Not Quite Clear

by Lyla Payne

  It crosses my mind to mention that the curse hasn’t worked yet, but that doesn’t matter. I’m going to find a way to make it work, no matter what.

  Maybe he could have eased it from the beginning, had I let him.

  He wears the clothes like armor, even though he was in such a hurry to remove them an hour ago. Now, they protect against the girl who couldn’t trust him. Who was too scared of what she would lose to treat him the way he would have treated her. Does treat her.

  “Did it ever occur to you that I would understand? That I know that your cousin, that baby, your family are the most important people in your life, no exceptions?” He rushes on before I have the chance to respond. “I wouldn’t have liked it, Gracie, but do you actually think I would have stood in your way if you believed this was the only way to save them?”

  “They’re your family, Beau. I know you’re not close and you think it doesn’t matter but it does. One day, you would have woken up and realized what I’d done, who I’d chosen. You might think you could have forgiven me, but it wouldn’t have worked. Not in time.”

  We’re speaking in the past tense. I want to curl up on the bed and die.

  “And you get to decide that for both of us, without even talking to me? Is that it?” His jaw is set in a hard line, reminding me of the first day we met, how I criticized his features as too strong for his face. There’s anger in his eyes, snapping and harsh, the kind he’s never directed toward me.

  “I did what I thought was best. I know it was wrong. I should have let you go a month ago, in the kitchen.”

  “Maybe so, Gracie. Maybe so.” A muscle jerks in his face. His fingers curl into fists. “What’s the curse? Are you at least going to warn me about the ruination of my future?”

  “Beau, don’t.”

  “No, seriously. I want you to tell me.”

  “I don’t know anything, not really. I got her what she asked for, but now she’s angry because she says the curse didn’t work.” My chest aches. I can’t look at him no matter how hard I try. “It’s missing something. Incomplete. That’s all I’ve learned, and I only have one more day to figure out what and why or she’s going to probably double the curse on us. She threatened Amelia the last time. And you.”

  I drop my head into my hands, nothing but a vibrating bundle of misery. I’m not sure what it says about me but even right now, in the thick of this moment, it’s mostly about my failure of Amelia and Jack.

  “What did you get her?” he asks, softly. Not kindly, not with any kind of forgiveness, but maybe, unbelievably, with understanding.

  “She needed a piece of DNA from each of Sarah Drayton’s surviving familial lines. There are twelve of them. I’ve checked and double-checked and triple-checked, and there are only twelve. So what’s missing? How can it be incomplete?”

  He stares at me, disbelief taking over now. He shakes his head, mouth slightly open, and chuckles. “I can tell you why.”

  “You can? How?”

  “This is why you should have trusted me, Gracie. This is why you come to me when an event this big happens in your life. So I can help you.”

  “Help me put a curse on your family?” I snap, wanting him to get angry again. I deserve that. I don’t deserve…whatever this is.

  “You don’t get it, do you? Even now.” His gaze soaks with sorrow, then tears. He looks away, out the window, until he can look at me in the eye again with control. “There’s an illegitimate line of Draytons. It’s not a long one, but I believe…it was Sarah Parker Drayton’s granddaughter Charlotta who started it.”

  “She never married.”

  He puts a finger on his nose. “Correct, as usual. But surely you know by now that there are secrets that never make it into the history books or onto online genealogy sites.”

  “So she had a child out of wedlock. That must have been a scandal. I’m surprised it didn’t make the papers.” I reconsider in light of all the ways I’ve seen influence wielded in the past two or three months. “Maybe not.”

  “Yes, perhaps not. The child was a girl, and she did eventually marry, so none of that line bear the family name. You wouldn’t be able to find her easily…without help.”

  It’s hard to breathe, as though someone tightens a noose around my throat. “You know where I can find them… Her descendants.”

  “Savannah. The Ravens. The only ones in the book.”

  We stare at each other for a long time. I’m not sure what’s happening now. He helped me. He helped me find the missing piece of the puzzle that would ruin him.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d like to say you’d do it for me, but obviously that’s not true.” He strides toward the door. “Good night.”

  He’s gone before I can ask what this means for the two of us. If it’s over, if it’s not. Maybe that’s not true. Maybe there’s time to ask, to chase him down the stairs and finish this thing one way or another, but I’m not ready. I don’t want to know, not now.

  There’s only room in my head and my heart for one thing at a time, and now that I know how to fix Mama Lottie’s spell, that has to be the one thing. It’s cost me my sanity, it’s cost Mel and Leo their freedom and their reputations, and I don’t see how it’s not going to cost me my relationship.

  Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll go to Savannah and track down the rogue Drayton. Get Mama Lottie her piece of hair or whatever. Put an end to this shit once and for all.

  All I can do now is curl up on the bed. Every last inch of my skin feels bruised. My organs ache like they’ve been kicked and punched, but it’s really my heart that’s taken the beating. Beau is gone. I don’t know if he’s coming back.

  I fall asleep hours later, staring at Henry Woodward as he stares at the wall. He offers me no words of wisdom, no kind glance of commiseration, no expression that could be interpreted as understanding. As always, what Henry offers is company and silent judgment. Tonight, both give me the smallest reasons to hold on until tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It’s not until I get in the car to drive to Savannah by myself that I realize how truly alone I am. Part of me wonders whether this is part of Mama Lottie’s plan, to alienate me from the people I claim to love, but mostly there’s no one to blame but myself.

  All I have is Amelia. On another day, in another time, I would be heading off to an interview like this with Leo in the passenger seat. With Mel on speakerphone. They’re in jail, or the hospital, or maybe at home by now, but what’s the difference? My status with Beau is anyone’s guess. I haven’t heard from him.

  It didn’t take me long to find the Raven family online. There’s only one, like Beau said—a husband and wife, one son in high school. Savannah’s not far—a little over three hours from Charleston—though many natives of either sister city have never deigned to take the short trip down the coast.

  I am not a South Carolina native, from Charleston or otherwise, and have adored my trips to Savannah. The towns might be sisters in many senses, but they have vibes, scents, and atmospheres that are unique in every way.

  Charleston is austere, regal, restored, glorious, with anything that could cause an embarrassment tucked away into the eaves and armoires like relatives with a tendency to air their thoughts and grievances with a little too much gusto. Even the ghosts behave, haunting the streets with quiet elegance and charm.

  Savannah has a darkness running through the old streets like a silky ribbon. The squares, a beautiful architectural design, seem to house eyes that peer down from the trees, watching. Waiting to see whether the people that pass below are worthy of their attention. The crazy in Savannah walks around in broad daylight, celebrated by those who pass and greet it in the streets, and the ghosts are tricky, and haunted, like the city itself.

  They say everyone loves one more than the other. I’ve found that to be true. My heart lies in Charleston, but to all the people who have never given Savannah even the chance to steal theirs, I would say they are missing out.


  I cross the bridge into the city, ignoring the oil rigs and industry polluting the shore, choosing instead to focus on the beauty of the historic district. It almost hurts me physically to think how much more amazing this place would be if the people in charge had stopped drinking long enough to start restoration and preservation efforts a hundred years earlier.

  The parking lot in front of Clary’s, a local diner with killer fries, is only half-full. I go inside and sit alone at the counter, deciding it would be best to take a few minutes, at least, to decide what exactly I’m going to say to the Ravens.

  They might not be home, but they run a historical tour company down by the river so I’ll be able to find them either way. Interesting, that they’re enamored enough with local history to start a business like that. Hopefully it means Mr. Raven—the Drayton descendant—will know at least a little bit about his own history.

  My club sandwich, fries, and root beer look and smell delicious, but I hardly taste them. By the time the bill is paid, at least I have a plan of action, deciding to go with the half-truth that I’m working as an archivist for the Draytons and want to know more about how their line came to be.

  I could have made up something totally unrelated, then asked to use the bathroom and stolen some hair out of the drain—which is probably still how I’m going to get what I need from them—but part of me wants to know how this happened. Who the line’s patriarch is, why the family kept it a secret.

  My throat burns at the subtle reminder that I can’t ask Beau. Even if he would tell me, even though he cares enough to send me here, he doesn’t owe me anything more.

  It’s a short, two-block walk to their house, which is historic and immense, settled inside a black wrought iron gate. A garden lines the redbrick path to the door, bright with beautiful colors and lush greenery that must cost a fortune to maintain. I guess even illegitimate Draytons have the moneymaking gene. Sheesh.

  There’s no reason anyone should be home, but this is the easiest place to get what I came here for, so I try anyway. A man surprises me by opening the door before I can even ring the bell, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. “I saw you coming up the walk. What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Raven?”

  “Yes.” He peers at me over his wire rims, more interested now that I know his name. He’s handsome, not unlike Brick and Beau, but his coloring is different.

  “My name is Graciela Harper. I’ve been working on updating the archives at Drayton Hall, outside Charleston, and your family’s name came up. I wanted to make sure I had all the correct information before moving forward.”

  I’m not sure which part of my statement startles him, but based on the step he takes back into the foyer, the stunned look, it was something. He lets me inside, though, so step one accomplished.

  We go into a large, modern kitchen, and he motions to one of the stools at a granite island. I sit, relieved to have gotten this far.

  “Would you like something to drink? I just put a kettle on if you like tea.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Green or Chai?”

  “I’ll have a green.”

  He puts two dainty white cups and saucers on the counter and scoops fancy loose leaves into two metal steepers, then sets them in the cups. “What would you like to know?”

  “I understand that you’re descended from Charlotta Drayton, who never married and, based on every official record I’ve found, never had children.” I pause, rearranging my features to convey embarrassment. “I could ask Cordelia or the head archivist, but they never mentioned anything. I don’t want to get fired, but I do want to do my job.”

  “Ah. That makes more sense. When you first arrived I thought the family intended to include my line in the display or official history, but you’re just curious.”

  I spread my hands. “I’m just curious.”

  He pours hot water from a ceramic kettle into the cups, then returns it to the stove. I take a proffered mug, blowing on the steam while I wait to see whether he’s going to answer or tell me to take a long walk off a short pier.

  “You might regret that, because once I start talking genealogy it’s hard to get me to stop.” He winks. “I think my wife has been tempted to divorce me at times because of it.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Mr. Raven puts his forearms on the opposite side of the island and leans on them, getting as comfortable as a standing person can get. The stools on this side are hard and hurt my back, but I’m not moving.

  “Charlotta Drayton had an illicit affair as a young girl with one of the slave boys on the plantation who was around her age. He’d always been favored by the family, allowed to study and learn and work in the house instead of the fields, so they kind of grew up together.”

  “Why?”

  “No one knows. It could be that he was bright.” He shrugs. “Some people had their suspicions that he was an illegitimate son of Charles Henry’s, but I tend not to believe that. There’s nothing that would lead anyone to believe he was one of those sorts of plantation owners, and he kept awfully busy with his medical practice, as well.”

  “Interesting. So Charlotta and this boy…what’s his name?”

  “James.”

  “James. They fell in love?”

  “They did. It was not allowed, of course, and her mother and siblings were shocked and devastated when she became pregnant. It’s the reason she never married, officially. Damaged goods and all that.”

  I purse my lips, declining to comment on nineteenth-century morality. Or how it’s still alive and well in Heron Creek, and probably in Savannah, too. “What happened to James?”

  “He was given his freedom by the lady of the house, on the condition he take the child and never return. He never did, as far as we know, but Charlotta never gave up.” He smiles. “All kinds of stories, probably concocted by romantics, about their ghosts being seen together around the property.”

  “Their child was a girl.”

  “Yes. That’s why we don’t carry the Drayton name, and why my skin gets a little darker in the summer sun than yours might.”

  “It’s a nice story.” I smile, because it’s true. “Not nice for Charlotta, I mean, but in a sweeping, romantic, historical sense. It’s the kind of thing people write into screenplays.”

  “I agree entirely, especially since it resulted in my existence.”

  “The Draytons know about you, obviously. Have you ever tried to include your family in their legal history?”

  He shakes his head. “There’s no proof aside from genetics, and that would require one of the family members offering their DNA for testing. They have Charlotta’s journals, which are the only real proof, and they’d burn them before allowing it out.”

  Interesting. Those must be well hidden, because Jenna didn’t mention them.

  “What about James? He must have had something…”

  “Oral histories, is all. Tradition. It’s true, the Draytons have confirmed it, but no one else would believe us.”

  “Why would they confirm that for you?” It doesn’t sound like something Cordelia would agree to, not at all.

  “It was several generations ago, when family meant more than legacy and money, I’m afraid.”

  I resist the urge to look around the house, a silent, opulent display of Mr. Raven’s own wealth. It’s time to go. I’ve learned what I came here to learn. “Thank you for trusting me with all this, Mr. Raven. You’ve been really helpful.”

  “Zachary, please.”

  “Zachary.” I give him my best diminutive smile. “Could I use your restroom before I get out of your hair?”

  “Of course. Down the hall and to your right.”

  “Thanks.”

  He picks up his phone as I get off the stool and head out of the kitchen, which will hopefully work to my advantage. The downstairs bathroom is surely for guests, which means it won’t have the kind of stuff I’m looking to pick up. I sneak up the steps, instead, already
sweating under my arms. There won’t be a good way to explain this one if he catches me, but it’s not like he’ll be the first person to think I’m a snooping weirdo. That’s pretty much the prevailing opinion these days.

  There’s a hallway bathroom next to a bedroom that smells like it belongs to a teenaged boy. I dash inside and do the fastest but grossest thing possible: stick my finger down the shower drain. Two involuntary gags later, I come up with a glob of hair mixed with dried chunks from the edge of a shampoo or body wash bottle.

  I stick it into the plastic baggie I remembered to bring, seal it, purposefully avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. The last thing I need in my head is the memory of what I looked like being the biggest asshole ever.

  Zachary Raven waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, eyebrows raised the way they were when he answered the door. This time, I don’t wait for the question.

  “I, uh, can’t pee in a ground-floor bathroom. It’s too weird, the pipes underground.” I force a silly giggle. “I have a problem.”

  “Clearly.” He looks as though he’s not sure whether to call the police or a psychiatrist.

  I know because I’ve seen it more than a few times in my life.

  “I’ll go now. Thank you again.”

  He walks behind me to the front door. I hold my breath the entire time, praying he’s going to let me go without accusations, but he takes it all in stride. It’s not like I was gone long enough to steal anything—at least, not anything he would consider valuable—and he didn’t lose anything except twenty minutes of his time and a cup of tea.

  And a few strands of hair that could doom his family, but he doesn’t know about that.

  Yet.

  I get back to my car, not quite knowing how I got there. All the way back to Heron Creek, all I can think about is that bundle of grossness in my purse. What it could do. How it might change the world, not only in Charleston but beyond.

  Philosophers have put forth the greater-good theory for hundreds of years, one that says the right thing to do is whatever will result in the most amount of good for the most people. Which is to say, if someone had a gun pointed at your child and their finger on a bomb that would wipe out Germany, and asked you to choose who to shoot, you should choose your child’s death.