And then Finn had died and my punishment made permanent. Surely, I’d suffered enough? But then as the months wore on, I’d felt nothing, nothing but alone. No Finn, no chance of ever having children of my own, and no higher power to comfort me, to open a new door to something better—a lesson hard-learned—a challenge overcome.
I was just alone.
“Marlie, this way,” Bridger called out. He and Bodie were heading over to the far side of the church property.
Following a pace or two behind, I saw a myriad of headstones that peeked up through the grass, shaded in a loose grouping of trees. As we entered the cemetery, my eyes scanned the numerous memorials of lives that had been reduced to a beginning and an end. Overhead, a passing breeze touched the branches and brought the occasional splat of lingering raindrops.
“Which way do we go?” I asked the boys. It seemed we’d walked too long in no specific direction.
“I don’t know,” Bridger said, scratching the back of his neck. “I think that way.” He pointed off to the right.
“No,” Bodie disagreed. “I think we passed it.”
I caught up to them. “Wait a minute. You guys don’t know where your mother’s buried?”
They shrugged. “Well, it’s not like we’ve been here since the funeral,” Bridger said, scanning the area again.
“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled. “Your dad, your aunt, grandma—no one ever brings you here to visit your mom?”
Bridger gave me an impatient look. “That’s what we’re sayin’. We never come.”
A myriad of questions surfaced in my mind, but they were more appropriate for Daniel; I filed them away for another time. The issue at present was to locate Gentry’s grave. I thought back to some of the names I’d noticed. I knew it was common in the South to give baby girls either their mother’s maiden name or a distant family’s given name as a first name.
“I seem to remember passing some Gentry’s a little way back. Is she buried with her family, or yours?”
They shrugged again.
“Well, I’m guessing your family has a plot in here somewhere, and I would think that’s where she’s at. So let’s split up and start looking for Cannons.”
We fanned out to widen the search. Along the way I passed some Coopers, and assuming Daniel’s sister was also named after their mother’s family, I figured I was stepping over some of the boys’ relatives.
“Over here! I found Great Grandpappy Dewy Cannon!” Bodie called out.
Bridger and I changed course to meet up with him. By the time we made our way over, he’d moved a little further on. We found him gazing down at the front of a polished granite headstone. “Gentry Sutherland Cannon, devoted wife, loving mother, social advocate” was etched into the stone along with a rendering of her beautiful face. Next to her memorial was an empty slab with grass growing around the edges.
Daniel’s final resting place, I assumed. A quick inspection revealed no available plots. So where does that leave me when my days on earth are through? Here I stood one week after my wedding, a legal union that had bound me for life to another human being, and yet I’d never felt more forsaken. The ground beneath my feet suddenly felt like quicksand, pulling me to a barren chasm below.
Bridger knelt and placed his bouquet on the grass in front of his mother’s headstone. Bodie followed suit, then they both stood and gave me a mournful look I interpreted as needing a few moments alone. Hesitating, I was reluctant to leave them. Plus, this was the closest I’d come to actually being in the presence of the woman whose secrets I was anxious to discover.
I motioned to nowhere in particular. “I’ll just be over here if you need me.” I took a few steps backward before turning to leave.
“Thanks, Marlie,” I heard one of the boys mumble.
Overhead the clouds were receding, folding back to reveal a heavenly blue. The sun heated the rainwater, causing it to rise in a fine mist from the grass around my feet. As I walked, I wondered about the people who were buried here and the stories they could tell. The South had such a rich history with generations of families dating back to before the Civil War, and all resting together in one spot. Out west, life was transient with families fragmented by generations of wandering—searching for something better, somewhere else. For the Southerner, there was nothing better, nothing more appealing than family and roots. I wanted this—to be a part of something that would last long after I’d passed.
Keeping one eye on the boys, I entertained myself by perusing the names on the headstones. Clementine. Ida Dee. Imogene. Ordnella. And one named Tennessee. “No doubt where he came from,” I said out loud, though my personal favorites were, Fairy and Clairy, twin sisters by the looks of it. “I hope the kids in school didn’t tease you two too badly—”
“It isn’t polite to mock the dead.”
My feet literally left the ground as I spun toward the voice of a woman. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was here.” I pressed my palm to my thumping chest. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
Wearing dressy blue jeans over high wedges and a starched button-down, she appeared to be a few inches taller than me and very slim. Dark designer sunglasses obscured most of her face. A silk scarf draped over her head and crisscrossing around her throat fell like streamers down her back.
“Some would even say it’s bad luck,” she continued her reprimand, her lips, a full tight bow, holding back a smirk. “You should be careful who you offend. Even the dead have ears.”
There was something about her height and weight, her mouth, and the way she stood that made me think we’d met before.
“I’m sorry, do I know you? I’m Marlie, Marlie Evans . . . I mean, Cannon. Marlie Cannon.” Why am I stammering?
She smiled. “I know who you are, Marlie Evans . . . Cannon. I thought you’d be prettier,” she said pushing back the scarf to reveal a mane of glossy dark-brown hair. “But do you know who you are? Really?” she asked while slowly removing her glasses.
As her sunglasses fell away from her face, the tiny hairs on my neck and arms began to stand up like dominos falling in reverse.
“Do you recognize me now?”
My hand flew to cover my mouth an instant too late to silence my shock. Taking a step back, the heel of my espadrille caught in the uneven grass and threw me off balance. The shape of her eyes, the upturn of her nose and the mole on the left side of her cheek—all equaled one person.
“Gentry?”
The name caught on my tongue.
She raised a shoulder. “Sure, why not,” she answered, but the look in her eye, the tone in her voice, said I was missing something.
Giving her a closer look, I determined that with the exception of her eyes being different colors—one brown, one indigo—the woman before me perfectly resembled the portrait over the fireplace.
But it couldn’t be her, could it? What were the possibilities? The ramifications? Too many what-ifs to process at one time. Then as if the presence of this Gentry-esque woman wasn’t enough, the unnerving feeling she’d brought with her had every self-preserving instinct telling me to flee. And, at the same time, I couldn’t move. If there was any possibility that she was, in fact, Daniel’s ex-wife, I needed to know.
In order to properly assess the situation, I knew I had to remain calm. Self-assured. Objective. “You can’t be her. It isn’t possible.” I forced my eyes to hold hers, my voice to sound steady. “So who are you really, and what do you want?”
“Directness. An admirable quality,” she said, like my frankness was an unexpected but amusing twist to her sordid game. “What do I want? I want to save you time and possibly heartache.” Her eyes flicked toward Bridger and Bodie. “You’ll never save them, you know.”
My head spun, double-checking the boys’ position. They still lingered around Gentry’s grave about forty yards away.
“Who, Bridger and Bodie? Are they in danger?” I asked, though I was fairly certain she was speaking metaphorically.
She took a few casual steps over to a steepled tombstone and ran her hand over the weathered stone. “Oh, everyone’s in danger, sweetheart. But then you already know that, don’t you?” she said, eyeing me as a cat does a mouse.
Another breeze swept by, the chill nipped my skin, prodding to my bones. The vivid contrast of her eyes, mysterious and cruel, reached inside me, studying, as it seemed, my innermost thoughts. In spite of my best efforts to remain calm and controlled, I felt insignificant—vulnerable—in her presence.
“I don’t know,” I stuttered, “what you’re talking about.”
Her head tilted quizzically to the side as she asked, “Why are you here, Marlie? What exactly are you trying to prove?” Her lips lifted a touch on each end.
I repeated her words in my head. Why had her questions or accusation as the case may be, sounded familiar? “I have nothing to prove to you or anyone else,” I said with as much indignation as I could muster.
“You really don’t know, do you?” she observed as if the objective of her game had unexpectedly shifted. “Interesting.” Taking a few well-placed steps closer, she appeared to be trying to stay out of the boys’ line of sight. “And Electra hasn’t warned you?”
I thought back to mine and Electra’s few, brief conversations and came up empty. “Warned me about what?” I asked, feeling as though I were falling further into a puzzle I couldn’t possibly solve. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you will,” she said and then waited a beat before bestowing another clue. “But then why worry about it when you already have so many things to think about, to distract you from the truth.”
I decided to play along. “What things?”
Like a serpent, she began to glide, winding slowly, brushing her fingertips from one gravestone to another, while making her way closer to me. “Things like money. Only, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. You have plenty now. Don’t you?” She paused to take a momentary glance in my direction. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Fancy cars and sparkling diamonds.”
“I suppose, but money isn’t everything,” I disagreed. “The things that last like family, friends—that’s what’s important.”
“That’s right.” She snapped her fingers in mock recognition. “And the quest for love—the need to be wanted, accepted—that’s number one, isn’t it?” She held up a slender finger before clicking off the rest of her list.
“Then career, children, husband . . . nowadays women can have it all, can’t they?” she added with a tired sigh followed by a pitiful glance. “Only, what about women like you, the ones whose wombs have been forsaken? What about them, huh?”
She laid a finger to her chin, pretending to think. “Oh right, they find a ready-made family—someone else’s family. Isn’t that right?” She finished with a patronizing sneer.
Johnny! This conversation sounded eerily similar to the one Johnny and I had had at the reception. But why? What could either of them hope to gain by highlighting my insecurities?
“Tell me who you are!” I demanded, clenching my fists in frustration. “What do you want?”
She crossed her arms and consulted the sky. “What do I want?” she repeated a few times before turning her focus back to me, her features hard with malice. “I want to watch you suffer.”
She stepped forward, her eyes darkening, looking back at me with a menacing glare. “I want to see you turn tail and run,” she said, her words spewing repugnance, sending my head spinning with a feeling of déjà vu.
But then, I knew exactly where I’d heard that tone before, except she wasn’t a cadaver or a foolish college prank. She was a living, breathing human being standing right in front of me.
“I mean, look at you,” she continued, “Your mind is so preoccupied with the silly distractions of a life that will inevitably end. End and then be forgotten,” she added, her tone growing harsh, bellowing in my ears. “So, you see, there’s no sense in fighting. Why waste the opportunity to enjoy all the perks life with a man like Daniel can afford you?”
And just like the warning the cadaver had issued, her words tumbled down on me until I couldn’t breathe. But unlike that night at the ball, I would not pass out.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” I said keeping my voice controlled but insistent. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“Who I am, is not important. It’s who you are that concerns us both.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You will, and when you do, I hope you’ll do what’s best. There’s no use in playing the hero. Heroes live lonely lives that end tragically,” she stated, matter of fact.
“Wouldn’t it be better for you, for your new family, if you simply learned to fit in? Think how easy, how blissful, the rest of your life could be if you would just swim with the current and not against it?” she said, her voice withdrawing as she began to back away.
Parting the canopy of an enormous weeping willow, she stepped into its shadow. I moved to follow but then the teasing banter of the boys drawing closer had me hesitating.
“My name isn’t what’s important,” she continued. “Heed my advice and we never have to meet again. But always know that I’ll be watching you,” she called back in a sing-song voice. The drooping limbs closed around her. “We’ll all be watching you.”
Chapter Ten
Cupping a mug of steaming peppermint tea between my palms, I bent my knees to my chest, attempting to ward off the chill. In spite of the fact that I’d taken a bath, so hot it’d turned my skin red; had layered myself in flannel pajamas, turtle neck, fleece hoody, robe, socks, and slippers; and had lit the small fireplace in our master bedroom, I was still cold. Freezing, was more like it. I took a sip of my tea. Pale swirls of steam rose up to water my eyes. While I’d heated the tea to well above my usual liking, the liquid felt like it was evaporating as it cooled on its way down my icy throat.
What were the chances that the woman in the cemetery was Gentry’s twin? Evil obviously, and banished from the family, but her genetic match all the same?
I considered that possibility as the only logical one. After she’d disappeared, it had been a miracle I held myself together long enough to get the boys safely home. I don’t think they noticed anything out of the ordinary though. Why would they? They barely knew me. Another shiver worked its way through my bones.
Crossing my legs in front of me, I shifted the mug to one hand and tapped the screen of my laptop to life. Is there a difference between investigating and spying? Curiosity and fixation? And when does any of the aforementioned activities become stalking? But then, can said activity be categorized as stalking when the subject is deceased? Or at least, presumed to be deceased?
With these questions looping through my mind like an old LP with a bad scratch, I couldn’t decide if I felt guilty or justified as my fingertips hesitated, hovering over the keys. Searching my conscience for a less sleazy verb, I then mollified myself by settling on sleuthing. Sleuthing. It said Nancy Drew, implied innocence—a naïve quest for the truth. Yeah, that’s better.
I typed “Gentry Cannon” into the search bar. Feeling only slightly less slimy, I pressed enter and a few moments later the computer screen unfolded with references to Daniel’s late wife. Scrolling down, I skipped over the pages highlighted in purple, the ones I’d already visited, and stopped on the first source that dealt with her tragic death.
Over the past few days I’d read countless articles about Daniel’s senate campaigns that had included pictures of Gentry standing faithfully by his side. I’d also perused their online wedding albums and learned of her tireless fundraising efforts for public education. She’d been a pillar of the Nashville community, elegant and well-respected—a saint—until near the end.
Until, it seemed, she’d teamed up with Johnny Hutchinson for that benefit concert. Their collective effort had been intended to highlight new talent, giving press to the fledgling country artists Johnny was r
epresenting while showcasing inner-city kids with extraordinary talent. But the event had been plagued with rumors from the start. Funds gone missing, the unfortunate suicide of one of the singers, illegal drug use, and whisperings of an affair between Gentry and Johnny. She’d died two days before the ill-fated concert was scheduled to take place.
I clicked on a link that read, “Nashville Mourns the Loss of One of the Music City’s Finest.” Scanning through the first few paragraphs of the article, I skipped the parts that dealt with the crash and Daniel being a state senator. I read: After a late-night strategy meeting finalizing the preparations for the Music City Benefit, Gentry Cannon crashed when she lost control of her Lexus in the rain, hydroplaning into a ravine. She was not wearing her seatbelt at the time . . .
“Not wearing a seatbelt,” I repeated, remembering how the boys had said she was a “Nazi” about such things. That didn’t sound like the Gentry they described.
. . . and was estimated to have been traveling at speeds upward of 80 mph. She died instantly, leaving behind her husband, State Senator Daniel Cannon, and eleven-year-old twin sons.
County officials will debate the funding needed to redirect a stretch of highway that continues to be the sight of countless lethal accidents.
I continued to skim the details until I came to a picture of a gold Lexus sedan. The front was smashed and leaning into a ditch only yards from a mail box in the shape of a golf ball sitting atop a green tee. My hands shook, my heart rapping against my ribcage as I rolled the page farther down to a grainy photo of a body on a gurney, covered by a white sheet. Hanging down from under the sheet was the hemline of a red dress. I swallowed against a feeling of unease I couldn’t quite define. First the cadaver, then the woman in the cemetery, and now I was seeing ghosts?
Replacing Gentry Page 8
