by Lyla Payne
I pick up my phone, punching Frank’s name in the directory and listening to the phone ring in my ear for what seems like an eternity.
My teeth grind through the prerecorded, canned message. “Frank, it’s me. I’ve been looking into our family, which is what you supposedly wanted me to do, but I can’t find Carlotta. Without knowing where to look—city, state, country—it’s going to be hard to track down any personal items or specifics.” I pause, hating the idea of begging but out of others. “Please call me back or email me something to go on. Otherwise I’m going to forget the whole thing and keep on muddying the family name.”
I hang up and decide to go check on the progress outside, figuring the fresh air will cool my overheated blood.
The guys are working in tandem and almost have the multicolored strands up along the entire roofline of the house. Leo stands on the ladder clipping the wires to the gutters while Cade follows along on the ground, making sure the strands are untangled as he hands them up. I stand in the darkness on the porch, my hands tucked into my armpits for warmth now that the sun is long gone, and listen to them chatting easily.
They’re getting along now, Cade laughing as Leo tells a story about Mrs. Walters. My soul smiles at the kindness that spills out of Leo when he lets his guard down. It must mean a lot to Cade to be able to feel as though he’s getting to know his estranged grandmother a bit better while fulfilling a duty no one else in the family either would or could take on. My heart goes out to him, this stranger who sort of rubbed me the wrong way the first time we met. It must be hard to walk into an entire town full of people who knew your grandmother better than you did. It must be even harder to hear that she talked about him often enough that even Leo knows his name and what he does for a living.
In the end, I take my hot coffee and sit on the porch swing, nudging it back and forth with my toes. Neither of them know I’m there, and I enjoy the soft sound of their stories and laughter, reveling in the comfort of having other humans nearby without the stress of interacting with them. I stay there and let the clean, winter evening in Heron Creek massage away my frustrations, if only for the night.
Amelia will be home soon, then Beau will pull in the driveway, and my heart will be as full as the house.
Beau gets done with work before Amelia gets home from, according to her, a “non-date” with Brick. The mayor strides up the walk looking tired but makes an effort to pretend he isn’t when he sees me bundled up on the front porch swing instead of inside the house.
“Hey. The house looks nice.” He takes two big steps and sits next to me, unburying one of my hands to brush a kiss along my knuckles. “What are you doing out here?”
“I don’t know. It’s a nice night and the walls were starting to close in on me.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They represent the questions in my multiple research projects.”
“Not too many answers yet, huh?”
I shake my head, then tell him about Daria and how Ellen left her place to go stay with a friend. I’m halfway through a tirade about my infuriatingly enigmatic father when I realize Beau’s not staying with me and trail off. He doesn’t seem to notice the sudden silence, his gaze fixed on nothing halfway between the roof of the house across the street and the moon.
“Hey,” I say softly, tugging on his hand. “Where are you?”
He startles, then looks down into my face and gives me a tired smile. “Long night at the office.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Guilt heats my face. We spend so much time talking about me and my many issues that Beau’s job gets lost in the shuffle more often than not. Heron Creek is a small town but he loves it, and he takes his job at the helm as seriously as Anne Bonny would have taken her own ship.
“We probably should.” The grave tone in his voice puts me instantly on alert. My fingers tighten around his as I breathe slowly and wait for the rest of it. “I’m sure you heard that the congressman from our district had to step down because his wife has been diagnosed with stage-four liver cancer.”
I shake my head, my face warm from embarrassment now. The girlfriend of a guy as interested in politics as Beau Drayton should really make more of an effort to read newspapers from the current century. “That’s too bad.”
“Yes, they’re good people.” He gives me a wry smile. “I doubt you’d have voted for him, but he’s a decent man.”
“Hey, I’m not so liberal.”
Beau chuckles. “Darlin’, you wouldn’t have voted for me. That’s no secret.”
I decide there’s no good response to that, since he might be right. We disagree on a lot of things. Things that we’d probably have to have some long discussions about were marriage and kids closer to being in the picture. “I’m not even registered in South Carolina yet.”
“You should fix that, you know.”
“I will. I’m all about doing my civic duty. I can’t wait to be called for jury duty. It’s like winning the lottery!” I exclaim with a healthy dose of sarcasm, feeling like I’ve won more than that when I earn an actual smile from my boyfriend. He seems so down, but I also get the sense that he’s avoiding the punch line of this conversation. “So the congressman is stepping down… What does that have to do with work?”
“It’s not work, exactly. I had a meeting with Governor Haley.”
The truth of what he’s getting at pinches me like a bee sting. I can’t help but wince, even though he’s watching me closely for a reaction and that can’t be the one he wants. Maybe it’s the one he expects, however, based on the resignation lining his handsome face.
“She wants to nominate you to take his place.”
“It’s not even a nomination, really. In South Carolina, the governor appoints a temporary successor to fill in until the next election cycle.” He pauses. “In two years.”
I take a deep breath and search for the right words. It’s not as though I haven’t expected to confront this day sooner or later—the one when Beau admits that not only does his family want bigger and better things for him than the life of a small-town mayor, but that he wants those things, too. No matter how cool he’s trying to play this entire thing, there’s an energy humming around him that he can’t hide.
“That’s an amazing offer, Beau. I mean, out of all the politicians in the entire state, for the governor to come to you personally and gauge your interest.” I smile, and I mean it. “I’m so proud of you.”
Beau leans forward and catches my lips with his, lingering a moment so that it’s a proper kiss. It leaves me breathless and not at all cold on the porch. “You’re a much better woman than I deserve, Gracie Anne. Do you know that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Now what did you tell her?”
“I told her I’d think about it, but there’s no way I can say yes.”
My eyebrows knit together. “Why on earth not?”
“For one thing, I’m not qualified. I’ve never held a political office other than this one, and there are mayors of far bigger cities with a lot more experience who would love the job.”
“Isn’t being DA a public office?”
“Yes, but it’s not quite the same thing.”
“I feel like you’re making excuses. So what if those other people have more experience? She obviously thinks you’re the guy for the job if she wants to tap you for it.” I frown, trying to ferret out exactly what’s bothering him. “Do you not want it?”
“It’s not— Maybe I don’t feel ready? Or that I don’t deserve it?” He licks his lips and avoids my gaze for a good thirty seconds. When it finds its way back, he’s conflicted, and maybe a little embarrassed. “I don’t want her to ask me because of my last name. I want her to ask me because she thinks I’m the best person for the job.”
I don’t know what to say to that, not at first. I would never have the same worries as Beau, not when it came to things like family and heritage and respect. The thought brings with it stray irritation attached to Frank, who says I do n
eed to be concerned with a family legacy but refuses to tell me why. Or how, or anything else.
“I don’t know what to tell you. You’re a Drayton and that matters to people around here even if you don’t want it to. All you can do is what you’re already doing—work hard, care about your constituents, and know you deserve whatever good things come your way because of it.”
Beau breathes out, then lays his forehead against mine. “Thank you for saying that.”
“Mmm. So you’ll really think about it?”
He sits back, peering into my face as though he’s expecting to find answers to a question neither of us has asked. Even so, I know what it is: do I want him to really think about it?
“What do you think?” he asks carefully.
“I think you should think about it, and if it’s something you want to do, then you should do it.”
It’s not the answer he wants. His lips pull down into a frown, and a wrinkle of worry appears on his forehead. “Things are good between us. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”
I shake my head. “If things are as good as we think, then nothing can.”
“Fair, but to me, us trying again and looking to the future means doing this together. I wouldn’t have to move if I took the offer, since we live within the district I’d be representing, but I’d have to quit my job. I’d have to be in Washington on a regular basis. Things would be different.”
I think about what he’s saying. The only way to be fair to him, and to us, is to really consider what he’s asking instead of blowing it off, or answering Yes, of course because it’s what I should say.
The answer is as clear as day, anyway. If I love Beau—and I do—I can’t hold him back. If nothing else, this sounds like a great way for both him and me to test the waters of political office without dragging ourselves through a campaign or having to move.
“I truly think you should consider it. If you decide it’s something you want to try, then I’m confident we can keep making it work.” I give him a mock-serious cock of the head. “You know it’s probably going to seriously impact how regularly we’re getting laid, though. Unless you’re going to turn into one of those Washington douchebags who hires high-priced call girls and treats them like his city girlfriends.”
“Don’t even joke about such a thing. I’m not that sort of man.”
I press our foreheads together again and stare into his eyes until mine threaten to go crossed. “I know you’re not. That’s one of the many reasons I’m so crazy about you.”
“The feeling is mutual. I don’t even see other women, Gracie Anne. There’s only you.”
“Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll give you something else to consider while you’re thinking on this.” I kiss him, nipping his lower lip before he stands up and puts his back to me. “How long do you have to decide?”
“Not more than a week. Climb on.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. I missed the gym today.”
“Mayor Drayton, are you suggesting that carrying me on your back up the stairs is equal to an hour’s workout, because I swear—”
“Just get on, girl. Your mouth is holding us up.”
I hop onto his back, bringing my blanket with me and putting my lips so close to his ear that I feel a shudder work down his body. “It’s usually my mouth that’s speeding things up, am I right?”
“You know, I can’t recall. Could be I might need a reminder.”
“You think you’re so smooth.”
Beau just laughs as he maneuvers us both through the front door, even remembering to lock it behind us before climbing the stairs like there’s not 125 extra pounds on his back. No need to answer, anyway. We both know it’s true.
The happiness that floods me at the easy camaraderie and the desire that flows between us hits a few rocks this time around—not true obstacles but stumbling blocks. What I told him outside was the truth, and the whole truth, but it doesn’t mean that his telling Governor Haley yes, if that’s what he ends up doing, won’t change things for the two of us. It might not at first, but I can’t help feeling that his taking the job will open a bunch of doors. I just can’t say for sure what we’ll find behind them.
Chapter Fourteen
Since I’m alone at the library on Fridays and can’t sneak away to see Trent again until Saturday afternoon, I decide to spend my spare time at work going through the research Brian brought me on Henry Woodward. The lead he gave me about the woman who attended Henry’s memorial service, the one who was neither friend nor family as far as anyone seemed to know, seems like the best place to start.
Before digging in, I make a list of things I know about Henry’s life. It’s terribly small, and a few pages into Brian’s research, I’ve learned that not only was I wrong about Henry’s ancestry but I was also mistaken about where the man was born.
His father’s family hailed from Scotland, many scholars thought, and Henry himself had been a colonist even before jumping on that ship to South Carolina—he’d been born in the British colony of Barbados. I fall into a rabbit hole of information on the colony for a good hour, much of which seems to suggest his father may have been an indentured servant of some kind, unless they had come to the island much later with the intention of farming sugar.
It doesn’t matter. Pull your head out of the wrong British colony and stick it into the right one.
Right. South Carolina.
I think logically about how Henry would have made his way to England and onto Captain Sandford’s exploratory mission to the Americas. Most children of privilege born on the outskirts of the world were sent back to civilization to complete their schooling. If that had been Henry’s track, then it’s not only possible but probable that he and this Elizabeth Myles met when he returned to England for university.
School records from the late sixteen hundreds, sadly, are hard to find without going to archives in person, so I begin with Elizabeth.
Her name is fairly common but not impossibly so, and I track down about a dozen women by that name who lived in or around London during the years Henry would have returned to England for school. Out of those, three were dead before Henry himself, which means unless she was a ghost at the time, she can’t have attended his memorial.
That leaves nine. There’s almost no information on six of them, only dates of birth and death and a few notes about their parents and spouses. The other three have links to more information. By the time I’ve read through number two, Elizabeth Marjorie Myles, I’m almost sure that it must have been her.
She came from a well-to-do family. Her father had made a good amount of money trading herbs and plants from the colonies, and he had treated his four daughters as though they were sons. Unlike many women of the time, Elizabeth and her sisters were educated in all subjects. Her father is the reason we know so much about her—his green thumb earned him favor with the aristocracy and even the royal family. Because his name and story had been recorded, so had hers.
Elizabeth never married; at least, I’m not able to find a record indicating otherwise. She studied botany and followed in her father’s footsteps.
I read through the scant information on the third Elizabeth, who ended up murdered in her forties. It seemed that she might have been a prostitute, based on some of the verbiage. If she was Henry’s friend, she hadn’t outlived him by long.
My finger clicks back over to the search on the second Elizabeth—I have a gut feeling that it’s her, and when I see movement in the corner of my eye and find Henry hovering there, his eyes wide as he reads the computer screen, I understand why.
I feel like I know her because he knows her. The way my ghosts’ emotions jump to me, how they feel as though they’ve belonged to me all along, is a part of this gig that makes me uncomfortable. Not as much as when they touch me, but close. It’s disconcerting to feel their souls like that. Like fear, a little bit, that we’ll get all tangled up and not be able to separate.
“Is that her? The girl you
knew?”
Henry’s face is as long and sad as I’ve ever seen it, his pale eyes fixed on the screen. He’s not reading anymore, just staring, and while I watch him, it feels as if my heart is dripping through my ribs. It’s good for nothing and sticks to my ribs in chunks of regret and sorrow that make it hard to breathe.
“How did you know her? Were you in love?”
He pulls his gaze away from the computer and studies my face before giving me a slight nod. The way his lips are pressed together into a frown suggests that things did not turn out well.
Which I already know, I suppose, since he left home and never returned. He also never married in the New World, not that we know of in the flimsy history on Henry. Because he had been in love with Elizabeth?
I spin back to the computer, wondering if there’s any way to find out more about this woman. On a whim, I pull up my email and send a quick note to one of the girls who finished her PhD a couple of years ahead of me and took a job at Cambridge. It’s a little ridiculous to think that just because she’s living and working in England she can find anything on a fairly obscure woman from four hundred years ago, but it’s worth a shot. I need personal effects and letters, the kind of things Brian brought me for Henry.
Too bad there aren’t any letters home from Henry in the pile of things he gave me the other night. At least, none to Elizabeth, not that I’ve seen. If there were, I think Brian would have specifically mentioned it.
I sit back in the chair, lost in thought while Henry pokes at the bobblehead of my favorite Braves player, the one Gramps kept in the blue room at the house. He succeeds in getting it to move about every third try and seems disproportionately proud of the ratio. My mind turns over what Brian said the other night and how my own instincts have gravitated toward the idea that Henry simply wants to be remembered.
