Chance, Chance, Chance, Chance
Chance Owens
Mrs. Charlotte Owens
Mrs. Charlotte Pook
Mrs. Eugene Pook
Mrs. Charlotte Owens
Mrs. Chance Owens
Something wonderful and terrible has happened—I’ve fallen in love.
It’s terrible because I’m engaged to be married to Eugene Pook, but wonderful because I’ve fallen in love with Chance Owens.
I met him today at the barbecue festival in the Old City. We danced to the blues, and we talked about absolutely everything, and, as we danced, I knew we were soul mates whose HEARTS recognized each other. Either I’m in love or I’ve gone crazy. I don’t know which! All I know is that I want to escape with him to somewhere far away—to a whole unexplored world. Maybe this is what my great-great-great-grandparents felt hundreds of years ago when they left the port of Minorca for Florida. I reckon there were a few of them who just longed to get on a boat and travel far away from all the people they knew. I wonder how hard it was for them to leave behind everything they knew and loved back then?
Some people stared at me and Chance, but I was so happy at that moment, I didn’t give a hoot. I wonder if Mama and Daddy will hear about it. They would be so angry with me. They shouldn’t be. Chance comes from a St. Augustine family of doctors, teachers, musicians, and barbecue experts—a family as old and proud as ours, if you think about it! But Chance and I are from different sides of the same world.
“My parents live in a house that Martin Luther King once visited,” Chance said, “and your daddy marched in parades with the Ku Klux Klan. That’s the difference between the two of us.”
Chance is in the army, and as we walked through the Mission after the dance, he told me that he’s going to be stationed overseas in Europe.
“You could come with me,” he told me. “Anything is possible; we have choices.”
“Chance,” I said, “my mama and daddy would probably disown me. Besides, I’m supposed to get married right here in a few days.”
He laughed when I said that. “You don’t seem like someone who’s about to get married,” he said.
I’m scared he’s right, because it felt so natural to just lean my head on his shoulder, and I liked the way he touched my hair as we looked at the stars over the bay. It felt like we were already a couple.
“Think about it,” he said. “We’re young. There’s a whole world out there to explore; we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us.”
I so want to GO with him! But I’m afraid of what would happen. And poor Eugene! I do care about him, and I don’t want to break his poor old heart. It wasn’t so long ago that I was excited to start our new business, Charlotte’s Attic, and make all those precious displays for our store. And I loved how easy it was to make Mama and Daddy so happy with the wedding planning—talking about the food, the cake, trying on Mama’s silk wedding gown, the flowers and all. . . . Why can’t I have all of that with Chance?
Dear Chance,
I want to run away and leave everything I know behind.
But I’m terrified to go!
But when I think of my whole life married to Eugene
I feel I’m being buried alive.
“You know where to find me,” you said, “if you
change your mind.”
But Chance, Chance, Chance, Chance,
why didn’t your good luck happen to me
in time?
Dear Diary,
It’s Halloween Night, and I’m sitting in Daddy’s truck with the window open. A cloud just spit a big ole drop on my arm and it’s probably going to pour down rain any minute.
I hope it’s lucky rain.
The wedding is supposed to be tomorrow morning, but I won’t be there. Nobody will be there, because I just told Mama and Daddy that I can’t marry Eugene.
I’ve never seen Mama and Daddy look at me like that—like their faces were two blocks of flat stone.
“Oh, you’ve just got cold feet,” Mama said. “It’s wedding jitters.”
We were doing a last fitting of my wedding dress—the dress Mama wore when she got married—and Mama was adjusting one of the shoulder straps.
I’m still wearing the wedding dress now. Rain is falling on it, but it doesn’t matter because I won’t be wearing it in any ceremony.
“No, Mama,” I said. “It isn’t just wedding jitters.”
“What, then?”
How could I explain how I felt today at the wedding rehearsal—like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air? How could I explain how, just last night, I had another dream that I was sick from yellow fever and buried alive in the Huguenot Cemetery, and in the dream the wooden coffin turned into Eugene, who was holding me down and suffocating me underground?
So I just told them the simple truth. “Because I love someone else,” I said. And then I told them who.
Once I said it, I realized I was free. I don’t have to marry Eugene, I realized. It’s my life and my decision. It was so simple, like waking up and seeing the sunlight after a long, long nightmare.
I knew there would be tears, and I knew Daddy would yell, but I guess I didn’t really expect Mama and Daddy to tell me to get out. Can you imagine?! Their own daughter!
“The truth will set you free.”
I pray that it’s true.
But I’m not free yet, because I haven’t told Eugene the truth. He’s so happy right now; he was just beaming tonight when Daddy gave him his wedding gift—an antique rifle. “I’ll teach you to use it,” said Daddy. “We’ll go skeet shooting together next week.”
Well, Eugene’s cheeks got so pink and happy—he looked like a little boy on his birthday.
And that’s when I realized something else—that Eugene wants to marry my family more than he wants to marry me. Come to think of it, Mama and Daddy and I disagree on most everything, and Eugene always takes their side over mine. It’s like he’s more interested in what he calls “the authentic Florida heritage” than some of the real Minorcan people, like me.
If I could leave without telling him, I almost think I would. But I have to face him: it would be even more hurtful to let him show up in his tuxedo tomorrow morning all hopeful and happy, only to hear the news from Mama and Daddy.
I have this song in my mind that my friends and I used to sing when we were jumping rope back when we were small:
Lucky rain,
Lucky rain,
RAIN ON ME!
Lucky rain,
Lucky rain,
SET ME FREE!
42
The Lie
But it isn’t like them to decide they just aren’t showing up!” Mrs. Joyce frowned at the letter Eugene had presented to her. She sat in the beauty parlor with her auburn hair swept back in a French twist. A manicurist painted her fingernails with pink polish as she scrutinized the letter for the third time:Dear Mama and Eugene:
Steven and I went out ghost hunting early this morning, and we are not going to the wedding. Sorry to disappoint you, but we realized we have some sightseeing to do. Plus, since I didn’t get to be the wedding planner, the wedding is no fun. I also never enjoyed them datil peppers of Mr. Pook’s and I reckon they will be everywhere at the reception.
Your daughter,
Gilda
Eugene had hastily typed the note on Gilda’s old typewriter, hoping that this ruse would at least buy him some time until he figured out what—if anything—he would do with Gilda and Stephen.
“There’s something very strange about this letter!” Mrs. Joyce squinted at the words. “It looks like the sort of note Gilda would write on her typewriter,” she said, “but there’s something odd about it. I can’t explain why, but it doesn’t really sound like her!” Mrs. Joyce reread the letter with a concerned expression, her hand covering her mouth. “Do you think they got into some kind of trouble last night?” She looked up at Eugene. “I’m wondering if they did something stupid like sneaking some of the wedding champagne. Gilda
actually spelled Stephen’s name wrong here!”
“They’re teenagers,” said Eugene. “We knew this wedding might be pretty upsetting for them, so maybe this is their way of coping. Besides, Gilda loves that ghost-hunting stuff. She probably couldn’t resist on Halloween.”
“Yes—but not showing up for the wedding?!” Mrs. Joyce remembered the argument she and Gilda had had the day before and the doubts Gilda had expressed. Had Gilda actually been so angry she was willing to skip the entire ceremony and convince Stephen to do the same?
“Believe me, I’ve heard of kids doing worse,” said Eugene. “You know, I thought I heard them sneak out the door early this morning. . . . I just wish I had gotten up to talk to them.”
“Well, I can’t very well get married without my children there for the ceremony!”
Eugene realized he had backed himself into a very tight corner. “Patty,” he said, standing behind Mrs. Joyce and speaking to her reflection in the mirror, “just take a look at yourself. You look beautiful. See how that diamond ring shines on your finger! This is our day. It’s a small wedding anyway—small and perfect. Really, the only two people who need to be there at all are you and me.”
Mrs. Joyce looked in the mirror and saw that Eugene was right. With her hair, makeup, and dress complete, she had been transformed—younger and more beautiful than she had looked in years. And there was Eugene—his reflection so hopeful—almost pleading as he stood next to her. “This is the happiest day of my life,” he said, gazing at Mrs. Joyce’s reflection. “And I have something very special for you to wear to the wedding.”
Eugene gave her a small box and she opened it. Inside, she found a pearl necklace.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” said Eugene. “And I want you to have it.”
The manicurist shook her head. “So, so sweet!” she murmured. “I wish I had a husband like you, Mr. Pook!”
Eugene chuckled. “There,” he said, helping Mrs. Joyce adjust the clasp of the necklace.
“Thank you, Eugene. It’s lovely. But I—”
“Now—don’t you worry about Gilda and Stephen. I reckon they’ll have a change of heart and turn up for the wedding at the last minute. Why let a teenage mistake spoil our whole day after all these preparations?”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Joyce, more because she couldn’t imagine disappointing everyone—the priest, the musicians, the Furbos, the friends Gilda invited—than because she actually agreed. But I’m going to kill Gilda and Stephen when I see them! she thought.
43
The Wedding Specter
Darla and her mother were the first guests to arrive for the wedding; the musicians were just sitting down to begin their prelude music. As the soft sounds of guitar and harp filled the air, Darla observed Mrs. Joyce and Eugene as they stood nearby, speaking earnestly with the priest.
Where is Gilda? Darla wondered. It seemed strange that she and her brother hadn’t arrived yet.
An elderly couple named the Furbos arrived and said hello to Darla’s mother. Darla scrutinized their suntanned, wrinkled faces as she recalled Gilda’s theory: “I think the Furbos killed Charlotte.”
Darla felt very suddenly unwell. A weight pressed down upon her chest and she felt as if there wasn’t quite enough air to breathe, even though a gentle breeze was blowing off the bay. It was a feeling that she recognized all too well—the sense that someone was staring at her intensely—someone that nobody else could see.
Think about your guardian angel, Darla reminded herself. No spirits can touch you unless you invite them in.
Turning to glance behind, Darla saw exactly what she feared: The woman in white stood watching her from a short distance away. Clearly, nobody else saw the ghostly bride wearing a bloodstained wedding gown. Nobody else saw Charlotte’s ghost. Darla quickly faced forward in her seat, not wanting to see the vision. Gilda would tell me to make contact with her—to try to find out what she wants, Darla told herself. But without Gilda there, she felt too terrified to think like an investigator. She hadn’t forgotten the day when this same ghost led her into Mr. Pook’s house—to the vision that traumatized her for years afterward.
Darla opened her purse and pulled out her cell phone. With any luck there would be some text messages to distract her. But before she could check her in-box, her mother grabbed her wrist.
“Not at a wedding!” Mary Louise hissed.
Now the weight on Darla’s chest felt heavier—the air thicker. Calm down, she told herself. Don’t panic! She took deep breaths and placed her elbows on her knees, struggling to gain control of her breathing.
Suddenly a strange picture entered Darla’s mind—an image of Gilda trapped inside a box, deep beneath the ground. A place with no air. Something happened to Gilda in Mr. Pook’s house, Darla realized. She’s in danger.
Help! the woman in white seemed to whisper to her. Help!
Darla turned around. Charlotte’s ghost was still there, and she was pointing toward something she wanted Darla to see.
She’s pointing in the direction of Mr. Pook’s house, Darla thought.
Follow me, the ghost seemed to say. Hurry!
It would only take her a few minutes to get to Mr. Pook’s house if she ran. “Mom,” Darla whispered breathlessly, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“I forgot I’m supposed to help Gilda with something before the wedding!”
Before her mother could stop her, Darla raced across the grass, toward Mr. Pook’s house on Water Street.
44
Feats of Strength
When Darla reached Mr. Pook’s house, she stood frozen on the sidewalk outside his garden gate. The memory of skeletons moving inside the house paralyzed her.
Help. The ghost did not speak the word, but Darla somehow heard it in her mind. HELP. Again she saw the image of Gilda trapped inside the house.
Feeling as if she were walking into a burning building, Darla took a deep breath and forced herself to walk up the path, across the front porch, and through the unlocked front door.
Inside, the house was silent. The only sound was the tick, tock of the grandfather clock. Guardian angel, please protect me, Darla whispered to herself as she glimpsed her reflection in the eye-shaped mirror upon the wall. So far, so good. No bones wriggling on the floor. But she had the terrible feeling that something might jump out at her at any moment.
Suddenly Darla saw a bright spot floating just above the kitchen floor—an orb that gradually took the shape of the woman in white. As she drew closer, Darla saw the bright purple-red flower that decorated her white gown—a flower that turned into a bloodstain.
The ghost pointed to the words etched in dust on a chalkboard:LOOK UNDER THE FLOOR
“But how can I look under the floor?” Darla asked aloud.
“Hello?” a weak, muffled voice came from under the floorboards.
Darla caught her breath. “Who’s there?” Her voice came out as a squeak.
“Hey! Is somebody up there?”
It was Gilda’s voice. Darla exhaled, feeling relieved. “Gilda! It’s me—Darla! Where are you?”
“We’re down here—just hanging out under the kitchen.”
“What are you doing down there?”
“It’s nice down here if you don’t like breathing.”
“Hey!” It was a teenage boy’s voice. “Can you get us out of here? We’re running out of air!”
“How do I get you out?”
“I’ll knock on the floor where the trapdoor is,” said Stephen. “Hear that? It’s hard to see where you need to lift, but you just have to use your fingernails to pry up a piece of wood, and then there’s a hidden handle.”
Darla struggled to quell a rising sense of panic as she thought of Gilda and her brother running out of air. “There’s a problem here,” she said, “a big armoire is in the middle of the floor—probably right over the trapdoor. I’m not sure I can move it.”
Down in the
cistern, Stephen covered his face in his hands. “I forgot about that,” he said glumly. “She’ll never be able to move it by herself.”
Darla pressed her palms against the heavy armoire that Eugene had dragged over the trapdoor. She leaned all her weight against it, but it scarcely budged.
“I think I need to go back and get some help!” Darla shouted. What if I can’t open it in time?! she worried. “I’m not very good at stuff like this . . .”
But as Darla attempted to lean against the armoire once more, she sensed that she was not alone. She now felt as if the woman in white, the broken soldiers, the Indian villagers—all the ghosts of the house were there by her side to help her. She did not fear them; she told herself that these were the spirits of ancestors who had come to her side to help her because only she could see and hear them. With the strength of several poltergeists, Darla gave the armoire a final shove and it miraculously moved across the room.
Moving her hands across the floor, Darla carefully searched for the piece of irregular wood that concealed the cistern.
A long, anxious minute later, she peered down into the darkness. She saw Gilda and Stephen huddled together, leaning against one of the coquina stone walls. Exhausted and partly hidden in the darkness, they looked very small to her—more like young, frightened children than teenagers—as they shielded their eyes from the sudden light.
“Thank God,” said Stephen, rising to his feet and taking in deep, relieved breaths of air.
“Totally awesome job, Darla!” Gilda declared, her voice a hoarse croak. Her brave words belied the exhausted tears that rolled down her cheeks.
45
The Grand Entrance
The problem,” said the priest, “is that we’ve got another wedding scheduled right after yours. I’m sorry, but we can’t wait any longer.”
Mrs. Joyce scanned her surroundings, looking for some sign of Gilda and Stephen.
“It’s okay, Patty.” Eugene put his arm around her protectively. Finally he was having the wedding day he should have had twenty years ago. This time, nothing is going to spoil it, he told himself. This time, I’m in control.
Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy Page 18
