Spencer's Cove

by Missouri Vaun

  “You mean, Uncle Ed?”

  “Yes, call Eddie. I’m sure he’d love to regale you with his most recent conspiracy theory too.”

  Ed was her mother’s older brother. He lived in New Orleans and rarely made it home for family reunions. If Vera was the queer one, then Ed was certainly considered a Left Leaning Liberal. He’d learned the hard way that you couldn’t mix politics and potlucks in the Deep South. That was eight years ago when he’d worn an Obama T-shirt to the family reunion. Foster hadn’t really seen him much since.

  “But you best make yourself a sandwich if you do call him, because you’ll be on the phone for a while. That man loves to hear himself talk.”

  A thumping sound pulled Foster’s attention to the ceiling, where the vintage chandelier jostled with each muted thump. Maybe this house was haunted after all.

  “Mama, I’ve gotta go.”

  “Now don’t you let any of those coastal elites sway you.”

  Foster almost laughed. Iain and Cora weren’t exactly folks she’d describe as elite, maybe Abby, but certainly not Evan.

  “Mama, don’t believe everything you see on FOX News.”

  “Don’t sass me—”

  “Sorry, Mama, I gotta go.” Foster cut her off before she got an earful. She knew better than to disparage her mother’s sole source for news, but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself.

  There it was again, a dull thumping sound overhead. Foster’s hand still rested on the receiver in its cradle. The sound hadn’t moved. It seemed to be repeating in the same place overhead. Foster was anxious to call her uncle but decided to investigate the noise first.

  It was still early. Didn’t ghosts do most of their haunting at night? Foster crept up the grand staircase. Nothing. The passageway was completely clear. Then she heard the noise again and she followed the sound. At the far end of the hallway, past Abby’s bedroom, was another set of narrow stairs. How had she missed the fact that this place had a third floor? The steep wooden stairs were definitely not meant to accommodate furniture, so she doubted there were more bedrooms upstairs, maybe just storage.

  There was a door at the top, along a narrow landing. When she opened it, she could plainly see the ghost was no ghost at all. Abby leapt upward and landed on the floor. After a few seconds, she jumped again.

  “For a minute, I thought this place was haunted.”

  Abby was startled by Foster. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and placed her hand over her heart.

  “You scared me.”

  She’d hoped Abby would be happy to see her, but she didn’t seem to be. Her hair was damp and she’d changed into jeans and a cotton blouse. The blouse was fitted and accentuated her figure.

  “Sorry. What are you doing?” The long, open room smelled dusty.

  It was obvious this space didn’t get much use. There were some cast-off wooden chairs with the woven seats frayed and missing, and a few boxes stacked along the wall, a bed frame, but no mattress. There was a window at each end of the simple room.

  “I’m trying to pull down the attic stairs.”

  “Oh.” It had been hard to discern the dangling cord in the dimly lit room.

  Abby didn’t really want to be around Foster, not feeling the way she was feeling. Just the sight of Foster sent her heart racing. But now Foster was here, and she was tall enough to reach the cord.

  “Here, let me get that for you.” Foster smiled as she stretched and pulled the section above them down, and then Abby moved as Foster unfolded the wooden steps, which were more like a ladder than actual stairs.

  Foster stepped aside to allow Abby to go first. Abby wanted to ask Foster not to follow her, but that seemed rude, especially since Foster helped her lower the stairs.

  The walls angled in, probably matching the slant of the roofline. The air in the attic space was thick and stale. It smelled like old paper and dusty fabric. It smelled like the past. A fine layer of powdery debris covered everything—the plank floor, small wooden boxes, a cracked leather suitcase, and at the farthest end of the long narrow room, a trunk. A tiny octagon-shaped window was set into the triangle of wall just above where the trunk rested. Light from the window dissected the angular room; particles floated in the brightly lit swath. She reached up and tugged the chain that illuminated a single, naked light bulb overhead and stared at the trunk. Abby felt the large brown trunk tug her forward, almost as if it was calling her name. She looked over at Foster, thumbing through some old Life magazines, the pages yellowed, brittle, and frayed. If something had called her name, Foster obviously hadn’t heard it.

  She knelt beside the case, which looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in decades. The clasp at the front was stiff, but with a little effort she was able to free it. She lifted the heavy lid until the hinges caught, keeping it aloft.

  “What did you find?” Foster was leaning over her shoulder.

  Abby didn’t answer. She gently began to lift items, anxious to see for herself what was inside. When she was a child, the attic had always been off limits. Her mother’s excuse was that the ladder was too dangerous and that she could easily get locked inside if it retracted unexpectedly. Now, after all these years, Abby couldn’t help wondering if there was another reason her mother had discouraged exploration.

  A white dress lay on top of everything. Folded so that the intricate embroidery at the collar was on top. It was a small garment, obviously for a girl, not a woman. She draped it across the edge of the trunk. The next layer revealed photos in frames and a wooden box. Underneath the photos was a leather-bound journal or book, definitely a well-used book of some sort. The cover was aged and cracked from time and use.

  The first photo was of a young girl wearing the white dress, standing next to a bearded man. Abby angled it toward the light for a better look. She wiped the glass with the sleeve of her shirt. Her heart began to race again. She took a deep breath. This was the girl and the man she’d seen in her dream, her vision.

  “What is it?” Foster must have sensed her surprise.

  “Nothing.” She wasn’t ready to share.

  Abby handed the photograph to Foster and leaned into the dark interior of the trunk to retrieve the wooden box. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. Only one thing resided in the box, cradled by a red velvet cloth. The amulet from her dream, the one with the braided gold rope along the edge of the stone, caught the light from the window. She could have sworn the instant light hit the aquamarine stone it vibrated, but surely, she only imagined it.

  “Wow, that’s beautiful.”

  She’d almost forgotten Foster was nearby, almost. It was as if her body knew of Foster’s presence whether she wished it or not. Every time Foster was close, Abby’s skin warmed, and the thin cushion of air that separated them crackled with electricity. Did she imagine that too? Was Foster experiencing the same strange connection?

  “Aquamarine is one of my favorite stones. It always makes me think of water.” The soft tone of Foster’s words seemed to caress her ears.

  Abby was still kneeling in front of the trunk. She looked up at Foster, standing behind her.

  “I did some research about gemstones for one of my novels.” Foster crossed her arms as she talked, not defensively, but self-consciously. “It’s a symbol of youth, hope, health, and fidelity. Since this gemstone is the color of water and the sky, it’s also said to embody eternal life.”

  Abby returned her attention to the amulet. With caution, she lifted it and held it up by the braided chain. Now she was sure of the vibration, like the low hum of electrical current. She felt a strong urge to wear it, so she did. She slipped the chain over her head and then pulled her hair free from the back of it. The stone fell at a perfect length, just inside the open collar of her shirt.

  “Was that what you expected to find?”

  “Why do you ask that?” Abby got to her feet. Her knees were beginning to stiffen from the hard floor.

  “Because…well, you just seemed to know what it was.
”

  Should she tell Foster the story? She hesitated.

  “It’s odd how sometimes I swear I know what you’re thinking.” Foster made a circular motion with her hand at the side of her head. “Like a whisper inside my head.”

  “I saw this amulet in a dream.” Abby held the stone up in her hand and looked at it. “It was more of a vision than a dream. I really had no idea I’d find it, or even that it still existed, but something told me to look here.”

  “It seems like we’re both getting whispered messages then.” Foster swept her fingers through her hair.

  “Those people were in my vision also.” Abby pointed toward the photo perched on the corner of the old trunk.

  Foster picked up the frame and studied the image for a moment, then flipped it over and looked at the back. She saw something and held the dark backing up to the light.

  “There’s a name here…” She turned to look at Abby with wide eyes.

  “What?” Abby reached for the frame. “What does it say?”

  “Mercy Howe, age twelve.”

  “Mercy… Her father called her by name in my dream.”

  “She’s your great-great-great grandmother.”

  “How did you know that?” Abby was sure she hadn’t shared any family history with Foster, and she hadn’t remembered Mercy’s name until she’d had the vision. She was sure she’d known it at some point but had forgotten.

  “When I was doing research at the library about the ship wreck and the founding of Spencer’s Cove, her name came up. She was the only survivor of the shipwreck.”

  Abby was reminded of why Foster was here. The memoir project had receded to the background of everything else that was going on.

  “Do you mind if I take a look at that book?” Foster tipped her head toward the open trunk.

  Abby shook her head. Maybe it was better for Foster to look first. She wasn’t sure she was quite ready for other revelations. She covered the amulet with her palm and took some deep breaths. She walked a few feet away, putting a little space between them. When Foster was around she couldn’t seem to think.

  Foster bent to retrieve the book and gently opened the cover, then flipped the first few pages.

  Foster squinted at the open page. “It’s hard to make out the writing. I think I need more light because the ink is a bit faded.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” The tiny room with the sharply angled ceiling was beginning to close in on Abby.

  Abby descended the first step down the ladder and looked back. Foster, reluctant to close the book, reached up to turn off the light, and then followed her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Evan killed the engine. She circled to the back of the truck and considered reaching for the light-duty chainsaw. A rather large limb from one of the coastal live oaks had fallen across the fence at the back of the property.

  She spotted a quail perched on part of the fallen limb, just above the ground. He had the teardrop plume of feathers poking out from his forehead. She’d only taken a few strides in the tall grass when he sounded the alarm. A female and probably a dozen chicks scurried under the fence. She held her breath as they rushed away into the high grass single file.

  Quail had always fascinated her. A bird that, when it sensed danger, preferred to run instead of fly.

  She looked up at the sky. As if to further prove her point, a red-tailed hawk flew overhead, no doubt on the hunt for something. She wondered if it was folly not to follow the quail’s lead and flee—run or fly. Abby was certainly at risk from some predator. Whom, she wasn’t sure yet. She had her suspicions and she hoped she was wrong.

  Leath Dane was ambitious and ruthless, a bad combination. And she’d been denied what she believed was rightfully hers, Jacqueline’s power. The handoff had been derailed by the platform’s collapse and Jacqueline’s sudden death. So, add angry to the list—ambitious, ruthless, and angry. A lethal cocktail that Abby was in no way prepared to combat.

  Evan jerked the starter cord handle, once, twice. The saw came to life and she adjusted the throttle. The cutting chain made fast work of the smaller limbs. As they fell away, she tossed them to the side in a pile. She made an angled cut near where the limb rested on the top rail of the wooden fence. Her goal was to have the weight of the limb tilt the larger piece back over the fence so that it didn’t land on the far side where she’d have to climb the fence to retrieve it.

  Once she had the sections on the ground, she cut them into foot-long pieces that she could split for firewood. Thoughts crowded her head as she worked.

  Why wasn’t the Council communicating the plan, any plan, with her?

  Abby’s birthday was only two days away. That was only forty-eight hours, and Evan had heard nothing and no extraction team had arrived to transport Abby. She would head to town soon. Hopefully, her scheduled call with Lisel would offer some good news.

  She stacked the small lengths of wood in the back of the truck and closed the tailgate. The horses grazed leisurely in the large enclosure near the barn. Abby had been slowly acclimating them to each other. It seemed they found comfort in one another. Horses were no different than people in some ways. Recovering from trauma only by sharing it with others. Maybe Evan should consider sharing some of hers. But that just made things messy, emotional, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

  After stacking the wood in a covered alcove near the back of the manor, Evan knocked at the back door. There was no answer. After a second knock, she entered. The huge mansion was eerily quiet. Where was Abby? Losing track of Abby made Evan nervous.

  Maybe Abby had gone into town with Cora and Foster was obviously with them. Yeah, that was probably it. She’d seen Cora leave earlier. She returned to her truck. Now was as good a time as any to make a call to the Council and then she’d wait for word from Lisel.

  ***

  The rental car was right where Foster left it. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. But leaving a vehicle unattended overnight in Atlanta sometimes meant you came back to find a window broken and any loose objects, including small change from the cup holder, missing.

  Cora angled her vintage Toyota up next to the rental, close enough for the cables to reach. Abby and Foster got out while Cora rummaged around in the trunk. Foster opened the driver’s side door and checked the ignition. Nope, still dead. Abby was giving Foster an intense look through the windshield. The same sort of sizzling gaze Abby had given Foster in the kitchen earlier that morning, the kind of look that sent tendrils of arousal through Foster’s entire body. Without breaking eye contact, Abby leaned against the car, placing her hand on the front quarter panel. Foster’s finger was still on the ignition button, and the minute Abby rested her palm on the car sparks bounced off the hood and the car roared to life.

  Cora’s head popped up over the trunk of her car; she had a curious look on her face.

  Abby stepped away from the car, hugging herself. The static discharge had obviously surprised her as much as it had Foster.

  “I guess it wasn’t dead after all.” Foster quickly stood up, attempting to deflect attention away from what had just happened.

  “All is well then.” Cora closed the trunk and joined them beside Foster’s car.

  Someone in a pickup truck drove slowly past. Cora smiled and waved. Cora was so friendly Foster figured she knew everyone in town. Plus, she’d lived there for at least two decades, maybe longer.

  “Thanks anyway. Sorry to cause all this trouble.” Foster left the car running and stood in the open door.

  “Well, Abby, shall we get back to the house then? I wanted to start some baking later this afternoon.” Cora clasped her hands in front of her as if she were about to burst into applause.

  “I should probably drive this around a bit just to make sure the battery is fully charged.” Foster wasn’t overly mechanically inclined, but she knew that much.

  “I’ll ride with you.”

  Abby’s offer surprised her. Aside from the smoldering l
ook that had just generated enough of a charge to jump start a dead battery, Abby had been giving clear signals all day that she didn’t really want Foster around. At least that was Foster’s interpretation of Abby’s distance.

  Abby had let Foster keep the book, although she hadn’t gotten a chance to look through it. After the excursion to the attic, she’d showered and was about to take some time with the book when Cora mentioned she was driving to the grocery in town. Foster jumped at the chance to get her wheels back. She’d been taken off guard when Abby asked to ride with them and now she was offering to go for a drive. Foster couldn’t quite navigate Abby’s moods. Sweet one moment, remote the next, with intermittent bouts of scorching flirtation. Foster was beginning to get whiplash just trying to keep up.

  “Are you sure?” Because Foster wasn’t.

  “Yes, I could show you around a little…if you like.” Abby sounded as if she was already having second thoughts.

  “Well, you girls have a nice drive. I have many errands and then I’ll see you at the house later.” Cora seemed tickled by this spontaneous plan and was making a quick exit before Abby had time to change her mind. She was in her car and gone in a quick second.

  Foster turned to Abby and smiled.

  “Where does the tour guide suggest we go?” Foster leaned against the top of the open door.

  “Let’s drive to the river. There’s a good place at the overlook where we could have lunch.”

  “Which way is the river?” Hmm, a tour and a meal. Foster was feeling pretty happy about the whole dead battery excursion now.

  “South.” Abby got in the car.

  Foster climbed in, checked traffic and did a U-turn.

  “South it is.” Lunch out with Abby sounded great. Maybe they could finally have a normal conversation. Although as soon as the thought materialized she realized nothing about her time with Abby had been normal. Why would normal start now?