“Sorry about the space,” Daniel apologized. “Usually we meet at Moe’s, the bar, but it doesn’t open until 4:00 p.m. and I have to get to work. We rented this out to store some of our files and equipment in and it’s the only real place we have to meet.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to meet in my dorm room.” This came from a slightly overweight young man with shocking red hair who was busy rooting through his knapsack. “I’m a grad student and share a room with two other guys. They’re a little noisy. I’m Joe, by the way.”
The rest of the group nodded in agreement. They were a ragtag ensemble consisting of four women and three young men. Daniel appeared to be the oldest.
“So are most of you in college then?” This was also a first for her. Definitely the youngest crew she’d worked with.
“Yeah,” a pert redhead in Army fatigues answered as she blew out a puff of smoke. She was sitting on a stack of boxes. “Some of us met in our historic preservation class. We’re all different majors: art, history, econ…”
“We’re a real organization, though, 501 (c) and everything. We have a board of directors,” Daniel boasted hurriedly. “One of them is my old professor. He teaches historical landscaping at the university. Stand-up guy! You’ll meet them eventually but I wanted you to meet the real gang, first.”
Man, where were these kids when I was in college, Taryn wondered.
A small blond with tight jeans and a lot of eyeliner was perched on a metal filing cabinet and studied Taryn with interest. “We’re real glad you’re here,” she finally said. Her voice was smooth and silky and when she talked Taryn noticed the guys gave her their full attention. “I’m Willow, by the way. The group’s official photographer and Daniel’s fiancée. I know we probably don’t look like the people you’re used to dealing with, but we’re totally serious about what we’re doing.”
“I can see that,” Taryn conceded. “You’ve gone to a lot of work. Even getting the paperwork filed for the nonprofit part is a big deal. I’m not sure I understand what’s going on, though. Have you already made a down payment on the tavern or what?”
Willow tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear and blew out a stream of air between her apple-red lips. “We have an option to purchase. It was good for ninety days. The good thing about it is that nobody can buy it out from under us before we get the funds…”
“And the bad thing?” Taryn sensed there was a “but” coming.
“It expires in less than a month and we haven’t secured the funds yet,” Daniel explained. “And to answer the rest of your question, we’re hoping to find the money. We’ve applied everywhere.”
“Everywhere,” the redhead echoed. “Joe here even wrote Oprah and Bill Gates.”
The heavyset, redheaded young man nodded grimly. “It was worth a shot. Why not?”
Taryn resisted the urge to tell them finding the funds, even through grants, to buy the place and renovate it would be difficult under ordinary circumstances with all the time on their hands they needed. In that short amount of time it would probably be nearly impossible. From the looks on their faces, though, she could tell most of them were feeling pessimistic about their remaining weeks, and she didn’t want to encourage that. They needed to remain hopeful.
“We’d like to get the community involved,” Daniel added. “Do some fundraisers, you know? We started a Kickstarter fund over the weekend. We’ve already raised almost $500. Joe here is our social media marketing expert. He’s been on Twitter and Instagram and everything, just trying to get the word out.”
“Just seems like nobody cares much about their own history anymore,” a guy with shaggy auburn hair and a black Pearl Jam T-shirt said. “What’s the matter with people? This tavern is one of the biggest things in the county and everyone’s just letting it fall down around them.”
Taryn smiled. “You guys are after my own heart. If I was rich, I’d already be poor because I would have spent all my money buying all the beautiful old buildings to fix them up.”
The group smiled and a couple laughed.
“The couple that owns it? The guy is a descendent of one of the original owners, the one who bought it after the turn of the century. They’re real sympathetic to us and want us to work it out, but they got hit hard in the recession. They need the cash,” Joe explained. “Like, now. I think they’ve got a bunch of debts.”
“I hear that,” Taryn mumbled. “So if someone else comes along and tries to buy it after your option expires…”
“They’ll have to sell to them. And that’s already happened,” Daniel muttered, studying his shoes. “A development company wants to buy the land, tear down the tavern, and build a shopping center there. It’s a good location because in a couple of weeks they’re going to start working on a new exit ramp off the interstate and then it will be prime real estate. We won’t have a chance.”
Taryn could see the disappointment and stress lining everyone’s faces. She felt it, too. It seemed like there was always something in the way. “Then I guess we need to find money, huh?” she smiled. “A lot of it.”
“Too bad the legend isn’t real,” Willow sighed. She stared off into the room, looking wistful.
“What legend?”
“There’s a story that Permelia, the owner’s wife, was really wealthy. He bought her from Boston. You know, a mail order bride?” Daniel let the question trail off as everyone nodded. “Well, supposedly she didn’t have a family or anything but had inherited a ton of cash. Or gold. Whatever. Anyway, she brought it with her and hid it on the property. Nobody’s ever found it.”
“A buried treasure?” Taryn laughed. “That’s awesome!”
“A few pieces of gold were found back in the eighties when they were doing some digging,” Willow explained. “I can’t remember what for. Anyway, it was in the ground. Probably just someone lost it somewhere along the way and it got buried in the dirt. They had metal detectors out for weeks. Never found anymore. Added fuel to the story, though.”
“I bet,” Taryn agreed. “Damn. Too bad that story isn’t real. Gold would help. A lot.”
Despite the good day she’d had, Taryn was feeling down. It was late and since most of the music channels had ceased playing actual music on television anymore she felt restless and annoyed. Music was her stress reliever but all her CDs were in the car and she was too lazy to go out and get them. Everyone was into Spotify and things like that these days but she didn’t get those sites. Most online technology confused her, unless it had to do with photo editing. Even that had taken awhile for her to learn.
Fall was hard for Taryn. Her husband, Andrew, had died in October. They’d just been to a festival the day before. He’d eaten three caramel apples, the kind loaded with peanuts, chocolate, and Oreo shavings. She’d bought a handmade clock. The day felt so normal, no indication her world would come crashing down around her in less than 24 hours. Now she couldn’t even smell caramel or listen to the song “Amazed’ by Lonestar (they’d sung it at the top of their lungs on the drive home) without feeling panicked.
Funny how sometimes the good memories hurt worse than the bad ones.
She would feel much better once the air got colder, the skies darker and moodier, and fall was over with. A lot of people hated the cold weather and snow it brought with it but she didn’t mind it. It cleared out the sad memories for her, froze them.
Griffith Tavern was the first inn she’d worked at since Andrew died. Together, they’d worked at a handful over the years. There was one in South Carolina they had worked at and even stayed in together, but it wasn’t a stagecoach inn. That one wasn’t in bad shape; the owners wanted to renovate and restore it and needed some renderings for the architect, contractor, and decorator. It was a short, fast job but the inn itself was amazing and gave them the chance to stay near the beach and eat all the fresh seafood they could handle. On some nights they’d wander back to their room, stuffed and a little drunk, and would laugh and sing all the way there. Andrew cou
ldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and could get loud when he wasn’t watching it so Taryn was constantly “shushing” him and giggling at the same time. They’d fall onto their canopied bed and roll around like children, priding themselves on being able to do something they loved, and doing it together.
She missed him.
Sitting alone in the middle of her bed, staring out the window in the dark night, Taryn cried a little. She hated fall.
A short burst of rain left the ground moist and knocked down the temperature by a few degrees. The wet grass tickled Taryn’s toes inside her sandals. It was easy enough to find a good, level spot to set up her easel and with several hours of daylight left she was hopeful she’d be able to get a lot done.
It had taken her forever to fall asleep the night before. No more spooky visitors but she was still on edge. And, sometimes, the depression hit her and kept her awake. She hadn’t wasted her insomnia, though. She’d used it to study her photographs now she knew what she wanted to work on first–the porch–and had even made a few sketches. Her hands were still streaked from charcoal.
There was nothing like a good late-summer storm to leave everything feeling fresh and clean. Soft light filtered through the dark clouds still scattered in the sky and a hush fell over the tavern, giving it a wistful appearance.
It was a proud edifice and even with its broken windows and caved-in roof it still stood regally, unaware of its imperfections and brokenness. She could almost imagine it shouting out, “I don’t care what you do to me! I’m not going down without a fight!” There would be no white flag for this one.
Taryn felt a sense of pride for the ragtag group and their confidence and nerve. She also felt a little bit of jealousy. She’d never had close friends like that, or even belonged to a group with a common cause. Her years at the university were spent either studying or working. She didn’t join any clubs or organizations and didn’t go out to listen to music or drink with the others (a fact that depressed her, considering the amount of good live music Nashville boasted).
She was awkward around people her own age and always felt like she was trying too hard with them–too hard to be funny, too hard to be likable, too hard to be interesting…to be noticed.
While she painted she listened to music. Today it was Scott Miller; his version of “I’ll Go to My Grave” got her every time. She’d seen him live several times and appreciated his wry sense of humor almost as much as his music. She’d also seen an image online of the old farmhouse he lived in. She’d love to paint it. He seemed like someone she might get along with.
Griffith Tavern was starting to come to life on her canvas, even in the black and white stage. She was still using charcoal but the tavern was growing in front of her eyes as she filled in the holes and gaps. In her art classes, many of the other students had criticized her paintings for not having enough character or personality, for being too photographic–for not truly being “art,” whatever that meant. In this job, however, it was expected and the very thing her clients appreciated about her work. She could get more creative and did sometimes on her own, but those paintings felt personal, private. She’d never let anyone actually look at them.
The longer she drew, the more inside her head she dove. She kept thinking about Daniel and his friends, her experiences at college and in high school. What started out as a small tinge of jealousy soon turned to the whispers of irritation and resentment. Why hadn’t she made friends? Why hadn’t she been able to find a close-knit group of people she could belong to? She didn’t understand why she’d always felt so much like an outcast.
Driving her annoyance into her hands, she worked feverishly, shading and capturing the curve of the columns, the ancient brick, the stone steps.
She would be just fine on her own, she told herself. Just fine.
A ray of sunlight peeked through the clouds and hit a shard of glass still holding on in one of the upstairs windows. With the flash, the house seemed to wink at her, as if in agreement.
The rain was heavy and cold; the lightning fierce and strong. With each flash it lit up the yard with a brilliant flare, illuminating the stables and gardens. The roar of thunder that followed was quick and bold; the storm was above them now and in its full glory.
She’d come outside barefoot and the mud rose up between her toes and caught on the hem of her woolen dress. She was freezing, and it wasn’t just from the rain and night air. She moved with determination, not giving in to the fear wanting to consume her. The tavern rose before her like a beacon, dark and foreboding. She walked towards it, keeping her eyes on the faint glow of light stemming from the upstairs window–her bedroom. When the sky was darkened, it was the only thing she could see.
Her breathing was heavy and labored, almost ragged. Her head pounded with a pain she’d never known before and she was nearly blinded by it. Only a few more steps and she’d be there, safe. Safe from what, she wasn’t sure. She just knew she had to hurry.
When she reached the front porch she stopped, shook the rain from her tangled hair, and looked down at herself as the lightning filled the sky again. From her dress ran rivers of dark water–not rain, but blood. It soaked into the ground and disappeared into the night. But her hands, oh her hands, they were covered. With the final burst of thunder, so loud the very ground shook in its quake, she screamed.
Taryn woke up; her covers pushed to the floor and her head pounding. She was drenched in cold sweat, her face and arms clammy with it. The television was still on, Tony Danza and Judith Light were bickering in the on-screen kitchen. Reaching for the remote, Taryn turned up the volume. She wouldn’t be sleeping for the rest of the night.
Chapter 4
The next several days passed without incident. Over the summer her doctor prescribed her some Ambien to help with her sleep issues but she wasn’t taking it regularly. Now, Taryn knew she might want to start. She’d always had trouble sleeping, and her nightmares felt worse than those she imagined most people had, but dreaming about the tavern had felt different. She had seen the rain, felt the wet grass under her feet, and even experienced the panic and confusion the woman in the dream was feeling. She couldn’t think of that person as herself. They hadn’t moved like her or thought like her–for Taryn, it was like watching a movie unfold through someone else’s eyes.
Her two hospitalizations in Vidalia happened months ago but sometimes she still felt like she was recovering. Being poisoned and knocked out, on two separate occasions, could do that to a person she reckoned. She wasn’t feeling herself, though. She was still getting headaches almost every day and sometimes she felt a disturbing tingling in her left arm. Her doctor told her she might have suffered some nerve damage and given her more pills. One, however, made her lose the taste of soda and she couldn’t handle that so she didn’t take them. A world without Coke and Sprite just didn’t feel right.
She tried to think about the dream in a logical sense. What did it mean? What was it really about? Sometimes a horse wasn’t sexual; sometimes a horse was just a horse. Maybe the tavern dream was about her loneliness, her frustration. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the actual tavern at all.
Yet it had felt so real. She was there, experiencing the movements, but it didn’t feel like her. She wasn’t in control of her actions. She was still a little shaken by the fear she’d experienced, the horror. And she also felt…dirty somehow. Something wasn’t right.
But, she had work to do. She had a job.
With her easel set up and her paints ready, she met Griffith Tavern with determination. Taryn painted with careful observation and skill. As she worked, she tried to consider the history of the place; how it might have felt to the early settlers who were moving westward to start new lives and find their fortune. Were they scared, excited, nervous? What did they plan on doing once they arrived at their destination? How many turned around and went back home when things got hard?
Taryn loved an adventure and liked to travel but she wasn’t sure she’d have bee
n one of the early settlers trying to find her way out west. The stories she’d heard about the difficulties of traveling were enough to make her wary. Food shortages, native attacks, illnesses, accidents with the wagons and coaches…only the toughest were able to make it and even then it wasn’t easy. Taryn, herself, was finding that the older she got the more stars she required in her hotel.
The air around the tavern was thicker that day, more intense. As she painted in concentration she got the distinct feeling the building was holding its breath, waiting. The sky was bright, not a cloud in it now, the grass thick from the rain. A light breeze cooled things off. But something wasn’t right. With each brush stroke she felt as though something was watching her, observing her, circling around her like a hawk. She turned around at one point, expecting to see Daniel or someone else coming up from behind her. Nobody was there.
The building in her painting was taking on its details in stride, emerging from the canvas a little at a time. Rather than looking as though she was creating it with her brushes, it looked like the image was already there and she was merely uncovering it, bringing it out from hiding with each stroke of the brush.
Standing back from the easel, she considered her work. It was darker than she’d intended. If a house could have a personality this one would be proud. If it could have feelings, it would be lonely.
The air around her quaked, an almost audible sound. Then, when the warmth rushed over her and sent her hair flying, she could almost swear it had breathed a sigh of relief–a release of exaltation.
Hours later, Taryn stopped working and spread a patchwork quilt on the ground. She’d stopped at a grocery store and bought white bread, turkey, American cheese, and mayo to make sandwiches. There were bananas and apples to go along with them and a carton of Chips Ahoy. She told herself she’d only have a couple and not eat the entire bag like she did the last time she bought cookies, but she wasn’t confident she could keep that promise.
Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) Page 3
