Seven Sisters Collection

by M. L. Bullock

  “Looks like it stopped bleeding,” Ashland said. “That’s always a good sign.” He pulled my hand up to hold the bandages in place while he cleaned up the paper wrappings.

  “Good evening, Ashland. Miss Jardine, is it? Now let’s take a look.” Matthews was thin, but Dr. Patterson made him look muscular in comparison. The doctor probed my scalp with a bony finger, examining the wound without a lot of fuss. I bit my lip to stop from shouting during his inspection. He sat next to me, flashed a light in my eyes and checked my pulse. “So tell me about this fall. Was it from a great height?” Before I could answer, Matthews spoke. “Actually, she tripped over a bit of old carpet. No great height at all.”

  “Can you follow my finger, please?” Obediently, I followed the doctor’s bony finger as he moved it back and forth in front of my face. “Well, Matthews, I think she’ll be just fine. It wouldn’t hurt to get a stitch or two, but you will certainly live.” He stared up at Matthews, who said nothing. He peered at me over the top of his glasses. “Do you feel nauseous? Can you stand, Miss Jardine?”

  I was determined to get on my feet. This couldn’t be happening. “I feel fine, truly. Embarrassed, mostly. I’m sure I can stand up.”

  “Hold on. Take your time, darling. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. If you do feel sick or off-balance at all, go to the hospital. It’s possible that a whack like that could cause a concussion, but I expect you’re fine. Ashland, help her up, please.” The friendly doctor watched me amble about for a moment before declaring me healed.

  “Do you have a friend who can drive you home? I’d feel better knowing you were tucked in safely for the night. Is there some family close by?” The doctor removed his glasses, polishing them with a shirt sleeve before replacing them, without much improvement. He looked at me inquisitively.

  “Uh, no, I’ve no family here. But my place is just a few minutes away. I’m really very embarrassed to have made such a scene.”

  “Well, accidents happen, and it’s not surprising in a place as old as this. I’m sure there are all kinds of hazards around here.” He looked at Ashland with a grin and said, “It’s good that someone is going to restore her. Seven Sisters, I mean. She must have been a beauty in her day.” Bag in hand, the doctor glanced around the room for a moment, then handed me his card. “Now you call me if you have any problems at all tonight. If I’m not in, my wife will take a message. If you folks don’t need anything else from me, I’ll be off. I do expect you to call tomorrow, perhaps when you finish here, okay?”

  “Thank you, Dr. Patterson. I’ll walk you to the door.” Matthews led the doctor from the room, and I was left with my boss watching over me as I sat on the dusty couch.

  Once Ashland and I were alone, my face flushed. I felt like an incompetent ninny falling down in front of the great football hero. What must he think of me? Why did I care? I felt raw emotions building just below the surface and knew I would need some privacy to recall what I had seen and experienced without the added embarrassment of an audience. Like a cornered rabbit, I was ready to run. It was always that way after a dream. It was almost like I had too many feelings; they piled up on one another in a big old heap.

  “I think I’ll go back to my apartment now. I’ve had enough fun for one night. I’m sorry I messed up the meeting.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You heard the doctor, though. You shouldn’t drive, Carrie Jo. I’ll take you home. You say it’s not far?”

  “No, it’s not far, over near Catherine Street, but I don’t want to leave my car here. And I don’t want to be any more trouble.” I tried to think of a good reason to refuse but couldn’t really find one beyond leaving my car behind.

  “It’s the least I can do. You did trip on my property. I’ll take you home, and then either Matthews or I can bring your car to you later. Let’s find your things. And I’ll need those keys.”

  He sounded so assured and logical that I didn’t put up a fight. I forced Muncie out of my mind and set about looking for my purse and keys. I found them on the desk in the front room with the check I had so happily received earlier.

  The ride home was quiet and short, only three turns. On a sunny day, I could make the walk from Seven Sisters to the garage apartment in about ten minutes, I figured. I looked forward to that. The roads were uneven and dark, despite the many streetlights. Most of the downtown streets I had seen were shrouded in live oaks, giving the whole area a sort of otherworldly feel. No wonder I’m dreaming of the old days, I thought wryly. I’m surrounded by history.

  I was thankful Ashland hadn’t encroached on my silence. It took a lot of effort to not rewind the dream in his presence, slowly, carefully, reliving each detail. I wanted to remember everything, blurt it all out, but the wisest choice was to capture it all in my digital journal. I shuddered to think of how Ashland would look at me if he knew about my “dream catching.” I didn’t want to find out with this throbbing head. It would be a long night.

  We pulled into the gravel driveway, and I fumbled for the apartment key. Without asking, he stepped out of the car, opening the car door without a word. I was relieved to find that climbing the stairs to the apartment went easily. No repeat performances; no falls.

  “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  “No trouble at all. We’ll bring your car back in a few minutes. I’ll put your keys in the planter here.” He looked at me steadily. “I’m sure you want to clean up a bit. Call Dr. Patterson if you have any problems at all. He’s on call 24/7. Is there anything else you need? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to bring you some supper?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I think I have something to snack on in the fridge. I appreciate you bringing me home. Thank you again.”

  Flashing his easy smile, he left me on the porch. I slid the key into the lock, and then I was finally inside, alone, leaning against the door. No brave face needed. Nothing to prove—and after all that, no flow of tears.

  I pulled off the offending shoes and decided against tossing them into the trash can near my desk. They weren’t to blame, although I doubted I would have the confidence to wear them again anytime soon. Locking the door and checking the shades, I tossed a scoop of bath salts into warm running water and soaked in the tub for the next twenty minutes. I carefully avoided putting pressure on my head; I leaned back into the water, feeling it soothe away the tension. After a few minutes, the details of the dream came back, slowly at first and then like a flood. From the yapping hounds to the feel of stiff cotton on my neck, I recalled the details with surreal clarity. Unwilling to lose even a snippet, I climbed out of the tub and wrapped myself in a cotton robe, half drying my tired body. I didn’t want to peek at my head. I hated the sight of blood.

  I took a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and went over to the laptop on the desk, flipping it on. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I wrote down my dream, scene by scene. Like a supernatural scribe, I obediently recorded all I had witnessed. It was a habit I had developed over the years, first in book journals and then on my computers. It was a weird sort of record, a kind of written proof that I wasn’t crazy. It felt like I was collecting evidence for a case that I hoped one day to present to someone who might actually understand. As usual, I finished with a brief commentary of what I felt during the dream and after.

  Hours later, I cried. Too tired to write anymore, I shuffled to the full-size bed. It took up half of the apartment, but I was grateful for the comfort. I slid out of the robe, tossed on a giant sleep shirt and peeled back the sheets. I reached my hand under the cheap bamboo paper lampshade and clicked the light off. Drained and tired, and finally empty of borrowed memories, I slept like the dead.

  Chapter 6

  I awoke later than I had planned, but I felt excited about the day ahead of me. My new landlord, Bette, had politely tapped on my door to invite me to breakfast, an unexpected perk that I sincerely appreciated. I stepped into the bright kitchen of Bette’s home to eat a bowl of decadent cheesy
grits and bacon. The smell set my stomach to growling. The kitchen had an old-fashioned but tidy floor and a vintage, chrome-edged table. A bowl of polished wax fruit decorated the tabletop, along with a pair of whimsical Campbell’s Soup salt and pepper shakers. This is what a home must feel like, I thought happily.

  “Ready to work on that big old house today?” Bette slid a small glass of juice and a cup of coffee toward me, and I gratefully accepted them.

  “Yes, I think I am! It’s going to be a lot of work, but chances like this don’t come but once in a lifetime, really. Thanks again for allowing me to stay in the apartment.”

  “Oh, it’s my treat. I like having people nearby, and frankly, I’m happy that Mr. Stuart has hired you. They needed to do something about that place. The Seven Sisters mansion is too beautiful to just rot into the landscape; we Mobilians need to have a bit more pride in our history here. We’ve got some real stories to tell. Did you know that the French settlers used to send little orphan girls over here to marry these backwoods French-Canadians? Poor little things. They called them the Pelican Girls because they landed on Dauphin Island in Pelican Bay. No, wait, maybe the ship was called The Pelican. Oh, I can’t remember, but there are plenty of sad stories to tell. Not the least of which are the ones from Seven Sisters, but I guess you know all about those.” Bette’s short white curls framed her round face perfectly and shook with her expressiveness.

  “I don’t know a thing, really—only the facts from the brochures. I am intrigued, though.” Then I thought for a moment and asked, “Are the Stuarts an old family here in Mobile?”

  Bette smiled, then launched into her story. “Well, Mrs. Stuart was actually a Hunter. They were the ones who purchased Seven Sisters sometime in the 1960s. According to my friend, Cynthia Dowd—she’s on the board of the Historical Society, and she has such lovely white hair—the families here were very excited when the Hunters purchased the property. There was a lot of work going on at Oakleigh, the antebellum over off Government Street. People had hoped that the Hunters would do the same thing with Seven Sisters, but nothing happened. Emily Stuart died sometime around 1985, I think. After that, things just quieted down. That was such a sad affair. That little boy, Ashland, was so brave. He didn’t have a soul to depend on. Not counting all the family that came out of the woodwork. Imagine, so young and so much money, of course. Still he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Cynthia has bent over backwards to introduce him to her niece—poor cross-eyed girl. He’s come to a few of our luncheons and talked about the old house. What a stir he caused. I can’t understand why he’s not married yet.” Bette sipped her coffee from the chipped china cup and stood to look out the window.

  Before I could ask anything else, the cuckoo clock on the wall signaled the half hour, kicking me into business mode. “I have to run. I can’t be late, not good for the first day on a new job. Is there anything I can do to help clean up?” I rose from the vinyl-padded chair and carried my dishes to the sink. I wasn’t used to anyone cooking for me, much less washing my dishes.

  “Oh, no. I’ve got this little meal under control. I’ll make biscuits tomorrow. Maybe you’ll tell me what you find. I wish I could explore that old home. Such sadness, I bet.”

  I waved goodbye and stepped outside into the sunshine. I had dressed in comfortable, light clothing, just blue jeans, a new t-shirt and sneakers. That was a good thing. It was warm already, and I imagined it would get even warmer in the house. I managed to pull my hair back in a ponytail, partly because I wanted to hide last night’s wound and partly because I knew I’d sweat.

  Last night’s accidental dream already seemed like a distant memory, but I didn’t doubt that Muncie had lived, served and maybe died right where I would be working. Finding out more about him was added incentive to dig deep into the history of the old home. It felt good to have a purpose beyond cataloging antiques and paintings.

  My phone jangled in my purse. I pulled it out and sighed. William. I couldn’t keep putting off talking to him; it just never seemed like a good time. That described our relationship perfectly—off-balance and never right. I couldn’t blame him entirely. He tried to make me happy, but I had to be honest. I didn’t love him. With a sigh, I hit the ignore button. I found my car keys in the planter where Ashland had promised to leave them. I knew that he had driven my car home. When I opened the door, I caught a whiff of his cologne. Absently, I wondered if I would see him today as I eased out of the driveway.

  When I arrived, I was on time but nearly last to the party. The small road that led to the house was lined with work trucks, everything from landscapers to a local computer setup team. It was weird knowing that many of these contractors waited on directions from me. I grabbed my laptop bag, along with my notes, and headed up the path. It was nice to make the trek in the daylight. (I intended on sticking my tongue out at the ugly satyr.)

  Walking through the azalea-lined pathway seemed much less menacing with a blue sky trying to peep through. A squirrel squeaked and skittered in the underbrush, probably complaining at the cacophony of humans who disturbed his normally peaceful environment. “Sorry, little guy,” I said with a shrug.

  At the end of the path I once again faced Seven Sisters, my new second home, and the sheer size of the building set me back on my heels. The house sat slightly to the right of the path. I could plainly see the work that time had so mercilessly made of the house, the missing and hanging plantation shutters, the moss covering everything that dared reach up for the sun. Fruit and pecan trees that had begun as hopeful saplings now smothered the landscape, closing in perilously on the house. Off to the right of the path stood several statues, including the revolting satyr who had mocked me the night before. I spied a brick walkway under a collection of leaves. I was happy to see the landscaping company taking the initiative, cleaning up the limbs and leaves scattered on the ground. I gave a wave in their direction, mentally pledging to talk with them later.

  I didn’t stop at the steps this time but walked right in like I owned the place. I found Matthews, sleeves rolled up and sweat on his brow, helping a young man open boxes in the front room. “Good morning!” I said cheerily, my ponytail swinging as I jumped in to help. After a brief discussion, I persuaded Matthews to allow me to relocate the computers for the inventory system to the back of the house. I reasoned that it would be cooler and, since I would later be working on the back of the property, in various sheds and buildings, more convenient for my team and me. Less walking and hauling around expensive equipment, I said. Truthfully, I think I just wanted to be in the Blue Room. Close to Muncie.

  I met the general contractor, Terrence Dale, who insisted I call him TD. He was handsome in an earthy sort of way. He had lively brown eyes and a natural enthusiasm about life that was infectious. He seemed as excited as I was about restoring the home. Both of us were young and ready to earn our place in our respective arenas. According to him, he had fought long and hard to win the contract. With the recommendation of the Historical Society, he ultimately dominated the competition. He was only a little older than me, probably not thirty yet, but he had already worked on several local projects. I liked TD immediately and was glad to work with someone so knowledgeable and amiable. My part of the remodel would be only as a historical consultant, which left me with plenty of time to stay focused on my task. I couldn’t wait to get my hands dirty.

  After hours of setting up passwords and permissions on the computer network, checking delivery dates and sending introductory emails, I begged off lunch and slipped away to take my own private tour of Seven Sisters, before the full team arrived and the hard work began. I wanted to feel the place, to reconnect with the past. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a psychic, but I don’t claim to understand how my dream life really works. My goal wasn’t just to give my client a catalog of inventory. I wanted to quietly honor and pay homage to the people who had once loved all these things. I’d already walked through much of the ground floor during the course of the day, including t
he Blue Room, the banquet hall, the massive ballroom and the two front parlors, but now I could take my time, free from questions and Hollis Matthews’ invading stare.

  Chapter 7

  I had spent considerable time in the ladies’ parlor the evening before. Like the rest of the house, it had high, smooth ceilings with intricate wood trim. A massive sliding wooden door, with a convenient keyhole peephole, separated it from the men’s parlor. The peephole opened only from the men’s side.

  The men’s parlor had a small fireplace and a wall lined with built-in bookshelves. If I closed my eyes, I could smell the faint aroma of pipe tobacco that had once, many years ago, filled this dark paneled room in celebration of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood. I hoped that somewhere in the house, those books had been found. Both parlors had doors that opened to a wide porch. The sliding door that connected to the Blue Room was less impressive. The Blue Room was slightly larger than the other two parlors. During Muncie’s time, the windows were hung with heavy blue curtains embellished with gold threads. Now they stood bare, naked. Despite the warm afternoon, I shivered. Walking to the alcove where I had witnessed the unwanted kiss, I amateurishly attempted to open myself emotionally to feel a remnant of life, to experience the boy’s turmoil again. But I felt nothing, only sadness at seeing a veil of dirt on the wall and grooves in the wooden floor made by dragging heavy furniture.

  According to TD, Seven Sisters was at first built in a T-shaped, Greek Revival style, perfect for keeping the home cool even during Mobile’s hottest subtropical summers. Over time, rooms had been added, expanding the size of the home for entertaining. I longed to open the doors and windows and allow fresh air to flow through the home. I promised myself I would do that someday. I strolled down the hall to the room where I had witnessed the house slaves lining up for inspection. It was smaller than the rest of the rooms, and it also had a sliding door that connected it to the music room. Just beyond that, at the front of the house, was the banquet hall. None of the original furniture remained on-site, but I had some leads on the table.