World of de Wolfe Pack: Reflections of Love (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Autumn Sand

  “I must insist that you don’t touch.” I nod my head in agreement.

  He lays the book down on the desk and opens to the first page. It holds small sketches of his lesser-known works, and little tidbits of what inspired the sketch. I keep indicating for him to turn and turn, until I see the De Wolfe plantation.

  “He painted the De Wolfe house?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, from the best we can tell, it was destroyed in a fire in one of the rooms in the early 1900’s.”

  “There was a fire at the De Wolfe house?”

  “Yes, we were lucky that the whole house wasn’t lost. But you can’t tell that there was ever a fire now.”

  Next to the sketch is Henri’s cursive: “A beautiful house and a mesmerizing creature.”

  I point at the note, but Barry tsk tsk’s me, and I remove my finger, placing my hands in my pockets. “What does he mean by, ‘a mesmerizing creature’?”

  “It was always interpreted as Mrs. De Wolfe.” He flips to another page.

  Next, is a portrait of a woman’s naked body wrapped in a man’s arms, her face obscured by her hair. Henri’s cursive reads: “The Sins of the Flesh.”

  I make the mistake of pointing my finger at the book again, but move it promptly. “Who is that?”

  “Enid De Wolfe.”

  “Are you sure? Did he do an actual painting in a larger scale?”

  “We were never able to locate one.”

  “Bu—”

  The phone rings in the backroom, and he excuses himself. I take advantage of his absence, and look closer at the sketch. It’s easy to miss, but there is a distinctive heart-shaped birthmark on the woman’s cheek.

  She was his lover. Franny was Henri’s lover. Enid must’ve found out and killed Franny in a jealous rage. Henri perhaps disappeared, not from foul play, but to get away from Enid and her blind love for him.

  I’m not sure why, but this outcome disturbs me. I only spoke to her once, but I’m jealous at this revelation. It can’t be, this just can’t be. Before I get a chance to flip to the next page, I hear his footsteps, and I take a step back.

  “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

  “No problem at all. I’m just thankful that you are taking the time to show me around.”

  He smiles as he flips to the next few pages. Sketches of the Old South jump off the pages, with Henri’s words giving them life. Corseted women in open carriages. A gentleman riding horseback. Children are playing simple games of stick or hopscotch. Life from these pictures gives the illusion of simplicity, all the while masking the horrors that hid on the flesh of slaves.

  “When did he paint Franny’s portrait?” I ask from over his shoulder.

  “Ah yes, his most famous painting. ‘The Negress.’ He painted it May of sixty-one.” He omits to say eighteen-sixty-one, guessing he believes I’m smart enough to keep up.

  “What’s the story behind that portrait?” I’m anxious for more answers.

  “According to the stories—”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Wouldn’t there be a thumbnail sketch of the portrait in the art journal?”

  He shakes his head. “Oddly, no, there isn’t. Especially since it is his most famous work.”

  He journalized the most mundane of pictures, but not the one that he is mostly known for? The wheels in my brain begin to spin, but unfortunately, they turn up nothing. I know in my gut that there is something I’m missing, though.

  “Is this the only art journal?”

  “Yes and no. No because…” He closes the journal and points to handwritten numbers on the front. “We know this is at least journal number twenty, so there are, in theory, others.”

  I nod my understanding. “And yes, because?”

  “Because this is the only journal we were able to locate.”

  “What happened to the rest?”

  “The fire, I would imagine.”

  “There was a fire here?” I ask, turning my head to look around the room.

  “No, no. I’m sorry for the confusion. The fire at the De Wolfe Plantation. You see, this building is not the original art studio. He had a studio inside of the De Wolfe’s home. He was a permanent guest.”

  Chapter 17

  I’m zipping through the streets of Charleston, with Dawn, my unofficial Robin to my Batman, by my side. My mind is still spinning from the information bomb Barry dropped on me. I immediately called Dawn while she was still at the Historical Society building, and asked her to look up old architectural layouts of the De Wolfe Plantation. She made photostats of what she could find and brought them with her, along with her notes that she took on her other findings.

  “Slow down, Evan.” Even with her seatbelt on, her body rolls from one side to the other, as my car make turns at breakneck speeds.

  “I think the answers we need are in the house,” I shout, for no reason at all.

  “Alright, but do we have to drive so fast? The house isn’t going anywhere,” she shouts back nervously.

  I grumble under my breath. She doesn’t get it. This…this happening that is going on between Franny and me has sealed my fate somehow. I’m positive of it. I was meant to own this house; I was meant to discover Franny’s mysteries. I was meant for all of this; even though I can’t explain how I know, I do.

  Why else would the mirror choose me? Why else would Franny make contact with me? Or is it the other way around…did I subconsciously conjure her? I shake the thoughts around in my head, confusion settling in, but still have a gut feeling I was chosen for this.

  Finally, the oak trees that line my driveway come into view, and I exhale, relieved. I park and jump out the car, and run toward the door connecting the garage, to what will eventually be my real kitchen, with my Robin chasing behind me. I take the steps two at a time, while Dawn follows less enthusiastically.

  I burst through my bedroom door to find Willa meditating on the floor. Her eyes widen in shock at the noise, but Dawn shakes her head, silently telling her not to ask me anything, while I bang on the walls. This was the studio; my room was the art studio.

  I turn to face the two women, who have obvious looks of concern on their faces. “This was Henri LaSalle’s art studio.” I spread my arms wide open, a large grin plastered on my face.

  “Who?” Willa asks.

  “I’ll explain later,” Dawn whispers to her, before she turns to address me. “So, what does this all mean?”

  My moment of elation suddenly feels like a deflated balloon. She just had to ask a logical question. “I don’t know yet, but I think I have a better shot of figuring out the answers because of that knowledge.” At least, I hope.

  The mirror pops into my peripheral vision and, for a moment, I wonder if Franny made an appearance without me being here. Panic comes over me as I rush to the mirror and stand before it.

  “She didn’t come, if that is what you are looking for,” Willa says.

  While I guess I should feel happy about that, I’m not. She is the only person who truly understands what I’m going through. Yes, Dawn and Willa want to help, but they don’t really understand this feeling. No one can, except Franny, and I have no guarantee that she will be able to make another appearance. Perhaps that was a one-time thing.

  My thoughts go darker; maybe, by the two of us speaking, I messed with her current present. Did I speed up the date of her death? Or, if that was the only time we were to make contact, why did I pick the stupid questions to ask her? Why didn’t I come up with something more important, something to help with this mystery surrounding her and Henri. Did I mess up the only opportunity I had?

  A petite hand clasps my shoulder. “Evan, she will come back. You must believe that.” Dawn’s words run through me like a calming river after a thunderous storm.

  I swallow my fear and anxiety down, and nod my agreement.

  Chapter 18

  Normally, people will walk the grounds of their home when they buy it. Not me, apparently. I was too caught up in completing
Grace’s Choice that I deemed walking the grounds and getting to know my new home less important; something I would get to in the next couple of months. But one conversation with a woman who should be dead, and I’m out here, scouring the land like a bloodhound. Hoping to find Franny’s unmarked grave.

  “Evan, we’ve been at this for hours already. Let’s just call it a day and go back to the house. My dogs are barking.” Dawn, a.k.a. Robin, leans against a Palmetto tree and takes a swig from her bottled water.

  “You go back; I’m going to look over there.” I point to my left.

  “We checked over there. Remember?” She rolls her eyes.

  I look toward the area I’m pointing to, and then back to her. “Did we?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Fine.” I turn around and look, wishing like hell I had placed markers on trees or something. Everything looks alike, to a city guy like me. I point to another area. “What about—”

  “Checked.” Dawn’s usually whimsical sing-songy voice is now tinged with annoyance, directed at me. I don’t remember Robin giving Batman this much lip!

  “Fine, let’s call it a day,” I acquiesce, and turn in the direction of what I believe is the house.

  She grabs my forearm and turns me around, in the actual direction of home.

  I mumble out a thanks, as she trudges ahead of me with a sudden pep in her step.

  “You know something, Evan.” She stops and faces me with her hands on her hips. “I’ve never seen you like this before. I mean, I’ve seen the Evan that is focused when he is writing, but this is a different type of Evan. An obsessed Evan.”

  “Obsessed? Hardly.” I walk past her, and she rushes to keep up behind me; my legs being longer than hers makes it a difficult task.

  “Seriously, Evan. This is some crazy shit that you’re putting yourself through.”

  “It’s important.” My voice has a hint of fight in it.

  “To whom? The dead woman?” Her voice has an equal fierceness in it, and I can already tell this conversation won’t be pretty.

  “To me, dammit.” I stop and turn; she rams right into the front of me.

  “Shit,” she says, as she stumbles backward. “Why is it so important?”

  “Because…” I have difficulty saying the words, even though I know why.

  “Because?” She waits.

  I feel like my body has become electric, and I can light up this entire town with my unspent emotions. “Just because,” I bite out, and turn around, in full march toward the house.

  “It won’t bring her back!” she yells, and I stop but can’t turn, my feet becoming rooted to the earth beneath them. “Rae. It won’t bring Rae back. You weren’t responsible for her death. Whatever this…this is that you are doing; it won’t bring her back.”

  I may not be able to right the wrong done to Rae, but perhaps I can right the wrong that befalls Franny. I have the ability to help her, if I can get to the bottom of how she died, and when. I can save her, warn her. The knowledge of the past can be used as a tool to save her. I’m her only hope.

  “It’s not Rae I’m trying to bring back.” I forge ahead, like a general storming off to war, leaving my battle-weary troops behind me.

  Before my foot hits the first step to the house, I hear James’s voice behind me. “There you are. Willa said you and Dawn have been out there for hours. I tried calling you, but apparently, you left your cell phone in the house.” He holds it up and tosses it to me. I look down to see all his missed calls.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” I say, as I plant a foot on the step.

  “I got curious about what was going on with you. So, I hopped on a plane to ask you in person, or see for myself.”

  I open the door and wait for him to walk through first. Dawn’s form appears in the distance; she bends to pick a flower and walks the rest of the way to the house.

  “Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on around here?” James asks, as he sits on the bottom step.

  “Oh, Evan has taken it upon himself to save damsels in distress.” Dawn’s voice oozes honied sarcasm.

  “What is she talking about?” James looks from Dawn to me.

  “Ignore her.” I glare at my former Robin.

  James looks to Willa, who looks just as confused as he does. “Okay, well, let’s talk Grace’s Choice. You have a—”

  “Yes, I know. I have a deadline that I have to meet, or risk being sued.” I punch my fists into my pockets.

  “Oh no, buddy. I think you got it confused. It’s not a risk of being sued; you will be sued,” James counters.

  “I get it. It’ll be done.”

  “Will it? Because it seems that you might be a bit off track, with whatever the hell is going on.” He rises to his full height.

  I look at my best friend and see the concern in his eyes. Maybe I should let this go for now. Maybe I need to just concentrate on Grace’s Choice. Why is it things that seem so clear to you one moment, then suddenly appear to you, as if in murky waters.

  My shoulders slump from the burdens of my war with myself, or perhaps the war of my present versus the war of righting a wrong. Suddenly, the lack of sleep from the past few days weighs me down. My head bends, and I stare at the construction dust-coated wood floors.

  Wordlessly, I walk around him and toward the stairs.

  “Evan.” James calls out my name.

  Without turning around, my foot lands on the first step, and then the next. “I’ll start back with Grace’s Choice tomorrow.”

  I can almost feel the smile on he and Dawn’s faces, and it just makes me feel dirty. Am I giving up on Franny too soon? Will I be responsible for yet another death?

  Chapter 19

  It’s been weeks since I’ve made contact with Franny. The first week was pure unadulterated hell, trying to concentrate on writing, all the while wondering where is she and what she’s doing. The second week, I get more work done, and the house is progressing along. By the third week, I’m no longer looking like a zombie, and have entered the world of the living again. Slowly, my old self creeps back into place. On the fourth week, I’m feeling a sense of accomplishment, as I type every writer’s favorite words: “The End.”

  I smile stupidly at the words. Today, I’ll celebrate and marvel at this achievement because tomorrow, doubt will take its place. With each successful book I publish, I always wonder if it will be my last at success. I try to savor each of those moments with my books because each success achieved has a different meaning.

  An empty feeling hits me, as I become acutely aware that this will be the first book I publish without Rae around to celebrate with me. Our tradition of polishing off a bottle of wine and making love on the printed pages of my newest novel to christen it, is gone. Does this lost moment deserve its own proper funeral, the same as Rae? Since her death, I’ve realized it is those moments that you least think about that become the most important ones. Now, those moments we created together, are lost and cannot be replicated.

  Perhaps I need a new tradition? Or should I be a slave to one? Maybe just be happy that the book is complete and be thankful for that. I’m in this weird space in my head, and I don’t know the way out. I log off my laptop and walk over to my bed. My mind’s exhaustion spreads like a disease to the rest of my body. Each night, before I lay my head on my pillow, I wonder if I will dream of Franny; if tonight be the night she reappears.

  With my back to the mirror, I turn down my bedsheets and suddenly feel energy pulsing through my veins. A slight breeze blows through the room, carrying with it the scent of juniper.

  Franny.

  “It’s done, isn’t it?” I hear her soft voice, the sound of an angel.

  I hesitate to turn around and lay my eyes on her, for fear that it is just my imagination. With a deep breath, I turn and see her through the mirror.

  Her eyes sparkle, and her smile is warm.

  “Yes, yes, it is.” I’d told her about my book that first night we spoke.r />
  Her face beams with… pride?

  “Where have you been?” My voice sounds pleading, and anxious.

  “Here.” She spreads her arms wide.

  “No, I mean—”

  “I know.” She looks down at her hands resting on her calico dress.

  “Are you okay? Have you been harmed? Have…umm…have you been beaten?”

  “I’ve done nuttin’ to be beat fo’.”

  My tense muscles relax at the news of her being unharmed. “Where are you?”

  She tilts her head to the side. “In da house.”

  I shake my head. “No. I mean, which room of the house?”

  “Master LaSalle’s art studio. I'm s’pposed to clean it every few weeks.”

  I knew it! It’s his art studio. “Where is he now?”

  She turns to look behind her, and then back to the mirror. “Dunno. He and da mistress out.”

  I want to tell her to make a run for it, but I know that I need to have a better plan. She can’t just run off like that. Where would she go? If she’s caught, the consequences are worse.

  “And what about Simon?”

  She looks at me in confusion.

  “I mean, the master of the house. Where is he?”

  “He got bidniz in Columbia. He won’t be back fo’ a fortnight.”

  It suddenly dawns on me to ask. “What is the date?”

  “October fifteenth, eighteen-sixty.”

  So, we are both still in the same date, but different year. I wasn’t sure if a month for me would be a month for her, or a year.

  “Who is running the plantation when the master and mistress are gone?”

  “Master McCrea.” She looks behind her again, as if she just summoned him.

  Paranoid, I look behind me as well.

  “Is he a bad person?”

  “He no worse den no udder.” She looks down again.