The Hauntings Of Sugar Hill: The Complete Series

by M. L. Bullock

  Yes, traveling with Emilio would be exciting. Maybe I should change after all. We would stop to register our marriage at the courthouse before we took the boat upriver. But what to wear? Did it matter? What did one wear for an elopement?

  The look in Emilio’s eyes told me everything I needed to know.

  With Ida in my arms, I left Sugar Hill forever.

  Chapter Twenty

  Summer Dufresne

  I woke up with an urge to stretch my legs. Spring had arrived early in Belle Fontaine. I’d spotted a few deer from the second-story window, and I loved the sight of those gentle animals making themselves at home here. I saw something else too; I saw Aunt Anne. She was wearing her pink suit and white heels and carrying her old-fashioned clutch purse. She waved at me as if I were late for one of her early morning teas. I had forgotten about that tradition of ours. How I missed it!

  “Anne? What are you doing here?” It was good that I’d gotten up and gotten dressed appropriately. She could never abide seeing me in my pajamas. She had too much class for that.

  Aunt Anne wasn’t waiting, and I ran down the stairs and went straight outside to go find her. Naturally, she’d want me to come see her at the Rose Cottage. She had spent many years at Sugar Hill, but she’d finally said enough was enough, moved out, and left all this behind. She loved her Rose Cottage, and I did too.

  I followed her down the path until she disappeared, but I wasn’t disturbed by that. She would be at the cottage. I walked up to the Creole-style home and reached for the front doorknob. The door opened as if Aunt Anne had opened it.

  The place was vacant now. Mitchell and Angie had left Belle Fontaine for good and bought a beach house in Pensacola. My brother loved life with Angie and had even managed to lose a few pounds. I’d talked to him just this morning, and we’d had our long-awaited heart-to-heart. I hadn’t planned on asking for forgiveness, but it just kind of came out. Soon, he was crying, I was crying, and life was good again.

  But Aunt Anne…I hadn’t dreamed I’d have the opportunity to really make it right with her. I mean, I did wear her dress to Avery’s wedding and had done a few other things to honor her, but this?

  “Aunt Anne? I’m here. It’s me, Summer. I want you to know I’m leaving Sugar Hill. I’ve resigned from my position as Matrone. You were right about me. I’m not cut out for that kind of work. I think it’s time to move on.”

  Then I heard the clinking of china behind me. “I never said you weren’t up for the job. You said that,” Aunt Anne’s voice said quietly. I looked over my shoulder, surprised to see my great-aunt pouring a cup of tea for me. She pointed at the seat but said nothing else.

  “I always felt that way. I never measured up to your standards, Aunt Anne. I know it. I was a disappointment. That really hurt me since all I wanted to do was please you. Why was I never enough?”

  “Have you always made the right decisions, Summer?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said as I stared at her lovely face. How was it that she was more beautiful now than when she was alive?

  “Neither have I. I saw a different future for you, and I wanted to keep you from it. But you, dear, clever girl, you figured out the secret. You saved Avery, and you saved us all. You broke the curse. Now have a rest and enjoy your family. It is enough. You have done enough, sweet Summer.”

  It was impolite to laugh at a ghost, but I had a good chuckle at that. I looked at her, prepared to argue about it like we always did, but she was gone. Even the tea tray was gone. I had no teacup, no sugar cubes, no lemon, yet the smell of lemon and tea remained in the air.

  And no Aunt Anne.

  “I love you, Aunt Anne. I love you so much. Thank you for everything.”

  I heard nothing else, so I walked back to the house and asked Matthew to load my bags for me. Avery understood that I had to go, that Sugar Hill had grown too full of ghosts. She agreed that this was the right decision for me. It couldn’t be helped. Now was the time. I had to go, or I would never leave. Maybe I didn’t deserve to leave. I had to make my peace with everything that had happened. I didn’t deserve peace, probably, but I had to reach for it.

  Oh, Jessica. I failed you, my sweet friend.

  But where? Where should I go?

  You should go to Georgia, that’s where.

  Eric lived in Georgia. I’d text him now and ask about his plans for this evening. If he wasn’t available or didn’t want to see me, I’d keep moving. Maybe I’d go to New England. I’d always wanted to go see the sights up there. Why not? Yes, it was time to move on.

  Goodbye, ghosts of my past. And you too, Sugar Hill.

  Maybe I’ll see you again, but not too soon.

  Epilogue

  Arnold Lee

  Arnold Lee liked this song. He snapped his fingers to the rhythm and bobbed his head up and down. This was the kind of song that put pep in his step, as his grandpa would’ve said. It was much livelier than some of the other songs Miss Billie sang in his ear.

  I fell in love with you the first time I looked into

  Them there eyes.

  And you have a certain lil cute way of flirtin’

  With them there eyes.

  Livelier. He’d sworn he would never use such a word when Miss Hartley made him repeat that for his spelling and vocabulary words this week. Yes, this song just got livelier. He laughed as he colored the picture. It was a picture of him and his grandpa walking with those bags of salt to the cemetery, the one that was hidden in the woods. He carefully drew the crosses in the narrow pathway. Once Daddy popped over to look over his shoulder at his picture. Arnold Lee was glad he didn’t ask any questions about his artwork. Arnold Lee couldn’t explain why he was drawing the scene, but it meant so much to him. He wanted to remember it always.

  They make me feel so happy.

  They make me feel so blue.

  I’m fallin’, no stallin’,

  Fallin’ in a great big way for you.

  My heart is jumpin’, you’ve started somethin’

  With them there eyes.

  He liked coloring and drawing better than answering his mama’s questions about his special songs. Hearing about those special songs always made Mama get bright red in the face. He remembered how horrible this past Sunday with Mama had been. They went to church at her favorite house of worship, the big Highland Baptist Church at the corner of Highland and Michigan Avenue. Arnold Lee didn’t mind going to church because he liked playing with the other children. He did a lot more playing than praying in that Sunday school class. But he liked the praying too, and he liked his Sunday school teacher, Miss Virginia, even though she wouldn’t let him talk about the things he was really interested in. What he really wanted to know about was ghosts and such. But no, they weren’t allowed to talk about those kinds of things at the Highland Baptist Church, except for the Holy Ghost.

  In fact, one time, Mama had insisted that he talk to the preacher about all that fancy singing the lady did in his ear. Like Daddy suggested, he played dumb and didn’t tell the man a thing, but it was hard keeping it a secret. He remembered Daddy’s words, and they gave him comfort, even if the preacher man had warned Arnold Lee about hell and telling lies to grown-ups.

  Daddy had said, “Arnold Lee, I know you want to tell everybody about what you know. My dad was like that too, but you can’t. You just can’t. You have to keep those things to yourself and wait for the right opportunity to share them. There will come a day when you can, but not now. You understand?”

  “No. You sound like you’re asking me to tell a lie.” He blinked at the memory.

  “It might sound that way, son, but what I’m asking you to do is protect yourself. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for me. Please, Arnold Lee. I need you to listen to me. Just this once. Just about this.”

  Arnold Lee wanted to please his father, but keeping this kind of secret seemed wrong to him. The same sort of situation came up on his favorite television show the other day. The boy in the show didn’t
hear songs in his ear, but he had magical powers too. He could close his eyes and wish people away. Some government people were looking for him, and his father tried to help him, but the boy was foolish. He told the wrong person his secret, and pretty soon all his family was in trouble. Arnold Lee didn’t want the preacher man to come looking for Daddy or Mama. Even though Mama liked to yell at Daddy a lot, he knew she loved him, and he loved them both.

  “Arnold Lee? How many burgers you want? One or two?”

  He thought about it for just a moment and said, “Just one. No, wait. Make that two. She might be hungry.”

  Daddy raised his eyebrow, but unlike Mama, he accepted that Arnold Lee was a little different than other children his age. Arnold Lee knew that too, and he was okay with it.

  Arnold Lee hummed along as he pulled a marker out of the box. Yes, this had been a real treat. Daddy had surprised him with a big ol’ box of markers.

  Them there eyes…

  Wait! He wasn’t singing that. Arnold Lee looked up and saw his father tapping the barbecue grill with his spatula. Could it be possible? Daddy heard the same song! Arnold Lee knew he had never heard Daddy sing this song, and he’d never spoken about this song before. In fact, this was the first time he’d heard it.

  With a big smile, Arnold Lee pulled out a new sheet of paper and walked inside to hang the finished artwork on the refrigerator with magnets. He surveyed it and nodded his approval. It wasn’t a Picassa-angelo, but it was close enough. He touched his grandpa’s image and ran upstairs to find the chauffeur’s hat he’d given him.

  Scampering back down the stairs, he sang the rest of the song.

  You better look out, lil’ brown eyes...if you’re wise.

  They sparkle,

  They bubble,

  Get you in a lot of trouble.

  Oh, baby...them there eyes.

  Time to get started on his new work of art. He hadn’t figured it all out yet, but he knew his father would be in it, and Arnold Lee would be too. And that other lady—the one with the sad eyes. Miss Jessica. He liked her a whole lot. She showed up every now and then and spoke sweet to him. She didn’t sing like Miss Billie, but she was good to him.

  “Yep,” he said aloud, ignoring his father’s questioning look. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  He sketched his father first, but he wouldn’t draw him in his work clothes. Nope. No suit and tie, but a t-shirt and jeans. For some reason, Arnold Lee felt like he needed to draw him in his work boots. He hardly ever wore them, but he would need them for this.

  Them there eyes…

  Next, he drew himself. He didn’t have work boots yet, but he would have some soon. He would ask for them, and he knew Daddy would buy them for him. He sketched himself and smiled over his shoulder.

  Miss Jessica came closer to take a peek. She liked his picture. She really did.

  She told him exactly what to draw next.

  His Lovely Garden

  Sugar Hill Book 5

  This book is dedicated to Daddy, Chief Jerry Macon Patrick. No girl ever had a better dad. You were deeply loved and will eternally be missed. One day, we’ll dance again to our song, Mona Lisa, and I’ll feel safe and loved again. Thank you, Daddy for all the walks in the woods, for all the bad dancing, for all the jokes. Thank you for making me feel unconditionally loved all my life. That, I have found, is a rare thing. You were always my hero, long before you became the country’s hero. I pray that heaven has many deep waters and that you are doing what you loved best, diving. And planting trees.

  So have fun, Daddy. Until I get there. And then get ready to dance. See you soon, Chief.

  In a Whispering Gallery

  That whisper takes the voice

  That whisper takes the voiceOf a Spirit, speaking to me,

  Close, but invisible,

  And throws me under a spell

  At the kindling vision it brings;

  And for a moment I rejoice,

  And believe in transcendent things

  That would make of this muddy earth

  A spot for the splendid birth

  Of everlasting lives,

  Whereto no night arrives;

  And this gaunt gray gallery

  A tabernacle of worth

  On this drab-aired afternoon,

  When you can barely see

  Across its hazed lacune

  If opposite aught there be

  Of fleshed humanity

  Wherewith I may commune;

  Or if the voice so near

  Be a soul’s voice floating here.

  —Thomas Hardy, 1928

  Prologue

  Dominick Dufresne

  1839

  An incessant tapping woke me from my stupor. I had fallen asleep in the chair beside Ophelia’s bed. I uncurled slowly, silently cursing whoever it was that disturbed my alcohol-induced slumber. For the first time in weeks, I slept without dreams. No nightmares, no unwanted images of unforgettable horrors, but now my unwelcome visitor had stolen that momentary peace from me. Anger replaced my peaceful repose, and I left my sanctuary in search of the offender. Not for the first time in recent days, I walked to the front door with both a candle and a pistol in my hands.

  “Please, hurry. He might come for us,” a woman’s voice called from the other side of the door downstairs. I paused on the staircase wondering who this might be. This voice was not one I recognized. It was neither Annalee nor any of the servants. Annalee had left with her maid and my daughter Ida. Married now to Emilio Sota, Annalee lived a presumably happy life far from our cursed home, Sugar Hill. That knowledge brought a sliver of relief to my troubled mind. Annalee would love my daughter as if she were her own. So, who could this be? Not Livy. My former left-hand wife, the traitorous wench, rotted away in a New Orleans jail now, an ending that she deserved. I hoped the rats were gnawing on her bones as she lay in her chains. I couldn’t help but feel a smile slide across my face momentarily, and then it slid away like a snake trying to avoid being trodden upon.

  The tapping resumed as the woman pleaded with me. I heard her sobbing now. My last remaining servant, an old man named Lemuel who was now mute, stepped out into the foyer with a candle in his hand. He glanced up at me as if to ask if he should open the door, but I shook my head and waved him back. He retreated down the hall, and I heard his bedroom door close with a creak. I had no mind to open my home to this strange woman until I heard the child crying.

  I could turn away this unknown woman, but a child?

  Walking down the last remaining stairs, I set my candlestick on a table and waited. I pressed my face close to the door and listened.

  “Shh now, junge,” the woman warned the child. I detected a strange accent intermingled with her broken English. Austrian, perhaps? I had heard this accent before at the Prescott Club during a night of cards and cigars with Champion, many years ago. Happier, foolish times.

  The child whimpered and said, “I want my mother,” stirring something I did not expect. Sympathy, I supposed. Until this moment, I believed I had none left. Placing the gun on the table with the candlestick, I walked to the door, my shoes crunching across the gritty floor. I opened the door a slice, only wide enough to lay eyes upon this woman and her child. Perhaps this was a trap? Maybe I would open the door and Champion would shoot me dead. He had tried before.

  “Please, sir. Are you Dominick Dufresne? I have come to see Dominick Dufresne.” In the darkness, the woman’s features were not clear, but I could make out an oval-shaped face fringed with tight brown curls. She clutched a child’s hand, but his face was pressed against her skirts. “My name is Madlen, and this boy is Devon Dufresne.”

  “Devon Dufresne?”

  Quite agitated now, she whispered, “Your brother’s son. Please, let us in, Mr. Dufresne. Your brother, he is ill, and it would not be good for him to find us here.”

  “No one comes inside Sugar Hill. This place is cursed. Go back to my brother.”

  The boy sobbed and buried his face d
eeper in Madlen’s black skirts. She clutched him close as she slung her hood back and said angrily, “If you send this boy back to his father, you might as well kill him yourself. He is your blood, your own blood. Gott helfe ihm.” When that did not move me, she added in an apologetic voice, “Have mercy, sir. Please. We have nowhere else to go, and I suspect his mother is no longer able to care for him.”

  Those words did not shock me as she might have intended, but if this boy was truly a Dufresne, I could not allow him to wander about the streets of Belle Fontaine as a homeless urchin. My mother would never have done such a thing, and although I never knew my father, I believed he would have also been gracious. At any rate, I knew my brother to be a black-hearted bastard, a murdering rapist who would stop at nothing to fulfill his lusts. The appearance of these two here now in the middle of the night at my door did not shock or surprise me.

  “You may come inside, but only as far as the front room. And only for a little while.”

  Madlen’s lips tightened, but she did not argue with me. Smart woman. As I opened the door, she hurried past me and shoved the boy inside first. She cast a worried eye behind her, but there was no one there. I stared into the darkness too, hoping I would see Champion lurking in the shadows of the live oaks. For a moment, I believed I saw a shadow, but it was nothing, nothing at all except ghosts of my past. Perhaps Ophelia running away from me again as she always did in my dreams. No, not my dead wife. It must be my brother. Champion would be a fool to return here! A fool indeed!