Eternal

by Glass, Debra

  I had forgotten. Mt. Pleasant had played its last game of the season last night. “Did we win last night?”

  “They called it off because of the weather,” Waylon murmured as he looked at the portrait over the mantle in the south parlor. “Those are the Ransom boys.”

  My stomach did a somersault as my gaze shot to the portrait of three children I had carelessly bypassed every day during the week we’d lived here. With fresh eyes, I studied the faces which seemed utterly realistic, prominent against the background of pastel blues and ethereal grays.

  In comparison the two older boys who both appeared just a little older than Ella, bore a striking resemblance to Jeremiah. Like him, they boasted gray eyes and unnaturally dark hair.

  When I’d seen Jeremiah on the roof of the house, his hair had obviously been black but the sunlight had picked up rich hued highlights of deep brown and dark auburn.

  My gaze fixed on the youngest child in the portrait. Intuitively, I knew this baby who lay in something akin to a bassinette was Jeremiah.

  Waylon leaned toward the portrait and then his eyes rounded excitedly. He turned to me.

  “Washington Bogart Cooper painted this!” he exclaimed.

  Although I had no idea who Washington Bogart Cooper was, I didn’t want to look stupid so I feigned shock.

  My acting must have been terrible. Waylon ruffled the top of my head with his big palm. “He was a famous painter in the nineteenth century. He painted several of the portraits at Carnton Plantation and at the Carter House in Franklin. I’ll take you there and show you sometime.”

  My breath caught. Had Waylon just asked me on a date? Me?

  And although I wasn’t the history buff he was, I wasn’t above learning something new—or hanging out with a cute, nice guy. “I’d like that.” I couldn’t quell the smile that tugged at my lips.

  A sense of unease settled between us, so palpable I perceived it as strongly as I’d felt the lightning in the attic last night. But my reaction differed drastically. Nothing compared to the energy that swelled through me when I’d touched Jeremiah’s hand.

  Waylon cleared his throat. “Cooper painted the presidential portrait of Andrew Johnson, too. This is a real piece of history you have here.” He ventured past me toward the stairs.

  I followed.

  He ran his palm over the gleaming banister. “Smooth as satin,” he whispered and then he turned to me and searched my eyes. “Do you ever think about all the people whose hands have touched this very wood?”

  When I blinked, images rippled through me like water over the rocks in a rushing creek. Soldiers. Ladies. Gloved hands. Bare hands. Old hands. Children’s hands.

  Jeremiah’s hands.

  A shiver skittered up my spine and I shook off the visions.

  Waylon leaned forward, craning to see the upstairs.

  I took the hint. “Would you like to go up?”

  His face brightened. “If you don’t mind.”

  He stepped back to let me pass him on the wide staircase. I led the way up to the landing.

  He joined me and gazed out the arched window. “Cool! You can see the cemetery from here.”

  Inhaling, I looked out at the sun glinting off the tallest obelisk. Next to that grave lay Jeremiah’s. My insides tensed.

  Waylon squinted, trying to get a better look at the stones. “Have you been out there?”

  “Yes.” I was suddenly trembling and didn’t know why.

  “They say the youngest Ransom boy was buried there after he died here in the house.” Waylon’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper.

  Hearing someone else acknowledge Jeremiah’s existence made me feel strange inside. I nodded. “That was in the article you gave me.”

  Waylon turned back to face the interior of the house. He warily surveyed the quiet space. “Is it true?” he asked, his voice even softer.

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. And when I didn’t answer, he continued. “Is it true this house is haunted?”

  My lips parted and I longed to tell Waylon—anybody—the whole story. I clenched my fists. I couldn’t admit it. Some part of me sensed the importance of keeping Jeremiah’s existence a secret. Waylon seemed to like me. What would he think if I confided everything I knew about Jeremiah? I’d be a laughingstock at school. Even though Waylon loved history, he might not believe me. He’d doubtless think I was nuts! Instead of divulging anything, I shrugged. “It is an old house. There are lots of little creaks and pops.”

  I walked from the landing up to the second floor, hoping Waylon would drop the subject. He followed with the same astonishment he’d had upon first sight of the downstairs.

  He crossed the floor to the bookshelf which was still Mr. Stella’s favorite hiding place. “I think it’s awesome that you got all these books and the furniture with the house.”

  Standing back, I allowed him to inspect the collection. “I’d love to read every one of these,” he added.

  “There are a few first editions in there,” I said proudly. At least, I’d recognized that. He wouldn’t think I was a total idiot.

  He pulled his camera out of his pocket, “Do you mind?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “Of course not.”

  He switched it on and snapped a couple of pictures of the architecture and then one of me.

  I started to beg him to delete it. No one took pictures of me anymore. Not since my scar. Instead, I bit my bottom lip. “You’re not going to tag me in that, are you?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to,” he said.

  I scuffed a foot against the edge of the rug. “Since my accident…”

  “No problem.” He slipped the camera back into his pocket. “Hey, do you know if any letters or old pictures that belonged to the Ransoms were left behind?”

  “I-I haven’t even unpacked yet,” I stammered. But letters? I had been hoping for a photo but to find letters written by Jeremiah… My heart soared at the thought.

  Waylon’s gaze drifted to the ceiling and suddenly my heart plummeted back to earth. I knew what he was about to ask. My pulse accelerated.

  “Where’s the entry to the attic? Have you been up there?” He scouted the upstairs, looking for the entrance. “There’s a widow’s walk on top of the house. Planters used to look out over their fields from their widow’s walks.”

  “Really?” I asked trying to sound uninterested. I gulped and wiped my damp palms on the sides of my jeans. I couldn’t go to the attic with Waylon. Not after last night. That place belonged to Jeremiah and me. It was a place he’d shared with me. A special place, like the roof was a special place. Guilt flooded me.

  I had to distract Waylon. “Did you…did you bring your metal detector?”

  He would not be swayed. “There’s got to be a set of stairs that leads to the attic in one of these rooms.” He crossed the hall from Ella’s room to mine.

  I held my breath.

  His eyes brightened when he discovered the attic door.

  Oh no.

  “Look, Wren! Here it is!” he exclaimed.

  I prayed the disappointment didn’t show on my face. But when he reached behind the door to grasp the knob to open the attic door, I blurted, “I don’t know if we should go up there or not.”

  “These attics are safe. I’ve been in many of them. They’re as big and solid as the rest of these old houses,” he explained.

  Panic brimmed. What if Jeremiah was up there? What if Waylon saw him?

  Waylon gave the door a tug but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s stuck.”

  He seized the toggle knob in both his big hands and pulled with all his might but the door did not give. “It’s stuck,” he repeated. “Reckon it’s locked?”

  “Probably. I…the real estate agent hasn’t given us all the keys yet.”

  Finally, he gave up.

  Relief crashed over me like a wave and I resisted the strong urge to sigh.

  “Maybe it’s swollen because of the rain last night.” He examined the fit o
f the door against the frame. “It doesn’t look as if there’s a reason it should be stuck though. Too bad you don’t have key. I’d like to know what’s up there.”

  “Me, too,” I said, but I knew exactly why that door wouldn’t open.

  Jeremiah didn’t want Waylon in the attic either.

  Waylon gave up on the door and pushed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Where’s the bloodstain on the floor you told us about at school?”

  “In here.” I motioned him into my room.

  He followed me and gaped at the massive furniture. “This is your room?”

  “Not too shabby, is it?”

  “Not at all.” He crossed the floor and ran his fingertips along the solid wood of my big tester bed, scrutinizing the piece with his eye for antiques.

  I squatted and then pulled the braided rug back to reveal the bloodstain. Again, images assailed me and, trying to dispel them, I blinked rapidly. My pulse rioted as relentless visions of soldiers in agony forced me to thrust the rug aside. I crab walked back from the bloodstain and pushed myself up. But when I stood, my head swam. Blackness washed before my eyes. My knees gave and I collapsed on the edge of the bed. Nausea welled. I swallowed against the burning bile in my throat.

  “Are you all right?” Waylon asked.

  “Fine,” I muttered and pressed my cool palm to my forehead to still my roiling stomach. “I must have stood up too fast.”

  Concern shone in his eyes. “Your face is awfully pale.”

  I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Maybe it was the sight of blood.” Please don’t ask too many questions.

  He watched me for a second as if to make certain I wasn’t about to pass out on him and then he kneeled to examine the bloodstain for himself. A sense of awe swept over his features that didn’t surprise me. Even without the benefit of my psychic sense, I would have known Waylon knew exactly what those boys and men had suffered at the hands of nineteenth century doctors.

  He looked at me over his shoulder. “As much as I enjoy reenacting, this is the kind of thing that brings it all home to me, that makes it real. It’s one thing to dress up in a replica uniform and brave the weather while you camp. It’s another thing to have actually lived through what those guys did.” He shook his head in dismay.

  I gestured toward the window where bright, warming sunlight streamed in. “They must have performed the surgeries in front of that window because of the light.”

  Waylon’s gaze shot to the window and then back at me. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s pretty perceptive of you,” he said. “At Carnton they operated near a window so they’d have a place to toss out the severed arms and legs.”

  I shuddered and pushed down more threatening images.

  “Legend there says they were piled as high as the second story window but I doubt that’s true,” Waylon continued.

  Severed arms and legs?

  I gulped.

  “Where is Carnton?” I had to change the subject before a full blown panic attack set in.

  “The McGavock house in Franklin where many of the wounded were taken after the battle.” Waylon stood. “You wouldn’t know it now but it was a hay barn for a long time in the early twentieth century. So was Rattle and Snap, the mansion across the street.”

  My mouth fell open in shock. “A hay barn?” I had seen the grand plantation house across the street. Situated on the rise of a rolling hill, it stood magnificent with its majestic columns and sprawling grounds. I couldn’t imagine anyone would have ever let such a proud, old house fall into such disrepair, much less use it as a barn.

  Waylon nodded. “My grandfather remembers seeing cows and horses stabled inside it and tobacco hanging to dry from the second story floor joists.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Me either.” He surveyed the architecture of my room. “That’s what’s so fascinating about this house. It’s as close to the same as it was during the war you’ll find around here.”

  “There’s nothing like this in Atlanta,” I said.

  “That’s because Sherman destroyed it. Just like in Gone with the Wind.”

  “Why’d the Yankees leave these houses?” I asked.

  “This area was behind Union lines for most of the war. Even the Yankees wanted a nice place to stay.” Waylon’s bright smile was infectious. “In Atlanta, the army was just storming through on their way to other places, and burning the houses was Sherman’s way of trying to turn the people against the Confederate government.”

  “So,” I began. “When you reenact, are you always a Confederate?”

  “No,” he responded quickly. “It doesn’t really work that way. Sometimes we’re Union and sometimes Confederate. It usually depends on what the place where we’re reenacting has a need for. Or what gear you have. I’ve even been a doctor and a litter bearer. To me, it’s all about honoring both sides and bringing that part of history to life for people who want to learn about it.”

  I was surprised. Admittedly, I’d previously thought reenactors were weirdoes who couldn’t let go of the past, but I wasn’t about to share that opinion with Waylon.

  And yet, what would Jeremiah think if I donned one of those Southern Belle dresses with a hoop skirt?

  Waylon’s eyes brightened. “Hey, is that the same bed the youngest Ransom boy died in?”

  My heart twisted. I shot a brief glance at the center of my hastily made bed, at the spot where I’d slept the night before—the same spot where Jeremiah’s life had slipped away. “Yes.” I heard my voice as if it belonged to someone else. And then, in an attempt to sound less knowledgeable, I added, “At least it looks like the one pictured in the magazine.”

  Waylon had moved to the corner of the bed where he wrapped his fingers around one of the thick bed posts. “Doesn’t it give you the creeps, sleeping where he died?”

  No. It did not bother me at all. But I didn’t admit that. Instead, I smiled and said, “I’m sure the mattress has been changed since then.”

  This was quickly becoming too uncomfortable. I didn’t know how long I could continue to act as if I was in the dark about Jeremiah. I stood. “Did you bring your metal detector?” I sounded overanxious.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s in the truck. Want to see what we can dig up?”

  I started toward my bedroom door and was relieved when he followed me down the stairs and back outdoors to where his truck was parked. He lifted a shovel out of the truck bed and then handed it to me.

  Gripping the thick wooden handle, I pushed the point of the spade into the pea gravel driveway while Waylon grabbed his metal detector out of the back of his truck. I knew little about metal detecting equipment but from the looks of all the bells and whistles on his, it appeared he was more than a casual enthusiast.

  He twisted a couple of dials and then fit the accompanying pair of headphones on over his ball cap. “You ready to hunt for buried treasure?”

  I smiled.

  “I’ve found all sorts of things with this,” he said, hefting it. “Buttons, belt buckles, bullets. I even found a Civil War pistol once near the Carter house but I donated it to the museum.”

  “You donated it?” I asked, perplexed. “Why didn’t you keep it?”

  “I couldn’t have kept something like that in good conscience. What good would it do sitting on my shelf at home when thousands of people could appreciate it in a museum?”

  My insides warmed at his honesty. Waylon was the sort of guy who’d make a good boyfriend. He’d ignored Ella’s silliness with grace. He hadn’t once been condescending because he knew more about the Civil War and the architecture of my house than I did. He’d been concerned about me when I had nearly fainted at the sight of that bloodstain, and now I discovered he was the type who generously donated artifacts to museums so they could be enjoyed by all.

  “Where do you think the best place to start would be?” I sincerely hoped he would find something cool that I could persuade him to keep for hi
mself.

  He scanned the grounds. “Want to start in the side yard?”

  Shouldering the heavy shovel like a soldier with a rifle, I marched around the side of the house alongside Waylon.

  “There would have been soldiers camped all around these grounds.” He adjusted the knobs on the shaft of his metal detector before he swung the coil at the bottom easily, just inches over the grass.

  I blinked, seeing through the veil of time to where beleaguered men and boys huddled around campfires and hastily thrown up tents.

  Waylon gestured to where one of the massive whitewashed chimneys rose against the side of the house. “You can lean the shovel against the bricks,” he said, ripping me out of my trance. “It may be awhile before we find something big enough to warrant digging a hole in your yard.”

  His easy smile was meant to be friendly and flirtatious but it gave me a sick feeling in my gut. I wondered why I was fighting so hard to not like him.

  Who was I fooling? I knew why.

  Jeremiah Ransom.

  There was absolutely nothing wrong with Waylon. Nothing at all. Any girl would be thrilled to have him as a boyfriend.

  Not me.

  Jeremiah enthralled me with the mystery of his existence and the way being near him made me shiver all over. By the fact he was something—someone—who belonged only to me.

  And even though I barely knew him, I couldn’t imagine my heart belonging to anyone but him.

  Waylon wagged the metal detector as he moved from the side of the house toward an old stone well that stood at the far edge of the side yard. He stopped and wielded the detector over a small area near the well. “There’s something here.” Bright eyes locked with mine. “Bring the shovel.”

  He discarded the headphones and metal detector and I passed him the shovel. Gripping the handle, he dug the point into the earth and then planted a foot on the metal. I stood back as he scooped out a shovel full of the ground. He dumped it and then sifted through it. “Look!” he exclaimed proudly as he held up something that resembled an oatmeal-colored pebble.

  I stared at the object. “What is it?”

  He shot to his feet and grabbed my hand so that my palm was open. My breath caught at the sudden motion, at the feel of warm, human flesh against mine. The stunning realization that the last touch I felt had been from a ghost struck me like a bolt of lightning. Still, Waylon’s touch couldn’t compare with the subtle intensity of Jeremiah’s energy.