by Lyla Payne
Her eyes bug out. “You want to help her? Mama Lottie. The woman who keeps trying to kill you and curse the people you care about?”
“Well, yeah. I mean…that’s what we do, right? And getting her to accept that this is no longer the place she belongs would solve a bunch of trouble.”
Daria considers me, and that, for several moments before the corners of her lips twitch up in a smile. “You surprise me. That’s a good thing. It means you might surprise her.”
“So you’ve got advice?”
“Sure. All kinds of spirits aren’t keen on the idea of leaving—sometimes they don’t think they’re in the wrong place or they’re holding on because they can’t bear to leave, or maybe they’re stuck trying to resolve one thing or another.”
“Those last ones are the kind I get.”
She nods. “There are all kinds of mediums, Graciela. Like there are all kinds of people. The point is, you have to find the thing that they have to let go of, then figure out how to pry their fingers loose.”
“I think I have an idea. I’m working on it.” I pause, fiddling with a piece of lint on my jeans. “Of course, it’s the same thing that made her toss me across the deck the last time.”
“You can do it, I think. She’s powerful, and she enjoys being a scary bully, but she’s still a ghost. She’s not meant to be here, and they all realize that sooner or later.”
We chat awhile longer about techniques, the nerves in my stomach growing with each passing moment. I have to ask her something, regardless of how I think she’ll answer.
“Daria, will you help me? Like, once I have everything I need to convince Mama Lottie to move on, will you come with me?”
I’ve never had to convince a ghost to go away. They’ve always left on their own once I do what they want, so Daria’s help is key to my confidence.
She doesn’t respond for a long time, crunching ice between her teeth in a manner that would send me into a rant in a different situation.
When she looks me in the eye and nods, the weight that lifts off my shoulders makes me want to weep with relief. I’m not doing this alone, like Leo said. I have friends. This means there’s one less impossible skill that needs to be learned before this is all over.
And I so desperately want this all to be over.
Chapter Sixteen
Even my step feels lighter on the way out of Daria’s, and not only because I gave in and let her fix me a tequila sunrise when she prepared her third. She informed me that it’s a morning beverage because of the name. I chose not to argue because staying on her good side isn’t such an easy thing to accomplish and I can’t afford to lose her.
It’s almost time to meet Beau at his family home in Charleston. There are no texts or missed calls on my phone, which must mean that he talked to Birdie and she’s agreed to keep their mother out of the house. That, or Beau figures—rightfully so—that we need the rest of those journals even if we have to go straight through Cordelia Drayton to get them.
Not that I relish the thought of having to go that direction. The woman is so impossible that the worry that she might haunt me as a ghost is enough incentive for me to wish her a long, happy life.
The drive passes quickly, the traffic on the highway is lean in the middle of a workday in November. I wonder how Mr. Freedman is getting on at the library, if he’s found someone to cover for us, and feel a quick pang of concern that whoever it is will turn out to be better at the job than I am. It surprises me, the reaction of wanting to keep my job, and even more so to realize it’s not about the money. I have savings, Gramps left Amelia and me both a little, and we’re living rent-free thanks to Amelia’s hold on her father’s heart—and wallet. So I don’t need the money. I need to be part of the community in Heron Creek, and having a job in town every day makes me feel like I am.
I shake my head as I exit and start the slow crawl into downtown. There will be time to contemplate a future once Amelia is back and baby Jack is safe, not to mention Mel and Leo free to go on with their lives. Until then, I’ll be glad Mr. Freedman is an understanding man in a small town and I don’t have to worry about getting canned for taking time off following my cousin’s disappearance.
The phone rings, and I fumble it free of my cupholder just in time to press “Accept” without looking at the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Graciela? It’s Dylan Travis.”
My heart leaps into my throat, horrible images of what could have happened to force him to place the phone call crowding my mind. “What’s up?”
I sound almost normal, if normal people ask questions with nooses tied around their necks.
“Relax. I don’t have any news other than that, as of tonight, Amelia will be officially listed as a missing person. We can get the state and federal police involved, go to the media, things like that.”
“Has it really been seventy-two hours already?”
“I’m afraid so.” His voice is full of gravel and fatigue. “I just wanted to let you know.”
I should have called him to follow up before now. I should have thought about how he’s feeling, now that he believes Amelia and me are family. The truth is that I don’t have any more room at the moment. The mystery of my mother and Travis’s parentage and what Frank Fournier has to do with the whole thing is going to have to wait.
“Thank you.” I suck in a deep breath. “Will they be coming to see me tonight?”
“Most likely. Also, I’ve looked into the Middletons because of the recent conflicts Amelia had with them over the baby, and officially, they’re coming up clean.”
“Officially?”
“Yeah. Unofficially, I think they’re slimeballs and I wouldn’t put it past them to pull a stunt like this.”
I press my lips together to keep from telling him that Clete’s looking into the “unofficial” side of things. That would bring up a nasty conversation about what exactly I promised Clete in exchange for his continued assistance, and that would require me to lie. After everything that’s happened with Beau, I’m not feeling great about untruths these days, and even though a couple of weeks ago it wouldn’t have bothered me for a second to keep something as big as Clete trying to get him fired from Travis, things are different now.
Even if he isn’t my brother, our pasts are entwined in a way neither of us understands yet. It changes things, even if I don’t know how or why or what our relationship will look like down the road.
“They are slimeballs, but I’m not sure they had anything to do with this. Thanks for talking to them, though.” If getting into what’s going on with Clete sounds like a bad idea, telling Travis that I think a vengeful spirit might have taken Amelia is even further down my list of things to do.
“Of course. I’m going above and beyond on this one, you know that.”
“I do.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
We hang up, and I feel strangely comforted by the fact that Travis plans to accompany the other officers to the house.
The Drayton home looks as gorgeous as ever, half-hidden behind giant live oak trees and the trellises trimmed with bright pink blooming camellias. I pull through the open gates and park next to Beau’s car at the back of the long drive. He leans against the driver’s door, looking casual and handsome and almost like nothing has changed. Except it has.
Beau’s smile is tight as I climb out of the car into the late-morning air. It’s warmer than it has been, jacket weather instead of coat, and much more comfortable. The breeze that wafts through the garden, bringing the lingering scents of mint and lavender under my nose, is even warmer.
“Birdie took her to lunch, but I’m not sure how much time we have,” Beau says by way of greeting. “We should get going.”
I nod, not keen on wasting time if it means avoiding Mrs. Drayton. My skin itches with anxiety because this whole caper reminds me a little too much of the breakin Leo and I pulled at the Middletons’ that ended in a disaster of epic proportions. Even
though this is Beau’s parents’ house and we’re getting in with a garage code and not a lock-picking set, part of me wonders if Cordelia will make the distinction.
The last thing I need is to end up arrested and charged alongside Leo and Mel. Knowing Beau’s mother, the fact that he’s here with me may not play into her decision to call the police.
“Do you know where they might be?” I ask, whispering in the huge, echoing foyer.
“I think so. My father keeps a safe in the office, but my mother has a stash of old documents up in the attic. I’d guess they’re under her control because my father doesn’t have much to do with the historical aspect of the family business.”
“Hmm.” I follow him up the stairs, taking care to walk only on my toes even though we’re alone.
Strange, that Mrs. Drayton is the one who took pride and ownership over the historical properties and protecting the family legacy when she married into it. Maybe his father sees that sort of thing as women’s work. He seems like the type, and besides, once she had her children, the Drayton legacy became near and dear to Cordelia’s heart, too. If she has one, that is, which remains unconfirmed.
We head up a second set of stairs, hidden behind a door, and enter the nicest attic I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s temperature controlled, obviously, with plush carpet underfoot, double-paned windows that let in plenty of the midday light, and built-in bookshelves and cabinets that line every last inch of available wall space. A desk sits under one of the larger windows, nestled between two full, glassed-in bookshelves and topped with neat stacks of paper. Several of the cabinets have locks on them, and the distinct smell and pressure of the air makes me certain that the environment up here has been calibrated to preserve historical documents.
In a completely incongruous move, someone installed a rather whimsical, padded window seat in a big bay window all the way at the end of the space. The built-in shelves and plush pillows make it the perfect spot to curl up and relax, something I can’t imagine Cordelia doing, no matter how hard I try.
Beau catches the line of my gaze, and a soft smile touches his lips. “Mom had that installed for Birdie, when she still had hope that my sister would follow in her footsteps instead of my father’s.”
It’s odd to think of Mrs. Drayton longing for a daughter’s company to fill her days, but maybe she’s not all that different from everyone else, deep down. Maybe no one really is.
“Okay, so where are these journals?”
“Here.” Beau strides over to a row of built-in curio cabinets, the glass on the fronts replaced with distressed mirrors that could be either really old or just made to look that way. He rummages in the desk long enough to produce a key.
I raise my eyebrows. “She keeps the key in her desk?”
“My mother isn’t Batman, Graciela. She doesn’t expect her precious documents to be disturbed in her own home.”
The edge in his voice slathers me with guilt, and when he comes back to open the cabinets, I put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry to put you in this position, Beau. I am. I swear, I have no interest in using anything in those diaries for any purpose other than convincing Mama Lottie to leave your family alone, help us with the curse, and move on.”
I haven’t told him about the root doctor out on Edisto promising to try to help. I still have hope that if we can tell Mama Lottie the truth about her son, about her grandson, that she’ll choose to leave the past where it belongs and move on with peace in her heart. Which might also convince her to let Amelia go and help us lift the curse, besides.
It seems like a lot to hope for even for me, but what choice is there? The other options involve giving up and running away, and I’ll die before I’ll leave Millie with that deranged ghost woman.
The cabinets slide open, distracting me from the relentless barrage of worries in my head. Inside, there are shelves of file folders, books, documents that look like genealogy charts, and on the shelf right in front of my face, a few tiny, bound volumes. They are identical to the journals that I’ve been reading.
“Are these them?” Beau asks.
I reach out, holding my breath as I slide my finger along one of the spines, and then pull it loose. There are four, and they’re free of dust—perfectly preserved. I’d be willing to bet that, unlike the journals that Jenna checked out of the Drayton Hall archives for me, these are originals.
I open one to confirm it’s what we came here for and see Charlotta D. Drayton written on the first page, and 1900 underneath it, signifying the year.
“Yeah, this is it.” I cast a longing glance at the window seat. “Do you think I have time to skim them?”
Beau’s already shaking his head when we hear the sound of a door slamming from downstairs, followed by the click of heels on the marble or wooden flooring on the first level. We freeze, our gazes fused and breath stalling in our chests at the sound of female voices. Even I recognize them as Birdie and Cordelia. They either had a short lunch or we’ve been up here longer than we realized, but no matter which, we’re caught.
“This is an old house,” I breathe. “Is there, like, a back staircase or something?”
“You’ve been on one too many ghost tours, Gracie Anne.” He pinches his lips together. “We’ll just have to say hello.”
“We’re not going to tell her what we were doing here…” I trail off, horrified, and clutch the single journal volume to my chest and look over at the other diaries. “Can I take these?”
“Yes. Put them in your bag and clasp it so she can’t see inside. Unless she goes looking, my mother probably won’t notice they’re gone. It’s not as though she does inventory on her valuable documents once a day.”
I don’t give voice to the thought that he might be underestimating his mother’s attention to detail, and also her paranoia. If she sees me in her house, I wouldn’t put it past her to do a full accounting of everything, starting with the historical documents and ending with the silver.
“Look at me.”
I do as he says, my heart racing and my palms sweaty enough to make me worry about compromising the integrity of the journals. Not only would that be enough reason for Cordelia to prosecute me to the fullest extent of the law, but I wouldn’t even be able to blame her.
Beau reaches up, sliding his fingers into my hair and then shaking them back and forth, mussing it up. His eyes trail to my lips with a desire that stops my breathing. I forget about everything—literally everything—as his lips crash into mine and he kisses me as if his life depends on it.
By the time we break apart, he’s holding me against one of the bookcases, his hands cupped under my ass and my feet locked at the small of his back. I’m hot all over and ready to rip off his clothes, propriety be damned.
Beau steps back, struggling to get ahold of himself, too.
“What the hell was that?” I pant.
“You look like a woman interrupted halfway to bliss, or just after,” he replies after a moment. “Now my mother will know exactly what we’ve been up to.”
“You could have warned me,” I grumble, my lady parts set on fire with no hose in sight. To distract myself, I load the rest of the journals into my bag and fasten the clasp with shaking hands.
“Wouldn’t have been as much fun.” He winks, then takes my hand and tugs me out of the cozy attic and down the older, dusty set of stairs.
When we reach the top of the staircase that leads to the main floor, it’s clear there will be no hiding from Cordelia, since she and Birdie are standing in the foyer having what looks like a heated discussion.
I realize too late that both of our cars are in the driveway, probably blocking her from parking in her usual spot, so she’s aware she has company, anyway. And who it is.
I didn’t think my face could get any hotter after the full Beau-foreplay treatment in the attic, but the disgust on Mrs. Drayton’s face at the sight of us almost makes me combust.
Her eyebrows go up as she assesses me—and finds me lacking, as
usual—then land on her son. “Beauregard. I wasn’t aware you were paying me a visit today.”
“Gracie and I were in town having lunch and, well…Heron Creek seemed like a long way away.” He does his best to look sheepish, and I don’t think it’s an act.
Birdie, for her part, is staring at us with a half-open mouth and a glint in her eyes, which could be admiration for our willingness to poke the bear. It shifts quickly through confusion and into suspicion, for surely she’s aware that things between her brother and me have been rocky. I curse myself for not asking Beau what story he told her to get her to take their mother out of the house this morning.
“Yes, well, I’m more than willing to change the code to the garage if you cannot handle the privilege,” Mrs. Drayton snaps. “You know I do not tolerate people in the house when I’m not home.”
“I’m not people. I’m your son.”
“Even so, your father and I are both still very much alive, and while that is the case, this house belongs to us. You cannot come and go without an invitation, is that understood?”
Beau looks like he’s ready to argue, but I step on his toe with as much subtlety as I can manage. Poking the bear is one thing. Dancing naked in front of it smeared with blood is quite another, and I don’t have time to be a meal.
For Cordelia Drayton, I’m quite sure I barely qualify as a midmorning snack.
“Understood. Mother.”
“Now, what are the two of you really doing here?”
The silence that chokes the room threatens to kill me with dread. She doesn’t believe we dropped by for a nooner in Beau’s childhood bedroom. For what it’s worth, she knows both of us better than that, and she probably knows the status of our coupledom is unsure at best, to boot.
Pressure builds as Beau chokes, nothing coming out of his mouth to rescue us from this tense standoff. Birdie looks amused—and definitely not like an ally, at least at the moment.
“We came to ask Birdie if she’s the one who paid for Lucy’s private investigator in Iran,” I blurt, the stark relief from the release of air smashing straight into regret. What on earth possessed me to say that?
