by Lyla Payne
I look up from the table in the quiet archive room at the library to find him watching me from the corner. He likes this room because it has a lot of corners, I think. Or maybe because there aren’t any windows, or because I’m usually in here alone. It’s his favorite place to hang out with me, whatever the reason.
“Would you stop that, please?”
He smiles, deviousness sparkling in his eyes, which is a new thing. Instead of simply moping all of the time, he seems to enjoy goading me on occasion. There are only a handful of mentions of him on the internet, none of which have any information not given to me by jealous, homicidal Brian on his ghost tour a few weeks ago.
There is zero suggestion that he’s ever haunted anyone or anywhere before now, but maybe that’s just because literally a dozen people know who he is.
“I don’t know how I can help if you’re just going to jump between pouting and showing me shit I’ve read half a dozen times.” That makes him frown. He looks more natural that way. “I’m sorry. But there’s a chance I’m going to be published on Dr. Ladd soon, and I need to make sure I’ve cited everything correctly. So either start pointing or disappear.”
He does neither. What a typical man.
I shake my head and navigate back to the page I was reading before, ignoring the grumble from my stomach. It’s almost closing time at the library, but Millie is doing the end-of-day cleaning and locking of doors and windows—I don’t want anyone else sneaking in through the one in the bathroom and busting up her face again—so I can work.
Or try to, obviously, since Henry changes the page back to articles about him again. And again.
I sigh, giving up. My back and shoulders ache from hunching over notes and computer screens for the past couple of days, but it feels good to have a purpose that’s about me for the first time in ages. I spent way too much time in Iowa worried about what I could do to help David’s career take off, and that got me a ticket straight to Nowheresville. Since I’ve been back in Heron Creek, the damn ghosts have been awfully demanding of my time, and then there was the whole thing with Beau’s trial. And the custody and curse thing that’s still going on with Amelia.
But archiving, researching, history…Those make me happy. Just me.
“You ready?” Millie pokes her head in the archive room as I’m slinging a heavy messenger bag over my shoulder. At least Henry can’t mess with printed-out research. He’s getting quite good at screwing with technology. If he hangs around much longer I’m going to have him start toasting bagels for me in the morning.
“Yep. I’m starving. What should we have for dinner?”
“We have leftover chicken.” She shrugs, obviously disinterested. In everything. “Or we could order pizza. Is Beau coming over?”
I shake my head. “He’s got a town council meeting, so if he does it won’t be until late.”
I know I should go to his house more and give Millie a break from our sex soundtrack, but it worries me to leave her alone. Since she’s pregnant and depressed it would worry me anyway, but add in our strange dreams and her sleepwalking and I just can’t. Not without stressing.
“Pizza sounds good. Three-day-old chicken might be pushing it,” I decide, since she’s clearly not going to. “Plus, there’s a game on.”
The nice thing about baseball is that it can be on in the room and I can still research and read. Nine innings means only having to look up when I hear the crack of the bat or the announcers get excited about something here and there.
“Okay.” She pauses, tipping her head to one side. “Weren’t you supposed to go down and take a look at that tape for Dylan?”
“Daria’s out of town until next week. He said it can wait. They’re working other leads.”
We leave the library, locking up tight since Mr. Freedman spent the day “working from home.” The air outside the archives, outside the library, washes me with freshness. It dislodges the scents of old glue and dust bunnies, of hundreds of years of history and thousands of words hidden between two covers.
“Weather’s nice,” I comment, mentally smacking myself for being reduced to commenting on how we’ve enjoyed less humidity and heat for almost a week running. I am so lame.
“Yeah. I’m still hot all the time, so whatever.” She pauses by the passenger door of my Honda, waiting for me to unlock it. “I can’t believe you sold Brian’s car.”
“You needed a new one, and he burned your old one. Seems fair to me.”
I slide behind the wheel and she wedges herself in the passenger seat, shaking her head slightly. We back out of the spot, waving at two old ladies sitting out in front of the Grill, and head toward home.
“Do you mind going back out to grab the pizza in an hour or so? I don’t feel like eating right now.” Amelia glances at me quickly, then down at her hands.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask, unsure where to step. Feeling like most of the ground under our relationship is shifting all the time.
“Yes. Other than being huge and uncomfortable.”
The anxiety on her face says it’s more than that, but my cousin is one of the most stubborn souls God ever put on this earth. If she doesn’t want to tell me what’s working her into a lather this afternoon, she sure as hell isn’t going to if I try to push.
“I saw Lindsay Boone brought Marcella in for story time today,” Millie comments, maybe to deflect the conversation from herself but maybe because it’s definitely a gossip-worthy topic in our town. “Did Leo tell you she was getting released?”
I shake my head, thinking that it would have been a nice heads-up. I barely remember Lindsay from growing up in Heron Creek, but our conversation at the state pen a few weeks ago, while beneficial for us both, wasn’t exactly friendly. “No. But I mean, we knew it was in the works.”
“Some of the other moms were being assholes. Whispering about her.”
“I saw. Don’t be one of those judgy moms, Millie.”
“Don’t worry.” She pauses, a thoughtful expression on her face. “She kept her chin up. That’s admirable.”
“I would think that after everything she’s been through, a couple of gossipy women at the library are probably about as threatening as a pair of buzzing gnats.”
“Maybe. But you let it bother you.”
I press my lips together, refusing to acknowledge her point, and pull into our driveway a few minutes later. Millie’s new car is parked in the garage so I leave mine out, making sure it’s locked and that I don’t leave anything that would tempt the local teenage hoodlums into smashing my windows.
“I’m going to get the mail.” Millie’s anxiety returns as she spins away from me, heading to the mailbox perched across the street.
It makes sense now. She’s waiting to hear from whatever lawyer her in-laws have retained for their custody lawsuit. Honestly, I think the sitting around on endless pins and needles is worse than having the damn letter in her hands.
I unlock the front door and drop my things on the floor, kicking them to the side to make sure my cousin doesn’t trip on them and go splat. The sight of Henry lurking near the staircase makes my heart leap into my throat. After I regain my ability to breathe, I shoot him a glare. “What is wrong with you lately?”
He doesn’t answer, of course, but he does disappear before Amelia stalks into the house a minute later. There are two white envelopes and a couple of magazines in her hands. The way she’s gripping the pile says the letter she’s waiting for still hasn’t arrived.
Neither has my supposed father. I can’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. I suppose that’s a judgment that will have to wait until after I meet him.
“I’m going to change my clothes.”
She nods, wandering into the living room. I head up the stairs, taking the first right into the bedroom that really feels like mine after these few months—not the one at Grams’s house, not mine and Amelia’s, but mine—and flop down on the bed.
My head barely hits the blankets before the sound of my co
usin’s feet on the stairs tugs my attention from thoughts of a possible nap. I sit up as she appears in the doorway a moment later, one of the pieces of mail held out to me. The smile on her face promises it’s nothing bad. When I take the envelope and read the return address, my mouth goes dry. It’s from the Journal of American History, the one place I never expected to hear back from as far as my article submission.
“Open it, doofus. My feet are killing me and I just huffed up the stairs.”
“I’m so nervous.” Butterflies flock in my belly and it’s hard to breathe again, this time because of Dr. Ladd, not Henry Woodward. This could be a huge step forward for me…or confirmation that moving here, not seeking out a university job, is going to be the death knell of my career.
“Don’t be a baby, Graciela,” I mutter under my breath, ignoring the way my fingers shake as they tear open the top of the envelope. My breath stales in my chest as my eyes skim the page.
The air whooshes out of me all at once. “They’re going to publish it. I’m going to be published.”
Amelia squeals, a sound that I haven’t heard in years, and grabs me into a hug. “I’m so proud of you! I knew this would happen. Just knew it.”
She beams, and I feel light and happiness and gratification pouring out of me. My cheeks hurt from smiling so big, and the only thing going through my mind is that I was right—my ghosts are good for something, after all. Our relationship is officially symbiotic: I help them find whatever it is that haunts them at night and I get to tell the stories of the people that haunt me at night. Perfect arrangement.
I cast a glance toward Henry’s corner, which is empty. Not a surprise with Millie still in the room, but I want to tell him that he needs to put up or shut up. His story—his real story—could be quite the coup if it’s as interesting as Brian seems to think.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t.”
“I can.” Millie grins. “You’ve worked hard for this, Grace. Enjoy it.”
A thought pops into my head. “I’m going to call Beau!”
“Good girl.” Her smile turns a bit sad around the edges before she leaves me alone, mumbling something about taking a cold shower before the pizza.
I decide to call Beau before calling the gas station to order our dinner—there are no dedicated pizza joints in town, certainly none that deliver, and having food brought to my door is something I miss quite a lot about living in a bigger city. The gas station pizza is better than the greasy crap Pistol Pete’s peddles, though, and it’s cheap besides.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” The excitement in my middle bubbles out into my voice, and my heart is still beating in my throat.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” I suck in some oxygen, try to calm down. “The Journal of American History is going to publish my article about Dr. Ladd.”
“Gracie, that’s great! I’m so proud of you! We’re going to celebrate later. I’ll come by after the meeting and bring something special.” His tone changes. Deepens, smoothes out. “Something other than the promise to do that thing you like, I mean.”
“Like ice cream?”
He laughs his deep, sexy laugh, washing my skin in tingles. “Sure. Ice cream, too.”
The doorbell rings. I’m going to ignore it, then remember Amelia said she was going to take a shower. “Someone’s at the door.”
“Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.” But that doesn’t mean it’s not trouble. Or Mrs. Walters, although actually speaking to me isn’t usually her MO.
I clamber down the stairs, my phone pressed to my ear because I’m not ready to let Beau go just yet, and peer out the front window. There’s a woman on the front steps in a tailored beige suit, a bright pink blouse underneath the jacket. She’s wearing pearls at her neck and in her ears, and her chestnut hair is piled just high enough on the crown of her head to convince me that she’s Southern.
“Who is it?” Beau’s voice startles me out of my brain’s own attempt to discern that same answer.
“I don’t know. Some rich woman.” I peer closer. “Looks a little like you, actually.”
The pause on the other end of the line seems like more of an answer than I expect. It pulls my attention from the stranger, focuses it on my boyfriend. “Beau?”
“It might be my mother.”
We hang up, because if I’m going to meet Mrs. Drayton for the first time I’m not going to be on my phone like some teenager who thinks it’s not rude. I don’t bother to ask Beau for a heads-up as far as what she’s doing here for two reasons: one, I get the feeling he could have prepared me for this surprise visit and chose not to, and two, she’s going to tell me soon enough, anyway.
One more deep breath and I pull open the door, tossing out a quick, fervent hope into the universe that nothing weird will happen while she’s here. The chances of that seem slim, but what the heck. Maybe the universe will decide to finally give me a break.
“Hello. You must be Graciela Harper.”
Must I? The way she speaks—smooth and cultured, only a trace of a Southern accent—wraps my tongue up tight. Everything about this woman is intimidating, from her expensive outfit, her assumption that she knows everything about this house and probably me, too, and the way she smells of subtle power.
“That’s me,” I say, trying to force the interaction toward something I understand. Something casual.
“I’m Cordelia Drayton, Beauregard’s mother.” She pauses, holding out her hand after a few seconds when I don’t move.
Her skin is soft, her grip strong, when our palms meet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, although I’m afraid the house and myself aren’t in much of a state to greet you unexpectedly.”
The slightest raise of her eyebrow is the only response to me basically chastising her for showing up without calling first or without an invitation. Something tells me she’s not the kind of woman who thinks either is strictly necessary, not if she has a good enough reason. Her unflappable exterior earns some envy from me, and to be honest, her willingness to flout convention teases more than a little respect from my jittery heart.
“I wondered if you might have time for a chat? We can sit on the porch if you’d rather. It’s such a lovely day.”
Another surprise. There are bugs out here, and even though it’s cooled off, it’s not cool. It’s nerve-racking, not being able to predict her movements. “Of course. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
She glances at her watch, then sighs. “I’d love a bourbon, if you have it. Neat.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I hurry into the kitchen where I find Amelia with her head in the freezer. She doesn’t move at the sound of my footsteps, her red face content among the hazy white, icy plumes.
“Did you call in the pizza?”
I reach around her for a tray of ice. Her head emerges as the cubes dance into a glass tumbler, and she eyes me as I twist the top off a half-empty bottle of Knob Creek. It’s not the best bourbon in the world—no doubt she has some impressive labels in her Charleston mansion—but it’s not bad.
“Have you resorted to drinking with your ghosts so you don’t have to drink alone?”
“No.” I snort because what I really want to do is throw up. “Beau’s mother is here.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. She wants to have a chat.”
“That can’t be good. In my experience with in-laws.”
“Well, she’s not my motherin-law, but I feel like the sentiment might apply.”
“I wish I could have one of those drinks really badly right now.”
“Sorry for the temptation.” I stash the bottle after pouring mine over rocks and Mrs. Drayton’s neat. “Wish me luck.”
“I’m going to eavesdrop.”
“Just don’t get caught.”
She’s sitting in one of the blue-and-green mosaic chairs on the porch, a set with a matching table th
at Gramps made in his twilight years. Gardening got too physically taxing, but the man always needed a project.
I set her drink down, then take a seat in the other chair. The chat in the kitchen went a long way toward calming my nerves. She’s just a woman. A powerful one, sure, and one who raised the man I maybe probably am falling in love with, so her approval means something. But not everything.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Drayton?”
“Please. Beauregard is very fond of you. Please call me Cordelia.”
I nod, acknowledging the request but knowing there’s no way I can do it. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Likewise, my dear. Since my son has apparently forgotten the good manners we raised him with, I decided to take matters into my own hands.” She studies me for a second longer than makes me comfortable. “You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you,” I reply automatically, even though I’m not entirely sure it’s a compliment. It sounds more like maybe she’s disappointed.
“I told Beauregard at our tea a few days ago that I wanted to speak with you about helping us organize the Drayton family archives.”
A spark lights in my mind, leaping to life. Their family history is one of the richest in the country. It’s got to be a treasure trove, one that’s probably untapped. “What are you looking to have done?”
I’m trying to hide how excited the prospect makes me but I know I’m failing miserably.
“We have a certain subset of our family history documents that have been on display for years, but there are more that, while they’ve been carefully preserved, have never been properly sorted, inventoried, and archived.”
“You’re looking to expand the collection that’s available as part of the plantation tour?”
“No. We’re toying with the idea of setting up a second archive display at Drayton Hall instead of having them exclusively at the Magnolia Plantation. That’s where you come in.”
It’s a fantastic opportunity. A tiny voice in the back of my mind—perhaps one of the pair of devils that sit on my shoulders and proffer advice, as well as reinforce my many insecurities—reminds me that Beau chose to not discuss this with me even though, according to his mother, she brought it up with him earlier this week.
