The Last Dupont

by Rachel Renee

  I really wish I could have found out something about the Astors. From these letters, I imagined John being a little more kind and open than he was. There’s a knock at the door just as I’m closing up that final letter again. It’s been an entire morning and afternoon and I haven’t heard from Tucker, so I’m going to guess that’s him. I realize too late that I’m still in my sleeping clothes. Tucker doesn’t miss it as he looks me over from head to toe.

  “Just waking up? Another long night?”

  “No. No. I was doing some research. Going through more of Granny’s things. I went to see my uncle John last night,” I murmur.

  “You what? Why would you do that?”

  “I told you. Just to know.”

  I open the door to let the man in. He shuts it and heads toward the seating room. “So, how did it go?”

  “Let’s just say he did not invite me in.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “He wasn’t interested in opening old wounds. I just thought he’s be more accepting, I mean, his letters made it sound like the only reason he had for not contacting my grandmother anymore was because he was afraid of what his father might do.”

  “Maybe the old man finally got to him. Made him see that what his sister did was a betrayal to the family name.”

  “Do you feel that way?”

  “No.” He pauses. “I just understand. When you have a family such as the Astors or the Duponts it’s considered sacred and whatever happens to one, it is looked upon by everyone, not only from the inside, but the outside too.”

  “But, I’m the last of the Duponts. I don’t understand why it even matters anymore.”

  “Until there are none, it will matter. There will be a grudge between the two families.”

  “What started the grudge?”

  Tucker shrugs his shoulders. “I asked Gladys a couple of different times, but she would never tell me.”

  “Why is everything such a big secret?” I know my voice is rising but I can’t help the anger I’m feeling. “I want to know about my family. About my history.”

  Tucker reaches out and touches my wrist with his fingertips. “How about I help you look for answers?”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I can ask around town. I can talk to my pa. I can help you search the house.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course. Not just for your granny, but I want you to be comfortable.” He’s rubbing his thumb back and forth over my wrist, his touch giving me hope. “If you choose to stay, you should know about the family that lived in this home.”

  “Thank you.” I look down to his hand that is rubbing mine, then back up to his attractive face. Reaching up to his neck, I pull him in for a hug, showing him how thankful I am for his help.

  “I’m going to go make myself presentable so we can get to work.”

  “That’s a great start.” He beams as I pull out of the embrace. “I’ll start checking out the basement.”

  “This house has a basement?”

  “It’s small, but big enough to hide some secrets.” He points to a door just down the hall on the other side of the stairwell. “You haven’t opened it yet?”

  “Don’t you think I would be less shocked of the basement comment if I had?”

  “You do have a point.”

  I get myself ready as quickly as possible, thankful that I showered last night. After throwing on a pair of bell bottoms and a peasant top, I whip my hair into a loose braid before brushing my teeth.

  “Finding anything good?” I call out the moment my foot touches the top step of the basement. It’s rather dark and smells of standing water. There is a faint light coming from the bottom of the stairs that illuminates my way down them.

  Tucker hasn’t answered me and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s even down here until I hear rustling of papers and clicking of something metal. Tucker whirls around when my shoe squeaks against the concrete. “This old box has some interesting letters inside. Looks like they’re from Gladys to your grandfather. From when they were courting each other.”

  The metal clicks again as he reopens the box before handing it over to me. “These are bound to tell me something.” I reach for the yellowed paper at the top. “I think I will take them upstairs where the lighting is better.”

  “I’ll keep searching through the rest of this.”

  The two of us separate once more. I sit on the floor next to the couch I’ve been sleeping on, spreading the letters out over the rug. Opening up the first letter, I begin my reading.

  Come to Crimson Falls. We can make a real life here, my Grandfather wrote.

  My granny responded in her letter, It’s so small. I’m afraid I won’t know anyone. And my father…I just don’t think it’s a good idea.

  It seems so unlikely that I would find letters from the both of them. Granny must have combined them once she finally came to her senses and moved to Crimson Falls with my grandfather.

  You don’t need anyone but me. We’ll create a family, Grandfather wrote. Our kids and I will be the only ones you’ll need, my grandfather pleaded with her a few letters later.

  The very next response from Granny was, I’m sorry. I just can’t. There was nothing else in the letter. She didn’t even sign her name but I know her writing by now. Even though it was a lifetime ago when these letters were written, they make my grandmother seem so much more real to me. Fears that the town would be too small and that she wouldn’t know anyone—those are some of my same reservations about Crimson Falls.

  I search through the letters looking for more. The next note in the pile is dated almost a year after the previous. I don’t know what happened during that eleven-month break, but October of the following year, my grandmother wrote another letter. Last night was the best night of my life. Thank you for showing me what a future together could be like. Thank you for not giving up on me.

  Each corresponding letter after grows in happiness and longing until the very last when my grandfather wrote and told Granny where to meet him and that he was getting her out of her home, away from her father and his abusive ways. None of the letters talk about what my great-grandfather does to Granny so there must be other ways that the two communicated.

  Tucker comes up a little later, tossing a whole stack of newspaper clippings to the floor in front of me. “We’ve already looked through these.”

  “Not this stack. These could explain your mother’s town-curse theory. Seems as though every year on October thirteenth, someone dies. These papers are all dated the same, year after year going back to the start of the newspaper.”

  “Nearly twenty years of deaths on October thirteenth. I’m sure they were happening before that too. I mean, my grandfather, daddy, and sister would have happened before the start of this paper.” I point to the newsprint on the bottom of the stack.

  “Read that first article. It does mention that. From what I saw, it never mentions an actual curse, but the writer certainly points out the fact that is has happened once again, every year.”

  All those other papers from the beginning of October. I wonder why these were kept separate. To prove something? I feel the color drain from my face and my hands clam up.

  “Now wait a minute. Many people die every day, we’ve talked about that. This is no cause for concern. Just a superstition, if you ask me. The paper making it into more than it need be. Bet if you checked obituaries from other towns, there would be deaths on October thirteenth, every year, too.”

  I sit back, leaning my head against the couch. He’s right. It could all be a coincidence. “I wonder how each person died. Do you think the deaths could be what makes this town unique?”

  “This town is not unique. Feel free to look through them. I’m going to head out for a bit. I’ll talk to a few people in town and see what they make of the whole thing.”

  “If you don’t believe it, why are you helping me?”

  “I’ve said it before, multiple times. I
told your Granny I’d look after you if you stayed. Plus, I said I’d help you research your family history. I just happened to stumble across those papers. What I’ll be after is stories about your grandparents and great-grandparents. You want to know what started that feud, right? Or is it all about the curse?”

  I’m not sure if it’s anger or frustration coming out in Tucker’s tone, but I answer him with what I think he wants to hear. “I want to know about my history more than anything.”

  “Good answer,” he says with a slight tilt of his lips. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night. Thank you for your help.” I start to stand but Tucker motions for me to stay put.

  “I’ll see myself out.” With a quick wave, he’s out the door.

  This scenario continues for the next week. I didn’t think I would be here, but yet, I haven’t made a move to leave. Tucker and I have developed a nice little routine. I spend the mornings searching through this house, he talks to the people in town while he works, and I try to as well during grocery trips or lunch at the diner. Saturday, the two of us stopped by the newspaper in hopes of talking to someone. I asked the editor why they made it a point to publicize on the front page, the deaths on that one day of the year when all of the others were shoved to a small section on the back page. His answer stunned Tucker and I. “Well, it’s the town’s birthday and”—he shrugs—“the curse, of course. It’s well known that people believe this town to be cursed. If you notice the deaths on all of the other days, you’ll find your heart attacks, strokes, and natural causes. Almost all of the deaths on that specific day are unexplained, an accident”—he used air quotes around that answer—“murders even. A couple of years ago we even had a guy who murdered his own mother. And, just so you know, there aren’t any murders in this town on any other day of the year. That’s notable.”

  Not one other person in this town had mentioned the curse, at least not in my presence, and not until the editor of the paper spilled the secret. Tucker’s sullen look told me of his shock to hearing of it as well. But, after the fact, it seems as though some people are starting to recall the knowledge of such a thing. Tucker has yet to talk to me about it while we are alone, even though I’ve mentioned it a couple of times since and others have acknowledged it. I think he’s upset that he’s lived here his whole life and no one has ever mentioned it to him. Or, he’s upset that people have revealed it to me and he thinks now that I know it will be a bigger push for me to leave. He hasn’t said, but I can just tell by the way he tenses now when it’s mentioned. I’m not sure why it makes me feel better knowing that my momma didn’t just make up the curse to keep me from this town. It’s a real thing. Knowing that it’s real, or at least believed by other townspeople, brings me a weird comfort. The fear that was there originally, dwindles away each day.

  Every night this last week, Tucker and I have sat on the porch to eat dinner together. The weather is chilly, but the view is stunning. Every tree surrounding the place has now turned a vibrant red, yellow, orange, or in some cases, a combination of those colors. It’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever been surrounded by. Back in Georgia, I didn’t really experience the change in season like this. The weather cools, but not like it does here. There is a crispness in the air and as the sun begins to set beyond the tree line, those colors combine with the changing scenery surrounding the property and it leaves me in awe.

  The two of us sit from the beginning of sunset until it’s completely black and any warmth left behind has vanished with the day, talking of anything we found during our search, and stories of what our life was like before we met each other. Tucker seems to be a hard worker, assisting in the family business of taking care of the buildings and homes in this town. I enjoy the fact that he doesn’t shy away from his commitments and seems to be very loyal to the town. The only fact that bothers me is the moment I ask about anyone other than his father, he changes the subject, as if no one else exists. Is he ashamed of the rest of his relatives? It’s a conversation for another time, I tell myself. If we get to know each other better, he will share his secrets.

  After the two of us bid the day farewell, we work together in the kitchen to clean up the dinner dishes. Lingering gazes and soft, innocent caresses as we work in silence accompany us. Then, despite the fact that the heat works just fine, Tucker builds a fire in the sitting room fireplace every night, where we sit with a cup of tea or coffee and spend more of the evening warming by the roaring flames. Before setting out for the night, Tucker always asks, “Are you considering making this house your permanent home?”

  Until tonight, this very moment, I’ve said no immediately. I’m staring at the man in the rocker next to me. It’s hard to see every feature of his face, but I know by heart what he looks like. Just like I know almost every crevice of this old home. Tucker and I have gotten through each room, finding new homes for some items, reading through old papers, boxing up items I want to keep and others I want to donate. Tucker helped me clear out my parents’ old room, and make it into a place I could sleep and feel safe. I still can’t go in my old room without feeling my sister’s aura or seeing her the way she was on that fated night. Would her death have been one of those listed in the back of the newspaper, or would they put it front and center as an unexplained death on the inevitable death day of this town?

  Oddly, I don’t care. The curse seems to be more like something that is made up, a fable, or a story to give people something to talk about. Someone just brought up the fact that weird deaths occur on that day and as it goes in small communities, the idea grew into something much bigger.

  Now, back to Tucker’s question. I would consider making this place my home, permanently. “I’m starting to,” I finally say aloud. “My life back in Georgia seems so long ago. The thought of going back there isn’t even appealing. Everything I need is here.” I pat Rusty on his head then wave my arms through the surrounding property and the man next to me.

  “I’ve got a house, a good friend…”

  Tucker flinches when I squeeze his hand that I had been holding.

  “It could maybe be more someday,” I add and he relaxes back into his chair. “I’m going to need a job, though. I can’t live off of my family’s money forever. Plus, I need something to fill my days.” Tucker’s hand reaches out and his fingers graze my cheek. He’s never attempted anything with me, even though the tension between us has grown over the last week. The goosebumps that sprout after his fingers leave my face and grasp my hand once more tell me that I haven’t been wrong about our connection.

  “You’re making the right decision. You can make a real life here.” Those words make my goosebumps grow for another reason. I’ve heard them recently, read them, and the sense of déjà vu hits me.

  “A real life here,” I softly repeat the words. Tucker squeezes my hand this time.

  “What do you say we celebrate?” He’s pulling me from my chair. “I can get a bottle of wine, or we could get dressed up and go into Riverside for a movie. Tora, Tora, Tora is still playing.” He peers down at me for a reaction. “Just do something other than talk about the town or clear out this old house,” he adds. “What do you say?”

  Tucker’s holding onto me, both hands grasping mine in his rough ones. I know I’m smiling, but I’m not sure that he can see it in the darkness of the porch. I lean my body over, extend my neck up and place my lips on his, just quickly, pulling away before it can turn into more. “Is that a good answer?”

  The man pulls me into his chest, wrapping me in his strong arms. “Can’t think of a better one,” he whispers into my hair.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  “Let me get this straight. They blame my great-great-great,” I emphasize that last great, “uncle for her death? That’s how this feud started?” A switch flipped the moment I pulled my truck through town filled with all my belongings from Georgia. Before Tucker and I had it unloaded, I had a casserole, fresh muffins, a dinner
invitation, and a journal left behind written by my Granny but kept in the hands of my nearest neighbor, Jackson. He had in fact known about me, but needed to keep Granny’s secret until he knew I could be trusted.

  Two weeks after officially making Crimson Falls my home, I got a job at the grocery. Even though the store has changed so much since I was five, I like the thought of being somewhere my momma use to be. Although it’s only part time, it gives me something to do when Tucker is working. Also, the townspeople have grown accustomed to seeing me and each time they pass through my line, they become a little more trusting and open to accepting me back in the community.

  For instance, Mr. Franklin, one of my favorite patrons, who is standing before me for the third time this week has just revealed that he in fact knows why the feud between the Astors and Duponts started. “They were out late one night, lost their way and by the time the two of them were found the next morning, she was dead. He said it was frost bite. It was confirmed that she suffered from it. The wagon wheel broke and no one had come by on that stretch of road the rest of the night. When he couldn’t repair it or get help, they bundled up in the back, but it was just too cold.”

  “He was fine? No frost bite?”

  “Oh, he had some frost bite. Lost his left hand. Not much later, took his own life. Since she was dead, and he was alive, the Astors refused to believe that there wasn’t something more he could have done to keep her among the living. They didn’t let him get away with it. Broke him down until he presumably killed himself. Hanging from one of the trees in your own backyard.”

  “That’s awful.”