The Splendour Falls

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  He was dressed for the day, in cargo pants, a T-shirt and a denim shirt over that. I tugged at my own T-shirt, which matched the cartoon dogs on my pj’s. I also hadn’t combed my hair or brushed my teeth. It was Saturday morning, for crying out loud.

  ‘Were you outside?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  He let the door close, deciding, I guess, to stay. ‘I was in your garden, looking at how much you’d gotten done in two days. Very impressive for a ballet princess.’

  So, we were back to that. The gibe didn’t distract me, but the sight of his face did. ‘You look better than I thought you would.’

  He could almost raise that brow without wincing. ‘Thanks. I heal quickly.’ Gesturing to the kitchen door he said, ‘Coming in?’

  I left Gigi on the porch with her kibble and a squeaky toy. The kitchen was full of cheerful activity. Clara hummed at the stove, the kettle was on the boil, and at the table, the professor was telling Paula about his trip.

  ‘Biscuits and gravy, Sylvie?’ Clara asked as I washed my hands.

  I eyed the saucepan on the stove. ‘Sausage gravy?’

  She held up a box, reading from the back. ‘Texturized vegetable protein sausage gravy.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ From her pleased face, she wasn’t. I laughed, surprised and touched by the trouble she’d gone to. ‘You had to find a way to feed me something Southern. You are awesome, Clara.’

  Clara, looking embarrassed but pleased, bustled me towards the table. ‘It might not even be any good.’

  Professor Griffith paused in his conversation with Paula to interject. ‘Don’t be modest, Clara. I doubt anything less than tasty has ever come out of your kitchen.’

  She conceded this with a small tilt of her head. ‘In any case, Sylvie, you should thank the professor and Rhys. They picked you up a care package on their way home.’

  The tone of my surprise changed. I was still grateful, but suddenly self-conscious. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had bought me something just because. Flowers at the hospital didn’t count. And Mother bought me things she wanted to see me in, not things I would pick out for myself.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to the spot just above the professor’s head. I didn’t trust myself to look him, or Rhys, in the eye.

  ‘It was nothing, love,’ Professor Griffith said amiably, then amended, ‘Well, it was one wrecked car, but at least it was a rental.’

  His joke broke my bubble of awkwardness, and I returned his smile. ‘I’m very glad you weren’t hurt.’ Finally glancing at Rhys, I corrected, ‘Seriously hurt, I mean.’

  He met my eye with a sheepish smile of his own. ‘Like Dad said. It was nothing.’

  The kettle started to whistle, and I was grateful for the distraction. ‘Sit down,’ said Clara. ‘I’ll bring you a plate.’

  Obediently I went to my place, conscious of Rhys at my elbow. Paula looked almost relaxed in a tracksuit and sneakers. We were only missing one person. ‘Is Addie sleeping in?’

  Setting a plate in front of me, Clara said, ‘She spent the night with Caitlin in town. They’re doing some set up for the festival and then going to graduation.’

  ‘Ah.’ I kept my voice neutral, glad she was having a good time so I didn’t have to feel guilty for being happy she wasn’t around. No Addie not only meant no sulks and arguments, but also that I could put off TTC mysteries until after breakfast. Glancing at the professor, I said, ‘You didn’t say last night – was your trip productive?’

  He tilted his head in a ‘sort of ‘ gesture. ‘Cultural anthropology isn’t always about finding empirical evidence of an event. The course of the story is academically valid too.’

  I chewed a mouthful of fluffy biscuit and spicy faux gravy and attempted to decipher that statement. Rhys translated. ‘He means, how a legend arises and where it spreads is sometimes as important as proving an actual event occurred. Like Prince Madoc’s expedition here.’

  The name startled me, but I had to swallow before I could ask, ‘Prince Maddox?’

  ‘Madoc,’ the professor corrected, with a slightly different pronunciation. ‘That’s the name of the Welsh prince who, according to legend, brought a band of settlers to the New World.’ Seeing my confusion, he explained, ‘I was taken with the similarity of the name too. Madoc, Maddox Landing. But all my research points to its being coincidence.’

  ‘Except for the bluestone in the garden,’ I said, glancing up to find Rhys watching me.

  ‘Yes. Fascinating, isn’t it,’ said the professor, relishing his mystery. I wish I felt the same about mine.

  Gigi’s bark interrupted the conversation, heralding an arrival at the back door. Rhys’s quickly shuttered expression told me who it was, even before Shawn called out a hello. Speak of the devil and he’ll appear – and enter without knocking.

  Maybe that wasn’t an entirely fair way to describe Shawn Maddox, but he was certainly at the heart of too much for me not to be wary of him. His high-wattage warmth filled the room, and I could still feel the tug of attraction, but now doubt kept me grounded. That, and the awkward awareness of Rhys bristling at his end of the table. It charged the air, and though no one else seemed to notice, I instinctively braced myself against the tension between them. Between the three of us.

  Shawn was oblivious, or at least putting on a good show of it. Gigi had followed him in, and danced around his sneakers, pulling at his pants legs with her teeth. ‘Sylvie,’ said Paula, with a sigh, ‘control your dog.’

  ‘I’ll get her.’ Seriously, you would think Gigi was a two-hundred-pound slobbering Saint Bernard, the way my cousin acted.

  Shawn grinned at me as I bent to unfasten Gigi from his jeans. ‘Good morning, gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh, don’t even,’ I said, to all of it. His overt flattery, my uncombed tangle of hair, the whole café fiasco, not to mention Rhys sitting right there.

  I carried Gigi outside and put her in her crate so she wouldn’t offend Paula while I concentrated on the dynamics of dealing with Shawn. I could hear through the door as he greeted everyone. ‘Hey, Miz Paula, Miz Clara, Prof.’ Then a low whistle. ‘That is some shiner you’ve got, English.’

  Crap. That nickname was not going to go over well.

  I slipped in behind Shawn and saw that Rhys wasn’t bothering to hide the annoyance in his narrowed eyes. ‘It’s Welsh, actually.’

  Shawn gave a contrite wince. ‘Sorry. I thought Wales was part of England.’

  ‘It’s part of Britain.’ Rhys left ‘you moron’ unspoken, but just barely.

  ‘Think of it like this,’ the professor said more smoothly. ‘Calling us English is like calling you a Yankee.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Paula, looking at him over her reading glasses, ‘it’s like calling you a carpetbagger.’

  ‘Oh.’ Shawn flashed a repentant grimace. ‘My apologies, then.’

  My cousin nodded her approval, and I clamped my jaw to keep it from dropping. Was she kidding? Paula was letting him off the hook with that grin and the good ol’ country boy act? Regardless of his grasp of geography, Shawn would have to be an idiot not to have figured out by now that that nickname would needle Rhys. And Shawn was no idiot.

  He turned to me, and I quickly schooled my expression. ‘Speaking of carpetbaggers,’ he said, still smiling, ‘here’s our own import from the North.’

  ‘Nice.’ I folded my arms, shielding myself from that uncanny charm. ‘You’re insulting everyone’s origins today.’

  Bumping my elbow with his own, he cajoled, ‘I’m just joshing with you guys. Rhys gets that, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Rhys tightly. ‘I get exactly what you mean.’

  I was amazed none of the adults seemed to pick up on the undercurrents. Or maybe they did, and attributed it to something natural and not the dynamics baffling me.

  Shawn took Rhys at face value – or pretended to – and turned back to me. ‘Anyway. Don’t be mad, because I come bearing gifts.’

  In the confusion with G
igi, I hadn’t noticed he’d carried in a canvas tote. As he held it out to me, I was surprised to see it was full of gardening tools – all of them new, with matching green and yellow handles.

  ‘For working in your garden,’ he said, unnecessarily. ‘Here’s hoping you put down some roots.’

  The wording gave me pause. On one level, it was a cheesy pun, but on another, it was a reference to the tendrils of the past that kept drawing me in deeper, to Bluestone Hill and everything around it.

  My emotions were hopelessly tangled. I was delighted with the tools, because now I could finish cutting back the nest of vines around my rock without giving myself carpal tunnel syndrome. But even without Rhys’s warning, I had to wonder what Shawn was up to. And putting all that aside, I was confused why the gift didn’t warm me from the inside out like a box of fake sausage had. I didn’t think it was because the way to my heart was through my stomach.

  ‘Isn’t that nice,’ observed Paula, with the cheery note of a matchmaker. ‘You can put those to good use, Sylvie.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’ I smiled a little stiffly at Shawn, aware of our audience. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And it’s not even Christmas,’ said Clara, chuckling.

  I covered my discomposure by looking through the pockets of the tote, trying to be genuinely grateful, despite my misgivings. ‘This is just what I need. And it was sweet of you to drive all the way out here just to give them to me.’

  ‘No problem.’ Shawn stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. ‘I was running out to the Point before the graduation ceremony this afternoon.’

  With all the other drama, I’d forgotten it was graduation weekend. ‘I should say congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He smiled, as if my sentiments had been much warmer than they were. ‘Party tonight, by the way. If you want to come.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to crash it.’

  ‘Oh, everyone in school will be there.’ He looked at

  Clara. ‘Addie’s coming, right?’

  She sat down at the table with her mug of tea. ‘I doubt I could keep her away.’

  I knew I should go and learn more about Shawn and the TTC. Be sly and ask questions. But the thought of being on my guard all night, watching what I said and how it was taken, dealing with their expectations, seemed huge to me. It had nothing to do with Rhys’s eyes on me, or his inscrutable disapproval. Nothing at all.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I finally said, using one of Paula’s favourite phrases.

  Shawn obviously knew my cousin well enough to interpret, and he chuckled, not sounding put off. ‘I guess I’ll just have to content myself with tomorrow, then.’

  I searched my mental calendar and came up blank. ‘What’s tomorrow?’

  ‘The Catfish Festival.’ The ‘of course’ was implied by his tone.

  I stifled a groan. I felt the same way about the festival as I did about the graduation party, multiplied by the population of the town. If I’d planned ahead, I might have had an excuse. But with Paula smiling encouragingly and Clara grinning – and Rhys just watching – all I could think of to say was ‘Can’t wait,’ in a tone that implied anything but anticipation, letting them assume my reluctance was a joke.

  ‘Great.’ Shawn grinned, buying it easily. Because we Yankees are so droll, I guess. Reaching for the bag I held, he asked, ‘Now, where can I put these for you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll take them.’

  I gripped the handles, but had to relinquish them or get into a tug-of-war. ‘Just show me where,’ he insisted amiably.

  My irritation must have shown, and at Paula’s disapproving look, I lightened my tone. ‘By the door would be great. Thanks.’

  He carried them to the porch and I followed, to be polite, though it didn’t seem very sporting of him to give a girl a gift and remind her of a date right in front of his rival. Provided that Shawn even admitted he had a rival for my attentions. It was clear by now that he took a lot for granted.

  ‘So, what time tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘Paula declared we’re going to church, so after that.’

  He smiled, completely at ease. No, definitely not admitting any competition from anyone. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  When he was gone, I collected Gigi from her crate and went into the kitchen, disappointed to see both Griffiths had left. Clara and Paula were still there, conferring over the remains of breakfast.

  ‘Where’d they go?’ I asked.

  Paula didn’t look up from the list she was writing. ‘The professor went upstairs to answer some e-mail, and Rhys said he was going to Old Cahawba.’

  Clara gave me an amused look. ‘Are you starting a boy harem, Sylvie? You city girls.’ She shook her head with a tutting noise.

  ‘I’m not … Oh my God.’ I ran my hands over my face. As if my psyche weren’t boiling over with complications without adding romance to the pot. ‘I’m just … not.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let that stop you from going to the party tonight,’ said Paula. ‘It’ll be fun for you to get out.’

  ‘Don’t push her if she doesn’t want to go.’ Clara must have picked up on my reluctance. ‘The kids will probably all end up here or at the summerhouse anyway.’

  The mention of the summerhouse prodded me to voice the question I’d been turning over since I’d explored the place. ‘Does the teen council always meet out there? Isn’t that kind of an odd spot?’

  Clara obviously didn’t think so, from her shrug. ‘It gives them some privacy.’

  My brows drew together in confusion. This was counter to her tone with Addie yesterday. Not that I could say that, since I’d been eavesdropping when I heard it. ‘Aren’t you worried they could be drinking or smoking pot or something?’

  Clara laughed and rose from the table. ‘Not these kids. They’ve got too much going for them.’

  With a blithe lack of concern, she carried her glass to the sink. I stared in disbelief. Surely she checked up on them. Was there a parent on the planet who really believed that even a good kid wouldn’t get a bad idea? Even my mother lectured me about drugs and premarital sex, and she knew I wouldn’t do anything to risk my dancing career. It was like the entire TTC was under the umbrella of Shawn Maddox’s get-out-of-jail-free grin.

  That was why I had to keep my guard up around him, to keep fighting his charm. Maybe he and the TTC were as Mayberry and squeaky clean as they seemed, painting fences and saving puppies and helping old ladies across the street. But something made me think not. And I’d vowed to trust my instincts, no matter how strange things seemed.

  Chapter 22

  Regardless of my confusion and suspicion about Shawn, I was grateful for his gift, because with a decent pair of clippers, I could finally uncover the standing stone. I was anxious to attack the tenacious foliage around it and get a good look at the mystery rock.

  It was slow going. Years of growth meant thick layers of tough green vine, interwoven and clinging like a net. I clipped and pulled and clipped some more, until my arms ached and I fully believed the stuff was growing as fast as I cut it.

  By the time Professor Griffith visited me, I was glad for the distraction. As usual, he greeted Gigi first, bending to scratch her belly as she rolled in the tangled bed of herbs, soaking her fur and releasing the fresh, green perfume.

  ‘Good grief, Gigi,’ I said. ‘Do you have no morals at all?’

  Professor Griffith smiled at me over his shoulder, in his open, friendly way. His easy manner made him a good balance for his more complicated son.

  ‘We were just enjoying the morning.’ He stood and nodded to the tall rock, which, as its name implied, looked blue-grey under a light coat of dew. At least, the sliver I’d uncovered did. ‘Rhys said you were clearing the stone, but he didn’t mention you’d done such an amazing amount of work on the planting bed, too.’

  I shrugged, embarrassed at the compliment. ‘Thank you.’

  He gazed around, squinting in the sun. ‘I thought this whole garden was done for. Such a sh
ame. But look.’ He gestured to the bed where Gigi lay, and to the few buds of colour beginning to show. ‘These are already doing better now that they’re not choked with weeds. I believe that you have a green thumb, my dear.’

  ‘I get it from my father.’ My reply was simple, but I felt a happy glow inside at the thought. ‘They said he could grow anything.’

  Snipping another tangle of vine, I uncovered more of the rock. Flecks of mineral – quartz, I guess – glittered in the dark stone. I ran my finger down its rough surface. ‘This is really the same kind of stone as at Stonehenge?’

  ‘According to Rhys.’ He said it with a bit of pride in his son, the geologist. ‘This type of dolerite is the same as the world’s most famous standing stones. Is it warm?’

  I glanced over my shoulder, wondering which of us was supposed to be the crazy one. ‘Warm? It’s a rock, and the sun hasn’t been up long enough to dry the dew.’

  The professor laughed. ‘Bluestone is supposed to be warm to the touch. At least, relative to other stones. Something about it having electromagnetic properties or some such thing. Rhys would hate my even mentioning it. It’s not scientific.’

  ‘But you study folklore, right? Why would he get bent at your mentioning it?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s very serious about geology. He hates it when the New Agey folks start spouting “pseudoscience” about his precious rocks.’ Professor Griffith looked heavenward with a fond sort of exasperation. ‘Don’t even get him wound up about crystals.’

  ‘I’ll avoid the subject,’ I said, so seriously that the professor laughed again.

  I bent to pick up Gigi, who had curled at the base of the stone, completely relaxed. She flopped over bonelessly to lie on her back in my arms, like a baby. ‘The electromagnetism works on my dog, anyway. She loves to hang out here.’

  He steadied me with a hand on my elbow as I stepped out of the planting bed. ‘Well, if you’ll forgive a little more pseudoscience, there might be a reason for that.’

  ‘I won’t tell Rhys.’

  ‘Oh, he knows this one, too. Standing stones are thought to mark places that have certain properties. The mystics say it’s earth energy. The pseudoscientists call it a magnetic field. You may have heard of ley lines?’