“Isn’t that why you’re staying? Because of Daddy?” Her lips set in a tight line. “Tell me the truth, Margaret.”
“No, never. I stay for Mama, and partly for myself.”
Abby let me go and leaned against the trellis, her green eyes puzzled. I searched for a way to explain.
“I’m afraid I’ll miss all this,” I said. I stretched out my arms, taking in the sweeping ocean views and the flowering gardens. “It’s the only home I’ve ever known, even if I do crave something more. Strange, isn’t it?”
We turned and faced the house. “Look at this place, the beach house isn’t much but it’s where we grew up; it’s a part of us. The whitewashed walls, the creaky old front porch, and the lane that leads out past the picket fence. Can’t you just see that yucky beige living room that’s hot in summer and cold in winter? The kitchen stove from the dark ages that Mama kicks every day? The way the house smells like lemon and shines every Saturday? All those hours we spent at the big windows cleaning them with vinegar? The cheery yellow kitchen where Mama always tended our scrapes when we were kids? All of it’s mine. All the memories tucked away like treasures in this one little spot.”
Abby crinkled her nose. “I forgot about all that cleaning,” she laughed, “I think that I might be glad to go.”
I grinned at her. “Good, that’s more like it.” I sobered and hugged her to me. “The fear inside me is strong Abby, and most of the time I let it win. But you are fearless, Abigail Rose. You grab life with both hands and dive right in. Don’t lose that.”
“But you’re my safety net, Margaret. What will I do without you?” Her voice quivered.
I took her hands in mine. “Become the actress you always wanted to be in New York City,” I said firmly.
Abby laughed; it was a beautiful sound like crystal glass chimes tinkling in the wind.
“I don’t think I’ll have time for that, I have to take care of Wilfred, help him start his new business.”
I gave a snort of disgust that let her know exactly what I thought of Wilfred and his hair-brained schemes.
She sighed. “Let’s not go there Margaret, please?” She stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around me to hug me tight. She was petite and delicate like Mama. Daddy said I resembled a bean pole, tall and thin and not much to look at. I blocked out his voice and instead drank in the smell of roses that always was a part of my sister.
“I love you Abby.”
“I love you too Margaret, always and forever.”
It would be a moment I would remember for the rest of my life, for more reasons than one.
I should have known then that Abby had been trying to tell me something.
2
The Watcher
I had been chosen.
I had been just an essence, a spirit, for such a long time. The period of no magic seemed to have lasted for eternity. Now, it was finally time to reemerge and gather strength. I remembered how it felt to be in a body, to own it. I remembered the strength I gathered from each soul, each life force. Just the idea of it was intoxicating.
Even when I was in my simplest form, riding the wind or just hanging in the air like a fine mist, Margaret had always been aware of me. Sometimes I loomed so close the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She would shudder and turn her eyes wild, seeking frantically for someone, anyone, to explain her uneasiness. I laughed. It amused me to toy with her. I could hear the pounding of her heart as she searched her mind for a logical explanation. She wouldn’t find one. Soon I would be strong enough to finish what I had started so long ago. But for now I must bide my time and wait.
The plan had always been clear.
Collect power to gain the ultimate power. I would steal as many bodies as I needed to get what I wanted.
3
Margaret, 1939
The day before my sister’s wedding, Mama had made a pre-wedding day feast. Unfortunately Mama’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes did not take the gloom off of having to sit at the table with Wilfred. I don’t think even Aunt Bette’s dark grey cat Fred, who sat on our windowsill washing his paws, looked as smug as he did.
I watched him eat, disgusted. Wilfred was gap-toothed and had a prissy nose. His coffee-colored hair was like a poodle’s, short and curly. He was too tan, and had an overflowing beltline that Abby found revoltingly cute. His hands sat like hams next to his plate; his square chest strained the buttons of his blue shirt.
A polite person would call him portly or even a teddy bear, but not me. Feeling no politeness whatsoever I called him Humpty Dumpty every chance I got. After all, he had the bandy legs for it. But I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut at Mama’s table.
“So Margaret, what are your plans for the future? I mean, you just can’t sit around here and become an old maid, be realistic. You should be like your sister, have some goals.” Wilfred smirked as he stabbed his fork into his mashed potatoes before lifting them deftly to his veal-colored lips.
I scowled the biggest scowl I could muster at Wilfred J. Moody and stuffed a piece of fried chicken in my mouth.
“Now Margaret that’s not polite, stuffing your face full of food like that. It simply isn’t ladylike, especially with Willy asking you a question and all,” said Aunt Bette.
I could feel the bile rising in my throat at the sound of my Aunt Bette calling Wilfred, “Willy” with such reverence.
It was hot for May and my dress stuck to my legs, perspiration dripped all the way down to my oxfords. I picked up the fresh-squeezed lemonade from the table, my sweaty hand slipped on the glass. I gripped it harder, which saved me from wearing it down front of my yellow dress. I was not in the mood to talk to “Willy”. I sighed; I suppose it would have to be done.
“I don’t know what my plans are, Wilfred, but I can assure you I have plenty of goals.” I flipped back a lock of my hair in defiance and pursed my ultra-fabulous red lips.
He leaned forward in his chair, his biscuit brown eyes scoping me out. “Oh really, Miss Margaret. And what would those goals be?”
“I really don’t think that is any of your business Mr. Moody.” I wouldn’t be an amoeba under his microscope. He wouldn’t get any information from me.
“Come now, we’re practically family, surely you can tell me what your little plans are?” he gloated.
“Leave her be, Will. Margaret has plenty of dreams. One day she will be a published author,” Abby said. She looked radiant. She wore a blue cotton dress with tiny pink flowers, which exactly matched the hue of her cheeks. She was so happy; she convinced me right then and there that love must be blind.
“Published? Well I don’t rightly think that is the case,” he said as he lounged back against his chair. “Has she even written to any of these so-called publishers? I can’t imagine she’d make any good money out of it,” Wilfred snorted.
I was livid. How dare Wilfred question my dreams of being a novelist? I would be published, and I would be successful. He could count on it. I had the Greek blood to prove it.
“Hush Will, you don’t know my Margaret like I do,” Abby said. “She’ll make tons of money, you’ll see.” She beamed at me and placed a perfectly manicured hand on Wilfred’s arm.
I hid my pale stubby-nailed fingers under the table and clenched my hands into fists. Nails and a typewriter didn’t belong together. And Mama always said anger was unattractive in a lady, especially at the dinner table.
Daddy, who had been quietly sitting at the head of the table, finally spoke. He puffed his chest like the pompous man he was. His prematurely gray hair stood on end, red lines ran through the whites of his blue eyes like spider webs. He was tipsy again.
“Christina,” he spoke too loudly, and his double chin wobbled. “What’s for dessert? How can you let a man wait like this? You don’t have to do that much, woman.” His fist slammed the table with full force.
We all held our breath and waited to see which road Mama would take. She either fought him like a wildcat or caved me
ekly to his demands. Tonight she rose tiredly and brought the lemon meringue pie and plates to the table. She cut a large slice of pie and set it on one of the plates in front of Daddy. Without saying a word, she sat down again, smoothing back her red curls from her glistening forehead.
The only sound in the room came from the radio that Daddy had refused to turn off. There were rumblings of war on the news every day, and much unrest over Hitler’s demands on Poland that had many worried. Daddy thought war was imminent. I wondered if Daddy was about to make a war of his own right here at Mama’s table.
Daddy’s eyebrows knitted together, his eyes wild. He took revenge on that pie as if his fork were a dagger, but said nothing more. We all breathed a sigh of relief, all of us that is, except Wilfred, who’d noticed nothing but Mama’s pie since she’d set it on the white doily in the center of the table.
“Mama,” Abby’s voice cut the stillness, “Do you mind if we skip out on the dishes tonight? We don’t want to be late to Heidi’s dance. Besides, we still have to pick up Margaret’s date.”
I didn’t hear Mama’s answer. How had I forgotten about the dance and my date? Somehow Abby had convinced me to go just as I was in the middle of writing chapter nine. My main character, Cordelia, was about to be hung for sleeping with her one true love. I’d only said yes to get rid of Abby; I was not about to leave Cordelia in the mist of inspiration.
“Abigail, who is my date?” I enquired tentatively. An important question I should have asked earlier.
“Oh don’t worry; it’s a friend of Wilfred’s. His name is Thomas Mayfield; he’s going to move back to his home in New York and Will and I are going with him. Didn’t I tell you all this before?” Abby asked, clearly confused.
I didn’t bother answering that question. She didn’t need to know I might not have been listening.
I diverted the conversation. “Oh, so he lacks Wilfred’s southern charm?” I snickered.
Wilfred gave a greasy smile. “You won’t be disappointed. He is far from a Yankee boy; he’s been living in Charleston long enough to have some of that southern appeal.” He placed a piece of white meringue between his lips.
My stomach lurched. Everything in my body screamed at me, telling me not to go. Almost as if it knew something I could not.
I squelched the instinct not to attend. I would go for Abby. In a way, it would be my last gift to her. And her last punishment, all at the same time.
4
We pulled up in front of Heidi’s old southern colonial and I could see it was packed with partygoers, enjoying the warm spring air. Some relaxed in the rockers on the front porch, others leaned up against the grand white pillars, laughing and sipping cocktails. Mr. Mayfield parked the car under one of the grand old oaks and we headed toward the house.
I followed Mr. Mayfield up the porch steps. I looked nice, at least I thought so. The black Chantilly lace dress that Mama had made for me last year flattered my skinny figure and contrasted with my fair hair quite nicely. Unfortunately, I was so caught up thinking about what I was wearing that I didn’t watch where I was going and went over on my ankle. Darn shoes. Some stupid black heels I’d borrowed from Abby. They didn’t fit properly but I didn’t own any heels and she had insisted I wear them. I winced; so much for appearances. I quickly regained my composure but it was too late. Mr. Mayfield had seen me and was smirking. I glared at him. He had irritated me ever since I had squeezed myself into his pretentious little car. He exuded perfection but I saw beyond that slick exterior. I intuitively picked up an air of murky toxicity.
Mr. Thomas Mayfield flashed a superior grin. He was, of course, impeccably dressed in a double-breasted penguin suit that showed off his handsome features. He lifted his fedora, bowed and swung open the front door.
“After you, Miss Potter, I do believe this party could be some fun. Don’t you think?” he said.
His ice blue eyes penetrated my soul with such intensity that I shivered. He was a slimy one. I wrapped my shawl more tightly around my shoulders.
“I’m not sure I even want to stay,” I answered primly.
Mr. Mayfield, not one to take no for an answer, pressed his hand to the small of my back and propelled me firmly forward into the house.
Heidi had never invited me to her home before; she had always been Abby’s friend. Now I wished that she had. It was every girl’s dream. I gazed in awe at the ornate vaulted ceilings where angels stared down at me from the rafters. A curved spiral staircase was cushioned in plush carpet, the kind that you could lose your feet in. I felt as though I was in some kind of fantasy. I put a hand to the fashionable yellow wallpaper and felt its texture under my fingertips. My eyes drank in the Dutch paintings; both exquisite and expensive.
Butlers went back and forth in a steady stream from the living room back to the kitchen. They all carried oval trays of champagne and large platters of shrimp and finger sandwiches. Everything smelled delicious and my mouth watered in anticipation.
I traipsed after Mr. Mayfield, taking one look back at the trays of food. I could almost hear Mama’s voice in my head telling me not to be a glutton in public. I suppose the food would have to wait. Being a lady really was hard sometimes.
We passed over the threshold into the living room and my eyes took in the area before me. It was even grander than the foyer had been. Dark crimson velvet chairs stood out against the soft cream walls and ornate decorations filled the room. Two brass lions stood guard at the fireplace. A long wooden table was set up along one wall, laden with crystal bowls full of red punch, more champagne and every food imaginable. I must have a little taste of everything, I thought. Guiltily, I squelched the memory of scoffing down a second piece of Mama’s pie.
To one side, French doors fanned wide open in invitation, and an intoxicating breeze wafted through the air. The band outside started to play the Carolina shag and I noticed the connecting dining room had been made into a dance floor.
Mr. Mayfield leaned in close to my ear to be heard over the din. “Give this party a try. Please dance with me. Come on, you know you want to.” He smiled and held out his arm, and I reluctantly let him lead me to the dance floor, but only because I wanted to stay in this beautiful house a while longer.
He was handsome, I would give him that, but he was also arrogant. The light from the chandelier shone on him as if it were a spotlight just made for him. His white teeth gleamed against his perfectly tanned skin. Female heads turned in our direction, straining to catch a glimpse of the debonair stranger. Everything about him was just right, from his perfect shiny hair to his polished black dress shoes. Something told me Thomas Mayfield always got what he wanted.
The crowds began to gather on the dance floor and the heat rose, but all I felt was an oppressive chill. Thomas pressed me tightly against his body, his heartbeat pounding in my ear. The rhythm of his body pulsated against me as we began to move to the music. He made himself the lead, always the center of attention, showing off with spins and other gyrations. His upper body and hips hardly moved as his legs moved into convoluted kicks and fancy footwork. As the follower I tried to mirror his steps. I couldn’t breathe, it was impossible to keep up. My eyes scanned the room frantically, looking for Abby, but there was no sign of her. I was stuck with Casanova. We twirled faster and faster until all the faces blurred and blended together until they seemed to become one. I was so dizzy, not to mention I was in these ridiculous heels, I would surely lose both legs if we didn’t stop.
“Please, I’ve had enough,” I pleaded, “You’re going too fast, I’m getting nauseous.” My pulse roared in my ears.
“Exhausted already are you?” Thomas laughed a fake laugh but abruptly came to a standstill.
I would have fallen on the floor if he hadn’t yanked me up by my arms. I straightened myself and removed his hands from my shoulders. Panting heavily, I couldn’t do anything but give him a monstrous glare.
“I just think that you haven’t had this much excitement in a while. Come on, I’ll
get you a drink,” Mr. Mayfield said smoothly, ignoring my fierce look.
“We’ve had enough fun,” I seethed. I finally caught my breath and suppressed the urge to smash his precious toes with my heel. Abby would never forgive me if I made a scene. He grinned again. Mr. Mayfield was really limited in his facial expressions.
“Come on Margaret, you can never have too much fun.”
Before I could stop him, he’d pulled us through the crowd over to the refreshment table. He picked up two glasses of champagne and placed one into my hand. “Here, you look like you need one of these,” he said and raised his glass. “A toast to us.”
I immediately placed my drink down on the table and replaced it with fruit punch. A flicker of annoyance passed across his face but it passed quickly.
I noticed.
I never missed fury, my father taught me well. “Sorry, I don’t drink,” I said.
“Doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” he cooed. “A real lady shouldn’t.” He lifted his gaze to mine.
I thought about barfing on his shoes. Instead I plastered on a coy smile as artificial as his personality and downed a large swig of punch. It was going to be a very long evening.
5
Two interminable hours later, I was still trying to unload Mr. Thomas Mayfield. The party was in full swing and it seemed everyone was having a good time except me. All I wanted to do was to get rid of my so-called date and get back to my novel.
I excused myself with a need to powder my nose, and immediately made a beeline for the back door. The fresh air beckoned to me and I was rewarded by the sight of dozens of candles illuminating the night like diamonds. They glowed and flickered like tiny fairy dancers as they moved and twirled in the breeze. Candlelight glistened amid the multi-colored flowers that floated gently on the pool.
“Enjoying yourself?” My reverie was broken by a silky smooth voice. Mr. Mayfield was on me like a bee to honey. I’d been hoping it would take him longer to find me. “They’ve done it out well, haven’t they?” he continued, oblivious to my annoyance.
The Soul of the Sun (The Argos Dynasty) Page 2
