by Lyla Payne
That makes her cry harder, but she rolls toward me in the process. Desperation, fierce enough that it reminds me of Anne’s face when she gets super worked up, bunches her features. “It’s just the pregnancy hormones. I’m such a bawl-baby now, you wouldn’t believe it.”
The lie blubbers out with as much gusto as she can muster, which isn’t a whole lot. I let it go, walking beside her to see where she’ll lead me instead of trying to drag her along where I think we should go.
I feel my way, blind after being out of her life for the past five years. “Tell me about being pregnant, Millie. How far along?”
“Eighteen weeks now.”
“Further than I thought. You’re barely showing.”
“It’s halfway gone. My time alone with him.”
“Him?” The revelation crumples the sheet inside my fists. After my conversation with Beau over dinner, the baby being a boy seems like an omen, and not the good kind.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know, for some reason, but in my mind it’s a boy.”
The other part of her previous statement strikes me as odd, too. “You sound so sad about not having more time alone with him. Won’t it be exciting to meet him?”
“I won’t be able to keep him safe then.” She shakes her head, eyes still brimming with water. “I’m scared, Grace.”
It’s a normal new mother worry, probably, the terror that all of your efforts and love won’t be enough to keep your child safe and healthy and alive. Because no one can see the future or watch every minute. Even as I tell myself that, though, I’m convinced there’s more to it. Trepidation stutters through me like a hot wind, as though the devil himself is panting in anticipation.
“Have you and Jake thought of any names?” I hate uttering his name aloud, how it tastes like rotten fish scales slathered on my tongue. It’s my first concession to her, my olive branch. A promise that there aren’t taboo topics between us.
She hesitates again, so long this time that it feels more like a refusal to answer. My fists curl tighter, the pain in my stomach sharper. Amelia-that-was would be dying to discuss every detail of her pregnancy, bubbling with excitement and uncaring whether everyone else in the room got bored with her or not.
This Amelia, considering the impact of every single word, afraid, is someone else.
“Millie? Is something wrong with the baby?” I whisper, reaching out to touch her.
“No. He’s perfect.” She smiles now, more like the expectant mother in my mind.
I believe her about this, and she caresses her belly lightly, as though in her mind she’s running a finger over the soft hair on his newborn head. Whatever her concern, it’s not his health. I guess at what’s bothering her, but I can’t go there. She has to take me.
“How can you just say his name like that? After everything?”
My stomach sinks. Here we go. “Whose name?”
“Jake’s.”
“Millie…he’s your husband. You guys are having a baby. It’s over and done. I’ll never…I can’t take back what I said all those years ago, because it’s the truth. As I see it. But I miss you so much, and the fact that I love you more than anyone else in this entire world means I’d do about anything to have you in my life.”
Her sniffles turn into sobs, and her thin arms fly around my waist. We’re hugging so tightly my bones hurt, but there’s no way I’m letting go.
Tears wet the front of my tank top, and through her tears she mumbles, “I miss you, too.”
Her strains of sadness fade to hiccups, then finally sighs as she relaxes next to me. We sink into the pillows and let the reconciliation blanket the room where we grew up, now just another in a long line of arguments and slights that we can, at last, relegate to the past. I think she’s asleep, but a while later she kicks loose the covers and gets up to head into the bathroom, muttering something about loss of bladder control.
When she flicks on the bathroom light it illuminates her china doll skin—and the giant purple bruise dipping along the part of her spine exposed by her hip hugging pants. It looks like an inkblot test, but if I’m taking that quiz, my guess would be a hand.
A handprint.
“Amelia.” It’s not a gasp as much as my lungs deflating into pancakes.
Her body goes rigid, and she slams the bathroom door. “It’s nothing, Grace! Drop it!”
My muscles tense in response to her muffled shout, anger over her intentional blindness bubbling back to the surface. She’s got a baby to think about—one she’s more than a little worried about, it seems—yet she stays with a man who hurts her. There’s not a doubt in my mind that it’s Jake’s hand. Jake’s abuse. The guy is a menace.
I’m torn, because confronting her could send her running straight back to the problem because she’s not ready to face it. There must be websites and books and articles written about how to handle someone in this situation, and the academic in me longs to read every single one of them before tackling her with knowledge. But there isn’t time. She’s going to come out of that bathroom, and that’s going to be the moment.
Her believing Jake, not coming when my mother died or when Gramps got sick the last time all seemed so important a week ago. Three days ago. But Amelia is all I have left, and she’s going to have a baby.
The rest feels as insignificant as the specks of dust waltzing in the moonlight.
Anne’s scent, followed immediately by her arrival, surprises me for the first time in days. She sits in her favorite place in this room, butt on the windowsill so her sword has room to hang, boots up on the arm of the chair positioned perfectly for a day of reading in the sunlight. She’s got her elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, and watches me with a new kind of interest. Still sad, but also expectant. Her gaze trains on the bathroom.
“Are you going to stay?”
She nods, desire brightening her face.
“Great. Maybe Amelia will stick around and help me get rid of your stinky ass instead of going home.”
The ghost nods more vigorously, making me glad she’s not completely corporeal. She’d smell even worse, and her head would probably flop right off her rotted shoulders. Before I can make any decisions about Amelia, aside from hoping she’ll be able to see Anne, too, the bathroom door swings open. The light flicks off, dousing the room in its previous darkness.
“I know what you’re going to say, Grace, and I… Wait, is that you? What did the mayor make you for dinner?”
“Um, well…”
“Seriously, what is that stench?”
I stare at Anne’s ghost, and Amelia follows my gaze. There’s no way to prepare her, but between the two of us, she’s always been less of a scaredy-cat.
But I’ve been better at taking things in stride.
Amelia sees Anne perched on the windowsill and jumps backward over the threshold into the bathroom. She peers around the jamb, her green eyes huge. “Holy shit. What is that?”
Her reaction makes me laugh, mostly because she never uses curse words stronger than crap, but also because of the relief. I’m not alone. I’m not crazy. Someone else can see her.
Without taking her eyes off my ghost—maybe our ghost now—Amelia creeps over to the bed and climbs in, pressing her back against me. She trembles slightly, but in true Amelia form, seems more curious than frightened.
“You don’t have to be afraid of her, I don’t think.” Anne makes a face at the doubtful way I end my statement, then rolls her eyes. “Don’t let her touch you, though. It sucks.”
“Who is she?”
“Anne Bonny. She’s been coming around since I’ve been back in Heron Creek.”
My cousin turns her skeptical gaze on me. “Anne Bonny? Et tu, cousin?”
“Amelia. There’s a lady ghost in boots, pants, and carrying a cutlass in our room. Who on earth do you think she is?”
“Fine.”
“Gramps told me before he died that we’re related to her. That Grams was her descendant.”
“Didn’t sh
e die before she had children? Or maybe it was after…” She trails off, her brain trying to recall the same history that escaped me at first. In Heron Creek, tales of Anne are so common you hardly remember them, because you don’t have to. You’ll hear them again.
“According to her diary, she had her son and moved back to Charleston. It’s reasonable.” I pause, licking my lips and saying a quick prayer. “She wants us to do something for her, but I’m only half sure what.”
“Wait, her diary? And what do you mean, us?”
“She’s never stuck around to meet anyone else before, so welcome to the Unwilling Friends of the Dead Club.” Amelia snorts, but she’s relaxed now, and even scoots to the edge of the bed, nearer our smelly friend. “You, me, and your mom are her only remaining descendants, I guess. And the little one you’re baking.”
Anne perks up at my statement and clomps silently toward the bed. She drops to her knees in front of Amelia, staring intently at her belly, but when she reaches out to touch it, my cousin shrinks away. It’s a good decision on her part, but Anne’s face falls, wrenching more of me apart.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think… You can’t touch him. But you can look.” Amelia’s voice shakes, telling me that Anne’s sorrowful countenance affects her, too.
Despite the suffocating air of grief in the room, I’m glad both Anne and Amelia are here.
Anne doesn’t move for a long time, and I have to remind myself to breathe every once in a while. Finally she stands up, extending one hand toward Amelia and the other toward me, then bringing them together. The hard expression in her eyes leaves no doubt of her meaning—we’re in this together.
Talking Amelia into staying an extra week after her parents leave turns out to be easier than I imagined. Jake’s out of town—Europe, this time—doing some kind of work that he hopes will land him an ambassadorship one day soon. Lord knows they donate enough money to political campaigns. All that’s left is for him to suck up to the right candidate at the most fortuitous time and voila. Washington.
I’ve been back at work for a few days, catching hell for my “unscheduled absence” whenever Mr. Freedman Part Deux isn’t around to overhear. Mrs. LaBadie hasn’t grown any manners where I’m concerned, but she does seem slightly less querulous when her boss is within hearing distance. I haven’t had a chance to get into the archives to check on Mary Read, but I’m not expecting anything to be there. She didn’t grow up in the area, but Amelia’s going to come in later and ask to poke around just in case.
She’s spent the past three days helping Aunt Karen inventory and clean out Grams and Gramps’s bedroom, and now it’s a guest room that still reminds me of them but isn’t theirs. It’s for the best, and I’m glad the task didn’t fall to me. They changed out most of the living room furniture, too, moving the recliner we all thought of as Gramps’s chair into his old room and replacing it with a leather one that looks out of place. It’s still weird, but I’m sure we’ll get used to it.
We’ve put off the discussion about what will happen to the house, whether or not they’ll let me stay, until the will is read in a couple of weeks. I’d like to put it off longer.
I’m about to be late for work, which will do nothing but make my professional life descend into the sixth circle of hell, but take a minute to pop my head into the kitchen to say good-bye to my cousin. My heart stops at the sight of the phone in her hand and the ashen state of her face. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes off her fog. “What? Nothing. It’s just that I might not be able to stay the whole week. Jake’s going to be home a few days earlier than planned.”
That only leaves one or two more days to find the other half of Anne’s diary. Worry lines Amelia’s face, chased by fear.
It makes me mad, but there’s nothing to be gained from making her feel even worse. “Oh. Well, we’ll make the most of it. Are you still coming by the library today? I need you to put those documents back in Anne’s file, and then check and see if—”
“There’s anything on Mary Read. I know, Grace.”
“Don’t forget to act like you don’t know me.”
“No problem. Plenty of practice.”
“Ha-ha. See you later. We’ll grab dinner after I get off?”
I open the front door and greet another perfect, cloudless day in Heron Creek, even though the temperature is, as Grams would have said, “hotter than two rabbits screwing in a wool sock.” Even so, I decide to walk because I’m a glutton for punishment, and also because the smells in my car only ripen in the heat. It’s been so hot lately that the odor inside it might kill me.
My secret hope is that my body odor will work up to at least mildly offensive by the time I reach the library, an exceptionally mature plan that’s foiled when a black town car rolls up beside me. The Mayormobile.
“Good morning, Graciela.”
“Mayor Drayton.” I keep walking to annoy him but can’t help my smile.
“Car not working?”
“No, I just felt like walking.”
“Well, get in. You’ll be able to enter a wet T-shirt contest by the time you get into town, and I’m not sure I’ve got enough pull to bail you out of jail for indecent exposure.”
That makes me snort, and I have to admit the prospect of his air-conditioned car is appealing, even after only a couple of blocks. Not to mention that we haven’t seen each other since dinner the other night. We have talked over text message, and he’s called the last two nights before bed, but it’s not the same. His voice is nice, but it’s even better attached to the rest of him.
I stop and climb into the backseat, now sorry about my wet-dog odor. He doesn’t seem to notice, just gives me a bright smile and asks his driver, a man whose face I’ve never seen, to stop at the library before heading to his office.
“Big mayor duties today?”
“A couple of meetings about the Creek Crawl. Would you like to have lunch?”
“I can’t. Amelia’s coming to the library to rummage through the archives, and I can’t leave her alone with Mrs. Evil Face.”
He sighs, but the corners of his mouth twitch. It’s not good enough, because no dimples, but it gets the exquisitely talented nerves dancing in my stomach again. I have to talk myself out of kissing him.
“Looking there for anything on Mary Read?”
“Yep.”
“Let me know what you find, okay?”
“Sure, if you want.”
“Graciela, let’s not go back to dancing around this…thing between us. I want.”
Warmth surfs my blood, chased by desire as swift as a shark. Without warning, he leans over and catches my cheeks between his palms, planting a lingering kiss on my lips. It tastes like syrup and bacon, and tearing his clothes off.
“I’ve missed you these past couple of days,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I’ve been busy with Amelia and getting rid of Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally.” My cheeks hurt from smiling. “But me, too.”
“How is your cousin?”
I shrug. “Hanging in there. I get the feeling she’s considering making a move but hasn’t gotten there yet. I plan to make it clear before she leaves that she can always stay with me if she leaves Jake.”
“Do you think she could spare you for dinner tonight?”
“I told her we could eat after I got off work, so maybe tomorrow?”
“Breakfast?” He grins, a little sheepish, as though a whole extra day is too long to wait.
“That would be okay, I guess.” Except for the getting up early and looking nice, besides. “What time?”
“Eight thirty? That gives us an hour before you have to leave for work.”
The car pulls up in front of the library steps, putting an end to our brief alone time. I agree to be at his house at the ungodly hour of eight thirty, then snag another kiss and hop out to face the day. I trudge up the steps and in the front door, bidding Mrs. LaBadie a good morning with as much good cheer as I can muster. Beating her cranki
ness with kindness isn’t working any better than ignoring her, but it seems to annoy her more, so points for that. She grunts and points me toward three carts of books that need to be reshelved. There’s no way that many books have been returned since yesterday, so I’m pretty sure she’s spent the hour before my arrival pulling random volumes down to thwart any idle time I might use to get into the archives.
It’s busywork, but it keeps my hands occupied and my brain free to storm away. I’m almost through the first cart when the sound of the front door opening and Amelia’s tinkling laugh hitches my progress.
“Good morning! I’m in town visiting an old friend and heard you have some fantastic local archives here. I’m thinking of giving my husband a family tree for his birthday; he’s from the area.”
“What’s your husband’s name?”
“Middleton.”
“Lots of those running around the area. I’m not sure we’re going to have anything extensive enough for the kind of project you’re describing.” The grumpy response baffles me, because I’ve been operating under the assumption that her prejudice is Gracie-specific.
Beau’s just wrong about that woman, bottom line—it’s not just me.
“Even so, I’d love to take a look. Just to be sure.” Amelia’s insistent but sweet, donning the entitled society-lady voice that she used to put on to imitate her mother.
“I’ll have to go in and see if they’re available for access today. We keep strict track of the humidity in the room and other factors.” My boss isn’t backing down. Frustration tightens my hand around a musty red book.
“Mrs. LaBadie, you’re being overcautious. If Mrs. Middleton wishes to peruse our local archives, she’s more than welcome to do so, and for as long as she likes.” Mr. Freedman’s stern voice makes me want to cheer.
Maybe do a little dance.
I haven’t asked him for access to the room since I’ve already stolen what I want and it would give the wicked woman more of a reason to treat me like a serf. There’s no more discussion from the front, and I remove myself from the path they’ll take back into the archives. The building goes quiet again, and I return to shelving, at least until the craggy, missing-toothed face of Mrs. LaBadie pops up over my shoulder.