“Yes, but it was kind of faint. I was thinking it was probably Aaron or someone else in his family who was there, obviously not Phineas himself.”
“Okay. Well, how many descendants do you think Phineas has had? And how many of them have made their way to that stone? And how many of those have felt anything, anything at all, in order to leave their trace?”
“How am I supposed to answer that? Did you feel anything?”
“Hard to say. I came to that spot after I’d been doing research for a while, so I suppose you could say I had expectations. That’s why I wanted to see what you felt. But the point I wanted to make was, if there were more than a few descendants with the right gene, the charge would have been gone long ago if they were absorbing it, right?”
“I see what you mean. But—does this get recharged? Because at Sleepy Hollow I got a very confused impression of lots of people, overlapping. So would that mean that there were a series of carriers who left their imprint, and I’m picking up a lot of them? Is there a cumulative charge?” Abby was suddenly struck with another thought. “And am I leaving a trail behind me? Do you pick up ‘me’?”
“Ah, that’s the question.” Ned stopped, and Abby felt panic. “And that brings us back around to what just happened here.”
“Whatever it was, I thought it was pretty terrific,” Abby said, smiling. “Do you think it will last? Or was it a one-time thing?”
Ned smiled back. “Want to find out?”
They must have slept, because Abby woke up to sunshine, and Ned in her bed. She stretched, mentally and physically. Her first fully formulated thought was that she definitely was not the same Abby she had been the day before, and there was no going back. Was this—whatever-it-was—something that had been there, hiding, all along? Or was it something Ned had somehow given her? She rolled over onto her side and found him looking at her.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
She reached out to touch his face, then drew back. “Is that going to happen every time I touch you?”
“I don’t know. Is that a problem?”
“Only if I want to eat, sleep, or do anything else halfway normal.”
And she touched him and they were lost on the merry-go-round again, but this time it wasn’t as overwhelming. Ah well, Abby reflected briefly, there’s only one first psychic orgasm, but I sure hope there are lots more . . . And then her thoughts shattered once more.
An hour or so later, Abby crawled out of Ned’s arms and propped herself up on her pillows. “If I can inject a note of rationality here, I think I’ve figured out something.”
He pulled himself up beside her, watching her face. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve been wondering why all this ‘seeing’ stuff started, why it’s been happening to me. I never asked for anything like this, and I certainly wasn’t looking for it.”
He nodded his encouragement. “Go on.”
“But I’ve learned something. You were saying yesterday”—how many lifetimes ago was that?—“that you thought it was only the moments of extreme emotion that generated enough energy to linger, or to carry through, or whatever?”
“Yes. The peaks, like birth, and death—that’s the easiest one to follow, thanks to cemeteries.”
“Well, if that’s true, then maybe I had just never reached that level before, and that was why it was such a shock to me. I’ve led a pretty calm life, no major tragedies. Maybe that’s what you sensed with me and Brad—the emotional pitch wasn’t high enough. I thought I loved him, but looking back, it all seems pretty tame. I thought I should love him, but I didn’t really feel it, deep down. And maybe that’s why it was so easy to leave him—there just wasn’t that much there to lose.”
“And now?” Ned’s eyes were on her face.
“I’ve never been anyplace like where we were last night. That’s a whole other universe. And it wasn’t just good sex.” Abby grinned at him. “Although I don’t have any complaints in that department.” Then she sobered again. “But there’s a lot more there, between us. Isn’t there?”
“No question. I could say, I love you, Abby, and I do. I think I did from that first day, even if I couldn’t put it into words, even to myself. But people tend to use the ‘love’ word a lot, and there’s something going on here that goes way beyond that, and I can’t even begin to put words to it. But I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, you don’t. But don’t stop trying.”
30
Somehow Abby managed to pull together the pieces of her life to get to work on Monday morning. Ned had spent the rest of the day at her house in Concord. Not all of their time had been spent in edifying discussion. Abby had to smile at certain memories, and kept smiling. She really wasn’t sure what she felt at the moment, beyond the fact that she was wildly, unquestionably in love with Edward Newhall, her eighth cousin. Or first cousin eight times removed. Whatever. And she knew that he felt the same way. And that whatever they shared went beyond anything she had ever known, and made her relationship with Brad look shallow and colorless. Ned had finally left after dinner the evening before, arguing reluctantly that they both needed to get some sleep before they flamed out entirely. For the first time in her life, Abby could actually visualize such an event. But what a wonderful way to go!
Still, there were realities to deal with, like earning a living. She liked her job, liked what she was doing—or at least the Abby of last week had. This week’s Abby was somebody else altogether, but she trusted that New Abby wouldn’t jettison her sense of responsibility to the commitments of Old Abby’s former life. When she had a lucid moment, she wondered what her new understanding of the electromagnetic principles of hereditary history would contribute to her talks to schoolchildren, but there were still a lot of details to be worked out on that front. Yet she knew she would never look at history in quite the same way.
She managed to arrive early and dumped her things in her office. Then she faced the issue she had tried to avoid thinking about: telling Leslie. She liked Leslie. She thought Leslie liked her. She liked her job, and Leslie was her boss. But she couldn’t not tell Leslie about her relationship with Ned, since Ned had once been engaged to Leslie. Which apparently had ended by mutual agreement and without acrimony. It was complicated. Abby sighed and marched down the hall to Leslie’s office. Luckily she was in.
“Hi, Leslie. Got a sec?”
Leslie looked up from the stack of mail that she had been winnowing. “Uh, yeah, sure. What’s up?”
Might as well get it out fast. “I’m seeing Ned. Is that a problem for you?”
Leslie laughed heartily. “Of course not. He’s a great guy, and I want him to be happy. Just because we couldn’t work it out doesn’t mean you two shouldn’t. Okay, give me the gory details. You’ve known him, what, since September?”
“Yes.” The most astonishing two months of her life.
“Is that why you broke up with what’s-his-name?”
“No, really. That was falling apart anyway, and then Brad started seeing someone else. If I’d had any brains, I would have broken up with him before we moved up here and saved us both a lot of trouble.” And never have met Ned, or any of my ancestors.
“Ah. Well, I’m sure Ned didn’t make a move until after—he’s kind of old-fashioned that way. And?”
“And what?”
“Look, you don’t have to give me all the dirt, but this whole thing between you came up pretty fast, so I’m curious. How’d you finally get together?”
“He’s been helping me with my genealogy. It turns out we’re related, about eight generations back.”
“Figures. He seems to be related to everyone. And he’s really into all that, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. So, I’m happy for you both. Seems like a good fit to me.”
Leslie, you have no idea. “Thanks. I didn’t want to sneak around.”
* * *
“Ned, what have you told your parents?” Abby asked, as they drove from Concord to Lexingto
n on Thanksgiving Day.
“Nothing.”
Was that a smile he was hiding? “Really? Nothing?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Oh, I get it, you’re testing your parents. Or me. Is that it?”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t about to give up anything.
“Will they be happy, about us being together, I mean?”
“Are you worried about whether they’ll like you? Not necessary—they’ll love you. Of course, they love a lot of people, so that’s not a great indicator. But they’ll definitely love you.”
“Hmm.” Abby wasn’t entirely convinced. She remembered meeting Brad’s parents. His father was a hearty banker type, and his mother was flawlessly groomed and sharply dressed, making Abby feel like something the cat had dragged in. After the requisite polite small talk, they had ignored her, talking over and around her to their darling boy about his string of successes, going back to kindergarten. Abby had felt small and invisible. She didn’t want today to be like that.
She and Ned had been together less than two weeks. “Together” really didn’t seem to cover it. On the one hand, everything was still very new, and there was so much to learn about each other. On the other hand, Abby felt as though she had known Ned forever. She might not know the simple facts about him, like his favorite color or his taste in music, but she knew the core of him. Who he was. “Soul” wasn’t right, nor was “spirit,” but she was going to have to find a word for the essential being that was Ned. Still, however extraordinary their relationship was, enough of the old shy Abby persisted to keep her on edge about meeting his parents for the first time.
They were passing through neighborhoods that Abby had not yet explored. The monochrome November landscape was stark, but it was serene and dignified. She was surprised by how much open land existed this close to Boston, although she cringed to think what it must be worth.
They pulled into a driveway that led to a solid square house, painted a warm color somewhere between cream and sunshine. Even to Abby’s untutored eye, it was plain that the building was an honest colonial, not a modern reproduction, and had settled into its landscape centuries ago. The front door was painted a dark red and was embellished with a bunch of Indian corn, marking the season. It was graceful and handsome, and spoke of “home.”
Ned stopped the car and looked at her. “Ready?”
“I think so,” Abby replied and climbed out of the car. Standing beside it, she looked up at the house. “It’s lovely. You grew up here?”
Ned came around the car and took her arm. “Mostly. Let’s go in.” He opened the front door, which was unlocked, and they stepped into a central hallway, with a staircase rising in front of them. To the left Abby could see the formal parlor, which looked forlorn and unused. To the right was the dining room, with a large table already set for—Abby counted—ten places, and surrounded by mismatched chairs. And beyond that lay the kitchen, issuing good smells and much hubbub. With a gentle hand on the small of her back Ned guided her straight to the kitchen.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, grinning, waiting for someone to notice them. Abby tried to hang back, uncertain of her welcome, but Ned would have none of that and kept a firm hold on her. Finally a woman looked up and saw them, and broke into a huge smile. Dressed casually in faded jeans and an oversize sweater, she could have passed for twenty, until Abby noticed the gray in her long hair, pulled loosely back, and the gentle lines that showed when she smiled. She wiped her hands on a towel and approached them quickly.
“Ned! We were wondering where you were. And this is your guest. Abigail, is it?” The woman extended her hand, ringless, its nails clipped short, and Abby took it.
I really should be getting used to this, Abby reflected, as her polite social smile melted into a real one. At the woman’s touch, she felt the same bond, the same spark, as with Ned, but softer somehow. The woman was studying her with something like joy in her eyes, and Abby found she could return the warm gaze honestly.
“Welcome to our home, Abigail. I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”
“Abby, please. And, yes, I think you’re right.”
“And I’m Sarah.” Reluctantly she released Abby’s hand, then turned to her son. “You! Why didn’t you say something?”
Ned grinned at his mother and swept her into a hug. “Because I wanted to see what you’d do. But I can’t fool you, can I?”
“Never, baby. But I’m happy for the two of you.” She turned back to Abby. “Come on, we don’t stand on ceremony around here. Everybody pitches in. Let me introduce you . . .” And she drew Abby into the crowd in the kitchen.
The meal took hours, but flowed seamlessly from the group efforts at cooking, through serving and eating, and even cleanup. If there were strangers at the table, they were drawn into conversation, kidded, consulted, and made to feel at home. Afterward, stupefied by food and wine and good talk, people drifted to different corners of the house, some to doze, some to continue discussions. A few went out back to toss a football around.
At some point, Abby found herself standing in the hallway, where she had begun, listening. Well, no, maybe listening wasn’t the right word. Sensing? She still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it, but she was getting better at it. There were the wisps of generations of past Newhalls, or Reeds, or whatever, who had left their mark on the old wood and stone and glass of the building. Abby stood still and just let it flow over and around her. The spirits of the past and present skimmed by her, surrounding her.
Ned came up behind her and put an arm around her, and she leaned back against him. Without turning, she asked, “Does it always feel like this?”
“It’s not usually quite this crowded. But, yes, it’s always there.”
“Show me the rest of the house?”
“The whole thing?”
“Sure. I love attics and basements. Do you still have a dirt floor in the basement?”
“I remember when there was one, but my folks had a concrete one poured . . .” He led her through the rooms, pointing out details both old and modern.
“Where was your room?”
“Upstairs.”
“Show me.”
His room was simple, spare. Abby liked the plainness of the colonial style, its honesty. The space was square and true. The walls were old plaster, showing a few cracks, the woodwork simple, polished to a warm honey color by time and many hands. The windows overlooked mown meadow and trees, much as they might have appeared two hundred years before.
Abby stood in the doorway, Ned’s arms around her waist. Late in the day, the sun was sinking, and shadows filled the corners. She caught a flash of movement at the far side of the room and turned her head to see a young boy, who regarded her solemnly for a moment before dissolving. A boy with untidy hair, in a rumpled linen shirt and short breeches.
“Ned,” she said quietly, “was that . . . ?”
His arms tightened around her. “Yes. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
They stood without moving for another minute or two.
“Seen enough?” Ned finally asked.
“For now. Let’s go join the others. The ones who are still breathing, that is.”
More by Sheila Connolly
If you enjoyed this book, be sure to check out
these other titles by Sheila Connolly
available from Beyond the Page:
Called Home
The Rising of the Moon
Once She Knew
For more information,
or to see a full list of the mysteries
published by Beyond the Page,
see www.BeyondthePagePub.com
Excerpt from Monument to the Dead
Keep reading for an excerpt from
Monument to the Dead, the next book
in the Museum Mysteries series
by Sheila Connolly.
1
Adeline Harrison was dead.
I couldn’t remember when I firs
t started reading the obituaries in the paper, but now I did it daily, and that’s how I saw the news.
I had unfurled my morning paper as my commuter train rumbled out of the Bryn Mawr station. It seemed almost a shame to spend the ride reading when the June weather outside was so perfect. It seemed a shame to be inside at all, but I had a demanding job, and there was no way I could take a “nice weather” day, not when I was president of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. I had to set a good example for the rest of my staff, and we’d already had a “spring fever” party of sorts, on the outdoor balcony adjacent to the staff room. I made a bargain with myself: I’d read the paper until we came close to the city of Philadelphia, then I would allow myself to enjoy the view of the Schuylkill River where the train tracks ran alongside it, before the tracks plunged into and then under the city itself.
I scanned the front page for new crises, then turned to the Local section. As a member of the cultural community of the greater Philadelphia area, I had to keep my eye on cultural and other events that might affect the Society, not to mention opportunities to take advantage of new trends and new funding. We had a meager endowment and received little funding from the city itself, so I always had to be ready to sic my development staff on any opportunity that presented itself. And I had begun to read the obituaries—not out of ghoulishness, but because our board, our donors, and most of our members are well past the half-century mark. I regret the passing of each one, though selfishly, I always hope that the Society would be remembered in their wills. Of course, that remembrance could take the form of family heirlooms (possible treasure, but equally possible of only sentimental value), or it could be a financial bequest (much more welcome).
Today yielded only one such notice: former board member Adeline Harrison. She had left the board not long after I had first joined the Society as director of development a few years ago, but I remembered her for her alertness, her surprising grasp of our collections, and her kindness to everyone. I was surprised to see that she had been eighty-six years old; I would have thought her at least a decade younger. The obituary was long and glowing; she had been a member of many local institutions over the past few decades. I made a mental note to send some sort of condolence, or at least delegate Shelby Carver to handle it. Shelby had taken over my position as director of development when I was bumped upstairs (down the hall, more accurately) to Society president. With her well-bred Southern background, Shelby was very good at following up on such social niceties.
Relatively Dead Page 23
