by Lisa Wingate
“They attack from overhead … squirrels.”
“This happens often where you come from?”
“Petting zoo victim, thank you very much.” Folding the umbrella, I considered setting it against the wall, then held on instead. The commotion had temporarily stilled, but if the squirrel came out, I wanted to be able to protect myself.
“Ahhh … you’re one of those,” Mark joked.
In the storage room, something heavy slid. Glass shattered. Sweat broke over my skin. “Could you just … maybe … get the dog out and shut the door? I’ll call somebody to come trap it … or … whatever.”
“Leave it alone. It’ll probably go back where it came from.” He surveyed the walls. “No telling how it got in here. Is there water for it to drink in this part of the building?”
“The water to the second floor was turned off years ago.”
“Well then, your little friend must be coming and going. We’ve had them in our ceilings downstairs several times.”
Utter revulsion traveled from my head to my toes and manifested in a full-body shudder. I looked down at the floor, now a known squirrel thoroughfare. “Gross …”
“It doesn’t happen all the time.”
“Once is too often.”
Mark tapped a finger to his lips, and I could see the wheels turning; I just couldn’t imagine where they were headed. “Tell you what. I’ll make a deal with you. You let me know … say … thirty days before you do anything about selling or leasing this building … and I’ll work on your squirrel problem.”
The sound of tearing fabric echoed forth, adding emphasis. Both of us looked toward the storage room before turning to each other again.
“That sounds a little like extortion.”
His palms slowly turned upward, the gesture annoyingly innocent. “I can leave it. Completely your choice.”
He had me and he knew it. He’d probably surmised that I couldn’t pay an exterminator. Scratch that. He’d undoubtedly already talked to the antique dealer down the block. The details of my bookselling trip were most likely spreading around town like wildfire.
“And you’ll get the dog out and close that door first … and figure out how to keep the squirrel from getting back in here again?”
“Do we have a deal?”
I bit my bottom lip. Everything in me knee-jerked, rising up and answering, No. No deal. I’ll handle my own problem.
Everything in me … but the part that was squirrel phobic. That part was roughly the consistency of Silly Putty on a hot day. It was whispering, Just say yes. It’ll take you more than thirty days to sort out the future of the Excelsior anyway.
“Chivalry really is dead, isn’t it?”
That actually seemed to hit a sensitive spot. He winced a bit, his mouth hardening around the edges. His hands rested on his hip pockets, his stance firm, a power position. The only thing ruffled about him was the stray shock of brown hair dangling over his forehead. “Do we have a deal, or don’t we have a deal?” “Yes, I guess we do.”
“All right then.” He walked toward me, slowly extending his hand to seal the bargain. What I really wanted to do was poke him in the eye with the umbrella, but I settled for sneering at him as I accepted the handshake. His gaze caught mine and I saw my own reflection against the cool, coffee-and-cream-colored surfaces. He kept me there a moment longer than was necessary.
Despite the bubbling brew of anger and resentment, a weird sort of … something else … shot through me. I didn’t care to analyze it.
“Deal,” he said.
“Whatever,” I answered.
“Dude, what’s goin’ on up here, World War III?” Joel was in the stairwell door now, also carrying a golf club. “There was, like, more noise again.”
Mark released my hand. “Our friend here has a squirrel problem.”
“Oh, man, yeah, that happens.” Joel was enthusiastic about the squirrel, but of course Joel was enthusiastic about everything. “One time, I was ringin’ up a ticket downstairs. This lady had, like, eighty-seven kids in there, and they were ready to drop some massive change on paddleboard stuff. I mean, like, it was seriously insane. And then there’s, like, a squirrel in the ceiling and it must be jumpin’ up and down, ’cause the tile over her head is vibratin’.” He paused to illustrate and I imagined squirrels falling through the ceiling tiles. “The whole time, there’s, like, these little white foam bits coming down like snow, and I’m just pretendin’ I don’t even see it in the lady’s hair, but I’m afraid the whole thing’s gonna end up on her head before I get the order done.” The story ended with a good-natured chuckle followed by a curious look. “So, where’s the squirrel?”
Mark motioned toward the storage room. “In there with the dog.”
“Gnarly. Don’t let the dog get it.”
“Joel, who’s watching the shop?”
“Yeah … Surf Dude, there wasn’t any customers down there.”
Mark started toward the door on long, hurried strides, giving orders to Joel as he went. “Get the dog out of there and shut the door. We’ll bring the squirrel trap up here after a while.”
My mouth dropped open as Mark rushed off. “You didn’t tell me you had a squirrel trap!” But he was already headed down the stairs. If I’d known this was something they did regularly, I could’ve just asked Joel for help. No doubt his price would’ve been easier to pay.
Joel focused on the tumble of boxes and books behind me. “So, you find anything good today?” He had been more than curious about what was happening on the second floor. If he could catch me as I came and went from the building, he asked about my progress and what I’d discovered. Someone in his family had a flea market over in Georgia. He’d spent his childhood cleaning out old homes and sorting through storage lockers of abandoned belongings. It’d made him a bit of an amateur treasure hunter, even though he didn’t seem like the type. He picked things up at estate sales and sold them on eBay to raise surf-travel money and entry fees for competitions.
“Not really. The books were mostly a strikeout at the antique store. Thanks for sending me over there, though. It was worth a try, at least.”
“Yeah, sure. No prob.”
“He did give me the name of a guy who’d probably take the old books in bulk.” Rubbing my forehead, l looked at the results of the dog-and-squirrel melee, scattered down the corridor beyond the salon. “Of course, now I’ll have to pick them up first … and find some new boxes.”
Something clattered in the storage room. The dog bayed, the ear-splitting sound echoing through the building. “Can you just … pull her out of there and shut the door before she gets hurt or chases that thing back into the hall? Please?”
“Yeah, hey, no worries. I’m on it.” He sauntered to the entrance and shinnied around a stack of mattresses. A bloodcurdling scream erupted a moment later. I was already scrambling to deploy my umbrella before he laughed and shouted, “Just kiddin’!”
“That’s not funny.”
Listening as he tried to locate and coax the dog, I moved a safe distance away, grabbed an empty box, and continued toward what was left of the library pile.
Joel’s attempts turned comical. “Hey … oh … don’t … Shoot. Wait a minute … daggumit!”
The mountain of books looked like it had been the victim of a level-five earthquake. Everything from pocket novels to Lucianne’s Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and the encyclopedias lay scattered and spewed, open pages torn by scrambling dog toenails, bits of paper everywhere.
“Good thing none of this was valuable.” Setting down the box, I scooped up several encyclopedias. Shreds of paper fell out, floating downward like tiny kites losing the wind.
The A volume had landed open at Andalusian, an entry I’d probably loved in childhood. Like most girls, I’d fantasized about having a horse, even though I knew we’d never be able to afford one. White horses were my favorites. Photos like the ones on that encyclopedia page would’ve been the stuff of wishes duri
ng those lonely little-girl summers here in Manteo.
Something caught my attention as I picked up the book and thumbed through the pictures. There was a stiffness to the back half of the pages, as if something might be …
I flicked through, and then, there it was. Hidden right under my nose, all this time. The old postmark showed the envelope’s point of origin and the date. Ruby Ridge, North Carolina, June 7, 1936. The contents felt stiff and thick, a greeting card of some sort. Even after years of lying between the pages of a book, the envelope showed evidence of having taken abuse in the past. Yellowed folds crisscrossed it at all angles, and a liquid stain painted an uneven brown watermark over the stamp.
It was addressed to Mrs. Ziltha Ruby Benoit, Excelsior Hotel, Manteo, NC. I’d forgotten that my grandmother’s middle name was Ruby. I’d seen that name only once, on the announcement for a funeral I wasn’t able to attend. I was already in Paris by that time. My grandmother had been buried in the Avondale family plot in Charleston, in accordance with her wishes, but my mom had been the only one in attendance.
The ruby brooch I’d found in the captain’s desk made even more sense now—a perfect gift for Ziltha Ruby. I’d seen her wear many beautiful pieces of jewelry during my visits, but never that one. Perhaps it reminded her of the husband she’d lost.
Turning over the card, I investigated the flap, still firmly sealed. Two side-by-side hearts joined with an arrow had been drawn over the closure. Graceful calligraphy above the drawing warned, Do not open until June 27.
But this letter had never been opened. Whatever it contained hadn’t been seen since the sender had tucked it safely inside and dropped it in a mailbox.
What in the world?
I surveyed the scraps of paper littering the floor, recognized disjointed bits of handwriting, saw more pieces here and there among the mound of books.
Letters … those were shreds of letters.
Who would’ve done something like this and for what reason? My grandmother would never have deigned to touch Lucianne’s encyclopedias or the Reader’s Digest books. Had Lucianne rescued the letters after my grandmother had discarded them unread and … torn to bits? Was something more sinister at work? Perhaps my grandfather had kept the letters from my grandmother, afraid she would … what? Travel to the mountains to join her sister in the Federal Writers’ Project, or to bring her sister home? She’d obviously had trouble with pregnancies before. Maybe someone was worried about her putting the baby in jeopardy?
The truth had undoubtedly died with my grandmother, or with Lucianne, or with Benjamin Benoit. No one else would’ve had access to Ziltha’s mail.
Carefully prying one of the envelope’s side panels loose, I brought the contents into the light for the first time in almost eight decades. Inside, the colors on the heart-shaped card were still vibrant and beautiful. Above the lithograph of two little girls building castles by a teal-colored sea, the text read:
Will you be my Valentine?
No one else will do.
I try to put my thoughts in print;
I’ll settle for a little hint.
I hope you love me, too.
I turned the card over, read the handwritten message on the back:
Happy Birthday, Dear Sister! My apologies for the out-of-season card. It called to mind our many glorious days along the shore, and so I imagined that you would enjoy it and also relive those times in the old summerhouse.
If this envelope should arrive early, I hope you have kept from opening it until our birthday. I cannot resist mailing it to you from the tiny burg of Ruby Ridge. Do you remember when we devoted the whole of the day to constructing a sand castle with a moat and seven towers? You pronounced yourself Queen Ruby. You stood in the gazebo and informed the adults that you would henceforth be addressed as “Ruby” and would no longer answer to “Ziltha.”
I so admired your courage. You were always the shining star, the standout, the brave twin. I may never have said as much, but I was envious in my own quiet way. Your nature was to determine your destiny, just as you always have. I do believe I may, at last, find mine on this journey.
Thomas and I have been given a fine, crisp afternoon for travel after having been party to the interesting nature of worship in a small mountain church this morning (most vibrant and boisterous as men, women, and even a child left the pews to engage in all manner of contortions, speaking in tongues, and writhing on the floor before the altar). I have never in my life seen such a thing!
Blessings and love to you, Queen Ruby. Know that Emmaline and I are well. This mountain air may yet cure her of the croup.
I will write more when I am able.
All my love,
Alice
“Alice … and … Ruby,” I whispered, tracing a finger along the bottom of the card before turning it over again to study the image of the girls by the shore. The sister who was never spoken of around the Excelsior was my grandmother’s twin?
And Queen Ruby? The woman I’d grown up visiting was as straight and tightly strung as the laces on a corset. I couldn’t picture her playing in the sand, crowning herself queen, or ever having been fun-loving in any way. My image had been of a sullen, lonely, rigid little girl—a younger version of the person I knew, a woman who kept everyone at arm’s length. Yet in reality she was one half of a whole, bonded in the womb?
“Queen Ruby …”
“Is that your name?” Joel strolled up the hall with the dog in his arms. I realized I’d been staring right through him. I’d forgotten he was even here. “Ruby, huh, girl? That’s pretty rad, I guess.” He gave the dog a chin snuggle, then set her at my feet. “So, yeah, I shut the door to keep her outta there, but man, it’s gnarly in that room now. There’s stuffing and pieces of mattresses, like, everywhere. Some cups fell off the shelf and got glass all over the floor. Ruby cut her paws up some, I think. There was a little blood around, but I couldn’t see where she assassinated the squirrel or got bit or anything.”
I checked the dog’s feet. “It does look like she sliced her pads a little. I’ll find some antibiotic ointment upstairs.”
Joel whisked something from his pocket and held it in the air between us. “Check this out, though.”
I stood up to look. A strand of glimmering red beads lay across his palm, the heart-shaped center pendant sparkling in the light.
“Where did that come from?” I lifted it and studied it more closely.
“Outta one of the mattresses, I think. Queen Ruby here seriously trashed stuff, but she dug somethin’ up while she was at it, I guess.”
“This came out of a mattress?” My grandmother had become increasingly eccentric in the years before her dementia was diagnosed. During our last summer of working here, Mom had decided that something needed to be done about it. With Old Dutch gone and Lucianne planning to move to her daughter’s soon, the situation had grown impossible. Grandmother Ziltha railed in front of the hotel guests, went downstairs to the restaurant where the Rip Shack was now and accused them of poisoning her food, tossed a bucket of trash on some kids making noise in the alley. She’d even hit a waiter with an empty luncheon plate.
That final summer with her was an experience both sad and terrifying, even at sixteen.
Maybe in her paranoia after the hotel was closed, my grandmother had begun hiding valuables? Could she have realized the caretaker who was supposed to be looking after her was actually making off with things? Perhaps that was the reason for the treasures tucked in the davenport desk?
What if all the family heirlooms weren’t gone—what if some remained hidden? But where?
“Those are nice,” Joel observed. “Y’know, you find some pretty boss stuff in old houses around here. Guys brought it home off the ships and gave it to their sweethearts or their mamas. That necklace might be worth real bucks. Better look through that room good before you toss out the junk.” He cocked his head to get a view of the Valentine’s card. “What’cha got?”
I handed it to him
and he read it, then turned it over and looked at the front again. “Whoa. That’s cool.”
“It was inside one of the encyclopedias. I found another one a couple days ago.” I grabbed the book, and both Joel and I squinted at it endwise, checking for evidence of anything else between the pages. “The envelope this card was in had never been opened.”
“Whoa,” he said again. “Like a message from the grave.”
A chill passed over me. I didn’t really want to think of the letter that way. In truth, these letters weren’t just clues to a mystery; they were someone’s past. My history. My father had an aunt. My grandmother had a sister. “The strange thing is, no one ever mentioned Alice. She and my grandmother were twins, for heaven’s sake. And it’s obvious that they were close. What happened, I wonder?” All my life, I’d wanted a sister, which was why Denise and I were so close. I couldn’t help but believe that nothing, but nothing, could cause us to stop speaking to each other.
The dog rolled over and exposed her belly, and Joel scratched it with his flip-flop, his long, tan toes curling over the end. “You got any idea, Ruby-dog?”
“Her name’s not really Ruby.”
“She looks like a Ruby.” The dog closed her eyes, content with the idea, and Joel turned back to me. “You gonna hunt for more stuff up here?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You, like, need a hand? I’m a pretty good picker.” A curious, slightly hungry look wandered toward the spilled books. “We might even find the letter that’s got all the answers in it. Who knows?”
“That’d be nice, but … aren’t you supposed to be downstairs working?”
Chin popping up, he looked around as if he’d awakened on a whole new planet. He was a nice kid, but I had a feeling this happened a lot. “Oh, crud … yeah. Dude. I gotta go.”
“Could you grab some of that loose cardboard from the salon and maybe stuff it under the bottom of the storage room door—just in case the squirrel tries to sneak out before you bring the trap back up here?” Could a squirrel limbo under a closed door? I did not want to know.
