by Tifani Clark
CHAPTER 17
Even though I stayed up late, I felt great when I woke up and nearly jumped out of bed. I had a good feeling about the day. I used the bathroom first because there’s just no avoiding that in the morning, but before I showered I went downstairs to see if Mom was awake yet. Whenever she visits she makes a bed for herself on our pull-out sofa sleeper. We always offer the guest room, but she never takes us up on the offer.
Mom wasn’t in the kitchen or dining room so I quietly tiptoed into the living room, not wanting to disturb her. Instead of finding a snoozing mass on the hide-a-bed, I found a neatly folded pile of blankets with a pillow on top. On the coffee table was a note.
“Jamesie, I ended up needing to leave earlier than I expected and I didn’t want to wake you up to say goodbye. I had a fun time seeing you. Good luck with Peter this summer! Love you, Lillian.”
She ended the note by drawing a heart and a bunch of X’s and O’s. That was one of the biggest differences between Mom and Dad. He would always wake me up to say goodbye no matter what time it was, but Mom would rather sneak out in the night to avoid “uncomfortable” goodbyes. Oh well. I didn’t really care. She’d pop in again eventually, and with her out of the house I could get up to the attic and see if my Goodwin relatives had any link to the Goodwins that raised Sophia. I remembered Sophia telling me that soul savers often had a family link to the ghost they were trying to help. I might have been grasping at straws, but it was worth investigating further.
My stomach growled and I decided to make myself some breakfast before I headed back upstairs. I scrambled an egg and toasted a couple pieces of bread while it cooked. I flipped on the annoying morning news show in the living room again and ate my food on the couch while I watched it, careful not to drop any crumbs. What Dad didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. After my morning meal I headed upstairs for the shower I’d been putting off. I didn’t spend much time in there, but chose to hurry instead—I was a girl on a mission. I threw on a pair of jeans and a lightweight long-sleeve shirt. It wasn’t my typical summer attire, but there might be creepy crawlies in the attic and the more skin I covered, the less chance I had of one of them deciding to make a meal out of me.
After I’d given sufficient attention to my appearance I checked my phone for messages. Apparently I’d missed a call from Dad while I showered. I called him back and he answered almost immediately.
“How was your day yesterday? Are you staying out of trouble?” I could almost hear amusement in his voice.
“Of course, Dad. I only broke three or four laws.”
“Did you hang out with your friends?”
“Yeah. Mom came by, too.”
There was a pause. “She did?”
“Yeah. I was out with Camille and Peter and when I got back she was here waiting.”
“Is she there now? Maybe I should talk to her.”
“Actually she left already. She spent the night, but she was gone by the time I woke up this morning.”
“That sounds about right.” Disappointment tainted his voice. “Do you have any plans for today?”
I wasn’t sure whether I should tell him the truth or not. I knew how he felt about me going into the attic by myself. He always worried that I’d go out on the widow’s walk and fall off or something. I wasn’t ten years old anymore, though. I decided to go with a half-truth.
“Actually, Mom was talking about some of her ancestors while she was here. They sounded interesting and I thought it might be fun to do some research on them today.”
“Really? That sounds like a worthwhile project. You’ll have to let me know what you find out.”
“I will.”
“Okay, well I better go. I need to get over to the conference center for a breakfast meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow, honey.”
“Sounds good. Love ya, Dad.”
“I love you, too.”
I pressed the button to end the call just as it beeped, telling me I had a new message.
“When do I get to come over???” Camille texted.
“As soon as you can,” I responded.
“On my way.”
I started to text Peter, too, but I stopped. What if he’s starting to get tired of hanging out with me? I didn’t want him to feel pressured. The whole boy/girl thing was kind of out of my realm of social skills.
While I hesitated, he called me.
“Hey.” His voice sounded gravelly that early in the morning.
“Good morning.”
“Camille just texted me and told me I have to walk to your house with her. Is that okay?”
“Sure—if you want to come. I was just about to invite you, anyway.”
“Good. We’ll be there soon I guess.”
I was glad that I wouldn’t have to spend the day alone in the attic. I looked at my room, suddenly realizing that I needed to do a little cleaning up—and fast. The only entrance to the attic was through my bedroom and I would seriously die if Peter saw one of my bras on the floor. I made my bed carefully, smoothing all the wrinkles, and tossed the clothes from the floor into the hamper. I cleared everything that had carelessly been strung over the attic staircase’s railing and looked around quickly. It would have to do.
I was just heading downstairs to look for a flashlight when I heard the doorbell ring. I opened the door for Peter and Camille, and together we searched my garage for Dad’s heavy duty flashlights. Dad liked to stockpile emergency supplies and I was grateful for it. The attic had a light, but if my memory served me correctly, it was pretty dim. We stopped in the kitchen to grab a bag of potato chips and some sodas out of the fridge. I didn’t know how long we’d be up there and I didn’t want to starve my friends.
“Your house is really cool, Jamie,” Peter said as we walked up the stairs. “I like how old it feels—in a comfortable way.”
“That’s what Dad and I try for.”
I led them through my room—which Camille had been in a million times before—and headed straight for the spiral staircase. Peter looked around a little, but he respectfully didn’t stare at any of my personal things.
“In all the years you’ve lived here, I’ve never done more than sit on these stairs,” Camille said. “We aren’t going to find ghosts up there, too, are we?”
“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind before, but now you’ve made me nervous. Thanks, Cam.”
“I do what I can.”
I inserted the key I’d taken from Dad’s desk drawer into the lock and opened the smaller-than-normal door. We were greeted by a musty smell and a puff of dust. I flipped the switch of the flashlight I carried and shined it around before I stepped up into the attic. Nothing but stacks of boxes and stuff Dad and I couldn’t quite part with . . . yet. I stepped forward and pulled the cord of the light bulb, illuminating the space in a yellow light. I was surprised. Between it and the light coming from the balcony window, there was enough light that we probably wouldn’t need the flashlights until we reached the back corners.
“Hey. Is this how you get out on the balcony?” Peter asked, peering through the window at the world below.
“Yeah.”
“I bet you spend a lot of time out there. You have an amazing view of Marion from up here.”
“Actually, I rarely go out there. Dad’s always afraid I’ll fall off.” I felt like a little kid admitting that to him.
Peter laughed, but didn’t say anything.
“Where do we start?” Camille asked as she brushed at the dust covering a tote near the entrance to the attic. I knew that it held Christmas decorations and wouldn’t contain anything pertaining to our search.
“We should probably start in the back. The storage containers in the front are the ones that actually get used occasionally.”
The three of us weaved our way through a maze of boxes and clutter to the back corner. Each of us claimed a carton and opened it up.
“What exactly do you think we’re looking for?” Cam asked.
“I’m not sure, bu
t if you come across anything that looks important, set it aside and we can look at it in more detail later.”
“Have you heard from Sophia?” Peter asked quietly.
“Nope. I texted her again last night and told her about Rita’s warning, but I didn’t get a response. I’m hoping she’s either out of cell range or just having so much fun with Nick that she’s lost track of time.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” He didn’t sound convincing.
The box I opened first held old household items, most of which were for kitchen use. There were wooden spoons, a tarnished tea kettle, and measuring cups. I removed the tea kettle and examined it closely. It was unusually ornate for a tea kettle and I sensed it would look nice after it was polished. The antique collector in me decided to keep it out when I closed up the box. I planned to take it downstairs and display it on the stove in the kitchen.
Camille’s first box contained assorted linens—tablecloths, pillowcases, and dishtowels. Some of the items were hand embroidered and we checked them thoroughly to see if any initials had been sewn into the handwork. Nothing.
When Peter opened his box we were greeted by the smell of old leather. It contained multiple pairs of old work boots in various degrees of disrepair. It only took a second to realize that most of the stuff up there could probably be thrown out or donated to the Salvation Army or some other secondhand store. Dad and I would never use any of it. When we moved, Dad had a hard time getting rid of Mom’s things so he saved them all. She obviously didn’t care about the stuff, so I didn’t think we needed to hang onto it.
I’d just started digging into another box of kitchen items when Camille let out a blood-curdling scream.
“What’s wrong? Did you find something?” Peter and I were by her side in a split second.
“Look.” She pointed to the box she’d been rummaging through.
“I don’t see anything,” Peter said.
“Look closer . . . at the bottom.” She shivered as if something had just crawled up her spine and hopped from one foot to the other.
He peered over the box and shined his flashlight at the contents. At the bottom of the box was a little clump of fur amongst a pile of chewed up paper and black droppings. From the look of it, the mouse had been dead for a very long time.
“Why did I have to be the one to open that box?” Camille moaned.
“There’s probably more where that came from. Jamie and I will most likely find our fair share,” Peter said.
I kicked him in the shin. “Way to make her feel better, Mr. Ashby.”
“Oops.”
“I’m sure there aren’t mice everywhere, Cam. Do you want me to get you some gloves?” I offered.
“Yes, please.”
“Okay, I’ll be back.” I walked back down the attic staircase and then down the main stairs into the kitchen. I had just pulled some rubber gloves out from under the sink when my phone beeped. It was Sophia.
“Still here. We’re fine. Can’t talk now.” It was a short message, but exactly what I needed to hear to know that the project going on above me wasn’t in vain.
I took the stairs two at a time on my way back to the attic to tell Peter and Camille the news. They seemed to have a renewed purpose as they continued digging through the endless stack of boxes. At one point, Peter uncovered a box full of clothes that looked like they were from the first decade of the twentieth century. He and Camille put on a fashion show and tried on the moth-eaten clothing. Some of it was pretty cool—I just wished it had been preserved better. Peter looked pretty good in the long-tailed suit coat and top hat he picked. Camille twirled around in a long blue dress that was close to the right size. The dress was trimmed in age-yellowed lace around the sleeves and neckline and she complained that it was horribly itchy. I laughed at their antics, but didn’t want to stop searching long enough to try anything on myself.
We continued like that for almost two hours. Eventually we uncovered a few papers containing Goodwin names and set them aside for closer inspection later. We were just talking about taking a lunch break when Camille let out another one of her famous screams.
“That’s it! I’m done. I’m not staying up her another second.”
“Now what happened?” I asked with less concern than the first time.
She pointed to the top of the box she was about to open and stepped back. That time it was the shriveled up body of a dead spider. I’ll admit it looked as if it had been large when it was alive, but that was obviously a long time ago. Peter came over and flicked the spider off the box which made Camille scream for a third time.
“I can’t believe I’m wearing flip-flops up here. I’m sorry, Jamie, but I don’t really want to do this anymore. Can you just call me if you find something important?” Camille asked.
“Yeah. That’s fine. I understand.”
The work would be slower with only two of us, but it might be better than listening to Camille scream and complain every few minutes. Peter and I waved as Camille pedaled off on the bike she’d left at my house the night before.
“Want some lunch?” I asked.
“Sure. What’re we having?”
“I don’t know. We can raid my kitchen and see what sounds good.”
After searching the fridge, freezer, and cupboards we opted for a myriad of foods not limited to leftover pizza from the night before, orange juice, chicken nuggets, and Oreos. I figured I could eat healthy again when Dad got home. When we’d completely consumed all the junk we set before ourselves, we wound our way back up to the attic. I felt much more comfortable being alone with Peter. Conversation came naturally and there weren’t any awkward moments, which is what I feared most.
“So . . . how often do you get to see your mom?” he asked when we were once again surrounded by cardboard and dust.
“Depends. Some years I might see her every month and other years I might only see her once or twice.”
“That sucks. How long had it been this time?”
“Hmm . . . she came over and brought a Christmas gift in December so I guess it’s been five or six months.”
“Wow. That’s a long time. I’m sorry.”
I looked up quickly. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m used to it. Besides, my parents don’t get along very well so it’s best if she stays away. They do okay if she only comes around once in a great while.”
“I still feel sorry for you. I know your dad works a lot and you probably get lonely.”
I shrugged.
“Does your dad ever date? Do you think he’d ever consider getting remarried?”
I laughed. “My parents are still married and Dad is very proper. Dating would require him to be officially divorced and I don’t know that he would ever do that. I’m sure he still loves my mom. Deep down I think she must still love him, too, because she’s never asked for a divorce. Why are we only talking about me, though? I’m not the only one who’s constantly being abandoned.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying that your parents ditch you all the time, too.”
“Maybe so, but my parent’s problem is that they’re still madly, deeply in love. Sometimes I think they’d rather be alone all the time without having me around.”
“Well aren’t we just a sorry lot of orphans,” I joked.
“I guess we’ll just have to stick with each other then.”
“I’m okay with that.”
He smiled at me over the big box he was tearing into. “Oh, wow, Jamie, look at this.”
I stood up and had to pause for a minute to steady myself. I shook my legs one at a time, trying to wake them up from the sleep I’d put them in by kneeling for so long. He scooted the box closer to me and I folded back the flaps.
“Yes. This is what I’ve been hoping for.”
The entire box was full of letters. Most of them were in coarse envelopes and were brittle with age. I could see right away that they were addressed to various Goodwins.
&
nbsp; “I bet we’ll learn so much from these.”
I glanced at the remaining boxes and wondered if we should finish going through them or start reading the letters. There were only five or six boxes left and I decided we should just get all the work done in the attic at once, but I was anxious to get to the box of letters.
It was in the final box that I found it. I pulled out a book with old black and white photos and newspaper clippings pasted inside. The pages were full and the book could barely stay shut. There had to be generations of photographs and memorabilia inside. I stood to show Peter and one of the photos slipped out of the book, falling to the attic floor. I bent to pick it up and gasped as I saw the picture. My hands were shaking when I finally dared touch it. The black and white photograph was small, maybe two inches by three inches and curved slightly around the edges. Looking back at me from the paper were the serious faces of a man, a woman, and a girl of about thirteen or fourteen years. The girl was a younger version of the one I knew, but there was no doubt in my mind that I was looking at Sophia. I turned the picture over and in a flowing script was written Jeremiah, Elsa, and Sophia Goodwin— December 1883.
“Peter.” My voice caught in my throat as I squeaked the one word I could actually get out. He looked up from the box he was closing and saw me standing above him holding out a picture. He looked at my face, noted the concern, and took the picture from my trembling hands. He flipped on his flashlight and trained the bright beam at the old print, staring at it for what felt like an eternity.
“This is it, Jamie. This is our connection.”
I nodded.
“Now I guess we just need to figure out what to do with this knowledge.”
I nodded again.
“You don’t look like you’re very happy with this information. I thought you’d be excited that we had a lead.”
I sat down on the nearest box. “I would be excited, but Peter, this find means that it was my family and my ancestors that did this unspeakable thing to Sophia.” My voice shook a little as I said her name.
Peter stood in a flash and stepped over to where I sat on one of the dusty boxes. He took both of my hands in his and crouched down in front of me. “Jamie, do not do this to yourself. You had nothing to do with what happened to Sophia. Of everyone she’s ever known, you are the one who is helping her the most. Don’t blame yourself for something that was done ages ago. Besides, you don’t even know yet how closely Jeremiah and Elsa are related to you. For all you know they could be twelfth cousins or something. I’m sure if we all dug around, we would find that we all have ghosts in our family tree—I mean—well, you know what I mean.” He squeezed my hands for emphasis.
“I know what you’re saying is true, but I still feel bad. Now more than ever I want to help Sophia.”
“Good. Let’s carry all the letters and papers downstairs and we can go through it down there. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.” I stood and reached for one of the boxes we’d set aside, but Peter reached out and gently laid his hand on my shoulder before I could pick it up.
“Actually, can I ask for one thing first?”
“Hmm . . . depends on what it is.”
“I’ve been dying to go out on the widow’s walk. Can we go out there for just a minute?”
I laughed. “Sure. Just don’t fall off or my dad will kill me.”
We unlatched the tall window and stepped out onto the small balcony.
“I bet I can see my house from here.”
We both looked in the direction of Peter’s street and sure enough, we could just make out the roof of his home a few blocks away. It was a beautiful June afternoon and the sun shone brightly on everything below us. Trees and yards were fully green after their winter’s nap and the world was alive with color. We could hear children laughing somewhere below and I remembered spending summers—when Dad was home—on my swing set in the backyard. Camille had a trampoline and we would spend hours and hours jumping on it, seeing who could bounce the highest. I always won and Camille was always upset. Peter leaned over the small railing and looked away from me.
“How come we haven’t hung out with each other much in the past?”
“I don’t know. I guess we just never took the time.”
He turned back toward me and slowly slid his arms around my waist. I looked at him with surprise as my heart thumped in my chest. He pulled me closer to him until our faces were just inches apart. I didn’t know what to do with my hands so I rested them on his chest.
I knew what was going to happen and my whole body felt as if it would melt at any second. Finally, when I thought I might die of anticipation, Peter leaned forward and kissed me. It was a small, gentle kiss. There was nothing demanding about it and it only lasted for a second. We smiled at each other, laughed a little, and then holding my hand, he helped me step back into the attic through the window. There were no words exchanged—there didn’t need to be.
We carried all the stuff we’d kept out for further inspection down to the dining room table. It took us two trips. We thought it would be best to start with the letters since they’d probably contain the most information. We laid them out in order of the dates they were written as best we could. I grabbed a notebook and pen so that we could jot down anything that seemed important or interesting. Peter started reading the letters with the latest dates first since they were most likely to be from people closely related to me. I took notes.
The first letters were written to my grandmother. It must have been before she’d married my grandfather because they were still addressed to Betsy Goodwin rather than her married name of Betsy Calder. Most of them were from childhood friends, and didn’t contain anything important. A few were from cousins who lived in various states across the eastern seaboard. Betsy Goodwin’s family lived near Boston at the time most of the first letters were written.
As we progressed through the stack we started finding letters addressed to Betsy’s parents. Again, most of these letters were from family that lived elsewhere. I’d decided to make a genealogical chart of sorts in the back of the notebook I was using so that we could keep track of the barrage of names coming at us. So much of the handwriting was flowery and faded that it took both of us to interpret some of the words. I felt like a genuine detective.
About midway through the box we came across the first mention of Jeremiah and Elsa. It was addressed to Betsy’s father Henry (my great-grandfather) and was written by his older sister, Genevieve Goodwin Slate. The date at the top was July 17, 1926.
Dearest Brother,
It was so lovely to receive the last letter you wrote to me. It brings me great pleasure to know that you are well. Please give your sweet wife and baby hugs from Aunt Gen. My little family is faring well, too, and we hope to be in our new home by fall. James works hard on it every day. You will need to come stay with us for a while once the work is complete.
You might be interested to know that I was recently given an old sea trunk that belonged to father’s cousins, Jeremiah and Elsa Goodwin. Do you remember them? I recall meeting them once as a very young girl, perhaps five or six. You might not have been old enough to remember that day. Anyway, it seems that they both passed many years ago, so the trunk was brought here and left by an elderly man whose name I did not catch. He said I was the nearest kin to them that he could find and thought I should have their trunk. It is locked and perhaps one day James will find enough time to open it for me. I found it to be a strange incident and thought you might get a laugh from it. I hope all is well and that your family is having a wonderful summer.
Love always, Genevieve Goodwin Slate
“I would love to know what was in that trunk,” Peter said as he folded the letter and put it back in its aging envelope.
“Me, too. I wonder if any other letters will say.”
He shuffled through the letters and shook his head. “The rest of the ones we haven’t read yet are dated before the letter that mentioned the trunk. I don’t thi
nk we’re going to find anything else about it.”
“Darn.”
“Let’s keep reading though. We might find something else important.”
Apparently Genevieve had a passion for writing letters, because we had to make our way through a great number of ramblings about her children and husband before we got to letters from the previous generation. The stack of letters was beginning to dwindle before we finally found another one that mentioned Jeremiah and Elsa.
It was written by Henry and Genevieve’s father Phillip and it was addressed to someone by the name of Sally Hart. For some reason it had never actually been sent to the recipient. I wondered who she was, but I never did get an answer. The best guess I had from the wording in the letter was that she too was a distant cousin of Jeremiah and Elsa.
Dear Sally,
Congratulations on the arrival of your new child. We wish you and your little one the best of health in the days to come. I am happy to share the news that Laura has accepted the offer of my hand in marriage and her father has agreed as well. We shall be married sometime in the fall if all goes as planned. She is a lovely girl and I couldn’t be luckier. Father has been keeping me busy on the farm and I fear I might never get a break to enjoy the fine spring weather we have been having here.
We were recently visited by our cousins, Jeremiah and Elsa Goodwin. They are surely a strange couple. I recall father taking me to visit them when I was about fourteen and they had a beautiful daughter. I believe Sophia was her name. She was friendly enough and I think her parents would have liked to see us married, but I definitely did not want to be paired with them, nor would my father have ever allowed it. I overheard him talking with Mother about “trusting Jeremiah about as far as I could throw him.” I suppose Father does not hold much regard for him.
They came here without their daughter this time and did not mention her so I suppose she has been married off to some other poor fool. I do not know what business they had with my father, but he was very upset when they left. I shall try to avoid contact with this family in the future and I suggest you do so as well if you ever chance to meet up with them since you now live so close to them. I pray for your continued health and happiness.
Best regards, Phillip Goodwin
I felt like I’d been taken back in time. In just one letter there was the happiness of a new baby being born and the joy of an engagement. The man who wrote this letter would have been my great-great grandfather and the Laura he mentioned would be my great-great grandmother. Being an only child and coming from parents who did not have much family, I found myself fascinated with the history of it all and I felt a closeness to the people I’d never met. I hoped that Peter wasn’t getting bored.
“When was that letter written?” I asked.
Peter unfolded it again and looked at the date. “It looks like it was May of 1895.”
“Hmm . . . so this was written after Sophia had been dead for a while. I think she told me she quit haunting them after five or six years or something like that. I don’t think Nick started haunting them until sometime in the early 1900’s. Apparently this visit fell sometime between the two of them keeping tabs on Jeremiah and Elsa.”
We finished the last of the letters without finding any more references to the “strange cousins” and decided to look through the photo album where I’d found the picture of Sophia with Jeremiah and Elsa. I found it fascinating to see what my dead relatives looked like. Some of the women were absolutely beautiful in their elegant dresses with high collars and long sleeves. I hoped that some of their genes had been passed on to me. Some of the pictures were a little eerie since no one ever smiled in pictures back in those days. I could only imagine what my ancestors would think if they saw the goofy poses and silly faces we made in modern photographs.
“Have you ever heard of post-mortem photography?” Peter asked as he flipped through the album.
“Umm . . . I’m not sure.”
“Have you ever seen The Others? It’s a Nicole Kidman movie. Looking at all these old pictures makes me think of it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh. The movie talks about it a little bit. It’s kind of a freaky movie. We should watch it together some time.”
“Okay, but if it’s a scary movie can we wait until this whole thing with Nick and Sophia is done?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
“So what is post-whatever-you-called-it photography?”
“Post-mortem. Years ago, when photographs first started to become available, people would sometimes take pictures of their deceased loved ones.”
“Eww.”
“It wasn’t creepy to them. Their culture was different back then. Regular people didn’t own cameras or have cell phones with video capabilities like they do now. It cost a lot of money to have your picture taken so people would sometimes wait until a family member died before they splurged on it. They wanted to preserve the memory of their loved ones.”
“So . . . were they decaying when their pictures were taken?”
“No. They took the pictures within the first couple days of the person dying so that they still looked somewhat normal. They posed them, too, you know.”
“Posed them? What do you mean?”
“Well, since photographs were such a rare occurrence, they usually wanted the whole family in the picture so they’d prop up the dead body, make sure their eyes were held open, and pose as if it were a normal family portrait. A lot of times they’d take pictures of dead kids with their favorite toys and sometimes if a mother died in childbirth, they’d prop her up, sit her baby on her lap, and then cover her face with a shroud of some sort. Those are the pictures that disturb me most.”
“That is so creepy. How do you know all this anyway?”
“You’re forgetting who my parents are. I’m sure I have a different feeling toward dead people than most kids my age. I grew up looking at skeletons.”
Suddenly I had a whole different perspective while looking through the photo album. I found myself analyzing every person in every picture to see if there were any signs of death. I questioned a couple of them, but Peter didn’t agree with me. Apparently he’d seen a lot of those pictures. I was fine looking at ghosts, but I didn’t want to stare at their real bodies.
Toward the back of the album we started finding newspaper clippings and other small mementos. I found a few birth records and death notices of some of the ones whose letters we’d read earlier. Peter restlessly tapped his feet and squirmed atop his perch before finally standing up. He stared aimlessly out one of the windows into the backyard and I decided it was time to call it a day.
But then I turned one more page.
There was a clipping with the headline, “Couple Feared Lost At Sea.” I leaned in for a closer look. It was from the Newport News Daily Press and was dated September 28, 1912. I skimmed the first couple of lines.
“Peter, listen to this.”
He returned from his post at the window and sat next to me at the table. I began to read:
“Former Newport News resident, Captain Jeremiah Goodwin, is believed to be lost at sea. The elderly Captain Goodwin’s ship, The Mist Seeker, was found smashed into the rocks near Sunset Cove after the large storm on the 16th day of September 1912. At first it was feared that no survivors would be found, but a young man by the name of Hans Bowman was discovered floating on a bit of debris the next day. Bowman claims he was the only person on the ship to survive. It is believed that the elderly Mrs. Goodwin was also aboard the ship at the time of its sinking.
Captain Goodwin had recently sold his property on the south end of Newport News where he had been a part-time resident for the last thirty years. Captain Goodwin was known to be a shrewd businessman in the area. He and Mrs. Goodwin do not have any surviving descendants and no memorial services are currently being planned.”
“Wow. They totally got what was coming to them,” Peter said when I’d finished reading the article.
/> “I don’t think any kind of death would make up for the pain they put countless people through when they were alive.”
“I guess we know how they found each other in death—they died at the same time and place. When you read that it was 1912, I thought you were about to tell me they died on the Titanic.”
“Why?”
“It sunk in 1912, too.”
“You’re just a walking history book, aren’t you?” I joked.
I really didn’t mind. I enjoyed history myself and found Peter’s little trivia facts to be kind of interesting.
I was silent for a minute, thinking. “Why do you think they became ghosts? Sophia said it’s rare for people who did something bad on earth to become ghosts when they die. Usually it’s for them to right a wrong, but I don’t picture Jeremiah and Elsa doing that. They were completely heartless and I don’t think there’s any way they could ever right all of the wrongs they did.”
“I don’t know. I just hope we don’t ever have to find out. As long as we can keep Sophia and Nick away from the Goodwins until they extricate we shouldn’t ever have to cross paths with them.”
I looked at the clock. It was already after five and I was completely exhausted from everything we’d been doing that day.
“Let’s just leave everything spread out here for tonight,” I said as I waved my hand over the mess of papers on the dining room table. “We can show it to Camille tomorrow . . . and Sophia if she comes back. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving again.”
“I have an idea. You’ve been feeding me for the last few days and I think it’s my turn to return the favor. Cooking is a hobby of mine. Are you willing to taste my food?” Peter suggested.
“Sure. I have nothing better to do so I might as well give it a try,” I joked.
“I make a pretty mean Alfredo sauce if you like that kind of thing.”
“It sounds delicious. What ingredients do I need to have?”
“Actually, I think I have everything that I need at my house. Want to go over there?”
I hesitated for a second. For some reason it didn’t feel weird to be alone at my house with Peter, but the idea of being alone on his territory made me nervous.
“I guess that would be okay,” I said slowly.
“Great. Let’s go.”
We made the walk to his house in less than fifteen minutes and let ourselves in through the garage. Peter’s house was filled with old things just like mine, but the things occupying the shelves in his home were artifacts, not antiques. I spent the first twenty minutes we were there going from glass case to glass case admiring everything I saw. Peter was able to tell me the history of every single piece. His parents had taught him well.
He stopped at a hall table and hit play on the answering machine. There were a couple of messages for his parents that he quickly skipped over and then listened when he heard his mom’s voice come on the machine.
“Peter? Hello? I guess you must be out with friends. Don’t have too much fun without us. We were able to take a ferry out to a little tropical island today and it was blissful. You would have really liked it. Anyhoo, enjoy your evening. We’ll call again tomorrow. Love you.”
Peter rolled his eyes and laughed when the machine beeped that the message was over. “If they’d really wanted to talk to me they would have called my cell phone instead of the home number.”
Peter chatted as he pulled out pans, utensils, and ingredients and began to work on dinner—obviously in his comfort zone. I offered to help and he instructed me to cook the fettuccine noodles. I could handle that—it only required pasta and water. I shouldn’t have hesitated in going to his house because he was a complete gentleman the entire time we were there and never did so much as hold my hand. He was right—he made a delicious Alfredo and there were no leftovers when we finished.
We were trying to decide whether to return to my house and continue searching through documents or call it a night when my phone rang.
“How’d it go today? You never called me so I guess that means you didn’t find anything?” It was Camille. I’d completely forgotten about her.
I quickly filled her in on all the information we’d uncovered. She was impressed. “I want to see the picture,” she said when I told her about the photo we’d found.
“Would you be interested in coming back over to my house tonight or do you want to wait until tomorrow?”
“I know it’s only seven-thirty and bright as day outside, but I’m already in my pajamas. We better make it tomorrow.”
“Okay. Is ten good?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
I hung up with Camille and walked with Peter back to my house. He didn’t come inside again, but he said goodbye and left on his bike. I let myself inside the house and leaned back against the closed door.
I couldn’t believe everything that had happened that day. I’d discovered that I was related to murderous villains and I had my first kiss—all in the same afternoon. Not bad.
