Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  Maybe this was what she wanted, Taryn thought. Maybe she just wanted to be known. LeRoy had mentioned a baby. Hannah had only lived a few months by Taryn’s estimation. History hadn’t deemed her important. She could find her grave, place flowers on it. Maybe that’s what Permelia needed; she needed her story known and had chosen Taryn to tell it. Now, at least, the tavern might be demolished but Permelia and her family wouldn’t be forgotten.

  Maybe that was enough, Taryn closed her eyes and gently rocked; maybe it was enough.

  Taryn called Miranda later that afternoon.

  “Oh, honey, it’s just awful what happened out there,” Miranda fretted. “Just awful. I bet it was somebody on drugs.”

  Taryn didn’t feel like pointing out that arsonists weren’t normally addicts, but she hadn’t made the phone call to show off her mad profiling skills. “It is terrible,” she agreed instead. “The Friends of Griffith Tavern are disappointed.”

  “Well I’d say they are!” Miranda squealed. “I’m so glad it wasn’t one of our beautiful historical homes here in town. At least that’s something to be thankful for.”

  It angered Taryn that one of the “historical homes,” which wasn’t nearly as old as the tavern but was undoubtedly better maintained and pretty, was valued more. “I guess that’s something anyway…” she replied philosophically.

  “Have you had any luck tracking down any of the family members?”

  Taryn briefly filled her in on Matt’s success and Eve’s correspondence, as well as the content of Permelia’s letters. “I’ll send you the email, too,” she said. “It has all the letters attached to it.”

  “That poor thing,” Miranda sighed. “Of course, we didn’t know she’d lost a child.”

  “Where do you think her baby is buried?” Taryn asked. “I’ve walked around the property, but haven’t seen any graves.”

  “More than likely in the city cemetery then,” Miranda explained. “That’s where Permelia and James are buried. My guess is her little grave is somewhere close by. There are many infants buried there. Some don’t have names so we can’t be sure who they are. Some don’t have any markings at all and we can only guess they’re children by the size of their headstones.”

  Taryn received directions for the cemetery and hung up. She’d find it then.

  “If you’re listening, P, I just wanted to let you know I’m going to go look for your baby’s grave and decorate it. Hope that’s okay.”

  The lamp on her nightstand flickered once, then again, and then all was still.

  Taryn technically didn’t have to drive to the cemetery, since it was only a few blocks away, but she did because the only place that sold flowers was on the other side of town. Their arrangements were all pricey but she was pretty handy when it came to making her own so she bought some Styrofoam, a spool of wire, wire cutters, and several loose flowers for half the price a pre-made arrangement cost. Taryn believed in being industrious and thrifty when the situation called for it.

  Despite the town’s small size, the cemetery was enormous. Two big wrought iron gates flanked the wide entrance with stone lions on either side. Their great mouths were open in a yawn, baring great teeth. The lions were turning green with age and one of the gates was almost off its hinges, dangling a little in the wind. The road inside was sparkling white gravel and wove through the rows in curves and circles. Permelia and James were buried at the front, near the entrance, so she didn’t have far to go. With her bag of goodies in hand, she got out and began walking around, studying the headstones.

  It was easy enough to find James and Permelia. They were in the second row with only one grave separating them from the end. Their headstone was modest in size, but boasted their names in large letters. Under their names were the words “Together in life, together in death.” Like most of the graves in the cemetery, it was without flowers or any kind of adornment. The stone was weathered with age and chipped in a few places. The grass was getting tall, too, a little above her ankles. She assumed the city maintained it, but with trash blowing around and the overall shabbiness, it didn’t look like it was high on their list of priorities.

  The graves surrounding Permelia and James were dated in the mid to late 19th century and early 20th century. They varied in sizes and designs, but were definitely all adults. She slowly walked back and forth, taking care to read the dates and names, but couldn’t see an infant’s grave on the row in front or behind them. Soon, she came to a clump of graves with death dates all within the same year or two. They had to be from the war, Taryn figured, since the time period was right. The Civil War hadn’t touched this place in terms of battle but of course men would’ve gone off to fight. There were at least a dozen headstones of young men, standing in a row together like the soldiers they were in real life.

  Hannah had to be buried somewhere. Of course, it was possible she’d been buried on the tavern’s property and the headstone had merely been moved or destroyed over the years. If that were true, she’d never find it.

  Taryn was about to give up when she took one last look around, just in case she’d missed something. A weeping willow tree grew several rows behind Permelia and James and the long, dried-up branches brushed at the ground. It was under the tree, up against the trunk, that she found what she was looking for. It was only about a foot and a half tall and had a small stone lamb atop. The headstone read:

  H.R.B.

  Not dead, just sleeping

  She wasn’t prepared to feel the sharp pang, seeing this grave of a baby who would be dead by now even if she had survived her infancy. But a heaviness filled her chest and she could feel tingling in her nose, something she referred to as “the nose stage” which signified an impending onslaught of tears. She quickly sat down on the ground beside the little headstone and got out her materials. She’d chosen bright yellow daises and soft pink roses for the arrangements. The flowers themselves might not go together, but they were her two favorite and she wanted something happy and sunny for little Hannah.

  While she worked, she talked to the grave.

  “I didn’t know you or your mama, of course, but I’ve gotten to know her a little. I can’t tell you what happened when you went to sleep that night and didn’t wake up but I can assure you that you were wanted and your parents loved you very much. I guess you knew that, though. You would’ve felt it.”

  The cemetery was quiet; the only sound was the crinkling of paper trash as it hit up against the side of the fence.

  “I’m making you an arrangement because, well, I’m a little broke and also because I think it’s more personal. Now, I know a professional would probably look at this and be appalled but I think it turned out pretty well.”

  She sat back and admired her handy work before placing the arrangement in the container and sticking it in the ground. At least now Hannah’s grave looked a little cheerier.

  Taryn got up, dusted off her pants, and walked back to Permelia’s gravesite. She had three red live roses for her and these she placed atop the stone. “I want you to know your child has been acknowledged. The historical society knows about her, I know about her, and we won’t forget. Your letters will go on display and anyone who wants to read them will know more about your life. So maybe this will give you a little bit of peace.”

  Taking a deep breath, she continued. “And I know about what happened with the man. I am so sorry. If you lived today you’d see all kinds of pamphlets and articles and stuff telling you it wasn’t your fault, that you didn’t provoke it, and that there’s help available for you. But I’m guessing you didn’t get that so much back then. So I’ll have to tell you that myself: It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t provoke it, and I am sorry. I am angry and hurt for you. But it’s over now. It’s time for you to move on.”

  A strong gust of wind flew around the headstone and Taryn’s hair whipped back from her face, streaming out behind her, the curls bouncing against her back. One of the red roses gently lifted from the headstone and when Taryn r
eached over to stop it from blowing off, it merely laid itself back down to rest. The wind stopped.

  Taking that as a cue, Taryn turned and left.

  When she reached Matt around suppertime he was more subdued than usual. “I’m sorry,” he finally said at last. “I guess I panicked.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “For almost all of my life you were mine, and then you were Andrew’s. When Andrew died you and I were, you know… I didn’t see you. And then I got you back and it felt like you were mine again. Knowing you’re seeing other people makes me feel like I’m losing you again.”

  The idea made her sad and she didn’t know how to begin making either one of them feel better. “Well, first of all, no matter what I do you can’t lose me. Even if we go years without talking, which we have, you’re still a part of me. And secondly, you know I don’t belong to anyone. It doesn’t matter if I’m married, single, dating, or join a convent.”

  “I know that,” he mumbled. “And that hurts in a different way.”

  “For God’s sake, how?” she demanded.

  But he changed the subject.

  “I’m sorry about the tavern. I would’ve texted back but I was in the middle of a meeting.” Matt worked for NASA, her own rocket scientist, but they communicated so frequently it was hard for her to remember sometimes he had a job. He worked all hours of the day and night, sometimes even from home, and she had never truly been sure of what it was he actually did.

  “Don’t worry about me. Work. I want to be able to tell everyone one day that I know someone who has traveled to outer space.”

  “I’m not an astronaut, but I will go up at least once,” he agreed.

  “And I’ll be there to wave you off. And see you come back.”

  “If I come back at night, don’t bother,” he advised. “I’ve seen a ship land at night and it’s not nearly as interesting as you think it would be.”

  She laughed. Only Matt could find something boring about a spaceship landing.

  Later in the conversation she told him about the letters, about her visit to the cemetery. Matt was quiet while he listened.

  “Do you think that’s it, then?” she asked when she was finished. “That maybe Permelia just wants her child and maybe herself to be known, acknowledged? That maybe it will stop now and she’ll be at peace?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered with hesitation. “It seems to me if that’s all she wanted she would’ve asked for it a long time ago.”

  Taryn felt the same; she just didn’t want to admit it.

  “Maybe she didn’t know how. I don’t know what else to do. I also have something else to share…” She briefly told him about the dream she’d had a few nights before. It still shook her to think about it.

  “You’ve always had bad nightmares,” he pointed out. He knew she didn’t like to sleep alone. When they were together she even slept with him, though in a purely platonic way.

  “This felt different. I didn’t know I was asleep.”

  “Do you think it’s connected to what’s going on?”

  “Maybe,” she answered. “Something didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel like myself. I could feel it, but I was also watching it.”

  “Can you send me the letters?” he asked. “I’d like to take a look at them myself. Maybe you’re missing something and you just need an extra set of eyes.”

  Taryn agreed. There was something else playing at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  Chapter 18

  Matt texted her twice the next day and called her once but she didn’t hear from Jamie at all. She didn’t hear from Jamie the next day, either, although she sent him a text and tried to call. Her call went straight to his voicemail. She was disappointed he hadn’t contacted her since the tavern caught on fire. He had to know about it; it was the biggest news in town. She’d seen more people come out to the property and wander around since the fire than she’d seen the whole time she’d been there. (And not just at the tavern, but period.) Now that it was threatened it felt like the townspeople were actually concerned about what might happen to it.

  She’d been right about the reaction, too. Daniel’s campaign was now up to a whopping $32,184. He was over his head with excitement, texting and emailing her every time a new donation came in.

  She worked feverishly day and night, now, attempting to finish not one painting but two.

  The B&B was quiet. A couple with young children stayed the weekend and seemed to wear Delphina out. She now moved with less energy, almost sluggish, her mind appearing to be somewhere else. When asked if everything was alright, she blamed the forthcoming bad weather that would undoubtedly show up in a few weeks. “This time of year just gets me down I guess,” she explained, sadness creeping into her voice. “I can feel the cold in my bones more and more every year.”

  She did express outrage over the burning of the tavern, shaking her head wearily and asking what the world was coming to. “Teenagers, probably,” she’d muttered. “I just think kids are more destructive than they used to be. We’ve always had troublemakers but these days it feels like there’s just more of them and the things they do are twice as bad.”

  Taryn had only been to the tavern twice since she’d visited the cemetery, but so far things were quiet. Maybe everything she had done was enough.

  Taryn was expecting the package from the attorney, but it was still a blow when it arrived in the mail. She read through the documents three times before sinking down to her knees on the floor, the loose pieces of paper fluttering around her.

  Her Aunt Sarah had been much better off than she’d expected. She didn’t leave Taryn a fortune, but in total, she was almost $100,000 richer than she was the day before. Sarah had apparently been collecting stocks and bonds for years. She’d cashed them out a few months before her death.

  The pictures the attorney sent of the house showed it was in a sorry state. The beautiful stately historical home, once white and glistening, was dingy gray with peeling paint and a sagging porch. Weeds were choked in the yard, trees in desperate need of pruning. A window was boarded up, the glass missing. Sarah had been living there alone? More than one hundred years before a fire had ripped through the house and burnt a section so now it looked asymmetrical. Taryn didn’t mind that, but in its neglect it made this stand out even more.

  The house was Taryn’s now.

  Closing her eyes, she remembered being a child there, running up the mountain behind the house and losing herself in the dark, deep woods; always mindful of bears. Black bears lived around Sarah’s house. You could see them sauntering across the dirt road that wound around the property. They were slow and lumbered, almost comical, but Sarah taught her not to underestimate them. “They’re quicker than they look,” she’d warned young Taryn.

  She remembered slipping on one of Sarah’s antique flannel nightgowns; she must have been about seven. It dragged to the floor and she had to lift the front with her fingertips when she walked. She had a guest room to sleep in but Sarah always welcomed her into her bed and, together, the two of them would snuggle down under the covers and watch movies or read books while a wood fire roared a few feet away. Sarah always had a fire going. Said it made her feel peaceful.

  And then there was the Sarah who was always gardening, sitting outside in the dirt, her light-colored slacks stained from grass and mud. That silly floppy hat perched on her head and a dollop of sunscreen on her nose. She didn’t mind most of her body getting burned but she didn’t like a red nose. “Makes me look like Rudolph,” she’d giggled. “Or a wino.”

  “What’s a wino, Aunt Sarah?”

  “Um, never mind. Don’t tell your mother.”

  She was gone and that big, beautiful, mysterious house was all Taryn’s. The house with its wide front porch, attic big enough to hold a dance in, old-fashioned kitchen with its pump and farmhouse sink. The house with its drafty bedrooms, winding staircase, little balcony on the front
, and water that was always either too hot or too cold. The house with so many smells Taryn could never distinguish all of them–some sweet with perfume, others pungent like the earth and trees around it, and some smoky and mysterious. “This house holds time,” Sarah had told her one night. “It clings to everything and remembers it.”

  But Sarah was gone now. And Taryn was alone.

  By Wednesday the secondary painting was finished. She’d spent all afternoon working on it and now it stood in a corner of her room on its own easel, proudly staring at her bed. She stretched out and looked at it, studied it. The room may have been empty, but there was life and movement present. It felt like everyone had just stepped outside for a moment and would be right back. A feeling of anticipation hung in the air, expectancy. She didn’t remember trying to paint that. The tavern was dark and dusky, shadowed. Yet the lanterns and lamps filled parts of it with a warm, welcoming glow. If you stared at it long enough you felt like you might be able to walk right into it, through the doors and to the bar.

  She was pleased.

  Her telephone clanged, causing her to jump. It was Matt.

  “I think I may have something,” he panted, excited.

  “It’s almost midnight. What’s up?”

  “I just got in from work but on the drive home I kept thinking about the letters. Two things jumped out at me and I couldn’t put my finger on them. Then it came to me!”

  “What? You’d better talk real fast.”

  “I’m trying! Okay. So in one letter she’s talking about the inn struggling, right?”

  “Yeah,” Taryn nodded, even though he obviously couldn’t see her.

  “And then she’s talking about building a pavilion. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

  “Yeah, but that was at least two months later. Maybe business picked up,” she shrugged. “It could happen, especially in those days. Feast or famine and all.”