Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  But she was right. I was all business. And maybe I had been for so long that I’d forgotten how to be human. But as much as I was drawn to Griff, I didn’t have time to deal with those feelings or whatever they implied. I had just enough time to figure out how I was going to convince Jason Faulk, a complete stranger, to cooperate with me and help me locate this missing coin.

  Althea flicked on her blinker and switched lanes. “So your mom and Danny are true believers, huh? Into the signs and wonders and miracle thing?”

  I snapped back to the present and flushed uncomfortably. “Mom is. Danny’s hard to read. He’s an outsider by nature. I know there are times when he gets scared . . . or feels desperate, and he starts in with the whole God-is-going-to-fix-everything routine.”

  “But you don’t believe that,” Althea said.

  “I did. At one time. When I was younger.”

  “Well, technically there’s nothing that says you have to believe in order to keep the foundation running as a functional business entity, does it? And even if Dove did some unsavory things in her past, that doesn’t negate the good she did later. Right?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed. “In this case, it very literally might do just that.”

  She glanced sympathetically at me. “Which especially sucks after all you did to protect your mom and brother.”

  On the other side of the window, the land had flattened and there were fields with rows and rows of broken brown stalks. Tufts of cotton clung to the stalks. Clumps of it scattered along the side of the road. “It’s going to be a hell of a thing if the truth comes out,” I said.

  Althea looked thoughtful. “Sometimes you’ve got to tear something down before you can build it back up again.”

  Was she talking about the foundation or my mother? I didn’t know, but honestly, it didn’t matter. Not now. I wasn’t willing to allow either of them to be torn down. Their survival had become my own.

  A few minutes later, the river—the wide singing Tennessee—came into view.

  “Ah . . .” Althea flipped down her visor against the setting sun. “Here we are.”

  I looked across the choppy expanse of blue-black water. There was a long trussed bridge that connected the southern bluff with the rising hills of the northern bank. I could see signs of the town, rows of streetlights nestled in lush trees. What were the odds of us actually being able to find a coin that had been missing for eighty years? What were the odds that I could somehow use that coin to lure the asshole who attacked me and keep him from talking?

  They didn’t seem good.

  Griff leaned over the seat, one earbud out and grinning triumphantly, and said, “459 North Court Street.” He handed me his phone. “You’re on hold for Jason Faulk, Steadfast Coe’s great-great-grandson.”

  Jason Faulk’s crisp assistant came back on the line to politely inform me that his boss was saving his remarks to the press for the event that evening. Before I could correct him, he put me on hold again. By then, we were on Court Street, rolling past the back of the imposing brick house, a Georgian antebellum with a sprawling lawn that appeared to take up the whole block between Court and the next street over. The place was crawling with activity. An ant line of uniformed workers ferried white folding chairs out of vans, up the back portico, and into the house.

  Jason Faulk was having a party.

  “Hello?” The assistant at the other end of the line.

  “I’m here.”

  “We’re asking press to enter in the back and collect their badges in the kitchen. We’ll have a brief pool when Mr. Faulk’s ready to announce, so you might want to bring cameras.”

  “Announce?”

  The man huffed impatiently. “His run for governor. You are press, correct?”

  “Absolutely and thank you so much.” I hung up. “Hey, guys. We should find a hotel so we can change. We just got invited to a party.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Florence, Alabama

  1934

  Ruth wandered around downtown Florence for a couple of hours until it started to rain. When she returned to the Coe house she stood, staring in stupefaction. The hawthorn tree was now in two pieces—the lower half of the jagged, chopped-off trunk and the top half, which was taking up a good portion of the front yard. The head of the ax was buried in the trunk, just above the roots.

  What was Edith going to say when she saw this mess? Ruth would be fired for sure.

  Ruth saw a shadow pass in front of the parlor window and, in spite of her worry, felt weak with relief. Steadfast hadn’t wandered off. And he hadn’t shot himself or dropped dead from apoplexy. But he had to be exhausted. She hoped that meant he’d go straight to sleep.

  She crept onto the front porch, retrieved the key from under the brick, and locked the front door. She huddled on the swing, sheltered from the downpour, and waited. Steadfast couldn’t escape out the front. If he ran out the back, he’d get stuck in the elderberries.

  And the house faced east. The sun would wake her before Edith showed up for her regular Sunday morning visit with her father . . .

  Ruth did wake early, before the sun even, and crept back into the house. She cleaned up the cold food and dirty dishes and gathered the drooping remains of the hawthorn flowers. She mopped up water and hid the shredded silver pitcher in the coal scuttle in the kitchen. When Edith arrived, yoo-hooing in the front hall, Ruth was already wearing the purloined gray coat and quaking with nerves.

  “Where are you off to?” Edith asked.

  “To meet friends.” It was the truth. She had been thinking of tracking down Dell.

  “At church?” Edith pursed her lips and carefully set her pocketbook on an inlaid demilune table. She was all angles, with carefully curled graying hair and disapproving eyes. Bruna, curvy and soft, must have taken after her father.

  Ruth just smiled.

  Edith cocked her head, appraising her. “Bruna said you’ve taken Mr. Coe well in hand. That you have a way with him.” She glanced around the hallway. “You certainly have a way with a mop and bucket.”

  “He’s not so bad.”

  “He’s a devil,” Edith said. “And a menace. I see he’s taken the hawthorn down.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I—”

  “No need to explain. I know why he did it.” She glanced up the dark stairs. “He suffers from an anxiety neurosis. That’s why he hides those ridiculous coins. But the tree . . . it’s such a loss. I suppose the fact that his beloved wife planted it the day I was born wasn’t a good enough reason to leave it standing.” She huffed and turned back to Ruth. “Be back to the house by six. Be prompt and come back as you left it. Not drunken or reeking of smoke.” She sniffed. “And leave any young men you might collect back in town.”

  There was no sign of Dell or his gang downtown. At the diner, Trowbridge’s, she encountered a little boy of ten or eleven, standing on a ladder and holding up a Bible. He was shouting and waving the big black book and had drawn a substantial crowd. The boy reminded Ruth of Bug; he had the same freckles and bad teeth and could’ve used a good scrubbing. This boy, however, spoke in as sonorous a voice as a person could while shouting.

  He told all the people that down yonder, around the corner, in a tent they’d set up that morning, there’d be more preaching by a man named Charles Jarrod. There’d be singing too, he said with a wink, which sent a ripple of appreciation through the crowd.

  Ruth was curious. She wandered to the lot where they’d set up the tent. Inside, it swarmed with workers who were setting up long benches made of planks and tree stumps. Straw covered the ground in front of a big makeshift wooden stage at the end of the tent.

  “Have you seen him before?” a girl about her age asked.

  Ruth turned. “Me?”

  The girl nodded. “My aunt saw him in Memphis. She said he’s a double for Errol Flynn.”

  “Well, what do you know,” Ruth said, which was about the extent of her knowledge and opinion of Errol Flynn. She’d never set foot in
a movie house.

  She left the girl and wandered behind the stage. Underneath was a space of about three feet, the dirt layered with straw. It looked warm and dry and cozy. The perfect place for a nap. After her miserable night on Steadfast’s porch, that was all she could think about. She crawled beneath the stage, almost to the middle, and shut her eyes. She was asleep in seconds.

  She awoke later to a great shaking and crashing. Footsteps, she realized, shaking off the haze of sleep. A lot of them, on the stage above her. She’d slept through the start of Charles Jarrod’s service. She crawled to the gap and peered out, but all she could see were feet. Two pairs of shoes, to be precise—a lady’s black pumps and a shiny pair of wine-colored leather brogues.

  “He’s already paid up, so you’ve got to do it.” It was a man, the owner of the brogues.

  “I’m all nerves, Arthur. My voice is going to come out shaky.” A girl.

  “I told you to take a nip. But you don’t listen to me. And now look at you.”

  “I can’t do it. There’s too many people.”

  Ruth cocked her head in astonishment. She knew that voice—it belonged to Bruna Faulk. She scooted closer to the gap and tried to get a line of sight.

  “Just close your eyes and pretend like it’s the heavenly host,” said the man. “And if you choke, just pretend you’ve got the Spirit, run off the stage and we’ll git.”

  Bruna giggled. “Nice way for a preacher’s son to talk.”

  Ruth crawled out from under the stage, shook the straw from her coat, and smoothed her hair. “Oh! Well, hey there, Bruna.”

  Bruna clapped a hand over her mouth.

  The man—a boy actually—looked Ruth up and down. “Who’s this?”

  Bruna brushed straw from Ruth’s coat. “Ruth! What in heaven’s name were you doing under there?”

  “You steal something, girl?” the boy said.

  “Arthur!” Bruna swatted him. “Of course not. She’s our nurse. Grandy’s nurse.”

  Ruth smiled at the boy—handsome with curly brown hair that he’d slicked back, well-cut navy trousers, and a mustard-gold tie. She stuck out her hand. “Ruth Davidson.”

  He shook it. “Arthur Holt.”

  “Arthur’s the son of Reverend Holt over at First Methodist. He signed me up to make some summer money singing for Mr. Jarrod’s show.”

  Ruth grinned. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  He grinned back. She liked the way his eyes danced. He looked like a couple of drops of whiskey in a glass of lemonade. Like he could be trouble, but in a good way. She wondered if he was the boyfriend Bruna had mentioned the first day they met.

  “What are you singing? Because I know quite a few songs. I’m happy to go up with you. Throw in a little harmony. I used to sing with Dr. Asloo’s outfit sometimes. When the animals got too rowdy.” She smiled from Arthur to Bruna.

  Bruna’s shoulders sagged in relief. “You’d do that? Oh, Ruth, that’d be wonderful.”

  Arthur glanced at Bruna. “We’re getting paid for a soloist, not a duo.”

  “I don’t have to get paid. I could just go up with you and move my mouth like I’m singing, if you’d prefer that. I’m used to being onstage.”

  “You know ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee’?”

  “Like the back of my hand. We learned every hymn there was at chapel in Pri—” Ruth caught herself. “Where I grew up.”

  Bruna took Arthur’s hand. “Let her go up with me. Brother Jarrod won’t care. He won’t even know the difference.”

  Arthur gave Ruth a cursory glance. “Well, she’s passable to look at. I guess if you’re off-key, maybe that’ll be something to distract them.” He winked, but Ruth wasn’t altogether sure he hadn’t been serious.

  They climbed the stage and, after an introduction by a man in a brown suit, sang the hymn. Ruth kept her eyes trained on Bruna, blending her voice in perfect harmony with Bruna’s clear soprano. After the applause and a chorus of amens, Bruna started “The Old Rugged Cross.”

  Ruth joined, her glance alighting on the preacher. Charles Jarrod stood in the shadows on the far side of the stage. He was tall with thick hair, commanding eyes, and a noble chin. If he looked like Errol Flynn, Ruth thought, then she could see why the girls went for the film star. Jarrod was watching her too. Just her, with a thoughtful expression. The kind of look that made her trip over the next stanza.

  Ruth averted her gaze to the rows of benches filled with people. It was dark outside the tent, the inside lit only by blazing oil lanterns set on barrels. It wasn’t so different from the way the crowd looked at Dr. Asloo’s show. She liked their expressions—mouths parted slightly, eyes wide, faces reflecting the lights from the stage. Now she and Bruna were the lions putting on the show.

  And Arthur, Bruna’s friend, was standing right in the middle of the crowd filming it all on one of those portable movie cameras. Like they were real film stars.

  She sang now without even thinking. She felt only lightness and strength. The words flowed out of her and she felt the air around her turn warm, like a caress all over her body. Her head felt light, her vision blurred, and the people below her went smeary. If only the words of the song were true. If only there were a different life than this one. A life of beauty, of clean things and sweet smells and pink-tinged clouds.

  Oh, how she’d love to disappear into that life . . .

  A woman near the entrance of the tent suddenly leapt to her feet, her hand thrust in the air. “A feather! A feather! It just fell on me! Right from heaven above!”

  Ruth blinked and snapped to attention and both girls stopped singing. The piano music trailed off just after. The woman was pushing her way past the others on the bench, still holding something aloft. She ran up the side aisle, her face shining, and thrust the object at the girls.

  “It’s an angel’s feather,” she gasped. “Angels are with us here. Tonight, in this very place!”

  Ruth gulped and glanced at Bruna. Then Charles Jarrod strode onto the stage. He took the object from the woman’s fingers and held it up for the crowd.

  “It’s a feather,” he said gravely. He laid his hand gently on the woman’s head. “The Lord bless you. You are His child, and this is His promise to you.” He addressed the crowd. “This is a sign for all of you. The Almighty is here tonight, and He is watching each and every one of you.” He nodded at Bruna and Ruth. “The chorus, one more time, girls.”

  The piano started up, and the girls sang again. As they did, people poured down the aisle to the stage and dropped coins in a silver plate at their feet. Jarrod told them to sing another hymn, and the pile of coins grew.

  When the stream of worshippers seemed like it was abating, Jarrod stepped back and stood beside Ruth. Even though he was several feet away, she felt electrified. She could feel the warmth of his body and smell his menthol aftershave. She turned and met his eyes, which were all at once tender and strong, and for a moment, she imagined, also strangely shy.

  “Look at you,” he said.

  She didn’t know how to answer. But he didn’t seem to mind. He took her hand and, unfurling her fingers, dropped the tiny white feather into her palm. The moment passed as quick as it came, and he was gone, ambling to the far side of the stage.

  Later, when they came off the stage, Ruth showed the feather to Bruna.

  “I’ve never seen an angel’s feather,” Bruna whispered reverentially.

  Ruth started to laugh, but then she saw that Arthur and Bruna both appeared as serious as if they’d just attended a funeral. She clamped her mouth shut. She couldn’t quite believe it, but they seemed to have taken the whole episode entirely seriously.

  Ruth nodded, but let the feather drop to the ground. It was only a bit of common down after all, plucked from under the wing of a goose.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Florence, Alabama

  Present

  We got a couple of rooms at the Hampton Inn at the south end of Florence. Althea and I doubled up, and G
riff took the room next door. After donning my black dress from the night before and reapplying makeup to the swelling over my eye, I convened with them in the lobby.

  We agreed that, while trying to talk to Jason Faulk—the freewheeling bachelor of Florence running for governor—at his party wasn’t ideal, we couldn’t afford to waste any time. So, less than two hours later, we were casually strolling through the back entrance of Jason Faulk’s elegant home, where we snagged a few unclaimed press lanyards from the kitchen table and lost ourselves in the crowd.

  It was a raucous gathering, the spacious jewel-toned rooms filled with people knocking back drinks and shouting hellos across gleaming antiques juxtaposed against sleek modern pieces. Althea, Griff, and I positioned ourselves in the wide front hall, which was decorated with massive color-block canvases. It was an oddly large space—in fact, the whole house was, with its soaring ceilings and vast open rooms.

  I couldn’t help thinking that the man who attacked me could be here, at this very party—watching me and stalking me from room to room as I investigated the mystery Dove had laid out for me. Truth was, the idea freaked me out more than a little bit. That and the knowledge that every minute that passed was putting me, the foundation, and my family one step closer to ruin. I lifted a glass of red wine off a waiter’s passing tray and took one gulp. Then another, longer one.

  Althea handed me a campaign brochure from a stack spread on a side table. It was a slickly produced one-sheet listing Jason Faulk’s many accomplishments: degrees from Duke and Sewanee, the lesser Southern Ivies. A stint at a respected law practice, then for former governor Barnish, who’d been quietly invited to leave office a few months into his administration because of some financial shenanigans.

  I considered this. Faulk must not have been tainted by Barnish’s misdeeds. In fact, if this party was any indication, he was still a much-loved hometown guy. And from the looks of the impeccably designed house, he was still living high off of Coe lumber money. But obviously, he was not the kind of guy who was content to rest on Daddy’s (or Great-Great-Granddaddy’s) laurels. He was clearly doing everything within his power to keep himself at the top of Alabama’s who’s who list. It looked like everybody in northwestern Alabama and their brother was packed into the house.