Haunting the Deep

by Adriana Mather

  Besides the fact that she doesn’t like me and would probably make me disappear if she could? “How do you want me to answer that?”

  “Words would be best. I’m shit at charades.”

  I stop next to Jaxon’s truck. “How are you this mad at me?”

  Jaxon shrugs.

  “Words would be best. I’m shit at shrugs,” I say.

  “I tried words.”

  “You’re frustrated because I won’t go to the dance with you? You don’t even know why I said I wouldn’t go.” And this is definitely not the moment to tell him that I will go with him. It’s going to look like it’s for all the wrong reasons.

  “How could I? You don’t talk to me, Sam.”

  “Are you kidding? We talk every day. I talk to you more than I talk to anyone besides my dad.”

  “Small talk. Every time I try to talk to you about something personal, you change the subject. Especially if I bring up Vivian running out on you guys, or what happened in the woods.”

  “So our friendship doesn’t count because I won’t talk to you about terrible things I’d rather forget?”

  Jaxon shakes his head. “You can twist my words all you want. I’m just saying that right now we have a pretty low standard for friendship. And yesterday morning was a perfect example. You literally ran away from me.”

  He gets in his truck, and I’m left standing there with my mouth open.

  I get in the passenger side. “First of all, I didn’t run away; you wouldn’t let it go. Second of all, just because I don’t want to go to the dance doesn’t mean it’s about you or our friendship.”

  Jaxon starts his engine. “Not what I’m talking about. If you’re honest, you know I have a point.”

  It takes me several tries to slam my seat belt into its buckle. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not super open with you about certain things because you’re so judgmental? And when something comes out that you don’t like, you get all moody. Like this.” I gesture at him.

  He drives through the parking lot. “Right. I’m the problem. Glad we sorted that.”

  “I’m not saying I’m not the problem. I’m just saying you are, too. You hate magic and anything supernatural.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “That has everything to do with it. You have no idea what you’re asking me to tell you, and you’re acting like I’m ridiculous.”

  “No, I don’t know what I’m asking you to tell me, because you don’t communicate.”

  “You want me to communicate? How’s this for communicating? My stepmother was the crow woman!” My hand flies to my mouth.

  Oh no. What did I just do?

  Jaxon screeches to a stop behind a parked car. “What?”

  “Forget it.” Damn my temper! I’m such an idiot.

  “I’m definitely not going to forget it.” He stares at me, and I stare at the dashboard.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t you dare tell my dad.”

  “Hold on. Your dad doesn’t know?”

  I shake my head. “He knows that she was the woman in the woods, but not that she was the crow woman. That’s the name he associates with my grandmother’s death, and I just couldn’t lay that on him after everything else that happened. And I swear, if you tell him, I’ll…”

  Jaxon rubs the back of his neck. “I won’t tell him. But what about the police?”

  “No.”

  “And she’s…gone now?”

  “Dead. She’s dead now.”

  “Holy shit, Sam. I never imagined…You told me she was after your dad’s money. It just seemed to fit her personality.”

  Jaxon pulls away from the curb and turns left onto Blackbird Lane. “I wanna hear this.”

  I twist my hair up into a messy ball, for no other reason than to occupy my hands. “You want to hear about my stepmother?” Please don’t let me regret this. “You’re not gonna like some of it.”

  Jaxon pulls into his brick driveway, which is just as uneven as mine is, and turns his engine off. “Let’s grab dinner tonight. Out. We definitely can’t talk about all this stuff in your house, and I’m pretty sure my mom has superhuman hearing.”

  I nod without looking at him. “Pizza or something?” I get out of the truck.

  Jaxon closes his door and leans against it. “I’m always up for pizza. I’ll pick you up at eight?”

  “Works for me,” I say, awkwardly waving goodbye to him and walking across his driveway to mine.

  My dad’s car is gone. I pull out my cell phone. Sure enough, I have a text from him saying he went to grab groceries with Mrs. Meriwether.

  I also have texts from the girls.

  Alice: Come to Mary’s for dinner?

  Mary: We’re getting takeout.

  Damn. I can’t cancel on Jaxon. Not after that conversation we just had. I lock the front door behind me.

  Me: Can’t come for dinner, but can meet after.

  Susannah: We’ll come to you. Maybe help you go through family records? See if we can find anything on Myra and Henry?

  Me: It’s a plan.

  Alice: But do NOT touch that dress again, genius.

  I slip my phone into my hoodie pocket and drop my bag by the door. I open my mouth to yell for my dad and remember he’s gone. I’m alone. I crack my knuckles. Should I?

  My stomach does a quick flip. “Elijah?” I say, my voice unsure as I walk through the foyer and down the hallway. I step into the ballroom.

  “Elijah?” I say more clearly.

  No response.

  “I know you hear me.” Still no response. I walk past the piano and the beautifully laid-out crystal, used for old-timey cocktail parties—the kind where everyone smokes with those long cigarette holders.

  “Elijah, come on.” Nothing.

  I rub my hands over my face and exhale. “You can’t just show up last night after being MIA for six months and then not respond to me.”

  Silence.

  “So you’re scared to talk to me?” I say.

  “I hear you,” he says in his old-world accent.

  I whip around. He’s in front of the fireplace in a white button-down shirt, a black vest, and black dress pants. His dark hair falls in waves around his face, framing his gray eyes.

  We’re both quiet for a long couple of seconds.

  “Sit.” He gestures toward the couch behind me and walks to an armchair on my right. He waits for me to situate myself on the couch before sitting himself. Our knees face each other. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I’m still having trouble believing he’s actually here, that my brain isn’t playing a trick on me.

  “That dress,” he says. “Tell me all that you know about it.” His voice is slightly strained, like he’s fighting the urge to leave.

  I blink at him. “Wait. Slow down. That’s not why I…You want to talk about the dress?”

  He looks uncomfortable. “If it had a spell on it, as I suspect it may have, then yes, I certainly do want to talk about the dress.”

  I laugh a short laugh. “The dress?” He comes back with no explanation? No greeting, nothing? “Maybe you want to talk about the card, too?”

  “I do.”

  “Or football?”

  He raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Well, the message on the card is all I know.” My tone is clipped.

  He sighs like he’s trying very hard to not react. “Then you do not know who Myra H.H. is?”

  “My great-great-something-aunt who survived the Titanic,” I say, and wave my hand in the air with frustration. “And speaking of the Titanic, why did you throw that book into the secret study?”

  “I had begun to suspect that the Titanic was an important factor.”

  He’s been watching this unfold and hasn’t said a word to me. My chest tightens. “And you said nothing?”

  “I did not intend to interfere with your life again,” he says, like he finds this whole conversation painful.

 
; My mouth opens. “Too late.”

  He hesitates. “Samantha, I am sorry that I kissed you last night. I should never have done it.”

  Wait, what? I stand up, pushing my hair back from my face. “Don’t apologize. I haven’t been sitting around pining for you, whatever you might think.”

  “I did not think you were,” he says. “Now, if you will just tell me what information you have thus far, I—”

  “I don’t need your help.” I glare at him and his perfect posture. If he won’t talk to me about why he left, then I won’t talk to him.

  His calm wavers. “You do not know what is happening any better than I do.”

  “I’ll figure it out with the girls!”

  He stands, looking more agitated than I’ve ever seen him. “I will leave you, then.”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t want him to go, but there isn’t a chance I’m going to admit that after he offered no explanation and a kiss apology.

  Elijah blinks out.

  I lie in my bed staring blankly at my homework and refusing to look at the bedroom furniture Elijah designed for his sister. Our conversation from earlier plays on a loop in my head. Where has he been all this time? Why didn’t he say something if he was here?

  I smack my hand down on my bed. No. I’m not doing this. He’s here. I don’t care. That’s it.

  A hand touches my arm. I look up quickly.

  Ada. “Go away,” I say.

  “Mum always told me that if you come across someone sad and you do not try to make them smile, then you have disgraced your own humanity,” Ada says in her British accent. “ ‘Everyone deserves happiness,’ she says.”

  “I’m not sad. But I’m also not in a smiling mood,” I say.

  “We shall see.”

  My bed moves as Ada steps over me and plops down. The ruffles on her dress billow before settling in layers around her legs. Ada puts her head on my other pillow, her hand tucked under her cheek, so that we’re looking at one another.

  “Is it a boy?” Her expression is serious, and her little eyebrows are furrowed. She’s so genuine about it that I almost do smile.

  “What makes you think it’s a boy?”

  “My sister did just what you are doing after she found out we were moving to America. She said that she had no friends in Florida and never would.” Ada nods her head against her hand. “But it turned out she was just upset to leave a boy. Well, that is what her diary said, anyway.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “You read her diary?”

  Ada’s eyes widen, like it’s me who said the shocking thing. “She was crying. No one was doing anything to help her, so it only seemed right that I take matters into my own hands. In life-and-death situations, it is acceptable to read other people’s diaries.”

  “When you put it like that, it makes perfect sense.”

  “Exactly.” Ada giggles, mischievous satisfaction dancing in her eyes. “I saw it, you know.”

  “Saw what?”

  “Your smile.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did so. It was small, but it was there.”

  Now I do smile, but Ada disappears.

  There are footsteps in the hallway moving closer to my room.

  “Sam?” my dad says just outside my door. “Jaxon’s here.”

  Jaxon? I look at my phone: 8:01 p.m. Crapola.

  My dad knocks. “Sam?”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  I open my armoire. Stupid Elijah. I trade my hoodie for a black slouchy sweater and grab my knee-length black coat. Vivian bought it for me and was always trying to get me to wear it instead of my vegan leather jacket. Stupid Vivian.

  I open my door. The sconces give the hallway a soft yellow glow. Paintings of long-dead relatives loom over me as I walk. I grab the banister and take the steps quickly. Jaxon waits at the bottom with my dad.

  “Ready,” I say as my black boots thud dully from the Oriental rug onto the wood floor.

  “There she is,” my dad says, and takes a good look at me. I can feel him trying to assess my mood.

  I force a smile. “Rough homework night. I lost track of the time.”

  My dad kisses me on the forehead. “Have fun. Call me if you need anything.”

  I follow Jaxon out my door and into the fleeting light. The air smells of new grass, and the chill wakes me up.

  Jaxon opens the door for me and I climb in his truck.

  The more I breathe in the fresh air, the more I think getting out of my house is the best thing I’ve done in hours. And coming clean with Jaxon about Vivian is a relief. I’m so sick of secrets. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

  Jaxon gets in and starts the engine. “Yeah, me too. It’s nice to see you go out for once. You should come out this weekend, too. I mean, I get why you’ve been at home with your dad. But Salem in the spring is pretty fun. All the crazies come out of hibernation. The ghost tours start back up, and the street fairs. There is even wand-making.”

  I smile. “How did you grow up in this town and turn out even remotely normal?”

  “Sheer willpower.”

  “Did you ever make a wand?”

  “Totally. It’s the highlight of every year.”

  I laugh. “I call bullshit.”

  He pretends to look shocked. “That’s it. I’m showing you my wand collection when we get back, and you’re gonna feel pretty ridiculous.”

  As we near the edge of town, we turn down Derby Street toward the harbor. The tall masts of the Friendship stand out like black webs against the soft glow of lights from boats in the distance. The houses in this section of town are old and beautiful. And the narrow streets have a personality, like you can feel the centuries of families and international traders who lived and died here.

  “Wait, there’s a pizza place down this way?”

  Jaxon rolls to a stop at the curb. “Right here.”

  I get out of the truck and look at the hand-carved wooden sign of an upscale Italian restaurant. Small tea lights frame the windows. “Um, do you mean this fancy place I’m not dressed properly for?”

  “Trust me, when you taste their pizza, you’ll be thanking me.”

  He opens the door, and a woman with long hair and weathered skin smiles at us.

  Everything is dark wood and candlelight. The walls are a faded brown with burgundy grapevines painted on them. Shelves are made from old shipping crates, and they hold small glass bottles and antique postcards. When I have a house, I would love it to look like this.

  The woman leads us to a table and gives us our menus.

  Our table has a wine bottle on it with a portrait of an Italian villa painted on the glass. A candle sticks out of the top, and wax drips down the sides.

  I scan the room. “Okay. I’ll hand it to you. This place is beautiful.”

  Jaxon grins.

  “Ciao, bella. Ciao, signore,” says our waiter, a cheery man with an apron. “What can I bring you young people on this wonderful evening?”

  Jaxon gestures to me.

  I look over the drink menu. “Can I have your hot chocolate with a scoop of peppermint gelato?”

  The waiter kisses the tips of his fingers and lifts them in the air. “Gelato before dinner—a woman after my own heart.” He looks at Jaxon.

  “I’ll have the house-made root beer. And actually, you can bring your arugula-and-parmesan salad, fettuccine ai funghi, and your burrata-and-basil pizza with pink sauce.”

  The waiter nods approvingly and takes our menus. “Very well, signore.”

  “Did you just order for me?” I ask as our waiter walks away.

  “Yup,” he says.

  I stare at him, trying to decide if I should object. But since I like all those foods, I’m not sure that arguing is to my benefit. “Okay, what gives? I mean, I’m impressed. Don’t get me wrong. But this is way more than casual pizza so we can chat about…everything.”

  Jaxon smiles. “Take it as an apology. I definitely could have been nicer ear
lier. I got my back up. Also,” he laughs, “I’d like to note that any other girl would be oohing and aahing over me right now for planning all this. And here you are searching for ulterior motives.”

  “Vivian taught me to be suspicious of nice people,” I say before I catch myself. It just popped out.

  Jaxon’s smile fades. “You cool?”

  “Uh, yeah. I just didn’t mean to say that. I forget sometimes.”

  The waiter returns with my hot chocolate. The peppermint gelato floating in it is a thing of beauty. “After your father died and your mother was having all that trouble, how long did it take before you felt normal again?”

  Jaxon’s blue eyes soften. “Man, I think it took me about a year before I felt like myself again. I was depressed for a while.”

  I sip my drink. “Some days sail by and I think I’ve never been happier. Then all of a sudden I’ll remember everything that happened and I feel, I don’t know, like I’m kidding myself.”

  The waiter returns with our arugula salad, which has the tangy scent of lemon vinaigrette and is teeming with shaved Parmesan.

  Jaxon spears some salad with his fork. “You know how I told you that after my dad died, my mom was convinced that he was still around?”

  I chew the spicy leaves. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I was, too.”

  I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Was he?” Is Jaxon saying he used to believe in spirits?

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. But the town never liked that my mom dabbled in herbs and potions, and they especially didn’t like that she was so close to your grandmother. The way she used to talk to my father like he was still there pushed them over the edge. And I got caught in the crossfire.”

  “But I thought people in Salem live for that stuff. You said it yourself…wand making is a thing here. How could they come down on your mom and you for that?”

  “Yeah, but Salem’s selective. Also, my mom’s not a Descendant. Lizzie’s family was one of the ones that didn’t like her. So as I’m sure you can imagine, I became a target in school. Public humiliation was an everyday thing for a while, and as you know, when it’s about people you really care about, you can’t brush it off. It hurt every time someone brought it up. Dillon was actually my only friend through the whole thing.”