“Oh,” Kitty cries. She lowers herself on elderly knees and reaches to collect them before the wind takes them away.
Tessa is panting, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short, hot bursts, but the sight of the old woman’s dismay as she gathers her treasures brings a new reality crashing around her.
“Kitty, I’m so sorry,” she says as she hurriedly drops to the porch and helps her collect her postcards, her voice and her hands shaking uncontrollably.
“That’s all right, dear,” Kitty says. “I can be clumsy myself. Just ask Dee.” She smiles briefly up at Deirdre, who is watching the pair of them with shock on her face.
“No, Kitty,” Tessa says. She pulls in a deep breath. “It’s not . . .” Tessa reaches out and places a hand on Kitty’s arm. “I need to tell you. I . . . I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but . . . I’m not going to be making that movie after all.”
Kitty stops and stares at Tessa. Some of the light dims in her face.
“Oh. But Aiden . . .” She casts her eyes around, at the postcards strewn about.
“Kitty.” Tessa scoots forward and takes the old woman’s hands in her own until she meets her eyes. “Kitty, in your heart, you know he isn’t a murderer. Whatever sins he might have committed, he’s paid for them. Let that be enough, Kitty.” She searches Kitty’s face. Understanding would be too much to hope for, but Tessa will settle for acceptance. “Let it be enough.”
Kitty meets her eyes. Finally, she smiles sadly and nods. “All right, then. If you think that’s best.”
Tessa helps her rise to her feet, then collects the last of the postcards and stacks them on the table. She can’t bring herself to touch the little box again.
“Goodbye, Kitty,” Tessa says.
She walks quickly down the steps, away from the fairy-tale cottage. It takes everything she has not to run. She wonders if she’ll ever return.
One day, perhaps. When there’s no one else left to tend the graves.
There will be no documentary, of that she’s finally sure. Maybe she’ll take Ben’s advice. Tessa can see the appeal of fiction, with a clear-cut version of good guys and bad. A story where you know who to root for, and you’re never wrong.
And long-lost grandmothers don’t keep a bloody hatchet in a box.
Tessa bites back a hysterical laugh. If she lets it out, the screams will follow, and she might never stop.
“Wait,” Deirdre calls. Tessa forces herself to slow.
She breathes deeply. Once, twice. Three times.
I am afraid. But I am not in danger.
When the older woman draws even with Tessa, she hugs her. Tessa can feel the bones just beneath her skin. The embrace is brief. Deirdre runs her palms down Tessa’s arms as she pulls away, until she reaches her hands. She squeezes them in her own.
“Thank you,” she whispers. There are tears in her eyes. “You made the right decision.”
Tessa glances over her shoulder, to where Kitty is rocking in her chair again. She’s subdued now, not shining as brightly as she did before.
“Do you think she knows?” Tessa asks quietly.
Deirdre shakes her head. “The truth is in there. Somewhere deep, deep inside.” She sighs. “But some things are best left buried, don’t you think?”
There was a time Tessa would have disagreed.
But that time has passed.
The key her mother gave her is still gripped in her hand. Tessa opens her fingers and lets it fall. She doesn’t need a talisman anymore.
She starts her car and points it away from Fallbrook.
Tessa knows her way home.
51
DEIRDRE
Deirdre joins her sister as Tessa walks out of their lives. Kitty picks up the cup that was left on the table, and Deirdre hurries to take it from her hand.
She pours the tea onto the ground by the edge of the porch.
Kitty protests.
“I’ll make you another,” Deirdre assures her. “That one was cold.”
“I like it cold,” Kitty says, but she’s already distracted, thumbing through the postcards she brought out from wherever they’ve been hidden.
“Then you can let it get cold again,” Deirdre says, though Kitty’s no longer listening.
In the kitchen, Deirdre rinses the cup carefully, then pours the pot of tea she made earlier down the sink. Enough for all of them. Tessa, Kitty, and herself. She replaces a small tin box on the upper shelf of the pantry that Kitty can’t reach. The tremor in Deirdre’s hands begins to subside once it’s out of sight.
As the fresh tea brews, Deirdre glances out the kitchen window to her mother’s garden. Her gaze falls on the foxglove that grows there. A beautiful flower, with bold purple petals in the shape of a bell. Lovely. Delicate.
And deadly.
One day, perhaps, if she must. If Kitty’s in danger of being left behind with no one to care for her, or if the past again creeps close enough to devour them whole, Deirdre will be forced to make a cup of tea for them both, using the dried leaves and petals she keeps in that tin box.
Kitty will never understand the lengths Deirdre is willing to go to keep her safe, or why, but that’s okay. It’s for the best, really. As for herself, Deirdre accepted her role long ago.
A single tear makes a path down her lined, paper-skinned cheek. Deirdre takes a deep, cleansing breath and wipes it away.
She is her sister’s keeper.
52
KITTY
In the early afternoon light, Kitty sits next to her sister on their front porch.
They don’t speak, but Kitty’s not bothered.
She doesn’t mention it to Deirdre, because her sister worries too much, but Kitty’s rarely alone.
“Keep my secrets,” a voice whispers in her ear. “For my secrets are yours.”
A ghost of a memory, back to greet her as an old friend might.
Kitty frowns. “Do you remember the gravedigger’s bell, Dee?” she asks.
A small dark seed of worry burrows down deep, settling in.
Something is rising.
If only she could remember what it is.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is a lot like making soup. There are some standard things you need. A pot. A spoon, a base, and some seasoning. After that, the sky is the limit. But the best part about soup is sharing it. Some will like it. Some won’t. (And that’s okay.) There’s a sense of satisfaction in the creation and, if you’re very lucky, a few who will finish the bowl and ask for seconds. There is immense joy in that.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
I owe a debt of gratitude to a great many people for their guidance, generosity, and support along the way. Katie. Chris. Gabe. Faith. Miriam. You don’t need me to tell you how amazing you are, but I’m going to say it anyway.
Jason, Isabel, and Max . . . I love you doesn’t seem like enough letters, but I suppose it will have to do until they create a few more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eliza Maxwell is the author of The Shadow Writer, The Widow’s Watcher, The Unremembered Girl, The Grave Tender, and The Kinfolk. She writes fiction from her home in Texas, which she shares with her ever-patient husband, two impatient kids, a ridiculous English setter, and a bird named Sarah. An artist and writer, a dedicated introvert, and a British-cop-drama addict, she enjoys nothing more than sitting on the front porch with a good cup of coffee. For more information, visit www.elizamaxwell.net.
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