Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  “I mean, I get that she knew Dove, and they were close, but like . . . what does she get out of helping you find the coin and save the foundation?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. I guess she feels like she owes Dove after she helped her find out what happened to her family.”

  “Okay, I’m just talking here,” Griff said. “But what if she’s in on it—I mean the plan to get the coin?” His face was as open as I’d ever seen it. He wasn’t messing with me. He was truly concerned.

  I thought back to the box of Dove’s things Althea had produced. She’d said she held on to them because she hoped to give them to me in person, but now I wondered. They were exactly the kinds of items Dove’s groupies liked to collect. What if Althea had somehow come into possession of them by some other way—some illegal way—and she’d been searching them for a clue to where the coin was?

  The thought of Althea betraying me—and Dove—would have seemed far-fetched a couple of days ago. But today, after seeing Jason Faulk latch on to the missing coin story for his own political PR purposes, the idea was not so easy to dismiss. People were swayed by money; that was the bottom line. It was simple human nature. And with the Flowing Hair, we were talking tens of millions. With that much cash on the line, I wasn’t sure anyone could be trusted.

  “I don’t know if she’s involved,” I said. “But it would be odd to name your daughter after someone, then try to screw their whole family.”

  Griff rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m probably overthinking this.”

  “But we’ll keep an eye on her. If she’s up to no good, better to have her close.”

  He got quiet, and then I realized he was looking at my legs. I drew in a breath, ordering my muscles not to clench. This was usually how things went. A man ventured a touch on any part of my body, and I would be unable to quit obsessing over my arm—when would they get to it and notice its smaller size? What would they think? Would they be turned off in some way? So then I would lock my body away, my mind following close behind, and the moment would pass, never to be recovered.

  But Griff already knew about my arm, and things could be different this time. So I ordered myself not to move, not even to think. If nothing happened between us, it was not going to be because of my raging self-consciousness.

  Griff slowly ran the side of his thumb down the length of one thigh, and my heart kicked up a rhythm so fast I felt breathless.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  I lifted my eyes to meet his, allowing myself another quick glance at his bare chest. It was easy to imagine being enveloped in those arms, against that chest. Easy to imagine falling asleep wrapped up in them.

  “Sure,” I said at last.

  He reached for my right arm. I closed my eyes—just hold still, just hold still—and let him slowly, gently draw it out until it was fully extended between us. Then he ran his thumb along it just as he had on my leg, right down the side of it, following the line of muscles—biceps brachii, brachioradialis, flexor carpi ulnaris—ending at my wrist. I shivered.

  “What exactly happened to it?” he asked. “I don’t see any scars.”

  I opened my eyes. “Fetal stroke. Which doesn’t leave a scar; it typically leaves nerve damage. It happened in utero. Resulting in hemiplegia, right-side paralysis affecting my vision and my arm.”

  He nodded.

  “Like I told you guys the other night, when I was fourteen, I underwent CIMT—constraint-induced movement therapy. Now I swim, do a lot of yoga to keep it strong. But it’ll never be one hundred percent on the involved side, and technically, I’ll always have the brain damage that caused it in the first place.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense. But it’s a hell of an arm, if you ask me. Been through a lot.”

  “Well, thanks.” I realized I was gritting my teeth and ordered myself to release my jaw. Griff hadn’t given me any reason to distrust him. I could relax.

  “What was the therapy like?”

  I studied him. “They cast your unaffected arm, the one you use to do things like brush your teeth and cut your food, and you have to do all those things with the affected arm.”

  “Doesn’t sound too horrible, at least.”

  “You think? Well, let’s see.” I took hold of his right arm and forced it, gently but firmly, behind his back. “You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”

  He blinked at me, surprised. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, now do something with your left arm.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, pretend you’ve got an eyelash stuck in your eye.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” His lips parted. “Let’s say you’ve got the eyelash.”

  “Okay.” I held my breath.

  He reached up and tenderly brushed an imaginary lash from just under my eye with his fingers. My skin tingled.

  “No problem.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

  But I still held his arm pinned behind him. “Not so fast. There are harder tasks. I just started you off easy.”

  One corner of his mouth curled up. He was up for the game. Intrigued. And I was . . . well, I was going down a dangerous path. Distracting myself. Inviting more complications—more heartache—for when I finally said goodbye to the foundation and left for Colorado. I hadn’t dated anyone for any length of time since I was a teenager. Hadn’t developed any deep friendships with other women either. But besides my habit of freezing up around men, there was a reason for that. One with origins in my psyche.

  It was hard work, the constant pretending I had to do for my mother and brother and everybody at the foundation. And at the end of a day, it felt like there was nothing left. Sometimes I felt empty, worried I’d lost my authentic self. That the real me had dried up and blown away from sheer lack of use.

  But here I was. And here was Griff, and something was holding us here together.

  Something worth working for, maybe.

  “My hair,” I said. “I like to tuck it behind my ears.”

  With his left hand he reached up and, careful to avoid the lump, smoothed my hair, tucking the errant strands into place.

  “Good job.” I readjusted my grip on his arm. He angled his body closer to mine.

  “One more. Hold on.” He carefully removed a hair that had gotten caught in my mouth. “There.”

  My breath was coming faster.

  “The button,” I said. “Top button of my shirt.”

  He followed my directions.

  “The next one . . .”

  He undid the next three buttons and pulled my shirt open. He leaned over and kissed the spot just below my clavicle bone. When he lifted his head, I saw he was flushed and breathing just as hard as I was. And then he kissed my lips, just once, softly. “What next?” he said.

  “Your room,” I said. “Then left hand only, unzip my shorts.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Florence, Alabama

  1934

  In only a few months, the Hawthorn Sisters were the most popular act in northwestern Alabama, and as a result, they’d pulled in a tidy sum of money from the collection basket, all of it divided three ways. Arthur divided the take into thirds and gave each girl her share. Bruna kept hers under her mattress. Arthur hid his in the leg of his mother’s piano bench. Ruth tucked hers in the lunch chest, in the narrow space where the ice went.

  Things had settled at the Coe house. Edith’s husband, Harold, had the hawthorn tree chopped up and hauled off and he’d confiscated the rifle and 12-gauge. The old man seemed quieter in body and spirit after that. Instead of slipping out the back door and searching for an escape route, he spent his days roaming the house, mumbling to himself, touching candlesticks and books and paintings. Sometimes he’d pour the error coins out of the crystal jar and spread them across the mint-green bed.

  One morning, when the old man failed to answer her call for breakfast, Ruth went on the hunt, climbing the stairs and searching all the rooms. She found him in
the mint-green room, slumped at the dainty dressing table. She stood in the door, watching him. He was staring at himself in the silvered mirror. His mouth worked and a line of spittle ran from the corner around to his chin. Over the age-spotted scalp, his white hair hung limp and tangled—he wouldn’t allow Ruth to trim it. He looked like an ogre from a fairy tale, just waiting for some unsuspecting villager to cross his path. All except his face. It was slack and vacant, like he’d gone someplace far away.

  “Mr. Coe?” She took a few steps into the room. “Mr. Coe, your breakfast won’t be hot for long.”

  As if he hadn’t heard her, the old man placed his hands on his face, peering closer into the mirror. “Where are we?”

  She moved closer. “You’re at home, in your wife’s room.”

  He didn’t acknowledge her. “I don’t see him no more. That fella that used to come around for Edie. What happened to him? Probably fell off the bluff and drowned in the river. Doing us all a favor.”

  She drew close behind his chair. “Look at your hair . . .” She picked up an ivory comb with a silver handle. “If you’d like, I can help you.”

  He said nothing. With great care, she lowered the comb to his head and gently drew the teeth, forehead to crown, down his scalp. When he didn’t protest, she did it again, easing the comb through each snarl and tangle. As she worked, he leaned back and let his shoulders drop. But his face stayed frozen in that blank mask.

  After she got out all the knots, she found a jar of pomade in a drawer and smoothed it over the long white strands, tucking the length behind his ears. She rested her hands on his shoulders and smiled at him in the mirror.

  “There now. Handsome as you like.”

  Just then, a small electric charge traveled along her arms and down her spine. She shivered. In the mirror, Mr. Coe’s face had tightened, reordered itself somehow, and his gaze was fastened on her face. A tear slipped from the corner of one of his eyes.

  “You’re a beauty,” he said to her. “You know that, Miss Ruth?”

  She met his eyes in the mirror. He’d returned to himself. And she saw that he was, in fact, correct. She was a beauty. When had that happened? she wondered. The change? Because there had been one, sure as shooting. She was no longer a ragged urchin but had become a girl of fine and full figure. Her back was straight, neck graceful, limbs long and tapering. Her shiny hair had recently deepened its reddish hue from carroty to a rich auburn and now framed her oval face like a picture. Her face was delicate but strong. Lips full, eyes expressive and wise.

  No one could see the blackness of her heart by looking at her.

  No one could see her secrets—that she was a liar and a con.

  She would always be safe . . . as long as she had this face to hide the truth.

  The old man reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out a dull black metal pistol. He pulled back the slide with gnarled, trembling fingers and pointed it directly at her.

  Ruth leapt back, nearly stumbling over her feet. “Good goddamn—”

  “Oh hush. I ain’t gonna shoot you. But there are people who want what I got, and we can’t be too careful.”

  He reached for the crystal jar, removed the silver lid, and fished around in it. He pulled out a coin. It was dwarfed by his large rough thumb and forefinger.

  “Well, come on. Come over here.”

  She inched forward until she was in arm’s reach and took the coin. It was the one with the woman with flowing hair. Copper maybe, edged with traces of green.

  “The others, you gotta get them out of circulation,” he explained to Ruth. “If you don’t . . .” He stopped and scratched at his sideburns with the pistol. “Well, the world just won’t feel right. And if the world ain’t right, I can’t quit thinking and thinking about it, all day, every day, till it nearly drives me plumb crazy. I can’t have that. You understand?”

  She nodded, even though she didn’t really.

  He held up the copper coin. “But this one. This one’s perfect. No flaws, minted just the way it was supposed to be. So I ain’t got no use for it. What’s the use in hanging on to a perfectly good dollar?”

  She managed a laugh. The things he said.

  He set the gun down. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  Ruth examined the slim coin. “Mr. Coe. You really shouldn’t. I’m sure it’s valuable. Your family—”

  “Bunch of ninnies,” he interrupted. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what those chuckleheads say. I want to give it to you, so I’m giving it to you.” He gave her a curt nod. “Make sure and hide it. Someplace safe where nobody will find it. That thing’s dear.”

  She took it in her maid’s room and dropped it into the keyhole of the door, and just like a piggy bank, it fell into the mechanism with a satisfying clink. She hoped when the time came, she could get the doorknob off and dig it out. But for the time being, she rested easy knowing nobody would guess where it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Florence, Alabama

  Present

  Ember Holt’s Facebook page was sparse, but it did say she’d graduated from North Alabama and worked over at the Marriott Conference Center on the river. Althea and I left Griff to sleep off the previous night’s Jack and headed over to the Marriott.

  Althea called Jay, and self-serving though it was, I couldn’t help but listen. They talked about the kids, joked about some elaborate school assignment their daughter, Ruthie, had to complete, then some issue Jay was having with the hot water heater. By the end of the conversation, I was feeling like a world-class shit. How could this loving wife and involved mother be after the coin? I couldn’t see it.

  Ember wasn’t at the restaurant, and her flat-faced toothpick of a manager was more than happy to let us know what he intended to do about it. “You tell her this is it,” he said when we introduced ourselves as college friends. “Tell her I’m done. One hundred percent done.”

  “We will,” Althea promised. “But could you just . . . she’s moved recently—”

  He snorted.

  “—and we lost her address. Could you—”

  “Over on Larimore. Nice little stone cottage with a tree in the front yard decorated like the devil’s Christmas tree. You can deliver a message for me. Tell that Sabrina-the-witch-pretending deadbeat that she’s fired, okay?” he said over his shoulder, already heading back to the kitchen.

  When we swung back into the Hampton Inn parking lot, Griff was waiting for us, camera in hand. As he climbed in the back seat, he gave me a grin and touched my shoulder. I had a sudden pang of fear that Althea would zero in on it. But she just wheeled out of the lot and recounted what we’d learned.

  We found Ember’s house easily enough. It was a really cute place with what her boss had so accurately called the devil’s Christmas tree in the front yard. The tree was a medieval-looking thing, its branches festooned with springtime blooms. Hung among the blooms were glittery black pentagrams, skulls, and goat heads cut from cardboard. A white corrugated plastic sign propped against the trunk proclaimed FORTUNES BY EMBER ~ SEER, MEDIUM, PSYCHIC in a ghoulish black font.

  I wondered if it was just an act of defiance—a middle finger to her rich, connected cousin and maybe the rest of a family who’d grown tired of all the chances she’d obviously squandered. Or could Ember Holt really tell the future?

  Griff left the camera in the car and we knocked on the front door, peeling blue paint and rotted at the bottom. A shirtless kid around nineteen or twenty answered.

  “Whoa,” he said, rubbing the sleep from bleary red eyes. “Good morning, grown-ups.”

  “Is Ember around?” I asked. “We need to talk to her.”

  “She’s at work.”

  “Ah, no, she’s not,” Althea said. “She didn’t go in.”

  “Then she’s probably out back.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “In the shed. Just go around back and you’ll see it.” He swung the door shut before I could ask any more questions.
/>
  I was already halfway down the steps when Griff called out behind me. But I couldn’t wait any longer. Maybe it was the defiantly decorated tree with its hopeful homemade sign. And probably the shabby condition of the house. But mostly, I think, it was the memory from last night. Of Ember Holt’s black-winged eyes. The haunted look in them. The sight had shaken me in a way I was having a hard time understanding. I might not let loose with my emotions in the same way, I might gather myself against the world, but I recognized the desperation I’d seen in her face. Maybe we were the same, on some level. Both of us burdened with other people’s secrets.

  And I had to talk to this woman now.

  Situated in a corner of chain-link fence in the postage-stamp backyard was a small whitewashed wooden shed. The roof was aluminum and the door warped. Fingers of rot and moss crept up the walls from the damp earth. The windows were taped over with cardboard and there was another sign, this one hand-painted on a piece of plywood and tucked into the sill.

  IT ONLY TAKES AN EMBER TO START A FIRE.

  I knocked but there was no answer. When I pushed the door open, the smell hit me hard—dirt, human sweat, and motor oil. I caught a flash of movement from the shadows of the back wall. White sheet. Pale arm.

  “No readings,” came a hoarse voice from the depths of the shed. “Shop’s closed.”

  Griff gave me a gentle push into the dark, but I grabbed his shirt and pulled him along with me. No chance I was going in there alone. The smell was overpowering, and it was so dark the only things I could make out were an ancient lawnmower, bags of fertilizer, and empty plastic plant containers.

  “Come back later tonight,” said the voice. “I’ll give you one half-price.”

  “Ember?” I called into the mustiness. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to you. It’s Eve Candler. We met last night. At Jason Faulk’s party.”

  A voice frogged with sleep and last night’s alcohol cut through the dark. “Oh God.”

  I heard the rustling of bedcovers and the squeak of springs and she came into view. Her ringed eyes were dark holes of eyeliner and wildly streaked shadow, and her hair was smashed flat on one side. She was wearing a lilac tank top and sweatpants. Tattoos of undefinable patterns peeked out from the neckline and armholes of the tank, petals of roses and the curve of bones. She was diminutive, curvy, and quite beautiful, something I hadn’t noticed last night.