Do You Feel It Too?

by Nicola Rendell

  How about I come cut the bungee cords on your elliptical desk? “After we’re done here, it’s the Ozarks. Period.”

  “So that means the taniwha in New Zealand . . .”

  Goddamn. I’d never get to see our footprints in the sand around the Moeraki Boulders. “Out.”

  “Thunderbirds in Alaska?”

  Nor would I ever get to see our snowshoe tracks under the northern lights. “Out.”

  “Powers. Think about this. The next few months were going to be huge for you. Ha-uge!”

  He was right; this filming season was when we’d expected to really put my career over the top. But that was the thing about expectations; they weren’t always what you’d planned. I’d assumed my life was headed one way, but as my dad always told me, “assume makes an ass out of u and me.” I certainly hadn’t expected to meet Lily here, but I had. And there was no changing that. It wasn’t like me to pull the star of the show card, but Markowitz needed to understand that this was non-negotiable. No matter how much I wished I could take her far away or scoop her up into my life without changing a thing, some shit was gonna have to change. Starting now. “Ozarks next. Got it?”

  “All right,” Markowitz said, blowing out a long breath with his lips flapping, like an exhausted horse. “You’re the star.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I ended the call. I had to admit, there was part of me that was pretty bummed about not being able to go to all those spots with her. I loved my job, and I loved the places that it took me. But I also loved her.

  Holy fuck.

  There it was. The word. Love. When I was with her, nothing else mattered. When I wasn’t, there was only one place I wanted to be. Since the minute I’d met her, she’d been the only thing on my mind. I wanted her, I adored her . . . and I loved her. And I needed her to know it.

  The universe had done me a solid. I realized that right in front of me was the storefront of an antique jewelry shop. Rows of old-fashioned rings lined red velvet displays. Hatpins stuck out from a crystal glass filled with rice. At the bottom of the display was a row of lockets. Right in the middle, on its own velvet platform, was a gold locket with an enameled lily in the middle.

  I knew the tour was moving on without me, but there was no way I was going to let anybody scoop me on that locket that I could already imagine hanging from her neck. So I pocketed my phone and stepped inside the jewelry shop. “I’d like to see that locket.” I glanced at the window. “The one with the lily on it.”

  “Oh, very good choice, sir,” said the shopkeeper. She slipped out from behind the register with her silver bracelets jangling. “I have it on good authority that this belonged to one of our most famous residents.” She leaned over the velvet display and gently picked up the locket by its delicate chain. “Her name was Lucinda Abrahams. They say she still haunts these parts, embroidering hearts on handkerchiefs and searching for her lover, George.”

  The locket was delicate and beautifully made. I pressed on the mechanism, and it popped open in my hand. Inside below the jeweler’s marks, there was a small engraving, clearly visible. I blinked at it as I ran my thumb over the old letters.

  To L from G

  Me falling in love with a hometown girl who was terrified of flying hadn’t been in my five-year plan. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to jump in headfirst and backward, like a scuba diver in full gear.

  34

  LILY

  “We’ll be visiting the fourth floor, which is usually closed to visitors,” said the tour guide as he led us up the curving double staircase of the Davenport House. The old white wooden door creaked as he opened it. “Please make sure you leave everything as you found it. No leaping out of closets at me either.” The tour group let out a unified chuckle. “Big guys like me scare really bad.”

  I fell back from the group and looked up and down State Street for Gabe, but I didn’t see him. I sent him a quick text to tell him where we were and then followed the tour group inside the majestic, spectacular old foyer. I’d been to a wedding at the Davenport once, and I’d also taken my sister there for high tea when she was the throes of her Boris fury. She always said that cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey in the Davenport garden had helped her get back on her feet. But for all the memories I had of the house, I had never had the chance to go up to the fourth floor, where—rumor had it—the real ghosts were.

  Whatever that means, Lily. Real ghosts. Pffft.

  The members of the tour followed the guide up the curving, elegant stairs, every piece of wood carefully joined and polished. The treads creaked as everybody headed up the steps, and their whispers got quieter as they got to the second floor. Again, I hung back to get some shots of the empty foyer with its black-and-white floor tiles, inset with a circle that reminded me of a compass. Still no Gabe.

  Following the tour upstairs, I heard the tour guide explain that we were free to explore as we wanted. “Even though it’s daytime, there is still a chance you will feel a presence or a specter. Sometimes things happen when we least expect them, but never when we don’t believe they will.”

  Most of the tour group ambled off toward the rooms on the left side of the hallway, but I found myself drawn to the rooms on the right, where the light was dimmer and the rooms slightly less welcoming—more frowsy, crowded, and dark. After wandering through two larger bedrooms, I found myself in an elegant and tidy bedroom with a single bed in the middle. It had a handmade quilt and yellowed lace curtains that filtered out most of the light from the dormer window. A doll sat on the bed, leaning up against the pillow. As I knew full well from my sister’s efforts to furnish the museum accurately, antebellum dolls were a really long way from friendly and chubby-cheeked Cabbage Patch Kids. They were, in a word, spoooooooky. This one—with her porcelain face and black dress, her tattered shoes and stained cotton legs—was no exception. I went tight on her oddly adult features and her too-wide painted eyes, one of which had been rubbed off almost completely.

  Maybe it was the doll giving me the heebie-jeebies, but something in the room gave me a shiver. “There is a sort of strange feeling here,” I said to the camera as I filmed. “I’m not sure what it is, but it feels a bit odd.” Turning away from the bed, I made my way through the bedroom, between the bed and the window, and I could have sworn I heard something behind me. When I spun around, though, I found I was still alone.

  But something was different than when I walked in. The closet door, on the far end of room, was now slightly ajar. It had been closed tight when I walked in. I was sure of it.

  Oh no. “That wasn’t open when I walked in here.” I swallowed hard and tried to get my heart to slow down. My breath got caught in my throat, and my fingertips went cold. “That definitely wasn’t open a second ago.”

  I turned the camera to the bedroom door, hoping that Gabe would walk through. Or one of the other tour members. But nobody appeared.

  I was all on my own for this one.

  For the sake of the show and, more importantly, for Gabe, I swallowed my worry. Forcing one foot in front of the other, I approached the closet. “Let’s see if we can find anything.” I gripped the camera in one hand and, summoning every ounce of courage I had, reached out to open the door. Just as I touched the edge of it, a hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. I was so astonished, so terrified, that I couldn’t even get a peep out of my mouth. In an instant, another hand shot out of the closet, a big, brawny forearm attached to an equally brawny biceps. Before I knew it, I was in the darkened closet in Gabe’s strong arms. “Boo,” he said into my ear, laughing softly.

  “Meanie!” I whispered with a shove, unable to suppress my terrified and relieved breathy laughter. He pretended like I was a whole lot stronger than I was and staggered back, making the wooden hangers clatter behind him.

  He pulled me close, and I let my purse slide from my shoulder. His hands moved down my body, gripping my tush tight. “Got you a present.”

  A thin strip of light spilled into the closet from undernea
th the bottom of the door. It was enough for me to see his beautiful smile. “If it’s another picnic basket, I think we should probably go ahead and get married.”

  Oh, Lily. Inside thoughts. Inside thoughts!

  But Gabe didn’t seem the least bit shocked that I’d just said the M-word. He snickered into my ear, scooping me up into his arms as I hooked my legs around him. He walked us across the closet and pressed me up against the wall. He came in for a kiss, and I got lost in him all over again. Until I heard the sound of the tour entering the room where I’d just been standing.

  I pulled away from the kiss and looked into his eyes. The floorboards outside squeaked under the feet of the tourists. I heard the beeps and shutter sound effects of phones and digital cameras.

  “Now,” said the tour guide, “I want everybody to try to get in touch with the feeling here. Really consider how you feel in this room, at this moment. Maybe you feel cold or warm or nervous or calm. Try to get in touch with that feeling if you would.”

  Gabe smiled down at me. Every time I looked at him, my heart melted a little more. The feeling he gave me, though, it wasn’t just melty surrender. It was steadier than that, both more lasting and more peaceful. With my fingertips, I traced over the edges of his cheekbone, and he closed his eyes, pressing his cheek into my hand.

  There were rustles and sniffles from the group outside the closet door. “It will be a feeling unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Something new, something strange. Something wonderful.” The guide paused and then asked, “Do you feel it?”

  Gabe nodded against my palm. “I feel it.”

  I held him close. I squeezed him tight. And I whispered into his ear, “I do too.”

  35

  GABE

  All day I’d been trying to find the right time to give her the locket and tell her I was falling in love with her. But we’d been hustling and no time had felt quite right. Until now. It was a quarter to eight, and Lily and I were waiting at the rendezvous point that General Lee had sent by text. Of course, he didn’t text like a normal guy. Instead, he sent me a message that might as well have been off a strip of telegraph tape: DEAR SIR/STOP/AWAIT ARRIVAL AT CHATHAM LAKE AT 20:00/STOP/SNCRLY GEN. LEE

  So there we were at Chatham Lake, which was overhung with mossy willows and littered with lily pads in bloom. All around us was thick Georgia forest. Lily grabbed a handful of stones from where the water lapped at the edge of the lake. I took the small jewelry box from my pocket and put it beside me, just out of her view. She came back and sat next to me. From her handful of stones she chose one that was round, smooth, and symmetrical. She glanced at me, smiled, and then skipped it across the water. It had three, four, five bounces before it slipped under the surface. Then she handed me an equally round and smooth stone and lifted her eyebrows. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

  I followed her lead. I’d never actually skipped a stone before, but it couldn’t be that hard, I figured. I mimicked her throw, but mine sank immediately, and she tossed her head back, laughing softly. “Here.” She chose another stone, positioned it in my hand, and parted my fingers. “Think of it like a Frisbee.” She picked a rock for herself and in one smooth and graceful movement sent it skipping six times across the glassy surface of the water.

  I tried again and had the same result as before. Plop. Sank like a stone, literally. She got up from her crouch and brushed some grass off her white shorts, giving me a powerful throb of desire. But I stayed the course. This wasn’t the time for down and dirty—that would be for later. Now it was time to get serious. I took the jewelry box and placed it where she’d been sitting. When she turned back to me, her eyes lit up, sparkling in the setting sun. She lowered herself down onto her knees, and I placed it in her hands.

  Very carefully, tugging at the satin with thumb and forefinger, she undid the ribbon. She slipped the lid off, glancing up at me and smiling a little. But she froze when she saw the black velvet box inside. It was exactly like a ring box, and I knew what she was thinking because I had been thinking the same goddamned thing all day. I studied her every expression, her every move. She slipped the velvet box out and placed it on her knee, holding the edges between two fingers. On her face was a kind of pure, honest surprise. Innocence. Maybe even uncertainty. “Gabe . . .”

  “Open it up,” I told her.

  She flipped the top open. As she did, I saw something that made my heart fucking burst—disappointment. There was no question in my mind that she was disappointed that it wasn’t a ring. Holy shit. That microexpression, that tiny tell, gave me more courage than anything ever could have.

  Her disappointment vanished and was replaced with that same delight she’d had when she’d opened the picnic basket I’d put together for her. “Oh, Gabe.” She slipped the locket out of the box, the chain dangling from her fingers. I took it from her and undid the clasp. She scooted around so her back was to me, scooped up her hair in her hand, and took off her microphone charm necklace. I fastened the tiny clasp at the back of her delicate neck, letting my fingers brush past the ringlet curls at her hairline. “There,” I said, and her hand went to the locket on her chest.

  “Isn’t it beautiful.” She carefully ran her fingertips over the lily and the vines that surrounded it. “I love it so much. I’ll wear it always.”

  “Look at the engraving,” I told her, reaching out to open it up for her. It butterflied apart, and she drew it back from her chest, crumpling her chin to read it.

  Her mouth dropped open, and she traced the hand-carved letters with her fingertip. “This is old! But with our initials!”

  “I know.” I straightened out the chain. “The lady at the jewelry store said it might’ve belonged to a lady named Lucinda, who got it from her lover George.”

  She smiled so hard that I felt it right down in my bones. “I like Lucinda and George. But Lily and Gabe sounds much better.” She looked back down at the locket, with her cheeks bright and flushed. It was absolutely beautiful on her, like it was made for her.

  “But wait! I have something for you too.” She grabbed her purse. “I got this when we went home to feed the General. When your back was turned,” she said, smiling mischievously as she unzipped the inside pocket. “Close your eyes.”

  I pretended to close them but still kept her in view between my eyelashes. But she had me all figured out and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “All the way.”

  “Fine. But you don’t make it easy.” I squeezed them shut. I held out my hand and waited.

  “So . . . ,” she said. I heard her scoot closer toward me on the grass—Christ, that sexy sound of her thighs sliding together. “It’s not fancy, but now whenever you come here, you’ll have somewhere to stay.”

  In my palm, I felt something small and metallic. I opened my eyes and saw it was a key. A house key. Her house key.

  “Lily,” I said, gripping it hard in my palm. The wave of emotion that came up through my chest spilled into my voice.

  “Well, don’t get excited,” she said, almost as if she were embarrassed. “It only cost me seventy cents, and I already had it in the drawer.”

  She could be nonchalant all she wanted, but the look in her eyes told me that this meant just as much to her as it meant to me. I tucked the key into my pocket and took her beautiful face in my hands. Now or never, Powers. Do it. Tell her how you feel. Don’t waste one more second.

  I took her hand in mine. I opened my mouth.

  And the noise of a bugle cut the air, followed by the boom-boom-boom of cannon fire.

  The rebel army had arrived. And I thought Markowitz had shitty timing.

  36

  LILY

  The whole day had been a bit surreal and dreamy, and it was getting more surreal by the minute, because now Gabe and I seemed to be walking back in time. As a Savannahian, I was no stranger to men in homemade rebel uniforms. But as Gabe and I walked into camp, both of us with backpacks full of equipment, I realized that these weren’t the ordi
nary, garden-variety actors who wandered around Forsyth Square with their plastic muskets and spray-painted gold buttons. These weren’t the guys who traipsed into the Living History Museum, tipping their hats to us as they drank their caramel macchiatos. These weren’t the guys who filled up the strip mall urgent care with toe injuries from dropped replica cannon balls. These guys were the real deal, from their battered uniforms to their waxed cotton tents, right down to their homemade boots and their gunpowder-blackened hands.

  Except up ahead of us stood a woman who was decidedly not part of our time traveling back to the 1860s. She was a strikingly statuesque lady, wearing lots of flowing, elegant linen. As we got closer, I saw she had fabulously oversize earrings and a chic close-cropped white haircut. Around her neck was what looked at first like an antique amulet but was—on closer inspection—a stylized Ghostbusters insignia, made of brass, coral, and mother of pearl. She had this way about her. This sort of glorious postmenopausal I’ve got this handled attitude. May we all be so lucky.

  She reached out her hand to me. “Elaine Corynn,” she said, giving me a warm and welcoming smile. I recognized her immediately from Daisy’s ghost shows. This lady was definitely somebody in the ghost world. She shook my hand, but she didn’t let it go, and as she held it she looked from me to Gabe and back to me again. “Well, aren’t you two a lovely couple. Better stand back, though, when we get down to business. The love waves are coming off you like signals from Sputnik.”

  I glanced up at Gabe, and he smiled at me. Love waves! Automatically my hand went to my new locket. “Don’t worry. We know. I can go wait in the van.”

  But Elaine wasn’t having it. She shook her head, pursing her lips and studying us. “Nope. Both of you are going to need to clear the area. I’ve got a job to do, kids, and I’m not going to muck through your lovestruck auras to do it.”

  Then from out of the dusky darkness emerged a face from another time. Thanks to my sister’s insistence on watching literally every Civil War documentary ever made, I recognized him right away.