have told me what?”

  “Anny Bonny’s your ancestor. Your grams’s great-grandmother times four or five generations.” He closes his eyes for a second, then two. It might be longer, because it’s as though time has stopped.

  That’s why me, I realize. It doesn’t have anything to do with me barely clinging to my rocker—Anne thinks that if I’m inclined to believe in things like voodoo curses, it affects me, too.