by Brenda Hill
One waitress, a woman about Shirley’s age with an apron over her jeans, approached Lindsay.
“The booths are full, but if you’re in a hurry, there’s a place at the counter.”
“Is Shirley working today?”
“She’ll be here—” she glanced at the wall clock— “in about an hour.”
Thank God. “I’ll be back.”
Back on the sidewalk, she glanced up and down Main Street, wondering how to fill the hour. She felt too restless to sit and research more articles, but the green canopies over various businesses drew her attention to the antique stores. Browsing would fill the hour and she could look for that spicy scent.
The first one she entered took up two storefronts, and a smell greeted her, but it wasn’t the one she’d hoped for. Instead, she caught an old-building mustiness blending with a modern lemon fragrance. Wooden floorboards creaked when she walked. Eric had told her most of Crosby’s downtown buildings were original from when it was a booming iron ore mining town during the nineteen-twenties to the fifties.
An elderly lady dressed in a long skirt and puffed-sleeve blouse was dusting an antique roll top desk in the first aisle. She smiled a welcome. Lindsay felt so grateful she wanted to buy everything.
She strolled the aisles, admiring the rose-colored glass lamps, the mirrored vanity trays, the elaborately carved mahogany dressers. She spotted one with a matching stool covered in red velvet just like Mama’s. How she’d loved to sit at that dresser and play in Mama’s jewelry and makeup, how Mama would get after her for spilling loose powder over the freshly-starched doilies …
Lindsay blinked. Oh no, it happened again! Again with memories that weren’t hers.
She had to get out of there.
She hurried down the isle toward the front of the building, when suddenly … she caught a whiff of that spicy scent, the same as the one in the house.
She stopped.
Her heart beating faster, she checked the glass showcases on her left and right holding men’s and women’s lotions and perfumes. Finally she was going to find out if that scent was a phantom or if it were real.
On her right, a glass showcase held beautiful glass bottles of women’s lotions and perfumes. An indigo blue bottle stood on a starched white doily in the center. Evening in Paris, the label read.
She caught a hint of sandalwood from her left. That showcase held numerous men’s toiletries, including razors, shaving cream decanters, and colognes. Now she smelled lime. She stepped to her left and realized, with dismay, all the fragrances were beginning to blend.
Would she be able to isolate that certain one?
Displayed on the top of the case were round pine shave crème soaps, a shaving brush held on a small stand, and several cologne bottles. One by one, she picked up each bottle and sniffed. Nothing was right. Frustration and disappointment nearly made her cry.
“Can I help you?” The same woman stepped behind the showcase. “We have some very nice items for gentlemen.”
Lindsay blinked back the tears. “On my way out, I caught a scent of something, not sure what it is.”
“Can you describe it for me? We have some with a mint base, citrus, and of course spice fragrances.”
“What do you have that’s spicy? Maybe I’ll recognize it.”
The woman pulled out three different bottles, opened them one by one so Lindsay could smell. The first two were close, but not quite close enough. But again, they were all smelling alike.
“I’m smelling everything now.” She indicated both showcases and her frustration must have shown.
“It is a bit overwhelming here,” the woman agreed. “I’ve suggested separating the showcases, but so far we haven’t had the space. Perhaps you need to give your senses a break. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee and perhaps one of our homemade strawberry and rhubarb torts from the deli? After that I’m sure you’ll recognize the one you want.”
Lindsay was so close to discovering the scent she didn’t want to leave the counter, but if she could no longer detect that scent, perhaps she must. Just as she was thanking the woman, she noticed an amber-colored bottle with a green and white label. It seemed familiar.
“May I see that one?” When the woman presented it to her, Lindsay took one small whiff—and the familiar spicy scent surrounded her, filling every nerve in her body, triggering her senses with pleasure until she nearly swooned.
She’d found it.
Bay Rum aftershave.
Lindsay examined the bottle in wonder. She knew that fragrance, knew it as intimately as she knew her own name. The scent wasn’t phantom. It was real.
“Real,” she told the astounded clerk. This time the tears welled and overflowed.
The woman gave her a puzzled frown.
“Dear, are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”
Lindsay felt like singing. “Just tell me about this aftershave.”
The woman recited everything she knew. “From what I understand, sailors back in the sixteenth century weren’t able to bathe often, and they found that rubbing bay leaves from the West Indies helped with the odor. Around the same time, or at least I think it’s about the same time, someone, slaves, I’ve heard, discovered how to ferment the molasses from the sugar plantations and make rum. Sailors soaked the bay leaves in the rum, then Islanders added other ingredients like lime, and it became popular.” She smiled. “I’m sure the company can tell you more.”
“I’ve never noticed it in stores. Can you still get it?”
“You know, I haven’t seen it in this area in, oh, thirty or forty years or more. My father used it occasionally, and so did my grandfather, but I think the men today like the other brands the best.”
Her father and grandfather.
“Will that be cash or charge?”
Lindsay hadn’t wanted to buy the aftershave; she’d just wanted to find it, but after taking so much of the woman’s time, she paid.
Clutching the bag, she headed for Shirley’s diner.
Maybe now she would get some answers.
As soon as she opened the door, she spotted Shirley wiping down a back booth, the same booth the old lady had occupied that first night. Lindsay hurried toward it before anyone else could take it. Maybe not the best of manners, but after the rude treatment she and Eric had received, she wasn’t sure she cared.
When the waitress straightened and saw the next customer was Lindsay, her smile of greeting faded.
“You.”
Chapter Seventeen
Lindsay slid into the booth. “I’d like some lunch and then, when you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you.”
With a quick, “I’ll get you a menu,” Shirley bustled away. She dropped off a menu, filled other diner’s coffee cups, joked with some, all the while throwing worried glances back at Lindsay.
Lindsay didn’t care. She took her time over homemade soup, then a slice of rhubarb and strawberry pie, and lingered over coffee until the diner emptied out.
“Anything else?” The expression on Shirley’s face revealed she’d rather be anywhere but there.
“Some answers.”
“Sorry, fresh out.” The waitress turned to walk away, but Lindsay touched her arm.
“Please. Some strange things have been happening and I think you know something about it. At least help me find that old lady, the one in here that first night. I know she can help me.”
Shirley turned to face Lindsay, and for the first time that day, met her gaze. “What makes you think I know anything?”
“The way you and the two men acted that night after my husband told you who we were. And that old lady said something strange. At first I thought she was just a crazy old woman, but now I think differently, and I think you know who she is. Please, I need to find her.”
“Sorry, can’t help you.” She turned and hurried to the kitchen.
Lindsay stared after her, feeling the same as a child whose ice cream fell out of the cone and splattered on th
e sidewalk.
What could she do now?
No one seemed to want to talk to her. Then, thinking about the rude stares, the silences, she grabbed her bill and headed for the register. Another waitress took her payment.
“Everything all right?” she asked with barely a glance at Lindsay.
She began the customary reply, then changed her mind. “No,” she said in a loud voice. “Everything isn’t all right.” Conversation stopped and heads turned to look at her.
“I’d always heard that small towns were friendly,” Lindsay continued. “They sure didn’t mean this one. And to think, my husband grew up here and loved this town. Well, as far as I’m concerned, he can have it.” With that, she strode through the door.
Outside, she crossed the street, then, a couple of blocks from the diner, she paused. And realized she was trembling.
More slowly now, she headed for home, in no mood to shop for bookcases or anything else.
From behind, she heard running footsteps heading toward her.
“Wait!” A woman’s voice.
Shirley.
“Damn, you walk fast. I ran three blocks.” The waitress patted her hair back in place.
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” Lindsay was heavy on sarcasm.
“Knock off the attitude, will ya?”
“I have an attitude? That’s rich. But this town has made me do a lot of things differently.”
Shirley had the grace to blush, but she handed Lindsay the sack with the aftershave. “You left your bag. I peeked inside and saw the bottle.”
Lindsay took it. “Thank you.” She turned to walk away.
“Wait, dammit!”
Two white-haired ladies passing them on the sidewalk paused at the expletive. Lindsay noticed their slacks. One wore pink polyester pants with an artificial seam sewn down the front, the other, yellow. At least they were colorful.
“Working today, Shirley?” One asked, staring with curiosity at Lindsay.
“Just taking a break,” the waitress answered.
“Enjoy your day.” With another side glance at Lindsay, they walked on. The street was busy with traffic and a diesel pickup, its engine clattering, pulled into the space in front of Lindsay.
She faced Shirley, but said nothing. She waited.
“Look. You’re right,” Shirley said. “People talk, and the reception you’ve gotten is pretty shitty …”
“And?”
“Jeeze, give me a break. This is hard for me.”
Lindsay instantly softened. “What’s so hard, Shirley? I don’t understand. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want someone to help me understand what’s happening.”
Shirley chewed her bottom lip.
“I’m either going crazy,” Lindsay said, “or there’s something going on at that house. After finding this—” she held up the bag— “I think it’s the house. Please, I need help.”
“Oh Christ, I guess you do.” But she said nothing more. Instead, she sighed and shuffled from one foot to the other.
No matter how she tried not to get her hopes up, Lindsay felt encouraged.
“Do you know that white-haired old lady from the first night? After we left the diner, she came up to us and muttered something about the house.”
Shirley didn’t reply for the longest moment. “What did she say?”
Lindsay told her, her voice quiet. “I just haven't been able to forget it, and I'd like to ask her what she meant. Do you know where I can find her?”
“You sure that’s all you want from her?”
“What else could I want?”
“People ostracized her for years, and I can’t let that start again.”
“Please, Shirley. Something’s going on in that house and I need to know what it is. Please help me.”
“Damn,” Shirley said again. Then apparently making a decision, she said quietly, “Yeah, I know who she is. She's my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother?” Lindsay hadn’t expected that. No wonder she was so reluctant.
“I can’t do anything today,” Shirley said, “but tomorrow I get off at five. If you’d like, we could talk then.”
After arranging to meet the next day at five-thirty in the park, Lindsay rushed home to tell Eric. She’d found the aftershave, proof of what had been happening. She just hoped he wouldn’t brush it off again.
Chapter Eighteen
As soon as she opened the door, Lindsay heard Eric’s voice from his second floor office. Still carrying the lotion, she hurried up the stairs.
His hair was ruffled as if he’d raked his hands through it, and for the first time, his desk was cluttered with papers. His computer screen showed a series of spreadsheets.
“Something’s wrong, Mark, either in your figures or mine.” His voice sounded harried, strained. “I’ve gone over the last three month’s entries several times and the numbers simply don’t match with yours.”
She waited silently in the doorway, respecting his work, yet nearly bursting with excitement.
Come on, Eric, get off the phone.
He had to believe her this time. At least be curious enough and open-minded to go with her to meet Shirley. After all, it was his ancestors and house.
He was still talking.
She must have made a sound because he glanced at her and held up his forefinger for her to wait.
She held up the bag to let him know she had something to show him. He nodded vaguely, then turned his attention back to Mark.
More waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting to get anyone to talk to her, waiting for tomorrow to talk to Shirley, waiting, hoping her own husband would believe her.
She tried to curb her impatience. She went to the bathroom to freshen up, hoping that by the time she finished, Eric would be free.
He wasn’t.
She wandered through their bedroom, then downstairs. In the dining room, she stood gazing through the bay window to the forest in back of the house. Trees swayed gently in the breeze from the lake. Butterflies landed on wildflowers in the brush, and circling birds called to each other and landed on branches. Squirrels chased each other up and down the oak trees.
Nature. A beautiful thing.
Slowly, she began to relax, to feel at one with the woods and the creatures that lived there. She open the window wider and breathed in the warm moist air.
Then the air became heavier, almost as though a blanket of humidity settled on the house, but it wasn’t quite the same. She felt warm. Alive. Then a faint sound to her right caught her attention, the same sound she’d heard before, a slight vibration, a low hum. She could almost hear his voice.
“What?”
No physical answer, but she suddenly thought about a tree, their tree.
Now she was being ridiculous. No one had a TREE.
But standing at the window, she scanned the forest, looking, searching, then she spotted it again, towering above the other trees. The black ash.
As before, she felt an overwhelming affection for that tree, and this time nothing was stopping her, so she dropped the bag with the shaving lotion on the table and ran out the back door. She raced across the dirt road and into the thicket, dashing past the pines and oaks, not even noticing when brambles scratched her arms. She had to get to her tree.
Finally, she stood before the massive old ash and wanted to hug the crooked trunk. Instead, she slowly circled the circumference, searching, knowing something important was there.
She had to find it.
Finally, slightly above her head she saw it, a carved heart about seven inches high, aged to a faded gray so faint it was barely distinguishable from the trunk, its curves misshapen by time and tree growth.
But it was still there!
She stared, caressing each curve with her eyes, not quite believing it had survived the tragedies of their lives.
With wonderment and delight, she reached up to touch it, then on tiptoes, ran her finger around the heart, feeling the bumpy scores of the knife, long
ing for the connection once more.
And the initials in the middle. GH loves … then an initial she couldn’t quite make out, then a ‘P.’ It was so bumpy from time and the elements that she couldn’t be sure, but it had to be an ‘F.’ Galen Halidor loves Frida Peterson.
Galen. She could almost see his hands working steadily in the bark, curving here, chipping there. And when his eyes met hers, he smiled, such a warm loving smile …
Her eyes misted, then the joy turned to sorrow, a grief so constricting she couldn’t breathe. Tears sprang and overflowed, but still she didn’t lift her fingers from the heart. Just to touch where he had touched, and she almost remembered …
“Lindsay? What are you doing out here?” Eric’s voice broke the enchantment. “Are you crying?”
Flustered, Lindsay dropped her arm and swiped her eyes. “I don’t know.” She glanced back in confusion at the tree. She didn’t know what she was doing or why she was crying. Still, the feeling of intense loss continued.
Insects buzzed around them. A dragonfly darted in front of Lindsay, its transparent wings powerful enough to hold it steady in front of her. After seeming to study her, it dashed off. Souls of the dead, she’d read. Another Native American legend.
Eric slapped a mosquito on his neck.
“Let’s get you out of the woods.” He put his arm around her shoulders to urge her forward.
She looked back. Couldn’t he see the heart? GH loves Frida. But how could she have known the heart was there?
“Did you see it?”
He kept walking. “See what?”
“The heart. GH and FP. I’m sure it’s Galen and Frida.”
He shrugged. “Probably. After all, they were engaged.” With that, he dismissed it.
“But Eric, I knew it was there.”
“You’re getting fanciful again, and I don’t have time to discuss it with you.” Glancing at her stricken face, he soothed. “I don’t know. Maybe you heard someone talking. Listen, I have to call Mark back. Something strange is going on.”
“Eric, you need to listen. This is important, as important as your phone call.”
They entered the house. Lindsay told him about the shaving lotion and meeting Shirley at the park. She didn’t tell him she’d discovered their house was haunted; she knew that would be too much right now. Even so, he made listening noises, but she knew he wasn’t paying attention. He retrieved a light beer from the fridge and headed for the stairs.
