by Betty Bolte
“Let’s take a walk up to the fairy tree and clear our heads. I haven’t thought about the little tree in decades.” Meredith stood and pushed in her chair before following Meg through the screened door. “I can hear Grandma telling us her wild tales now.”
Being outside in the sunshine improved her spirits, a burden lifting from her shoulders. The house itself weighed upon her. She breathed in the sweet scent of the azaleas and the tang of the magnolias while the sun warmed her arms. They strolled across the gravel driveway to the flagstone path. A low stone wall separated the wide drive from the shady yet welcoming formal garden.
“My Sean has spent most of his time tending to these plants,” Meg said, ambling along the large flat stones forming the winding path through the array of plants. “He loves working with the flowers, coaxing them to bloom and smell so sweet.”
The neatly arranged flowers and bushes reached for the spring sunshine. Tall trees stretched out to provide intervals of dense shade. She didn’t know much about plants, not like Willy had. He’d have been exclaiming over a rare flower or special shrub. A shudder of grief washed through her. Willy would have loved this place. His knowledge of landscape architecture would have sprung to the fore as he looked at each little green being and commented upon its uses and benefits. How the dying of the blossoms fertilized the future growth of the plant, the circle of life within the plant kingdom. A sudden idea made her miss a step. What if she created a memorial garden in his and the baby’s memory?
“Willy loved horticulture,” Meredith said, pacing beside Meg. “He and Sean would have gotten along fine.”
“I’m sure they would’ve.” Meg nodded and strolled on down the path. She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Sean adores his plants.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, drinking in the surrounding sights and scents. Meredith considered asking Sean to design the garden she envisioned. She nearly queried Meg as to whether he’d be interested, only Meredith wasn’t yet ready to share her vision. They emerged out the back side of the garden, through a low, wood gate leading to an immense grassy meadow. Wildflowers dotted the field. She could identify wild daisies and Queen Anne’s lace among the pinks, whites, yellows, and purples sprinkled before her. They paused to appreciate the view. She shaded her eyes with a hand and scanned the field, noting the trees along the fence line in the distance. The fairy tree stood defiantly in the middle of the expanse.
“Your grandma loved to come out here until her legs wouldn’t carry her this far.”
Did Meg have to mention her grandmother at that exact moment? The stories surrounding the fairy tree had been a part of Meredith’s childhood as much as Humpty Dumpty and Ichabod Crane. Myths and legends that her grandmother loved to tell. Way back when Meredith was a kid and bedtime stories were still important. Staying with Grandma for the summer months meant she and her sister heard many wonderful tales of adventure, ghosts, and myths about Ireland.
Meredith had let the memories of those stories fade as she grew older and more removed from this little piece of the world. Until this moment she had not considered them, not for a second. She’d moved away and moved on, reaching for her future and relinquishing the past.
“Did Grandma come here often?” Meredith walked into the field, avoiding the tiny wildflowers as best she could. She liked the way they graced the vista with their specks of color.
“Weekly at least.” Meg paced beside her. “Until a few months before she died.”
“Max said she died without warning, sitting in her favorite chair.” White petals lay scattered about the tree trunk like pearls escaped from a necklace. “I hope it was painless as well.”
“She looked like she’d dozed off, so I hope she felt nothing.”
Meredith picked up a satiny petal and rubbed it between her fingers and then let it drift back to earth. “Did you find her?”
Meg’s eyes grew misty as she considered Meredith. “Yes.”
“I’m glad it was you who did.” Meredith inexplicably wanted to hug Meg but hesitated. She wasn’t a hugger and hadn’t been for years. So why did she want to hug this woman? She resisted the urge as long as she could. Compelled by something she didn’t understand, she drew the older woman into her arms and gave her a brief squeeze. Meg’s lips curved into a half smile as she moved away.
Meredith crossed her arms, feeling foolish mixed with a new sense of calm. That hug hadn’t been solely for Meg’s benefit, apparently. Maybe hugs were underappreciated. At least by her.
“I’m sorry you had to find her, but am glad at the same time.” Meredith unfolded her arms and stuck her hands in her back pockets. “You were more than a housekeeper to her, I know.”
“Over the years we became pretty good friends.” Meg wrapped her arms around her waist. “She was good to me.”
Meredith reached out to squeeze Meg’s arm but stopped her impulse and shoved her hand back into her pocket. “I’m sorry I lost touch with her.”
“She talked about you often. Followed your career through the articles in the magazines and sometimes the newspaper.”
Grandma must have read the interviews over the years after Meredith had started her career as an architect. The trade magazines had taken an interest in her daring designs as well as the conservative mansions she’d created. News of the random shooting that devastated her life had made a ripple in the papers, though thankfully one quickly forgotten by the press. That kind of publicity ranked right up there with a root canal.
“I didn’t know she read the trades.” She prayed her grandmother understood her need to start afresh. To create a space in which peace and serenity abounded. Meredith started strolling back toward the gate.
“She knew all about your work to restore the nineteenth-century schoolhouse in Virginia as well as the upgrade to the Georgia plantation on the coast.” Meg kept pace with her as they meandered across the grassy field. “She subscribed to anything related to architecture, in particular historical renovation and preservation. That’s how she came across Max’s name and his dedication to historical preservation of local buildings. She had a dream of renovating Twin Oaks to its original appearance. She expected you’d manage the effort too.”
Meredith didn’t slow her progress, but her heart sank. “She did?”
“She left you this beautiful property to maintain and preserve,” Meg said. “You have the right skills to make her dream a reality.”
Don’t tell me that. Please. Don’t. She kept walking, reaching the break in the stone wall. Thoughts of her grandmother’s expectations and hopes collided with her grief and anger. Those emotions were the only ones she would permit herself to feel. She’d killed the other emotions within her, buried them so deep she feared they were untouchable. Guilt wiggled into her heart as she contemplated the clash between her grandmother’s hopes and her reluctance to see them become reality. She had options but didn’t know yet which way to turn.
Off to the side she saw the wrought-iron fence framing the cemetery. Speaking of burials. She changed direction and skirted the garden.
“What’s the matter?” Meg hurried to catch up. “Where’re you going?”
“I want to see who exactly is buried on this property.”
“Your ancestors, of course.”
Meredith reached the iron gate with its intricate latch, deftly squealing it open. Gracious. “Like fingernails on a chalkboard. I need to put some WD-40 on the hinges.”
Meg chuckled as she rested her hands on the fence. “Not too many visitors come out here.”
“True. After you.” Meredith held the gate open, waiting. A flicker of uncertainty danced across Meg’s features, suggesting a level of unease in the woman. “You’re not coming in?”
Meg shook her head. “Nothing’s changed in here since we buried your grandmother over there.” She gestured to the left.
Grandma. Here. Meredith followed her motion, spotting the raw earth mounded underneath an immense maple tree in the far corner o
f the fenced area. A white marble headstone gleamed in the shadows. How had such a glaring detail slipped her notice? Meredith drew in a deep breath and let it out to the count of five.
She picked her way through the graveyard, careful to walk around the graves themselves like her mother had taught her when she was a child. She paused to read the headstones, noting they did indeed date back to before the Civil War. Most contained names of unknown people, presumably to be found somewhere on her family tree. Then she saw it. David Joseph O’Connell. Grandpa Joe. Born 1843. Died 1917. He was seventy-four when he died. She hoped he had a good life. A marble footstone marked the end of a space beside him.
“Is that an empty gravesite?” Meredith pointed to the area beside Grandpa Joe’s grave. “Why does it have a footstone but not a headstone? Was someone supposed to be buried there?”
Meg leaned on the fence, peering at the spot. “Oh, yes. Your grandma said Joe wanted his sister Grace buried beside him if she ever came home. But she had disappeared while he was away fighting. Your grandma told me Joe tried to find her. Wrote to everyone he knew. He apparently never gave up hope she’d come home.”
“I wonder whatever happened to her.” Meredith glanced at the grassy space, and then back to Meg. “Where did she go?”
“That’s the mystery,” Meg said. “Nobody knows for sure. Though, according to his letters, her twin sister, Edith, seemed to think she ran off with a Union officer. But why would Joe’s sister be a Union sympathizer while he’s off fighting with the Confederates?”
A shiver began in her lower back and worked its way through her until she shuddered. She folded her arms to still the tremor. “The war separated many families, pitching brother against brother, father against son. Why not brother against sister?”
Meg shook her head. “Your grandma didn’t think so, based on what Joe wrote in his journal. He seemed to feel something bad had happened to her.”
Another shiver shook Meredith as a chilly breeze wafted by, carrying a hint of sweetness. She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself to try to still the tremors. The fact of her ancestors’ presence coupled with the trunk of genealogical research piqued her curiosity. She certainly wouldn’t allow herself to act on an emotional level. Well, not an uncontrolled emotional level anyway. She stared at her grandmother’s headstone, her thoughts awhirl. First she needed to know more about who had lived here, including more about what her own grandmother had learned through her research. Deep inside she needed to better understand what she had inherited. That wasn’t emotional, that was logical. Honestly. She turned and made her way back to where Meg waited.
Meredith swung the gate closed behind her and started for the house. The calls would have to wait. “Time to explore the trunk’s contents in more detail.”
__________
Long shadows draped across the trunk situated next to her grandmother’s chair in the airy sewing room. Thank goodness Sean had handled the heavy lifting. Having a man around had its pluses after all. Meredith held the first of many leather-bound journals in her lap. The binding warmed her hands, an illusion born by the sense of invasion she felt as she contemplated reading Great-great-great-grandfather Joe’s thoughts and sensibilities. Would he have minded? She shook her head and opened the cover. He’d never know, so what did it matter?
Joe had returned after the war and immediately began a new journal. He had neatly written in the first page about choosing to document his life after the war, after peace had settled over Tennessee. The precise script called to mind her grandmother’s handwriting. The art of cursive penmanship was losing prominence in Meredith’s day-to-day world, what with most communication being by phone and typing on a keyboard. Back in Grandpa Joe’s day, the quality of a person’s penmanship distinguished them as educated and refined. Good thing she didn’t have to compete on that level with her own scrawl. She read on.
Nov 5, 1863—Just got home two days ago to find the old home abandoned. I thought Grace would be here, having not heard anything from her to the contrary. I’ll write to Edith today to see if she knows where our sister has gone.
Nov 6, 1863—Inventoried what’s left, which didn’t take long. Damn Yanks and maybe Rebs, too, carted off most everything they could. Even the good silver tea service. Wish I’d been here, but don’t know whether I could’ve stopped them if I was. At least they left a few pieces of furniture so I have a bed to sleep in and chairs to sit on while I eat my supper. Though the plates and silver have all vanished.
Daily entries continued, with Grandpa Joe’s cryptic yet insightful commentary painting a picture of the plantation’s state of disorder and chaos after the war ended. Meredith sensed the pain and sadness of Grandpa Joe carried through the decades via ink upon yellowed paper. The very paper he had held in his hands. Again the sense of connection to the past flowed through her. Could feelings be transmitted through inanimate objects such as paper? Was that why the journal had warmth to its cover?
Nov 30, 1863—Heard from Edith she thinks Grace may have run off with a Yank officer to marry while I was away. Can’t believe that. I suppose stranger things have happened, especially during this awful war. But for her to leave without talking to me first is difficult to swallow. Then no word at all after that. I do wonder if something or someone has hurt my little sister. I vow to continue looking until I know the answer.
Meredith laid her head on the lace doily fastened to the chair. What must he have felt when he came home to find she’d abandoned Twin Oaks without any word of explanation? To never discern her fate? Dealing with the loss of her own husband remained difficult even knowing what had happened, though never having a satisfactory answer as to why. She had closure, which Grandpa Joe never realized. She closed her eyes, putting herself in his place, trying to imagine the house through his eyes as someone who loved what was then a practically new plantation home and all it stood for. She’d loved visiting her own grandmother in this big old house, running up and down the stairs and from room to room as though at a grand amusement park filled with fun. And love. Always a sense of undying love emanated from the house’s woodwork like the sweet perfume of a rose. Or perhaps honeysuckle.
The soft rustle of silk followed by the sound of light footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Meredith bolted upright, eyes flying open. She searched the room, looking for the source of the sound. “Griz? Is that you?” She put the journal on the chair beside her and stood. “Grizabella?”
Another rustle from the hallway. She moved slowly across the carpeted floorboards, hearing the telltale creak of her progress with each sneakered footstep. She held her hands out to the side as though to steady herself as she made her way across the room. In truth, she needed a sense of balance as she contemplated how she’d protect herself from this intruder.
“Who’s there?” Meredith reached the arched doorway and peered into the hall. Nothing. She turned and glanced the other direction and then gasped when the sweet scent of honeysuckle reached her nose. Again.
Cold seeped into Meredith, and she shivered as she inched toward the front door, summoned and unable to resist.
Meredith crossed her arms, trying to still the beginnings of another shiver. What happened to the sun warming the house earlier? The shadows had deepened into near darkness within the house. The light switch was out of reach at the end of the hallway. Something compelled her to walk forward, urged her to open the front door, to reach for the knob and turn it. Her fingers curled around the tarnished brass.
A flash of light caused Meredith to look behind her. The door separating the hall from the kitchen stood open. Knocking soon followed on the screened door in the kitchen. Who was that? It didn’t matter. First, she must go onto the front porch.
Meredith looked toward the bolted-shut front door. Her fingers tightened on the knob as she reached with her other hand to flip the deadbolt open. More knocking on the kitchen door was accompanied by the sound of Max’s voice. “Meredith?”
Though fearfu
l about what she’d find, she must see what waited for her on the other side. Max jiggled the kitchen door so hard it rattled as he ultimately jerked it open, his booted steps pounding through the house. She heard but couldn’t turn around. She stared at the door, mesmerized by the tug of forces pulling her in opposite directions. She needed to open it but was afraid at the same time. She tightened her hold, fighting the compulsion building inside her. Sunlight broke through the clouds outside and streamed across the floor. Max ran into the hallway behind her, sliding to a stop.
“Damn it, Meredith, why didn’t you answer me?” He grabbed her by the arms and spun her around to face him. He searched her face and then shook her once. “Meredith?”
She blinked and stepped back, her arms falling to her sides, hands tensed. “I’m fine. I think.”
“What’s going on?”
How did she explain what she didn’t understand? She dragged in a deep breath, only slightly relieved she didn’t smell honeysuckle. Flexing her hands to ease the bizarre desire to hit something, anything, she looked at Max as she blew her breath out in one big release. That helped. She did it again, the tension inside her giving way with the spent air. She searched her memory for why she stood in the hall feeling this deep-seated anger coupled with pain emanating from outside herself. More disturbing was the compulsion to unbolt and swing open the front door. To let someone in? Or out?
“I thought I heard something,” she finally said. Was it the Lady in Blue again? She hadn’t noticed anything, or anyone. She rubbed one arm, noting the chill in the air had gone. “But I guess I was wrong.”
“You scared me,” Max said, shoving his hands in his front jeans pockets.
“Did you forget something?”
“No, I just had a feeling something was wrong, so I came back.” Max rocked onto the balls of his feet, and then back on his heels, a nervous boy in front of the schoolmaster. “To—to make sure you’re safe.”