The meeting room is adjacent to the kitchen. The smell of coffee teases my nose, thankfully blocking out the other scents. I find Mama and Mr. Shackleford waiting at a folding table. A box of tissues and a vase of plastic flowers decorates the center.
“There you are.” Mama pats a folding chair next to her. “We need to get a move on here.”
I remove my coat. “I’m sorry about Timmy,” I tell Mr. Shackleford. “I didn’t realize he’d passed.”
As I drop my coat over the back of a chair, the gray-haired man looks slightly caught off guard. “Why, thank you. It was an unfortunate accident.” A shake of his head and his features sour. “Awful painkillers—never could get him off of them.”
The folding chair is cold and hard as I sit. I’m sad for him and wondering why Timmy is hanging around. “Did he work here with you?”
Mr. Shackleford’s eyes glaze. Under the table, Mama pinches my leg. “He was my only son—I had such high hopes for him. I wanted him to take over the business.”
Mama slides her coffee cup toward me, then an open book showing various types of caskets. “I think Willa Rae would have wanted this oak casket with a copper vault.”
Mr. Shackleford pulls himself together. “The copper package is our top of the line.”
In my ear, I hear a voice. “I want a white casket. Hot pink satin interior.”
I glance around and frown.
Shackleford and Mama both follow my gaze. “What’s wrong?” Mama says.
“Nothing…I thought I heard…” I shake my head. “Aunt Willa wants a white casket, I think, and a hot pink satin liner.”
Mama lifts an accusatory brow. “Stop that,” she threatens under her breath.
I flip through a couple of pages, seeing a beautiful white one that should fit the bill.
“Yes!” My aunt’s voice is clear in my ear. “Isn’t that a stunner?”
I tap the photo. “This one. She wants this one.”
“And forget the copper,” she demands. “Go with the cheap concrete vault. But I want pink to lie on.”
In the silence, I repeat what I’ve heard. Mama’s chest swells and she smooths her countenance. “You would make Jesus cuss some days, Ava. Please stop playing around. You made your point—you and I will discuss this stuff”—she says the word like I’m forcing her to swallow bitter cough syrup—"after we’re done here. Right now, we need to make these arrangements.”
She nods at Mr. Shackleford to continue. His discerning eyes linger on me for a moment. “Ah, the white casket is a popular one—it has inlaid roses carved on the top.”
Mama looks like she’s going to explode. Her lips work as she attempts a polite response.
“Perfect.” I hear more of Aunt Willa’s instructions, though I don’t see her, and they seem to tumble out of my mouth. “For the casket flowers, she wants a spray of red roses and white gardenias with sprigs of fall leaves tucked in with them. Betty Lee has some—she’ll know what I—I mean, Aunt Willa wants.”
Both of them stare at me slack-jawed.
Winter is always telling me I need to embrace my gift. It’s always strongest here in this town among these people. Even though I avoid coming home for this very reason, I’m tired of fighting it. “I need to talk to you,” I tell my aunt.
“You are talking to us.” Mama’s face contorts with worry. She thinks I’m losing it for real. She gives Mr. Shackleford an apologetic smile. “It’s that hit she took to her head yesterday. Doc says she has a concussion.”
“I’ll contact Betty Lee and place the order for you,” Mr. Shackleford says to me. “We can set up the visitation for Saturday evening. Since Wilhelmina was such a pillar of the community, we should consider a second visitation on Sunday afternoon.”
At least he doesn’t think I’m crazy. Or maybe he does but he’s too polite to act like it. I give him a thankful look. “Sorry, but that won’t work for me. I have the Burnett/Durham wedding on Saturday and the wine tour on Sunday.”
Outside in the hall, I swear I see something move. It passes and I continue, sending my gaze around for Aunt Willa, just in case she makes an appearance. “Plus, the autopsy won’t be done until Monday.”
Mama gasps. On the way over, I called the number Rosie gave me for the county office and they promptly emailed the form I needed to fill out. In the parking lot, before I came in, I emailed it back.
My mother’s eyes close and she sighs warily. Shackleford frowns, checks his notes, and looks up at her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know there was going to be an autopsy.”
Aunt Willa’s voice swoops past me again, startling me. “Put me in the watercolor dress—and I want ‘Amazing Grace’ sung. Your mama knows which dress I’m talking about. And tell her not to waste money on a bunch of other flowers. It’s not like I can enjoy them.”
It’s so good to hear her voice, even if she is a ghost. I smile as I relay the instructions. A heavy, pregnant silence again fills the charged air between us.
Mr. Shackleford shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting between me and Mama. He’s worried she’s going to start yelling at me, but I know her better than that. She does not lose her cool, no matter what, even if she does get aggravated.
Sure enough, she scrutinizes my face then scans the room as if double-checking to see if Aunt Willa is actually here. I see the shadow move in the hall again, a female figure floating past the open doorway. Mama doesn’t seem to notice, and for some reason I’m relieved.
Mabel Shackleford, Mordecai’s wife, bops her head in. “Excuse me for interrupting.” She nods at me and Mama. “Barbara Fay Reedsy finally passed, God bless her, and her family’s on the way to set up arrangements. It’s been such a hard couple of weeks on them. I just couldn’t put them off. They’ll be here soon, and I figured you were nearly done.”
Ah-ha. The ghost floating around the hall might just be Barbara.
Mama, morphing into mayor now, makes a sad face. “I knew she was doing poorly. We’re wrapping things up right now.”
Mabel disappears and her husband begins gathering his papers. “I believe I have what I need for now. I’ll work out the details for the service for next week with Reverend Stout, and once the autopsy is complete we’ll firm up the visitation times.”
He rises, as do I, and he shakes my hand. “Good to see you, Ava, although I’m sorry about the circumstances.” He puts a hand on Mama’s shoulder. “Mayor.”
When he’s gone, Mama continues to sit, staring at nothing, although her gaze is on the table. “Is she still here?” she asks so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
“Aunt Willa?” I call discreetly. I hope that Mama’s coming around and I can quit carrying this burden alone. I’m so grateful for Winter, since she’s the only one I can talk to about this stuff.
Mama worries the ring on her left hand. “If it’s really her, ask her to relate something that only I would know.”
Mama is a skeptic, obviously, but I can’t say I blame her. “I’m not sure where she went.” I reach for my coat, my aunt’s sudden absence annoying me. This is our chance! Together, we can convince Mama that having the gift of mediumship is not a curse. “But she was here, Mama. I didn’t make any of that up.”
Aunt Willa’s voice seems to fly by me again. “My sister wants proof, does she? Fine. Tell her I know the real reason she kicked your daddy out and made him leave town.”
My stomach lurches. “Daddy?”
Mama’s head rises with a sharp snap. She claimed my father left to follow his dream of becoming a rock star. A stupid, useless dream, according to her, that she chalked up to an early mid-life crisis.
With a thick tongue and a chest filled with dread, I relay Aunt Willa’s message. Mama’s eyes widen with fear.
“Got her attention, now don’t we?” Aunt Willa chuckles.
I know I shouldn’t waste this opportunity to confirm whether or not her death was accidental, but all I can think of at the moment is my father. The last time I saw Daddy was at the end
of summer when he crashed at my place for a night after a gig in Atlanta. His hair is prematurely gray, but he could easily pass for someone my age. “What about Dad?” I ask hesitantly. “Tell me the truth about why you made him leave.”
Mama looks tongue-tied; her mouth opens to speak and then closes again without saying a word. Her lips tighten, and then she looks up toward the ceiling. “Willa, don’t,” she demands quite clearly.
“It’s time you know,” my aunt says to me.
I grind my teeth. “Know what?”
“Ask your mother about the curse.” Aunt Willa’s voice begins to fade. “Sorry, I don’t have the energy to stick around. Ask her about the men any of us marry, and what happens to them…if they stay in town…past their thirty-third birthday.”
The curse. The one she mentioned in the letter? “You sent Daddy away because of a curse?”
Mama’s eyes meet mine, sad and angry at the same time. “Yes,” she says simply, rising to her feet. “It was the only way to save him.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Save him from what?” the horror in my voice echoes in the room. Mama glances around and makes a shushing noise.
Her gaze once more goes to the sad little table, as though there’s an answer on it. “People don’t believe in this stuff.” It’s as though I’m not even there as she’s speaking. “I don’t believe in this stuff.”
Pulling out the chair, I resume my seat, partially because my legs are trembling. “You believed it enough to send Daddy away. Now tell me what this curse is.”
She drops back into her chair and swallows hard. “The Holloway women—our family—we can’t escape it.”
Dread bubbles up in my belly. “What does it do? How is Dad affected?”
She shakes her head slightly. “I thought it was all crazy talk, an old wives’ tale, nothing more, but I couldn’t take the chance, and your father”—she cracks a patient smile—“he really did always dream of performing that god-awful music of his.”
“Sending him away protected him from the curse?”
“Seems to.” She finally meets my eyes. “The men we marry are cursed to die at a young age. Thirty-Three. None of them make it past that from what I know.”
A hard lump sticks in my throat. I think of Uncle Sadler and the grandfather I never met because he was dead before Mama and Aunt Willa hit their teens. I search my brain for others and realize I can’t remember any men in the family making it to old age. “All of them?”
Mama turns stoic. “As far back as I can remember, although it’s said several of the Holloway women managed to circumvent the curse to some degree to keep their partners safe.”
“How? Like…divorcing them?”
“If the men leave this town, or weren’t born here, they stand a chance.”
“This is for real?” At her nod, I blow out a long breath and sit back in the chair, the implications drowning me. “And you were going to tell me this when? I showed you that letter and you said Aunt Willa was crazy, and all this time you knew about the curse.”
Her eyes close briefly before she resets her face and opens them. Determination darkens her pupils. “There’s a lot about our family that isn’t normal, or accepted, in this town. I was trying to protect you. Protect our family reputation.”
I don’t doubt that, but I’m still angry that she kept this from me. I’m not sure I’ve ever believed in curses, although I’ve heard of plenty of them. In the South, we run the gamut between believing in Voodoo, Hoodoo, and Santeria, all the way up to being sinners bound for hell in our more mainstream religions. “Who put this curse on us?”
She wrings her hands, glancing back over her shoulder toward the door. “Do you remember the history of the town?”
“What they taught us in school, sure.”
In the distance, we hear the sound of the bell over the entry door. Mabel Shackleford sticks her head inside the room again. “I am so sorry to bother you again, Mayor, but we’re going to need this room. I do hope you understand.”
As Mama and I rise, she says, “I really have to get to the office. Let’s discuss this later, okay?”
It’s not okay, but as I follow her out, passing Timmy on the ladder still struggling with hanging the picture, I feel slightly relieved that we had this much of a breakthrough. I’m afraid at the same time, thanks to whatever this curse is.
I want to call my father, make sure he’s okay. I want to help Timmy, but have no idea how to get him to cross over. I want to find out who put this hex on my family and get that sucker broken, posthaste.
Mama and I pass a large group of Barbara’s family members filing into the parlor. Mama greets each of them, shaking hands and offering condolences.
Outside, the air is crisp, the sun bright, though lacking heat. I shiver as I wait for her. Earlier, I sent Winter pictures of the contents of the trunk, including a couple from the ledger. Checking my phone, I see her reply.
Your aunt was a tough cookie. She was definitely offering services for pay that involved the dead.
Great, I think, a fresh shiver raising goosebumps on my skin.
The message goes on. The food names are a code, probably people you know right there in town. You should check out this Thorny Toad place, ask some questions. Someone there will know.
Wait until I tell her about the curse.
Mama bursts through the glass doors into the sunshine already pulling her phone from her handbag. A clear ringing emits from it and sets my already jumpy nerves on edge. “Do not answer that,” I tell her.
For once, she listens, glancing between me and the screen before lowering the phone to her side and pressing her lips together. “Tonight,” she says. “I promise. Tonight, we’ll talk about what’s going on.”
I heave a sigh as she hustles to her car, leaving me with more questions and a terrible sense of foreboding.
Chapter Nineteen
When I arrive back at Aunt Willa’s the sun is shining and the temperature rising. I find Logan helping Mr. Uphill with bed and breakfast visitors arriving for the fall festival.
“Are you a bellhop, too?” I call as I walk up the path.
Logan looks up from unloading suitcases from the elderly women’s trunk in the driveway. “Nah, Davie called off sick.” He smiles, looking me over from head to toe. “Hey, you look nice today.”
In other words, based on the teasing note in his voice, I’m wearing street clothes rather than my sleepwear for once. “Thought I’d shock the world today and act normal.”
He gives a half-hearted laugh, dappled sunlight playing on his hair. “I sort of like your quirkiness. You’re…unique.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Stumped for a reply, I look away, seeing Mr. Uphill fly down the front steps to greet his guest. As he assists the woman onto the porch, he glances at me and waves. “Hello, Ava.”
I return the wave. Preston Uphill, tall, gangly, and a complete nerd, is the well-known resident Thornhollow historian. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor, who seems to enjoy taking care of others.
“Thank you for letting us use your fridge and freezer space,” I call to him. “Please help yourself to that food if you need it for this weekend’s rush. Just don’t tell the auxiliary gals, okay?”
He assists the woman inside before he strolls over to the fence, giving me a warm smile. “That’s kind of you. How are you feeling today?” He points toward the back of my head.
I touch the lump there, somewhat smaller now. “Better, thank you.” Logan disappears inside with the luggage, and I stare up at Mr. Uphill’s wrinkled face and wonder how old he is. He’s seemed ancient since I was a girl, although he hasn’t truly aged substantially in all these years. “Say, do you know anything about my family’s connection to Tabitha Holloway? I mean, I know we’re descendants and all, but I wondered if there was information you could tell me about her specifically. What was she like?”
Curiosity fires behind his gray eyes, but he’s nothing if not polite and doesn’t ask
why I want to know. “I’ve written a whole section on her in The History of Thornhollow, Volume 1. There’s a copy of the book at the historical society library. Would you like to look at it? I’m president, you know, so I can get you in later today before the public hours.”
The historical society exists in an old gothic house off Main Street, donated to the town by Uphill’s great-grandfather. It houses antiques, paintings, and various maps, newspapers, and other oddities about the town and area.
“Shoot, my afternoon is full.” Behind me, I hear muffled noises and glance over my shoulder to see Tabitha scratching at the display window glass from inside.
Logan joins us, his gaze drifting to the window as well. The cat’s lips are pulled back, and her gaze is fierce on us.
I turn back to Mr. Uphill. “What I’m most interested in is if Tabitha had any enemies.”
The man’s curiosity becomes more apparent and he tilts his head. “Tabitha and Samuel were run out of Colonial Williamsburg for their non-Puritan beliefs, you know. I would assume they both had plenty of enemies.”
Logan’s gaze shifts to Mr. Uphill. “Non-Puritan?”
Mr. Uphill continues to look at me as he answers Logan. “Tabitha was an herbalist”—he makes air quotes—“and what some labeled a mystic. Basically, she was a witch. She claimed to be able to see the future.” He does an eyeroll that would give Mama a run for her money. “Samuel was nothing but a constable, a married man, seemingly respectable until she showed up. Tabitha broke up his marriage and he left town with her to come here. Quite scandalous. They stayed amongst a tribe of natives in the hills north of here…not far from your winery.” This he directs to Logan before returning his attention to me. “That was before they officially founded the town in 1703.”
The date sticks in my memory from history class, but I’ve never heard these details about Sam and Tabby having an affair. “I didn’t know Samuel had been married before.”
Mr. Uphill makes a noise in the back of his throat as if I’ve said a bad joke. “Yes, well, while those who came later insisted Samuel and Tabitha were married, there are no records to that effect. Tabitha bewitched Samuel and that’s why he left a successful career and a loving wife. Of course, others insist the two acted heroically, if you can believe it, keeping the original town laws simple—no rum, no slaves, and no lawyers. And folks could worship as they pleased.”
Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1 Page 8
